Date: Wed, 25 Apr 2001 02:09:20 -0700
Subject: Under the Rose
Source: direct

TITLE: Under the Rose (10 chapters)
AUTHOR: bugs
FEEDBACK: Appreciated on a story that's such a departure for me. 
bugbugs@att.net
URL: www.underthewing.com/bugs 
DISTRIBUTION: I'll do Gossamer and Spookys. Anyone else, please 
ask. 
RATING: NC-17 for violent, disturbing imagery and sexual 
situations.  
CLASSIFICATION: X, A, M/S 
SPOILERS: Story is set in early season 2. A familiarity with old 
episodes will definitely help make this story more interesting. 
I've tried to place the characters within that timeline, and also 
fill in some development. Some events are my creativity but others 
are plucked from episodes. 
CONTENT WARNING: This storyline may offend Catholics and others 
with religious beliefs. And vampires. 
SUMMARY: The Christmas holidays are always so stressful. 1994 is 
even more so for Dana Scully, bringing painful memories, a 
perplexing Mulder, and vampires. 
AUTHOR'S NOTES: See end.


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

But flesh with the life thereof, which is the blood thereof, shall 
ye not eat.  Genesis 9:4

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

 
Chapter 1: Sanguivoria

The music pounds. Our shuffling feet follow the rhythm. Under the 
flickering red flames of whirling lights, we are slaves to its 
beat. 

Bodies sway like bullrushes, following Isis' breath. Closed eyes 
signify their isolation, even as the mass of bodies move as one. I 
sway with them, but my attention is not driven to that interior 
world. 

I'm watching her. She came looking for me, but I haven't tried to 
flee. I've been waiting for her. 

Her eyes, deep with the flashing light, come to rest on me. The 
bloom of her mouth gasps for breath. Her black dress wraps around 
her small body, pulling her into the shadows. My gaze falls on her 
bare neck trying to hide in a bramble of red curls. She's among us 
unprotected.

I have to smile in triumph. They've gotten to her. I saw her, so 
careful at the bar, getting only a bottled water. But we have our 
ways. Her pupils have swallowed her pale irises and I can see my 
reflection in them as I gaze down at her. 

Jehu, his rapid, moist breath at my ear, his body leaning against 
my back, mutters a thousand perverse suggestions. I bat his touch 
away. I don't need any persuasion tonight. 

Blanca stands behind her, her white bird-claws lifting the woman's 
breasts for me, offering up the lotus-petal flesh spilling out of 
the woman's tight bodice. Captive, she wants to struggle. I see 
the fear under my reflected image. This is what excites me.

I shake my head at Blanca. My target is throbbing in the stem of 
the woman's neck--the jump of her terrified pulse. 

My breath quickens, and I run my tongue over my blood-stained 
teeth. I've already fed tonight, but I now want to banish that 
bitter rust flavor from my mouth. 

I want the blush under her fair cheeks, the rush through a fine 
vein at her temple, the drum beat under her ear. My love is a red, 
red, rose. 

***


December 21st, 1994, two days earlier--
Washington DC, Columbia Heights

The yellow tape snaps in the sharp morning breeze, cutting through 
the monochrome dawn. Slipping past the patrol cars and clusters of 
dark-garbed cops, I duck under it easily. 

The first body lies in the gutter. It's covered with a blue tarp, 
held down by a garbage can on one edge and a bored cop's large 
foot on the other. 

The wind lifts the tarp to reveal an arm and dirty hand, upturned 
and half-clenched. All I have to do is ask, and the tarp will be 
removed for me. But something makes me prefer this view. 

"Ma'am?" A gray-haired policeman is at my shoulder.

I glance at him and rummage for my I.D. "Special Agent Dana Scully 
with the FBI. I was called."

He still looks worried. He's too old to ever accept someone like 
me in law enforcement. 

Ignoring his tension, I shift my gaze to the second tarp-covered 
body. It's up on the steps of the shabby church -- I squint to 
read the letters etched in the stained stone facade -- St. Stephen 
and the Incarnation. 

I've already begun to make mental notes: questions that I'll need 
to answer. My fingers are fumbling for latex gloves when a plain-
clothed detective hurries up to me. He's a small man with receding 
curly black hair and large, bulging, dark eyes. Incongruously, 
he's chewing on a Slim Jim and he's too alert for this early hour. 

"Agent Scully?" Leaving the jerky like a dark cigarette between 
his lips, he grabs my hand and gives it a strong squeeze. 
"Detective Santos. Thanks for coming."

"You were the one who contacted me?" I ask as we move towards the 
first body. I'd been awakened a little after 7 AM. Certain it was 
Mulder finally coming out of whatever hole he'd crawled into, I'd 
snatched it up before the second ring. 

"Yes. Well, I tried to get a hold of your partner first. No luck." 
He shakes his head. 

I let the now familiar twinge of worry return. I've been unable to 
contact Mulder in four days. Even assuming he was avoiding me, I'd 
been certain he'd come out for a case. Glancing around again, I 
see he's nowhere to be found, not even poking through the garbage 
cans along the side of the church. I fight the urge to try to 
reach him immediately. 

"Agent Scully?" The detective has been talking.

I blink, clearing my thoughts. "Yes." I pull the latex gloves on.
 
The tarp is flipped back for us. 

"What's the story?"

Santos' jerky stick quivers with excitement. "I've heard about 
your work. That is, the work of your division." He crouches by the 
body. "This one looks like a dumping."

Young male victim. Approximately 20 years old. Thin build, 
closely-shaved scalp, pale skin. Dressed completely in black, from 
heavy laced up boots to a turtleneck and leather jacket. Edges of 
tattoos peeks out from his sleeve and neckline. His expression is 
frozen in pain, pale eyes open. His lips are curled back to reveal 
yellow teeth. His face has been battered and his left arm hangs 
over his waist at an unnatural angle, suggesting it's broken. 
His back is wedged in between the curb and street surface. The 
torso is twisted, leaving his legs up on the sidewalk. He does 
look as though someone tossed him out of a car like an empty 
bottle. 

"What time were they found?" I ask as I get down on my hands and 
knees to peer behind his right ear. An indentation in the skull 
makes it look like blunt trauma -- resulting in death: my familiar 
friend.

Looking embarrassed, he admits, "A little before 6 AM. When the 
priest showed up."

That earns him a double take. "This body shows the beginnings of 
livor mortis. It must have been here four hours already." I check 
my watch again. 8:14 A.M.

He nods, his face unhappy. "It's not the sort of neighborhood 
where people are willing to draw attention to themselves. I 
wouldn't be surprised if folks just stepped over the body on the 
way to the bus."

I motion to the street. "Didn't any passing police vehicles or 
delivery trucks see this body?" 

He says with regret, "The streetlight's out. I don't think it 
would be noticed until the sun came up." Waving his arm up to the 
other tarp-covered body, he adds, "And that one just looks like 
she's asleep."

"Let's go take a look."

As we hurry towards the other shrouded form, he goes on. "This one 
is why I called. I've heard about the X-files section for years--" 
Swallowing the last bite of his 'breakfast,' he flashes me a quick 
grin. "I've kept an eye out for a case for you guys. Out of 
curiosity."

I quirk an eyebrow at him. 

He shrugs. "I've always had an interest in the paranormal. 
Remnants of a childhood spent in the Catholic church."

Irritation hits me. What does he mean by that? There's no one more 
critical of the Church than its own members, my mother says.

He jerks his head towards a waiting cop who stoops to lift the 
tarp over this body. "This one has all the classic signs of a 
ritual killing. If you ask me," he finishes uncertainly. 

Another young person, this one female. Seems to be the same age 
with a similar appearance and dress. Black boots, long black 
dress. Her hair is shaved close on the left side of her head, but 
is breast length on the right side, dyed deep, unnatural red. 

He's right. This is no hurried dumping of a murder victim. She was 
arranged flat on her back, lying on a step part way up the 
staircase. Her ankles are primly crossed and her hands clasped. A 
red tattoo of rose-covered thorny vines, vivid against her death-
pale skin, twists around her thin right arm. 

Crouching beside me, he points out crimson rose petals scattered 
over and around the body. "Was she a sacrifice? And where does the 
other body fit in?"

"Have the photos been done?" I ask, ignoring his enthusiasm. It's 
too damned early in the morning and I haven't had my coffee.

He seems properly chastened. "Yes, ma'am."

I nod as I straighten up. "Good."

I catch sight of a set of slumped shoulders out of the corner of 
my eye. 

Mulder. He's here. 

He's passing the first body with barely a glance. He joins us at 
the female victim.
 
"Mulder?" 

I pluck at the crease on his trench coat's sleeve. He turns his 
head achingly slowly, then lowers his eyes to meet mine. His 
eyelids seem heavy, cloaking dark eyes. He looks pale and tired.

"Good morning, Scully. What do we have here?"

He might as well have said, 'Fuck you, bitch,' for all the pain I 
feel at that moment. 

It's been four days and nine hours since he walked out of my 
bedroom, still pulling on his clothes. He didn't look back. 
He hasn't called me. I haven't been able to get in touch with him. 
There's been no answer on his phones or to rapping on his door. 
One night, I dared to use the key to open the door, but the rooms 
were empty. 

He hasn't been to his office. I've been sitting in mine, trying 
not to stare at the dull, dark red light that would signal an 
incoming call, and forcing myself not to pick up the receiver to 
call him. All I could imagine was that he was with another woman. 
Fury would overcome me; I'd yank my eyes away, but within the 
hour, I'd be back to staring at it. 

And now, here he is, acting like nothing happened. 

He's right. Nothing did happen.

I drop my gaze to the body. "Detective Santos thought we'd be 
interested in this case." I force myself to speak normally. 
"Santos, Agent Mulder."

Mulder drags his hand from his pocket, offering it to the 
policeman. 
 
Santos doesn't notice Mulder's lackluster manner and pumps his 
hand. Perhaps he senses a comrade in arms. "Pleased to meet you." 
His face becomes contrite. "Despite the circumstances." 

Mulder waves off the detective's sense of propriety. "Have your 
men gathered statements?"

"Nobody saw nothin'." The smaller man says.

Mulder hasn't looked at me again. His eyes slide up the facade of 
the church and I join him in an inspection. It's small and old, 
with a crumbling stone exterior clinging to the edge of a single 
belltower, topped by a sharp, mean spire. The portal is gloomy and 
the surrounding carvings, worn and nearly unidentifiable, are 
various saints. The door is dark and sour-solid. 

"The priest? He found the bodies?"
 
"Apparently." Santos seems unsure. "He's the one who placed the 
call. But he wasn't definite about how the bodies were 
discovered."

Without glancing at me, Mulder says, "Let's go talk to him." 

Assuming he was speaking to me, I push the heavy door open and 
slip into the gloomy interior of the church. 

Shadows envelop the pews and arcades. There are no large stained 
glass windows in this neighborhood. Narrow, clear lancets, 
screened in wire against tossed rocks, scatter sharp shards of the 
weak morning light down the aisle ahead of me.

A simple white cloth covers the altar. When I reach it, I turn, 
straining to find anyone in the darkness. I've lost Mulder again. 
I hear a flapping of soft wings, and gaze upward, wondering how 
birds could have found their way in. 
 
"May I help you?" A voice, rich and deep, heavily Spanish-
accented, comes from my behind me. The priest has slipped out from 
behind the altar screen in the ambulatory.

