From: mountainphile To: Subject: [XFNC17ff] NEW: Seeds Of Synchronicity (1/?) by mountainphile Date: Monday, December 17, 2001 6:39 PM TITLE: Seeds Of Synchronicity AUTHOR: mountainphile RATING: NC-17 CATEGORY: MSR, X-File FEEDBACK: mountainphile@yahoo.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile DISTRIBUTION: For now, please link only to the chapter texts on my website, since as a WIP the story may be subject to minor changes as the writing progresses. Permanent archiving should wait until all parts are finished. UNIVERSE: Turning back the clock, imagine Season 7 ending at "Je Souhaite" and continuing on without the events of "Requiem" into a less-concocted Season 8. No abduction, no pregnancy, no contradictory time lines or events. Just Scully and Mulder, definitely *more* than friends, in their pursuit of the truth on the X-Files. DESCRIPTION: Six years after the events of "Aubrey," Scully and Mulder revisit the Missouri town to confront old demons and lay new ones to rest. SPOILERS: Anything goes from seasons 1 through 7, with a special focus on "Aubrey." Continuity errors and conflicting dates abound in the latter part of Season 2, the worst of which I urge the reader to ignore along with me as I spin my tale... :) DISCLAIMER: All things XF *still* belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: To the gracious ladies of Musea, to Mish for her pointy WIP-stick, and to all the stalkers who want a happy piece of the action. ************ Chapter 1 ************ Northwestern Missouri November 1, 2000 4:58 p.m. Another balloon explodes with an ear-splitting pop, children shriek, and in the kitchen Natalie Warner jumps. "Oh, *God*," she groans, drawing the name of deity from her mouth as she would a strand of played-out chewing gum. "That's got to be the *fourth* one in fifteen minutes! Can you *imagine* what their teacher goes through every day? You couldn't *pay* me enough to teach kindergarten, you really couldn't, Gwen..." Her new neighbor snickers and licks a red-nailed finger sticky from the chocolate ice cream she scoops into Chinette dishes. "Be glad you have only Shawna -- and that birthdays come once a year." "Tell me about it. And the *nerve* of her to be born just after Halloween... she wanted all her friends to come to this party in their *costumes*, can you believe it? But I put my foot down about that. And, get this... I actually told Greg, right there in the delivery room after she was born" -- lowering her voice further -- "that it was either a vasectomy for him or the funny farm for me. Thank *God* he bought it." "Nat! You never told me that Greg --" "Yes, munchkin? Whatcha need?" Natalie swings sideways and kneels before a curly-haired five year-old, resplendent in her peach voile party dress. The child turns around. "Mrs. Warner, can you tie me?" "No problem, Babe," she says, looping the two lengths of satin ribbon into a quick bow and rolling her eyes at Gwen. The little girl scoots back to the living room, a scene of riotous color and high-decibeled merriment, and Natalie frowns. "I wonder how she gets her hair to curl like that? Those Shirley Temple banana-curl things?" "How does who?" "Alice. That's Kari, her youngest granddaughter *and* Shawna's current best friend." "I dunno, ask her. You're the one who's supposed to know everything about everybody. That's what you said when we moved in next door." "Hah! Gwen, you just wouldn't *believe* the dirt and factoids I've accumulated over the years..." Another pop, screams, and the sound of galloping feet reverberate from the next room. "Speaking of Alice," says Gwen, "I think we ought to bail her out pretty soon. She's in there alone with a dozen starving kids, holding down the fort." "She can handle it. She *thrives* on it; she's a grandmother five times over, for God's sake. *I'm* the one who's about to go postal here. Damn, I'm *dying* for a smoke..." "Natalie!" A woman shouts above the din. "Shawna wants to know when you're bringing in the cake." "Tell her to hold her horses!" The two women quickly gather up trays of ice cream, paper plates, plastic utensils, cups. "And napkins," adds Natalie. "Grab the whole damn package, Gwen, we'll need every last one." She edges her fingers under the glass plate, admiring the huge orange and chocolate-frosted confection, and hefts the cake with effort. "Shit, this must weight five pounds," she gasps. "No wonder the bakery charges an arm and a leg..." "Take it on out and I'll get the rest," says Gwen reassuringly. Alone for a brief quiet minute, she shakes her head and finishes stacking and lifting the other tray. Some women, she thinks, just aren't cut out to be mothers. But that Natalie is *such* a riot -- Hoping to circumvent the swirl of young bodies, Gwen takes an alternate route to the living room, through the Warner's tiled entryway. There her eyes pass over the massive front door, its sides framed by expensive beveled glass inserts, and she sighs with envy. At the same time, she spots a kindergarten-sized shadow cowering outside behind the glass. "Nat? I think you've got another one out here," she calls. "You're *kidding* me, right?" Natalie hustles past, peeks, and groans. "Oh, God, and it's a boy. I don't remember inviting any *boys*. Shawna must have done it behind my back." She opens the front door, cool air gusting within, the children's muffled, merry voices tumbling out onto the landing. The shadow takes a scuffling step backward. Like a small potted shrub he lingers just outside the front door, blue jacket zipped to his chin. He clutches a gift, the flowered paper crackling between his reddened hands, the crimped, glossy bow trembling in the November breeze. "Let's see... you're Benjie, aren't you? From way down the street?" Hesitating, the little boy nods, then keeps his head dipped, chin tucked to his chest. His brown hair ruffles in the wind like fur on a puppy's back, his whole demeanor shrunken into painful shyness. "You're late, Tiger," she admonishes him lightly, guiding him over the threshold. "But just in time for the cake and ice cream. Where's your Mom? Did she bring you over?" He shakes his head. "She lets you walk all that way by yourself? God, she's braver than *I* am." The boy, divested of his jacket, allows himself to be steered towards the living room. "Shawna, come over here, please." Shawna bounces out of the crowd of classmates, exquisite, a miniature of her mother's blonde curls and tart sassiness. She gives an aggrieved sigh, hand on hip, and swaggers toward