Subject: Profiles IV part 3 of 4
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1998

Title: Profiles in Caring IV (3/4)
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R to NC-17 for violence and disturbing imagery
Category: SA - character exploration
Spoilers: None
Keywords: MSR - M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully
brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox
if they sue me, because I am poor and have nothing material they can
profit from.

Summary: Mulder discovers Harold Roberson is not in the Federal
Institution for the Criminally Insane. In searching for Roberson,
he finds more than he bargained for.

Profiles in Caring IV 09/17

It was cold in the early morning, and Skinner shivered
within his trench coat as he waited for his friend to show
up. He paced silently before the black granite of the
Wall, his feet making ripples in the low hanging fog,
as he slowly read the names of fallen comrades. How
many of the names in the folders, the suicides and unusual
accidents, were really names that should be here, victims
of a nation's tragedy?

He was lost in thought, mourning again for the boys
who had died in a faraway land, for what seemed a
faraway cause. His reverie was broken when a voice
said, "You never really get over it, do you?"

He shook his head, and both men stood in respectful
silence for a few moments. Finally, he turned, and
forced himself to smile in greeting. Extending his hand,
he said, "John. Thank you. It was good of you to come
on such short notice."

"Well, it seemed rather important from your tone, Walt.
What's up?"

Skinner looked around, then began to walk. "John, I'm
investigating a case. A man we arrested last spring who
escaped. There were some mitigating circumstances
with regards to his mental state and he was sent to the
FICI, but apparently never arrived."

At his friend's questioning look, he shook his head.
"Long story -- lack of time. Anyway, this man has
ties to Nam. From the same time we were there. He
may have been involved in something called Project
Invasion." He stopped and turned to face the other
man. "John, your name was in the records, too."

Bikowski blanched and took a step away. He was
shaking his head as his hand scrubbed his face.
"I thought they were dead," he whispered. "I
thought they were all dead."

Skinner's face hardened and he reached out and
gripped the older man's arm. "Tell me, John. I
need to know."

Bikowski shook his hand off and snarled, "No, Walt,
you *don't* need to know. You're not cleared; hell,
I'm not cleared anymore. It was a long time ago and
it's over."

Skinner stepped forward again, a menacing presence
to the smaller man. "It's not over John. This man,
Harold Roberson," he watched as Bikowski's eyes
widened in recognition, "is killing people. He
almost killed two of my agents 6 months ago. He
kidnapped a woman who works for me, a doctor, and
now he's leaving dead children in my other agent's
apartment." He narrowed his eyes and dropped his
voice to a growl. "I *need* to know."

Bikowski was still struggling to take in all that he'd
heard. He looked at Skinner and asked, "Children?"

Skinner nodded grimly and watched as his former CO
paled even further, his eyes closed against the vision
the words called up. "John," he softened his tone, "you
may be in danger. He's not just killing people involved
in these projects, he's killing their families as well. I
can't help you if you don't talk to me. Now, how involved
were you?"

"I've got a family, Walt. You know that. Marian and I
married late. We only have the one son -- Thomas. He's
twelve. What do I do? How do I protect them?"

"Talk to me. Tell me what you know. I'll get you
protection."

Bikowski stood silently, eyes closed as he weighed his
options. Skinner waited patiently, knowing the man
would talk, but letting him come to that realization
himself. At length, the older man opened his eyes and
looked away, across the open expanse of land toward
the Capitol. "Roberson was a point man in Gerry
Oldham's unit."

"Oldham? He stayed in and made General, right?"

Bikowski nodded. "Why?"

"He's dead. It was his child that was left in my agent's
apartment."

Bikowski shuddered, then went on. "Roberson was weird.
Used to disappear for days at a time and then show up,
all spaced out and totally stoned. The guy used to burn himself.
Some big show of fearlessness or something. I didn't know how
Olds put up with it.

"We were on leave together one weekend, down in Saigon,
and we got to talking about it. I told him about McNamara."
He turned to look at Skinner. "You remember Mac, right?"

"Killed on patrol. I was supposed to be out that night. I
remember."

Bikowski was shaking his head. "Not killed. Missing, presumed
dead. Big difference."

"That's not what you told us."

"I told you what I was ordered to tell you."

"So what happened to Mac?"

"He was a pothead. Stoned all the time. More trouble than he
was worth."

"What happened to Mac?"

"You can't run a unit with someone like that. I mean,
everyone was using, but not continually, not like Mac."

"What happened to Mac?"

"I was drunk in Saigon, with Olds, and I asked him about
Roberson. Why the hell did he keep him in the unit when
the guy went missing for days at a time and then stayed
stoned when he was around? He just laughed. Told me
it was a special project."

"John, what happened to Mac?"

Bikowski glanced at Skinner, then his eyes darted away.
"I told Olds I had a special project of my own - McNamara.
But I didn't want mine to come back." His eyes returned
to Skinner, pleading. "I was drunk. I was 26 years old,
responsible for all those lives, making decisions that had
people live or die. I didn't mean it. I just ..." He turned
away again, coughing into his hand to cover a choked sob.

Skinner reached out and gently turned the man back to
face him. "John. Tell me what happened to Mac."

The man's face was a mask of anguish. "I don't *know,*
Walt, I just don't know!" He pulled away again, turning
to bury his face in his hands. "I just don't know."

"I was supposed to be on patrol that night. You pulled me
for guard duty and sent Mac."

"I got an order, McNamara on patrol, Skinner on guard.
I followed orders."

"Who gave the order, John? Was it Oldham?"

"No, it came from Command."

"Who?"

"Mitchell. Major Mitchell."

"Mitchell?" Skinner was puzzled. "Mitchell wasn't Command.
He was ..." Skinner's eyes widened and he drew a deep breath as
things became clearer. "He was Medical."

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

It was the middle of the night now, and Frank Watkins was dead.
Sandy Manetti, the daughter, was dead as well. They had gone
first. Cheryl Watkins was pleading for her grandchildren. And
Harold Roberson was rapidly losing patience. None of these people
seemed to be able to see the big picture. All they could see was
their precious families. All they wanted was to protect their own.
Couldn't anyone see that he was trying to protect the world?

A sudden knife of pain stabbed through his head and he clutched
his temples in agony. Protect the world. That was what he was
doing. It seemed so clear a minute ago. What was he trying to
protect the world from? He shook his head, trying to clear it.
He would put an end to what was happening. Then people would
believe him and he would be a hero. But what was it, again, that
was happening? There was a noise in the background that was
making it hard to think. He looked around and saw the woman,
still babbling before him.

"They're babies," the woman begged. "Please, please, leave them
alone!" She was crying, sobs torn from the bottom of her soul, and
part of Harold wanted to take pity on her and grant her request.
But another part of him thought how unfair it all was. No one
had ever tried to save him. No one had taken pity on him when
he had sobbed like that. No one listened to him when he begged
and pleaded to be spared.

He glanced at the children. One really was a baby -- still not
walking. Maybe 6 months? He wasn't sure. He just wasn't
good at estimating children's ages. The other one was about
the age as the general's son. The little one was in one of those
fenced pits -- a playpen, and couldn't get out. But he'd had to
gag and tie the older one.

He turned back to the woman kneeling before him. Really,
she hadn't aged well at all. She must be in her late fifties
and she looked every bit of it. 'Well,' he thought smugly,
'that's what comes of a guilty conscience.'

"You were part of it," he accused, suddenly angry again,
any vestiges of sympathy he may have felt washed away
in the wave of rage that swept over him.

"I wasn't," she wept. "I don't know what you mean! I was
just a nurse. I took care of the men going home, and the ones
going back!"

"You were there. You remember. You were part of the
experiments. You were the one that used to keep us awake."
He shuddered as the memories rose to the forefront. "You
wouldn't let us sleep -- for days at a time it seemed."

Her sobs were louder now, and her head hung low, resting
on her chest. "I didn't know! I was only there for 8 or 10
hours at a time! I didn't know you weren't sleeping when
I wasn't there! It was Doctor Mitchell. I just did what
Dr. Mitchell ordered." She lifted her face to him again, tears
still flowing freely. "Please, don't hurt the babies."

Mitchell? Mengele Mitchell? Oh, man. She was right.
It was Mitchell. How could he have missed that? The
name had to be in his book. He looked at the woman kneeling
on the rug, the rug that was covered with her husband and
daughter's blood. "ENOUGH!" he roared. "Stop that
wailing!"

She choked on a sob, and begged again, "Let the children
go, please. Please ..."

She just would not listen. He reached out and cuffed her,
hard, the blow knocking her over onto her dead husband's
body. With her hands bound behind her, she would have
trouble pulling herself upright again. Maybe that would
keep her quiet so he could think.

He pulled his little notebook and looked at the names
on his list. Bikowski was next, but maybe he was
going about this in the wrong order. Mitchell was
number one. Maybe he should be working from the
top down, instead of from the bottom up.

His head was hurting again now. The woman was still
crying as she struggled back into a kneeling position. Falling
against her husband had seemed to put an end to any hope of
rational behavior from her. She was babbling, sobbing hysterically
now. Her noise was distracting him. He couldn't focus on what
he needed to do if she wouldn't be quiet. And she obviously
wasn't going to accept her responsibility in all this. He looked
at her, eyes narrowing as he realized she just wasn't going to
help him at all.

With one swift movement, the knife flashed out, and the
noise stopped.

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

While Skinner was at his meeting, Scully had made a phone
call. Reaching the office of the Lone Gunmen, she had given
a brief overview of what was happening to Byers, and put in
a request for some "research" on the projects, the people
involved, and anything else the guys could dig up.

