===========
Chapter Fifteen
===========

Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
Monday, October 5, 1998
10:59 p.m.

Scully sat cross-legged on one of the beds in her motel room, staring at
the flickering images on the TV screen.  She wasn't really watching,
though.  Her thoughts were far away. 

She'd been surprised, of course, to find her partner down at the Civic
Center when she and Oliver returned from their rounds of the area's flower
shops.  She'd known it was only a matter of time before Kersh tracked
Mulder down and took action against him -- but she had expected that
action to be in the form of an order to return to Washington immediately,
followed by some sort of disciplinary measures.  What those disciplinary
measures might be, she hadn't attempted to guess, since she didn't yet
know Kersh very well.

But she hadn't expected the new A.D. to resort to public humiliation as a
way of getting his point across.  It was obvious to her that Conyers must
have received specific instructions on how to deal with Mulder --
otherwise he would have been assigned to duties more appropriate to his
rank and abilities.  Mulder was right about one thing, she thought grimly. 
This was clearly a punishment detail. 

Another thing she hadn't expected was Mulder's response to her.  Scully
had anticipated that her partner would be angry, and had braced herself to
endure a stream of invective aimed at both Kersh and Conyers.  She'd been
working with Mulder for more than five years, after all, and she'd known
even before she discovered the nature of his "assignment" that he would be
in a difficult mood. 

But she had not been prepared for the anger and bitterness her partner had
directed at *her*.  Of course, even as he was pushing her away, she knew
that it was his temper speaking.  None of this was her fault, and she and
Mulder both knew it.  But that hadn't kept his words from hurting, and it
had taken all of Scully's self-control not to lash out at him in return. 

Scully sighed, and shook her head.  She was sick and tired of the damned
emotional rollercoaster she and Mulder had been on for the past several
weeks.  She knew that the depression that had fallen over her since
leaving the Civic Center wasn't Mulder's fault -- anymore than she was to
blame for his upset.  The culprits in her case were stress and exhaustion. 
Unfortunately, just as she had been a convenient target for his anger
earlier in the evening, his behavior was the most obvious outlet for her
own bad feelings now.

Maybe it was just as well that she was getting a little downtime to
herself. 

Except now she heard Mulder's key in the lock, so apparently her solitude
was ending.  She gave another sigh and clicked off the television, then
turned to watch the door.  After another second it swung open, and Mulder
stepped into the room. 

For a moment he just stood there, looking at her -- and Scully looked
right back at him.  He looked tired, she thought.  Tired and hurt and
angry.  No surprises there, of course.  The only question was how much of
that was going to be vented at her -- and how much she would be able to
take. 

"I thought you'd be asleep by now," he said at last, not moving from his
spot by the door. 

"I thought about it," she replied.  "But I wanted to see you, so I waited
up."  The words were out of her mouth before she'd really thought about
them, but she realized they were true.  Despite all the negative feelings
their encounter at the Civic Center had brought to the surface, she *had*
wanted to see him.  She'd missed him, and she didn't function very well
without him. 

Mulder was already shaking his head.  "You shouldn't have, Scully.  You
need your rest."  He smirked slightly.  "I can't always be there to lend a
helping hand, you know." 

Scully knew he was trying to make her angry, but she also knew that he
didn't really mean it, and somehow she managed to suppress the urge to say
something biting in return.  After a moment of silence Mulder shrugged,
and moved over to flop down on his back on the other bed.  And then he
just lay there for a minute or two, staring at the ceiling. 

Finally, he said, "So I take it from typing your notes that you didn't
have time to check the victims' tattoo status?" 

Scully shook her head.  "No," she said.  "I didn't ... get around to it." 
She had had all evening, of course, and they both knew it -- but after the
not-quite-argument at the Civic Center, she hadn't really felt like it.
There was nothing there, anyway; she was sure of *that* much, at least. 

"I see."  There was no tone or inflection in his voice. 

"Dammit, Mulder," she snapped, struggling to keep her own voice under
control.  "I've been working sixteen-hour days for the past week.  Tonight
was my first night off since I got here, and I didn't really feel like
spending it chasing down some blind alley just because you --" 

"Blind alley?"  Mulder sat up abruptly and turned to look at her.  "Blind
alley?"  He started ticking off points on his fingers.  "We have victims
who are being skinned alive, with no leads whatsoever.  We have personal
ads appearing in a body art magazine shortly before each one was killed. 
We have a copy of that magazine actually found in one of the victims'
homes, with one of the ads circled in magic marker.  And you think this is
a blind alley?  A coincidence?" 

Something inside Scully snapped, and she found herself shouting right back
at her partner -- even while a small corner of her mind was screaming in
protest at her own behavior.  "Yes, Mulder," she said.  "That's exactly
what it is:  a coincidence.  We have no evidence -- none -- that any of
these women had tattoos, and --" 

"We might have that evidence, if you'd made the phone calls you promised
to make!" 

"I do not report to you, Agent Mulder!" she replied sharply.  "I have
other duties and responsibilities -- *official* duties and
responsibilities -- which have been occupying my time and taking all my
energy."  She took a deep breath, then let it out, and continued, "And
furthermore, even if those women *did* all have tattoos, I don't see what
connection there could possibly be -- nor is there any way the killer
could have known about it if they *did* have tattoos." 

Mulder tried to interupt, but Scully pressed onward.  "We do have
photographs of these women," she reminded him.  "Photos we got from their
friends and families.  And not one of them -- not *one* -- had any visible
marks on their skin." 

"Not on their *exposed* skin, anyway," Mulder began.  "It's possible that
--" 

Scully was now in full cry.  "Oh, yes," she said.  "Maybe they all had
tattoos under their clothes, where nobody could see them -- except for the
killer, of course.  *He* ...." 

"Bathing suits," Mulder interjected.  "Doctors' exam rooms, locker rooms
--" 

"Oh, no, Mulder," she objected, sarcasm dripping from every word.  Deep
inside, a part of her was still screaming, begging her to stop, but she
couldn't -- she just had to keep going.  "That wouldn't do at all," she
continued.  "The killer has x-ray vision, right?  So he can see through
people's clothes, just like the ads in the backs of comic books.  Isn't
that how he does it?" 

"It's not impossible," her partner grated out, clearly struggling to
maintain his self-control.  "There are plenty of cases documented in the
X-Files of people with paranormal abilities allowing them to see -- or in
some other way sense -- things which are normally hidden from the rest of
us.  You should know that better than anyone." 

Scully felt her eyes narrowing.  "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Mulder hesitated for just an instant -- and then something in his eyes
seemed to harden, and Scully felt something tremble inside her, as he
said, quietly and distinctly, "Ed Jerse." 

Silence descended on the room, and for a pair of minutes Scully sat
perfectly still.  The sudden quiet, after their extended mutual outburst,
was almost surreal, she thought distantly.  If only it could stay this
way; if only time could simply stop, and thus forestall the explosion she
knew was about to occur. 

But the seconds were racing onwards, and even as she was thinking that,
her mouth was opening, and she heard her own voice saying, with cold
precision, "I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that."
She suddenly felt very, very tired, and infinitely sad. 

"Get around to what?" her partner asked, equally coldly. 

"Oh, get off it, Mulder," she said wearily.  She no longer had the
strength for this -- but she didn't have the strength to stop, either. The
conversation was just going to keep on going, until it finally rolled over
both of them and crushed them.  "Did you really think I hadn't noticed? 
Did you honestly think it had escaped my attention that there was one spot
on my body that you just can't bear to touch?  *Especially* since we've
started sleeping together?  Jesus Christ, Mulder!  How stupid do you think
I am?" 

"Scully, you're not being reasonable," her partner replied.  His voice was
calm -- but there was an undercurrent of pain, she noted with distant
satisfaction.  This was hurting him as much as it was hurting her.  Good. 

"*I'm* not being reasonable?" she said.  "Me?  Mulder, *you're* the one
who has an issue here -- not me.  It's just a two inch patch of skin, and
it's perfectly clean.  It doesn't have some horrible infection; the ink is
even dry." 

"Scully --" 

"Why won't you touch it, Mulder?" she persisted, ignoring his attempt to
interupt.  "What's the problem here?  There *is* a problem, isn't there? 
Or are *you* the one who is now pleading coincidence?  Is that what it is? 
A coincidence?"  She shook her head.  "I don't think I'm the one with the
problem." 

Mulder was staring at her, unblinking, and now the pain was plain on his
face.  Scully felt a twinge of guilt, but quickly suppressed it.  He was
the one who started this; she was just responding, and trying to put an
end to it. 

"You have no idea what you're getting into here, Scully," her partner said
at last.  "No idea at all."  He paused, and seemed to be collecting his
thoughts for a moment.  And when he finally did speak, his voice was cold,
and low, and very, very distant. 

"When I read the police report on the Jerse case," he said, "it was like
having my guts ripped out with a dull knife.  They didn't cover the ... 
issue ... that I really cared about, of course -- it wasn't relevant to
their investigation, and apparently neither you nor Jerse volunteered the
information.  But reading between the lines, I could tell what they
thought had happened." 

Mulder paused again for a moment -- and Scully abruptly felt a touch of
anxiety creeping in.  This wasn't what was supposed to be happening.  He
was supposed to be yelling at her; he was supposed to be lashing out. 
That would have felt pretty good, she thought -- making him lose control. 
It would have confirmed her position, and given her the upper hand --

"Then you filed your own report," he continued.  "And it was complete --
to a point.  You related everything that was directly germane to the case
-- both the investigation I'd asked you to pursue, and the situation with
Jerse and the tattoo parlor.  But,like the local cops, you evaded the one
area that I was most concerned with, and I decided that I'd just have to
live with that.  Not knowing, I mean.  It was none of my business, after
all.  You're a grown woman, and I had no claim on you." 

He stopped, and looked at her speculatively, and added, "That is right,
isn't it Scully?  We meant nothing to each other at that point, beyond
being work partners."  Despite herself, Scully winced at the mix of hurt
and sarcasm in his voice. 

"There was no special relationship," he went on, his voice calm and
apparently unconcerned.  "Certainly nothing beyond a casual, platonic
friendship, right?  So I had no legitimate reason even to be interested in
what happened in Jerse's apartment between -- " he paused for just a
second, and seemed to be concentrating "-- 11:45 p.m., the night you
closed the case, and 8:15 the next morning.  Right?" 

"That's right," she managed to force out.  "You had no interest in the
matter." 

Mulder nodded grimly, and with more than a little sadness in his voice, he
continued, "That's what I thought, too.  And so I did my best to put the
matter out of my mind, and tried not to think about it.  And I mostly
succeeded.  Mostly." 

Again he looked at her speculatively, and Scully had to suppress a shiver
as she realized that everything he had just said was really leading up to
something else.  Something worse. 

"But do you want to know what really hurt, Scully?" he said at last.  "Do
you have any idea?"  He paused yet again, and actually seemed to be
waiting for a response. 

This was her chance, Scully suddenly realized.  Right now, she could say
no -- she could tell him she didn't want to know.  Then the conversation
would end, and they could both retreat behind their respective walls and
tend to their wounds.  But even as she considered the possibility, Scully
found herself nodding, giving him permission to continue. 

"It was the lies, Scully," he said coldly.  "It was the god damned fucking
lies." 

Her response was automatic.  "Lies?  Mulder I don't know what --" 

"Cut the crap, Scully," he snapped.  "How stupid do you think *I* am?" 
His voice took on a high, sing-songy quality.  "'Not everything is about
you, Mulder.' Six words, Scully.  Six fucking words, and to the best of my
knowledge and belief, it's the only time you've *ever* directly lied to
me." 

"Mulder, I --" 

"It fucking well *was* about me!" he barked.  "Everything you did that
week was about me, and our partnership and friendship."  He started
ticking off points on his fingers.  "You went to Philadelphia in the first
place because I goaded you into doing it.  You investigated the case
because you wanted to prove I was wrong and rub my nose in it.  And when
the case was over, and I had the unmitigated gall to call and ask how you
were doing, you made a date with some sleazeball and spent the night at
his apartment, doing god knows what." 