I dig for my badge while looking him over. He seems to be waiting 
patiently for me to finish my examination, hands clasped together, 
eyes downcast. 

He's a little under six feet tall, making him tall for a Latin 
immigrant, with wide shoulders over a slim build. Although his 
features could have been lifted from a piece of Pre-Columbian art, 
his skin is very pale, with an ivory sheen. When his eyes finally 
flick up to briefly meet mine after glancing at my ID, I see they 
are pale green with long, black eyelashes. Glossy black curls coil 
around his skull. 

I feel that familiar, forbidden twinge of lust for a man of the 
cloth, followed by the lethargy of an after-glow, and have to 
stifle a self-deprecating laugh. I'm getting too old for that sort 
of schoolgirl reaction. 

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully from the FBI, Father..."

"Father Joaquin," is all he says. 

This is going to be a tough interview. I hate to admit it, but 
Mulder might have better luck with a priest. I glance around the 
shadowed space. He's still missing. Irritation mixes with concern.

I start questioning the Father. "We're investigating your report."

His face remains impassive. 

Carefully, I continue. "The young woman. In front of the church. 
You discovered the body?"

His bright red tongue flicks out, moisture glistening in the 
candlelight, to lick his full lips. Momentarily mesmerized again, 
I shake my head slightly to break the spell.
 
"Yes." The way he says the word, it almost sounds like a question.

I grind onward. "At what time, sir?"

He glances at his wrist. I follow his gaze. He wears no watch.
 
"Sir?" I keep prodding.

"I leave my apartment at 5 o'clock--"

"Do you live on the church grounds?"

He seems to consider the question. My irritation is beating like a 
heart. "No, ma'am."

"Do you walk or drive to the church?"

"I walk."

"How long does it usually take you to walk?" 

He thinks some more. "Around five minutes, I would say."
 
I let out a loud breath. "Good. Do you come by the front of the 
church?"

"No, ma'am."

He answers that question pretty damn quick. I lean back against 
the prayer railing. "Which entrance do you use?"

"There is a door in the back. I have an office over the chapel. I 
go to my office and check my schedule. Then I come down and check 
around the church. Prepare things." He raises a limp hand and 
waves it around. 

"When do you open the door?"

"I try to have the front door unlocked by 5:30."
 
"That's when you discovered the bodies?"

He's clamming up again. I don't think he's trying to mislead me. 
He seems to want to make sure he doesn't say anything without 
counting the risks. That fact will be of more importance to me 
than the string of events he's recounting. 

"I unlocked the door, but did not open it. Then I checked the 
water level in the font. The old ladies, they come in early. They 
are upset if the water is not there." 

His jade eyes look for understanding. I nod.

"Then I returned to the door. I also check the steps for the 
sleeping people. If they are there, I remind then that the soup 
kitchen will be open soon and they will want to be first in line. 
The old ladies, they do not like the sleeping people either." He's 
sad. Whether for the nagging old women or the homeless, I'm not 
sure. 

I prompt him. "And there was a body on the step?"

"Yes." 

The urge to slap him is nearly overwhelming. Instead, I ask, "Can 
you describe the body?"

He looks shocked. "It was a young woman, I believe. In a dress."

It's my turn to be obtuse. "And?"

He's beginning to sweat. "She was dead--"

"Why didn't you assume she was asleep?"

"What?" He could raise his voice at last.

"I need to know if you touched the body, sir. Did you attempt to 
awake her? Shake her?" I keep my features blank. 

"No. I saw the girl just as a parishioner came up the stairs. Then 
I called the police." 

I affect a slightly bored air. "Thank you, sir."

He licks his lips again, this time much faster. 

"Did you see the other body?"

He asks with the affected lilt of a bad actor, "There is another 
body?"

"Yes, sir. In the gutter."

He crosses himself. Nice touch. 

Mulder chooses that moment to reappear, startling the priest 
before he can get to the Holy Ghost. 

My partner repeats my statement. "Yes, sir. In the gutter," then 
presses on aggressively. "You didn't see the body?"

Father Joaquin, suddenly not so reserved, can look him in the eye. 
"No, sir. It was dark."

"And the young man was wearing black--"

The priest doesn't fall into the trap. I'm surprised Mulder 
thought he would. 

"I did not see," the man says stubbornly. 

Mulder seems bored. "Thank you, sir. Do you have a contact number? 
We may have more questions for you at a later time."

With his now expected reluctance, the priest gives us the phone 
numbers. 


Outside on the steps, the young woman's body has been removed.

"He's hiding something," Mulder states the obvious.

My automatic perversity swings into action. "His manner could 
simply be a result of persecution from an oppressive government in 
his home country."

He merely nods and says, "Let's run a background check. Find out 
where the good Father is from and the situation."

After what happened between us, I expected shame or its inverse, 
anger. Instead, he's developed a smooth surface, polished to a 
high sheen. This frightens me. Mulder should let his emotions 
show.

He's in the doorway of the church. Turning back, he asks, "Are you 
coming?"

"Yes," I reply.

***

The doctors had released me from the hospital four days after I 
came out of my coma. Mom decided to stay over at my place to look 
after me. She set up camp on my too short couch and started 
fussing. All I wanted to do was take long walks, perhaps jog, do 
some weight lifting, but she insisted on keeping me in pajamas and 
cooking cream of tomato soup.

I suppose I was expected to revel in this extended sick day home 
from school and revert back to some infantile state. I did, but to 
a sulking little girl with hot, tear-stained cheeks.

I finally managed to escape her on the third day. She left for the 
store when I faked sleep. As soon as she was gone, I started 
pulling on a pair of sweat pants and pullover. 

The fall air was crisp, with the promise of moisture. I wanted it 
to rain. My skin felt too dry, as though I'd been stored in cotton 
batting for three months. No amount of moisturizer could take away 
that sensation. 

Letting my stride swing out, I headed in no particular direction. 
I just wanted to feel the breeze pick up my hair from my neck. 
But someone was watching me. I wasn't very nervous -- I was on a 
crowded public street -- but I didn't like being unsettled. I was 
sick of that feeling.

Rather than speeding up, I slowed. I could feel my pursuer closing 
in. I stopped and spun to face him.

"Mulder!" 

He looked shocked; then his gaze shifted away to watch passing 
traffic.

"What are you doing?"

He took a step closer until he was well within my space. I fought 
the urge to step back. 

"I was following you." I was surprised at his honesty, but his 
face looked open with exhaustion. "What are you doing out?" 

Immediately irritated, I replied, "I can go out. I need to go 
out--"

He stepped so close my chest brushed his leather jacket. 

"I know you do--"

Not giving him a chance, I asked, "How did you know I'd be here? 
Were you coming by to see me?"

More honesty. "No. I've been watching your apartment. I saw you 
leave--"

Flabbergasted, I burst out, "What? Mulder! Why?"

He doesn't return my imploring gaze. Instead, his eyes are focused 
on my mouth. I had an odd urge to suck my lips into my mouth to 
keep them from his vision. 

"What if someone tries to take you--"

I finally take that step back. "I think you should go home, 
Mulder. I'll see you at work on Monday--"

He protested, "Scully, you need more time to recover."

Firmly, I said, "No, I'm doing very well. I'll be ready for duty 
on Monday morning."

He looked lost. I was immediately contrite. Stepping forward, I 
reached out and briefly grasped his arm. "Mulder, please. Go home. 
If I need you, I'll call."

His eyes were on my mouth again. His gaze slid across my lips 
slowly -- it was a warm kiss. 

Without waiting for his response, afraid of my urge to rise up on 
my toes and return the kiss, I turned and walked off down the 
street. He didn't follow. 


He heeded my instructions. He didn't call or come by. Ignoring my 
mother's fretting, I went on more walks. 

I worked on my strength and endurance. Ate well. Slept. And 
thought about that time I had returned his kiss. 

I hadn't felt as though we had anything to lose. Mulder had 
finished his last case, complete with guilt surrounding the 
Vietnam veteran's shooting death. His new partner, Alex Krycek, 
had slithered back into the bowels of the Bureau. The X-files had 
been shut down. My superiors were vague about my next teaching 
assignment at Quantico. Our futures were unclear.

We had been trying to say goodbye to each other among towers of 
cardboard boxes in the basement. Flickering fluorescent lights 
added to our jumpiness. 

Neither of us wanted to go but we couldn't risk being caught 
together. Perhaps it was that sense of the forbidden that made our 
mouths to join. 

Mulder had looked so lost when he'd passed on his informant's 
warning. "He said that closing down the X-files was just the 
beginning. That we've never been in greater danger."

When I'd asked, "Do you trust him?" his response had been that 
single kiss.

Frantic. 

We had been frantic. 

The inside of his mouth was hot. It was like absentmindedly 
touching the stove, only to jump in shock. His body was heavy. I 
shouldn't have been surprised at that, I could accurately gauge 
his weight, but there was a difference between trying to drag his 
semi-conscious body across a room, and having it press me against 
a stack of boxes. His hands tried to find my breasts under my 
heavy camel coat, but only managed to impotently grasp at my 
curves. 


I thought I'd felt weak and close to relenting that night with him 
so near. But knowing he was now lurking outside my apartment...all 
I'd have to do is go to my window and signal him...I became 
grateful for my mother's presence. She helped me keep my 
professional resolve, and I had returned to work on Monday as 
promised. 

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

Chapter 2: Confessio

*******

December 21st, 10:36 AM
FBI Building

I start my examinations with the female because she intrigues me 
the most. In all other places in my life I save the best for 
last--the largest strawberry in the basket, the biggest roller 
coaster in the park. I leave the cherry on the saucer as I eat the 
sundae, but in the autopsy bay, I allow myself to be decadent. 

Her body's been stripped, and without her Goth costume armor, it's 
slightly forlorn. It's clean--there are no signs of trauma or 
violence--beyond the cosmetic self-mutilations of piercing and 
marking. Clicking on the tape recorder, I begin travelling up and 
down her body with a magnifying glass, but find nothing more than 
a couple of bunions. 

The sole tattoo turns out to be the long rose-covered vine that 
wraps three times around her right arm, bracketing her elbow. I'm 
surprised. People who have tattoos this extensive don't usually 
stop at one.

It's time to go inside. 

Without any sign of blunt trauma, I decide I must check carefully 
for evidence of poisoning. The stomach and bowel are empty.  

Examination of the lungs proves intriguing. Thick tar lines all 
the tissues. I've seen lungs of elderly life-long smokers that 
appear healthier, but her fingertips are not even nicotine-
stained. Suffocation? I collect slide samples.

Her remaining organs appear normal from a surface examination, but 
I store them for further tests, collecting all the necessary 
tissue samples and shipping them off to Toxicology.

After sliding her back into her drawer, I start on the male. One 
tattoo is on the back of his neck: a rose dripping blood from its 
petals. It seems as violent as a gunshot wound against his pale 
skin. 

Both wrists have bracelets that resemble shackles and twisting 
chains. A shudder passes through me at the sight.

I make a note of the fact that his body is very clean. Individuals 
who dress in his manner--ripped, dirty jeans, heavy ankle boots, 
black shirt and leather jacket--are often living on the street or 
nearly so, with poor hygiene. I find it interesting that both 
victims appeared clean and well-fed, belying their apparent 
lifestyle. 

My observations of his injuries at the scene concur with my 
examination now. The back of his skull has a long, narrow 
depression, pushing the bone into the brain. He'd been worked over 
pretty well, with long, straight bruises on his chest and back, 
suggesting a pipe or bat was used. 

