Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part fourteen of twenty-five

March 6, 1991

His apartment was cold.  The landlady had apparently turned the
heat down in his absence.  He noted that the fish tank was devoid of
life or even death.  Another burial at sea, no doubt.  When he got
back from Vegas, or where ever, he'd have to remember to change
the water and get more fish.

It didn't take long to pack a bag.  Basically he just changed the
clothes out of his two suiter and put in fresh.  His shaving bag was
well equipped.  He did condescend to pack his medications, he was
nearing the last of the antibiotics, but he still needed the
expectorant at times.  He frowned when he discovered the mostly
full bottle of antibiotics that he'd shoved in the bottom of the
suitcase.  If only he'd remembered to take the damned pills weeks
ago, none of this would have happened.

But then, that was the story of his life.  If his parents hadn't left him
in charge just a month after his twelfth birthday, his sister would
have never been taken from their home.  If he'd been a better son,
had figured out how to hold it all together, his parents never would
have divorced.  So much of the tragedy that had happened in his life
had just one source, himself.

But such thoughts only served to drag him down, tire him out.  He
was getting tired, he had to admit to himself.  He'd napped on the
two hour ride down the coast.  Now, he fully expected to nap his
way out to Vegas.  Digging into a trust his grandparents had left
him, he went for broke and got a first class ticket.  That would
ensure his comfort, as well as a little more attention from the flight
attendants in case he fell asleep and didn't make it off the plane at
his destination.  

Fortunately, he didn't have to go to the Bureau.  He had not
relished going all the way out to Quantico and he really didn't want
to trek down to the Hoover just to sign a release form.  EAP was
happy to make his record available to his lawyer and the court.  As
luck would have it, they didn't ask why it was necessary and that
suited Mulder just fine.

By 3:15, he was on his way to National and on to Nevada.  As he'd
expected, the flight attendant woke him up upon landing.

Paramount Hotel and Casino
The Strip
Las Vegas, Nevada
March 6, 1991, 5:35 pm

Mulder stood in a long line of hotel patrons, waiting for their turn
at the desk.  The two women at the counter looked harried and
frustrated.  Occasionally, one or the other would go to the back and
then come back out shaking their head.  It took Mulder a full
twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, and the people behind
him were already discussing making alternative arrangements for
their lodging.

"Got a real backlog tonight," Mulder said casually as he handed
over his Mastercard and filled out the address form.

"We're short handed," sighed the desk clerk, a bleached blonde
with fingernails almost longer than her eyelashes, which were more
than long enough.

"Oh, too bad.  Somebody call in sick?" Mulder asked innocently. 
"The flu is hitting hard back east."

"I have no idea," she blew out a whiff of breath to knock the dried
and frizzled hair out of her eyes.  "It's our night manager.  He's
never missed a day in his _life_.  The man is obsessive.  He even
calls if there's an accident on the expressway that might make him a
couple of minutes late."  She snapped a piece of gum that had
appeared in her mouth magically.  "Don't have a clue what's gotten
into him.  We've tried his house.  He doesn't have a cell phone."

She rambled on autopilot, all the while taking Mulder's card and
making the charge transaction.  "Just sign here, please.  The health
club is open from 7 am to 11 pm, restaurant, coffee shop, and of
course, the casino are open twenty-four hours a day.  Oh, and if
you show your room card to the bar tender, your first drink is on
the house.  Enjoy your stay at the Paramount," she fake smiled at
him.

"Um, Tracey," Mulder read off her polished gold plastic name tag,
"I have one question.  This is my first trip west and I'm a little,
well, let's just say, cautious.  I got mugged driving through the
wrong part of Savannah, Georgia one time and that taught me a
lesson.  Do you have a map of the city, and could you sort of point
out the places I should avoid?  I get lost fairly easily and if I have an
idea of where _not_ to go, I'll feel a little better."  He gave her his
best 'I'm cute and you know it' smile and a wink.

She sighed and looked at the line that was growing geometrically
behind him.  Finally, it must have been the wink that got her. 
"Sure," she said easily and dug in a drawer of the counter.  "Here's
the city.  This is the Strip.  Anywhere along here is _completely_
safe, there are cops all over the place and private security guards at
all the casinos.  You never have to worry, no matter what time it
is."

"But there must be some, well, older section of town.  Someplace
that I should avoid at all costs?" Mulder prodded.  Behind him,
several people were voicing their frustration at the delay, loudly.

Tracey looked at him, about ready to give him the heave ho. 
Finally, she stooped over, her ample cleavage brushing the top of
the counter.  "OK, now don't tell a soul I told you.  I could get in
real trouble if the management found out.  We're not supposed to
paint that kind of a picture of 'our fair city' if you know what I
mean.  But over here, where they're tearing down a couple of the
older casinos, there's a lot of abandoned buildings.  I hear that a lot
of homeless people, bums, mostly, have taken up residence there. 
We can't get rid of 'em, I guess.  They come for the winter and
never leave.  I wouldn't be caught _dead_ in that area."  

She stood up and smiled.  "Now, if you have any further questions,
Mr. Mulder, you can give us a call after you get to your room," she
said, and turned her attention to the next person in line.
Mulder did have one more question, but fortunately for him, it was
answered by looking at a black and gold plaque on the wall next to
the counter.  The night manager's name was Allen Vespers.

It was time to call in some help.

"Danny, old buddy o' mine," Mulder said cheerfully into the phone. 
"What did you do to deserve graveyard duty?"

"I'm doing a favor for a friend, Mulder.  How're you doing? 
Mommy still tucking you in at night?  Oh, hey, isn't it past your
bedtime?" the researcher chuckled into the phone.

"Sore subject, Danny.  Hey, I need you to look up a name for me.  I
just need to know the usual, address, priors, and how long he's
been employed at the Paramount.  Allen Vespers.  And was he
always on night shift?"

"Shouldn't take me that long.  Do you want me to call you at the
number you gave me before?"

"No, call my cell," Mulder hurried to tell him.  He'd blessed his
landlady's sainted little heart when he discovered his cell phone,
plugged into its charger on his desk at his apartment.  

After giving Danny the number, Mulder sat down with the map.  He
was glad he'd decided to rent a car at the airport.  Taking a taxi to
the area in question, and being dropped off with no possible means
of escape seemed rather unwise to him.  Not to mention deadly.

He blew out a breath when he realized he was going in to a crime
scene with no gun, no backup and no authorization or jurisdiction
to speak of.  Vigilante style.  He didn't even have his ID to bail
himself out if he got caught with a dead body and no witnesses. 
But he couldn't sit in his hotel room and do nothing.  He had
traveled all this way to take action, and action was exactly what he
was going to take.

Site of the old 'Golden Nugget Casino'
Las Vegas
7:35 pm

It was still warm outside.  Warm enough to make him think it must
be summer.  And yet it was dark, as dark as midnight with a
hundred billion stars overhead, if one averted their gaze from the
glaring neon beacons of 'the Strip'.  Here, Las Vegas from another
age called.  Bugsy Siegal and 'the boys' wandered as wraiths around
the hollow shells of once royal temples built to worship the gods of
pleasure.  

The desk clerk had warned him that 'bums' frequented the place,
but he saw none as he broke through a desert rotted wood door and
made his way into the building.  The place looked empty, void of all
life.  Like the desert, which twinkled in the distance like a jewel in
the night.

The main room of the casino looked like a tomb.  Large, laden with
dust and sand from the broken windows that were once the front of
the building.  He almost expected to find a tumbleweed rolling
across the rotting carpet.  That thought brought a hysterical laugh
to his lips, but he fought it down.

The main casino wasn't the place he was looking for, anyway. 
There had to be rooms, apartments.  He wandered toward the back
of the open hall and found a bank of elevators and next to them, a
set of stairs closed off by a heavy wooden door.  

The beam of his flashlight bounced off the walls for the stairway,
making monsters and ghosts out of the peeling wallpaper which
hung in strips and threatened to take form which would reach out
and grab him.  He shook his head.  Normally, he wasn't that easy to
scare.  Then again, normally, he had the full faith and might of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation backing him up on his efforts.  He
had men in flak jackets with weapons worthy of an Armageddon
just waiting for his word, his signal to come in and level any danger
he might encounter.

Maybe his mother was right.  Maybe he had gone off the deep end
and sunk like a rock.  Maybe he was being too reckless.  He'd
almost decided to go back down, get in his car and drive to the
nearest casino where he'd blow a week's pay at some blackjack
table then call it a night.  But as his foot stepped off the last step, a
dark foreboding slammed into him.  It was almost tangible.  He
could taste it, smell it, feel it.  It felt like fear, death, anger and
incredible agony all rolled up into one.

No way was he turning back now.

He swallowed hard then looked around for something he could use
to defend himself.  A piece of molding, heavy wood, like teak or
mahogany was lying on the floor near his feet.  He picked it up,
swung it around him like a good piece of lathed ash with a bone
finish and deemed it worthy of a fight.

He wished he'd brought a stronger flashlight.  One of the new ones
that he'd seen a couple of the field agents carry.  But he hefted his
trusty hardware store special and danced it around the corridor.  

There were doors on either side.  Most of them open.  He glanced
in them as he walked by slowly.  None of them called out to him. 
The door at the end seemed to stand in invitation.  

"Why is it always the _last_ door in the hall?" he muttered to
himself, more to dispel the fear in his gut than to try and reason an
answer. 

His breath was coming in short, staccato pants.  He wondered how
much of it was because he didn't use his inhaler or if he could
attribute all of it to the terror that wouldn't let his neck muscles
relax.  He wasn't even sure which reason would be the more
comforting.

He was steps away from the door when he absently reached to the
back of his belt for his gun and cursed softly to remember that it
wasn't there.  Gripping the molding-turned-ball bat one handed and
over his shoulder, he moved as silently as possible up to the door. 
He shined the flashlight into the room, finding what had once been
a sitting room of a small suite.  Cautiously, he moved the rest of the
way into the room.

Instantly, he felt transported into his dream.  Same tattered and
faded wallpaper, same rat's nests scattered over the hardwood
floor.  From a distance, the Strip blared its shining presence into
the room.  A beam of light cut through the night and invaded the
windows, eerily illuminating the room for a second, no more.  He
realized that it was one of the lights from the airport just outside the
city.

He turned slowly toward the door he knew to be just off to the left. 
Cold dread was pounding in his veins.  More than anything he
wanted to walk into that room beyond the door and find it empty,
with rat leavings on the floor and nothing else.  It was a fleeting
hope and he knew that it was futile.

As he crept toward the room, he saw the pool of liquid that spread
out from an unseen area behind the door.  It was dark, like sweet
red wine.  He clenched his eyes shut.  Again, he hoped that it was
the last refuge of an aging gambler, a bottle of Lambrusco dropped
from senseless fingers after the wino had finally passed out.  

He stooped, but stopped himself from touching the liquid.  Upon
closer inspection, he knew it wasn't wine or even paint.  It was
blood.  He swung the door out of the way, and shined his light
upon the body.