the two women with her eyes narrowed. When she notices the latecomer, her step slows and both eyes widen. "Benjie!" She glances nervously at her mother. "You came..." Blanching, head lowered, the boy extends the brightly wrapped package towards the girl. "'S for you," he says in a rough, husky whisper, and all the room quiets, every child hushed and attentive. Taking a curious, collective breath, they gawk at the boy. He raises his head just a bit, enough to reveal the chapped redness of his face and chin. His eyes are soft and watery; long, dark lashes, like twin paintbrushes, sweep his cheeks. At her daughter's lag, Natalie galvanizes the party into action. "Well, thank him for the present and let's get the ball rolling," she says with exaggerated eagerness. "The ice cream'll melt in no time. Shawna, get him a chair. Alice, please be a doll and cut the cake... small pieces, okay?" Muted complaints reach their ears. "Noooo, not next to *me*... Shawn-na!" "Yuck! Boys are so icky." "*He's* icky..." Alice, as planned, leads a rendition of the traditional "Happy Birthday" song, but with the children's loud participation the last notes climb toward shrill dissonance. Shawna blows out the candles and cheers erupt. "You know, you can't blame them," murmurs Gwen apologetically. "A group of little girls all having fun together -- and then a boy shows up." Twirling a short blonde curl with long-nailed fingers, Natalie shrugs. Every age, every class has its goat and she's thankful that Shawna is among the popular, pretty group, just as she had been. Appearance is everything, she learned long ago -- good looks, charm, the right connections, charisma. Thank God Greg maintained enough of his youthful attractiveness, yet not so much as to burden her with worry lest another woman make a play for him. *He* should be the one worrying more about *her* needs, damn it, staying away so much on business lately... The kids on either side of the little boy lean away, giving him a wide berth as though for a leper. He waits with good manners and fortitude until Alice serves him, then watches the others before he takes a bite of the cake and ice cream, chewing slowly, purposefully. Gwen seems perplexed. "Now, who's he again?" "Keep your voice down. That's Janine Tillman's little guy. They must live at *least* four blocks away. I hardly ever see him around, to tell you the truth." "Janine, whose husband's on the force in Aubrey? Isn't she kind of old to be having kids?" "You don't know the half of it -- he's *not* hers." "What?" "Well, he's *his*, but not hers..." She grinds to a stop at Gwen's puzzled expression. "I guess I can't expect you to know *that* story. God, I wouldn't take her place in a million years, I swear! Wait 'til the kids leave and I'll tell you the whole mess. I thought just about *everybody* knew." "Does Alice?" "*Please* don't say *anything* to Alice, okay? She's sweet, but old-fashioned. Real touchy about gossip." "Uh... sure." Alice's voice swells at that exact moment. Animated, a picture-perfect grandmother with her silvery hair bobbing, she tries to cajole the squirming children into another game while they laugh and gorge. "I know!" She gushes, overly effusive, and Natalie grimaces in distaste. "Since this is Shawna's sixth birthday and on birthdays you give and get presents -- all of you think of the one thing you'd love to have the most. Your favorite wish. Anybody want to go first? Shawna?" "A trip to Disneyland," says the girl promptly, wrinkling her nose in her mother's direction. "Very nice, dear! Who's next?" "I want a big, big swimming pool with a high dive!" This from Alice's own granddaughter, and she smiles at her with warm indulgence. The children pick up the spirit of the game, each suggestion, each dream more elaborate and impossible than the next. "A candy store!" "A pet polar bear!" Tinkling laughter. "My very own credit card!" "Shit, they learn fast," whispers Natalie to Gwen. "How about you, young man? What special thing would *you* most want to have?" Startled, the boy drops his plastic fork onto the tablecloth and blinks in unbelief as all eyes swing his way. His face grows redder, more scalded, and he stares down into his plate. "Come on, Benjie," encourages one of the more gracious little girls, and they all snatch up the chant, some even banging on the table in their childish enthusiasm. "Tell us what *you* want! Come on! Tell us!" He has no choice except to comply. As the room waits and watches, he sucks in a small lower lip, chewing in an agony of bashfulness before taking a short breath to speak. Raising his head, he gazes at the sea of expectant faces and opens his mouth. "I want --" He falters, indecision darkening his features. "Yes, dear? Tell us what you want," urges Alice, smiling. The boy's gaze, locking with that of the older woman, hardens in sudden malice. He blurts out in his distinctive, husky voice, "A sister. A *little* sister." A pall of confusion settles over the group and the children fidget from nervous tension, not comprehending the reason or what has transpired before them. Alice, nonplussed, looks over to the two younger women when the boy picks up his fork, ducks his head, and resumes eating. "Good *God*," hisses Natalie, rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms with a vengeance and turning away. "The little creep." "What, Nat? What?" Gwen presses, but her friend shakes her head and, chilled for once to silence, walks quickly back into the kitchen. ************ Georgetown/Washington DC November 3, 2000 8:16 a.m. Autumn colors lay in the same wizened piles along the curbside of Scully's neighborhood. Pausing on the walkway, she throws back her head to sniff the morning air and clear her head, hearing the cornflake crunch of leaves underfoot on the way to her car. Early November. The same earthy, smoky smells, the exact same time of year she was returned comatose following her abduction six years before. She reappeared harboring two ignominious secrets. One was infertility. Second, she was a new mother, though at the time she was in ignorance of both these contradictory truths. It would be three more years before she learned of Emily's existence and matching date of birth according to the certificate issued in San Diego County. November 2, 1994. A red-letter day in the life of Dana Scully. What synchronous irony, what mockery of fate that she would resurface in a hospital, unconscious and stripped of her ova, the same day her biological child was reputedly