She, Skinner, and Mulder had worked through the night.
Mulder had insisted on reading every one of the notebooks,
papers, and files Harold had left for him, and was only about
halfway through. Scully had continued working through the
material the hastily assembled task force had provided,
and she had put together an impressive list of interconnecting
names, all government, most military at one point or another,
and a large percentage medical in some capacity.

She'd identified two project goals, one with regard to
sleep deprivation, and one regarding pain tolerances.
She'd also come across a link through a number of
different files, that when put together, indicated that
Mulder's father may have been tangentially involved
in providing 'merchandise' for parallel experiments,
as well.

She had not shared this information with her partner
yet, and she wasn't sure she was going to.

Mulder groaned, and she looked up, watching as
he pulled off his glasses and gently rubbed his temples.
He looked up and caught her staring, smiled, then
rose cautiously to his feet.

She started to rise as well, but he waved her back
down. "I'm better, Scully, really. Not dizzy at
all."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and he
answered her silent inquiry. "Really. See?" He
made a quick circle standing in the same place, then
looked at her again, smiling. "Head still hurts some
though."

"You can have some more Tylenol," she offered.

"I'm gonna hit the bathroom first, then I'll take a
couple. And Scully? Could I have a cup of coffee now?
Please?"

She smiled at the little boy quality in his voice. He
certainly knew how to get his way around her. She
looked up at him. "A few more hours, Mulder. When
Skinner gets back, and *after* you eat something
solid, OK?"

He frowned, but nodded in acceptance, then padded
off to the bathroom. She returned to her piles and papers,
and was rapidly absorbed in reading again. She had
just opened a new folder when she was jarred from her
note taking by an urgent, worried call from Mulder.

"Scully -- uh, could you come look at something for
me?"

Mulder? Asking for help in the bathroom? This could
not be good. She got up and moved quickly down the
hall. She rapped once, then stuck her head in the
door. "What? Are you all right?"

Mulder was pale again, paler than he had been in
a while now, and a worried frown creased his brow.

"Uh ..." He colored slightly, then pointed down at the
toilet. "I think I'm bleeding."

She hurried in to look and, sure enough, the water in
the bowl was tinged red. "Oh, Mulder," she sighed.
"I should have known. Is this the first time you've
gone since you pulled the catheter?"

He hung his head and nodded.

"You probably broke the skin a little because you didn't
deflate the balloon before you pulled the damn thing out."
She sighed again, exasperated this time, and moved back
to the doorway. "You'll be all right, but it may hurt for a
few days till it heals."

"It already hurts," he whined. "It burns."

"Consider it your penance for lack of patience."

"Scully! How can you be so callous?"

"You get in enough trouble without your self-inflicted
problems, Mulder. You've really got to learn to be
a better patient."

He looked at her then, grinning wholeheartedly. "Hey,
doc," he said, "Wanna help me learn to be a better patient?"
He motioned at himself. "Maybe you could -- you know --
examine me or something."

His grin turned into a full-fledged leer, and she frowned
to cover the giggle that threatened to emerge. It just
wouldn't do to encourage him. "I don't think so, G-man.
I've already checked you out and you're out of commission
for a while." The giggle broke through and he laughed
with her, then stepped to the door and gave her a quick hug.

"OK, you win," he said, conceding graciously. "I don't
think I'm up for anything anyway. But I would like a shower,
if I can get my doctor's approval for that."

She patted his arm, then said, "Keep your head out of
the water, make it fast, and I'll change your bandage when
you're done."

"Deal," he replied, then kissed her quickly and pushed
her out the door, shutting it almost in her face. "But
I get privacy!" he called through the now closed door,
and she laughed again as she returned to her couch and
her notes.

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

Skinner stopped by the Hoover after his meeting with
Bikowski. He had learned that John had had some distant
contact with Mitchell over the years, mostly in the form of
occasional contracts thrown to his consulting firm. John
had admitted he hadn't been totally convinced he'd just
gotten lucky and been low-bidder, but had not wanted
to rock the boat, especially in the early years when he
was just getting established.

Skinner had used the older man's sense of honor and
his guilt to persuade him to set up a meeting with Mitchell.
Bikowski should be calling before noon with particulars.
In the meantime, he wanted to check in with his team
before heading back to free Scully up for the autopsies.

Several phone calls and a hurried meeting later, he was
on his way out the door when the phone rang again.
He paused waiting to see if Kim was going to put it
through. She was excellent when it came to knowing
who to screen and who to let in. The phone on his
desk buzzed again, and he walked back over to lift
the receiver, once again trusting his assistant's judgment.

"Skinner," he said.

"Ah, yes, Sir, that'd be who I'm looking for," a deep
voice with a heavy Southern accent replied. "This is
Sheriff Hunter Talbot, down 'yere in Cumberland County.
In Virginia?"

"Yes, Sheriff. How can I help you?"

"Well, Sir, I am in receipt of your advisory requesting
information on unusual murders in Virginia or Maryland."

"And ..." Skinner prompted.

"Well, I've got one."

Skinner perked up immediately. "Where? When?"

"Here in Cumberland, the city, that is. Well, the outskirts
of the city. That's why I'm involved. You see, Sir, the city
does have a small police force, but when something happens
on the outskirts ..."

Skinner interrupted, "Sheriff? The murders, please?"

"Ah, yes, the murders. It is a puzzlin' one."

"Could you tell me about the murders, Sheriff?" Skinner was
rapidly losing patience with the fabled Southern long-windedness.

"I've got me three dead people. Frank and Cheryl Watkins, and
their daughter Sandy. Such a shame, too. Nice people. Cheryl
done lived here all her life. Came home and married Frank after
serving in Viet Nam back in the sixties. Been here ..."

"Viet Nam? Sheriff, this is important. Was she a nurse in the
war?"

"Why, yes, Sir, she was. Came home and married Frank. They
were high school sweethearts, I guess you could say. Frank
couldn't serve 'cause of flat feet. But Cheryl, she..."

"Sheriff," Skinner cut in again. "How were they killed?"

"Knifed, I reckon. That'd be the most obvious cause, less'n
it was something cain't be seen."

"Look, Sheriff Talbot,"

"Call me Hunter, Sir."

Skinner shook his head in frustration. "Sheriff," he repeated,
"I'm sending a team down. Don't move anything that hasn't already
been moved." Skinner was unfolding a map and measuring distances.
"Two, two and a half hours, tops. Wait for us, before you do anything
else."

"This fit your profile, Sir?"

"It certainly sounds like it, Sheriff. My profiler needs to view
the scene as is, with the bodies in situ -- in place, that is."
Skinner winced at his gaffe, hoping he hadn't offended the man.

"Yes, Sir, in situ. Anything else we need to do?"

"Just hold the scene for me, and try to keep this quiet for
a bit longer. I'll be in touch when we're almost there
for specific directions to the crime scene. How can I
reach you?"

Talbot reeled off a number and Skinner scribbled furiously.
"Thank you, Sheriff," he said. "I need to mobilize my
team now, but we'll be in contact shortly." He went to
hang up, but halted in mid-movement at the anxious
voice that reached his ears.

"Mr. Skinner, Sir?"

He brought the phone back to his ear and impatiently
asked, "Yes, what is it?"

"What do you want us to do about the children?"

End part 09/17

Profiles in Caring IV 10/17

They were traveling through the Virginia countryside, about
20 minutes from the crime scene in Cumberland, when
Skinner's cell rang. It was Bikowski.

"I've got another murder, John," the AD said. "A nurse who
worked Nam for a couple years. I'm in Virginia, but I'll
be back by 7:00 this evening. Get Mitchell to come to the
Hoover then. You, too. We've got to get to the bottom
of this if we're going to put an end to it."

He listened for a moment, then spoke soothingly. "I've
already put agents at your house, John. Look out the window --
you should see the car at the curb.

"Yes, twenty-four hours, until this is resolved. I'll see you
tonight, John." He closed the phone and sighed. He looked
over his shoulder towards Mulder and Scully in the back.
Mulder was sporting a new bandage, and the swelling on his
face was almost gone. The previously vivid purple and red
bruises had faded to lighter greens and yellows -- a sure sign
of healing.

His eyes were closed, but Skinner was sure he was not asleep.
More likely, he was mentally preparing himself for the trip
into Harold Roberson's mind. His hand clutched Scully's,
and his fingers twitched periodically. When that happened,
she would speak softly to him, and Skinner could see the
man's tension ratchet down a notch or two. But despite
Scully's efforts, Mulder was wound tighter than an overstrung
violin, and proximity to the scene was only making it
worse.

He cleared his throat. "Did you two eat anything this
morning?" he asked. The driver, Gerrolds again, shot
the AD an incredulous look before returning his eyes to
the road.

"I can't eat, Sir," Mulder mumbled, eyes still closed,
hand still holding onto Scully.

"It's all right, Sir," Scully said. "This is probably not the
best time to be eating right now anyway. But," she directed
her comment to Mulder though she was answering Skinner,
"we *will* eat after we leave the scene."

Skinner watched as Mulder winced but remained silent.
He dug in his pocket for Sheriff Talbot's number, then
opened his cell again and placed the call. After getting the
directions and passing them on to Gerrolds, he asked if
there was any word on the children's location. He was
surprised when his answer came from the back seat of the
car.

"You won't find them down here, Sir," Mulder said. His
eyes opened and he asked, "Did you put someone at my place?
I don't think he'll go back there, but just in case."

"One moment, Sheriff," Skinner said into the phone. "Yes,
Mulder, I've got a couple of people at your apartment. Why do
you think he won't go back there?"

Mulder shrugged. "Just a hunch at this point. I may know
more after we view the scene."

Skinner returned his attention to the phone. "My agent doesn't
feel that the children are in the immediate area, Sheriff." He
paused as the sheriff spoke, then said, "Yes, the profiler. We'll
hope to know more after we see the Watkins' house."

