************ Chapter 5 ************ Tillman residence November 4, 2000 10:53 a.m. Boys thrive on secrecy and Benjie Tillman, Mulder believes, is no exception to that basic tenet of childhood. Private, hidden places or forbidden things to which no one else is privy. The location of forts and hideouts, secret knowledge about where to find the coolest agates and fool's gold and bird's nests. The best climbing trees and berry bushes. Which deep culvert can sustain the farthest exploration and still seem safe. Neighborhood windows that remain open and illuminated, food for a small boy's nascent fantasies after dark. Secrets mature with age and intensify by degree, being shaped by the child's environment, his character, his unique socialization and genetic inheritance. At what point in time and from what type of instigation or trauma, Mulder wonders, would a truly "bad seed" first manifest itself? In spite of his probable innocence, this sullen little boy exhibits too many red flag indicators for Mulder to comfortably ignore. Snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails. It always struck him as unfair that Mother Goose gave such a bad rep to little boys, as opposed to a little girl's sugar and spice. He thinks of his partner, raised Catholic in the home of a respected naval officer, sandwiched between two rough-and- tumble brothers, and isn't surprised she's become such a valuable and scrappy player. Right now he sees that she's positioned herself to the far side of the couch by the wall, where she can observe proceedings and lend a hand if needed. Dedicated and resilient -- that's his Scully. Usurped by cruelly unforeseen rejection, her expression is rigid and unreadable to all others; only her eyes, softly hooded and very blue, betray any sense of injury, which she internalizes as a matter of course. That, he'll tend to later. He focuses again on Benjie Tillman, the subject of their interview. What kind of day-to-day home life does this child lead, considering his unsavory lineage, his appearance, and his furtive habits? Pint-sized keeper of secrets or budding psychopath? Child of woe or one of wary self-defense? The child stands with head still ducked, unaware of his father's frustrated gnashing and reddened face. Mulder motions up to Tillman and requests a chair of any kind, and quickly. With something to occupy him, the man will be less of a hindrance as the interrogation of his son resumes. His father helping, the boy scoots his small behind up and into a kitchen chair positioned before the agent. "Lieutenant," prompts Scully with smooth, but pointed insinuation before Tillman can reoccupy his station behind the boy, "I think it's better if you join me over here." Mulder feels a swell of gratitude for her watchful eye and the awareness that Tillman's towering presence may intimidate the child to silence and therefore frustrate the questioning. Unsure whether she's asking or ordering, the Lieutenant pats his son on the arm, then concedes with reluctance and takes his place next to Scully near the wall. Meanwhile, Mulder tries a new approach at breaking the ice. With the slow, mesmerizing movements of a snake charmer he removes his suit jacket, unbuttons his cuffs, and rolls each sleeve up a forearm. He knows, in an instant, that he's seized the little boy's attention, so continues on with his unhurried, deliberate clothing adjustments by loosening his tie, running a finger under his watchband, and then leaning forward on his thighs, hands held in a loose clasp between his knees. "Much better," he chuckles softly, "but I'll do everybody a favor and keep my shoes on. Think that's a good idea?" The joke is lost on the boy, though Tillman makes a small derisive grunt. "It's just you and me now, Benjie," Mulder begins. "I'd like to talk to you for a little bit." No response. "You can call me by my first name, if you want. It's Fox." He makes a face. "Fox is a pretty weird name for a grown man, huh?" The boy blinks and gives a half-shrug. One side of his mouth moves into a faint curl. "What I'll do is ask you some questions, okay? You answer them as truthfully as you can. I just want you to know that, if the questions are too hard or make you uncomfortable, you can answer by nodding or shaking your head. How's that sound?" The boy pauses and then nods. "Let's start with some easy stuff. Like, what's your name?" Do his ears deceive him? Startled, he peers at the boy's tilted face and sees his lips move. A low, hoarse voice, one that is common or appropriate to few children, whispers the name "Benjie Tillman." "O-kay," encourages Mulder with quiet enthusiasm. "What grade are you in this year?" Another pause and he hears the raspy word, "Kindergarten." "Tell me what you like best about kindergarten, Benjie." The boy begins to thaw, his head bobbing higher. Dangling sneakers swing and bump gently together as he thinks, while his hands still nestle deep in his sweatshirt pockets, burrowing beneath the fabric like two small animals. "I draw pictures." His diction is sharp, despite the unusual huskiness. "Mrs. Vanderbeck has Legos. Sometimes I build things." "That's great. D'you have any pictures here at home that I could see?" Benjie shakes his