************
Chapter 14
************
Memorial Hospital
November 7, 2000
8:04 p.m.
Scully removes a weary hand from her forehead, glancing
toward the woman on the bed. They're alone for a brief
moment, she and Linda Thibodeaux. The doctor and nursing
staff have just completed another beehive swarm over their
patient, checking her vitals and stability. Tubes and
machines prolong the woman's life with long, slow artificial
wheezes as she lays unconscious.
She's waiting for Viola's bagged body to arrive at the
morgue, to administer the same external examination she did
on the hapless Gwen DiAngelo a few days earlier. Mulder
opted to stay on at the crime scene in Edmond with the
coroner and investigative crew. He was adamant that Scully
accompany Linda to the hospital, to protect and insure the
survival of their only living witness to the killer.
She's irked with herself for allowing this ultimate betrayal
to happen.
Instead of harboring a sense of hope and optimism, she feels
deflated, flat-out disappointed by her inability to protect
these women from their nemesis. She's frustrated by the
circumstances in Aubrey that lure her from the main
objective, which is solving this case. For being
emotionally divided during this time of yearly remembrance.
For weakness and over-sentimentality. For craving her
partner's touch.
She's also grateful Mulder isn't here in the room to see
this. If she can spare him a painful rerun, then she will.
The resemblance between Linda Thibodeaux and Teena Mulder is
peculiarly striking from this angle, in the anemic light
filtering above the bed. Short white hair floats on the
pillow. Hands lay atop the white blanket, blue-veined and
wrinkled. Tubes are taped into her mouth, providing airway
and life-giving oxygen. It's difficult enough that Scully
must face down phantoms from the past, without Mulder being
subjected to another tragic deja vu from his.
Her cell phone vibrates in her pocket. With one parting
look and a nod to the nurse at the door, she goes to a
waiting area to take the call. "Scully."
"Any change?"
Mulder sounds anxious and preoccupied, the hum of crime
scene activity garbled in the background. Though too late
for Viola Rains to benefit, they're both fully aware that
Linda holds the key to the killer's identity and that it's
crucial she regain consciousness before someone else is
victimized.
"No... no changes. We've determined it's ischemic stroke,
with a possible heart attack. She's stable enough after the
CT and MRI, but not yet out of the woods."
"The golden hour?"
"You're thinking of traumatic injury. With stroke, three
hours is the delineated time. When blood flow to the brain
is interrupted, some brain cells die immediately, while
others remain at risk for death. These damaged cells can
linger in a compromised state for several hours. That's why
timing and onset of treatment is so crucial."
"Like it was for my mother."
She closes her eyes at these words, focusing on the matter-
of-factness in his voice. Without even being present, he
knows and can envision. The sensations of those dark days
following Teena Mulder's collapse come rushing back -- the
adrenaline, danger, and waiting. Mulder's inability to
bring the healing hands of Jeremiah Smith to his mother's
bedside. The sobs of defeat that wracked his tall, bent
body, the weight of his head on her shoulder. Clutching
hands that grasped her across the back after viewing his
parent lying comatose...
"Yes," she allows, waiting to see whether he carries the
observation into full-blown reminiscence.
"Tough old birds, Scully. Both of 'em."
His succinct evaluation makes her sigh into the phone; it's
true this elderly woman had the grit to squeeze off a
desperate shot from a revolver before stroke claimed her
tonight. Mrs. Mulder, likewise, possessed unique strength
of will that befitted her time of trial. Mulder, however,
overlooks the most salient detail of all -- that his
mother's sudden recovery days later went far beyond the norm
for medical science and smacked incredibly of the
miraculous.
She chooses to steer him further away from the painful
subject. "Is the body on its way?"
"Just left for the morgue. And you know what? That mother
of all headaches caught up to me about a half hour ago. I'm
gonna take off in a minute and let Aubrey's Finest finish up
here. Darnell's already called Tillman to keep him apprised
of the situation."
"That's good..."
She detects no hidden malice in his voice, no hint of
control. "He did say that Benjie tried to leave again. A
regular little back-door man. Same scenario as last night."
"Are you suggesting again that his attempts to leave the
house are connected to the killer's? Paralleling his
movements?"
"Benjie's a living barometer for the killer's impulses.
Similar to his mother B.J. Which means that, by all
indications, it was supposed to have killed last night --
when I was attacked."
She lowers her voice and turns her shoulder as a nurse
passes, phone pressed to her ear. "Why target you?"
