************ Chapter 7 ************ Conestoga Motel November 5, 2000 6:24 a.m. Only within the last few months has morning sex gained prominence on Scully's list of secret, favorite things. There's something about Mulder's unabashed winsomeness and the stale, mingled scent of their bodies at dawn that satisfies both the romantic and the realist in her. His sandpaper jaws scratch, yet his cowlick makes her smile. His dreamy-eyed attentions in the gentle light of morning challenge her libido. He's hungry, adventurous, orally- fixated, playful, generous, and unconditional in his affection. He leaves for Shamrock Women's Prison about ten minutes after her last orgasm. Dressed warmly for the outdoors, the edges of his hair still shower-damp, he leans over the bed so she can cradle his face for a farewell kiss. "You taste good," she murmurs, mouthwash flavoring her tongue, the fragrance of aftershave and clean Mulder sharp in her nostrils. "So do you," he counters, and when she feels his hand sneak beneath the sheet to stroke across the dewy tuft between her legs, she doesn't disallow his words. "Sleep in, Scully, and I'll call you later. The sign's on the doorknob to warn the big, bad maids away for while." How could she have known that this perpetually unorthodox and often exasperating man would fill such a place in her life? ************ By seven forty-five, restlessness drives her to the shower. She's never been able to dally while work waits, despite Mulder's parting wishes. When her hair is blown dry she phones the police station and asks for Detective Darnell, to request either a lift downtown or use of a squad car. "Sure thing, Agent Scully," he says, after hearing her predicament. "No use padding your expense report any more'n you have to. Give me about five minutes, I'll be over; you can drop me off and the car's yours." Remembering back six years, she assessed Darnell as being an earnest, though lackluster individual. He was, and still is, Tillman's right-hand man -- dependable, solid, and good as his word. He might also be the best source of insight into the dynamics of the Tillman household. When he drives up to her room at the Conestoga, she's ready and waiting outside in a dark pants suit, gloves, and winter coat. Sliding into the passenger seat before he can do anything chivalrous, she smiles and thanks him for his trouble. "I appreciate the loaner, Detective. Nothing new pertaining to the case?" "Not so far. The Lieutenant's kept close to home since yesterday morning." He checks his mirrors before pulling out onto the street, then shoots her a look. "Must've been one humdinger of an interview." "It was... revealing," she confesses, her return glance wary. "In light of the shadow of suspicion over Benjie, Agent Mulder and I felt it was necessary to speak with him ourselves. My only regret is that Mrs. Tillman wasn't there as well." She pauses. "Would you have any idea why she absented herself?" Darnell chews the inside of his cheek as he drives the few miles to the police station. She senses his reticence as he gauges how much line he can throw out before hanging himself or betraying his boss's confidentiality. "You know, that's a touchy subject, Agent Scully." "I don't doubt it." "At the same time, I don't want you to misjudge -- draw the wrong conclusions about the Lieutenant." She shifts sideways in the seat and gives Darnell her full attention. "Understood, Detective." With purpose he guides the car into the station parking lot, selects a space some distance from the building, and shuts off the ignition. Noticing her posture, he faces her as much as the steering wheel permits. "He -- he never got over her. B.J., I mean," he begins. Then, shaking his head in chagrin, he sputters and tenders an apologetic smirk. "Nah, that's a pretty lousy way to start things off." "So, start over," she says, smiling to ease his tension. "How long have you known the Tillmans?" "Well, I was a rookie cop when I came on back in '88 and the Lieutenant took me under his wing. He's a real good man to work with. The job and law enforcement is pretty much his life. He said that Janine understood that when they married, but," he shrugs, "I guess having a perception and then really knowing something first-hand are two different things." Tell me about it, she thinks, considering the past seven years to be a thorough baptism into the bizarre. One massive, eye-opening learning experience, thanks to her partner with the nickname of Spooky and the myriad of monsters, murderers, and conspiracies they've tracked and uncovered as a team. She nods with understanding and he resumes his thread. "Everybody has faults. And the Lieutenant always had a bit of a... well, an appreciative eye, if you get my drift. As far as I know, he only