Mulder paused for breath, and continued, "And of course, after it was all
over and the dust had settled, you made sure I had just enough information
to keep me guessing, and no more.  You wanted to hurt me, Scully," he
accused, finally climbing off the bed and walking slowly towards her. 
"You wanted to get back at me for the hurt I'd caused you.  Well
congratulations.  It worked." 

He stood there for a moment looking down at her, and the pain was so
evident on his face and in his eyes that Scully thought her heart might
break.  She wanted to comfort him; she wanted to reach out and touch him; 
she wanted to do something -- *anything* -- to make him stop looking at
her that way. 

But she just couldn't find the strength, and after another moment, Mulder
shrugged and turned and walked away. 

He closed the door quietly behind him. 

#          #          #

Iowa City, IA
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
12:24 a.m.

Mulder sat on a bench in a small park fronting on the Iowa River, not far
from the motel.  He'd been here for nearly an hour, ever since he'd
stormed out of Scully's motel room.  For most of that hour he'd been
sitting almost perfectly still, watching the water flow by a few feet in
front of him.  Very occasionally, he shifted position. 

He hadn't intended for the conversation to go in the direction it had
taken.  He'd promised himself long ago that he would never mention the
Jerse case to Scully, or attempt to cross-examine her about what had
happened.  It was clear to him the day they both returned to the office
after the case was officially closed that she had been badly hurt, and
that she held him responsible for at least some of it.  So he had kept his
own pain to himself, and tried not to inflict it on her. 

Now he had failed.  And he hadn't merely failed -- he had crashed and
burned in the most spectacular manner imaginable.  He had dredged up all
that old anguish and despair and heartache at the worst possible moment,
and he'd literally thrown it in his partner's face.  And so now here he
sat, all alone, feeling sorry not for her -- but for himself. 

He was such a bastard. 

"I didn't do it." 

Mulder looked up in surprise at the sound of his partner's voice.  He
hadn't heard her approach, but now here she was, standing about five feet
in front of him, a grim look on her face. 

"I didn't do it," she repeated after a moment.  "I didn't sleep with him. 
I didn't even *want* to sleep with him."  She paused again, and nodded at
the bench.  "May I sit down?" 

"Sure." 

Scully took a seat on the bench next to him, her hip not quite touching
his.  For a minute or two she just sat there, looking out at the river,
and Mulder simply watched her, giving her plenty of space and time to
think.  At last, she began to speak. 

"I did not fuck Ed Jerse," she said flatly, looking straight ahead.  "As I
said in my report, and in my statement to the police, I met him by chance
in that damned tattoo parlor.  He came on to me a little, but I wasn't
interested, and I brushed him off.  Then you called, and made me even
madder than I had been ... so I called him." 

She paused, and finally glanced over at Mulder -- and even though neither
of them had moved, Mulder felt as if a vast chasm had suddenly opened up
between them.  Just one little misstep, and they would both fall in .... 

"We wound up in this grubby little biker bar," Scully continued, looking
back at the river.  "And we sat there, getting drunk and talking."  She
shrugged.  "Actually, I did most of the talking, and Jerse pretended to
listen.  He really just wanted to get into my pants, and we both knew it,
but we played the little game anyway.  I had no intention of letting him
get what he wanted, of course."  And she shrugged again. 

"So we talked," she went on.  "*I* talked.  Lies, mostly."  She glanced at
Mulder briefly and obliquely.  "I told a lot of lies that week.  You want
to know the details?" 

Mulder shook his head; Scully nodded, and looked back at the river. 

"By the time we left the bar," she went on, "I'd already realized what a
stupid, self-destructive thing I was doing.  Unfortunately, I was so drunk
and stubborn that I couldn't stop myself.  So I went and got that fucking
tattoo, and then we went back to Jerse's place.  And of course, he made a
pass at me, which had been his plan all along." 

Scully shrugged again.  "I can't really blame him; I'd been leading him on
all evening, and he probably thought he had it made."  Her lips quirked. 
"I always swore I'd never be a slut or a tease.  At least I'm still
batting .500."  She laughed mirthlessly. 

"Anyway," she said, "he kissed me.  And I let it go on for about three or
four seconds.  Don't ask me why, because I didn't want it.  Then I pushed
him away, and started to leave -- and the son of a bitch began to cry." 

Her shoulders slumped and her eyes closed.  "So I didn't leave. I stayed,
and Jerse cried at me.  About his wife, and his job, and I forget what
else.  Eventually he fell asleep on the sofa, and by that point I was so
fucking exhausted I crawled into his bed and went to sleep myself.  In the
morning when I woke up he had gone out to get stuff for breakfast, so I
felt I had to stay until he got back, and then those two cops showed up
.... and you already know the rest." 

At last she stopped, but still she didn't turn to face him.  Finally,
Mulder said, "Thank you, Scully." 

She looked over at him then, curiously.  "For what?  Telling you what you
wanted to hear?" 

He looked back at her, steadily, unblinking.  "Is that what you were
doing?" 

Scully hesitated, then sighed and shook her head.  "No.  I was telling you
what really happened.  I was telling you the truth." 

Mulder nodded.  "That's what I thought.  That's what I was thanking you
for." 

Scully nodded slightly in return.  "You're welcome," she said quietly. 
"It's something I should have done a long time ago."  She tilted her head
back so that it rested on the back of the bench.  "God, I'm tired." 

"I know," he said.  "And I'm sorry.  I didn't mean for tonight to be like
this.  I'm sorry," he repeated. 

Scully shrugged.  "It's all right.  If we'd talked about it at the time
...."  Her voice trailed off, and she was quiet again for a for so long
that he was beginning to wonder if she'd fallen asleep right there on the
bench.  She really was tired.  And he was such an asshole.  Finally,
without moving, she said, "Mulder, I need to get some sleep."  She opened
her eyes and turned her head to look at him.  "Are you coming?" 

He hesitated, then shook his head.  "Not quite yet," he said.  "I .... I
still have some thinking to do.  But I'll be along in awhile." 

Scully nodded, and forced a smile.  "Okay," she said.  "I'll hold you to
that."  Then she climbed to her feet and walked away. 

==========END CHAPTER FIFTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Sixteen
===========

Iowa City Civic Center
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
8:22 a.m.

"Agent Scully?" 

For just an instant, Scully was tempted to ignore Oliver.  The door to the
outside was tantalizingly close -- less than three feet in front of her. 
She could simply pretend not to have heard, and in a few more steps she'd
be free. 

But even as she considered it, she heard the other woman's footsteps
rapidly approaching, and she sighed in resignation and turned to face the
detective. 

"I'm glad I caught you," Oliver said, as she came to a stop directly in
front of Scully.  "I know we aren't actually teamed today, but I thought
maybe we could find a corner somewhere together?  Just for a little
company while we do our paperwork?" 

Scully hesitated.  On the one hand, she didn't want to make her
relationship with Oliver any worse than it already was.  She might be
getting a reprieve today, but she knew that in all likelihood she and the
detective would be working together again tomorrow.  Conyers didn't seem
to like to change his team assignments. 

On the other hand, this was the first time since her arrival in Iowa that
Scully hadn't been paired with the woman, and she was looking forward to
having a little time to herself.  All she had to do today was review
photographs from the victims' funerals -- work that had already been done
by someone else, so once again Scully would be doing followup.  But at
least she wouldn't have to put up with Oliver's attitude while she was
doing it. 

She also wanted to try to get hold of Mulder, and she didn't really care
to have an audience for what promised to be yet another tense
conversation.  He never had come back to the room last night, despite her
clear invitation that he do so.  She had sat up until almost two a.m.,
waiting for him, before she finally gave up and went to bed -- the upshot
of which was that she had gotten only a little over three hours of sleep,
and was once again exhausted and irritable, and in no mood to suffer fools
gladly. 

"I don't think so," Scully said, shaking her head.  She suppressed a wince
as she saw Oliver's professional mask falling neatly into place.  "I had a
short night, and I'm afraid it would be too much of a distraction."  She
forced a smile, and before she could second guess herself, she added, "But
we could possibly have lunch together, if you like.  I'm just going to
spend the day at Bruegger's going over these photos; why don't you drop by
around one o'clock or so?" 

The detective nodded coolly.  "Sure.  I'll be looking forward to it -- if
you're sure it's not too much of an imposition." 

Scully sighed, and shook her head.  She'd tried; it wasn't her fault if
Oliver was incapable of gracefully accepting a well-intended offer of a
compromise.  And without another word, she turned away and headed for the
door. 

#          #          #

Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
8:42 a.m.

Scully was gone by the time Mulder returned to the motel. 

This was no surprise, of course.  She would've had to leave no later than
6:15 if she wanted to be on time for the morning briefing.  Mulder had, in
fact, stayed away longer than he'd really wanted to, specifically because
he wasn't ready to face his partner yet. 

He'd sat on the bench for another half hour after she left the night
before, trying to make sense of the argument they'd had.  His thoughts and
emotions were all tangled together, and adding Scully's words and obvious
distress to the mix had only contributed to his confusion.  In the end,
the only conclusion he'd reached was that they'd just hurt each other once
again, and for no good reason. 

At last, Mulder had gotten up from the bench and headed back to the motel,
determined to try to make amends if Scully was still up, or at least get
some sleep if she was not.  But as he approached the Heartland, he'd found
himself growing uneasy, even fearful.  At first he didn't understand where
those feelings were coming from, but as he walked across the parking lot
towards Scully's room, it came to him. 

He was afraid of his partner. 

Which made no sense at all.  It was true that he had hurt her, and hurt
her badly, but she had been just as hard on him -- and Scully was
certainly honest enough to acknowledge that, at least to herself.  On top
of that, her last words, before she went back to the motel, had been to
inquire if he was coming with her -- hell, reading between the lines,
she'd been *asking* him to come with her. 

But no matter how compelling the logic had seemed, Mulder hadn't been able
to make himself believe it.  And so without breaking stride he stepped on
past her door, and kept on going, into the night. 

But now here he was, at last, sprawled out on the same bed he'd lain on
the night before, when he and Scully had had the first half of their
disastrous talk.  The other bed had obviously been slept in, and Mulder
had been tempted to lie down on that one, if only so he could feel a
little closer to Scully.  But his anxiety -- or something -- had not
permitted that.  Just as it had not permitted him to read the note she had
left taped to the television screen. 

God, he was tired.  He was so fucking tired.  He was supposed to have
reported to Conyers, of course, at eight o'clock, but between his physical
exhaustion, and the aftereffects of the last night's emotional firestorm,
he just didn't have it in him.  He supposed there would be consequences
for his failure to show up, but right now that seemed very far away and
unimportant. 

Within minutes, he had fallen fast asleep. 

#          #          #

Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
9:58 a.m.

Scully took another sip of coffee, and tried to concentrate on the stack
of photographs in front of her.  She'd been here for an hour and a half,
now, but she was only halfway through the photos from Angela D'Amato's
funeral.  At this rate, she'd never be done in time for the evening
briefing. 

Exhaustion was partly to blame.  She'd been operating on too little sleep
for almost a week now, and she couldn't go on much longer.  Her body
simply wouldn't tolerate it. 

Scully glanced at her watch, and sighed.  The other issue, of course, was
the question of Mulder's whereabouts.  Surely he had returned to the motel
by now -- but if he had, why hadn't he called her?  The note she'd left
had been as conciliatory as she could make it, without actually conceding
any points, and she was gradually becoming alarmed at his failure to
respond. 

Once again she tried to focus on the stack of photographs, but it just
wasn't working.  She was too tired, and she had too much else on her mind. 
She needed a short change of pace -- something else to think about for a
few minutes.  Perhaps this would be a good time to make those phone calls
Mulder had been after her to make.  There wasn't going to be anything
there, but at least it would be a break from staring at those stupid
photographs -- and maybe she could dispose of her partner's tattoo theory,
once and for all. 

She pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket, and started dialing. 

#          #          #

The Heartland Inn
11:14 a.m.

Mulder awoke with a start, and for a moment he was disoriented.  But then
he recognized his surroundings, and relaxed. 

He wasn't really surprised that he'd fallen asleep -- but having done so,
he was a bit bemused at having awakened so soon.  He did feel remarkably
rested, though, despite having had only a little more than two hours of
sleep -- and the cloud of depression that had been hovering over him since
yesterday morning seemed to have receded a bit, too. 

Mulder yawned and stretched, and climbed slowly to his feet, stumbling
slightly in the process.  He wasn't completely refreshed -- he was still
feeling a bit sluggish, and needed to do something to get his blood moving
again.  A shower would be good for that -- but a run first would be even
better.  He was going to have to report in to Conyers, and he needed to
have his head about him for that. 

And on his way in he could stop in at the Electric Head and *finally* get
a copy of the damned magazine, too.  Conyers' fingerpainting exercises had
kept him penned up all day yesterday, and by the time he'd been allowed to
leave, the bookstore Alexa had mentioned had been closed.  But today he
was going to do that *first* -- and if that made him a few minutes later
getting to the Civic Center, Conyers would just have to deal. 

#          #          #

Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
11:51 a.m.

Scully stepped out of the ladies room and pushed her way through the
noontime crowd.  She briefly considered going to the counter for something
to eat, but the line was just too long -- and Oliver would be here for
lunch in a little over an hour, in any case.  And so she made her way back
to her table. 

She sighed, and picked up her notebook.  She'd called seven people in the
past hour, while taking a few minutes to review photographs between calls
-- and much to her surprise, three of the four victims actually had had
tattoos. 

This was, of course, going to make it that much harder to convince Mulder
that there was nothing to it.  She knew from long experience how tenacious
he could be, even without evidence -- and once he knew that there was any
support for his theory at all, he was going to become even more difficult
to deal with -- no matter how illogical, or even irrational, the rest of
his hypothesis might be. 

The only one of the four who apparently hadn't had a tattoo was Vanessa
Haynes, the second victim -- and Scully was sorely tempted just to let
that one rest.  She'd called the victim's mother and both her sisters, and
all three of them were positive that Vanessa had not had a tattoo.  And
that should be the end of it, Scully, thought -- because a clue wasn't a
clue if it didn't apply to all four cases.  Not in building a profile of a
serial killer, at any rate, which was what Mulder was trying to do. 

Idly Scully let her gaze skim over the list she'd started.  One of the
victims -- Angela D'Amato, victim number one -- had had a tattoo of a
frog; the other two had had snakes.  There was something about that
combination that bothered her, but she was still so tired --

And then she remembered.  Those poems -- the ones Mulder had found in that
body art magazine.  There had been one about a frog, one about a slug, and
one about a snake.  Scully couldn't remember which poem Mulder had
identified with each victim -- she hadn't been taking his theory very
seriously, and she'd had other things on her mind.  But two of the three
poems, at least, had counterparts in the victims' tattoos.  It had to be a
coincidence, though -- because Vanessa Haynes hadn't had a tattoo. 

Had she? 

Was it possible that she could have had a tattoo, and her family wouldn't
know about it?  Scully stopped to think for a moment.  Very few people
knew about her own tattoo, she realized.  No more than a dozen or so, in
all -- Mulder, Skinner, Jerse ... the guy who'd given it to her, of
course.  The detective from the Philadelphia PD who had taken her
statement while she was still in the hospital.  Some of the hospital
staff. 

But she hadn't told her mother or brothers, and if it hadn't been for
Jerse's attempt to kill her, Mulder and Skinner wouldn't know, either --
and neither would the local police or the hospital staff. 

Only she, Jerse and the tattoo artist would know. 

Maybe Vanessa's family hadn't known about her tattoo, either.  But if that
was the case, who *would* know?  She couldn't just canvass every tattoo
parlor in the state, on the off chance that someone might remember one
customer out of hundreds. 

Absently, Scully reached out for her cup of coffee as she tried to think. 
The liquid sloshed a bit as she picked it up -- apparently someone had
refilled it while she was in the restroom.  Scully took a sip and winced
slightly.  The coffee was bitter --more bitter than it usually was at
Bruegger's.  She put the cup down and added a little sugar, then picked it
up again and took another sip. 

# # #

The Heartland Inn
12:29 p.m.

"Mr. Mulder?" 

Mulder stopped on his way through the motel lobby and turned to face the
desk clerk.  She was short and blonde, and a little plump -- Tavia, that
was her name, he remembered. 

"I'm sorry," she was saying, a friendly smile on her face.  "But the
assistant manager asked me to check with all of our guests, and try to
find out who was going to be staying on.  There's a home football game
this weekend, and we're trying to figure out how many rooms we're going to
have available." 

Mulder shrugged, still slightly winded from the run he'd just completed. 
"I'm not really sure," he said.  "A few more days, anyway.  Sorry I can't
be more helpful, but it's not really up to us." 

"That's okay," Tavia said.  "I understand.  You and Ms. Scully -- you're
the FBI agents, right?" 

"That's right." 

"Well, I can promise you that no one's going to bump you.  We all want
this jerk caught, so that things can get back to normal." 

Mulder forced a smile, and started to turn away.  His mood had improved
from where it had been even when he first woke up, but he still was in no
mood for casual chit-chat. 

"Oh, Mr. Mulder?"  Mulder sighed.  Turning back to face Tavia again, he
saw that she was reaching under the counter for something.  "The mail came
just a little while ago, and there was something for your room." 

Mulder felt his eyebrows rising, and stepped forward to take the item from
her.  It was a plain nine by twelve envelope, addressed to Scully, care of
the motel.  It had, he noticed, a local postmark. 

What the hell? 

After only a brief hesitation, he slid his thumbnail under the flap and
tore the envelope open.  Whatever it was, it almost certainly wasn't
anything personal -- no one would be writing to Scully here.  Not her
friends or family, anyway.  He upended the envelope, and the contents came
sliding out --

It was 'The Illustrated Person'. 

The current issue. 

Numbly, he checked the envelope again -- and, yes, it really was addressed
to Scully. 

Mulder shook his head, trying to deny it.  This couldn't be what it seemed
to be.  It was impossible.  Tavia was speaking again, but her words flowed
around him, unheeded, as he methodically paged through the magazine to the
personals. 

And there it was, circled in black, just as it had been on Marjorie
Adamson's copy.  Just as he'd known it would be, from the moment he saw
what was in the envelope. 

     Serpent wakes to birth of rhyme
     Grasps its tail to encompass time
     Teacher of the heart, it waits the day
     All comes true.

     -Tebori

==========END CHAPTER SIXTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Seventeen
===========

Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
12:29 p.m.

Scully was having more and more trouble concentrating on her work.  The
exhaustion brought on by sleep deprivation and the emotional stress caused
by the problems she and Mulder were having were finally taking their toll. 

She took another sip of coffee and forced herself to focus on the yellow
legal pad.  She had called three more of Vanessa Haynes' friends and
relatives, trying to confirm or deny whether the woman had had a tattoo.
Two of them had said no, but she was still waiting to hear back from Dhinu
Srinivasan, Haynes' former lover.  If anyone knew whether she had had a
tattoo, he would, Scully reasoned. 

Unless she'd gotten it after she stopped sleeping with him, of course. 

There was something there.  Scully wasn't sure when she had crossed the
line, and started believing in Mulder's theory, but she had.  All of her
professional instincts were screaming at her, and with each passing minute
she only became more sure.  There was something there. 

She let her gaze drift down the list of information she'd collected so
far.  Angela D'Amato had had a frog tattoo.  Doris Pennington and Marjorie
Adamson had each had a snake.  The poems Mulder had found referred to a
frog, a slug and a snake -- and now Scully remembered that the snake poem
was the one that had been repeated, which meant that it had been addressed
to Pennington and Adamson, victims number three and four, respectively. 

A frog, a slug and a snake.  Damn, but that was familiar.  The niggling
feeling of something important being forgotten or overlooked, which she'd
first experienced on Sunday morning while having breakfast with Mulder,
was back with a vengeance.  She drummed her fingers on the table in
frustration.  If only she weren't so tired .... 

And then suddenly she had it.  It wasn't a memory associated with her
father, as she'd thought on Sunday -- it was about her brother, Bill. 

Once, while her family was living in Yokahama, she and Charlie had been
left in Bill's custody while their parents went out for the evening.  To
help pass the time, Bill told them a story -- a story which he claimed was
an old Japanese myth, although Scully had never bothered to research it to
find out.  She hadn't even thought about the story in years.  It had
concerned three wizards, she remembered.  And each of the wizards had a
familiar:  a toad, a slug and a snake. 

Just like in the poems. 

Scully paused for a minute, trying to remember more about the story.  She
couldn't come up with the plot, but after a moment she did remember the
names of the wizards, because she and Charlie had used them as villains in
various games of make-believe forseveral years after the incident.  She
wasn't sure what help the names were, but she scribbled them down on her
pad anyway. 

She stopped writing as a brief wave of dizziness passed over her.  She was
actually starting to feel a little ill, and she just couldn't afford that
right now.  Not when she finally seemed to be getting somewhere. 

And now there was something *else* bothering her -- some other connection
-- and after a moment, she realized what it was.  Those pictures she had
seen on Sunday, at the home of one of the witnesses.  Farrier -- that was
it.  Alexander Farrier.  He'd had a number of sketches sitting out when
she'd arrived:  a frog, a snail and a couple of different snakes. 

A snail was sort of like a slug.  Wasn't it?  Snails were from the genus
Helix, but she couldn't remember where slugs fell.  It didn't matter,
though, she thought.  No matter what the technical classification, the two
were close enough in popular conception, so she added those items to her
list, as well. 

Another wave of dizziness hit her, and Scully shook her head, trying to
clear it.  It was getting so hard to think, but she had to do it.  Pieces
were falling into place, and she needed to stick with it.  She reached out
for her coffee cup, which was nownearly empty.  Her hand bumped against
the cup, and it started to tip over --

"Dammit!" 

Scully jumped to her feet as the lukewarm liquid began to spread across
the table.  She hastily started to gather up her papers and photographs,
rescuing some and knocking others to the floor in the process. 

As she knelt down to gather up the items that had fallen, one of the
photographs caught her eye.  She picked it up and tried to study it, but
she was still having trouble concentrating, and the picture didn't seem to
want to hold still.  Finally, she managed to focus. 

It was Alexander Farrier. 

She turned the photo over to look at the label, and confirmed what she
already knew to be true.  The picture had been taken at Doris Pennington's
funeral -- the one she and Oliver had attended the previous Friday. 

Scully rested back on her heels for a moment and tried to think.  She had
something here; she really had something.  She just needed to get it all
organized in her head, so she could make sense of it.  Absently, she
reached up on the table and grabbed a pen, and wrote Farrier's name on the
photograph while she considered the matter. 

Four women had been murdered -- they had had been skinned.  At least three
of those women had had tattoos. 

Poems had appeared in a body art magazine, apparently making reference to
the three tattoos that Scully knew about. 

Alexander Farrier had attended the funeral of at least one of the victims,
and his fingerprints had been found in another victim's home. 

Farrier had some sketches, which he had apparently drawn himself, which
seemed to correspond to the victims' tattoos.  He also had a sketch of an
Oroborous, but Scully pushed the troubling thought aside.  That much, at
least, *had* to be a coincidence. 

It was enough, she realized.  Not enough for a conviction, or even for an
arrest, but enough to bring Farrier in for questioning, and begin a
serious investigation into his background and recent whereabouts and
activities. 