His stomach contains traces of a dark red liquid. 
 
As though on cue, just as I flop aside this victim's equally tar-
stained lungs, Mulder peeks in.

"Found anything?"

I'm still annoyed with him. "Yes. Mystery solved. They both had 
knives protruding from their hearts."

"Really?" He almost appears animated for a moment.

"No, Mulder. There's not a mark on the woman that could have 
caused death and it looks like the male met the wrong side of a 
steel pipe. Found anything on your end?"

"Fingerprints brought up nothing. Missing Persons drew a blank. 
I'm having the media run the descriptions. I'm thinking the 
victims haven't been missing that long. They went out last night 
and just haven't come back."

He looks down with dismay at the male victim's small, thin, 
eviscerated body. "They look like the sort prone to late nights."

The tension in the air suddenly expands at his words. He's given 
me an opening. Forcing as much casualness as I can into my voice, 
I ask, "By the way, Mulder, I've been trying to get a hold of you 
for the past couple of days. I was getting worried." I don't have 
the guts to ask him where he's been. I can only give out that 
weak, half-accusing statement. 

He seems to be fascinated by the body in front of him. "We must 
have just kept missing each other. I felt like I needed some more 
rest after the quarantine and stayed around my apartment. Didn't 
answer my phone."

He's got me there. I suppose he could have been out the one time I 
checked his place and I didn't leave any messages on his machine. 
What would I say? I wanted to judge his mood before displaying 
mine. And now I see it. Nothing happened. Everything's back to 
normal. Well, I can do that. 

"Just so long as you weren't ill..." I say lamely.

"No. Getting some rest, that's all."

"So..." I press my lips together in frustration. I've started this 
uncomfortable discussion, but don't know where to lead it.

He grabs that weak word. "So, I guess we wait. You seem to have 
plenty of tests to run--"

There are so many things wrong with this situation that I don't 
know where to start. I sputter, "There was blood in his stomach--"

"Cause of death?" At last, he's perking up.

"No, I don't believe so. Surface examine didn't reveal any 
perforations to the stomach or esophagus. No, I'm thinking he 
drank it." He tips his head in a mocking gesture. I power on. "He 
does appear to have consumed a substantial quality."

Mulder tries to smile. "The newest bar drink?"

I have to be the one to lead the way? "How about a vampire?" That 
was hard to say. I hear myself qualifying the statement. "Or 
someone who thought he was a vampire."

At last, he seems interested. "What about the woman?"

"Here." Quickly, I yank the female victim's drawer open. "No 
blood, but why don't you take a look."

He leans over the body, his large nose nearly brushing her skin. 
He concentrates on the arms. His long fingers twitch on the cold 
edge of the steel tray. I hand him some gloves and he slides them 
on. 

"What's this?" he breathes. 

I lean in too. Lost in the fine red lines of her tattoo, I can 
make out thin cuts. Obviously done with a surgical blade. I'd 
missed them.

His mouth is at my ear. "She's the bleeder--"

I turn my head and stare at the petal of his lower lip. "And that 
makes him the feeder?"

"Uh huh."

******


November 13th, 1994, 6:49 PM 
Fairfield Air Force Base, Spokane, Washington 


The door had closed behind us with a hiss. We were to be 
quarantined for thirty days following our exposure to the fungal 
spores. 

Mulder immediately came to my side. "Are you all right?"

My eyes were on the closest chair. The room was set up like a 
living room, but with all the personality of a hotel room. The 
chair was overstuffed, upholstered in a dark green corduroy 
fabric. Very comfortable. I sank into its depths. 

"Scully?"

"Yes, I'm just tired." 

He hurried to perch on the arm of the chair. "Of course." His 
fingers coursed through the hair at the base of my skull. 

I couldn't resist and leaned into the pressure. 

"Do you want to take a nap?"

I glanced around the room, noting the three open doorways leading 
to two bedrooms and a bathroom. A small table with two chairs was 
in the corner. On the wall next to the furniture was a dumbwaiter 
hatch, ready to bring us our meals. In the middle of the table sat 
a small red vase with two single daisies in it. For some reason, 
this arrangement caused tears to come to my eyes.

"Hey, you really need to take a nap," Mulder urged.

I shook my head like a fitful child. "We have a whole month to do 
nothing but sleep."

He tried to humor me. "Well, then, what do want to do? Play 
Twister?" 

I felt a flash of the pain: my arm had twisted on the end of the 
handcuffs as Jesse O'Neil jerked in the throes of death on the 
other side of the door. 

"No." My voice sounded hollow.

"Scully--"

"Maybe I will take a nap."

As if I was walking through clotheslines of white sheets, the wind 
wrapping them round me, the days blended one into another. I knew 
time passed because of the routine of medical check ups and meals, 
but I couldn't say how many days had slipped away.

I alternated between hours spent in near sleep or napping and 
muscle-wearying exercise. I was determined to get back in shape. 
I'd felt weak and tired while on the last case. But I also felt as 
though I hadn't slept in months, even though I had no memory of 
the events during my abduction.

Mulder stayed sprawled on the couch, reading a lot of books. Most 
of the time, he didn't seem aware of my presence. But I knew it 
was an act. 

As I'd walk by the couch, his arm would reach out and a finger 
would draw lightly across my arm. He always seemed to be only an 
arm's reach away like that. If I wanted him, he was there, ready. 

I could feel his eyes following the motions of my body as I bent 
over the weights in the exercise area. Only when I turned to meet 
him, his gaze was intent on his shoes.   

The attention didn't bother me and I wondered why. It felt like a 
warm blanket. And I'd been cold for a long time. 

*

He never turned the television on. I didn't want to watch 
anything, but it surprised me. The stack of books he was reading, 
or had read, grew. I suppose I could have counted them like rings 
on a tree if I wanted to know how long we'd been here. 

Whenever I tried to read for extended periods, exhaustion would 
overcome me, and my focus would slip, even with glasses on. I 
didn't want to tell him that, so I just took another nap, leaving 
the book draped over my lap.

But his intense study finally drew me in.

"What are you reading, Mulder?"

He shook his head, as though pulling himself from a spell. "What? 
Oh. William Blake."

I asked, "Have I read him?"

"Everyone had to read a few of his poems in school. But he was a 
essayist, painter, many things..." His smile was rueful. "And he 
went mad."

I nodded but felt the prick of slight irritation with someone who 
was able to pull on his classical education like a worn sweater 
and was surprised when others didn't have one too. 

"Okay," I said, lifting my own book, a rundown of past pathology 
cases, but my vision immediately swam.

He asked, "Do you want me to read to you?" 

I quickly glanced over at him. He must have noticed my problem. 
But his gaze was bland. 

"All right. I'm feeling lazy, go ahead."

He gave me a pleased smile and lifted his book to read.

As the pages turned, I built a psychological profile of Blake. 
Obviously manic, prone to fits of delusion. Even Mulder must have 
noticed the often depressing edge to the writings and would stop 
to ask, "You want me to find something else to read?"

I was entranced. "No, go on."

He read me poems, slips of songs, essays. He read me religious 
tracts. He stopped for dinner and then afterwards, read some more.

He sounded particularly melodious when he read, "Her whole life is 
an epigram, smack-smooth and neatly penned, platted quite neat to 
catch applause--with a sliding noose at the end." 

Looking pained, he closed the book, using his finger as a 
bookmarker. He opened his mouth and closed it again. 

"Are you tired of reading?" I asked him.

"No."

"Then, please keep reading. I'm enjoying it," I said.

It was late when he got to, "Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the 
forests of the night; what immortal hand or eye, could frame thy 
fearful symmetry?"

Oh, God, I remember that poem...

"Yes?"

I started. "Sorry, Mulder, I didn't realize I spoke aloud."

"It's okay. When did you hear the poem?"

It was eleventh grade. I sat near the front of the room, but if I 
cocked my body in my chair, I could see Darrell Walker. He sat 
slumped at the back of the room the room and I could feel the 
occasional heat of his eyes. 

Mrs. Cletter's voice didn't do the words justice but I heard the 
meaning: the intertwining of religious imagery and sexual passion. 
Perfectly suitable for Catholic high school. I'd had to stifle a 
giggle at that thought. 

As the teacher droned through the poem, I carefully shifted around 
to see Darrell. 

"When the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with 
their tears: did he smile his work to see?" 

Darrell was playing some sort of game with his friend, Carl, 
exchanging sly grins. I stared, willing him to look up and 
understand.

"Dana Scully."

I had turned back, that awful red blush rising. 

"Perhaps you'd like to read the next poem, since you already know 
Blake so well."

"Yes, Mrs. Cletter," I'd whispered.

Mulder smiled as I recounted the story. "What did she make you 
read?" 

I shook my head. "It was awful. And yet I can remember it to this 
day. I wonder why?"

"How does it go?"

Finding myself using a sing-song little girl's voice, I recited, 
"O my Luve's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June..."

When I finished, Mulder was quiet for a minute. "I think it's a 
lovely poem. Very suitable for a teenage girl. Blake may have been 
a little intense for you." 

For some reason, that remark infuriated me. I spit out, "I'll 
always hate that poem. While I was up reading, I could see the 
whole classroom. And that Darrell wasn't just exchanging glances 
with me. He had at least two other girls he was smiling at and he 
wanted me to see it. And I had to watch, miserable, going on with 
that poem. Alice McHenry, who was tall, and didn't have red hair 
and braces, and Carol Thomas, who did have braces, but also had a 
36 C bra already--"

"I'm sorry, Scully." He sounded like he meant it. 

"If you were to ask me what my lifelong regret was, out of 
everything that's happened to me, I'd say it was not kicking 
Darrell's ass in front of that whole class. I felt violated and 
weak, just letting him humiliate me by watching him."

Unnoticed by me, Mulder had come to my side. I glanced up and met 
his gaze as he dropped down onto the arm of the chair.

"God, Scully, I'm so fucking sorry."

I shook my head, as though trying to shake cobwebs loose. It was 
over and done. I don't know why I reacted so strongly. 

"Do you have any regrets, Mulder?" I asked for some stupid reason.

His hands shook as he reached to capture my head. I wasn't afraid. 

"Yeah, I do. I regret that I let you talk me into stopping 
our kissing that night and to just go home alone. I regretted that 
every day you were gone. I'd lie on my couch and 
just...think...about how I would have made love to you." He 
babbled on, "I started with the simple, singular thought and let 
it expand to every act I would have performed on and for you. How 
you would have felt and how my body would react. It felt so real. 
It's hard for me now--" I realized his fingertips had been dancing 
over my arm, shoulder, cheek, every inch he could reach, with the 
flickering of a breeze. "--to believe we weren't already lovers. 
You were gone and I was so close to you. I want to be that close 
again, Scully..."

I was engulfed in this wave of flame. It hurt. It seared my skin. 
There was a snake in the fire and its gold eyes mesmerized me as 
he bent down to kiss me.

Our kiss was clumsy and frantic, just as it had been that night in 
the basement among the cardboard boxes. 

This time, he had to painfully bend his neck to get at my mouth 
and he wavered on the arm of the chair, like a great boulder about 
to fall on me.

And we kept kissing. 

He did fall, managing to fit beside me on the large seat, before 
pulling me out and up onto his lap. I turned to straddle him and 
his hands immediately found their way under the waistband of my 
sweatpants, grabbing both cheeks of my ass and giving them a 
strong squeeze. I'd be marked tomorrow.

And we kept kissing. 

