************
Chapter 9
************
Memorial Hospital
November 5, 2000
8:35 p.m.
She and Mulder part ways after leaving Tillman's house,
intent on separate spheres of involvement. She knows he
wants to sniff around at the crime scene with Darnell and
crew, but first she needs him to ferry her to the morgue at
Memorial Hospital.
At the coroner's suggestion she uses a back entrance, glad
to avoid the brighter, more public lobby and emergency room
areas and immediately changes to scrubs. Though her
objective is to examine someone newly dead -- never a
pleasant task -- it's vaguely reassuring to step back from
the melodrama of the case into the familiar confines of
stainless-steel, refrigeration, and the autonomy she knows
so well.
Hic locus est ubi mori gaudet succurre vitae. "This is the
place where death rejoices to teach those who live." The
paradoxical words are meant to be a sobering dictum for new
students of pathology at Quantico. She reflects how they
long ago lured her from the field of medicine and fueled her
dream to embrace a higher, nobler purpose in life.
A lofty premise, she thinks, but hardly accurate or
equitable. Death, the great equalizer, demands anonymity
and the suppression of what Scully has come to regard as
one's innate "personhood." Death steals identity, personal
dignity. With the spirit and soul gone, the corporeal shell
is left behind for the forensic pathologist's purpose -- to
delve within, to solve the mysteries of suspicious and
untimely demise.
Already she's begun to assume the disassociation necessary
when dealing with the dead. Names mean little; a toe tag is
usually all that's required to confirm she has the correct
corpse on the chilled table top. Tonight, however, the body
is too fresh, too warm; she doesn't relish performing this
brief, external examination on the victim known as Gwen
DiAngelo.
The coroner who requested Scully's input stands at her side,
a grim, though willing assistant. They don latex and face
shields and she turns on a small tape recorder. Unzipping
the bag, she begins her signature monotone. Blood samples,
fingernail scrapings, clothing damage, and pattern of
wounding. Together they work quickly taking photos,
harvesting external fluids, hair, fibers, and other evidence
for immediate testing at the lab. Several small pieces of
plastic, yellow and blue, lay clotted in the woman's hair
and cranial wound.
"Never seen anything like that before," says the coroner
heavily, not the same man who handled the earlier victims
six years before and therefore new to the horrors of this
case.
She nods for him to salvage and bag Benjie's ill-fated
little toys. "Did you know this woman?"
He leans against the edge of the table, bare elbows stiff
and locked, before replying. "Saw her quite a few times
here at the hospital when I was passing through. Gwen was
one of Alice's little volunteers, very kind to everyone. I
hope you and your partner get the bastard who did this...
that's all I've got to say."
They remove shoes and clothing from the lower body. Then,
following routine procedure, she takes vaginal and rectal
swabs and examines the genitalia for signs of injury or
forced penetration. Nothing she sees is inconsistent within
the parameters of a normal, if not energetic sex life. Her
findings raise the question of what an examination of her
own vagina would reveal under close scrutiny, considering
the workout she's received during the last few days with
Mulder. Scratch that... there are some things better left
out of the equation entirely.
Full autopsy is to take place the following morning, after
attendants have stripped, weighed, washed, and x-rayed the
body. Done for the time being, she cleanses her hands and
forearms, changes clothing, and fishes her cell from a coat
pocket.
"Mulder, it's me. I've just finished here. Wanna pick me
up?"
"Did that last night," he murmurs back, not missing a beat,
"and it was pretty outstanding, as I recall."
"You'd better be alone," she scolds in a whisper, turning to
flash a look around the room. The coroner, mercifully, is
no longer there to witness her falter and flush. She can
hear Mulder's chuckle over the cell phone, knowing he
relishes her discomfiture.
"One is still the loneliest number. Just couldn't help
myself," he says in mock apology. "Seriously, are you
hungry?"
"I could eat, I suppose... as long as you're not set on
greaseburgers and root beer."
"Hey." He pauses. "Hear that, Scully?"
"What?"
"The Imperial Dragon is calling to us. If they're still
serving, I think we oughta swing by for a succulent taste of
the Orient. Besides, I get a big kick out of eating my food
with sticks. How about you?"
Smiling into the phone, she tells him to haul his ass over
to the hospital, pronto.