A third wave of dizziness hit her, and when it passed Scully realized that
she was sitting on the floor, although she couldn't remember how she'd
gotten there.  She remembered kneeling down to recover the papers and
photographs, but during that last dizzy spell she must have lost her
balance. 

She needed to get to her cell phone, she thought.  She had to call someone
-- she had to call Mulder, and let him know what she'd found.  Her phone
was in her jacket pocket, and her jacket was draped over the back of her
chair, which was just out of reach.  Even as she thought about it, her
phone started to shrill -- someone was calling her.  She was going to have
to get up. 

Somehow, Scully managed to get back to her knees.  She stopped for a
moment to rest, then reached out and grabbed for the edge of the table --
but the surface was slick from the coffee spill, and her fingers slipped
off.  She lost her balance, and she felt herself start to fall -- and then
a hand grasped her wrist. 

Scully waited until the world stopped spinning; then she looked up and
squinted.  It suddenly seemed terribly bright in the room, and all she
could make out was the form of a man standing over her.  She couldn't
discern his features, but he was tall, withdark hair, and his grip on her
wrist was firm and soothing. 

Mulder.  At last. 

Thank God.

#          #          #

Iowa City Civic Center
12:49 p.m.

Mulder made it from the Heartland Inn to the Civic Center in less than
twenty minutes, despite the lunchtime traffic.  He parked his car
illegally in front of the building, and took the steps leading up to the
entrance two at a time. 

He had tried calling Scully several times during the frantic drive across
town, but had received no answer.  That didn't mean much, of course.  She
might have left her phone in the car, or she might be driving in traffic,
or in some other way be too busy to answer.  As he half-ran down the
hallway towards the task force conference room, Mulder consoled himself
with these thoughts.  She was probably out in the field, he reminded
himself.  She was therefore almost certainly perfectly safe. 

She was perfectly safe, he repeated in his mind, almost as if it were a
mantra.  Scully was safe, and this time he wasn't going to be too late. 

He burst through the half-open doorway and into the conference room, and
skidded to a halt.  At first he thought the room was empty, but then he
saw someone sitting at the far end of the table, looking up with a bemused
expression on her face. 

It was Detective Oliver.  He had met her in passing the previous day, but
he hadn't paid much attention to her.  Mulder didn't know whether to be
grateful for her presence or not.  On the one hand, Scully's temporary
partner would almost certainly know where she was.  On the other, if
Oliver was here, that meant Scully was probably around somewhere, too,
instead of being out in the field with someone watching her back. 

One way to find out. 

"Where's Scully?" he demanded, not giving the woman a chance to do or say
anything by way of greeting.  "I need to find her." 

The detective's eyes narrowed at his tone.  "Why?" 

That was not the response Mulder had expected, and he didn't have an
answer ready.  "I just need to," he replied, allowing his voice to sharpen
slightly.  "Where is she?" 

Oliver looked at him for a moment in apparent calculation.  Then:  "She's
not here." 

Mulder suppressed the urge to swear at the woman.  Scully, he reminded
himself.  He had to focus on Scully.  He took a calming breath, and said,
"I can see that.  But I need to find her.  I have something important to
tell her." 

"Why don't you tell me?" Oliver replied coolly.  "I'll make sure she gets
it." 

"No," Mulder said automatically, shaking his head.  He was quickly coming
to dislike the detective.  "She needs to know now, and I have to tell her
in person." 

Oliver's lips compressed and her eyes narrowed.  "You're all the same,"
she muttered.  She rose from her seat and started gathering up the papers
she'd been working on.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lunch date." 

Something in the woman's tone alerted Mulder.  "It's with Scully, isn't
it?" he asked. 

"Excuse me?"  Oliver looked up from stowing the papers in her briefcase,
and the expression on her face told him everything he needed to know. 

"Your lunch date," he persisted.  "You're having lunch with Scully." 

Oliver looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and went back to packing
her briefcase.  "What if I am?  It's no concern of --" 

"DAMMIT!"  Something inside Mulder snapped, and he slammed his hand down
on the conference table.  "Don't fuck around with me, Oliver!  I think
I've actually, finally got a clue on what's going on with this case, and I
have got to find Scully!" 

"Why Agent Scully?  Agent Conyers is --" 

"Fuck Conyers," Mulder grated.  "I need to talk to Scully, and I need to
do it now.  I think she might be the UNSUB's next target." 

Oliver's eyes widened, and Mulder knew he finally had her attention.  "Why
do you think that?" she asked.  "Why would he be interested in Agent
Scully?" 

"Because she's got a tattoo," he said.  Oliver gave him a blank look;
apparently Scully hadn't discussed Mulder's theory with her.  He decided
to lay all his cards on the table; he had to have Oliver's cooperation. 

Choosing his words carefully, and trying to recapture his calm, he said,
"I've been developing some leads that indicate that the UNSUB targets
women with tattoos.  I don't know why, and I don't know how he decides
which woman to take.  But this morning I came across a key piece of
evidence, something I'd been pursuing for several days, and I am virtually
certain that Scully is going to be the next target."  He took a deep
breath and let it out.  "So please, one more time.  Where is she?" 

For a handful of seconds Mulder's heart seemed to stop beating as Oliver
considered what he'd said.  Finally, apparently with great reluctance, she
nodded.  "She's at Bruegger's.  I was supposed to meet her there for lunch
five minutes ago." 

#          #          #

Time and location uknown

She was riding in a car.  Of that much, Scully was certain.  The irregular
stops and starts, as well as the familiar rumble of the engine, made that
part of the diagnosis easy. 

She wasn't quite as sure how she had gotten here, however.  She had a
vague, confused recollection of someone assisting her to her feet, and
then of walking unsteadily for a short distance with the other person's
arm around her waist, ready to catch her if she should fall.  But she
wasn't sure where they had gone, or exactly how long it had taken. 

Mulder, she decided woozily.  It must have been Mulder.  No one else could
have been that gentle and caring.  No one else would have come for her
when she needed help.  She was his one in five billion, after all. 

She made him a whole person. 

There was something important in that thought, and for a moment Scully
tried to consider what it might be.  But it was too hard to think, and
already the sense of importance was slipping away.  And in another minute,
it was gone. 

Scully was distracted by a sudden sense of acceleration.  The stop-and-go
motions seemed to have ceased, which she found distantly pleasing, since
she was beginning to feel nauseous again.  They must be on the highway,
she reasoned.  That was good.  She and Mulder belonged on the highway
together, travelling from one town to the next, investigating strange and
wonderful things.  It was their destiny .... 

==========END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Eighteen
===========

Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
1:14 p.m.

"These are definitely her things," Mulder said grimly, looking down at the
unoccupied table.  Scully's suit jacket was draped over the back of one of
the chairs, and her briefcase was leaning against the wall immediately
behind the chair.  There was an overturned coffee cup on the table, and a
small puddle of coffee was slowly dripping off one edge of the table and
onto the floor.  A disorderly heap of photographs and a yellow legal pad,
lying on the floor near the briefcase, completed the picture. 

"Do you think there was a struggle?" Oliver asked, gesturing at the
general disarray before them. 

"No," Mulder replied, shaking his head.  He waved his hand briefly to
encompass the room, where half a dozen people were quietly eating.  "I
think we would've attracted more attention by now if there'd been any kind
of disturbance in the past few minutes." 

Oliver nodded in apparent acceptance of the point.  "I'm going to check
the ladies' room," she announced.  And she turned and hurried away. 

Mulder nodded absently, then crouched down and picked up the yellow legal
pad.  Three quarters of it was covered with Scully's familiar, meticulous
handwriting -- although it seemed to him that some of the notes towards
the bottom were a little sloppy, as if she'd been getting tired, or was in
a hurry. 

At the top of the page the names of the four murder victims were printed
in block letters, apparently to serve as column headings:  Angela D'Amato,
Vanessa Haynes, Doris Pennington and Marjorie Adamson.  Beneath each name
was a list of one or two word entries, and down the left hand side of the
paper each row had also been labeled:  Tattoos, IP, Myth and Farrier. 

Mulder frowned.  The first two rows were pretty self-explanatory.  Scully
had obviously finally made the phone calls she'd promised to make, and had
verified that each of the victims did, in fact, have a tattoo.  Well,
three of them did, anyway, he corrected himself.  The space on the first
row under "Vanessa Haynes" had been left blank.  But whether that was
because Haynes had no tattoo, or because Scully simply hadn't finished her
survey yet, was impossible to say. 

Reading across on the second row, Mulder was unsurprised to find that each
victim's tattoo appeared to correspond with the poem that had been
published in 'The Illustrated Person' that particular week.  He'd pretty
much worked that part out in his head, and Scully's research notes were
simply providing the necessary confirmation. 

But what about the third and fourth rows?  The one labeled "Myth" 
consisted of three words -- or possibly proper names -- which were
completely unfamiliar to him.  The one labeled "Farrier" was another list
of animals which essentially corresponded to the tattoos -- except that
under "Vanessa Haynes" was the word "snail" rather than "slug". 

"She's not there." 

Mulder looked up to see Oliver standing over him.  He noted that her
professional mask had slipped a bit, and she was starting to look a little
tense.  "I didn't think she would be," he replied, and turned his
attention back to Scully's notes. 

"What have you got?" the detective asked, kneeling down next to him. 

Mulder suppressed the impulse to tell her to go fish.  This was about
Scully, he reminded himself, and he needed all the help he could get.  He
briefly went over the first two rows of entries, explaining their
significance to the detective.  "But I don't get the third and fourth
rows," he admitted.  "'Myth'?"  He tried pronouncing the unfamiliar words. 
"Jiraiya.  Tsunedahime.  Orochimaru." 

"That sounds like Japanese," Oliver commented. 

"Maybe," Mulder replied, giving the detective a quick glance, then looking
back at the pad.  "And what about this one at the bottom?  Who -- or what
-- is 'Farrier'?" 

"Alexander Farrier," the detective said promptly.  "One of our interview
subjects.  One of Agent Scully's subjects, actually.  She talked to him on
Sunday afternoon or evening -- the day we split up, because we'd fallen
behind." 

"Sunday," Mulder murmured, trying to put it together in his head.  Sunday
was the day Scully had come back late, so very, very tired.  She'd said
something then ... something about one of the subjects she'd interviewed
bothering her in some way.  But when he'd tried to pursue the matter she'd
pulled back, and hadn't wanted to talk about it. 

Could it have been Farrier?  Was *he* the one who had upset her?  If so,
how?  And was that when she was targeted? 

No, that didn't work.  'The Illustrated Person's' editorial deadline had
been more than 24 hours before that, and Alexa had told him on Saturday
afternoon that they already had the Tebori ad for that week.  So it had to
have been previous to that -- no later than Friday afternoon, since Alexa
said that the ads came by mail. 

"What's this?" 

Mulder glanced over at Oliver again, to see that the detective had picked
up one of the photographs from the pile on the floor, and was studying it. 
He leaned over slightly to look over her shoulder --

It was him.  The UNSUB.  Mulder felt the knowledge jolt through his system
like an electric shock.  It was an old, familiar feeling, something he
hadn't experienced much since his profiler days, but he still remembered
it well, and he knew better than toquestion it.  He didn't know how he
knew -- but he knew. 

It was the UNSUB. 

Mulder leaned a little closer, and was distantly aware of Oliver shifting
uncomfortably, putting a little distance between them.  There were several
people in the photograph, but his gaze was focused on the one in the
foreground.  It was a tall, dark-haired man in his mid- to late-20s.  He
was standing by himself in a cemetery, hands in his pockets, and a look of
terrible sorrow on his face. 

The sorrow would be genuine, Mulder reflected.  The profile he'd been
building in his head made it abdundantly clear that the UNSUB in this case
cared very deeply about his victims, and regretted whatever it was that
made it necessary for him to kill them. 