Skinner closed the phone, then turned in his seat to observe
his agents in the rear. He watched as Mulder closed his eyes
again, and returned to his mental preparations, face screwing
up in -- what? Fear? Disgust? Anger? All of the above? Well,
anger and disgust were understandable, but fear was something else.

"Mulder," Skinner said softly, and waited until the man opened
his eyes and looked at him. "You are not going in there alone,
you understand? Scully is here. I am here. You are not doing
this alone."

Scully smiled at him then, and Mulder's Adam's apple bobbed
as he swallowed hard. He took a deep breath and murmured,
"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir," his eyes holding Skinner's for a
moment.

"You can take a break, leave or ask for help -- whatever help you
need," Skinner looked pointedly at Scully and Mulder's
intertwined fingers, "at any time. Just remember, you are not
alone, and," he flushed slightly and glanced at Gerrolds from
the corner of his eye, "you are not to leave us, physically, or
mentally, got that?"

Mulder gave a small, tight smile, and responded, "I'll try,
Sir, on all counts."

They pulled into the driveway of a mid-sized suburban home,
and were greeted by the sheriff. The forensic van was behind
them and agents from two other cars piled out as well. Within
moments, the yard was swarming with people and equipment,
as Skinner made the introductions.

"SAC Stevens, my lead man on this investigation. Special
Agents Jefferson and Callahan -- they did the preliminary
investigative work into our suspect's whereabouts. Special
Agent Scully -- our pathologist. She'll need directions to
the morgue when we're done here. I want her to do the
autopsies."

"I don't know how our coroner will feel about that," the
sheriff commented.

Skinner's face tightened, but he forced a smile. "Sheriff, I
have been most impressed with the level of interdepartmental
cooperation you have shown thus far. And especially
appreciative of the lack of jurisdictional argument. Let's
not change that now, shall we?"

The sheriff snorted, then said, "They teach you to shovel
that shit in FBI school?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, they do," Skinner replied, a
genuine smile on his face now. "It's a management
requirement."

Everyone laughed at that, except Mulder. His attention was
focused on the front door, and he was slowly taking one
or two steps at a time in that direction. Between each forward
movement, he'd stop, staring at the door, then force himself
to move again. Scully hurried to catch up with him, and
the sheriff asked, "That your profiler?"

"Yes," Skinner said shortly. "Agent Mulder. This is a difficult
job for him."

Talbot was nodding. "Not surprised. I've heard they take this
kinda thing right into them. Must be pretty hard."

Skinner looked at the sheriff, surprised by the man's level of
understanding, then nodded gratefully. "If you could keep
your people away for a bit, Agent Mulder prefers to work
with a minimum of audience."

The sheriff was nodding again, and turned to speak to a
deputy. Within minutes, brown shirts were filing out of the
house and moving to lean against or sit in cars.

Mulder reached the front door, and stopped. "Hey, Scully?"
he whispered.

"I'm here, Mulder."

"I'm gonna go in now. You, uh, wanna come with me?" His
voice was hesitant, unaccustomed to asking for help in these
matters, but there was an undercurrent of pleading that rang
through clearly to Scully.

"Wouldn't be anywhere else, partner," she answered.

They stepped in together, and Mulder froze. The living
room was a charnel house, blood covering many of the
surfaces, two bodies lying in the middle of the room, another
slightly off to the side, near an empty playpen.

"Cause of death, Scully?"

"Sheriff says knifing. Want me to look?"

He nodded and she asked, "You OK?" He nodded again and
she walked to the body by the playpen. A cursory glance told
her the sheriff was probably right in his assessment. A quick
look at the other two confirmed it. She walked back to Mulder,
observing him closely.

His eyes were wide, but unfocused. It was as if he was taking
in the whole room at one time, but not really seeing it. Was he
visualizing what had happened in this room?

"Mulder?" she said softly, and he started when he heard his name.
"It does look like they bled to death from multiple stab wounds."

He nodded again, then said, "I need to think for a few minutes."

She patted his arm, then stepped to the side and slightly behind
him, out of his range of vision. She had been standing there for
about 10 minutes when Skinner quietly entered the room and
joined her. The two stood together, watching Mulder, staring
at the bodies and the blood, and exchanging increasingly
concerned looks.

Mulder shivered within his suit coat, then folded his arms
tightly about himself. He stood unmoving for nearly twenty
minutes, eyes staring unseeingly at the vision before him.
He suddenly looked up and asked, "Did he leave the weapon?"

Skinner shook his head and Scully answered quietly, "No. No
weapon."

Mulder was still directing his comments to the air before him,
his back rigid, arms still circling his chest. "Was it a big knife,
Scully?"

"The blade was fairly large from what I could see, yes. I'll
know more after I complete the examination."

Mulder was nodding. "I have to go look at them," he said,
but he made no effort to move.

Scully and Skinner exchanged a quick glance, then Skinner
stepped forward and said, "I'll come with you."

Mulder shook his head. "I can't explain it, but I need to
be alone with them." He shuddered, then stepped forward
and began the short journey to the first body -- the woman
lying near the playpen. There was blood everywhere, and
he stepped carefully to avoid treading in it.

When he reached the young woman, he rolled her over,
so that she was lying on her back, and knelt beside her. He
stared at her eyes for a long time, then gently reached out
and touched her face. He moved his hand and began
to stroke her hair, brushing it away from her face. His own
eyes were glazed, and he began to rock in place, then began
to mumble inarticulately under his breath.

Scully moved closer to hear what he was saying and
Skinner followed her. His garbled mutterings slowly became
coherent thoughts.

"She wasn't first. The man was first. He had to take out the
man first, then he could get the women. But she resisted.
Her children. The baby was in the playpen. She just wanted
to get to the baby." His voice broke and a single tear rolled
down his cheek. He rocked faster, his movement becoming
almost violent. "He thought she was trying to run, and
so he came after her. He was angry. That's why there are so
many wounds -- so much blood. But she just wanted to get
to the baby."

His hand was still stroking the dead woman's hair and his
breath caught on a ragged sob. "She just wanted to protect
her children. She only wanted to protect the children."

He grew silent again, and the frantic rocking began to
slow. He eventually stilled, then settled back on his haunches,
his fingers still twined in the woman's hair, blood streaking
his face where he had rubbed his eyes as he spoke.

He closed his eyes, and Scully and Skinner could see him
drawing away, the inward focus consuming him. They let
him sit like that for some time, exchanging increasingly
worried glances until Scully finally could take no more.

She knelt beside him, then reached out and gently touched
her partner, murmuring his name. He was cold, like ice, and
she unconsciously jumped slightly at the chill feel of his skin
under her fingers. "Cold," she said to Skinner, and he nodded
and removed his own coat, wrapping it around Mulder.

He didn't respond -- not to Scully calling his name, or to the
additional warmth the coat offered. He was lost in a trance-
like state, seemingly sliding away from friend and lover
as they watched. Scully took his hands, prying them from
their nest within the dead woman's hair, and began to rub
the frozen digits in her hands.

Skinner knelt beside his agents, taking one of Mulder's
hands from Scully and beginning his own warming
massage. He was taking his cues from Scully, watching
her to see what to do next. She was talking to Mulder,
murmuring softly, repetitive phrases meant primarily
to draw him back to the here and now, to ground
him in reality.

It took some time, but slowly Mulder began to respond.
His eyes cleared first, and he actually looked at them.
Then he spoke haltingly, "I can see it." His eyes
were haunted, and tears threatened to spill over at
any moment.

Skinner dropped Mulder's hand and rose quickly, pulling
the younger man to his feet, retaining his grip on his
arm as he swayed slightly. Skinner reached down
again and pulled Scully up, and watched as she stepped
beside Mulder and wrapped her arm around his waist,
offering him her support.

He shuddered again, then closed his eyes. "He just
came in and killed the man. One wound, right, Scully?"
Skinner looked at her in time to see her shrug
helplessly.

"I'm not sure, Mulder. Do you need me to look now?"

"No. I know. There's only one wound. One strike,
between the ribs and into the heart." Mulder's hand
was moving, mimicking the action he was describing.
"The blood spurted out, over his hand, warm and sticky,
and the odor filled his head. He pulled the knife, hard
to the right, extending the cut." Mulder opened his eyes,
huge, pain-filled orbs, and said, "That's why there was
so much blood. He liked the blood.

"It scared the daughter." He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Shit. I guess that's an understatement. She ran to
the baby, and Harold misunderstood. He thought she
was trying to get away." Mulder closed his eyes again,
face screwed up against the images unfolding in his
mind.

Skinner wondered if the man was actually having
visions, or just making connections in a way that
went far beyond what most could do. However he
did it, it was an incredible ability. Skinner had no
doubt that the murders had occurred just as Mulder
described.

"He was angry. He chased her down." Mulder's
eyes opened, and he pointed at the bloody footprints
traced on the rug and floor. "She reached for the
baby, and he stabbed her in the back." His arm was
moving again, a repeated stabbing motion, and his
face was blank. His voice had dropped to a dull
monotone as he gave his recitation. "She fell and
he just kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing.
She rolled to get away from him, and he stabbed
her chest and abdomen too. She was crying, and
the baby was crying and the older child, too. There
was just so much noise."

He lifted his hands to cover his ears, then shook off
Skinner's grip and stepped away from Scully's partial
embrace. Scully looked at Skinner and mouthed,
"Blanket," and he nodded. She turned and stepped out
of the room.

Mulder walked to the two bodies in the center of the
room. He stood over them, looking down at Cheryl
Watkins. He put his hands behind his back, imitating
the position hers were in, then knelt awkwardly on
the floor.

He remained on his knees, motionless, eyes closed
again, as he relived an experience he had never had.
He was pale, his face a sheet, and beads of sweat adorned
his brow. He swayed and Skinner went to stand over
him, ready to catch him if he fell over.

