HEADER, NOTES, AND DISCLAIMER

TITLE:  Seeds Of Synchronicity
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in some chapters
CATEGORY:  MSR, X-File
FEEDBACK:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
URL:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile

DISTRIBUTION:  I'm honored to be archived; ask and you shall
receive, because I like to visit.  Please link to the story
as it's presented on my website.

UNIVERSE:  Turning back the clock, imagine Season 7 ending
at "Je Souhaite" and continuing on without the events of
"Requiem" into a less-concocted Season 8.  No abduction, no
pregnancy, no contradictory time lines or events.  Just
Scully and Mulder, definitely *more* than friends, in their
pursuit of the truth on the X-Files.

DESCRIPTION:  Six years after the events of "Aubrey," Scully
and Mulder revisit the Missouri town to confront old demons
and lay new ones to rest.

SPOILERS:  Anything goes from seasons 1 through 7, with a
special focus on "Aubrey."  Continuity errors and
conflicting dates abound in the latter part of Season 2, the
worst of which I urge the reader to ignore along with me as
I spin my tale. :)

DISCLAIMER:  As frustrating as it is, all things XF *still*
belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:  To the gracious ladies of Musea for their
enthusiasm.  To Mish for her pointy WIP/beta-stick and for
giving me the final push; to Audrey Roget for kick-ass beta
and unflagging encouragement; to Forte for the occasional
eagle-eye.  And thanks to all the faithful stalkers who
wanted a piece of the action over those long months of
WIPing with me.


************
Chapter 1
************

Northwestern Missouri
November 1, 2000
4:58 p.m.

Another balloon explodes with an ear-splitting pop, children
shriek, and in the kitchen Natalie Warner jumps.

"Oh, *God*," she groans, drawing the name of deity from her
mouth as she would a strand of played-out chewing gum.
"That's got to be the *fourth* one in fifteen minutes!  Can
you *imagine* what their teacher goes through every day?
You couldn't *pay* me enough to teach kindergarten, you
really couldn't, Gwen..."

Her new neighbor snickers and licks a red-nailed finger
sticky from the chocolate ice cream she scoops into Chinette
dishes.  "Be glad you have only Shawna -- and that birthdays
come once a year."

"Tell me about it.  And the *nerve* of her to be born just
after Halloween... she wanted all her friends to come to
this party in their *costumes*, can you believe it?  But I
put my foot down about that.  And, get this... I actually
told Greg, right there in the delivery room after she was
born" -- lowering her voice further -- "that it was either a
vasectomy for him or the funny farm for me.  Thank *God* he
bought it."

"Nat!  You never told me that Greg --"

"Yes, munchkin?  Whatcha need?"  Natalie swings sideways and
kneels before a curly-haired five year-old, resplendent in
her peach voile party dress.  The child turns around.

"Mrs. Warner, can you tie me?"

"No problem, Babe," she says, looping the two lengths of
satin ribbon into a quick bow and rolling her eyes at Gwen.
The little girl scoots back to the living room, a scene of
riotous color and high-decibeled merriment, and Natalie
frowns.  "I wonder how she gets her hair to curl like that?
Those Shirley Temple banana-curl things?"

"How does who?"

"Alice.  That's Kari, her youngest granddaughter *and*
Shawna's current best friend."

"I dunno, ask her.  You're the one who's supposed to know
everything about everybody.  That's what you said when we
moved in next door."

"Hah!  Gwen, you just wouldn't *believe* the dirt and
factoids I've accumulated over the years..."

Another pop, screams, and the sound of galloping feet
reverberate from the next room.

"Speaking of Alice," says Gwen, "I think we ought to bail
her out pretty soon.  She's in there alone with a dozen
starving kids, holding down the fort."

"She can handle it.  She *thrives* on it; she's a
grandmother five times over, for God's sake.  *I'm* the one
who's about to go postal here.  Damn, I'm *dying* for a
smoke..."

"Natalie!"  A woman shouts above the din.  "Shawna wants to
know when you're bringing in the cake."

"Tell her to hold her horses!"  The two women quickly gather
up trays of ice cream, paper plates, plastic utensils, cups.
"And napkins," adds Natalie.  "Grab the whole damn package,
Gwen, we'll need every last one."

She edges her fingers under the glass plate, admiring the
huge orange and chocolate-frosted confection, and hefts the
cake with effort.  "Shit, this must weight five pounds," she
gasps.  "No wonder the bakery charges an arm and a leg..."

"Take it on out and I'll get the rest," says Gwen
reassuringly.  Alone for a brief quiet minute, she shakes
her head and finishes stacking and lifting the other tray.
Some women, she thinks, just aren't cut out to be mothers.
But that Natalie is *such* a riot --

Hoping to circumvent the swirl of young bodies, Gwen takes
an alternate route to the living room, through the Warner's
tiled entryway.  There her eyes pass over the massive front
door, its sides framed by expensive beveled glass inserts,
and she sighs with envy.  At the same time, she spots a
kindergarten-sized shadow cowering outside behind the glass.

"Nat?  I think you've got another one out here," she calls.

"You're *kidding* me, right?"  Natalie hustles past, peeks,
and groans.  "Oh, God, and it's a boy.  I don't remember
inviting any *boys*.  Shawna must have done it behind my
back."

She opens the front door, cool air gusting within, the
children's muffled, merry voices tumbling out onto the
landing. The shadow takes a scuffling step backward.  Like a
small potted shrub he lingers just outside the front door,
blue jacket zipped to his chin.  He clutches a gift, the
flowered paper crackling between his reddened hands, the
crimped, glossy bow trembling in the November breeze.

"Let's see... you're Benjie, aren't you?  From way down the
street?"

Hesitating, the little boy nods, then keeps his head dipped,
chin tucked to his chest.  His brown hair ruffles in the
wind like fur on a puppy's back, his whole demeanor shrunken
into painful shyness.

"You're late, Tiger," she admonishes him lightly, guiding
him over the threshold.  "But just in time for the cake and
ice cream.  Where's your Mom?  Did she bring you over?"

He shakes his head.

"She lets you walk all that way by yourself?  God, she's
braver than *I* am."  The boy, divested of his jacket,
allows himself to be steered towards the living room.
"Shawna, come over here, please."

Shawna bounces out of the crowd of classmates, exquisite, a
miniature of her mother's blonde curls and tart sassiness.
She gives an aggrieved sigh, hand on hip, and swaggers
toward the two women with her eyes narrowed.  When she
notices the latecomer, her step slows and both eyes widen.
"Benjie!"  She glances nervously at her mother.  "You
came..."

Blanching, head lowered, the boy extends the brightly
wrapped package towards the girl.  "'S for you," he says in
a rough, husky whisper, and all the room quiets, every child
hushed and attentive.  Taking a curious, collective breath,
they gawk at the boy.

He raises his head just a bit, enough to reveal the chapped
redness of his face and chin.  His eyes are soft and watery;
long, dark lashes, like twin paintbrushes, sweep his cheeks.

At her daughter's lag, Natalie galvanizes the party into
action.  "Well, thank him for the present and let's get the
ball rolling," she says with exaggerated eagerness.  "The
ice cream'll melt in no time.  Shawna, get him a chair.
Alice, please be a doll and cut the cake... small pieces,
okay?"

Muted complaints reach their ears.  "Noooo, not next to
*me*... Shawn-na!"  "Yuck! Boys are so icky."  "*He's*
icky..."

Alice, as planned, leads a rendition of the traditional
"Happy Birthday" song, but with the children's loud
participation the last notes climb toward shrill dissonance.
Shawna blows out the candles and cheers erupt.

"You know, you can't blame them," murmurs Gwen
apologetically.  "A group of little girls all having fun
together -- and then a boy shows up."

Twirling a short blonde curl with long-nailed fingers,
Natalie shrugs.  Every age, every class has its goat and
she's thankful that Shawna is among the popular, pretty
group, just as she had been.  Appearance is everything, she
learned long ago -- good looks, charm, the right
connections, charisma.  Thank God Greg maintained enough of
his youthful attractiveness, yet not so much as to burden
her with worry lest another woman make a play for him.  *He*
should be the one worrying more about *her* needs, damn it,
staying away so much on business lately...

The girls on either side of the little boy lean away, giving
him a wide berth as though for a leper.  He waits with good
manners and fortitude until Alice serves him, then watches
the others before he takes a bite of the cake and ice cream,
chewing slowly, carefully.

Gwen seems perplexed.  "Now, who's he again?"

"Keep your voice down.  That's Janine Tillman's little guy.
They must live at *least* four blocks away.  I hardly ever
see him around, to tell you the truth."

"Janine, whose husband's on the force in Aubrey?  Isn't she
kind of old to be having kids?"

"You don't know the half of it -- he's *not* hers."

"What?"

"Well, he's *his*, but not hers..." She grinds to a stop at
Gwen's puzzled expression.  "I guess I can't expect you to
know *that* story.  God, I wouldn't take her place in a
million years, I swear!  Wait 'til the kids leave and I'll
tell you the whole mess.  I thought just about *everybody*
knew."

"Does Alice?"

"*Please* don't say *anything* to Alice, okay?  She's sweet,
but old-fashioned.  Really touchy about gossip."

"Uh... sure."

Alice's voice swells at that exact moment.  Animated, a
picture-perfect grandmother with her silvery hair bobbing,
she tries to cajole the squirming children into another game
while they laugh and gorge.

"I know!"  She gushes, overly effusive, and Natalie grimaces
in distaste.  "Since this is Shawna's sixth birthday and on
birthdays you give and get presents -- all of you think of
the one thing you'd love to have the most.  Your favorite
wish.  Anybody want to go first?  Shawna?"

"A trip to Disneyland," says the girl promptly, wrinkling
her nose in her mother's direction.

"Very nice, dear!  Who's next?"

"I want a big, big swimming pool with a high dive!"  This
from Alice's own granddaughter, and she smiles at her with
warm indulgence.

The children pick up the spirit of the game, each
suggestion, each dream more elaborate and impossible than
the next.  "A candy store!"  "A pet polar bear!"  Tinkling
laughter.  "My very own credit card!"

"Shit, they learn fast," whispers Natalie to Gwen.

"How about you, young man?  What special thing would *you*
most want to have?"

Startled, the boy drops his plastic fork onto the tablecloth
and blinks in disbelief as all eyes swing his way.  His face
grows redder, more scalded, and he stares down into his
plate.

"Come on, Benjie," encourages one of the more gracious
little girls, and they all snatch up the chant, some even
banging on the table in their childish enthusiasm.  "Tell us
what *you* want!  Come on!  Tell us!"

He has no choice except to comply.  As the room waits and
watches, he sucks in a small lower lip, chewing in an agony
of bashfulness before taking a short breath to speak.
Raising his head, he gazes at the sea of expectant faces and
opens his mouth.

"I want --" He falters, indecision darkening his features.

"Yes, dear?  Hurry up, tell us what you want," urges Alice,
smiling.

The boy's gaze, locking with that of the older woman,
hardens in sudden malice.  He blurts out in his distinctive,
husky voice, "A sister.  I want a *little* sister."

A pall of confusion settles over the group and the children
fidget from nervous tension, not comprehending the reason or
what has transpired before them.  Alice, nonplussed, looks
over to the two younger women when the boy picks up his
fork, ducks his head, and resumes eating.

"Good *God*," hisses Natalie, rubbing the gooseflesh on her
arms with a vengeance and turning away.  "The little creep."

"What, Nat?  What?"  Gwen presses, but her friend shakes her
head and, chilled for once to silence, walks quickly back
into the kitchen.

************

Georgetown/Washington DC
November 3, 2000
8:16 a.m.

Autumn colors lay in the same wizened piles along the
curbside of Scully's neighborhood.  Pausing on the walkway,
she throws back her hair to sniff the morning air and clear
her head, hearing the cornflake crunch of leaves underfoot
on the way to her car.  Early November.  The same earthy,
smoky smells, the exact same time of year she was returned
comatose following her abduction six years before.

She reappeared harboring two ignominious secrets.  One was
infertility.  Second, she was a new mother, though at the
time she was in ignorance of both these contradictory
truths.  It would be three more years before she learned of
Emily's existence and matching date of birth according to
the certificate issued in San Diego County.

November 2, 1994.  A red-letter day in the life of Dana
Scully.  What synchronous irony, what mockery of fate that
she would resurface in a hospital, unconscious and stripped
of her ova, the same day her biological child was reputedly
born.  What gross manipulation of cellular structure had
taken place, what unnatural acceleration in rate of growth
had occurred to develop a child so quickly?  Or had viable
ova been somehow, somewhere, taken from her body at an even
earlier date than the August abduction by Duane Barry?

There's little she can believe with any sense of surety.
Even Mulder, a human clearinghouse for unorthodox theory,
flounders for answers.  After so many years they still face
the same surreal, dubitable questions...

Shake it off, she orders herself ruthlessly, thrusting the
fall of red hair from her brow into a smooth curve behind
her ear.  The day has passed, thank God, and it's time to
move forward --

Steering into the flow of early morning traffic, she wonders
why so much celebration unfolds in the human realm this time
of year.  Days shorten after the autumn equinox and the
world rejoices in its bounty.  Harvest time.  Thanksgiving.
Cold and snowfall.  Religious holidays of joy and
commemoration:  gratitude, faith, blessing, birth.  Hope and
promise.

For some, it's a time for new beginnings and the resumption
of routine, when children make the yearly, migratory trek
back to school.  For others it's a first step on the
scholastic treadmill.  Glowing with the excitement of new
clothes and books, hungry for friendship and knowledge, they
slide from summer's carefree play into fall's stricter
academia.

Outside her car window a school bus blusters to a stop, then
turns the corner out of sight, yellow-orange, windows frosty
with morning condensation.  It reminds Scully of a ripe
autumn pumpkin, large and pregnant with purpose, bulging
with precious cargo.

This should have been Emily's first year in school.

She takes a shuddering breath and blinks once, twice, hands
choking the wheel.  She's still marking time; potent
reminders like a child's lunchbox and the scent of leafsmoke
overpower her better judgment.  It's intriguing to her that
she's more affected by the day of her daughter's birth than
she is by the time of her death.  Every birthday should be a
celebratory event, an occasion for joy and thankfulness, not
a time for bitterness or to mourn years spent in ignorance.

In another day or so, she'll have recovered enough to put it
behind her again, of that much she's certain -- emotionally
resilient, committed to her job, and in control for the next
twelve months, with the passing of this annual crisis.

Mulder is the only other person who knows of her secret
sorrow.

