Summary: How do you catch a killer when the only witness is a 89
year old nursing home resident who sees the murders on her broken
television?
Rating: R for violence and gross and disgusting medical stuff
Category: X A UST
Keywords: Mulder Torture
Spoilers: Mentions of season four and season three.
Surgeon General's Warning: This product is cancer free
Archive: Please post anywhere, including the newsgroup.
Author's Notes: Hi. This is what happens when you start talking
on e-mail :) Kristina came up with the idea, and kept coming up
with the ideas, I put it all in English (as opposed to
Swenglish--which I am becoming quite proficient in :) and here it is.
We'd love comments, and we put our addy's in each part, so you
have no excuse whatsoever :)

Getting Old (1/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

FBI Academy Training Center
Quantico, VA
Dec. 9, 1997 11:45 am

WHUMP!

Fox Mulder's 6 foot frame hit the mat with a resounding thud. For
a second, all air rushed out of his lungs and he lay there, dazed.
But just for a second. His eyesight clearing, he saw the ash blonde
hair of the defensive combat instructor as she leaned over him.

"Are you all right, Agent Mulder?" she asked, seriously concerned.
The poor woman looked like she thought she might have just killed
him.

"I'm fine," he assured her and tried to verify that statement by
pulling up into a sitting position. His vision darkened and he
blinked rapidly to escape the dizziness. "Just fine," he said, but it
was more to convince himself than the instructor.

The barely stifled chuckle from the doorway gave him the incentive
to get the rest of the way to his feet and shake off the various aches
and pains.

"Laugh it up, Scully. Your time's coming," Mulder growled, and
pushed away the young instructor's arms as she attempted to help
him to the nearby bench.

"You older guys need to come in for retraining more often," the
instructor, whose jumpsuit identified her as Agent Collins, said
firmly and handed him a water bottle. He returned her remark with
a glare that could have fused rock.

"Yes, Agent Collins, I think you're right. Why don't you see if we
can't get that included in the annual review," Scully chimed in from
the doorway. Mulder shot her a look to keep out of it, but she
merely grinned in response. "Maybe even _twice_ a year. The
'older guys' get soft so easily--and then they get hurt in the field."

"I'm hitting the showers," Mulder hissed, knowing that to try and
argue the point, or even just defend himself, would only lead to a
knock down argument with his partner that he was certain to lose.

"Be careful. You know how many falls happen in the shower
room?" Collins called to his retreating back. From her position at
the doorway, only Scully could discern the well hidden extended
middle finger that Mulder shot at the young woman as he
disappeared into the locker room. He could hear his partner's
laughter through the closed door.

Dana Scully was leaning against the wall in the hallway when
Mulder emerged, hair damp from the shower. She was still
grinning. "Boy, Mulder, that was quite a show. Maybe we should
get you _two_ ankle holsters, since hand to hand isn't likely to save
your life in the near future," she teased.

"She caught me off guard," he mumbled as they moved down the
hall. "How was the autopsy?" he said a little louder, obviously
changing the subject.

"Cut and dried," Scully said with a decided twinkle in her blue eyes.

He moaned in reply. Scully had been brought in to autopsy a
corpse that had been found in the Mojave desert--it was practically
petrified. His partner was feeling her oats, he could tell.

"Actually, it appears that this one can be chalked up to Vinnie
DeMarco, that Vegas hit man that the VCS put away a few years
back. Guy had been out there at least 8 years. It was too easy. It
had his signature all over it. I still don't know why they had to call
me in," she sighed.

"Because you're the best pathologist they have?" her partner
offered.

"More likely they called me because it _was_ easy. They still
expect me to start bleeding all over the building and keel over," she
shot back.

He smiled at her. "Give 'em time, Scully. Besides, as long as
Skinner let's us follow our own cases, who cares what the rest of
the Bureau thinks?" Secretly, he was still having a bit of a hard
time realizing that his partner was no longer under a death sentence.
Her tumor had been gone for only a few months, but she was
almost oblivious of the terror they had both had at the prospects of
her death. Just like the last time I almost lost her, Mulder reminded
himself for the hundredth time.

"Well, I'll be all too happy to get out in the field. I can't imagine
what they'll come up with for me next, but I don't intend to stick
around here and find out," she answered and with a smile, held the
door open for him. "Age before beauty," she grinned.

"Just for that, you're buying lunch," he grinned in return and led her
out to the parking lot.

Lunch was a quick stop at Hardees on the way to Washington's
National Airport. As they were leaving Scully's car in short term
parking, she had a chance to quiz Mulder about their newest case.

"OK, you promised to bring me up to date on this case since last
night and you keep finding a way to avoid the subject. What is it,
Mulder? If it involves woodland areas, you better start running,"
she said in mock warning.

"Now, Scully--did I tell you to bring your hiking boots? You know
me better than that. As a matter of fact, we are heading to a very
civilized area. Belleville, Illinois. No forests, but lots of corn and
soybeans," he grinned.

"Mulder, I already know _where_ we're going," Scully said, no
longer hiding her exasperation. "I want the _why_!"

He ignored her question as they made their way through the
security checks and over to the boarding lounge. Finally realizing
that he could put it off no longer, he sat down, patted the chair next
to him and opened his briefcase. When she was comfortably seated,
he handed her a file folder. "It came in last night. The ASAC in St.
Louis, Jeff Andrews took the call from the locals, even though
technically it belongs to the guys in Springfield. Anyway, I went to
the Academy with Jeff and he took one look and called me."

Scully was listening with only half an ear. "According to this report
filed by the police, this woman, Mrs. Roberta Cravins, claims that
she has witnessed four murders in the last five months."

Mulder nodded, digging into his coat pocket for his bag of seeds.
"Yeah, but the tricky part is, Mrs. Cravins is 89 years old and
happens to live in a nursing home. She's been confined to her bed
since a year ago last April when she suffered a stroke that left her
paralyzed on her left side."

"So how could she--"

"She claims she sees them on her television. Like they were
featured on the evening news," Mulder replied with a shrug.
"Except by all accounts of the staff, Mrs. Cravins television has
been on the fritz lately and gets only snow."

"She's obviously delusional," Scully concluded, crossing her arms
in her usual defiant manner.

"Well, you might be right, Scully. Except Jeff Andrews says that
four bodies turned up, each one only two days or sooner after Mrs.
Cravins 'visions', each one exactly matching her description--right
down to the socks," Mulder said. He was trying hard to be casual,
but he could tell that she was making the same connections he had
when he'd first heard of the case. It was disturbingly similar to the
case of a mentally handicapped janitor at a bowling alley. A case
where both he and his partner were frighteningly aware of Scully's
mortality, and her seemingly fatal illness.

Scully's eyes clouded over for a moment, but she shoved the
thoughts from her mind. He was amazed, really, at how she could
do that so effortlessly. He'd spent the night tossing and turning,
worrying about how he was going to deal with telling her about the
case. She, on the other hand, was not going to let it throw her.
"Mulder, we've seen this sort of thing before. It's just too easily
explained by coincidence. And besides, is this another serial at
work? Are the murders related in any way?"

"Aside from Mrs. Cravins, no. They aren't related. And that is
what has the Bureau in St. Louis stumped. The murderer, or
murderers as the case may be, seem to have no identifiable
signature, no identifiable target and no identifiable motive. It just
don't add up," he concluded. "But Mrs. Cravins has assured Jeff
that another body will turn up in the next day or two. And she's
convinced that all these people are being murdered by the same
person."

"So let's get her to sit down with the mug books and pick out our
UNSUB," Scully insisted.

"Were it that easy. She hasn't actually seen his face. She says--"

"She says what, Mulder? Come on, it can't get any worse that it
already is," she encouraged.

His grin turned slightly embarrassed. "She says--he smells funny.
Each time he kills, he smells the same."

Scully was trying hard not to let her mouth gap open. "And how
does he smell?" she asked, her voice betraying her amusement.

"Like a horsebarn. In the springtime," he said and shrugged.

"I can't wait to collar him," Scully answered with a wrinkled nose.

Just then, the public address system announced the boarding of
their flight. Scully jumped to her feet, anxious to gather her purse,
laptop and carry on, as well as her winter coat. Mulder was much
slower raising out of his seat and gasped, then grabbed his back.
His actions were not unnoticed by Scully.

"Mulder? You OK?" she asked, taking his arm where he was
rubbing his back.

He gave her a scowl. "Yeah, my back is just reminding me how I
hit that mat this morning," he said. When she wouldn't let go of his
arm, he shrugged out of her grasp. "Scully, it's nothing. I'm just
recovering from retraining," he assured her. "Look, I'll go to the
motel and soak in the shower. I'll be fine by morning. Honest."

She finally seemed placated. "I guess you're right, Mulder. And I
promise not to make any more 'old' jokes. I don't want to give
you an excuse to ride me when I go through retraining," she said
with a smile.

It was cold at Lambert Field in St. Louis when they touched down.
The wind out of the north rocked the tunnel that lead to the
passenger lounge. Mulder cocked his head and scanned the
awaiting crowd, finally resting his eyes on his old friend. He lifted a
hand and waved.

Jeff Andrews waved back and headed over, hand extended in
greeting. "Good Grief, Mulder, it was nice outside until you
showed up," he teased affably. Jeff was about Mulder's height,
with light brown hair and gray green eyes. His face was handsome,
but not drop dead gorgeous. Still, Scully remembered Mulder
telling her that Andrews was married and he and his wife were
intent on putting together a football team--they were well on their
way with four little boys already.

"Hi, Jeff," Mulder said, shaking his hand and smiling big enough to
light up a few city blocks. "You're looking good."

"Yeah, well, if Kathy doesn't quit with the Christmas baking, I'm
gonna kill myself trying to keep my weight down," he replied with a
grin. "You bachelors don't have to worry about that stuff, though,
right? I mean, you can spend all your off time in the gym, making
sure you maintain that 'babe magnet' physique."

"Yeah, well, let's not talk about 'gyms' right now," Mulder deftly
changed the subject. "Jeff, this is my partner, Dana Scully. Scully,
this is Jeff. And only half of what I told you on the plane was true.
He's actually much worse than I let on."

Scully shook his hand. "I've heard a lot about you, and not all of it
from Mulder," she assured the other agent. "Youngest ASAC in
the midwest region, building quite a reputation dealing with the
financial industry in St. Louis. You're getting a name for yourself
in DC," she noted.

Jeff blushed. "Aw, enough about you, let's talk about me," he
joked. "Naw, really, I'm having a good time. I always thought I'd
hate being in a position of authority. Remember, Mulder? We had
that suicide pact if they ever tried to make us ride a desk? But it's
not that bad. Sometimes, it has it's uses." He looked over at his
friend. "And to be real honest, there are people in my office who
think of you two as riding the same tradewinds as Pecos Bill and
Paul Bunyan," he smirked.

Mulder winced and Scully tried not to laugh. "I'm serious. The
'Spooky' stories are out there and getting larger than life! Don't be
surprised if you get asked for your autograph while you're in the
office."

"Make a note, we stay out of the office as much as possible,"
Mulder whispered to Scully as they started toward baggage claim.

"You got that right," she whispered in return.

Jeff insisted that the two travelers eat with his family. Mulder had
been best man at Jeff and Kathy's wedding, but really hadn't kept in
touch. Kathy was happy to see them and set out a meal to feed
them for weeks.

"I've been in a cooking mood," she explained to Scully. Scully
watched in amazement as dinner was on the table and four little tow
headed boys appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Food was eaten,
plates were cleaned, dessert was served and the dishes cleared with
the precision of a military campaign.

"I have to hand it to you, you sure know how to feed an army,"
Scully complimented Kathy.

"Aw, it's not that hard. You just wait. When you and that partner
of yours settle down, you'll see how easy it is. You just have to
train them right--at the beginning. See how Jeff helps clean the
table? His mother assured me he was a complete klutz in the
kitchen. She just never gave him a chance. Not my boys, they're
learning how to cook now."

Scully was glad Kathy didn't notice the decided flush that she felt in
her cheeks when she'd mentioned her partner and 'settling down'.
"Kathy, about Mulder and I-- I mean, we're _not_ . . ." she
stammered as she helped load plates in the dishwasher.

Kathy smiled brightly. "Oh, Dana, I didn't mean you two were
sleeping together or anything! I know Mulder better than that. He
loves you. He's not the kind to take advantage of you before you
are both ready. But I can see it in your eyes. I know you'll end up
together." She turned so that she couldn't read the look on Dana's
face, and the agent was eternally grateful. That a stranger could
somehow know so much about them by just looking at them for an
evening unnerved Scully. And the subject was one that was often
in her mind in the past months. "I just have a feeling about it. Call
it a 'sixth sense' or 'woman's intuition'. I'm very good with these
things. So I won't be at all surprised when we get the wedding
invitation. But until then, I won't say a word to Jeff or Mulder.
Men just don't understand these things."