"You're missing the point: it wasn't supposed to be me...
something in the killer's plan was foiled and he bagged it
for the night. Viola was a chosen victim from the start,
the one who happened to get away. The job just needed
finishing."
His ruthless honesty strikes a chilling chord; she rubs the
gooseflesh from her arms, reminded of her own emotional
trauma earlier this year. She'd also become the prey of a
madman, stalked and held hostage for certain death like
Viola. In one horrific slo-mo reaction she'd managed to
become judge, jury, and executioner when her finger pulled
the trigger of her weapon and she permanently erased the
monster Donnie Pfaster from existence.
("You're the one that got away...")
No -- she considers herself a survivor rather than an
escapee, but decides not to ponder it now. That case was
closed a long time ago.
A nurse exits Linda's room, passing Scully and giving her a
sad smile and a shake of the head. The bleakness of the
gesture rouses her protectiveness for her partner.
"Speaking of which, you should get some rest, Mulder. The
coroner's already agreed to drop me off when we're done.
Don't forget, you suffered head trauma as well. That
headache is your body telling you to slow down and take care
of itself."
"I'd much rather you take care of me later..."
Incorrigible, she decides. His allusion to last night's
turnabout seduction infuses her with momentary warmth as
well as a prickle of embarrassment. He responds with a
gentle snort, the sound strangely comforting to her soul in
the aftermath of the evening's bizarre events.
"I hope you're alone," she murmurs.
"Alone enough. Hey, before I go... let me tell you about
the silver lining we found."
"What silver lining?"
"Another survivor, Scully: the dog made it. Can you believe
that? Old Chief was knocked out and a little cut up, but
someone hustled him over to the vet's and it turns out he'll
be okay after all."
Eyes watering, she breathes hard into the receiver and bites
her upper lip at this small, yet merciful gift.
************
Thibodeaux residence
November 7, 2000
8:15 p.m.
Time to blow this pop stand, Mulder decides.
He slips into the driver's seat, relieved to be out of the
whipping wind, the cold, and the violated home with its rank
smell of blood and death. His head pounds like a trip
hammer. Lapping the seat belt over his thighs, he's
startled by a disconcerting thump on his window.
Police lights flashing red and blue against the blackness
behind him, Darnell peers in, waiting as the glass lowers
from the top. "Meet you back there in a bit," he says.
"The Grill, right?"
"You got it."
Joe Darnell has a bachelor's time and energy to expend
tonight and seems willing to have his stomach filled and his
brain picked. The restaurant is a public place, better
suited for a spur-of-the-moment meeting than Mulder's room -
- Darnell's first choice -- where his personal involvement
with Scully may be somehow ascertained. She's become
meticulous about not leaving such clues, but he's unwilling
at present to take the chance in Aubrey.
He ponders how he can associate bachelorhood with the
detective, but not with himself when in reality he occupies
that same solitary boat. When did the subtle switch happen?
When he and Scully became lovers? Or years before that,
when she evolved amorphously into his own concept and
tailored need for what comprises a significant 'other'?
She's the only one in the world he trusts without question.
And now -- an added plus -- they share the sex that for so
long eluded them.
That was another one of his quirks -- or a quirk they
perfected as partners in the office of the FBI's most
unwanted. Nothing ever came easy or seemed mainstream about
the way he and Scully juggled the steady escalation of their
feelings for one another. Respect and camaraderie overrode
that polite, initial chemistry back in '92. Denial,
flirtation, and dancing around the issue of physical
involvement were the simplest ways to handle it later.
Remembering the solicitous attentions she bestowed upon him
last night, he admits they've come light years within a
short few months' time.
His cell phone rings while he meanders his way out of the
rural, small-town solitude of Edmond, pausing to check his
mirrors before gunning down the dark highway toward Aubrey.
Once glance at the number displayed raises his hackles and
prepares him for the inevitable confrontation.
"Fox Mulder here."
"Agent Mulder, this is Klaus Reinholdt, B.J. Morrow's
doctor. I tried without success to contact you at your
motel, so was forced to use this backup number you gave to
me."
He finds himself delivering a wry huff into the receiver.
"What took you so long? I was expecting some sort of
communication last night -- and it might have averted
another tragedy."
"What do you mean?"
"We aren't playing games here, Doctor. I'm talking about
murder. Another attack, which should have happened last
night, but instead was postponed until this evening. If you
weren't such a slave to the system and so selfishly
protective of your reputation over your patient, a woman
could still be alive."
"Someone else has been murdered?"
The man's naive incredulity on top of a ratcheting headache
feeds Mulder's brusqueness and contempt. "How many more
ways shall we say it before you put B.J. on the phone?"
