************ Chapter 19 ************ Aubrey, Missouri November 9, 2000 9:12 a.m. Scully accepts comfort like she eats desserts, infrequently and in measured, self-indulgent bites. Not an unusual behavior, considering her recent close encounter with the supernatural at Tillman's home. A dead daughter -- Emily -- allegedly communicating to her through the mouthpiece of a little boy, another child who's endured a climate of living death for five long years. Reeling inwardly, he tried his best to insulate her with his body and protect her compromised dignity. Even Benjie was spooked by the emotional reaction he'd caused, prompting Mulder to pat the the boy's round, tear-stained cheek as they left the room. A good kid. No murderer, but with the internal transceiver he possesses operative and a killer still at large, he wasn't out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot... Tillman stood ashen-faced near the kitchen, alone on the edge of the action. He surprised Mulder by remaining respectful of their space. If he wondered about paternity or the veracity of what he'd witnessed, he kept it to himself and merely handed over their coats. Two men, they exchanged stiff, silent nods of concurrence before Mulder steered Scully swiftly toward the entryway. She wanted out, though her body language felt stunted to him during those frozen moments when she gripped his hand and moved ghost- like at his side. Hair shielding her face, head averted, she trusted him to lead her to isolation. No stranger to tragedy himself, Mulder knows his partner better than she realizes. He empathizes with her need to be alone and to regroup after this supernatural, below-the-belt hit. The curb is as far as they get before she disengages from him, like a sailboat torn away by riptide. "Scully?" She shakes her head. Her breath heaves out clouds in the cold morning air, snatched by the wind, as she grips the passenger door handle and gives a yank. Locked. Eyes never leaving her, he skirts the Corolla for the driver's side and fumbles for the automatic lock on his key ring, mesmerized by the hollowness he sees in her robotic, repetitive jerks. From over the car she appears tiny and compact in her dark blazer, coppery hair trembling from her efforts to escape and disappear. "Be open in a jiffy," he mumbles, fat-fingering the tiny buttons in his distraction and haste. "D'you want your coat?" Again she demurs with a shake, eyes closed tight, teeth clenched. "Here... let me --" "Just open the fucking door, Mulder!" Her order blisters the paint over the car's roof and he feels her strident paranoia. It's doubtful Tillman would stoop to watch them now, from the dark-shuttered house. Mulder tosses a glance over his shoulder, suspecting the man sits huddled with his boy doing what protective dads usually do. Soothing the kid, supplying the simplest of lame-assed guesstimates for what's just occurred in their living room. Locks clack open and the car swallows her. Chastened, he climbs inside to shove their coats into the back seat, then turns to evaluate her mettle, reaching out a hand. "Scully, listen --" "Drive." He bites his lip and obeys, making a smooth U-turn in the bare, undeveloped cul-de-sac capping off the street beside Tillman's house. Destination unspecified, they pass schools, the hospital, then stores and neighborhoods, heading for the main drag through Aubrey. Still Scully stays silent. Her nose and the curved skin above her lip assume a gentler shade of pink as the super-charged moments dissipate and she pulls the wounded edges of herself closed. When they reach the town's perimeter, he squints in both directions and steers the car left, out toward ranchland and open prairie. It reminds him that years before he ignored the two most likely options and rocketed their car forward into a hot Texas dusk. Blazing his own billowy trail, bushwhacking into the unknown. Riding his personal hobby- horse and dragging Scully with him. A trouper to the end, she hung on for the ride, neither of them cognizant of what the next few days would mean for her -- for them both, really -- in terms of sacrifice and repercussion. Such personal phenomena affect them both deeply; six years later they're still feeling the aftershocks from her first abduction by Duane Barry. Benjie's revelation is evidence of that. This morning at Tillman's she felt another hefty dose of his impetuous thirst to search out the truth. He'd opened a veritable Pandora's box in good faith and fouled the air instead of clearing it, at her expense. Her urgency to put some distance