Scully was more than happy to turn the conversation to the topic of
men and what they did and didn't understand until the kitchen was
in order and the two went to join the 'men' in the family room.

Jeff arranged for a Bureau car for his friend and gave them
directions to the motel where they would be staying. He made a
point of assuring Scully that _he_ had picked out the motel, not
Mulder. It was on the Illinois side of the Mississippi, in Belleville
and just built. She smiled her gratitude.

The ride to the motel was quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.
Scully was trying hard not to think about what Kathy had said, but
the idea kept popping up in her mind. Mulder was busy going over
the facts of the four murders that Jeff had told him about.

"Scully, every wonder what makes a serial killer?" he asked, out of
the blue.

She shook her head, at a loss for words. "I don't know, Mulder. I
would have to say that the scientific evidence is pointing to a
genetic defect or a chemical imbalance. Something physiological
that negates the basic tendency of human nature to avoid preying
on it's own kind. In the serial killer, studies have shown--"

He cut her off with a wave. "I know the studies, Scully. I helped
write the protocols for a couple of them. And they are all nice and
tidy. But I don't think we're going to come to a day when we can
tell who is going to be a killer simply on the basis of a blood test.
There is more to it than that."

"So what are you asking?" she inquired, knowing full well that his
original question had been more of a jumping off point for him and
not a real question.

"What if there is something beyond the normal in a serial killer?"
He glanced over and could see her shoulder's tense. "Now, before
you get out the armor for a battle of wills, Scully, hear me out.
Suppose that serial killers exert a sort of, well, I hate to use the
word psychic--"

"Why let it bother you now?" she asked with a sarcastic grin.

He put a hand over his heart. "You wound me," he whined in
mock agony. Then he grew serious. "Scully, I've been there.
Inside their minds. They don't work like we do. They _think_
differently than we do. It was Einstein who said humans only use
10 percent of their brain power. What if a serial killer actually uses
_more_ brain than we do? More than we give him credit for."

"Which would make him that much harder to catch," Scully pointed
out, hoping her didn't notice her shudder. She didn't like the
haunted look that had come to her partner's eyes. "But the reality
is that they _do_ make mistakes, Mulder. In the end, most serial
killers are crying out to be caught. Each and everyone of them.
'Catch me before I kill again.'--You know that as well as I do.
They make mistakes and we catch them. So I don't think there is
psychic powers involved." She looked up and noticed the turn off
for their motel. "I think we take this exit," she directed him.

"I hope you're right, Scully," he said, just barely aloud. She knew
he was referring to more than just the road.

end of part one

Getting Old (2/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

He'd spend half an hour in the shower, water close to boiling before
the ache had left his back. Mulder toweled off, dragged on a pair
of sweats and fallen into the almost comfortable bed, asleep within
minutes. What really amazed him was the fact that he slept through
the night--a feat usually reserved for his visits to Intensive Care and
large doses of morphine.

He woke up in the morning feeling pretty good. The first fingers of
sunlight were marking the horizon and the pavement looked dry
enough to indulge in a good run. He enjoyed his runs in winter, as
long as he remembered to bring his woolen cap and gloves that
Scully had gotten him a past Christmas. He dressed appropriate for
the temperature--21 degrees and was pulling on his shoes when his
back decided to change his plans. As he straightened up, a shooting
pain that started just above his hip, radiated all the way up his left
side coming to an abrupt halt at his shoulder. He froze in position,
not wanting a repeat performance of the pain.

"Damn that retraining," he huffed. He was certain that it was the
hour spent in the gym with that 'Miss Body Building' wannabe
Collins that had resulted in a sprain in his back. "Just what I don't
need," he groused. Slowly rising to his feet, he noted that the pain
wasn't that bad when he was leaning over more slowly and he
could lift his foot up to the bed to tie his shoe.

One thing was certain--he was NOT going to tell his partner.
Scully was a mother hen in normal times, but since her own recent
hospitalizations, she'd become positively smothering in her
ministrations. Just a month earlier, she'd driven him home and
forced him to stay there for the day just because he'd been running
a low fever. He'd conveniently stolen, and tossed, the thermometer
from her desk, but he was certain that once the theft was
uncovered, she'd simply replace the offending item. Even so, he
wasn't going to take any chances with her deciding that he needed
to go home at the beginning of a new case.

The case had him puzzled. It wasn't so much that he didn't believe
Mrs. Cravins. From all reports, she appeared to be completely
forthright and very possibly extremely gifted, psychically. But the
fact that each of the murders had been done in a different manner, a
different murder weapon, under seemingly unrelated
circumstances--that had him concerned.

Serial killers were nothing if not predictable. He'd learned that
early in his time under Bill Patterson. By and large, the killer used
the murder of an individual as their statement to the world. And
they tended to be boring in those statements. The murder weapon
was always the same, be it knife, rope, piano wire, whatever. The
presentation of the body, whether there was abuse before or after
the death, all of these things could be traced from the first victim to
the last. In some cases, there were refinements, additions, but these
were by and large subtle in nature. Even the vampires he'd hunted
in Los Angeles had used the same brand of hypodermic syringes to
extract the blood from their victims.

Here, the only connecting link was an 89 year old nursing home
resident with a faulty picture tube.

The first body had been found just under the I-55 overpass in East
St. Louis. It had been chalked up to gang activity--the heart and
the tongue of the hapless victim, Mr. Kevin Anderson, had been
hacked out with a boning knife. But Mrs. Cravins had told
Detective David Moser of the Belleville PD that he would find a
nice man from Chatham, Illinois, dead, under the bypass. She
informed him of this two days before the body was discovered. Mr.
Anderson's car was later retrieved from the River, some five miles
downstream. He'd been on his way to the airport and was only
passing through when his car had been forced off the road and he
had been car jacked.

Two weeks later, Mrs. Cravins called Det. Moser again and told
him that he would find a St. Louis man murdered in his motel room
in Fairview Heights. A bullet wound to the head. She even gave
the room number. It wasn't until the police found that the murder
weapon was missing that anyone suspected it hadn't been a suicide.
Mr. Ted Edwards had been depressed for weeks and his estranged
wife was suing for total custody of their children. But according to
Mrs. Cravins, the 'Horseman' killed him.

Jane Goldman was next. A nurse at Barnes hospital, she'd been on
her way home to Maryville, Illinois after working the late shift
when she'd stopped at the 7-11 for a blue raspberry slurpee. She
was later found strangled, in the alley, just as Mrs. Cravins had
predicted--twenty-four hours before. The Horseman, according to
Mrs. Cravins, had used the strapping plastic from a refrigerator box
in the alley to kill her. Again, there were no prints on the body.

The most recent murder victim, James Hatfield, had been murdered
in his car, in the parking lot of the Shrine of Our Lady of the
Snows, in Belleville. He had been waiting for the early Mass when
someone had bludgeoned him to death with the snow shovel he
kept in his trunk during the winter. Mrs. Cravins even described
the carved cherry Rosary that was clutched in the elderly man's
hands at the time of his death. This time, the Horseman had used
gloves to conceal his prints.

Mulder had already memorized the files he'd received from Jeff.
What he needed was to speak to Mrs. Cravins, go out and see the
murder sites, try to get into this sick-o's mind. It wasn't something
he looked forward to, but he knew it was a necessity. The sooner
they got this guy behind bars, the sooner he and Scully could go
back to the office and find a nice, sane ghost haunting to
investigate.

He recognized her knock on the door and smiled. He didn't need
to look at his watch, it was 7:30. Scully, the punctual. He silently
wondered if that was a genetic trait in his partner, or if it had been
instilled in her by a Naval father and all those priests and nuns who
molded her in her early years. Whatever the cause, it was a trait
that he very much appreciated. She knocked again when he took
too long to answer the door.

He pulled the door open and waved her in. "Did you go out for
your run?" she asked.

How in the world does she do that, he mused. Sometimes, he
wondered if she had eyes in the back of her head, too. "No. I
forgot my watch cap and the wind chill sounded nasty this morning.
I'll do some laps in the pool later if we have time."

"How's the back feeling?" she asked, and he didn't miss the fact
that she was in full 'doctor mode' when she said it.

"Terrific," he lied. "Not a problem. The shower last night and this
morning really helped loosen the muscles." Stop now before you
start blubbering and tell her all the gory details, he ordered himself.

"Whatever," she shrugged. "Come on. We have just enough time
to get some breakfast before we're supposed to be at the nursing
home at 9."

Walnut Valley Retirement Home
Belleville, Illinois
Dec. 10, 10:15 am

Mulder fidgeted on the metal folding chair he'd been sitting on for
the last hour and fifteen minutes and attempted not to drop either
the coffee cup or the oatmeal raisin cookie he was holding. He
glanced over at Scully and was immediately jealous that he hadn't
nabbed the chair close to the windowsill, as his partner had. She'd
set up shop over by the window, giving herself somewhere to put
the food forced upon them by their 'hostess' and still get out her
notebook to jot down what the woman was saying.

Mrs. Cravins--Bert to her friends--was not a small woman by any
means. Mulder surmised that she would probably come close to
looking him straight in the eye, if they were standing toe to toe.
Her hair was shock white, and had recently been curled and set. It
was obvious that all the fuss over her 'visions' were giving her the
only visitors the poor woman had entertained in years.

"Now, I wish I could tell you more about the Horseman," she
sighed. "I know that's what you need. But you have to
understand--it's just like a news report. And when I see the poor
person who's been murdered, I guess it's like the Horseman is the
cameraman. That's why I can't see his face. But that smell--I can
smell him! Which is why I knew they didn't get my TV fixed like
they tried to tell me," she added with a grim look. "They tried to
tell me that I was seein' things, too, but that's a lie."

"Mrs. Cravins, have you ever had this 'ability' before?" Mulder
asked politely.

"Why, shoot, yes. I've always had the 'sight'. Oh, it was on little
things. Back when the lottery came in, oh, must have been '74 or
'75--now wait, it was Dan Walker in the Governor's office so
would have been '74-well I picked those numbers left and right."

Mulder couldn't stop the smile that broke out on his face at this
revelation.

"Course, I never played. Gamblin's the devils work. Mr. Cravins,
God rest his soul, the only gamblin' that man ever did was farmin'
and that was gamblin' enough for the both of us. So I just made a
game of it--I'd write down the numbers and hide 'em, then watch
and see if I was right. Did that up till Jeffy, that's my grandson,
came over to help with the mowin' and found the slip of paper and
snuck out to play those numbers. He was just turned 18 and he
won, the little whippersnapper! Won $25,000. His ma, my
daughter, was madder than a wet hen at him, but his pa, her
husband Bill that is, not that lazy no account she's married to now,
he said it was God's way of getting Jeffy to college and we should
just take the money and be grateful. But I stopped playin' my little
game. Don't want to lead one of my own to the devil--that's for
sure!"

"Did you ever witness any murders--before, when you were
younger?" Scully asked, keeping a straight face that Mulder knew
was about to kill her. Her eyes were positively dancing at the old
woman's stories.

"Well, there was once. I was just a girl then." She looked over to
Scully and smiled. "I _was_ a girl once, you know," she added
with a laugh. "Anyway, there was this man move into our little
town of Rushville. Said he was a Veteran of World War One and
would go to the farms and try to sign on as a hand. It was the
depression and times were lean, I tell ya. Well, suddenly, old Mrs.
Wilkins--she was the fifth grade teacher when I went to school, nice
woman, but a tad on the senile side even when I had her--she up
and disappeared. They didn't have nursing homes back then, you
understand. We took in our own when they got old. Not like
now--" she said wistfully and sighed. "Anyway, some thought she
wandered off and there was a big hunt. I had a vision and I told
Mr. Cravins--we were just going steady at the time. He went to
where I told him and sure enough, he found the body. But it scared
him so. He was afraid that people might take advantage of me, if
they knew I had the gift. So he told the Sheriff that he was lookin'
for morels in the woods and found her. She'd been stabbed
through the heart with a pair of her own knittin' needles. Well,
later, they arrested that man and found out that he'd never been
overseas. He was a criminal and had been in jail during the war."

"What about now, Mrs. Cravins? Have you had any visions since
that last one about Mr. Hatfield?" Mulder asked.

Mrs. Cravins looked up at her television. "No, nothing that I can
see."

Mulder finished his cookie and reached into his pocket,
withdrawing his business card. "Here is my number. It's a cell
phone and I always have it on. Please, the minute you have any
more 'visions', call me. Agent Scully and I will be here as fast as
we can." He handed her the card and their hands brushed.

Mrs. Cravins looked at him intently. "You're not well, child. You
need to see a doctor."

Mulder's eyes grew wide and he stammered in protest. "No, Mrs.
Cravins, I'm fine. I'm not sick," he assured her.

Her eyes creased in a frown. "Just like Mr. Cravins. Men are so
stubborn." She turned to Scully. "You get him to a doctor, honey.
He might not be hurtin' now, but he will soon enough, I promise!"

