"Too Close" 2/3
An X-Files Story by Jennifer Lyon
Jenni10647@aol.com
jennyann@ix.netcom.com

X-Files Division
Two Days Later

     Crunching on a sunflower seed, Mulder looked up as the door opened to
admit his partner, her arms overflowing with envelopes and files.
     "Need a hand?" he asked, swinging his chair around towards her,
though he remained seated. She walked over, dumped the mail in his lap,
dropped the files on the pile in front of him, then leaned back against
the edge of the desk.
     "Sure, most of that's yours anyway."
     He grimaced, tossing most of it up onto the cluttered desk, then
swooping down to retrieve a few scattered pieces off the dusty floor.
     Watching him, Scully smiled softly, an expression of pure warmth that
faded into seriousness as he sat back up, throwing two pieces of obvious
junk mail in the general direction of the wastebasket.
     "By the way, have you heard from Colton recently?" she asked.
     His head jerked up from a perusal of yellow interoffice envelope, his
eyes focusing intently on her face. "Are you kidding? He's been trying to
avoid me all week, and I still don't have the complete case files I need
to write my profile." He frowned, then looked at her sharply.
     "Why?"
     Scully sighed, tucking her bright hair behind her ears. "No one is
able to find him. Greenstein is going nuts, and Skinner is on a rampage -
apparently Colton missed a meeting with him."
     Mulder grimaced, then got to his feet, still clutching the now
forgotten envelope in his hand. Scully watched him silently, recognizing
his movement as a reflection of his mind's frenetic pace. It was as though
he needed to release a flood of energy, the wheels turning in his mind
forcing his body ahead of it - letting out the pressure of its own effort
through the muscles below.
     "It's not like Colton to miss a chance to kiss the AD's butt," he
said dryly, though his expression was abstracted, his face taking on the
look she had dubbed his 'I've lost my keys' look. The one where he was
just on the edge of putting the pieces together. So she sat back and
waited patiently for him to work it through.
     "And this investigation is too important, he wouldn't just abandon
it." Mulder was talking aloud, but Scully knew he wasn't really speaking
to her, he was simply expending energy again, letting the words coalesce
into meaning as he spoke.
     "So something must have happened to prevent him. But what? Why
Colton?" He stopped in mid step, one foot still raised, then he dropped it
to the floor and spun to face her. "Of course, Colton, of course. It had to
be..."
     "Had to be what, Mulder?" Scully broke in, her patience beginning to
fade.
     "Colton had to be the next victim!" he exclaimed, waving the
interoffice mail folder at her, his eyes alight with discovery. "I
couldn't figure out what the connection was between Connolly and Kavorski.
They never worked together, probably didn't even know each other. The
Bureau isn't that small, and Connolly had only been in Washington a couple
weeks. So I assumed they were random choices. Taken because they were in
the wrong place at the wrong time. But I knew that didn't feel right,
Scully." He rubbed at his chin with his empty hand, then came over to sit
on the edge of the desk facing her.
     "The killings themselves were almost - well, sloppy. Quick and easy.
As though they were a chore that had to be gotten out of the way. But the
taking of the hand and the eye, that part was well-thought out. It was
done for a reason. To send a message. The deaths were less important than
the symbolism of the thefts. Or that is what I thought." His voice faded
out, his eyes focusing on empty space, as thought reading invisible
writing suspended in the air itself.
     "But you don't think that now?" Scully prompted. He jerked in
response to her words, then turned to look at her again.
     "Why send the body parts to me? A demand for attention, of course.
But why me?"
     "Despite your penchant for weird cases, Mulder, you're still
considered one of the best behavioral analysts in the Bureau."
     Mulder smiled and nodded gravely at the complement, then his
expression turned wry. "An opinion not exactly shared by either Connolly
or Kavorski, though. Or by Colton. To say the least."
     Scully stared at him, her eyes widening, but not quite able to put it
into words. So he did it for her, his voice grave and certain, though he
couldn't suppress the shiver that shook his slender frame.
     "Someone has decided to start killing my 'enemies'. I think the
'gifts' were not a demand for attention or a challenge, I think they were
some kind of sick tribute."
     "But why? And who?" Scully's voice rose at the end of her question,
while her skin bleaching.
     Mulder shook his head, walking around her to sit back down in his
chair with an almost imperceptible sigh. His eyes were dark pools of
granite as he returned her wide-eyed gaze.
     "I don't know. But my guess is that Colton's body will turn up soon
as will..." His eyes suddenly focused on the envelope still in his hand.
     "Mulder?" Scully asked as he cautiously placed the envelope down on
the edge of the desk and undid the flap. She moved to lean over his
shoulder, as he poked at the inside of the yellow folder with the tip of a
pencil. His breath catching in his throat as the probe met resistance, he
snagged the bag inside and carefully, slowly, drew it out.
     "Oh my God," Scully whispered as Mulder displayed the clear plastic
evidence bag with its small, pitiful contents. "He took the tongue."
                         - - - - -
     
     It took more than a few hours to search the FBI complex for the
missing agent's body. The one piece they had, that particular, gruesome
little piece of flesh, sat in sad isolation in the path labs while teams
of agents scoured the nooks and crannies of the sprawling building for its
former owner. 
     Finally, the body was discovered, wedged into a dark corner of the
'vault' - the massive storage facility for decades of Bureau paperwork.
Scully took charge of it quickly, and Mulder was grateful to be able to
stand back, a silent figure on the edge of the scene. Absorbing it all
with the eye of a trained investigator, it was still difficult to ignore
the series of pinpricks that ran up and down his spine. A chill seeped
through his bones, forcing him to unconsciously draw his jacket tighter
around him as he watched the body being sealed up into the inevitable
black bag.
     And then there was the sensation of being watched. Eyes, curious,
hostile, watching, focused on the back of his neck - not just those of the
unknown killer. His stormy, bitter relationship with Colton had been fodder
for Bureau gossip, and this was only adding fuel to the fire of
speculation. And he couldn't really blame them. He knew he was at the
center of these deaths, that certainty pounding at his heart with a
familiar weight of guilt. Could he have missed something important? Seen
something, done something, noticed something, anything, that could have
prevented this from happening?
     Frozen in place, his eyes pinned to the spot where the body had lain,
unnoticed, for two days, Mulder didn't notice Scully beside him until she
closed a small hand on his elbow and gently tugged.
     "Are you all right?" she asked gently.
     He shook himself, almost like wet dog, then turned to look down at
her. "Yeah."
     She shot him a disbelieving look, but said quietly, "Come on, lets
go."
     He nodded and followed her down the aisle.
                         - - - - -
Office of the Assistant Director
Next Morning