"That was taken at Doris Pennington's funeral," Oliver commented, dragging
Mulder out of his ruminations.  "The one Agent Scully and I went to last
Friday." 

"That must have been where he picked her up," Mulder said flatly, still
staring at the photograph.  It made sense, he thought.  If the UNSUB had
identified Scully as a victim on Friday afternoon, he would have just had
time to put together his new ad and mail it off so that it would arrive
before the editorial deadline on Saturday.  It fit. 

He noticed that there was something written on the picture, but it was
lightly done, and the handwriting was difficult to read.  He took the
photograph from Oliver and tilted it in the light, trying to make out what
it said.  It was Scully's handwriting,

he realized, but it was very sloppy -- much worse than what was on the
legal pad.  Finally he got a good angle on it, and was able to read it. 

Alexander Farrier. 

Shit.  Scully had put it all together.  Looking at her notes, and now at
the photograph, it was clear that the pieces had been falling into place
for her.  But now she was gone, and Mulder had a horrible feeling he knew
why.  He even thought he knew where.  If only he could be certain --

"Can I help you folks?" 

Mulder looked up from the photograph, to see a waitress standing a few
feet in front of him.  He rose to his feet and flipped his badge at her. 
Her eyes were still widening in surprise as he said, "Fox Mulder, FBI. The
woman who was sitting here -- my partner, Dana Scully -- do you know what
happened to her?"

The waitress glanced at the table, then back at Mulder.  "You mean the
redhead?"  Mulder nodded.  "She was there all morning, by herself.  Just
having coffee and working on some papers and stuff." 

"Did you see her leave?" 

The woman shook her head.  "She was a pay-as-you-go, so I wasn't paying
too much attention.  But a few minutes ago I did look over here, and there
was someone with her.  A man, kind of tall and dark.  I remember thinking
I should see if he needed something, but I was busy at the register.  And
when I looked back over here, they were both gone."  She shrugged.  "At
first, I thought you were him, if you see what I mean." 

Mulder nodded, and held out the photograph of Farrier.  "Is this the man?"
he asked. 

The waitress took the picture from him and studied it for a moment. 
Finally, she shrugged again.  "Could be.  I can't say for sure; I only saw
him for a second."  She handed the photograph back to Mulder.  "Is there
something wrong?  Who was that guy?" 

Mulder's thoughts were in a whirl.  It really was him.  It really was
Farrier, and Farrier was the UNSUB, and he had taken Scully. 

And Scully had a tattoo. 

Mulder headed for the door at a dead run. 

#          #          #

Time and location unknown

Scully was vaguely aware that she'd been asleep.  The low rumble of the
engine and the thrumming of the tires on the pavement had combined with
the steady, gentle rocking of the car to allow her, finally, to drift off. 

It was good to sleep, she thought drowsily.  She'd been so tired lately,
and she needed to rest.  Thank God for Mulder.  He always knew what she
needed, and he always tried to give it to her.  When she let him, anyway. 
Which wasn't nearly often enough. 

She'd have to work on that. 

She wondered how long she'd been asleep, and how long they'd been
travelling.  She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the dashboard clock
-- but it was still so bright out, and it made her eyes water, so she
closed them again. 

She wondered if there was something the matter with her eyes.  She hadn't
been having any trouble with them earlier, but now she could barely stand
to have them open.  It almost felt as if they were dilated.  She
considered that for a moment, but then the thought slipped away. 

She still wanted to know how long she'd been asleep; for some reason it
seemed to be important.  But if she couldn't open her eyes, she couldn't
read the clock.  It was as simple as that. 

She should ask Mulder, she realized.  Mulder would know what time it was,
and he would know how long she'd been asleep.  She would ask him, and he
would tell her, and then she would know.  Somehow the knowledge made her
feel very warm and content, and made the actual answer seem much less
important.  The destination didn't really matter, she reflected.  The
journey was what counted.  It was important that they both have respect
for the journey. 

She was still thinking about that when she drifted back to sleep. 

#          #          #

Iowa City, IA
Dubuque Street/Interstate 80 interchange
1:48 p.m.

"Where are we going?" 

Mulder glanced briefly at Oliver, sitting next to him in the passenger
seat, then looked back at the road in front of him.  "D.C.," he said
briefly, as he powered the car up the on-ramp and onto the Interstate. 

"You're kidding."  Mulder didn't have to see her face to know that the
detective was staring at him in disbelief.  "*Washington*, D.C.?  Why?" 

"Well, probably not all the way," Mulder amended, striving to keep his
voice calm and level.  "At least, I hope we catch him before he gets
there.  But that's where he's taking Scully."  He maneuvered past a semi,
then moved over into the left lane and pressed down on the accelerator,
until the needle hovered around eighty. 

He realized that Oliver hadn't said anything, and looked over to see that
she was looking at him doubtfully.  "He takes the women home," Mulder
elaborated.  "To their own homes, their own beds.  He tries to make them
as comfortable as possible.  I still don't know why, but that part of the
profile is rock-solid." 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the detective shaking her head.  "So
you think he's going to drive a thousand miles, all the way to D.C., with
Agent Scully tied up in the trunk or something?"  Mulder suppressed a
shudder at the memory her comment evoked.  Oliver continued, "And he's
going to do this just so he can kill her in her own bed?  That doesn't
make any sense at all!" 

"It's more complicated than that," Mulder replied, a little more sharply
than he'd intended.  "And yes, I do think that's what he's doing.  You
have to understand, serial killers don't think the way most people do.
They have their own logic, and their own way of looking at the world.  To
Farrier, making this trip doesn't just make sense; it's necessary.  It's
an imperative." 

Mulder glanced over at Oliver yet again, and saw that she still didn't
appear to be convinced.  He shook his head angrily and looked back at the
traffic.  This was for Scully, he reminded himself.  Everything was for
Scully, and he had to stay calm. 

"Have you ever heard of Monty Props?" he asked.  He looked quickly at the
detective, and she nodded.  "John Lee Roche?  James Nelson Packard?" 
Another nod, and Mulder looked back at the highway.  "I did those
profiles," he said.  "It's what I do, and I'm damned good at it.  I was
right those times, and I was right on a lot of other cases you've probably
never heard of.  And I'm right this time, too." 

There was a long period of silence, and Mulder had to resist the urge to
press the woman harder.  He didn't absolutely have to have Oliver's
cooperation, but it would make the job considerably easier if he did. 

Finally, she said, "Okay.  So he's heading for D.C."  She waved at the
highway in front of them.  "What do we do now?  Just chase along after
him?" 

"No," Mulder said, shaking his head and reaching into his jacket pocket. 
He pulled out his cell phone and tossed it to the detective.  "Time to
call in the clans." 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her nod again, and a few seconds later
she was speaking into the phone, her voice crisp and professional. 

"This is Detective Sergeant Amanda Oliver," she said.  "ICPD badge number
1215.  Calling to report an officer in need of assistance, and a possible
hostage situation."  She paused for a moment, while the dispatcher
apparently said something, then continued, "The officer is Special Agent
Dana Scully of the FBI.  Female caucasian, about five-two, about one ten. 
Auburn and blue.  She is being held under duress by a male suspect,
possible I.D. Alexander Farrier, of Riverside, Iowa ...." 

Mulder listened for a pair of minutes as Oliver passed along the rest of
the information they'd developed.  Finally, she terminated the call, and
handed the phone back to him. 

"And now we see if we can get something going on the other end," he
commented, and punched the speed dial for the Bureau's Officer of the Day. 

"O.D."  The man's voice sounded bored, and a little sleepy. 

"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder," Mulder said tersely.  He rattled off
his badge number and waited for a moment for the man to enter the
information in his computer. 

"Agent Mulder," the O.D. said, "I have instructions that you are to
contact Assistant Director Kersh as soon as possible." 

Mulder shook his head in annoyance.  "I don't have time for that right
now," he said.  "I have a situation developing, and I need --" 

"Agent Mulder," the other man cut in, "I am not authorized to receive any
messages from you at this time.  Please stay on the line while I connect
you with A.D. Kersh." 

Mulder swore and hit the disconnect. 

"Problems?" 

Mulder shook his head again.  "Nothing I shouldn't have expected," he
muttered.  He punched another of his speed dials. 

"Lone Gunman." 

"Frohike, it's Mulder," he said.  "I need some information, and I need it
fast." 

"Hang on."  Mulder waited for a moment, and heard a keyboard clicking at
the other end of the connection.  Finally:  "Okay.  Whatcha got going?" 

"Scully's in trouble," Mulder said without preamble.  "I need a background
check on Alexander Farrier, of Riverside, Iowa." 

"Can you tell me anything about the case?"  Frohike asked.  "It might help
me focus my search a bit." 

Mulder nodded.  "You've heard of the multiple killings out in Iowa this
past month?" 

"Yeah.  Is this connected?" 

"I think Farrier's the UNSUB," Mulder replied.  "But I haven't been able
to prove it yet, and I don't know what's going to be important, so just
dig up everything you can.  Uh ... " 

Mulder dropped the phone in his lap and grabbed the steering wheel with
both hands as a motorcycle cut in front of him without warning.  A few
seconds of sharp braking, and he was in the clear.  He picked up the phone
again. 

"Anyway," he continued smoothly, "the one thing I'd like a priority on is
what sort of car Farrier owns.  The son of a bitch has got Scully, and
they're headed for D.C.  I'm in pursuit, eastbound on Interstate 80.  I
need make, model, license number -- anything you can get, and fast." 

"I think I can get that for you right now," the little man said.  "Stay on
the line a minute."  It was actually closer to two minutes, and again
Mulder heard the keyboard clicking in the background.  Finally, Frohike
spoke again.  "Okay, you ready?" 

Mulder glanced at Oliver, and snapped, "Notebook."  A look of annoyance
crossed her face, but she reached into her jacket pocket and Mulder looked
back at the highway.  To Frohike:  "Go." 

"Okay," the little man repeated.  "This is from the Iowa DOT.  Alexander
Farrier is the registered owner of a 1989 white Cavalier, Iowa plate
number 064BKD.  He seems to have a clean driving record, other than a
speeding ticket issued in 1988."  Mulder repeated the information back for
Oliver's benefit.  Then Frohike said, "Anything else you need before I
close this window?" 

"No," Mulder replied.  "That'll do for now.  Just get on the rest of it,
and I mean *everything*.  Credit history, police record, if he has one,
military record, again if any -- the works.  Oh ... and there is one more
thing."  He groped around on the seat until he found the yellow legal pad
with Scully's notes on it.  "I've got three words here, possibly proper
names.  I don't know what they mean or even if they're important, but
they're on a notepad Scully was working on.  Ready?" 

"Shoot." 

Mulder read off the three words, giving the spelling of each and keeping
one eye on the traffic as he did so.  He concluded, "As I said, I don't
know if they're important, but you'd better assume they are.  Try looking
up mythological references."  He glanced at Oliver, then back at the
traffic, and added.  "Japanese mythology, maybe." 

"Okay.  Anything else?" 

"Nothing I can think of," Mulder said. 

"I'll get back to you as soon as I can."  And the connection was broken. 

==========END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Nineteen
===========

Time and location unknown

At first Scully wasn't sure what had awakened her.  She was still in the
car; of that she was certain.  The side of her face was pressed against
the cool glass of the window, and she could feel the seatbelt still gently
but firmly restraining her upper body. 

But the car had stopped moving, she suddenly realized.  That was the
difference.  The low rumble of the engine had also ceased, so they
evidently weren't sitting at a stoplight, or backed up in heavy traffic;
they were actually parked somewhere. 

Cautiously, Scully opened her eyes.  The unpleasant glare from earlier was
still present, but seemed to be a bit less severe than it had been before.
It also seemed a little easier to think, although her thoughts were still
slow, sluggish and somewhat confused. 