Though she divulged nothing to him on that first November
anniversary in 1998, she knew he sensed something amiss.
Playing by her rules, unobtrusive, he asked no questions,
but his actions spoke volumes about comfort and caring.
Masked as an excuse to avoid Kersh's endless and mind-
numbing background checks, he surprised her at lunch with an
ice cream cone and a walk in the park.

1999 was the year he survived near-fatal brain surgery at
the hands of the Smoking Man.  His first foray outdoors,
after attending Diana Fowley's funeral, fell on November 2.
He asked Scully to accompany him for a 'constitutional' and
stopped to purchase a rosebud, which he tucked into the
buttonhole of her coat.  Then, engulfing her hand in his
large, warm one, they ambled the cool autumn streets, leaves
and raw emotions swirling in tandem at their feet.  Grateful
that fate had spared Mulder's life, touched by his
undemanding thoughtfulness, she cracked the door open
between them.  Like light bleeding over a threshold, she
shared a small part of why this date and time of year still
marked her so deeply.

This year, last night, he stayed with her.

It's not by any means the first time.  Months earlier, in
the spring, they finally became lovers and forever altered
the boundaries between them.  They prefer to keep it
confidential.  For now sex is a delectable, yet still
intermittent treat -- they find themselves alternating
between prudence and gusto as they partake of this new
repast to which they're now entitled.

With no expectation for anything more, he stayed to offer
comfort and companionship.  He held her close against him on
the couch while they watched TV, stroking her hair,
whispering silly commentary, massaging her back muscles to
induce slumber.  As the weary hours passed and she moved
from couch to bed, still restless, Mulder grew resolute and
proposed a solution.

Unorthodox, of course.  She needed persuasion, brought by
feather-light kisses and murmured reassurances.  Gazing up
at him in the semi-darkness, she finally allowed him to peel
away her doubts and proprieties along with her pajamas.  He
eased his head down and prepared her for sleep, sweetly and
gently, with his mouth.

Now, rejuvenated in the light of a new morning, she stands
wedged between other late-coming agents in the Hoover's
elevator, a rosy glow on her cheeks.  Coat draping her arm
and chic in her dark suit, badge in place on her lapel,
service weapon holstered, she ponders the implications of
this secret life she shares with her partner and the
sporadic complaints of her faux-biological clock.  Despite
the melancholy, her nerve endings tingle as she clips down
the hall toward the familiar sanctuary of the office they
share.

Mulder straddles a corner of his desk, his arm extended in
the act of replacing the phone in its cradle.  He swivels
toward her, concern and expectancy evident in his face as he
stands.

"Sorry.  Traffic held me up," she explains, masking a coy
smile and slow flush behind her sweep of hair.  He waits;
with measured reluctance she looks up and their gazes fuse.
"You left early."

"Before dawn.  You okay?"

"Yes... I, um, slept like a rock, actually," she admits and
he chuckles with appreciation, his eyes twinkling at the
news.

"So my little antidote for insomnia worked."

"Like a charm.  You had doubts?"

His grin grows wider by the second and he steps closer,
catching the shaft of early morning sun that sneaks through
the window above him.  It casts a hazel gleam of affection
into his eyes, accentuates the thickness of his dark hair
and stirs her body afresh.  His lips form a teasing curl,
the same lips that just a few hours ago were --

"Not a one," he murmurs.

"The important thing is I managed to get in a few hours'
sleep before work, thanks to your... antidote.  And since
today *is* another day, I guess life goes on..." she
continues philosophically, turning to hang up her coat.  If
only she had a cup of hot coffee to sip, the day could bode
well after all.

"You might want to hold on to that," he advises, arresting
her movement, "as well as the positive outlook."

Scully's eyebrow arches, her lips part in anticipation of
disclosure.  "Meaning?"

"I just received a phone call from a Lieutenant Brian
Tillman of the Aubrey, Missouri police department.  What can
you remember about him?"

She leans into a thoughtful tilt, brain cells harkening back
to mid-November 1994.  It's one of the many cases from their
first few years together that she can recollect with unusual
clarity because of the overwhelming human pathos involved.
The mutilated bodies of new victims and the scored bones of
older ones that came to light -- all found their way into
her capable hands and were crucial in pinpointing important
details of the crimes, though not the perpetrator. It took
Mulder's intuitive mind to focus on Detective B.J. Morrow,
Tillman's preferred partner and paramour, nailing her as the
killer.

Lieutenant Brian Tillman.  She remembers him as an abrasive,
bull-headed, condescending man, who allowed his personal
loyalties and fears to blind him to the truth throughout the
investigation.  Impatient, thin mustache, heavy on the
cologne.

Aloud she says, "1994.  He was a married detective who got
his associate pregnant.  She, quite remarkably, was the
granddaughter of serial killer Harry Cokely and was
eventually committed to a women's prison hospital after
murdering several people, including Cokely.  She slashed the
victims and carved "sister" into their chests, imitating the
original attacks in 1942."

She sighs and shifts her coat to the other arm, considering
it needless to remind Mulder that he had experienced B.J.'s
razor held against his own throat.  "So, what was the reason
for his call?"

"He's... "  Mulder hesitates, rubbing a thumb along his
lower lip.  Already she can sense his mind collating the
small bits of information he gleaned during the phone call.
"Let's say that there is no joy in Aubrey, Scully, when you
think you're right on top of your game, clipping out base
hits smooth as glass -- and the ball suddenly falls foul.
You're in danger of striking out before you realize it."

She puffs out her lips in annoyance, plunks her coat onto
his desk, and crosses her arms.  "No baseball analogies
before my morning coffee, Mulder.  Give it to me straight."

"The ball being his kid..."

"The baby?  I remember that he'd planned to petition the
courts to adopt, but I never followed what actually
transpired after B.J. was put on suicide watch during her
last trimester."  She'd been occupied with other matters
that year, bizarre cases and experiences which, looking
back, she's still unable to explain to her satisfaction.
And she'd almost lost Mulder again...

"She gave birth, he adopted.  His wife went along with it,
but needed convincing."

"Not surprising," she mutters dryly.  "And B.J.?"

"Still incarcerated at Shamrock Women's Prison.  However,
she hasn't been considered a high security risk for several
years.  Must be one of the lucky ones."  His smirk is barely
discernible.  "Shamrock.  Lucky..."

She ignores the weak attempt at humor.  "Does she have any
contact with Tillman or the child now?"

"Unknown, but doubtful.  I plan to take our files and any
other pertinent information about the 1994 case.  Might be
good reading on the flight to Missouri," he adds, looking
toward the cabinet and then at his watch.

"How soon do we leave?"

"That's something I want to talk to you about."

Facing him, she feels his hand encompass her shoulder, heavy
with his concern.  She can read the hesitancy in his mind,
senses his heart when he says, "It's your call, Scully.  Do
what you feel is best for *you* right now --"

"I will.  I do," she insists quietly, her understanding in
perfect sync.  Her gaze brushes his, then slips away,
shielded and evasive.  She licks her lips, an unconscious
gesture that betrays her edginess.

"Because, this case may encroach upon some areas --"

"Mulder... I'll be fine."

It's her usual stoic avowal, tinged with impatience, but she
knows he recognizes the bravado.  After spending last night
with her and helping her to weather this year's emotional
memory-storm, she can understand why he's unconvinced.

"Really.  You'll have to trust me on this."  She grasps his
hand in her smaller one, giving it a playful squeeze, and
peers up.  "Besides, you'll be there, too..."

"I'll be there," he agrees.  He returns the pressure to her
hand, sharing a pointed look before releasing her.  "I also
know your insights and presence would be invaluable.
Tillman respects your judgment; he asked for you
specifically."

"Then I'm surprised as much as I'm honored.  Can you give me
a hint of the problem in Aubrey?"

"There's been another slashing attack, reminiscent of the
1994 case.  Happened yesterday morning, and this time the
woman is alive and able to provide information on a possible
lead."

She's reminded that not all of Cokely's victims died -- as a
young woman old Linda Thibodeaux was raped and disfigured,
secretly bearing a child by Cokely, which she put up for
adoption.  That same baby grew up to become Raymond Morrow,
the father of B.J.

"Leading to whom, I wonder?"

Mulder's eyes cloud and he yanks out a drawer from the
cabinet with a tooth-grinding scrape before diving in with
both hands.  "The base hit that suddenly went foul.  Right
now, Scully, the only feasible suspect appears to be
Tillman's five year-old son..."

************
End of Chapter 1


************
Chapter 2
************

Wentworth, Nebraska
November 3, 2000
2:35 p.m.

She's hungry more than she is thirsty, which surprises her.
A person can live much longer without food than water, but
she can't discount the growling spasms in her stomach any
more than she can ignore her paranoia and the wild thumping
of her heart.

Another day and the stalemate continues unabated, bitter and
relentless as the prairie autumn outside her window.  All
she wanted was one phone call, just one simple connection to
put her mind at rest.  But no -- she's pacing her room like
a caged lioness, like a zoo animal driven stir crazy in
captivity.  Back and forth, to and fro, from dresser to bed,
from barred window to bolted door.  Linoleum glued to the
floor, no carpet; they're afraid she might peel up a corner
and fish out a tack.

No trust, no privilege, no believing.

Now she suspects they want to sedate her, and she can't
allow that.

She'd have been smarter to play along and pretend from the
outset.  Refusing the meds was a mistake; she'd slapped them
to the floor in fear and fury and watched the pills skitter,
the tiny paper cup of water splash and collapse.  Couldn't
they see?  Didn't they *know* what was at stake?

Why can't they believe her?  Years ago, when they first
locked her away, there was someone who did.

Oh, God -- the dreams, the visions.  What made them return
again after so long?  She felt that first wave of dread two
evenings ago when she began refusing meals, terrified the
staff would lace her food and water with chemicals that
could put her at their mercy.  "I know how it works," she
warned them savagely.  "I know how you people operate, what
you can do.  I was a police officer, remember... I *know* --
"

And she was, she reminds herself, dissolving to tears again.
She was a damn good cop, like her father was before her,
even after she'd fumbled and made some unwise personal
decisions.  But, it was so special at first... *he* made her
feel special and loved.  Brian.  Dinners and candles and
secret meetings together.  Sharing a bed and the sex he
couldn't get with any regularity at home, or so he claimed.
The affair was covert and no one, not even Joe Darnell, his
oldest friend at the station, had any idea in the beginning.
The closeness lasted until his wife became suspicious and
drew him away.

After that, his behavior turned unpredictable.  He'd seem
protective one minute, and then would hold her at arms'
length, especially when he learned of her pregnancy -- and
after she reconsidered aborting the baby.  What happened to
the love she thought they'd shared?  The Cokely
investigation shot it all to hell.  Everything, gone...

And the dreams... they kept coming, like they are again.
Horrible dreams of fear and helplessness.  Evil dreams of
mutilation and blood and death.

Thank God she's locked away, unable to act on the urges and
vicious pictures swirling through her mind.  So who, she
wonders with revulsion, will be the unwitting pawn to this
phantasm that somehow originated with Harry Cokely over
fifty years before and continues into the present day?

Who'll end up taking the blame this time?  Pray to God, not
the boy!

No, don't cry, can't cry.  She wipes her eyes, amazed at the
profusion in light of her refusal to eat or drink.  It uses
up her body's moisture reserves and she has no realistic
estimate of when she can slake her thirst.  No need to use
the commode in over twelve hours, except to yank off toilet
paper for her nose.  She rocks on the edge of her bed, arms
wrapped at her stomach when the spasms strike again.  God,
why now?  Why now after six years...?

On the door, a heavy metallic rap.  She hears the soft click
and buzzing feedback from the hidden microphone.

"You want to share with me what's going on in there?"

"Dr. Reinholdt?"

"That's right.  From what they're telling me, you've been
causing some concern for the last day or two, B.J.  What's
wrong?"

An adrenaline surge of desperation heaves her forward from
the bed.  Catapulted, sweating, she presses her forehead to
the thick metal door.  It's cold against the heat of her
urgency, calming her so she can speak with coherence.  "I
need to make a phone call, doctor.  Please!  I need to talk
to Brian Tillman right away."

"You know the rules same as I do.  By court order and terms
of your incarceration, no contact with Lieutenant Tillman or
his family unless he takes the initiative first."  The
doctor's voice sounds engaging, congenial.  "I see on the
reports that you haven't taken your medication in three
days.  Care to tell me why?"

She grinds her teeth in frustration.  More tears leak and
she swipes at them with the edge of her palm.  "I can't risk
it, that's why.  I'm afraid they'll give me drugs to put me
under and I -- I have to be awake.  I have to stay alert."

"The dreams again?"

"Yes, dreams... but, it's more than that."

"Tell me about the *more*, B.J."

The tone is cloying, manipulative, but she has no choice.
No choice and no power for the prisoner-patient.  Suck it up
and tell him what he wants to know, that's all she can do.
Calming herself, she runs a shaky hand through her short
sandy hair.  "It started about dinner time... three days
ago."

"Let's see... that would be Wednesday?  First day of
November?"

"Yes, yes!  Something was wrong.  Almost as if something
horrible had woken up... from a deep sleep..." She pauses,
breathing hard.  What she's saying sounds ridiculous, but
every word stabs her heart with a new and ominous fear.

"You know, you've been doing so well for years."

"I know. I am still, please believe me."

"But you refused your meds and dinner.  Now I see you're on
a self-imposed hunger strike?"

"I can't take the risk of being sedated.  I need to be
alert, because something might happen... and I -- I think
something has, but I'm not sure what."

Silence hangs heavy around her, like the thick walls and
reinforced windows of the prison.  How far out on this limb
dare she creep before it breaks under the weight of her
folly?  She feels something else, like a band constricting
her chest, so tight and so familiar around her lungs and
heart that she panics from breathlessness.

The mothering instinct.  It, too, has awakened, re-energized
after years of dormancy.

"And, doctor...?"

"Yes, B.J.?"

She whispers the precarious words into the seam between door
and jamb.  "I'm -- I'm afraid for my little boy."

Silence on the other side of the door, then murmurs and
retreating footsteps.  The footfalls return and she waits,
trembling.

"All right, B.J.  I'm coming into your room now.  I have an
orderly with me and a lunch tray, which I'll expect you to
finish in front of me.  No tricks.  You know the Shamrock
rules.  Do we have a deal?"

"I can't --"

"Then it looks like we have a problem.  Lack of cooperation
is a problem, even when it stems from unaccountable dreams
and premonitions that force you to deviate from routine..."

