~~ All the Way Home ~~


If chickens could come home to roost, then so could Carl.  
That was the way he thought of it, anyway.  He wasn't a bird, 
of course, but the shoes rather were.  Curved, sleek bodies 
with sharp pointy bits, flitting past him in shades of 
crimson, stripes of gold and polished, basic black.

It was lunch hour in DC, and Carl watched from his bench as 
the powerful suits poured out into the white city, which was 
awash in bright sunshine.  The hot rays belied the fall 
calendar.  Carl wished he could have made it back sooner, for 
the summer shoes.  Strappy sandals and naked toes.  His 
favorite time of the year.

But the energy of the city in autumn had its charms, too.  
The students were back, the politicians were humming.  
Everyone walked with purpose, and Carl loved the brisk 
cadence of their footsteps on the concrete all around him.  

He did not often watch the men, but today, his first day 
back, he tracked the sharp lines of their dark suits around 
the Mall.  Was this still Mulder's town, he wondered?  Did he 
walk nearby with his long Armani strides and cheap leather 
shoes?  Carl searched the men as best he could, watching the 
slope of their limbs and the curves of their ears, but 
nothing seemed familiar.  He grew irritated, then bored.

If Mulder wasn't here, so be it.  He had been just a crutch, 
anyway, an amusement for Carl these last eleven years.  All 
the nights when he couldn't go out and watch the shoes, he 
would lie in bed and remember his earlier collection.  They 
sent Mulder for you, he would remind himself, and he was the 
best. 

Carl smiled to himself, remembering.  He'd been better.

But that was then and this was now and there was a woman with 
four inch black sandals walking past.  He followed her with 
his ears -- click, click, click -- until she disappeared into 
the crowd.  His dick twitched in his pants.

Almost, he thought.  But not quite.

This was his first day, and he wanted a special shoe.  He was 
prepared to go home frustrated, if need be, rather than 
settle for off the rack at Macy's fuck-me pumps.  Been there, 
fucked that.  Carl grinned as the screams filled his memory.  

He wanted a young one this time.  A little girl with a closet 
full of big shoes.  Carl could tell the type with just one 
glance, and he wanted to take her favorite pair.  

It was near the end of the hour when he saw her.  The crowds 
were beginning to thin, and she was clearly late from her 
lunch.  An intern, he guessed.  Twenty-three at the most.  
Her thighs pushed at the edges of her narrow skirt with each 
hurried step.  She had a short stride, full of confidence.  
She couldn't know what he was when he fell into place behind 
her.

Snap, snap went her heels on the pavement.  Manolo Blahnik 
navy sandals, with conic toes like that supersonic airplane 
in France and spindly, sexy heels that came to a perfect 
point.  Carl's mouth grew dry as his erection swelled in his 
shorts.

At the crosswalk, she stopped, blonde and pouting.  He smiled 
at her.  "Excuse me," he said, "I can't help but noticing 
your shoes."

She looked startled, then pleased.  "They're new," she said 
over the rushing traffic.  "I probably shouldn't have 
splurged so much, but I saw them in the window and just 
couldn't resist."

"I know just the feeling."

"They were so worth it," she confided, obviously pleased to 
have found a fellow fanatic.  "My feet tingle with happiness 
every time I put them on.  They're my absolute favorite."

"I see."

The light changed then, and she gave him a little wave.  
"Bye, now."

Click, clack, click, clack.  Carl followed the line of legs 
down to those spectacular shoes.  "Bye," he whispered.

XxXxX

The night city.  It was a world almost as strange as any that 
Mulder's aliens might have inhabited.  Turned over in space, 
half a world from day, individual shapes meshed into a single 
purple-black form.  The shadows and street lamps danced past 
her car window, each defined by the presence of the other.  
Scully left the radio off as she drove.  Her head was still 
buzzing with memories of Mulder, a '96 Merlot and an AMC 
screening of "Vertigo."

She parked under a tree, its scraggly branches and waving 
leaves throwing a kaleidoscope pattern across her windshield.  
The engine cut out and left her enveloped in thick silence.  
Home at last.  Sleepy, she rested her head and watched as a 
cat crouched low and lithe at the curb before streaking 
across the street.  She wondered what it would be like to 
have eyes that came alive in the dark, to know what 
curiosities lay hidden in the achromatic landscape.

As the cat's tail twitched away into some bushes, her cell 
phone gave a smothered ring.  She dug it out from her pocket.

"Scully."

"When I get back to work, the first thing I'm going to do is 
start an X-File on Kim Novak's eyebrows.  Not a horror film, 
my ass.  Every time Hitch went in for a close up on those 
puppies I was afraid for my life."

She sighed, but with affection. "Mulder, you're supposed to 
be in bed."

"My neurons can grow back just as easily on the couch. 
Besides, what kind of date would I be if I didn't walk the 
lady to her door?"

She sat up and craned her neck around to peer out the rear 
window.  "How did you--"

"I've done the drive a million times, Scully.  This time of 
night, no traffic on the Key Bridge...pretty easy 
calculation." He paused for effect.  "It's not brain 
surgery."

"Right," she said, leaning back again.  "And it wasn't a 
date."

She heard the leather sofa creak as he shifted his weight.  
"No?  Let's examine the evidence.  I counted two people, low 
lighting, and a bottle of wine.  Plus, you admitted that you 
were here to check me out."

Her lips curved in a smile.  "To check up on you, Mulder.  
There's a difference."

"Remind me to speak to my HMO, then.  The neurologist I saw 
last week only gave me thirty minutes.  I'm due another three 
and a half hours."

"Perhaps he's not as vested in your good health as I am."

"Is that what you are, Scully?  Vested?"  His voice was low 
and teasing. "Exactly what sort of benefits are you expecting 
to accrue?"

"I was thinking of a mutual fund."

"Oh," he said, his voice catching the edge of wonder.

She pressed the phone closer to her cheek and smiled.  So 
many years of telling herself no-no-no, the impossible thing 
that wasn't supposed to be now was and she was still learning 
how to say yes-yes-yes.  Practice, in the darkened car with 
the sound of his breathing tickling her ear, was perfect.  
"It's almost one in the morning," she said.  "Get some 
sleep."

"Yeah."  She sat up to leave, fingers curled around the 
plastic door handle, when his voice stopped her.  "Scully..."

"Hmmm?"

"Do you remember your dreams?"

Rubber band images and fragmented conversation.  Missy was 
alive.  Skinner in Bermuda shorts.  Mulder, sometimes moving 
breathless over her, sometimes rushing away from her into 
danger.  Both versions caused her to wake to the sound of her 
voice calling his name.  "Yes, I remember."

"I remember, too.  That's why..."

"That's why what?"

He was quiet for a long moment.  "I think they took my 
dreams.  In the surgery, I mean.  I haven't had one since 
before I went into the hospital."

The car window was fogged and cool.  She rested her forehead 
against it.  "Mulder, that's not possible.  Dream waves are 
generated in your brainstem, along with breathing and heart 
rate.  Your injury was to the lateral left cortex."

"I know."

"More likely you just aren't remembering your dreams right 
now," she continued.  "Medication and stress can both affect 
memory function."

He chuffed.  "God, Scully, if my memory were susceptible to 
drugs and stress, the last ten years would be one big blur."

"You have a point."  She sat up with a sigh.  "Give it time, 
Mulder.  It's only been three weeks."

"Easy for you to say.  Your picture wasn't passed around to 
the Hoover building security guards."

"I see your talent for hyperbole has remained intact."

"It doesn't take a whole brain to do desk work, Scully.  The 
accounting department alone is proof of that."

"Mulder, you would be bored to tears."

"Yeah, you're probably right.  I'd hate to evaporate the 
brains I have left."

He joked, but she winced.  Three weeks was not enough time 
for her, either.  "I'll smuggle you home some tabloids to 
read tomorrow, how's that?"

"Spoken like a true partner."

"A truly tired partner," she replied, smothering a yawn and 
then reaching for her door handle.  "Good night, Mulder."

"Night," he said.  A pause.  "Sweet dreams." 

Outside, the night air was heavy and cold, like a wet 
blanket.  The slick, deserted streets shimmered under yellow 
lamps, and her heels clicked a measured rhythm as she crossed 
to her apartment building.  The first scream made her jump.

Keys in hand and pulse pounding, she waited several 
breathless seconds.  It came again -- sharp, terror-filled 
and human.  She began to run.

"Help, someone, please help!"

Scully followed the voice for two blocks.  The cries were 
getting closer, moving toward her.  Her breaths came in rapid 
white puffs as she rounded the corner.

"Help!"

She crashed into someone running just as fast.  A girl, maybe 
sixteen years old.  Her fingers bit hard into Scully's arm.  
"There's a man," she panted, her dark eyes wild and bright.  
"He's got a knife."

"Where?"  Scully could see no one else on the street.

The girl gulped air and jerked a nod behind her.  "Back 
there," she said.  "He's got a knife."

"Stay here."  Gun drawn, Scully jogged off in the direction 
indicated, scanning the shadows for any sign of life.  A man 
emerged from a darkened front stoop.

"What is it?" he asked, wide-eyed.  "I heard screaming."  

Scully glanced at his scruffy robe and hedge-hog hairdo.  Not 
the guy, she decided.   "Get back inside," she said.  He saw 
her gun and did as he was told.

She walked farther, passing parked cars and trees.  A dog 
barked from an open apartment window.  There was no man with 
a knife.  After another block and a half, she hit the edge of 
Montrose Park.  She stood in the middle of the street for a 
moment and searched the thick tree line for a glimpse of 
movement.  If he'd escaped into the park, he was as good as 
gone.

After another minute, Scully gave up the pursuit and hurried 
back to where she had left the girl.  There was someone with 
her now, a man in a long dark coat.  He had hold of her arm.  
"FBI!" Scully called, drawing her gun once more. "Get away 
from her."

The man dropped his hand immediately, and the girl shoved 
him.  "Where the fuck were you?" she hissed.

He took a drag on his cigarette.  "Around."

"You know this man?" Scully asked, moving closer to the pair.  
She saw the man was younger than she'd first guessed.  He was 
in his early twenties, Asian, with hair that fell across his 
forehead to cover one eye.

"Yeah."  The girl sounded disgusted.  "I know him."

He gave a thin smile around his cigarette.  "See?" he said to 
Scully as he flicked away the ash.  "It's love."

Scully ignored him but lowered her weapon.  "I couldn't find 
the man you were talking about," she told the girl.  "There 
was nobody back there."

The girl lit her own cigarette and eyed Scully with 
curiosity.  "You really FBI?"  

Scully withdrew her badge and displayed it silently.  The 
girl gave a long exhale of appreciation.   She wore six tiny 
silver hoops in her right ear and her black hair was held 
from her face with what seemed to be a red plastic clothes 
pin.  "What's your name?" Scully asked.

"What's yours?"

Scully flipped her ID open again.  "Dana Scully."

"I'm Vee," the girl said after a moment.  "He's Jimmy."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Jimmy said, extending 
his hand.  There was a spider web tattooed up the front of 
it.  Scully decided to pass.

"What happened here tonight?" she asked.  "Who was the man 
chasing you?"

Vee glanced down the street and shrugged.  "Beats me.  Some 
homeless guy looking for change, probably.  It doesn't matter 
now.  He's gone."

"Homeless guys don't usually chase people with knives," 
Scully said.

"So he was a psycho homeless guy.  Or maybe I imagined the 
knife."  She tapped her cigarette impatiently, but Scully 
detected a slight tremor.  Vee took another quick puff.  
"Anyway, thanks and all, but can I go now?"

Scully frowned.  "Go where, exactly?  This man could still be 
around here someplace, and from your description he sounds 
dangerous.  You should at least file a police report."

"Police?" Vee snorted.  "I don't think so.  Seriously, I'll 
be fine.  I just got jittery when Jimmy didn't show on time.  
Sorry to trouble you."  She matched Scully's even gaze.

A liar, Scully thought.  But a good one.

"Such a vivid imagination," Jimmy said, brushing back a lock 
of Vee's hair.  She ducked from under his touch.

"Screw you."

He gave an indulgent laugh and dropped his cigarette to the 
ground.  The ember red tip glowed for a few seconds, then 
dissolved into a thin trail of smoke.  "Agent Scully, thank 
you for your time.  I promise that she won't bother you 
again."

His tone indicated that she was dismissed.  Scully narrowed 
her eyes, not about to be managed by a twenty-two year old 
kid in need of a haircut.  "Someone may have wanted your 
girlfriend dead," she told him.  "I'd say I'm the least of 
your problems."

Vee turned away sharply.  Jimmy's gaze lingered over Scully.  
"No problems," he murmured.  "Good night."

They walked away, his head bent low towards hers, and Vee's 
cursing floated back in the night.  Scully watched them grow 
smaller in the distance.  At the corner, he put his arm 
around her shoulder, and this time she did not shrug him off.  
A moment later they were gone.

The bitter wind whipped past Scully, chafing at her raw 
knuckles.  She walked to the center of the long, dark street 
and scrutinized the shadows one last time.  Nothing.  She 
returned home that way, alone walking the double yellow line, 
her footsteps only a little faster than usual.

XxXxX

Scully scooted her chair into the path of the ray of warm 
sunlight slanting through the basement window.  These days 
her lunch consisted of a large salad and two or three JAMA 
articles detailing patient recovery from brain surgery.  It 
was an awkward affair that involved turning pages with her 
left hand while she made blind, haphazard stabs at rolling 
cherry tomatoes with her right.  She had searched Medline's 
data base for sleep disorders, but so far had found nothing 
on cessation of dreaming following left temporal lobe injury.  
Not that she was surprised; Mulder's brain had always been 
unique.

The desk phone rang, jolting her from her thoughts, and she 
wiped her mouth before answering.  "Scully."

"Agent Scully, could I see you in my office?"

Her hand froze in the process of setting down her napkin.  
Skinner, not his secretary.  Usually this meant trouble of a 
personal sort, and she was not yet ready for another round.  
"Sir?"  

He cleared his throat.  "As soon as possible, please."

"Of course."  She discarded her lunch half-eaten, slipped on 
her suit jacket and headed for the stairs.

Kimberly looked surprised to see her.  Scully paused at the 
corner of the desk.  "What's going on?" she asked, but the 
other woman shook her head.

"I have no idea.  Something big.  He had me clear his whole 
afternoon schedule."

Scully glanced at the silent, closed door, but it wasn't 
giving away any secrets either.  Steeling her shoulders, she 
knocked and entered.

"Agent Scully, come in.  Thank you for coming so quickly."