Mulder stuffed his offending hand in his pocket and bolted for the
door. Scully took the time to shake the old woman's hand. "Well,
thank you, Mrs. Cravins. For the cookies and the information. We
appreciate it."

"No trouble at all, honey, no trouble at all. Take care of him, he
needs you. Oh, and I'm awful glad you're feeling better. Don't let
those men lie to you. They're the devil's disciples and they'll lie
and kill and no one's gonna stop 'em--'cept you."

Scully found her partner waiting in the car in the parking lot. "So,
Mulder, bet you could break that four minute mile today, the way
you took off," she teased.

"I remembered I forgot something in the car," he mumbled.

"Is there something you aren't telling me, Mulder? And I only ask
because of your reaction, not because I believe that Mrs. Cravins
can tell by touching you that you're sick."

Mulder sighed. "I pulled my back. I think I might have sprained
it."

"Yesterday?" Scully asked. He nodded grimly. "Does it hurt
now?"

He shook his head. "Only when I bend a certain way. That's why I
didn't go for my run this morning. Scully, I'm fine, really."

She smiled at his concern. "Mulder, you're getting older. We both
are. You'll have little aches and pains. I get little aches and pains.
We'll just make sure that you don't go jumping on any moving
trains while we're here. But I'm glad you told me. I need to know
when you aren't feeling one hundred percent."

"Oh, you mean like all the times you tell me?" he asked innocently
and she closed her eyes and dropped her head. "I'm sorry, Scully,
it just slipped out," he apologized.

She looked up at him. "Maybe you're right, Mulder. We do need
to tell each other more about how we're feeling. I admit, I don't
do it enough, either. So I'll start. If you don't get this car in gear
and get me to a gas station, I won't be responsible for the flood--I
just had four cups of coffee in an hour and a half and I desperately
need a pit stop."

"That makes two of us," he grinned and started the car.

After a quick stop for gas and other things, the two agents made
their way to the Belleville Police Department. Belleville was
actually a good sized city, and the police station was large and
efficient. In minutes, they were sitting in a conference room,
waiting for Det. Moser. They didn't have to wait long.

A tall young man, late twenties, with reddish brown hair and a
multitude of freckles entered the room and extended his hand in
greeting. "Hi, I'm Dave Moser. You must be Agent Mulder," he
said, shaking Mulder's hand.

"This my partner, Agent Scully," Mulder said, nodding toward her.

"Nice to meet you. I gotta tell you, this one has my Chief ready to
pull his hair out. He was all set to chalk it up to random
occurrences, I mean, St. Louis and vicinity have their share of
murders each year. But with Ms. Bert and her predictions--"

"Do you know Mrs. Cravins, I mean, other than involving the
case?" Scully asked.

"Oh, sure. Ms. Bert--why everybody knows Ms. Bert. She and her
husband owned one of the largest farms in Madison County. Why,
her son-in-law is the Sheriff of Madison County. Well, at least he's
married to her daughter," Moser said with a smirk. "Not a lot of
love lost between those two."

"Is that why she called you with her 'visions' and not her son in
law?" Scully interrupted.

"You got that straight. Ms. Bert wouldn't call Henry Baker if
she'd seen a vision of a nuclear attack. She'd find some way of
telling Trudy, that's her daughter, but Henry--she'd let him fry,"
Moser said with a grin. "But I went to school with Trudy's
youngest boy, Billy, and well, Ms. Bert and Mr. Charlie were
always having us out for dinner or a bonfire or a hay ride. She was
quite the hostess back in those days," he said fondly.

"Do you really think she has psychic abilities?" Scully asked with a
frown.

"Look, I know out here in middle America we're all supposed to be
Bible thumping members of the NRA who get up early on Sunday
so we can watch the big haired preachers. But I went to college at
Stanford. I'm not one to fall into any soothsaying-claryvoiant,
mind that can bend a spoon kind of crap. But Ms. Bert, she's been
dead on the money every time. I thought it was just coincidence
the first time. By the fourth time, if she calls me, the dispatcher
gets me out of the john, you know what I mean."

Mulder nodded in agreement. "Do you think you could show us
the crime scenes?"

Moser hesitated. "I can show the last one. We have jurisdiction
over the Shrine. But we need to notify Sheriff Baker if we go out
to the other sites. And he won't be happy. He thinks all this is
hogwash. Thank heavens there's a Democrat in the White House,"
he sighed.

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked, confused.

"Well, if there was a Republican in the White House, he wouldn't
give you two the time of day," Moser explained. "Just tell him Ms.
Reno sent you, and you'll be fine," he added with a wry grin.

"We'll be sure to do that," Scully said with a returning smile.

end of part two

Getting Old (3/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

Shrine of Our Lady of the Snows
Belleville, Illinois
11:00 am

"The car was parked over here," Det. Moser explained as the two
agents walked around the vacant parking lot. He was pointing to a
spot within easy walk of the front door of the Chapel.

"It's about 100 feet to that line of tress, Mulder," Scully
commented, shielding her eyes to look against the sun to the
forested area near the lot. "I guess he could have snuck up from
over there."

Mulder frowned. "But if Mr. Hatfield was the only one in the
parking lot, wouldn't he have seen someone coming across the
parking lot?"

"I suppose so," Scully admitted. "But if he'd been praying . . ."

"He wouldn't have noticed a murderer get into his trunk, remove a
shovel, open the back door and whack him on the head?" Mulder
asked, slightly incredulous.

"Some people concentrate pretty hard when they pray, Mulder. I
know we used to get by with a lot in Church on Sunday if Mom got
out her Rosary," Scully smiled in return.

"I knew there was more to this 'goody-two shoes' act of yours,
Scully," Mulder shot back. "No, my guess is either the Horseman
came from back here, in Mr. Hatfield's blind spot," he said,
pointing to the area to the back and left of the car, "or the
Horseman didn't appear to be a threat. Maybe Mr. Hatfield knew
him."

"Does that mean the others knew him, too?" Det. Moser asked.

"Good question," Mulder said with a grin. "Let's go look at the
other crime scenes and see if we can figure that out."

Det. Moser made the call to the Madison County Sheriff's
Department. It was obvious that the Sheriff took the call, and even
more obvious that he didn't want to have the 'Feds' looking into
the matter, but finally, Moser was able to set up a meeting and
arrange to go to other sites. In the meantime, the agents and the
detective decided to go get lunch.

Det. Moser stopped at a Ruby Tuesdays, not far from the Sheriff's
office. Scully approved, Mulder was noncommittal. All the getting
in and out of the car had started the ache in his back and he wasn't
really in the mood to eat. He wanted to get out to the crime scenes
and start putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Scully, of
course, had different ideas.

"It won't kill you to eat," she chided as they sat with their menus.
"Look, they have Rueben's."

"I'll just have iced tea," he muttered and put the menu down He
ignored Scully's raised eyebrow and steely glare. Detective Moser
conveniently decided to visit the restroom, leaving the partners
alone.

When they were alone, Scully played with her napkin a moment and
then spoke. "Mulder, you are not going to start this, are you? I
mean the first couple of years it was cute, but it's getting old, you
know," Scully said evenly.

"Start what?" he asked, honestly surprised by her question.

"Everytime we get a serial murder case, you slowly go off the deep
end. You start by not eating. Then, you stop sleeping. By the end
of the case, you are on the verge of collapse and I have to
practically carry you back home." She was glaring at him now.

"Scully, I'm not starting anything. I had a big breakfast and all
those cookies and all that coffee--I'm just not hungry yet. I'm f--"

"Say it and die, Mulder," she warned. "I'm tired of you saying 'I'm
fine'."

"Then what do you want me to say, Scully?" he asked angrily.
"That I'll try real hard not to become a zombie on this case and I'll
eat at least three times a day and I'll sleep at least 6 hours a night?
Shit, it's like Patterson, all over again! He was on us all the time,
but the work still had to be done. What happens if I sleep only 5
hours one night--you gonna ship me back home? I have one
mother already, Scully--I'm not in the market for another one!" He
knew he was hitting too close to the bone, but he just couldn't stop
himself. It wasn't his fault that she was feeling overprotective. He
hadn't changed--she had and he wasn't in the mood.

Scully wouldn't have looked more shocked if he'd slapped her. But
she recovered quickly. "Fine, Mulder," she said icily. "Don't
worry. I'll stay out of your hair. But don't you DARE come to me
when you get sick, because I don't want to hear it! Is that clear?"
she stormed and left for the ladies room before he even had a
chance to answer the last question.

Det. Moser was standing back, looking a little sheepish. "Uh, I can
leave again, if you want," he offered.

Mulder chuckled grimly. "No, please, sit down. I'm sorry we had
to put on that little scene. She's a medical doctor and a
pathologist. Since the only bodies she gets to work on are
dead--well, I'm the closest living being she has to hover over."

"We have a Sergeant back at the station. If she catches you putting
too many sugars in your coffee, well, your butt's in the wringer for
weeks," Moser replied knowingly. "Still, it never hurts to keep
your partner happy," he pointed out.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Mulder admitted and picked up the
menu again. Maybe he could placate Scully by ordering a stuffed
baked potato. It was the only thing he could see that didn't make
him want to throw up.

Mulder ordered a baked potato and played with it while the other
two ate their soup and salads. Scully made a point not to look at
him during the meal and said no more than two words the rest of
the time they were at the restaurant. Mulder closed his eyes and
decided he'd have to figure out a way to get on her good side or
this case was going to end up looking like a misalignment of the
planets again.

Before they left, he made a quick stop at the restroom At least,
he'd hoped it would be a quick stop. As soon as he started
attending to his business, he realized it might take more time. He
hadn't felt such a burning sensation in a long time, not since he'd
bruised a kidney in a fight with a perp. It hurt like hell to relieve
himself and he had a hard time just standing.

"You've gone and done it this time," he assured himself in the silent
restroom. He didn't think he'd hit the mat hard enough to do
internal damage, however it sure felt like it now. But he didn't
dare, to use her words, go back out and ask Scully if she could take
a look at his back and check for bruising. After she was done
running him over with their rental, she'd probably laugh in his face.
No, that was not an option.

"Besides, what did they do that last time?" he quizzed himself. As
he remembered, the doctor at the ER had made him give a urine
sample--a very unpleasant experience at the time, checked it for
protein and blood, then handed him some Tylenol with codeine and
sent him on his way with orders to 'rest'. Yeah, right. Maybe
sometime in the distant future, he groused. He fumbled in his
jacket pocket and found an ibuprofen, slightly lint covered, that he
popped into his mouth with a palmful of water, washed up and
went back out just in time to pick up the check.

I-55 overpass
East St. Louis, Illinois
4:45 pm

Mulder got out of the car slowly. He wanted nothing more than to
stretch the kink out of his spine, but since the pain had left about
two hours ago, he was being extra careful in his movements. And
all the time, Scully had been shooting him little looks.

He hated it when she did that. It didn't help that the words of old
Mrs. Cravins, a true psychic by his own evaluation, kept coming
back to haunt him. "Get to a doctor," she told him. It couldn't be
that bad, he'd only been dropped to a practice mat. Then again, if
you fall right, he had to admit, you can still do some serious
damage.

He wandered over to where the Deputy Sheriff was pointing out
the location of the body. That was something else burning at
him--the anger he felt toward Sheriff Henry Baker. Mrs. Cravins
opinion not withstanding, he found the Sheriff to be a pain in the
ass. At least the man had finally agreed to allow a deputy to escort
them to the crime scenes. And that was only after Scully had
offered to get him a color photo of the Attorney General to hang in
his office.

Each scene they had viewed today brought Mulder a little closer to
his proving his original assessment--the victims either knew the
Hoseman or did not consider him a threat. That wasn't that
outlandish a theory. In that case of the first victim, who had been
run off the road, the Horseman could have been dressed as either
state trooper or a tow truck operator. Mr. Anderson had put in a
call to his Amoco Motor Club but when the truck arrived 45
minutes later, there was no sign of either the car or the owner.
Likewise, Mr. Edwards could have opened the door to his motel
room to anyone who appeared in a uniform or as room service.

Ms. Goldman was harder. She was single and according to the
statement made by her roommate, very security conscious. She'd
known enough nurses on the night shift who had been attacked to
put her on the defensive. For her to walk calmly to the alley with a
strange man would have been unthinkable. It just didn't fit.

"What do you think?" Moser asked, coming up behind him. The
sound of the cars over head almost drowned out the detective's
voice.

"I don't know," Mulder admitted. "Did you say Mr. Hatfield's
body was still available?"

"Yeah, the County ME performed the autopsy, but I asked him to
hold it for you. Wanta see it tonight?" Moser asked, a little
surprised.

"Let me ask Scully. I think she'll want a look. Then you can
release the body to the family," Mulder explained and walked over
to talk to his partner.

Scully had reluctantly called a silent truce somewhere around the
third crime scene and was at least acknowledging his presence now.