between herself and Aubrey is understandable. The panorama before them is reminiscent of his boyhood home, the way the countryside undulates around them like sea swells near the shoreline he loved. Little disturbs the rhythmic sameness of this horizon, though clouds sink lower and fuller, grayer than they've been all week. Like pregnant sheep, he's heard it expressed by someone, maybe his mother. Not Scully -- "Pull over." He knows better than to query. The moment he jerks the car to the side of the road and kills the ignition, she turns toward him. This is the Scully he craves, the one who soothes him in the midst of her pain, blesses him with her closeness. Arms wrap his neck, her face buried into his shoulder. With a deep sigh he reciprocates, strangely comforted. A hard ridge of Toyota console separates them, but it's her good hip that meets it and their upper bodies cling. She's supple in his embrace, her arms wiry and insistent, but she doesn't cry. Instead, he senses new strength, new self- containment in the unconscious kneading of her fingers at his neck, the firm press of her cheek. Her breasts feel like small pillows against his ribs. "What do you need? Tell me and I'll do it," he whispers fervently. "Even if it means taking you back to DC." Her moan of dissent opens his eyes. She pulls away to look up at him, one hand sliding down to grip his lapel. "No, out of the question. That would be admitting defeat and we have a job to do. We have a case to finish here." "Fuck the case right now --" She shakes her head slowly and her eyes fill, searching him as she's wont to do, heedless of the fresh tears that begin a sketchy trail down the sides of her face. "Mulder, listen to me... We do that and innocent people continue to die. That little boy back there will be no better off than before." "You're my first concern, Scully, before all others." Yet undeniably, the curve of her cheek reminds him of the weeping child he consoled short minutes ago and he's unable to shake the image or spurn his sworn sense of duty. Torn between her welfare and their joint obligation, he takes her wet skin into his palm, his thumb brushing away droplets from the softness under her eye. "I'll be fine," she reprises. "We both will. But, if all these events are interrelated, as you theorize and believe... if there's truly a synchronous connection between events that have occurred in the past and what's happening now, then I need to stay right here. I need to be here, to see this through to the end, through its cycle. To its natural resolution. We owe that to everyone involved. *I* owe that to myself, Mulder." "I'll support you either way." "There's only one right choice. We both know what it is." Her forefinger grazes the pout of his lips; gratified, he sees the beginnings of a weak smile when he puckers to kiss it. "My God, we're in such a rut," she whispers. "We end up going down the same road again and again..." "Gluttons for punishment." "Well... I was going to suggest something a little more Jungian, actually." "Bad karma?" "Not even close, Mulder..." After so many years they speak idiomatic versions of the same language; her analogy implies case after case of devoted partnership and subsequent bruised faith. He feels misty at the flinty resolve he sees in her gaze, a mixture of fear, daring, trust, and Scully-bullishness that makes him proud. Impulsively he leans to kiss her cheek. "Just don't forget... dreams are answers to questions we haven't yet figured out how to ask." At her puzzled look he explains. "It's something I said to B.J. six years ago... and something you reiterated to me during the John Lee Roche case, when I had visions of little dead girls. When I was convinced that one of those little heart cut-outs belonged to Samantha. Remember that?" Her eyes glisten and she nods. He takes the slim hand that rests on his chest and kisses the backs of her fingers leisurely, their gazes locked. "Maybe this time you'll get the answers you're looking for, too, by asking the right questions." "Maybe I will," she concurs, but he hears a low note of unbelief taint her agreeable overtone. "Where's the house now?" She reaches to the side for the glove box, snapping it open to reveal the tiny white and green block structure tucked within. "I'll keep it with me in my coat pocket. That should be efficacious enough for anyone's purpose, don't you think?" "Sounds good to me. I'd like to keep it out of the bed, so I don't rack myself on the damn thing." A watery smile, another shallow sigh. "I'm ready to go back, if you are," she