Un Ange la Nuit (1/5) by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer: The truth is out there: Chris Carter owns the X-Files and Mulder and Scully. Alas. Spoilers: Memento Mori, Emily, Chinga and Revelations. This story takes place somewhere in the midst of Season Five. Classification: XA, MSR Rating: R for disturbing imagery and violence; chapter five rated NC-17 for sexual activity. Summary: A strange series of murders sends Mulder and Scully around the country with very little to go on. The events of the case draw Scully into a deep depression and amidst it all, an old familiar face returns to shock her. Note: I know, I know -- the idea of *me* writing an actual X-File boggles the mind, doesn't it? Believe me, I can't understand the inclination myself. I'd rather write smut. But something in me called out, "You can do an X-File *and* have smut!" and this is the result. I'm only used to straight NC-17 MSR and I'm not sure if I knew what I was doing with this one. Thanks: to Mary Ann for technical information and to Angie for proofreading. This story is dedicated with love to my brother Matthew for proving to me that dreams can come true. ***** FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WASHINGTON, D.C. MARCH 1, 1998 7:40AM "So, Scully, guess what I got?" "Chicken pox." Mulder chuckled into the phone. "Nope. Just get your coat and meet me in front of the Bureau building. I'm going to pick you up in about five minutes." Inside the basement office, Scully stared blankly at the mountain of paperwork in front of her that littered Mulder's desk. "Mulder, I thought you were going to split some of these reports with me. I plowed through them all day yesterday and I've barely made a dent." "Forget about the reports, Scully." Static on Mulder's cel phone buzzed annoyingly in Scully's ear. "Forget about the reports?" "Yep. We're going to Vermont." "Vermont." Scully's voice held no hint of excitement or even remote enthusiasm. "There's been a murder there that the local authorities think that we might be able to shed some light on. The victim was killed -- but there's no apparent cause of death." Scully sighed. Vermont. It sounded...cold. She tapped her pencil on the desk in front of her -- on a part of it that she could still see. "Are we flying or driving?" "There's a shuttle flight from National to Burlington that leaves in an hour and a half. We can swing by your place and you can grab a bag." Grab a bag. Scully idly wondered when her life had become so predictable. In the closet of Scully's bedroom was a small brown leather overnight bag, packed with everything she would need for an extended weekend getaway -- usually a murder, although sometimes it was an abduction or some other X-File. She had never once used that bag to really just get away for the weekend. She didn't even think that she remembered what that meant. She hadn't had a real break or a vacation since she had been sick -- since her cancer -- but that didn't really count as a break. Well, there had been that trip up to Maine -- but she didn't really count that as a vacation, either. The little doll that caused people to kill themselves. Scully shuddered. Sounded like something out of a Stephen King novel. "Vermont." Scully repeated into the phone blankly, still tapping the pencil. "Yep. Up near the Canadian border. Grab your coat and I'll meet you in front, OK?" Scully put the pencil down and sighed. "OK, Mulder. I'll see you in a few minutes." ST. ALBANS, VERMONT 12 MILES SOUTH OF THE CANADIAN BORDER; 34 MILES NORTH OF BURLINGTON 1:00PM Scully pulled her coat tighter around her as Mulder fiddled with the heater in the rental car. "Jesus, it's cold in here. Sorry, Scully. I think it's broken." "It's OK," she answered. "From what I heard at the rental office in Burlington there's no car rental office in St. Albans, but I'm sure we can find a mechanic to take a look at it." "So, St. Albans is a small town?" Mulder nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. They were driving north on I-95, a winding two lane highway through the mountains. "Nice, quiet town. Right at the very top of the Green Mountain State. Once you pass St. Albans, there's not much more before you hit the Canadian border. Want to go duty free shopping?" Scully didn't answer him. Instead she leafed through the casefile which contained little information. A few pages that had been faxed to Mulder at home, presumably, from the local law enforcement in St. Albans. "The victim is Charles Allman. 42 years old. Found by a neighbor early this morning, cause of death unknown." Scully closed the file. "Any ideas, Mulder?" "No autopsy's been performed yet -- they don't have a medical examiner in St. Albans. The closest place is the Chittenden County Medical Examiner's Office back in Burlington. Maybe you could take a look at the body to see if you can determine a cause of death, and I'll talk to Allman's family and friends." "I hate to say it, Mulder, but this case sounds pretty straightforward to me. Once the cause of death is found, it's either murder, accidental, or suicide, and local law enforcement can handle that." "I know, but there's something about it that...I don't know...is calling to me," Mulder deadpanned. Scully smiled at him. "Well, don't let it call too loud -- you don't want people to think you're delusional." CHITTENDEN COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE BURLINGTON, VERMONT 4:00PM Scully sighed heavily. She was tired and hungry, and there was nothing -- literally nothing -- on Charles Allman's body that suggested how he died. And she was frustrated. Everyone died of *something* -- and there was no evidence to show that Allman had died of natural causes. She had finished recording the autopsy and clicked the tape recorder off, removing her plastic goggles. She stared at his body. "What's your story?" she quietly asked the dead man on the table in front of her. She examined his hands again, checking between the fingers for syringe marks. She moved to his feet next, checking in between each toe. It was common for drugs to be injected in those small spaces because they weren't easily noticed. As she examined Allman's left foot, she realized that there was a very small hardened nub on the sole of his heel. She wouldn't have noticed it on sight -- under a magnifying glass she could tell that it was a needle puncture mark. Scully leaned back on her own heels and pondered this. Most pathologists would look between the fingers and toes, so a puncture mark like that one on the sole of the foot could go easily unnoticed. She took her gloves off and discarded them, double-checking that she had requested a tox screen. She had. Well, Scully thought -- not much more to do here but wait to see what showed up. He had to have died of some kind of drug overdose. Her cel phone rang, startling her out of her reverie. She picked it up from the steel countertop and answered it. "Scully." "Hey, Scully, it's me. Guess what?" "What?" She tried to stifle a sigh. "I've got nothing on Charles Allman." "Nothing?" "Not a thing. Scully, the guy was a loner -- and a serious one at that. No living relatives. No friends. No buddies at work. Worked for Huxley Pharmaceutical." "A pharmaceutical company," Scully mused. "Mulder, you should check his house for a syringe. I found a needle mark on the sole of his foot." "I'm telling you, Scully, I went over his house with a fine-toothed comb. No syringe. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing." Scully wrinkled her nose. The smell -- either of the formaldehyde or of the innards of the man's body, she wasn't sure -- was really bothering her, more so than usual. "Well, someone injected him." "Wasn't me." "I would hope not," Scully answered. "I can't say that he died of natural causes until I know what comes back in the tox screen." "Are you still in scrubs, Scully?" "Yes," she answered. "Have I ever told you that you look great in scrubs?" Scully paused for a moment, not sure if he was joking or being serious. "I have a confession to make, actually," he continued. "I'm all ears, Mulder." "I have a thing for...that lovely blue-green color." Scully rolled her eyes. "You really need a life, Mulder." "As do you, my redheaded autopsy woman. Wanna get dinner?" "I'm your only woman at this point, Mulder, so yes, I'll meet you for dinner -- but you're paying." Mulder chuckled. "I'll meet you back in St. Albans -- there's a restaurant here that you have to see to believe." "I just want to put a message out on the wire to have other jurisdictions look for anything with a left heel puncture wound. Why don't you give me directions from the highway and I'll be there." ******* I am still elated. The killing -- my first premeditated killing -- went without a hitch. It went so smoothly that I laugh now at my foolish nervousness before it happened. I don't count the fact that I killed the woman I love. That was not planned as this one was. That was something that happened on the spur-of-the-moment, but it was just as necessary as this one was. God, how easy it is to take another life. I could get used to it. Just a small syringe, just a little one, just a hit, man, that's all. Right in the heel -- why do a vein or an artery? It's so obvious, so expected. I wanted to do something a little different. Distinctive. Allman was foolish enough to think that it was drugs. Idiot used to be hooked, and I guess his life wasn't going so well. He must have been bored there in that small town to want to start using again after 10 years clean. Who cares. The cops will figure