"Please hold..."
Simmering with impatience he passes two slower-moving
vehicles on the black ribbon of highway. The unexpected
irritation caused by Reinholdt makes his head pound.
Moments later B.J.'s voice fills his ear, tremulous with
anxiety and foreknowledge.
"Oh, God," she quavers, "I've wanted to talk to you for
days, because I've had more visions, Agent Mulder. Then,
last night, they became clearer, more sinister... like it
was six years ago when everything began happening."
"Can you describe them for me?"
From his visit to Shamrock he can picture her sitting near
Reinholdt, both ankles chained, sneakered feet tucked under
the chair. Shorn hair, prison-green uniform, long-lashed
eyes staring out with an otherworldly intensity as she
speaks. Looking through a haze of internal images both
fearful and tortuous.
"It's... it's like seeing from someone else's perspective.
Seeing what they see, feeling what they feel. I suppose it
must be the killer I sense, right?"
"That seems to be the prevailing trend. Starting with last
night, what did you feel?"
"Restless, like I needed to go somewhere. Like I was being
summoned or pulled against my will. Full of evil
anticipation. Hungry and desirous for something to happen,
but not sure what."
"Visions?"
"Yes..." She swallows and hesitates. "I don't recognize the
place, but it was like an old garage or storage building.
Then lots of trees, as in a forest. I remember feeling
anger and frustration so strong, I wanted to lash out at
someone. Anyone."
Having been on the receiving end, Mulder's head tweaks in
phantom sympathy at the disclosure and he winces from the
pain boring between his eyes. "Tell me about this evening.
What you felt and saw."
"Please, Agent Mulder... first tell me whether anything
awful has happened tonight. I feel that someone must be
hurt -- or possibly dead."
"Right on both counts," he mutters, gunning around another
car in his haste. "A woman was murdered tonight, same MO as
before, in the home of Linda Thibodeaux, who was taken to
the hospital after suffering a stroke. But she managed to
get a shot off at the intruder first."
He hears nothing but muffled sobbing on the line for several
moments, then Reinholdt's calming tones.
"B.J., get a hold of yourself." Mulder's voice snaps with
authority, and her sniffles decrease as he hears her put the
receiver to her mouth again. "I need to know whether you
can identify the killer. Are you able in any way to see
this person or sense who it is?"
He's edgy from pain and too wired to feel accommodating or
to tone down the bullishness of his interrogation. It
matters only that the killing stop, so that lives will be
spared and this case can be irrevocably closed. Then, he
and Scully can get out of Dodge for good.
"The killer wears something dark. Black, I think," she
answers, voice soft and halting. "Like I did, when I went
after Cokely and Mrs. Thibodeaux. That's all I know. And,
oh, God --!" She staves off further sobbing with deep,
shuddering breaths, then continues. "Wait! An old-
fashioned razor, with a white handle. They don't make them
like that anymore. It's almost an antique; I get glimpses
of it. And the horrible, horrible vindictiveness this
person feels --"
"Male or female?"
"I don't know! Oh, Agent Mulder! Please stop this person.
And please keep my Benjie safe. And Brian..."
************
He's downed half his complimentary root beer by the time
Darnell enters the Grill and joins him at a dimly lit booth
far in the back near the bar. Beside them, fluorescent beer
signs give off staccato flickers, like mosquitoes zapping
into bug lights. The barkeeper ala busboy grins from behind
the counter and suggests they have a drink.
"Fat Tire for me," says Darnell, easing off his coat and
gloves.
Mulder grins and taps his forehead next to the obvious
stitches. "If you have Tylenol hidden away somewhere, I'd
be one happy man."
Unsure if this order is acceptable protocol before an Aubrey
detective, the employee looks at Darnell, askance. He nods
back. "Sure, ease his pain and he might bring you some
business. I would."
Transaction complete, Mulder decides instead on coffee,
waiting for the root beer-chased medication to kick in.
Savory, tempting odors of fried food lace the air around
them: onion rings, breaded mozzarella sticks, French fries.
His empty stomach groans. Taking Darnell's lead, he opts
for what Scully, with disdain, has branded a 'greaseburger',
requesting plenty of mesquite-seasoned fries on the side.
"Sure you can handle it?" Mulder wonders how red meat will
bear up against Darnell's squeamish stomach, but he's
ordered the burger dry, sans the house barbecue sauce.