"Moser said we could see the body tonight, if it's all right with
you," he offered. He'd been itching to apologize all day, but just
couldn't bring himself to do it. Offering her a dead body was as
close as he could come to saying 'I'm sorry'. It would just have to
do.

She looked up at him and for a moment, he thought she might beg
off. He wasn't used to her being healthy anymore. He was still
waiting for her to be too tired, to need to take a break more often.
Maybe you're a little guilty of being a Mother Hen, yourself, his
tiny voice chided him. He brushed it aside when she opened her
mouth to speak.

"Yeah, I'd like to see it. Want to leave now and get a bite to eat or
wait until I'm done?" The look in her eyes was neutral, but he
knew how easily the conversation could turn into a battle of wills.

"Let's do it now. We can order pizza when we get back to the
motel. There was a Pizza Hut across the street," he reminded her.

"Yum," she said, without enthusiasm.

Madison County Morgue
6:00 pm

Mr. Hatfield had been dead only three days. The Medical Examiner
had done the autopsy, but it was obvious what had caused the 76
year old's death--the back of his head had been crushed flat.
Fragments of the murder weapon had been found mixed with the
bone and hair. Death was listed as severe cerebral trauma resulting
from a blow with a blunt object and Scully was hard pressed to
argue that determination. She was busy reading through the lab
reports as Mulder came back from yet another trip to the restroom.

"Are you--interested in hearing the lab results," Scully said
haltingly. Mulder could tell that she'd been about to ask him if he
was all right, but gratefully, their little blow up at lunch was still
causing her to rethink her actions. He wasn't really in the mood to
lie to her again.

"Yeah, sure, what have you got?" he asked, deftly avoiding any
questions that might be directed to him about his health.

"Well, your theory that the victims knew the murderer seems to be
playing out, but this is weird," she said, flipping pages and running
her finger down the page.

"Weird. Now that's a word I just love to hear from you, Scully,"
her partner said with a smirk. "Give me weird."

"The adrenaline levels are all off. Even if Mr. Hatfield was caught
by surprise, the murderer didn't crush the skull with the first blow.
It took several blows, as a matter of fact, for death to occur. And
yet, there is no accompanying rise in the levels of adrenaline in the
blood stream. No struggle. Nothing to suggest that he tried to get
away."

"Maybe he was stunned by the blow and couldn't move," Mulder
suggested, looking over her shoulder.

"No, Mulder, he'd have been in a coma for this. It's just weird.
It's like even as he was dying, he was perfectly calm, perfectly at
ease."

Mulder grew thoughtful for a moment. "Is that the case in the
other victims? Were they 'at ease' when they died?"

Scully looked up at him. "I don't know. I need to check that out."

"Let me know, OK?" he replied.

"Of course. You're on to something here, aren't you?" she
accused.

"I don't know yet, Scully. But I think I found all the corner pieces
to the jigsaw puzzle," he said, eyes twinkling.

Holiday Express Motel
Belleville, Illinois
11:00pm

He'd suffered through two slices of pizza before he started picking
them apart, eating only the toppings and the cheese. If Scully
noticed, she kept it to herself. It was as if she accepted that he was
in 'processing' mode and she was cutting him some slack. Or, he
feared she'd gotten tired of getting shot down and decided she
didn't give a damn. He wasn't sure he liked the latter idea, if it had
come to pass.

They used her laptop to get the copies of the autopsies and lab
reports on the three other victims. Just as Mulder suspected, in
each case, the victim was completely calm at the time of death.
This was in direct contradiction to the violent natures of the
murders. The added wrinkle only confused Scully, but it seemed to
solidify a theory for Mulder--a theory he was keeping close to his
chest.

"Look, Scully, I need to sleep," he told her with a yawn. "How
about if we go over all this again in the morning--over breakfast,"
he promised.

"I guess you're right, Mulder. The numbers are starting to run
together on this analysis," she agreed and got up to go to her own
room. She stopped at the doorway and turned, chewing on her lip.
"Mulder?"

He looked up expectantly.

"About what I said at lunch time--I was angry. I didn't mean it. If
your back is still giving you trouble in the morning, I think we
should probably get it looked at. You might have done more than
just sprain it," she said, her eyes begging him to accept her concern.

His eyes softened and for a moment he wanted to tell her that he'd
been having problems all day. But in his heart, he knew her too
well and she would jump on his problems like an attack force.
Before he'd be able to object, she'd have him tied up with IV
tubing and flat on his back and he couldn't solve a string of murders
that way. So he decided to keep his secret, if just for one more
night.

"Thanks Scully, but I'm feeling a lot better--honest," he smiled
encouragingly.

"OK, Mulder. Good night," she said, and left.

The call came in at 3am. Mrs. Cravins needed to see them--right
away.

end of part three

Getting Old (4/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

Holiday Express
Belleville, Illinois
Dec. 11, 3 am

As soon as he got off the phone with the nursing home attendant,
he was on the line to Scully's room. He could hear the phone ring
and heard her pick up.

"Sorry to wake you, but Mrs. Cravins just called. She's had
another vision."

"I'm on my way, Mulder. I'll be at your door in 15 minutes."

It was a trait in his partner that he'd always admired. The woman
could be dressed to the nines in under half an hour. He never
figured out how she could do it, since he knew that make-up and
hair styling could take some women he'd know forever and yet
Scully always looked great no matter how little time he gave her.
Then he reminded himself that he'd better hurry if he was going to
be ready when she came to get him.

The pain hit the minute he stepped in the shower. Intense, white
hot pain that started in his back and traveled directly to his groin. It
doubled him over and he had to grab the shower curtain to lower
himself to the floor of the tub. For a minute he just lay there, trying
to decide if he had the strength to call out, or if anyone would be
able to hear him if he did.

He'd just about decided to wait it out until Scully came to get him.
But his bladder made it quite clear that was not an option. He
pulled himself up and moved to the toilet. Pain he had never known
greeted him and made itself at home in his lower reaches. In one
second he went from praying for help to arrive to begging for death
to be quick.

An eternity later, it was over.

He was still breathing heavily when he realized that he was all in
one piece. Whatever had hit him so suddenly, it had gone with
equal speed. He gingerly stood up, testing to see if everything was
in working order. He noted the pink stain in the water of the toilet
bowl, but figured if the pain was gone, that was all that mattered.
Scully's pounding on the door startled him and he grabbed a towel
to wrap around himself before letting her in.

"Mulder, come on! If I can get ready--" she stopped in her tirade
and stared at him. He hurried off to the shower before she could
get a really good look at him.

From beyond the bathroom door, he could hear her voice.
"Mulder, are you all right? You look really pale."

"Just the lights, Scully. I'm fine. Hey, while you're standing there,
could you find a pair of socks in my suitcase?" Anything to get her
mind occupied on something other than him.

"Sure, Mulder. Want me to press your suit while I'm at it," she
muttered derisively and he knew that he'd succeeded in diverting
her attention.

She continued to stare at him all the way to the nursing home, but
didn't say a word. He was grateful that when the pain left, it didn't
leave any lingering after effect and he actually felt pretty good--for
a quarter of four in the morning.

The nursing home was quiet when they arrived. A nurses aide led
them to Mrs. Cravins room. The old woman was sitting up in her
bed, wringing her hands and obviously distressed.

"It's awful! You have to stop him," she said before they'd even
gotten their coats off.

"What did you see, Mrs. Cravins?" Scully asked gently.

"Oh honey, I don't want to tell you. It's just too awful--too
awful."

"Will you tell me, Mrs. Cravins?" Mulder asked, directing the
woman's attention to him. "What did you see?"

"He cut him up so bad. Not like the first man. Not at all. Just cut
and cut and cut till there was nothing left of him but blood and
bone. I could hear him laughing this time. Before I couldn't hear
the laughing. That poor boy. That poor sweet boy. I remember
when he'd come to our house with Billy. He was such a sweet,
sweet boy . . ." Mrs. Cravins broke down in tears.

"Mrs. Cravins, are you telling us you know the victim?" Mulder
asked anxiously. Before, the victims had all been strangers to the
woman crying before him.

"It was Davey. Davey Moser. Horseman's gonna kill Davey
'cause I told on him. I know it. Oh sweet Jesus, what have I done,
what have I done? I've got that poor boy killed." She sobbed
harder and Scully moved to the bed to hold her as the force of the
sobs racked her large frame.

While Scully had her hands full calming Mrs. Cravins, Mulder had
his phone out, putting in a call to Det. Moser. After a few minutes,
he looked up at his partner, concern marking his expression. "No
answer, Scully."

By this time, the floor nurse had come in and gave Mrs. Cravins a
mild sedative. The woman seemed to have exhausted herself, she
was dropping off to sleep.

"Mrs. Cravins, please. Can you tell us where? It's very important
and we might be able to save Dave if you can just tell us where,"
Mulder begged.

"Outside the station. There are some abandoned buildings
downtown--the old five and dime store. They're gonna knock 'em
down to make room for a parking garage. Down there. Hurry,
please hurry before it's too late," she sighed and her eyes drifted
closed.

Mulder was out the door like a shot and it took Scully a moment to
catch up with him. She pulled at his sleeve.

"Mulder, this could very possibly just be a nightmare," she
reasoned.

He shot her a glare and kept moving.

"Face it, Mulder. It could be nothing at all."

When they got to the car, he finally slowed down enough to really
look at her. "Scully. The woman has been right four out of four
times. Are you willing to risk Det. Moser's life on the off chance
that she's having a nightmare this time and NOT a vision?"

"Why don't we put a call into the police station and have them look
around? They're closer than we are, anyway," Scully offered.

He gave her a smile. "Yeah, Scully, that's a good idea. But let's
get there as fast as we can, too."

Traffic was non-existent at 5 in the morning, but even so, the two
agents were racing the ambulance to the downtown area of
Belleville. As they pulled up, several uniformed officers were
crowded around the front of an old Woolworth's. A plainclothes
detective hurried over to them and introduced himself as Det.
Yaeger.

"We found him. God, he's cut bad, but he's still alive. I can't
figure out how it happened--he was in the station house until about
an hour ago," he said, shaking his head. Scully had broken away
and was assisting the EMT's as they started IV's and tried to
bandage the multitude of cuts on the young detective's body.

Mulder came up behind her. "Is he conscious?" he asked.

She shook her head. "He's lost so much blood, Mulder," she said
standing up and allowing the paramedics to load the gurney. "He
might not make it to surgery," she added in a much lower voice.

"The Horseman is still here, Scully. Mrs. Cravins said she heard
him laughing. He's probably in one of these buildings, watching us
and getting off on it," Mulder said with a scowl to the rooftops
above.

Det. Yaeger had joined them. "We're doing a search of the
buildings, but so far, we haven't found a soul."

"Mind if we take a look around?" Mulder asked. The Detective
started to agree when Scully interrupted him.

"Mulder, I think I want to ride with Moser. I might be able to give
a hand on the way," Scully said with a meaningful look.

"Good idea, Scully. I'll catch up with you there," Mulder nodded.
"I just want to look around this place, see what I can find."

As she turned to climb into the back of the ambulance, she stopped
and looked at him. "Be careful, Mulder," she said tenderly.

He smiled back. "Aren't I always?" he accused with a grin.

She smirked at that, then got in the ambulance and it pulled away.

Mulder made his way through the building. It was still dark out,
sunrise not arriving for another 20 minutes. In the darkness, the
pencil thin beam of his penlight illuminated a path through the
rubble of the old department store. He searched the first floor--a
vast expanse of nothing but years of dust bunnies and filth, broken
occasionally by an old shipping carton, but found nothing. There
was no where anyone could hide on that floor.

The elevators had long since been shut down and the mechanism
removed. The old iron grates guarded the drop to the basement
level. He shone his light down and up, but found nothing but
ripped out wiring and severed cables.

Next, he attempted the fire exit and found the door opened with a
ear shattering squeal. "So much for a surprise entrance," he
muttered to himself and ascended the narrow stairway. The
building was only three stories tall. One floor down, two to go.

On the second floor the space was more divided, with partitions
chopping the floor space into departments. His mind flashed back
to shopping trips with his mother and Sam, before school would
start. The excitement of his younger years all too soon gave way to
the embarrassment of pre-adolescents when they made these trips
into Boston. Sam would always want to spend hours looking for
dresses and ribbons to match.

At the time, all he wanted to do was get his new pair of Converse
All*Stars, a couple of pairs of sturdy denims and one or two
shirts--button downs, like his father, and go someplace to eat. But
he would have to stand, or in the really nice stores, he might get to
sit and wait impatiently for his sister to model the latest fall fashions
for the 'Barbie Doll' set. If only he could have just one of those
afternoons back again, he sighed.

The second floor proved to be as vacant as the first. He moved
again to the fire stairs, and started to climb. About half way up the
steps, the hair raised on the back of his neck.

At first, he thought it was a breeze coming from the roof top
doorway. Then, upon further reflection, he realized it for what it
was. The Horseman was there. Somewhere on the third floor or
possibly the roof, but he was close. So close Mulder could 'feel'
him.