Scully remained near the door, surprised by all the faces in 
the room.  There was a woman in her chair, wearing a wrinkled 
gray pantsuit and faded make up.  Thick black curls sprung 
loose from the knot at the base of her head.  The man in 
Mulder's seat was younger, leaning forward and scribbling 
notes on the yellow pad in his lap.  Against the far wall, a 
man she recognized as Adam Grenier scowled in her direction.

"I want to state again what a categorically bad idea I think 
this is," he said.

The woman sighed.  "Yes, we're all terribly aware of your 
position, Adam."

"Agent Scully," Skinner said.  "I believe you know Adam 
Grenier, our current head at the Behavioral Sciences Unit.  
These are two of his agents, Amelia Russell and Richard 
Arkin."

Agent Arkin stood to shake her hand, while Russell offered a 
polite nod.  "Sir, may I ask what this is about?" Scully 
said.

"Sit down," he answered, "and take a look at this."

Scully accepted the proffered folder and crossed to sit in an 
empty chair.  Inside the folder she found a photo of a young 
woman, dead and sprawled next to a line of day lilies. 

"That's Kerri Ann Talbot," Agent Russell said.  "Her body was 
found at the edge of Arlington National Cemetery twelve years 
ago."

"Her name sounds familiar," Scully said, flipping past the 
photo.  But underneath was one just like it, a brunette this 
time, her limbs askew and her eyes unseeing.

"I'm not surprised," Grenier cut in.  "Ms. Talbot's death 
received a great deal of attention in the press.  She was the 
first one killed."

"The first we know about," Russell replied.  She turned in 
her seat to face Scully.  "There were six other women 
murdered in DC that year.  All of them raped, strangled and 
dumped somewhere in the city.  People were scared to leave 
their homes."

"Yes, I remember now," Scully said.  She thumbed through the 
rest of the photos, trying to recall the ending.  There were 
no mug shots.  

"We turned the god damn city upside down," Grenier said, 
stalking across the room.  "Turned over every rock.  But this 
psycho never crawled out."

"No leads at all?"  Scully reached the back of the folder 
without encountering one single evidence report.  Just two 
dozen gruesome shots and seven tragic faces.

"It was Patterson's greatest failure," Grenier said.  He 
glanced at Scully.  "Mulder's too."

Scully felt her stomach clench.  "Mulder worked this case in 
'88?"

"For a few months," Skinner answered.  "Near the end."

She frowned at the photos on her lap.  The word "end" implied 
resolution, and there was none here that she could see.  
"What happened?"

"The killings stopped," Russell sighed.  "Jessica Gellar was 
found almost eleven years ago today.  She was the last one."

"Until now," added Arkin, and Grenier glared at him.  Russell 
handed Scully another folder.

"Ten days ago Grace Johnson was reported missing by her 
roommate.  The next day a couple of kids out fishing found 
her body down by the river, raped and strangled."

The photo was eerily similar -- bruises on the neck, a blank, 
washed-out stare, her long blond hair tangled in the emerald 
grass.  "How can you be sure it's the same guy?" Scully 
asked.

"It's him."  Grenier's voice was grim.  "I'd know this sick 
sonofabitch anywhere."

"The murders from eleven years ago all had a couple of things 
in common," Arkin said, "things that were kept secret from 
the press.  See, the killer apparently has some kind of foot 
fetish.  He steals their shoes and, well...cuts off their 
little toes.  Grace Johnson was found the same way.  Shoes 
gone and her little toes missing."

"We've been following the case since then," Russell 
continued.  "Grenier and I caught it first back in '87."  She 
shot him a pointed look.  "So I guess you could say it's been 
our failure, too.  I swear to God that I never wanted another 
crack at it, though.  Not like this."

Skinner leaned across his desk.  "There's been another 
death," he said.  "Last night, around 1 am.  A couple of 
tourists found her this morning in Montrose Park.  
Apparently, she was a student at Georgetown University, but 
at this point--"

Scully jerked in her seat.  "I'm sorry, did you say Montrose 
Park?"

"Yes, why?"

"I live near there," Scully breathed, feeling her salad roll 
around in her gut.  The acid taste of vinegar burned the back 
of her throat. 

"Freaks you out, doesn't it?" Russell remarked dryly.  

"Shit, the whole city's going to freak out," Grenier spat.  
"Just like last time."

Skinner cleared his throat.  "We need to know how Mulder is 
doing.  I realize he's not due back for another several 
weeks, but..."

"You want Mulder to investigate this?"  Memories of her late 
night chase dimmed as she realized what they were asking.  
"That's impossible.  He's still undergoing therapy for 
weakness in his right arm.  There's some mild aphasia.  Not 
to mention the kind of strain a case like this brings...Sir, 
you can't be serious about involving him."

"See, she agrees with me," Grenier said.  "There's no need to 
bring Mulder in on this."

"I'm afraid it isn't up to you," Russell snapped.  Softening, 
she turned to Scully.  "No one wants to see Mulder get hurt, 
I promise you.  But we have no choice."

"This was found this morning, lying beneath Elizabeth 
Kinney's right hand," Arkin said, handing her a clear plastic 
evidence bag.  It held a newspaper clipping dated October 29, 
1988.  

"I don't understand," she said.

"Turn it over," Russell replied softly.

It was Mulder.  Eleven years ago, in faded black and white.  
He stood near a line of police tape, looking drawn and tired 
as two anonymous men carried a body bag in the background.

"You see?" Russell asked.  "We didn't choose Mulder.  He 
did."

XxXxX 

XxXxX

Chapter Two

XxXxX

There was something to be said for setting minimal goals, 
Mulder thought as he folded clean tee-shirts into a pile on 
his coffee table.  Three loads of laundry made for a full 
afternoon.  He matched the last of the cotton edges in 
perfect symmetry, then started mating the socks.  It was 
trickier than it looked.  The fingers on his right hand 
fumbled a bit, and he swallowed a curse as one black sock 
slipped to the floor.

Scully had shown him pictures of neurons, with their tiny 
bodies and branching arms sketched in black and white or 
stained glowing green with dye.  "They don't grow back," she 
had said.  "But other neurons can form new connections and 
take over the work of the cells that have been lost."  
Sometimes he thought he could feel them growing, his brain 
itching as the spindly dendrites stretched across the empty 
space. 

At night he wondered about the lost cells.  Maybe they were 
in a lab, with people in white coats trying to grow his brain 
in a dish.  Or maybe they were in someone else's brain now, 
sprouting like jungle vines, strangling the thief from the 
inside out.  Revenge on the microscopic level.  He thought he 
could live with that.

He had four pairs of socks lined up in neat balls when there 
was a knock at the door.  Four-thirty.  Maybe Scully was 
skipping school, he thought with a smile.  He didn't bother 
with the peep hole.  He threw the door open wide and suffered 
the consequences, just like always.

It was Scully.  But she wasn't alone.

"Mulder," she said, "can we come in?"

He stood with his hand still frozen on the doorknob.  
Vaguely, he registered Skinner and some young guy he didn't 
know.  Even Scully seemed to blur before his eyes.  He saw 
only Adam Grenier's clenched jaw and Amelia Russell's 
wrinkled suit.

"Not again," he said.

XxXxX

The moon was just beginning again, a toenail-sized hole 
punched into the smooth navy sky.  Vee watched it from 
Jimmy's window while he rolled around in bed with his phone, 
talking business under the sheets.  She snatched the last of 
his cigarettes from the dresser, lit it, and cracked the 
window so she could tap the ashes down on the street below.  
The butt was just filter by the time he noticed her again.

"It's forty fucking degrees outside, Vee.  Shut the window 
already."

She turned her head to blow smoke at him.  "Shut it 
yourself," she said, and slipped from her perch.  

He caught her around the waist.  "Don't be like this," he 
said, nuzzling her hair, but she stayed rigid in his arms.  
"You know it's not my choice."

"It is your choice.  It's your fucking deal, Jimmy.  Don't 
pretend it's not."

"You're right," he sighed, releasing her.  "You got me.  It's 
all a big plan of mine to send you out on the streets with a 
psychotic murderer."

"You weren't the one who nearly got killed," she said.  "And 
I don't hear you volunteering to make the pick-up."

"You know I can't go.  I get busted again and it's an 
automatic ten years."

She crossed her arms over her chest.  "So you think I'll get 
caught, is that it?"

"Of course not.  But I can't take that kind of risk."  When 
she didn't answer, he frowned and picked up his cell phone.  
"Fine.  I can have Quoc do it if that will make you happy."

"Wait."  She stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

The first time she had seen Jimmy was in the Roach Room, down 
in the basement at Panache.  She'd had six guys on the couch 
with her, pretending to ooh and ahh as she passed her fingers 
in and out of the lighter flame, but they had been more 
interested in slipping their fingers under her skirt.  Jimmy 
had smoked cigarettes and just watched from the other side of 
the room.  By the time the pack of groping hands had given up 
on her, so had he.  She hadn't seen him again until the end 
of the night, when she'd come out of the bathroom into the 
dark hallway.  He'd grabbed her and pulled her behind black 
velvet curtains.  "Fire Child," he'd called her, his voice 
soft and filled with admiration.  "Not afraid of anything."

Later, when his hands had crept under her skirt, she had not 
moved them away.

"I'll do it," she said.  "Quoc's an idiot."

Jimmy gave her a slow smile.  "You're right.  Dumb as a box 
of hair, and not as pretty either."  He pulled her to him and 
kissed the top of her head.  "Listen, don't worry about some 
old bum in the park.  You probably just stepped on his turf."  

Vee laid her head on his chest and said nothing.  The men who 
slept in the park wore scruffy beards and three layers of 
clothing, not a Halloween mask with the face of Richard 
Nixon.  And Richard Nixon hadn't been carrying a candy bag, 
either.  Not at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the image of the young 
woman's drooping arms, which swayed as the man carried her 
into the bushes. 

Richard Nixon was a murderer.


XxXxX


This is what they should have scraped away, Mulder thought as 
the image of seven dead women swelled like a wave inside his 
head, cresting in a splash of bent bodies and yellow crime 
scene tape.  If he had to lose brain cells, the ones burned 
with those memories would have been his first choice.  He 
looked at the group standing in his hallway and resisted the 
temptation to slam the door.  

"Mulder?" Scully said, her eyebrows knitting in concern.  
"Are you all right?" 

Skinner looked uncomfortable.  "Agent Mulder, if this is a 
bad time..." 

"No, come in.  I'm fine."  He stepped aside and allowed the 
ghosts to follow them into the room, where they stood in an 
awkward semi-circle around his laundry pile.  

"I'm Richard Arkin," said the young agent he did not 
recognize.  "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

He extended his hand formally, as if Mulder were some VIP and 
not standing in a chaotic living room wearing sweats and 
ratty tee-shirt.  

"You look good, Mulder," Russell said, and he gave her credit 
for sounding like she almost meant it.  She had told him 
years ago that once you had seen a person naked, they could 
never be fully clothed in your presence again.  Since he'd 
been naked at the time, her statement had stuck with him.

"So," he said finally, unable to take the canned pleasantries 
any longer.  "Maybe it's not really him.  It's been almost 
eleven years now."

"Eleven years and nine days," Grenier answered.  He narrowed 
his eyes.  "The BSU doesn't fuck around, Mulder.  You know 
that.  We wouldn't be here if it wasn't him."

Mulder frowned, his head starting to throb.  "Yes, why are 
you here, Grenier?  I quit the BSU a long time ago."

"Eleven years exactly."  Grenier crossed the room to peer 
into the fish tank before meeting Mulder's eyes again.  "I 
looked it up."

"Well, this is a hell of an anniversary party, thank you."

Grenier spread his hands in a mock-gesture of good will.  
"Hey, don't thank me.  I wasn't the one who issued you the 
invitation."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mulder."  Scully touched his arm.  "Come sit down and let 
them explain."

As if they could, he thought.  As if anyone could come up 
with the words.  Kerri Ann and Angela and Maureen and Susan 
and Rachel and Michelle and Jessica.  He didn't want to hear 
who was next.

"Grace Johnson," said the new guy, a kid with big hands and 
big ears.  He handed Mulder a picture, and somehow Mulder 
made himself look.  "She was found nine days ago down by the 
river."

Mulder exhaled slowly as he took in her slim white wrists and 
dark purple bruises on her neck.  He counted four separate 
strangulation marks on the girl's throat; it had taken her a 
long time to die.  Blonde like Jessica had been.  So much 
fight in such a tiny body.

*I'm so sorry for your loss*

He had gone to the funeral like everyone else because the 
killer might have been there.  Instead he had found only 
victims.  Mr. and Mrs. Gellar, divorced parents thrown 
together one last time, had stood opposite one another like 
sentries of grief as the mourners poured out of the church 
doors.  

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he had said to the mother, as 
if she had misplaced Jessica, or watched her disappear down 
the rabbit hole.

"...Elizabeth Kinney this morning in Montrose park."  The new 
guy was still talking, handing him another folder.  "We got 
lucky because the Captain at the oh-nine remembered the case 
and flagged it right away."

Lucky, thought Mulder, counting five hand marks on the neck 
the time.  Right.

"The Coroner puts the time of death between eleven-thirty and 
two a.m., " Russell said.  "So at least we're working with a 
fresh crime scene."

Mulder closed the folder and rubbed his head with one hand.  
"He never left them out for very long -- twenty-four hours at 
the most.  Never did us a damn bit of good."

"Well, actually..."  Russell hesitated, and he caught her 
looking at Grenier.  "Actually, there is something new this 
time."  

"What?"

Scully shifted beside him and withdrew a plastic evidence bag 
from her jacket.  "Do you recognize this, Mulder?"

He scanned the yellowed newsprint inside the bag.  "It's a 
Gary Tanzini special.  He used to snap crime photos for the 
Post.  I punched him in the nose, and he won the Pulitzer.  
Who said life's not fair?"

"He won for the Pulitzer Prize for that picture?" Scully 
asked.

"No, for a whole series on the murders," Mulder replied, 
fingering the fragile edge of the aging picture.  "Tanzini 
never met a tragedy he couldn't exploit."

"Well," Russell said.  "He obviously has at least one true 
fan.  We found that this morning with Elizabeth Kinney's 
body."  

Just as she said the words, hot needles of pain lanced down 
the left side of his face.  His right hand tingled, spasmed, 
and he dropped the newspaper cutout.  