"I've handled it since this place opened, so might as well
give it a shot tonight. Hell of a thing to happen,"
grumbles the detective, swigging his beer from the cold
bottle and referencing the murder, "but fortunately I get to
leave it for the rest of 'em to untangle. And for you and
Agent Scully."
"What a pal -- so, your mini-vacation's still active in
spite of the case?"
"Except for the few hours I put in tonight. The
Lieutenant's good about not reneging on time off. But, if
he needs a hand, well... I've got no problem with stepping
in. I don't have anyone to go home to at night anyway.
Like some of you might."
Mulder bobs his head first in understanding, then with a
cold breeze of awareness. No, it isn't his imagination when
the other man flicks an insinuating, pointed look toward
him, then away. He takes another sip of coffee, mulling
over the implications while averting his eyes toward a tiny
TV screen behind the bar where two basketball players vie
for dominance under the net.
He hadn't expected Darnell to trawl so blatantly in another
man's pond, unless he's doing a reconnaissance favor for a
third party. Tillman? Guard raised, Mulder leans back and
eyes the detective point-blank. "You know, only you can
remedy that."
"I suppose you're right. So..." He taps the tablecloth with
nervous fingers and trains his gaze outside into the neon-
lit parking area. "Where's might your Agent Scully be?
Still busy at the morgue?"
Mulder had already checked, rounding the buildings to see
whether the curtains in their motel rooms were dark or
softly back-lit. It occurs to him that Darnell could have
done the same thing. Scully hasn't returned from her
gruesome task at the hospital, so he feels no guilt about
chowing down without her. Instead, he finds the suspicious
bend in table conversation interfering with his appetite and
seeks to put a chokehold on it.
"She's with the coroner," he replies flatly, "doing her job.
In the meantime -- and the real reason I suggested we talk -
- I was hoping you could supply me with some information not
found in the files we looked through this afternoon."
"Sure, go for it."
"Two women, Kristy Carlisle and Verna Johnson, were both
attacked and murdered by Detective B.J. Morrow in November
of 1994. Kristy in her apartment, Verna in the empty YMCA
pool. Both women have personal stats in the files from that
year, but there's little or no information about their
families. My question to you is, do either of these women
have any relatives still living here in Aubrey or in the
vicinity?"
Darnell frowns, tugging on his lower lip as he ponders. The
food arrives, hot and steaming, and Mulder permits him to
take a ginger bite of his burger and swallow it before
giving an answer.
"Well... I seem to remember that Kristy Carlisle was a
single lady with no family from around here. Moved to
Aubrey for a job, I think... not sure where she came from
originally." He pauses and swallows. "Had a boyfriend,
though, who was pretty devastated when she was... killed.
Don't know if he's still around."
"Could you find out?"
Shrugging, Darnell colors and picks at his food. "Uh, I
guess I could do a little checking."
"What about Verna Johnson?"
"Now, Verna's another story. A few years out of Aubrey High
School when she died, and she lived around here all her
life. A true local."
"Family? Siblings?"
"Yeah, mother and dad. She had an autistic younger brother,
too, I think. The surviving family must've moved away,
because I haven't heard any reference to them in quite a
while."
Darnell seems eager to attack his meal, so Mulder concedes
and joins in, relishing the hot meat juices and barbecue
sauce that gush from between the toasted halves of bun.
Fries lay haystacked on his plate, just crisp enough without
being scorched. He shakes on the ketchup liberally, kid-
like, knowing Scully would view the whole performance with
amused tolerance and a lift of her brow.
He hands the bottle to Darnell, who shakes his head in
distaste. "After what I saw tonight, forget it. I've seen
enough blood to last me a lifetime. Shit..." He sets down
his burger, composing his stomach before slowly taking up
the food again.
"Eventually you get acclimated. It gets easier, trust me."
If his look is any indication, Darnell must consider him to
be either a certified nut case or a cold-hearted son-of-a-
bitch. Maybe he's held that opinion right from the
beginning, knowing Mulder's reputation and eclectic history
from the X-Files. And maybe he's just squirming after
taking that potshot into Mulder's private affairs.
"Anyway," the detective confides, his tone shifting in a
calculated change of subject, "the Lieutenant's gonna start
coming in for a bit during the day, to keep a closer eye on
the investigation. Desk work, beginning tomorrow. He wants
to be involved in the center of this thing, like he was in
'94. That case just about ate him up, especially after
discovering that B.J. was the perp all along. And then..."
Mulder snatches up the sentence. "And then I waltzed in
from the FBI with my partner, to put two and two together.
ID-ing his girlfriend, solving the case, and revealing her
secret pregnancy. Sore point with him?"