     Skinner was not happy. He had three dead agents, the FBI director
breathing fire down his neck, and a room full of uneasy agents, and no
goddam leads. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, the AD ignored the
stares of the men in his office and eyed the door with well-concealed
irritation. Where the hell were they?
     As though in direct answer to his unspoken command, the door opened
to admit a pair of agents. Mulder was a tall, dark shadow behind his
fiery-haired partner, his skin peaked, eyes dark sunken pools. Scully,
however, was all business, and throwing her partner only one quick glance
of concern, she launched  into her report.
     "Agent Colton was killed by strangulation. Initial examination of the
body suggests that he was first struck a non-fatal blow on the back of the
skull with a blunt instrument." She paused, carefully considering her
words. "Without further examination, I can't be sure...but I'd guess it
was the butt of a handgun or pistol. Regardless, once Colton was rendered
unconscious, his tie was used to constrict his windpipe until he died of
asphyxiation. Based on the lack of extensive bleeding, I'd say that his
tongue was removed following death rather than before. It seems likely
that the tongue delivered to Agent Mulder this morning is the one missing
from the body, though that is yet to be officially confirmed. I'd estimate
the time of death to be somewhere between forty-two and forty-eight hours
prior to discovery of the body. With any luck we'll have more information
after the autopsy."
     Skinner nodded, then looked pointedly at Greenstein who was standing
in the corner. The bulky agent stepped forward, then paused, his hands
unable to stay still. He tapped at his tie, his sides, brushed at his
hair, then suddenly stilled. "The last time I saw Colton was two days ago.
I was running down a lead from Connolly's latest case, which took me away
from the building until late last night. He wasn't at his desk when I got
in, but I figured that he'd already gone home. But when he didn't show up
this morning, I called his wife, and she told me that he'd not come home
in two days. She was nearly frantic, since he always called if he couldn't
make it home. That got me worried, and I started looking for him. About
noon, Agent Scully called to say that Mulder had received another body
part and that he thought it was Colton's. So we grabbed some people and
started a more thorough search. We found him in a corner of the 'vault'."
     "Surely, he must have checked in and out of the file room?" Skinner
asked.
     "Yes, sir." The reply came from another agent, a middle-aged man with
alert brown eyes and curly blond hair that fell back from a deeply receding
hairline. "That is," he corrected himself, "Agent Colton is recorded as
having checked in at 1:17 pm, but there is no record of him leaving. The
front-desk clerk does remember him coming in, but things got busy that
afternoon, and she apparently forgot he was in there."
     "Forgot!?" Skinner frowned mightily. 
     "Yes, sir," the curly-haired agent continued. "We have the list of
people who went into the file room between Colton's entry yesterday and
the discovery of his body this afternoon, but I'm afraid that it may not
be complete. The clerk was called away from her desk more than once during
that time, and there were a large number of requests coming through. She
and the rest of the file room staff were kept hopping that afternoon. So
someone could have easily gotten in without being seen."
     Skinner opened his mouth to begin a tirade on the failure to follow
proper procedure and security precautions, but clamped his lips down
tight, swallowing the words. This was not the time. Instead he nodded
gravely, then focused his eyes on the tall man leaning against the office
door.
     "Agent Mulder?"
     Mulder eased up out of his slouch, then hunched his shoulders
slightly and stepped forward. "Obviously, our perpetrator is an FBI
'insider', my guess would be a full agent rather than a secretary or
clerk. He has access to the entire building, and knows his way around
well. He is handy with tools, and is an expert at blending in. He probably
looks like an average agent, a Caucasian male in his late twenties or early
thirties, unmarried and doesn't date much. His colleagues probably consider
him a good, even diligent worker. Conscientious, thorough, dedicated, and
easy to get along with, he is likely to go out of his way to be friendly,
especially to the staff. The secretaries probably adore him."
     Mulder paused, running a slender hand through his straight dark hair,
closed his eyes briefly, then continued to speak. "The killings themselves
were quick, almost haphazard. The manner of death is different in each
case, a knife wound in the chest, a wire through the jugular,
strangulation after a blow to the head. No pattern there, and I think the
means of death is not considered important, rather as a messy chore that
must be done. What IS important to the killer is the mutilation. The
taking of the hand, the eye, and the tongue has significant meaning. It
takes time and planning to remove them, with added risk of discovery with
that increased time at the scene.
     "The first trophy wasn't sent to me immediately, it was held until
the second killing, then both were sent at once. I'd guess that idea came
later. The first killing was an experiment, and taking the hand may have
been an afterthought. He was more prepared for the second one, and then
decided to send the pieces on to me. They are meant to communicate
something specific - something *I* am supposed to understand."
     Mulder frowned. "The killer is directing this at me specifically. But
I don't think it is meant as a threat. A challenge perhaps, daring me to
catch him. That's possible..." His voice trailed off, his eyes focused on
empty air, staring off over Skinner's shoulder. Aware and yet unaware of
his audience, almost as though he were talking to himself. 
     "But more likely, he is trying to give me a message of some kind. The
choice of body parts is vital, as is the fact that he choose victims who
have had public confrontations with me. Connolly and I had our share of
disagreements in Memphis, Kavorski and I had an argument barely a week
before he was killed, and Colton - well..." A quick wry grin quirked at
the corners of his mouth, then his lips settled into a thin line. 
     "As for the meaning of the mutilations. Cutting off the right hand
could be a punishment for a theft of some kind. Or related to some action
the killer perceives Connolly as responsible for. The taking of Kavorski's
eye seems obvious, a statement that Kavorski was blind to something the
killer thinks he ought to have seen. Taking Colton's tongue is either a
way to shut him up, or a punishment for something he said." Mulder
stretched his head back, as though relieving tension in his shoulders and
neck. "Of course, they could be meant as part of an over-all pattern the
killer is trying to make, but if so, I cannot yet see what it is. What I
do know is that he is escalating. He didn't start sending the trophies to
me until after the second death, but he sent the tongue on to me even
before Colton's body was found. The first two deaths were carefully done
while I was out of town, this one was done with me here. And the timing
between deaths is getting shorter. I'd say he's already getting psyched up
for the next one."
     Mulder bit at his lower lip, then focused a burning pair of eyes on
Skinner's impassive face. "And he's close by. I'm certain he is someone I
know, maybe even someone in this office right now." He slowly, silently
stared from one face to another. Some met him straight on, others
shuffled, their own eyes darting away from the disturbing intensity of his
gaze.
     Skinner broke the silence, clearing his throat, then issuing a series
of brisk instructions. Everyone in the building was to be questioned, and
the results cross-checked by teams of agents working in threesomes.
Special attention was to paid to those who were in on the Memphis slasher
case, and on those who knew Agent Mulder personally. Greenstein would be
coordinating, but regular progress reports were to be made to Skinner
himself. Meanwhile, Scully was to coordinate the forensics effort, with
priority given to the autopsy on Colton.
     When he was finished, Skinner leaned back in his chair and waved a
hand in dismissal. The agents filed from the room in pairs and groups,
whispers and unsubtle glances directed at Mulder who had stepped off to
the side. His hands dug into his pants pockets, Mulder stood quietly,
almost melting into the wall, until he and Scully were the last to remain
in the room. She placed a hand on his arm, her fingers wide-spread across
his biceps. 
     "Let's go," she told him softly. He nodded, and moved to follow her
towards the door. But before they could exit Skinner spoke abruptly.
     "Agent Mulder, could I have a minute."
     Mulder stopped abruptly, stood still with his shoulders squared for a
long tense second, then he turned around. "Yes, sir" he replied softly.
Scully remained silent by his side.
     "Was that really necessary?" Skinner asked, leaning back in his chair
to look up at the tall agent.
     "Was what really necessary?" Mulder echoed.
     Skinner's jaw twitched, then he leaned forward. "Tension is high
enough in the Bureau right now without you throwing around unsubstantiated
accusations."
     "Unsubstantiated?" Now Mulder stepped forward, his eyes sparking.
"Someone here is a murderer, and it could well be someone working on this
case. You know as well as I do that serial killers often have a
fascination for law enforcement and may get involved with their own cases."
     "That may be so, but even if you were right - it was not the time or
place...
     "So let me know when it is the time and place? In the meantime I've
got a murderer to catch." He turned as though to leave, and was again
stalled by Skinner's voice.
     "No."     
     "No?" Mulder echoed again, this time with obvious sarcasm. "No,"
Skinner was implacable. "I think it would be best if you stepped back from
this investigation."
     "No way!" Mulder was just as determined. His eyes darkened to coal.
"I'm in the middle of this. The killer sent his little gifts to me,
remember. Those men were killed because of me. I may not know why yet, but
there is no way I could walk away from this even if I wanted to." His lips
curled up into a bitter smile. "He won't let me."
     Skinner shook his head. "First, there is no real evidence that the
killer is focused on you." Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but Skinner
forestalled him, waving his hand in the air between them. "There could be
other reasons he sent the body parts to you. As you said yourself, it
could be a challenge. Or it could be a set-up. You do realize that about
half the Bureau thinks that you are responsible for these killings."
     Mulder's face darkened, but Scully interrupted, pushing herself
between the two men. "Sir, that is impossible. Mulder was in Cleveland
during the first murder and in Seattle during the second. There are plenty
of witnesses to that, including myself."
     Skinner sighed. "I know that, you know that...but people are scared
and angry. They are looking for someone to blame and ...Mulder... you have
hardly gone out of your way to make friends. If I let you in on this
investigation it will only make a bad situation worse."     
      "It's only going to get worse, period." Mulder stated coldly. "And I
don't give a damn what 'people' think. He's going to kill again, and again,
until he is stopped. That goon squad of yours isn't going to catch this guy
- he's too smart."
     "You are not the only agent in this bureau capable of solving a case."
     "But I am the one the killer has chosen to communicate with. He's
someone close to me. Someone I know. I can feel it." Mulder gestured
vehemently, his usually generous mouth drawn tight with frustration.
     "If you are right, then that is all the more reason for you to step
back away from this. You're too close to it. That's final." Skinner was
adamant. "By all means finish your profile, but I don't want you involved
in any other way."
     "Sir," Scully interrupted. "I think we need to take one more
possibility into consideration. As agent Mulder mentioned before, the
sending of the mutilated parts to him could be construed as either a
challenge or a threat. I think we cannot underestimate the danger he is
in. I think we ought to set up some protection for him."     
     "What? Place me under guard? Is that it?" Mulder's voice dripped
bitterness, his face was set in stone.
     "Mulder..." her voice was soft, pleading. "Please...what if he comes
for you? What if he is sending you a warning, trying to scare you before
he attacks. We can't rule out that possibility." She pressed her hand
against his arm, he jerked away
     "No." Mulder was dead certain. "He is not trying to hurt me. He wants
to tell me something. He's trying to communicate with me. I just haven't
deciphered all the clues yet. But I will." He spun on his heels and
marched out the door.
     "Mulder!" Skinner barked, getting to his feet. Scully put her hand up
between them, signaling for him to stop. He paused and looked at her.
     "Let me talk to him, sir. Please."
     Skinner thought for a second, then nodded. "All right. But keep him
away from the investigation. Tempers are high right now and the dead
agents had a lot of friends. Friends who are angry and looking for a
scapegoat."
     "I understand, sir," Scully responded, then she turned and hurried
after her partner, trying not to run.
                         - - - - -
X-Files Division