"Mulder, are you okay?"  Scully leaned into him, and he could 
smell the last traces of her perfume fighting with the sweat 
and dust of a long day.  Ordinarily he welcomed her familiar 
scent, but at that moment it burned his nostrils and made him 
dizzy. 

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth.  He retrieved the 
paper and looked up at Grenier.  "So that's it.  You're here 
because you think this has something to do with me."

"Are you saying you don't think that's the case?"  Skinner 
glanced from Grenier to Mulder.  

Mulder tossed the photo next to his laundry and leaned back 
on the couch.  "It could mean anything.  Maybe he's upset 
because his first kill went unnoticed in the press.  Maybe he 
wants to make sure you know he's back, that he's the same guy 
from before.  All I can say for sure is that this is an 
unusual departure for him; none of the murders eleven years 
ago had any sort of message attached."

"But it is a message," Russell pressed.  "And apparently it's 
to you."

"Yeah, and what the hell would you like me to do about it, 
Russell?  Write him back?"

"If that's what it takes to bring him in."

Mulder looked away, silent.  He'd had four months against 
this animal, at a time when he'd been at the top of his game, 
and come up with nothing.  "I can't help you," he said at 
last.  "I'm sorry."

"Fine," replied Russell, standing up.  "You can just watch 
the body count in the papers, then."

Fuck you, he thought, but couldn't make himself say the words 
out loud.  Because that's all any of them had ever been able 
to do -- count the graves and the tears.  If Russell was 
going down that road again, she was already fucked.

Grenier finally moved from his place against the wall.  "I 
think you've made a wise decision, Mulder.  If he's killing 
to get your attention, the last thing you should do is give 
it to him."

Mulder shook his head.  "It's not about me," he said.  "It 
never was."

"Finally, a point of agreement."  He bent to pick up the 
newspaper photo and slipped it into his jacket.  "Good to see 
you back on your feet, Mulder.  Take it easy coming back, 
okay?"

He didn't seem to require an answer, so Mulder didn't give 
one.  Instead, he walked them to the door, Scully lingering 
by his side as the rest filed out.  Russell stopped on the 
threshold.  "Do you remember the last thing you said to me 
before you left?"

Mulder tightened his hold on the doorknob.  "It was a long 
time ago, Amelia."

She ignored him.  "You said that if there was ever a lead on 
this case, we should call you.  You remember that?"

"If I thought there was any way I could help you, I would. 
But the truth is--"

"The truth is that there were hundreds of newspaper photos 
taken back then, both before and after you quit."  She 
paused, her expression softening.  "I heard about what you've 
been through, Mulder, and I'd love nothing more to give you a 
pass one this one.  But I don't think you get to walk away 
this time.  I don't he's going to let you."

"And I think you're wrong."

"I hope so."  She gave him a sad smile.  "I hope so."

He closed the door behind them and turned to find Scully 
regarding him with serious eyes.  "Are you all right?" she 
asked.

"Jesus," he said, heading for the couch.  "If I do sign on 
with the case and more people die, it's my fault because I'm 
letting this psycho play cat-and-mouse with me.  If I don't 
sign on and more people die, it's my fault for not helping 
with the investigation."

"None of it is your fault, Mulder."

He snorted.  "You must not have read the reports from eleven 
years ago.  It was my fault then, too."

She sat next to him.  "Is that why you left?"

"It's not that simple," he said, reaching for a balled up 
pair of socks.  He passed them from hand to hand as he 
considered his answer.  "Or maybe it is that simple, I don't 
know.  They brought me in to catch the bad guy, Scully, and 
instead I watched three young women die."

"You did all you could."

"You weren't there.  You don't know."  The words came out 
more harshly than he'd intended.  They had shared many 
private hells together, but this inferno was his own.

"I do know.  I know you."

He squeezed the sock ball in his fist.  "I didn't know me," 
he whispered at last.  "Not at the end."  He looked over at 
her.  "I guess that's why I left."

She said nothing, but placed her hand on top of his.  He 
rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his 
eyes.  "I almost couldn't.  I almost couldn't walk away."

"Is that why Grenier is angry with you?  Because you left?"

He gave a humorless laugh.  "Patterson was furious; Grenier 
probably held a parade."

"And Russell?" Scully asked, her voice soft.  He opened his 
eyes and looked at her.  Calm, patient.  Waiting for him to 
tell her what she'd already guessed. 

He sighed and withdrew his hand from under hers.  "I was 
involved with Amelia for a short time back then.  A few 
nights, nothing serious on either end.  Mainly I think she 
was using me to get out of a bad marriage."

"I see."  Her expression didn't change.  "Did it work?"

"Yes."  He hesitated, unsure of whether he should spill the 
rest of the story.  Like it mattered anymore, he thought 
finally.  "Grenier was the other half of that marriage."

Scully let out a long breath and shifted on the sofa so they 
were both facing forward.  "Well, that explains some things."

"Yeah, I guess it does."  He rubbed his face with both hands, 
then remembered there were other things still unexplained.  
"Hey," he said, looking sideways at her.  "Is this your case 
now, too?  I noticed Skinner came along for the ride."

"That's all it was," she said.  "They needed Skinner to sign 
you over to them if you agreed to the investigation, and I 
was here as a medical consultant more than anything else."

"And your medical opinion is?"

"You're still healing, Mulder.  It wouldn't be a good idea 
for you to be working a case right now.  But..."

"No one should have to work this case," he cut in wearily.  
"Eleven fucking years.  I'd hoped he was dead."

"Mulder, last night..."

"Grenier might call you in, you know.  Or Russell.  God, 
Scully, this case eats people alive.  You shouldn't..."

"Mulder."  The edge in her voice finally caught his 
attention.

"What is it?"

She took a deep breath.  "I may have found a witness."

XxXxX

The shoes, a pair of sleek, black velvet heels, quivered on 
his lap.  He stroked them.  Maybe she hadn't seen.

She ran, chastised the voice in his head.  She saw.

He could feel his heart contract with each pump, the blood 
audible as it sloshed around inside him.  How the hell was he 
supposed to have known there would be a girl in the trees?  
Who the fuck hung around in a tree at night?  

"Fuck," he said, and squeezed the shoes until they bent.  He 
had been careful, yes he had.  Grabbed her in the parking 
lot, taken her to the field -- no one around for miles -- 
gloves, a mask.   It took a while to squeeze the life out of 
someone.

Maybe the Mulder move had been too bold, he thought, 
beginning to sweat.  It was a tease, a final fuck you.  Now 
he wondered if it had been wrong to draw his attention in 
that way.  There wasn't supposed to be anything left for him 
to find.

He thought of the girl in the tree.  A special tree, he 
suspected, visited often like a much-loved friend.  He 
thought he might pay a visit himself.

Then Mulder could look all he wanted.

XxXxX


XxXxX

Chapter Three

XxXxX

Their usual meeting place was cordoned off with yellow police 
tape, so Vee waited behind some tall bushes at the edge of 
the park.  The wind sliced through the branches and pinched 
at her frozen fingertips.  Jackson was almost half an hour 
late.  She touched the envelope of cash inside her pocket and 
decided to give him another five minutes.  "No way in hell 
I'm doing this again," she muttered, stamping her boots on 
the hard ground.  "Quoc can freeze his nuts out here for all 
I care."

A man jogged by her hiding spot, his breath puffing in the 
air in front of him, and she startled at the intrusion.   
Richard Nixon's grinning face still burned in her memory, 
along with the sound of his footsteps pounding the pavement 
as he chased her down the street.  The jogger's cadence was 
shorter, and Vee allowed herself to exhale.  He'd be a 
fucking idiot to come back here now, she thought.

"There you are."

Vee jumped at the tap on her shoulder.  "Jesus, Jackson!  
What the hell are you doing?"

"Looking for you."  He nodded down the road to the crime 
scene.  "What happened?  Someone get iced?"

"Yeah, last night."  She willed herself not to think of the 
girl's white arms and vacant eyes.  Instead, she glanced at 
Jackson's hands, stuffed deep inside his denim jacket.  "You 
brought the stuff?"

He sniffed and rubbed his nose.  "Yeah, I brought it.  You 
got the cash?"

"Don't I always?"

"Then let's get on with it.  It's fucking freezing out here."

She withdrew the envelope from her pocket, tilting it so it 
was visible in the white beam of the streetlight.  "Now you."

He hesitated, glancing around them, then sniffed again.  "Ten 
Gs?"

"You want to count it now? Out here?"  Vee was getting 
irritated.

"No, no.  It's fine.  Here's the stuff."  He handed her a 
plastic bag filled with powder, and she gave him the money.  
They had barely completed the exchange when bright light 
flooded the bushes.  A siren blared briefly.

"This is the police," said a voice through a bullhorn.  
"Please come out slowly, keeping your hands where we can see 
them at all times."

Vee felt her knees go weak, but she glared at Jackson.  "You 
bastard."

"Little girl, this was an easy choice.  There was no fucking 
way I was going back to jail."  He flashed a mirthless smile 
that showed off his chipped front tooth.  "Give Jimmy my 
love, eh?"

"Come out from there.  Now."  A man with a flashlight and a 
nine mm revolver appeared at the edge of the bushes.  With a 
last withering look at Jackson, Vee went.

Four patrol cars had materialized from nowhere, and uniformed 
cops walked up and down the sloping paths, searching for what 
Vee could not guess.  A small crowd gathered near the gate to 
watch them pat her down and stuff her in the back of a 
cruiser.  

The noise was shut outside.  She sat on the cold leather 
seat, staring at the metal grid, and thought of her bed at 
home.  It was a Tuesday, and her mother made latkes on 
Tuesday.  But wait, no, she remembered.  First one of the 
month Mom worked late in the ER.  She wouldn't be home yet.  
She wouldn't know.

Vee slouched down and closed her eyes.  Her head was 
beginning to throb at the temples.  She rested it against the 
cool glass and watched the men in black congratulate 
themselves on nailing a hardened criminal.  When her gaze 
shifted again to the onlookers at the gate, she sat up a bit.

There was a man at the back of the crowd.  His hair stood on 
end and the slope of his shoulders was familiar.  He caught 
her staring and disappeared in the space of one blink.

Maybe it was just the way the shadows fell.  Maybe it was the 
way he seemed to be staring right at her.

She shuddered inside her thin coat and pulled away from the 
window, back into the dark of the patrol car.  Maybe it was 
just her imagination.

But she was suddenly not so upset to be locked in the back of 
a cop car.

XxXxX

The rubber mask squeaked as he stuffed his fists deep into 
his pockets.  He was cold, he was angry, but he knew he still 
had the upper hand.  The cops wouldn't know the right 
questions to ask, and what was this girl going to tell them, 
exactly -- go arrest a dead president?

He considered forgetting the whole damn thing.  Then he 
remembered her look of recognition in squad car.  "Shit," he 
muttered, and kicked the front tire on his car.  

At least he knew where the little bitch was now.  And cop 
shops were his specialty.  He smiled a little, thinking of 
how soon they would release her.  A bit more patience, he 
thought, and this whole thing would be finished at last.

XxXxX

Scully staggered into the basement office, trying to make it 
to the desk before the two-foot stack of folders and the 
cardboard coffee cup slipped from her arms to the ground.  
She muffled a curse as hot coffee sloshed over her fingers 
but managed to set everything down with no major disaster.

"Good morning to you, too."

She jumped and turned.  "Mulder," she said when she saw him 
standing in the fuzzy early morning light.  "What are you 
doing here?"

He waved a brown paper bag at her.  "Blueberry muffins," he 
said, and looked pointedly at her coffee cup.  "I'll share if 
you will."

"From La Parisienne?" she asked, trying to decide whether it 
was worth halving her morning caffeine.  He nodded, and she 
slid over to give him a corner of the desk, taking a few 
careful sips before handing him the cup.  Their fingers 
brushed.

"Mulder, you're freezing," she said, covering his hand with 
hers.

"Yeah, well, they never did a stellar job with the heat down 
here."

She met his eyes.  "How long have you been waiting here?"

"Not that long," he answered, shrugging off her concern.  
When she did not back down in her gaze, he slipped one hand 
free and touched her knee.  "It's okay, Scully, really.  I'm 
all right."

She hesitated and then nodded.  "Okay."

He tapped her knee lightly.  "What about you?  How are you 
doing?"

"What do you mean?"

He inclined his head in the direction of the folders.  "I see 
you've been doing a little light reading." 

"Oh, that."  She took a deep breath.  "I was up half the 
night and barely made a dent.  This man certainly didn't 
escape capture due to a lax investigation.  Mulder, is it 
really true that over half of the law enforcement personnel 
in DC were involved with this case at one time or another?"

He rubbed his face with his hands.  "Yeah, that sounds right.  
At one point, the task force was logging over a hundred phone 
calls a day from people who had supposed leads on the case."

"Hard to follow every single one," she replied, eyeing the 
teetering stack of folders between them.  She paused.  "Do 
you think he might be in there someplace, just overlooked?"

"It's possible."  He pushed away from the desk, crossing the 
room to stand by the bookshelves.  "But that's not where I 
would start."

She watched him trace the edges of one shelf for a few 
moments.  "Mulder, I thought you said you didn't want to get 
involved with this case again."

"Yeah, I did," he answered without turning around.  "But I 
realized something last night."

"What's that?"

He faced her.  "This guy can be caught, Scully.  He *was* 
caught.  That's why we haven't heard from him in eleven 
years.  It's the only explanation that makes sense."

"Possible," she agreed.  "But what if he simply moved 
somewhere else?"

"No," he said, shaking his head.  "No, he did time, I'd bet 
on it.  He was escalating at the time of the last murders -- 
Michelle Palevski and Jessica Gellar were killed less than 
one month apart.  If he had moved and started killing 
somewhere else, the bodies would have been piling up fast 
enough for any local PD to take notice."

"Okay, so he was in prison for the last eleven years.  What 
for?"

Mulder paced the office with slow, deliberate steps.  "Eleven 
years is a long time.  Assault, maybe, given his history.  
Kidnapping.  Conceivably some combination of breaking and 
entering, robbery and drugs, especially if they related to 
his foot fetish."

"My thinking exactly," said a voice from the doorway.  They 
both turned to see Amelia Russell standing on the threshold.  
"I knew you still had your edge," she said to Mulder as she 
entered.  "Patterson always said he didn't really train you, 
just pointed you at a case like a loaded weapon.  And 
then...bang, it was solved."

"I don't remember it quite like that," Mulder replied.

"See, that's the remarkable thing about memory," Russell said 
to Scully.  "Even the eidetic ones are selective."

Mulder move to stand at Scully's side, the case folders piled 
high in front them.  "Is there a reason that you came down 
here, Russell?" he asked.

