************ Chapter 4 ************ Warner residence November 4, 2000 7:50 a.m. "Gwen? You alone?" A lazy Saturday morning and Natalie Warner scuffs through her kitchen, face unmade, blonde hair askew. Her lips caress the receiver as she talks, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder like a plastic growth. Cereal bowls and packages litter the polished granite counter top. She manhandles a mug and coffee carafe while her half-finished cigarette tumbles between them into the sink. Multi-tasking is *such* a bitch, she fumes to herself. "Yeah, Greg finally got home late last night. What did you say?" She snickers. "Well, for *you* maybe. Over here, the whole show from start to finish takes less than five minutes tops." She peers into the sink with exasperation. "No, he just took off with Shawna for her jazz class and then he'll be at the office --" She retrieves the damp blackened nub, grimaces, and flips it into the trash. "Hell, no. He'll drive her starting on Monday. D'you think I'm putting her on that bus while all *this* is going on? You've *got* to be kidding!" Dandling the opened box of Sara Lee coffee cake, she reconsiders and takes a hefty drag from a freshly lit cigarette instead. The morning is hers; she curls up in her robe on the cushioned bench of the breakfast nook, nursing both coffee and tobacco, happy in her solitude. Though the weather seems bitterly cold and overcast, her mind warms to a bright, new prospect. A titillating possibility. "Anyway, I won't hold you up -- I just called to tell you I saw that *same* guy again last night. You know... the one I told you about? From the FBI?" She hugs her knees tighter. "Yeah, the *same* one as six years ago, if you can believe it. God, Gwen, he looks good enough to eat with a spoon!" She tilts her head back against the windowpane and closes her eyes. It *had* to be the same man sitting in the Grill last night, with his tall, dark lines and good looks, those sexy eyes and that movie-star mouth. Coat slung over the back of his chair so she could see his broad expanse of back and shoulder and how his lips moved when he spoke to Lieutenant Tillman. The last time he appeared in Aubrey she was post-partum and sallow, with a mewling, puking baby in her arms. But now...now, things are very different and she never, *ever* forgets a hunk... "I *never* forget a hunk like that, Gwen. Wait'll I show him to you. He looks even better than he did before." Her body feels the steadily rising heat of her fantasy and she rubs her thighs together. Shit, she's actually getting wet thinking about this man, and *that's* a rare occurrence these days. "What? Well, I could go over and offer some insider's information. It *was* Shawna's party, damn it. I think he must be staying at the Conestoga... yeah, that *would* be cozy, wouldn't it? Or, I could invite him over here while Greg's at work and share lots of juicy tidbits." She guffaws into her mug, then swipes brown droplets of coffee from its glass side with her tongue. "You think I should *show* and not *tell*?" Pausing to listen further, her face sinks back into the well- worn lines of a studied frown. She takes a sharp drag and then exhales into the receiver with a hiss of resentment and a swirl of gray smoke. "Yeah, she was there, too. Like a goddamn tick... the little bitch. I'm pretty sure -- uh-huh, I assume they're just partners. No rings on either of 'em, that *I* could see. But I plan to keep my eye on him, Gwen. You can *count* on that. Nobody'd better get in my way." ************ Memorial Hospital November 4, 2000 8:31 a.m. Mulder falls into step behind his partner as they navigate stark white corridors toward the patient wing. It's not the risk of contagion or the antiseptic smell he hates the most. Rather, he's unsettled by the bedside manner, the delicate stance and dicey interaction one is forced to assume with the sick and severely injured. Not his cup of tea. Their hospital interrogation routine, unspoken and natural after years of shared assignments, entails Scully preparing the way for their questioning. He finds it easier to defer when they step into the austere, clinical confines of her world of medicine. They've been here all too often over seven years' time, experiencing both sides of the bedrail, but being a medical doctor gives her an edge over him on the floor. She has a gift, especially with children. She's female, easier on the eyes, and much less intimidating than he is. From the patient's perspective, she's every child's mother, every woman's daughter or sister. Every man's daughter, sister, wife, or more often