I worked my hands under his tee shirt and scraped my nails over 
his chest, then smoothed the marks with palms before repeating the 
motion. He whimpered into my mouth, but didn't stop me.

When I settled down on his lap and felt his erection, I was 
surprised, God knows why. But it was the jolt I needed to break 
the spell.

I pulled my mouth free, sitting up to escape his following, 
seeking lips. "Mulder," I implored.

There was equal tension in his tone. "Scully--"

My gaze darted to the closed door to our apartment. Our 'keepers' 
would only knock once and then fling the door open, night and day, 
when they wanted to enter. Apparently they didn't imagine that a 
man and a woman, locked up together for a month, might, at some 
point, find themselves in the very position Mulder and I were in 
at that moment.

Or perhaps they did. They'd given me my birth control pills and 
there was a box of condoms in the medicine chest in the bathroom. 
But I still didn't relish knowing an entry on our report would 
read. 'Agents were discovered fucking--'

His hands were under my shirt now, running up and down my back. 
"Do you want me, Scully?"

I turned back to look down at him. His eyes were pleading and 
somehow, his hair had gotten disheveled.  

Sounding like I was being forced into a bargain, I had to admit, 
"You know I do."

He was sincere when he said, "I'm glad." His hands were at my 
ribcage now. My nipples immediately hardened. Soon, soon, he would 
be touching my breasts. 

I grabbed his hands and his face was covered with regret. 
"Mulder...It doesn't matter. You're still not going to get laid."

He laughed out loud, and the jostling made his hard-on press 
against my lower belly. Damn him.

*

Our beds were both against the wall, in effect, side by side in 
the two bedrooms. My sleep pattern was still disrupted. I would go 
wide-awake at 3 AM and would just lie there, listening to Mulder's 
nocturnal grumbling and snuffling. The walls were that thin.

This night was going to be hard. My skin protested the prickle of 
cotton pajamas and sheets. It had been expecting to become slick 
with sweat and to feel the slide of his skin and hair across it. 

I was breathing too hard. I was wide-awake. But I didn't dare stay 
out in the living room.

Any other woman would be thrilled to have a man say the things 
Mulder had just said to me and see that sort of lust and need in 
his eyes. But I felt the pressure of being trapped in a diving 
bell with the air slowly being used up.

I heard the creak of Mulder's bed as he got in it. When I held my 
breath, I could hear his deep, rapid breathing through the wall.

Then he said, "O my Luve's like a red, red rose, that's newly 
sprung in June..."

I reached out to touch the wall so I wouldn't touch my body, but I 
couldn't stop my thighs from shifting restlessly together. 

His voice rumbled through the wall and I wondered if his lips were 
touching it. "O my Luve's like the melodie that's sweetly played 
in tune--"

My fists curled, grasping handfuls of sheets. Forget Darrell. I'd 
never felt so much sexual need and frustration in my life. 

When Mulder sighed, "As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in 
luve am I--" I knew exactly where his hands were and what they 
were doing.

The image was complete and rich in my mind. I merely called up the 
memory of undressing him after the hotel fire. I'd allowed my gaze 
to linger, when, removing his pants, I'd accidentally pulled down 
his boxers. He had been delirious, mumbling and wiggling on the 
bed, and his penis had gone half-erect. I'd seen the 
possibilities. 

Now the wall was gone. I could see him lying on his side, his 
boxers shoved down to mid-thigh -- his fist wrapped around his 
thickening erection, slowly sliding up and down--

"And I will luve thee still, my dear, till a' the seas gang dry--"

I had to roll onto my stomach, and child-like, covered my ears. 
But I couldn't stop listening, and loosened my grip.

"Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the 
sun--"

I could see his thumb slipping around the head of his penis, 
spreading pre-cum, then tracing the throbbing vein down to the 
base...then suddenly yanking back up, again and again, as his tone 
lowered, sounding guttural.

I had to bite my arm, over and over, to keep from crying out. It 
felt good, my hot saliva-slickened skin becoming his tongue, his 
chest, his cock--

I listened to my heartbeats. I listened to his frantic gasps 
between the stanzas. I listened to anything but his words. 

His whisper was just a rasp, "And I will come again, my luve, 
though it were ten thousand mile--"

The heartbeats were loud, drowning him out, then I realized the 
pounding was my palm, beating on the wall, returning the beats it 
felt coming from Mulder's side.

I rolled onto my back, gasping to catch my breath and return to 
earth. I could hear his breathing, matching mine, through the 
wall.

Finally, I fumbled for a tissue to wipe my hands and face. 
Somewhere in there, I'd cried. 

I surprised when I heard, "Goodnight, Scully."

I returned, "Goodnight, Mulder."


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

Chapter 3: Hemicycle

*******

December 22nd, 9:16 AM
Georgetown University

Waiting for Mulder, I glance at my watch. It's been an hour since 
I called him and told him to meet me at Mulledy Hall.  

Finally, his shadow appears in the hallway. 

"What's going on?" he calls out as he shambles up. 

I found Professor Whittle in your Rolodex," I tell him.

He blinks. 

I continue, "Under Vampires-Specialists."

"Okay." He blinks again. "So you're still thinking vampires?"

I control my temper and the urge to tell him to drink ten cups of 
coffee-- now. "Yes. Tests show the blood in the male victim's 
stomach was from the female victim. I found signs of recurring, 
purposeful cutting, deep enough to bleed freely." I can't stop 
from being sarcastic.  "How would you interpret that data?"

He gives me a slow smile that shows all his teeth. "If you say 
they were vampires, I guess we should look into it. I haven't 
actually met Professor Whittle."

I knock on the door as he says, "I've only consulted with her once 
or twice on the phone." Diverted, I'm surprised as the door is 
yanked open, causing me to fall into the protruding chest of a 
very tall woman.

Or at least I assume Professor Whittle is a woman. She has those 
male physical characteristics that always cause a moment of doubt. 
The bones of her face are heavy and broad, sheathed in pancake 
makeup-covered coarse skin. Sandy hair is pulled back in an untidy 
bun at the base of her thick neck. 

As her wide-palmed hand reaches out to shake my entire arm, 
snapping my wrist up and down, her blathering greetings raining 
down on me from above, I raise my eyes to meet her gaze. Her right 
iris is half yellow, making it appear green. The left one is a 
very pale blue, almost translucent. 

I cut in, "Professor Whittle, thank you for seeing us." Motioning 
to Mulder, I add, "This is my partner, Special Agent Mulder."

Those strange eyes dart back and forth between us. "No problem, no 
problem. I thought you were a doctor, though, looking for a 
consultation."

"In a way, I am," I say as I herd her back into her office. The 
furniture is worn, dark wood and black leather.

Mulder sinks into a deep armchair next to the doorway. I take a 
straight-backed wood chair in front of the professor's desk. 
Slowly maneuvering her large frame, she shuffles around the desk 
and settles in her chair. It creaks loudly in the stuffy room.

Her odd gaze fastens on me, but I have this feeling she's able to 
watch me with the blue eye while the yellow eye stays on Mulder. 
Women staring at Mulder while on a case are not a new occurrence, 
but I can hear the leather of his chair squeak as he shifts, 
crossing and uncrossing his legs. I suppress the desire to try to 
keep one eye on him too.

I'm not used to being first chair in the interrogation of 
paranormal experts. I decide to treat her like any legitimate 
witness. "I am a forensic scientist. We are investigating two 
deaths--"

"You suspect vampires? I'll have you know that true HLVs do not 
kill their victims." She gives a horrible smirk, twisting her 
thick, heavily painted lips. "You've been watching too many 
movies."

Lost already, I ask, "H-L-Vs?"

She makes a steeple of her fingertips. "Human living vampires. As 
I was saying, many people confuse the mythical, paranormal 
vampire's practices with real, living human beings who happen to 
require the energy of another creature to exist."

My skin crawls. 

Mulder interjects, "You don't believe in the paranormal, Professor 
Whittle?"

Her chuckle rumbles out of her stiffly bound chest. "Goodness, no. 
I'm an educated woman."

"Education has little to do with explaining the unexplained," 
Mulder protests.

Incredulous, she asks, "Do you believe in such things, Agent 
Mulder?"

I push in. "It's true." I give Mulder a quelling glance over my 
shoulder and he sinks back into his seat. "Our victims were not 
exsanguinated. However, they did show signs of vampiric 
practices."

She challenges me. "Such as?"

Mulder keeps his voice low and bored. "Cuts. Blood in the 
digestive tract."

She somehow manages to purse her wide mouth, creating a brussels 
sprout of lips. Words hiss out. "Drinking blood doesn't mean 
someone is a true HLV--"

Pursuing, I say, "We need to follow all leads, Ma'am. I'm sure you 
can understand. We're interested in local activities. What the 
scene is, and of course, where."

She suddenly relaxes, leaning back. Late afternoon sunlight comes 
through the dusty window behind the chair, framing her in an 
orange halo. Spreading her arms wide in a sick parody of 
crucifixion, she becomes expansive. "Oh, yes. Some people simply 
like the scene. I'm sure that's what your unfortunate victims were 
part of. Young people today, these Goths, grasping for something 
in their 
lives--"

The leather of Mulder's chair moans in despair as he catches her 
slip. She pauses, then anticipates our next remarks. "I saw the TV 
reports."

"We did not have them report the blood letting--" he says.

"There were two dead young people. Now you're here. I'm able to 
put two and two together," she blusters.

They're both off track. "What sort of activities are these HLVs 
involved in, Professor Whittle?" It's my turn to be a smart-ass. 
"If they aren't running around in black capes and biting necks."

Her yellow eye settles on me. "People feel an urge, a desire, for 
the energy that is derived from another human being. Some manifest 
that urge in a blood craving. Those individuals may claim 
secondary symptoms that you would also associate with vampires, 
such as a sensitivity to sunlight."

"And what about the others?" Mulder asks. He seems to have 
summoned some interest, even without the promise of being able to 
drive a stake through a heart at some point in the investigation.

She says, "Those are aura vampires. They can feed on the energy of 
others merely by being present. Their targets report exhaustion 
and disorientation, as though they've lost their free will."

This time Mulder's chair seems to giggle when I dryly comment, "I 
think I've been a victim a time or two."

She suggests, "Perhaps it's a more practical choice over blood. In 
this day and age--"

My jaw locks at the memory of the glint of the foil package in 
Mulder's fingers. "Yes, I could see that." Then I ask her, "Do 
blood vampires do anything to ensure safe...feeding, or is the 
risk a part of the ritual?"

She nods vigorously. "Oh, yes, there are precautions. The vampire 
may have only one source. It's a symbiotic relationship. 
Everything is very clean. Very sterile. AIDS tests."

My gaze settles on her dry, chapped hands. "Our victims seem to 
fit this profile. One exhibits cuts, the other had consumed her 
blood."

Mulder points out, "Which would suggest they were more than 
hanger-ons."

She shrugs her massive shoulders. "Perhaps. But there are always 
wanna-bes. And new communities rise and fall all the time." 

I force a coaxing tone into my voice. "And some new ones would 
be?"

"There's word of a new 'tribe' that's different. It's tightly 
organized. With a theology and treatises."

Why did she suddenly get business-like? Her cat's gaze is holding 
me down and I feel a subtle shift in the room. 

"Does it have a name? A leader?" Mulder asks from behind me. He 
seems to have moved closer but I know he's still in his chair.

She slips back behind her curtain. "I've heard there's a man at 
the head. Someone called Jude...something like that."