Dreams and premonitions.  The doctor's voice fades, sinks to
a dull, insignificant murmur as B.J.'s ears roar and
another, familiar voice from the past takes precedence.  A
voice of belief and trust and hope.

("Have you ever, um... have you ever had any clairvoyant
experiences?  Premonitions, visions, precognitive dreams...
things like that?")

"Doctor -- If I can't get a message to Brian, can you call
someone else for me?"

"That will depend."

"I need to talk to the FBI agent who handled my case in '94.
His name is Fox Mulder.  He had a partner named Dana Scully.
Special agents Mulder and Scully in Washington, DC.  Look in
my files, please, and tell them I need to speak with them as
soon as possible.  Tell them it's urgent!"

"B.J., you may have forfeited privileges by your little
stunt, I hope you realize that --"

Her mouth feels parchment-dry, her throat ready to rip in
shreds as she sobs into her hands, big wrenching sobs that
can be heard on the other side of the door.  Oh God, oh God!
So much at stake and no one willing to believe or help.  The
sobs turn into a keening wail when the door swings open and
Doctor Reinholt and his aide step within the sparsely-
furnished room.

"Will you do it?"  A gasping plea...

"Now, just relax.  Settle yourself down."

"Doctor, tell them, please tell them --" Her eyes widen and
roll in terror, red and veined from grief and lack of sleep.
Oh God!  One last try before it's too late and she either
hyperventilates or feels the needle's jab --

"Please!"  Her voice rises to a crescendo.  "Tell Agent
Mulder that I think it's happening again --!"

************

Aubrey, Missouri
November 3, 2000
6:07 p.m.

Not many men in law enforcement have an affair go sour --
and then discover their partner/lover has both a checkered
genetic history and a penchant for murder.

Mulder heard fear over the phone when speaking with Brian
Tillman.  He sensed it on the plane while he thumbed his way
through pages of the six year-old file, noting the
desperation and disbelief that had marked the man's first
reaction.  Though the Lieutenant had been a bastard to work
with and his foot-dragging hampered the investigation's
progress, Mulder had to admit that the guy came by it
honestly.

Partner.  He kneads the steering wheel of the rented Corolla
and glances toward the passenger seat beside him, dragging
his gaze down the familiar length of Scully, from sleek red
hair to leather-shod toes.  It's getting to be serious dusk
and she's switched on the overhead light to browse through
the sheaf of files again.  Each page of field report, one
grisly photo after the other, she tabs with a manicured nail
in order to bring herself up to speed.  She'd slept most of
the way on the plane.

Lover.  His gaze lingers a moment on the concavity in her
lap below the seat belt and on the soft swells of her
breasts.  Masked under her navy-blue suit, they tremble with
the car's vibration.  It reminds him of the new changes he's
come to savor in their relationship: satiny skin molded into
his hands in the dark, the shimmer of her body over his,
breasts bobbing against his face like soft, velvety fruit as
she thrusts herself downward.  They should be doing it far
more often, given how pleasurable, explosive, and satisfying
it is to make love with her.

The sun vanishes, drawing the last purple ray of daylight
into the rolling Missouri horizon.  He thinks about what
happened at Scully's apartment last night.  Her red-eyed
insomnia.  The burden she carries within her like a malarial
fever.  Brave, yet fragile.  Clinging to the stiff veneer
she shows the world, yet granting him entry.  It baffles him
that one solitary day she never experienced personally
should have such a lasting effect on her.

He wonders if she understood why he did what he did -- or
whether she'll ever comprehend his true intent.  It went
beyond sex, beyond physical closeness or desire.  No matter.
His reasons are above reproach and he feels a righteous
peace for suggesting such a thing... and would do it again
without hesitation.

"Mulder..." She'd hedged, eyelids heavy, drooping like the
soft, roomy pajamas she wore last night.  "This won't make
me forget --" And she turned toward him with something less
than acquiescence, as if pleading first for enlightenment
before accepting his solace.

"That's not why I want to do it, Scully."

When she shook her head to object, he stilled its movement
with both hands and kissed her gently.  "Listen... you're
precious to me," he whispered, his lips punctuating each
word over her mouth.  "Every part of you is precious.  This
is my gift."

His persistence won out.  His desire to ease the ache from
her heart and give her relief as no one else could,
transcended whatever propriety stood in his way.  Soon she
began nodding in time to his kisses and lay slack, resigned
yet expectant, while he unbuttoned her pajama top with slow,
soothing fingers and slipped the bottoms down her legs and
from her feet.  She received his touches as she would the
preparations for a sponge bath, head back and lips parted,
watching him cat-like in the semi-darkness.

Her eyelashes flickered as he dipped his head and began to
suckle at her breasts.  Pulling reluctant pink nipples to
firm points in his mouth, like a child nursing, he
alternately sucked and teased them with his tongue until her
breath caught.  The feelings he awoke washed over her; he
felt her arms move and her fingernails graze through the
hair on the back of his head.  She sighed, legs trembling,
when he slipped downward to root softly, reverently at the
juncture between her legs.

He loves this place, where his ears press into her warm
inner thighs.  The rich scent and heat of her, the tickle of
her downy pubic fur on his nose and cheeks, the feel of her
tender slit yielding under his mouth.  The intoxicating
taste of her folds and fluids, sweet wet layers pulsing
around his face and lips.  He worked his tongue slowly into
her depths, paying homage to this sacred place of love and
fertilization, of birth and fetal passage.  Her vagina,
denied its reproductive function, was still a thing to be
honored and cherished and respectfully nurtured.

It mattered, she mattered, and he wanted her to believe and
gain strength from that truth.

When he moved to her clitoris, lingering, his mouth
lavishing over it in gentle sucking circles, her knees rose
higher and he felt her arousal peak.  She arched and tensed
beneath him, surging with the force of orgasm until tears
darkened her lashes and she fell back, exhausted, onto the
pillow.  Sleep came soon after, like he knew it would, with
Scully curled small and motionless on the bed, against him.

Yes, he'll do it again next year, in the same way and for
the same reasons, if circumstances demand it.  For her sake,
he hopes they don't.

Scully sighs under her breath, not quite a whimper, and
shifts in her seat.  The sound and movement snap him back to
the present and he looks at her again.  It's dinnertime and
his groin twinges; memories of last night's selfless
generosity remind him that he's hungry in more ways than
one.

"You say something?"

"I'm curious," she murmurs, clearing her throat and tapping
the manila folder, "whether the woman who was attacked
yesterday was bludgeoned first.  That seems to be the MO in
all the murders, even dating back to 1942.  And if that's
the case, I find it unlikely that a young child could have
the strength or necessary height to execute such an attack."

"Yeah.  Wheaties and spinach don't pack that kind of punch
in real life."

"Spinach?"

"Popeye the Sailor Man," he says, an obliging look on his
face.  "Or maybe nowadays it's Power Rangers --"

"Jesus, Mulder... a little more helpful insight would be
appreciated."  Frowning, she shuts the file and clicks off
the light, looking out toward the approaching lights of the
place called Aubrey, Missouri.  "I just find it baffling
that a little boy would even be considered a suspect.  After
we meet with Tillman, I want to interview this woman as soon
as possible."

"That may depend on whether visiting hours at the hospital
in Aubrey have emerged from the Dark Ages after six years."

In the deepening shadow of the car's interior, he hears a
rustle of clothing and feels Scully's thumb ease along the
skin of his neck, tracing an invisible line above the ridge
of his collar.  "No scar," she whispers.  "I think *you*
were one of the lucky ones."

Lucky doesn't begin to describe what he remembers of that
night.  It happened in harsh images of black and white, in
slow motion -- cold-cocked from behind, slammed against
Harry Cokely's foul-smelling mess of a carpet.  Then the
press of a blade, the sting and itch as it rocked against
his neck, etching a seam of blood into his flesh.  The
abject helplessness he felt.  The horror of turning his head
and gazing into eyes of pure madness, those of Detective
B.J. Morrow.

Scully's touch is fleeting, like a butterfly's airy wing,
and she returns her hand to her lap while he navigates the
traffic toward Aubrey's downtown.  Damn it, she's too fast -
- he wanted to crane his head to the sidde and kiss that
warm, fragrant thumb.

Instead he reaches over to cover her hand with his, giving
it a slow squeeze, feeling her gaze shift downward as he
caresses the delicate bones of her knuckles, her slim
fingers, her palm.  Even after years of partnership he's
beginning to comprehend her in more subtle ways than before.
He knows without seeing that she watches his fingertips
undulate over and slip between hers at this place of
handholding on her thigh.  As though she needs to be aware
of what's happening to her, around her.

His cautious, beautiful Scully.  Shit, he's got a one-track
mind...

As much as he wants answers in this new investigation, he
hopes the meeting with Tillman moves quickly and the
hospital stays closed to all visitors other than family
tonight.  He wants their two motel rooms to be side-by-side,
conveniently adjoined.  He hopes despite her inner sadness
and the long day of travel, that Scully's somehow in the
mood... or at least open to a certain degree of reciprocity.

"Horny, Mulder?"

He startles in the darkness, feeling busted, like a boy
caught down-blousing.  His fingers halt their seductive
teasing.  "What makes you say that?"

"What you're doing leaves little to the imagination."

"That transparent, huh?"

She chuckles and looks out the window toward the twinkling
neon lights, squeezing him back and lacing her smaller
fingers deftly through his.

************

Hi-ho-Silver, Mulder muses, making a cursory visual sweep of
the Old West kitsch permeating his surroundings.

He sits with Scully in a booth at the Conestoga Grill,
across the red-checked tablecloth from Lieutenant Brian
Tillman.  Long ago on another case, he once told her that a
person's eyes were like windows to their soul.  If Tillman's
guarded, haunted look is any indication, then the man must
exist in a day-to-day living hell.

He's taller than Mulder remembers, worry lines framing his
eyes.  A dapper-looking man with a gentle demeanor who tries
to schmooze the locals; he gives a small-town lawman's wave
to the waitress when they enter.  Years ago he seemed strict
and exacting within his department, curt, surly, somewhat
impatient.  Tonight in the public eye, he acts like a well-
behaved prisoner, walking on the thinnest eggshells of
penitence and fear.

The Grill, famous locally for its hamburgers and root beer,
flanks the Conestoga Motel where they'd made reservations.
At Tillman's suggestion they meet in a far corner, out of
earshot of the truckers at the counter and a few small
families up front.  The overhead lights are bright, the air
warm and heavy with grease and dinnertime bustle.

"Let's get this straight," Brian Tillman says quietly,
"right off the bat -- I want my wife left out of this
investigation as much as humanly possible.  You both got
that?"

Scully opens her mouth, then closes it into a soft pucker,
giving Mulder opportunity to reply.  Tired, he wonders?  Or
an intuitive feeling that Tillman would respond more
positively to another man?  While neither of them harbors
any fondness for him, Mulder feels a sense of pity for a man
whose family life and self-respect lay exposed for his
entire town to read, like a newspaper blown ragged through
the streets.

Tillman notices her deference and his burning eyes seek
Mulder's, trying to communicate the extent of his concern
without further elucidation.

"We can't go into this with our hands tied and hope to
conduct a credible investigation or find the truth," parries
Mulder with wry honesty.  "As for sensitive issues, it's a
little late to be stressing over the dirty underwear already
out on the line, isn't it?"

"The press's fault -- and the gossipers in this town," snaps
Tillman under his breath.  "They had a picnic here six years
ago, because of the nature of the case and those involved.
You might've gone back to our nation's capitol with another
notch on your belts, but for those of us left here to carry
on with our lives..."

He hesitates, choosing his words with obvious care, and
halts at the waitress's arrival.  Thick, glass mugs of root
beer hit the table before them.

"None for me, thanks," says Scully to the girl, who gives
her a quizzical, backward glance.  Tillman waits until
they're alone before picking up the thread of conversation.

"Janine, my wife, had a rough time dealing with the fact of
my... indiscretion, without it being flapped all over town
and then shaken in her face.  And that was only the
beginning."

"The reason you don't live in Aubrey proper?" -- Scully's
query.

"Yes, one reason.  Don't get me wrong.  I appreciate your
quick response and your reputation as investigators.  I
don't know anyone else more qualified to handle a situation
like this, given your familiarity with the case history.
But --" His gaze rakes them with a certain pleading
intensity.  "I know what happened last time: give you two
free rein and you're poking into someone's personal business
with a stick, stirring up more trouble than necessary."

"Sometimes, lieutenant, a stick comes in handy when there's
evidence to be dug out.  Remember back to 1994 -- The truth
can get buried pretty deep."

"D'you think I don't dwell on that every day of my life,
Agent Mulder?"

Mulder glances at his partner, catches her furtive, warning
look.  He can only guess what inner maelstrom must drive
such a man to eventual, emotional shipwreck.  Scully leans
toward Tillman, her soothing tone calibrated to gain his
cooperation.

"Lieutenant, we're here to help -- you, your wife, your
son... and to find the truth behind the attack that occurred
yesterday.  You have our assurance that every person
involved in this case will be handled with respect and
discretion."

Nodding, the man takes a shaky breath, every ounce of pride
and willpower brought to bear as he straightens in his seat.
He places his palms flat on the table as though to gain
equilibrium, gripping the cloth edge and squaring his jaw.
Seeing the waitress approach with her order pad in hand, he
warns her off with a shake of his head.

"At the same time," Mulder murmurs, "you have to trust us
enough to be willing to go out on a limb or two.  You'll
need to tell us what you know, and I'm guessing some of that
won't be easy."

"I don't need an investigator to tell me that."

"Then," agrees Mulder, "we know where we stand.  So, for
starters... how much information did the newspapers actually
manage to get in '94?"

"A little bit of everything -- you name it.  A real
smorgasbord."  Tillman gives a small, bitter laugh.  "Harry
Cokely's criminal history.   My affair.  Details of the
crime scenes.  That half-assed rigmarole about a 'bad seed,'
when B.J.'s biological connection to Cokely was whispered
all over town --"

"Yet, in spite of the rumor-mill, you took in the baby when
he was born," Scully reminds him, with some gentleness.
"That shows courage and integrity."

"I -- yes...  I had no other option.  Janine and I were
childless and able to provide a good home.  I'd always
wanted a son..." He presses stiff fingers into his thinning
hair, as if to quiet the demons within his head.

Mulder leans forward against the table.  "Your son's name
is... "

"Benjamin.  I call him Benjie."