************
Tillman residence
November 5, 2000
9:20 p.m.
After tonight he could use a stiff belt, Brian Tillman
decides, helping his freshly-bathed son into pajamas.
But he won't, for Benjie's sake. The last thing the boy
needs to see is his father caving to the same vice that
weakened his mother's judgment. Or more accurately, his
step-mother's, and one who's resented her role for five long
years.
There was no answer at her sister's house when he called,
and the fact disturbs him.
But it pleases him that Benjie's skin has improved. The
regimen that Agent Scully provided over the phone is the
ticket -- warm bath, medicated lotion, soft cotton clothing.
Janine could have been doing those same simple things. He
blames himself for not monitoring the situation more
closely, for putting his son's fate and special health needs
into the hands of an ambivalent guardian. His wife's.
Has he really abdicated responsibility? He assumed when
Benjie came into their home that Janine would become the
mirror image of his mother's sterling example. All women
possess that innate mothering instinct, don't they? God,
he'd taken so much for granted! They'd always planned for
children, so he found it hard to sympathize with Janine's
initial resentment in raising a baby that wasn't her own.
And each time he checked whether she was continuing her
medication, she became more defensive and closed off to him.
He wonders how things would be now, if B.J. hadn't been so
severely affected and driven to homicide. It's doubtful she
would have agreed to his knee-jerk solution of abortion,
choosing to transfer to another city and department and
carry the baby to term. As it was, he took a leave of
absence to wait out the investigation that ensued those
months following Benjie's birth. Thankfully the courts
approved both his request to adopt the offspring of a known
felon -- his own child -- and his reinstatement on the
force.
He settles his exhausted boy onto the couch, covering him
with a blanket, and looks into the small, sleeping face.
Her eyes, her mouth and chin. More and more he misses B.J.
and what she brought to him.
Reflecting back on those months before everything hit the
proverbial shitter he knows he fed her insecurities by
pulling back when things at home worsened. B.J. was
headstrong and determined, but needy. Zeroing in on him
with her wide accusing eyes. Taking him to task, holding
him accountable. Even so, she overlooked so much that was
wrong in his life, granting him a haven for respite and
sexual release.
Good God, how long has it been since he's taken a woman the
way he used to take B.J.? Surely not with Janine -- even
when they had sex it was quick and unsatisfactory. A chore,
on her part. Now, nothing for over a year. It could drive
a man elsewhere...
He envies those men who consistently share the love and
willing body of a woman who respects and wants to please
them. It makes him ponder Janine's drunken assessment of
the two FBI agents, wondering if there's any truth to the
speculation.
If so, they're damn good at hiding it. But the probability
exists... working closely as partners for seven years,
sharing a dangerous job and often traveling on assignment in
the field. A smart, attractive woman like Agent Scully. A
man like Mulder. He can perceive the vibes now, having once
been in a similar place himself. Lucky dog.
So, how often and where? Right across town at the motel, he
assumes. And how? Naked positioning, not logistics. He's
always been good at mentally disrobing a woman, peeking
beneath the clothes, even if it's all in his head. Mental
voyeurism. Musing on the secret charms that lie hidden.
Yes, he could imagine it, if he tried. He could warm to the
vision of a woman like Agent Dana Scully. But now's not the
time or place, not with tonight's damnable turn of events
and his little boy suddenly thrown into harm's way.
He glances toward Benjie, reaches for the phone, and punches
the number of his sister-in-law again.
************
Imperial Dragon Restaurant
November 5, 2000
10:17 p.m.
Mulder has madness, mutator genes, and murder on the brain
when they enter the restaurant and find that dinner is still
being served on a limited basis. The blessed warmth inside
and soft, colored lighting in shades of blue and saffron
soothe his spirit to say nothing of the fragrances wafting
from every direction. His stomach rumbles in earnest.
He can tell Scully approves by her faint expression of
surprise and the energetic pace she sets as they're led to
their table. "I waited out in the car when you ordered the
food the other night," she says to him from over her
shoulder. "I had no idea --"
"Yeah. Can I pick 'em or what?"