Allen Vespers.  His name tag identified him even if Mulder hadn't
already figured it out.  Dead.  Wrists sliced deeply, up the arm to
ensure that the blood didn't clot and the wound close before the
task was completed.

Mulder fought his stomach as it rolled and threatened to overcome
his efforts at detachment.  He'd seen death before.  He'd even been
the first at a crime scene before.  He'd never been this close to
saving a life before.  If only he'd gotten an earlier flight . . .

He was pondering his own inadequacies when a foul wind blew
past him and slammed the door shut, jarring the casing.  He
started at the sound, loud as a gunshot and even closer to his ear. 
Remembering his trusty piece of wood, he shoved his flashlight in
his mouth and took the weapon in a two handed batter's stance. 
He let himself consider how ridiculous he probably looked, holding
the flashlight in his mouth with a stupid piece of wood for
protection, but just then, the wind blew up again and slammed his
body against the door, hard.

The wind, if that's what it was, seemed to have form, substance. 
And more than enough power to over come a man basically not
long from a sickbed.  Mulder stamped down on the panic that
almost caused him to lose any control and struggled against the
door and the wind pinning him.  

Something was enclosing his throat, pressing on his larynx and
cutting off precious air.  He was gasping for breath, struggling with
a reserve of strength he didn't know or hope to have.

A light cut through the darkened room, a car's light from
somewhere nearby.  The wind, the form, dropped back as if burned
and Mulder collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

8:07 pm

"EMT's on the way, Dave," a voice spoke in the darkness.  

"How about the ME's wagon?" came another voice, deeper, more
authoritative.

"Yup.  Should be here soon."  Silence for a moment, then a cleared
throat shattered the quiet.  "Whaddya figure happened.  He 'off' the
guy?"

"I don't know.  I doubt it.  There was someone else here.  He's got
ligature marks on his throat.  Possible that whoever killed this guy
went after that one, too.  But then, this guy looks like a textbook
poster boy for a suicide.  And the razor is still in his hand."

"Coulda been planted there," supplied the first voice.

"Yeah, I guess.  We won't know till we get forensics up here, dust
the place for prints.  And the ME might be able to tell us more. 
Hey, that guy breathing at all?"

Mulder felt something at his neck, two fingers pressed against his
throat.  "Yeah, he's got a pulse, too.  Breathin' don't sound too
good, but he's still alive."

"Maybe he can tell us something.  Hey, I hear the ambulance.  Go
down and show the way up."

Mulder wanted to open his eyes, find out who the hell was
interrupting his sleep and how they got into his room, but the
darkness decided to whisk him away for a little while longer.

end of part fourteen
Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part fifteen of twenty-five

St. Martin de Porres Medical Center
Las Vegas, Nevada
March 7, 1991  1:45 am

The sheets were the first clue.  They were stiff and smelled of
bleach and something indescribable, but that could only be found in
a hospital.  The fact that he was lying between such sheets, with
one of those uncomfortable little tubes in his nose clued him to the
idea that something bad had happened again.  He was just about to
go back to sleep and worry about it in the morning when he heard a
voice calling his name.

"Mr. Mulder?  Fox Mulder?  Wake up, Mr. Mulder.  It's all right,
you're safe.  You're in a hospital."

The voice sounded real nice, but Mulder wanted to inform it that he
never considered hospitals to be _safe_ places and certainly not
when he got there without his knowledge or permission.  All that
seemed like too much work, so he just appeased the voice by
opening his eyes.

And stared right into the face of a nun.

He blinked and forced his mind to work on this riddle.  Did the fact
that a nun woke him up mean he was dead, or just in a really bad
way?  The good sister seemed to understand his confusion and gave
him a comforting smile.

"I'm Sister Elise.  I'm the floor nurse.  You're at St. Martin's
Hospital.  You've caused us quite a bit of concern, young man. 
But the doctor has assured us that you are really much better than
you looked when you came in."

Mulder struggled to sit up in the bed and Sr. Elise raised the head
of the bed to accommodate him.  He swallowed and winced, she
quickly handed him a cup of water and a straw.

"How . . . did I get here?" he asked after a couple of good sips of
the water.  He felt so dry, like the moisture was being sucked out of
his body by the desert air.  But he was in air conditioning or so he
assumed.

"You were found at the scene of a suicide tonight.  There was no
one else there, just a poor man who'd taken his own life . . ."

"No, sister, you don't understand.  I have to talk to the police,"
Mulder rushed to explain and paid for it when his lungs balked at
his movement and started closing up on him.  He started to cough
and Sr. Elise waited him out.

"Well, we'll have to ask the doctor if you're OK to have visitors,
but yes, the detectives who brought you in are still waiting to speak
with you."

Mulder nodded and leaned back on the pillows.  Sr. Elise stepped
out into the hall and was followed back in by a young man in
scrubs.

"Ah, Mr. Mulder.  My mystery for the evening.  I must say, you had
me a bit concerned until one of the ER nurses found your father's
business card in your wallet.  I spoke with your father.  He filled me
in on your illness and the hotel was kind enough to look for your
medication so we didn't do you any further damage."

"You knew where I was staying?" Mulder asked, his forehead
furrowed and hurting.

"You had the receipt in your wallet, along with your room card
key.  Since your father was certain you were on medication for the
pneumonia, we needed to find out what you were still taking and
quickly.  Don't worry, hotel security entered the room and made
sure everything was left exactly where they found it.  All part of the
service here in LV," he smiled broadly.

"Now, about visitors.  There are a couple of LVPD detectives
outside who insist on speaking with you.  Are you up for that or
would you rather I told them to come back in the morning?"

"You're keeping me until morning?" Mulder tried not to whine.

"I'm afraid so.  You were unconscious for several hours, you were
having difficulty breathing in the ambulance and upon arrival. 
You're larynx is bruised and generally, you're in need of some
serious sleep.  You give a new meaning to the words 'jet lag', Mr.
Mulder.  You need to rest, and let us monitor you for a while. 
Your father said that if you tried to override my orders, I was to
contact him and he'd be in contact with a Mr. Harrison to 'change
directions', I believe were his exact words.  Now, what will it be,
talk to the police now or in the morning?"

"Now.  I think now would be fine.  They've been waiting this long,
I don't want them to have to come back in the morning," he
assured the doctor.

Two men entered, making a point to show their badges as they
stood respectfully at the end of the bed.

"Agent Mulder, welcome to Las Vegas," said the first, who Mulder
recognized as the second voice he'd heard at the old casino.

"You've got me at a disadvantage, guys," Mulder said tiredly.

"Sorry, I'm Detective Bob Tanner and this is Detective Larry
Carpenter.  We found you tonight at the old Gold Nugget.  We'd
just like to ask you a few questions."

"Go ahead."  Mulder leaned back in his pillows and willed his head
to stop pounding.

"First and foremost, could you tell us how you managed to be on
the second floor of an abandoned building with a dead body?" Bob
asked, flipping open his notebook.  "And for the record, we've been
in contact with the FBI in Washington.  According to your
superior, you're on medical leave."

"That's right, I am," Mulder said evenly.  "To answer your
question, I . . . I had a hunch."

"A hunch?" Nelson asked, licking his lips.  "A hunch that you'd find
. . . what?"

"A murderer," Mulder said, not dropping his gaze from the older
man's face.  He could see the look of disbelief as it spread across
Nelson's features.

"According to the ME, Allen Vespers died of blood loss from
self-inflicted wounds to both wrists.  He wasn't murdered.  Now,
want to give me the real reason you were there?"

"The murderer wants it to appear to be a suicide," Mulder sighed
with exasperation.  "And this isn't the first time it's killed.  As a
matter of fact, there have been at least four people killed in the
same manner."

Nelson and Carpenter exchanged looks.  "We spoke with your
supervisor, an Agent Patterson.  Pulled him out of bed, actually. 
He seemed to think that you might be working under a, well,
misconception about a case he claims was solved.  You believe the
killer is still at large.  Is that what this is about?"

Mulder nodded, chewing on his upper lip.  "Agent Patterson thinks
Abigail Crown, the second victim in Oregon, was the killer we'd
been searching for.  In reality, I believe she was being stalked by the
real killer.  And now that she's dead, the killer is still out there, still
committing murder."

"Agent Mulder, you were 'attacked' at the scene.  You have marks
on your throat and your larynx was bruised.  Did the killer attack
you?" Carpenter asked, speaking up for the first time since entering
the room.

"I believe so," Mulder said with a nod of his head.

"Can you give us a description?" Nelson asked, putting pen to
notebook again.

Mulder sat there for a moment.  This would be the hard part.  He
knew that the 'assailant' was not like anything he'd ever seen.  He
also doubted that the two detectives standing before him had
enough imagination between the two of them to follow any
description he would give them.

"I didn't see my attacker," he said quietly.  That much was true,
there'd been nothing to see.  Everything had been feeling, not sight.

"Caught you by surprise?" Nelson asked.  "But do you have any
idea of height, did he weigh more, was he stronger than you?"

"I've been sick, it wouldn't take much to be stronger than me at the
moment," Mulder said with a lopsided grin.  "No, I'm sorry, I can't
give you a description.  But I can tell you this, it won't kill again in
Las Vegas."

Nelson cocked his head at the use of the pronoun 'it', but didn't
pursue it.  Instead, he blew out a breath.  "Well, that's _real_
reassuring," he said dryly.  "So we have an apparent suicide which
you think is a murder, an assailant with no description, and you
were at the scene of the crime before police arrived."

"If I can ask, how did you arrive?  I mean, have you been patrolling
that area regularly?" Mulder asked.

"A patrol car spotted your rental in the parking lot.  They were on
their way to one of the casinos at the time, so they called dispatch
and we came out to check on it.  Heard some shuffling upstairs and
went up to take a look.  When we walked in, you were unconscious
about five feet from Vesper's body.  I gotta tell you, at first, you
were the prime suspect," Nelson said, and in the sub text as much as
told Mulder that he still might be a suspect.

"What changed your minds?"

"ME reported that Vespers had been dead at least three hours. 
And, as we found out by checking you out, you were in the air at
that time.  We have you pretty much accounted for the entire
evening.  Of course," Nelson said with a fake smile, "those things
are always up for grabs."  He flipped his book closed and tucked it
in his jacket pocket.  "Let us know before you leave town, won't
you?"

"Absolutely," Mulder said agreeably.  The last thing he needed was
being accused of a murder on top of everything else going on.

"Well, you look beat and the doc said we only got ten minutes, so
we'll let you get some rest.  Call us if you remember anything,
especially about the assailant," Nelson said with a smile.  The three
men shook hands.  Nelson and Carpenter left and Mulder tried to
find a comfortable spot on the stiff sheets so he could finally fall
asleep.