head and his body tightens perceptibly. "Well, that's too bad," muses Mulder. "Maybe you can draw one for me now... how about it?" Another shake, so Mulder moves on, posing other straightforward questions intended to disarm the boy and gain his trust. He chances a fleeting look toward Scully and catches the glitter of emotion in her eyes, which she tries to conceal by angling her head against the curved swaths of her hair. Tillman, standing at attention close beside her, seems pacified enough under the circumstances. Too bad I'm about to blow it all to hell in a hand basket, Mulder thinks ruefully. He has the sensation of being bubbled up together with this little boy, just the two of them alone on a separate and intangible plane of existence. The room and its other occupants are of no consequence right now. Looking across at the chapped reddened face he senses a perplexing depth of fear, power, and confusion emanating from within the child and decides to risk a gentle, figurative poke. "Tell me, Benjie," he says. "Do you like riding the bus?" He hears a restive huff from Tillman, but waits patiently for the child's hesitant reply. "No." "Why not?" When Benjie holds back, Mulder leans toward him and touches his small knee with a forefinger. "Don't think about anybody else right now. Remember, it's just you and me. We're loose and comfortable here, right?" He pats the jacket next to him and twirls a few fingers through the gap between his tie's knot and his collar. As predicted, the boy's cautious eyes track his movements; the small hands in the sweatshirt pockets cease their incessant burrowing. "So... what don't you like about the bus ride?" "The kids are mean." "All? Or just some?" Benjie shrugs. "How does that make you feel?" "Bad." "D'you ever feel mad, too?" "Yeah." "*Real* mad?" "Agent Mulder!" Tillman's warning snaps through the room like a whiplash and the boy jerks, more a startle reflex than one that's been honed over time or born of fear. As though irked by the interference, he turns his head toward his father, allowing Mulder to glimpse his secret smoldering glare. He seems somehow older than his five years; his eyes are moist, yet burn with a curious heat that softens and cools as he turns his countenance back to Mulder. The agent and the boy weigh one another in the ensuing silence. "My guess is you don't really need to ride the bus anyway, do you? I bet you get around just fine without it." "What the hell does that mean?" Tillman takes a step forward but is prevented from any real progress by Scully's shoulder and body, placed quickly and conveniently in his path. "I have a feeling you know your way all over this town. Am I right?" The boy considers, blinks, and gives a nod. "Did you walk to the birthday party, too?" "Yes." "*What* party is that?" Tillman fumes and Scully smothers his perturbation with a sudden, furious whisper of her own. Tuning out the sideline scuffle, Mulder continues his careful questioning of the boy. "Who invited you?" "Shawna. The kids laughed, but she said I could come." "Did you bring her a present?" "Yeah." The previous tension has dissipated and Mulder smiles, picturing the meticulous preparations of this lonely and ingenious child. "Way to go, Benjie! Whadja bring her?" "Legos." His voice lowers to a whisper only Mulder can hear. "The new ones Daddy bought for me. I wrapped them up." "You must be a pretty smart kid to know how to wrap a present. Even I have trouble with that sometimes. Bow and tape and everything?" The boy manages a shy smirk and nods. "Where'd you get the wrapping paper?" "In Jan --" He stops, shooting a look at his father before amending his answer. "In Mommy's sewing room." "So," Mulder says, noting the slip, "you wrapped the present. You went to the party. Then, when it was over, you walked home. All alone in the dark?" "Yes." "You're not afraid of the dark, are you, Benjie?" A head shake. "It's dark early in the morning, too. Did you get up early the next morning? Maybe go outside?" A shrug. "Did you walk to the school in the dark?" "That's enough, Agent Mulder!" Tillman barks, this time grabbing Scully by both shoulders and steering her out of his path. "You're *way* out of line, here --" "Did you see anything at the school, Benjie? In the dark? By the buses?" The boy's eyes re-ignite with the same subtle, fiery blaze as he returns Mulder's stare. "What did you say at the party to make people so scared? What was it, Benjie?" He feels like a babbling idiot, like a loose cannon shooting off his mouth before his supply of ammo is severed. A desperate man, grasping at empty seconds, like handfuls of dirt that crumble under his fingers and slip away forever. The interview may halt at any moment with no conceivable chance to pick up the thread later and this young boy's future could either bend or break under the weight of evidence gathered here today. That reality incites him further. "When they asked what special thing you wanted, what did you say? What did you want?" "That's *enough*, I said, Goddamn it!" "Tillman, let the boy answer!" To his right, Scully covers her forehead with a pale hand. "Tell your father, Benjie," says Mulder, half-rising from the couch in his urgency. "Tell