With cushioned and brocaded upholstery chairs, their table
commands a corner spot, yet allows them to view the rest of
the dining area with ease. A few other patrons are eating,
talking quietly at the miniature bar, or placing late
orders. All are adults at this hour. Several still lounge
at the front, waiting for carry-out.
"No more Peking duck," apologizes the waiter, his smile all
teeth as he lights a small candle in the center of their
table. "Too late. You order, I tell you if we can make."
He looks down at Scully.
"A cup of miso soup and a California roll, please?"
"Very good! You?"
Mulder jerks his head down at the menu, flipping it over.
Ah, Japanese on the back. He hadn't known, but leave it to
Scully to ferret that in the blink of an eye. Returning to
the first page, he taps a finger on his entree of choice.
"Sesame chicken, fried rice, and an eggroll."
"Oh, yes! Thank you very much."
"Every bit of your order is fried or deep-fat fried," she
teases, glancing leisurely at their surroundings when the
waiter disappears.
"And you never really know for sure what they stick into
those sushi rolls," he retorts.
"Touche. But I don't want to spar with you right now,
Mulder." She sighs gently and leans back into her seat,
angling her head into a comfortable tilt in order to focus
on him. He's glad this place is conducive to relaxation and
quieter talk. She seems to welcome it as much as he does
after the tragic events of the evening.
"Lovers, not fighters..." he croons.
She deflects his bait with practiced ease. "We should catch
up on what's happened earlier. Tell me about your trip out
to Shamrock -- I noticed you didn't let Tillman know who you
spent the day with."
"He had his hands full tonight. I wasn't about to screw
with his head any more than I did."
"So, how's B.J.?"
He's not sure how to answer her question satisfactorily.
How can he describe what's happening with B.J. Morrow?
"Still sharp and cooperative," he begins. "Apparently she
has special insight into what's happening, and was already
aware of the paranormal elements of her case that are
unfolding here now."
"You're saying she had a premonition?"
"Make that plural, since Wednesday night around dinner time.
Demanded first to talk to Tillman, which was vetoed for
obvious reasons, then to me. She went on a hunger strike to
avoid sedation and managed to hold out for almost three days
before the doctor relented and put in a call to our office."
Scully sits straighter, her brow furrowed. "What kind of
premonitions?"
He waits while their server delivers hot tea, pours them
each a cup of the jasmine-scented liquid, and then fades
away.
"Dreams and an overwhelming sense of evil, like a presence,"
he continues, voice lowered. "Visions of blood and death.
Her first thought was for Benjie, that he might be in
danger... or susceptible to the evil that's mentally
assaulting her. We traced the family tree back from Cokely
and came up empty. Cokely and Raymond Morrow are dead,
B.J.'s not going anywhere --"
"So that leaves Benjie," she says flatly. "A confused
little boy."
"A boy who may be affected by the same supernatural source
that his mother is. You heard what he said tonight, Scully.
Something spoke to him at the DiAngelo home, as well as at a
previous time. When Viola was attacked, I'm betting.
Something drew him there. Maybe that same force was lurking
in the house tonight, when Gwen was murdered."
Scully takes a slow sip of her tea, warming her hands around
the white porcelain. "That's an awful lot of 'somethings'
and 'maybes.' We need more tangible, substantive evidence.
Definitive leads. Unfortunately, everything we *do* have is
incriminating to Benjie Tillman in some way."
"Such as?"
Her thumbs caress the rim of her teacup. "Mulder, I just
examined the body of a woman who's been dead for a mere few
hours. Massive skull fracture; I'm guessing from a blunt
object delivering multiple blows. The word 'Sister' slashed
into the chest, but unlike victims in previous years, not
deep enough to abrade the underlying skeletal structure.
And no rape."
"Similar MO to '94, then, but not '42, when Cokely was
responsible. So we're looking at a woman, possibly, as the
perp. Like B.J."
"Perhaps. Or -- as much as I despise suggesting it -- a
child."
"How many kindergarteners can even spell, let alone write
the word 'Sister'?"
"Circumstantial evidence gains credibility when there's
nothing else with which to compare it. You know that. Both
women, Viola and now Gwen, were probably kneeling at the
time of their attack, child-high. Taken off-guard,
frightened. And considering the manner and level of damage
inflicted... hard, forensic data is rarely misleading."