and accurately, dream lover. Enough authority projects from her voice to make the patient realize their visit means business, while maintaining an atmosphere of calm trust. The proffered FBI credential, he admits, is nothing to sneeze at either. His expertise, in counterpoint to Scully's bedside knack, lies within the catacombs of the mind. As an investigative profiler, he also has a gift for people, but not with the same grade of refinement or comforting presence. Behavioral, psychological, genetic, paranormal, supernatural. Call it weird and he's at the head of the line. Label it unexplained and he knows the questions to ask, though they defy all convention. He can map psychoses, sense spirits, formulate parallels from the most bizarre, disjointed and unconnected pieces of evidence. Only now, after years of dubious forbearance, has Scully finally given his postulating the credence it deserves. Well... maybe a fraction of the time he feels that elusive glow of vindication. "Viola Rains?" Scully's rare, wide smile precedes him into the room to the woman's bed. With his partner running interference he can focus on other details that vie for his attention -- the heavy bandages on the victim's face and chest, her IV drip, the row of flower arrangements and bouquets that line the wall, the nursing staff and visitors that pass her door. His gaze shifts; no rings on her fingers, another thick dressing on the right forearm, a stack of homemade get-well cards on her lap decorated with the rainbow-colored, crayoned scribbles of children. "Ms. Rains, I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder. We're from the FBI and we'd like to ask you a few questions." "Oh, he said you'd be coming." Viola's words slur. Mulder sees that the bandage covers her left cheek, hinders the edge of her mouth, and is anchored to her chin. "Lieutenant Tillman did. Please, sit down and call me Viola." If all patients were this amiable and cooperative he'd have no aversion to bedside interviews. Most intriguing, he feels a cleansing sense of honesty and kindliness radiate from this swaddled woman, as well as a touch of fear. They could be sitting in her living room, he thinks, pulling chairs forward for himself and Scully. Weather-beaten skin and crow's feet put her upwards into her sixties, he estimates. Short, curly hair, more gray than brown. She makes a tiny effort to sit straighter, gives up, and smiles wearily at them. "First time in a hospital bed for me," she explains. "It's a sad disappointment, I tell you. No one ever let on these damn things are about as comfortable as lawn furniture." "I can help you with that..." Scully stands and manipulates the controls with familiar ease. The bed's head elevates upward and forward a few inches until Viola nods and groans in relief. "My, you've got the touch. Doesn't she?" She quirks a twinkling blue eye at Mulder and he allows himself a small grin, reluctant to be baited by this stranger no matter how innocent the teasing. "I'm glad to see you're in good spirits," he begins, "because the questions we're here to ask aren't the most pleasant." "Oh, I know, I know. You want to know about... what happened the other morning." "And whether it's possible you recognized who did this to you," adds Scully. The woman hesitates to speak until they assure her of confidentiality and shut the door. Her story, told with well-chosen words and through brimming eyes is an echo of Brian Tillman's terse summary last night, though Mulder senses no collusion. On her knees by the bus, struck in the head, slashed while she tried to defend herself from the attacker, she heard a husky, eerie voice that froze her blood. "No," she confesses, "I have no idea who could've done it, but I refuse to believe the little Tillman boy is in any way responsible." The two agents exchange looks. "I'd like to know who's spreading that rumor," presses Mulder. "If you have any idea, that is." "I know several possible sources, but I doubt that would be helpful to you or serve any purpose. There are big mouths and hard opinions here in Aubrey, and the sadness of it is that the little children learn to imitate their elders. Let me tell you two something..." Viola beckons them closer with her good hand, waiting until their chairs almost touch the edge of her bed. She shoots a glance toward the door before speaking to them in a whisper. "I've been driving that school bus for a long time and have seen more than a generation of kids ride and grow. They absorb everything, like sponges. When the killings happened back in '94, you can bet the kids talked about