your father what you told everybody at the party..." Striding quickly, Tillman scoops his son from the chair and carries him to the middle of the room, distancing himself from the two agents. Visibly shaken, he stands the boy on the rug and then kneels before him, grasping the small shoulders with his two large hands, his face stark and pleading. "Champ, you don't have to say anything to him. You don't have to answer for anything." Benjie Tillman snuffles, dabs at his eye with chapped fingers, but remains otherwise solemn and composed. "Lieutenant, are you at all interested in knowing what he said and why people are talking?" "Shut up, Agent!" "Daddy..." Both men halt the aggressive posturing, cease their loud intonations, and stare at the boy as one. He shrugs and sticks out his lower lip, wiping again at his eyes. "I said 'sister'. 'Little sister'." "What?" Tillman fastens Benjie with a look of incredulity, which metamorphoses into horror as his mind struggles to process the awful inference. He shakes his head, refusing to accept the evidence and implication that Mulder's questions have uncovered. "Why, son?" Benjie shrugs and wipes. "Are you that lonely? Do you really want a little sister or brother?" The boy shakes his head. "Come on, Benj... help me out here." Hearing the anguished panic in this man's voice, Mulder feels a wave of overwhelming pity for him. So out-of-touch, clueless about his own child's physical needs and psychological proclivities. So torn by his past sins and present trespasses that he fails to see what fruit has been ripening under his nose for five long years, what extraordinary mysteries lie flourishing like poppies under his own roof. "I said it," the boy rasps, his voice eerie and raw in the quiet of the room. Strangely matter-of-fact, almost prideful as he confronts his father's bleak bewilderment. "I scared them, Daddy." "For the love of God, son -- why? Why say something like that?" The child's large eyes fill and he shakes his head, reverting just as quickly into a small, confused five-year old, who has no clue, no comprehension about how anything this complicated and fearsome could have set up camp around him. Mulder grabs for his jacket and slings it with distaste over his shoulder as he stands and looks at his partner. "Maybe he's sick of taking the blame for something that's ultimately not his fault," he mutters for no one's benefit except his own -- yet loud enough for every adult present to grasp the abysmal intimation. ************ Memorial Hospital November 4, 2000 11:39 a.m. Gwen DiAngelo slumps against the wall in the visitor's waiting area. Her lunch break isn't due for another forty minutes, but she feels driven to stop and connect with Natalie lest news of the chance encounter this morning with the FBI agent precedes her. Nat's assessment is right on target, of course -- the man *is* handsome in an unusual way, tall and intense with his hazel eyes and brown hair. She can see why her neighbor makes such a drooling fuss over him, but feels a nagging sense of guilt that she's actually helped to encourage those thoughts of lust and infidelity. But that's the way it is when she's with Natalie Warner. Nat's such a hoot to be around, with her colorful, outrageous mouth, her designer home and clothes, her gossip, and the manipulative, off-hand way in which she makes Gwen feel privileged to be her friend. It was flattering when she and Tony first moved to Aubrey last summer, because she'd anticipated a period of lonely solitude before she made real friends. Happily, she hadn't long to wait. Within days she'd been courted by grandmotherly Alice Marshall, head of the volunteer program at Memorial Hospital, who'd introduced Gwen to several other nice ladies through that organization. And when the neighbors came to call, first at her door was Natalie Warner with a luscious tiramisu and compliments galore on Gwen's make-up and hairstyle. It wasn't a couples thing this time, the way it was in so many other places she and Tony had lived. Nat seemed genuinely happy for her friendship alone and welcomed Gwen's presence into her pampered, oddball existence. It all boils down to compromise and how far she'll go. Already she regrets the randy suggestions she made this morning in order to stay in Natalie's good graces. Each time she leaves that unsettled house next door, Gwen finds herself abandoning much of the inappropriate baggage it requires to remain close friends with Natalie. It's not who Gwendolyn DiAngelo really is. The lewd talk, the flagrant, irreverent digs at spousal virility or lack of interest, impatience and discontent over raising a spoiled brat like Shawna. These things drop away like scales whenever she walks back into her own unpretentious yard and house, when she greets her hardworking husband whom she loves beyond measure and would never for a moment betray. She feels shame, as well, about the way the little Tillman boy was belittled at the birthday party, and wonders how a grown, adult woman could bring herself to be so outspoken and critical about an innocent child's heritage. I've still got the dregs of a conscience, she thinks ruefully, tapping the phone against her chin. Thank God and Tony for