     She found him in his office, seated at his desk, staring off into
space. Closing the door behind her, she walked up to him. "Mulder..."
     "He's close Scully. I can feel him." He angled his head to look up at
her, his eyes glinting green in the soft light. "I can FEEL him."
     "I know." She perched herself on the edge of the desk, unconsciously
tucking her hair behind her ear. "And that is all the more reason to take
Skinner's advice."
     "You mean his orders," Mulder replied brusquely.
     "Well, he IS our boss," she reminded him gently. Mulder grimaced,
then got up to begin pacing the room. Back and forth, like caged tiger
caught in too small a space, yet marking what space there was as his own.
     "I can't just pretend this isn't happening Scully."
     "No one is asking you to. Work on your profile, Mulder. Think about
the case, but leave the leg-work to Greenstein. It's what you do best
anyway."
     He shrugged his shoulders, bending his neck from one side to another.
Then he rested an arm on the top of a filing cabinet and stared at her for
a moment. "They really do think I might have done this, don't they?"
     Scully answered as gently as she could. "No one really thinks that,
it's just that they're upset. People aren't thinking too clearly. They
want someone to blame..."
     "And I'm an easy target. Yup, ole Spooky has finally gone around the
bend this time." His voice was light, almost playful, but she knew him
well enough to read the anguish in his stance. His entire body was one
coiled spring, taut and ready to explode.
     "They'll find the killer. There is a finite number of people who have
that kind of access to this building. In the meantime, you just have to try
to relax. Let Skinner and Greenstein do their jobs while you do yours.
Though right now, I think what you need is some sleep. You didn't sleep at
all last night, did you?"
     Mulder shook his head, "No. I'm not tired." He rubbed at the back of
his neck. "And I've still got that profile to finish." He walked around
her and sat back down at his desk. Picking up his pen, he looked at it for
a moment, then sighed and turned his eyes up to her warm face. "I'm missing
something, Scully. He's trying to tell me something and I can't hear it.
He's right here, and I can't see him. He's so close."     
     "Maybe he's too close, Mulder. I think Skinner was right about that,
you're way too close to this investigation. You need to step back and let
someone with some distance handle it."
     "I can't Scully. If I don't figure this out, someone else is going to
die. Soon."
     "You don't really have a choice. Skinner said you were not to be
involved, he meant it." Scully brushed his shoulder with her hand, almost
reached up to sweep the loose dark bangs off his forehead, but her hand
wavered in mid-air and then withdrew before completing the caress. Her
voice was soft and resigned as she added. "I've got an autopsy to finish.
Why don't you go home and try to sleep. You won't do anyone any good if
you're asleep on your feet."
     Mulder pursed his lips, then sighed. "Maybe in a little while," he
offered.
     She smiled a mixture of warmth and resignation, knowing full well he
wasn't going anywhere. Going to the door, she stopped before she left the
room to give him one more word of caution. "Be careful, Mulder."
     He nodded and waved. She left. And he sat alone in the harsh,
unforgiving fluorescent light, pen clasped tightly in his hand, his eyes
staring out at something not quite there.
                         - - - - -
Computer Crimes Division