"I came to see if Agent Scully would be willing to talk to 
you about helping with the investigation.  It seems I need 
not have bothered."

"I had a couple of ideas last night," he said.  "But Scully 
is still the one you want to talk to.  She may have a 
witness."

Russell looked sharply at her.  "What?"

"I live about three blocks from where Elizabeth Kinney's body 
was found," Scully said.  "Two nights ago, at approximately 
the time of the murder, I met a young woman who claims to 
have been chased by a man with a knife.  She was running from 
the direction of Montrose Park.  I looked around the area for 
the man in question but couldn't find any trace of him.  The 
girl then told me she thought it might have been a homeless 
person, and claimed she overreacted."

"My God," Russell murmured.  "This could be the just the 
thing we need to crack this thing wide open.  Grenier is out 
there now, coordinating a team of black and whites to canvass 
the neighborhood for possible witnesses.  Do you know 
anything else about this girl?  How can we find her again?"

"She said her name was Vee, and she had a male companion 
called Jimmy.  They headed off in the direction of downtown."

"Description?" Russell asked, pulling out a notepad and pen.  
Scully gave her the basic details.  "Jesus, I can't believe 
it," Russell said when she had finished.  "Maybe he finally 
fucked one up.  I'm going to run across town with this.  You 
two want to come along?"

"No, I want to visit GW and talk to some of Beth Kinney's 
friends," Mulder said.

Scully glanced over at him.  "If you give me a few minutes, I 
can go with you.  I'd like to give out a description of Vee 
to local high schools.  She couldn't have been older than 
sixteen, so it's possible someone there might know who she 
is."

"Good idea," he agreed.  He looked at Russell.  "What's Arkin 
doing now?  I could grab him instead and let Scully track 
down Vee."

Russell raised her eyebrows.  "You need a car?  I can get one 
if you're not supposed to be working on the books."

Mulder slowly flexed his hands in front of him.  "Not allowed 
to drive yet."

"If I remember correctly, that's a probably a good thing." 
Russell said.

"Well, Amelia, you know the amazing thing about memory," he 
answered.  "It's selective."

She laughed.  "Touch�.  And sure, you can have Arkin.  He's 
upstairs running through recent prison release records.  I 
had the same thought, that this creep has been behind bars 
somewhere for the last eleven years.  If we can find this Vee 
person, maybe she can ID him from the books." She looked at 
Mulder.  "I'll find Arkin and meet you upstairs in five 
minutes, okay?"

"Fine," Mulder said as she left.  He picked up his coat and 
slid one palm across the desk toward Scully.  "I'll see you 
later, maybe over at Grenier's check-point.  Let me know if 
you find anything on Vee."

"Sure," she replied, and tilted her head at him.  "Go easy on 
the co-eds."

He smiled.  "Scully, I've got a chaperone."

"Yes, I know.  Go easy on him, too."

His smile widened to a grin.  "Now there I make no promises."

XxXxX

"So explain to me what we're doing here?" Arkin asked as they 
sat in his idling car, waiting for foot traffic to clear from 
in front of the main George Washington University parking 
lot.  "Are you not convinced it's the same killer?"

"No, I think it's him."

"Then I don't understand.  What is there to gain from talking 
to Beth Kinney's friends?  This guy isn't someone she knew.  
He's a stranger who grabbed her off the streets."

"All the more reason to find out what kind of person Beth 
was.  We don't know where he grabbed her or why.  Maybe 
there's something in her last days that could give us some 
insight into why she died."

Arkin slid the car into a spot and cut the engine.  "I 
thought the best way to learn about the killer's mindset was 
to study his crimes -- the timing, the method, the 
commonalities among the victims..."

"And that's what we're doing," Mulder said as he got out of 
the car.   He squinted at the surrounding buildings.  "We 
want New Hall, right?

Arkin nodded, and they began walking.  "So what you're 
suggesting is that the victims might have more in common than 
long legs and fancy shoes."

"I'm saying we won't know unless we ask."

They reached the tan brick building and followed a young man 
with a backpack in through the front door.   A slender 
brunette answered their knock at the third-floor apartment.   
Her eyes were red-rimmed and her voice was hoarse as she 
asked how she could help them.

"Are you a roommate of Elizabeth Kinney's?" Mulder said 
softly.  The girl clasped a hand to her mouth and nodded.

"Yeah, I am.  Was."

"My name is Fox Mulder, and I work at the FBI.  This is Agent 
Arkin."

At the second name, the girl looked up.  "Richard?  I didn't 
recognize you."

Arkin flushed and cleared his throat.  "Hi, Sarah.  I'm sorry 
about Beth."

"Wait a second," Mulder said, turning to Akrin.  "You knew 
Beth Kinney?"

The younger agent shifted uncomfortably.  "Uh, yeah, a little 
bit.  My kid sister Danielle is a junior here.  She lives on 
the second floor."

"Beth interviewed him last year for the Hatchet," Sarah 
supplied helpfully.  "About being a profiler."

"Excuse us a moment," Mulder said, and walked Arkin down the 
hall by the arm.  "You knew the victim and you didn't say 
anything?"

"I didn't think it was relevant.  And I didn't *know* her -- 
I just spent an hour in the campus coffee house answering a 
few questions about profiling."

Mulder shook his head.  "Not cool, Arkin.  This is not the 
kind of information you keep to yourself."

"I know, I know."  He sighed.  "I'm sorry.  It's just...ever 
since we found Beth, all I've been able to think about is 
Danielle.  What if it had been her?  She's scared out of her 
mind and I'm supposed to tell her everything is going to be 
all right.  I just didn't want to drag these kids into it.  
I'm sorry, my mistake, okay?  It won't happen again."

Mulder held his gaze for a few seconds.  "You met her," he 
said at last.  "What was she like?"

"Smart.  Pretty.  Confident.  Just a real nice kid." He 
swallowed with difficulty.  "I couldn't believe it when they 
told me she was the girl in the park.  I wish to hell I could 
say I'd known her better -- then I might have some insight 
into why this bastard grabbed her."

"Well, you know her friends," Mulder said.  "That's a start."

Arkin drew a shaky breath, and they both looked back at Sarah 
standing in the doorway with her tissues in hand.  "Let's get 
going then," he said.
 
XxXxX

Scully sat at Mulder's desk, the folders pushed aside to make 
room for her laptop as she compiled names of the local high 
schools.  When the phone rang, she reached blindly to answer 
it.  "Scully."

"Agent Dana Scully?" said an unfamiliar voice.

Scully leaned her head in one hand and closed her eyes, 
suppressing a yawn.  "Yes, this is she.  Who is speaking?"

"This is Detective Pearson down at the oh six.  We arrested a 
girl last night who says she knows you."

Scully sat up, her heart beginning to quicken.  "A teenager?"

"Yeah, she won't give us her name.  We picked her up at 
Montrose Park on drug possession.  Word on the street is 
she's one of Jimmy Cho's girls."

"I'll be right there," Scully said, already gathering her 
coat.  "Whatever you do, do not let her leave."

"Oh, don't worry.  She's keeping us company for quite a while 
yet."  He paused.  "You guys looking at her for drug 
charges?"

Scully stretched backwards, speaking even as she hung up the 
phone.  "No," she said, "serial murder." 

XxXxX

In the subway car, Carl watched a woman in a business suit as 
she held the rail and swayed with the motion of the car.  She 
had narrow and glorious navy blue pumps; he imagined the feel 
of the leather on his skin.  It wasn't until after she had 
left, her heels clicking on the platform, that he noticed the 
newspaper she had been reading.

POLICE WON'T CONFIRM CONNECTION IN KILLINGS

He snatched up the section and devoured the tiny article on 
page four.  "Idiots," he breathed.  "What the fuck are they 
talking about, a possible connection?"  He scanned the three 
paragraphs again.

It had to be a press mistake, he thought.  The cops knew his 
work by now.  Jesus, who was running the FBI these days?

*Maybe you're the only one left.*

He wondered if it were true.  Grenier, Russell, Mulder... 
maybe they were all gone now.  Maybe they had forgotten who 
he was and what he could do.  Eleven years was a long time to 
be away.

He got off at Federal Triangle and went to stand outside the 
Hoover building, across the street amid the dozens of people 
hurrying along the sidewalk.  The wind came screaming down 
the rows of buildings, and most folks seemed to want to get 
back inside quickly.  Their rapid footsteps blended with the 
sound of the blood pounding in his ears.

You'll just have to remind them, he told himself.  They'll 
come back and set everything straight.

A woman came out of the front entrance.  She was rather far 
away, but he noticed her immediately.  Daring, three-inch 
heels.  Long skirt with a slit that showed off her strong 
calves.  Such tiny little feet.   He thought of her ten pink 
toes lined up in a perfect row.   

The image stayed with him as he followed her to her car and 
watched her drive away.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Four

XxXxX

Scully paused on the low, flat steps of the precinct, her 
hair plastered against her cheek in the roaring wind.  The 
whistles and howls blocked out all other sound, but 
underneath she sensed a regular cadence, like a heartbeat.  
Or footsteps.  She clawed the hair from her eyes and turned 
to study the street behind her.  

No one was in sight. 

Leaves rattled along the sidewalk, tumbling over one another 
as a plastic bag danced in midair. The front door to the 
station banged open, startling her in her scrutiny, and two 
uniformed cops hurried down the steps.  As their voices 
faded, swallowed by the wind, she listened again but heard 
nothing hidden under the rushing gales.  She turned and 
climbed the rest of the stone steps, leaving the wind 
pounding angrily on the door behind her.

Inside, the station smelled of warm, stale air that had been 
cranked through an ancient heating system.  There was a bench 
covered in scattered newspapers, and the faded green walls 
displayed posters of cartoon characters warning kids to stay 
away from drugs.  "Excuse me," Scully said to the man behind 
the front desk, "I'm looking for Detective Pearson."

"Straight back on the left."

Scully threaded her way through the maze of desks to find a 
large black man with graying temples hunched over a computer 
keyboard.  He pecked at it with two fingers.  "Detective 
Pearson?" Scully said when he failed to look up.

He swiveled to face her.  "Agent Scully, I presume.  Thanks 
for coming."  He tilted his head, appraising her, then nodded 
at the computer.  "You know how anything about opening 
attachments?"

"Uh, sure."  She moved so she could see the screen.  "Trouble 
with a case file?"

"Naw."  He grinned.  "My son started college this fall, and 
it's either master this e-mail thing or lose contact until 
graduation.  This thing he sent today is supposed to be the 
latest standing in the football pool."

"Well," she said, leaning over to show him, "just enter your 
server name here, your password here...now click download, 
and there you go."

"Hey, thanks," he said as the list of names popped up.  He 
scanned them quickly, then chortled. "A four for the week! 
All his little computer models, and he'd do better flipping a 
coin." 

"I see Denver covered," Scully remarked.

"You know football?" 

She smiled.  "You work in law enforcement, and it's the water 
cooler chatter every Monday morning."

"Guess so," he agreed, rising to his feet.  He perched on the 
edge of his desk  "But speaking of chatter, we haven't been 
able to get word one out of your little friend.  You said you 
wanted her for serial murder?  She looks like a drowned 
kitten to me -- couldn't hurt a flea."

"We think she may be a witness to a murder that took place in 
Montrose park Sunday night," Scully explained.  "She reported 
seeing a man with a knife in the area at approximately the 
time of death."

Pearson let out a low whistle.  "That college girl killed in 
the park?  I heard about that.  But the papers said no one 
has officially connected her death to the girl found a couple 
of weeks ago.  Now you guys think it's the same guy?"

"There were a number of similarities between the two crimes," 
Scully answered.  "Right now we're exploring every angle.  
Would it be all right if I spoke with Vee for a few minutes?"

"Vee, huh?" He shook his head and sighed.  "Such a tough name 
for a little kitten.  Sure, sure you can see her -- she 
called you, after all.  Right this way."

Vee sat slouched at the table in an interrogation room, 
looking considerably more defeated than when Scully had seen 
her last.  She had pulled the metal ring from the top of her 
coke can and was sliding it down her fingers one at a time.  
At Pearson and Scully's entrance, she sat up straight.

"Seems you weren't lying about your connections, kid.  Agent 
Scully hurried down here in the middle of her day at your 
request.  I hope you'll show her the same courtesy."  He 
glanced at Scully.  "She's a minor, so I've got to stick 
around.  Hope that's okay."

"It's fine," Scully answered, her eyes on Vee.  "Detective 
Pearson told me about your trouble last night."

Vee shrugged but ducked her head.  "Yeah, they got me," she 
said.  "The big bad criminal."   She glared at Pearson.  "You 
must be so proud."

"I've got your mug shot on my fridge," he replied. 

"You asked to see me," Scully said, moving closer to the 
table.  "Why?"

"I want to make a deal."  Her chin stuck out, the bravado 
returned, but her eyes were still dark with fear.

"What kind of deal?"

"I can tell you stuff about that guy in the park, the one 
with the knife.  And if I do, you let me walk."

"I don't have the authority to make that kind of deal."

"But *he* does, right?  And he has to do what you say."

Scully and Pearson exchanged a glance.  "I'm afraid that's 
not the way it works," she said.  "The FBI has separate 
authority from the District of Columbia Police Department."

"The DA has discretionary power in these cases," Pearson 
said, pulling up a chair.  "And I might be willing to go to 
bat for you with the DA's office if you give me a good reason 
to."

Vee looked from Pearson to Scully and back.  "How much would 
I get?"

The Detective considered.  "Well, you're young, it's your 
first offense...we might be able to settle on some kind of 
probation."

When Vee still seemed to hesitate, Scully spoke up.  "This 
man chased you with a knife, Vee.  He's already killed at 
least one person and he knows what you look like.  I would 
think it would be in your best interest to help us catch 
him."

"Okay."  Vee sighed and leaned across the table.  "Okay, I'll 
do it on one condition -- my mom can't find out about any of 
this.  I'll tell you everything, I'll do the probation, 
whatever.  She just can't know about it."

Pearson shook his head.  "No dice.  You're under eighteen and 
we need a legal guardian to approve any kind of arrangement."

"Then fuck it."  Vee shoved her chair back and stood up.  

"What about your father?" Scully asked.  

"He's dead."  Vee turned away, hugging her waist with her 
arms.  "Go ahead and do whatever you want to me.  It doesn't 
matter anyway."