"You don't really believe he's culpable," he breathes.
Scully slumps back against the seat, preparatory to their
food's arrival. He watches as she rubs her temples with
weary fingers. "No, I don't... and I truly don't want to,
Mulder. Everything within me screams foul at such a
conjecture."
************
Conestoga Motel
November 6, 2000
3:06 a.m.
He's been fading in and out of consciousness for hours, more
awake than asleep.
By agreement there had been no after-dinner sex, with both
of them dog-tired and preoccupied after the late meal.
They'd showered, kissed, and sought separate beds. He lifts
one eyelid to the clock on his nightstand and curses
inwardly. Then, something -- a noise or sense of presence -
- draws him toward complete lucidity and he focuses on the
source.
Sitting in the armchair between bed and window is a twilight
pixie, the satin of her bathrobe catching a glint of parking
lot neon from between the curtains. It tints an unruly lock
of her hair blood-red, lending pathos to the disquiet he
already feels emanating from within her.
Catlike, his eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. "I'm
awake," he says.
He's guessed the real reasons for Scully's visit at this
hour. She's restless and unsettled, like he is. The
murder. The boy. All the unknowns that elude them. And
the underlying factor in her case, Emily...
She looks toward him for a long minute. "Not surprising,"
she murmurs. He can almost distinguish the beginnings of a
tiny smile by her tone. "I must say, the TV being off threw
me. I suppose the remote's right there under your pillow."
"Uh-uh." His finger pushes the black plastic object a few
safe, honest inches away and he hears her sigh.
"It's funny... with you gone today I had quite a bit of time
on my hands and actually thought about going to mass. If I
had known what was about to transpire this evening, I would
have lit a candle." She tucks her chin, hair wreathing her
face. "You think that's a superstitious waste of time, I
know."
"Not if it's important to you." He pauses, struck by the
realization that everything important to Scully is likewise
precious to him. "You gonna sit over there all night by
yourself?"
"Probably not... my feet are starting to get cold."
"It's plenty warm in here for both of us. I promise to be
good." He lifts the edge of the covers with a flourish to
show off his tee-shirt and boxers. "Underwear, see?"
She gives an approving chuckle and moves to the edge of his
bed. "After that display of sacrificial self-restraint, how
can I refuse?"
Slipping off her bathrobe she slides in beside him, and he
turns to welcome her with arms, legs, and scooping hands.
"You can't. And your feet would be ice by morning. Shit,
Scully..." Capturing one between his warm muscular calves,
he blows out an exaggerated exhalation. Her body trembles
with what he hopes is another small laugh.
Loose pajama top. No bottoms except for panties, he
discovers. His open palm encompasses one firm ass-cheek and
squeezes. Impishly his fingers tease, testing the silky
slope of fabric down the cleft toward her vulva, brushing a
few wayward curls that peek from either side. Her hips jerk
from the tickle.
"Your idea of self-restraint, Mulder?"
"Just checking the lay of the land."
"Right... Though this could become habit-forming," she
mumbles, her breath stirring the sparse hair below his
throat.
"What could?"
"Sharing a bed. Having sex so often."
He remembers his thoughts in the car on their drive to
Aubrey, when he mused about their sporadic lovemaking.
Wanting her breasts, her body, hoping for more opportunity
and frequency. Well, here she is in his arms again, pliable
and not entirely loath to the prospect.
Still, he acknowledges there are things far more important
right now than his spiking libido. Self-restraint should
take the upper hand, for Scully's sake.
It strikes him that she's usually a steady sleeper. He also
remembers his words to her their first night at the motel,
when she rebuffed his hopeful advances, choosing solitude
instead. ("Listen to me... I want to share the burden of
this with you... and not just once a year. Think about it.
Please.")
Slowly she exposed more of her secret heartache, allowing
him to give her comfort by the window. Letting him in to
witness the pain she felt that night for her lost child.
It's the real reason she's out wandering these dark rooms in
the empty hours past midnight.
The closer she moves and conforms her body to his, absorbing
his heat, the more he feels the barrier dropping between
them. He's saddened by her pain, yet welcomes this rare
approachability that's become a feature of her yearly
sojourns into nostalgia. He wants her to know she's being
emotionally honest, not weak. It's a long shot, but he's
compelled to take it --
"Tell me..."