     Several floors higher, Ezekiel Withers was ostensibly busy at work on
his computer console, tracing the lines of evidence in a computerized bank
fraud case. Normally it was just the kind of case he loved, the kind he
excelled at. He was the bureau's best in these investigations, he knew
that with a sense of fatalistic recognition. He wasn't particularly proud
of his skills, they just were. Surface phenomena that didn't cut to the
heart of his soul. The sounds echoing in his ear did.
     His Walkman earphones pressed to his ears, the wire ran down his
chest and into his desk drawer. Anyone who bothered to look would simply
assume that they were attached to a tape or CD player out of sight in the
drawer. Only the young man listening intently as his fingers ran
automatically over the keyboard in front of him knew that it was something
entirely different.
     Instead of the soft refrains of music, he heard a woman's voice say
softly, "You don't really have a choice. Skinner said you were not to be
involved, he meant it." A short silence followed, and then she continued,
"....if you're asleep on your feet." This time her voice was sincere and
concerned, gentle and throaty. Reaching out to the man whose reply was
short and indeterminate.
     Ezekiel savored each of those few words
"Maybe...in...a...little...while...", wishing for more, but it didn't
come. One last echo of the woman's voice then silence descended on his
ears. Silence broken only by the occasional tap-tap of a pen against wood
and the faint echo of a man's breath.
     Stabbing at the keyboard, Ezekiel found the quietness soothing.
Somehow even in that lack of sound, he could still sense the mind within
it working. If he closed his own eyes briefly, he could *see* the man
seated at his desk, his long-limbed body sprawled in the old wooden chair,
perhaps with his head cocked slightly to the side. 
     Finally, Ezekiel reached into the desk drawer and rewound the tape,
repeating the conversation again and again, stopping every so often to
check for signs of activity in the basement office. There was nothing,
leaving him to concentrate with increasing fury on the meaning of the
words he had previously ignored in favor of their very sound.
     Skinner had taken Mulder off the case? Mulder was being blamed for
the deaths? No. No. No. That was wrong, so very, very wrong. Anger boiled
in his chest. Those fools. That damned bureaucrat of an assistant
director. Yes, this was Skinner's fault. He was more than willing to use
Mulder when it suited his purposes to send him off on the most dangerous
of cases, risk his life and limb, but only when it suited the pleasure of
the earthly powers and their satanic master. 
     And how very clever to slide the blame for these deaths onto Mulder's
already overburdened shoulders. Nail the innocent to the cross, let him pay
for the sins of others. But not this time. This time God was ready to see
his chosen one protected, and Ezekiel himself would be the instrument of
that purpose. First, the Assistant Director, and then the others, would
suffer for their sins.
     Before he could begin to plan further, voices sounded from down below.
                         - - - - -
X-Files Division

     Mulder jerked in response to the sudden sharp knock on the office
door. His mind still focused on the case, it took him a moment to remember
where he was, then he got to his feet and walked over to the entrance-way.
Opening the door, he found himself facing a pair of men in navy blue
suits, both with FBI nearly etched across their foreheads. Barely stifling
the impulse to ask them why they weren't wearing their sunglasses, he
remained standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other hanging
loose by his side.
Tall shoulders held high, he blocked them from view of the room behind
him. 
     "Yes?" he demanded abruptly.
     "Agent Mulder?" The shorter of the two asked, shifting slightly on
his feet.
     Mulder simply nodded, staring at them with barely concealed
impatience.
     The other man responded this time, his eyes a faded blue behind small
wire-framed glasses. "Agents Harper and Tibbit, Assistant Director Skinner
assigned us to you as security."
     "Security?" Mulder echoed blankly, then his face hardened bleakly.
"Forget it," he tried to close the door, but Agent Harper got his foot
into the doorway and stopped it short.
     "We're under orders, Sir, not to let you out of our sight, especially
in this building. The Assistant Director believes that you may be the next
target of the FBI killer."
     Mulder snorted. "The Assistant Director is full of shit." Releasing
the door, he ignored the shocked look on the two men's faces and turned
away. "But never let it be said I ignored his orders," he added wryly,
reaching for his coat.
     "Look...," Tibbit began, but Mulder waved him off, donning his
overcoat, then pushing past them into the hall. "Close the door behind
you, please," he instructed over his shoulder, his long legs eating up the
hallway as he strode away.
                          - - - - -
The streets of Washington DC
Early Evening