Mulder opened his eyes, then looked pleadingly up
at Skinner, who was looming over him. "She begged,"
he said. "It was the worst for her. She begged for the
babies. Her husband was dead. Her daughter was
dead. But she was just a distraction for him. He thought
she was what he wanted, but it wasn't. She wouldn't
be quiet, so he made her. He made her be quiet."

Mulder was panting as he spoke, his voice a ragged
whisper now, and his chest heaved as he struggled
to get the words out. "Mulder," Skinner said, extending
his hand downward. The agent's eyes were staring
through Skinner and he was quite sure Mulder did not
even see him. What demons did the man see?

His breathing was growing more erratic and Skinner
reached out to touch him, to give him a physical
connection to hang on to. The man was like ice,
his skin clammy and the beads of sweat cold as
Skinner brushed them away. "Mulder," he called
again.

When he received no response, no recognition, he
knelt down in front of his agent, his profiler, his
friend. Mulder's neck was still pulled back, his eyes
focused upward at something only he could see.
Skinner slid to the side and gently placed a hand
on Mulder's shoulder. "C'mon, Mulder," he
said, "you've done enough here."

"The baby is dead," Mulder said in that same dull
monotone. "He'll leave the baby in a medical facility.
Try Walter Reed."

Skinner blinked in amazement, then shook himself.
His eyes flicked down to the agent's hands, still
clasped tightly behind his back, and he was shocked
to see blood dripping from his wrists. Abandoning
any pretense of gentleness, he leapt back to his
feet, roaring "Scully!" as he wrenched Mulder's
arms apart and pulled them back to the front of
the man's body.

Scully came hurrying in, blanket in hand, and
gasped as she looked at Mulder kneeling on the
bloody rug, his eyes staring unseeingly at the
ceiling, his hands held firmly in Skinner's
grasp.

The older man lifted them slightly as he looked
at Scully. She stared at the blood dripping from
beneath Mulder's cuffs, then looked at Skinner again.

"What happened?"

"I think he clawed his wrists open," Skinner responded.

She turned her attention to the kneeling man. "Oh,
Mulder," she breathed. "Everything is so hard for you,
isn't it?" She gently wrapped him in the blanket, then
took his hands from Skinner. "Get my bag, please?"

Skinner nodded and ducked quickly out of the house.

Scully knelt in front of Mulder, cradling both his
hands in her lap. She stroked his face, his arms,
his shoulders, and spoke to him. "Mulder, partner,
come on back to me."

He tensed at her voice, then slowly brought his head
down until he was looking at her. "Scully," he
croaked. He blinked in confusion, then looked down
at himself. His pants were covered in sticky, almost
dried blood from where he had been kneeling. His
shirt was smeared with the blood of the dead as well
as his own fluids that had dripped from his mutilated
wrists. "Scully," he said again, "I'm dirty."

"Shh," she murmured, "it's OK. You can change.
We'll get you more clothes."

He looked down again, then said, "Not my clothes. My
head. He's in there." He pulled his hands from Scully's
lap and gripped his head tightly. "I'm dirty," he sighed.
"I don't think I'll ever be able to get rid of him."

She reached out and tugged his hands free, holding
him just above his still bleeding wrists. "Hush now,"
she whispered.

He turned his haunted eyes to her, then twisted his
hands within her grasp. Lowering his gaze, he stared
at his palms for a long moment, then murmured, "Their
blood is on my hands."

He shivered violently, then leaned forward, and she
caught him in a tight embrace. She rocked him slowly,
still whispering soothing noises to him. They were in
that position when Skinner came back in with her bag.

She looked up at him over Mulder's head, where it was
snuggled against her shoulder. "Help me get him out
of here." Mulder shivered again within her grasp, and
she added, "He's got to get out of here. Now."

Skinner nodded, then bent down and bodily lifted the
younger man to his feet. Scully scrambled up beside
him and between the two of them, they walked Mulder
to the door and out into the sun beyond.

Stevens and the sheriff moved forward, Stevens asking,
"Can I help, Sir?"

"No, thank you," Skinner responded shortly. "Let the techs
in now. Mulder is done." He looked around. "Where is
Gerrolds? We're heading back to DC immediately."

Scully shook her head. "No -- not yet. A motel."

"A motel, then. What's close, Sheriff?"

"And a store, Sheriff? Where I can get him some clean
clothes?"

The sheriff looked at Mulder, sagging heavily between the AD
and the small woman doctor. Not a job he would want. Ever.
If getting the man some clean clothes would help, well, it was
the least he could do. "C'mon," he said. "I'll take you. Your
man Gerrolds can stay and help here. I'll take you over to the
Days Inn, then I can run up to Wal-Mart and get your boy
here a sweatsuit or something."

He turned and lead the way to his cruiser. He opened the back
and watched as the two gently settled the profiler into the seat.
The woman hurried around to the other side and climbed in
beside him, pulling him down into her lap, and resuming her
nonsense noises. The AD shut the door, then got into the
front. The sheriff settled behind the wheel, took one more
look in the rear-view mirror at the man in the back, and breathed
a sigh of relief that he didn't have to journey into a murderer's
madness to do his job.

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

Mulder was sleeping now. He had been slightly more
alert when they reached the hotel, following Scully
obediently into the bathroom and letting her strip him
down and shove him under the steaming water of the
shower. He had stood there for a long time until the
warmth finally began to break through the cold that
had gripped his soul.

He had finally emerged to find Scully standing by the
sink, patiently waiting for him. He took the towel she
extended then stepped to the toilet. "Uhm, Scully?
Give me a minute?"

She gave him an appraising look. "You look better
but I'm not leaving."

"Scully ..."

"Me or Skinner, Mulder. You're not going to be alone
for a while."

"Turn your back then," he said, too tired to fight.

She obliged and then whirled again when she heard
his sharp intake of breath as he began to urinate.

"What?? What's the matter?"

"Burns. I told you."

"So you did. I'll see what I can get you for that, OK?"

He nodded, then asked, "Clothes?"

She handed him new boxers, then a pair of sweat pants,
a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. He was almost dressed, seated
on the now closed toilet putting on socks, when there was
a knock at the door. "Everything OK?" a deep voice called.

Scully opened the door, and Skinner stood there, a worried
frown creasing his brow. "Help me get him to the bed. I
need to change his head bandage and wrap his wrists."

"I can get myself to the bed, Scully," Mulder said
petulantly. He rose quickly, then reached out blindly
for the wall when a sudden wave of dizziness overcame
him. He was teetering, black spots dancing before his
eyes, when a pair of strong arms caught him, holding
him tightly and steadying him.

"Slowly, Mulder," Skinner said, "let's get you over to
the bed."

Mulder nodded this time and walked carefully to the
bed, Skinner's hand on his arm the whole way. He sat
and silently let Scully change the dressing on his head.
He held out first one, then the other hand for her to wrap
the wounds he had caused on his wrists. As she finished,
he looked up and whispered, "I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know, Mulder," she responded.

"I don't even remember doing it."

"Shh, it'll be all right. It's not as bad as it looked."
She looked at her watch, then said, "We need to leave
by 4:00 or so for the AD to make his meeting with
Mitchell. Can you eat something?"

Mulder blanched at her words and shook his head.

"All right," she sighed. "You can slide for now, but I want
you to sleep for a few hours and you *will* eat when you
wake up, OK?"

"I'll try, Scully, that's the best I can offer."

She leaned down and kissed him softly. "I'll always
take what you offer, partner." She kissed him again,
slower, longer, deeper, and his eyes widened in
surprise. He glanced uncomfortably in Skinner's
direction, and caught the approving look the AD gave
just before he turned his back and busied himself with
some papers at the table.

"What was that for?" he murmured.

"I want you to remember why it's a good idea to stay
here. I don't want you to forget what you've got here,
what we've got. I don't want to lose you, not to anything,
but especially not to a nightmare like Roberson."

He pulled her to him, and this time he kissed her. "I'll
remember," he vowed. "I could never forget this."

She settled him in the bed and sat beside him until he
fell asleep, then moved silently to the small table where
Skinner sat.

"Anything?" she asked.

"I had them search Walter Reed for the baby's body,
but they didn't find it."

Scully slumped, then brightened slightly. "Maybe the
baby is still alive."

Skinner shook his head. "I had them search Bethesda
Naval, too."

"And?"

"In an old duffel, in the laundry room."

"Dead?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Oh, God." She looked at her partner, sleeping peacefully
for a change and shook her head sadly. "He's gonna be
so upset."

"We need him to write it up."

"I know." She shuddered, then turned to Skinner and gave
a weak smile. "Can it wait till we get home?"

Skinner nodded. "Yeah. It can wait that long. How long
do you want to let him sleep?"

"I *want* to let him sleep until he wakes up rested for a change.
But I imagine he'll be awake well before we need to wake him.
Let's just wait and see what happens."

"I'll go for food," Skinner said. "I called Stevens and had
a car brought over while Mulder was in the shower."

She nodded in agreement. "Chinese? You can get him
egg-drop soup. He might be able to get that down and
keep it there."

"All right. I'm gonna go back to the scene for a while,
then find the food. I'll be back around 3:30 or so."
He rose and walked to the door. "You should rest, too,
you know." He smiled warmly at her, then laughed
as she blushed.

"I was planning to."

Skinner waved and disappeared out the door.

Scully stood watching the door for a moment, lost in
thought, then kicked off her shoes and crawled into
the bed. Even in sleep, Mulder reached out to her,
pulling her into his embrace, and nuzzling her hair.
"Scully," he sighed contentedly.

"I'm here, Mulder," she whispered, "I'm here."

