Date: 22 Jan 1999 18:51:05 -0800
Subject: NEW--Quietus (1/14) by Allison Johnson

***I did not write this; I'm posting for a friend. Please direct all feedback
to her at <allijohn@nucleus.com>***


I'm not entirely sure just yet how to classify this.  It's sort of a case
file.  It's a post-"Paper Hearts" piece, a sequel, if you wish.  It's
Muldercentric, but with some good, strong Scully moments.  It 
delves a-plenty into their relationship, but it's not romance.  It's got
angst.  It's got humour.  It's got Assistant Director Kersh and Johann
Sebastian Bach.   Nachos, chicken wings, beer, corned beef
sandwiches, chocolate, and margaritas all  make an appearance at some point or
other.  It's  under 300K.  Oh heck.  Just read it, and let me know what you
think. 

I'd like to thank my good friend Nancy FF of the OBSSE for beta-reading this,
for her suggestions, her insight, and her kind words.  You're a big ball of
right, Nancy.  Thanks, sweetie!! :) 
  
                                                               Quietus
                                                          Non omnia moriar.
                                                           (Not all of me will die.)
                                                                - Horace

  

Washington, D.C. 
J. Edgar Hoover Building 
Wednesday, February 10, 1999 
7:24 p.m. 
  
Mulder stepped off the elevator and frowned, looking around for the music. The
bullpen was still, the day's end defined by quiet, now-hushed rows of empty desks,
blank computer monitors, and unruffled stacks of paper. One remaining bank of
still-humming fluorescents cast deep shadows over all. Half-full mugs sat
cold, beige
and brown coalesced in swirling patterns, the way of whitener in stagnant
coffee. One of the cleaning staff was running a floor polisher at the end of
the corridor. Mulder
stopped - and listened. Above the hum of the remaining fluorescents, above the
distant whine of the polisher, he heard a soaring flute and its violin
counterpoint. Bach's
Fifth Brandenburg Concerto, first movement, about two-thirds of the way
through. 

Turning his head, he pinpointed the source. Quietly, he walked toward his
desk, the music growing louder. He squinted and looked at the odd sight, dimly
lit because
his and Scully's desks were under a bank of extinguished lights. Emerging from
behind the computer monitor on Scully's desk, propped on a pile of file
folders, were a
pair of pantyhose-clad feet, crossed at the ankle. He could swear the toes
were conducting Herr Kappellmeister. 

He softened his step even more and crept closer. Scully lounged in her office
chair, head back, hair swinging gently, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Her
lower arms
were raised, elbows bent and tucked in at her sides. As the harpsichord solo
began, her fingers moved rapidly, lightly polished nails capturing the dim
light, tapping the
keys of the invisible Baroque instrument hovering just above her lap. Mulder
grinned and stood by quietly, fascinated. Her expression, her gestures, her
entire body
moved lithely, subtly, in synch with the tinkle-crash of the harpsichord. He
might have found the scene arousing if the whole thing weren't so goddamned
funny. 

It was a long solo. Mulder fished around in his memory for scraps of a music
history course that he'd taken at Oxford. What was so unusual about this
concerto -
something the fairly staid Bach had done to break with convention. Oh yes, the
harpsichord solo itself. The harpsichord normally formed part of the continuo, the
background accompaniment in Baroque music, the delicate but stalwart force
that provided the distinctive foundation for orchestral works of the period.
The harpsichord
never took centre stage. Not until this composition, if he recalled correctly.
He tilted his head to the side and stood, arms folded, regarding Scully. She
was fully into the
music, and he was finding it hard not to burst out laughing. That blistering
arpeggio was coming up - oh brother! His hand involuntarily slipped up to
cover his mouth,
his eyes welling with suppressed tears. He bit his lip, watching as she
finished the solo with a flourish and conducted the remaining few seconds of
the Allegro. The
last chord faded - and he lost it. 

Her eyes snapped open. 

She bolted upright, her feet pulling several folders off the desk and onto the
floor. Wide-eyed, she stared as Mulder doubled over, howling. She fumbled for
her voice
and her dignity, feeling the hot flush creep unbidden and unwanted over her
face. 

"M-mulder!" she stammered finally. "Jesus, how long have you been standing
there?" 

Mulder straightened. "Go on!" he brayed, his voice hoarse. "You've still got
the rest of the concerto!" 

Scully drew her feet under her desk, probed for her shoes, and stared at the
keyboard for no other reason than it was a hell of a lot easier to look at
than Mulder just at the
moment. She slipped off the chair and knelt to retrieve the folders, placing
the desk between her and her partner. This was an even better proposition as
it allowed her to
focus on the tiles. A hole to disappear into would be just lovely, she
thought. 

Mulder crouched to help her pick up, his laughter reduced to a steady chuckle.
He looked at her, at the sections of gold-red hair swinging in front of her
face that only
partly hid her relentless flush. After a moment, she raised her eyes to his.
Seeing his ongoing amusement, knowing she'd been caught cold, no possible
alibi, Yer
Honour, she flashed a broad, guilty smile and laughed voicelessly. She shook
her head and stuffed papers into the last folder. 

"I always pegged you as a Bach person," Mulder said, still grinning, as they
stood up. 

"Oh?" Scully drew herself together with immense dignity. "And why's that?" 

"He's so precise. Logical. Every note and phrase goes exactly where it's
supposed to. I think you and he would have had a lot in common." 

"Yeah. We'd both work a lot of weekends." Scully regarded her partner, giving
him a look that promised vengeance. "I thought you went home hours ago." 

"I thought the same about you. I was down in Kersh's office." 

Scully frowned. "Uh oh." 

Mulder shook his head. "Not this time. He was running an arson case past me;
he wants us involved. It wasn't a formal meeting - he wants to see us both
tomorrow for
that." 

"Arson?" 

"It's Federal," Mulder said. "A number of deliberately set fires in Baltimore
during the past year and a half. Government offices and archives. Falls under
the rubric of
do-mess-tick terror-izm." 

Scully shrugged, dropping the folders on the desk with an indifferent smack.
"Well, it beats harassing farmers over their fertilizer purchases. You don't
dare suppose
this might actually be an attaboy-girl for keeping our noses clean lately, do
you?" 

Mulder shrugged. "A journey of a thousand miles, Scully. But I hate fires, you
know that." 

"Does Kersh know that?" 

"I doubt it. Doesn't matter. This is all after the fact stuff, anyway. I'm
okay with it. I guess." 

Scully nodded, one side of her mouth curving upward. 

"Why are you still here?" Mulder asked. Scully stopped the CD, popped it out
of the drive, and waggled it at him. 

"My CD player is on the fritz. I found this recording at lunch today that the
Post's classical music reviewer recommended, and I just thought I'd stay and
listen to it
once everyone had gone home." She stared at Mulder for emphasis. "And now I'm
going home." She found the jewel case, pressed the disk into place, snapped the
cover shut. 

"I was going to invite you over to my place tonight," Mulder said. "I picked
up a couple of new videos at lunch today." 

Scully glared at him. "No thank you," she deadpanned as they walked to the
elevator. They stood in silence, waiting. 

"By the way," Mulder said, leaning close to her, "that was a great thing you
had going there with the toes." 

She punched him on the arm as the doors opened. 
  


8:15 a.m. 
Assistant Director Kersh's Office. 

Kersh sat behind the desk of his spacious office, regarding them flatly, the
way he always did. This look fascinated Scully even while it made her
defensive. It forever
irritated the snot out of Mulder. The look was somehow emphasized by the
backlighting effect of the office windows, which turned Kersh into a
semi-sinister silhouette. 

"Agents," he said by way of greeting. As they sat opposite him, Kersh pushed
an open file folder across the desk. In synch, the agents leaned forward
slightly to look at
the case information. 

"As I mentioned to you yesterday, Agent Mulder, there seems to be an arsonist
on the loose in Baltimore," the assistant director intoned. "Now normally the Bureau
wouldn't involve itself in local cases like this, except that the arsonist has
seen fit to torch two buildings that house Federal government offices, and one warehouse
where government archives are stored. In each case, a readily identifiable
accelerant was used, and the fires were started after regular office hours.
There have been no
deaths or serious injuries, although in the case of the warehouse fire one
security guard was taken to hospital suffering from smoke inhalation and was
later released." 

Scully flipped the first page over. "Material first ignited appears to be
naphtha," she murmured thoughtfully. "Used in canned heat products and as camp
fuel. Very
flammable." Reading further, she frowned slightly. "The first fire was set
eighteen months ago, the second a year ago, the third last week." 

Kersh nodded. "Baltimore P.D. believes that it's the work of one individual,
probably with some kind of grudge against the government." 

"Well, that narrows it down to about half the population of the United
States," Mulder snorted. Kersh turned his bland gaze to Mulder, who returned
it with an equally
bland gaze of his own. 

"Agent Mulder, I'm counting on you and Agent Scully to work with the Baltimore
P.D. to narrow that group down just a little more." 

"Sir," Mulder began in a monotone, "are we to continue with our current
assignment involving the transfer of animal waste material into clandestine
facilities designed to
produce nitrogen compounds for illicit explosives manufacture, which
incidentally involves the regular exposure of Agent Scully and myself to the
not-so incidental
presence of truly obnoxious quantities of poorly contained methane gas?" 

Scully stiffened beside him. Kersh's countenance continued to fail to register
any expression whatsoever. 

"No, Agent Mulder. You and Agent Scully will make this your priority
assignment for the time being. I will return you both to the explosives
assignment once this is
completed." 

Mulder grinned humourlessly. "Thank goodness," he said, now making his voice
bounce with sarcastic enthusiasm. "Investigating illicit shit-shovelling is
the highlight
of my workday." 

Scully surreptitiously kicked his shin. 

"Glad to hear it, Agent Mulder," Kersh droned, leaning forward on his elbows,
hands clasped. "I'll be sure to give you priority consideration on future
assignments of
that nature as they become available." Kersh smiled, a very small smile, at
his obstreperous agent. Mulder fell silent and looked at his knees, shaking
his head slightly.
Scully relaxed. 

"Detectives Branch and Hurley are expecting you to call." Kersh closed the
folder and leaned slowly back in his chair. The agents stood; Scully swept the
folder under
her arm. "Thank you, sir," she said. 