I can tell Mulder's interest has been sparked at last. He 
continues to question. "What sort of organization does 
this...tribe...have?"

"From what I've seen, it's taken on elements of traditional aura 
and blood feeding but intertwines them with Christian beliefs--"

I interrupt. "How is that possible?"

She glances down at my cross. "Blood of Christ--"

Mulder's cell phone rings and his low tones are in the background 
as I insist, "But feeding on actual blood would be a distortion of 
that practice--"

She's losing patience with me. "I don't know. I haven't been able 
to talk to any of the members yet--"

"But you're planning on trying?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies, suddenly looking worried.

Mulder finishes his call and rises from his chair. He must have 
decided the interview's gone on long enough. "Please contact us if 
they have any information about our victims. We may consult you 
again as new evidence comes up."

She seems relieved. "Of course, of course. I have your card."

As soon as our backs are through the door, she's slamming it 
behind us. Mulder's hand finds the small of my back, but I hurry 
ahead of him to avoid contact.

"Well?" I challenge him.

"Our male victim has been I.D'd. An Andrew Coe, of Silver Spring. 
Turns out he had one juvenile arrest for marijuana possession. 
Tossed out without going to trial."

We walk out of the dark hall and both of us blink in the bright 
winter light. "Has his family been notified?" 

He shook his head. "No answer at his residence."

I suggest, "Let's head over."

**

Another middle-aged, tall blonde opens the front door of the 
condominium. I can tell it's going to one of those days I'm going 
to end up with a sore neck. 

This one is slender, with great legs and a smooth platinum helmet 
over finely chiseled features, marred only by a too-wide mouth. 

She's on a cell phone and snaps out, "What?"

I decide to let Mulder lead this one. Sometimes a pretty face 
opens many doors. 

Low, he mumbles, "We're looking for Andrew Coe." He fumbles for 
and finds his badge. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI."

I have my hand on my badge and quickly flip it open as he begins 
to turn to introduce me. "Special Agent Dana Scully. Is this the 
residence of Andrew Coe?"

Her carefully plucked eyebrows draw together. After a deep sigh, 
she says into the phone. "I'll have to call you back in a minute. 
There's some sort of police here--"

Mulder makes a weak smile.

She gives him longer look, starting at his Italian loafers and 
moving slowly up. She doesn't bother to examine me.

She pulls the door open wider, backing into the large, beige-toned 
living room. She tosses the phone onto a glass-topped coffee 
table, flops down into a white over-stuffed chair and makes an 
unwelcoming gesture towards the couch. "What do you want with 
Andrew?" She crosses those great legs and I notice a small tattoo 
that appears to be a red rose on her ankle under her pantyhose. 

I stay silent.

Mulder asks, "And you are?"

She appears offended, then says, "Miriam Barnes. I'm Andrew's 
mother."

We had received little information from his records on the drive 
over. Coe had been arrested five years ago at fourteen for 
possession. Apparently, he hadn't been arrested since. No one had 
answered when we'd called his home, but the set of matching 
luggage carelessly dropped by the door gave us a possible 
explanation.

I join in. "When did you last see your son?"

Rummaging through her large Coach bag, she pulls out a pack of 
cigarettes. "What do you want with him? Should I get my lawyer?"

I say bluntly, "Mrs. Barnes, I'm sorry to tell you, but your son 
is dead."

She almost convinces me when she states, "No he isn't."

"Mrs. Barnes, we've identified the body from fingerprints."

She stubs out her cigarette without lighting it. 

"No."

Mulder and I say nothing. There's nothing to say. I hate this part 
of the job.

We are all still for a moment. Miriam Barnes grasps her hands 
tightly together until the pale fingers turn pure white, then pale 
blue. She stares at the window to the left of us. The beige linen 
curtains are closed.

Mulder tries, "Mrs. Barnes--"

"Ms.," she corrects.

"Ms. Barnes, when did you see your son last?"

"I've been out of town for three days. I saw him the morning I 
left town. He..." She stumbles. "He came out of his room right as 
I was leaving. He asked me for fifty dollars."

"Did Andrew have a job?" I might as well start at one end and see 
if we can get somewhere useful.

She shakes her head. She still hasn't looked at us. I can see that 
the rims of her eyes are turning red, but she hasn't cried yet. 

"He attends college."

Mulder has drawn out a notepad. "Where?"

She finally looks at us. "How did he die?"

"He was beaten to death," I have to tell her. 

"He was murdered?" The shining whites of her eyes remind me of a 
crazed horse.

I say, "I'm afraid so. However, it's where and how his body was 
found that's leading our investigation right now."

She doesn't ask any more questions. 

I press on. "His body was moved after death. Do you have any idea 
why your son's body would be found in Columbia Heights last 
night?"

Ms. Barnes' nose twitches like a rabbit's. It's not grief; it's 
the unconscious habit of a cocaine abuser. This interview is going 
to go nowhere fast. 

"Do you have any idea who may have seen, or been with Andrew, last 
night?" Mulder asks.

She seems confused. 

I continue, "Who were Andrew's close friends? Did he have a 
girlfriend?"

"Andrew? God no!" She shows true animation for the first time 
since we've entered her home.

"Friends or girlfriend?" Mulder queries. 

There's venom in her glare. "Andrew was very sensitive. He had ADD 
and several learning disabilities. He had to work very hard in 
school. He didn't have a lot of time for socializing."

If she is going to be an obstinate, so am I. "What about his 
father?"

Her face closes off. "What about him?"

Mulder takes over. "Could Andrew have had contact with him in the 
three days you were gone?" 

Shaking her head, she mutters, "No. He's never had contact with 
him."

Mulder stands. "May we search his room?" 

He's already moving towards the hall when she answers, "No."

We're both surprised. 

Her spirit renewed, she goes on. "Get a search warrant. Now, if 
you don't mind, I need to make some calls."

Mulder turns back and we exchange a perplexed look.

She fumbles for her phone. "Where can I pick up my son's body?" 
she asks me. 

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but this is an ongoing investigation. As soon 
as it's resolved, he'll be available to you. You may view the 
body--"

Elegant, she rises from her chair. "Then you should go."

Mulder moves to her phone. "May I use your phone? My battery is 
dead." He remembers to turn on the charm. 

She doesn't seem happy, but she gives him a curt nod.

He lifts the receiver and I see him hit the redial button. After a 
couple of rings, I hear someone identify themselves. 

"Mrs. Simi? This is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. I'm 
tracing a young man named Andrew Coe. Do you know him?"

Ms. Barnes gasps impotently.

"He's 5' 9", about 145 pounds, very short brown hair--"

I hear more mumbles from the receiver. Mulder's face remains 
impassive even as he makes a leap. "Could he be a friend of your 
daughter's?" A brief squawk of a reply and I'm starting to writhe 
with curiosity. 

"Where do you live, Ma'am?" Another pause. "I'll be sending a 
couple of police officers over to show you some pictures for 
confirmation."

He hangs up the phone and gives Miriam Barnes a triumphant look.

As I get up from the couch, I say, "Thank you for your help, Ms. 
Barnes. We're sorry for your loss."

We leave without a backward glance. She doesn't rise or speak, but 
the last thing I hear as I pull the door shut behind us is her 
cell phone beeping to life. 

Mulder is hurrying down the walkway ahead of me. I call after him, 
"That was a good guess, Mulder."

He casts a grin over his shoulder. "It worked, didn't it?"

"That's not the point--" I bluster. 

He goes on, "I can't face another distraught parent right now. I'm 
going to send a couple of cops over to make sure the Simi's 
daughter is our female victim. Let's get some lunch--"

I stop by the door marked 'Manager' at the front entrance to the 
condo development. "First--" I ring the bell.

An efficient looking 30-something woman, with short red hair and 
darting eyes, opens the door. "Yes?"

We go through our introductions again and I ask her, "How is the 
garbage disposed of at this development?"

She looks curious, but says, "A dumpster. Out back."

Seeing my line of questioning, Mulder asks, "Pick-up day?"

The woman nods, "Six days from now, the day after Christmas," then 
queries, "Who's this about?"

I answer with a question of my own. "Any trouble with Andrew Coe 
or his mother?"

She gives that quick triumphant nod of her head that signals she'd 
guessed our subject. "Nothing bad...per se. He's creepy though. 
Mother's gone all the time. He's a lazy shit. Right before she 
comes home, he rushes all the garbage out. Didn't see him do it 
this morning though--"

"Did he have a lot of visitors?"

"No." She's emphatic. "Just occasionally, and they were strange 
looking kids--"

"A girl with long red hair on one side of her head?" I cut in.

She nods again. "Yes, that's the one I saw all the time. Although 
the hair was new. This week, I think. Some mothers..." She looks 
disgusted. "The drapes were always drawn, all day long. He's as 
white as death, thin as a rail. When will she get a clue?"

Mulder and I remain silent but she's a sharp one. "Now, huh?"

We thank her, and Mulder calls into Headquarters. First, he has a 
detail assigned to watching the dumpster and Ms. Barnes. He also 
gets the wheels turning on the search warrant, along with sending 
some officers over to the Simi's with the pictures of Andrew and 
our female victim.

"Chinese or diner?" he asks as he snaps his phone off. 

I'm still steaming from being looked down at from a long, thin 
nose. "Let's hope she doesn't flush her coke. I want to have 
something to squeeze her with."

He flashes one of those dreamy unconscious smiles of his. He 
suggests, "Maybe she'll save us the trouble and throw all of 
Andrew's things out."

I give her curtained windows one more glance as we climb into the 
car. "Yeah. Maybe she'll finally help her son in death since she 
obviously did nothing for him while he was alive."

**

I can't stop myself from ordering a cheeseburger with chili fries 
on the side. Mulder raises an eyebrow and I give him a 'fuck you' 
return. Already, I'm eyeing a slice of chocolate pie spinning 
slowing in the revolving pastry case behind him. If my period 
doesn't start soon, I'm going to have to break out the acne 
medication.

I lick the cheese sauce off my fingertips, then ask, "Where are we 
at?"

He carefully wipes his hands clean on the thin paper napkin. "We 
have kids, playing around at vampire. The girl probably OD'd on 
something, their friends panicked. He was beaten to death. Someone 
dumped the bodies." He peers at me over his soda glass. "Nothing 
paranormal."

I'm sure he's just needling me with his calm disregard, mirroring 
my performance many a time. But it's pissing me off too. "I never 
said there was. But dead young people, possibly involved in some 
group that is using the paranormal to draw them in and could kill 
again--"

He looks astonished. "I'm still thinking it's run of the mill 
murder. You're being driven by curiosity more than anything 
else--"

"Then why don't you just go the hell home and take a damned nap--" 
I stop myself, take a deep breath and a long gulp of my soda. "I'm 
sorry, Mulder. I'm allowing personal problems to interfere--"

He gets only calmer. "And we wouldn't want that to happen--"

"If that's what your resistance is about, two things have to be 
decided. Can we still work together--" I can't believe I said that 
aloud. After so many times fearing this moment-- "And if you 
should be working this case if you're not committed to it."

My breath is coming fast and shallow. Mulder leans back in the red 
vinyl booth, his gaze firmly focused outside the large window 
behind me.

Carefully, he says, "I know we can count on you to remain in 
complete control--" I'm suddenly ill and push my plate away-- "And 
I'll try harder to be equally in control. I'm sorry. I'm committed 
to finding out who hurt these young people and finding the answers 
you want." There is a sense of finality and doom to his remarks 
and I gain no feeling of victory.