"For a man so concerned about his wife's feelings and
reactions, somebody's been getting stiffed in the
sensitivity department," points out Mulder with somber
frankness.  "You could have called the boy anything from
Alvin to Leonard to Zeke.  Yet he gets a name that's a
guaranteed daily reminder of your... *indiscretion*, if you
will."

Tillman deflects Mulder's stare.  "It's my father's name.
In my family everyone's name began with a 'B.' And before he
died I promised him that if I ever had a son, he'd be
christened after his grandfather.  I make no apology for
honoring my father's memory, Agent Mulder."

"Fair enough.  I wonder, though, if your wife feels the same
irrefutable sense of family loyalty."

Red-faced, Tillman moves to stand, reconsiders, and sinks
back into his seat.  "I *knew* you'd start right in when you
got the chance."

"Relax, Lieutenant... just testing the water.  I'd rather
hear why your son Benjie would even be considered a suspect
in this incident."

The new tack dilutes the man's indignation and he pauses to
take a quick, cooling sip of his root beer.  "First glass is
complimentary," he says in afterthought to Scully, wiping
the foam from his mustache with the side of a forefinger.
"It's a Grill trademark."

"I see."  Her quiet brevity draws a smile from Mulder.

"Nothing's official."  Tillman peers across the table from
under lowered brows, making his point.  "About my boy, I
mean.  Just the prevailing opinion of the tongues that wag
in this town.  To tell you the truth, the first call I made
yesterday was to Shamrock... to make sure that B.J. was
still there and accounted for.  And she is, so it looks like
we've got a copycat on our hands."

"Or an outright liar," says Mulder.  "The victim could be
faking the whole incident as a ploy to get back at you or
your family in some twisted way."

Tillman shakes his head.  "No, not Viola.  She's a fixture
around here -- been driving the bus for nearly twenty years
and really loves those kids.  A maiden lady.  She was
kneeling in front of the bus at the school's garage early
yesterday morning, cleaning off the headlights, when
something smacked her in the side of the head."

Mulder gives his partner a miniscule nudge.

"She was disoriented, she said, scared out of her wits.
Screamed for help when she heard --" He swallows.  "Well...
she heard a strange, husky voice say 'You're to blame this
time, little sister.'  Then, she was slashed several times."

"Where?"

Mulder sees a chill run through Tillman's body, knowing his
personal involvement with the perpetrator in the previous
attacks.  "Upper chest.  Face.  Forearm.  Another driver
heard the screaming and called 911 on his cell.  No weapon
was found at the scene.  No footprints, with the ground
frozen rock-hard like it is in the mornings.  And no
visitors tonight," he adds, noting Mulder's sudden
restlessness.

"Why's that?"

"Viola's out like a light, Agent Mulder, I already checked.
This whole incident really did a number on her.  Visiting
hours start at 8:30 tomorrow morning, if you want to try
then."

"I'm still unclear about why your son's name was pulled into
this --"

A cell phone twitters and Tillman rises to answer, turning a
shoulder for privacy.  Finished, he remains standing to
indicate the meeting's conclusion.  "Sorry, folks, but duty
calls.  We'll have to continue this discussion another
time."

"Tomorrow," says Scully, "we'd like to speak with Benjie."

Mulder watches the man's almost painful reluctance; he
closes his eyes, rubs his temple, and then nods to the
inevitable.

"Come by the house after you're done at the hospital.  It's
Saturday, but we're keeping him close to home for the time
being."  He pauses.  "He's kind of a shy kid, doesn't say
much.  No use subjecting him to all the hype and talk."

Stalling, he taps the table with nervous fingers, then balls
them into a fist.  Mulder notes how Tillman's eyes wander
before seeking out Scully's, as if with need and purpose.

"You know... for as long as I can remember, school kids have
taken the rap for being cruel to one another, Agent Scully.
But I've found that some of the adults in Aubrey have never
grown up in that regard.  It's... well, it's unsettling as
hell," he ends, jerking his coat forward onto his shoulders
before nodding at both agents in blunt farewell.

************
End of Chapter 2


************
Chapter 3
************

Aubrey Regional Elementary School
November 3, 2000
8:25 p.m.

He promises her dinner and instead she gets excuses and a
schoolyard crime scene.  Peeved, Scully tells him as much.

"Bus lot," Mulder corrects, sinking into an easy crouch and
fanning the flashlight's beam across the blacktop and into
hard-packed gravel.  "Kids play in schoolyards."

"That sounded suspiciously like 'bull-shit', Mulder."

She hears him chuckle deep in his throat and watches the
light dance along the grilled fronts of the buses that sit
parked with military precision at one end of the school
property.  "Projecting your own thoughts, Scully?"

"It doesn't take a psychic," she mutters.  Her breath hangs
like cotton in the dark night air and she stands to one
side, tracking Mulder's progress down the row by his tinker
bell beam and gusts of exhalation.  Nothing remains for his
trouble.  The swaths of orange police tape are gone; the
crime scene is picked, powdered, and wiped clean, left
pristine as a winter campsite.

No moon tonight.  She casts around while she waits, looking
for other landmarks in the blackness, and spots the top of a
distant swing set in the schoolyard.  Schoolyard,
playground, whatever.  It isn't often she feels like an
intruder, out-of-place, but tonight she's not one of the
privileged, being neither parent nor staff in a microcosm
where children learn and play and spend most of their
daylight hours.

Frosty air bites her ankles and she shifts restless feet,
hunching inward against the chill.  "You know, it's much
colder this time."

"Uh-huh."

"When we were here last, Aubrey was unseasonably warm.  The
ground still hadn't frozen; B.J. was able to unearth
Chaney's bones from the field with her bare hands.
Remember?"

"I remember her piss-poor excuse for an alibi about taking a
short cut through a field where she saw a dog.  And Tillman
backing her up and watching us like a hawk.  It was a dodge,
Scully.  Just like tonight."

She remembers Mulder's blatant sarcasm when they accepted
the case in 1994.  ("I'd like to know why this policewoman
would suddenly drive her car into a field the size of Rhode
Island and for no rhyme or reason dig up the bones of a man
who's been missing for fifty years.  I mean, unless there
was a neon sign saying 'Dig here'--")

"You think the phone call was staged?"

"I think, with luck, he skated this time.  I think he's
running scared and doesn't know who he can trust."

"Still, he called our office this morning --"

"Because he's backed into a corner.  He needs help and we're
the only logical choice.  That doesn't mean he's gonna make
this a picnic for us."

"So only the date changes," she murmurs to the emptiness
around her.  It's late, but not late enough; too little time
has passed since last night.  She feels the squeeze of loss
closing in on her heart again and thrusts it away.  Shutting
her eyes to the murky orange of the buses lined before her,
she turns and crosses over the hard-frozen gravel of the
parking area toward the school.

She's confronted by the kindergarten wing, dimly lit with
security beams, windows still adorned with the motley paper
shapes of pumpkins, ghosts, and witches.  Halloween
leftovers.  Children's art.

No, she can't allow her mind to wander there.  Not now, not
after her feint at the office earlier this morning, when
Mulder questioned the wisdom of her direct involvement in
this case.  She understands his concern, but resents the
inference.

Yet, drawn as a moth to light before the mismatched rows of
construction paper faces, she wonders how Emily's little
pumpkin would have looked.  Snaggle-toothed with triangle
eyes, perhaps... carried home to be scotch-taped in the
living room window for passers-by to enjoy or stuck high
onto the refrigerator...

"Hey, Scully --"

Wheeling around, she watches him emerge as though through a
dark rippling filter and masks a furtive dab at one eye.

"-- I bet you didn't know that Al Capone's business card
said he was a used furniture dealer."

Long years of interpreting his off-the-wall logic and
patterns of deduction prime her for an answer.  Bowing her
head to salvage her thoughts, she quickly sifts through the
little bit of information they'd gleaned from Brian Tillman
earlier at the Grill.

Mulder crunches to her side, puffing clouds into the air.
She tugs her coat tighter and lifts her chin toward him.
"Let me guess -- by the same token, you think Viola Whatever-
Her-Last-Name-Is could be something much more sinister than
a sweet, unmarried, Aubrey, Missouri school bus driver?"

He grins.  "It bears checking into."

"We can determine that after speaking with her tomorrow
morning.  But no one would willingly subject herself to a
painful, brutal attack like this -- or self-inflict such
wounds.  I think it's more likely that your hunch is
skewed."

"Maybe.  Maybe not."

"We're better off focusing on the Tillman household.
Connections.  Someone close to them -- and to Viola -- with
a personal vendetta."

His heavy overcoat brushes her shoulder and he sounds like a
squirrel in the stillness, cracking sunflower seeds with his
molars.  Turning aside while he spits a husk, she senses the
unmistakable, relentless presence of Mulder-radar.  "Sounds
reasonable, I guess.  So... how're *you* feelin' tonight?"

"My feet are cold," she replies with emphasis, "and I'm
hungry."

"Seed?"

"No, thank you --" She bites back the words "for the
thousandth time" and huffs an impatient, breathy cloud into
the air.

"Then, what're we doin' out here, anyway?  I say we get the
hell out of this God-forsaken bus lot, Scully, and go have
dinner some place where it's warm."

She has a sudden flashback to a rooftop in Dallas -- heat,
sweat, exasperation.  Without acknowledging his attempt at
levity, she picks her way through the darkness toward the
Corolla.

************

A half hour later they're hunkered in his motel room, opened
boxes of cashew chicken, egg rolls, and pork-fried rice
decorating the coffee table like short, winged luminaries.
Mulder flicks a sticky grain from the file balanced on his
thigh, careful to preserve the yellowed pages while he
simultaneously reads and inhales his plate of Chinese
carryout.

"Take me back to the '40's for a day... I think I'd be in my
element working alongside Sam Chaney," he ruminates.
"Ledbetter, too, but Chaney... he's the Man, Scully.
Legendary within the FBI as the one who shaped criminal
profiling in its infancy and theorized about the motivations
and origins of serial killers --"

"He recorded everything.  His partner didn't."

"Well, yeah..."

"Maybe some of that legendary theory came from Ledbetter."

He halts, then resumes chewing.  "That's possible."

"I've read the files, too," she reminds him.

Her face is lowered into shadow, hair bronzy in the
lamplight, only the pale point of her chin visible.  Mulder
watches how she picks at her food, finally dropping the
paper plate and chopsticks into the bag they've designated
for trash.

"That bad, huh?"

"No..."  She startles at his question.  "It's not.  I'm just
full."

"I didn't mean the food."

Succinctly, she wipes her fingers with a napkin. "I did."

He backs off for the present, not eager to antagonize.
Though he's already wolfed his portion, he warms to the
leftovers, knowing there's no refrigeration at their
disposal.  Feeling like a billy goat, he plows ravenously
through each container and scrapes it clean, then calculates
how much food was heaped on Scully's plate before she tossed
it away.

"The Imperial Dragon deserves another visit this week," he
proclaims, leaning back and stifling a burp with the back of
his hand.

She nods, disinterested, and rubs an arm.

"Warm enough?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

Quick, monosyllabic replies are about all she's offered
since their cruise through downtown Aubrey in search of
dinner and welcome heat.  He blew it big time by seizing the
earliest opportunity to fart around and examine a crime
scene that he knew was already clean, cold, and wrapped.  On
this particular night, that should have come second after
appeasing his partner's hunger and uncharacteristic
emotional fragility.

He grabs the Styrofoam cup of hot jasmine tea and takes a
hefty gulp.

"Caffeine," she observes dryly, "will keep you up."

"I'm counting on it."

She averts her face, rising from the couch for clean-up
duty.  With a pang he realizes that she's allowed the potent
innuendo to fall flat between them, unrecognized or ignored.
So much for reciprocity.

He's hopeful that yesterday's open door will encourage her
to speak up on her own.  But Scully's still Scully, her
private life and secret thoughts surrounded by a wall as
high and thick as the Washington Monument.  Last night, on
that particular anniversary date, she was soft and aching
and approachable; she wanted him and had come to expect his
comfort and company in order to weather that yearly storm.

Tonight, her pattern is altered.  With the actual date past,
she has her bruised, wavering pride and self-respect to
protect, even from him.  They're in the field on a case, so
he can expect her to be rigid as whalebone where weakness is
concerned and striving to focus on the details and
progression of the investigation.  She's his partner;
reliable, professional, loyal, intelligent -- and
overflowing with so much denial right now it makes his head
swim.

"Here," she says, pointing to the bulging, folded bag of
trash and picking up her shoes.  "You can take it out.  If
you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

"Just like that."  It's an observation, not a question, and
he has to tamp down his rising annoyance.

The words catch her at the connecting door to her room.  She
pivots slightly on her heel, a mere suggestion of a turn, to
look in his direction.  Back ramrod straight, her mouth is
set into a tight purse.

Tension crackles the air like the fortune cookie he crunched
down minutes earlier.  "Is that a problem, Mulder?"

"It doesn't need to be."

"I'm not guessing at riddles or playing games, so speak
plainly.  And with alacrity," she adds, pushing the door
open into her darkened room and crossing to the window.  Her
shoes hit the floor with a light thud; he can feel her
impatience begin to dissipate in this nest, the safer haven
of her own territory.

"Just like that, Scully... you shut me out so soon after
letting me in."

Following her in, he notes that the lamp stays off, only
shards of outside neon piercing the blinds and heavy motel
drapery.  With her head erect, she crosses her arms; he
spots a prismatic smear of wetness under her eye and notes
how her chest expands with effort under the navy blue
jacket.

"Look... this may not always work the way either of us
anticipates," she hedges.  "If that's the case tonight, then
I'm sorry."

"I'll accept that."

He won't pretend he hadn't wanted something carnal back from
her.  That her touch to his face and squeeze to his hand in
the darkened car hadn't stoked his growling libido, and that
her teasing choice of words hadn't held promise of bedtime
pleasures.

Still, he doesn't intend to be a selfish asshole about it;
he can take care of his own needs with a practiced hand and
suspects she'd have no tolerance for bullishness anyway.
Sex is just a small part of what he expects from her now;
it's typical for Scully to steer the focus away from the
real problem seething beneath the surface.  Her inner pain
and loss, her grief for Emily, her --

"I saw a school bus today," she says softly.

His thoughts interrupted, he's caught unprepared, surprised.
The plaintive undercurrent in her voice draws him toward her
like a magnet to iron.  "You saw lots of them tonight, too,"
he counters.

"No.  This morning, I meant, coming to work."  She clears
her throat against the rising tears, blinking out toward the
brightly lit parking lot.  "Just down the street from my
apartment building.  It reminded me, that's all."