out what he took, and they'll never think that he gave it to himself. They'll assume that it was murder. Which, technically, it was. He panicked when he saw that I had pushed the needle into his heel -- he had assumed I was going to go for between the toes. All those guilty feelings from his drug days were likely a distant memory by then. Maybe he thought it was still going to give him the hit he wanted, but he was still too scared to push the plunger down. So I did it for him. Watched his head go back, his eyes close -- he was waiting for the rush, for the high. It never came. He was dead within minutes. I only wish that it would have lasted longer. I loved watching it, watching him die. Some might say that I'm sick for saying that. I'm going to continue playing my sick little game until I get what I want. Which means it's time for victim number two to step up to the plate. My plan is working perfectly. I know exactly who it's going to be. I watched him today -- followed him home. It's the last time he'll drive anywhere. He'll be dead by tomorrow. And I'll be one step closer. I have to eliminate the poison that grows -- and to do that, I must eliminate the people in which the poison resides. ****** WAYFARER RESTAURANT ST. ALBANS, VERMONT 6:15PM Scully walked into the small restaurant and scanned the tables for Mulder. He waved to her from a booth along the wall. Of course Mulder would pick a place like this. Shaking her head slightly, she crossed the room. The restaurant was small and had a somewhat bizarre feel to it. A cross between down-home and clinically detached. Waitresses bustled around, young women, mostly, and Scully noticed that all the other customers were well over the fifty mark. She felt as if she was caught in some kind of a time warp -- as if the world outside was moving, but the restaurant had remained frozen in a time when things were simpler and life seemed less hectic. Scully slid into the seat across from Mulder after taking her coat off and tossing it next to her. "How did you find this place, Mulder?" "Everyone in town says it's the best place for a home-cooked meal. They swear by it." "Well, I didn't exactly expect to find a four star restaurant in this town." "Keep your voice down. You don't want to insult the locals, Scully." He grinned at her from across the table, chewing on a straw that was plunged into a very large glass of what appeared to be Coke. The waitress appeared suddenly. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked Scully. "Just coffee, please." She left and returned with a steaming pot, filling the mug that was already on the table. "I'll give you a few minutes to look over the menu." "Thanks." Scully perused the laminated white sheet. The choices looked simple -- sandwiches, salads, some pasta. One section listed steaks. Scully briefly flashed on Charles Allman's insides, pink and glistening. No steak for her, not today. She glanced up. Mulder was also looking over the menu. She realized that she was starving -- she had skipped lunch in lieu of the autopsy and breakfast had been pretzels and coffee on the plane. "Have you decided?" The waitress was back. Mulder looked at Scully. "Do you know what you want?" "Pretty much. Go ahead." "I'll have the fried mushrooms appetizer and the linguini with pesto sauce," Mulder ordered, "and another Coke, when you get a minute." The waitress wrote it down, looking to Scully. "I'll have a cup of the corn chowder soup and the linguini as well." "Thanks a lot." Scully emptied two creamers into her coffee and swirled it around, watching the inky liquid turn caramel-colored. She took a sip. That had to be the best damn coffee she had had in a long time. "You know, Scully," Mulder said to her, "it's a good thing we're both getting the pesto linguini." "How come?" "Because we'll both have basil breath." "Basil breath?" she asked, smiling at him, feeling some of the tension of the day slipping away from her. "Yep. There's nothing worse than kissing someone who's eaten pesto -- unless they're kissing someone who's also eaten it." Scully froze, the coffee mug at her lips. There was a long silence. "Basil breath. That's a new one, Mulder," she finally answered, chuckling. And what she wouldn't give to kiss him -- basil breath or not. Scully pushed the plate away from her a few inches. It was still half-full, but there was no way she could finish. As much as she hated to admit it, with its bizarre rustic decor and top 40 music playing softly in the background, and with the locals milling about, Wayfarer had excellent food. And large portions -- she had never been in a restaurant that served so much food for so little money. Mulder was still working on his pasta, she noted. Which was good, because he never ate enough when they were on cases, anyhow. "Finished already?" Mulder asked her through a mouthful of pasta. Scully nodded. "I'm stuffed." "Impossible," he said. "If you were stuffed, it would show. You're still the same toothpick you always are." She knew his comment was meant as a joke, but it stung anyhow. Was that how he saw her? As a toothpick? She didn't do the treadmill three times a week (when she wasn't on a case, anyhow) to look like a toothpick. She did it to stay in shape and to build muscle tone. She thought that she was pretty well toned. Apparently Mulder didn't feel the same way. "Well," she countered, "better to look like a toothpick than a scrawny chicken." She said it with a little more venom that necessary, and Mulder looked at her, perplexed. Scully's cel phone trilled, interrupting whatever he was going to say. She slid it from the inner pocket of her coat and answered it, noticing the strange looks the other patrons of the restaurant were giving her. "Scully." She listened, barely believing the words she was hearing. "You're kidding." "What is it?" Mulder stage whispered from across the table, setting his fork down. "No, I appreciate the call. We'll be there as soon as we can." She hung up, and stared across the table at Mulder. "There's another victim." "In St. Albans?" Mulder asked, his voice low. "No. In Darien, Connecticut." "How do they know it's for us?" Scully sighed, and signaled the waitress for the check. "There was no discernible cause of death. But they did find a needle puncture mark on the heel." AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 470 BURLINGTON TO NEW YORK MARCH 2, 1998 8:15AM Scully shifted in her seat, amazed as always, at how Mulder could sleep on a plane. His long frame made it unlikely that he would be comfortable, but apparently he seemed to be. He had stretched his long legs out into the aisle and had conveniently fallen asleep after the beverage cart had passed so he didn't have to worry about losing an ankle. Of course, the heavy metal cart being pushed by two very attractive flight attendants hadn't escaped her notice. He had managed to stay awake long enough to watch them as they made their way through the aisle, but had passed out shortly afterwards. She re-arranged the pillow so that it was against the window, blocking out the view below. It was a short flight, but she was hoping to catch a nap herself. She hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the previous night. Wondering about the second victim had kept her awake. She felt bored and alone, tired and lonely. These days she was having trouble sleeping and was rarely hungry for much of anything. The meal she had eaten the night before at Wayfarer was the first full meal she had gotten down in weeks. What the hell was wrong with her? Scully closed her eyes, wondering how Mulder could sleep over the roar of the engine, and shortly afterwards, dozed off herself. "Mommy." Scully turned, and there she was. Emily, dressed in her hospital gown, sitting up in her ICU bed, her eyes wide, her hair rumpled. Her small body looked even smaller on the regular sized bed. "Mommy," she repeated again. Scully tried to take a step forward, but realized that she was behind the glass isolation door. She pressed her hands against the glass. "Mommy," Emily called, looking at Scully with her big round eyes. "Are you the one? Are you the one who's going to protect me?" Scully's blood ran like ice. She pounded her fists on the glass. It seemed Emily couldn't even see her. She was looking off over Scully's shoulder. "Emily!" she screamed. "I'm here. I'm here!" "Protect me, Mommy," Emily cried. "Help me." "Oh, God, Emily, I'm here!" "Mommy, I'm scared," the little girl moaned. "Emily!" "Scully, are you OK?" Mulder's face loomed over her. Scully jerked in her seat. The plane was descending; she could tell from the fact that her ears were filled with air. She swallowed hard and her ears popped. "I'm fine, Mulder," she automatically responded. "I must have fallen asleep." "You cried out," Mulder said softly. "You said Emily's name." Maybe his voice was quiet because of the fact that her ears kept popping. She swallowed again. "I said I'm fine, Mulder." Mulder nodded, buckling his seatbelt in preparation for landing. "Whatever you say, Scully." She never said that to me before, Scully thought. What the hell was that all about? And why did it sound so familiar? ******* DARIEN, CONNECTICUT 35 MILES FROM NEW YORK CITY 10:00AM Scully looked out the window as Mulder drove. The area was definitely wealthy -- large, luxurious homes set back from the road were mixed in with trees and winding roads. "God, that garage is larger than my apartment," Mulder complained. "Anything is larger than your apartment, Mulder. All you've got is that living room and I don't even know if