Mulder berated himself for getting lost down Memory Lane on the
second floor. It was self-indulgent, but beyond that, it was damned
stupid. Not to mention dangerous, a voice that sounded amazingly
like Scully's echoed in his mind. He grinned. Even when she
wasn't right beside him, she was _still_ right beside him. I'll be
careful, he silently vowed to her again.

He stepped through the fire door and into a hallway. The third
floor of the building had been relegated to office space and
consisted of a long hallway with glass and transomed doors on both
sides. He flashed the light down on the floor and could make out
footprints in the layers of dirt.

His skin was tingling now. Wonder if this is what 'spidey sense'
feels like, he mused, and not for the first time. It was the
anticipation, the adrenaline rush, that was causing him to sweat in
the cold air, to tense at every sound of the wind through the rattling
windows.

Just relax, he told himself. Calm. Cool. No need to panic, no need
to flee. He noticed that his gun was in his hand, he couldn't
remember drawing. Instinct. No, training--and that was better than
instinct in many ways. Maybe it was a little of both.

He was halfway to the end of the hallway. Judging from the light in
the window at the far end of the hall, he was moving east. He
could see the silhouettes of the buildings across the street that the
rising sun was creating. In a few minutes, the sun would top the
buildings and would in all likelihood blind him, if he wasn't careful.

A door banged behind Mulder and he spun on his heel in that
direction. A gust of wind hit him in the face as the fire door was
opened. In the twilight, he couldn't make out the person fleeing
into the stairway, but the scent on the wind was all he needed.

It smelled like horses.

He was running before he even had a chance to process all the
information his mind was gathering. Up the stairs, two at a time,
bounding with a grace that he usually only felt when he was running
in the mornings. Or at times like these. He reached the top stairs
and wasn't even winded. The thought flashed through his mind like
a giggle--getting old, indeed!

The building across the street was taller, and the rooftop was still
mostly in shadow. It was not a total darkness, more of a gray and
deceptively bright after the blackness of the stairs. He gave himself
a second for his eyes to adjust, then cautiously moved out of the
stairway and onto the roof. Hogan's Alley never contained a
rooftop scenario--but it always seemed he was on top of a roof.
Another idea for the suggestion box at Quantico.

Mulder heard scraping off to his left. The roof was gravel and tar,
with several outcroppings of air conditioners and heating ducts.
Perfect places to hide from a pursuer. Perfect place to stage an
ambush.

Careful. Careful. Careful. His mind was chanting, but it was
Scully's voice in his ear. He had the irresistible urge to swat at the
voice to silence it. I _AM_ being careful, he wanted to shout. His
mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his chest, he wanted nothing
more than to face this bastard down and put an end to all the
games.

He got his wish.

He didn't see the six foot length of two by four as it connected
squarely with the back of his head. He doubled over, eyes filled
with stars, and received a second blow directly across the small of
his back. His face hit the gravel of the rooftop and all was
blackness.

When he came to, he was first amazed to find himself alive. In the
split second before his nose and mouth hit the rocks, he was certain
that his death was eminent. But as he raised his head, he found
himself still on the roof, alone. The Horseman was gone.

Blood was flowing from his nose and a split on his lip. He rubbed a
hand across his face and wiped gravel from his mouth. He was
halfway to his feet when Det. Yaeger cleared the stairs.

"Agent Mulder! Ohmygod! Are you all right?" the young
detective was next to him instantly, taking his arm and guiding him
over to an a/c unit to sit down.

Mulder waved Yaeger off but accepted the handkerchief the
younger man offered. He wiped his face and grimaced at the sting
and the trail of blood. "I'm fine, Yaeger. I'm fine. But the bastard
got away," he grumbled.

"I know. We saw him clear the rooftop to the building across the
alleyway. My god, that man must be half gazelle. We've been
searching the other buildings, but chances are good we won't find
him. He seems to know the layout better than the building
designers."

"Nah, he probably just read their minds," Mulder muttered
cryptically. He pushed off the makeshift chair and gasped at the
pain across his back. He was sitting again immediately.

"You're hurt," Yaeger accused.

"No, he hit me with a board. I'm fine, just bruised. Really."

"Did he knock you out?" Yaeger asked, and took Mulder's chin in
his hand to look into the agent's eyes. Mulder brushed him off.

"No," Mulder lied. "He just knocked the wind out of me. I
sprained my back a couple of days ago and he hit me in the wrong
spot."

"Well, we better get you to the ER anyway. You might be hurt
worse than you think," the detective advised.

"No time, Yaeger. I have a profile to write. If it makes you happy,
Agent Scully is a damn fine doctor, and not just on dead bodies. If
I feel bad later, I'll have her take a look at my back. It saves the
tax payers a mint on my health insurance," he grinned.

"I'll just bet," Yaeger shot back and Mulder might have consider
them fighting words, or at least argumentative words, but he was
too winded and in too much hurt to bother. All he wanted was to
get back to the motel and to Scully's laptop. He was on to this
bastard, and it was time to start playing hard ball with this loser.

end of part four

Getting Old (5/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

By the time he was unlocking the door to his motel room, his cell
phone was ringing. It was Scully.

"How's Moser?" he asked, unconsciously crossing his fingers.

"He made it this far," she said hopefully. "He's in surgery. Some
of the cuts were pretty deep, he's got at least one severed artery.
They called in an arterial specialist from Barnes across the River. I
don't know, Mulder. All we can do is wait."

He was sure he heard the silent `and pray' that she tacked onto that
directive. It was a subject they usually avoided between them.
"Where are you now? Did you find anything at the building?" she
said after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Yeah, we did," he said, trying to hide his disgust at his own
performance.

"And . . .?" she prodded.

"I had him, Scully. I had the bastard right in my hands and . . . and
he got away," he seethed.

"What did he hit you with?" she asked, and he could almost see her,
standing before him, that concern/anxiety look in her eyes that she
always got when he did something she didn't approve of.

"A two by four," he replied reluctantly.

"Were you unconscious?" she continued digging.

"I saw stars. And I never got a good look at the guy. I'm OK,
Scully. I looked at myself in the mirror of the car--no dilation of
the pupils. I don't have a concussion," he assured her.

"Mulder, are you now going to tell me you're planning on
performing brain surgery on yourself so you can remove what ever
it is up there that makes you do things so monumentally stupid?"
she growled.

"Scully, look, I'm OK," he said again. "This is not the first time
somebody whacked me on the head. I really don't think it'll be the
last. I know a concussion when I have one and right now, this
doesn't even qualify as a decent sized headache. Look, I'm back at
the motel. I'm going to start on the profile--I think I have a handle
on this bastard. Yaeger's going to call me if they find anything else
at the building. You gonna stay there with Moser?"

He heard her swallow back her protests. "Yes, I planned on it. His
Mom is here, and his girlfriend. I don't want to be in the way, but I
was hoping that if he pulled through--"

"He might be able to ID the guy better than me. Good thought.
OK, then call me if there is any change or if you need me down
there."

"OK, Mulder, but only if you promise to call me if your headache
gets worse or if you start feeling dizzy . . ."

"--Or nauseous, or start seeing spots before my eyes, yeah, Scully, I
know the routine," he sighed. "I'll call, I promise."

"Yeah, right," she muttered, but it was obvious to him that he
wasn't supposed to hear it. He started to say something in return,
but she spoke again. "I'll meet up with you back at the motel when
I know what's going on here."

"Sounds like a plan. Bye, Scully."

He disconnected the call and stuck the phone in his jacket pocket,
then shrugged off his overcoat and started to stretch.

Damn! His back again. He'd almost forgot that the Horseman had
nailed him right across the back. Mulder had to be honest with
himself, the back hurt worse than his head did at that point. He
fumbled through his travel bag for his bottle of ibuprofen, decided it
hurt enough to take three of the little red pills rather than his usual
two and chased it with the left overs from a can of warm cola from
the night before. Then he set up the computer on a little table near
the window and started to get his thoughts down on the screen.

Profiling was not really a science. It was an art. That was
something Bill Patterson had drilled into his underlings. And when
it came to that art, Mulder was a Piccasso. It required all his
knowledge of psychology, of the workings of the human mind, he
was more than willing to admit that. But all the writings of Jung
and Skinner (B.F. not A. D.) were nothing more than the paints and
brushes that he used to create the masterpieces.

He wasn't the only artist in the world. The men he worked with
(and recently, the women in his old workplace) were accomplished
artists in their own right. Each one a Monet, a Van Gogh, a Goya.
But none of them could do what Mulder could do.

He'd once heard a reporter on late night talk show radio tell of the
time he and a bunch of other young men were covering Europe,
several years after the war. They were in a nice restaurant in
France and as young men do, they'd forgotten that each bottle of
wine they had ordered and consumed came with a hefty price tag.
When the bill arrived, the young men pooled their resources and
came up woefully short.

An older man, sitting at the next table, overheard their plight. He
grabbed a napkin, deftly scribbled some lines on it and handed it to
the waiter. The waiter accepted the napkin gleefully and then went
to tell the young men that the check had been paid in full. When
they inquired as to the identity of their benefactor, the waiter simply
showed them the napkin. It was a simple pen rendition of flowers.
A sketch, nothing more. The `art work', however was signed by
the artist. Piccasso.

Mulder could write profiles on the backs of envelopes if need be.
Just like Piccasso, he was just that good.

Figuring out the UNSUB was a little easier now that he'd walked in
his footsteps. For one thing, he could say with some certainty that
the man was as tall as Mulder himself. He was fit, indicating that
his weight was near Mulder, maybe a little heavier. He was
graceful, which could mean youth, but could also mean that he
worked out and kept in shape. All that was the simple part.

It was his mind that Mulder really wanted to dissect. Mulder had a
suspicion from the moment Scully had told him about the low levels
of adrenaline in the victims. There was no fear in them. Now, the
latest victim, Det. Moser, seemed to only underscore that point.
Dave Moser was a good detective, an experienced cop. He
probably had the same `spidey sense' that Mulder often relied on.
It was inherent in all law enforcement, but Mulder suspected that it
was more like `survival of the fittest'--those without it ended up
dead soon. Moser was armed, Mulder had seen his gun in his
holster as the paramedics worked to keep him alive. What the hell
was an armed Detective doing walking into an abandoned building
like it was a park on Sunday?

Mulder had a theory that the Horseman had mental powers that
could override the victims natural tendency to sense danger and
therefore negate the `fight or flight' response that accompanied
high levels of adrenaline in the body. The victims didn't move as
the Horseman calmly killed them, taking all the time he needed.

Mulder mentally pulled data from all the articles he'd ever read on
the `fight or flight' response. Even if the victims couldn't see their
attacker, none of them had been killed on the first blow. The
adrenaline rush is almost instantaneous in humans. Unless the death
was just as quick, the response would be evident. It was one of the

discussions that he and Scully had at length on several stake outs.
It was a way pathologists knew if the victim had been conscious
enough to see the attacker or be aware of the attack. It was
physical evidence to back up his theory.

His mind wandered for a moment back to another `mindbender'
he'd pursued. Robert Modell could manipulate a person's mind
and make them do things that they would ordinarily never do.
Mulder had first hand experience in Modell's mental power over
others when he was forced to hold Scully at the point of a loaded
gun. But as Mulder could also attest, Modell's victims quite
definitely experienced fear and anxiety response. His own body
told him as much when he tossed up his lunch and breakfast in the
tiny bathroom of the private hospital room while Modell was being
taken to surgery. Scully took her partner home and sat with him
until the shakes had finally left his body. So even Modell couldn't
manipulate the human body's response to fear.

The smell was important. Now that Mulder had been close to the
man, he knew that Mrs. Cravins had not been imagining the smell.
He couldn't be as exact as saying `a horsebarn in springtime', but
his own experiences in the stables of the polo team at Oxford had
taught him the unique scent of horses. The UNSUB worked with
horses, owned horses, might be a groomsmen. It was a place to
start. He made a quick look in the yellow pages and discovered, to
his dismay, that the metro St. Louis area was awash with horse
farms. Nearly 70 different horse breeders were listed, and those
were the ones big enough to advertise. Plus, there were two
racetracks on the Illinois side alone. More than plenty of people to
interview.

It was getting close to three o'clock when Scully finally came back
to the room. She looked tired and defeated.

"How is Moser?" Mulder asked upon her arrival.

"Not good. He made it through surgery, but he slipped into a coma
once they had him in recovery. He's in ICU," she sighed.

Mulder bit his lip. Moser had treated the agents with respect, had
been helpful and in general, had seemed a nice guy. "Will he make
it?" he asked fearfully.

"I hope so," she whispered. "His girlfriend is actually his fiancee.
The wedding is supposed to be New Year's Eve. They wanted to
ring in the New Year together. Oh, god, Mulder, I just hope he
makes it till then. He lost a lot of blood and he was cut bad." She
flopped down into one of the two chairs at the table. "Did you get
the profile done?"