born. What gross manipulation of cellular structure had taken place, what unnatural acceleration in rate of growth had occurred to develop a child so quickly? Or had viable ova been somehow, somewhere, taken from her body at an even earlier date than the August abduction by Duane Barry? There's little she can believe with any sense of surety. Even Mulder, a human clearinghouse for unorthodox theory, flounders for answers. After so many years they still face the same surreal, dubitable questions... Shake it off, she orders herself ruthlessly, thrusting the fall of red hair from her brow into a smooth curve behind her ear. The day has passed, thank God, and it's time to move forward -- Steering into the flow of early morning traffic, she wonders why so much celebration unfolds in the human realm this time of year. Days shorten after the autumn equinox and the world rejoices in its bounty. Harvest time. Thanksgiving. Cold and snowfall. Religious holidays of joy and commemoration: gratitude, faith, blessing, birth. Hope and promise. For some, it's a time for new beginnings and the resumption of routine, when children make the yearly, migratory trek back to school. For others it's a first step on the scholastic treadmill. Glowing with the excitement of new clothes and books, hungry for friendship and knowledge, they slide from summer's carefree play into fall's stricter academia. Outside her car window a school bus blusters to a stop, then turns the corner out of sight, yellow-orange, windows frosty with morning condensation. It reminds Scully of a ripe autumn pumpkin, large and pregnant with purpose, bulging with precious cargo. This should have been Emily's first year in school. She takes a shuddering breath and blinks once, twice, hands taut on the wheel. She's still marking time; potent reminders like a child's lunchbox and the scent of leafsmoke overpower her better judgment. It's intriguing to her that she's more affected by the day of her daughter's birth than she is by the time of her death. Every birthday should be a celebratory event, an occasion for joy and thankfulness, not a time for bitterness or to mourn years spent in ignorance. In another day or so, she'll have recovered enough to put it behind her again, of that much she's certain -- emotionally resilient, committed to her job, and in control for the next twelve months, with the passing of this annual crisis. Mulder is the only other person who knows of her secret sorrow. Though she divulged nothing to him on that first November anniversary in 1998, she knew he sensed something amiss. Playing by her rules, unobtrusive, he asked no questions, but his actions spoke volumes about comfort and caring. Masked as an excuse to avoid Kersh's endless and mind- numbing background checks, he surprised her at lunch with an ice cream cone and a walk in the park. 1999 was the year he survived near-fatal brain surgery at the hands of the Smoking Man. His first foray outdoors, after attending Diana Fowley's funeral, fell on November 2. He asked Scully to accompany him for a 'constitutional' and stopped to purchase a rosebud, which he tucked into the buttonhole of her coat. Then, engulfing her hand in his large, warm one, they ambled the cool autumn streets, leaves and raw emotions swirling in tandem at their feet. Grateful that fate had spared Mulder's life, touched by his undemanding thoughtfulness, she cracked the door open between them. Like light bleeding over a threshold, she shared a small part of why this date and time of year still marked her so deeply. This year, last night, he stayed with her. It's not by any means the first time. Months earlier, in the spring, they finally became lovers and forever altered the boundaries between them. They prefer to keep it confidential. For now sex is a delectable, yet still intermittent treat -- they find themselves alternating between prudence and gusto as they partake of this new repast to which they're now entitled. With no expectation for anything more, he stayed to offer comfort and companionship. He held her close against him on the couch while they watched TV, stroking her hair, whispering silly commentary, massaging her back muscles to induce slumber. As the weary hours passed and she moved from couch to bed, still restless, Mulder grew resolute and proposed a solution. Unorthodox, of course. She needed persuasion, brought by feather-light kisses and murmured reassurances. Gazing up at him in the semi-darkness, she finally allowed him to peel away her doubts and proprieties along with her pajamas. He eased his head down and prepared her for sleep, sweetly and gently, with his mouth. Now, rejuvenated in the light of a new morning, she stands wedged between other late-coming agents in the Hoover's elevator, a rosy glow on her cheeks. Coat draping her arm and chic in her dark suit, badge in place on her lapel, service weapon holstered, she ponders the implications of this secret life she shares with her partner and the sporadic complaints of her faux-biological clock. Despite the melancholy, her nerve endings tingle as she clips down the hall toward the familiar sanctuary of the office they share. Mulder straddles a corner of his desk, his arm extended in the act of replacing the phone in its cradle. He swivels toward her, concern and expectancy evident in his face as he stands. "Sorry, traffic held me up." He waits and she nods briefly, without success masking a coy smile and slow flush behind her sweep of hair. With measured reluctance she looks up and their gazes fuse. "You left early." "Before dawn. You okay?" "Yes... I, um, slept like a rock, actually," she admits and he chuckles with appreciation, his eyes twinkling at the news. "So my little antidote for insomnia worked." "Like a charm. You had doubts?" His grin grows wider by the second and he steps closer, catching the shaft of early morning sun that sneaks through the window above him. It casts an affectionate, hazel gleam into his eyes, accentuates the thickness of his dark hair and stirs her body afresh. His lips form a teasing curl, the same lips that just a few hours ago were -- "Not a one," he murmurs. "The important thing is I managed to get in a few hours' sleep before work, thanks to your... antidote. And since today *is* another day, life goes on..." she continues philosophically, turning to hang up her coat. If only she had a cup of hot coffee to sip, the day could bode well after all. "You might want to hold on to that," he advises, arresting her movement, "as