you *have* a bedroom." "I do indeed, Scully. You've never seen it?" "No, Mulder," Scully responded. "I've never seen it." "I can give you a tour when we get back, if you'd like," he offered. When did they start talking like this? Hadn't they just been talking about the size of the expensive homes just a minute before? "How far are we from the police station?" Scully asked, changing the subject so that she didn't have to think about Mulder's bedroom. "About ten more minutes, I think. I know this area pretty well so I took us on the scenic route." "How far are we from Greenwich?" Scully asked, not mentioning Mulder's mother. "About 10-15 minutes," he answered coolly. "It's two towns over." Scully didn't ask, but she had a feeling that Mulder would not be stopping in to see Mommy Dearest on this trip. Mulder turned onto a busier street and traffic merged in around them. Scully was still disturbed by her dream about Emily on the plane. She really hadn't been able to get it out of her mind ever since they landed. Even through the mix-up on the car rental at LaGuardia and the 40 minute drive up into Connecticut, the image of Emily, small and terrified, stuck in her head. "Here we are, Scully." Mulder pulled into a visitor parking space at the Darien Police Headquarters and turned off the car. "You're a million miles away," he said. "I'm fine, Mulder." After meeting with local law enforcement and looking at preliminary reports on the second victim, they were no farther along than they had been in Vermont. The second victim was James Kendall, a 43-year old businessman who lived in Darien, worked in New York City and brought home over a million dollars a year. He was single, unattached, and a workaholic. Welcome to my life, Scully thought idly. Except I don't make that kind of money. He had been struck in the head with a blunt object, likely designed only to disable him. There was a bloody paperweight found near his body, which had likely been the object in question. There were no signs of forced entry, and nothing had been taken from the house -- no, make that the estate -- that he lived on. And, of course, he had been injected with something in his left heel. Tox screen was, as it had been initially for Charles Allman, pending. Speaking of Allman, Scully had checked with Vermont and found that there were no identifiable drugs in his system. There was, however, an exceedingly high level of potassium found in his bloodstream. Enough to kill him. There had also been traces of an unidentifiable toxin. So small that it was impossible to measure. And no one in Vermont had ever seen anything like it. Scully arranged for the sample to be sent to the toxicology labs in Washington for them to have a closer look, and left instructions to be contacted as soon as they heard anything. "There's no connection between these two guys, Scully," Mulder said, looking across the conference table in the police station that had been offered to them. "None." "Kendall worked as a stockbroker," Scully said, going through the files again. "Nice job if you can get it." "Nice if you want to work over 100 hours a week." "Don't we work 100 hours a week?" Mulder asked, eliciting a smile from Scully. "More, I'm sure." "He was seeing a psychiatrist," Mulder noted. "Her business card was in his wallet." "When did he have the time?" "Beats me." Mulder went through more papers, then stopped suddenly. "He owned stock," Mulder said, going through papers and pulling one out, reading it. "Most stockbrokers do. What's so unusual about that?" Mulder looked up at her. "He owned Huxley Pharmaceutical stock. Lots of it. Apparently the company was doing quite well." "The company that Allman worked for," Scully said. "We should check Kendall's potassium level." "So someone's pissed at the drug company," Mulder guessed, running a hand through his hair. "They're killing people who are associated with the company." "But hundreds of thousands of people could own stock in that company. And over 500 people work for Huxley Pharmaceutical. It would be impossible to predict the next victim," Scully said. She tried to think of a logical explanation for once, found that she couldn't think of one. Then, without warning, a wild thought came to her. "Maybe the killer is after someone else. Maybe the killer is playing some kind of game, like six degrees of separation. Maybe the real target is still a few victims away, each one linked only by the last one. The real victim might not even be linked to these victims." She knew that it sounded crazy -- but something told her that she was on target. Something told her she was *right* on target. Mulder's eyes widened. "That's quite a stretch, don't you think, Scully?" "I don't know, but we don't have a lot to go on as it is, Mulder," Scully answered defensively. "Don't get upset, Scully," Mulder said. "I was just saying--" "It was just an idea. Forget it." Scully got up and paced around the room, which was now thick with tension. ******* And then there were two. Now I've killed again. What a thrill. It's almost like a drug -- hell, it's better than any drug I've ever taken. This last one was easy, too. So easy to gain someone's confidence, get your foot in the door, and the minute they're not looking, bam. I whacked him over the head with a glass paperweight that was on a table right by the front door. The guy never knew what hit him, so to speak. Blood poured out of his head while I took his shoe and sock off and injected him. I replaced the shoe and the sock and watched the blood slow into a trickle. The carpet was soaked with it, a dark red stain about the size of an apple on a perfect cream colored carpet. Gory, but beautiful. I've chosen potassium because it is quick -- easy. Just push it in and you have one dead body on your hands. I'm halfway through this now. I can't stop -- and I don't want to. I'm enjoying it way too much. I had no choice but to do this. There was no other way for me to get what I want. Destroy what you need to destroy. Kill who you need to kill. She's close now -- I can sense it. Two steps more and she'll be back in my arms again, her small, trusting body pressed close to mine. I'll be able to feel her little heart beat against my chest. And then I'll kill her too. With pleasure. Anything to eliminate the poison within her. ******* MARRIOTT HOTEL STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT 9:00PM Scully sank down on the bed of the hotel. She had found a Howard Johnson in the phone book, but it was in Greenwich, and Mulder didn't want to be that close to his mother. So they were staying at the Marriott in downtown Stamford, the town in between Greenwich and Darien. It was a step up for them as far as quality went -- they usually stayed in roadside motels off interstates. There was a big tub in the bathroom and over fifty channels of cable TV, but Scully wasn't interested. She got up from the bed and walked to the window, looking down at the highway below. It wasn't what she would call a stunning view, but their rooms were high enough up that the lights from the cars were actually pretty. It had been an incredibly long and frustrating day. The dream about Emily had stayed with her all day. Trying to figure out what the connection was between the two victims had proved trying -- her idea about six degrees of separation had not gone over well with Mulder. She knew it was a long shot, but she had a feeling that she was going in the right direction. And on top of it all, she was *still* generally tired and irritable. According to the calendar, she wasn't even due to get her period for another two weeks, so she couldn't blame it on PMS. She supposed that she could go to bed, but she didn't think that she was tired enough. Then again, one more look at the queen-sized bed and she thought maybe she could manage to work up enough exhaustion to fall asleep. Besides, it would do her good to make up for the sleep she'd missed out on the night before. Her cel phone rang. Mulder. For the first time in ages they weren't separated by a connecting door -- they were three rooms apart. So why didn't he just use the regular hotel phone? "Scully." "Agent Scully? I'm Captain Kent from the Miami Beach Police Department. I got on the teletype that you're looking for victims killed with a certain M.O.?" Scully sat down on the bed. If it was the same killer, for God's sake -- he was traveling as much as she and Mulder were. He must be just as exhausted as she was -- and he was killing people, so that must take even more energy. "Yes, we are," she answered. "Well, I think I've got another one for you." Scully took down the information and thanked the captain, hanging up. She had already taken off her shoes, and thought that it would be OK to walk three doors down to Mulder's room without them. She knocked and he answered, letting her in. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and the television was on. "I was just watching TV, Scully. Wanna curl up on the bed with me and stay for a while? They have pay-per-view." I would love to curl up in your arms, Mulder, she thought wearily. I would love to feel your arms around me. Just for one night. Just once. Her face remained neutral. "We've got another victim, Mulder. This one's in Florida." "Our guy really gets around, doesn't he?" he asked, not seeming at all surprised. "We'll have to book a flight for the morning -- I don't think we can get out tonight." "Thank God," Mulder said. "We get free HBO here." "For Christ's sake, Mulder," Scully snapped. "What the hell's wrong with you, Scully? I was joking." Scully softened considerably. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm just tired. I'm sorry." "It's OK, Scully. It's OK." What the hell *is* wrong with me? Scully wondered. "I'll book the flight," Scully said, "and then I'm going to get some sleep. I'm just tired." She turned to leave the room. As she did, an image of Emily floated through her mind. She thought for a moment about turning back to Mulder, curling up on the bed with him and telling him about her dream, asking him to hold her and falling asleep in his arms. She was so tired. She couldn't do it, though. "Good night, Mulder," she said, leaving Mulder's room and closing the door softly behind her. She stood outside Mulder's room and leaned against the wall wearily. She knew the signs and the symptoms, but what she couldn't figure out was when and why she had gotten so depressed. Scully closed her eyes and put a hand over them. Please, please don't let me cry, she willed herself. Don't cry. THE BACK PORCH CAFE SOUTH BEACH MIAMI, FLORIDA MARCH 3, 1998 10:00AM Scully scanned the street while she and Mulder ate breakfast. They were on Ocean Drive, the last street before the beach. The usual clubgoers of the Art Deco Distric hadn't yet awakened, although sunlovers were already out in full force. Both men and women wearing very little and displaying incredibly toned bodies strutted their stuff. Pastel colored hotels in the classic Art Deco style lined the street. Scully realized quickly that she and Mulder stuck out like sore thumbs in their business suits. The sun beat down and even with a light ocean breeze, Scully prayed that they would end up somewhere air conditioned soon. It was *very* hot. Scully wasn't blind; she noticed the number of extremely good-looking men, but then mentally moved along. Besides, most of them were looking at Mulder, anyhow. Mulder paid the check and they walked a little over a block back to their hotel, The White Knight. The exterior was simple by South Beach standards, but the lobby brought back a Casablanca feeling with swirling ceiling fans, tropical colors and potted palms the height of giraffes. The sweet smell of incense floated through the air. "Hello again, you two," the desk clerk greeted them with a smile and a boisterous voice that echoed across the tiled floor of the lobby as they passed through to the elevator. He had been exceedingly friendly when they had checked in and seemed to take a liking to them. Scully nodded her head and Mulder waved. "Nice guy, that Juan," Mulder said once they were in the small elevator. The rooms were small but Scully's was just slightly larger. There was a small desk -- not large enough for the two of them to work on, so Mulder sprawled out with half the files on the bed while Scully took the desk. "OK, contestant number three. Victor McNamara, age 34. No connection with Huxley Pharmaceutical. Didn't own any stock. Lives in New York City. He's been visiting South Beach every year for the last five years, staying for a week, right around this time. The locals know him -- no family, a few friends, pretty much keeps to himself but is an all-around friendly guy. He usually stays at the Marlin Hotel about two blocks from here -- the maid found him yesterday, needle puncture in the left heel. No blunt trauma. He was gay." "What does that have to do with anything?" Scully interjected. "Nothing, except this area is very populated by gay men, and I'm assuming that the killer likely picked him up and they went back to his hotel room. There was no sign of forced entry." Scully flipped through the papers again. She was sick of this case. She was sick of going through paperwork. She was sick of going to a different city every day. And then something caught her eye. "Mulder," she said. "Victor McNamara was seeing a psychiatrist." Mulder looked up and stared at her. "The same one?" Scully flipped through her notes. "Dr. Robyn Mitchell. Both victims had her business cards." "We've got to talk to her," Mulder said. "She has a New York phone number," Scully said, reaching for the phone and dialing. There was a long pause and then she hung up. "The number's been disconnected." "Shit," Mulder got up from the bed and paced. "We've got to track her down." "I'll call the American Medical Association. I'm sure they have her current address." COOK COUNTY CHILDREN'S HOME CHICAGO, ILLINOIS MARCH 4, 1998 1:15AM A young boy of about twelve made his way over to the last bed in the row, watching the small girl sleep. She was plain but pretty -- blond hair, bangs, rosy cheeks. Her eyes were closed but he knew that they were blue. She stirred for some reason -- did she sense his presence? That was impossible because he was completely silent. Regardless of the cause, she rubbed her eyes and opened them, sitting up in bed. "Who are you?" she asked in a whisper. She had only been at the children's home for a week, but she knew that it was against the rules to make noise after the lights were turned out. "Are you from another room?" "No. I'm not from here." "Who are you?" she repeated. "My name's Kevin. Kevin Cryder." The boy glanced around, making sure that no one was watching them. "You don't have to be scared. There's someone who's going to protect you. She'll keep you safe." "I'm not scared," the little girl stubbornly insisted, her voice just above a whisper. "I've sent someone to protect you. She's a nice lady. She helped me out once. She's going to help you, too." Not comprehending, the little girl just looked at him. He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and had tousled brown hair. He clutched something in his hand that glittered -- a gold chain, with a small cross on it. "Her name is Dana Scully. Remember that, OK? She's going to protect you." The little girl still didn't say a word. "She's got red hair. Can you remember that?" She nodded. "I have to go." The boy glanced around again. "Be careful." And then he was gone. The little girl was sleepy. She slipped under her blanket and closed her eyes, falling back asleep within moments. Her chart was at the foot of her bed in a rack. Her new doctor was listed as Dr. Robyn Mitchell. ****** So she thinks she's Queen of the Psyche. Well, well, well. I'll show her. I've been watching her all day -- go to work, stay for a few hours, do her thing, then come home. I peeked in her window for over two hours and she didn't even know. There are still boxes everywhere -- obviously she hasn't quite finished moving in yet. Psychiatrists -- you gotta love 'em. I've seen enough in my day to last me a lifetime. This one's going to be easy. Not only is she poisoned as well, but she's my last link -- she holds the key to what I want. This one's going to be fun. DR. ROBYN MITCHELL'S OFFICE COOK COUNTY CHILDREN'S HOME CHICAGO, ILLINOIS MARCH 4, 1998 3:30PM Mulder and Scully seated themselves in chairs opposite the doctor. In her late thirties, she was strinkingly attractive -- long dark hair and piercing blue eyes. "So you just moved from New York, Dr. Mitchell?" Scully asked. "Yes, about three weeks ago. I left a private practice there to work with children at the Cook County State Home. Kids who have been abandoned, neglected -- left in state custody for some reason or another." "Are you aware of the deaths of James Kendall and Victor McNamara?" Mulder asked. The doctor's face went pale. "No...I wasn't. They're both dead?" "Mr. Kendall was killed in his home and Mr. McNamara was found dead in Miami," Scully said. "They both had your business card in their wallet." "I saw James for about two years -- we ended our treatment about six months ago. And Victor -- I stopped seeing him just before I moved here to Chicago." She seemed genuinely shaken. "You said that Victor was found dead? Was there any indication of foul play?" "We believe that they were both killed by the same person," Scully supplied. "And we think that the killer might be targeting you." "That's ridiculous," Robyn Mitchell said. "Why would anyone want to kill me?" "There was no reason for Mr. Kendall and Mr. McNamara to die, either," Scully interjected. "We'd just like to keep an eye on you." "This is crazy. No one's going to go after me. There's no reason for anyone to do anything like that." "Dr. Mitchell," Mulder said quietly, slipping his business card across the desk, "this is my card. My cellular number is on the back. Please -- don't hesitate to call us if you think that there's anything you need, if you have any problems." Dr. Mitchell sighed. Then she took the card. "I think you can find your own way out," she said, and Mulder nodded. The two agents got up and left the room, pausing for a moment in the hallway. "Think she's right?" Mulder asked. "I think the killer's going to make a move soon. He's working fast and seems to be one step ahead of us -- killing one person a day, which means that if anything is going to happen to her, it's going to happen today or tonight," Scully answered. She hadn't been particularly thrilled with the woman -- who wanted to deal with someone who was uncooperative? Still, she knew that she had a job to perform, and she had a strong suspicion that Dr. Robyn Mitchell was in danger. "We'd better stay close by, then. Maybe we can catch this son of a bitch before he kills anyone else. We can split the watch -- I'll do the overnight," Mulder suggested. "No, why don't you go first. I'm exhausted -- maybe I can catch a nap and then I'll relieve you later. Call me at say, midnight." "Sounds good." Scully nodded, and they started down the hall. An aide was leading a young girl by the hand in the opposite