says. But first he feels an urgent tug on the back of his neck. Her fingers tip his head forward so their mouths meet, lips spreading soft and wide in mutual need. Extending his tongue over hers, absorbing her inner pulse, he tastes strength, fortitude, and the minty receptivity of this woman who has become his constant in life. After a few intoxicating moments they seek air. Mulder draws back to open his eyes and sees that a thin layer of white has covered the Corolla's windshield, like a fluffy blanket drawn over the car. Urgency shoots through him at this new and long-expected development which could add yet another dimension to their search for the killer in Aubrey. "Back to old Lodi again, Scully," he mutters, facing front. He flips on the wipers, casting the snow upward into little swirling clouds that the wind snatches away. ************ Aubrey Police Station November 9, 2000 11:04 a.m. "Stick to the kid like glue," were Mulder's words to him this morning. Brian Tillman realized early that he has no choice except to take Benjie with him to the station again if he's to get any work done on the case. This time he's packed extra kid food in the lunch box, along with a blanket and quilt for naps. The Legos are indispensable. Tillman regards both the toy and the small son who manipulates these blocks with newfound awe and appreciation. This sentiment extends to the FBI agents as well -- to Mulder for sleuthing out and honing in on the supernatural abilities Benjie seems to possess, and to his partner for her ambiguous connection to his son by means of the secret past she hides. At least until this morning... A mother? Can't be. He's looked Dana Scully over with a practiced and discerning eye, even down to the concave slope of her belly in dress slacks. Her nipped-in waist. The pleasing uplift of breast that accentuates her feminine shape. No, it's not the body of a woman who's ever swelled out to childbirth proportions, as far as his judgment can determine. And if it's true, then is Mulder the child's father? He's protective as hell, sharing the bizarre experience with all the emotion of a man personally involved in a big way. The kid must be dead, otherwise Benjie's contributions wouldn't have had the impact they did. He looks down at his son, playing with quiet oblivion on the carpet. Did his child truly envision something or someone from 'the other side', relaying a message for a visionary child? Agent Scully's mystery child...? He grits his teeth and rubs his mustache with a nervous hand. Nah, no way in hell is that a plausible consideration. The birth *or* the Goddamn psychic connection bullshit -- "Hey, good to see you, boss." Joe Darnell pokes his head into the office. He smiles at Benjie, who is busy constructing a tiny wagon, then enters on ginger feet, swinging his attention back up to Tillman. "Nothing to report except for a few fender-benders at the main stoplights in town. The snow took everybody by surprise, I guess." "You got that right. Even my car complained." "Any other news from the home front? Calls from Janine --?" Tillman replies brusquely in the negative, brushing him off, so Darnell moves to leave. At the last moment he halts in the doorway. "Just one other thing, Brian, and probably not worth the mention, but..." "But what?" "Well, security over at the hospital called to say they've had a problem lately with unauthorized personnel entering the intensive care unit. Happened again this morning and really pissed them off, because this person knows better." "Who was it?" "The old volunteer coordinator, Alice Marshall. They found her hanging around by Linda Thibodeaux's room, just when the woman's starting to show improvement. Took her aside for a talking-to, and then sent her home. I think it's high time they considered replacing her." ************ Aubrey Community Library November 9, 2000 3:15 p.m. Mulder had hoped they'd find a geriatric librarian blindly wandering the stacks. Someone of the same generation as Cokely's first victims, who could have insight into what happened to the families of the deceased. To his dismay, no one at the library looks a day over thirty. Scully felt they'd have better luck at the courthouse, which Mulder vetoed. Now she's inclined to agree with him. She's dug so deep into researching the 'Aubrey Happenings' column of the long-lived local newspaper -- tracking marriages, graduations, hospitalizations, births, and deaths spanning fifty years' time -- that she doesn't realize several hours have passed and she's alone. One squint-eyed peek through the microfilm