Kersh's secretary flicked her eyes at Mulder as they passed, then offered a
vaguely contemptuous look to Scully. The agents ignored her. Once in the
hallway, Scully
glanced warily up at her partner. 

"You just have to keep endearing yourself to him, don't you, Mulder?" 

Mulder opened the door and gallantly waved her through. "Either that, my dear
Scully, or I'm going to have to hurt him." 

END PART ONE

---------------------------------------------

[Quietus - Part 2 of 14] 

4:27 p.m. 

They'd wrapped up what they could on the fertilizer case, and headed out to
Baltimore. The Baltimore Police Department Headquarters was, like most large
urban police
stations, swarming with frenetic yet controlled activity. Phones rang,
officers bustled, paper shuffled, all to the beat of whatever criminal
activity pulsed through the city
on any given day. Looking around, Scully saw a tall, tough-looking blonde
woman in her late thirties approaching them, trailed by a heavyset man in his mid-forties.
The woman held out her hand to Mulder and Scully, smiling warmly. 

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, I'm Detective Dayle Branch, this is my partner
Detective Bob Hurley." Hands were shaken all around, and Branch waved them
into a
briefing room. The sounds of the Baltimore P.D. bullpen muted as she shut the
briefing room door and Hurley performed the coffee honours. A moment of convivial
smalltalk, mention of a football game, talk of the weather. Both Federal
agents instantly felt at ease and welcomed. 

Hurley leaned casually back in his chair and sipped his coffee. "Branch and I
have worked arson for the last two and a half years. This case isn't
particularly odd or
unusual. But since it involves government property, that's where you come in.
And I'm told that your investigative skills are - well, I've heard that you
have a knack for
creative and unusual approaches." 

"Well, we don't have a lot of opportunity to get creative these days," Mulder
said, lifting his own cup for a sip. "We're happy to help you out, but frankly
I don't know
if there's anything Agent Scully and I can bring to this that goes beyond what
you and Detective Branch are capable of." 

Hurley nodded, smiling wryly. "Pretty routine, huh? That's what Dayle and I
thought, but this is Federal jurisdiction, so here you are." 

"We've been briefed on the basics," Scully said. "Anything special or unusual
about these government offices that you've been able to determine?" 

Branch shook her head. "Employee records, human resources stuff in one office.
Public works records in another. Nothing particularly juicy or sexy. I wish it was."
She chuckled. "Like falsified immunization records, LSD experiments on armed
forces personnel, secret files on alien abductions..." Scully noticed how
Mulder's head
jerked up and instantly felt sympathy. As happy as she was to have a
relatively routine, nine to five schedule now and the opportunity for a life
of sorts, she felt yet
another pang of loss for the X-Files. She knew Mulder felt it even more
keenly. 

Branch and Hurley took them through what they knew of the case so far. No
suspects, few leads. The detectives had been assigned to the case full time as
of the last fire
several days previous. The forensics data had been gathered, but was still
being analyzed. 

"I'm going to go over the forensics information tonight, try to pull together
a report of sorts for you," Hurley offered. "I work at home when I can; I've
got a little girl I
like to be there for. Maybe you folks would like to drop by tomorrow and we
can go over some of this stuff." 

"I'd like to see the site of the fire, too," Scully said. Branch nodded. 

"I'm going over there with some of our arson specialists tomorrow morning, if
you'd like to come along." Scully bobbed her head in agreement. Hurley jotted
down his
home address; Mulder took it. They said their goodbyes, primed for a fresh
start in the morning. Mulder sighed heavily as he and Scully walked down the
steps of the
precinct. 

"Nothing juicy or sexy, Scully," he said. "What I wouldn't give for something
juicy and sexy right about now." 

"Well, we could go over to that un-juicy and not-sexy building and have a
peek," Scully suggested, looking up at Mulder's dispirited face. He shrugged. 

"Just a burnt-out shell, Scully. That's all it is. Just a bunch of charred
stuff." He kicked a pebble, watched it bounce into the street. They walked to
the car in silence. 

"Hey," she said as they got in, feeling the need to cheer him up. "That
restaurant with the great chowder. You up for that? It's on me." A small smile
touched Mulder's
eyes as he pondered her offer. The smile migrated to the rest of his face as
he turned the key in the ignition. 

"Only if there's a pitcher of something really potent from a local
microbrewery to go along with it." 

"You're on." 

  

He strolled along a waterfront pathway. The day was dank, drizzly, and foggy;
midwinter on the east coast. Seabirds cried and squawked, wheeling in the air
as they
searched for fish, squabbling with each other over their catches. He was
dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, no socks or shoes. He wasn't cold. He
should have been. 

A small figure loomed out of the fog, fuzzy and indistinct at first. A dark
vertical streak obscured much of the upper half of its body. Mulder moved
closer. A young girl,
her back to him. The dark streak resolved itself into long, dark hair. She
turned, presenting her profile to him. 

Samantha. 

His pulse quickened and he picked up the pace. Closer. The girl turned to face
him fully. Samantha's face disappeared, replaced by the face of a child he'd
never seen
before. Her young body filled out - stockier than Samantha, but still about
her age when - when... 

The girl smiled and was suddenly standing before him, gazing up at him. She
still looked like Samantha, unnervingly so. 

Hello, Fooox, she said. She pointed toward a nearby jetty. He looked, saw
nothing. She stretched out her hand toward him, fingers curled around an
object. Mulder
reached out to take what she was offering. Then she was running back down the
pathway, vanishing into the fog. He looked at his hand. 

Woke with a start. 

Mulder eased back onto the pillow, rubbed his face. He looked at his hands,
flexed the fingers. He hated dreams of Samantha. He hadn't dreamt of her in a
long time,
and now she was back. But that other girl ... He shook his head. 

Whatever. 

He rolled over and closed his eyes again, but never really went back to sleep. 
  


  
Hurley lived in an older neighbourhood full of bungalows and two-storey
houses, a classic '50's era suburb. Mulder cruised slowly down a broad lane
lined with large
mature trees, seasonally leafless, peering through them and past expansive
lawns to find Hurley's house number. Ah, there it was. Mulder eyed the
greenspace across
from the modest two-storey house as he moved up the walk, glancing about him,
noting the carefully maintained yard. Very nice. Very homey. 
  
A woman in business attire greeted him at the door. "You must be Agent
Mulder," she said pleasantly. "Come on in - Bob's expecting you." As he
entered the foyer and
removed his shoes, the woman introduced herself. "I'm Jeanne Hurley. Why don't
you have a seat in the living room? Can I get you anything, a coffee perhaps?" 
  
"Coffee would be great, thanks," Mulder responded, casting an appreciative eye
around the entryway. He liked homes, as opposed to houses, and he liked the
sort of
people who turned mere residential spaces into living spaces. It was so unlike
his apartment. He crashed there. People lived here. 
  
He heard the Hurleys talking in the kitchen, the sound of low, muted laughter,
the clink of coffee cups. His own life was so unfettered, a good thing,
considering his line
of work. There was a definite warmth to the house, dispensed by its
uncomplicated but intimate dcor. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, like he was
intruding. He felt a
little empty. 
  
His gaze wandered across the window to the fireplace mantle, to the array of
family pictures that sat upon it. His eyes narrowed. He rose from his seat and
moved over,
focused intently on a frame that held several small pictures, all featuring
one subject. 
  
Her. 
  
Mulder stared, confused. The young girl, the one from his dream, stared
happily back from the embrace of a smiling, elderly woman. There was a formal
school picture.
A picture of her holding a freshly caught fish, grinning proudly. A baby
picture. A picture of her in a rangy dogpile with Jeanne and Bob, her hair,
her dark, long hair,
falling over her face, which was contorted in a giggle. 
  
"Agent Mulder, good morning," Hurley said from behind him, breaking his focus.
Mulder turned. Hurley stood, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. "Black okay?"
he said, somewhat apologetically. "Seems that the milk is off - I forgot to
pick some up on the way home yesterday." 
  
"No, that's fine, thank you," Mulder said, a little absently. Jeanne popped
her head into the living room. 
  
"I'm off," she said crisply. "Nice to meet you, Agent Mulder." 
  
Mulder smiled politely and nodded. "Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Hurley," he
said, hoisting the mug. She smiled and disappeared. 
  
"I'll bring the milk home tonight, honey," she called, a note of playful
reproach in her voice. The door shut. Hurley rolled his eyes ceilingward. 
  
"I have that data for you," Hurley said, reaching for an envelope on the
credenza and motioning for Mulder to sit. Mulder slid his fingers into the
manila envelope and
withdrew a package of neatly word-processed pages. "This is the stuff that
came back from our labs shortly after you and Agent Scully left us yesterday.
It's pretty
standard arson stuff - definite signs of an accelerant, the same stuff that
was used in the other fires. The fire was started in a file room, in this case
a securely locked file
room. We're looking into the employment records of everyone who worked there,
and cross checking with our criminal database. We're thinking it might be one
of the
cleaning staff." 
  
"Makes sense," Mulder nodded. "What about the other fires - did you check into
employment and criminal records there too?" 
  
"We did. Everyone appears clean. Until this last fire, we didn't feel it was
necessary to check into the Federal database. It wasn't deemed a pattern until
last week." 
  
"We'll get on it," Mulder said. A sound came from the ceiling, followed by the
patter of feet down the carpeted stairs. A young girl with long, dark hair
appeared in the
living room, dressed in jeans, sweater, and winter jacket. 
  
She locked eyes with Mulder. 
  
Hurley turned, smiling. The girl flashed a grin at Mulder, then ran to her
father's outstretched arm. Hurley gathered her close and kissed the top of her
head. 
  
"Agent Mulder, this is my daughter Meryl," he said. Meryl favoured Mulder with
a confident, very adult look that made him feel a little odd. 
  
"Hello, Fooox," she said, putting a slight, rising glissando on his name that
went straight to his spine and slithered down it. Mulder shivered. 
  
Hurley snugged his daughter in tighter. "That's Mr. Mulder to you, you
monkey," he said reprovingly. Meryl giggled, her blue eyes never leaving the
Federal agent.
Mulder smiled, hoping it didn't look as forced as it felt. 
  
"Hi, Meryl," he said. He cast about for something else to say. "Not in school
today?" 
  
"Nope," she said crisply, an echo of her mother's voice. "Teachers'
Convention." 
  