direction. They passed Mulder and Scully, and as they did, the little girl brushed against Scully's coat, so lightly that it was almost imperceptible. Scully stopped for a moment. She felt something. Then she turned halfway, looking over her shoulder, expecting to see the aide and the little girl. All she saw was the back of a little blond head as they went around the corner. Then they were gone. She hadn't gotten a very good look at the girl. Why the hell did she feel like she had just touched a ghost? AMBASSADOR ARMS MOTEL CHICAGO, ILLINOIS MARCH 5, 1998 10:45PM "Help me..." The sound was the anguished wail of a young child. Oh, God, not again, Scully thought. She turned and saw Emily, this time with her back turned to Scully, on a street corner, walking, confused. "Help me. Please..." Scully reached for her, took her by the arm. "Emily," she said, turning the girl around so she could see her face. It wasn't Emily. It was another little girl. Slightly older, a little less full in the face. But still terrified, and still looking very much alone. "Are you the one who was sent to protect me?" the little girl asked. Oh my God, Scully realized. She had never seen the girl's face before, but she knew who it was. It was the little girl from the children's home. The phone jangled in her ear, jerking her awake. She sat up in bed, panting, her pajamas drenched with sweat. Scully switched on the lamp by the bed and reached for the phone. Nothing. Just a dial tone. She slammed the receiver down and got up, then went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. Something was terribly wrong with her. She was confused. All she had seen saw was that little girl's body, walking down the hall, and she was about the same size as Emily, had almost the same gait, and she was just confused, that was all. Emily was dead. She was not really dreaming about that little girl. She was dreaming about Emily, and her mind had gotten confused. Scully was just so sick of everything. She recognized it as depression. What the hell had happened to her in the last few days? She turned the faucet off and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She walked out of the bathroom and back towards the bed, then froze. Kevin Cryder stood by the door of the hotel room. "Oh my God," Scully breathed. This wasn't happening. "I told you that you'd see me again," he said. Scully couldn't speak. She couldn't understand what he was doing there. How he had gotten there. "There's someone else you need to protect," Kevin said simply. "Just like you protected me. She's a little girl. She'll be at the old building at Cermak Road and 22nd Street. Her name is --" The phone rang. Scully reached for it, turning away from Kevin for just a moment. "Yes?" she answered, distracted. "Scully, it's me. I'm at Robyn Mitchell's house. I heard some twigs snapping and I think someone's trying to break in. I'm going to go and check it out. I need you to meet me over here right away." "Mulder, hold on." She turned around to where Kevin had been standing. He was gone. DR. ROBYN MITCHELL'S HOUSE CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 11:30PM Scully pushed open the door to the brownstone that Robyn Mitchell called home. A police cruiser was parked in front and Scully had a sinking suspicion that she knew what had happened. It didn't take long for her to find out. The psychiatrist was lying on her back in the living room. Ligature marks, still fresh, mottled the pale skin of her neck. An extension cord was on the floor nearby. A heavy iron candleholder rested on its side next to her head, one end of it darkened with blood. More blood was on the light colored carpet, and there was also some splattered on the couch nearby. Boxes were piled up everywhere, and books that had likely been stacked on the floor in preparation for putting on their shelves were scattered across the floor. There had obviously been quite a struggle. Robyn Mitchell did not go quietly. She could hear Mulder talking to her. "I don't know how he did it. I was outside the whole time. She obviously put up a fight, but I didn't hear a thing from out there." Scully felt for a pulse even though she knew there was none. The sock on Robyn Mitchell's left foot was gone, and there was a pinprick of blood on her heel. A crumpled piece of paper had been left by her head. "What I will take is mine and mine alone. A child's blood must be spilled to protect the innocent from the poison that will kill us all." Scully stared at the note blankly. Her mind refused to function. Something was clicking into place but she wasn't able to figure out what it was. Something. "Scully?" Mulder was standing near her, touching her shoulder. His voice seemed very far away. "Scully, are you OK?" MARCH 5, 1998 FIELD NOTES -- DANA SCULLY Dr. Robyn Mitchell is dead. And I think I might be losing my mind. I have no idea what has started what seems to be a downward spiral, but it is definitely happening. I'm zoning out at crime scenes, seeing things, not talking to my partner, and walking around knowing that I'm just about ready for a prescription for Prozac any moment. It's not just this case -- it's been happening for weeks now. Although I'm sure the case isn't helping matters much. I haven't gotten a lot of sleep. Most nights I simply lie awake in bed and ponder things. Useless things. I'm not dwelling on all the things that have happened to me over the last few years, although I'm sure that on the basis of those things alone I'm certainly entitled to have a breakdown. But it's not that. It's not the cancer, not Melissa, not my father. That has nothing to do with this, for some strange reason. I wish I could say that it has nothing to do with Emily, but I think on that matter, the jury's still out. I've been dreaming of her for months now, the same kind of dreams. She needs my help and I'm not able to do anything for her, as usual. I'm no more help to her in my dreams than I was when she was alive. So last night before Mulder called I dreamed of her -- only it wasn't her. It was another little girl, the girl from the children's home, the one who brushed up against me as she passed. I don't even think that she touched me. Her arm brushed my coat so lightly that there was no way I could have felt it, although I *did* feel it. I felt it like a tongue of fire licking at me. And I don't know her; I don't know anything about her. And I don't think I want to know anything about her. The only problem is that I think I'm supposed to protect her. Which brings me to the fact that Kevin Cryder appeared in my hotel room last night. Which is, of course, technically impossible, because he was hundreds of miles away. I called the foster home where he's been living since I saw him last -- they're about to adopt him, as an aside -- and he was there all night. His adoptive mother-to-be sounded a bit surprised when I asked her if she was sure that he hadn't crept out during the night. Even if he had, how did he get to Chicago and then back home in the space of a few hours? Which is exactly my point -- he couldn't have. So what I saw was -- what? An illusion? Something that only I was meant to see? Kevin told me that I was to protect this little girl -- that she needed my help, just as he did. Wonderful. I'm just *dying* to go running off protecting little children for the rest of my career. I can see the headline already: Dana Scully, never able to have her own children, save for a little alien-human hybrid, saves scores of children throughout the continental United States. And now there's this little girl -- she's been kidnapped from the children's home. She was Robyn Mitchell's patient, and someone saw a man carrying her out of her room around the same time that the coroner's photographers showed up at Dr. Mitchell's house to take pictures of the crime scene. There's also the issue of Mulder. We've been doing our usual...I don't know what to call it. Schtick? Joking? I don't know. There's a different quality to it, though -- some sort of harder, more serious tone in his voice, a more determined look in his eye. I've noticed it and he knows I've noticed. I have no idea what to do about it. I really can hardly focus on it, to be honest. I'm too busy, you know, saving little children. I haven't told Mulder about my Emily dreams. And I haven't told him about Kevin. Or the little girl I'm supposed to protect. I know exactly why I haven't said anything -- the last time this happened Mulder didn't believe a word I said until it was all over and then there was nothing to say. For once, I was the believer and he was the skeptic, and I finally understood what it felt like to be him. The more I understand it, I wonder why he didn't lose his mind years ago. Is that what's happening to me now? Am I losing my mind? When I look in the mirror, I see the same face I'm used to seeing every day. Sure, I look a little more tired, a little more frayed at the seams, but I'm the same. Nothing has changed. But it's a mask -- a very carefully constructed papier-mache mask that I've built, layer by layer, carefully placing each piece until it's impenetrable. The only problem is that as well as it holds its form, when pressure is applied to it, it breaks. I feel like I'm almost at my breaking point, and because of that, I can't let Mulder in. Not this time. Not when I know what could happen. If he makes jokes or acts like this is silly, I don't think I can take it. He did that the last time, when we met Kevin the first time -- didn't believe me, that is -- and although I was irritated and hurt then, this