it, too. Repeated what they'd heard from their parents or what they saw on TV and read in the paper." She pauses, her eyes watery and reminiscent, as she ponders what to say next. "Lordy... they knew all the details about poor Detective Morrow and the Lieutenant. About the murders and the Cokely history. I remember they'd even play-act how everything must've happened, right there on the bus. Traded parts and took bows while the rest of the kids hooted and hollered. That's when I started putting my foot down." "How?" Mulder, mesmerized by the woman's tale, still detects no falseness or chicanery. "I got mean and tough, that's how. If they don't learn respect at home, they'd better learn it somewhere. I made 'em stay in their seats and talk quietly. No name-calling. No hurtful gossip. Any one of 'em gave me backtalk, I reported it to the principal. I didn't care if they were the poorest kids in town or the richest -- no respecter of persons, that was Ol' Viola Pours." "Excuse me?" Scully raises her brows, requesting explanation. Mulder smirks. "That's the name they gave me after I got tough. All the kids on my route learn it from the older ones at the start of the new school year. And getting back to the kids..." Viola lowers her voice to a fearful, conspiratorial whisper. "It breaks my heart to see how bad upbringing shows so early. I have one group on my bus -- little, tiny girls, the sweetest looking things -- who dish out the worst sort of meanness imaginable. They just humiliate that poor boy to death." "Benjie Tillman, you mean?" "Yes, Ma'am. Reminds me of little Forrest Gump the way no one lets him sit with 'em. Kindergarteners! They started in teasing him so unmercifully the other day I stopped the bus at the corner of Hopkins and Vine and gave 'em a talking- to that made their ears go red. Set a few of 'em crying, too." "What was the teasing about?" "Oh, one of the tiniest ringleaders was having her birthday party that afternoon and they flaunted it in front of the boy in a terrible way. Said awful things to him right in front of everybody. I said I'd report 'em, but didn't have the chance, because, well --" She strokes the bandage on her face and sighs. "Viola, I want to revisit something you mentioned a few moments ago," says Mulder. "What did you mean when you said the boy reminds you of Forrest Gump? Is he in any way mentally deficient?" "Oh, my, no..." Her eyes narrow and she peers up at him intently. "You haven't met him yet, I take it." "Not yet. We're going over to the Tillman home shortly." "Then, I'll not say a word and you can go by your own instincts and impressions." "Do you feel that's important?" "I do," she insists. He and Scully exchange brief looks. "Do you have any connection to Benjie Tillman other than the bus route?" "Wha-at?" "I get the impression you're looking out for him," notes Mulder. "And it's obvious that you're afraid of something... or someone." She shakes her head, tears returning, and closes her eyes for a moment. "Please... if this had happened to you, wouldn't you be afraid?" This time Scully leans forward to capture the older woman's attention. "I'd like to know why anyone would suspect Benjie capable of harming you in this way?" Viola gives a tiny, painful grunt. "Oh... maybe family history. You'll notice some things about him today, I'm sure. And..." She hesitates before adding, "because the boy's a roamer." "A roamer?" "An early bird who roams all over town and moves like a shadow. Not safe for a child that young to wander everywhere unsupervised. It's worrisome." "Your concern is understandable." "There's... one more thing." At Viola's beckon they lean closer. Trepidation furrows her features under the bandage and she appears more frightened than before as she licks trembling lips and then bites them hard. Scully puts a comforting hand over the woman's. "Go ahead. If you know anything more that could help further this investigation, please tell us." "I -- I was told that he said something at the birthday party. It scared some of the grown-ups silly. Those of 'em who knew his background, anyway." "He was invited after all?" Mulder's voice, low and surprised, pulls her gaze toward him. "It appears so, but I'm not sure. He was there with all those little girls, that I do know." "What did he say?" "Well... the children were asked what special thing they'd want in all the world. And he told 'em -- straight up and with a very strange look -- that he wanted a little sister. A little *sister*," she repeats, stressing the significance of the word and swallowing her tears. "That kind of puts a familial spin on