"And then she gets a two week break starting Monday," Hurley said. "She's in a
year-round program and her group is off until March. And then she gets a four-day
Easter break a month after that. I wish I had that many holidays." 
  
"I'm going to visit my aunt in Calgary," Meryl piped. "My cousin's going to
teach me how to ski." 
  
"Sounds like fun," Mulder said. He felt the need to challenge the look in her
eyes, a look that seemed so out of place on a child's face. He shook himself
internally. It
doesn't mean anything, he told himself. She's just a kid, and I've never seen
her before in my life. 
  
"Going over to Jen's place today, right?" Hurley asked his daughter. Meryl
nodded, finally breaking her gaze with Mulder and looking at her father.
"Well, don't spend
all your allowance," Hurley cautioned. "Give your mother or me a call if
anything goes funny, okay?" 
  
Meryl rolled her eyes. "I know, I know," she protested, squirming a little.
Hurley planted a kiss on her forehead. Meryl extricated herself from her dad's
embrace and
ran to the front door. 
  
"Meryl," Hurley called. "You're forgetting something." 
  
Meryl popped her head back into the living room. "Nice to meet you, Mr.
Mulder," she sang, then disappeared. Hurley chuckled. 

 "She's the love of my life," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. Mulder
nodded, a little stupidly. Children were so far outside his experience, and
Meryl had, quite
frankly, creeped him out. 
  
"Kids of your own?" Hurley asked. Mulder shook his head. 
  
"I don't know if kids in general are worth the sacrifice, but Meryl is," the
detective said. "I never thought I wanted kids, but Jeanne got pregnant and
boom, my life as I
knew it was over. Now I can't imagine it any other way." 

Unable to add anything, Mulder gathered up the papers and put them back in the
envelope. He felt a minor surge of resentment toward Hurley - his perfect kid, his
perfect wife, his perfect house... He tried to feel superior as a freewheeling
bachelor, but comparing Hurley's comfortable existence to his own cold leather
couch and
video collection made him feel oddly cheated. He pushed his alien, covetous
thoughts firmly aside. 

"You've made a good start here," Mulder said, turning the conversation back to
work mode. "As soon as we get a look at the crime scene, Agent Scully and I
will run
through the Federal database and see if we can come up with any matches for
you." 

 "Appreciate that," Hurley said, swallowing the last of his coffee. He took
Mulder's empty cup out to the kitchen. Mulder went to the hallway and as he
slid into his
shoes he took a last look at the pictures of Meryl on the mantle. A sudden
thought made him glance down at the envelope in his hand. Printed in the
detective's scrawl
was the name, Special Agent Fox Mulder. Well. That took care of one little
mystery. 

Still, he thought, that was weird. 

END PART TWO
---------------------------------------------

[Quietus - Part 3 of 14] 

They met up with Scully and Branch inside the burned warehouse. The fire had
been relatively well contained, but the damage to one section was extensive. Mulder
sniffed as he entered the blackened section. He'd never liked the wood smell
of a campfire much even as a kid, never mind the pungent smell of burnt
insulation, plastic,
and wiring. He drew himself together inside his coat and watched his breath
condense in the chilly air. Scully appeared beside him. 

"Well, you can see they did a pretty thorough job," she noted, poking at a
fragile shard of paper with her foot. "The point of origin is this way." She
led him through to a
room filled with filing cabinets, all thoroughly charred, black streaks
scarring the hallway walls. Mulder eyed a sooty filing cabinet and smiled
wryly. He walked over
and, slipping his hand into a latex glove, pulled on the top drawer. He
prodded at the skeletons of paper, which crumbled at his touch. Digging
further, he found a
portion of a scorched form. Part of someone's expense claim, as far as he
could tell. Nothing juicy or sexy, indeed. 

"Why would someone torch expense claim records?" he muttered to himself. He
looked at Scully. "What else was stored here?" 

"Well, we discovered a section with archives of parolee files," she said.
"There were backups made on the Federal database, of course. It shouldn't be a
problem finding
out whose records were stored here. Detective Branch said that they've started
looking into employee records and cross referencing them with the state
criminal records
database." She looked at her partner, who appeared to be staring absently into
the filing cabinet drawer. 

"Did you hear me, Mulder?" she asked. Mulder didn't respond. Scully moved
closer, looking into the drawer. She saw nothing. "Mulder?" she asked again,
trying to
catch his eye. He blinked. 

"What? Yeah. Yeah, I heard you. Cross checking employee records with the state
criminal database." Mulder slid the drawer shut and opened the next one. More
of the
same. He shook his head. 

Scully frowned. "What's wrong? What are you looking for?" 

"Nothing," Mulder said distractedly. "I'm just a little tired. Didn't sleep
well last night." 

"The fish stew was a bit spicy," Scully acknowledged, laying a hand briefly
over her stomach. Mulder didn't respond. Mildly irritated, Scully started to
say something,
then stopped herself. Wherever Mulder was, he'd come back eventually. She
walked away. 

"Scully," Mulder called. She turned. "I, um, had a thought about something.
Are you staying here for a bit?" 

"No, I think we're just about done here," she said, looking over at Branch and
Hurley. Mulder pressed his lips together thoughtfully, then motioned her to
the car.
Opening the door, he handed her the envelope Hurley had given him earlier. 

"Get a ride back to the precinct with Branch and Hurley," he said. "I'll meet
you there in about an hour, and we'll head back to Washington to run the
Federal database." 

"Where are you going?" 

"I've, uh, gotta pick up some milk and bread," he said, winking at her and
sliding around to the driver's side. Scully stared at him, shaking her head as
the car eased out
of the lot. 

"Whatever," she muttered, turning back to the detectives. 
  


Mulder drove, confident of his direction, somewhat less confident of why he
was headed where he was headed. A hunch. He felt a swirling sense of dreadful
anticipation as he approached the waterfront, pulling into the parking lot
beside the public pathway. A couple of hardy joggers moved past him as he
stood beside the
path, gathering his bearings. It was misty, drizzly; he shrugged his shoulders
reflexively against the chill. He turned left and walked. 

He walked for about ten minutes, growing less and less certain as he wandered.
A kink in the pathway ahead made him resolve to turn back at that point, but
as he
reached it he told himself, one minute more. Then he saw it. 

The jetty, the one in his dream. Jutting out into the inlet, the seawater
swirling sluggishly around its pilings. He stepped off the pathway and picked
his way down the
rocky embankment to the beach. The air was redolent with rotting seaweed,
creosote, and cold. He felt for his flashlight and stepped under the dock, unconsciously
pressing the back of his gloved hand against his upper lip. The dreadful
anticipation coalesced in his mind as he shone the light around, stepping
gingerly over the
detritus of the desperate - hypodermic needles and used condoms. He was
looking for a body. 

Ten minutes of tentative probing and peering into nooks and crannies revealed
nothing. Hunched under the deck, he closed his eyes; the image of Meryl
pointing to the
jetty appeared crisply. There was a body here, the body of a child, a girl. He
didn't see that part. He felt it. He opened his eyes. He'd ask Hurley to put
someone from
Homicide on it. 

Climbing out onto the pathway, Mulder pulled out his cell phone and dug for
Hurley's card. He punched in the number and hesitated, his thumb hovering
above "send".
After several seconds, he pushed it. 

"Detective Hurley." 

"Detective Hurley, it's Agent Mulder. I - have a bit of an odd request for
you." 

"What's that." 

"Do you believe in hunches?" 

A moment's hesitation, then, "Sure. I have them all the time. Do you have one
about this case?" 

"No, not on this case. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind checking with
Homicide about any unsolved cases involving the possible murder of children.
Little girls,
specifically." 

"Uh, yeah, I could pass it on to them. Why? What have you got?" 

Mulder made a face, and the words "never mind" sprang to his tongue. He pushed
them aside. 

"A hunch. Nothing more. It's probably nothing at all, but you might send
someone down to a jetty just off the public pathway near the waterfront."
Mulder looked
around him and described a few distinctive landmarks. He hoped Hurley had been
truthful about appreciating his and Scully's creative and unusual
investigative skills.
He listened carefully to see if he could discern a pen scratching notes on the
other end, but the ambient noise of the outdoors made that impossible. He felt
a little foolish. 

"I'll pass it along and see if anyone is interested," Hurley said, his voice
even. Mulder pressed his lips together, feeling the issue move out of his
hands. 

"Thanks," he said. "I'm headed back. I'll see you in a bit." Mulder flipped
the cell cover closed, ending the call. He looked back at the jetty, at the
dark, foamy water
swirling ominously about the pilings. The uneasy feeling was still there. 

He shook himself and walked back to the car. 
  


Washington, D.C. 
5:45 p.m. 

Scully gazed thoughtfully at the computer screen as Mulder looked on over her
shoulder. She pointed to a list of several names. 

"Great job the government does screening their employees," she said. "Here's
eight people who worked at the warehouse in various capacities over the last eighteen
months, all with either state or Federal records ranging from shoplifting to
assault." She slid the mouse and clicked on another window. "Here's a list of
five people who
were employed at the office building at the time of the fire a year ago, and
another list of five people who worked at the building that was torched
eighteen months ago."
She clicked again, and a final list of four names appeared. "These people
worked at all three places as low-level clerical or custodial staff." She
pointed. "This one was
released from prison two years ago after serving a sentence for aggravated
assault. Problem is, none of these people have ever been charged with or
convicted of arson or
any other property damage offences." She leaned back in her chair and looked
up at her partner. "They're all misfits of one stripe or another, but not
inclined to burn
buildings." 

Mulder regarded the list. "Any match with the parolee files that were
destroyed?" Scully shook her head. Mulder pondered this for a moment, then
straightened, satisfied.
"Still, I'd say that narrows our list of possible suspects to considerably
less than half the population of the United States. I'll call Hurley and let
him know to look for the
fax." He reached for the desk phone, then jumped as it rang. He picked up the
receiver. 

"Mulder." 

"Agent Mulder, this is Detective Hurley. You win the fabulous prize package." 

"Come again?" 

"That little tip you had me pass onto Homicide? I'll be damned, but you hit
paydirt, my friend. They dragged a body out of there late this afternoon." 

Scully stared as Mulder's expression registered shock. He reached for a chair
and sat down. 

"They did?" 