But as tired as he was, sleep would not come.  He laid there in the
darkened room, thinking back on the events of the night.  In his
dream, it had been a shadow which attacked him.  In reality, he
didn't see anything, just felt the wind and then the ghostly hands on
his throat.  And the dead body at his feet.  

If he'd been faster, he might have prevented Vespers' death.  The
man had died while he was still en route, on an airplane, fast asleep. 
He might as well have stayed in DC.  He sighed heavily.  

Four days.  That's how much time he had to get to Sacramento,
canvass the Capitol City Hotel and figure out who was likely to be
the next victim.  He profiled dangerous individuals for a living, how
hard could it be to pick out a guy who liked a 'little on the side'? 
So far Abigail seemed to go after guys who were in long standing
relationships.  Or completely losers.  He might even find himself on
her target list.

His left arm found it's way over his eyes, and he struggled to keep
his breathing even, to relax and find sleep.  There was no way he
was going to be able to function in Sacramento if he was totally
wiped out.  And after this encounter, he knew he'd need all the
strength he could muster.

With that thought, he finally allowed sleep to sneak up and take
him.

St. Martin de Porres Medical Center
March 7, 1991
10:15 am

When he'd fallen asleep, he slept for a long time.  Not even the
nurses' comings and goings had managed to rouse him.  It was his
stomach that woke him up.

Lazily, he yawned and stretched.  He'd been in the hospital so much
lately, he was more comfortable there than he'd been in his motel
room.  Looking around, he found the bathroom, cleaned himself up
a bit and was crawling back into bed when the nurse entered.

"Mr. Mulder!  Finally decided to join us, did you?  Good morning,"
she said cheerfully.  "I'm Terrie, your nurse.  You slept through
breakfast, but I think I can scrounge up some cereal and milk, if
you're interested?"

"Very interested," Mulder replied around the thermometer in his
mouth.  When she removed the offending object and he had a
chance to swallow, he winced and remembered why he was there. 
"And coffee?  I need something hot for this throat."

"Decaf, and it's a deal," she said with a wink.  "Oh, your father
called about a half an hour ago.  We told him you were sleeping. 
He wanted to make sure that you called him sometime this
morning."

He thought about putting it off, he really wasn't ready for an 'I
can't believe you do these things' speech from his father.  But that
would only delay the inevitable, and as long as he was in a hospital
bed, he could feign exhaustion and keep the conversation short. 

He glanced over to the phone by his bedside.  "Can I make a calling
card call from this phone?"

Terrie nodded happily.  "Dial 0 to get the switchboard and they can
help you make the call.  I'll go see about that coffee and some
cereal."

Mulder dialed and waited.  After a couple of rings, his father's
voice echoed over the line.

"Bill Mulder."

"Dad, it's me, Fox.  Look, I'm really sorry . . ."

"Fox.  Do you have any idea how disturbed I was to find out you
were not in Washington last night?  Not to mention getting a phone
call at midnight telling me you'd been brought into an Emergency
Room in Las Vegas, unconscious?  What in heaven's name
possessed you to go to Las Vegas to begin with?  It's a good thing
the hospital contacted me and not your mother.  You'd be in seven
point restraint right now if she had any idea of what you've done!"

"Dad, look, I'm sorry.  I know I should have mentioned to you that
I was going out of town . . ."

"Fox, this is very serious business with your mother and her lawyer. 
She is quite convinced that you are acting irrationally.  Now, how
do you propose you build a decent defense when you run off and
not tell anyone, then end up in the hospital?  What is so important
in Nevada that it couldn't have waited a couple of days until this
matter was settled?" his father demanded.

"Dad, I said I was sorry.  And it was important for me to come out
here.  Dad, there was another murder.  Last night.  A night manager
at the Paramount Hotel.  He was killed in an old abandoned casino
scheduled to be demolished soon.  I found the body, Dad.  I was
too late.  If I'd gotten here just three hours earlier, the same three
hours I wasted in DC getting things arranged with EAP," he said
through clenched teeth, "that man would still be alive."

Bill Mulder drew in a deep breath, or maybe had just lit up another
cigarette, his son was never certain which.  "How did he die?"

"Razor to both wrists."

"That sounds like a suicide, son.  It sure doesn't sound like
murder."

Mulder rubbed his forehead wearily.  He was going to go through
this same argument until he had some kind of proof, some kind of
physical evidence.  "Dad, please, listen to me.  That is the killer's
MO.  He, she, it makes it look like a suicide.  But it isn't.  Certain
men are being targeted.  I know the criteria, but I don't know
which men match that criteria.  I'm close, Dad, I'm so fucking
close."  He held back a sob.  Why was it his father could always
reduce him to tears, just like he did so often as a teenager.

"Well, that's for the FBI to worry about, Fox.  Right now, you
have much greater worries.  Your mother's lawyer had scheduled a
hearing for day after tomorrow.  You have to appear so that the
judge can make a preliminary decision."

"Dad, I can't come home, yet.  I have to be in Sacramento,"
Mulder rasped into the phone.  His voice, already traumatized by the
night before, was almost gone.

"Son, if you fail to show up at that hearing, the judge will issue a
warrant.  It doesn't matter that you are being judged incompetent,
they will hunt you down and bring you back.  And Harrison will
more than likely walk away from this matter as soon as possible. 
You'll be making their case for them, don't you understand that?"
his father growled.

"I thought you were going to talk to her, Dad.  Make her see
reason?" Mulder rasped, tired of the fight, tired of his life, just
wanting to crawl in a hole and not come out again.

"Son, I haven't been able to hold a civil discussion with your
mother for seventeen years.  And when you're concerned, we often
come to blows.  You know that.  She's still angry that I encouraged
you to apply to Oxford.  And she's never forgiven me for not
stopping your application to the FBI."

Mulder the younger had frequently wondered about that, as well. 
His father had been anything but encouraging when young Fox had
come home the first summer after classes to announce his decision
to enter the school of psychology.  But when the FBI had come
knocking, a week before graduation, Bill Mulder had been all
smiles, or as close as he'd come in a dozen years.  It confused his
son then and it was continuing to confuse him now.

"Dad, there has to be something you can do.  I thought Harrison
was filing an objection."

"That's what the preliminary hearing is about, son.  And that's why
it is vitally important that you be there.  Do _not_ screw this up,
Fox.  It very well could mean your freedom."

Mulder closed his eyes, wishing for the unconsciousness that had
blanketed him the night before.  Unfortunately, it didn't come.  

"I'll be there, Dad.  I'll figure out a way, and I'll be there.  Have
Harrison call my cell phone with the time and place and I'll show
up, looking as sane as possible," he added with a deep sigh.

"Just keep up appearances, Fox.  That's all that's required."  And
with that, but no further inquiry on his health, his father hung up the
phone.

end of part fifteen
Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part sixteen of twenty-five

NOTE:  In 1991, Weber was the Director of the FBI and Barr was
the Attorney General under Pres. George Bush.  You'll be quizzed
on that information later <G>

St. Martin de Porres Medical Center
March 7, 1991

His doctor was by just before noon, and cut him loose.  But not
until after he promised to stay away from abandoned buildings,
avoid smoky casinos, and spend the rest of his stay on a lounge
chair next to the hotel pool, with plenty of sun block.

Mulder kept his fingers of his left hand crossed as he shook the
good doctor's hand and received his release from St. Martin's.

When he got back to the hotel, he started throwing clothes in the
suitcase with one hand and dialing his cell phone with the other. 
Danny answered on the second ring.

"Hey, buddy, it's a ghost from your past," Mulder said lightly into
the phone as he zipped up his suit bag.

"Shit!  I hope this line isn't traced," came the not so welcoming
reply.  "Damnit, Mulder, I could get my ass canned for just talking
to you right now!"

"Why?  What happened?" Mulder asked, dropping the bag by the
door, his full attention on the conversation.

"Patterson is on the warpath, man!  I don't know what the hell you
did, but he's been in meetings all morning.  Blevins, Skinner, hell,
maybe even the Director and the AG himself.  You are in a shit pile
so deep, they're considering you for an archeological dig!  Look, I
can _not_ help you.  At this point, I don't know anybody in the
Bureau who can.  Just get your ass back here and throw some
water on this fire before you end up on the ten most wanted, got
it?"

"Got it," Mulder said, his stomach knotting as he disconnected the
line.  "Great.  Just fucking great!" he fumed, picking up his bag and
leaving the room.

He pondered his situation on the plane ride home.  If Danny had
been that worried about what Patterson was doing, that meant
Reggie was undoubtedly sitting with his hands tied as well.  And
because of their partnership, there were sure to be people watching
Jerry LaMana.  Mulder closed his eyes and tried to think.  There
had to be someone, someone outside the Bureau, who could help
him on this one.  

When the thought finally came, he groaned.

"Lone Gun Man," came the cheerful greeting over the phone line. 
Mulder had fretted over the decision to call in his three
acquaintances the entire flight back east.  But after all that internal
debate, he realized he had no choice.  That alone terrified him
beyond all rational thought.

"Langly, it's Mulder.  Turn off the tape."

"Aw, man, Mulder, can I just . . . I mean, Frohike just installed this
really cool piece of . . .

"Turn _off_ the tape, Ringo.  _Now_!"

"It's off, it's off.  Shit, what has a bee in your bonnet?"

"I need your help and you have no idea how much that scares me. 
I'm gonna be at your place in about 45 minutes."

"Cool.  Hey, we'll order pizza.  We can eat and talk over your
problem at the same time."

Mulder couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his lips.  As much as
he hated to admit it, he really had come to like the nut cases he'd
met almost two years before on a case in Baltimore.  But he wasn't
sure if even they could help him this time.

Mulder didn't waste any time stopping by his apartment.  Secretly,
he worried that Patterson might have the place under surveillance
and have some agents instructed to bring him to the Hoover
Building once he made an appearance.  So he picked up his car in
the airport parking lot and drove directly to a seedy part of
southeast DC known as Anacostia.

The apartment building was a three flat and had seen better days
when Civil War troops ringed the city.  He made his way up the
creaking and groaning staircase, dodging little pockets of mice
nests littering the way.  When he reached the third floor, he
knocked loudly on the door.

He stood patiently, staring at the cracked paint and listening to a
dozen dead bolts being thrown.  The door opened with an ear
shattering squeal.  A man several inches shorter than Mulder smiled
at him immediately and dragged him into the room, then stuck his
head out the doorway and looked right and left, for anyone who
might have been watching.

"Mulder, you beat Dominos!" the little man said happily, pounding
Mulder on the back.  

"Hi, Frohike," Mulder said, holding back a grimace, his back was
still pretty sore.  Two other men entered the room, each with
welcoming smiles.  

"Mulder, we'd heard through the grapevine that you've been sick,"
said the tall man with black rimmed glasses and a blond hair that
hung past his shoulders.

"You heard right, Langly.  Pneumonia."

"And you're back to work already?" inquired the other man who
looked distinctly out of place, dressed in business attire and
sporting a neatly trimmed beard and moustache.