After such an admission it's safe for him to intrude
further.  Coming behind her, his palms cup both her
shoulders, the span so narrow between his hands that he
marvels every time he touches her like this.  A smaller,
more fragile bone structure, yet with the muscular curvature
of the uniquely feminine form.  Like satin plush over steel,
Scully's form.

His strong thumbs caress her backbone and shoulder blades
through the suit jacket, the same soothing strokes she
absorbed last night like liniment.  She begins to relax into
his touch and he takes the liberty of combing the hair away
from her ear with one hand, smoothing his fingers over the
pale silky skin at the side of her neck.

"I can understand," he murmurs, letting his eyes close and
his nose brush against her hair, taking in her fragrance.

"Mulder... she would've started kindergarten this fall."

He receives this anguished revelation with care and calm,
taking it for the gift it is, like a precious and fragile
egg.  Her arms remain tucked around her waist, but he's
pleased that she trusts enough to lean back against him for
support.  "You're sure?"

"Of course.  With a November birthday, she would have been
past the cut-off date for fall registration last year."

"You would know."  Against his chest, he feels the catch in
her breathing, a deep strangled swallow.  Shit -- he's said
something asinine and now she's fighting for control.  "What
is it?"

"That's the irony," she whispers angrily.  "For so many
years I *didn't* know, I knew nothing, even about myself.
Sometimes we came so close without knowing.  And then --"
She shakes her head and rubs her arms again, as though
kneading away a chill.  "Never mind... I'm sorry I brought
it up."

He can read the signals of dismissal.  Remembering her
strict rules of engagement, he knows she's finished with
weakness for the present and needs to recoup and move on, to
be left alone in the backwash of her pain.

Lingering a moment in the tense silence, he has a sentiment
of his own to express before fading away to his room for the
night.

"Listen to me."  He dips his head towards hers, his mouth
sweeping the ivory ear he exposed to the air moments ago.
"I want to share the burden of this with you... and not just
once a year.  Think about it.  Please."  Without waiting for
a response, he presses a kiss to her temple and steps back
into the doorway.

Tonight he'd like nothing more than to hold her close and
massage away her misery, even if it means simply having her
near him on the bed.  He frets about the impossible
standards and hard choices she makes for herself, the
unforgiving lens through which she views her own
vulnerability.  Alone in the shadows, she gazes out the
window with brimming eyes -- brave, forlorn, stalwart in her
self-imposed isolation.  He aches, knowing that solitude is
all too often her chosen companion and lover.

"We talk to the Tillman boy in the morning," he reminds her,
changing subject, "after the hospital.  You're the pro,
dealing with kids.  You make them feel comfortable enough to
trust us.  That part of the show's yours."

A fresh tear glistens on her cheek and she looks down,
turning from the window to prepare for bed, nudging her
shoes away with one nylon-covered foot.

"Try to get some rest, okay?"

She nods.

"Hey, Scully... bet you didn't know that it takes the
average person just seven minutes to fall asleep."

He gets a watery smile for his whispered assurance.  "Thank
you," she says, and he hears gratitude and love choke her
voice, surging over its banks in the short, unobstructed
span between them.

*********

Tillman residence
November 3
10:45 p.m.

The house is silent, but neither peaceful nor serene.  Brian
Tillman hangs his overcoat in the downstairs closet, and
then climbs the steps on weary feet to halt on the second
floor landing.

To his left is the master bedroom.  The door stands ajar,
blackness within, alerting him that his wife is still awake
somewhere else in the house.  Waiting up?  He doubts it:
years ago that might have been likely, but not for a very
long time and no longer by her choice.  He knows her habits.

He has his own ritual as well and strives to keep it
private.  Born of love and lust, it's steeped in guilt so
deep it threatens to scar his conscience and crush his
spirit.  To the right lays his son's bedroom, Janine's
former sewing room, and he steps within to make his silent,
almost nightly visit.

He's done this since his boy was a baby.  Once he overheard
two women discussing their fears concerning their newborns -
- SIDS and accidental injury among the ddangers mentioned --
and shared how they peeked into the cribs while their tiny
children slept in order to monitor breathing and well-being.
He felt shame that his motivation sprang from baser, more
selfish roots than the altruistic protectiveness displayed
by the young mothers.

The callous truth is that Benjie is as close as he'll ever
come to regaining B.J.

He enters on a thief's quiet feet.  It's a boy's room in
scent and appearance, much like the one he remembers from
his own childhood.  A dinosaur nightlight glows greenly near
the baseboard where dirty clothes lay mounded next to
scuffed sneakers and a handful of Lego bricks.  More than
once he's mildly wondered about the dearth of decoration on
the walls and how few toys or picture books are evident.
But his son, he reminds himself, is an outdoors, rough-and-
tumble kid at heart.

He approaches the bed.  Under cover of darkness the boy's
features display a beauty that resembles his mother's before
her descent into psychotic madness and prison.  Tillman can
see echoes of her heart-shaped face, broad forehead, the
delicate arch of brow, and the long, soft fan of brown
lashes on the cheeks of their child...

"Daddy?"

That which he dreads and avoids has occurred: the boy wakes
and opens his eyes.

"Yeah... it's me, Buddy-boy," he whispers, kneeling by the
bed with sudden attentiveness.  "Aren't you asleep yet?"

The child shakes his head, blanket tucked to his chin.  He
struggles to focus up at his father, eyes huge and limpid --
like hers.  The eyes do it, Tillman realizes over the
pounding in his chest.  They twist his heart with thoughts
of B.J. every time he sees them like this.

"You feelin' okay?"

"Yes."

"Benj, d'you remember what we talked about earlier?"

The eyes wait.

"Well, a nice man and lady will be here tomorrow morning to
ask you some questions."

The boy shakes his head again.

"It'll be okay, Champ.  Daddy's staying home and will be
right here with you."

Benjie gives a tiny shrug beneath his blanket and blinks
wetly under his father's scrutiny.  He's afraid, Tillman
sees, but won't speak up, won't tell what he fears or why.
Just shyness and insecurity, his kindergarten teacher has
maintained, which all kids go through at some point in
their young lives, leaving it behind as they mature and find
their place among their peers.  If only it were that cut and
dried and simple...

Fox Mulder and his Goddamn, meddling stick --

He doesn't want to deal with tomorrow's meeting and what
could be uncovered.  He shrinks from the possible
implications that his son is in any way connected to the
slashing attack on Viola.  No, there's no way in hell -- he
refuses to give credence to the lame-brained theory that
genetic abnormality or criminal tendencies can be passed
from one generation to the next, like hair color or creative
talent, from mother to son.  He'll never believe in this
outrageous 'bad seed' crap...

As much as Benjie might resemble his mother, he's a Tillman,
too, dammit.

After reassuring his son and bidding him go to sleep,
Tillman backs out of the room and shuts the door.  He finds
his wife downstairs in the small room off the kitchen.  It
was the porch before they enclosed it with insulating walls
and added more traditional window casings, when Benjie first
came to live in their home.  Now it's Janine's sewing room,
except she's not sewing and the lights are off.  Behind
them, the kitchen glows weakly.

"I spoke with the FBI tonight," he says, unable to read her
expression in the darkness.  "The same two agents as before,
Mulder and Scully.  They'll --"

"They're still partners?  After how many years?"  She gives
a bitter laugh and swirls the contents of her glass before
taking a drink.  "You can't tell me *they* don't have
something going on between them.  It comes with the
territory."

"Stop it, Janine.  You've never even met them."

He knows that alcohol is the culprit responsible for her
vindictive slights.  He knows that tomorrow, with official
business pending, she'll be cooperative for him and the
authorities.  Pleasant and polite, she'll invite them into
her home, resuming her 'policeman's wife' persona, the role
of good hostess and mother.  God... he hopes.

"D'you think I'm *stupid*?  It's inevitable, Bri.  Pass the
three-year mark and they're all down there at the station,
fucking like --" Her laugh becomes a rasping cough that
echoes in waves through the shadows and she takes another
belt to ease it.

"That's enough."  He makes a grab for her glass and she
jerks it away.  Her quickness surprises him.  "How many is
that?"

"What do you care?"

"I *care*, dammit..."

Ignoring his plea, she pushes her way past him into the
kitchen's yellow light.  She halts to deposit her empty
tumbler into the sink with the scraping rasp of glass on
stainless steel that makes his skin crawl, and turns away.

"They'll be over to talk with him sometime tomorrow
morning," he persists.

"With Benjamin?"  Her look is one of amused incredulity.
"As if *that'll* do any good.  They might as well interview
the wall or the microwave for all the information they'll
get from him."

He's helpless in his pain, choking and furious in the
fruitless defense of his son.  There was a time earlier in
their marriage when love was fresh and fumbling between them
and they talked from the heart.  Before she slowly drew
away, hardening in front of his eyes, and her disposition
and spirit lost their bloom.  Before shattering
disappointments and poorly chosen salve on both sides built
a wedge of emotional scar tissue that now seems impossible
to excise.

"You know, you could make things a lot more pleasant --"

"Brian, go to hell," she spits, flicking off the overhead
light.  He times the creaks of her footfalls on the stairs
until he hears her reach their bedroom.  A pause on the
landing, and then the door shuts behind her with a distant
snick.

Left alone in the darkness, Tillman leans for support
against the kitchen counter.  He covers his face, weeping
the angry, wrenching tears of a man overcome by remorse and
fearful of certain shipwreck.

************
End of Chapter 3


************
Chapter 4
************

Warner residence
November 4, 2000
7:50 a.m.

"Gwen?  You alone?"

A lazy Saturday morning and Natalie Warner scuffs through
her kitchen, face unmade, blonde hair askew.  Her lips
caress the receiver as she talks, phone wedged between her
ear and shoulder like a plastic growth.  Cereal bowls and
packages litter the polished granite counter top.  She
manhandles a mug and coffee carafe while her half-finished
cigarette tumbles between them into the sink.

Multi-tasking is *such* a bitch, she fumes to herself.

"Yeah, Greg finally got home late last night.  What did you
say?"  She snickers.  "Well, for *you* maybe.  Over here,
the whole show from start to finish takes less than five
minutes tops."  She peers into the sink with exasperation.
"No, he just took off with Shawna for her jazz class and
then he'll be at the office --" She retrieves the damp
blackened nub, grimaces, and flips it into the trash.
"Hell, no.  He'll drive her starting on Monday.  D'you think
I'm putting her on that bus while all *this* is going on?
You've *got* to be kidding!"

Dandling the opened box of Sara Lee coffee cake, she
reconsiders and takes a hefty drag from a freshly lit
cigarette instead.  The morning is hers; she curls up in her
robe on the cushioned bench of the breakfast nook, nursing
both coffee and tobacco, happy in her solitude.  Though the
weather seems bitterly cold and overcast, her mind warms to
a bright, new prospect.  A titillating possibility.

"Anyway, I won't hold you up -- I just called to tell you I
saw that *same* guy again last night.  You know... the one I
told you about?  From the FBI?"  She hugs her knees tighter.
"Yeah, the *same* one as six years ago, if you can believe
it.  God, Gwen, he looks good enough to eat with a spoon!"

She tilts her head back against the windowpane and closes
her eyes.  It *had* to be the same man sitting in the Grill
last night, with his tall, dark lines and good looks, those
sexy eyes and that movie-star mouth.  Coat slung over the
back of his chair so she could see his broad expanse of back
and shoulder and how his lips moved when he spoke to
Lieutenant Tillman.  The last time he appeared in Aubrey she
was post-partum and sallow, with a mewling, puking baby in
her arms.  But now...now, things are very different and she
never, *ever* forgets a hunk...

"I *never* forget a hunk like that, Gwen.  Wait'll I show
him to you.  He looks even better than he did before."  Her
body feels the steadily rising heat of her fantasy and she
rubs her thighs together.  Shit, she's actually getting wet
thinking about this man, and *that's* a rare occurrence
these days.

"What?  Well, I could go over and offer some insider's
information.  It *was* Shawna's party, damn it.  I think he
must be staying at the Conestoga... yeah, that *would* be
cozy, wouldn't it?  Or, I could invite him over here while
Greg's at work and share lots of juicy tidbits."

She guffaws into her mug, then swipes brown droplets of
coffee from its glass side with her tongue.  "You think I
should *show* and not *tell*?"

Pausing to listen further, her face sinks back into the well-
worn lines of a studied frown.  She takes a sharp drag and
then exhales into the receiver with a hiss of resentment and
a swirl of gray smoke.

"Yeah, she was there, too.  Like a goddamn tick... the
little bitch.  I'm pretty sure -- uh-huh, I assume they're
just partners.  No rings on either of 'em, that *I* could
see.  But I plan to keep my eye on him, Gwen.  You can
*count* on that.  Nobody'd better get in my way."

************

Memorial Hospital
November 4, 2000
8:31 a.m.

Mulder falls into step behind his partner as they navigate
stark white corridors toward the patient wing.  It's not the
risk of contagion or the antiseptic smell he hates the most.
Rather, he's unsettled by the bedside manner, the delicate
stance and dicey interaction one is forced to assume with
the sick and severely injured.  Not his cup of tea.

Their hospital interrogation routine, unspoken and natural
after years of shared assignments, entails Scully preparing
the way for their questioning.  He finds it easier to defer
when they step into the austere, clinical confines of her
world of medicine.  They've been here all too often over
seven years' time, experiencing both sides of the bedrail,
but being a medical doctor gives her an edge over him on the
floor.

She has a gift, especially with children.  She's female,
easier on the eyes, and much less intimidating than he is.
From the patient's perspective, she's every child's mother,
every woman's daughter or sister.  Every man's daughter,
sister, wife, or more often and accurately, dream lover.
Enough authority projects from her voice to make the patient
realize their visit means business, while maintaining an
atmosphere of calm trust.

The proffered FBI credential, he admits, is nothing to
sneeze at either.

His expertise, in counterpoint to Scully's bedside knack,
lies within the catacombs of the mind.  As an investigative
profiler, he also has a gift for people, but not with the
same grade of refinement or comforting presence.
Behavioral, psychological, genetic, paranormal,
supernatural.  Call it weird and he's at the head of the
line.  Label it unexplained and he knows the questions to
ask, though they defy all convention.  He can map psychoses,
sense spirits, formulate parallels from the most bizarre,
disjointed and unconnected pieces of evidence.  Only now,
after years of dubious forbearance, has Scully finally given
his postulating the credence it deserves.

Well... maybe a fraction of the time he feels that elusive
glow of vindication.

"Viola Rains?"