End part 10/17

Title: Profiles in Caring IV 11/17
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R to NC-17 for violence and disturbing imagery
Category: SA - character exploration
Spoilers: None
Keywords: MSR - M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully
brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox
if they sue me, because I am poor and have nothing material they can
profit from.

Summary: Mulder discovers Harold Roberson is not in the Federal
Institution for the Criminally Insane. In searching for Roberson,
he finds more than he bargained for.

Profiles in Caring IV 11/17

Skinner was once again met with a scene of industrious
activity when he returned to the Watkins' home. Local
deputies and FBI agents swarmed in the house and yard
as samples were taken, pictures made, and any potential
evidence collected. He scanned the street and saw that
interviews were being conducted on two porches, and that
was just what he could see from the yard. Stevens had
his people working furiously on gathering every scrap
of information that could potentially prove useful, and
Skinner found himself anxious to let the man know he
approved of the job he was doing.

As he exited the car, the Cumberland sheriff walked over
and inquired after Mulder.

"Asleep," Skinner replied.

"Yes, but how *is* he?" the man persisted.

Skinner stiffened and stared at the man, but only saw sincere
concern in his eyes. Mulder had suffered enough, both from
using his abilities as a profiler, and from the concurrent or
subsequent reactions it frequently caused in other law
enforcement officials, but this man seemed genuinely
interested in Mulder's welfare. "He's exhausted," he
said simply. "It devastates him. I don't understand what
he does, but it absolutely tears the man apart."

"But you're there to put him back together," the sheriff
continued.

"Agent Mulder is my employee, and my friend. I am
responsible for his welfare."

"Don't get all stiff with me, Mr. AD," the sheriff said
affably. "I'm not implying anything. I just meant that
I was impressed with what little I saw of your man's
commitment, and equally impressed with the support
you and the lady doctor provided for him."

Skinner relaxed marginally, then said, "Agent Scully
and Agent Mulder are partners. They've been together
for almost 6 years now, and have the highest solve rate
in my unit."

The sheriff was nodding. "They work well together,
then."

"The best."

"Well, I never did hold with the idea that people involved
with each other shouldn't be partnered."

Skinner's eyes widened in surprise as the big man went on.

"I mean, the argument is that if you're involved with your
partner, you'll be worrying more about keeping him or her
safe than about following good procedure yourself." He
snorted. "But have you ever seen a good partnership where
that *wasn't* the case?"

Skinner relaxed all the way now and smiled. He genuinely
liked this small town sheriff. He seemed to be a good
officer, had an incredible understanding of people, and
was open and honest. It was a refreshing change from his
usual dealings with other jurisdictions.

"That was certainly true of those two long before they
became *involved,*" Skinner responded. "Sheriff, I
appreciate your concern, and," he waved at the numerous
brown-shirted deputies who scurried about, carrying
equipment, holding lights, and taking notes for the
agents who were working the scene, "your department's
cooperation and assistance. I'm going to need to leave
in a few hours and I'm going to ask you to continue
to assist here, if that's all right with you?"

The experienced law enforcement professional was back
as the sheriff replied, "Yes, Sir. We all knew Frank and
Cheryl, -- he pronounced it Shurl -- and a lot of us either
watched Sandy grow up, or grew up with her. We want
to see the bastard that did this brought down."

"So do we, Sheriff, so do we."

"Did your profiler tell you anything useful?"

Skinner grimaced, then nodded slowly. "He thought the
baby might be dead. Told us to check military hospitals."

The sheriff closed his eyes as he asked. "And?"

"We found her. Bethesda Naval, in Maryland."

The sheriff gave a little shake and both men stood in
solemn silence for a moment, mourning a life ended
before it could begin.

The sheriff finally said, "Your other murders were
in the DC area, too, weren't they?"

Skinner nodded.

"Man must have a lair somewhere up there then.
Somewhere close, within a few hours. Hell, we're
not really all that far away when you think about
the size of the country."

Skinner looked at the sheriff. A lair. Not the cabin --
Roberson would never be careless enough to go back
there. But he was familiar with the territory. And it
was within a few hours drive.

"You may be more right than you know, Sheriff,"
Skinner said. "I'll talk to Mulder about it when he
wakes up. Good catch, by the way."

The sheriff flushed slightly, pleased with the praise.

"Well, now," he said, deflecting attention from himself,
"what is it that you need from me?"

"I'll be taking Agent Mulder back to DC, but Agent
Scully will be staying to do the autopsies. I'm planning
to leave one of my agents to drive her back afterward,
but I'd appreciate a guard or two, and a full time escort.
She's already been abducted twice by this madman."

"No problem, Sir. I'll put two deputies on them, and
I'll do escort duty myself."

Skinner held out his hand. "Sheriff Talbot, it's been
a real pleasure meeting you and working with you. I'm
just sorry it was under conditions of the loss of your
friends."

The men shook hands warmly and Skinner walked off
to confer with his ASAC on immediate plans.

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

Another one was dead. Harold finished wrapping
the small body in a plastic shower curtain, and stowed
it in the trunk. His initial hope of saving the children
was not working out at all. This one had fought him --
and fought him hard. He'd even bitten him. Harold
looked down at the small row of teeth marks on the
back of his hand. The child was evil, no doubt about
it. They were all weak, and gave up way too easily.
But this one was just plain evil. There really hadn't
even been any point in trying to save this one. Well,
there was nothing to do but keep trying. You just
couldn't give up on children.

He'd seen on the news where they'd found the baby.
He wondered if Mulder had made the connection to
the Navy hospital. But the larger question loomed
now; where to leave this one?

He was driving back to DC, sure that the right
place to leave his message would be revealed to him.
His mind would go foggy every now and then, and
it would be difficult to think. His head was hurting
again, and his purpose was not so clear. What
message was it that he wanted to convey anyway?

He shook his head, then pushed the worrisome
detail away. It would come. It always did. In the
meantime, he needed to plan his next move. He
was going to go straight to the top -- Dr. Mitchell.

No one would call the doctor by his nickname to his face,
but he had earned it by his participation in government
sponsored tests on cold water survival -- Mengele
Mitchell. Those tests were documented, publicized,
and apparently legit. The volunteers had been real
volunteers and had been free to withdraw from the
studies at any time. It was one who had exercised
that option who had given the good doctor his nickname.

And now, Harold was planning on visiting the man.
His name had appeared repeatedly during the course
of his research. Much of the so-called 'testing' seemed
to have been ordered by Doctor Mitchell. Harold stopped,
a new thought flashing through his mind. He pulled over
to the side of the road, and frantically dug out his battered
notebook with his list of names and addresses. Mitchell
lived in Georgetown. His wife was deceased. A teenaged
son still lived at home with his father.

Georgetown. University of Georgetown. That was
where he would leave his next message to Mulder.
If the man was as smart as he seemed, he would know
what Harold was saying, and he would be able to end
the torment that was still going on.

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

Mulder's nose itched. He reached up to rub it and
found his hands tangled in hair. Without opening
his eyes, he knew it would be a burnished auburn
swath of hair flowing from the woman who lay curled
in his arms. He tightened his hold slightly, and allowed
himself to slip back to that wondrous place between
sleep and wake, where things were good, and he was
happy, and life was peaceful.

He felt Scully shift against him and knew she was
waking, too. "Hey," he whispered hoarsely.

"Mmmm," she responded sleepily.

"You awake?"

"No," she responded, and he laughed softly.

"Well, me neither, but, I need to know something."
He looked down and saw her peeking at him through
one partially opened eye. "Where are we?"

"Days Inn - Cumberland."

"Why?"

"You were pretty stressed, Mulder." She was coming
fully awake now, moving within his embrace and she
turned first to face him, then to sit up next to him. "I
didn't want you making the trip back to DC until you
rested and got something to eat."

At the mention of food, Mulder groaned. "Scully, you
know how I am about food at times like this."

"I do know, Mulder." She shifted slightly away, then
folded her legs under her, sitting Indian style. She
reached out and took his left hand, her fingers gently
tracing the bandage that covered his wrist. "But you
have to make an attempt. I'm worried about you."

He turned his arm and caught her hand in his own,
then pulled it to his lips, kissing her palm. "And here
I thought you were the one having problems with Roberson."

She sighed. "I'm not totally comfortable with all this,
no. But I think you are more at risk now than I am. And
since there is very little I can do to reduce that risk, I am
going to make sure that you take care of yourself, so that
you don't find yourself weakened or compromised by your
own stubbornness."

He nodded, looked at his wrists and saw only the wrappings,
then asked, "What time is it? And where's my watch?"

"I've got your watch, and it's almost 3:30. Skinner will be back
any minute. He's bringing lunch."

Mulder pulled himself up to sit in front of Scully, crossing his
legs as she had. He reached out and took both her hands in
his. "What happens next? I need to get back to DC."

"I know," she said. "And I need to do the autopsies here."
She cocked her head as she thought. "I also need to do the
autopsies on General Oldham and his wife, but they've waited
this long, they can wait a bit longer."

"So you're going to stay?"

"Unless you want to let the locals do the bodies."

He shook his head. "No. I need you to do it. You know
what to look for. I don't think there'll be any surprises
though. They were all pretty straightforward kills." He
sighed. "I just don't like the idea of you being down here
by yourself. I don't think Roberson had targeted you last
time, but I don't want to take any chances."

"I'll be all right, Mulder. Don't fuss."

He snorted. "And exactly what is it called when you are worried
about me?"

"Concern. Caring. Love."

"So why is it when I worry about you, I'm fussing?" He gave her
a lopsided grin to show he wasn't angry, but waited for her to
answer nonetheless.

"OK, OK," she smiled. "Point taken. Maybe Skinner can have
someone stay with me. How's that?"

"Not as good as me staying with you," he leaned forward and
kissed her gently, "but it'll have to do." He placed his forehead
against hers, and murmured, "Please be careful."