     The pavement was hard beneath his feet, but the wind in his face was
exhilarating. Mulder ran like a gazelle, legs eating up the ground, his
arms pumping at his sides. His breathing steadied, instinctively matching
to his pace. God, how he loved to run. This was freedom, the air rushing
past him, the cool wind stinging his cheeks and his lungs, the streets
rushing past in a blur of shapes and shadows. He sometimes felt that he
could run forever, just keep going until he hit the end of the world.
     His route so engrained that he could have followed it in his sleep,
he was able to let his mind wander. A vivid slideshow of images shot
across his field of vision, each captured and preserved by his perfect
memory, each bringing with it a kaleidoscope of emotions, sounds, and
smells. He was close to the answer now, very close. And that thought
brought with it another image, one of a woman's heart-shaped face,
stubborn slightly pointed chin framed by a wing of bright copper hair.
Scully. She had said he was too close to this case, and he knew she was
right. But that was as much a strength as a weakness for him, though he
knew she'd never understand.
     It was his ability to get close to these killers, to see the world
through their eyes, or through the eyes of their victims, that had given
him some of his greatest successes. Painful, yes it often hurt even more
than he could have ever expressed. Sometimes it felt as though they were
still within him, the psychopaths with their twisted, skewed views of
reality. And the victims, he felt them too. Their anguish was as much as
part of him as the air he breathed. But it was a gift, a talent he could
use to save lives, to keep more innocents from falling under the butcher's
knife. He couldn't save the ones already lost, but if every one he could
save tipped the balance in his favor. Paid back some of the failure he
would live with for the rest of his life. If he couldn't save his
Samantha, he could at least help someone else's.
     A familiar knife twisted in his gut, then was gone in a final burst
of speed. Now everything was focused down into the motion itself, each
impact of his foot on the solid ground, each breath of cold air burning
into his lungs. Another and another and another. On and on...until he came
to an abrupt stop, bending down, his hands clasped onto his knees, his face
tilted towards the ground.
     His eyes watered for a moment, then refocused on the dusty gray
expanse of concrete. Where was he? He leaned back up, wiping the sweat out
of his eyes with the back of a ropey forearm, the muscles bundled under
taught skin. He was in the park, which meant he had managed to run nearly
four miles. And in response to the thought, his body suddenly felt the
effect of its exertion.
     Taking a deep breath, he looked around for the 'babysitters' Skinner
had insisted on assigning to him, but there was no sign of the one who had
been running behind him or of their FBI-issue blue car. In fact, he
appeared to be alone in the approaching dusk. Guess I must have lost them,
he thought, chuckling under his breath as he broke into a gentle walk,
slowly working down the muscles as he moved. Skinner was going to be
furious!
     And then it hit him in a sudden flash of understanding. An instant of
pure recognition, nearly blinding in its intensity. Skinner. Of course. His
eyes darting around him, he focused on the familiar metro sign in the
distance, then broke back into a gallop. He had to get to Skinner now.
                         - - - - -
Two miles away

     Tibbit groaned, rubbing at his aching side. "Damn, that man can run!"
     Harper glanced at his partner with open amusement. Eyeing his
partners short, albeit muscular frame, he teased. "I think he has about a
foot's worth of leg space on you."
     Tibbit glared back, always a little sensitive about his height. He
had been an all-star offensive lineman in college, and being passed up in
the NFL draft because of his height still rankled. So he was a little
short, so what? Harper grinned, then straightened in his seat, pulling the
car up to the side of the road. "Well, we've certainly lost him." He
sighed. "Skinner is going to have our asses for dinner."
     Tibbit frowned, staring around the darkening street. "This is
ridiculous. I can't believe we're stuck playing babysitter for that kook."
     "That 'kook' is one of the Bureau's best agents. I've seen him in
action. His profile in that case was so dead on that it gave me shivers.
It was like he could see things no one else could. And with three agents
already dead..."
     "Who's to say Mulder didn't do it himself? I heard that he had had
fights with all three before they got hacked."
     Harper shook his head. "Na, Mulder was on the opposite side of the
country when the first two murders happened with witnesses. Unless you
think he was able to teleport here and back, there's no way he could do
it."
     Tibbit shifted in his seat, stretching out an aching calf. "Well,
considering the way he disappeared right in front of us, I'd almost
believe it."
     "Start thinking things like and you'll end up in the basement working
with Spooky himself." Harper chuckled.
     Tibbit frowned. "Don't even think it..." He shivered.  "Still, the
man gives me the creeps. Did you see the way he looked at us before he
started running."
     "He was just playing with our heads. Probably got a kick out of
dumping us. Bet you ten bucks he's sitting in a bar somewhere right now
laughing in his beer." He pulled the car away from the curb, bringing it
around in a U-turn to head back the way the had come.
     Tibbit nodded reluctantly. "No bet." He sighed loudly, then added
fatalistically, "Skinner is going to kick our butts."
                         - - - - -
Office of the Assistant Director
FBI Headquarters

     Skinner put down the file he was reading and glanced at his
wrist-watch. Quarter after seven. Stifling a yawn, he got up from his
desk, stretching out the sore muscles in his back. Definitely time to head
for the gym. He liked to work out at least five times a week, though
sometimes his schedule just didn't permit the time. Still, for a man his
age, and one desk-bound to boot, he had managed to stay in pretty good
shape.
     Donning his coat, he made sure he had his keys, then stepped through
the door. As he locked the door, he found himself wondering just how
Mulder had reacted to Tibbit and Harper. Making the assignment had been a
difficult decision, weighing the effect of how it would look - like Mulder
really was a suspect - against the likelihood that Scully's fears for her
partner were real. In the end, the value of Mulder's life had tipped the
scales. With any luck they'd catch the psycho soon, which would clear the
situation. And give Skinner a brief respite.
     Striding down the hall, then waiting semi-patiently in the elevator,
the tall, imposing Assistant Director still couldn't escape a sick feeling
in the pit of his stomach. This storm was hardly over, and he couldn't help
being afraid for the man caught in the middle. How had one difficult,
rebellious subordinate come to mean so much to him? Shaking his head as
though to banish the thoughts, he checked out of the FBI building and
headed for his car. Never once noticing the thin shadow following close
behind.
                         - - - - -

     Mulder ignored the stares that followed him as he ran for the
elevator. He knew he was sweaty, the old torn Oxford tee-shirt sticking
tightly to his damp chest and arms. The sweatpants were stained and grimy,
and his hair was very likely sticking up on end. But his appearance was the
least of his concerns. If he was right, then Skinner was in serious danger.
     Bounding out of the elevator, he raced for the AD's office, only to
find it closed and dark. Frustrated, he banged loudly on the outer door.
Come on, damnit, still be there! But there was no answer; the hallway was
silent except for the low snickers emanating from a pair of agents walking
past. 
     Finally giving up, he leaned one hand against the door, rubbing at
his sticky neck with the other. He had no proof that Skinner was in any
danger, and if he tried to call out the cavalry and was wrong, Skinner
would be furious. But somehow Mulder knew he was right. Turning around, he
ran back for the elevator. With any luck Scully would still be in the
building.
                         - - - - -
X-Files Division