looked, never touched 'til B.J. Now, *that* put stress on the marriage. Except, his wife had her own set of problems to deal with." "Can you elaborate?" He stalls, sizing her up with a cautious eye, then exhales with a puff of resignation. "Depression. Some kind of bi- polar thing. He knew all about it when they married, he said, but I could tell whenever things got bad. He'd show up out of the blue at my apartment to watch late night TV and just hang out, not saying much. Like I'm the guy to hang with, a dull schmuck like me," he adds with a chuckle of disparagement. Scully offers a small sympathetic grin. "What else?" "Miscarriages. A couple of 'em, I think, early on. Maybe they stopped trying after that, I'm not sure. But she'd already been drinking for quite awhile." The scenario from hell. She closes her eyes for a moment, imagining the overwhelming resentment, anger, and bitterness already rampant in the home when the little love child christened Benjamin made his first unwelcome appearance. "As for *where* she might be... he said she went to her sister's for a breather. She does that when things get too intense. Even if he's left holding the bag, like he is now." "Meaning?" "No one to watch the boy," explains Darnell. "But he checked in early this morning to say he's found a sitter and that he'll be in later today to get caught up." He gives the front seat a small pat with his hand and grunts. "So, I guess that's about it, Agent Scully. For now, anyway..." "Just one more question before you go," she ventures. "Has anyone spoken with Mrs. Linda Thibodeaux since Viola was attacked?" He gnaws his lips while thinking. "The Lieutenant's seen her at the hospital. I tell you, we're all relieved Viola scared off her attacker before she was --" He runs a hand though his hair, shaking his head as if to free himself from dark memories. "I -- I won't ever forget the amount of blood and what was done to those poor women. And then to find out the killer was B.J. herself... a fellow cop..." His shudder brings to Scully's mind the cadre of startling villains she and Mulder have unveiled and encountered during their sojourn together, many of them from within the Bureau itself. Infamous turncoats with whom they'd at one time either worked or given their trust. Bill Patterson from the ISU, Alex Krycek, within their own small department... "I know it's a hard thing to stomach." Her voice softens and she waits, examining his face until he finally makes eye contact. "But, I think that if Lieutenant Tillman can handle the details of this case, considering his former level of involvement -- so can the rest of us. Agreed?" ************ She'd have better luck tracking Bigfoot or Elvis, Scully thinks after a stop at Memorial Hospital yields no trace of Linda Thibodeaux. Undeterred, she proceeds toward her next contact, which is a healthy jog down the street from the Tillman home in Sterling. It's an even more daunting trip for a five-year old child. She imagines Benjie, birthday gift under his arm, braving cold weather and dusky shadows as he scampers up the sidewalk alone, heart pounding. Her destination is an attractive bi-level home on Laramie Street with a sloping front lawn and thick, expensive glasswork around the entrance. She rings the bell, stepping back as a woman's figure manifests behind the glass and pulls the door ajar. "Natalie Warner?" The woman screws a face that would be otherwise pleasing into a frown. Her blue-gray eyes narrow with suspicion. On the thin side, short blonde hair, well-dressed, a good half- head taller than Scully. "Yeah, that's me. If you're here to solicit, don't bother." "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully from the FBI." From inside her coat lapel, she flashes her badge. "As you may know, we're investigating the attack that was made on Viola Rains. I need some information relating to your daughter's recent birthday party." "You gotta be kidding me --" Perplexed, the woman looks past Scully, tracking the street in both directions and scanning the individual cars parked along the curb. Coming up empty, she unleashes another grimace and hugs herself against the cold, as though the low temperature is Scully's fault as well. "What the hell --" "Excuse me, is there a problem here?" "Your partner's AWOL." "My partner is occupied elsewhere, Mrs. Warner." Scully angles her head and arches a brow in slight annoyance. "May I please come in for a few minutes?" Natalie hesitates, as though weighing her options, then stands aside with an impatient huff. "Just make it quick, okay?" "That will depend entirely upon you." The house is lovely inside, designer-chic and color- coordinated, though the smell of stale cigarette permeates the air. A shame, Scully thinks, eying the plush