"They did. It's a partial skeleton, tangled up in what looks like a child's
pyjamas. Not much left of either the body or the sleepwear. It's astounding
anything's left at all,
considering the estimated age of the remains." 

"Which would be what?" 

"It's all very, very preliminary at the moment, you understand. They've got a
lot of work to do before anything definitive can be said. But judging by the
cold files in
Missing Persons and by the apparent age of the remains, it looks like this
individual has been dead since the mid-1970's, early '80's." 

The colour drained from Mulder's face. "Can you tell if it's definitely a
child? What sex it is? How old it might be?" 

"Well, we can't tell, Agent Mulder. This is Homicide's case. I can pass you
onto the officer in charge, and he'll eventually be able to give you more than
I ever will. I
gotta tell you, though. He thinks you're a fucking genius." 

Scully had moved closer, registering Mulder's emotional state. She raised her
hand to grab his attention; he held his up, forestalling her. 

"Yeah, sure. Give me his name and number." Mulder scribbled on a piece of
notepaper. "Thanks. Thanks a lot, Hurley. You - you wouldn't be able to tell
me anything
relevant about the missing persons' cases, would you?" 

"Not in any detail," Hurley responded, his voice carrying an edge of
puzzlement at Mulder's persistence and intensity. "All I know is that during
the period from about
1973 to 1985, eighteen children went missing from the Baltimore area and were
never found." 

Another question rose to Mulder's mind, but he forced it down. Hurley didn't,
couldn't have the answers he was looking for. Maybe nobody did. He bit his
lip. 

"Okay, thanks again, Detective. I'll talk to Homicide about this." Scully
waved at him. He looked at her, irritated, and noted that she was pointing at
the computer
screen. He closed his eyes, remembering. 

"Oh, Detective," he said. "Scully ran that cross check and came up with some
names for you. We'll fax it over right now." He listened a moment more, then
ended the
call. He leaned his elbow on the desk and nibbled his thumb, staring
sightlessly ahead. 

Scully eyed him as she set up the fax and sent it. "What was that all about?" 

Mulder shook his head. "I hate what I do to myself sometimes, Scully." Meeting
her puzzled eyes, he leaned forward, elbows on thighs, rubbing his hands together.
"Remember that little milk run I took this afternoon?" 

"Milk run." 

He smirked at her. "Milk and bread. When I left you at the warehouse. I didn't
get any milk and bread." 

"No kidding." 

He pursed his lips. "Remember a few years ago, I kept having these dreams
about the Paper Hearts case. We confronted Roche about the murders he didn't
cop to at his
trial, and he kept insinuating that one of those little girls was Samantha. I
shot him before I could find out for sure." 

Scully nodded, waiting for the other shoe. Mulder dropped his gaze. 

"I had a very strange dream last night, Scully, and a very strange thing
happened to me today. I dreamed about a little girl who I thought at first was
Samantha, but then
she changed into a girl I'd never met before. In this dream, we were standing
by an old jetty down by the waterfront, and she pointed to it. Then she gave
me something,
but I didn't get what it was. This morning, I met Hurley's daughter when I
went to his place to pick up the forensics data. She was the girl in the
dream." 

"That's weird," Scully said, frowning. 

"It certainly creeped me out. But something hit me about that dream. I decided
to go find the jetty. I did find it. I looked around but didn't see anything
out of the
ordinary. But it bothered me. So I put in a call to Hurley, who passed it on
to Homicide." He thumbed a gesture at the phone. "He just told me they dragged
a partial
skeleton out of there late this afternoon." He filled her in on the rest of
his conversation with Hurley. 

Scully shook her head, marvelling, but disturbed by Mulder's revelation. "I
thought the Paper Hearts dreams stopped after you'd shot Roche," she said. 

"They did," he replied. "In fact, I'd stopped dreaming about anything even
remotely to do with Paper Hearts or Samantha." He waved a hand dismissively.
"I'm not
prepared to read anything into this. It was a weird coincidence. I helped to
close a cold missing persons' file that is anywhere from fourteen to
twenty-five years old.
That's all." 

"That's remarkable," Scully corrected softly. "You have a gift that I could
never claim to understand." 

"Well, as investigative tools go, it'll never get written up in Criminal
Justice Review." Mulder smiled, but his eyes were serious. Scully smiled back. 

"Come on. It's the weekend. Let's get out of here." Mulder shook his head. 

"You go ahead. I've got a phone call to make." He reached for the phone and
began dialling the number Hurley had given him. 

Scully gathered her purse and car keys. "See you Monday, then." She moved away
from the desk and glanced back at her partner, who was too engrossed in the phone
to notice her leave-taking. She hesitated, thoughtful, then left the office. 


END PART THREE
---------------------------------------------

[Quietus - Part 4 of 14] 

Meryl appeared to him again that night. 

This time she was running, skipping through a wooded area, along a pathway
that followed the shoreline of a lake. The woods were in full summer foliage. Sunlight
shafted through the branches and leaves, making little spotlights on the dirt
path. Mulder watched her, charmed with her youthful exuberance, the way the
mottled light
reflected off her long, brown hair. He had recollections of Samantha that way.
His heart ached. 

She ran around a bend and reappeared, looking back. Waving, she called to him.
"Foooooox!! Over here! You've got to see this!!" She disappeared. Mulder followed
her, running to catch her. He noticed a boathouse on the opposite shoreline,
through the trees. 

He rounded the bend and looked around. Meryl was nowhere in sight. He turned
slowly in a circle, looking for her, looking to see what she might have been referring
to. See what? 

He found himself on his hands and knees, digging in soft loam. 

He dug. 

He jerked his hand back in pain, looked at the ring finger on his right hand.
Blood ran down from a gash in the pad of the first digit. He could see the
ragged end of the
cut, the flap of skin, the dirt embedded in it. Wincing, he shook the pain out
of his finger. Droplets of blood spattered. 

He smoothed the dirt as one might sculpt clay, smoothing it around the sharp
edge that had sliced his finger open. He looked. 

It was bone, splintered and rough. 

hey mulder. 

found another one. 

He looked up. Meryl stood beside him, smiling. But she'd spoken with Roche's
voice. 
  


Baltimore, Maryland 
Robert E. Lee Memorial Park 
Saturday, February 13, 1999 
1:11 p.m. 

Baltimore's got a lot of dogs, Mulder thought. 

He stepped out of the car and was nearly bowled over by an exuberant black
Newfoundland. The animal's young charge jerked back on the leash and grinned
at Mulder
apologetically before being dragged off by his pet. There did seem to be dogs
everywhere. Mulder crossed a footpath into the park, noticing how it
overlooked the dam.
He headed deliberately toward the woods, wondering how he would find the
remains in a park that was over 400 acres big. 

The day was pleasant; the sun shone with warmth though the air was cold. He
occasionally passed other hikers and joggers on the wooded pathway, but for
the most
part he had the place to himself. This he liked. He came upon a fork and
paused, letting his intuition tell him where to go. He went right, noticing he
was now following
the shoreline of Lake Roland. As he walked, he reviewed his conversation of
the day before with Detective Falsone of Homicide. 

What they knew so far: not much. A cursory exam of the remains had revealed
that it was most likely a child or a small adult of indeterminate sex. The
remains were
indeed approximately fifteen to twenty years old, judging by the state of
deterioration. The tattered fabric that had essentially held the bones
together had a pattern on it
reminiscent of children's sleepwear, probably a girl's nightgown. Falsone had
been quick to point out that the fabric might have become entangled in the
bones at some
point after death and might therefore be unrelated. They were planning to do a
PCR on the bone tissue in hopes of identifying the sex, and then approach
relatives of the
most likely missing persons on file to attempt a positive ID. Mulder expressed
his interest in learning the results of the DNA tests. What he'd avoided
telling Falsone was
that, failing a positive ID, he hoped to run his own DNA against the victim's. 

Scully would help, he knew. She, more than anyone, knew how important learning
Samantha's fate was to him. 

He rubbed his face as he hiked. Years of frustration, dead end after dead end.
After learning that Samantha was apparently grown up and living her life happily
elsewhere, he'd attempted to bury the issue without much success. It had
worked for awhile. Now he found himself revisiting all the options he'd ever
been presented
with to explain her disappearance, none of which he'd ever really found
satisfactory. Samantha, adopted - or biological - daughter of the Cigarette
Smoking Man?
Samantha - spirited away by Bill Mulder to a secret facility to be cloned and
enhanced with alien genetic material? Samanthas - many Samanthas - as little drone-girls
living on an apiary in Canada? Samanthas - many Samanthas - living as adults
in genetic research facilities? Or perhaps the most mundane, the most
plausible, the one his
gut reacted most strongly to - Samantha, dead at the hands of a serial killer
now also dead. 

Mulder remembered the last cloth heart, the one that Roche left him with.
Burned along with everything else, along with the X-Files, in his old office.
He winced. 

A heron landed on the shore not thirty feet from him. He looked at it; it
peered back at him and flew off again. He stopped, gathering in a sudden
feeling of familiarity.
He glanced around. 

He'd just come around a bend in the pathway, one of many kinks and turns that
he hadn't recalled from the dream. But there - he could see a boathouse
through the trees
on the opposite shore. He looked left and saw a small freshly cleared area
just off the main pathway. The ground had been marked off with surveyor's
tape, stakes, and
paint. They were about to build something here. 

He knelt and dug. He dug for almost an hour. 

Nothing. 

Sitting back on his heels, he flexed his gloved but still icy hands painfully.
He eased himself stiffly back to his feet, noticing for the first time the
extent of the mess he'd
made of the surveyor's markings. He spent the next twenty minutes pressing the
dirt back into some semblance of shape, reconstituting the painted X marks as
best he
could. He'd found nothing. Frustrated but not terribly surprised, he resolved
to come back Monday on some pretext once the work crew had started with
whatever work
they were doing here. Mulder brushed the dirt off and went back to the parking
lot, pensive and troubled. 

As he exited the wooded area, someone called his title and name. He turned,
saw Bob Hurley waving at him. Meryl was with him. 

"Hi, Mr. Mulder," Meryl called gaily. 

"Hi, Meryl," Mulder responded, forcing a smile. He wasn't in the mood for kids
today. 

"I didn't know you lived in Baltimore, Agent Mulder," Hurley said. 

"I don't. I live in Alexandria. I - remembered this park, so I thought I'd
come here this weekend and have a look around." 