that. As for the FBI agent... after that chance meeting with him and his partner in Viola's room and then in the hall afterward, Gwen knows that Natalie's vacuous hopes are doomed to failure. He's an attractive man, but professional and as poised as any gentleman. She's seen his wink and parting comment to Viola, has experienced his firm handshake and charming demeanor. And walking undetected down the hall a few minutes after, she noticed him standing with his female partner near the nurses' station. She watched how his palm hovered, grazed, and then rested against the curve of her lower back while they spoke together in whispers. When he leaned over her shoulder to look at something she held, his tender glance and the secret, possessive smile he gave the pretty red- haired woman was a dead giveaway. At least it seemed so to Gwen. Rings notwithstanding, if she's ever seen a *couple* from afar, they are definitely one. Sucking in air, she dials Natalie's number and steels herself for the pick-up. ************ Tillman residence November 4, 2000 11:45 a.m. After the Corolla peels away from the curb in front of his house, after he hastily zips up his son's winter jacket and sends him out to play in the yard, Brian Tillman takes the steps to the second floor in leaps of two at a time. He's livid from betrayal and shame, had felt like a raging fool in front of the two agents. Brian Tillman, a laughing- stock, caught with his pants down and his household in disarray. The indignity of the last hour and the secrets revealed during Mulder's interview with Benjie would be moot and incidental if Janine had only held up her end of the parenting deal. If she'd felt up to the challenge this morning and not left him holding the bag alone. Benjie's skin. His wandering. The birthday party. God, a fucking party at the Warner's, of all places... He feels scorching anger flare into blame, and like a hot potato, needs to toss it away quickly, at someone. At Janine. She's no longer lumped under the covers of their bed the way she was when he slipped downstairs to prepare Saturday breakfast earlier. Instead, her perfume hangs thick as bacon grease in the air of their bedroom. Framed within the doorway, he stands with chest heaving and mouth agape, his eyes darting from made-up bed to packed suitcase to the open door of the master bath where his wife finishes a quiet, modified toilette. "I'm going to my sister's for a few days, in case you're at all interested," she says, fastening an earring in front of the mirror. Only her puffy, reddened eyes hint at any degree of former distress or residual signs of substance abuse. Her movements are quick and precise, her tone almost lilting as she snaps shut the lid of a cosmetic case and sets it next to the other piece of luggage on the floor. She's made up her face and dressed smartly, as though for work, in slacks and an embroidered wool sweater. Watching her fasten a gold chain behind her neck, he feels a certain panicked outrage at the audacious selfishness of her timing. "What the hell --" His hands grip the jamb like twin vises. "I need you *here*! I have responsibilities to this town. I've got a murder investigation underway, Janine, and an important job I just can't abandon --" "Well, don't we all," she throws back, her voice taunting. "Brian, my mornings are busy. I *won't* be pinned to this house because you feel your son can't handle kindergarten right now." *Our* son, *our* son, he wants to emphasize, but can't bring himself to say the words aloud. "Goddamn it, it's to protect him! Don't forget that!" "Then, it looks like you'll have to find someone else to watch him while you're at the station investigating, won't you?" "And you'd better be prepared to speak with the FBI, too," he snarls back. "They'll want answers to some important questions." "Such as?" "Such as, where you were when Benjie was walking himself to and from a birthday party in the dark a few nights ago. Did you even *know* about that?" "Will wonders never cease? So that's why my wrapping supplies were stuffed back into a heap. I thought maybe something celebratory was going on down at the station and you were in too much of a hurry -- " "Janine!" Her eyes connect with his in the shiny reflective surface of the mirror. "No, I was unaware that Benjamin actually had a scheduled affair to attend. He told me nothing. What else?" "The fact that he doesn't get adequate supervision at home." She shrugs and dabs at the lipstick near a corner of her mouth. "He's antsy and very much Daddy's little boy. And sometimes he makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. I can't keep my eyes on him every minute." "I see you manage to find your way to the liquor cabinet just fine." Her movements freeze for a moment before she gives herself a final once-over in the glass and straightens up. He almost gnashes his teeth at her cool indifference. "His skin, Janine -- you haven't been taking care of it. My God, I got my first really good look at it today and couldn't believe how bad --" Breaking off, his throat constricts and he knows his eyes glisten with tears of empathy and disillusionment. "The boy's in pain. They could call that parental neglect and child