"Not really, Byers.  I'm . . . uh, . . . looking into something. 
Unofficially."

All three men exchanged glances, communicating silently.

"You came to the right place," Frohike announced with a grin. 
"C'mon, have a seat.  We got some brewskis here somewhere. 
Pizza would have been here already, but Snow White forgot you
hate anchovies."

"Hey, I forgot, already!  Give it a rest, 'Melvin'," Langly growled,
then turned his attention to pulling beers out of the refrigerator.

Over pizza Mulder outlined, briefly, what he was investigating and
why he needed his friends' help.

"So, basically, you know this guy, killer, whatever, is gonna show
up in Sacramento, kill somebody who works at the Capitol City
Hotel and then vanish into thin air until they show up four days
later and kill someone who works at some motel in Carson City? 
Why don't you just tell every guy at the Capitol City and the motel
in Carson City to take a vacation, stay home, lock the doors?"

"It's not that simple, Langly," Mulder replied, folding another piece
of pizza in half and shoving a full third of it in his mouth.  With the
first bite, he thought he'd died and gone to heaven, it had been
almost six weeks since he'd had pizza.

"What's wrong with just tellin' 'em, Mulder?" Frohike prodded.

Mulder chewed and swallowed, then wiped his mouth on a napkin. 
"I have no backing, guys.  It just me, Spooky Fox Mulder, going in
there and scaring law abiding citizens with a half baked theory
dreamed up while I was operating under a high fever.  The Bureau
isn't going to back me, no police department in the country is going
to listen to me, and with my Mom and her lawyer breathing down
my neck . . ."  He stopped abruptly, he didn't really want to go into
the more private problems he was facing.

Frohike picked up on his sudden change.  "What's your mom got to
do with this?  And why does she have a lawyer involved?" he
asked, eyes narrowed and glaring.

Mulder picked at the rest of his slice of pizza.  "I was staying with
Mom when I got back from Oregon.  The doctors didn't think I
should stay by myself, I was in pretty bad shape."

"I gotta tell ya, Mulder.  You've looked a hellava lot better, man,"
Langly interrupted.  He yelped when Frohike's foot connected with
his knee under the table.  "Well, he has!" Langly exclaimed
defensively.

"I may look like shit, but I look a hundred times better than I did,
guys.  Really, I'm OK.  Scouts honor," Mulder assured them all. 
"But my Mom got it in her head that I'm . . . well,  . . . obsessing
over this case."

"She hasn't spent much time around you since you joined the FBI,
has she?" Frohike snorted.

"Yeah, Mulder.  You've turned obsessive-compulsive behavior into
an art form, man," Langly chimed in.

"Be that as it may, your mother has hired a lawyer to have you
committed?" Byers asked, cutting the other two off with a way of
his hand.

"Basically," Mulder said, nodding sourly.

"Shit.  That sucks," Langly sighed.

"The big one," Frohike agreed.

"So what are you doing?  I mean, you have to get that settled,
Mulder.  If she presses on with her action, you might end up in a
padded cell and they are _really_ hard to get out of," Byers said
seriously.  "Besides, you weren't too happy the last time you were
in five point restraints," he added softly.

Mulder rubbed his eyes with one hand.  "Don't remind me," he
sighed heavily.  "Look, I can deal with my mother.  What I need
from you guys is help on the case.  Not much, just get me the
names and addresses of all the men who worked night shift at the
Capitol City Hotel one year ago today.  So far the killer has only
gone after men who are currently still employed at the various
motels, but I don't want to overlook the obvious.  And I need to
know if any of them are in 'rocky' relationships.  Or new
relationships, since last year."

"Oh, gee, Mulder, give us something hard," Langly sneered
sarcastically.  "How the hell are we gonna do that?  You don't tend
to find that information on the internet, you know!"

"I can find it out," Frohike said cryptically.  "How much time do we
have?"

Mulder wiped his hands on the napkin and finished the rest of his
beer.  "Two days.  Exactly, if I'm going to have enough time to
warn the guy."

"What are you going to be doing?" Byers asked.

"Keeping my ass out of a straight jacket," Mulder replied and left
the three men to their own devices.

Arlington, VA
March 7, 1991
10:34 pm

Mulder arrived at his apartment and started to put the key in the
lock.  The door pushed open effortlessly.  He sighed, hoping he'd
just forgotten to lock it in his haste to get to the airport the day
before.

"Fox, where have you been?"   A single light in his living room cast
shadows on the walls and the leather sofa where his father and
another man sat watching him.

"Dad."  Mulder put his bags down by the door and shrugged out of
his coat, hanging it on the coat tree in the hall.

"Your landlady let us in.  I knew what flight you took from Nevada. 
It arrived hours ago.  Where have you been?"

Mulder drew in a deep breath, filing away the fact that his father
was keeping track of him.  "I had to visit some friends.  I left
something at their place and I stopped by to get it on the way
home."

"I hope it was a reasonable explanation for your recent behavior,
son," his father intoned. 

Mulder said nothing, just looked over at the other man.  He looked
familiar.  "You must be Mr. Harrison.  We spoke on the phone
yesterday.  Nice to see you again, sir," Mulder said politely, holding
out his hand to the older man to shake.

"Well, Bill, if he keeps up the front, we might just survive the
hearing," Harrison grunted, but accepted the offered handshake. 
"You've been working hard at making my quota of billable hours
this month, young man.  Now, why don't you sit down and you and
I can figure out how to get you out of this mess you've gotten
yourself into."

Mulder obeyed, choosing to sit in the armchair across from the
sofa.  "So, what's been going on?  I thought you were filing an
objection?"

Harrison smiled ruefully.  "Yes, and the court would have granted it
immediately, except no one was able to locate you to answer any
questions.  Running off to Nevada without leaving word . . ."

"Last time I checked, Mr. Harrison, I was an emancipated adult.  I
can go to Nevada, or Paris, France, if it suits me," Mulder
interrupted.

"Fox, that will be enough!" Bill growled from the doorway to the
kitchen, where he'd gone to make coffee.

Harrison's smile grew oily and he held up his hand.  "That's all
right, Bill.  Let him get that out of his system here.  I'll explain to
him in a moment how that will not do him any favors tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?" Mulder asked, suddenly taking an interest in
the discussion.

"Tomorrow, you are to appear before Judge Crowder, a family
court judge in Greenwich.  She'll be presiding over the preliminary
hearing."

"I told you about that, Fox," his father said with a warning look to
his eyes.

"Oh, yeah, I remember," Mulder replied absently.  So much was
going on, he was starting to lose track of things, and that never
happened to him.  He brushed aside the panic rush he felt and
looked at Harrison again.  "So when is this hearing and how long
will it take.  I need to get out to California day after tomorrow."

Harrison raised his eyes brows.  "The hearing is set for 2:00.  And
why, may I ask, do you need to go out to California on the 9th?"

"The annual FBI 'Orgy at Golden Gate Park'.  I never miss it,"
Mulder said with complete lack of expression.

"Oh, for god's sakes!" his father muttered angrily.

"Fox, let me give you a little advice," Harrison said through a smile
that looked more like a grimace.  "You are in serious trouble at the
moment.  A good defense attorney can get a guilty man acquitted,
but _nobody_ can save a man from a padded cell if that man insists
on 'acting' crazy.  Do you understand what I'm telling you?  You
can just forget California, forget anything else you might be
planning.  You are to remain here, in this apartment, or somewhere
within walking distance, unless you are accompanied by  myself or
your father.  Now, if you refuse to agree to that, let me know this
moment, so I can inform the court I will not be handling this case."

Mulder let out a deep breath.  He felt that he was at the bottom of a
deep well and the sides were caving in.  He knew that he needed
Harrison, his father was always saying the man was as good as they
came.  He also knew that if Harrison walked, so would his father,
and more than likely come to some accord with his mother
concerning the matter of his competency.  With Patterson on the
warpath, he'd get no further help from the Bureau, and they would
probably agree to pay for his institutionalization based on a
worker's comp claim of severe burnout.  He was seriously
screwed, no matter which way he turned.

"I agree," he said solemnly.  Then hoped it would all work out.

This time, Harrison's smile appeared genuine.  "Good, then.  I'm
staying at the Washington Hilton.  There's a flight out to
Greenwich at 11:30 tomorrow morning, at National.  I'll meet you
at United Express, gate 34.  I'll have your ticket with me."  The
older man held out his hand and Mulder took it, shaking it firmly. 
"We'll get you out of this, son.  Just watch your 'peas and cues'
tomorrow, all right?"

"Yes, sir," Mulder answered with a nod.  

His father left without a word.

Mulder threw himself down on his couch and sighed.  Somehow,
his once ordered existence had been replaced by sheer chaos and he
had no idea how to get his life back.  The shadow of a blinking red
light on the wall caused him to look around for a source.  His
answering machine was blinking, four messages.  He dragged
himself up to hit the play button, then sank back down on the
couch.

"Mulder, it's Bill Patterson.  What the _fuck_ to you think you're
doing?  Call me, I'm at the office!"

The next two were more of the same.  Reggie, calling to warn him
that Patterson was after his ass, and even Danny telling him to be
sure and call the office as soon as possible.  The fourth was
Harrison, trying to set up a meeting for that afternoon to discuss
the hearing.

Mulder glanced at the clock on the desk.  Eleven oh four. 
Patterson never left the office before midnight, unless he was out in
the field.  Mulder pulled himself up again, and hit three on his speed
dial.

"Patterson."

"Bill, it's Mulder."

"Well, the Ghost that Walks," Bill said sarcastically.  "Where the
fuck have you been, Mulder?  No, don't answer that.  Let _me_ tell
_you_.  You've been sticking your skinny ass where it doesn't
belong, that's where you've been.  I've got two detectives in
Nevada ready to come out and be material witnesses in this little
soap opera drama your mother is hosting.  I got everyone from
Blevins to Weber to Barr wanting to know why the hell I can't
keep a tight lid on my agents, and I'm sitting here trying for the life
of me to decide if you're worth all the bother.  You know what I've
decided, Mulder?  You're not!" Bill bellowed on, not stopping for
breath.

"It killed another one, Bill," Mulder said softly, quietly into the
phone.

"You mean you correctly predicted another suicide, don't you,
Mulder?  You know, that doesn't speak very well of your own
mental health," Bill sneered.  "So what was it this time, a vision
while you were on the crapper?"

"Bill, listen to me, please," Mulder begged.  "I know you don't
think I have a clue here, but I've known what cities, known what
hotels, this time I even correctly predicted the site.  I'm narrowing
in on this thing, Bill.  I'll have it by the time it strikes in
Sacramento."

"Mulder, listen to yourself?  'By the time _it_ strikes.'  It's either a
him or a her, Mulder.  That's the first rule of profiling.  You don't
know squat if you know the gender!  And for the rest of it,
you've just been damned lucky!"

"Look, Bill, I don't know that it has a gender," Mulder's words
rushed out before he had a chance to think them through.  "I mean,
I, what I saw, or rather, what I felt . . ."