"You, too," she whispered back. "You, too."

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

Mulder and Skinner were back at the Hoover shortly before
7:00. As they waited for Bikowski and Mitchell to arrive,
Skinner told Mulder they'd found the baby's body.

"She was in an old duffel bag in Bethesda Naval."

Mulder nodded. "Interesting. Navy, not Army. I wonder
why?" His eyes took on that faraway look as he worked to
put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Oldham was Army.
Watkins was Army. Mitchell was -- is -- Army? Why Navy?"
He looked at Skinner then asked, "Do the Marines have a
medical corps?"

"No. We use the other services. Why?"

"Well, Marines are more closely aligned to the Navy, right?"

Skinner nodded, hesitantly, but furrowed his brow in query.

"Maybe he went to Bethesda because of a Marine connection."

Skinner blanched. "Mulder, John Bikowski was a Marine.
My old CO, remember?"

"Do you have a guard on him?"

"On his house, yes. On him? No."

"Well, when he leaves here, be sure and put one on him."

Skinner nodded, then jumped slightly as his phone buzzed.

"Skinner," he snapped.

"Security, Sir. I have two gentlemen to see you."

"Can someone escort them up?"

"Yes, Sir."

Within minutes, Mitchell and Bikowski were in the office.
Bikowski introduced Mitchell and Skinner introduced
Mulder.

"Mulder?" Mitchell asked. "I know that name."

"Agent Mulder is the agent who discovered Harold Roberson
was missing. He is also an experienced profiler and is
assisting us in the capacity."

"No, that's not it." Mitchell closed his eyes, thinking,
then shook his head. "Never mind," he said. "It will
come to me." He pointed loosely at Bikowski. "John
was most forceful when he extended his invitation that
I accompany him tonight. What exactly can I do for
you, Mr. Skinner?"

Skinner produced the lists he and Scully had compiled and
showed them to Mitchell. "Doctor," he began, "we have
identified six different projects, which we feel are interconnected,
and which Roberson seems to have been involved in. We need
to know what the projects were, how Roberson was connected,
if Roberson is still involved. We also have a list of names
of people we believed to have also been involved in these
projects. Your name appears repeatedly in all the files we
cross-referenced. Other names appear with varying degrees
of frequency. There is a distinct possibility that anyone on
that list may be at risk from Harold Roberson."

"At risk? What do you mean?"

Skinner looked at Bikowski. "You didn't tell him?"

Bikowski shook his head. "I wanted to be sure he came."

"Tell me what?" Mitchell demanded.

"Harold Roberson has killed an active duty Army general
and his wife, and a former Army nurse, and her husband
and daughter. The general's young son was also killed,
though not at the same time, nor in the same manner."
Mulder was talking, relating the facts in a dispassionate
voice, trying to keep himself separate from words he
was speaking, the story he was relating.

"The former nurse -- I believe she served with you in Viet
Nam, Doctor -- Cheryl Watkins, was just killed last night.
Her grandchildren were abducted. The baby girl was found
this afternoon -- dead. The boy is still missing."

Skinner was observing Mulder closely. He spoke quietly,
but his left hand was clenched tightly into a fist, and his
jaw muscles twitched periodically. He was pulled from
his musing on what more he could do to assist Mulder
when Mitchell began to speak.

"I have been involved in a variety of special projects
throughout my career, Mr. Skinner. Most of them were
classified, and have remained so. I must confess, I am
both amazed and impressed you have been able to put
together this much information." He indicated the lists
that lay on Skinner's desk. "However, as much as I might
like to assist you, I am not able to discuss these items
with you."

"Doctor Mitchell, I understand the need for security.
However, I hold the highest clearances, and can assure
you that anything you say will be held as strictly confidential
as possible."

The doctor was shaking his head. "It's not that simple.
These projects fall well within the realm of national
security, and remain classified to today."

Mulder spoke again. "They remain classified because
they are still active. Or at least some of them are. Isn't
that correct, Doctor Mitchell?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that, Agent Mulder," the
doctor replied formally.

Skinner could see that Mulder was growing angry.
"Can you discuss your son's safety, Doctor?" the
younger man snapped back. "Because Roberson
kills the people he thinks were involved," Mulder
looked slyly at Mitchell, "or *are* involved, but he
*tortures* the children."

Mitchell started slightly at the word 'torture,' but
quickly regained his composure. "Mr. Skinner,
Agent Mulder, I don't believe there is anything I
can offer to assist you." He glanced covertly
around the room, almost as if scanning for listening
ears, then added, "I can only say that you are not the
only people searching for Roberson, and I have
every faith that he will be found, and soon. And
now, gentlemen, I need to go. My son is playing
tonight and I promised I'd be there before the game
is over. Good night." Mitchell turned quickly and
left, before anyone could protest.

"Should I have him stopped on the way out, do
you think?" Skinner asked.

"No," Mulder replied. "He's not going to talk unless
he has a better inducement than we can provide. He
doesn't strike me as being empathetic to other people's
pain. Can you put a tail on him?"

"Already arranged. And a car at his house."

Bikowski had remained silent through the entire
meeting. He looked at Skinner and asked, "This
man Roberson is not going to just go away like
Mitchell says, is he?"

It was Mulder who replied. "I don't think so. I think
Harold has been killing specific people for specific reasons,
and I don't think he's going to stop until he gets his
point across. And I don't think he's going to be very
easy to catch this time either. Not unless he decides he
wants to be caught."

"Walter," Bikowski was speaking again. "My family. What
do I do? I'm not involved and haven't been for over 20
years."

"We'll keep an agent at your house, and I'll put discreet
surveillance on you, your wife and son for the time being.
It's going to feel a bit like living in a fish-bowl, John, but
it's better than being totally vulnerable."

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

Mulder was sitting on the couch in Skinner's office,
nibbling at some crackers Skinner had put beside him.
He was reading the notebooks Roberson had left,
trying to determine what was rooted in fact, and what
was a madman's fabrications.

The notebooks told of medical experiments, repeated
injections into the abdomen of unknown substances,
of being kept awake for days on end, of painful burnings
and electric shocks that ended only with unconsciousness.
Mulder was pretty sure these things had occurred in
some form or another.

They also told of powerful conspiracies, of whispered
conversations where the takeover of the world was
discussed. Of a secret military that was set to emerge
and enforce martial law when the day came. Of aliens
being experimented on, and aliens being the experimenters.
Mulder was less sure of these, but felt that there was
some truth in them somewhere.

He finally completed the last notebook, closed it, and
rose. He walked to the window and stood looking out
over the lights of the city. As Skinner watched, he
could see the man's thoughts turn inward, the steady
drawing away from the world as his focus shifted totally
to whatever was happening in his mind.

As Skinner watched, Mulder's hand began to tremble.
The tremor crept up his arm, across his shoulders, and
down the other side. Before Skinner realized what had
happened, the man was shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly,
he turned and rushed to the wastebasket next to the
desk, and was violently ill. He half stood, half leaned, his
arms on the desk supporting himself, as he struggled
to regain control.

Skinner stepped to the small washroom and wet a
paper towel in cold water. He filled a paper cup
and returned with both. Placing the cup on the desk,
he handed Mulder the towel, then took his arm
and led him gently to the couch. After seating the
man, Skinner reclaimed the cup and offered it to
Mulder.

Mulder wiped his face, then took a few sips.
He leaned back onto the couch, resting his head
on the back and stretching his long legs out in
front. "I hate this," he muttered. In a louder
voice, he said, "Sorry about that, Sir."

"Don't worry about it, Mulder," Skinner responded.
"But I do need to know. What made you sick? Was
it what you were thinking about, or are you having
a recurrence of the nausea and dizziness from your
head injury?"

Mulder just shook his head. "I'm OK, now,"
he said.

Skinner walked over to the couch and knelt in
front of Mulder. "Don't do this, Mulder. I don't
have the time or energy to play games with you.
I want a straight answer and I want it now, or
you'll be explaining to Scully why you're getting
sick in my wastebasket."

Mulder closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh.
"I *really* hate this," he muttered again.

Skinner softened his tone and reached out to awkwardly
pat the younger man on the knee. "I know you do."
He paused, then rose and took a seat on the opposite end
of the couch. "But I still need to know what just happened,
and why."

"I'm really tired," Mulder admitted. "And I don't feel
like I'm getting anywhere on this."

"You knew where the baby would be," Skinner said.

"I knew where the *dead* baby would be," Mulder
corrected. "That's not exactly helpful information. And
I don't have a clue where the other child is." Mulder
shuddered. "But I suspect I know what the child is
going through." His eyes filled with tears and he brushed
them angrily away. "And I can't do a *fucking* thing
to prevent it."

"Mulder," Skinner rose again. "It's not the most
comfortable couch in the world, but I want you to lay
down and try to take a nap. Until we hear from
Scully, there's not much else you can do."

Mulder was shaking his head -- no -- and he started to
rise, but Skinner gently pushed him back down. "That
was not a request, Agent Mulder," he said firmly. "You
are of no use to anyone if you can't function. I want you
to rest until Scully calls. If it's 15 minutes or two hours,
I want you to try to get some sleep." He looked
sternly at the worn down man before him. "And you
never answered my question about your head."

"It hurts," Mulder muttered sulkily.

Skinner stepped back to the washroom and filled
another cup with water. Opening a bottle of
Tylenol, he shook out two, then pulled two prescription
bottles from his pocket and added another pill from
each. He returned to the office and offered both cup
and pills to Mulder.

Mulder looked up, eyeing him suspiciously. "What
is this?"

"These two are Tylenol." Skinner pushed two pills away
from the others. "This is something Scully had the Bureau
doctor fill for you for some discomfort you are having.
She said you'd know what it was for." Skinner raised
an eyebrow, but Mulder remained silent.