well as the positive outlook." Scully's eyebrow arches, her lips part in anticipation of disclosure. "Meaning?" "I just received a phone call from a Lieutenant Brian Tillman of the Aubrey, Missouri police department. What can you remember about him?" She leans into a thoughtful tilt, brain cells harkening back to mid-November 1994. It's one of the many cases from their first few years together that she can recollect with unusual clarity because of the overwhelming human pathos involved. The mutilated bodies of new victims and the scored bones of older ones that came to light -- all found their way into her capable hands and were crucial in pinpointing important details of the crimes, though not the perpetrator. It took Mulder's intuitive mind to focus on Detective B.J. Morrow, Tillman's partner and paramour, nailing her as the killer. Lieutenant Brian Tillman. She remembers him as an abrasive, bull-headed, condescending man, who allowed his personal loyalties and fears to blind him to the truth throughout the investigation. Impatient, thin mustache, heavy on the cologne. Aloud she says, "1994. He was a married detective who got his partner pregnant. She, quite remarkably, was the granddaughter of serial killer Harry Cokely and was eventually committed to a women's prison hospital after murdering several people, including Cokely. She slashed the victims and carved "sister" into their chests, imitating the original attacks in 1942." She sighs and shifts her coat to the other arm, considering it needless to remind Mulder that he had experienced B.J.'s razor held against his own throat. "So, what was the reason for his call?" "He's... " Mulder hesitates, rubbing a thumb along his lower lip. Already she can sense his mind collating the small bits of information he gleaned during the phone call. "Let's say that there is no joy in Aubrey, Scully, when you think you're right on top of your game, clipping out base hits smooth as glass -- and the ball suddenly falls foul. You're in danger of striking out before you realize it." She puffs out her lips in annoyance, plunks her coat onto his desk, and crosses her arms. "No baseball analogies before my morning coffee, Mulder. Give it to me straight." "The ball being his kid..." "The baby? I remember that he'd planned to petition the courts to adopt, but I never followed what actually transpired after B.J. was put on suicide watch during her last trimester." She'd been occupied with other matters that year, bizarre cases and experiences which, looking back, she's still unable to explain to her satisfaction. And she'd almost lost Mulder again... "She gave birth, he adopted. His wife went along with it, but needed convincing." "Not surprising," she mutters dryly. "And B.J.?" "Still incarcerated at Shamrock Women's Prison. However, she hasn't been considered a high security risk for several years. Must be one of the lucky ones." His smirk is barely discernible. "Shamrock. Lucky..." She ignores the weak attempt at humor. "Does she have any contact with Tillman or the child now?" "Unknown, but doubtful. I plan to take our files and any other pertinent information about the 1994 case. Might be good reading on the flight to Missouri," he adds, looking toward the cabinet and then at his watch. "How soon do we leave?" "That's something I want to talk to you about." Facing him, she feels his hand encompass her shoulder, heavy with his concern. She can read the hesitancy in his mind, can sense his heart when he says, "It's your call, Scully. Do what you feel is best for *you* right now --" "I will. I do," she insists quietly, her understanding in perfect sync. Her gaze brushes his, then slips away, shielded and evasive. She licks her lips, an unconscious gesture that betrays her edginess. "-- because, this case may encroach upon some areas --" "Mulder... I'll be fine." It's her usual stoic avowal, tinged with impatience, but she knows he recognizes the bravado. After spending last night with her and helping her to weather this year's emotional memory-storm, she can understand why he's unconvinced. "Really. You'll have to trust me on this." She grasps his hand in her smaller one, giving it a playful squeeze, and peers up. "Besides, you'll be there, too..." "I'll be there," he agrees. He returns the pressure to her hand, sharing a pointed look before releasing her. "I also know your insights and presence would be invaluable. Tillman respects your judgment; he asked for you specifically." "Then I'm surprised as much as I'm honored. Can you give me a hint of the problem in Aubrey?" "There's been another slashing attack, reminiscent of the 1994 case. Happened yesterday morning, and this time the woman is alive and able to provide information on a possible lead." She's reminded that not all of Cokely's victims died -- as a young woman old Linda Thibodeaux was raped and disfigured, secretly bearing a child by Cokely, which she put up for adoption. That same baby grew up to become Raymond Morrow, the father of B.J. "Leading to whom, I wonder?" Mulder's eyes cloud and he yanks out a drawer from the cabinet with a tooth-grinding scrape before diving in with both hands. "The base hit that suddenly went foul. Right now, Scully, the only feasible suspect appears to be Tillman's five year-old son..." ************ End of Chapter 1 ************ Chapter 2 ************ Wentworth, Nebraska November 3, 2000 2:35 p.m. She's hungry more than she is thirsty, which surprises her. A person can live much longer without food than water, but she can't discount the growling spasms in her stomach any more than she can ignore her paranoia and the wild thumping of her heart. Another day and the stalemate continues unabated, bitter and relentless as the prairie autumn outside her window. All she wanted was one phone call, just one simple connection to put her mind at rest. But no -- she's pacing her room like a caged lioness, like a zoo animal driven stir crazy in captivity. Back and forth, to and fro, from dresser to bed, from barred window to bolted door. Linoleum glued to the floor, no carpet; they're afraid she might peel up a corner and fish out a tack. No trust, no privilege, no believing. Now she suspects they want to sedate her, and she can't allow that. She'd have been smarter to play along and pretend from the outset. Refusing the meds was a mistake; she'd slapped them to the floor in fear and fury and watched the pills skitter, the tiny paper cup of water splash and collapse. Couldn't they see? Didn't they *know* what