"Mulder, I'm only going to tell you this one more time.  If you
continue to investigate this without authorization, I will have you
arrested, do I make myself clear.  And when your doctor decides
you're able to return to work, you'll be facing a full psych workup
from _our_ shrinks, Mulder.  You'll be very lucky if they don't
super glue you to a desk for the remainder of your time with the
Bureau.  Now, go back to recuperating and leave the police work
to those capable of it.  Is that clear?"

Mulder closed his eyes, his jaw clenched in anger.  "Clear as glass,
sir."  In a muttered voice he added "Kiss my ass, sir," and hung up
the phone.

end of part sixteen.

Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part seventeen of twenty-five

National Airport
Washington, DC
March 8, 1991
10:45 am

Mr. Harrison had been true to his word, and was waiting at the gate
for Mulder's arrival.  Mulder had spent a sleepless night, tossing
and turning on his couch in his apartment.  Too many thoughts
battled for attention in his mind to allow him to seek any rest. 
When the morning came, he was more tired than when he'd first
laid down his head.

Mulder had been at the airport in plenty of time.  He struggled to
focus his thoughts on the upcoming hearing.  As a psychology
student, he'd learned about competency hearings.  Usually, they
involved older individuals, or those suffering from mental illnesses
so severe as to make them a danger to themselves or others.  As an
FBI agent, he'd been called before the court to testify as to the
criminal psychoses of some of the people he had helped arrest.  But
this was the first time he would be sitting on the other side of the
table.

Harrison had wanted to discuss the proceeding on the plane. 
Mulder had tried to listen, but pretty much tuned Harrison out. 
For the most part, it would be a battle of lawyers, with his mother's
lawyer calling upon statements by Franklin and even Sullivan in
Oregon, and Harrison relying on Mulder's FBI evaluations as well
as the various commendations from his jacket.  Hopefully, the
Federal Government would be all the backing he'd need.

It wasn't a long flight, but Mulder felt himself nodding off.  Finally,
Harrison's droning voice as he read from Mulder's personnel
jacket, lulled the agent to sleep.

"Fox, we're landing," Harrison said firmly, shaking Mulder's
shoulder.

Mulder blinked awake, then yawned and stretched as much as the
commuter craft would allow.  "Sorry, I didn't get much sleep last
night."

"Well, I was hoping we could go over some of these items in your
file," Harrison said testily.  "But we have time before we're
supposed to be at the courthouse.  Let's get some lunch and find a
quiet corner to talk."

They ended up at Manero's, a restaurant not far from the
courthouse.  Mulder let his eyes wander over the menu, but settled
for a cup of coffee.  Harrison ordered a full meal consisting of a
steak sandwich and a Greek salad with feta cheese.  He looked
guiltily over at Mulder when the food arrived.

"You really should eat something," he scolded the younger man.

"Do you charge extra for being concerned about my health?"
Mulder snipped from behind his coffee cup.

Harrison put down his fork and gave Mulder a hard look.  "You
don't like me very much.  Should I be personally offended, or just
offended for my profession?"

Mulder dropped his eyes to the table.  "I'm sorry.  I'm used to
being on the opposite side in this kind of case.  I'm the guy trying
to take the nut case off the street, either through commitment or
imprisonment.  Doesn't bother me which.  Actually, it's almost
harder to get out of an involuntary commitment than it is to get
parole."

"You're absolutely right.  Which is why this hearing is so
important.  It's what I was trying to tell you last night," Harrison
said, returning to his meal.  "So, what were you going to do in
California tomorrow?  Before I talked some sense into you."

Mulder looked out the window at the few people brave enough to
battle the sudden nine inch snowfall that had blanketed New
England during the night.  "Oh, the usual.  Take in the sights,
prevent a murder.  Catch a killer.  Nothing spectacular."

"Fox, can't you understand that you have to let this go?" Harrison
sighed.  "Look, I've known your father a very long time.  We went
through undergraduate together.  I know him to be a passionate
man, an unshakeable man.  'Pit bulls' they call them now.  I see a
lot of him in you, Fox.  So I know what you're going through, at
least I can understand it."

"So if all I'm doing is acting like 'dear old dad', why is Mom so
bent out of shape over what I'm doing?" Mulder asked, idly stirring
more sugar into his coffee.

Harrison thought about that for a moment.  "Your mother divorced
your father, Fox.  I know that's obvious to you, but you may not
realize that she has to distance herself from him in order to lead her
own life.  Traits she once admired enough to earn her respect have
now become problems that earn her scorn.  You're a psychologist,
you know these things."

"So she's pissed that I'm turning out like Dad, is that it?" Mulder
said wearily, pushing back from the table.

"I was a groomsman at their wedding.  I was your father's attorney
during the divorce.  I'd have to say, yes, it does disturb your
mother that you are displaying many of the same traits your father
displayed in his youth.  But I don't know that even she understands
her motivations."

"But you are going to try and convince the judge that it's just
repressed anger at my father that is her motivation in this?" Mulder
asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

"I know it sounds harsh.  But face it, Fox.  We're playing for blood
here.  It's you or your mother.  If Teena loses, she's out a couple
hundred dollars.  If you lose, you spend the rest of your active years
trying to get out of a psychiatric placement.  One of you is going to
walk out of this the loser.  I'm pretty sure which you would prefer. 
That's where I come in."

"I think I'd rather be facing down a serial killer," Mulder said,
standing.  "I'm gonna go 'freshen up'.  I'll catch you at the door." 
He tossed two dollars on the table to cover the cost of the coffee he
hadn't touched.

"Fox, this meal is on me," Harrison insisted and picked up the two
dollars to return to the younger man.  

Mulder made no attempt to take the money.  "I wouldn't want to
add to Dad's bill," he said and headed back to the rest rooms.

There were pay phones by the rest rooms.  Mulder checked to
make certain that Harrison had not followed him, then picked up
one of the phones and dialed, using his credit card.

"Lone Gun Man."  Frohike was answering the phones.

"Frohike, it's Mulder.  Turn off . . ."

"It's off, it's off.  Hey, Mulder.  Where ya been?  I've been calling
your apartment since 10 this morning."

"I'm in Connecticut.  That little business with my Mother is rearing
it's ugly head."

"Bummer," muttered the little man.  "Well, I have some info for
you.  How you want it?"

Mulder dug in his pocket and found his notebook and pen.  "Talk
to me," he told his friend.

"OK, Sacramento must have a real affirmative action push going. 
Most of the night workers at the Cap City are women.  But there
were four men working there last year.  Everette Biggs, James
Curran, Andrew Riley, and David Deakins."

"Details, Frohike," Mulder prodded.

"Biggs is no longer employed at the Cap City.  He retired last Nov.
after 40 years of service to the hotel.  James Curran took off time
last year to go to San Francisco to attend the Gay Pride Parade."

"Scratch both of them," Mulder said, more to himself than to his
friend.

"That leaves Riley and Deakins.  Riley is 32 years old, married five
years, but separated from his wife.  Deakins is divorced, two
years."

"Bingo.  Any other info on either?"

"Riley is pretty straight arrow.  He's never been late, never been
reprimanded.  Went to work out of the military.  Was a Marine
before coming to work as the night desk clerk eight years ago."

"And Deakins?"

"This is his third divorce.  Has a line of creditors tailing him on a
regular basis.  Likes to bar hop before coming to work at midnight. 
Looking for the next ex-Mrs. Deakins, I would assume," Frohike
said with a chuckle.

"I think you have hit pay dirt, Frohike.  Hey, I owe you a pizza,"
Mulder told him happily.

"You owe me more than a pizza, Mulder, and I expect full
payment."

"Only one, Frohike.  Any video in my extensive library, but only
one," Mulder said with a grin in his voice.

"I've had my eye on 'Delores Does DC' for a long time, now."

"It's yours," Mulder assured him.  "Now, go do your magic for
Carson City."

"Your wish is my command," Frohike said.  "Oh, and good luck
with your Mom."

"Thanks.  I hope I don't need it," Mulder said dryly.  

He hung up the phone actually feeling better than he had in days,
weeks.  He had a solid lead.  Now, all he had to do was get through
the hearing, make Harrison see reason and allow him to fly to
Sacramento, and convince Deakins he was in danger.  It was a
stretch, but for the first time since seeing the dead body of Allen
Vespers in the Golden Nugget, Mulder felt some small grain of
hope growing in his heart.

When he got to the door, Harrison had paid the check and was
waiting.  "Ready to go?" the older man asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Mulder said, trying for a reassuring
smile.  For once, he succeeded.

Harrison held the door open and they ventured out into the
blistering wind and snow.

New Haven County Courthouse
Judges Chambers

The nameplate on the desk said 'Judge B. Crowder'.  Mulder had
no idea what the 'B' stood for, but he was certain it wasn't Barbie. 
Judge Crowder was a no nonsense woman in her early forties, who
looked like she could take Mulder and both the lawyers in a fist
fight in a minute.  Not large, by any means.  Just . . . forceful.  If
the pictures on the credenza behind her desk were any indication,
she'd learned much of her courtroom policies raising three rather
handsome young men.

Mulder took a moment to look at his own mother, but she refused
to return the gaze.  She was looking almost as worn as she had
when he'd first come out of the coma in the hospital.  A small
kernel of guilt burned in his gut, but he ignored it.  He tore his gaze
away when the judge began speaking.

"Gentlemen, Mrs. Mulder," Judge Crowder addressed them.  "This,
as you know, is an informal hearing.  At this point, we're just trying
to determine how far we want to take this action.  Now, Mrs.
Mulder, your lawyer, Mr. Griffin, has filed a motion for
guardianship in the case of your emancipated son, Fox William
Mulder.  Do you wish to proceed with that action?"

Mr. Griffin leaned over to whisper something into his mother's ear
that Mulder could not hear.  Still not looking over toward her son,
who was sitting not more than two feet away from her, Teena
Mulder nodded her head.  "Yes, your Honor.  I wish to proceed."

Judge Crowder made a note on the pad of paper in front of her. 
"Mr. Mulder.  I take it you wish to file an objection to this action?"

Harrison started to lean over to advise him, but Mulder put his hand
on the older man's shoulder to warn him off.  "Yes, your Honor.  I
wish to object."

"Very well.  I have several statements in the file in front of me.  I
must say that much of what is said could be construed as
contradictory.  Not that it surprised me that much.  It just makes it
a bit difficult to sift through.  Given that Mr. Mulder is currently on
medical leave from his place of employment, I would like to have
him evaluated by an independent psychologist.  One without a
vested interest in the outcome of this matter.  Are you amenable to
that Mr. Mulder."

Mulder had been expecting as much.  "Of course, your Honor." 
He'd gone toe to toe with some of the best psychologists on the
East Coast.  He wasn't intimidated when he was 12 and he
wouldn't let them intimidate him at 29.

"Mrs. Mulder, are you agreeable to this?"