"Pretty much, but it sure would have been nice to add a
description," he said with a shrug. "Take a look, I have to, ah,
well, I'll be right back." He made a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

What Scully didn't know, and what Mulder was not about to tell
her was that is was about the hundredth time he'd been to the
bathroom since he'd come back from the Woolworth's building.
He'd had a glass of water, and a can of cola from the machine, but
no coffee and not nearly enough liquid to justify a full bladder. His
urine was burning again, and he briefly thought about letting Scully
look at his back. The ibuprofen had kept the back ache at bay for a
while, but it had returned and was making him miserable. The
decision he had to make was whether the discomfort he was in was
enough to make him endure the agonies and humiliation which
Scully and the medical community were sure to inflict on him if he
admitted that he was hurting. No, he decided. No pain was that
bad.

Until it doubled him over. He looked down at the water in the
toilet. A bright red stream--blood--and it was coming from him.
"Not a good sign," he muttered. God, all he wanted to do was end
the pain and feel better. Maybe the Horseman had done some
damage with that damned two by four, he considered. Whatever,
he really was ready to tell Scully that he was feeling bad and might
even agree to a trip to the ER to check it out when she startled him
by knocking on the door.

"Mulder, Det. Yaeger just called you on your cell phone," Scully
said through the door. "They found a woman who says she saw a
man race out of one of the abandoned buildings downtown. She
may have a description. Come on, I told him we'd be there in 15
minutes."

Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep breath. So this is what that
phrase `Duty Calls' means, he mused silently. He washed his
hands, flushed the evidence of his injury down the toilet and opened
the door to find his partner holding his jacket and overcoat out to
him. They were out of the room in under five minutes.

Down at the police station the front desk was busy, and in more
than one way. Det. Yaeger came and showed the agents to a
interrogation room. A young woman with long dark hair was
already seated there. She would have been rather attractive if she
didn't use so much makeup or wear sleazy clothes. Scully started at
once with the questioning and that suited Mulder just fine. He could
feel the pain in his back which had also centered to the lower
abdomen. A dull nausea was threatening to break out in full blown
vomiting any minute.

The witness, whose name was down on the sheet as `Carole King',
had seen a man with a black raincoat running out of the alley. She
couldn't see his face, but she could see that he was rather a big
build and that he had a slight limp when he ran. Det. Yaeger
informed the agents that they'd found a homeless person, throat
cut, in the alley behind the buildings. `Carole' said she knew the
victim whose name was Rosa Parks, 18 years old.

After the interrogation was over, Det. Yaeger suggested that the
agents should continue the discussion in his office. Once there,
Mulder sat silently on a chair and watched Scully and Yaeger
discuss the case. He had trouble sitting still because of the pain in
his lower regions and he squirmed enough that he was sure to
attract his partner's attention. Mulder longed to be back at the
hotel, to the warm comfortable bed. This train of thought surprised
him, he had never held beds in high regard--unless he was sick or
injured. .Suddenly Mulder heard his name being called repeatedly.
He jerked and found that it was Scully who was desperately trying
to get his attention.

"Mulder did you hear what Det. Yaeger's saying?" she asked with a
concern look in her eyes.

"What? Yeah..sure," he answered, slightly confused.

Scully looked like she doubted her partner but said "Det. Yaeger
want's to know if you're interested in a cup of coffee." Coffee was
the last thing Mulder wanted, he was just going to say no thank you
when he changed his mind. It would look too suspicious, so
instead he forced a smiled and nodded. Scully was still staring at
Mulder when he got up from his chair and excused himself.

To Mulder's despair the visit at the restroom was joined with a lot
of pain and more blood. There was no turning back. He had no
choice but to tell Scully. He moved slowly back to Yaeger's office
and sat down.

Fortunately, Yaeger was on the phone, so he wasn't privy to the
conversation. Mulder leaned over to Scully, to keep the
conversation private. "I don't feel very well," he told her.

"What's wrong, Mulder?" Scully asked, and her eyes looked almost
relieved.

Mulder started to detail the entire list of pains and indignities, but
stopped. The thought to telling Scully everything froze his heart.
There had to be a way to get back to the motel and lie down
without having Scully slap him in an ambulance and chain him to
some hospital bed for the duration of the case. Necessity is the
mother of invention and Mulder came up with a plan double quick.

"The pizza we ate last night didn't quite agree with me". He sat
back in the chair with a heavy sigh. Scully started to question him
and he answered her questions as patiently as he could. He left out
a few, not so important details like the incredible pain in his back
and lower regions, the burning sensation and the blood in his urine.
That left him telling her about the nausea and the fatigue. He
soothed his conscience by telling himself that the rest of the list
would only upset her and he really didn't want to go to the hospital
when sleeping would improve his condition dramatically. Scully
decided that they should go back to the motel and that Mulder
should get to bed in a hurry.

"You know, Mulder, nausea can be a symptom of something more
serious and if not attended to, it can get worse." she said in her
most evil doctor's voice. Mulder tried to look suitably contrite, but
simply looked miserable.

About that time, Yaeger finished up his phone call and Scully
informed him that they were going back to the motel to get some
rest, and that he could call them if any new developments occurred.
He saw them to the door of his office and promised to call if he
heard anything. The agents went back to the motel and Mulder
went immediately to bed and fell asleep.

Holiday Express
9:15 pm

The pain in Mulder's back and stomach had settled down to a dull
ache. The nausea was gone when he woke up. Scully was nowhere
to be seen and he found a note saying that she went to the morgue
to do the autopsy on the latest victim. Mulder stretched and found
out that he was just a little bit sore all over--what he would expect
if he was getting over something like the flu. Relieved, he went in
the shower and stood there for almost half an hour letting the warm
water soak into him. It felt great and he felt better at once.

Even though it was getting close to 10 o'clock at night, he got
dressed. The color of his skin was back to normal and he looked
much better than he had before. He decided to get back to work on
the profile. There was plenty of work to do and no time to waste.
The Horseman could strike again at any moment and before he was
arrested not a single person could walk safe.

While he was sitting there, staring at the computer screen, it struck
him that Mrs. Cravins hadn't called on the last victim. That was
odd, considering she'd called them in the middle of the night just a
few hours before. He decided they really needed to talk to her
again, and as soon as possible.

Scully arrived about ten minutes later. "Mulder, is that you or did
you get abducted and replaced by an alien clone?" she teased as she
tossed a sack of roast beef sandwiches and fries on the bed. "You
look like you feel a lot better than you did when I left you earlier,"
she added with a smile.

"I do, Scully. But I want you to know for the record that I still
chalk this up to some kind of food poisoning, or you'll be forever
harping on me about the benefits of a good night's sleep," he
informed her.

She laughed at that. "Well, whatever, as long as you're feeling
better. I remembered that we really haven't eaten all day, and
figured you'd be starving as much as I was. There are big roast
beefs and curly fries in the bag. I'm running down to grab
something to drink. I think I saw they had Nestea in cans--want
something?"

The smell of the sandwiches and greasy fries hit his stomach like a
small nuclear device. He fought the queasiness that was rising in
his throat and bit hard on his lip. "Ah, tea sounds good. Thanks,
Scully." He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of
change which she gratefully accepted and left the room.

Screwing up all his courage, he opened the bag and withdrew a
sandwich. "No way. There is absolutely no friggin' way," he said
aloud. Again, inspiration hit at the moment he needed it most. He
unwrapped the sandwich, carefully placing the wrapper on the
nightstand. Then he ran into the bathroom and flushed the
sandwich and the majority of the fries from one carton down the
drain. He returned and sat down, just in time for Scully to return.

"Hey, sorry, but I was starved. I started without you," he said, idly
munching one lone fry.

She looked at him in disgust. "Typical, Mulder. You just get over
an upset stomach and you wolf down fast food like you haven't
eaten in days." She took her sandwich and unwrapped it, taking a
big bite. "But I guess, under the circumstances, I can forgive you,"
she mumbled around the mouthful.

"You know, I was thinking. We really need to talk to Mrs. Cravins
again," Mulder said, playing with the same french fry he'd had in
his hands when his partner had returned.

"Mulder! It's 9:30 at night. You can't go over there now! She'll
be asleep," Scully chided.

"She wasn't asleep last night," Mulder said thoughtfully. "And we
don't have to drive over. I was thinking of calling to see if she's
still up. If not, no big deal, but if she is, I can ask her a few
questions."

Scully shook her head, almost spilling her drink in the process.
"Why, Mulder? We're on to this guy. You've narrowed down the
field considerably and with `Ms. King's account, we know we're
looking for someone with a limp. Mrs. Cravins has never given us
a description of this guy. It's like Clyde Brunkman deja vu--she
can tell us neat stuff, but none of it is useful."

"She saved Dave Moser's life this morning," Mulder said pointedly.

Scully sighed in exasperation. "Mulder . . ."

"Come on, Scully. It's a dumb phone call. Give me a break, OK?"

She stared at him a moment, and he could almost see her weigh the
options in her mind. Finally she sighed again and waved him
toward the phone. "But if they say she's asleep, you leave it until
morning, got it?" she directed.

He held up a two fingered scout salute as promise and quickly
dialed the nursing home's number.

end of part five

Getting Old (6/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

Holiday Express
Belleville, Illinois
Dec. 11, 9:35 pm

Mulder waited for the floor nurse to answer the phone. "Agent
Mulder, I just checked in her room, and Bert says she doesn't want
to talk anymore tonight. She'll see you in the morning."

Mulder scowled. That didn't sound like the Mrs. Cravins from a
day ago. "Oh, well, tell her I said good night, then, and we'll see
her first thing in the morning." He hung up the phone and looked
at his partner. "That's strange."

Scully huffed at him. "No it's not, Mulder. You saw how
frightened she was this morning. It's no wonder she doesn't want
to talk to us this late at night. Besides, I'm sure she'll call us if she
has another vision." She yawned dramatically. "And to tell the
truth, I'm glad we don't have to go out there. Unlike some
people," and she glared directly at him, "I didn't get a nap today. I
need some sleep."

He looked at her and nodded. "You're right, Scully. I'm sorry.
And I could use the time here working on this profile a little more.
Why don't you hit the sack? Let's try to get over to the nursing
home around 9. Come get me about 8:15 and we'll get breakfast."

She started out the door, but turned at the doorframe. "Mulder,
you haven't been feeling well--" She held up her hand to stop his
protests. "I know you feel that you have to finish this case first, but
you won't be able to do that if you don't take care of yourself. I
mean that. Try to get some more sleep, you look like you could
use it." She left before he could object to what she said.

"I hate it when she does that," he muttered to himself. He spent the
next two hours trying to work on the profile, but ended up making
several trips to the bathroom and actually got very little done. His
stomach was queasy and he couldn't find a comfortable position to
sit. In exasperation, he took off his pants and shirt, laid down on
the bed and feel into a fitful sleep.

8:15 am

He couldn't figure out why the alarm clock sounded so strange.
Then he opened his eyes and realized that it wasn't the alarm clock,
but the door. Mulder stumbled out of bed just as Scully used her
lockpick to let herself in.

Both of them stood there in embarrassed silence. Sometime around
dawn, Mulder's boxer shorts had been left behind on the bathroom
floor during one of his trips to the toilet. Scully's face turned a
lovely shade of crimson, but it clashed horribly with her hair.
Mulder gained enough control to grab for the blanket that he'd
tossed on the floor and wrap it hastily around himself.

"You didn't answer and I got--" she tried to explain.

"You _could_ get breaking and entering if you don't get more
judicious in the use of that thing," Mulder growled and headed for
the bathroom.

He could hear her giggle behind the closed door. "I only use on
your motel rooms, Mulder," she called.

"Oh, that makes me feel -sooooo- much better," he returned. He
looked soulfully in the mirror. He'd had an awful night. He slept in
little spurts, but they were interrupted by trips to the toilet. At first
it was his bladder's fault, but toward morning, his bowels had
joined his body's rebellion against him and he'd started having
diarrhea. Somewhere around the cold midwestern dawn, he'd
fallen into what little restful sleep he'd gotten during the night. And
now, he felt more tired than he had in days. He showered as
quickly as he could and then realized that all his clothes were out in
the main room--with Scully. I've already given her one stellar
performance, he decided, I'm not up for an encore.

"Ah, Scully?" he called from the bathroom.

"Yes, Mulder?"

"Want to meet me at the car? I'll be down in a jiffy," he returned,
hoping she wouldn't decide to argue.

She was quiet for a moment, and he was certain he heard her
snickering. "Sure, Mulder. I'll be waiting," she replied and then he
did hear her laughter as she closed the door to the room. Well, at
least I made Scully happy, he thought dryly and proceeded to get
dressed.

When he got out to the car, Scully was talking on her cell phone.
She finished the call and looked over at him. "That was Mrs.
Moser. Det. Moser woke up about an hour ago. The doctor's
been in to see him and told them he's stable enough to talk to us.
I'd like to get right over there."