opulence of the furniture in the nearby living room, the thick carpet, and other appointments. Her reluctant hostess goes no further than the entryway, where they stand facing one another. "There are rumors, Mrs. Warner, that Benjie Tillman said or did something at the party which has fueled public speculation about his alleged involvement in the attack on Ms. Rains. Would you happen to know what provoked this gossip? And why?" Scully takes out a small notepad and pen as the woman's arms cross and her fingers begin tapping a nervous staccato beat. Natalie Warner is no Joe Darnell; her lips go tight as a sealed pistachio before she makes her belated reply. "Is this some kind of official interrogation? It was a freakin' *birthday* party, for cryin' out loud!" "Why was Benjie Tillman the only boy invited?" "There weren't supposed to *be* any boys. Shawna, my daughter, went behind my back at school and told him he could come." "Then, I'd like the names and addresses of all the children who attended, please. In case we need to speak with them individually about their observations, you understand." "Well, screw that," says Natalie, startled into taking a step backward. "She took the Goddamn invitations to school and gave 'em out there. *I* don't know where the hell all those kids live." "The adults who were present?" Scully's patience is wearing thin as November ice at the woman's deliberate and unnecessary lack of cooperation. Yanking a pack of cigarettes from her sweater pocket, Natalie shakes one out and jams it brutally between her lips. "Me, of course. Alice Marshall and..." She lights up, takes a heavy draw, "... my neighbor, Gwen." "Addresses?" "They're all right there in the telephone book, Agent... Scul-ly..." The name drips with condescension. It's been a long time since she's felt this furious at what should be a simple recounting of information from a witness. Right now she'd take inordinate pleasure in backhanding this bitch of an Aubrey, Missouri housewife right against the expensive wall mirror behind her. Instead she pockets her notepad and glowers up at the woman's stubborn smugness. "Listen to me. We can make this as easy or as difficult as you'd like, Mrs. Warner. I know for a fact that the Aubrey police station, at this very moment, has stacks of telephone books for *your* use, if you really want to go that route." Natalie reciprocates with a glare of her own. "You're shittin' me, right?" "Wrong," says Scully evenly, "but feel free to test me." Natalie squints her eyes and sucks in a lungful of cigarette smoke. She holds it for interminable moments before exhaling in Scully's general direction. "Have it your way, then." Pivoting on her heel toward a shadowed hallway that disappears into the depths of the house, she raises her voice. "Shawn-na! Can you hear me? Get your little butt out here right *now*!" ************ Shamrock Women's Prison November 5, 2000 10:45 a.m. One jail smells no different than another, whether it houses women or men, Mulder concludes. Each carries the same oppressive, institutional stamp, the same dismal air of hopelessness, confusion, anger, and evil. Klaus Reinholdt, B.J.'s doctor, is shocked to silence after Mulder divulges details of the mystery that's replaying itself in Aubrey. He agrees that Mulder should be the one to tell his patient that her recent dreams and visions have some validity, or -- in Mulder's words -- a basis in truth. After a short overview of her treatment, sedation, and paranoia, he's directed to a small conference room where B.J. Morrow awaits him. She isn't much the worse for wear, considering what six years of incarceration, the loss of her child, and three murders under her belt could do to a person. Her hair is shorter, accentuating the angularity of her chin and the slight jut of her thin lower lip. Glancing down the pale celery-green prison garb he notices that her ankles remain shackled together. Cheap sneakers with velcro closures. She clutches the table edge with white-knuckled hands, eyes glistening up to him through scattered bangs with the same look, the same intensity he saw the previous day in Benjie Tillman's gaze. "Oh, my God, you're finally here..." she gasps, reaching across the table while he slides his lanky body into the chair at the other side. A guard stationed nearby motions for B.J. to sit further back and she complies. "It *has* been a long time -- and I wish it was under better circumstances," he says with a reassuring smile. "Your doctor called me yesterday and requested that I come talk to you." "I'm so grateful -- Washington is a very long way to come for a talk, Agent Mulder." Taking a deep, preparatory breath, he glances at the hovering guard before diverting his attention to her face. "Please relax and listen