viewing screen and Mulder shook his head to wander off in search of periodicals, reference files, genealogies, gray-haired patrons, the men's room -- anything to keep from the tedious task facing them. With the attention span of an antsy kindergartener, he ditched. She sees he isn't the only one not on task -- a group of children fresh from story hour giggle and point out the window at the new snowfall. Eyestrain sets off a hammer within her head. Shifting each buttock on the hard oaken seat, she pushes reading glasses up her nose for the umpteenth time and knows the second Mulder materializes at her elbow. Now his shoes are clumped with melting snow, soaking the flowered carpet, coat flecked with confetti whiteness. In deference to their location, she speaks under her breath. "And where have *you* been off to, stranger?" "Over to the courthouse." She faces him, affronted not by the news alone, but by the loudness of his voice, which draws immediate attention. "Mulder, whisper! And what happened to your assessment that it was such a waste of our time? Not worth the effort --" "It isn't. I went nowhere fast in ten minutes. Compared to the courthouse, we're sitting right smack dab in the middle of the most happenin' place in Aubrey, Missouri, and that's not saying much." She huffs with impatience and looks away as his cell phone chirps, drawing dirty looks from every quarter. Murmuring into the phone, he turns on the charm and winks to defuse a few of the more irate patrons. When he stands and hunches over her shoulder, his voice stays hushed. "That was Darnell. Natalie Warner called the station and says she wants to discuss terms, ASAP." "*Terms*? I'm sure she was specific about whom she expects to show up." "Yeah, well..." He shrugs apologetically. "I asked him to tag along and see if we can mend a fence while we're there. Wanna come with, Scully? Do some ass-kicking? Catch an early dinner after?" "No, you go. I want to finish here. Hopefully, the names Eberhardt, Bradshaw, and Van Cleef will show up somewhere." "You okay?" The question trips her. Flooded with sudden warmth, she nods. "Sounds like you might be on to something." He scans the screen no more than a healthy ten seconds before giving a soft grunt and grimace of disgust. "I take that back. But I can hold off on food until you're finished here, or the interview's over, whichever comes first. Which also reminds me..." "Hmmm?" He supports himself over her on the table, stiff-armed and leaning closer to whisper into her ear. "...Of last night's entree du jour, served up at the Motel Conestoga. Succulent. My very favorite dish, in fact." Breathy words stir a lock of hair and send shivers through her body as she listens, forcing her to re-read the same tiny, boring sentence three times. Intending nonchalance, she finds herself clearing her throat. "Are you referring to my nightcap, Mulder?" "Exactly. Tonight I may even take seconds... or thirds," he purrs. "Make a real pig of myself. That is, if the menu hasn't up and changed on me..." The corner of her mouth twitches. Knowing he observes every minute reaction, she licks her lips seductively, though her gaze never wavers from the microfilm viewing screen. "Who can say? The menu *may* offer a more varied assortment, depending on the whim and muscular flexibility of the chef." No answer from Mulder except a chuckle and quick squeeze to her hand at the edge of the desk. Looking over her shoulder seconds later, he's gone. ************ Aubrey, Missouri November 9, 2000 4:12 p.m. Streetlights shimmer awake in an early dusk brought by the first snow of the season. No clouds exist overhead, no delineation between earth and sky. A thick, white haze billows over town, settling into drifts on the streets of Aubrey. Treacherous stuff and a whole city caught unawares. The equally unexpected call from Tillman tests Scully's good will more than the weather does. Tillman's battery dead, he prefers not to wait for another carpool opportunity at the station because of Benjie's sleepiness. A valid enough request, but she smells an agenda. It's the second time he's rung her cell phone this week, though his tone of abject apology assuages her only a little bit after the debacle in his living room this morning. Leaving the library, her headache persists, she's hungry, and her battered body is beginning to wake and complain. What she's tempted to do on this snowy night, instead of joining her partner at the Warner residence, is go to her motel room, take a few Tylenol, and hunker down in the warm blankets of the bed. They can decide