Slowly, her surroundings were coming into focus.  She was slumped over
against the door on the passenger side of the car; through the window, she
could make out gas pumps and a couple of other vehicles.  From the angle
of the sunlight, reflecting off the dark blue hood of the car, she judged
it to be either mid-morning or mid-afternoon, but the fog in her brain was
still too thick for her to ascertain which it was. 

Turning her head slightly, she saw that the driver's seat was empty.  That
was strange.  Mulder should be there, shouldn't he?  He was the one .... 
he was the one .... he was the one what?  She couldn't remember, and it
didn't seem important anymore, and the light was starting to bother her
again .... 

The sound of a car door slamming startled Scully back to wakefulness.  Her
eyes popped open, and the sudden glare made them water, so after a few
seconds she shut them again.  She was distantly aware that Mulder was back
in the driver's seat again, moving around and doing something, but she
didn't seem to have the energy to open her eyes again or turn her head. 

She felt a hand on her shoulder.  "Dana.  Dana, wake up." 

Scully frowned.  It was a man's voice, and it had to be Mulder.  But he
didn't call her Dana -- not very often, anyway.  Usually when he did, it
was because he needed her attention.  He needed her.  She would have to do
something, no matter how hard it was, because Mulder needed her. 

She forced her eyes open again, and winced at the renewed glare.  Turning
her head once again, she saw Mulder sitting next to her.  She couldn't see
the expression on his face because of the light, but he was holding
something in his hand, offering it to her. 

It was a cup, she realized.  He wanted her to drink something. 

"Here, Dana," he said, in soothing, gentle tones.  "Just a bit of
chamomile to help you relax.  You've been so tense, lately.  You need to
relax." 

Automatically, she accepted the cup from Mulder's hand and took a sip.  It
was warm and strong, and very bitter, but she forced it down anyway.
Mulder wanted her to have it, so she should drink it.  It would make him
happy if she drank it.  She took another sip, and again she closed her
eyes. 

The car abruptly moved forward, and Scully's hand shook.  She almost lost
the cup she was holding, but in hanging on to it managed to spill a little
more than half of the remaining liquid. 

She glanced blearily over at Mulder, and saw that he was apparently so
absorbed in maneuvering the car that he hadn't noticed.  What he didn't
know wouldn't hurt him, she decided.  Besides, it wasn't very good tea. 
She quietly upended the cup, dumping the rest of it onto the floor, then
laid her head against the headrest and closed her eyes again.

#          #          #

Passing Knoxville, IL
Eastbound on Interstate 74
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
3:02 p.m.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?" 

Mulder glanced over at Oliver, then looked back at the highway.  The
detective hadn't spoken for nearly an hour, and he'd been so focused on
driving, and watching for a white Cavalier, that he'd almost forgotten she
was there. 

"Agent Mulder!" 

He realized he handn't answered her.  Now he shrugged slightly, and
without looking at the woman sitting next to him, he said, "Yes, I'm sure. 
I told you before, the profile --" 

"Yeah, sure, the profile."  Oliver's voice was cool, distant and
professional.  "The only thing is, we've been on the road for over an
hour, and I haven't seen any white Cavaliers." 

"Neither have I," Mulder replied briefly.  "But it's up there ahead of us
somewhere.  Count on it." 

"Maybe."  The detective was quiet for a moment.  Then, all in a rush:  "Or
maybe they never left Iowa City.  Maybe right now, at this moment, Agent
Scully is --" 

"Shut up!"  Mulder hands clenched on the steering wheel as he tried to
banish the images Oliver's words had conjured up.  Finally, through
gritted teeth:  "This profile is correct.  I've never been more sure of
anything in my life." 

"Fine," she snapped.  "And I suppose you're ready to stake your reputation
on it, too.  I just hope for Agent Scully's sake --" 

Mulder's cell phone rang, and he scooped it off the seat and punched the
connect button in one smooth motion.  "Mulder." 

"Mulder, it's Frohike.  Where are you?"  The little man's voice sounded
tense, but calm. 

"Western Illinois," Mulder replied.  "We just passed Galesburg a few
minutes ago ... coming up on Peoria in about forty miles.  Why?" 

"Shit."  Mulder heard keys clicking.  "You're going the wrong way, man." 

"Fuck that," Mulder snapped.  "The son of a bitch is heading for D.C., and
--" 

"Just shut up for a minute and listen for once!" the little man
interrupted testily.  "I didn't mean it that way.  I mean you're on the
wrong highway.  You just passed Galesburg, so you're on 74, right?" 

"Right." 

"Well, eighteen minutes ago, Alexander Farrier's credit card was used at a
truck stop in Princeton, Illinois.  That's on 80." 

"Fuck!"  Mulder resisted the immediate urge to slam on the brakes. 
Instead he peered ahead, on down the highway, looking for the next exit
ramp.  "Gimme a route over to 80, Frohike," he said.  "We're coming up on
mile marker ... sixty one, it looks like. " 

"Slow down, pal."  The annoyance was gone from his friend's voice.  "I
think that'd be a mistake.  You'd just fall farther behind." 

"But --" 

"Wait a minute, Mulder -- just wait a minute.  I'm looking at a map over
on Yahoo."  There was a moment of silence.  Then:  "Look, if this guy is
really heading for D.C. --" 

"He is." 

"I believe you," Frohike assured him.  "But if he *is* heading that way,
he's gonna have to cross over to I-70 at some point, because 80 doesn't go
to D.C. -- it goes to New York.  And you're going to wind up on 70, too. 
So if you just stay on the highway you're on, eventually he'll come to
you." 

"Where?" 

"I'm a programmer, not a mindreader."  Another pause.  "If I was doing it,
I'd take the Pennsylvania Turnpike -- that's I-76.  It looks like the
shortest and fastest route.  Does he know you're after him?" 

"I doubt it," Mulder replied. 

"Okay, then there's no reason for him not to take the direct route.  And
76 meets up with 70 just east of Pittsburgh ... so that should be your
rendezvous point." 

"Shit," Mulder commented.  "That's gotta be at least five hundred miles." 

"More like six hundred," the little man replied calmly.  "But it's your
best shot.  And that's my recommendation.  I've already hacked into the
Illinois State Police dispatch system and posted an alert.  Same for
Indiana and Ohio.  So with any luck, the cops'll find him before he gets
anywhere near that interchange." 

"They didn't find Duane Barry," Mulder said grimly. 

"That's true," Frohike agreed, his voice still calm and even.  "But this
time we pretty much know where the son of a bitch is going, and we've got
a lot more lead time.  Now I've got some preliminary info on Farrier.  You
ready for it?" 

Mulder nodded.  "Lay it on me." 

"Okay.  This is in no particular order; I haven't had time to organize it. 
And it's not complete, either."  This time Mulder heard papers rustling. 
"I've got all the usual biographical crap.  Born 1971, went to school in
Washington, Iowa, and got average grades.  Six years in the Navy -- his
MOS was pharmacist's mate.  Now employed as a pharmacy tech at the
University of Iowa.  Never been married, and both parents are still
living.  No criminal record.  With me so far?" 

"Yeah."  Mulder felt himself sinking into a familiar analytical haze as
Frohike's words continued to pour from the receiver.  "Go on." 

"That's all I've got on Farrier, at least for the moment," Frohike said. 
"But I've also got some data on those three names you gave me."  The
little man paused, and Mulder suddenly had the feeling his friend was
groping for the right words.  Finally:  "Mulder, I have to ask you a
question, and you have got to be straight with me, because it could make a
difference.  Is this related to Scully's tattoo?" 

Now it was Mulder's turn to be silent.  Frohike knew about the tattoo. 
Somehow, some way, he knew about it.  Not that it was a secret, exactly,
but --

"Mulder!" Frohike said sharply. 

Mulder shook his head angrily.  There wasn't time for this.  "Yes," he
said, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.  "Yes, it concerns her
tattoo.  All of the victims had tattoos.  That's part of the profile." 

"That's what I thought."  The little man's voice was grim and unyielding. 
"Anyway, those three names are indeed from Japanese mythology.  Jiraiya,
Tsunedahime and Orochimaru were three very powerful wizards who lived on
Mt. Togakushi.  They were evil wizards, natch, and they specialized in
trying to outdo each other in villainy." 

"Frohike, does this have a point?" 

"I'm coming to it," Frohike replied calmly.  "Each of the wizards had a
familiar:  a toad, a slug and a snake, respectively.  And --" 

"Wait a minute," Mulder said.  "Those are the tattoos the victims had." 
It was all starting to come together in his head --

"There's more," Frohike went on.  "We know that Agent Scully has a tattoo
of a snake, which would be connection enough.  But hers -- it's not just
any snake.  It's an Oroborous.  The whole never-ending cycle thing, right? 
So get this:  as part of the legend, the familiars are locked into a
cycle.  The snake eats the toad, the toad eats the slug, the slug
dissolves the snake.  And on and on and on." 

"Shit." 

"Exactly."  Mulder could almost see his friend nodding wisely.  "Which
might explain why your boy didn't stop with three." 

"It might at that," Mulder replied.  He thought a moment.  "Although he
wasn't following the cycle.  The snake just kept repeating, whereas if he
was following the legend, you'd think he'd go back and start over.  But
maybe he was looking for the perfectsnake .... "  He allowed his voice to
trail off. 

"And then Agent Scully came along with an Oroborous," Frohike finished. 
"And Farrier saw a chance to complete his own cycle." 

"Right."  Mulder was quiet for a moment.  Finally, he shook his head. 
"Okay, I'm going to have to let that percolate for a bit," he said.  "Got
anything else?" 

"Not for now," the little man replied.  "Well, one thing I guess."  He
paused, and Mulder realized that his friend was about to make a
pronouncement of some sort.  And when Frohike did speak, his voice was
very quiet.  "Scully just needed to talk to someone, Mulder, and it pretty
obviously wasn't going to be you.  But I've never seen her tattoo. 
There's only one man I know of who's ever likely to have that privilege." 

The connection was broken. 

# # #

Time and location unknown

They were stopped again, at another gas station.  Scully wasn't sure how
long she'd been asleep, but judging from the crick in her neck and the
fact that it was now dark out, it must have been several hours.  She was
still extremely tired and languid, and her thoughts were slow and
sluggish.  But at least now, with the sun having gone down, it didn't hurt
quite so much when she opened her eyes. 

Unfortunately, there wasn't anything of interest to look at.  A truck stop
was a truck stop was a truck stop, she philosophized sleepily.  She'd been
to so many of them in the past five years that she could write a book.
'All About Truck Stops'.  That was a good title, she decided.  It would
make a good book, and maybe Mulder would help her write it.  He'd seen a
lot of truck stops, too, and the two of them really only at their best
when they were working together. 

She wished he would come back from wherever he'd gone.  The driver's seat
was empty, just as it had been the last time she awoke, and Scully
suddenly felt very lost and alone.  Maybe she should just go back to
sleep.  Then when she woke up again, Mulder would be there beside her,
where he was supposed to be. 

But she didn't want to sleep; she'd done enough sleeping.  She wanted to
stay awake and see Mulder.  Surely he'd be back soon.  He wouldn't leave
her alone like this -- not any longer than he had too, anyway.  If she
could only stay awake a few more minutes .... 

And then suddenly he was there, as if by magic, sitting in the seat next
to her.  Scully realized she must have dozed off, despite her intentions,
and she silently berated herself for her lack of self-discipline. 

"Some more chamomile?" 

Mulder's voice came to her out of the shadows, and looking down, she saw
that he was once again offering her a cup, presumably filled with that
vile-tasting tea.  Still, he meant well, she reminded herself, and he was
her partner -- and Ahab would be angry if he heard that she had refused a
common courtesy.  So she forced a smile, even though she wasn't sure if he
could see her in the darkness anymore than she could see him, and accepted
the cup. 

She raised it to her lips and took a small sip, just in case this offering
was better than the last, but it was just as strong and bitter as before.
And so she waited while Mulder started the engine and put the car in gear,
and as soon as she thought his attention was diverted, she dumped the
contents of the cup onto the floor. 