Scully walked around the table, moving to stand between Vee 
and Pearson's watchful gaze.  The girl's eyes remained glued 
to the ground, but Scully spoke softly to her.  "You think 
things will be better for your mother if she has to come down 
to the morgue and identify your body?  Is that what you 
want?"

Vee shrugged.  "He hasn't come after me yet."

"Yes, he has.  He chased you two night ago, and you have no 
reason to think he won't come back, not if he thinks you can 
identify him."

"But I can't," Vee whispered.  "I can't identify him."

"You must have seen something."

Vee was silent.

"Her name was Elizabeth Kinney, you know," Scully continued 
after a minute.  "She was twenty-one years old, a senior at 
George Washington University.  She brushed her teeth Sunday 
morning thinking it was just like any other day.  Twelve 
hours later she was dead.  How do you think her mother is 
feeling right now?"

"Stop, just stop."  Vee swiped at the tears on her cheeks 
with the cuff of her sweatshirt.  "Don't you get it?  I can't 
help you!  I never saw his face!"

"What did you see?" Scully pressed.  "Tell me."

Vee balked, taking a step backwards.  "Her arms...they were 
so white, like a ghost.  I saw him carry her into the 
bushes."

"What did he look like?"

Vee's eyes went blank and she stared at the wall, as if 
visualizing the scene projected before her.  "He was tall, 
over six feet, and dressed in dark clothing.  The jacket went 
all the way to his knees.  He wore a face mask that looked 
like Richard Nixon, but his hair stuck up around it."

At the word "mask," Scully felt her heart sink.  So much for 
a positive ID. "Is that it?" she asked  "Can you remember 
anything else about him?"

Vee thought for a minute.  "Um, he was strong.  He carried 
her like she weighed nothing at all.  Oh, and he was white.  
I know because I saw his neck from the side.  But that's it."

Pearson got up from the table with a sigh.  "Not exactly the 
ace you were hoping for, huh?" he said to Scully.

Vee hung her head.  "I told you I couldn't identify him."

Despite her frustration, Scully gave the girl's arm a light 
squeeze.  "It's all right.  We know more now that we did this 
morning, and that's something.  Would you mind sitting down 
with me and going over everything that happened that night?  
Maybe there is a detail we've overlooked."

"Yeah, okay."  Vee drew a shuddering breath and wiped her 
palms on her jeans.  "But first I'd like to call my mother."

XxXxX

He knew better than to follow her into the police station.  
He hadn't survived all those years in that hellhole prison 
just to fuck up and land himself back inside again.  Still, 
when the cab had dropped him off on the corner, when he'd 
seen her stop and look around, a tingle shot up his spine.  
None of the others had ever sensed him before, not until it 
was too late.

Her car was in the small visitor lot -- a blue Camry, and new 
if he was any judge.  He stroked the smooth hood, then 
pressed himself against the driver side door, removing the 
slim piece of metal from his jacket.  As a cop walked past, 
smiling at him, he smiled back and popped the lock open with 
one quick motion.

He climbed inside, his knees pressed almost to his chest, and 
placed trembling hands on her steering wheel.  She was so 
small he barely fit in her place.  He closed his eyes, 
inhaling deeply as he imagined her tiny feet on the pedals.

After a few minutes he started going through her things:  
several pens, sixty-seven cents in spare change, tube of 
coral-colored lipstick (which he opened and sniffed), 
tissues... nothing of real interest to him.  

Except.

He pulled open the glove box and withdrew sheaf of papers.
Registered to Dana Katherine Scully, it said, with her 
address plain as day. 

XxXxX

"This is our room," Sarah said as she opened the door for 
Mulder and Arkin.  "Beth had the right side."

Mulder took in the rumpled chenille bedspread, the armchair 
layered in sweaters and the desk piled high with papers and 
books.  "Looks like my office," he said to Sarah.

She answered with a small smile.  "Beth wasn't the most 
organized person on earth, but she was the smartest girl I 
ever knew.  Professors who swore they never gave out A pluses 
were always making exceptions for Beth."

"She was at a charity dinner Sunday night, is that right?" 
Arkin asked.

Sarah nodded.  "As part of her work on the Hatchet.  They 
were raising money for inner city kids to go to summer camp 
in the mountains."

Mulder wandered over to Beth's chaotic desk to examine her 
personal effects.  He passed over the chemistry textbook and 
collection of British poets anthology in favor of the framed 
black-and-white photographs that adorned her wall.  "Did Beth 
take these?" he asked

"Yes, she took a couple of photography classes last year and 
really fell in love with it."  Sarah paused as her voice 
cracked.  "I thought she was really good."

"I think so, too," Mulder answered as he studied the 
snapshots.  Sarah was in one, along with two other girls he 
didn't recognize.  They were standing under a street lamp at 
night, wearing short skirts and tiny clips in their hair, 
their eyes alight as they shared some sort of gleeful secret 
together.  Mulder thought that if he leaned close enough, he 
could hear the laughter bubbling right out of the scene.

Sarah materialized at his shoulder.  "This one was her 
favorite," she said, tapping the far right photograph.  "That 
was Ben on their first date."  

Mulder took it off the wall for a closer look, and he 
understood immediately why it had been Beth's favorite.  
Emotional connection aside, it was just *good*.  She had 
captured Ben in a three-fourths profile, an extreme close-up.  
He was smiling but his eyes were focused on the ground, as if 
she had just told him a joke that made him blush.  A man in 
love who wasn't ready to share it with the camera.  

"She, um, took his car that night."

"To the charity dinner?" Mulder asked as he replaced the 
photo.

"Yeah. His car was back in the garage, though, so..."

"She must have made it back to campus."

Sarah's eyes filled with tears, and she nodded.  "I'm sorry," 
she said, backing away.  "I don't think I can talk about this 
anymore right now."

"That's fine," Mulder assured her.  "We're almost done here, 
I promise."

She left the room, and Mulder returned to Beth's desk.  Arkin 
joined him.  "Find anything interesting?"

"Nothing new so far.  I mainly just wanted to get a sense of 
who she was."

Arkin sighed.  "A real good kid."

"Yeah."  Mulder picked up a book on photography and began 
flipping through it.  Several pages were dog-eared, including 
one near the back that caused Mulder to freeze in place.  

"What is it?" Arkin asked, leaning over.

"It's Tanzini's photo, the one that was found on her body."

"You're fucking me."

"No, look.  There are a couple of Tanzini specials in here, 
all taken during the first series of murders eleven years 
ago."

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" Akrin said.  "Considering that 
series won the Pulitzer and all."

Mulder stared down at the book, which also had hand-writing 
in the margins.  Beth had drawn an exclamation point next to 
one of the photographs -- a street crowd circled by police 
tape as they watched one of the bodies being taken away -- 
and the message "call Irene."

"You knew her friends," Mulder said.  "Who's Irene?"

"Never heard of her.  But it's not like I knew all her 
friends.  Could be anyone.  Why?  You think it's important?"

"I think that it's interesting that one thing that 
differentiates this murder from all the rest is that 
photograph, and that the *same* photograph turns up among the 
victim's possessions."

Arkin flipped through the book.  "That one and about a 
hundred others.  She's got marks on a bunch of these."

"True.  I think I'll hang on to it anyway."

As they left, they passed Sarah and several of her friends, 
where they were talking quietly in the living room.  "We're 
finished for now," Mulder said.  He held up the book.  "Is it 
okay if I take this?"

Sarah nodded as she stood.  "Sure, fine.  Anything that 
helps."

"Did Beth know anyone named Irene?"

"Irene?"  The girl's brow furrowed in thought, but then she 
shook her head.  "No, I don't think so.  She never mentioned 
her, anyway."

"Okay, thank you."  Mulder handed her his card.  "If you 
remember hearing about an Irene, or you think of anything 
else you think we should know, please call me."

"I will."

Arkin ruffled her hair.  "Take care of yourself, okay?"

They left the apartment in silence, Arkin more subdued than 
when they had arrived, Mulder lost in thought with the book 
tucked under one arm.  It was lunch break at GW, so students 
were streaming through the doors as the agents tried to exit.  
Outside, there was one man standing motionless amid all the 
activity.  Mulder recognized him immediately.

"Tanzini," he murmured, and Arkin followed his gaze across 
the campus to where a large man in an overcoat was leaning 
against a bike rack.

"What the hell is he doing here?"

Mulder felt the old anger flash hot and quick inside him.  
"Scavenging," he replied, walking off the path and over 
toward the photographer.

"Mulder," Tanzini said at his approach.  "They say that time 
heals all wounds.  What do you think?"

"I think you better leave these kids alone, or I'll hold my 
own press conference and let everyone know what a snake you 
really are."

Tanzini chuckled.  "My superiors are well aware, I promise.  
Why do you think they pay me the big bucks?"

"It's about money, then?"  Mulder yanked his wallet out of 
his pocket and tossed a pair of twenties at Tanzini's feet. 
"Here, take these.  Take a couple more.  Whatever it takes to 
get you the hell out of here."

"Agent Mulder, relax.  I'm unarmed, see?"  He opened his coat 
to demonstrate his lack of a camera, then stooped to pick up 
Mulder's money.  Folding it carefully, he handed it back.  "I 
just wanted to talk to you for a minute."

"How did you know I was here?"

If lizards could smile, Mulder thought, they would look like 
Gary Tanzini.  The other man put his hands in his pockets and 
rocked back on his heels.  "You know a newsman never reveals 
a source.  But my sources do tell me interesting things these 
days.  Word on the street is that he's back."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mulder replied 
tightly, and Arkin looked at the ground.

"Oh, come on," Tanzini said.  "Grace Johnson, Elizabeth 
Kinney -- both of them strangled with their little toes cut 
off.  It's got to be the same guy."

"No comment."

Tanzini held his gaze for another moment, then shook his 
head.  "Sure, okay.  We both know I'm right."

"Stay out of this, Tanzini.  I'm warning you."

"That was always your problem, Mulder.  You didn't see that 
we're on the same side."

"I know where I stand," Mulder answered.  "And it sure as 
hell isn't next to you."

Tanzini sighed.  "Look, despite what you think, I don't take 
any personal pleasure from photographing these crimes.  I'm 
just there to tell the story, to let people know what's going 
on.  And the more people that know about it, the more likely 
it is that one of them will come forward with information to 
help your case."

Mulder was silent for a moment.  "You let us worry about the 
case," he said finally.  He turned to Arkin.  "We're done 
here."

As they turned to leave, Tanzini called after them.  "What 
makes you think you can catch him this time, Mulder?  He's 
already killed two girls right under your nose, and you're 
stuck poking around a dorm room for clues."

Mulder froze for a fraction of a second, but kept moving 
without turning around.  Arkin fell back.  "Mr. Tanzini," he 
said.  "You know anyone named Irene?"

At this, Mulder did turn around.  The photographer looked 
confused.  "Irene?" he said.  "Can't say that I do.  Why?"

Arkin exchanged a look with Mulder, who shrugged.  "Might be 
a clue," he said, and both agents walked away.

XxXxX

Scully pinched the bridge of her nose as she stepped out of 
the interrogation room into the hallway; two hours of 
questions and Vee's story hadn't changed.  She had seen the 
aftermath of the murder but not the murder itself, and there 
was no way she could identify the man's face.  Scully wished 
she could be sure the killer knew it, too.

She pulled out her phone to call Mulder when she noticed a 
tall woman standing ramrod straight at the other end of the 
hallway and staring through the tinted window into the 
interrogation room.  It wasn't until she wiped the tears from 
her face, an exact mimic of the silent gesture Scully had 
seen Vee make, that Scully realized who she was.  "Mrs. 
Kroener?"

The woman jerked at the sound of her name, as if noticing 
Scully for the first time.  "Yes."

"I'm Dana Scully and I work at the FBI.  I've been talking to 
your daughter for the past few hours."

"Virginia is in trouble with the FBI, too?"  Mrs. Kroener 
sounded desolate.

"No," Scully said gently.  "She was a witness to a murder the 
other night in Montrose Park.  We wanted to ask her some 
questions about what she saw."

Mrs. Kroener's mouth twisted, and she swallowed several times 
in quick succession.  "Ginny saw someone killed?  Oh, my 
God."

"She didn't see the actual killing, no."

"Oh, God."  The woman turned back to the window, where inside 
Vee had laid her head down on her arms.  "I don't understand.  
I don't understand how this happened."

"Mrs. Kroener..." Scully hesitated.  "There is a slight 
possibility that Virginia could be in danger if this man 
thinks she can identify him.  Detective Pearson has agreed to 
step up the police patrol on your street, but you might 
consider having her stay out of town with a friend or 
relative just to be safe."

The other woman nodded, her eyes still on her daughter.  "I 
have a sister in Baltimore.  But I don't know if Ginny will 
stay there."

Scully said nothing. 

"When she was four," Mrs. Kroener continued after another 
moment, "we went to a picnic sponsored by our temple.  There 
was a clown there for the children, handing out balloons.  
One little boy let his go by accident, and he started crying 
inconsolably.  Ginny took one look at him and marched right 
over with her balloon.  'Don't be sad,' she said.  'We can 
share.' I thought to myself then that I would never have to 
worry about her.  That she...she had a good heart."

"I'm sorry," Scully whispered, and Mrs. Kroener nodded.

"I should go talk to her.  Please excuse me."

Alone in the hallway, Scully once again pulled out her phone.  
It rang in her hand.  "Scully," she said, expecting to hear 
Mulder on the other end.

"Agent Scully, this is William Beasley from the pathology lab 
at Quantico.  Do you remember me?"

"Yes, of course.  What can I do for you?"

"I've completed the post-mortem exam on Elizabeth Kinney.  
There were some abnormalities in the brain tissue, markings 
that I've never seen before.  Word around here is that you're 
something of an expert in the unexplained, so I thought you 
might like to come take a look."

"What kind of markings?" 

Beasley hesitated.  "I can't do them justice over the phone.  
It's best you see for yourself." 

"I'm on my way."

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Five

XxXxX

XxXxX

Exhausted, Scully left the labs at Quantico eight hours 
later, with more questions than she had answers.  The crystal 
chill of the night air woke her up a bit as she walked across 
the parking lot, but the heft of her briefcase, loaded with 
thick new files, still weighed her down.  

"Some expert," she muttered, slamming the car door shut 
behind her.  The discolored neurons in Elizabeth Kinney's 
brain were as foreign to her as they had been to Beasley's 
team.  She leaned her head back and sighed.  It had taken six 
years, but she'd finally realized that her knowledge alone 
was never going to be enough; her science needed his 
hypotheses.  She picked up the phone.

"Mulder," he said a minute later.

"Mulder, it's me."