to what I'm about to tell you. I just drove over here from Aubrey this morning --" "Oh, God -- oh, God!" Her hands jerk as though singed by fire. She covers her mouth, her eyes burning into his. "It's started, hasn't it? Something's gone wrong..." "B.J., listen to me. Now. Please!" She stares back, stricken and disoriented before blinking and swallowing her panic in one large shuddering gulp. "All right. I'm -- I'm okay now, Agent Mulder." "You sure? I know you've been under sedation for a few days before your doctor discontinued the shots, but please try to comprehend what I'm saying to you." B.J. nods. "There was an attack this past week in Aubrey and the woman *is* recovering. I believe this attack is somehow, in some way, related to your case in '94. Agent Scully and myself, working with Lieutenant Tillman and the Aubrey police department, are doing everything we can to find the person responsible before another incident occurs." "Brian called you in," she says in toneless wonder. "No one else would have made the connection. Except me, of course..." Her eyes focus suddenly and seize Mulder's. "Is my son safe? Is he all right?" "Absolutely. I spoke with him yesterday." "Oh, thank God! I could sense that something was wrong when I started seeing things again. Those awful dreams, like before. Blood everywhere. And the word 'sister'..." Her hand settles over her chest, where she bears the self- inflicted scars of the same word. "When did this attack take place?" "Early Thursday, the morning of November the second." "Not the night before?" Her blue eyes widen in surprise. "Because that's when it started, the dreams and feelings -- along with the mothering instinct. I've been beside myself." Mulder listens in rapt silence while this tortured woman shares the events of the past week from her perspective. The hazy presence that manifested itself on Wednesday evening, the dreams and feelings from which she seems to have little respite. Her fear for her child, as overwhelming waves of mother-worry inundate her with a force just as powerful and consuming. Her ineffectual hunger strike and the soporific effect of the drugs administered to curb her suddenly erratic behavior. Her request to have Mulder contacted. "They stopped giving me sedatives yesterday. After the doctor called you, I suppose. So, Agent Mulder... you, who saw what other people missed so many years ago. What do you think is hounding me now?" He gives a tight smile. "I'm not sure. But, I have a theory." "What is it?" Fear saturates her voice. "Some kind of demon, possibly," he whispers after a few moments of thought. "An evil force that's affected your biological family tree by genetic means, beginning with Harry Cokely. It manifested itself in you through genetic transference only when you became pregnant and then it appeared to die off when he did. But we both know that's not the case." "No," she answers, lip trembling. "But who is it now?" "You're the only child of Raymond Morrow?" "Yes, there were no other children, just me. No philandering." She blushes at the obvious contradiction posed by her own experience. "My parents and I were close, especially my mother -- I would have known, or suspected, at the very least." "So, barring any possibility that Cokely began a second, concurrent family tree through another source, the biological lineage is straightforward: Cokely to Raymond Morrow to you... to your son. It makes me think that you and Benjie can be aware of the presence of this 'power' without it actually gaining control. In the Christian realm individuals claim they can be 'oppressed' by a demon without being actually 'possessed' by it." "That sounds plausible," B.J. muses. "Six years ago I must have been 'possessed' and used like a host or puppet by this -- force. But, what I've experienced this week *is* more like an oppression or awareness of the evil without being manipulated to do its bidding." "Some legacy old Harry Cokely left behind. Except it backfired with you, B.J. Remember, the visions you had -- and shared with us -- helped to find the bodies of two FBI agents missing since 1942. Chaney and Ledbetter, partners who were murdered by Cokely. You unearthed their bones with your own hands, exposing the truth in spite of your psychosis." "But the price was so high. Too high." Her eyes flicker and moisten with the pain of regret. "I mutilated myself. I terrorized and killed innocent people and thought I was dreaming. I would have killed you, too, that night, if Cokely hadn't died at that very moment and stopped me." The manner of Cokely's death, at the razor-held hand of his own biological granddaughter, seems to Mulder like an equitable recompense for the evil he created and caused to proliferate. "In his case, justice was served," he