"Good idea. But I wanted to get to Mrs. Cravins first thing, too,"
Mulder replied. He wanted her to come up with the solution to this
one, because if he suggested they separate, she'd hit the roof.

Scully sighed and stared out at the overcast day. The weather
reports all predicted a storm from the Rockies, with 6 to 10 inches
of accumulation, but that was for later in the evening. "OK, here's
an idea. You drop me off at the hospital, it's on the way to the
nursing home anyway, and you go on and talk to Mrs. Cravins.
Then you come back and get me at the hospital."

He smiled. "Fair enough," he said and started the car.

Her hand grabbed his arm in a death grip. "And Mulder, don't even
think about checking out any of the farms without me," she said
low and threatening.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Scully," he answered, and tried his hardest
to look suitably offended at her accusation. She smirked at him and
settled back in for the ride.

When they arrived at the hospital, Mulder remembered something.
"Scully, why don't you call Jeff and see if he can get one of our
composite artists over here. I know they probably have one at the
Belleville PD, but our guys have the newer computers and it would
be easier to match on the NCIC," he suggested.

"I'm on it," she replied and he watched her dial the number as she
walked up to the entrance to the hospital.

Mrs. Cravins was waiting for him. "Oh, good, child. I was hoping
we could talk alone," she said cheerfully when he came in.

"Mrs. Cravins, I'm a little confused. Did you know the Horseman
was going to kill again?"

The old woman dropped her head and her good hand clutched the
blankets. "I know'd it was wrong. But it was between her and
Davey. And Davey's been such a good boy all his life and she was,
well, I didn't know her. And I didn't really get a glimpse her until
it was already too late. I know'd, I know'd I should have said
something. But I don't cause these deaths, Agent Mulder. I just
see 'em. And there was no helpin' that girl. She was dead the
minute he laid a hand on her. He was so mad at not getting to kill
Davey that it wasn't no fun for him this time. He was just pure
rage."

"Her throat was slit," Mulder replied. "Did you see it?"

Tears were forming in the old woman's eyes. She nodded sadly.
"Her name isn't Rosa Parks, either. That was that black woman in
Alabama years back. Don't know her real name, but she's from
Chicago and her mama and daddy never paid her no mind. Poor
little thing."

"I'll contact Missing and Exploited children and see if they can turn
up her family," Mulder said gently and squeezed the old woman's
hand. "So is that why you didn't want to talk to me last night?
Because you felt guilty?"

She harumphed at him. "Oh Lordy, no, child. I didn't want to talk
to you because you needed the sleep. When are you gonna tell that
sweet Agent Scully how bad you're feelin'?" she said, her eyes
narrowed.

"Mrs. Cravins, I'm fine, really," Mulder protested.

"Doubled over, can't take a breath, feeling cut in the middle or at
least hopin' that's it. Throwin' up and bleedin' inside. I don't call
that 'fine', young man," she chided angrily, shaking her finger at
him. "You are the only one who can find the Horseman. I know
that. He knows that. But if you wait too long to tell your partner
that you're poorly--it won't be the Horseman that kills ya. It will
be your own foolish pride," she said with fire in her eyes.

"Don't you see how that will hurt that sweet girl?" she continued.
"All you're thinkin' about is yourself. You were scared to death
that she was gonna leave you, die on you and you'd be left alone.
Don't you see that you're leavin' her--and she's gonna be just as
alone as you would have been? That's not how you treat someone
you love, son. I know'd. I told Charlie I didn't want to be stuck
here without him. And that selfish bastard went and had a heart
attack four days before our 51st wedding anniversary and here I sit,
waitin' to die so I can yell at him in person!"

"I'm not going to die, Mrs. Cravins. Not yet," Mulder said, barely
above a whisper.

Mrs. Cravins eyes softened. "I don't know everything, child. If I
did, I woulda been in that car with Charlie when he went to check
the fields. We'd have gone to see Jesus together, him and me. But
I can tell you this. Your future is mighty dark and it's comin'
sooner than you think. I can't rightly say that we'll ever talk again
after today. I hope so, I hope so with all my heart. You're a good
man, Fox Mulder. Don't kill yourself because you think you've got
plenty of time. Time don't work that way. And that's all I have to
say on the subject." She turned her head and refused to talk
anymore. Mulder touched her hand and left.

Scully was just coming out of ICU when Mulder arrived at the
hospital. "Did you get to talk to him?" he asked anxiously.

Scully nodded. "Yes, and I got it on tape so you can listen. The
composite artist is in there now, with Jeff. We've only got another
five minutes and I don't know how helpful the composite is going
to be--" she let her voice trail off.

"What do you mean? He had to see the guy--he hacked at him for
a good ten minutes from the looks of those cuts," Mulder
exclaimed.

"That's just it. He did get a good look at him. But I don't think
it's that much help." She led Mulder over to the visitor's lounge
and sat on one of the chairs. "Mulder, he's on morphine. He's
probably not thinking clearly."

"Scully, what did he say?" Mulder asked again, trying to control his
impatience.

She played with the buttons of the micro recorder for a moment
and then started the playback. She held it up so they could both
listen.

>> "Dave, I don't want to tire you out, but could you describe your
assailant for me?"

>> (Rustling of sheets) "I didn't get a good look at first. I was hit
from behind. Cut me low, on the back of my leg and I went down.
(pause) When I was laying on the ground, I looked up. It wasn't
her--I know it wasn't her, but it looked so much like her--her face,
her hair . . ."

>> "Looked like who, Dave? Can you identify the person?"

>> "Lexie. I looked up and it was Lexie looking down at me."

>> "Lexie? Who's that, Dave?"

>> "My fiancee. Alexis. I thought it was Alexis. I called to her a
couple of times and then I passed out. I never did see who cut me."

Scully turned off the tape. "That's all there is, really. He doesn't
remember why he went into the building, doesn't even really
remember leaving the station house. Sorry, Mulder, I wish it could
have been more help."

Mulder looked at her in astonishment. "No, Scully, that _was_ a
help. I was right. Dammit, I was right! He controls their minds,
Scully. Don't you see it? He makes them think that he's someone
they can trust, someone who's not a threat. That's how he gets
them to lie still while he rips out their hearts or puts a bullet
through their brain. Shit, what power this guy has! But he must
need them isolated for it to work. He's only gotten them when they
were alone." Mulder was on his feet now, pacing and talking, but it
was obvious that he was talking to himself, and not his partner.

"Mulder, that's crazy," Scully replied. "It's more likely that Dave
is confused with all the painkillers he's on."

"I don't know, Scully. You tell me. I remember somebody showed
up at your motel room once and you said he looked just like me,"
he said pointedly. "And we won't even mention that time at your
apartment a couple of months ago--"

She cocked her head and glared at him. "Eddie the monkey boy is
still in jail, and you aren't going to start on your 'alien bounty
hunter' kick again, are you Mulder? I've been on the receiving end
of that guy's fist twice now and as I remember, you've escaped
relatively unscathed."

"Well, except for that nasty case of flu he gave me," Mulder shot
back with a grin. He realized he'd probably stepped over the line
with that one. "Chill, Scully. I'm not saying this guy is an alien.
Besides, I left my 'off planet ice pick' at home so we're better off if
it's not him. No, I remember that guy, too and he never smelled
like horses. And as much as the thought terrifies me, he's no an
Eddie Van Blundht, either. I think we're after someone who is all
too human, a full-fledged, card carrying resident of planet Earth,
but incredibly powerful. I think it's a mental power that he has."

"Well, I don't know if that makes me feel any better, Mulder,"
Scully sighed.

The double glass doors to the ICU opened and Jeff Andrews
walked through them, looking none too pleased. He searched
around a moment and then spied the two agents, and headed
straight for them.

"Well, we have a nice picture of Moser's fiancee. I'm thinking of
giving it to them as a wedding present," Jeff said in disgust. "I
should have known the guy was out of his head. Hell, cut up like
that, and on all the dope, it's a wonder he knows who he is, much
less can give a statement."

"I'm sorry we called you over," Scully said with a wince.

"It's not your fault, Dana. We didn't know what we'd get and
there was a chance that he might have been lucid," Jeff said with an
apologetic shrug.

"I think he is lucid," Mulder chimed in and Jeff stared at his old
friend.

"Lucid? He's on Jupiter, ready to make the leap to hyper space,"
Jeff snorted derisively.

"I think he's told us exactly what he saw, Andrews," Mulder
reiterated. "I think he did see his fiancee. I think that's why we
aren't seeing any of the classic 'fight or flight' responses in the
victims. The Horseman makes them think he's a friend, a loved
one, someone they aren't afraid of. And then he can take his time
and kill them anyway he wants."

"He didn't take any time with Rosa Parks," Jeff countered.

"No, he was in a rage. He'd been stopped in the attempt on Dave
and for some reason he didn't kill me on the rooftop. He had to
kill. It's in his nature to kill. But he didn't have time to do it nicely
because there were so many cops around. So he just slit her throat
and left."

"Mulder--look, I know the stories about you. Hell, I've passed
some of them along. I know you've been dabbling in the 'dark
forces' lately. But for the love of God, man, get serious! You're
saying this guy 'hypnotizes' his victims into thinking he's the love
of their lives and then ices them? How do you stop a bastard like
that? You don't. Because when you DO catch him, his $400 an
hour lawyer makes sure the jury realizes that no one has identified
him as the killer and he walks! Please, give me something I can
work with here," Andrews begged.

Mulder chose that moment to jump from his seat and run from the
lounge. Scully and Jeff both stared after him.

"Where in the hell is he going?" Jeff asked angrily.

"Somewhere I can't follow," Scully said with a shrug. At Jeff's
curious expression, she added, "The Little Boys Room."

"Hell, you might not be able to go there, but I can," Jeff declared
and started off after his friend.

end of part six

Getting Old (7/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

St. Jude's Medical Center
Belleville, Illinois
1:45 pm

"Well, Old Buddy, I'm here to tell you--" Jeff Andrews started
yelling as he hit the interior of the Men's room where he'd seen
Mulder enter. He stopped dead in his tracks. "Mulder?" he called
in alarm and ran over to where his friend was doubled over against
one of the stall doors, obviously in serious pain.

"Get out, Andrews," Mulder growled, but his eyes begged his
friend to stay.

"What the hell happened to you?" Jeff continued and grabbed some
wet towels to hand to the prone agent.

"Muscle cramp. It's nothing." Mulder was having a hard enough
time getting that much of a sentence out of his mouth, he really
couldn't go into details.

"Nothing--my ass," Jeff exclaimed. "Same kind of nothing that
ended you in that hospital in Cleveland when you were working out
of BSU," he muttered angrily. "Does Dana know you're sick?" he
demanded.

"I'm not sick. I got hit in the back with a two by four yesterday
and I bruised a kidney. I just need to be careful, that's all." Mulder
closed his eyes and leaned back against the stall. It had taken every
ounce of strength he had to speak and he was totally wiped out.

"You been to a doctor?" Jeff inquired testily.

"No, but I've had enough bruised kidneys to know what one feels
like," Mulder told him. "Please, Jeff, just let it go," he begged.

"Can you get up?" Jeff asked, ignoring Mulder's pleas.

"I think so," Mulder said, and held out his hand. He got halfway up
and doubled over again. "Shit!" he cried out.

"I'm getting Dana," Jeff told him and started to lower him to the
floor again.

"DON'T!" Mulder shouted. He grabbed Jeff's arm and wouldn't
let go. "don't, please," he said, close to tears.

"Why the hell not?" Jeff demanded. "What are you afraid of?"

"You don't know Scully. She'll over-react. She's a doctor and
you know how they get--the least little sneeze and they start
sticking you with IV's of antibiotics so you don't go into
pneumonia." He was sweating now and he could tell by the look
on Jeff's face that he was seriously getting concerned. "Look, give
me a minute here. If I still feel bad, I'll tell her. I swear."

Jeff looked undecisive and hesitant. Finally he got up, but his gaze
landed on the urinal closest to where Mulder had collapsed.
"What's that red stuff?" he asked suspiciously and pointed to a
small trail of blood in the basin of the urinal.

"Beets," Mulder lied with the speed of light.

"You want to explain that one?" Jeff growled as he towered over
the other agent, arms crossed.

"I had pickled beets last night at the diner. I love 'em and haven't
had 'em since I was a kid." Mulder consoled himself with the fact
that at least that much of his fabrication was accurate. "I ate a
whole serving. Makes you piss red for a day or two. It's nothing,
really." He underscored his point by staring directly into Jeff's
eyes, challenging him to prove him a liar.

Jeff stared at Mulder for a full minute and for at least that long,
Mulder thought he was a goner. Then, finally, Jeff blinked. "I hate
beets," he said dryly.

"Your loss," Mulder flipped back. "Now, help me up."