was at stake? Why can't they believe her? Years ago, when they first locked her away, there was someone who did. Oh, God -- the dreams, the visions. What made them return again after so long? She felt that first wave of dread two evenings ago when she began refusing meals, terrified the staff would lace her food and water with chemicals that could put her at their mercy. "I know how it works," she warned them savagely. "I know how you people operate, what you can do. I was a police officer, remember... I *know* -- " And she was, she reminds herself, dissolving to tears again. She was a damn good cop, like her father was before her, even after she'd fumbled and made some unwise personal decisions. But, it was so special at first... *he* made her feel special and loved. Brian. Dinners and candles and secret meetings together. Sharing a bed and the sex he couldn't get with any regularity at home, or so he claimed. The affair was covert and no one, not even Joe Darnell, his oldest friend at the station, had any idea in the beginning. The closeness lasted until his wife became suspicious and drew him away. After that, his behavior turned unpredictable. He'd seem protective one minute, and then would hold her at arms' length, especially when he learned of her pregnancy -- and after she reconsidered aborting the baby. What happened to the love she thought they'd shared? The Cokely investigation shot it all to hell. Everything, gone... And the dreams... they kept coming, like they are again. Horrible dreams of fear and helplessness. Evil dreams of mutilation and blood and death. Thank God she's locked away, unable to act on the urges and vicious pictures swirling through her mind. So who, she wonders with revulsion, will be the unwitting pawn to this phantasm that somehow originated with Harry Cokely fifty years before and continues into the present day? Who'll end up taking the blame this time? No, don't cry, can't cry. She wipes her eyes, amazed at the profusion in light of her refusal to eat or drink. It uses up her body's moisture reserves and she has no realistic estimate of when she can slake her thirst. No need to use the commode in over twelve hours, except to yank off toilet paper for her nose. She rocks on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped at her stomach when the spasms strike again. God, why now? Why now after six years...? On the door, a heavy metallic rap. She hears the soft click and buzzing feedback from the hidden microphone. "You want to share with me what's going on in there?" "Dr. Reinholdt?" "That's right. From what they're telling me, you've been causing some concern for the last day or two, B.J. What's wrong?" An adrenaline surge of desperation heaves her forward from the bed. Catapulted, sweating, she presses her forehead to the thick metal door. It's cold against the heat of her urgency, calming her so she can speak with coherence. "I need to make a phone call, doctor. Please! I need to talk to Brian Tillman right away." "You know the rules same as I do. By court order and terms of your incarceration, no contact with Lieutenant Tillman or his family unless he takes the initiative first." The doctor's voice sounds engaging, congenial. "I see on the reports that you haven't taken your medication in three days. Care to tell me why?" She grinds her teeth in frustration. More tears leak and she swipes at them with the edge of her palm. "I can't risk it, that's why. I'm afraid they'll give me drugs to put me under and I -- I have to be awake. I have to stay alert." "The dreams again?" "Yes, dreams... but, it's more than that." "Tell me about the *more*, B.J." The tone is cloying, manipulative, but she has no choice. No choice and no power for the prisoner-patient. Suck it up and tell him what he wants to know, that's all she can do. Calming herself, she runs a shaky hand through her short sandy hair. "It started about dinner time... three days ago." "Let's see... that would be Wednesday? First day of November?" "Yes, yes! Something was wrong. Almost as if something horrible had woken up... from a deep sleep..." She pauses, breathing hard. What she's saying sounds ridiculous, but every word stabs her heart with a new and ominous fear. "You know, you've been doing so well for years." "I know. I am still, please believe me." "But you refused your meds and dinner. Now I see you're on a self-imposed hunger strike?" "I can't take the risk of being sedated. I need to be alert, because something might happen... and I -- I think something has, but I'm not sure what." Silence hangs heavy around her, like the thick walls and reinforced windows of the prison. How far out on this limb dare she creep before it breaks under the weight of her folly? She feels something else, like a band constricting her chest, so tight and so familiar around her lungs and heart that she panics from breathlessness. The mothering instinct. It, too, has awakened, re-energized after years of dormancy. "And, doctor...?" "Yes, B.J.?" She whispers the precarious words into the seam between door and jamb. "I'm -- I'm afraid for my little boy." Silence on the other side of the door, then murmurs and retreating footsteps. The footfalls return and she waits, trembling. "All right, B.J. I'm coming into your room now. I have an orderly with me and a lunch tray, which I'll expect to watch you eat in front of me. No tricks. You know the Shamrock rules. Do we have a deal?" "I can't --" "Then it looks like we have a problem. Lack of cooperation is a problem, even when it stems from unaccountable dreams and premonitions that force you to deviate from routine..." Dreams and premonitions. The doctor's voice fades, sinks to a dull, insignificant murmur as B.J.'s ears roar and another, familiar voice from the past takes precedence. A voice of belief and trust and hope. ("Have you ever, um... have you ever had any clairvoyant experiences? Premonitions, visions, precognitive dreams... things like that?") "Doctor -- If I can't get a message to Brian, can you call someone else for me?" "That will depend." "I need to talk to the FBI agent who handled my case in '94. His name is Fox Mulder. He had a partner named Dana Scully. Special agents Mulder and Scully in Washington, DC. Look in my files, please, and tell them I need to speak with them as soon as possible. Tell them it's urgent!" "B.J., you may have forfeited privileges by your little stunt, I hope you realize that --" Her mouth feels parchment-dry, her throat ready to rip in shreds as she sobs