Then Scully settled back into her seat and waited for sleep to overtake
her again. 

==========END CHAPTER NINETEEN==========

===========
Chapter Twenty
===========

Richmond, IN
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
8:34 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time

"Dammit, Oliver, hurry up!"  

Mulder banged his fist impatiently on the door to the ladies' room. 
They'd been stopped here for nearly ten minutes, which was five minutes
longer than he'd planned.  And with each minute that passed, Farrier was a
mile farther east; a mile closer to the crucial interchange. 

At last the door swung open, and the detective brushed by him on her way
back to the car, walking briskly, her cool, professional mask firmly in
place.  Her exit was so abrupt that Mulder had to run a few steps to catch
up. 

Oliver sat quietly on the passenger side as Mulder fastened his seat belt,
started the engine, and maneuvered the car out onto the street.  Finally,
as he was accelerating up the ramp to the Interstate once again, she
spoke. 

"You know, the two of you are a real piece of work." 

"What?"  Mulder was only half paying attention, as he tried to cope with a
battered VW that didn't seem to want to let him merge onto the highway. 

"You and Agent Scully," Oliver elaborated.  "I don't know what it is
between the two of you -- at first I thought you were just an asshole, and
she was too cowed to do anything about it." 

"You got that half right, anyway," Mulder muttered.  He'd finally made it
onto the Interstate, and now he pressed down on the gas, resisting the
urge to flip off the driver of the VW as he went by. 

"Yeah, I do," the detective agreed.  "But it's more complicated than that,
isn't it?" 

Mulder shrugged.  "You tell me, Dr. Ruth." 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Oliver shaking her head.  "You don't
have to work so hard at it, you know," she said.  "Everyone already knows
you're a prick.  Everyone except for Agent Scully." 

"Oh, she knows," he commented.  "Trust me on this one." 

"No, she doesn't," the detective answered.  "She may pay lip service to
the idea, but she doesn't really believe it.  She doesn't know you for
what you are, not really.  Not the way I do.  And if you had any decency
you'd just let her walk away." 

For a moment, Mulder struggled with the temptation to tell Oliver that
he'd tried -- that he'd done his level best to get Scully to leave, and at
least save herself. 

//You were right to want to quit,// he'd told her, only a few weeks
before, when he was still fresh from the agony of nearly losing her yet
again.  //You were right to want to leave me. You should get as far away
from me as you can.  I'm not going to watch you die, Scully, because of
some hollow personal cause of mine. Go be a doctor. Go be a doctor while
you still can.//

She hadn't, of course.  He hadn't really expected her to, and in his
heart, he hadn't even wanted her to leave.  But the imp of the perverse
had forced those words from his lips, and he had then lived in purgatory
for the few eternal seconds before she voiced her refusal.

He realized that Oliver was watching him, waiting for some sort of a
response, but he didn't really have anything to say that she would
understand.  No one could understand -- not unless that person had been
through the same crucible that he and Scully had endured the past five
years.  And then, of course, there would be no need to ask the question,
because both the inquiry and the answer would already be understood. 

Finally, he simply shrugged, and said, "If we quit now, they win." 

# # #

Location unknown
11:58 p.m.

It wasn't Mulder. 

The realization had come to Scully gradually, over the course of the past
hour or so.  She still didn't know who the driver was; it was too dark for
her to make out his features.  But it wasn't Mulder.  The shape of the
head was wrong, and the way he held the steering wheel, and even the
little songs he hummed to himself were songs Mulder would never hum. 

He thought she was still asleep.  When she had first awakened, she hadn't
bothered to move, because although her thoughts were moving much more
cleanly and smoothly than they had been before, her body still felt limp
and worn out, as if she had been dragged through a wringer.  So she
remained still and quiet, and took the rare opportunity to watch and
admire her partner without his knowledge. 

But it wasn't her partner. 

Her first instinct was to challenge the man, to demand to know who he was,
where he was taking her, and why.  Her early life experience had taught
her the importance of being assertive, and her training at Quantico and
her experience as an FBI agent had reinforced that, drumming in the lesson
that a law enforcement officer must move quickly to establish dominance in
any uncertain situation. 

Yet she had also learned the value of caution over the years, and before
she forced herself to stop and consider her circumstance before taking
precipitous action. 

She was in a precarious position.  That was immediately evident from even
the most cursory review.  She was in a car, being driven somewhere by an
unknown person.  Suspect, she amended in her mind.  The driver of the car
was already guilty of kidnapping a federal officer -- and judging from the
lethargy that still pervaded her body, Scully suspected that she had also
been drugged. 

The suspect's reason for doing all this was also unknown, and that was
another handicap, Scully realized.  It meant that she didn't know how
important it was to him that she remain alive until the end of the trip --
nor did she know what he intended to do with her once they reached their
final destination.  Hell, she didn't even know what that destination might
be, or how much longer it would take to get there. 

The aftereffects of whatever drug she had been given were still another
liability.  Her mind seemed to be clear and sharp, at last, but her body
was still lethargic, which would put her at a severe disadvantage if she
had to fight for her freedom.  And by shifting slightly in her seat, she
was able to determine that her primary weapon was not in its usual place,
and that her holdout was gone, as well. 

She had very few options, Scully concluded grimly.  At the very least, she
would have to wait for the car to stop again, and hope that it was another
gas or restroom break, rather than the final destination.  At a truck stop
or service station there would be other people around, and perhaps she
would have an opportunity to signal for help. 

Scully closed her eyes again, but this time she did not sleep. 

# # #

Near Pittsburgh, PA
Junction of Interstates 70 & 76
Wednesday, October 7, 1998
1:28 a.m.

A pair of headlights flashed in the distance, dragging Mulder from the
semi-hypnotic state he'd fallen into.  Westbound, he thought.  Those
headlights were westbound, and therefore were of no interest. 

They were stopped on the median strip just past the junction of Interstate
70 and Interstate 76, facing east, having arrived about thirty minutes
earlier.  Frohike had assured him, based on the last use of Farrier's
credit card, that the other vehicle was following the predicted path, and
could not possibly have arrived yet.  But so far, there had been no sign
of it. 

"That makes three," Oliver commented quietly, as the twin beams resolved
into a red Toyota.  "Three heading west, and five heading east.  No white
Cavaliers." 

Mulder nodded briefly, but said nothing.  He could count as well as she
could, and he had no desire to engage in idle chit-chat with the
detective.  All he wanted to do was watch for the white Cavelier.  All he
wanted to do was watch for Scully. 

"How did Farrier know about Agent Scully's tattoo, anyway?" Oliver asked
abruptly.  "That's the one thing that bothers me about this whole thing. 
Do you suppose she and Farrier --" 

"No!" Mulder said curtly.  "Scully's not like that."  He hesitated, not
sure how much he wanted to go into this with the detective.  While he was
thinking about it, another car went by, this one heading east -- a blue
Mustang, Mulder noted absently.  That made six. 

"So how did he know?" Oliver persisted, her voice tinged with sarcasm. 
"Since we seem to have ruled out the possibility that Agent Scully might
have wanted to unwind, I mean, and might have gone looking for some
company to do it with." 

"Scully's wouldn't do that," Mulder grated, fighting off the stab of pain
the woman's words were causing him.  "And if she did, she wouldn't do it
with the subject of an investigation.  She has better judgment than that,
and more self-control." 

"Well you certainly seem to have her up on a pedestal, don't you?" the
detective murmured.  "Of course, I imagine the rules are different for
co-workers --" 

Mulder slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.  "Dammit!  I don't
need this right now."  He turned to face her.  "You want to know how I
think that asshole knew about Scully's tattoo?  I think he was able to
sense it.  I think he has some sort of psychic ability that allows him to
somehow see or hear a tattoo, or in some other way just *know* that it's
there.  There are plenty of documented cases --" 

Oliver started laughing.  "Oh, you have *got* to be kidding!" she said. 
"Psychic abilities?  Why not x-ray vision, for Christ's sake!" 

"You have no idea --" Mulder started -- and then chopped off short as his
cell phone shrilled.  He scooped it up and punched the connect button. 
"Mulder." 

"It's me."  Frohike's voice was higher than normal, and he was speaking
very quickly.  "Mulder, I think I've got something big.  And I think I
know why the highway patrol hasn't had any luck looking for a white
Cavalier." 

"Why?"  Mulder clutched the cell phone a little tighter. 

"Man, I screwed up," Frohike said.  "I'm sorry.  It never occurred to me
--" 

"Frohike!" Mulder said sharply.  "Get to the point!" 

"Okay, okay."  There was a very brief pause while the little man
apparently fought to get his breathing under control.  "Look," he said, "I
just hacked into the the University of Iowa's medical records.  And I
discovered that Farrier had a sister, and she died there last June.  Care
to guess what the cause of death was?"

Mulder suppressed the urge to swear at his friend, and simply said, "Tell
me." 

"Complications from hepatitis," the little man said succinctly. 
"Hepatitis B to be precise.  They never did find out where she caught it,
but the only risk factor anyone was able to identify --" 

"Was a tattoo," Mulder said.  "Jesus.  He blamed his sister's death on a
tattoo." 

"Sure sounds like it," Frohike agreed. 

"And that's why he took such care with his victims," Mulder went on. 
Suddenly everything was falling into place, and he couldn't keep himself
from reeling it off to the only available audience. 

"He didn't want to hurt them," he went on.  "He didn't even want to make
them uncomfortable, and he certainly didn't want to kill them.  He was
trying to *save* them.  That explains the flowers, and the ceremonial urns
used to hold the ashes after the skin was burned."  He shook his head
sharply.  "Christ -- it even explains the ice cream.  That was for the
'patient' to eat while she was recovering -- like a little kid after a
tonsillectomy." 

"There's more," Frohike said grimly.  "And this is where I fucked up. 
According to the ICPD's records, Farrier's car was impounded this
afternoon, presumably as a result of your 911 call.  But his sister also
owned a car, of course, and she was single, and the registration is still
in her name --" 

Mulder closed his eyes.  "What did she drive," he asked quietly. 

"A '93 Mustang," the little man said.  "Dark blue." 

Mulder dropped the cell phone, turned the key in the ignition, and slammed
the accelerator all the way to the floor. 

# # #

Near Donegal, PA
Eastbound on Interstate 70/76
1:46 a.m.

Scully had a plan.  All she needed was an opportunity to carry it out. 

She watched the driver of the car through slitted eyes, and carefully
shifted her foot until it once again bumped against the long, metal
thermos she'd found lying in the footwell.  The thermos from which her
captor had presumably been serving her cups of tea earlier in the trip. 
The thermos which would be her principle weapon when the time came. 

The tea was probably the source of the drugs he'd been giving her.  Scully
didn't remember much about the early part of the journey, but she
remembered the tea.  It had been strong and bitter, and after she started
dumping it out of the cup instead of drinking it, her mind had started to
clear.  So the tea was almost certainly the culprit. 

Strong and bitter, Scully thought to herself.  That was how the tea had
tasted, and that was also how Oliver had described the extract -- or
whatever it was -- of yellow jasmine.  Gelsemium; that was the name.  The
detective had characterized it as a painkiller, and theorized that the
killer had used it to pacify his victims. 

Just as she herself had been pacified. 

Which in turn allowed her to identify the man who had abducted her. 

Scully's attention was drawn back to the present as she felt the car
change lanes and begin to decelerate.  She opened her eyes a little
farther, and turned her head enough to see that they were approaching an
exit ramp. 

The time had apparently come. 

# # #

"That must be him." 

Mulder nodded in acknowledgement of Oliver's comment.  She was pointing at
the tail lights of a car, perhaps a mile in front of them.  The blue
Mustang had been the last vehicle to go by, and there had been no
interchanges or exits since they started their pursuit.  By the process of
elimination, those tail lights almost certainly belonged to the vehicle
they were looking for.