Mulder took the Tylenol and the other pill, swallowing
them down in a single gulp. "And that?"

Skinner sighed again. "Xanax. Scully thought it might
help you rest."

Mulder was shaking his head vehemently even before
Skinner finished speaking. "No. No way. Absolutely
not. Those things make me fuzzy and I need a clear
head. I need to be able to think. If we're going to
find that little boy, I've got to put things together and
make sense of this. I can't afford to be all whacked
out on meds."

Skinner nodded. "That's what she said you'd say. But
I'm telling you that if you don't lay down and rest, I'm
going to be inclined to try to force-feed you this little pill.
You said it yourself. You're at a standstill. Why not rest
and come at it in a few hours with a fresh perspective?"

"Fine," Mulder said grumpily. "I'll rest for a while.
I need some time to put the stuff I read together anyway.
But I want to know the minute Scully calls."

"All right, Mulder. I'm going to sit in Kim's office
for a while and make a few calls. You'll hear the phone
when it rings, OK?"

Mulder agreed and leaned back again, closing his eyes.

Skinner rose and went to his desk, surreptitiously turning
the ringer on the phone off. He grabbed a few files,
a notepad, and his cell phone and slipped out the door.

He sat at Kim's desk and began to work on recompiling
the list and developing a projected target ratio. But
his mind was not on the task at hand. He was thinking
of the man in his office. He sighed. There was nothing
he could say that would ease the man's pain. He was still
grappling with what to do, what to say, when his cell rang.

Opening it quickly to stifle the noise, he answered, "Skinner."

"It's me, Sir," Scully replied. "Gerrolds and I are on our
way back. Nothing unexpected in the autopsies. I'd say
the wound patterns support Mulder's hypothesis of what
actually happened. How was your meeting?"

"A bomb. Didn't gain a scrap of useful information beyond
confirmation that Roberson was involved in some kind of
covert project or projects, and that we are not the only ones
looking for him. All of which we knew before." He snorted
in disgust. "And still no word on the other child."

"How's Mulder?"

"I made him rest. I tried to get him to take the Xanax, but
he refused. It did give me enough leverage to get him to
agree to rest until you called." Skinner chuckled. "But
I turned off the ringer in the office. "You can wake him
when you get here."

"I should be there in about 2 hours or so."

"Dana? Um, maybe you could try to catch a nap as well?"

Scully laughed. "You only call me Dana when you're
worried about me. But in this case, don't be. Despite
my nap this afternoon, I'm dead on my feet and
planning to let Agent Gerrolds do all the driving
while I get as much sleep as I can. I still have to do
the general and his wife when I get back."

"Mmm. Maybe not tonight. And I'm glad at least one
of my two hotshot agents is being sensible. Rest well
and I'll see you in a couple hours."

Skinner had no more closed the phone than it rang again.
He opened it to be met with a hysterical male voice,
babbling in his ear.

"He's gone. Didn't come out from the gym. I should
have waited for him. I didn't think he'd go after me.
Not me. Didn't go after me. Went after Michael.
He's gone. What do I do now? He's gone ..."

The voice trailed off into loud sobbing and Skinner
listened for a moment longer then said, "Dr. Mitchell?
Is that you?"

There was an audible sniff, then a muffled voice said,
"Yes. And he's gone. Michael. My son. He's gone.
Roberson has my son."

End of part 11/17

Profiles in Caring IV 12/17

Skinner made arrangements for a team to collect Mitchell
and start an investigation into his son's disappearance.
He was trying to get as many of those details taken care
of as he could before he woke Mulder. The younger man
would have to be informed of this new turn, and he would
probably end up directing the investigation.

He closed his phone after the last call, and sat, slumped,
in Kim's desk chair. He was tired, too. He'd been going
nonstop it seemed like since this whole thing began.
He sighed. No time for this. He'd wake Mulder and
see if he had any ideas beyond what Skinner had already
done.

He glanced at his watch. Scully should be here in another
hour or so. In the meantime, he needed to get Mulder
up, put him back to work, and keep him functioning.
The case was taking its toll on him already, and he
was not fully recovered from his most recent injuries.
He was pushing back from the desk, in the process
of rising, when his phone rang again.

"Skinner."

"Assistant Director Skinner?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Um, I'm Sergeant Lascano, Georgetown Campus Police."

Oh, God. Skinner could feel it coming. They'd found
one of the missing children.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"Well, Sir, the Georgetown police told us about an
advisory you put out? On a missing child?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I don't think he's missing anymore."

"Alive?"

"Oh, no, Sir. Definitely not alive. To be frank, we're
not equipped to handle this kind of thing."

"I understand. I'll be over shortly, and send several
of our people as well. Are the local police there?"

"Yes, Sir. Their detectives arrived just a little bit
ago."

"Don't -- DO NOT -- let them touch the body or move
the body or even get near the body! Do you understand,
Sergeant?"

"Yes, Sir, I'll do my best."

"Just make sure your best is successful. I need the
scene undisturbed. Have someone meet me at the
campus entrance. We'll be there shortly."

He closed the phone, then lowered his head to the
desk. Children's deaths were the hardest. Mulder
would not take this well. He was ready to rise
and go and wake the man, when he heard a noise
from the doorway. Looking up, he saw Mulder
standing there, clutching the door, face pale.

"Where?" he whispered.

"Georgetown University."

"I need to find him," Mulder murmured. "He's
talking to me and I don't understand."

Skinner rose wearily and walked to the doorway.
He gripped the younger man's arm, waited until he
met his eyes, then said, "You're doing the best you
can. The man is insane. You can't be expected to
understand that."

Mulder stared into Skinner's reassuring eyes, then
nodded slowly. He dropped his head and asked
quietly, "Scully?"

"About an hour away. We'll call her from the car."
He walked briskly into his office and picked up both
his and Mulder's coat. Returning to the doorway where
Mulder still stood, he handed the agent his, and said,
"Now, let's roll."

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

As they drove to the university, Skinner filled Mulder
in on Doctor Mitchell's missing son and what he
had done to try to locate him.

"You need to keep a close eye on Mitchell. If Roberson
has the son, and he stays true to his pattern, he won't
kill him, until he kills the parent. If we can keep Mitchell
alive, maybe we can save the boy."

They reached the university and were quickly taken
to the building where the boy's body had been found.
Mulder stepped slowly out of the car, then walked up
the steps and into the corridor. Following their escort's
lead, he went down the steps and into the basement.

As they walked through a rather narrow corridor, his
steps began to slow, and Skinner moved up to be a bit
closer to him. "You OK, Mulder?" he asked.

The agent nodded and hurried forward to follow the
security guard around a corner. There before him
was the eviscerated body of a small child, neatly laid
out on a plastic shower curtain. The curtain rested
on a wooden sign that had been laid on the concrete
floor.

Mulder stopped abruptly and Skinner almost knocked
him over. Straining slightly to see over Mulder's
shoulder, Skinner took in the gruesome sight and the
deliberate placement of the child. There were several
campus cops off to the side, talking quietly with two
men in suits whom he assumed to be the Georgetown
detectives. The FBI agents he had had paged should
be here any time now.

He touched Mulder on the back, briefly, then slipped
by him to go and talk to the detectives. As he introduced
himself and exchanged what information could be
exchanged this early in an investigation, he kept a
close eye on the man he'd left standing at the corner
of the hall.

"A profiler?" one of the detectives asked curiously.
"This a serial killer?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Though really it's more
a man committing multiple murders. We know who
we're looking for; we just can't find him!" Skinner heard
the frustration in his voice and made a deliberate effort to
regain control. As Mulder began to move into the room,
Skinner turned to face him fully, watching his every step.
Behind him, he could hear the one detective whispering
to the other.

"You ever seen a profiler in action before?"

The response must have been negative because the first
speaker went on.

"I did. Once. Years ago. Just like this guy. All spaced
out like there wasn't anybody else in the room. Then he
started talking, saying what the killer had been doing,
why he was doing what he was doing. Talking like it made
perfect sense for a man to be killing teenage girls."

Skinner glanced over his shoulder in time to see the speaker
shudder.

"It was spooky," the man finished, and Skinner winced.

He stepped forward, both to distance himself from the men
behind him and to be closer to Mulder in case he indicated
he needed something, or had something to say.

But Mulder wasn't talking this time. And, as Skinner observed
him closely through narrowed eyes, he really wasn't all that
'spaced out.' He looked, well, he looked *sad.* And guilty.

Mulder walked over to the child and studied the careful display
of intestines that surrounded the small body. The gaping
hole in the abdomen was partially covered with a newspaper,
the wording obscured by blood.

"Gloves?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Skinner looked up, caught unprepared, but one of the
detectives produced a pair of latex gloves and Mulder
pulled them on. He lifted the paper carefully and set it
to the side. "This needs to go to the lab. I need to know
where it came from and what it says. And I need to
know *now.*"

He squatted down beside the child, reached out and
gingerly grasped the edge of the plastic curtain, then
tugged, pulling the body off the wooden sign.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?" one
of the detectives demanded. "We don't have photos
yet!"

"Sorry," Mulder mumbled perfunctorily. His attention
was on the sign now. Georgetown Testing Center.

"The first child was in my apartment. A blatant plea
for my attention. OK, he's got my attention. The second
one was in a hospital. A military hospital. A Navy hospital.
And now a university. A testing center. What the hell are
you trying to tell me, Harold?" Mulder remained beside the
sign for a moment longer, then rose.

"When does Scully get here?" he asked Skinner.

"I'm here, Mulder."

He whirled and saw her standing behind him, Agent
Gerrolds still in tow. "Scully! I need to know if anything
is missing."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You know -- anything inside."

She nodded. "Guess you want me to get started."