He looks at me and his eyes are as bland as they've been since he 
reappeared yesterday. 

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

Chapter 4: Mandorla

******

December 22nd, 2:15 PM

Mulder and I travel to the Simi residence in a heavy silence. It 
presses my lunch down until the chili festers to indigestion. 

As we settle into our side by side configuration on their 
couch, I decide the last thing I want to do right now is face a 
grief-stricken family. The couple across the living room from us 
is everything I feared. 

Flora Simi is a round woman, tightly packaged in her dark maroon 
dress. Her hair's been dyed a solid black but her heavy make-up is 
now streaked from crying. A slight accent suggests she's emigrated 
from Latin America. 

Her husband, Bob, is one of those bland, sandy men I pass in 
government halls every day. His short-sleeved dress shirt and 
pocket protector indicate some mid-level engineer and his report 
that he works for Shell Petroleum confirms it. 

As Mulder gathers the basic details, I glance around the house to 
collect data. A nice, mid-$300,000 range house. Mr. Simi has been 
with the company thirty-five years and is well rewarded. 

The interior is spotless. Miriam Barnes' home had just been 
uncluttered, but a layer of dust had been on all the surfaces. 
Mrs. Simi's home appears to have been polished only an hour ago. 

Holiday decorations have that impersonal quality of grown children 
and going through the motions. A white flocked tree is covered 
with blue balls, topped by a silver star. On the sideboard, an 
advent arrangement, four candles surrounded by greenery, reminds 
me I still need to set mine up. It's easier than a tree and makes 
me feel like I've made some effort.

There's no evidence of taste for interior decorating or art. The 
Simi's walls are covered with studio photographs of stiff, posed, 
family groupings. Gloria-- we now know our female victim's name 
was Gloria-- was the last of seven children: the baby. That 
would explain her appearance, considering the strict household she 
seemed to be a part of. The older children all seemed to be toeing 
the line in their photographs, with equally dull appearance and 
expression.

Gloria was easy to spot in the pictures. In equal turns animated 
and spoiled, hogging the camera or sulking. As she moved into teen 
years, the sullen expression took over her features. 

"Your daughter attended college?" Mulder asks.

Mrs. Simi has managed to keep sobbing while speaking and sniffles 
out, "Yes...but...she was taking the semester off."

I pull a fresh Kleenex out of the box on the side table beside me 
and hand it to her. I've always wondered if I got into forensic 
medicine to avoid seeing patients in pain. I really find these 
sorts of scenes difficult. All I want to do is hug this shattered 
woman and make ridiculous promises that her life isn't over. 
Instead, I have to keep pecking at her like a crow. 

"What college?" Mulder and I meet eyes, and we're both thinking it 
will be the same school as Andrew Coe. It is.

"Did you know the young man in the photograph, Mrs. Simi?" She 
hadn't known Coe's name when Mulder had asked earlier, but we hope 
she at least met him.

"Oh, no. Gloria didn't date."

Mr. Simi is finally moved to nod. "Hell, she knows...knew...I 
would have thrown that little twerp out onto the sidewalk. She 
understood what kind of men I expect my girls to go for," he 
bellows.

I glance back to the photographs on the walls. Yes, the three 
wedding pictures show grooms with square, large heads and steel-
framed glasses. No pocket protectors on their tuxedos, but they're 
not Andrew Coe, either.

Mrs. Simi looks distressed. After all, her husband is speaking ill 
of the dead. "Gloria didn't have a lot of friends. When she 
graduated high school, most of her circle went away to college or 
got married. She was still...finding her path."

Mr. Simi snorts at that comment, and then, inexplicably, begins to 
cry loudly. 

Mulder and I wait. It's only going to get worse from here.

When the large man seems to have collected himself, I carefully 
ask, "Your daughter's dress and hair...would suggest...she was 
involved with..."

Mrs. Simi bursts in. "Oh, she loved vintage clothes! She went 
through my old things--I was quite the fashion plate in my day--
wore the latest styles. That's what she was really interested in, 
fashion."

Mulder murmurs, "The hair--"

She actually tickles a laugh out. "Oh, yes. Glory came home last 
week--I thought Bob was going to have a heart attack!"

Mr. Simi nods in agreement. 

Mulder coaxes, "and..."

"She told us she'd had her hair dyed, it turned out badly, then 
she had a fight with the woman, and this crazy woman cut her hair 
off!" the woman puffs out. 

Mulder and I exchange incredulous looks. I'd always been amazed at 
the stories Charlie spun and my parents believed, but I'd decided 
it was because they'd lost their edge by child number four. 
Obviously, by child number seven, this couple was completely 
oblivious. 

I go on. "And the tattoo?"

They glance at each other in confusion. 

I dig out a photograph of the tattoo. "On her right arm."

The couple lean forward in unison and stare at it.

Mr. Simi gasps, "That's not Gloria. She wouldn't have done such a 
disgusting thing."

I pull the photograph back. Feeling like I've shown a pornographic 
image to them, I slide it back into the folder. 

"When did you see her bare arm last?" Mulder queries.

Mr. Simi looks at him as though he'd asked when was the last time 
he'd had sex with her. "Why would I need to see my daughter's 
arms?"

We've finally come up against some resistance. I try the girl's 
mother. "Mrs. Simi?"

She casts her eyes downward and shakes her head. "I respect my 
daughter's modesty. I had no reason to look at her naked."

Mulder and I exchange glances and shrugs. Defeated, he asks, "So, 
it's been a while since you saw her arms."

"Yes," Mrs. Simi says. "She used to swim in the pool after school. 
But last year, she said was concerned about the risk of skin 
cancer. I've not seen her arms bare in quite a while, no." I can 
see the situation beginning to dawn on the woman, and then she 
begins to cry in earnest again.

Mulder stands. "May we see Gloria's room?" I give the guy credit. 
He keeps trying.

These parents are more agreeable. "Yes, of course," Mr. Simi says. 
"Let's get to the bottom of this."

The girl's room was crowded with furniture and fussy with 
decorations. Dried dark roses hang from the ceiling, the drapes 
are purple velvet, the wallpaper silver-flocked, and the thick 
shag carpet 1970's gold. It's hard to choose somewhere to start in 
the jumble. 

My attention is drawn to a cluster of holy cards on the vanity. 
They're all in gold painted cardboard frames. I pick up one 
depicting the Virgin Mary. She's surrounded by twining thorny 
vines.

Mrs. Simi comes up behind me. "Mary of the Thorns."

Glancing over the cards, I notice they're all the Virgin Mary in 
different incarnations.

I pull the first card out of its frame and turn it over.

The back is covered with a frantic handwriting done by a black, 
felt pen.

'Blessed is Our Virgin, Holy One, Sacred In my heart. May I be 
Strong, To Be As Strong as Her, She who is my Holy Mother. To Whom 
I Give My Blood. I Shed my Sacred Blood for the Souls Whom the 
Virgin Deems Worthy of Redemption. My Blood Must Flow To Feed 
those Pitiful Souls. Let Me Give Strength To the Weak Men as My 
Mother, the Holy Virgin, gave Life to Jesus Christ, our Lord. 
Amen.'

Feeling slightly ill, I show Mrs. Simi the card. "Is this your 
daughter's handwriting?"

She can't even speak after glancing at it. She shakes her head no, 
and backs out of the room.

Mulder notices, and comes over. "What is it?"

"What was Professor Whittle saying about a cult? This certainly 
has that jumbled senseless tone to it."   

He nods in agreement.

The police arrive and begin to bag up everything in Gloria's room. 
Fleeing the oppression of grief, we leave her parents huddled 
together on their brocaded couch. 

Mulder drives me back to my car at the university. The morning 
seems very long ago. 

Even as I unlock my door, I remember something. I find Mulder 
still sitting in his parking place. His hands are gripping the 
steering wheel tightly and he's staring out the windshield when I 
tap on his window. 

As he rolls it down, I say, "I'm going to take home the notes and 
see if anything catches my eye. Hopefully, the toxicology tests 
will be finished tomorrow--"

"Yes," he cuts in. He starts to roll the window up. "See you 
later."

I find myself waiting until his taillights have become pinpricks 
on the street before getting in my car.

I don't hurry the drive through rush hour and holiday traffic. 
Nothing waits for me in my rooms. It's always difficult to work a 
case while staying at home. Somehow, the isolation of some dingy 
motel room is conducive to concentration. I'm too easily 
distracted while in familiar surroundings. And my apartment now 
contains fresh, painful memories. 


I'd thought Mulder had forgotten our Christmas Eve encounter. We'd 
walked out of the quarantine, gone to the Bureau for one more 
debriefing and I was in my office, checking on the mail that had 
stacked up while I was gone. 

He had come in, perched on the edge of my desk and casually said, 
"So."

I glanced up from the latest murder stats. I had to blink rapidly 
to shift my focus and I must have looked like a surprised rabbit 
to him because he smiled. 

"Huh?" was the best I could do.

"So...can I come over tonight?" It would have come off as cocky if 
he wasn't straightening a stack of already straight file folders 
on my desk.

He hadn't forgotten. Wetting my lips and then blushing when his 
eyes avidly followed the motion, I said, "I'm sorry, Mulder. We're 
going to have to hold off a bit."

His face closed off and I rushed to clarify. "I have to go to the 
doctor--"

That made things worse. He leapt off the desk and moved towards me 
in concern. 

Holding up a hand as I glanced out the still open door for 
passers-by, I said, "Nothing's wrong. It's just--" I would 
have preferred feeling this man's cock on my cervix, to discussing 
its clinical details with him, but I've never been lucky with men.

I rushed on. "My period's been erratic since I was returned. It's 
logical, and understandable, but I just want to have it checked 
out before engaging in sexual activity." Then I really blushed. 
Sometimes the doctor in me takes over and nothing seems to kill a 
mood more with some guys...but Mulder grinned like a little boy 
promised two cherries on his hot fudge sundae, so I assumed he 
wasn't one of them. 

He tapped the back of my hand with one long finger. "I want you to 
feel comfortable. I can wait." I liked the way he said 'wait.' The 
word had a nice lingering quality that caused heat to slide down 
my body to pool between my legs. 

I smiled back, keeping that little fact to myself. "Good. I have 
an appointment tomorrow afternoon and if the doctor says 
everything is fine--"

His whole hand came to rest, covering my smaller one. Breathing 
much too rapidly, I finished. "I'll call you. Right away."  

He was so close now, he was blocking out the light and I had an 
irrational urge to lie down and take a nap. "Good," he whispered, 
right before he carefully kissed the corner of my mouth. 

I couldn't help the small groan that escaped and he had to smile 
one more time. "Goodnight, Scully," he murmured.

"Gooo--" I couldn't get the rest out before he left. I'm afraid my 
mind was leaping ahead, over hill and dale, and into my bed. 


After my appointment, I had gone home, changed into some sweat 
pants and a flannel shirt, got a glass of red wine and sat, 
staring at my phone. I should call him. I let another hour slip by 
as I sipped halfway through the bottle. I needed to call him, even 
if it was to postpone our...engagement...until another day. It 
would have been the mature thing to do. 

My gynecologist had found nothing abnormal, but also couldn't 
explain my symptoms. But she had given me the green light to begin 
having sex. Now all I had to do was call Mulder. I lifted my hand 
to pick up the receiver, but then the limb returned to my lap. 