     Dana Scully dropped into her chair, breathing a soft sigh of relief.
As many autopsies as she had done in her career, many of then under far
more difficult circumstances or on bodies so horribly damaged as to give
anyone nightmares, conducting one on a man she had once considered a good
friend was worse. Whatever else Tom Colton might have been, he had been
full of life. The pale body laying stiffly on the metal operating table
had been only a shadow of the man, a broken, damaged shell.
     Closing her eyes, she grabbed hold of her professional detachment and
slammed the shutters down into place. But before she could do anything
more, the office door slammed open.
     "Mulder?!" she exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at her frantic, dingy,
sweat-soaked partner. As his intense eyes focused on her face, he slumped
for a moment, then recovered in a burst of energy.
     "Scully, thank God you're still here. We have to find Skinner!" He
hurried over to the desk and began tossing things around.
     "Wait...What's going on? MULDER!" She grabbed his arm, spinning him
towards her.
     "Skinner is going to be killed next. Tonight. But his office is
closed and he doesn't answer his cellular phone. We've got to get over to
his home."
     "Skinner...but how? Are you sure?"
     "Of course, I'm sure!" Yanking out the big yellow phone book, he
placed it on top of a pile and paged through it urgently.
"Skinner....Skinner...Damn, he's not here. And Operations wouldn't give me
his home address."
     "Of course they wouldn't if you went in there acting like this.
You've got to calm down."
     Mulder met her eyes, watching him with deep concern. "Yeah,
yeah...you're right." Running a hand through his hair, he only sent it
into worse disarray, the thick dark bangs blanketing his forehead, short
strands curling against the back of his ears and neck.
     "Look, I know this is just a hunch, but it all makes sense. Skinner
is the next logical target, and I don't think our killer is going to wait
any longer. He's got to be feeling the pressure. Hell, the whole Bureau is
up in arms over this."
     "OK, say you're right. What makes you think Skinner would be attacked
anywhere but here in the building? All the others were done here."
     "True, but security is tight, and Skinner is more likely to be
noticed than the others were. It is easier to take him somewhere else. The
deaths and their situation isn't that important to this guy. It is the
choice of victim and the mutilation that matters."
     Scully weighed his words for a moment, then came to a rapid decision.
She'd seen his wild hunches proven right one time to many not to take this
one seriously. "All right, let me see what I can do."
     Mulder sat down wearily in his chair as she reached for the phone,
briefly wondering why he was so upset. There had been times he could have
strangled the AD himself. Then he caught himself, sickened that the
thought had even crossed his mind. True, he had thought that all of the
victims deserved a good right punch in the nose, especially Colton. But
not this. No one deserved this. Well, almost no one. And besides, Skinner
really wasn't all that bad.
     Mulder found himself reviewing his relationship with his boss over
the past couple years. Rocky it had been, the two men aggravating each
other on every level. Still, there had developed a kind of grudging
respect. Perhaps in his own way, Skinner had tried to protect Mulder. He
had given Mulder the X-Files back, and had been there when he was most
needed, even after Mulder had belted him one. If only for that, Mulder
owed him.
     "Got it, thank you Sarah." Scully hung up the phone and turned to her
partner. "I've got his home address, but apparently he usually goes to the
gym on his way home. I've got that address too."
     Mulder got back to his feet, checking briefly for the gun holstered
to his ankle. "The gym - why doesn't that surprise me?" 
     Scully chuckled, though she grabbed her own weapon from the desk draw
and carefully examined the clip before putting it in its holster at her
waist. As she followed him out of the small office, she glanced at him,
retorting coolly. "Well, you certainly won't be out of place."
                         - - - - -
Capitol Health and Fitness
687 Grand Ave.
Washington DC

     Hefting the gym bag over his shoulder, Walter Skinner left the warmth
and brightly lit interior of the health club for the chilly darkness of the
parking lot. Dressed casually in jeans, sweater and dark blue jacket he
looked less like an federal bureaucrat and more like a blue collar worker,
big muscles still warmed by exertion, bald head glistening with a faint
sheen of moisture from the shower. His determined stride eating up the
concrete, he sighted his car in the corner and skirted around the edge of
the lot to reach it.
     The attack came seemingly out of nowhere, a sudden sweep of sound
behind him, forcing him to turn, arm half-raised in instinctive
protection. But he was not quite fast enough, and a hard metal object
slammed down against the side of his head with a sharp crack. He
staggered, the bag slipping off his shoulder to land on the concrete,
while he dropped to his knees. Wrapping one arm protectively over the
source of the excruciating pain, his other fumbled at his waist, reaching
for his gun. But his assailant was quicker, and choose to hit that elbow
instead, sending a river of agony screeching up his arm, flooding down to
the very tips of his fingers. But Skinner was a fighter, and he didn't
give up easily, twisting aside, he pushed himself upwards, ignoring his
glasses as they hung unevenly from one ear. He squinted into the shadows,
hazed by a fog of pain as well as the cover of night, tightening his body
into a ready crouch. Turning slowly, all he could make out was a narrow
form, one long arm outstretched, moving towards him with bitter intent.
     HHEEELLLAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHUH," Skinner screamed, as it descended again,
barely missing the side of his head, instead bouncing off his shoulder. He
fell onto the wounded arm, a small part of his mind recognizing it was
probably broken, then sliding into blessed unconsciousness.
     His attacker breathed a sigh of triumph, only to freeze at the sound
of footsteps behind him. "Federal Agents, don't move!" cried a woman's
voice. Sharp clicks warned of guns being cocked, and he turned on his
heels and dove behind a nearby car. Rolling over, he stifled a groan as
his shoulder hit the pavement hard, then he picked himself up and ran.
     Behind him, he could hear voices shouting, and then the sound of
footsteps racing after him. Drawing in deep drafts of the cold night air,
he burst into a gallop, running as though the hounds of Hell were behind
him, for in his mind, they were.
                         - - - - -

     "Federal Agents, don't move!" Scully shouted at the first sight of
the spindly silhouette, cloaked in darkness, raining blows down on an
unmoving figure on the ground. It seemed to pause for an instant as she
raised and pointed her gun, then it was gone, disappearing behind the
blunt shape of a car.
     Mulder raced up and past her, his long legs eating the ground in
pursuit, and she left it to him, knowing she could never keep up. Instead,
she went to the body on the ground, tucking her gun into its holster and
reaching for her cell phone, even as she came to her knees. Her heart
skipped a beat as her fears were confirmed, the faint light from a
lamppost reflecting off Skinner's shiny head. He was curled up into a
ball, his left arm cradled against his chest.
     Stabbing at the phone, she put it to her ear, then reached down to
check his pulse. It was there, beating strong in his throat, but blood was
already trickling down from a wound on his right temple, and his skin was
damp and cold to the touch. Shrugging out of her coat as best she could,
while shouting into the phone, she demanded an ambulance and back up,
knowing that the words "officer down" would stimulate the fastest possible
response, praying that it would be quick enough. Dropping the phone in
order to get her second shoulder out of her coat, she wrapped the cloth
around her man trembling at her feet. 
     He moaned and shifted in place, and she gently, but firmly,
restrained him. "Easy, sir, stay still. Help is on the way."
     He reacted to the sound of her voice, his eyes fluttering as he tried
to focus on her face. "Whhhhhh," was all he got out, and she tried again to
soothe him, speaking slowly, rhythmically, soothing him with the sound more
than the words. Meanwhile, her eyes were darting again and again to the
road, her ears alert for the sound of sirens, her mind repeating over and
over again..."Hurry, please hurry, please hurry..."
                         - - - - -
A few blocks away