"Can you? I mean, if you're not too tired."

"No, I'm fine." She smiled at the slightly panicked
look that crossed his face. "Really, I'm OK. I napped
in the car. Wasn't much company for Gerrolds here."
She smiled at the young agent. "Is the van on the way?
I can get started as soon as we can get the body out
of here."

"Um, Scully? I really don't need a full exam. I just
need to know if anything is missing. Could you, like,
look around inside?"

"Here?"

He nodded.

"And I suppose you want now as well."

He nodded again.

"What exactly do you think is missing, Mulder?"

"Surprise me." He smiled. "I need to go. Mitchell's
kid is missing too."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "When?"

Mulder looked at Skinner as he answered. "About
8:30." He spoke to Mulder. "You need anything else?"

Mulder shook his head, then Skinner turned and spoke
to Gerrolds. "When did you sleep last?"

"I'm all right, Sir," the agent answered.

"That's not what I asked, Agent Gerrolds."

The man visibly deflated. "It's been a while."

"All right. Denali and Irvington are on the way. You
stay with Agent Scully until they arrive. Then one of
them takes over, and you get some sleep. I don't want
to see you back before 6:00 am."

He paused to let his words sink in. "When you get in
in the morning, report to me."

At Skinner's words, the young man brightened visibly.
At least he wasn't to be cut from all involvement. He
nodded his agreement, then headed over to talk to the
detectives while Scully prepared for her exam.

Skinner watched as Mulder reached for Scully, halting
himself guiltily before he touched her. He smiled to
himself, then said in a low voice, "Scully, would you
accompany Mulder to the stairs for me? I need to
talk to the detectives before we leave. I'll be there in
a minute." It was the best he could do to give them
a moment of privacy, away from prying eyes.

She nodded and Skinner watched as the two slipped around
the corner and down the hall. When Gerrolds started to
follow Skinner stopped him, and began telling him how
much his efforts had been appreciated thus far. He managed
to keep the young man's attention for several minutes, then
said, "Well, let's go get our charges, shall we?"

As they approached the two, standing at the foot of the
stairs, Skinner's phone rang once more. He answered,
listened for a few short moments, said thank you, and
hung up.

He looked at Mulder and Scully and said, "Mitchell
has disappeared."

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

The tension was climbing. Mulder could feel himself
winding up, like a spring coiling tighter and tighter
about itself. He was frantically shuffling papers, making
notes in margins, on pads, and muttering under his
breath.

Skinner drove silently, not wanting to interrupt if
his agent was onto something, but growing increasingly
unsure that silence was the correct response to Mulder's
unusual behavior. Finally, he spoke quietly and said,
"Anything I can help you with, Mulder?"

There was no reaction from the man, and the hurried
note taking and almost sub-audible commentary continued.
Skinner reluctantly decided to give it a bit more time
and refocused his attention on the road. But he kept
a close watch on the agitated young man beside him.

Mulder was reading again, pulling papers from folders
and collating them in his own internal order. He moved
a paper on sleep deprivation to rest under one on studies
of various psychoses, then added information on a study
of pain tolerance -- supposedly conducted on laboratory
rats. 'Rats, my ass,' he thought.

It was there, he could feel it. The connection he needed
to make it all click. The key to unlock the door to Harold's
internal logic, the key to understanding what was happening.
If he could just fit a few more pieces together, he knew
it would all make sense.

He closed his eyes and shuddered as he realized where
his thinking had turned. Once again, he had slipped
into a place where the thought processes of the insane
were beginning to make sense. The feeling of being
dirty was back -- he felt tainted, as if his own thoughts
had been contaminated and were no longer to be trusted.

His head hurt, right behind his eyes, and he could
feel himself growing angry and impatient, with Harold,
with himself, with everyone. The car made a sharp
right and then slowed suddenly, causing the loose papers
on his lap to slide to the floor. He jerked within
the confines of his seat belt, and tensed, then caught
himself before he said something ugly about driving
skills. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and
saw Skinner staring straight ahead, seemingly unconcerned
over the fact that the last 45 minutes of painstaking work
had just slid onto the floorboards of a government issue
Crown Vic. He shook his head. He was just on edge.
The papers were unimportant; what he needed was
already in his head.

They pulled up to a large, stately turn of the century home,
and Skinner said, "We're here."

Mulder looked up from rearranging his papers, an
out of sorts confusion evident in his features, and
asked crossly, "Where is here?"

"Mitchell's house."

"Why are we here?" Mulder snapped.

Skinner gave Mulder a strange look, then answered
in a soft voice, "This is where Mitchell was last seen.
The agent I put on him brought him home from the
school ..."

"No, not here," Mulder interrupted impatiently.
"There's nothing I can do here. I need to see where
the boy went missing."

"Why is there nothing you can do here?" Skinner
persisted.

"Because he's *DEAD!*" Mulder hissed. "He's
already dead and there isn't anything anyone can
do about it. We have to focus on finding the boy."
Mulder lifted his hand and ran it through his
hair, leaving a disheveled trail in his wake. "He
was as good as dead the minute Roberson got him."

Skinner was worried. He was used to Mulder in
a funk, Mulder disconnected, non-speaking, non-
responsive Mulder. He didn't like to see it, but he
was familiar with those aspects of Mulder as profiler.
This angry, almost manic Mulder was new, and
very disturbing.

"Would you know where we should look for the
body?" Skinner asked quietly.

"Yes! Yes! I know where to look. Send somebody
to find some cold water. Really cold water. Like
a pool in the mountains, or a really deep lake. Shit,
just for grins and giggles, maybe you should have
someone check the penguin pit at the National Zoo."

"How can you be so sure he's dead?"

"Because I know!" Mulder raged. "Isn't that what
I do? Become the killer so that I can know what
he does, feel what he feels, *be* what he is?"

Skinner stared at Mulder, allowing the silence
to grow until the younger man opened the car
door and jumped out, slamming it behind him
and muttering under his breath. He stormed off
about 10 yards away and began pacing furiously.
Skinner was about to follow his agent, growing
more concerned over his bizarre behavior by the
moment, when his phone rang again.

"I've finished the preliminary look-see that
Mulder wanted, and he was right. Big surprise,
that, eh? The spleen is missing. What do you
suppose that means, and how did Mulder know?"

"I don't have a clue," Skinner said distractedly,
"and frankly, it's the least of my concerns right
now. Mulder's acting very strangely and I'm
getting worried."

"Strange? What do you mean strange?" The concern
was quite evident in Scully's voice. "And where are
you?"

"We're at Mitchell's residence, but apparently I
was supposed to know to go to the school where
the boy disappeared, and not the house."

"Where is he now?"

"When he demanded to know why we were here,
instead of at the school, we had a short *discussion* that
resulted in him telling me Mitchell was already dead.
When I questioned him, he jumped out of the car and
stormed off. He's currently pacing, rather frantically,
I might add, about 10 yards away."

"It's the tension. I bet he's got something, or he's
close to it, and it's making him even more unsettled
than usual."

"Should I go and try to talk to him?"

"Maybe you should let me. I'm leaving now. Denali
and Irvington aren't here yet, though, so I'm on my
own."

"NO!" Skinner thundered. "Absolutely not! Is Gerrolds
still there?"

"Yes, but, really, I'll be OK. I just don't think I need
a full-time escort slash guard anymore. Roberson is
obviously not after me."

"Agent Scully," the AD said, "that is my decision to make.
And I require you to have someone with you at all time for
now. Is that quite clear?"

"Quite, Sir," Scully answered formally.

Skinner sighed. "Dana, we don't have time for this. You
really need to get over here fast."

Scully's tone softened somewhat as she replied. "I figured
you were going to be insistent so I already had Gerrolds in
tow. We're in the car and moving now. We should be
there in --" she paused and Skinner could hear her ask,
"How long, Gerrolds?" -- "about 15 minutes."

"I'll watch him. Get here soon. This is unnerving."

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

The boy had hardly been a boy. He was almost as
big as Harold and it had not been easy to convince
him to leave quietly from the gym's showers. Only
a sufficiently embellished tale of his father's 'accident,'
made credible by references of the doctor being en
route to a meeting had persuaded the youth to accompany
him. Even then, he had followed hesitantly, suspiciously --
a suspicion that was rewarded when Harold turned
suddenly and hit the boy, knocking him out.

He had waited until they were by the car, and then
quickly hefted the boy and stowed him in the trunk.
Once inside, Harold had forced a large swallow of
his 'sleeping potion' into the boy, and closed the lid,
locking him inside. It would be a two hour trip to
his mountain retreat, and he didn't want any surprises
along the way.

This one was different. He had done the adults
first in the others, trying to save the children in the
end. And though all the children had failed to measure
up thus far, Harold was hoping there would be at least
one that could withstand the test. After all, he'd made
it, hadn't he? So many others were dead, but he
was still here, still functioning, and they still wanted
him.

The pain in his head was back -- rising to cloud his
mind whenever his thoughts turned to his experiences.
He struggled to retain his train of thought, but as
he lifted his hand to wipe away the tears that suddenly
threatened to blind him, it was gone, and all he could
recall was that he needed to make plans on what to
do with the boy in the trunk.

He would take him to his new place in the mountains --
much nicer than the cabin had been. Far enough away
from the old one to be safe, but near enough to be familiar,
and, more importantly, to keep him close enough to the
city -- and the people he needed to see.

He wondered what Mulder thought of him now. When
he had been with the agent six months ago, he had
seemed disbelieving of Harold's experiences. But if
he was following Mulder's activities accurately, he must
have had second thoughts, or he would not have sought
him out.

The furor that unplanned visit had caused had provided
the catalyst for Harold to implement his escape plans
and get out. And now, he could tell the world his story.

Only I know the truth, and Mulder will be my messenger.

End part 12/17