"Scully, hey.  Are you still over at Quantico?  How's it 
going?"

"We're done for now, but Beasley was right that there is an 
odd discoloration on parts of Elizabeth Kinney's visual 
cortex.  It could be evidence of an old injury, I suppose, or 
a viral infection, but we didn't find any evidence of this in 
her medical records."

"Why don't you bring what you have over here?  We can take a 
look at it."

She glanced at her dashboard clock.  "It's late, Mulder."

"Come over," he urged.  "I...I have something I want to talk 
to you about, too."

She took a deep breath and made up her mind.  "Okay, fine.  
But I'm going to need food."

"It will be here before you will," he promised, and she hung 
up the phone.  

She leaned forward, about to turn the key in the ignition, 
when she noticed her glove box was not closed properly.  
Twisting around, she scanned her car for anything else out of 
place.  Nothing.  She hesitated a moment longer, then shut 
the door on the glove box so it latched.  

By the time she reached Mulder's apartment building, she had 
forgotten the incident entirely.

His hallway smelled like disinfectant, but even the dim light 
couldn't disguise the fact that it never looked any cleaner.  
There was a draft coming through the vents, and Scully 
shivered as she knocked.  Mulder opened the door an instant 
later, his dark figure surrounded by buttery light and 
warmth.  "Hey," he said as he took her elbow and drew her 
inside.

"It's freezing out there," she said, shedding her coat and 
slipping off her high heels.  She flexed her sore toes.  "How 
can it be this cold so early in November?"

"Have some tea," he suggested.  "It'll warm you up."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a mug of 
green tea.  She wrapped her hands around it and sniffed 
experimentally.  He was still standing by her side, watching, 
so she took a small sip.  She didn't have the heart to tell 
him she had OD'd on green tea during her battle with cancer; 
it had been one of the few things she could keep down at the 
time, and just the scent of it called up memories of nausea 
and a thousand red hot needles pressing behind her eyes.

"Better?" he asked as she swallowed another taste.  The cup 
burned against her palms, which were raw from the dry air and 
repeated washings, but she clutched it tighter.  

"Yes, thank you."

"Good.  Let's eat first, okay?  I got Chinese."

They sat on his couch, facing one another with plates of 
spicy chicken and tofu on their laps.  Beside them, his 
coffee table was a collage of shoe pictures, dozens of 
dazzling high heels, and she recognized some of them as those 
believed to belong to the murdered women.  Her gaze slid from 
the array of shiny photos over to her own shoes sitting 
neatly under her coat.  "It's the shoes that do it for him, 
isn't it," she said.

"Yes," he said without hesitation.  "At the root of this 
guy's psychosis is a garden variety shoe fetish.  Last time 
we tried to get to him that way, chasing down leads in sex 
shops, shoe stores, that sort of thing.  Nothing panned out."  
He popped another bite in his mouth.  "You wouldn't believe 
how many people out there are into shoes, and I mean *really* 
into shoes."

Scully picked up one photo, a close-up of a navy pump covered 
in sequined flowers.  The tag at the bottom said it had 
belonged to Jessica Gellar.  "The shoe fetish is quite 
common," she said.  "The theory is that it's because our 
brains are wired so that that sensory processing from the 
feet is right next to the processing for the genitals.  In 
some people, the two regions may actually overlap."

"And the shopping region?" he asked.  "Do women have that one 
right next to the shoe neurons, too?"

She frowned.  "Mulder."

"Scully."  He mimicked her tone, but he was smiling.  "Have 
you looked in your closet lately?"

She considered her four racks of shoes and finally smiled, 
too.  "Okay, you have a point.  I like shoes."

"Why?" he asked, looking genuinely curious.  He cleared his 
throat.  "Is it...is it what you said about..."

"No!" she answered in a rush.  "No, that's not it."

"Then what?"

She thought a moment, glancing over at her shoes again.  She 
took in their delicate slope down to the toes, their solid 
heels, the way the light gleamed off the soft leather.  "They 
have such personality," she said at last, turning back 
towards Mulder.  He didn't look at her like she was crazy, so 
she continued.  "They make me feel stronger, in a way, like I 
take up more space in the world."

He smiled.  "In those shoes, Scully, you certainly do."

"It's not just the height," she said.  "That matters, yes, 
but it's the sound, too.  The rhythm goes all the way through 
me -- I feel it, I hear it.  It's like an extension of what's 
inside me."  She broke off and shook her head.  "I'm afraid 
I'm not explaining this very well."

He extended his leg until he touched her stocking-clad foot 
with his toes.  "No, I get it."

She pressed back with her toes and smiled at him.  "Plus, 
they look cool."

"No argument here."

Their dinner over, she put aside her plate and shifted so her 
feet were on the ground.  She saw he had several pages of 
notes to go along with the shoe pictures, but the handwriting 
was cramped and awkward.  Concerned, she studied his face for 
signs of fatigue.   There were lines around his eyes.  
"Mulder, are you doing okay?  We can always talk about this 
tomorrow."

He shook his head, moving so that his position mirrored her 
own.  "No, I'm all right.  It's been easier than I expected 
actually."  He paused.  "The only strange thing is that I'm 
still getting these weird sensations in my right hand."  He 
held it out for demonstration.  "It's like someone has an 
electric razor buzzing under my skin."

She took his hand in hers, holding tight.  "Is it doing it 
now?"

"No."

"Squeeze," she said, and his fingers curled around her palm.  
She released him and held up one finger.  "Can you touch my 
fingertip with yours?  Good, how about now?  And over here?"

"Give it to me straight, Doc," he said after a few rounds.  
"How long have I got?"

"Not funny." She refused to meet his eyes.

"Scully," he said, demonstrating excellent dexterity as he 
captured her fretful hands in his.  He leaned over so that 
their foreheads touched.  "I'm okay.  I promise."

She forced herself to nod.  "But you weren't," she whispered.  
He didn't remember being on that cold table in the DOD, 
didn't even remember his rescue.  She had to live with those 
images alone.

"I know," he murmured near her ear.  "I know."

After another minute, she pulled away, breaking contact, and 
they both sat back.  "So," she said, "what did you find out 
from Elizabeth's friends?"

"Nothing that really stands out as a lead right now," he 
admitted.  "Except for one thing -- Richard Arkin knew her.  
She interviewed him for the school paper a couple of months 
ago."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope.  His sister is a student there."

"Then what the hell is he doing on this case?"

Mulder shrugged.  "He said he was okay with it, that their 
contact was brief and that he didn't know anything that would 
be important to the case."

"Strange that he wouldn't mention it before."

"Yeah, he agrees that was a mistake."  He reached under the 
table and pulled out a book.  "We also found this among 
Beth's things.  It contains the photograph found on her body.  
Could be a coincidence -- she bought this book for a class 
last year -- but the fact that she'd actually marked the 
pages seemed strange to me."

"Who's Irene?" Scully asked, looking at the section on 
Tanzini's photos.

"Don't know yet.  I've got Arkin working on that one." He 
paused.  "We ran into Tanzini on the campus."

"You what?"

"He was hanging around the dorm, probably after another 
prize.  I told him to get lost."

She eyed him.  "With words, I hope."

He grinned.  "I was a good boy, don't worry."

Scully closed the book with a sigh and reached for her 
briefcase.  "I just wish Vee could have been more help."

"Well, there's the mask information we didn't have before.  
That's something."  He shook his head.  "A homicidal maniac 
in a Richard Nixon get-up.  Only in DC."

"Here's what we found in the autopsy," she said, handing him 
a folder.  "The top ones are coronal sections of her brain, 
near the back.  Occipital cortex."

"Vision stuff, right?" he asked as he scanned them.

"Yes, and these are the original samples.  They have not been 
stained with anything."

"Then what are these purplish lines, here?"

"I don't know," she replied.  "I've never seen anything like 
it before.  The cells aren't decayed, just discolored.  Her 
blood and other tissue samples came back normal."

"Huh," Mulder said, holding one of the photos closer to the 
light.  "Looks like a long, curved line here...a circle here.  
Any sort of pattern that you saw?"

"None we could decipher."  She looked at him hopefully.  "Any 
theories?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but not at this time.  I can check 
the computer and let you know."

She let out a long breath and leaned back against the couch.  
"Okay, your turn.  What did you want to talk about?"

He set down her folder and took his place next to her.  "This 
guy is good, Scully.  He's the best I've ever seen.  We can 
wait around for him to make a mistake, but who knows how many 
girls could die before that happens?"

"I agree.  But what choice to we have?"

"I've been thinking.  How did he get so good?  How did he 
just show up here twelve years ago and start killing people 
in such a way that the entire DC police force and the FBI 
couldn't catch *one* break on the case?  The answer is 
practice.  Kerri Ann Talbot can't have been the first person 
he murdered.  He was already skilled by then."

"You think there are others."

"I know there are," he said, excited now.  "And that has to 
be the way to nail him.  Find the first victims, back when he 
was just learning and still sloppy.  It's the one thing we 
didn't try eleven years ago.  These days, information systems 
among local PDs are much more integrated.  We can have them 
comb their old files for any murders that might fit this 
guy's general MO."

"Not a bad idea," she agreed.

"Glad you approve," he answered.  "Because if I get a hit, 
I'll need someone to come with me."

"Of course."  She yawned and propped her feet up on his 
table, knowing it was time to go home but unwilling to move.  
Her shoes waited for her by the door.

"Here, feel," he said suddenly, placing a hand on her belly.  
"It's doing it now."

She froze under his touch, not even breathing.  His palm 
print melted through her blouse onto her skin, and he began a 
slow sweep of his thumb, catching one of the delicate buttons 
on each rhythmic pass. 

"Feel that?" he murmured.

Her mouth went dry.  "I...yes."

"Tingles," he said, as if she weren't already buzzing from 
head to toe.  Heat curled up the back of her neck, making her 
ears burn.  

"Mulder..."

"What?"  The button popped free under his rubbing, and his 
thumb slid under the loose cloth.  She felt every ridge of 
his fingertip as it teased the skin above her bellybutton.  

"I need to go."  Another button broke free, and he began 
stroking her with all fingers, his golden skin half-hidden by 
the white edges of her blouse. 

 Does it still count if you keep your clothes on? she 
wondered.  

"Stay," he coaxed, his breathing warm and heavy near her ear.  
She could feel his exhales on her neck.

"I can't."  She placed her hand over his but didn't still his 
movements.  After another second, he stopped and tangled his 
fingers with hers.  She turned her head to look at him, to 
make sure he wasn't taking her no as a rejection, and found 
him dark-eyed and hungry.  His hair stood on end near the 
scar at his left temple, which combined with the heat and 
power of his rigid muscles as he held himself in check, made 
him look slightly dangerous.  She had never seen him quite 
this way, and he sight both thrilled and terrified her.

This was not Mulder, her friend.

Not her partner, Mulder.

This was a Mulder she didn't know yet.

He squeezed her hand, where it rested with his on her 
stomach.  "You should know by now, Scully, that I have 
possibly the world's worst timing."

"No, it's not you.  Mulder..."

"What?"  He had relaxed back into his familiar self, but her 
heart was still quivering inside her chest.

"Things are different for me now," she murmured.  "After 
Africa, after you being gone like that.  It's like you said 
in your dream -- the world is turned upside down."

He nodded slowly.  "Except for me," he said with a smile.  
"I'm still here."

She cupped his cheek and smiled back.  "Exactly."

"Scully, I hope you know," he said, ducking his head, "that's 
not going to change.  I mean, no matter what."

"I know."

He nodded again, then used their joined hands to pull her 
with him as he stood.  She refastened her blouse and gathered 
her things.  At the door, he watched her slip on her shoes.  
"Those have one distinct advantage I don't think you've 
considered," he said as they lingered by the door.

"Yeah?" she asked.  "What's that?"

"They make you the perfect height to do this."  He leaned 
down and kissed her gently, just long enough for her to feel 
the soft pressure of his lips and his heat against her face.  
Before she could kiss him back, he was busy opening the door.

"Night, Scully," he said, looking awfully pleased with 
himself.

She stood dumb-struck another moment before collecting her 
swirling senses.  She paused in front of him on her way out 
the door.  "Good night, Mulder," she murmured, and pecked him 
on the corner of his cheeky grin.  

His eyes widened as she pulled away.  "You're right," she 
agreed.  "The perfect height."

And she maintained her cheeky grin all the way to the car.

XxXxX

It was possibly the most risky thing he'd ever done, entering 
her home.  His heart was beating so fast that the beats ran 
together, and he could feel the hot rush of blood in his 
face.  In the closet, the smell of her perfume lingered on 
her clothes.  His shoulder brushed the plastic of a dry-
cleaning bag as he climbed inside the cramped space.  With 
shaking fingers, he turned on the light.

And gasped.

Four rows of shoes, in perfect alignment.  He got hard at 
just the sight of them.

She is the perfect one, he thought, the one to show them all.  
Surely Russell, Grenier and Mulder would come back to find 
the man who killed a pretty FBI agent.  

He selected a black, open-toed sandal and rubbed it against 
his cheek.  

His mind made up, he began going through the rest of her 
things in an effort to know the best way to grab her.  Not in 
her home.  Never there.  He expected her to scream and there 
was no way the neighbors wouldn't hear.

He pulled down a box from the shelf and pawed through the 
papers inside.  Some letters, cards.  Wait.  

A picture.

She was outside, wearing an FBI jacket and talking to...

He couldn't believe it.

Mulder.

Shit.  He trembled so much he nearly dropped the box.  It was 
almost too good to be true.  Planning, he thought, it would 
take more planning.  He kept the picture but shoved the box 
back up on its shelf.  On his way out, he stopped, hesitated; 
he took the sandals, too.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Six

XxXxX

Mulder sat up straight, gasping and blinking in the darkness 
as the blanket slid from his legs to the floor.  Purple ink 
blot images expanded and shrunk in his memory, and the sound 
of twigs snapping gave way to the soft burble of his fish 
tank.  

A dream.  At last.

It slipped like a shadow from consciousness even as he dug 
his fingers into the couch in an effort to hold on.  There 
had been branches hitting him in the face...he was 
running...Irene was there, but he could never get close 
enough to see what she looked like...Scully.

Still breathing hard, he lay back and let the couch cushions 
rise up around him.  His phone prodded painfully at his hip, 
so he picked it up, hitting the first memory button.  It was 
ringing her number by the time he held it to his ear.

"Hello?" she mumbled a moment later, her voice thick with 
sleep.  He raised his head enough to see his clock read five-
oh-six.  Oops.