"It's a nice park, especially in the summer," Hurley said. "Meryl usually
drags either me or my wife out here every weekend for a walk." 

"I knew you'd be here," Meryl said coyly, looking at Mulder. Mulder raised his
eyebrows. 

"You did? How'd you know that?" 

"I just knew." Led by Meryl, the three of them began walking toward a busy
carousel that stood beside a ticket booth and a concession stand. Hurley gave
Mulder a
knowing look. 

"I should clarify. Meryl usually drags me or my wife out here so she can scam
something sweet off us." Mulder nodded, eyeing Meryl as she ran ahead, making a
beeline for the concession stand. She whirled. 

"Hot chocolate, Dad? Please?" Hurley smiled and reached into his pocket for
change. Looking at Mulder, he said, "You want anything?" Mulder shook his
head. Hurley
moved off to join the concession line-up. Meryl ran back toward Mulder and
climbed up on a bench to wait. She reached over and patted the space beside
her, her child
face friendly and open. Mulder hesitated, but in spite of the unsettling
connection she had to his dreams he felt her ingenuousness and was drawn to
it. He moved over
and sat. 

"When do you go to your aunt's?" Mulder asked. Meryl kicked her legs.
"Tomorrow," she said. There was a bit of an awkward silence as Mulder fished
around for
appropriate conversation topics. Meryl spoke first, cautiously. 

"Can I ask you something?" 

"Sure." 

"Did you used to get beat up a lot because your name is Fox?" 

Mulder laughed in spite of himself. "What makes you say that?" 

"Because there's this boy in my class, his name is Bruin, like a bear. He gets
beat up a lot." 

"I see," Mulder said, amused. "Well, if I did get beat up because of my name,
they stopped doing it. I used to beat them up right back." 

"Why did your mom and dad call you Fox?" 

"I don't know. I guess they thought it was a neat name." 

"Everybody calls you Mulder, right? Dad says that your partner even calls you
Mulder." 

"Yes she does." 

"Is that because she doesn't like you very much, or because she just doesn't
like your first name?" 

Mulder grinned at her youthful audacity. "I think she likes me okay. I told
her a long time ago to call me Mulder." 

"Well, I like your first name, Mr. Mulder," Meryl said firmly. 

"Thank you." Mulder checked Hurley's place in the concession line-up, thinking
that perhaps he should have taken Hurley up on his hot chocolate offer. Now
that his
initial skittishness around Meryl was dissipating, he found himself wanting to
spend a little more time with her. He regarded her thoughtfully as she stared
straight ahead,
swinging her legs. The profile was different, the hair perhaps darker than he
remembered Samantha's being. But she wore the same two braids down the back,
the ones
that lay on top of waves of loose hair. He couldn't help but feel that
somewhere inside her, there were answers. 

"What about your name? Meryl is kind of an unusual name." 

Meryl grimaced. "Guess," she sniffed. Mulder thought for a moment, and came up
empty. Meryl looked at him impatiently. 

"Mom's favourite movie is something called Sophie's Choice. She won't let me
watch it, says to wait until I'm older. But the lady in it, the actor, her
name is Meryl." 

"Meryl..." Mulder searched for the last name. She wasn't in the kinds of
movies he usually watched. "...Streep." 

"Yeah. That's her." 

"It's a nice name." 

"It's a dumb name." Meryl sang, making her voice nasal and mocking: "'Meryl,
Meryl, looks like a squirrel.' That's what Trevor Masefield and his friends
call me, all
the time. He's in fourth grade, and he's a jerk." 

"That's not very nice of him," Mulder agreed. He thought for a moment,
reaching back to his own childhood for an appropriate rebuttal. "I had a kid
in my class called
Trevor. Some of the kids used to sing something like, 'Trevor, Trevor, ugly
forever.'" Meryl looked at him with wide-eyed delight. She giggled. 

"'Trevor, Trevor, ugly forever,'" she chanted softly, pleased. Hurley was
wandering back to them holding two steaming styrofoam cups of hot chocolate.
Mulder felt a
slight twinge of guilt at teaching the detective's daughter an unflattering
singsong to use against her classmate. As if on cue, Meryl leaned over to
Mulder conspiratorially.

"Don't worry," she said in a stage whisper. "I won't tell Dad you told me
that." 

Mulder leaned close to her in response. "Okay," he said, matching her stage
whisper. 

"Here we go," Hurley said, handing his daughter the chocolate. Mulder and
Meryl stood; Hurley grasped his daughter's hand. 

"I should be going," Mulder said. 

Hurley nodded. "By the way," he said, "I know this is work stuff, but did you
learn anything from Falsone?" 

"Not much," Mulder answered. "They've got some lab tests to run, and I've
asked him to keep me posted." 

"Falsone is a good man," Hurley said confidently. "He'll find out who that
person is and put closure to it." 

Mulder waved down at Meryl. "See you around, Meryl," he said. She winked at
him. Mulder winked back. He watched as Hurley and Meryl turned to go. He moved
toward his car. 

"Mr. Mulder, wait!" He turned. Meryl was running back from where she and her
father stood, leaving him holding the two cups of hot chocolate. Meryl was
fishing in
her coat pocket as she ran. 

"We made these in class last week," she said. "If you don't like it, maybe you
can give it to your partner or girlfriend or something." She held out her hand
and deposited
something into Mulder's palm. She ran back as he uttered a surprised "thank
you." He looked at it. It was mounted on thin cardboard, surrounded by a pink
lace border,
a safety pin hot-glued to the back. 

A delicately patterned flannel heart. 

Stunned, he looked up at the departing backs of Hurley and Meryl. Meryl turned
and smiled at him. 

END PART FOUR
---------------------------------------------

[Quietus - Part 5 of 14] 

Washington, D.C. 
February 14, 1999 
7:49 a.m. 

Sunday. He got up and went for a run, a long, strenuous run that accelerated
his heart and lungs, sent his blood racing. Spent, he stopped on the way home
for a paper.
Among the racks of magazines and papers, foreign and local, there were small,
pink, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates with plastic roses glued to the top. Mulder
paused, remembering. The significance of the cloth heart pin that Meryl had
given him yesterday suddenly clicked into its proper context. Valentine's Day.
Her class was
making those hearts for today, Valentine's Day. He shook his head, noticing an
adjacent display of some syrupy-looking heart-shaped cards and single, long-stemmed
roses. He felt relieved - sort of - by the mundane connection. 

He picked up the Sunday edition of The Washington Post and eyed the roses and
chocolates thoughtfully. On impulse, he bought a box and a pink rosebud, thought
about a card but decided that was beyond silly. He paid the clerk and jogged
home. 

He dropped the chocolates and the paper on his coffee table and went to the
kitchen. Hunting around in a cupboard, he found a coffee mug he didn't
normally use and
filled it with water. He grabbed a sharp kitchen knife, trimmed the rose stem
to fit, and plunked the rose into the mug. He carried the mug into the living
room and put it
on his desk, but not before giving the flower a perfunctory sniff. Hm. Nice. 

He clicked the TV on and, flopping onto the couch, unwrapped the chocolate
box. He perused the front page of the Post and popped a random chocolate into his
mouth. 

Happy Valentine's Day, Fox, he thought to himself as he chewed. He ran his
tongue around his back teeth. Strawberry cream. Not a particular favourite. 

He flipped through the paper, looking for the Sports page. A picture in the
Lifestyles section caught his eye; a feature on exotic gardens. The main
picture showed an
elaborate garden maze of boxwood hedges. 

He went back to pondering his dream of last night. 

No bodies this time. Whatever was feeding him information had evidently
decided to give him the night off. He recalled standing in a maze, moving
hesitantly as he tried
to map out the path to the exit. He recalled feeling flustered and frustrated.
He'd been here a long time. Periodically, Meryl would appear, smiling and
pointing. He'd go
to her, and her figure would flicker, almost morph into a much taller figure,
then disappear. He recalled the complete and oppressive lack of any sound
whatsoever. Even
his footfalls failed to disturb the air. 

Meryl appeared and disappeared, over and over, each time nearly manifesting as
someone else. He turned a last corner and ran smack into John Lee Roche. He
looked up
to see Roche smiling his salesman's smile. Then he woke up. 

What the hell is going on here? he mused, sucking pieces of chocolate out of
his teeth. Were Meryl and Roche somehow, some way, connected to each other and to
him? That nexus he'd theorized about that originally drew him back into the
Paper Hearts case - was he still connected to the dead Roche through a very
much alive
Samantha look-alike? Did Roche in death uncover that last shred of human
decency that Mulder had once challenged him to find? Was he still - if he was
ever - trying to
lead him to Samantha's body? 

Mulder shook his head, confused and irritated. Too many coincidences. He
stared absently at the TV, thinking, slowly crunching a praline cluster. He
hated the idea that
he was being sucked back into something of Roche's design, that Roche was
playing with him still. But he couldn't discount the circumstantial evidence
of Paper Hearts,
that the conditions were right for Samantha to have been one of his victims,
to be the source of the last cloth heart. 

He stood abruptly and went to take a shower. Standing under the hot spray, he
leaned one hand against the wall and rubbed the tension out of his neck with
the other,
feeling the water course over his head and down his back. He tried a different
tack. How would Scully approach this, he wondered. What would Scully do. She'd
sympathize, he decided. She'd assure him again that she knew how important
this search for his sister was to him. Then she'd gently tell him that these
were just
dreams, amazingly prescient dreams, perhaps, but dreams nevertheless. Not
things that any reputable investigator would put stock in without objective, empirical,
conventional evidence to support them. 

But Scully, he argued with the model Scully he held in his mind, there is at
least one body, possibly two. There's your evidence. He saw her face, earnest and
concerned, her mouth poised to correct him. 

It's too small a sample, she protested. This is not a reliable method for
investigating anything, much less a murder or a disappearance. So far you have
an n of one. You
can't conclude anything from that. 

I can conclude, he asserted, that I have to keep looking. At least one last
time. 

He shut the water off more forcefully than he had to. 
  


February 15 
7:15 a.m. 

Scully sat impatiently in her car across from Mulder's apartment building,
checking her watch. She'd buzzed him once. It had taken awhile, but he'd
finally answered
and told her he was coming right down. That was ten minutes ago. 