     Mulder ran, suddenly wishing he had not decided to take such a long
run earlier. His muscles were aching and his lungs felt like they were on
fire. He could just barely see his quarry's shape as it darted through the
semi-darkness ahead. Thin, narrow, covered in a long dark cloak, it
suddenly shifted direction and shot across the street, barely avoiding an
oncoming car. Mulder broke into the street after it, the flash of the
headlights giving him no more than a glimpse of form and color, the hair
was light, the figure tall and straight as a board. Male, as Mulder had
already assumed it to be.
     Using the hood of a parked car for leverage, Mulder leaped onto the
sidewalk, and shot off down the alley, slowly gaining ground on the other
man. His muscles complained, then stretched and accommodated, though not
without the silent promise of vengeance to come. But his body was long
used to running, his penchant for the track developed in early
adolescence. And so he got closer, and closer...
     Then came up abruptly, suddenly, against a brick wall. The alley was
a dead end, but the man had entered, so where...
     All thought ended in lightening bolt of pain, a quick explosion of
agony on the back of his head, then an answering blow to the back of his
shoulders. Darkness shuttered his mind.
                    - - - - -

Capitol Health and Fitness

     Tibbit and Harper were the first on the scene, beating the ambulance
by a few long minutes. Scully acknowledged them with spare glance, her
attention focused on the wounded man cradled in her arms. Harper bent to a
crouch beside her, his eyes wide with shock and concern.
     "Will he..."
     "He's got a concussion, possibly a fractured skull. And the arm is
definitely broken. It will take X-rays and an MRI to see how serious the
head injury is." Scully reported tensely, her professional demeanor
fighting with her emotions. For all of the rough times between them, she
respected her boss deeply. He had done his best for her and Mulder, more
than once. 
     "The attacker?" Harper's inquiry was bareboned, as the ambulance
finally made its screeching way into the parking lot, its flashing lights
throwing an eerie, every changing gleam across the scene.
     "Didn't get a good look at him, he took off as soon as we got here.
Mulder is in pursuit."
     "Mulder? Which way did they go?" Harper took Scully by the arm,
helping her to her feet as she relinquished the still unconscious Skinner
to the paramedics. As he was loaded first onto a stretcher and then into
the ambulance, Scully turned and pointed towards the back of the lot.
"That way!"
     Then she turned and leaped up into the back of the ambulance, coolly
issuing commands. The door slammed shut, and the ambulance squealed its
way back out into the street, but even before it turned the corner, Harper
and Tibbit had cleared the back edge of the parking lot, tracing Mulder's
steps as best they could.
                         - - - - -
In the Alley

     A brilliant flash of light from the top of a passing ambulance fell
across the face of the man at his feet, and Ezekiel found himself
suspended in mid-movement, his muscles frozen in place. He stood there for
a moment, unbreathing, like a stone statue, one arm upraised, the metal
wrench clasped in suddenly icy fingers, his heart stilled within his chest.
     Oh no. Ohno,ohno,ohno...Oh Dear GOD, NO! He never realized he spoke
it aloud, would never had recognized that soul-sick remnant of a voice as
his own. The wrench tumbled out of his numb grasp and clattered to the
ground behind him, while he sank to his knees. Reaching out, his entire
body trembling, he pulled the unconscious man on the ground closer to him.
There was only faint light emanating from a window above and the street
lamp several feet away, but it was just enough for recognition.
     Tears welled in his eyes, and he groaned the sick, low moan of an
injured animal, only to find the sound echoed by the man in his hands.
That broke through the thunderstorm of emotion, and he anxiously sought
and found the pulse racing in the neck, then felt for the heat of breath
passing through the lips. It was warm and moist against his chilled palm,
and he nearly cried aloud in relief.
     "Mulder..." Ezekiel whispered, and received another groan in reply.
The wounded agent shifted, one hand curling up to reach for his head, but
Ezekiel gently restrained him. Pulling the bigger man up into his lap, he
wrapped his arms around him and sobbed...

     ...The walk from the alley, where he had left Mulder curled up
unconscious behind an evil-smelling dumpster was wrought with agony. His
heart was pounding in his chest, the fierce eyes of God and his angels
boring into the back of his head. He could feel the weight of their
disapproval and disappointment. It was an accident, he wanted to scream.
But his mind kept screaming 'my fault, my fault, my fault..."
     Still, he kept going, pushing through the dark of the night until he
found his car, set off on a silent side-street, and gratefully slid behind
the wheel. He had a chance to make things right, and he swore he would not
fail again.
     Finally, he managed to get the car wedged deep in the alley with
enough room to open the car door so that he could get Mulder inside.
First, he attempted to pick him up with both arms under his back, but the
senseless agent was much bigger and heavier than expected, with limbs that
seemed to go on forever. Awake and in motion, Mulder was as graceful, as
sure as a panther on the prowl, but in this state, he was nothing but long
loose strands that dragged and caught and flopped. Giving up on picking him
up as one might carry a child, Ezekiel gently settled him on the ground and
shifted to take him below the arm pits. Dragging him  worked well, at least
until they got to the car. 
     It took at least fifteen minutes of pushing, shoving, maneuvering,
tugging, but he somehow managed to get Mulder into the car seat...sort of.
One leg still trailed outside the car, and his head fell back between the
two seats, but it was a start. Ezekiel paused to gasp for breath, rubbing
at aching elbows and scraped knees, and bruises that were sure to implode
along every surface of his body. However, he considered it a small price
to pay, only a small measure of the reparation still to come.
     "Mmmm," Mulder groaned and began to shift, his head falling back even
further until Ezekiel reached over and caught him. Trying to hold Mulder
upright, careful of the wound trickling blood down through the thick dark
hair and onto the fair skin, Ezekiel felt downwards with his free hand
until he found and released the control for the seat back. Pushing it down
as far as it would go, he carefully levered Mulder into a recumbent
position, and moved that one last leg into the cavern below the dash. 
     Mulder groaned again, thick eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks,
but Ezekiel soothed him with a loving touch and soft words. "Easy...take
it easy...you're ok. I'm going to take care of you, just rest. I'll take
care of you," he promised as he retrieved the blanket from the back seat
and wrapped it around Mulder's body.
     Mulder felt only the comfort of the voice in his ear and the hands
cradling him, and he settled down with a soft sigh, and a whisper of the
one name he had come to associate with such sensations..."Scully..." he
breathed before his eyelids settled and he fell back into the soothing
darkness.
     Ezekiel jerked slightly in response, his entire body tensing and then
releasing. Of course, he realized quickly, of course. Who else would Mulder
call for but her - his Mary Magdalene? The woman he had redeemed and turned
to the cause of God. It was only right, for soon enough Mulder would be
returned to  her care. Shrugging off his overcoat, he tucked it under
Mulder's head, then carefully closed the car door.
                         - - - - -
St. Mary's Hospital
Pre-Dawn