The alcohol didn't settle the butterflies in my stomach, only 
turned their flight into a barnstormer's twirling routine. I 
wanted this man so damn much. I hated feeling that sort of want, 
hated giving over my emotions that way without choice--The phone 
ringing almost made me piss my pants.

"Hello," I practically yelled into it.

"Scully." His slurring voice sounded as though he'd been doing 
some drinking too.

"Mulder."

"You're home."

"Yes."

I paced the room.

"Can I come over?"

"Mulder--"

"I'm cold. Can I come in?"

My eyes darted to the window. "Where are you?" I really don't like 
the feeling of being unknowingly observed. Eyes peering through 
the panes--

"Outside."

I moved to the door and checked the peephole. He was leaned 
against the opposite wall, phone to his ear, his body oddly 
distorted by the lens. 

"Mulder?"

"Can I come in?"

I opened the door, clicking off my phone. 

He moved out of the shadows and brushed past me. He was right. He 
was cold. The chill wafted from his stiff leather jacket. He 
turned, opening his mouth to speak, but I cut him off by grabbing 
his hands and rubbing them together, trying to give him warmth. 

He must have taken that as a signal and his mouth swooped down to 
kiss me. His lips were ice but his tongue was blistering hot. I 
pulled him close, trying to warm every inch I could, wrapping my 
arms around his torso and rubbing my body against his. 

I can't remember how we got into the bedroom. Or how our clothes 
got off. The air was too cool, turning the sweat that kept rising 
from my pores to a chilly film. 

I can hear his voice so clearly--

"Scully, fuck, I just--" He was crouched on the floor beside my 
bed. I was turned away from him, on my knees, balancing on the 
edge of the mattress. His mouth was on the small of my back.

"That time...when I was supposed to be just looking at the 
mosquito bites--"

I gasped, "I know. The moment I felt your touch, I knew I'd been 
unprofessional..."

His tongued traced a circle, around and around, dipping into the 
crevice of my spine. He whispered, "No, no. You gave me something 
that night--I wanted you from that moment. Sometimes, it's all I 
can concentrate on."

I tried to focus but my hands could only catch my breasts, 
stopping their sway. "No, it was wrong. I shouldn't have--"

He chuckled against my skin. "If it turns you on to feel 
naughty..."

How dare he... My eyes drifted shut as I pinched my nipples, hard. 
In response, my clit swelled. 

He's still talking. "I've been waiting so long for you. But I 
would have accepted to just do this. Just this," he moaned right 
before he gently nipped a circle on my flesh. 

I squealed, startling both of us. My cry seemed to escalate 
things. He pushed me over as his mouth traveled down to my ass, 
biting and licking, heating me at last. 

Face down on my thick comforter, I couldn't help but giggle. This 
is all I want, I thought, as he crawled on top of me and I was 
covered with his warmth, tickled everywhere by his light body 
hair. His erection probed at my thighs, my back, my arm, like an 
insistent little boy wanting attention.  

His hands cradled my head, brushing aside my hair to kiss the back 
of my neck and I felt suddenly exposed. I turned under him, 
welcoming him into the cradle of my arms and thighs.

Grabbing his cock unceremoniously, I pulled at it until he bit at 
my neck to mark me. "Scully, dammit. Fuck."

"Yeah," I agreed breathlessly. He was long and thick and hot and--

I wanted to stop thinking and just do it. My hips started 
following my prey. His hand wormed down to stop my guiding. 

Laughing, he said, "Hold on, Scully--"

I could stroke my vulva along his length, catching my clit, 
teasing it, and it was like a hot knife through butter. I felt the 
tingle of orgasm waiting at the tips of my toes and fingers. With 
my free hand, I pinched a fold of skin on my ass, hard, trying to 
distract myself. It only caused the orgasm to peak, hovering on 
top of the cliff, waiting for that push. "Fuck me, Mulder." I 
tossed my head back in shame. Where the hell did that voice come 
from?

His left arm was flailing around on the floor beside the bed, 
rummaging through his discarded clothing. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Triumphant, he held up the small, square, flat object. He rose up 
to rock back on his heels. "Just another second, Scully."  He 
looked down at me hungrily as he tried to rip into it with his 
teeth. He failed. Frustrated, he held it out to me. "Scully, could 
you open this?"

I pushed the package away, reaching for his cock again. I could 
see it plainly then, in the cool glow from the streetlight outside 
my window. I knew I'd feel true heat soon-- "We don't need that. 
I'm on the pill."

His eyelids dropped. He started chewing on the wrapper again. 
"Just to be sure--" 

I was confused, but could feel embarrassment and humiliation 
beginning to creep through my veins towards my heart. "I was 
checked out when I was returned. Every test. Believe me, I'm 
clean. And I know neither of us has been with anyone for at least 
a year--" I forced out a laugh as I mentally counted back to 
Phoebe Green's visit. 

He'd finally gotten the foil open and was carefully removing the 
condom. He still hadn't met my eyes. "Scully, don't worry about 
it--"

I pulled my legs up to my chest and pushed myself up against the 
headboard. I wanted my clothes, but I'd have to pass him to get 
them. 

"The only time I wasn't near you was when I was gone."

Violently, he tossed the condom across the room and sat down on 
his haunches. The light chiseled his muscles and bowed head into 
sharp relief. He was a fallen warrior.  

I started thinking rapidly. I could feel each turn of the rusty 
wheels as they tore at my brain. "But that doesn't make sense. You 
said you were the only one who believed I was alive. Only you."

"Yes, Scully, I believed," he agreed tonelessly.

I attacked. "But, if you believed I was alive, that I was coming 
back, why would you have sex with another woman? Who was she?"

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter--"

"Was it someone at the Bureau? Someone I know?" I needed to throw 
up, but again, I didn't want to pass him on the way to the 
bathroom.

He finally looked at me and his eyes were blank. "Scully, it was 
no one. It was nothing."

"You had sex with another woman. You just said you wanted only me 
since we met. You were waiting for me. Why? If you thought I was 
dead, I could see--" Foolish to the end, I tried to give him an 
out. 

"No, Scully, I knew you were alive," he said passionately, moving 
towards me. I pulled my limbs in tighter, making myself a hard 
ball. 

Falling back to his heels, his words dropped out, "I was dead. She 
was dead. That's why it didn't matter." 

He didn't wait for my response. He leapt from the bed, grabbed his 
clothes, and was pulling them on as he hurried from the room. I 
didn't follow. 

I did throw up, well after I'd heard my front door slam. Then I 
went through my ritual of checking the locks on all the doors and 
windows before showering in scalding water, washing his smell from 
my skin. 

But lying in bed later, I could still feel the beat of desire in 
my clit. I couldn't understand that. I was ill from passion. The 
thought of Mulder, of having his contaminated dick slide into me, 
was revolting. But I could count my heartbeats in its throb. I 
refused to touch myself and finally slept as dawn crept into the 
room. 

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

Chapter 5: Trefoil

*******

December 22nd, 5:20 PM

I kick off my shoes and unbutton my slacks. Along with the 
spotting and cramping, I've also been bloated. It's a nearly 
constant pressure. I feel like I'm waiting for something to burst.

I pull the case notes out of my briefcase, spreading them across 
the coffee table as I sink to the couch. I won't try to sleep yet 
tonight. I'll use the time constructively, drink some herbal tea, 
and then I'm sure sleep will come.

I've had trouble falling asleep since that encounter with Mulder, 
but the hot anger has dissipated. It felt so pure that night, as 
though it would never go away. Time does bring clarity, once I can 
get my temper under control. Perhaps it was for the best that 
Mulder disappeared for a couple of days. Besides the occasional 
flashes of memory, now I feel I'm becoming comfortable working 
with him again.

When we were first partners, I'd remained distant despite our 
physical attraction; concerned our working relationship could 
never survive a move to intimacy. This incident served to affirm 
those fears. I learned we were two different people, incompatible 
for a romantic relationship. Now we slowly need to rebuild a 
working one. 

I flip open the list of evidence from Gloria's bedroom but the 
page goes blank.

...I've discovered he's not able to remain monogamous, which 
doesn't surprise me considering his broken family...

I try to reread the list again. Nothing is sinking in. Tossing the 
file aside, I decide to make that first cup of tea. 

I wash a few dishes while I wait for the water to boil. When I 
open the cupboard to find the tea bags, I see the breakfast cereal 
I'd bought. It's Mulder's favorite kind. I'd been prepared to 
serve him breakfast.

The kettle whistles as I'm throwing the box away. Then the phone 
joins in.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Officer Santos. From the case this 
morning?" 

"Yes, Officer. What's up?"

"Another body, ma'am." He can barely contain his excitement.

"What's the link?" I'm already searching the room for my shoes, 
keys and coat.

All business, he starts ticking off the details as I toe into my 
pumps. "Young white female, approximately twenty-five years old. 
Dressed all in black, like the other one. Same kinda freaky look. 
Rose tattoo, too. Only this one's strangled but arranged the same 
way."

"That takes the mystery out of the cause of death. Where are you?"  

"Three blocks south of the church. In front of a club called 'Dis' 
on 14th, near Park." 

I'm looking for my keys. "Sounds nice. Have you called Mulder?" 
They're in my coat pocket. I'm at the door, ready to go. 

He chuckles. "Nope. Thought you might have a private line."

I shrug, then realize he can't see me. "I'll get him. We'll be 
there in an hour."

*

6:05 PM

Past caring, I drive to Mulder's place without calling. He doesn't 
answer the door at first, not until I start scraping at the lock 
with my key. I've lost patience with him. 

He pulls the door open. "What, Scully?" He looks tired and glances 
down the hall behind me, edgy. He's still in his suit, hasn't even 
removed his jacket, but his clothes are terribly wrinkled.

"Another body. Come on." I turn to go.

He grabs my arm. "Scully, I told you. There's no X-file."

I glance back at him. The shadows under his eyes are purple and I 
could swear I catch a whiff of pot coming from his apartment. My 
patience snaps. "And I thought we'd decided it was a case worth 
pursuing. Do you think the DC PD is going to be able to give this 
case more than twenty minutes a day? Meanwhile, two FBI agents, 
with the Bureau's resources at their disposal, waste their time 
trying to ascertain if the moon is indeed made of green cheese--"

He's in my face. "Is that what you think? That our work is shit?"

Hands on my hips, not giving a damn anymore, I shoot back, "Truth? 
Sometimes, yes. Sometimes we are wasting the taxpayers' money." 

He has one hand on his door and one hand on the doorjamb. I assume 
he's going to slam the door in my face. Instead, he turns. "Let me 
get my overcoat."

I can't stop myself from poking at him, even as he's relented. 
"You want to find vampires, right, Mulder? I'm finding you some. 
What more do you need?"

He glances down at me as he pushes by through the doorway. "Some 
fucking peace."

Falling into step behind him, I mutter, "Don't we all."

*

7:10 PM

Santos has yellow-taped off the steps leading down to the basement 
of a dark, brick building. It must be too early for the customers 
to be out. The neon sign is unlit and the entryway still filled 
with trash. 

He has the Slim Jim between his lips again, and I resist the urge 
to ask him how many of those things he eats on a shift. Wriggling 
it to the corner of his mouth, he says, "Evening, Agents. I hate 
to call you out again--"

We both say, "That's fine."

He leads us to where the blue-tarped body is balanced on the top 
step. Rain is threatening and the beat cop standing by the lump of 
a body looks at us gloomily, as though he knows he's going to be 
not just cold, but wet, before we're done here.