She reached for her cell phone to dial his number, but before she could press
"send" the door opened. Mulder ran smoothly down the steps and to her car. His
hair was
still damp, towel dried. He looked exhausted. 

"Good morning," she said, studying him as she handed him a coffee and started
the car. He mumbled something in reply as he buckled himself in and took as
long a
draught of the coffee as temperature would allow. He sighed and leaned his
head against the headrest, closing his eyes. 

"Rough sleep?" she said, noncommittally. "Or was it Mulder's Annual
Valentine's All-Night Video Marathon Extravaganza?" He opened one eye and
looked at her,
wrinkling his nose in a sarcastic smirk. 

"Fun-nee," he said, stifling a yawn and taking another sip of coffee. They
pulled up to a light and Scully reached back for her purse. Searching through
the contents, she
produced a small envelope. "Happy belated Valentine's Day, Mulder." 

Mulder opened the envelope. It was a child's Valentine card, featuring a
large-eyed green alien holding a red heart in long-fingered hands. The printed
message on the
back read "You're Out Of This World. From Your Extraterrestrial Valentine."
Written below in neat script was, simply, "Dana." 

He smiled and tipped the card toward her before tucking it into his inside
jacket pocket. "Thank you - Dana," he said, simultaneously amused and warmed
by her simple
gesture. 

She shrugged as the light changed and she moved the car forward. "Well, I
couldn't very well sign a Valentine's Day card 'Scully', could I." Mulder
reached into
another pocket and produced a very small foil covered box. He placed it on the
dash. Scully made an impressed face. 

"Oooo," she exclaimed, looking briefly at the elaborate chocolate shop sticker
that sealed the box shut. "My favourite." 

"They're very fattening," Mulder admonished. "I didn't see any fat-free
truffles there, so I was forced to go with these." 

"Now there would be an exercise in pointlessness," Scully said with a soft
laugh. "Fat-free truffles." She looked as Mulder placed something else on top
of the tiny box.
The pink rose, partly open, the cut end of the stem wrapped in a wet paper
towel and aluminum foil. 

"Mulder," she said, this time genuinely impressed. "This is feeling
dangerously like one-upmanship." 

Mulder saw that she was slightly taken aback and felt enormously pleased with
himself in spite of his tiredness. He settled back into his seat, warming his
hands with the
coffee cup, and closed his eyes again. "I know I can count on you to make it
up to me, Scully." 

"Right," she said flatly. "Always a catch." Scully turned the volume up
slightly on the radio and they drove on without speaking for perhaps fifteen
minutes. At length,
Scully looked over at her partner, expecting him to be napping. Instead he was
staring straight ahead, his expression grim. 

"Everything okay?" she asked mildly. Mulder blinked, drew a deep breath. 

"Um, yeah," he lied. "I was - I was just thinking about that body they found
last week. I was wondering about the PCR results, when they'd be ready." 

"Probably not till later this week," Scully said doubtfully. "I'm hoping they
can locate the family and return the remains for a proper burial, but it's
going to be hard if
there are no tissue samples on file. They weren't doing DNA fingerprinting
when Homicide estimates the body went missing." She looked at him, saw that he
still had
the same fixed expression. 

"Come on, Mulder," she said after a pause. "What's up?" 

"Nothing, Scully," he said, a little more sharply than he meant to. Softening
his tone, he continued, "I'm just tired. I woke up early this morning and
didn't get back to
sleep. That's all." 

"Okay," she said, backing off. They slipped down the Interstate in silence
once again. Mulder chewed his bottom lip, knowing he needed to talk to her.
Now was not the
time. He needed more - more data, more evidence. He knew she would appreciate
that. 

He'd dreamed again last night. Recalling it made the coffee in his stomach
turn acid. 

He'd been there when the body was uncovered at the park. More bones, covered
in a tattered nightgown. The face bones were small, the jaws studded with some
oversized adult teeth interspersed with a few remaining baby ones. The skull
was turned unnaturally to the right shoulder and down, beyond the neck's
normal range of
motion. The nightgown was torn at the neck, and some ribs and part of the left
arm were missing. The skull rested on clumps of strand-like material - hair,
long, brown
hair, still attached by a piece of scalp to the bone. The nightgown had a
piece cut out over the ribcage on the left side. A heart-shaped piece. 

In the dream, he'd moved closer to the pit. He'd crouched down at the edge to
study the body, feeling oddly calm, detached. He reached out a hand, his palm
blotting out
the heart shaped cut-out. Then the skull turned up to face him, no longer
bone. It was Samantha. 

Her face twisted in terror; the tendons in her neck stood out. Ligature marks
on her throat were raised as angry welts, some ragged and bloody. Samantha
reached her
arms up to him, the limbs still naked bone, the left one still incomplete,
ending in a splintered ulna and no hand. 

"FOOOOX!" she screamed, piercingly, terrified. "Help me! He's hurting me,
Fox!! Please! Make him stop HURTING ME!" 

Galvanized, he'd reached for the one skeletal hand and grasped, intending to
pull her out of the pit. Instead the bones shattered, imploding under the
pressure of his grip.
Her screams died, but not before they'd turned his blood to ice. 

Horrified, he stared at her face. She lay silent, her head tilted sideways and
down in the position the skull had been earlier, her eyes dead and sightless,
staring into
nothing. 

A hand grasped the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He looked up
at Roche's grinning face, Roche dangling a bloody garrotte in one hand and
holding a cloth
heart in the other. Adrenaline rushing through his system, Mulder wound up and
connected hard with Roche's jaw. A blinding pain jolted him awake. 

Sitting in the car now, he absently rubbed his right hand where he'd struck
the coffee table. Sore, but no real damage done. He remembered sitting up on
his couch,
cradling his throbbing hand, his heart jackhammering, the sweat running cold
down his face and torso, dimly aware of his own ragged breathing. It had taken him
several minutes to realize he was crying. Deep, wrenching sobs. He drifted off
fitfully just before dawn, jolted back to consciousness again by the apartment
buzzer. 

He looked out the window at Robert E. Lee Park as they passed on the way to
the precinct. He planned to go there today, regardless of what the arson case
held in store.
He needed to gather more evidence. Scully would understand. 

END PART FIVE
---------------------------------------------

[Quietus - Part 6 of 14] 

Baltimore P.D. 
8:30 a.m. 

Hurley and Branch briefed them on the arson case to date. Scully asked the
questions; Mulder sat quietly beside her, a million miles away. 

"We've tracked down two of the four people on the list you generated for us,
Agent Scully," Branch said. One is still living in Baltimore, the other in Milwaukie,
Oregon. We've contacted the Portland police and we thought you or Agent Mulder
might want to connect with the FBI field office nearest Milwaukie to arrange for
pickup and questioning." She glanced at Mulder, whose gaze seemed to be fixed
on a spot somewhere inside the tabletop. She looked back at Scully. "We're
still looking
for the other two, tracking them through several changes of address. You know
how that can go. We'll keep at it." 

Scully nodded. "You're planning to call on the Baltimore suspect today, I take
it." At Branch's nod, she added, "I'll go with you." 

"Agent Mulder," Hurley said. Mulder pulled himself back from his reverie,
feigned alertness as though he'd been with the conversation the whole time.
"I'd like to
review the forensics on the warehouse site again. I also have the reports from
the other two fires. I know we've gone over them, but I'd like your eagle eye
to make sure
we haven't missed anything. I'm also running background checks on the four
suspects, looking into employment records, hobbies, that sort of stuff. I've
also identified
some former neighbours and employers of the suspects. I thought we could track
some of them down today and see what they have to say." 

"Sure," Mulder nodded agreeably. The informal briefing ended, the four pushed
their chairs back and stood. Scully and Branch wandered off to Branch's desk,
discussing some point about the case. Mulder looked at Hurley, suddenly seized
with thoughts about Meryl. 

"So," he said casually. "Meryl left yesterday, I take it." 

Hurley smiled. "Yeah. I miss her already. First time she's been on a plane
alone. That makes me nervous, but Jeanne's sister will be there to pick her
up. The airline also
has a great reputation for dealing with kids travelling by themselves. She was
so excited. First trip without Mom or Dad." 

"She seems very confident," Mulder said. Hurley chuckled. 

"Confident. That's one way to describe it. She scares me sometimes - she's a
little too trusting, a little too quick to see the good in people. Maybe
that's just the cop in
me talking." They moved over to Hurley's desk, which was butted up against
Branch's. Scully and Branch had moved off somewhere else. Mulder glimpsed Scully's
purse on Branch's chair. 

"Anyway," Hurley continued, picking up file folders. "Here's those reports."
He handed Mulder two folders and pulled up a chair for him next to his desk.
Mulder felt a
surge of impatience. 

"Is there anything in particular you think we've missed? We did go over these
pretty thoroughly." 

"I just want to flag some questions for the people we'll be talking to later
today," Hurley said, sitting and opening the first folder. Mulder sighed
softly and sat, trying to
concentrate on the page in front of him. I have to focus on this, he thought.
I'm over-thinking the dream thing. His cell rang. 

"Mulder." 

"Detective Falsone, Agent Mulder." Mulder heard noise in the background, the
sound of other voices, the general ambient noises of the outdoors. "We've found
something I thought I should call you about." 

"Yes, Detective?" Mulder's jaw set. He knew what it was already. 

"I'm at a big park here, the Robert E. Lee Memorial Park. We got a call about
an hour ago from a work crew. They found another body dressed in the same sort
of fabric
that we found on the first one. You asked me to keep you informed about the
first body, and since on the surface at least this one appears to be related,
I thought I should
let you know." 

Mulder swallowed. "I'd like to see it, if you don't mind." 

"Sure," Falsone said, a little hesitantly. "You're not saying you had another
hunch, are you?" 

"No," Mulder lied. "Not exactly. It's - it's interesting that this one appears
to be similar to the last." He felt the uncomfortable silence that ensued.
"I'm interested because
I worked a similar case many years ago with Violent Crimes. Similar victims,
and some of the circumstances seem similar." 

"Oh, I get it," Falsone said. Mulder relaxed. "In that case I'd consider it a
professional favour if you had a look at this. I know it's got nothing to do
with the case you're
on, but maybe there's something from the case of several years ago that can
help us, if you've got the time." 

"I'll be right there." He impatiently listened to Falsone's directions, then
hung up. He stood, feeling in his pockets for his keys. 