Now if only the cavalry would arrive, he thought grimly.  Frohike had
posted an alert to the Pennsylvania highway patrol, and Oliver had called
911 on the cell phone -- but the dispatcher had informed her that the
nearest trooper was at least twenty minutes away. 

"He's signaling," Oliver said suddenly, and again Mulder nodded.  The car
ahead of them was signaling and changing lanes, and now Mulder saw an
interchange approaching.  Could they really be so lucky?  Was Farrier
actually pulling off the highway for a pit stop? 

Perhaps he had simply spotted them, and was taking evasive action. 

He tried to think back.  Frohike had reported the last apparent refueling
stop more than four hours ago, somewhere in central Ohio.  Call it two
hundred and fifty miles.  So it really was about time for another one. 
For once, just maybe, things were falling his way.  Now all they had to do
was keep the bastard in sight until the regular cops arrived -- or until
there was an opportunity to intervene on their own. 

He tapped the brake gently, slowing the car so as to keep a good half mile
between himself and the suspect vehicle, and without signaling, he moved
over into the right lane and switched off his headlights. 

# # #

It was time. 

They were parked once more under the bright lights of a truck stop.  A few
minutes ago, Farrier -- now that she'd seen him in the light, there was no
doubt as to his identity -- had left the car to pump gas, and now he was
walking towards the cashier's window. 

She briefly considered just getting out of the car and trying to run.  But
the truck stop was in the middle of nowhere, and it was a long way even to
the cashier, and Scully still wasn't sure she could trust her legs that
far.  So she waited, the metal thermos resting lightly in her lap. 

Finally, she saw Farrier turn away from the window and start back towards
the car.  As he walked up to the driver's side, she made a show of
fumbling with the lid on the thermos.  She was distantly aware of another
car pulling into the truck stop at high speed, and for just an instant she
considered changing her plan.  Perhaps the people in the car could help
.... 

But there was no time.  Already, Farrier was unlocking the driver's side
door, sliding into the seat and reaching for his seatbelt.  It was now or
never.  Scully shrugged slightly, and went into her act. 

"Want some tea," she mumbled as the man inserted the key into the
ignition.  She struggled with the lid another moment, before finally
thrusting it out towards Farrier.  "Help me?" 

"Sure, Dana.  Just a minute."  The man's voice was warm and gentle, and
Scully forced what she hoped was an appreciative smile at his words.  He
popped the top with one quick twist, and poured liquid into it.  Finally,
he offered the cup to her. 

And it was time.  Scully reached out for the cup, deliberately misjudging
the distance and knocking it from his hand.  Hot tea went flying
everywhere, and the cup, as she had planned, wound up on the floor between
Farrier's feet. 

"Son of a bitch!"  For just an instant the man's voice was harsh and
angry, but he immediately settled down.  "Sorry, Dana," he said gently. 
"Just a moment."  He set the thermos on the seat between them and bent
over to retrieve the cup --

And Scully picked up the thermos and lifted it high, using all her
strength to smash it down against the back of his head.  For a moment he
sat there, perfectly still, and Scully was about to slug him again ... 
when suddenly he slumped forward against the steering wheel. 

And then she heard footsteps running towards her, and Mulder's voice,
shouting her name. 

==========END CHAPTER TWENTY==========

===========
Epilogue
===========

Pittsburgh, PA
University of Pittsburgh Medical Center
Wednesday, October 7, 1998
4:02 p.m.

When Scully woke up, she was alone. 

At first she had difficulty remembering what had happened.  She was in a
hospital room; that was obvious.  It was a private room, indicating that
someone was picking up the extra charges that entailed.  Judging from the
sunlight streaming in the window and the game show quietly babbling to
itself on the television, it was afternoon .... 

Gradually, things started coming back to her.  She had made a
breakthrough; she had actually developed enough evidence to justify
calling someone a suspect.  She remembered sitting in the bagel shop as
she put the pieces together, one revelation following close on the heels
of another.  Then Mulder had arrived, and there was a long car ride ...
and the slow realization that it wasn't really Mulder .... 

"Hey, Scully." 

Scully turned her head, and couldn't keep a happy smile from spreading
across her face at seeing her partner standing in the doorway.  He held a
styrofoam cup in one hand, and some sort of sandwich in the other -- and
he was smiling right back at her. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," he said, stepping across the
room to click off the television.  He turned to face her and gestured with
the hand holding the sandwich.  "I just needed to get a little something
to tide me over." 

"That's okay," she said.  She was still smiling at him; she couldn't seem
to stop herself.  Logically, she knew that all of the problems that had
stood between them twenty four hours ago were still there -- but God, she
was glad to see him. 

"Your mother should be here in an hour or so," Mulder said, moving away
from the TV and settling down in the visitor's chair.  He set his drink
and sandwich on the tray table next to the bed, and continued, "I called
her last night, as soon as we got youto the E.R.  Do you remember any of
that?" 

Scully shook her head.  "A little.  Not much." 

"You did it, Scully," he said, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. 
"You solved the case, and you whacked Farrier -- put him in the ICU.  Good
job." 

Scully shook her head again, slowly.  "I don't know, Mulder," she said,
her smile slowly fading at last.  "It doesn't feel like a good job.  It
feels more like I just ... I don't know.  Stumbled into it.  You know?" 

Mulder laughed a little.  "Isn't that the way about three quarters of our
cases go?" he asked. 

"Yes, it is," she replied.  "But this is different, somehow.  The whole
time I was working this case, I felt incomplete.  As if part of me was
missing." 

Her partner nodded soberly.  "I know," he said softly.  "I've felt exactly
the same way.  Ever since Arizona."  Scully averted her eyes; that was
still a sore subject, and she wasn't sure she wanted to deal with it right
now -- but Mulder leaned forward, and lightly touched his fingers to her
chin, drawing her attention back to him.  "It's okay, Scully," he said. 
"I'm not trying to force anything." 

"I know."  She paused for a moment, then continued, "But it shouldn't be
like that. Should it?  Shouldn't we be able to ... to work with whoever
we're assigned to work with?  The FBI isn't supposed to be a social club." 

"That's true, Scully," he responded with a nod.  "Everything you've said
is true.  But at the same time, you and I are a team.  We're the best
there is."  He smiled slightly.  "And neither of us really plays well with
others; you know that."  He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. 
"Speaking of which -- Amanda Oliver was here a little while ago.  She said
to tell you that I'm an asshole." 

Scully couldn't help but laugh at that.  "Well, she got that right,
anyway."  She suddenly sobered, as a thought crystallized in her mind. 
"She was a very difficult person to get along with," she said softly.  "I
don't like her very much." 

Mulder chuckled, and said, "What?  You finally found a partner who was
even harder to work with than I am?" 

Scully smiled.  "Is that such an extreme possibility?"  She reached out
and briefly squeezed his hand, then let it go again.  "You know, she
doesn't like you very much." 

Mulder hesitated, then shrugged.  "Actually," he said, "I'm under the
impression that she doesn't like me at all." 

"That's probably true," Scully admitted.  "I think she must have had a bad
experience at some point.  Something she said ...."  Her voice trailed off
as she searched her memory.  It had been one of the times she and Oliver
were driving somewhere together. They'd been talking about Mulder. 
Something ....

And then she had it. 

"She seems to think you're taking advantage of me," Scully said.  She
reached out and took her partner's hand and gave it another squeeze.
"Which you're not, by the way.  But something she said kind of stuck with
me.  She said, 'Take it from someone whoknows.'"  Scully shook her head,
and added.  "I'm not sure if that means what it seems to mean -- but it's
all I've really got to go on."  She shrugged.  "I don't suppose we'll ever
know for sure." 

Her partner nodded.  "You're probably right.  She seems like a very closed
off person.  Emotionally repressed." 

"She is," Scully agreed.  "I think that's why she seems so ... familiar,
in a lot of ways." 

"What do you mean?" 

"She's me," Scully said simply.  She looked her partner in the eye, and
repeated, "She's me.  Not how I am, but how I could have been, if things
were only a little different.  Bitter, angry, repressed ... close-minded." 
She shook her head.  "And I don't like that person, Mulder.  I don't want
to *be* that person.  But sometimes ..."  Her voice trailed off again, and
once more she lowered her gaze.  "Sometimes I get the feeling that ...
other people think I'm like that." 

"You mean me." 

It wasn't quite a question, but she answered it anyway.  "Yes.  I mean
you." 

There was a long silence; at last, Scully forced herself to raise her
head, and look Mulder in the eye.  His face was a study of ... something. 
An odd mix of anxiety and compassion.  And finally, he spoke. 

"Scully ..."  His voice trailed off and he shook his head.  "I'm sorry. 
I'm not sorry about the things I said -- I mean, I wasn't saying anything
I didn't think was true.  You *are* frustrating and stubborn sometimes. 
You make me crazy.  Sometimes." 

He reached out and took one of her hands in both of his.  "But I shouldn't
have said it the way I did, Scully, and I'm sorry about that.  I can't
find the words to tell you how sorry I am."  He smiled slightly.  "And I
shouldn't have compared you to Diana, either.  That was totally unfair --
to her." 

Scully felt her eyebrows raising.  Mulder went on, "I mean it, Scully. 
Diana may be more ... open ... to paranormal phenomena, but ... but that's
not what I need."  His lips quirked.  "It may be what I think I want --
sometimes.  But it's not what I need."  Suddenly, his face turned
completely serious, and when he spoke again, she could barely hear him. 
"Scully, I need you to do something for me." 

Scully hesitated just an instant, then nodded.  "Okay.  What is it?" 

"Turn on your side." 

Scully felt her eyebrows rising again, and she was about to ask him why --
but then she looked in his eyes, and something there told her not to.  So
she simply nodded again, and did as he had asked. 

For a moment or two nothing happened, and Scully could feel herself
starting to tense up again.  Maybe she should have turned the other way,
so she could see him.  But something had told her he wanted her to face
away --

Abruptly she felt something touch her hip.  Her body twitched slightly,
but somehow she managed to stay still.  She felt a gentle tugging, and
realized that Mulder must be undoing the ties on her hospital gown.  She
wanted to protest, or at least *say* something ... but again, she realized
it would be better to stay quiet.  There was a slight chill as her back
was exposed to the open air, and then something warm and slightly rough
came to rest against her lower back .... 

Mulder's hand. 

Scully felt a slight shock race up her spine at his touch.  It was
comforting and familiar, and yet it felt so very different -- as if they
were new to each other, and this was the very first time he had touched
her.  And now his hand was sliding, slowly, slowly, down and to the right
... and then it came to rest, at last, on the Oroborous. 

The small jolt of electricity Scully had experienced when he first touched
her was nothing compared to this.  She felt as if she were being lifted
up, almost transfigured, and a strange, exciting energy seemed abruptly to
be flowing between herself and her partner.  She had never felt anything
like this before, not even in the most intimate moments of lovemaking. 
And now he was speaking .... 

"Of all the things you've said to me in the last few days," he said, as
his fingers began to trace the outline of her tattoo, in slow deliberate
circles, "I think this was the most shocking.  Not about you -- about me. 
I swear to you, Scully -- I wasn't consciously aware that I was avoiding
this." 

He pressed down a little harder.  "But now that you've made me aware," her
partner continued, "I want to make sure you understand that there isn't
any part of you that I won't touch.  That there is no part of you that I
refuse to accept.  I want it all, Scully -- the good and the bad, the
sweet and the sour.  I know we've got a long way to go to get back to
where we thought we were.  But I want it all, and I won't settle for
less." 

"So do I," she whispered.  "I want it all, too." 

"Forever," he insisted.  "It has to be everything, and it has to be
forever." 

"Forever," she agreed. 

And Scully closed her eyes, and Mulder's fingers kept on rubbing, in slow,
intimate circles, tracing the outline of eternity. 

==========THE END OF THE WHOLE STORY==========