Scully's rare, wide smile precedes him into the room to the
woman's bed.  With his partner running interference he can
focus on other details that vie for his attention -- the
heavy bandages on the victim's face and chest, her IV drip,
the row of flower arrangements and bouquets that line the
wall, the nursing staff and visitors that pass her door.
His gaze shifts; no rings on her fingers, another thick
dressing on the right forearm, a stack of homemade get-well
cards on her lap decorated with the rainbow-colored,
crayoned scribbles of children.

"Ms. Rains, I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder.
We're from the FBI and we'd like to ask you a few
questions."

"Oh, he said you'd be coming."  Viola's words slur.  Mulder
sees that the bandage covers her left cheek, hinders the
edge of her mouth, and is anchored to her chin.  "Lieutenant
Tillman did.  Please, sit down and call me Viola."

If all patients were this amiable and cooperative he'd have
no aversion to bedside interviews.  Most intriguing, he
feels a cleansing sense of honesty and kindliness radiate
from this swaddled woman, as well as a touch of fear.

They could be sitting in her living room, he thinks, pulling
chairs forward for himself and Scully.  Weather-beaten skin
and crow's feet put her upwards into her sixties, he
estimates.  Short, curly hair, more gray than brown.  She
makes a tiny effort to sit straighter, gives up, and smiles
wearily at them.

"First time in a hospital bed for me," she explains.  "It's
a sad disappointment, I tell you.  No one ever let on these
damn things are about as comfortable as lawn furniture."

"I can help you with that..." Scully stands and manipulates
the controls with familiar ease.  The bed's head elevates
upward and forward a few inches until Viola nods and groans
in relief.

"My, you've got the touch.  Doesn't she?"  She quirks a
twinkling blue eye at Mulder and he allows himself a small
grin, reluctant to be baited by this stranger no matter how
innocent the teasing.

"I'm glad to see you're in good spirits," he begins,
"because the questions we're here to ask aren't the most
pleasant."

"Oh, I know, I know.  You want to know about... what
happened the other morning."

"And whether it's possible you recognized who did this to
you," adds Scully.

The woman hesitates to speak until they assure her of
confidentiality and shut the door.  Her story, told with
well-chosen words and through brimming eyes is an echo of
Brian Tillman's terse summary last night, though Mulder
senses no collusion.  On her knees by the bus, struck in the
head, slashed while she tried to defend herself from the
attacker, she heard a husky, eerie voice that froze her
blood.

"No," she confesses, "I have no idea who could've done it,
but I refuse to believe the little Tillman boy is in any way
responsible."

The two agents exchange looks.  "I'd like to know who's
spreading that rumor," presses Mulder.  "If you have any
idea, that is."

"I know several possible sources, but I doubt that would be
helpful to you or serve any purpose.  There are big mouths
and hard opinions here in Aubrey, and the sadness of it is
that the little children learn to imitate their elders.  Let
me tell you two something..."

Viola beckons them closer with her good hand, waiting until
their chairs almost touch the edge of her bed.  She shoots a
glance toward the door before speaking to them in a whisper.

"I've been driving that school bus for a long time and have
seen more than a generation of kids ride and grow.  They
absorb everything, like sponges.  When the killings happened
back in '94, you can bet the kids talked about it, too.
Repeated what they'd heard from their parents or what they
saw on TV and read in the paper."

She pauses, her eyes watery and reminiscent, as she ponders
what to say next.  "Lordy... they knew all the details about
poor Detective Morrow and the Lieutenant.  About the murders
and the Cokely history.  I remember they'd even play-act how
everything must've happened, right there on the bus.  Traded
parts and took bows while the rest of the kids hooted and
hollered.  That's when I started putting my foot down."

"How?"  Mulder, mesmerized by the woman's tale, still
detects no falseness or chicanery.

"I got mean and tough, that's how.  If they don't learn
respect at home, they'd better learn it somewhere.  I made
'em stay in their seats and talk quietly.  No name-calling.
No hurtful gossip.  Any one of 'em gave me backtalk, I
reported it to the principal.  I didn't care if they were
the poorest kids in town or the richest -- no respecter of
persons, that was Ol' Viola Pours."

"Excuse me?"  Scully raises her brows, requesting
explanation.  Mulder smirks.

"That's the name they gave me after I got tough.  All the
kids on my route learn it from the older ones at the start
of the new school year.  And getting back to the kids..."
Viola lowers her voice to a fearful, conspiratorial whisper.
"It breaks my heart to see how bad upbringing shows so
early.  I have one group on my bus -- little, tiny girls,
the sweetest looking things -- who dish out the worst sort
of meanness imaginable.  They just humiliate that poor boy
to death."

"Benjie Tillman, you mean?"

"Yes, Ma'am.  Reminds me of little Forrest Gump the way no
one lets him sit with 'em.  Kindergarteners!  They started
in teasing him so unmercifully the other day I stopped the
bus at the corner of Hopkins and Vine and gave 'em a talking-
to that made their ears go red.  Set a few of 'em crying,
too."

"What was the teasing about?"

"Oh, one of the tiniest ringleaders was having her birthday
party that afternoon and they flaunted it in front of the
boy in a terrible way.  Said awful things to him right in
front of everybody.  I said I'd report 'em, but didn't have
the chance, because, well --" She strokes the bandage on her
face and sighs.

"Viola, I want to revisit something you mentioned a few
moments ago," says Mulder.  "What did you mean when you said
the boy reminds you of Forrest Gump?  Is he in any way
mentally deficient?"

"Oh, my, no..."  Her eyes narrow and she peers up at him
intently.  "You haven't met him yet, I take it."

"Not yet.  We're going over to the Tillman home shortly."

"Then, I'll not say a word and you can go by your own
instincts and impressions."

"Do you feel that's important?"

"I do," she insists.

He and Scully exchange brief looks.  "Do you have any
connection to Benjie Tillman other than the bus route?"

"Wha-at?"

"I get the impression you're looking out for him," notes
Mulder.  "And it's obvious that you're afraid of
something... or someone."

She shakes her head, tears returning, and closes her eyes
for a moment.  "Please... if this had happened to you,
wouldn't you be afraid?"

This time Scully leans forward to capture the older woman's
attention.  "I'd like to know why anyone would suspect
Benjie capable of harming you in this way?"

Viola gives a tiny, painful grunt.  "Oh... maybe family
history.  You'll notice some things about him today, I'm
sure.  And..." She hesitates before adding, "because the
boy's a roamer."

"A roamer?"

"An early bird who roams all over town and moves like a
shadow.  Not safe for a child that young to wander
everywhere unsupervised.  It's worrisome."

"Your concern is understandable."

"There's... one more thing."

At Viola's beckon they lean closer.  Trepidation furrows her
features under the bandage and she appears more frightened
than before as she licks trembling lips and then bites them
hard.  Scully puts a comforting hand over the woman's.  "Go
ahead.  If you know anything more that could help further
this investigation, please tell us."

"I -- I was told that he said something at the birthday
party.  It scared some of the grown-ups silly.  Those of 'em
who knew his background, anyway."

"He was invited after all?"  Mulder's voice, low and
surprised, pulls her gaze toward him.

"It appears so, but I'm not sure.  He was there with all
those little girls, that I do know."

"What did he say?"

"Well... the children were asked what special thing they'd
want in all the world.  And he told 'em -- straight up and
with a very strange look -- that he wanted a little sister.
A little *sister*," she repeats, stressing the significance
of the word and swallowing her tears.

"That kind of puts a familial spin on things," blurts
Mulder, feeling his hairline prickle and at once drawn to
the mystery.

"Like Forrest Gump, that's *all* I have to say about that,
sir.  You two look like good, caring people.  Just keep your
eyes and ears open at that house, that's all I ask --"

"Vio-la?"

A dark-haired woman, 30-ish, wearing the pink smock of a
hospital aide has opened the door and waits with a fistful
of what looks to Mulder like handmade envelopes.  Confronted
by their little huddle, she hesitates before moving forward.

"Sorry to interrupt your visit, but I'm supposed to give
these to you.  More cards from school.  Looks like second or
third grade by the writing."

"Why, thank you, Gwen," murmurs Viola, recovering with a
sniff and patting her lap.  "Just put 'em right here with
the others and I'll get to 'em as soon as I take a little
rest.  These are two agents from the FBI called in to talk
to me.  And this is Gwen, who I hear has been a *wonderful*
helper at a birthday party this week, and who brings me mail
and 7-Up when I need it."

"Just on Fridays and Saturdays," the woman named Gwen
amends, reddening when Mulder gets to his feet and offers
her his hand.  "Except for the party part."  Scully nods,
intending to follow suit, but stops when a burly nurse
sweeps into the room without warning.

"I'll have to ask everybody to come back later," the woman
announces, giving the room and its occupants a territorial
glare.  She steps to the opposite side of the bed to snare
Viola's wrist.  "Time to check your dressings, dear, and
then you need to take a break.  You looked like you were
feeling better, but now your pulse rate's up."

"She's right as the rain," says Mulder, sneaking a wink of
thanks in the direction of the bed and pulling the chairs
back into place.  Viola gives a weary smile through her
bandage and returns his gesture.  With a jerk of the nurse's
hand she's hidden from view by the blue curtain that hangs
from a circular track above her bed.

In the hallway he nabs Gwen before she can hustle off to
perform more errands of mercy.  "Can we talk to you a
minute?  I'm Special Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully."

She colors and rubs shy hands together over the smock, then
buries them into the pockets at the bottom edge.  "I -- I,
um, suppose so.  For a minute.  I don't know anything about
Viola's accident; I doubt I can help you."

Mulder glances at the hospital I.D. that hangs from the
smock's pink bodice.  Gwen DiAngelo, Memorial Hospital,
Volunteer.  She's distressed enough to begin moving from
foot to foot; chuckling inwardly, he's reminded of a little
girl who desperately needs to use the bathroom.

"I'm curious about what goes on at kid's parties nowadays.
Do they still play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey?  Sing 'Happy
Birthday'?  Blow out candles?"

"Yes, to all that.  Actually, this was the first
kindergarten party I ever helped with.  Viola was just being
kind."

"Whose party was it?"

"Shawna Warner's.  She turned six on Wednesday."

"A big party?"

"It seemed awfully big to me; twelve girls... and one boy."

Mulder savors the information.  "Wow.  That's hardly fair
representation."  He grins first at Scully and then at Gwen.
"So, who was the lucky little guy?"

"Um... Benjie Tillman."  She flushes under his inspection,
looking apprehensively down the hall.  "Listen, you really
should speak with Shawna's mother -- Natalie Warner -- if
you have any more questions about it.  I -- I need to get
back to work."

"No problem.  Nice meeting you, Gwen."

The woman scurries off to her tasks and they stand together,
mulling over the assorted information garnered in the last
half-hour.  Glancing at Scully, he's struck by her pensive
expression.  Two familiar ridges perch over her right
eyebrow, the ones that appear when she feels either strong
suspicion or doubt.  "What's wrong?"

"Viola's protecting someone, Mulder, or looking after that
person's interests.  But who?"

"And it sounds to me like our boy Benjie crashed the party,
turning it from twelve to an unlucky thirteen."

She gives him a pointed look.  "Her perspective is different
from Tillman's, I noticed.  So is her wording.  I need to
check something..."

He follows her to the nurses' station, where she shows her
badge and requests the visitation sheet for Viola.  After
skimming, she beckons him closer and lowers her voice.
"Mulder, she has a restricted visitation list.  Not just
anyone can waltz in here to see her.  And look at this --"

Leaning over her shoulder, he scans the page to where she
rests the end of her polished nail: above their names and
below Lieutenant Brian Tillman's are the words "Linda
Thibodeaux."  Her visits stand recorded for both days
previous.

"Son-of-a-gun," murmurs Mulder.  "Apparently it *is* only
the date that changes."

"You heard me say that?"

He nods, holding her gaze.  "Mrs. Thibodeaux is still the
biological grandmother of B.J. Morrow, as well as --"

"Benjie Tillman's great-grandmother," she finishes.

"Exactly.  I think we owe her a reunion visit."

************

Tillman residence
November 4, 2000
10:45 a.m.

After years of conducting successful interviews with
children Scully assumes the meeting with Benjie Tillman will
be nothing more than routine.

She rues the fact that this case in Aubrey so closely nips
the heels of her yearly wallow in grief; too much
contemplation still makes her weepy.  However, she can't
afford weakness, knowing that a young boy's possible
vindication awaits her and Mulder inside the Tillman home
this morning.

Being the adult, she has an authoritarian edge that commands
a child's youthful respect.  With her own biological need to
nurture comes the heady sense of leading these young ones to
safety through the minefields of interview and intimidation.
She represents goodness and motherhood.  She gains their
trust, as Mulder attests so vigorously.

Emily was the turning point.

Before her, children were winsome little beings Scully
encountered on occasion, whose pleasurable existence she
took for granted, expecting to eventually have her own
offspring one day.  But with the loss of her fertility and
the subsequent discovery of the child called Emily Sim --
holding the soft, little body of a daughter she'd never
known existed, calming her fears, protecting her, sharing
bits of conversation and coloring book, wiping away her
tears, feeling her pain and need, loving her -- she came to
value children in a new and much deeper way.

She feels rested this morning, after an uneventful night's
sleep.  Mulder's sensitivity continues to be a source of
wonder; her appreciation overflows.  Coming into his room
behind him while he fussed with his tie, she slipped her
arms around his midriff, clasping his muscled body in a
tight, wordless embrace of apology and thanks.

"Whoa, cowgirl..." he drawled huskily, stopping to cover and
squeeze her hands with his, where they pressed his dress
shirt against his stomach.  "Keep this up and we hang out
the 'do not disturb' sign pronto."

"Later," she promised.  "Tonight."

She craned her head upward and to the side to catch his
mouth in a short, hard kiss before gathering her coat and
small leather briefcase for their meeting with Viola Rains.
He'd ambled behind her to the car, whistling "Home On the
Range" in a liquid off-key warble.

They discover that Lieutenant Tillman and his family live in
a residential neighborhood called Sterling, just outside of
Aubrey.  The house is a white two-story with dark green
shutters and a small yard.  Flowerbeds frozen and beaten
down to dirt, attractive front porch, a gap-toothed, rock-
hard pumpkin standing sentry at the door.  Mulder grins and
nudges it in the mouth with the toe of his shoe.

The Lieutenant answers their knock.  His manner seems
guarded and his face sags around the edges, as though he's
short on sleep.  He tries to be accommodating and even-
tempered, she guesses, for the sake of his child.