into her hands, big wrenching sobs that can be heard on the other side of the door. Oh God, oh God! So much at stake and no one willing to believe or help. The sobs turn into a keening wail when the door swings open and Doctor Reinholt and his aide step within the sparsely- furnished room. "Will you do it?" A gasping plea... "Now, just relax. Settle yourself down." "Doctor, tell them, please tell them --" Her eyes widen and roll in terror, red and veined from grief and lack of sleep. Oh God! One last try before it's too late and she either hyperventilates or feels the needle's jab -- "Please!" Her voice rises to a crescendo. "Tell Agent Mulder that I think it's happening again --!" ************ Aubrey, Missouri November 3, 2000 6:07 p.m. Not many men in law enforcement have an affair go sour -- and then discover their partner/lover has both a checkered genetic history and a penchant for murder. Mulder heard fear over the phone when speaking with Brian Tillman. He sensed it on the plane while he thumbed his way through pages of the six year-old file, noting the desperation and disbelief that had marked the man's first reaction. Though the Lieutenant had been a bastard to work with and his foot-dragging hampered the investigation's progress, Mulder had to admit that the guy came by it honestly. Partner. He kneads the steering wheel of the rented Corolla and glances toward the passenger seat beside him, dragging his gaze down the familiar length of Scully, from sleek red hair to leather-shod toes. It's getting to be serious dusk and she's switched on the overhead light to browse through the sheaf of files again. Each page of field report, one grisly photo after the other, she tabs with a manicured nail in order to bring herself up to speed. She'd slept most of the way on the plane. Lover. His gaze lingers a moment on the concavity in her lap below the seat belt and on the soft swells of her breasts. Masked under her navy-blue suit, they tremble with the car's vibration. It reminds him of the new changes he's come to savor in their relationship: satiny skin molded into his hands in the dark, the shimmer of her body over his, breasts bobbing against his face like soft, velvety fruit as she thrusts herself downward. They should be doing it far more often, given how pleasurable, explosive, and satisfying it is to make love with her. The sun vanishes, drawing the last purple ray of daylight into the rolling Missouri horizon. He thinks about what happened at Scully's apartment last night. Her red-eyed insomnia. The burden she carries within her like a malarial fever. Brave, yet fragile. Clinging to the stiff veneer she shows the world, yet granting him entry. It baffles him that one solitary day she never experienced personally should have such a lasting effect on her. He wonders if she understood why he did what he did -- or whether she'll ever comprehend his true intent. It went beyond sex, beyond physical closeness or desire. No matter. His reasons are above reproach and he feels a righteous peace for suggesting such a thing... and would do it again without hesitation. "Mulder..." She'd hedged, eyelids heavy, drooping like the soft, roomy pajamas she wore last night. "This won't make me forget --" And she turned toward him with something less than acquiescence, as if pleading first for enlightenment before accepting further solace. "That's not why I want to do it, Scully." When she shook her head to object, he stilled its movement with both hands and kissed her gently. "Listen... you're precious to me," he whispered, his lips punctuating each word over her mouth. "Every part of you is precious. This is my gift." His persistence won out. His desire to ease the ache from her heart and give her relief as no one else could, transcended whatever propriety stood in his way. Soon she began nodding in time to his kisses and lay slack, resigned yet expectant, while he unbuttoned her pajama top with slow, soothing fingers and slipped the bottoms down her legs and from her feet. She received his touches as she would the preparations for a sponge bath, head back and lips parted. She watched him cat-like in the semi-darkness, until the feelings he awoke washed over her and claimed her with their power. Her eyelashes flickered as he dipped his head and began to suckle at her breasts. Pulling reluctant pink nipples to firm points in his mouth, like a child nursing, he alternately sucked and teased them with his tongue until her breath caught. He felt her arms move and her fingernails graze through the hair on the back of his head. She sighed, legs trembling, when he slipped downward to root softly, reverently at the juncture between her legs. He loves this place, where his ears press into her warm inner thighs. The rich scent and heat of her, the tickle of her downy pubic fur on his nose and cheeks, the feel of her tender slit yielding under his mouth. The intoxicating taste of her folds and fluids, sweet wet layers pulsing around his face and lips. He worked his tongue slowly into her depths, paying homage to this sacred place of love and fertilization, of birth and fetal passage. Her vagina, denied its reproductive function, was still a thing to be honored and cherished and respectfully nurtured. It mattered, she mattered, and he wanted her to believe and gain strength from that truth. When he moved to her clitoris, lingering, his mouth lavishing over it in gentle sucking circles, her knees rose higher and he felt her arousal peak. She arched and tensed beneath him, surging with the force of orgasm until tears darkened her lashes and she fell back, exhausted, onto the pillow. Sleep came soon after, like he knew it would, with Scully curled small and motionless on the bed, against him. Yes, he'll do it again next year, in the same way and for the same reasons, if circumstances demand it. For her sake, he hopes they don't. Scully sighs under her breath, not quite a whimper, and shifts in her seat. The sound and movement snap him back to the present and he looks at her again. It's dinnertime and his groin twinges; memories of last night's selfless generosity remind him that he's hungry in more ways than one. "You say something?" "I'm curious," she murmurs, clearing her throat and tapping the manila folder, "whether the woman who was attacked yesterday was bludgeoned first. That seems to be the m.o. in all the murders, even dating back to 1942. And if that's the case, I find it unlikely that a young child could have the strength or necessary