Darnell nods reluctantly. "He needs your help in a bad way.
First of all, you have expertise in handling hard-to-solve
crimes and familiarity with the first case history. But, he
also likes to be on top of things himself, not caught
looking like a fool. And his, um... personal association
with B.J. didn't help matters."
Mulder doesn't reply to that observation. If intimacy
between co-workers on the force in Aubrey seems to
precipitate its own brand of doom, he wants no part of it.
Another reason to wrap up this case and hightail it back to
DC.
"He thinks Benjie should be fine in his office for a few
hours each day, playing with the toys Agent Scully brought
him."
Scully's name again. "No babysitter this time?"
"Nah, he's nervous about going that route again. Can't
blame him. And the kid's pretty easy --"
"When he's not out cruising town at night," Mulder points
out.
"Yeah... funny thing about that. Brian's never known him to
sleepwalk before. I guess he used to go out sometimes early
in the morning, before anyone else was up, but not this
weird zombie routine. Bizarre."
"Good word for it. Listen," he leans forward with a
conspiratorial air, pulling Darnell's attention away from
his plate. "I'm dead serious about these details, because
it could shed needed light on the identity of the killer."
"You think it's a relative?"
"I'm willing to entertain any number of theories at this
point. By the way... do you know anyone who happens to own
an antique, white-handled razor?"
"Uh... no. Where'd you get that kind of lead?"
Cognizant of the other man's Achilles' heel and still irked
at his attempt to fish into personal territory, Mulder
decides that payback is appropriate. He dips an end of his
French fry into the thick mound of ketchup, lifting the food
and watching with interest as the viscous, red blob drools
slowly down the length of potato to his fingers. He waits
until Darnell seems mesmerized by the gory show, then pops
the fry into his mouth and chews.
"From a contact on the inside. That's all I'll say right
now... but it always pays to go to an expert when you need
answers."
Realization dawns within Mulder like a light bulb clicking
to brightness. Pulling out his wallet, he gets to his feet,
appetite assuaged for the time being, incentive kicking into
high gear.
Darnell, gulping, lays down his burger with a defeated sigh
and Mulder winks down at the detective's wan, sweaty face.
"Always go to someone in the know," he says sagely.
"Someone advertising a shitload of free insider's
information."
************
Conestoga Motel
November 7, 2000
12:09 a.m.
The parking lot is asleep and the air dense as deep-freeze
when Scully unlocks the door to her darkened room.
She exhales in relief. This one place allows her to shake
off the horrific scales of what she's seen and expedited
this evening. Her bedroom-away-from-home welcomes her back,
enticing her to burrow within its sanctuary and regroup.
She's surprised to find Mulder curled in her bed like he
belongs there, a beloved fixture.
Hogging the pillows, his body is wrapped cocoon-like in a
chrysalis of sheets, blankets, and bedspread. He must've
waited hours for her return before succumbing to sleep. It
would be purely criminal to rouse him and send him away now,
she admits. Besides, she's getting used to sharing.
His hair bristles up against the shapeless pillows and she
leans onto the bed to see him more clearly through the
shadows. Lips hovering over the sandpaper curve of his jaw
in thanksgiving and affection, she drinks in his scent.
It's what she truly needs right now -- the strong presence
of a lover, of a man in her life, a warm body in her bed.
Mulder's body. Not necessarily to please or to obtain
pleasure at this moment in time, but to savor and cherish,
to absorb the comfort that emanates from his unconditional
nearness.
She yawns, open-mouthed, and shivers with cold. So very
tired...
Clothing mounds on the floor as she sheds every stitch she
wears. Too exhausted to do anything more, she crawls under
the sheets to where he curls fetus-like on his side. His
body warms the bed like a hot brick, heating their nest.
"Hey, you're back." His slurred syllables, mouthed in the
darkness. No need for light in the aura he exudes, pulling
her inward.
She conforms to his naked sinewy contours, wrapping one leg
above his, one between, so her body molds against him under
the blanket. His pubic hair tickles her belly, soft member
pulsing in welcome recognition. "Not now..." she whispers.
"Go back to sleep."
He holds her close, obedient and content as though she were
a stuffed toy in his arms. One hand wanders to stroke a
breast, while the other cups her head, rubbing through her
hair in dreamy circles. Satisfied, he sighs and eases into
his low, signature snore.
"Love you," she breathes against his throat, thinking him
fully asleep.
But his arms and legs tighten, and she hears the soft hum of
reciprocation he offers, taking her into slumber with him.
************
End of Chapter 14