"Since my wife can't join us this morning, let's make this
short and sweet," he instructs.  "Where?"

"A place where Benjie will feel the most comfortable.  His
bedroom?"

"Out of the question."

"Here will be fine, then," says Scully, slipping off her
coat and eyeballing the modest living room and its
furniture.  "Since there's no coffee table in the way, I'll
sit on the couch and we can begin."

Tillman nods and beckons toward the doorway behind him.
"Come here, Benjie."

A wiry little boy emerges from the kitchen, his height
average for a kindergartener, with a thick cap of brown
hair.  Heeling next to his father's thigh, he reminds Scully
of a fearful and obedient puppy.  His hands stay glued into
the pockets of his gray sweatshirt and he inches forward
beside Tillman who whispers down encouragements.

Throwing Mulder a quick glance, she watches the boy's
approach.  She's seen it numerous times in orphanages and
children's shelters -- the hangdog look, the shuffling gait
of a child too timid to react normally to the stimuli around
him.  That the boy won't look up, even in his own home and
with a parent so near gives her a sense of foreboding.
Tillman steers him to the couch and, with hands on both
shoulders, angles him so he stands in front of Scully's
knees.

"Hello, Benjie," she says gently.

"Son, say hello to Agent Scully," prods Tillman, to no
avail.

"Sweetie, everything is going to be all right.  Look at me,
okay?"

The boy raises his head.

Her first stunned thought is that he's suffered burns in an
accident.  His skin is red and flaky, raw from irritation.
What should be young and baby-smooth is rough and scabbed.
Gazing at him with thinly disguised shock, she's struck by
memories of Harry Cokely's complexion, of B.J.'s ammonia-
blistered face on that last horrific night when she was
taken into custody six years before.  Is this heredity?  A
genetic characteristic run riot, barreling like wildfire
through the DNA of several generations to overtake an
innocent child with its cruelty?

Swallowing, she fights to keep pity at bay and reinforces an
iron hand of control over her emotions.  She looks into the
boy's eyes, eyes that are large and fringed by long lashes
that tremble with wetness and fear.  B.J. Morrow's eyes.  My
God... why is this happening?  And what can he be so afraid
of?

"Benjie, you can call me Dana.  I'm here to help you, just
like Agent Mulder is."  To reassure the boy, she glances
across the room to where Mulder stands chin in hand, his
face a solemn mask.  He responds to her cue with a grin and
a nod to the child.

"Can I see your hand, please, sweetie?"

He bites his lip and extracts one reddened paw from his
sweatshirt pocket.  Like his face, the skin is raw, flaky,
weeping in the bends and creases of his wrist and fingers.

Scully's sensibilities cringe, knowing what perpetual
discomfort this boy must be suffering from his skin's
inflammation, not to mention the reaction he attracts from
others.  The ostracism and teasing on the bus, no one
wanting him near them.  A life of pain and loneliness and
ridicule for one so young.  Inexcusable.

When she attempts to take his hand, the boy jerks it back.

"Does that hurt you?"  My God, she thinks, it has to itch
like crazy, but --

Chin on chest, he shakes his head, lashes wet.

"Lieutenant Tillman?"  She swivels her head up toward him,
where he shadows his boy's back, and tries to keep the anger
from her voice, modulated so as not to frighten the child
needlessly.  "Have you had Benjie's condition diagnosed?
I'm no dermatologist, but I am a medical doctor, and what I
see here on your son looks like an acute case of atopic
dermatitis, commonly known as pediatric eczema.  With
medication it's easily treatable."

"It's..." He stumbles over his words.  "It's not usually
this severe.  Maybe the stress of the last few days... I
don't know."

Scully stares and waits.

"Yes, he's been to the pediatrician," Tillman growls,
flushing.  "Lots of times.  Janine handles the doctor's
appointments and takes care of our family's medical needs.
You have to believe me when I tell you that it's just gotten
this bad in the last day or so.  Isn't that right, Buddy?"

"The scabbing tells a different story," Scully says evenly,
glaring a hole through Tillman.  "We'll speak of this in
greater detail later.  Because right now, in the time we
have..." She focuses back on the boy and gentles her face
and tone, "I have a few questions I want to ask you, Benjie.
Is that okay with you?"

He shakes his head and takes a step back.

Tillman looks mortified, but keeps silent.  No amount of
soothing speech or cajoling on Scully's part can make this
child acquiesce.  He won't sit down, look at her, answer,
allow her to touch him.  In effect, he wants no part of her
and she feels the beginnings of fresh, sharp disappointment
and failure well up in her heart.

This is *her* forte, the place where she shines.  It was so
with Emily, with all the other children she's befriended and
interviewed through the years.  They sensed her compassion,
felt the tender mother-love within her, and they responded.

But not this hurting little boy.  Something keeps Benjie
Tillman from stepping into the circle of her trust and
caring.  She knows what needs to happen now, despite this
galling blow to her confidence and coming at a time of such
personal vulnerability.  But the situation must be salvaged,
so she follows through like the professional she is, turning
to the best resource at her disposal.

"Mulder, I need you over here, please."

He's by her side in the time it takes for her to rise from
the couch.  "You're sure?"

She whispers back, "There's no other option right now -- so,
yes, go ahead."

They exchange lightning-quick glances and she catches the
flash of regret and compassion in his eyes.  It's a small
comfort, but she's grateful for his empathy and willingness
to pinch-hit.

Mulder sits before the boy, knees parted wide, and Scully
moves to take his place on the sideline of this peculiar,
puzzling tableau.

************
End of Chapter 4


************
Chapter 5
************

Tillman residence
November 4, 2000
10:53 a.m.

Boys thrive on secrecy and Benjie Tillman, Mulder believes,
is no exception to that basic tenet of childhood.

Private, hidden places or forbidden things to which no one
else is privy.  The location of forts and hideouts, secret
knowledge about where to find the coolest agates and fool's
gold and bird's nests.  The best climbing trees and berry
bushes.  Which deep culvert can sustain the farthest
exploration and still seem safe.  Neighborhood windows that
remain open and illuminated, food for a small boy's nascent
fantasies after dark.

Secrets mature with age and intensify by degree, being
shaped by the child's environment, his character, his unique
socialization and genetic inheritance.  At what point in
time and from what type of instigation or trauma, Mulder
wonders, would a truly "bad seed" first manifest itself?

In spite of his probable innocence, this sullen little boy
exhibits too many red flag indicators for Mulder to
comfortably ignore.

Snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails.  It always struck
him as unfair that Mother Goose gave such a bad rep to
little boys, as opposed to a little girl's sugar and spice.
He thinks of his partner, raised Catholic in the home of a
respected naval officer, sandwiched between two rough-and-
tumble brothers, and isn't surprised she's become such a
valuable and scrappy player.

Right now he sees that she's positioned herself to the far
side of the couch by the wall, where she can observe
proceedings and lend a hand if needed.  Dedicated and
resilient -- that's his Scully.  Usurped by cruelly
unforeseen rejection, her expression is rigid and unreadable
to all others; only her eyes, softly hooded and very blue,
betray any sense of injury, which she internalizes as a
matter of course.

That, he'll tend to later.

He focuses again on Benjie Tillman, the subject of their
interview.  What kind of day-to-day home life does this
child lead, considering his unsavory lineage, his
appearance, and his furtive habits?  Pint-sized keeper of
secrets or budding psychopath?  Child of woe or one of wary
self-defense?

The child stands with head still ducked, unaware of his
father's frustrated gnashing and reddened face.  Mulder
motions up to Tillman and requests a chair of any kind, and
quickly.  With something to occupy him, the man will be less
of a hindrance as the interrogation of his son resumes.

His father helping, the boy scoots his small behind up and
into a kitchen chair positioned before the agent.

"Lieutenant," prompts Scully with smooth, but pointed
insinuation before Tillman can reoccupy his station behind
the boy, "I think it's better if you join me over here."

Mulder feels a swell of gratitude for her watchful eye and
the awareness that Tillman's towering presence may
intimidate the child to silence and therefore frustrate the
questioning.  Unsure whether she's asking or ordering, the
Lieutenant pats his son on the arm, then concedes with
reluctance and takes his place next to Scully near the wall.

Meanwhile, Mulder tries a new approach at breaking the ice.
With the slow, mesmerizing movements of a snake charmer he
removes his suit jacket, unbuttons his cuffs, and rolls each
sleeve up a forearm.  He knows, in an instant, that he's
seized the little boy's attention, so continues on with his
unhurried, deliberate clothing adjustments by loosening his
tie, running a finger under his watchband, and then leaning
forward on his thighs, hands held in a loose clasp between
his knees.

"Much better," he chuckles softly, "but I'll do everybody a
favor and keep my shoes on.  Think that's a good idea?"

The joke is lost on the boy, though Tillman makes a small
derisive grunt.

"It's just you and me now, Benjie," Mulder begins.  "I'd
like to talk to you for a little bit."

No response.

"You can call me by my first name, if you want.  It's Fox."
He makes a face.  "Fox is a pretty weird name for a grown
man, huh?"

The boy blinks and gives a half-shrug.  One side of his
mouth moves into a faint curl.

"What I'll do is ask you some questions, okay?  You answer
them as truthfully as you can.  I just want you to know
that, if the questions are too hard or make you
uncomfortable, you can answer by nodding or shaking your
head.  How's that sound?"

The boy pauses and then nods.

"Let's start with some easy stuff.  Like, what's your name?"

Do his ears deceive him?  Startled, he peers at the boy's
tilted face and sees his lips move.  A low, hoarse voice,
one that is common or appropriate to few children, whispers
the name "Benjie Tillman."

"O-kay," encourages Mulder with quiet enthusiasm.  "What
grade are you in this year?"

Another pause and he hears the raspy word, "Kindergarten."

"Tell me what you like best about kindergarten, Benjie."

The boy begins to thaw, his head bobbing higher.  Dangling
sneakers swing and bump gently together as he thinks, while
his hands still nestle deep in his sweatshirt pockets,
burrowing beneath the fabric like two small animals.  "I
draw pictures."  His diction is sharp, despite the unusual
huskiness.  "Mrs. Vanderbeck has Legos.  Sometimes I build
things."

"That's great.  D'you have any pictures here at home that I
could see?"

Benjie shakes his head and his body tightens perceptibly.

"Well, that's too bad," muses Mulder.  "Maybe you can draw
one for me now... how about it?"

Another shake, so Mulder moves on, posing other
straightforward questions intended to disarm the boy and
gain his trust.  He chances a fleeting look toward Scully
and catches the glitter of emotion in her eyes, which she
tries to conceal by angling her head against the curved
swaths of her hair.  Tillman, standing at attention close
beside her, seems pacified enough under the circumstances.

Too bad I'm about to blow it all to hell in a hand basket,
Mulder thinks ruefully.

He has the sensation of being bubbled up together with this
little boy, just the two of them alone on a separate and
intangible plane of existence.  The room and its other
occupants are of no consequence right now.  Looking across
at the chapped reddened face he senses a perplexing depth of
fear, power, and confusion emanating from within the child
and decides to risk a gentle, figurative poke.

"Tell me, Benjie," he says.  "Do you like riding the bus?"

He hears a restive huff from Tillman, but waits patiently
for the child's hesitant reply.  "No."

"Why not?"  When Benjie holds back, Mulder leans toward him
and touches his small knee with a forefinger.  "Don't think
about anybody else right now.  Remember, it's just you and
me.  We're loose and comfortable here, right?"

He pats the jacket next to him and twirls a few fingers
through the gap between his tie's knot and his collar.  As
predicted, the boy's cautious eyes track his movements; the
small hands in the sweatshirt pockets cease their incessant
burrowing.

"So... what don't you like about the bus ride?"

"The kids are mean."

"All?  Or just some?"

Benjie shrugs.

"How does that make you feel?"

"Bad."

"D'you ever feel mad, too?"

"Yeah."

"*Real* mad?"

"Agent Mulder!"  Tillman's warning snaps through the room
like a whiplash and the boy jerks, more a startle reflex
than one that's been honed over time or born of fear.  As
though irked by the interference, he turns his head toward
his father, allowing Mulder to glimpse his secret smoldering
glare.  He seems somehow older than his five years; his eyes
are moist, yet burn with a curious heat that softens and
cools as he turns his countenance back to Mulder.

The agent and the boy weigh one another in the ensuing
silence.

"My guess is you don't really need to ride the bus anyway,
do you?  I bet you get around just fine without it."

"What the hell does that mean?"  Tillman takes a step
forward but is prevented from any real progress by Scully's
shoulder and body, placed quickly and conveniently in his
path.

"I have a feeling you know your way all over this town.  Am
I right?"

The boy considers, blinks, and gives a nod.

"Did you walk to the birthday party, too?"

"Yes."

"*What* party is that?"  Tillman fumes and Scully smothers
his perturbation with a sudden, furious whisper of her own.

Tuning out the sideline scuffle, Mulder continues his
careful questioning of the boy.  "Who invited you?"

"Shawna.  The kids laughed, but she said I could come."

"Did you bring her a present?"

"Yeah."

The previous tension has dissipated and Mulder smiles,
picturing the meticulous preparations of this lonely and
ingenious child.  "Way to go, Benjie!  Whadja bring her?"

"Legos."  His voice lowers to a whisper only Mulder can
hear.  "The new ones Daddy bought for me.  I wrapped them
up."

"You must be a pretty smart kid to know how to wrap a
present.  Even I have trouble with that sometimes.  Bow and
tape and everything?"

The boy manages a shy smirk and nods.

"Where'd you get the wrapping paper?"

"In Jan --" He stops, shooting a look at his father before
amending his answer.  "In Mommy's sewing room."

"So," Mulder says, noting the slip, "you wrapped the
present.  You went to the party.  Then, when it was over,
you walked home.  All alone in the dark?"

"Yes."

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you, Benjie?"

A head shake.

"It's dark early in the morning, too.  Did you get up early
the next morning?  Maybe go outside?"

A shrug.

"Did you walk to the school in the dark?"

"That's enough, Agent Mulder!"  Tillman barks, this time
grabbing Scully by both shoulders and steering her out of
his path.  "You're *way* out of line, here --"

"Did you see anything at the school, Benjie?  In the dark?
By the buses?"

The boy's eyes re-ignite with the same subtle, fiery blaze
as he returns Mulder's stare.

"What did you say at the party to make people so scared?
What was it, Benjie?"