Teena hesitated a moment, then leaned over and spoke quietly with
her lawyer.  He nodded and she sat up.  "Yes, your Honor.  I
agree."

"Good.  Well, let's get this over with as quickly as possible.  Mr.
Mulder, if you would report to Cresthaven Psychiatric Hospital
here in Greenwich by 4 pm this afternoon.  You will be there for 72
hours to undergo a full evaluation."

Mulder's jaw dropped to his chest.  "But your Honor!  Today? 
And I thought it would be for an evaluation, not a full work up!  I
can't possibly agree to 72 hours," he cried.  

Judge Crowder regarded him coolly over her wire rimmed glasses. 
"You have a more pressing engagement, Mr. Mulder?"

He was trapped.  He looked over at Harrison, who was doing his
best to not look smug and failing.  His mother was staring at him
with a look of fear . . . and something more.  Pain?  He wasn't sure. 
Griffin just looked pleased.  Mulder was making his case for him.

He forced himself to calm down.  "Is this evaluation going to be
considered voluntary or involuntary?" he asked the judge.

"That, Mr. Mulder, is entirely up to you.  Go willingly, as you have
already agreed, and we'll make it voluntary.  Kick up a fuss . . ." 
She didn't bother to elaborate.

Mulder drew in a deep breath.  "Not much of a choice, is it?"

"I realize these are difficult times, Mr. Mulder.  But I think I'm on
fairly solid legal footing when I say the court, as well as your
mother, only have your best interests at heart.  I need an
independent evaluation if I'm to judge the merits of your mother's
petition.  I think you want me to make an informed decision, do
you not?"

"Of course, your Honor," Mulder said contritely.

For the first time, Judge Crowder smiled.  "Good.  Cresthaven will
be expecting you.  Bring clothes and toiletries.  I'm setting the next
hearing date for," she looked at her calendar, "the 16th of this
month.  At that time, I will be able to give you a decision.  Thank
you, both of you, for your behavior.  I know this is hard on both of
you."  She stood and reached over the desk, shaking first Teena's
hand and then Mulder's.  "See you all on the 16th."

Mulder stood and was the first out the door, followed quickly by
his mother.

"Fox, let me explain . . ."

He spun on her, eyes wild with rage.  "Not. Right. Now. Mother,"
he gritted out through clenched teeth.  When the two lawyers
joined them in the hall, he put on his best game face.  "This isn't
going to work, Mom," he said in a voice just above a whisper.  "I
should have seen this coming, but that's OK.  I will beat this.  Mark
my words.  I will beat this."

With tears in her eyes, she looked up at her son.  "I hope you do,
Sweetheart.  I sincerely hope you do."

end part seventeen

Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part eighteen of twenty-five

Harrison caught up with him when he was already a block down the
street, striding purposefully toward their rental car.

Mulder spun on the older man, almost slipping on the icy pavement. 
"Did you know about this?" he demanded.

Harrison shrugged.  "I knew she'd expect an independent
evaluation.  I didn't expect three days, no.  But then, Judge
Crowder is an experienced Family Court judge.  I don't think she'd
put much stock in a 'slam, bamm, thank you ma'am' psych
evaluation of a man who is an Oxford trained psychologist.  She
probably figures you'd brain screw any one she put up against you. 
This way, after a while, your defenses will be weakened and the
truth will come out."

"You think I'm crazy, too," Mulder spat out, eyes narrowed.

"No, I'm just telling you how she's probably dealt with others in
your situation.  There are Harvard and Yale trained psychologists
all over this area.  Some of them, after time, can't handle the stress
of their own lives.  They break.  She's had to deal with them and
their families.  I'm pretty sure that's why we're in her courtroom. 
Your mother's lawyer probably checked all this out before he
walked in the door."

"I thought you were supposed to check that all, too," Mulder
sneered.  

Harrison took the snipe.  "I did.  But I couldn't foresee the time. 
And if you'll remember, you decided to sleep on the plane up here. 
We could have talked different scenarios at that time," Harrison
said pointedly.  "Besides, it's three days.  They are not throwing
away the key.  Three days in a hospital that is one of the best in the
East Coast, and said to have some of the most breathtaking
grounds, as well as the best food you can find.  Consider it a
vacation!" Harrison said with a broad smile.

Mulder glared at him.  "Gee, why don't you just go and take my
place.  Sounds like _you_ could use a 'vacation'," he sneered. 
Harrison just shook his head, not returning fire.  Finally Mulder
looked at his watch.  "Shit, it's almost three now.  I don't have
clothes . . ."

Harrison held up a duffle bag.  "Your mom's lawyer more than
likely had a little inside information," he said.  "She packed a bag
for you."

Mulder's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.  "Whatever my father is
paying you . . . it's too much."

Cresthaven Hospital
Rural Connecticut
3:55pm

Mulder stared at the brick building at the end of the long driveway. 
It was enormous, and could easily have been a summer mansion for
some rich New York railroad baron a century before.  Smaller
houses surrounded the larger structure, and he detected neatly
painted white fencing off in the distance near a white building that
could only be a stable.  

"Great place, huh?  I know some very high rollers in Boston who
'check' themselves in once a year just to get away from the rat
race.  No outside phone calls allowed in the main complex.  Better
than the French Riveria," Harrison said affably.

"I'm sure," Mulder replied dryly.  In a moment, they were parked
and Harrison took Mulder's bag, then ushered him toward the front
door.  The door, was white with a welcoming straw wreath of
indeterminate season gracing it.  It opened as they approached.  

"Mr. Harrison, Mr. Mulder," a young woman of about Mulder's
age said cheerfully.  "We've been expecting you."  She waved them
in and shut the door.  Mulder heard an almost undetectable snick as
a locking system engaged.   Even velvet prisons had locks, he
reminded himself.

"I'm Helen Grayson, I'm the Director of Admitting here at
Cresthaven.  If you gentlemen would be so kind as to follow me,
we can get the admitting paperwork out of the way and then get
Mr. Mulder settled in for his stay."

Mulder immediately began to wonder if his trust fund was being
called upon to pay for this 'vacation' or if the tax payers were
footing the bill.  He hoped it was the latter.  And as she cheerfully
swayed before him, he decided that Helen would have been the first
co-ed ripped to shreds in any of the Halloween movie series.  He
swallowed back a smart remark and followed her into a room just
off the foyer.

"We're rather informal, most of the time," Helen said with a smile
as she showed them to seats in a well appointed office.  "Basically,
you'll have a private room with a private bath.  Meals are taken in
the dining room, unless you have orders from your doctor that
allow you to eat in your room.  There are televisions in each
bedroom, but there's also a gathering place on each floor with a
television, a stereo,  and on the third floor south wing, there's a
piano.  Most of our patients spend their evenings in the gathering
places."  She handed Mulder a slick brochure.

"This gives a picture of life here at Cresthaven.  Since you'll be
staying with us for more than 24 hours, please read the brochure,
cover to cover, and then sign the little box at the bottom of the last
page.  It includes all the rules you need to know."

"Rules?" Mulder asked, taking his eyes off the brochure to look up
at Helen.

"Well, like lights out.  At 10:30, the nurse at the desk on each floor
turns out the lights in all the patient rooms.  The televisions are on
the same switch, so that means no TV past 10:30.  Sorry, if you're
a late night news addict," she said with a shrug and a grin.  "And
breakfast at 7:30 is mandatory, unless your doctor OK's an
exception."

Mulder flinched at her comment about television after bedtime. 
He'd been using TV as his 'nightlight' since he was a kid.  He
couldn't imagine falling asleep without the TV, unless he was on
the road, on a case and was near unconscious with exhaustion.  He
interrupted Helen.

"Uh, Helen, I tend to sleep with the TV on.  Have for a long time. 
Would it be possible . . ."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Mr. Mulder.  I'm sure your doctor
can prescribe a sleep aid.  You'll sleep like a baby.  We want you
fresh in the morning for when we begin the evaluation."

Mulder's heart sank.  That was not the answer he was hoping for. 
Helen didn't seem to notice the slump to his shoulders, and
continued on.

"Now, visits and phone calls.  Of course, you are allowed contact
with your immediate family and umm, Mr. Harrison.  You'll only be
here for three days, but if your mother or father wishes to visit, we
can arrange for that during visiting hours, after dinner in the
evening.  And if they want to find out how you're doing, they can
call the nurses' desk at any time during the day.  There are no
phones in the bedrooms, but all messages will be relayed to you,
and of course, you can call Mr. Harrison at any time you feel there
is a, uh, legal matter to be discussed.  Ordinarily, the doctor decides
if outside contact might impede recovery, so patients' phone calls
are more restrictive.  Of course, that's not a problem for you, since
you're only here for evaluation."

"Can I call out?  Someone besides Mr. Harrison?" Mulder asked,
growing rather concerned.

Helen shook her head sadly.  "Sorry.  'Fraid not.  But you can give
a message to your parents, and they can forward that message to
anyone you wish."

That tore it for Mulder.  He couldn't receive or make phone calls
except to people he didn't want to talk to.  He had to eat in a dining
hall filled with complete strangers.  He couldn't watch television
past 10:30.  And already they were talking sleeping pills.  He
glanced at his watch and noted that he still had 71 and a half hours
to go.  He'd never make it.  He'd be a suicide long before that time.

"So, would you like to see your room?" Helen asked brightly.

He didn't really want to, but Harrison was already answering for
him.  "Do you mind if I tag along?  I promised his father I'd see
that Fox was taken care of before I left."

Helen scrunched up her forehead for a second.  "Well, it's not really
policy.  But since Mr. Mulder is a voluntary patient, and only with
us for a short time, I don't see any harm," she said with another
dazzling smile.

Mulder wasn't sure how much more of 'Helen' he could take, but
the thought of getting somewhere by himself was suddenly very
appealing.  He followed Harrison and Helen out of the office.

Now that he had a chance to look around, Mulder had to admit the
hospital was spectacular.  Unlike the inner city hospital in England
where he'd done his own clinical work during college, this place
definitely catered to the rich and insane.  Polished mahogany stair
railings reflected the diamond-bright crystal chandeliers.  Rich
draperies hung in the floor-to-ceiling windows.  The foyer was
painted a cool mint green with a darker green carpeting trailing up
the stairs.

"There's an elevator tucked in the back of the stairs, if you ever feel
light headed or need a rest.  The court sent your medical records
ahead so we could be prepared.  I understand you're still on
medical leave for a nasty case of pneumonia," Helen said with
almost genuine concern in her voice.

"I'm over it for the most part," Mulder assured her.

"Well, if you need to rest, just let me know.  You're on the second
floor, so we don't have far to go."

At the second floor, Helen led them to the right, through a set of
open double doors.  "The rooms on this floor are considered
'open'.  Those doors are never locked, although at night, they are
closed, just for the noise of the night staff on the stairs.  You'll have
full privileges to roam the floor, go into the gathering area at the
other end or down to the gym and weight room which are on the
lower level.  The pool is closed for the time being," she said
apologetically.  "We sprung a leak."