murmurs. "Agent Mulder, do you think my son is being affected the same way I am?" "I think that could be possible, B.J., though I don't know for certain," he says with gentle honesty. "Then he's a target! My God, he's not locked up the way I am. He's out there free, a little child, like a sitting duck --" Leaning across the table, he seeks to calm and comfort without getting too close. He sends an appeasing wave toward the guard before resting his hand over hers, pressuring her to silence and self-control with his firm grasp. "Lieutenant Tillman is being watchful of him. Agent Scully and I both saw him yesterday. I think the risk is minimal. But, we have another, more difficult equation to consider right now." Her face threatens to crumble at the inexorable truth, but she sits straighter in her chair, resolute in her helplessness. "I know what you're going to say -- if it's not me... and I pray it's not my little boy... then, who *is* responsible for the latest attack? And, since we're the only biological descendents alive -- *how* can it be happening?" ************ DiAngelo residence November 5, 2000 6:35 p.m. Gwen DiAngelo stands at the stove, reflecting on the incredibly crappy day she's just had, for a Sunday. Natalie isn't speaking to her. Not since she shared over the phone yesterday about running into the handsome FBI agent at the hospital, about shaking his hand, and the biggest flub -- pointing out his obvious affection for his partner. Not even this morning, when she called again and tried to smooth things over. "No fucking way," Natalie had fumed. "What the hell do *you* know, Gwen, huh? Go screw yourself with the rest of the losers!" Then Alice. Certainly there are others who can take Gwen's place on the volunteer schedule this coming week, seeing she's doing Lieutenant Tillman a favor by babysitting his little boy on such short notice. Well, it's not exactly a favor... he's clear that he intends to pay her for her trouble, something the hours spent at Memorial don't provide. Though she knows Alice values her for the rapport she's developed with the staff and patients, she wasn't prepared for her cool, clipped tone of disapproval. But Alice Marshall is old; old people like the planned, even keel, not surprises that rock their boats and make them scramble. Who else can she possibly piss off this late in the day? Streetlights shimmer at the curb. Too bad Tony's been called out on a Sunday to troubleshoot a company software problem. Still, it does give her more time to let the spaghetti sauce simmer long and slow, the way his little Italian mother had taught her. The way he likes it. And Benjie Tillman's been good as gold, nothing like the misfit Natalie described at the party. Thank God for his long attention span. Until now he's been content to play quietly on the living room rug with those Lego building toys he brought. Different colored blocks of interlocking plastic, with little wheels and assemblies for making cars and trucks, even windshields and white doorframes that hinge, for houses. Tiny people, too. Cute. She wonders whether Tony had a set of those when he was a boy... She stops stirring the sauce to help Benjie on with his coat, hat, and mittens, so he can play in the yard on the old rusty swing set the former owners left behind. Some day she may have a child of her own who would use it. Until then, this chap-faced little boy is welcome as long as it doesn't get too cold or dark outide. The Lieutenant should be around to pick him up within an hour anyway. "Be careful... and stay in the yard, okay?" Mute, he nods. She flicks on the porch light and closes the glass sliding door to the frigid air, watching him streak into the dusky grayness toward the narrow sliding board. Another few minutes of stirring and she lays down the spoon, strolling into the darkening living room. Better to have things neat and ready for both Benjie Tillman's departure and Tony's return. She kneels on the rug to scoop the toys into their box, drawn to examine a few of the more remarkable, intricate pieces that catch her eye. Amazing, what they make for kids these days. Car grills with little- bitty headlights. Miniature fence posts. Transparent plastic blocks for -- The blow to the back of her head stuns Gwen, knocks her helplessly to her side. Gasping in pain and terror she tries to scream, but is silenced by yet another vicious, agonizing strike to the same spot. She sees nothing but blackness, can only gurgle through a paralyzing haze of nausea, fear, and inconceivable pain. Somewhere, a voice hovers -- harsh and horrible, ebbing wave- like in and out of her consciousness. "It's *your* turn to take the blame now... little sister..." With a final blow, the blackness claims her. ************ End of Chapter 7