"I, um, have to leave you for an hour or so," he said to Hurley
apologetically. "That was Falsone - they've found another body like the one
they pulled out of the water
last week." 

"No shit." 

"I worked a similar case several years ago. He wants my input. I won't be
long." He pulled his keys out of his pocket and paused, staring at them.
Dammit. Wrong
vehicle. 

He looked at Scully's purse, hesitating for a moment. Then he looked around
the office. 

"Agent Scully and Detective Branch were here a while ago. Any idea where they
might have gone?" 

Hurley pointed down the corridor. "Lunchroom is that way. If they're not
there, I'm not sure where they'd be." 

Mulder strode down the hallway and found the lunchroom. It was empty. He
walked back to Hurley's desk, debating. The debate was resolved as he saw
Scully's purse
again. 

He opened the flap and reached in, feeling the jagged edges of her keys. He
lifted them, flipping the flap shut. He gripped them in his fist, met Hurley's slightly
disapproving frown. He ignored it. 

"Back soon." Hurley watched his back as Mulder pulled his trenchcoat from the
rack and left briskly. 
  


"It's a ways in," the police officer said, accelerating his pace to keep up
with Mulder's long, purposeful strides. Mulder was silent, focused on the
trail ahead. The officer
followed, puzzled by the intensity of the FBI agent. "Straight down here?"
Mulder asked needlessly, camouflaging his familiarity with where they were
going. He knew
exactly where they were going. He noted the wide tracks of a vehicle, freshly
imprinted in the icy mud. He soon saw the flash of emergency lights, the
barrier of police
tape strung across the pathway. 

A man turned as Mulder approached. "Agent Mulder?" he said, presenting his
hand. "I'm Detective Falsone. I'm glad you could join us." 

Mulder shook Falsone's hand as the officer brought up the rear. "What have you
got?" Mulder asked, trying to mask his urgency, betraying it by allowing his
eyes to
find the pit, exactly where he knew it would be. Falsone led him toward the
pit. Mulder held his expression carefully neutral as he saw her, kept his
clenched fists out of
sight in his coat pockets. He closed his eyes briefly, calming himself. 

She lay in the identical position his dream had described, on her back, head
unnaturally turned down and to the right. A few details were different. The
lower jaw was
displaced, resting approximately where the right clavicle should have been.
The left clavicle was also gone, as were several ribs, but the left arm and
hand were basically
intact. The leg bones were slightly scattered. But the main difference, the
biggest difference, was in the nightgown. It was far more tattered than he
remembered from his
dream. Most importantly, the upper front of the garment was completely
missing. She lay on the back piece, a few inches of fabric encircling her
pelvis. 

Mulder crouched by the side of the pit, an eerie dj vu overtaking him for a
moment. He resisted the impulse to put his hand up over where the heart
cut-out should have
been. He couldn't bear the thought of actually witnessing what had come after,
in his dream. He frowned, studying the nightgown. 

"The work crew had cleared out some brush here to put up a maintenance shed,
which they were starting on this morning," Falsone reported. "They found that the
ground had been disturbed, their survey marks upset, though whoever did that
was careful to put things back the way they were. We've started checking into
that." 

"I can help you with who upset the ground," Mulder said, standing, still
staring at the fabric. He looked at Falsone. "I did." 

Falsone frowned. "You did?" 

Mulder hesitated, looked at the ground. "I did have a - a hunch," he admitted.
"More of a dream, really." He indicated the trees. "I dreamed of this exact
spot, the same
way I dreamed about the jetty where you found the first body. I came here
Saturday and did a cursory search. I should have called you or someone at
Homicide, I know.
I was wrong not to. But I found nothing. I didn't go as deep as the backhoe
did. I decided the notion that there was another body here was foolish," he
lied, meeting
Falsone's incredulous eyes. Falsone regarded him suspiciously. 

"I didn't put her there, Detective, nor was I responsible for the first
victim," Mulder said, looking directly at Falsone and speaking with relaxed
sincerity. "You're right to
be thinking that way. I would too, if our positions were reversed, and I'll
cooperate fully if you wish to consider me a suspect. But I think you'll find
that this body has
been here for a very long time, and I'd encourage you to establish when this
person died. I'm willing to bet that at the time this happened I was still a
kid, probably in my
early teens or even younger." 

Falsone stared at Mulder, decided eventually that the agent's candor was
genuine. "Believe it or not, we've actually used psychics before in
investigations," he said
finally, nodding. "I've always believed that psychics are no better at solving
cases than good old fashioned detective work." 

Mulder smiled. "I'm not psychic. At least I've never considered myself to be.
But I felt very strongly about the previous hunch, and I felt strongly about
this one. I'm
glad you called me." 

Falsone kept his eyes on Mulder for a moment longer, then looked over at the
remains. Other Homicide personnel circled the body, taking pictures, taking
measurements. "I know about feelings," he admitted. "I'm sometimes afraid to
follow them, because I know I can't go on just feelings. But when I have, they've
sometimes been right, especially the strong ones." He looked back at Mulder,
who had gone back to studying the nightgown. "You looking for a new job? We
need a
full time psychic in Homicide." 

"Detective Falsone?" The officer who met Mulder at the trailhead called over,
holding up a cell phone. "For you." 

"Excuse me," Falsone said, leaving Mulder by the side of the pit. 

He looked carefully at the skull, looking for traces of long, brown hair.
There were none, not that he could tell. He tasted blood, tangy and metallic,
and realized he'd
been chewing the inside of his lower lip. His eyes moved to the shoulders,
difficult to recognize as such without the clavicles. 

Samantha had broken her left collarbone falling off the tree swing. He
remembered her crumpled in a heap as it swung over her head. He remembered her
screaming in
pain, screaming with the terror of pain. He remembered her screaming in his
dream. 

He felt something in his pocket, a soft roughness, a velvet firmness. With a
shock of recognition, he pulled it out. Meryl's heart pin. He stared at the
flannel, then shot a
look at the nightgown. Peering through the grime and the dirt, he was sure
that the pattern was identical. 

Mulder saw Falsone moving toward him. He put the heart smoothly back in his
pocket, hoping the motion went unnoticed. 

"We're just about finished here for now," Falsone said, making no mention of
the heart. "You want me to call you as we learn more?" 

"Please," Mulder said. "When do you expect the lab results from the first
victim?" 

"Probably tomorrow or Wednesday." 

"I'd like a call about those too, if you can." 

"So you said." Falsone wasn't sure if he was supposed to be impressed or
annoyed by the agent's intrusive interest in his case. He guessed the Bureau
had its share of
eccentrics, just as most large municipal police departments did. 

"Thanks, Detective," Mulder said, clapping Falsone's arm below the shoulder.
He moved off down the path. As he neared the parking lot, he pulled the heart
from his
pocket again. 

Identical. 

He pulled his cell phone out and dialled Hurley. 

"Agent Mulder, Detective. I have an odd question for you. What school does
Meryl go to, and who is her teacher?" 

"Why?" Hurley's voice projected irritation in the single syllable. Mulder
ignored it. 

"She gave me this heart pin on Saturday that she made in class. The fabric
it's made of - it's the same sort of fabric that the new victim is dressed in.
I want to find out
more about it." 

"Mrs. Kennedy at Mapleridge Elementary," Hurley replied curtly. "Agent Mulder,
I think it's important that we get on these interviews. How soon can I expect
you back
here?" 

"I'm on my way now." 

"Okay. And by the way, your partner left with Branch to talk to their suspect.
I have to tell you, Agent Scully seemed pretty choked about you taking her
car. You should
prepare yourself for an earful." 

Mulder unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel, glancing at the rose and
chocolates still on the dash. He moved them to the caddy under the radio. "I'm expecting
it," he said ruefully. "If you talk to her before I do, tell her it couldn't
be helped." He clicked off the phone. 

He started the car and looked at the heart again. He ran his thumb over the
flannel, staring at it hard, as though the tiny flowers would somehow move and
spell out an
answer, a clue. They remained mute and immobile. 

He ran a hand over his face. God he was tired. He looked around, saw a phone
booth at the edge of the parking lot. He turned off the car and walked to the booth,
looking for the white pages. 

Mapleridge Elementary School. Here it was. He hunted for a pen, tore a corner
off the book's cover and wrote down the address. A quick trip to the school,
just long
enough to flash his badge and obtain Mrs. Kennedy's home address. She'd be on
break like her students. He only hoped she'd stayed in town. He'd visit her tomorrow.
He'd use his own car then, his turn to drive, anyway. 

END PART SIX
---------------------------------------------

[Quietus - Part 7 of 14] 

It was dark on the drive home. Mulder sat in the passenger seat, staring at
the headlights as they passed going the other way. Hurley had been wrong; he
didn't get an
earful from Scully. He got The Look. The one that always said "we'll discuss
this later." So far, she hadn't brought it up. They'd barely exchanged two
words since
starting for home. It wasn't an angry silence, merely a contemplative one that
he used to his advantage until they were well along the Interstate. Then he
couldn't stand it
any more. 

Contritely, he said, "Sorry about stealing your car, Scully." 

Her expression didn't change, save for a pursing of her lips. "No harm done,"
she sighed, the edge in her voice betraying her lingering irritation. "I would have
appreciated it if you'd asked me first." 

"I did look for you," he protested. "You and Branch had disappeared. Falsone
wanted me to meet him at the park right away." 

"And you couldn't have asked Hurley about using his car, or maybe taken a
cab?" 

"Yes, yes I could have asked Hurley. But I didn't. I knew you probably
wouldn't be using yours, so I borrowed it for a bit." 

She drew her eyebrows together. "What were you doing taking off on your own
anyway, Mulder? What do these remains have to do with our current assignment?" 

"Nothing." 

There was a pause. Scully made a questioning face at the road, uncurled her
right-hand fingers from the steering wheel. "So?" 

"Falsone wanted my input on the body in the park." 

"You left Hurley hanging. You had a job to do. So did Homicide, and it sounds
like they were doing theirs just fine." 

"It was a professional courtesy, Scully. He asked me, I obliged him. End of
story." Now Mulder was getting irritated. 

Scully opened her mouth to retort and bit down on the words. She didn't want
to get into an argument right now. She was tired, and she hated arguing while driving.
Mulder saw her back down. He was glad. There were too many questions he knew
she had, questions he wasn't prepared to answer here and now. I'll fill her in later,
he promised himself again. 