time it would be my undoing. My defenses are down and I know that he wouldn't believe a word I'm saying anyhow. How could I tell him that I saw Kevin Cryder and that he warned me about a nameless little girl who needs my help? I want to tell him. But I don't think I can. COOK COUNTY CHILDREN'S HOME MARCH 5, 1998 1:45PM Mulder flipped through the short stack of files in front of him. "Dr. Mitchell had seven patients here. The one taken was Kate Dixon. She's five years old. She was taken into State custody three weeks ago. Her father, Michael Dixon, killed his wife four weeks ago. Bludgeoned her to death with a rock in the backyard. Kate was inside -- didn't see anything. He took off and the little girl was found inside the house by a neighbor four hours later. They never caught the father. The witness who saw the man carrying Kate out of here last night said that he matched the description of Michael Dixon." Scully looked at the picture of Kate Dixon. It was the girl from her dream. "There's no question that he's kidnapped his daughter. It looks like he's our killer, Scully. He left a note in the girl's bed saying that her blood would be spilled, just like his wife's." "Mulder." "The idea is that he's delusional, although before he killed his wife he told quite a few people that he thought that his wife was, get this, Scully, abducted by aliens who had taken over her mind. He said that he was going to get them out of her even if he had to kill her to do it." "Mulder, I need to tell you something." "I think he's going to kill his daughter, Scully. I think he thinks that aliens have taken over her brain as well. You know, as much as I hate to say this, I actually *don't* believe this guy." "Mulder." Scully's voice cut through the air like a knife. Mulder turned to look at her. "What's up?" "I...this is going to sound a little crazy." "That's my department, Scully." "Mulder, I'm serious." Mulder looked at her face and sat down. "I'm listening." "Last night, when you called, Kevin Cryder was in my hotel room." "Who?" "The little boy that we met a few years ago -- the one who had been bleeding from his palms." "How --" "He was in my room. He told me that I needed to protect someone -- a girl. He didn't give me her name. The phone rang -- you called -- and he was gone." Scully's voice was hoarse. She felt as if she were going to cry. No, she willed herself. Do not cry. Mulder didn't say anything for a long moment. "So you think that you're supposed to protect this little girl like you protected Kevin?" Scully stared at him. "If you think that I'm making this up -- that I'm full of it --" "Scully, I didn't say that. All I said was --" "I know what you said, Mulder. And I heard the tone of voice you used when you said it." Scully stood up and strode to the door. "Forget I said anything." "Scully, wait." Mulder was across the room like a shot and roughly grabbed her arm. "Damn it, Scully, I *believe* you. If you say you believe it, then I'm with you." Scully pushed at him. "It doesn't matter. It's doesn't matter." She shook her head violently. "Let go of me, Mulder." Mulder refused, pulling her to him and crushing her to his chest, his arms going around her like a vise. She struggled at first, then, as her resolve weakened, she relaxed and let him hold her. His arms felt good -- they felt safe. But they were temporary, and she knew it. The minute he let her go, she was going to be right back where she started from -- feeling like she was losing control. She pushed Mulder away. "I don't want your sympathy," she said. "It's not sympathy, Scully. I care about you. If you're meant to protect this little girl, then I believe that." She turned her face from him. She didn't want him to see her eyes. They were red-rimmed and beginning to fill with tears. When did she become the savior for all the children in the world? Why couldn't she just have some peace? "Look," Mulder said to her in a low voice. "Let's see if we can get a lead on this guy. Let's figure out where the hell he is. Let's find him and let's find Kate Dixon." Scully's cel phone rang. She reached for it automatically, swallowing down the lump in her throat and ignoring the tears that were threatening in her eyes. "Scully." "Agent Scully, this is Agent Carson from the tox lab. You had sent a sample to us to examine?" "Yes, I did." "We were unable to determine what it was. However, we did determine that it was the same substance that caused a retrovirus in another agent. Agent Mulder, I think his name was." The retrovirus. The green gooey substance that had been found in Emily. Scully was stunned into momentary silence. Then she asked, "Are you sure?" "Yes, Agent Scully, I'm sure. I checked it twice." "Thank you." Scully hung up and turned to Mulder. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Is Kate Dixon dead?" Mulder asked. Scully shook her head. "It's the trace substance that was found in the three victims. The one that they couldn't identify at the labs in Vermont. I had it sent to Washington for analysis." "And?" "They couldn't identify it either. But they found something in their database that matched it." Scully paused, closing her eyes for a moment, wondering if this was really happening. "It's the same substance that was in Emily's blood." Mulder's eyes widened. "The green..." "Yes," Scully answered. "It was found in trace amounts -- so small that it could hardly be measured." "So the victims were hybrids?" Mulder asked, shaking his head. "There wasn't enough found for them to actually be hybrids. If they were, the minute anyone would have opened them up to do an autopsy, they would have gotten the retrovirus that you had." "Wait a second -- so Michael Dixon was right?" Mulder asked. "I didn't say that. But we have to find that little girl. And I have a feeling I know where she is." Scully grabbed her coat and flew out of the door before Mulder could stop her. "Scully, wait!!" But she was gone. Scully drove. She knew that Mulder was likely furious with her for taking the car, but after all the times he had ditched her, she figured that she could ditch him, just once, without having him get upset about it. She had the sneaking suspicion that she shouldn't be driving. She was upset -- out of control, almost. She was weaving on the highway and passing dangerously. Driving so precariously wasn't something that came naturally to her. But she knew where she was going, and she sensed that she didn't have a lot of time to get there. She could almost hear Kate Dixon's voice, calling out. Scared. Frightened. Nothing was worse. No sound was more terrifying to hear than that of a small, frightened child. "Agent Scully?" Scully looked through the windshield, and there, floating on the pavement in front of her, was Kevin. He was holding Kate Dixon's hand. "Help her, Agent Scully. She needs your help." "Oh my God!" Scully screamed, and pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, trying not to hit the two children who seemed to be right in front of her car. There was a screeching of metal as Scully's car collided with the concrete barrier. Her head jerked forward with the impact, snapping, and then there was nothing but blackness. EDENS EXPRESSWAY 2:45PM Mulder pulled the car to a harsh stop in front of the police car that was already there, its lights flashing wildly, red and blue. He recognized the rental car that Scully had been driving -- although it looked slightly different, its front end mangled against the concrete wall of the highway. He leaped out of the car, whipping his badge out of his pocket and flashing it at the officer cordoning off the scene. "Is she OK?" "The airbag saved her. We've talked to her and she seems to be all right -- but she's got some bumps and bruises. The ambulance is on its way to check her out, just in case." "Mulder..." Scully's weak voice came from the wreckage. Mulder pushed his way past the officer and over to the car. "Scully. Scully." There was a gash on her forehead and dirt on her cheek, and she was struggling to get out of the car. "Mulder, help me out of here. Get me out." Mulder struggled to open the car door, but it was too badly crumpled to open. The driver's side window was already smashed and he helped pull her through the open space. Little chunks of glass were scattered on her shoulders and glittered like diamonds in the sunlight. "Scully. The ambulance is on its way." "No, Mulder. I have to get to her. I know where she is. I have to..." "You're in no shape to do anything, Scully. The paramedics have to check you out." "Damn it, Mulder, you've got to help me. Give me the keys to your car or I'll call a taxi." She was serious. Deadly serious. "OK. OK. Come on. But I'm driving." Scully obediently followed him, albeit a little unsteadily, to his car, ignoring both the police officer who was shaking his head and the wailing of the ambulance that was on its way to the accident scene. UNIDENTIFIED EMPTY BUILDING CERMAK ROAD AND 22ND STREET NEAR THE CHICAGO RIVER 3:30PM Mulder looked over at Scully as they were about to enter the building. She had used a Kleenex in the car to soak up the blood from the cut on her head. Scully moved to the doorway, drawing her gun and nodding at Mulder as he did the same. She felt strangely alert. After the accident, things had gotten fuzzy for a few minutes, but she had remembered quite clearly the image that had caused her to swerve. She didn't tell Mulder about it and he didn't ask. Kate Dixon's voice was stronger -- and more terrified -- than ever. Scully entered the warehouse building first. Even though it