"Must have been embarrassing," Mulder muttered and Harrison
shot him a dirty look.

"This is the nurses station," Helen said, either not hearing or
choosing to ignore his comment.  "Ruth, this is Mr. Mulder and his
uh, friend, Mr. Harrison," Helen explained, indicating each man in
turn.

"Mr. Mulder, nice to meet you.  I'm the evening nurse on this
floor," said Ruth, who was an older woman, probably in her
mid-fifties.  She had an easy smile and Mulder relaxed a little in her
presence.  "You're in room 204, right down the hall.  I'll go in and
turn on the lights."

The room was not spacious, by any means, but the furnishings were
beautiful and probably expensive.  Mulder didn't give a rat's ass
about those things, but he was pretty sure the armoire that housed
the TV was an antique.  There was a single twin bed with a padded
headboard, a nightstand with a small table lamp and a low chest of
drawers.  A Queen Anne chair, with a brocade floral seat was
situated next to the chest.  The bathroom sported a shower, but no
tub, a sink and toilet, with inlaid ceramic tile on floor and walls. 
Thick, plush towels hung from a glass and gold plated towel rack
and the sink had a basket of complimentary toiletries.  

Mulder did note a few 'exceptions' to the 'Ritz-Carlton'
appointment of the room.  The outlets were covered, and it would
take considerable effort, not to mention tools, to uncover them. 
The shower had a shower curtain, no glass enclosure.  The mirror,
upon closer inspection, was highly polished metal, not glass.  The
windows were protected by very ornate grating, on the inside. 
Even the table lamp's cord was run through a conduit attached to
the wall, with only six inches exposed.  The door to the room
locked from the outside.  If not a velvet prison, at the very least, a
velvet and chintz padded cell.

Ruth had been pointing out the various controls for the television
and the lights, as well as how to work the temperature in the
shower.  "It's a little tricky, but fiddle with it and you'll get it to a
comfortable temp soon," she confided.  Finally, she turned to
Harrison.  "Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Harrison.  We'll take
very good care of Fox," she said.  It was obviously his cue to leave.

Harrison looked a little surprised by the abrupt dismissal, but took
it in stride.  He extended his hand to Mulder.  "Fox, it looks like
you'll be in good hands.  I'm available to pick you up in three days. 
We can talk more, then."

Mulder stood, looking at Harrison's hand extended in the air and
for a moment, seriously considered ignoring the gesture.  In the
end, manners won out and he accepted the parting handshake. 
Harrison smiled and left.

Ruth stood in the hallway and watched him all the way to the stairs. 
When he was out of sight, she came back into the room, sighing in
relief.

"Lawyers," she shook her head in disgust.

Mulder tried to bite back his grin, but didn't succeed.  "Don't like
sharks, huh?" he asked, with a wink of shared mischief.

"They're great, if you've got a good one.  He seems good enough,"
she said.  "Now, let's get you settled.  And I want to let you know
what you're in for in the next three days."  She pulled the chair over
to the side of the bed and sat.  Mulder took a seat on the bed while
Ruth shuffled through some pages on her lap.

"Tonight, it's pretty simple.  Dinner is at 6:30 in the dining room. 
It's shrimp bisque, chicken paprikash, vegetable grill and, oh boy,
cherries jubilee for dessert.  If you prefer something lighter, there is
always Cobb or Chef salad available."

Mulder frowned.  "Any chance of a pizza?  A burger with fries?"

Ruth's eyes twinkled as she smiled at him.  "We have 'fifties' nights
some weekends.  Then we have burgers, fries, and milk shakes. 
Unfortunately, we just had one two weeks ago.  Sorry."  She gave
him a sideways glance as she looked back at her notes.  "Think
you'll die if you have to go without grease for three days?"

"I think that will be the least of my worries," Mulder dead panned.

"Oh, now, don't be like that," Ruth chided pleasantly.  "Before
bedtime, though, we will be in to take some blood.  Lab work they
can run tonight so the doctor can have it tomorrow."

"Lab work?" Mulder asked tensely.

"Yes.  The orders call for a full evaluation and examination.  Just to
rule out anything physiological.  You'll have a CAT scan in the
morning, too.  Have you had one of those?"

"Never had the pleasure," Mulder said dryly.

"Oh, they're a cinch.  You just lie there and look pretty for the
camera.  Takes pictures of your brain.  Totally painless."

"Better than using a sledge hammer and a chisel, I guess," Mulder
said with a quirk of his eyebrows.  Ruth giggled like a schoolgirl.

"Oh, I'm going to have to watch out for you!" she said with a wink. 
"Anyway, tomorrow, after a light breakfast, you'll be meeting with
Dr. Havaland.  He's an MD.  He'll do the physical examination.  He
has your hospital records and he'll probably ask you some questions
about your illness.  A lot of mental health problems stem from
prolonged illness," Ruth added conversationally.  Mulder gritted his
teeth and bit back a reply.

"After the physical, you'll be meeting Dr. Kuhn, one of our staff
psychiatrists, for a private session.  Then a break for lunch and an
hour of free time.  You might want to check out the gym, there are
often pickup basketball games to be found.  Then in the afternoon,
you're scheduled for a group session . . ."

"A group session?  Excuse me, I thought I was here for evaluation. 
Group is for treatment," Mulder broke in.

Ruth smiled indulgently.  "That's right.  You're a psychologist,
aren't you?  Well, yes, you are right, group is for treatment.  But
during your evaluation, the doctors would like to see how you react
in a group setting.  Don't worry.  We don't turn you into 'trees' or
anything.  Actually, you are scheduled for a session that is mostly
professional people with work related stresses.  You might just get
something out of it," she said reassuringly.  

"After that, there is another private session, followed by a rest.  I'm
afraid that's mandatory in your case.  Dr. Havaland and Dr. Kuhn
feel the day will be pretty long on you, especially with your recent
illness.  You'll be required to come back here.  You don't have to
take a nap, but we do ask you to stay in the room and try to rest. 
Then, it's dinner and finally, free time until lights out."

"Day two and three will be based on what day one tells us.  Most
likely, at least a couple more private sessions with some testing,
maybe another group session or two.  More physical tests, if they
are warranted.  And then, at four o'clock on day three, your shark,
er, I mean, lawyer, comes and takes you home."  She folded her
hands on the papers in her lap.  "There you have it.  Any
questions?"

"Just for the sake of argument," Mulder said, leaning back against
the headboard.  "What if I say . . . stick it.  And decide to walk out
that door?"  He softened the words with a bright and winning smile.

Ruth matched the smile with one of her own.  "Well, it's fourteen
miles back to town.  It's currently 20 degrees with a wind chill
reaching down to 2 below zero.  And you would be on foot."  She
stood up, using her height advantage, though minimal, to it's full
advantage.  "And we have a court order to bring you back. 
Basically, we'd lock the door and you wouldn't be getting out in
three days."

"Message understood," he said stoically.  He flashed her another
smile, just to put her at ease.

She responded immediately.  "And you're much too smart to pull a
dumb stunt like that," she said, and patted his leg lightly.  "Besides,
I'm willing to bet we can get you hooked on shrimp bisque.  Our
chef studied at the Cordon Bleu."  She put the chair back in it's
place next to the chest.  "Dinner at six-thirty.  And don't worry, it's
informal," she added with a wink.

"Thanks, Ruth," he said.   He was grateful that she left the door
open a crack.  At that moment, he needed to feel just that much in
control of his environment.  Suddenly, it all began to hit home.  He
was in a psychiatric hospital.  He couldn't leave.  And if he didn't
answer all the questions correctly, his entire life would change for
the worse.

He'd never felt so alone or so afraid in his adult life.

end of part eighteen
Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part nineteen of twenty-five

Cresthaven Hospital
March 8, 1991
6:55 am

Mulder was shocked when he opened his eyes and found the late
winter sun streaming in through the curtains.  He'd actually slept
through the night, and without the use of drugs.

Dinner, socially at least, had been unremarkable.  He'd tried to find
a table to himself, but soon discovered privacy was not an option at
Cresthaven.  He ended up sharing a table with two stockbrokers
from Boston, who spent the meal advising him on the best
investments for his IRA account.  

When dinner was over, he'd 'retired' to his room to escape for a
while in television land.  He soon figured out that Cresthaven had a
full range of cable channels, and though it was missing the Playboy
Channel, he could exist on a steady diet of ESPN, SciFi, and the
Comedy Channel, at least for a couple of evenings.

He had dozed off before the official 'lights out'.  Ruth had come in
to make sure he was comfortable, had made him wake up long
enough to change into pajamas and climb under the covers.  By
10:35, he was sound asleep.  

The morning passed quickly.  The physical exam was a breeze, he'd
been spending so much time in hospitals and doctor's offices that he
almost took over in a couple of places, just to speed things along. 
Dr. Havaland was an older gentleman with a rather gruff exterior,
but to Mulder's relief, he didn't read him the riot act about 'doing
too much, too soon'.  In general, Havaland told him his lungs were
still recovering and although Mulder might be feeling better, even
almost back to normal, his lungs weren't that far along yet.  He
needed to rest, which meant lying down, sleeping if possible, for at
least 8 hours every night and for a few hours during the day.

Dr. Kuhn insisted that he call her Candice, and was not much older
than Mulder himself.  She was a psychiatrist trained in New York
and at Harvard Med.  She had a relaxed and easy manner, but
Mulder was still tense during their session.  She started with simple
questions, many dealing with his relationship with his mother. 
Once, early on, she asked about the family and how they all
interacted when he was a child and he abruptly tried to change the
topic.  She'd dropped the subject, but he had a feeling it would
come up again in later sessions.

Lunch was another gourmet meal.  Even his meals at Oxford hadn't
been as lavish.  He felt almost guilty when he considered that the
patients he'd visited as a student were getting 'gruel' compared to
what he was eating.  He'd learned at breakfast that if he sat with a
table of three people, he wouldn't have to 'participate' quite as
much in the conversation and the meal was more enjoyable.

To his surprise, the group session wasn't as bad as he'd expected. 
He was in a group of professionals that most people would consider
workaholics.  They sympathized with his desire to get back to work
after his illness, adding their own horror stories of 'not being in the
office' when the business started to crumple.  The group leader did
attempt to point out that in each case, the impending disaster had
been averted and frequently by others in the company, but Mulder
knew in his case, that wasn't going to happen.  No one else knew
of or even believed that a killer was on the loose.

After a second session with Candice, this time employing a couple
of psychological tests that he'd used during his own time in clinical,
he made his way back to his room and fell face first on the bed,
exhausted.  It was Ruth again who came in to wake him for dinner
at 6:30.

He was still pretty bleary eyed when he made his way to the dining
room.  Veal Parmesan with Italian green beans.  He was pretty
sure he'd heard of Linzer tarts, but he knew he'd never eaten one. 
He looked around for a vacant seat.