"Anyone at the club?" Mulder asks, his eyes darting up and down 
the slick sidewalk. 

"Nope," the officer says before Santos can answer. "Nobody home at 
the cave."

"Do you know the place?" I inquire.

He shakes his head. "As far as clubs go, it's pretty quiet. This 
isn't really a club neighborhood. More like community dances at 
the Center where everyone gets drunk and someone gets stabbed. 
This place has only been here a few months. The patrons--" he 
rolls his eyes at his own word choice, "seem to be like this 
chick. Not from the neighborhood."

He dramatically whips the tarp back after that buildup and makes 
just another pathetic dead body seem all the more important. I 
realize there's a consummate showman hidden under the guise of a 
street cop.

Somewhere along the line, I decided no one looks good dead. Some 
are just more pitiful than others. She may have been pretty in 
life. Now her soft features are puffy and her light eyes have 
filmed over. The painted lips are parted, but taut in distress. 
Her brown hair has gone limp and dry. 

Her body has been arranged as Gloria's was, flat on her back, with 
her hands folded at the waist, ankles crossed. I still assume she 
was moved after death. 

"Oh, fuck," Mulder says as he looks at her. His face is deeply 
distressed.

He leans against the wall, staring out into the street. Passing 
cars' headlights flick across his face: black - white - black - 
white. 

Santos agrees, shaking his head, making his Slim Jim nod in solemn 
benediction. "A terrible sight. Beautiful young girl. I get sick 
of it, I tell you."

The beat cop removes his hat.

I'm the only one who kneels down to look closely at her. Sure 
enough, when I carefully pull back the loose sleeve on her dress, 
a large rose blossom is tattooed on her upper right arm. Dropping 
petals in the design become drops of blood, tracing a trail down 
to her elbow. 

Pulling out my flashlight, I examine the skin there as best I can 
in the dark. I see the scars of cuts at the brachial artery on the 
crook of her inner arm. "She's another one, all right." Standing, 
I ask, "Any I.D?"

The two policemen shake their heads. 

Mulder says to me, "Now what?"

I can plainly see the bruises on her neck from manual 
strangulation. "Have her sent to the lab. I want to check her 
lungs to see if there are the same signs of tar as the other two 
victims." Without much hope, I add, "Any witnesses to this?"

The two men shake their heads again.

Defeated, I turn to Mulder. He's staring down the street. 
Following his gaze, I see the illuminated bell tower of St. 
Stephen's. 

"Interesting," I note and he nods in agreement. 

"Do you think it's a serial killer?" Santos asks. At least he's 
returning to a logical explanation and has abandoned the 
ritualistic theory. 

Mulder answers, "I guess we can rule out suicide or accidental 
death in this one."

"Yes, your panicking friends theory seems to have lost steam," I 
agree. 

He shoots me an aggravated look, but it's tinged with amusement. 
Maybe we can get back to a safe harbor.

"Anyone in the club yet?" I wave to the doorway.

The cop responds, "Nope. Maybe in another hour or so."

"Should we stick around?" I ask Mulder.

He turns up the collar on his trench. The rain has started. "Let's 
get some dinner and come back by."

Yes, I'm seeing glimmers of my old Mulder. "All right," I agree.


Mulder is driving and we're about four blocks from the scene. I 
tug on his sleeve. "Pull over, Mulder."

He slams on the brakes. "What?"

I point out the rain-spotted windshield. "Park. We need to go in 
here." 

'Sacred Heart Tattoo,' read the flickering letters within a 
flaming heart-shaped red neon sign. The 'Open' sign is also lit. 

"Huh?"

"I was going through some of the paper contents of Gloria's 
bedroom..." I rummage through my briefcase. I'd tossed everything 
in and had brought it along. "Here."

After pulling the car to the sidewalk, he flips on the interior
light to see what I've found.

It's a small card with the shop's logo and name on one side. On 
the other are instructions for the care of new tattoo. 

"Her parents' testimony made it sound as though she'd gotten the 
tattoo recently," Mulder notes.

I nod. "Yes. And so far, all three victims have had a tattoo with 
a rose. Tattoo artists tend to work in themes and motifs and their 
work has a specific look to it."

I can read Mulder's bemusement, even in the dark car interior. 
"Oh?"

Stiffly, I reply, "I *am* a sailor's daughter." But then I let a 
chuckle escape, joining his laugh. Yes, we are getting back to 
normal. 


The tattoo shop has a bell on the door that tinkles as we go 
through it. It's slightly incongruous and I'm distracted.

I jump when a voice from the shadows says, "May I help you?"

Mulder mumbles through our introductions while I inspect our 
latest interesting interview subject. The owner, Kikki, is tall 
and lithe, with a shell of form-fitting pale blue Lycra shirt and 
pants. His short-cropped hair, tight on his scalp over a white, 
bony face, is dyed a very light blue, making his head appear 
chromed. His eyes are light hazel, seeming gold. Interestingly, no 
tattoos are visible on his sharply muscled arms. 

I flip open a notepad. "Do you have a last name?"

He smiles at me warmly, as though I'm a long-lost friend but his 
eyes are roaming over an uncomfortable Mulder. Sometimes it's not 
just women who like to give Mulder a second look. "No, I do not." 
His accent is slight and vaguely European, but with the false edge 
of a Bond villain. 

I pull out the close-up photographs of our three victims' tattoos. 
"Is this your work?"

He lays them down on the counter top and begins inspecting them. 
The display case is full of piercing ornaments. Mulder's peering 
over my shoulder, craning his neck as he stares into the case. I 
can tell he's trying to figure out what body part that one 
stainless steel sharp-pointed C-ring is used on. 

Kikki causes us both to jump as he announces, "Yes, all three."

"Do you remember the customers?" I ask.

"Canvases," he corrects. 
 
My raised eyebrow questions.

Smoothly, he goes on. "Individuals are canvases of my art."

"So you design the tattoos yourself? Or does the...canvas ask for 
a particular theme?"

He sits down on a high stool behind the counter and narrows his 
cat eyes. I assume he's trying to guess the correct answer.

Finally, he says, "Together. An individual would say, I like 
roses, and I make this." He motioned to the photographs. 

Mulder intercedes. "Do you remember the people who got these 
tattoos?"

Jumping off his stool, Kikki moves to a curtained doorway. "I will 
check my records. I do not want to say anything without double-
checking."

Mulder nods as though he's satisfied, but I'm not. This guy could 
send us out on any number of dead leads.

I lean my back against the counter, my gaze roaming around the 
room. This isn't a normal tattoo parlor. The walls aren't covered 
with samples, but rather, large, framed artworks. They are 
thematic collages of strange figures, entwined with vines, leaves, 
trees and blossoms. There are roses in several of the vivid 
pictures. But it's the humans that fascinate me. They are fantasy 
figures, androgynous, smooth limbed and wide-eyed. Some of the 
figures have glowing auras, reminding me of nimbuses. 

Popping back out from behind the curtain, Kikki startles me again. 
"Here are the names." He hands over three index cards.

The first is a Joanne Campbell. The tattoo was begun on August 
23rd. It took three sessions and there were no complications. 
Kikki had photographed the tattoo and connected a small copy to 
the card. I hand the card to Mulder. "Write the address down."

I ask Kikki, "Do you think this is her real name?"

He appears confused.

"Do your cust--canvases tend to give their real names and 
addresses?" My check of the other two cards shows Gloria and 
Andrew, both using his address and phone number. 

"Yes, sometimes it is necessary that I call them to reschedule. 
They must be truthful if they want the art finished."

We're done for now. I hold out a hand for him to shake, just to 
see if his palm will be as damp and clammy as I assume. "Thank 
you, Mr...Kikki. We'll be in touch if we need any more 
information." 

He shakes my hand. I was right about the dampness. Mulder has spun 
on his heel and is out the door as Kikki stretches a hand out for 
him.


As we get back in the car, I suggest driving past the club to see 
if anyone's there yet. When Mulder slows, the body and officers 
are gone, and a sliver of silver light comes up the stairs. 

The neon sign is still dark. We hustle down the stairs. The door 
is ajar and we walk in, blinking in the bright lights. 

A nightclub under full light always reminds me of a nude, dead 
body; all the flaws are exposed. This one appears particularly 
dingy. A long, scratched-up bar runs down one side of a big, 
black-walled room. Listless, the dull silver disco ball slowly 
whirls above the floor. 

A woman is putting away clean glasses behind the bar. She raises 
her head as we approach and I note an expression of distrust and 
resignation fill her face when she sees us fumbling for our 
badges. This is someone who's used to smelling law enforcement in 
a dark suit. 

She's a little older than she's trying to look, perhaps forty-
five. Her bright yellow hair might be attempting blonde. Her 
bright, fresh makeup has the sharp contrast of a clown's markings 
under the lights. A tight red top is failing to support her 
unholstered, sagging breasts. 

She pulls her lips back to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. I think 
she's trying to smile. She places her large hands on the black-
lacquered bar and leans on them. 

"Officers--"

Mulder jumps over her introduction. "Special Agents Mulder and," 
he nods towards me, "Scully. FBI. There was a dead body on your 
stairs tonight--"

She shrugs like this is a normal occurrence. It probably is. "What 
does it have to do with my place?"

I pull out a snapshot of our latest victim that Santos gave me. 
"Do you know her?"

She peers at it closely. She probably needs glasses. "Yeah. She's 
been in here. A time or two."

In other words; nightly. "Do you know her name?" 

The look she shoots me is incredulous. "We don't have time for 
formal introductions. Maybe..." She furrows her brow and some 
concealer on her forehead cracks, falling to the dark bar top. 
"Joy. I think I've heard some people call her Joy."

"Do you know where to find any of these friends of hers?" Mulder 
sounds as defeated as I feel.

The bartender pushes back from the bar and squints at him. A sly 
smile plays on her mouth. Someone else who figures he's worth a 
second look. 

She seems to consider and we both hold our breaths. Then she 
shrugs. "No."

I try a different tact. "May we have your name?"

"Jane Brown."

"Are you the owner?"

"No."

I place both hands on the edge of the bar, and lean forward, 
letting myself fall into the well of her heavy musk perfume. "Who 
is?"

I can feel Mulder has moved closer behind me, like a cloak. He 
doesn't speak. 

She doesn't back down. "I'd have to check the records. My paycheck 
comes from a cooperation. You know how that goes. A banker hired 
me."

Her bright red lips seal tight after her long speech. That's all 
we're going to get from her. I say, "Thank you, ma'am. The police 
will need your contact numbers for future questioning."

I'm satisfied to see her smug facade slip a bit at that comment.

As Mulder and I mount the sidewalk from the stairwell, we pause to 
button our coats against the cold. "Mulder, let's come back 
tonight and see if any of the patrons recognize our victims. I 
have the feeling Gloria and Andrew enjoyed coming here too."

"I don't think so. I have some other leads I want to follow up 
on." He moves off.

I walk double-time to keep up with him, but when we reach the car, 
I try again. "Why don't you check out Joanne Campbell's address, 
and I'll do her autopsy. We can come back to the club when we're 
finished."

His mouth opens and shuts a few times. Then he says, "Okay." 

He's silent on the way back to the Bureau.


In the parking garage, I climb out of the car. I tell him, "I 
should be finished around ten." 

He nods, putting the car in reverse.

I watch his retreating vehicle, forcing my mouth shut, and all the 
nagging questions that want to fly out, back down my throat. 

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