height to execute such an attack." "Yeah. Wheaties and spinach don't pack that kind of punch in real life." "Spinach?" "Popeye the Sailor Man," he says, an obliging look on his face. "Or maybe nowadays it's Power Rangers --" "Jesus, Mulder... a little more helpful insight would be appreciated." Frowning, she shuts the file and clicks off the light, looking out toward the approaching lights of the place called Aubrey, Missouri. "I just find it baffling that a little boy would even be considered a suspect. After we meet with Tillman, I want to interview this woman as soon as possible." "That may depend on whether visiting hours at the hospital in Aubrey have emerged from the Dark Ages after six years." In the deepening shadow of the car's interior, he hears a rustle of clothing and feels Scully's thumb ease along the skin of his neck, tracing an invisible line above the ridge of his collar. "No scar," she whispers. "I think *you* were one of the lucky ones." Lucky doesn't begin to describe what he remembers of that night. It happened in harsh images of black and white, in slow motion -- cold-cocked from behind, slammed against Harry Cokely's foul-smelling mess of a carpet. Then the press of a blade, the sting and itch as it rocked against his neck, etching a seam of blood into his flesh. The abject helplessness he felt. The horror of turning his head and gazing into eyes of pure madness, those of Detective B.J. Morrow. Scully's touch is fleeting, like a butterfly's airy wing, and she returns her hand to her lap while he navigates the traffic toward Aubrey's downtown. Damn it, she's too fast - - he wanted to crane his head to the side and kiss that warm, fragrant thumb. Instead he reaches over to cover her hand with his, giving it a slow squeeze, feeling her gaze shift downward as he caresses the delicate bones of her knuckles, her slim fingers, her palm. Even after years of partnership he's beginning to comprehend her in more subtle ways than before. He knows without seeing that she watches his fingertips undulate over and slip between hers at this place of handholding on her thigh. As though she needs to be aware of what's happening to her, around her. His cautious, beautiful Scully. Shit, he's got a one-track mind... As much as he wants answers in this new investigation, he hopes the meeting with Tillman moves quickly and the hospital stays closed to all visitors other than family tonight. He wants their two motel rooms to be side-by-side, conveniently adjoined. He hopes despite her inner sadness and the long day of travel, that Scully's somehow in the mood... or at least open to a certain degree of reciprocity. "Horny, Mulder?" He startles in the darkness, feels busted, like a boy caught down-blousing. His fingers halt their seductive teasing. "What makes you say that?" "What you're doing leaves little to the imagination." "That transparent, huh?" She chuckles and looks out the window toward the twinkling neon lights, squeezing him back and lacing her smaller fingers deftly through his. ************ Hi-ho-Silver, Mulder muses, making a cursory visual sweep of the Old West kitsch permeating his surroundings. He sits with Scully in a booth at the Conestoga Grill, across the red-checked tablecloth from Lieutenant Brian Tillman. Long ago on another case, he once told her that a person's eyes were like windows to their soul. If Tillman's guarded, haunted look is any indication, then the man must exist in a day-to-day living hell. He's taller than Mulder remembers, worry lines framing his eyes. A dapper-looking man with a gentle demeanor who tries to schmooze the locals; he gives a small-town lawman's wave to the waitress when they enter. Years ago he seemed strict and exacting within his department, curt, surly, somewhat impatient. Tonight in the public eye, he acts like a well- behaved prisoner, walking on the thinnest eggshells of penitence and fear. The Grill, famous locally for its hamburgers and root beer, flanks the Conestoga Motel where they'd made reservations. At Tillman's suggestion they meet in a far corner, out of earshot of the truckers at the counter and a few small families up front. The overhead lights are bright, the air warm and heavy with grease and dinnertime bustle. "Let's get this straight," Brian Tillman says quietly, "right off the bat -- I want my wife left out of this investigation as much as possible. You both got that?" Scully opens her mouth, then closes it into a soft pucker, giving Mulder opportunity to reply. Tired, he wonders? Or an intuitive feeling that Tillman would respond more positively to another man? While neither of them harbors any fondness for him, Mulder feels a sense of pity for a man whose family life and self-respect lay exposed for his entire town to read, like a newspaper blown ragged through the streets. Tillman notices her deference and his burning eyes seek Mulder's, trying to communicate the extent of his concern without further elucidation. "We can't go into this with our hands tied and hope to conduct a credible investigation or find the truth," parries Mulder with wry honesty. "As for sensitive issues, it's a little late to be stressing over the dirty underwear already out on the line, isn't it?" "The press's fault -- and the gossipers in this town," snaps Tillman under his breath. "They had a picnic here six years ago, because of the nature of the case and those involved. You might've gone back to our nation's capitol with another notch on your belts, but for those of us left here to carry on with our lives..." He hesitates, choosing his words with obvious care, and halts at the waitress's arrival. Thick, glass mugs of root beer hit the table before them. "None for me, thanks," says Scully to the girl, who gives her a quizzical, backward glance. Tillman waits until they're alone before picking up the thread of conversation. "Janine, my wife, had a rough time dealing with the fact of my... indiscretion, without it being flapped all over town and then shaken in her face. And that was only the beginning." "The reason you don't live in Aubrey proper?" -- Scully's query. "Yes, one reason. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate your quick response and your reputation as investigators. I don't know anyone else more qualified to handle a situation like this, given your familiarity with the case history. But --" His gaze rakes them with a certain pleading intensity. "I know what happened last time: give you two free rein and you're poking into someone's personal business with a stick, stirring up more trouble than necessary." "Sometimes, Lieutenant, a stick comes in handy when there's evidence to be dug out. Remember back to 1994 -- The truth can get buried pretty deep." "D'you think I don't dwell on that every day of my life, Agent Mulder?" Mulder glances at his partner, catches her furtive, warning look. He can only guess what inner maelstrom must drive such a man to eventual, emotional shipwreck. Scully leans toward Tillman, her soothing tone calibrated to gain his cooperation. "Lieutenant, we're here to help -- you, your wife, your son... and to find the truth behind the attack that occurred yesterday. You have our assurance that every person involved in this case will be handled with respect and discretion." Nodding, the man takes a shaky breath, every ounce of pride and willpower brought to bear as he straightens in his seat. He places his palms flat on the table as though to gain equilibrium, gripping the cloth edge and squaring his jaw. Seeing the waitress approach with her order pad in hand, he warns her off with a shake of his head. "At the same time," Mulder murmurs, "you have to trust us enough to be willing to go out on a limb or two. You'll need to tell us what you know, and I'm guessing some of that won't be easy." "I don't need an investigator to tell me that." "Then," agrees Mulder, "we know where we stand. So, for starters... how much information did the newspapers actually manage to get in '94?" "A little bit of everything -- you name it. A real smorgasbord." Tillman gives a small, bitter laugh. "Harry Cokely's criminal history. My affair. Details of the crime scenes. That half-assed rigmarole about a 'bad seed,' when B.J.'s biological connection to Cokely was whispered all over town --" "Yet, in spite of the rumor-mill, you took in the baby when he was born," Scully reminds him, with some gentleness. "That shows courage and integrity." "I -- yes... I had no other option. Janine and I were childless and able to provide a good home. I'd always wanted a son..." He presses stiff fingers into his thinning hair, as if to quiet the demons within his head. Mulder leans forward against the table. "Your son's name is... " "Benjamin. I call him Benjie." "For a man so concerned about his wife's feelings and reactions, somebody's been getting stiffed in the sensitivity department," points out Mulder with somber frankness. "You could have called the boy anything from Alvin to Leonard to Zeke. Yet he gets a name that's a guaranteed daily reminder of your... *indiscretion*, if you will." Tillman deflects Mulder's stare. "It's my father's name. In my family everyone's name began with a 'B.' And before he died I promised him that if I ever had a son, he'd be christened after his grandfather. I make no apology for honoring my father's memory, Agent Mulder." "Fair enough. I wonder, though, if your wife feels the same irrefutable sense of family loyalty." Red-faced, Tillman moves to stand, reconsiders, and sinks back into his seat. "I *knew* you'd start right in when you got the chance." "Relax, Lieutenant... just testing the water. I'd rather hear why your son Benjie would even be considered a suspect in this incident." The new tack dilutes the man's indignation and he pauses to take a quick, cooling sip of his root beer. "First glass is complimentary," he says in afterthought to Scully, wiping the foam from his mustache with the side of a forefinger. "It's a Grill trademark." "I see." Her quiet brevity draws a smile from Mulder. "Nothing's official." Tillman peers across the table from under lowered brows, making his point. "About my boy, I mean. Just the prevailing opinion of the tongues that wag in this town. To tell you the truth, the first call I made yesterday was to Shamrock... to make sure that B.J. was still there and accounted for. She is, so it looks like we've got a copycat on our hands." "Or an outright liar," says Mulder. "The victim could be faking the whole incident as a ploy to get back at you or your family in some twisted way." Tillman shakes his head. "No, not Viola. She's a fixture around here -- been driving the bus for nearly twenty years and really loves those kids. A maiden lady. She was kneeling in front of the bus at the school's garage early yesterday morning, cleaning off the headlights, when something smacked her in the side of the head." Mulder gives his partner a miniscule nudge. "She was disoriented, she said, scared out of her wits. Screamed for help when she heard --" He swallows. "Well... she heard a strange, husky voice say 'You're to blame this time, little sister.' Then, she was slashed several times." "Where?" Mulder sees a chill run through Tillman's body, knowing his personal involvement with the perpetrator in the previous attacks. "Upper chest. Face. Forearm. Another driver heard the screaming and called 911 on his cell. No weapon was found at the scene. No footprints, with the ground frozen rock-hard like it is in the mornings. And no visitors tonight," he adds, noting Mulder's sudden restlessness. "Why's that?" "Viola's out like a light, Agent Mulder, I already checked. This whole incident really did a number on her. Visiting hours are at 8:30 am, if you want to try then." "I'm still unclear about why your son's name was pulled into this --" A cell phone twitters and Tillman rises to answer, turning a shoulder for privacy. Finished, he remains standing to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "Sorry, folks, but duty calls. We'll have to continue this discussion another time." "Tomorrow," says Scully, "we'd like to speak with Benjie." Mulder watches the man's almost painful reluctance; he closes his eyes, rubs his temple, and then nods to the inevitable. "Come by the house after you're done at the hospital. It's Saturday, but we're keeping him close to home for the time being." He pauses. "He's kind of a shy kid, doesn't say much. No use subjecting him to all the hype and talk." Stalling, he taps the table with nervous fingers, then balls them into a fist. Mulder notes how Tillman's eyes wander before seeking out Scully's, as if with need and purpose. "You know... for as long as I can remember, school kids have taken the rap for being cruel to one another, Agent Scully. But I've found that some of the adults in Aubrey have never grown up in that regard. It's... well, it's unsettling as hell," he ends, jerking his coat forward onto his shoulders before nodding at both agents in blunt farewell. ************ End of Chapter 2