abuse -- and do a whole separate investigation on that alone." "If it comes to that, then you'll know where to find me." The look in her eyes, deep and chilling, paired with her light-hearted tone catches him off-guard. "Remember... we didn't get to where we are now on *my* one tank of gas. Remember that, Brian." Stunned, he backs into the hall when she lifts the two cases with ease and heads for the bedroom door. "Garbage goes out on Tuesday morning," she tosses over her shoulder at the head of the stairs. "Don't forget." "You're making a big mistake by walking out that door!" Her step slows momentarily. "Oh, I'll be back," she assures him, and a second later continues on her way down to the first floor and a separate agenda. ************ Aubrey, MO November 4, 2000 12:00 noon "Just *what* were you doing back there, Mulder? If you were going after Tillman's goat, then you did a bang-up job of alienating him and putting our investigation in jeopardy. And if you were trying to help Benjie get in touch with his feelings and 'inner child' in a very public, very compromising session, then I'd have to say you were right on the mark." "Mad at me?" His words and their tone hover at opposite ends of the spectrum; he speaks in a colorless monotone. He's at the wheel, splitting sunflower seeds with a vengeance, venting. The car screeches to a halt at each stop sign, then revs forward with a lurch that makes Scully's head wobble and her hair feather over her cheeks. Soon, she prays, they'll be clear of residential areas with stops or lights at every corner and jet onto an unencumbered highway that skirts town. "That's irrelevant. What matters is that you betrayed that little boy's confidence with impunity and without permission." "It was necessary. You could label it a betrayal, but I don't. Somehow, in some way, I touched that kid, Scully. He responded." "As did his father --" "-- who needs to get his shit together where his son is concerned." "That's putting it compassionately," she murmurs, the sarcasm in her voice thickened from the emotional swelling in her throat and another snap of her head as he jams on the brake yet again. "That's the only fucking way I know *how* to put it when I see crap like that." He whacks the dashboard with his fist and guns the engine. "Goddamn it --" Yes, she understands, having been witness to the same sad tragedy. Her initial and crushing disappointment at the beginning of the interview has taken a back seat to what unfolded before her during Mulder's questioning. Eyes stony, she turns her head toward the passenger window, knowing that for the present he's too tightly wound, too violated and outraged in spirit to accept even a small pat or squeeze of concurrence from her. "Where are we going now?" "We should make a visit to Linda Thibodeaux's home in Edmond, see what her connection is to Viola Rains. Then maybe take a run back down to the Aubrey police station. It might be awkward for Tillman, if he's there, but I'm willing to bet that Joe Darnell and others can bring us up to speed and maybe shed some new light on this case. Then, we should --" "Edmond's over the Missouri state line, in Nebraska," she observes. "That's a lot of dashing around for one afternoon, though I suppose you'll undoubtedly feel better after running us both ragged and giving me whiplash." Sighing, she looks over to where his hands strangle the wheel. "You know, Mulder, I once read that a dragonfly's entire lifespan is only twenty-four hours long." He chuffs. "Talk about one-night stands..." "It's a documented fact. You, by way of contrast, have unlimited time and resources at your disposal, without the driving necessity to cram everything into one twelve-hour day in order to expend your pent-up feelings of anger and frustration. Especially since you may be up for part of the night as well." She feels his inquiring glance graze her face and reciprocates with an arch in her brow. "So, getting back to the subject of today's itinerary, where to after the station?" "Back to the motel. I want to talk this case through, to get some perspective. We're on a roll here, Scully, and I need you to brainstorm with me." "All right. But, since breakfast was just a caffeine afterthought, is lunch to be a consideration anytime soon?" "Do buffalo shit on the prairie?" His spirits are obviously lifting. She tilts her head toward him, noticing his still-loosened tie knot lobbing against the front of his shirt, and without thinking reaches out to fondle it in reminder. "No, Mulder... not for close to one hundred years. Not unless you know of a small, protected private herd in these parts." "Details..." His thigh pressing the steering wheel, he uses both hands to yank his tie back into alignment, then captures her left hand with his groping right. The warm contact of his skin, his stroking fingers, is patently reassuring; her heart feels comforted after the awful tension that immersed them at the Tillman home. "You know," he muses, "in retrospect... maybe I could've gained a few extra minutes with Benjie if I'd gone the whole hog and taken off the shoes, too. You think?" She presses her lips into a coy smile. "The shoes come off later. For me." ************ End of Chapter 5