things," blurts Mulder, feeling his hairline prickle and at once drawn to the mystery. "Like Forrest Gump, that's *all* I have to say about that, sir. You two look like good, caring people. Just keep your eyes and ears open at that house, that's all I ask --" "Vio-la?" A dark-haired woman, 30-ish, wearing the pink smock of a hospital aide has opened the door and waits with a fistful of what looks to Mulder like handmade envelopes. Confronted by their little huddle, she hesitates before moving forward. "Sorry to interrupt your visit, but I'm supposed to give these to you. More cards from school. Looks like second or third grade by the writing." "Why, thank you, Gwen," murmurs Viola, recovering with a sniff and patting her lap. "Just put 'em right here with the others and I'll get to 'em as soon as I take a little rest. These are two agents from the FBI called in to talk to me. And this is Gwen, who I hear has been a *wonderful* helper at a birthday party this week, and who brings me mail and 7-Up when I need it." "Just on Fridays and Saturdays," the woman named Gwen amends, reddening when Mulder gets to his feet and offers her his hand. "Except for the party part." Scully nods, intending to follow suit, but stops when a burly nurse sweeps into the room without warning. "I'll have to ask everybody to come back later," the woman announces, giving the room and its occupants a territorial glare. She steps to the opposite side of the bed to snare Viola's wrist. "Time to check your dressings, dear, and then you need to take a break. You looked like you were feeling better, but now your pulse rate's up." "She's right as the rain," says Mulder, sneaking a wink of thanks in the direction of the bed and pulling the chairs back into place. Viola gives a weary smile through her bandage and returns his gesture. With a jerk of the nurse's hand she's hidden from view by the blue curtain that hangs from a circular track above her bed. In the hallway he nabs Gwen before she can hustle off to perform more errands of mercy. "Can we talk to you a minute? I'm Special Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully." She colors and rubs shy hands together over the smock, then buries them into the pockets at the bottom edge. "I -- I, um, suppose so. For a minute. I don't know anything about Viola's accident; I doubt I can help you." Mulder glances at the hospital I.D. that hangs from the smock's pink bodice. Gwen DiAngelo, Memorial Hospital, Volunteer. She's distressed enough to begin moving from foot to foot; chuckling inwardly, he's reminded of a little girl who desperately needs to use the bathroom. "I'm curious about what goes on at kid's parties nowadays. Do they still play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey? Sing 'Happy Birthday'? Blow out candles?" "Yes, to all that. Actually, this was the first kindergarten party I ever helped with. Viola was just being kind." "Whose party was it?" "Shawna Warner's. She turned six on Wednesday." "A big party?" "It seemed awfully big to me; twelve girls... and one boy." Mulder savors the information. "Wow. That's hardly fair representation." He grins first at Scully and then at Gwen. "So, who was the lucky little guy?" "Um... Benjie Tillman." She flushes under his inspection, looking apprehensively down the hall. "Listen, you really should speak with Shawna's mother -- Natalie Warner -- if you have any more questions about it. I -- I need to get back to work." "No problem. Nice meeting you, Gwen." The woman scurries off to her tasks and they stand together, mulling over the assorted information garnered in the last half-hour. Glancing at Scully, he's struck by her pensive expression. Two familiar ridges perch over her right eyebrow, the ones that appear when she feels either strong suspicion or doubt. "What's wrong?" "Viola's protecting someone, Mulder, or looking after that person's interests. But who?" "And it sounds to me like our boy Benjie crashed the party, turning it from twelve to an unlucky thirteen." She gives him a pointed look. "Her perspective is different from Tillman's, I noticed. So is her wording. I need to check something..." He follows her to the nurses' station, where she shows her badge and requests the visitation sheet for Viola. After skimming, she beckons him closer and lowers her voice. "Mulder, she has a restricted visitation list. Not just anyone can waltz in here to see her. And look at this --" Leaning over her shoulder, he scans the page to where she rests the end of her polished nail: above their names and below Lieutenant Brian Tillman's are the words "Linda Thibodeaux." Her