     The search for both Mulder and the suspect was now under full-swing,
though nothing had been found. While Tibbit stayed with it, working his
way down yet another dark alley, Harper left to make his way to the
hospital. He found Dana Scully sitting in the Emergency Room lobby, one
hand clutching at a steaming cup, the other clenched on the edge of her
chair. Her normally vivid blue eyes were wide and pale as she recognized
him, and she started to her feet.
     "Did...?"
     But he was already shaking his head. "I'm sorry, no sign of either of
them."
     She took a deep breath and sat back down, looking much like an air
mattress that has had the plug pulled. She simply deflated. Harper sat
down beside her and remained quiet for a moment, allowing her to find the
words on her own.
     "I hardly saw him. He was just a shadow. I know he wasn't too big,
maybe 5'7'' or 8''. And very thin. There wasn't much light. Skinner was
down, and it just seemed right that I would stay with him while Mulder..."
Her voice wavered on his name, but she clamped down on it so quickly that
Harper couldn't have sworn he had truly heard it. And when she continued
speaking, it was in the voice of a cool and collected professional.
     "Skinner has a concussion and a cracked skull, as well as severe
bruising and a broken arm. They're doing X-rays and an MRI to see if any
slivers of the skull were driven into the brain itself. It depends upon
which areas were damaged as to whether they leave any such fragments in
place or try to remove them surgically." She paused to take a sip of her
beverage, the rich smell identifying it as coffee.
     Then she finally met his eyes directly. "He took Mulder, didn't he?"
     Harper shrugged his shoulders, his face grim. "It is a possibility.
We've got men blanketing the area, if they are still nearby, they'll be
found."
     Scully gave a broken laugh, the sound as bitter as shattered glass.
"That's IF they are still in the area."
     "We'll find them," Harper promised bitingly, his voice sharp and
angry. "There are only so many possible suspects, and everyone on duty in
the FBI during the four 'incidents' is being located and
questioned...again."
     Scully smiled, though it was not a happy expression and her eyes
remained as cold as diamonds, diamonds bluer than the sea itself. "It's
still a lot of people, and I doubt our killer is going to make himself
easy to find." She glanced at her drink and frowned, then put it on the
side table with a sigh. "I'd better go help."
     Harper restrained her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, showing no
response when she flinched away, turning to face him with sharp words on
her tongue. But he spoke first, "No, let us do our job, you are needed
here. Skinner might be able to help when he wakes up, and you should be
here in case he does. Look, I promise to let you know the moment..."
     "No." Her voice was unyielding, cold as marble. "Mulder is MY
partner, he needs me, and if he is going to be able to communicate
anything to us, I'll be the one he'll try to reach."
     Harper nodded. "All the more reason for you to stay in one place,
where he could expect you to be. Besides..." He swallowed hard. There was
no easy way to say this, but somehow she read it before he could frame the
words.
     "Those bastards!" she hissed.
     "No one really thinks..."
     "Mulder was with me, we left the FBI together. There are witnesses to
that. Unless they think I was involved in it too..." Her eyes flashed
dangerously, and Harper instinctively put up a hand between them.
     "No, of course not," he soothed anxiously. "Look, four FBI agents are
dead, and all had had confrontations with your partner. Now he is missing,
right after a nearly fatal attack on the AD. People are just...upset..."
he finished unhappily.
     "Yeah, well not as upset as they're going to be if Mulder ends up
dead because they're too busy trying to use him as a scapegoat instead of
finding the son-of-a-bitch who kidnapped him!" Her voice remained low, and
was all the more formidable for its softness. A man twice her size, Harper
still found himself feeling intimidated by the small fiery-haired woman
standing in front of him, hands on her hips, her rich mouth pursed into a
thin line above a forward-thrust chin.
     "We are searching, and doing our best to match up your description
with possible suspects. We will find them, BOTH of them." He gave her a
tentative smile. "Not everyone thinks Mulder is ... "
     "Crazy..." she finished for him, undaunted. He smiled wryly. "Yeah,
well...There are a lot of people in the Bureau who have a hell of a lot of
respect for that man, and regardless of his reputation, he is still one of
us. The FBI takes care of its own, and that includes Spooky Mulder."
     She wasn't particularly consoled by this, but she did settle back a
little. Just enough to let him breath again.
     "Sit tight here for a while, and let me know right away if Skinner is
able to talk. If he could identify his attacker, it would help us a lot."
     She frowned, not bothering to even nod her acceptance, but she
finally sat back down and reached for her coffee. As he turned to leave,
she called out after him, "And you call me..."     
     "You'll be the first to know," he promised, and then he was gone.
     Scully sat still for a moment, fighting the urge to get up and run
after him. To run out and start searching herself. But she didn't have a
clue where she could start, and that realization stung hard, even harder
than the knowledge that some fraction of their coworkers really did blame
Mulder for these murders. That simply infuriated her, that anyone could
think her brilliant, compassionate partner could be capable of these
killings. Certainly, he had a temper and core of solid steel, will-power
that sometimes awed her with its strength, and an edge of darkness born of
anguish and bitter experience. He could be fierce in his anger towards the
killers they sought, ruthless in his determination to find and expose the
truth, but no one who had seen him with the victims of violent crime could
ever doubt the goodness of his heart. He had a way of reaching out to those
in pain that was simply breathtaking; they would turn to him, trust him,
before they would let anyone else come near. It was as though they could
feel without anything being said that this man not only cared deeply and
honestly, but also *understood* with a sensitivity that ran to the
innermost part of his soul.
     "Oh God, Mulder," she moaned under her breath. "Where are you?"
                         - - - - -     
end part 2