was sunny outside, the minute the two agents entered the building it was dark as night. Scully blinked a few times to get adjusted to the darkness and could see Mulder doing the same thing. She wanted to be completely ready for Michael Dixon. She knew in her heart that he was going to kill his daughter. She knew that she had to get there first. They followed the maze of corridors until suddenly they heard a crack. Scully jumped but Mulder took her arm. "It wasn't a shot," he whispered. They could hear a load splintering noise, then another crack. "Those bastards...look what they've done. Look, sweetheart. They made me kill your mommy. You know that I did it for her own good. To save her. And I have to save you." Michael Dixon sounded just as Scully had expected him to -- like a madman. Mulder and Scully edged closer until they could see a clearing -- a large room in the warehouse. Kate Dixon was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her father was busy with something on the floor. His back was to them. Mulder motioned to Scully and they inched forward. Scully could now see Kate more clearly. Jesus. She didn't look like Emily, except for one thing. She had Emily's eyes. Those same, round, terrified eyes. She knew that it wasn't because the girls were related in any way. She knew that it was only because all little girls who are terrified have those eyes. The sight of it actually caused her to close her own tired eyes for a moment. Dear God, she thought, give me strength. Kevin. Kevin was here too. Maybe not physically, but he was here. He knew what was happening. The two agents looked at each other, then nodded silently. Scully came around the corner first, with Mulder right behind her, both of their guns drawn. "Federal Agents! Turn around!" Scully's shout echoed loudly across the empty room, and Michael Dixon jumped, whirled around and grabbed his daughter under the arms, swinging her in the air, holding her around the chest. He had a syringe in one hand. He was tall. Light brown hair. Wild eyes. "Don't come any closer! I'll inject her. I'll do it!" "OK, OK, take it easy," Mulder said calmly. "Michael Dixon, you are under arrest. Drop the syringe and let your daughter go." "You don't get it," he yelled. "You don't get it. She has to die. They're in her head. They're eating her alive. They did it to my wife -- to those idiots. They all had to die. Don't you get it?" "So you injected them with postassium and with that toxic green poison," Scully spat at him. "Where did you get it from, anyhow?" "What are you talking about?" He turned around again, holding his squirming daughter under one arm, the syringe too close to her arm for Scully's comfort. Mulder watched him carefully, waiting for the right moment. "I just injected them with potassium. That's all. What the hell are you talking about? They all had the poison in them. I didn't inject them with anything but good old potassium." Scully froze. If he *didn't* inject them with the green stuff, then how did it get there? "Dixon -- over here!" Mulder called. Michael Dixon whirled around to look at Mulder and Scully saw her opening. She was looking at his profile, and had the perfect shot. Kate squirmed in his arms again. "Stop it, Katie. Stop it!" he ordered, tightening his grip on her as she whimpered. She slipped in his grasp. That's it, Scully thought. That's it. Her arm steady, she pulled the trigger of her Sig and the bullet hit him right in the head. Scully lowered her arm. Kate screamed at the noise and fell from her father's arms as his body dropped to the floor. She scrambled to her feet and ran to Scully, crying. Scully dropped her gun, letting it clatter noisily to the floor. She gathered the small child in her arms, crouching down to hold her. The little girl's heart pounded against Scully's chest and her tear-stained face pressed against Scully's shoulder. Scully closed her eyes and stroked the girl's hair. A few stray tears had formed in her own eyes. She couldn't stop them from falling. Mulder walked over to the two and retrieved Scully's gun from the floor, silently watching them. MARCH 6, 1998 FIELD NOTES Why the hell do I even title this "field notes" when I know that they're not? I should call this what it is -- a journal. It's a fucking confessional. I'm recovering nicely from my cuts and bruises from the accident, although I think I'm going to be sore for a few more days. Mulder suggested that we stay in Chicago tonight as well so that we can relax a bit before we head home. Which is fine with me. I have no idea what he's been up to, and I don't care. I spent last night in my hotel room alone, waiting for a sign from Kevin to say that I did the right thing by blowing Michael Dixon's head off. I know that it scared the hell out of Kate. We managed to get her out of there without her seeing her father's brain splattered all over the floor of the warehouse. Anyhow, I got no such sign from Kevin or from anyone. The phone only rang once. I knew it was Mulder because I could hear him slam the phone down in the next room when I didn't answer. After that, I unplugged the phone from the wall and turned off my cel phone. I've been in my hotel room alone ever since last night -- almost 30 hours now. I don't feel as if I can face Mulder -- or anyone else, for that matter. I know there will be an inquiry as to why I chose to shoot our suspect in the head instead of say, the shoulder, but I don't want to deal with that right now. There's been no explanation about how the toxic substance got into the victims bodies. Michael Dixon said he didn't inject it into them, and I believe him. I truly feel that he only injected the potassium. The syringe he was preparing to give to his daughter was filled with pure potassium. There were no traces of anything else. Empty vials of the electrolyte were found nearby. There is irony in all of this. Michael Dixon actually thought that the people he killed -- including his wife -- had been abducted by aliens and had alien blood in them. However, his psychiatric records from at least fifteen years back show that he's believed the same thing about his parents, his psychiatrists, grocery store checkout clerks, mailmen, and just about anyone who he came in contact with. And lo and behold -- the four people he killed besides his wife -- Charles Allman, James Kendall, Victor McNamara and Robyn Mitchell -- all had traces of this alien substance in them. Michael Dixon was on the right track -- but he didn't know that his assumptions about these people were true. How it came to be that each one of these victims had traces of this unidentified alien substance in their system when they died is still a mystery. There are still many mysteries in all of this. In saving Kate Dixon, I do not feel any better. I do not feel as if I fulfilled a purpose. I still feel empty. I still feel alone. Saving a hundred lives will not take the emptiness away. Saving a thousand lives will not give me what it is that is missing from my life. There is another irony in all of this: I can save everyone in the world -- I can spend my life protecting them all -- and I still feel as if there is no one left to save me. AMBASSADOR ARMS MOTEL MARCH 6, 1998 9:30PM "Scully?" Mulder knocked again on the door, softly. "Come on, please open the door." Scully opened the door to find Mulder holding two brown bags stapled shut. She knew her eyes were bleary and she looked as if she hadn't slept in days. There were two bruises on her face that were starting to turn purple, and she hadn't bothered to cover the cut on her forehead. "What's in the bags, Mulder?" "Your favorite -- shrimp fried rice. And chicken chow mein for me," he added. "I'm not hungry, but thanks for thinking of me." Scully moved to close the door but Mulder put his hand out quickly to stop her. "Scully. You've been holed up in there since last night. Can I just come in and talk to you for a minute?" Scully sighed heavily. "A minute, Mulder. I'm not in the mood for a long psychologically heavy conversation." "I promise to leave Freud outside." He followed her inside and closed the door behind him. "So, how're you doing, Scully?" "I'm fine, Mulder." She sat down on the bed and looked at him pointedly. Mulder set the Chinese food down on the table and sat down at the foot of the bed. "You know, Scully, after everything we've been through -- after what's happened in the last few days -- I'm inclined to think that you're not telling me the truth." "I really don't care what you think, Mulder. I'm fine, the case is over, I would like to get a good night's sleep before we leave tomorrow afternoon --" "Bullshit." Scully looked at him. His voice was hard. "Why are you so angry?" she asked. "You don't know?" he asked, incredulous. She shook her head. "Because you're shutting me out, Scully. You've been locked up in here for over 24 hours. You won't answer the phone. You wouldn't answer the door. You won't talk to me. I'm sick of it." Scully shook her head. "I can't believe *you're* angry. After everything I've been through --" "That's right, Scully, after everything you've been through. Don't you get it? Normal people under this kind of pressure would crack. You and I are a little bit stronger because of everything else that we've already survived. But you have every right to break down, to allow yourself the fact that you can't do everything, that you can't bear everything, that you can *talk* to me about how you feel." "I can't believe you're angry at me." "I can't believe you won't fucking talk to me, Scully. *Talk*, for God's sakes." Mulder