together, when Mulder returns for her later, how the evening should proceed from that point on. At the police station Tillman offers to drive, but Scully has little tolerance for chivalry or posturing. Wary for the sake of her own dignity and privacy, she declines and waits as he loads an armful of the day's provisions into the back seat of the Corolla. On the second trip out, he carries the sleeping form of his young son, blinking into the gusting snow, and she feels her throat tighten with reluctant compassion for a man who finds himself relegated so suddenly to the position of single father. She hopes his new sense of perspective and awakened responsibility haven't come too late for Benjie. She hears the click of a seatbelt, the little reassuring murmurs from father to son as he settles the child into the back seat. As expected, Tillman climbs into the front beside her. His strategy becomes clearer as he adjusts the seat backward to accommodate his longer legs and laps the belt over his coat. "Thank you for going out of your way," he adds, watchful when they enter afternoon traffic. She senses that when driving with a woman, he's always been the man behind the wheel, the one in control. Her refusal to hand over the reins in the sudden snowfall must only increase his apprehension. And not without cause. Working their way with care through town, a mini-van skitters toward them across the center line. Scully swerves on hair-trigger reflexes to avoid the collision, but as a result the Corolla floats sideways, skimming a silken sea of white. Unmoved, she goes with the skid, caressing the steering wheel with consummate smoothness, with experienced hands, like those of a lover. At just the right moment she taps the gas pedal, a magical touch, and guides the car back into a trustworthy groove again. Tillman exhales. He casts the sleeping boy a swift glance, and then smiles over at her with relief and approval, teeth showing white in the dimness of the car. "I'm impressed, Agent Scully. Tell me, why does your partner do all of the driving?" "Why do false perceptions ultimately determine what one accepts as truth?" "O-kay." Tillman rubs his mustache and ponders. Her eyes glued to the road, she can feel his gaze moving over her with the slow, close heat of a lit candle. "I'll accept that point -- or rebuke, if that's really what you intended." Pursing her lips, she cocks her head and tries hard to erase the memory of crumpled bikini underwear on public display by her bed. "Just take it as you see it, Lieutenant." "No, I can't do that any more. I've done it for too many years and look where it's gotten me. After what happened this morning..." "That was highly personal and none of your business." Her voice is tight, clipped. Tillman looks out into the snow before focusing back to her. "It involved my boy, so I hold a differing opinion. But I'm sorry," he says softly, "for intruding. Especially last night... I should have known better than to come over to the motel. Or pursue my damn impulses, anyway..." Her cheeks burn at this frank confession. "You'd do better to tell it to your priest than to me," she mutters, fielding the ache of outrage, the sting of distant tears. "I have none, Agent Scully. And more accurately, I doubt any would hear me out in light of my track record." A huffed exhalation, a nervous tap on the dashboard. "That applies not only to priests... but to women as well. Which is why I'm speaking to you now, because I may never have this opportunity again." Oh God, no, she prays, wanting to close her eyes, but not daring it in the dangerous conditions that buffet the car. If there's an alien ship lurking anywhere above the northern hemisphere, she wants it to spirit her away now, every molecule and atom she possesses. "It's been hard for me to express certain things, but I like to talk plainly. With you I feel I can. Please hear me out this one time." From the back seat comes a whimper, restless shifting of limbs, then renewed sleep-sounds from the child. "Suit yourself, Lieutenant," she says with matter-of-fact brevity. She tolerates the hair that falls in a wave over her right eye because it separates them further. Lay it on me, she thinks, but do it fast or not at all. "You have no idea how you've made me feel this week..." he begins, voice low and shy, a characteristic she's not observed in Tillman until this moment. "Your attention to my boy and the advice you gave me to ease his symptoms..." She glances to him, sees he's talking to his hands, the words extruding with painful effort. "I'm a medical