Since he'd arrived a little late, the dining room was packed.  After
searching for a moment, his eyes fell on the only available seat.  A
small table, big enough for two, in the corner farthest from the
door.  A woman was already seated at the table, but holding his
plate in one hand and dessert in the other, he made his way over
before someone beat him to it.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" he asked.  The woman had been
intently staring down at her plate while cutting her veal and looked
startled at the sound of his voice.

"Oh, uh, no.  Please, be my guest," she smiled up at him, then
motioned for him to have a seat.

He settled into the chair, then reached across, extending his hand. 
"Fox Mulder," he said by way of introduction.

She smiled and took his hand.  "Colleen McNamara.  Pleased to
meet you . . . Fox?"

He nodded and turned to his meal. 

"You just got here, didn't you?" Colleen asked, between bites.

Mulder nodded.  "I'm just here for . . ."

Colleen held up her hand.   "This isn't group, Fox," she laughed. 
"I'm not fishing for your neurosis.  I just noticed I hadn't seen you
before."

"I'm only here for a couple of days," Mulder said, to finish his
thought.

As dinner progressed, the two ended up having a conversation. 
Mulder was pleased that Colleen wasn't going to try to sell him
anything and didn't seem to want to psychoanalyze him.  When
dessert was finished, they walked down to the gathering place.

"So you're a clinical psychologist," Mulder said, finding them a seat
on a small sofa near the fireplace away from the crowd watching a
sitcom on the television.  "That must be interesting."

"As compared to the FBI," Colleen laughed.  "Well, let's just say
it's something I love and I'm good at," she said, staring off into
fire.

"Married, a good job that you love, children," Mulder rattled off,
then stopped.  He was about to ask the obvious question.  Why was
she here?  But stopped before making that mistake.

Too late, Colleen's sad smile told him she'd followed his train of
thought.  "I have a great life.  I just got a little lost in my work,"
she explained.  "I worked with teens.  Lately, in the last couple of
years, I've been working more and more with teen suicide."  She
stopped talking and picked at the nap of the sofa.

"We don't have to . . ." Mulder interrupted her thoughts.

She smiled at him.  "No.  It's nice to talk to someone who's not
getting paid to listen," she said lightly.

"Well, unless you count the Federal Government.  We're accused
of always 'listening'," he returned and was rewarded with a shared
laugh.

"Since my work had little to do with serial killers, bank fraud, or
overthrowing the government, I think I'm on safe ground," she said
and settled back into the sofa.

"You said you got lost in your work?" Mulder prodded.  It struck a
solid chord with him.  A day of focusing on himself, his own needs
was enough to make him stop and think of how much of his life was
his work.

"I got to where I couldn't turn it off.  No matter how hard I tried.  I
thought it was because the work was so important, that I was
needed, you know?" she turned to him, hoping for understanding. 
He nodded.  He understood all to well.

"But it started to devour me.  I was working long hours, but then,
everyone does.  Even in my off hours, I was thinking about the kids
I worked with.  Here I have these really terrific kids of my own, and
I spent every waking hour worrying about somebody elses' kids." 
She shook her head.

"Not too long ago, I was walking in the mall with my daughter. 
We were supposed to be Christmas shopping.  But as we passed
cluster after cluster of teenagers, I kept looking at them.  Not as
kids having a good time, but as potential patients, possible suicides. 
You see, I've gotten pretty good.  I can pick them out of a crowd. 
I can look at a girl who appears to be having a great time, and just
by the way she turns her head, the way she answers a question, I
can tell she's in trouble."

"You're profiling them," Mulder said quietly.  Colleen looked
confused.  "That's my job," he explained.  "To look at the crime
and determine what sick mind could do that.  And then give the
other agents enough of a description to pick that person out of a
crowd.  It's a gift, your ability to see the sick ones.  You can help
them."

Colleen snorted and shook her head disdainfully.  "No, Fox.  That's
the point.  I couldn't _help_ all of them.  And I had this feeling that
the ones I helped weren't enough.  I would see those kids in the
mall and then I'd wait and wait for the article in the newspaper. 
And it would come.  Not within days or even weeks, sometimes it
took months, but there it would be 'Sophomore Girl found dead in
her room', 'Senior boy shoots self in head'.  And even though I
didn't know their name, I'd never met them in my life, . . . I felt
responsible."

She turned to the fire again.  "I just couldn't do it anymore.  I
couldn't be responsible for all the screwed up kids in the world."

Mulder swallowed, not wanting to shatter the silence between
them.  He understood the weight of the responsibility Colleen spoke
of.  It was the same burden he carried on his shoulders.

"But how . . . how do you stop?" he asked, his voice far away and
small.

She sat there for a while, not turning her head, just looking at the
fire.  He thought maybe she hadn't heard him.  But after a long
silence she touched his hand.  "You just do.  You have to.  Or you
lose yourself.  And Fox, you never seem to find your way home
when that happens.  Just like those kids.  They never found their
way home."

"I can't quit my job," he said woefully.

"I didn't quit.  I intend to change my focus.  I need some distance,
something that I won't get quite so tied up in.  I have to.  I certainly
wasn't going to save any lives hiding in my room behind a locked
door."  She laughed at Mulder's questioning glance.  "I did that. 
For three days.  My husband finally took the door off the hinges. 
That's when he begged me to get help."

"So what are you going to do?  I mean, change your focus . . .
how?"

She drew in a deep breath, as if to steady herself.  "I'm going start
working in family counseling.  Starting to work on the problem
before it gets out of hand.  I hope that will be enough of a change
to allow me some distance.  If not, I'll have to try something else. 
Maybe even marriage counseling," she said with a wink.

"There's a big market in shrinks for brokers, if this place is any
indication," Mulder said with an answering wink.

She grimaced then smiled again.  "I don't know that I could stand
the boredom."

One of the many people with a staffing badge walked over to them. 
"Colleen?  Your family's downstairs in the foyer."

She looked surprised, then a glance at her watch and she smiled a
wide smile.  She got up and took Mulder's hand in her own.  "Well,
Fox, you may not know it, but you've been a big help to me.  I was
beginning to think I couldn't do this, make this change, but talking
to you tonight . . . I know I have to.  Failure is not an option."

"Well, then, best of luck," Mulder said confidently, shaking her
hand
firmly.

"See ya around, Fox," she winked and turned, walking out of the
room with the staffer.

Mulder stood there for a moment, then slowly made his way back
to his room.  It was still early, only about 8 o'clock.  He didn't
bother with the television, just sat down on the bed and tried to
figure out where his life was going, and why.

After a few minutes of the quiet, he couldn't take it any longer.  He
got out of bed, changed into sweats and headed off to find the gym.

Ruth had been accurate.  There was a pickup game going on and
he had no trouble finding a spot on the court.  He had no idea who
the other people were, didn't know names or backgrounds and
didn't really want that information.  They just played ball and
played hard.  

It was the first time he'd really exercised in over a month.  A couple
of times he had to stop and catch his breath, and by the end of an
hour, he was almost ready to go back to his room and find his
inhaler.  But he pushed passed the pain and kept going.

The ball and Mulder joined on a plane of existence far away from
the polished wood court.  He didn't even notice when the others
fell away from the game, heading for the showers and their rooms. 
Before long, it was only the sound of the ball hitting the wood, then
his hands, then the rim or the net and hitting the wood again.  Over
and over and over and over and over and . . .

He had no recollection of passing out.  He didn't have any memory
of hitting the floor with his left shoulder, hard enough to leave a
bruise.  He didn't remember one of the night staff coming in to turn
off the lights and finding him on the floor, where he'd fallen.  If
asked what happened next, he would also draw a complete blank.

Mulder did remember, however, waking up in a room that was not
a carbon copy of a suite at a fancy hotel.  The room he woke up in
look suspiciously like the hospital rooms he'd recently occupied. 
He groaned, as he rolled on his side and tried to remember if all
he'd experienced lately might actually have been an elaborate and
very realistic fever dream.

When he could focus on a face, it was Dr. Havaland staring back at
him.  He did not look happy.

Without a word, the doctor did a quick exam, looking into his eyes
with a penlight that caused Mulder to tear up, holding a
stethoscope to his chest and sliding it under his back without
bothering to warm the point of contact.  Havaland then examined
the shoulder, which was already sporting a nice array of
discoloration.  He moved the arm at the joint, listening intently for a
moment.  Last, he tucked a thermometer under Mulder's tongue
and took his pulse while waiting the standard four minutes for an
accurate reading.  When Havaland pulled the thermometer out of
Mulder's mouth, the young man couldn't stand the silence any
longer.

"Umm, Dr. Havaland?  Where am I?"

Havaland fixed him with an icy glare.  "You're in our intermediate
facility.  It's where patients are brought who require a more medical
setting."

That made Mulder's stomach drop.  He licked his lips.  "What
happened?"

"You ran yourself into the ground.  In short, you played basketball
in the gym for over two hours and then collapsed from physical
exhaustion.  You were unconscious when you were found, which
was last night.  It's now almost 8 in the morning."  Havaland
moved to the bottom of the bed, picked up a metal chart and
started making notes.

"Your breathing was extremely labored.  I started you on oxygen,
which accounts for the nasal cannula you have," Havaland said not
looking up.  Mulder reached up a hand and touched the tube under
his nose.  It bothered him that he was so used to the feel of the
thing that he hadn't even noticed it upon waking.

"At first, I suspected concussion, but that wasn't the case.  You
will have a sore arm for a few days.  Apparently, you fell rather
hard on the left shoulder.  I don't see any damage other than soft
tissue.  We took x-rays last night, as well as a CT scan."

He put the chart back in the tray on the footboard and crossed his
arms, then stared at Mulder.  "Would you like to try and explain
yourself, or do you want to plead the Fifth?"

Mulder shrugged.  "I . . . uh . . . sort of lost track?" he tried.

Havaland didn't look pleased with that explanation.  He forced his
lips into a grim line.  

"Mr. Mulder.  You are here for a psychiatric evaluation.  I don't
know if you were purposefully trying to do harm to yourself last
night, or if you are so damned stupid as to push yourself when your
body is telling you to stop.  I re-read your medical records from
Portland, and I got the impression you weren't the best patient
under their care, either."

"That said, you didn't succeed in doing anything permanent, _this_
time.  But until you leave the premises, assuming you will be
leaving tomorrow afternoon, you are forbidden to go near the
gymnasium or the weight room, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Mulder said contritely.  "And I'm sorry if I caused any
trouble, I just needed to . . . stretch," he added, figuring it couldn't
hurt.

From the look Havaland shot him, it didn't help that much, either. 
"Your meeting with Dr. Kuhn has been moved to after lunch.  You
can save your apologies, and excuses for her.  I'm keeping you
down here for the rest of the morning.  I'll take a look at your
oxygen levels after lunch and we'll see what we can do about the
rest of the scheduled appointments."

Mulder closed his eyes and decided it might be best to go back to
sleep.

end of part nineteen
Vickie