reached out and took her hands, clasping them tightly in his. She tried to pull them away but he tightened his grip. "Talk to me." "There's nothing to say," Scully maintained, but she could feel her resolve slipping. "Bullshit." Silence. Mulder still held onto Scully's hands. Scully watched his face intently as his eyes bored into hers. Why they hell was he doing this? Why was he being so obstinate? Why couldn't he just leave her the hell alone so that she could try to make sense of all of this by herself? And then it dawned on her. That was what he was trying to say. He may have ditched her over and over, but she shut him out and closed down over and over. "Mulder," she said softly, "you can't help me. You can't. It's not something anyone can do for me." "I don't believe that, Scully." And she knew he was right. Her hands were still in his, and she pulled, pulling him closer, close enough so that she could feel the heat of his body close to hers. She wanted him closer -- wanted to feel the warmth of him in the places where she felt cold. She slipped her hands free from his. One hand went to his face so that she could touch his cheek when she kissed him, and the other went between his legs. He moaned just as her lips reached his. "Scully," he breathed, and then they were kissing, his tongue deep in her mouth, his hands in her hair. He grew instantly hard under her touch. She felt a tingle go through her body when she heard him moan and stroked him through his clothes, elciting another, louder moan. Scully pulled her mouth from his and stared at him. "The truth of it is that you may be able to help me, but you can't protect me, Mulder. No one can," she said, stilling the movement of her hand on his cock. His eyes flickered, then grew moist with tears. "I know," he murmured. "But you can't blame me for trying." She smiled for the first time in weeks. "No, Mulder, I can't. And I won't." And then she kissed him again, their mouths exploring, tasting each other's skin. Clothing was shed quickly. Scully shifted uncomfortably at one point; she was still in some pain from the car accident. Mulder rolled over onto his back to accomodate her. Physically, it was less painful for her to be on top, and secretly Scully was thrilled by this. She wanted -- needed -- the knowledge that she was going to be in control of this coupling, this first time. When he finally entered her she was the one who lowered her body down onto his, feeling him fill her, deeply, more deeply than he ever could if she had been on her back. Mulder gripped her buttocks is his hands as she eased herself down, up, down. His eyes stayed open, and she saw him look from her face to her breasts to her face again. "You have incredible breasts, Scully. Maybe next time we can take this a little slower so I can get to know them a little better." Scully laughed, a laugh that came all the way from deep in her chest. When it happened, Mulder came first, losing control and holding onto her hips as he thrust his own hips up off the bed madly. She watched him, paying attention to every detail of his orgasm until she realized how beautiful it was and that she should stop analyzing and start enjoying what she was doing. A few moments later she came as well, crying out Mulder's name, falling weakly on his body and breathing heavily. There was silence in the room except for the sound of their breathing as it slowed to normal. "Scully," Mulder finally said, "please promise me we can do that again." "You've got a deal, Mulder," she said, rolling off him gingerly and into his arms, kissing him tenderly. COOK COUNTY CHILDREN'S HOME CHICAGO, ILLINOIS MARCH 7, 1998 9:30AM Scully waited alone in the visiting room. It was decorated for young children -- and looked so much like the room where she had talked to Emily when Mulder had come in and met the little girl for the first time. Scully recalled that he had made a Mr. Potato Head face. It all seemed like a hundred years ago. The door opened and Scully turned. Kate Dixon came in, holding the hand of an aide. "This woman would like to talk to you for a few minutes. Is that OK with you, Kate?" The little girl, dressed in jeans and a pale pink sweatshirt, nodded at the aide after giving Scully the once over. Scully wondered how much of the previous day the girl had actually understood. Did she know that Scully had shot her father? The aide smiled and nodded at Scully, then left the room, closing the door with a soft click. Scully walked over to Kate and crouched down on the floor to be at her level. "Hi, Kate. Do you remember me? My name's Dana." Kate nodded. "You were there yesterday when my daddy got killed." "That's right, I was. I just wanted to come over and see how you were doing." "I'm not scared." "I know -- you're a very brave girl." Kate lowered her head and looked at the floor. Scully felt a rush of love for the little girl. Her parents were dead and she would now spend an indetermined amount of time at the home until suitable foster care could be found for her. The good news was that she would likely be adopted by a good family in a very short amount of time. Scully hoped that the little girl would remember very little of what had happened to her. "You killed my daddy." So much for not remembering, Scully thought. She focused on Kate, who had looked up and was fixing her with a very intense stare. Scully swallowed hard before answering. "Yes. Yes, I did. He had done some very bad things. I was worried that he was going to hurt you." "They told me that he was a very bad man." "He was sick, Kate, but I know that he loved you very much. You should always remember that." "I miss my mommy," Kate said, her voice barely above a whisper. Oh, God, Scully thought, pain lancing through her heart like a spear. This poor child. Kate reached up and touched Scully's necklace, playing with it between her tiny fingers. Scully immediately recalled Emily doing the exact same thing. She reached up to remove the necklace, almost involunarily, to put it around Kate's neck, and then stopped. She couldn't. Not after what had happened when she did that with Emily. She had given Emily her necklace and Emily had died. She knew that wasn't *why* Emily had died, but the association was too strong. "I saw that before," Kate said, her voice still quiet. "You mean you saw me wearing it before?" "No, I saw it before I met you." "You mean you saw a necklace like it," Scully said. Kate shook her head stubbornly. "Kevin showed it to me." Scully's eyes held on the little girl's face. "He was here -- before I met you. He had it in his hand. He told me that you were coming to protect me." Scully's breath caught in her throat. "And you're safe now, Kate," she finally managed to say. The little girl nodded her head. "Thank you." "You're welcome." Scully stood up. "I'm going to have to go now...you be careful, Kate, be a good girl, OK?" "I will," she said obediently. "Wait." Kate's tiny hand caught hers. "What's wrong?" Scully asked, bending down again. "Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that I'll see you again." Now *that* rang a bell for Scully. Kevin had said that to her the last time he had seen her -- and look what happened. Scully hugged the girl tightly, hoping that Kate wouldn't notice that her eyes were filled with tears. Finally, she released her, and Kate left the room, closing the door behind her. Scully stood alone in the room. "Agent Scully?" She turned around. There he was -- man of the hour. Kevin Cryder. He looked just as he did when Scully had said goodbye to him years before. "You were wondering," he said, cocking his head slightly to one side, "if you did the right thing. Well, I just wanted to tell you that you did." Scully blinked, and he was gone before she could ask him if he was really there or just a figment of her imagination. She looked around her. She was truly alone in the room. A silence fell that was thick and very, very still, and Scully bowed her head and closed her eyes. MARCH 7, 1998 AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 495 CHICAGO TO WASHINGON, D.C. Mulder's sleeping again. It's interesting to watch him sleep just a few days after I witnessed him doing the same thing. This time it seems as if things are so different. Things *are* different. We are returning to Washington as different people, with a different sense of our relationship. I am returning to Washington, still unsure of miracles. Did I see one? Did Kevin truly lead me to Kate Dixon in that warehouse? Mulder has not asked me how I knew she was there. And I will not tell him. I know that there are things that we will not keep from each other, but this is something I am not ready to share with him. I'm not ready to completely go over to his side, to become a full-fledged believer. And I'm not sure that I know how to be that open with him. That is something that will take time for me to learn. The one thing I am sure of is that I know that Mulder will wait for me to learn and to talk to him. He is infinitely patient, and for that I am grateful. Because I will need time -- time to decide what it is that I believe. Either way, I don't think that it matters. I *did* see Kevin Cryder. I am certain of that. But I still have one question: why me? Why not Mulder, who already believes without question? Perhaps it's like the priest told me a few years ago -- maybe these things were only meant for *me* to see. END Note: A special thank you to Madeleine Partous, who let me borrow the character of Juan and the White Knight Hotel from her fanfic masterpieces Floaters and The Pact.