"Hey, Scully," he said, keeping his voice soft. "It's me."

"Mulder, what's going on?  Are you all right?"  He heard the 
covers rustling on her end.

"I'm fine," he assured her.  "I just had a dream."

"Oh," she replied, sounding confused.  Then she said it 
again.  "Oh!  See, I told you they would come back."

"Yeah, okay."  He smiled into the receiver.  "I guess you 
deserve an 'I told you so' every once in a while."

"Usually I'm just too polite to say it," she answered, and he 
snorted.

"Usually you're just not in a position to say it."

He heard her shifting under the blankets again and imagined 
her curled up in bed with the phone pressed to her ear. 
"You're awfully cocky for someone who woke me up at five in 
the morning."

"Scully, I'm all kinds of things at five in the morning."

"Yes, and the continued success of our partnership depends on 
you refraining from phoning to share them."

The emerging dawn cast gray light into living room, 
reflecting his possessions in long, thin shadows on the 
walls.  Trees, he remembered, with white light shining 
through them.  The cold, crawling feeling from his dream 
returned, and he realized that his main reason for calling 
was to hear her voice.  To make sure she was okay.

"Mulder?" she said, as he was listening to her breathe.  "You 
didn't fall asleep on me, did you?"

"I'm still here."

When he didn't say anything further, she prodded him again.  
"You never told me about your dream."

He sat up and swung his feet over onto the hard floor, 
rubbing his morning stubble with one hand.  "I don't really 
remember it that well."

Running, leaves crunching, trees and white light.  He felt 
his neurons stretching with spindly arms, trying to recapture 
the important part of the fuzzy memory, but there was only 
empty space.

"Well, give it time," she said gently.

"Yeah," he answered, thinking that time was the one thing he 
didn't have.  Two dead girls in the space of one week meant 
that the killer had not enjoyed his time off.  Mulder touched 
the tender skin at his hairline.  If there was a clue 
somewhere, short-circuited in his sparking brain...

"...crazy, but I was reading last night that..."

"What?" he interrupted.  

"About the anomalies we found in Beth Kinney's visual 
cortex," she said, with a touch of impatience.  "I remembered 
I had actually seen similar patterns in *stained* cortex from 
a monkey study a few years ago, so I dug out those articles 
last night and reviewed them."

"Back up to the part about you being crazy."

There was a short silence on the other end.  "Not me, Mulder.  
The..."  She hesitated. "Theory."

Despite his nagging worry, her words made him relax into a 
grin.  "You mean *your* theory, Scully?  You have a crazy 
theory to share with the class?"

"You want to hear what I found or not?"  She sounded annoyed 
now, so he decided not to push it.  

"By all means, lay it on me."

She sighed.  "I can't explain it, and it may not even be 
related, but results from animal studies have found radio-
labeled neurons in the visual cortex that correspond to 
recent patterns of visual activity."

"Animals with radio-active brains?  What?"

"It's a way to see what cells were active during a set period 
of time," she explained.  "Cells use glucose when they're 
active, so if you give a monkey radio-labeled glucose, the 
cells that are active during that period of glucose 
administration will light up later."

"Okay, I get it.  So in visual cortex, you would see which 
cells were activated by the monkey looking at things."

"Exactly.  And studies have shown that the images the animal 
sees can actually be reflected on the brain, kind of like a 
fun house mirror.  In any case, the staining patterns in 
these experiments are similar to the discolored neurons in 
Elizabeth Kinney's brain."  She paused.  "Only without the 
radio-active label."

As what she was saying sunk in, Mulder got up and began to 
pace the room.  "Scully, you're telling me that we might have 
a picture of what Beth Kinney was looking at right before she 
died?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far; we still don't know what 
caused the discoloration of her neurons.  Plus, even if there 
were a discernable pattern, there's no guarantee that we 
could accurately reconstruct it."

"Can we try?"

"It's a long shot, Mulder.  And it's just a theory, 
remember?"

He smiled.  "But crazy enough that it might just work."

XxXxX

Scully stepped into her closet, scrunching her toes on the 
cold wood floor as she considered her choices.  The overhead 
bulb illuminated her army of black suits.  She selected one 
that was still encased in plastic from the dry-cleaners, 
pressed and neat, and combined it with a pale blue shell and 
her new black leather ankle boots.  

It seemed the more ridiculous her life was, the more serious 
her clothes became.

And it was definitely a three-inch-plus kind of day.  The 
kind of shoes that gave a person the necessary authority to 
ask the tech boys to find out what a dead girl had seen 
before she died.  

She hung her robe on a hook but stopped short in her turn to 
exit.  Her box of keepsakes hung over the edge of the top 
shelf, its lid displaced.  Frowning, she pulled it down and 
rifled through the contents, unable to recall opening it 
recently.  Everything was in order, so she replaced the lid 
and slid it back into its proper place.

With a last, puzzled shake of her head, she smoothed the coat 
sleeve of the nearest suit and closed the door behind her.

XxXxX

Okay, he had made some mistakes.  He could admit that.  The 
park was too public a place to dump the body, and Lord knew 
he was still deep in shit over that little slip-up.   But not 
for long; he had a new plan all in order now.

He dug out his folder, the one with all the old newspapers in 
it, and went over the old kills one more time. 

SHOE KILLER HITS AGAIN!

CAPITAL CRIMES: 8 DC MURDERS STILL UNSOLVED

FBI PROILER TO JOIN MANHUNT

Mulder, he thought as he studied the haggard man in the 
photo, knowing now that he must have gotten the message. 

He grinned.  "Time to come out and play."

By evening, she would be dead.  And it would be Mulder's 
move.

XxXxX

Mulder returned to the basement, on his second cup of coffee 
before seven a.m. to find Grenier standing next to his desk.  
Mulder watched silently from the door for a minute as the 
other man lifted several of sheets of paper with one 
fingertip and peered at the contents underneath.

"My shopping list," Mulder said eventually, and Grenier 
dropped his hand.

"Oh, you're here."

Mulder sipped his coffee.  "Yeah, but I could go back out 
again if you weren't finished snooping."

Grenier's jaw tightened and he stepped away from the desk.  
"You're working for me now, Mulder.  It's not spying to 
wonder what my agents are doing with their time."

"Golf, mainly," Mulder replied.  "But I'm managing to work 
the case between holes."  Grenier met his humor with stony 
silence, and Mulder moved to collect the papers on the desk.  
"You want to know what I'm thinking, Grenier, why don't you 
just ask me?"

"You still don't take any notes," Grenier answered, frowning.

Russell knocked on the open door even as she entered the 
room.  "It would be a waste of paper, Adam."  She glanced at 
Mulder.  "How's it going?  I heard Scully couldn't pull 
anything useful from the girl in the park."

"No, the guy was wearing a mask.  I talked to Scully last 
night, and we're going to pursue a slightly different angle."  
Off Russell's inquiring look, he said, "I've put out a notice 
to local departments across the country detailing the basic 
MO and asking if they've seen anything similar in their old 
files, particularly files from about 15 years ago.  If we can 
find where this guy got started, we might be able to find out 
who he is."

Grenier shook his head.  "Jesus, Mulder, that could take 
weeks to get a hit."

"Or days," Mulder pointed out.  "It depends on how quickly 
people check their records.  All I need is one crusty old 
detective to look at the sheet and say, 'I remember this.'"

"It's a long shot at best," Grenier answered.  "I say we push 
the mask angle.  There can't possibly be that many places 
that sell Nixon these days."

Russell nodded.  "It's focused, it's on target.  I like it."

"I do, too," Mulder agreed.  "I think you should stick with 
it."

"But you're still going after cold cases," Grenier said.  "Of 
course."

Mulder smiled.  "You've got the whole BSU at your disposal," 
he said.  "You couldn't possibly need one brain-damaged 
agent, especially if he doesn't take notes."

"Suit yourself," Grenier answered with a glare.  "I'll be 
upstairs dealing with the mayor for the next hour, if anyone 
needs me."

Mulder shook his head as the other man left.  "Just like old 
times," he said to Russell.

Her mouth twitched in a smile.  "Not exactly, no.  Adam's 
been gone a whole," she checked her watch, "thirty-three 
seconds, and we haven't laid a hand on each other."

Mulder sank into his chair and scrubbed his tired eyes.  "The 
last hand I remember is his, connecting with my jaw.  Not 
that I blame him, after what happened."

"You think that was about the sex?" she asked, tilting her 
head at him.  "Oh, Mulder, for someone who has such great 
insight into the criminal mind..."

"What?"

She sighed.  "I *wish* he'd been angry about the sex.  Then 
we might have had some hope of rebuilding our marriage.  But 
Adam was always about work; he saw nothing else, not even me.  
Not until the end, anyway, when I finally got his attention 
by screwing the FBI's Golden Boy right in the task force 
headquarters."

Mulder looked away, and she moved to stand next to his chair.  
"I'm sorry," she said.  "That came out wrong."

"No, I don't think it did."

Russell was quiet for a long moment.  "If Adam couldn't see 
me, it was mainly because he was angry that Patterson 
couldn't see him.  He studied hard, he took all the notes he 
could, but he could never make the pieces fit the way you 
can.  None of us could."

Mulder threw a pencil at the ceiling. "So the entire BSU was 
happy to see the door slam on my way out, is that what you're 
saying?"

"Let's just say it was kind of like playing on the Bulls with 
Michael Jordan."

He grimaced. "Sorry about that."

"I'm not," she replied with a small smile.  "I can say I got 
to play with the best."

"Thanks," he said.  "Me, too."  After another moment, he 
cleared this throat.  "I guess things must be okay if you can 
still work with him.  I mean, considering..."

"We took a break.  I worked Violent Crimes for a year.  Plus, 
we're both seeing other people right now, which helps."  She 
ducked her head, trying to meet his eyes.  "What about you?  
You seeing anyone these days?"

"Uh, not...not like that, no."

"Uh-huh."  She held out her hand.  "Let me see your phone."

"Why?"

"Just let me see it."  He fished it out of his pocket and 
handed it over to her.  "They were bulkier back then," she 
mused as she flipped it open.  "But I seem to remember a 
period of several months when I was number one."

Mulder's mouth went dry when he saw her hit the first memory 
button.  "Amelia, no..."

"It's ringing," she said, ignoring him.  He grabbed for the 
phone, but she turned away.  

A second later, he could hear Scully's voice on the other 
end, "Mulder, I was just about to call you.  My car won't 
start so I'm going to be a little late."

He swiped at Russell again and missed.  "Agent Scully, it's 
Amelia Russell.  I'm sorry to hear about your car trouble.  
Can we send someone to pick you up?"

He missed Scully's response because he was too far away.  
"Give me that," he mouthed.

"No, everything's fine.  I think Mulder's new angle on the 
case sounds promising.  Yeah...okay, here he is."

His hand closed over the phone before she could say good-bye.  
"Scully, what's happening?  What's wrong with your car?"

"I don't know.  This morning I got in and the engine wouldn't 
turn over.  I'm just going to catch a cab.  See you in half 
an hour or so, okay?"

"Okay, Scully."  He clicked off to find Russell eyeing him 
with a triumphant grin on her face.  Despite himself, he 
smiled back.  "You think you're so clever."

"So how long has she been number one?"

Mulder looked at the floor, feeling something break open 
inside him at the prospect of admitting the truth.  Amelia 
waited, and at last he met her eyes.  "Since the beginning," 
he said simply.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Seven

XxXxX


The Bureau was large, and Scully had learned not to waste the 
endless hours she spent walking from one end of the building 
to another.  Phone tucked under her jaw, she flipped through 
the latest task-force updates with one hand as she clutched 
her lunch bag with the other.

"Okay, then, how soon can you tell me what's wrong with it?"  
Her voice echoed in the basement stairway.  "Fine.  Yes, I'll 
be at this number all afternoon."

She hung up as she reached the familiar, murky hallway, where 
Mulder's office was the only source of light.  As she paused 
to shift her belongings and put away the phone, she heard 
laughter coming from inside, wafting into the hall along with 
the spicy scent of pizza.  She walked towards the door but 
stopped short when she heard Mulder and Russell talking.

"Remember Paul Peterson?" Mulder was saying.

"'Pants' Peterson?" Russell answered.  "Of course I know him.  
I was there the night he got caught on the fence, remember?.  
Believe me, you don't forget a hairy ass like that one any 
time soon."

"He made SAC last week.  Organized Crime."

"No way!"

"Way," Mulder countered.  "And you know what this means, of 
course?"

"Proof that my mom was right," she said with a sigh.  "Life 
really isn't fair."

"No, just think of it -- all those brown nosers in OC will 
now have to pucker up and kiss..."

Russell laughed, and the sound caused a sharp twinge in 
Scully that took her by surprise.  She blinked as she drew 
back from the door.  It wasn't as though she thought Mulder 
had sprung into existence the day she had walked into his 
office.  Of course not.  But until that moment, she hadn't 
considered the fact that there were parts of him she would 
never know, parts that lived only in memories that she didn't 
have. 

She took a deep breath and relaxed the death grip she had on 
the paper bag containing her lunch.  Squaring her shoulders, 
she entered the office.  "Hey," she said, and Mulder sat up 
in his chair.

"Scully, I was just about to call you.  Where have you been? 
Everything okay with your car?"

"The tow truck was an hour late, and then I decided to go 
straight to the lab with the images, since that 
reconstruction we talked about is going to take some time to 
complete."

"Reconstruction?" Russell asked.  "What's that about?"

Mulder glanced at Scully and pushed to his feet.  "Oh, 
probably nothing," he said vaguely, and Scully felt the air 
in the room shift as he moved to stand at her side.  Russell, 
she realized, was welcome in the basement as an old friend.  
Not as a partner.

Russell apparently sensed this, too, because she put aside 
her paper plate and stood to leave.  "I should go check in 
with Adam," she said.  "You going to keep working on the 
list?"

"Paroled felons 'R us," he replied.  "Scully and I will take 
the rest of June."

"Great," Russell said as she collected her jacket.  "I'll 
talk to you both later, then."

She left the room, and Mulder nudged the pizza box in 
Scully's direction.  "I saved you a piece."

She eyed the greasy box top and shook her head.  "I've got a 
sandwich, thanks."  She grabbed Russell's empty chair and 
drew it up next to the desk.  "What have you been up to this 
morning?"

"Phoning parole officers about recently released violent 
offenders to make sure everyone's been checking in on time."  
He sat on the edge of the desk next to her.  As she went to 
take the first bite of her sandwich, he grinned and held out 
a long list of printed names.  "Saved you some of those, 
too."