visits stand recorded for both days previous. "Son-of-a-gun," murmurs Mulder. "Apparently it *is* only the date that changes." "You heard me say that?" He nods, holding her gaze. "Mrs. Thibodeaux is still the biological grandmother of B.J. Morrow, as well as --" "Benjie Tillman's great-grandmother," she finishes. "Exactly. I think we owe her a reunion visit." ************ Tillman residence November 4, 2000 10:45 a.m. After years of conducting successful interviews with children Scully assumes the meeting with Benjie Tillman will be nothing more than routine. She rues the fact that this case in Aubrey so closely nips the heels of her yearly wallow in grief; too much contemplation still makes her weepy. However, she can't afford weakness, knowing that a young boy's possible vindication awaits her and Mulder inside the Tillman home this morning. Being the adult, she has an authoritarian edge that commands a child's youthful respect. With her own biological need to nurture comes the heady sense of leading these young ones to safety through the minefields of interview and intimidation. She represents goodness and motherhood. She gains their trust, as Mulder attests so vigorously. Emily was the turning point. Before her, children were winsome little beings Scully encountered on occasion, whose pleasurable existence she took for granted, expecting to eventually have her own offspring one day. But with the loss of her fertility and the subsequent discovery of the child called Emily Sim -- holding the soft, little body of a daughter she'd never known existed, calming her fears, protecting her, sharing bits of conversation and coloring book, wiping away her tears, feeling her pain and need, loving her -- she came to value children in a new and much deeper way. She feels rested this morning, after an uneventful night's sleep. Mulder's sensitivity continues to be a source of wonder; her appreciation overflows. Coming into his room behind him while he fussed with his tie, she slipped her arms around his midriff, clasping his muscled body in a tight, wordless embrace of apology and thanks. "Whoa, cowgirl..." he drawled huskily, stopping to cover and squeeze her hands with his, where they pressed his dress shirt against his stomach. "Keep this up and we hang out the 'do not disturb' sign pronto." "Later," she promised. "Tonight." She craned her head upward and to the side to catch his mouth in a short, hard kiss before gathering her coat and small leather briefcase for their meeting with Viola Rains. He'd ambled behind her to the car, whistling "Home On the Range" in a liquid off-key warble. They discover that Lieutenant Tillman and his family live in a residential neighborhood called Sterling, just outside of Aubrey. The house is a white two-story with dark green shutters and a small yard. Flowerbeds frozen and beaten down to dirt, attractive front porch, a gap-toothed, rock- hard pumpkin standing sentry at the door. Mulder grins and nudges it in the mouth with the toe of his shoe. The Lieutenant answers their knock. His manner seems guarded and his face sags around the edges, as though he's short on sleep. He tries to be accommodating and even- tempered, she guesses, for the sake of his child. "Since my wife can't join us this morning, let's make this short and sweet," he instructs. "Where?" "A place where Benjie will feel the most comfortable. His bedroom?" "Out of the question." "Here will be fine, then," says Scully, slipping off her coat and eyeballing the modest living room and its furniture. "Since there's no coffee table in the way, I'll sit on the couch and we can begin." Tillman nods and beckons toward the doorway behind him. "Come here, Benjie." A wiry little boy emerges from the kitchen, his height average for a kindergartener, with a thick cap of brown hair. Heeling next to his father's thigh, he reminds Scully of a fearful and obedient puppy. His hands stay glued into the pockets of his gray sweatshirt and he inches forward beside Tillman who whispers down encouragements. Throwing Mulder a quick glance, she watches the boy's approach. She's seen it numerous times in orphanages and children's shelters -- the hangdog look, the shuffling gait of a child too timid to react normally to the stimuli around him. That the boy won't look up, even in his own home and with a parent so near gives her a sense of foreboding. Tillman steers him to the couch and, with hands on both shoulders, angles him so he stands in front of Scully's knees. "Hello, Benjie," she says gently. "Son, say hello to Agent Scully," prods Tillman, to no avail. "Sweetie, everything