He feels like a babbling idiot, like a loose cannon shooting
off his mouth before his supply of ammo is severed.  A
desperate man, grasping at empty seconds, like handfuls of
dirt that crumble under his fingers and slip away forever.
The interview may halt at any moment with no conceivable
chance to pick up the thread later and this young boy's
future could either bend or break under the weight of
evidence gathered here today.

That reality incites him further.  "When they asked what
special thing you wanted, what did you say?  What did you
want?"

"That's *enough*, I said, Goddamn it!"

"Tillman, let the boy answer!"

To his right, Scully covers her forehead with a pale hand.

"Tell your father, Benjie," says Mulder, half-rising from
the couch in his urgency.  "Tell your father what you told
everybody at the party..."

Striding quickly, Tillman scoops his son from the chair and
carries him to the middle of the room, distancing himself
from the two agents.  Visibly shaken, he stands the boy on
the rug and then kneels before him, grasping the small
shoulders with his two large hands, his face stark and
pleading.  "Champ, you don't have to say anything to him.
You don't have to answer for anything."

Benjie Tillman snuffles, dabs at his eye with chapped
fingers, but remains otherwise solemn and composed.

"Lieutenant, are you at all interested in knowing what he
said and why people are talking?"

"Shut up, Agent!"

"Daddy..."

Both men halt the aggressive posturing, cease their loud
intonations, and stare at the boy as one.  He shrugs and
sticks out his lower lip, wiping again at his eyes.  "I said
'sister'.  'Little sister'."

"What?"  Tillman fastens Benjie with a look of incredulity,
which metamorphoses into horror as his mind struggles to
process the awful inference.  He shakes his head, refusing
to accept the evidence and implication that Mulder's
questions have uncovered.  "Why, son?"

Benjie shrugs and wipes.

"Are you that lonely?  Do you really want a little sister or
brother?"

The boy shakes his head.

"Come on, Benj... help me out here."

Hearing the anguished panic in this man's voice, Mulder
feels a wave of overwhelming pity for him.  So out-of-touch,
clueless about his own child's physical needs and
psychological proclivities.  So torn by his past sins and
present trespasses that he fails to see what fruit has been
ripening under his nose for five long years, what
extraordinary mysteries lie flourishing like poppies under
his own roof.

"I said it," the boy rasps, his voice eerie and raw in the
quiet of the room.  Strangely matter-of-fact, almost
prideful as he confronts his father's bleak bewilderment.
"I scared them, Daddy."

"For the love of God, son -- why?  Why say something like
that?"

The child's large eyes fill and he shakes his head,
reverting just as quickly into a small, confused five-year
old, who has no clue, no comprehension about how anything
this complicated and fearsome could have set up camp around
him.

Mulder grabs for his jacket and slings it with distaste over
his shoulder as he stands and looks at his partner.

"Maybe he's sick of taking the blame for something that's
ultimately not his fault," he mutters for no one's benefit
except his own -- yet loud enough for every adult present to
grasp the abysmal intimation.

************

Memorial Hospital
November 4, 2000
11:39 a.m.

Gwen DiAngelo slumps against the wall in the visitor's
waiting area.  Her lunch break isn't due for another forty
minutes, but she feels driven to stop and connect with
Natalie lest news of the chance encounter this morning with
the FBI agent precedes her.

Nat's assessment is right on target, of course -- the man
*is* handsome in an unusual way, tall and intense with his
hazel eyes and brown hair.  She can see why her neighbor
makes such a drooling fuss over him, but feels a nagging
sense of guilt that she's actually helped to encourage those
thoughts of lust and infidelity.

But that's the way it is when she's with Natalie Warner.
Nat's such a hoot to be around, with her colorful,
outrageous mouth, her designer home and clothes, her gossip,
and the manipulative, off-hand way in which she makes Gwen
feel privileged to be her friend.

It was flattering when she and Tony first moved to Aubrey
last summer, because she'd anticipated a period of lonely
solitude before she made real friends.  Happily, she hadn't
long to wait.  Within days she'd been courted by
grandmotherly Alice Marshall, head of the volunteer program
at Memorial Hospital, who'd introduced Gwen to several other
nice ladies through that organization.

And when the neighbors came to call, first at her door was
Natalie Warner with a luscious tiramisu and compliments
galore on Gwen's make-up and hairstyle.  It wasn't a couples
thing this time, the way it was in so many other places she
and Tony had lived.  Nat seemed genuinely happy for her
friendship alone and welcomed Gwen's presence into her
pampered, oddball existence.

It all boils down to compromise and how far she'll go.
Already she regrets the randy suggestions she made this
morning in order to stay in Natalie's good graces.

Each time she leaves that unsettled house next door, Gwen
finds herself abandoning much of the inappropriate baggage
it requires to remain close friends with Natalie.  It's not
who Gwendolyn DiAngelo really is.  The lewd talk, the
flagrant, irreverent digs at spousal virility or lack of
interest, impatience and discontent over raising a spoiled
brat like Shawna.  These things drop away like scales
whenever she walks back into her own unpretentious yard and
house, when she greets her hardworking husband whom she
loves beyond measure and would never for a moment betray.

She feels shame, as well, about the way the little Tillman
boy was belittled at the birthday party, and wonders how a
grown, adult woman could bring herself to be so outspoken
and critical about an innocent child's heritage.

I've still got the dregs of a conscience, she thinks
ruefully, tapping the phone against her chin.  Thank God and
Tony for that.

As for the FBI agent... after that chance meeting with himand his partner in Viola's room and then in the hall
afterward, Gwen knows that Natalie's vacuous hopes are
doomed to failure.  He's an attractive man, but professional
and as poised as any gentleman.  She's seen his wink and
parting comment to Viola, has experienced his firm handshake
and charming demeanor.

And walking undetected down the hall a few minutes after,
she noticed him standing with his female partner near the
nurses' station.  She watched how his palm hovered, grazed,
and then rested against the curve of her lower back while
they spoke together in whispers.  When he leaned over her
shoulder to look at something she held, his tender glance
and the secret, possessive smile he gave the pretty red-
haired woman was a dead giveaway.  At least it seemed so to
Gwen.

Rings notwithstanding, if she's ever seen a *couple* from
afar, they are definitely one.

Sucking in air, she dials Natalie's number and steels
herself for the pick-up.

************

Tillman residence
November 4, 2000
11:45 a.m.

After the Corolla peels away from the curb in front of his
house, after he hastily zips up his son's winter jacket and
sends him out to play in the yard, Brian Tillman takes the
steps to the second floor in leaps of two at a time.

He's livid from betrayal and shame, had felt like a raging
fool in front of the two agents.  Brian Tillman, a laughing-
stock, caught with his pants down and his household in
disarray.  The indignity of the last hour and the secrets
revealed during Mulder's interview with Benjie would be moot
and incidental if Janine had only held up her end of the
parenting deal.  If she'd felt up to the challenge this
morning and not left him holding the bag alone.

Benjie's skin.  His wandering.  The birthday party.  God, a
fucking party at the Warner's, of all places...

He feels scorching anger flare into blame, and like a hot
potato, needs to toss it away quickly, at someone.  At
Janine.

She's no longer lumped under the covers of their bed the way
she was when he slipped downstairs to prepare Saturday
breakfast earlier.  Instead, her perfume hangs thick as
bacon grease in the air of their bedroom.  Framed within the
doorway, he stands with chest heaving and mouth agape, his
eyes darting from made-up bed to packed suitcase to the open
door of the master bath where his wife finishes a quiet,
modified toilette.

"I'm going to my sister's for a few days, in case you're at
all interested," she says, fastening an earring in front of
the mirror.

Only her puffy, reddened eyes hint at any degree of former
distress or residual signs of substance abuse.  Her
movements are quick and precise, her tone almost lilting as
she snaps shut the lid of a cosmetic case and sets it next
to the other piece of luggage on the floor.

She's made up her face and dressed smartly, as though for
work, in slacks and an embroidered wool sweater.  Watching
her fasten a gold chain behind her neck, he feels a certain
panicked outrage at the audacious selfishness of her timing.

"What the hell --" His hands grip the jamb like twin vises.
"I need you *here*!  I have responsibilities to this town.
I've got a murder investigation underway, Janine, and an
important job I just can't abandon --"

"Well, don't we all," she throws back, her voice taunting.
"Brian, my mornings are busy.  I *won't* be pinned to this
house because you feel your son can't handle kindergarten
right now."

*Our* son, *our* son, he wants to emphasize, but can't bring
himself to say the words aloud.  "Goddamn it, it's to
protect him!  Don't forget that!"

"Then, it looks like you'll have to find someone else to
watch him while you're at the station investigating, won't
you?"

"And you'd better be prepared to speak with the FBI, too,"
he snarls back.  "They'll want answers to some important
questions."

"Such as?"

"Such as, where you were when Benjie was walking himself to
and from a birthday party in the dark a few nights ago.  Did
you even *know* about that?"

"Will wonders never cease?  So that's why my wrapping
supplies were stuffed back into a heap.  I thought maybe
something celebratory was going on down at the station and
you were in too much of a hurry -- "

"Janine!"

Her eyes connect with his in the shiny reflective surface of
the mirror.  "No, I was unaware that Benjamin actually had a
scheduled affair to attend.  He told me nothing.  What
else?"

"The fact that he doesn't get adequate supervision at home."

She shrugs and dabs at the lipstick near a corner of her
mouth.  "He's antsy and very much Daddy's little boy.  And
sometimes he makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth.
I can't keep my eyes on him every minute."

"I see you manage to find your way to the liquor cabinet
just fine."

Her movements freeze for a moment before she gives herself a
final once-over in the glass and straightens up.

He almost gnashes his teeth at her cool indifference.

"His skin, Janine -- you haven't been taking care of it.  My
God, I got my first really good look at it today and
couldn't believe how bad --" Breaking off, his throat
constricts and he knows his eyes glisten with tears of
empathy and disillusionment.  "The boy's in pain.  They
could call that parental neglect and child abuse -- and do a
whole separate investigation on that alone."

"If it comes to that, then you'll know where to find me."
The look in her eyes, deep and chilling, paired with her
light-hearted tone catches him off-guard.  "Remember... we
didn't get to where we are now on *my* one tank of gas.
Remember that, Brian."

Stunned, he backs into the hall when she lifts the two cases
with ease and heads for the bedroom door.  "Garbage goes out
on Tuesday morning," she tosses over her shoulder at the
head of the stairs.  "Don't forget."

"You're making a big mistake by walking out that door!"

Her step slows momentarily.  "Oh, I'll be back," she assures
him, and a second later continues on her way down to the
first floor and a separate agenda.

************

Aubrey, MO
November 4, 2000
12:00 noon

"Just *what* were you doing back there, Mulder?  If you were
going after Tillman's goat, then you did a bang-up job of
alienating him and putting our investigation in jeopardy.
And if you were trying to help Benjie get in touch with his
feelings and 'inner child' in a very public, very
compromising session, then I'd have to say you were right on
the mark."

"Mad at me?"  His words and their tone hover at opposite
ends of the spectrum; he speaks in a colorless monotone.

He's at the wheel, splitting sunflower seeds with a
vengeance, venting.  The car screeches to a halt at each
stop sign, then revs forward with a lurch that makes
Scully's head wobble and her hair feather over her cheeks.
Soon, she prays, they'll be clear of residential areas with
stops or lights at every corner and jet onto an unencumbered
highway that skirts town.

"That's irrelevant.  What matters is that you betrayed that
little boy's confidence with impunity and without
permission."

"It was necessary.  You could label it a betrayal, but I
don't.  Somehow, in some way, I touched that kid, Scully.
He responded."

"As did his father --"

"-- who needs to get his shit together where his son is
concerned."

"That's putting it compassionately," she murmurs, the
sarcasm in her voice thickened from the emotional swelling
in her throat and another snap of her head as he jams on the
brake yet again.

"That's the only fucking way I know *how* to put it when I
see crap like that."  He whacks the dashboard with his fist
and guns the engine.  "Goddamn it --"

Yes, she understands, having been witness to the same sad
tragedy.  Her initial and crushing disappointment at the
beginning of the interview has taken a back seat to what
unfolded before her during Mulder's questioning.  Eyes
stony, she turns her head toward the passenger window,
knowing that for the present he's too tightly wound, too
violated and outraged in spirit to accept even a small pat
or squeeze of concurrence from her.

"Where are we going now?"

"We should make a visit to Linda Thibodeaux's home in
Edmond, see what her connection is to Viola Rains.  Then
maybe take a run back down to the Aubrey police station.  It
might be awkward for Tillman, if he's there, but I'm willing
to bet that Joe Darnell and others can bring us up to speed
and maybe shed some new light on this case.  Then, we should
--"

"Edmond's over the Missouri state line, in Nebraska," she
observes.  "That's a lot of dashing around for one
afternoon, though I suppose you'll undoubtedly feel better
after running us both ragged and giving me whiplash."
Sighing, she looks over to where his hands strangle the
wheel.  "You know, Mulder, I once read that a dragonfly's
entire lifespan is only twenty-four hours long."

He chuffs.  "Talk about one-night stands..."

"It's a documented fact.  You, by way of contrast, have
unlimited time and resources at your disposal, without the
driving necessity to cram everything into one twelve-hour
day in order to expend your pent-up feelings of anger and
frustration.  Especially since you may be up for part of the
night as well."

She feels his inquiring glance graze her face and
reciprocates with an arch in her brow.

"So, getting back to the subject of today's itinerary, where
to after the station?"

"Back to the motel.  I want to talk this case through, to
get some perspective.  We're on a roll here, Scully, and I
need you to brainstorm with me."

"All right.  But, since breakfast was just a caffeine
afterthought, is lunch to be a consideration anytime soon?"

"Do buffalo shit on the prairie?"

His spirits are obviously lifting.  She tilts her head
toward him, noticing his still-loosened tie knot lobbing
against the front of his shirt, and without thinking reaches
out to fondle it in reminder.  "No, Mulder... not for close
to one hundred years.  Not unless you know of a small,
protected private herd in these parts."

"Details..." His thigh pressing the steering wheel, he uses
both hands to yank his tie back into alignment, then
captures her left hand with his groping right.  The warm
contact of his skin, his stroking fingers, is patently
reassuring; her heart feels comforted after the awful
tension that immersed them at the Tillman home.

"You know," he muses, "in retrospect... maybe I could've
gained a few extra minutes with Benjie if I'd gone the whole
hog and taken off the shoes, too.  You think?"

She presses her lips into a coy smile.  "The shoes come off
later.  For me."

************
End of Chapter 5