"Tell you what?" Her voice a questioning hum at the crook
of his neck.
Feeling on the edge of a crumbling precipice, he closes his
eyes and whispers, "How do you like to remember her?"
She knows whom he means. Her breathing hitches and then
slows, her heart pounding against his chest in the hush that
follows.
"Emily." He says the name with gentle, confident assertion,
as it should be said. How often over the years has he
spoken the name "Samantha" aloud, no matter how much pain it
caused him at the time? Yet, he's never been plagued, like
his partner is, by a certain season or period of time during
which the mere mention or any simple reminder is enough to
cause heartache and withdrawal. He swears this case in
Aubrey has intensified the effect on her.
"Scully, hear me out. That she existed is a fact undeniable
and her memory is precious. Please don't disavow it... or
her, because of the grief you're feeling now."
Her muscles tense and bunch against him, her fist like a
death grip on his shirt, then slowly unclenching when she
recovers enough to camouflage her reaction.
"What's your favorite memory of her? The moment that stands
out more clearly than any other?" One palm cups her jaw,
thumb brushing her cheek, while his other hand keeps up a
gentle massage up and down her back. "Tell me..."
The moments lengthen in the dark room, and he counts her
pulse beats, radiating through his fingers from the velvety
warmth of her neck. She swallows several times and he
curses himself for being a bumbling, intrusive fool. He's
neither priest nor shrink, though her emotional well-being
has always been central in his exploration of their
deepening friendship. He hopes he hasn't irreparably
damaged the door she cracks open with such provisional
hesitancy, a little wider each year...
"Oh, God, Mulder..."
The words are no more than a puff in the air under his chin.
His grateful lips find her forehead, encouraging more of the
same. "Talk to me."
"The children's home... in San Diego. We --" She swallows.
"Go on..."
"We spent time together. And talked, just a little. She
was sweet, so quiet and serious."
"I remember that." The startling similarities he saw
between Scully and the somber child that day so long ago
spring to life with crystal clarity. Their hair and eye
color, the methodical thoroughness and controlled demeanor
of the pint-sized foundling. Even at that young age, Emily
was so precise in staying within the lines. So like his
Scully.
"Her coloring book was important business, Mulder."
An echo of his own thoughts. He chuckles and kisses her
forehead again, letting his nose rest against her lemony-
scented hair. "And I walked in and did my best, knock-your-
socks-off Mr. Potato-head impression," he laments, "and she
looked at me like I'd hopped right off the ship from Mars.
D'you know how humbling that was to the ego?"
He can't tell if her huff is a chuckle or a sob. Another
silence, after which she whispers, "She liked you. She told
me that later, in the hospital."
"Really?" Unaccountably, his heart soars and he blinks at
the surprising wetness in his eyes. If Emily's adoption had
been approved, if she had survived beyond her three short
years, he was the closest thing to a father Scully could
have provided for her. And he'd have been willing, no doubt
there, though the subject had never been broached.
"Yes, really."
"Thanks for telling me that," he says, genuinely touched.
Shifting her weight in his arms, he pulls away in an effort
to make eye contact in the dimness. Through the shadows he
thinks he perceives a glint of light, a glassy ripple near
his face. Tears? His thumb tries to read her cheek.
"Hey... are you okay?"
She nods into his curling hand.
"Tell me what I can do."
"You can hand me a tissue, please," she says in a watery
whisper.
"I don't mind you crying on me."
"Mulder, it's for my nose."
Reaching blindly, he whisks a wad of Kleenex from the
nightstand. After a huff and a dab, she tucks it away
somewhere beneath the blanket and sighs.
"Thank you." Her moist breath trembles on his chin, moving
upward, closer. "I love you," she murmurs, and he feels her
parted lips plucking at the corner of his mouth, softly
seeking entrance.
"Believe me, the feeling's mutual."
With a heartfelt groan, he succumbs to the gentle push of
her tongue between his lips. Sweet and salty, now a
familiar and daily indulgence, it's sufficient for the
moment. Their kiss is tender, mutually comforting, languid
with love. He enfolds her to himself again in the darkness,
holding her body so close that they breathe as one.
************
End of Chapter 9