They drove on silently for a minute more, a lingering discomfort hanging
between them. Mulder briefly closed his eyes, decided this put him too much at
risk for dozing
off. He needed a conversation - any conversation. 

"How was the interview with your suspect?" Good, he thought. Nice, safe,
work-related. No need to bring up the unauthorized borrowing of personal
property. 

Scully welcomed the change in atmosphere and relaxed a little. "He didn't
reveal much. He's lived in Maryland all his life, high school dropout, bounced
around from
one McJob to another, fast food, retail, light custodial stuff. Did a stint on
welfare. Busted for a drunk and disorderly once, roughed up his roommate and
spent some
time doing community service. Lived on the streets for a bit, pulled a B and E
right before Christmas not last but the one before because he needed a warm
place to stay
over the holidays and the state obliged him." Straightening her arms, she
pressed her back into the seat, relaxed with a sigh. "No record of arson, no
charges or
convictions on major offences, just an all around general loser type. Right
now he's unemployed and on the dole again. We talked to some of his immediate neighbours
and one of his former ones. They didn't remember him. What about you?" 

Mulder inclined his head. "Interviewed a couple of neighbours, a couple of
former employers. Neighbours said that the suspects were quiet, kept to
themselves, but only
after we showed some pictures and reminded them that they existed. The
employer of one fired him two weeks after starting because he failed to show
for work several
days in a row, the employer of the other said he did a good job, didn't
associate much with the other staff, simply handed in his notice one day and
disappeared." 

The silence stretched between them again, more comfortable this time. Scully
raised her eyebrows. 

"Maybe he was abducted." 

"Huh?" 

"Your suspect, the one who just disappeared. Maybe he was abducted by aliens.
Maybe they all were. Or maybe just their mental capacities were taken. I know the
suspect we interviewed wasn't exactly all there." 

"I hope not." 

"Why?" 

"Because then we'd have to turn the case over to Spender and Fowley." 

Scully smiled with grim humour. "Oh. Right. Skip that theory, then." 

They continued on home. 
  


Mulder felt much better the next day. After laying awake till two, afraid to
fall asleep, he'd sunk into a dreamless chasm that not even Roche could
penetrate. The alarm
buzzer pierced the shroud his consciousness had drawn about itself, but only
after it had sounded for several minutes. He showered, dressed, washed down a slightly
stale bagel with milk that was only marginally past its use-by date straight
from the carton, and got into his car to pick up Scully. 

This was going to be a good day; he could feel it. 

On the agenda that morning, more interviews. Reports to review from the
Portland police and FBI. The Milwaukie suspect had a current address there,
but couldn't be
found at home or at work yesterday. They'd try again today. One of the other
two suspects had been located and was living in Bethesda. Mulder teamed up
with Hurley
again, Scully with Branch. The pairs went their separate ways for the morning. 

Mulder let Hurley take the lead in the interviews, interjecting questions as
he thought of them. As the morning wore on, he began to feel antsy, looking
for an
opportunity to leave Hurley and find Mrs. Kennedy. He sensed it around
lunchtime. 

Hurley was driving and pointed to a row of storefronts. "There's a really good
deli there - makes some of the best corned beef sandwiches anywhere. That
sound good
to you?" 

"Sounds fine," Mulder said, wondering how to put things. "We're supposed to be
meeting up with Agent Scully and Detective Branch at one-thirty, right? At the
precinct." 

"Yeah, why?" 

"I need to run some errands over lunch. Would you mind if we just got takeout,
and you took me back to the precinct?" 

"Okay," Hurley said, sounding a little disappointed. He liked Mulder, in spite
of his apparent eccentricities. He'd been hoping for an opportunity to talk to
Mulder about
working at the FBI, over lunch or maybe over a beer sometime. Oh well. They
got their sandwiches and drove back to the precinct. Mulder waved him a
see-you-later as
he drove off in his car. 

He found Mrs. Kennedy's townhouse easily enough, though it was well across
town. Mulder rang the doorbell several times, peered in the adjacent window. Dammit.
She wasn't home. Mrs. Kennedy had planned to stay in town over the break, the
school secretary had told him. He decided to wait for a bit. 

Mulder sat in his car across the street, eating his sandwich. Hurley was right
- it was good corned beef, piled thick on dark rye with tangy mustard. He
washed it down
with bottled apple juice, hoping he didn't look too conspicuous sitting here
in broad daylight. Normally that didn't bother him. 

He waited. 

He pulled the heart out of his pocket again, ran his forefinger thoughtfully
along the lace edging. Tiny pink and blue flowers. He thought he recalled
seeing Samantha
wearing the same sort of flannel nightgown and berated himself silently for
not paying closer attention, back then, to the pattern. He shook his head,
dismissing the
self-criticism. What self-respecting twelve year old boy paid any sort of
attention to what girls were wearing, much less what their little sisters were
wearing? 

He checked his watch again. 1:35 p.m. this time. 

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he looked at the townhouse.
Shaking his head in frustration, he reached for the ignition. Just then a
compact sedan pulled
up in front of the townhouse and a woman stepped out and around to the trunk.
Mulder climbed out of his car. 

"Mrs. Kennedy?" 

The woman turned. "Yes?" 

Mulder pulled his badge out and crossed over to her. "I'm Special Agent Fox
Mulder of the FBI," he said. "I was wondering if I could have a minute of your
time." 

Mrs. Kennedy looked startled. "Well, yes, of course," she stammered, nervous.
Mulder smiled at her. 

"Don't be alarmed, you haven't done anything wrong." He regarded her.
Sixty-ish, carrying a few excess pounds in the tradition of many women her
age. A warm,
thoughtful, motherly face, a few deep wrinkles creasing her dark skin, her
black hair salted liberally with grey. A teacher who loved her job, loved her
students, he
guessed. He liked her immediately. "I have some questions relating to a case
I'm working on, some evidence that I'm trying to track the origin of. Do you recognize
this?" He showed her the heart. 

"Yes," she said. "I had my third graders make these last week for Valentine's
Day." She looked up at him fearfully. "Nothing's happened to one of my
students, has it?" 

"No, not at all," Mulder assured her. "I got this from Meryl Hurley. I'm
working with her dad on a case, and she gave this to me." Mrs. Kennedy's face
lit up. 

"Oh, Meryl," she said. "She's a great kid. She made several of those and did a
good job, too." 

  

"I'm interested in the fabric that the heart is made of, and I'm hoping you
can shed some light on where it came from." 

"Oh sure," Mrs. Kennedy said. "I just brought in a load of old worn out
clothing for the kids to cut up. I brought what was left home - I don't know
why. I guess I'll do
the same art project next year, save the fabric for that." 

"Can I have a look at the fabric?" 

Mrs. Kennedy flipped open the trunk lid. Inside were several bags of
groceries. 

"Help me carry these in, and I'll show you anything you want to see." 

Mulder smiled and, putting away the heart and his badge, reached in and lifted
two bags. Another trip finished the job, and he waited in Mrs. Kennedy's
kitchen while
she went to the storage room. She came back with a medium sized box full of
fabric scraps, all with a red or pink colour scheme, some patterned, some
solid. She put
them down on the kitchen table next to the groceries. Mulder sorted through
the rags until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the garment out,
noting that
several heart-shaped holes had been cut from it. He felt his heart skip. 

"Those holes are all Meryl's, as I recall," Mrs. Kennedy chuckled. "She was so
insistent on making all her pins out of that particular old nightie." 

"Mrs. Kennedy, where did you get this? All of these clothes, actually." 

"They belonged to my daughter when she was a little girl. She's thirty now.
She used to get a new nightgown every Christmas Eve. I don't know why I kept
them -
sentimental, I guess. I gave some to a shelter, but these were so worn out. So
I finally got tired of having them around and thought I'd use a few of them
for this art
project." 

"This pattern," Mulder said, fingering the flowered flannel. "You wouldn't
know whether or not it was a common fabric pattern, would you?" 

"Oh, Agent Mulder, I don't know," Mrs. Kennedy said. "I remember seeing a lot
of little girls' nightgowns with little flowers on them. I imagine it was
pretty common."

"Do you mind if I take this with me? I'll return it later if you like." 

Mrs. Kennedy waved her hand. "Take it if you think it'll help. I've got plenty
of fabric here to use next year." He thanked her and folded the nightgown,
noting that the
label was still affixed to the back of the neck. He'd get someone back in
Washington to run a check on the pattern. He had a feeling that Mrs. Kennedy
was right; the
pattern was bound to be common. 

"Would you like some coffee, Agent Mulder?" 

"No, thank you. I should be going." He checked his watch. Five to two. He
moved to the door, slid his shoes back on. 

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Kennedy. I appreciate your help." 

"No problem. I hope it helps you with your case." 

"Thank you," he said, opening the door. "I'm sure it will." 

He rubbed the fabric in his fingers as he moved to the car, finding some
solace for his whirling mind in the warm, soft material. As he slid into the
driver's seat, his cell
phone rang. Mulder reached for it hesitantly. No doubt Scully was wondering
just where the hell he was. 

"Mulder." 

"Detective Falsone, Agent Mulder. Got a second?" 

"Yeah, sure." 

"We got the PCR results back on the first victim, and we think we got a
match." 

"A match? A match with who?" 

"A family that used to live in Maryland but now live in Sacramento. Their
ten-year-old daughter went missing in 1980. It's interesting - we weren't
doing much with
DNA back then, but they had insisted on providing blood samples in case the
notion of DNA fingerprinting ever took off. Turns out her dad was a geneticist
and saw this
kind of thing coming. Anyway, she seems to be their daughter. Lucky thing,
since we weren't able to run a dental on her." 

"That's great news," Mulder said, disappointed. "It'll help them put some
closure to her disappearance." 

"That's it, Agent Mulder. I have nothing on the second victim yet. We're
checking dental records on her - we believe it to be female, anyway - and
we'll run a PCR if
necessary." 

"Thanks, Detective. I appreciate your call." 

"I'll be in touch." Falsone ended the call. 

Mulder sat for a moment pondering this outcome. On the one hand, he was happy
that the family could now give their little girl the proper burial she
deserved. On the
other hand, it wasn't Samantha. She was still out there, alive, dead, he
didn't know. 

He started the engine and drove off. 

END PART SEVEN
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