XxXxX

He got into her apartment the same way he had the night 
before -- right through the front door.  His shoes were 
special, of course, and he had learned long ago not to make 
any noise when he walked.  They never knew he was coming 
until he clapped his hand over their mouths.  Hard, so they 
couldn't bite.  Thick leather gloves, in case they tried to 
anyway.

It took him some searching to find her phone.  He dug it out 
from under the unmade bedcovers, wondering who she could have 
been talking to, curled up under the sheets.  Out of 
curiosity, he punched the first memory key as he wandered 
over to her closet.  Just to see.

"This is Fox Mulder.  Leave a message at the beep."

"Shit!" he said, and the phone clattered onto the floor.  He 
stared at it as his heart began to pound.  Number one on her 
home phone.  This was going to be better than he ever 
expected.  

He picked up the phone and took it back over to the bed.  
Sitting down, he fingered her silky pajamas as he hit the 
memory key again. 

Do you fuck her? he thought as the message played once more.  
Does she put those pretty heels in the air for you?

He broke the connection before the beep, then promptly 
redialed.  Mulder asked him to leave a message as he groped 
around under the bed for her shoes.  Yesterday's pair, 
discarded with one pump turned over on its side, sat in the 
shadows near the foot of the bed.  He pulled them onto his 
lap and stroked the smooth, worn leather.

"This is Fox Mulder.  Leave a message at the beep."

He grinned and stuck his fingers inside one shoe, feeling the 
individual hills and valleys created by her tiny toes.  He 
clicked off the phone.  "I've got a message for you, Fox 
Mulder," he whispered. "Just wait and see."

Her phone was easy enough to split open; he added the 
necessary bits in less than five minutes.

On his way out, he paused at the closet door.  It was cracked 
about six inches, revealing the rows of glorious shoes 
inside.  Swallowing hard, he managed to tear himself away.  
That was for later. 

First, he had to catch a cab. 

XxXxX

There was a light rain falling, more of a mist than anything 
else, and Vee watched the ends of her mother's hair curl as 
they stood outside of Union Station.  She stood still and 
unsmiling while her mother straightened her jacket collar and 
wiped a smudge off her chin with her thumb, just as though 
Vee were heading off to her first day of kindergarten.

"You know I would go with you if I could," the older woman 
said.

Vee turned her head away.  "I know."

"It's just that I lost so much time last spring when Daddy 
died."

"It's fine, Mom."  Vee cut her off impatiently, and her 
mother halted her fussing, her hands wilting in the air 
between them.  "You should go," Vee told her.  "You're going 
to be late for the hospital."

"I can at least walk you to the train.  Remember your Aunt 
Bridget will meet you in Baltimore -- right at the station, 
so be looking for her, okay?"

"You told me a million times."  Vee scuffed one of her boots 
on the ground, her eyes already on the doors of Union 
Station.

"Let's go then."  Her mother sighed.  

Inside, they fought the press of hundreds of weary travelers.  
Vee swiftly threaded her way through the men in suits and 
careening children, forcing her mother to work to keep up 
with her.  Her ticket bought, Vee found the gate where her 
train waited for departure, but the security man wouldn't let 
her mother pass.  

"Not without a ticket," he said.  "Sorry."

"Fine," her mother answered flatly.  "Wait here."

"Mom, this really isn't necessary..."

"I am watching you get on that train, Virginia," her mother 
answered.  "Now wait here."

A few minutes later, her mother returned with the cheapest 
one-way fare possible, and they entered the gate together.  
Vee would have boarded without looking back, but her mother 
caught the end of her jacket.

"Ginny..."

Vee turned.  "What?"

"Be careful. Please."  She reached out and engulfed Vee in a 
hug.  "I know this isn't you," she whispered fiercely.  "I 
know you're not happy.  And when you come back, I promise 
we're going to find a way to fix it."

Vee looked up at the ceiling in an effort to hold back the 
sudden tears.  This is me, Mom, she thought.  Everything you 
ever said not to do, I've done.

She reached around her mother with the arm not holding her 
suitcase and patted her awkwardly.  "I've got to go now, 
Mom."

With a sniff, her mother nodded and released her.  "Call me 
when you get there."

Vee entered the train and slumped down in the nearest seat, 
clutching her small suitcase on her lap.  Outside, her mother 
was the only one standing still amid the crush of passengers 
hurrying to board at the last minute.  Her mother waved, and 
Vee looked away.  When she turned back to the window moment 
later, her mother had gone.

Nothing matters anymore, Vee thought.  Her head spun, her 
heart raced -- her body was so light she felt she might 
disappear.

"Is this seat taken?" asked a woman with large glasses and a 
frumpy skirt.

"No," Vee replied, feeling herself move without even willing 
it.  "Here, you can have the window."

She pushed her way off the train into diesel-scented air.  A 
conductor touched her arm.  "The train leaves in two minutes, 
miss."

Vee ignored him and began walking back to the main part of 
the station.  As she past a round, silver garbage can, she 
tucked her ticket into it.

XxXxX

Mulder had the phone in one hand and a ball of therapeutic 
clay in the other.  "Not for three weeks?" he said as he 
practiced squeezing.  "Okay, what's your last known address 
for McGreggor?"  He set aside the clay and jotted down the 
information relayed to him.  "Got it, thanks."

"A hot prospect?" Scully asked from where she was manning her 
phone across the room. 

"Not any hotter than the other two dozen names we already 
have," he answered.  He tossed his clay in the air and caught 
it neatly.

"You're getting better," Scully observed.

"The Yanks will be calling any day.  Keep your eye out for 
scouts lurking in the halls, Scully."  

"They're liable to get swallowed by all the boxes," she 
replied.  "I wouldn't quit your day job just yet."

He gestured expansively at the chaos surrounding him.  "Leave 
all this glamour for millions of dollars and legions adoring 
fans?  I wouldn't dream of it."

Scully didn't get a chance to answer because there was a 
knock at the door.  "Come in," Mulder called, and an older 
man entered the room with a tired felt hat in his hands.  He 
glanced at Scully before settling his gaze on Mulder.

"Agent Mulder, my name is Elliot Gellar.  Do you remember 
me?"

Mulder sat up slowly, all traces of humor evaporating from 
his features.  "Of course I do."  He rose and moved around 
the front of the desk.  "You're Jessica's father."

"That's right.  We spoke many years ago, at...at the 
funeral."  He looked down at the hat in his hands.

Scully got up from her chair and approached the man.  "Mr. 
Gellar, I'm Dana Scully, Agent Mulder's partner.  Would you 
like to sit down?  I can take your coat."

"No, no.  Thank you, dear, but I can't stay."

"What can we do for you, Mr. Gellar?" Mulder asked.

His chin came up.  "I won't keep you, I promise.  I just saw 
the papers and I had to know...is it him?"

Mulder glanced at Scully, who turned her gaze to the floor.  
"Yes, I believe it's him," he said softly.

Gellar swallowed convulsively and clenched his hat.  "All 
these years, I thought he was dead.  I tortured myself with 
it, every waking hour of every day.  What if he'd died just a 
little sooner?  Jessie might still be alive." 

"Sir, are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down?" Scully's 
voice was gentle.

He shook his head.  "I've been doing some reading, you know," 
he said to Mulder.  "On the kind of work you do, and the kind 
of animals you chase.  I don't know how you manage it, day 
after day."

I couldn't manage it, Mulder thought, but he said nothing.

"My wife thinks *I'm* the monster for wanting to know all the 
details," he continued.  "But I have to know.  I keep waiting 
for the one thing that will explain it all, the thing that 
will tell me why Jessie had to die.  Last year, I saw an 
interview with a serial killer on television.  He was talking 
about his victims.  'She was dead the moment I saw her,' he 
said, and that's when I knew."

"Knew what, Mr. Gellar?" Scully asked when he didn't say 
anything further.

He drew a shuddering breath.  "There was nothing I could have 
done.  Nothing Jessie could have done.  It was over the 
minute he saw her.  Maybe..."  He broke off, hesitating.  
"Maybe that goes for you all, too.  There was nothing more 
you could have done."

"We have some new avenues to explore this time," Mulder said.  
"We're doing everything we can."

Gellar nodded.  "I know.  That's part of why I wanted to come 
here, to tell you that I understood how hard you tried."  He 
cleared his throat.  "I should be getting home now.  Good 
luck with the search, and please -- let me know if you learn 
anything, will you?"

"You have my word," Mulder answered.

Scully walked the older man to the door, and he shook her 
hand politely before leaving.  "Whew," she said when he had 
gone.  "That was intense."

"Yeah."  Mulder lowered himself into the nearest chair, 
rubbing his face with his hands.  "Jesus."

"You okay?" Scully asked after a moment.

"Yes," he said.  "No."

She walked over and leaned against the desk next to him.  
"What is it?"

"It's exactly what he said, Scully.  That's been the most 
terrible thing about this, the thing I hardly can even bring 
myself to think about."  She waited, and he sighed.  "Gellar 
wonders what if this guy had died before he could kill his 
daughter.  But now he knows that wasn't a possibility."

"Yes," Scully agreed.  "And?"

Mulder traced the edge of the desk with one finger until he 
bumped into her hip.  He did not meet her eyes.  "I was the 
best, Scully.  I know you're not supposed to say things like 
that, but it's true.  I was supposed to catch this animal, 
and I gave up.  I thought he was dead, too."  At last, he 
raised his head enough to look at her.  "Maybe another day, 
another week..."

"You can't think like that," Scully broke in.  "You don't 
know that anything else you could have done would have led to 
this man's capture."

"That's just it," he replied.  "I'll never know."

XxXxX

The rain had soaked Vee through to her skin, and her hair was 
plastered against her neck by the time she reached Jimmy's 
apartment.  She fumbled the key with numb, wet fingers, but 
finally managed to open the door.  Her damp suitcase wobbled 
before toppling over in the entryway.  

"Fuck it," she muttered, and kicked it for good measure.  She 
shut the door behind her.  

"Hello?" she said to the empty living room. 

Silence.  Either Jimmy wasn't home, his stereo was broken, or 
he was sleeping one off in the bedroom.

Vee helped herself to a Coke from the fridge and wandered 
down the hall to his room.  "Jimmy?" she called.  "Are you in 
there?  I jumped the train, and..."

She pushed the door open and froze.  Jimmy was on the floor, 
unconscious, and standing over him, with that smiling rubber 
mask, was Richard Nixon.  He lunged at her.

Vee screamed and grabbed the first thing she could get her 
hands on, the oak bookcase to her right.  She pulled it over, 
saw the hundreds of CDs, books and tapes crash down on Nixon, 
then ran like hell before he could get up.

Getoutsidegetoutsidegetoutside.  Her legs threatened to 
buckle under her as she pounded down the staircase toward the 
front door.  Behind her, she could hear Nixon's footsteps 
gaining ground.

"Please God, please God," she muttered, her hand trembling 
over the banister.  His knife clattered against the metal 
rail.

Sobbing, she threw herself out the front door, stumbling into 
the rain.  Her heart slammed painfully against her chest, her 
lungs on fire, but she did not stop running.  At the corner, 
traffic came to a squealing halt as she zigzagged across the 
dark street.

She did not look back.

XxXxX 

Scully hung up the phone and leaned her head in one hand.  "I 
need some coffee," she said.  "You want anything?"

Mulder shook his head, not even looking up from his computer 
screen.  She stood up and stretched as the phone rang.  When 
Mulder made no move to answer it, she said, "I guess I'll get 
that."  A moment later, she stretched out the receiver 
towards him.  "It's for you.  Sheriff Lydell from 
Bakersfield, Ohio."

Mulder grabbed the phone.  "What can I do for you, Sheriff?  
Yes, I sent that teletype."

Scully went to leave, but he stopped her by waving his hand.  
She turned and waited.

"Really," Mulder said.  "And this was in nineteen eighty-
five?  What about the second one?  I see."

Scully felt her pulse pick up as Mulder stood and began 
gathering his things.  "What is it?" she said, but Mulder was 
still listening to the man on the other end of the phone.

"Get me everything you have on both murders," he said.  
"We'll be there as soon as we can."

He hung up the phone and picked up his jacket.  "What?" she 
asked.  "You got a hit?"

"Could be," he replied.  "Bakersfield has two unsolved 
murders from late nineteen eighty-five and early nineteen 
eighty-six.  Both victims were young women.  Both had 
mutilations on the feet.  If we're lucky, we can get a flight 
out of here tonight."

Scully was already collecting her belongings.  "Any 
suspects?" she asked as they closed up the office.

"Not yet."  He paused.  "But this is him, Scully.  I can feel 
it.  These are the bodies he thought we'd never find, and 
they're the ones we're going to use to nail him."


XxXxX

Carl parked in a darkened alley, out of view of the street, 
and tried to calm himself down.  So far all he had to show 
for the day was another dead body, and this one had worn the 
most despicable kind of sneakers -- cheap and dirty.

He adjusted his headset, making sure he could hear over the 
rain drumming against the roof of his car.  His cab.  At 
least he had that.

He'd driven past her apartment building fifteen minutes 
earlier and seen the light in her bedroom window.  Was she 
going out tonight?  Or would he do better to catch her in the 
morning, on her way to work?

His headset clicked on, and he heard ringing.  A moment 
later, a woman's voice said, "Yellow Cab.  What number are 
you calling from?"

He sat up as he heard Scully give her number.  "I need to go 
to Dulles," she said.  "How soon can you get here?"

Carl was already starting his engine.  It was dark, raining.  
She wouldn't even realize he had the wrong name emblazoned on 
his car.

"We'll have someone there in fifteen minutes, ma'am," said 
the woman.

Carl planned to be there in ten.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Eight

XxXxX

The rain poured over his cab in sheets, but Carl sat warm 
inside with the engine idling.  Her apartment was just around 
the corner.  He had pulled over to wait out his ten minutes, 
and to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything.

Rope -- check.

Knife -- check.

Childproof locks engaged -- check.

Dana Scully was getting in, but she wasn't getting back out 
again.  He hummed tunelessly and drew a happy face in the 
condensation on his window.  Outside, a car rushed past him, 
and he saw it pause at the corner, its red turn signal 
winking at him through the rain-blurred windshield.  He 
leaned over the steering wheel to catch the license plate 
illuminated in his high-beams.

Government issue.

"Shit," he muttered, just as her phone rang.  His headset 
clicked on when she answered.

"Hello?"

"Scully, it's me.  I'm outside."

Carl sat up in his seat. "Shit, shit,