doctor," she reminds him. "I know. You're also a woman of compassion, unlike so many of the others in my life. That gift to Benjie --" "-- has proven to be a blatant error in judgment on my part." "No. It was decent and humane. It was a good thing." He picks up his former thread and her insides cringe. "And I just want to express... well, I have to say how much I've enjoyed working with you personally this week... being close to you..." Mulder's instincts have been right on target, she realizes with a pang. Righteous perceptivity fueled by jealous machismo. "He appreciates having you near him... too much," he'd told her, not long after berating her about the furtive gift to Benjie. Darts first, hugs after. It seems so long ago now, rather than just a few days. "I..." Tillman hesitates on the edge, worrying his lip, choosing his words. "I wish... circumstances could have been different between us. That I could have known you at a better time and in another place." "Circumstances are what they are. Irrefutable." When did she start sounding so much like Mulder? That thought and this conversation both pull her stomach into a knot. "In all honesty, Lieutenant -- other than the recent murders and Benjie's dilemma, I would probably alter nothing that's happened." "Even after what I witnessed this morning?" To this, Scully has no voice. She blinks hard, turning her head to negotiate a turn, grateful that this journey will soon be over. The events of the morning, the history behind them, belong to herself and Mulder exclusively; no amount of prying will permit her share anything more with this man who sits beside her, opening his soul to her by degrees, despite his honest query and confessions of the heart. "Agent Scully... Dana..." he ventures. "It's Scully," she says clearly, shooting him a look, "and it had best stay that way, Lieutenant." She brings the car to a full, careful stop in front of his home, foot easing into the brake. Snow flutters around them, then soars on the driving wind. Drifting accumulations lay everywhere, banked against the curb, flung across the obscured sidewalks, sifting darkly through the straw-like autumn growth on the edge of Tillman's property. For the space of several breaths they sit in tense silence, watching the snowflakes dance. Tillman breaks the stalemate. "I want you to know I intended no offense. Just the truth, as I see it." In the back seat the boy stretches and gives a wide-mouthed yawn like a baby bird. He rubs his eyes and whimpers in restless discontent. "Daddy?" "None taken," Scully replies. Bleakness steals over her spirit when the man twists around to attend to his child, reaching over the seat to unsnap the belt gently from the boy's waist. That accomplished, he braves the driving snow and wind, stepping out to the car's rear door to retrieve him. Benjie's arms and legs dangle, his body limp as a slumbering puppy against his father's chest. "Thank you, Agent Scully. I appreciate the ride... as well as those few minutes of your time," he adds, catching her eye over the boy's lolling head and turning toward the dark- windowed house. Her face warms at her thoughtless hesitancy. The least she can do is help the man inside, easing the twin burdens of sleeping child and unsure footing. "Here, let me bring in the rest. You already have your hands full." He nods wordless thanks and hefts the boy higher. Taking his time, he approaches his home, stamping snow on the welcome mat as he enters, leaving the door ajar for her. Outside, Scully wrestles with her own baggage, the least of which is the tightly-rolled sleeping bag and the plastic bags bulging with playthings and snack food. Pressing the car door shut with her body, she gasps into the wind -- the tiny house in her coat pocket gouges a tender spot into her hip. The pain feels sharp, but fleeting. She chooses to ignore it, following the shallow trail of Tillman's footprints as the throb slowly fades from her flesh. No lights inside. All is premature dusk and graphite-gray dimness, curtains drawn against the precocious glare of the lone streetlight. Shadows play havoc with her perceptions and still the dark lingers. She stands motionless in the entryway, waiting, clutching the ungainly armful of provisions. "Lieutenant Tillman? Just tell me where I should put --" She pitches forward in a starburst of agony, her cry snuffed. The very last thing Scully sees before losing consciousness on the carpeted floor is Benjie Tillman's face, mouth agape and eyes frozen in an expression of unbelieving horror. ************ End of Chapter 19