is going to be all right. Look at me, okay?" The boy raises his head. Her first stunned thought is that he's suffered burns in an accident. His skin is red and flaky, raw from irritation. What should be young and baby-smooth is rough and scabbed. Gazing at him with thinly disguised shock, she's struck by memories of Harry Cokely's complexion, of B.J.'s ammonia- blistered face on that last horrific night when she was taken into custody six years before. Is this heredity? A genetic characteristic run riot, barreling like wildfire through the DNA of several generations to overtake an innocent child with its cruelty? Swallowing, she fights to keep pity at bay and reinforces an iron hand of control over her emotions. She looks into the boy's eyes, eyes that are large and fringed by long lashes that tremble with wetness and fear. B.J. Morrow's eyes. My God... why is this happening? And what can he be so afraid of? "Benjie, you can call me Dana. I'm here to help you, just like Agent Mulder is." To reassure the boy, she glances across the room to where Mulder stands chin in hand, his face a solemn mask. He responds to her cue with a grin and a nod to the child. "Can I see your hand, please, sweetie?" He bites his lip and extracts one reddened paw from his sweatshirt pocket. Like his face, the skin is raw, flaky, weeping in the bends and creases of his wrist and fingers. Scully's sensibilities cringe, knowing what perpetual discomfort this boy must be suffering from his skin's inflammation, not to mention the reaction he attracts from others. The ostracism and teasing on the bus, no one wanting him near them. A life of pain and loneliness and ridicule for one so young. Inexcusable. When she attempts to take his hand, the boy jerks it back. "Does that hurt you?" My God, she thinks, it has to itch like crazy, but -- Chin on chest, he shakes his head, lashes wet. "Lieutenant Tillman?" She swivels her head up toward him, where he shadows his boy's back, and tries to keep the anger from her voice, modulated so as not to frighten the child needlessly. "Have you had Benjie's condition diagnosed? I'm no dermatologist, but I am a medical doctor, and what I see here on your son looks like an acute case of atopic dermatitis, commonly known as pediatric eczema. With medication it's easily treatable." "It's..." He stumbles over his words. "It's not usually this severe. Maybe the stress of the last few days... I don't know." Scully stares and waits. "Yes, he's been to the pediatrician," Tillman growls, flushing. "Lots of times. Janine handles the doctor's appointments and takes care of our family's medical needs. You have to believe me when I tell you that it's just gotten this bad in the last day or so. Isn't that right, Buddy?" "The scabbing tells a different story," Scully says evenly, glaring a hole through Tillman. "We'll speak of this in greater detail later. Because right now, in the time we have..." She focuses back on the boy and gentles her face and tone, "I have a few questions I want to ask you, Benjie. Is that okay with you?" He shakes his head and takes a step back. Tillman looks mortified, but keeps silent. No amount of soothing speech or cajoling on Scully's part can make this child acquiesce. He won't sit down, look at her, answer, allow her to touch him. In effect, he wants no part of her and she feels the beginnings of fresh, sharp disappointment and failure well up in her heart. This is *her* forte, the place where she shines. It was so with Emily, with all the other children she's befriended and interviewed through the years. They sensed her compassion, felt the tender mother-love within her, and they responded. But not this hurting little boy. Something keeps Benjie Tillman from stepping into the circle of her trust and caring. She knows what needs to happen now, despite this galling blow to her confidence and coming at a time of such personal vulnerability. But the situation must be salvaged, so she follows through like the professional she is, turning to the best resource at her disposal. "Mulder, I need you over here, please." He's by her side in the time it takes for her to rise from the couch. "You're sure?" She whispers back, "There's no other option right now -- so, yes, go ahead." They exchange lightning-quick glances and she catches the flash of regret and compassion in his eyes. It's a small comfort, but she's grateful for his empathy and willingness to pinch-hit. Mulder sits before the boy, knees parted wide, and Scully moves to take his place on the sideline of this peculiar, puzzling tableau. ************ End of Chapter 4