When they got back out to the lounge, Scully was nowhere to be
seen. Mulder sat down heavily in one of the chairs, while Jeff went
to find her. He came back with her at his side.

"Moser remembered something else. Something that might help us,
actually," Scully said, taking out her notebook. "He used to work
cleaning out stables when he was a kid. Said there was one place,
Avalon Acres, where the owners used to mix cloves into the
timothy hay. Said it kept the horses from getting colic. Anyway,
the manure at that stable always had a unique odor. Moser is
certain he smelled that manure again this morning, just before he
passed out."

"Let's call out there and get a list of the hired hands, bring them in
for questioning," Mulder suggested getting slowly to his feet.

"Would love to, but the place was foreclosed about two years ago.
It's been in the receivership of a bank since then. All the horses
were removed and placed at stables around the area. The farm is
currently abandoned," Scully sighed.

"Great spot for a serial killer to hide," Jeff said with a nod. "I'll
send a team out there, see if we can't get some backup from BPD.
We may need a SWAT team with this bastard. Did Dave say where
this place is?"

"Outskirts of Fairview Heights. On Route 53 South about a mile
and a half out of town," Scully read from her notes.

"I need to go to the bathroom," Mulder muttered and left at a slow
trot down the hall. He could hear Andrews putting in a call to his
office as he got further away.

"Keep this up, Mulder, and I'm buying you a box of Depends,"
Scully yelled after him.

2:35 pm

"Damn it," Andrews hissed and disconnected his cell phone.

"What's the matter, now," Scully asked impatiently.

"The storm is moving in already. Our guys can't get across the
bridge, it's solid ice and they're routing everyone south over the
I-155 bridge, but that puts an extra 20 minutes on them getting
here, if the roads were good."

"Jeff?" Scully asked, looking around.

"Yeah," he answered absently.

"Has Mulder come back from the men's room, yet?" Scully and
Andrews were so involved with coordinating the team to go to
Avalon Acres that neither one of them noticed that Mulder had
failed to resurface for half an hour.

Andrew looked around for a minute and then shrugged. "I don't
think so." He bit his lip and dropped his eyes to the ground.

"Jeff, what do you know?" Scully accused in a deep growl that
would turn most men's hearts to stone.

"He said he was fine, Dana," Jeff said, starting to jog down the hall
toward the restrooms.

"Why would he tell you that, unless you thought otherwise?" Scully
demanded as she caught up to him. Jeff was clearing the men's
room door. She could hear his cursing from in the hallway.

"He's gone," he announced, but she already knew that.

"He has the jump on us," she countered. "When did the BPD say
they could get a backup out there?"

"I was hoping we'd get there first," Jeff replied sheepishly. "I told
them to wait for my call."

"Then call them, dammit and get us out there!" Scully ordered and
started toward the elevators and the lobby.

After Jeff disconnected the line and stepped in the elevator, he
apologized. "I'm sorry, Dana. I found him in the bathroom,
doubled over. I should have told you about it, but when he said
he'd eaten beets last night--well, some of the greasy spoons around
here are known for their 'food poisoning specials'."

Scully's head shot up so she could fix him with a glare. "We didn't
eat at a diner last night. I brought back sandwiches from Hardees."

"He didn't eat beets, then?" Jeff asked, dumbfounded.

"Andrews, why do you seem stuck on this 'beet' discovery of
yours?" Scully grilled him.

Jeff licked his lips nervously. "Dana, I think he's in real trouble,"
he finally said. "I saw a trickle of red in the urinal. I asked him
about it. He told me that he'd had pickled beets for dinner last
night. Hell, knowing Mulder, he's the kind of guy who would like
pickled beets," Jeff cried in exasperation.

"Red?" Scully repeated, trying to make sense of Jeff's ramblings.
"He's bleeding? Where?" she demanded.

"Dana, he was--relieving himself. Oh God, and he said he'd been
hit in the back, that he thought he might have bruised one of his
kidneys. Oh my god--he's bleeding--"

"He's ruptured the damn thing," she hissed. "Get back on that cell
phone and call for an ambulance. Tell them to meet us at the horse
farm."

Avalon Acres
Fairview Heights, Illinois
2:30 pm

The wind was starting to kick up and a drizzle had started to fall as
Mulder pulled in the gravel drive to the horse farm. Once white rail
fences, now dirt covered and peeling, stood like a gauntlet on either
side of the road. About 100 yards from the main highway, the
formerly prestigious home stood looking forlorn and forgotten in
the half light of the December afternoon.

"Hey, great place to remake 'Psycho'," Mulder commented to
himself. He was pretty amazed that he'd made it this far. His back
was killing him constantly now, and he'd had to pull over a couple
of times to vomit on the side of the road. Nothing came up, he'd
not eaten anything since the one french fry the night before. But
the urge to repell whatever was making him sick was too strong to
reason with and he'd been racked with dry heaves.

Even so, he'd made good time. He wanted to get out to the farm
before Scully and Jeff called in the cavalry. He wanted this one for
himself--with all the pain he was in, he deserved a piece of this guy.

And as Mrs. Cravins had told him, Mulder was the only one who
could catch him.

Mrs. Cravins words haunted him. "You're future is mighty dark,"
she'd told him. He thought about her words, about how he was
leaving Scully like he'd feared she would leave him. That wasn't
true! He would never leave her. Besides, it's not like he was that
big a part of her life. He was her partner, she tolerated him at best,
patronized him at worst.

If he died, she'd mourn, he had no doubt. But in the long run,
Dana Scully was made of sterner stuff than old Fox Mulder. Where
he would be found with his brains blown out not more than 24
hours after her funeral, she would grieve and then go on to
accomplish great things in his honor. He suspected Mr. Cravins felt
the same way, and that was why he left his wife behind when he
'went out to meet Jesus'.

But why was he even considering this stuff? He had a killer to
catch, and a storm coming and one way or another, he was going to
live through this day.

He didn't bother searching the house. He knew the Horseman
wouldn't be there. He would be in the barns, where the horses had
been kept. He had a connection to the horses, he loved them and
they probably loved him. And when they were gone, he had
nothing left. So he killed, because it was the only way he could feel
important.

The barns were about 50 feet from the house, downwind, Mulder
noted. He pulled the car up the drive and stopped. Check the gun,
his little voice told him and he did so quickly and efficiently. Then
he got out of the car.

The wind was ferocious at this point and the snow/sleet mixture
stung his face and hands, and froze in his hair and eyebrows. He
squinted his eyes against the tiny shards of ice that pounded against
his skin. Quietly, although stealth was unnecessary with the wind
howling so, he made his way over to the big double doors of the
barn and pulled them open.

The doors slid open noisily on the rusted tracks. Inside the barn,
the wind still roared, but it's teeth were dulled and the ice was left
to bay at the wooden clapboards of the exterior walls. It wasn't
warm, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a definite
improvement over the outside.

The barn was spacious and had stalls on both sides. A hay bin, the
size of a walk in closet, was against the back wall and was enclosed
to the top, with only a small opening toward the bottom. Each stall
had full walls on each side and a half wall with the gate in front.
Windows at the back of the stall were shuttered, and kept the wind
and ice in their own domain out of doors. There was still the scent
of timothy and clove, it hung frozen in the air.

Mulder fumbled in his overcoat pocket and produced his pen light.
Cautiously, he opened the first stall, the one to his left as he entered
the barn. He flashed the light around the stall, looking for signs of
life. He then looked down, at the compacted and dirt laden hay on
the floor of the stall. He could detect no footprints and so he
moved on.

As he moved to the second stall, a white hot poker of pain stabbed
him in the groin. Tremendous in it's force, he felt something move
in his body and then--inexplicably, it stopped and stayed. He cried
out silently, and dropped both the light and his gun as he fell to his
knees, clutching himself to alleviate the pain.

When he looked up, Scully was standing over him.

"Scully. Thank god. I'm hurt," he cried out and the pain
intensified to the point where he considered shooting himself in the
groin to make it stop. "Please, Scully . . . help me . . ." He
dropped the rest of the way to the floor on his back.

Then, Scully leaned over and he felt her touch his shoulder. He
looked at her curiously. She usually said something, anything.
Mostly, she'd just chastise him for getting hurt, and then, when all
those years of Catholic education would catch up with her Irish
temper, she'd murmur to him that he was going to be all right, that
she would help him. She'd tell him the ambulance was on the way,
that she'd stay with him on the way to the hospital. That she
wouldn't leave him at the mercy of the buzzards and vultures in the
emergency room who would pick at his skin with needles and poke
him in places he never wanted uncovered. She would talk, and the
words would flow over him almost as softly as her touch as she
would brush his hair with her fingers and stroke his cheek to help
him forget his pain.

Scully was doing none of those things.

Pressure was building in his gut and his bowels. He felt ready to
explode at both ends. He need relief and couldn't move for the
pain. He looked into her eyes, hoping that their own brand of silent
communication would be up and running. Then she would see his
agony and help him to end it, as she always did.

Her eyes were vacant.

He drew in a deep breath, gasping as the pain increased and seem to
take over his breathing. He was working hard at getting air into his
lungs, but with each breath, an overpowering odor met his nostrils.
He would have expected it to be Scully's perfume, Chanel number
5--which he had discovered one year by asking her mother what the
perfume was that she wore all the time. He'd remembered her
birthday that year, and instead of a stupid key chain, he'd given her
a shower set of the same fragrance. She'd been so pleased. He
would have known that scent anywhere--it was Scully's scent.

All he could smell was a strange mixture of hay, cloves and manure.

Through the haze that was threatening to take him under, Mulder
felt on the ground for his gun. Quietly, not changing expression
and not making a sound, he brought it up between them, and very
gently pulled the trigger.

end of part seven

Getting Old (8/8)
by Vickie Moseley and
Kristina Johansson
vmoseley@fgi.net
hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com
Disclaimed in part one

When Dana and Jeff pulled up to the horse barn, they didn't bother
to look in Mulder's abandoned car. They hurried inside and what
they found pulled a stifled scream from Scully's lips. Mulder was
laying, face up, eyes clenched in agony. On top of him lay a man,
face down, dressed in a black trench coat. There was a gapping
hole in the back of the coat and blood was flowing down the sides
to puddle into the hay beneath them.

"Get him off him!" Scully cried frantically. Blood was everywhere,
and Mulder's shoulders and upper arms were sliced through the
coat, adding more blood to the growing mess on the floor.

Once Jeff pulled the trench coated man off Mulder, Scully was
kneeling beside him. Her fingers went to his throat, she grimaced
when she had to push harder to detect a pulse. It was thready and
weak.

"Mulder? Mulder?" she called softly. "Come on Mulder, let me
know you're still here," she pleaded.

The first sensation was her warm fingers on his throat. She was
trying to be gentle, but any movement of his body, no matter how
slight, was sending crashing waves of anguish over him. Her hand
left him and he felt the chill of the air replace her warmth. He
sobbed for his abandonment.

"Mulder," she said excitedly. "Mulder, I'm right here," she assured
him. Just like he knew she would. She ran her hand down his
torso, stopping for a moment at his stomach, then reaching beneath
him to press gently at his lower back.

" . . . scully . . ." he gasped. " . . . that . . . hurts," he moaned, but
it
came out as barely a whisper.

"I know, Mulder. I can see that. The ambulance is right behind us.
It will be here any minute. You just hang on for me, OK?" She
reached up and gently stroked his forehead. "Mulder, can you tell
me where the pain is generally?"

He winced. He didn't want to think about it, much less talk about
it. But she had to know or she couldn't make it go away. " . . . I
feel . . . like I'm gonna pop . . ." he hissed. Bile rose up in his
throat and he could feel himself choking on it.

Scully moved quickly to turn him on his side. He heaved and
retched, but only stomach fluids came out, bloody and noxious
smelling. All the time he was tormented, Scully was rubbing his
shoulders, careful not to touch the wound. She must have done
something there, because he could feel the tug of a bandage on each
side. How the hell did he hurt himself there, he wondered briefly,
then his stomach took control of his brain and he was sick again.

"How's he doing?" Jeff's voice came out of the fog that surrounded
everything beyond Scully's touch on his forehead.

"Not so good," she whispered, but he could hear her, just the same.
"I think this is more that just bleeding. He's got all the symptoms
of going septic."

"That's bad?" Jeff asked, a squeak to his voice that Mulder had
never heard before.

"Very bad. Sometimes a blockage in the urinary tract or kidneys
can cause the body to fail to remove toxins. In essence, the body
poisons itself. Unless the blockage is removed and the infection it
causes treated quickly and aggressively, the patient has a very high
morbidity rate." He recognized Scully's 'detached doctor voice'.
It meant one thing--he was scaring the shit out of her.

"Morbidity? As in dead?" Jeff asked again, but the answer didn't
make it over the squeal of sirens and the hiss of tires on gravel.

"In here," shouted a voice he didn't know. "What have we got
here?"

"Over there, dead at the scene. I'm a medical doctor, I can
pronouce. Here, male, 36 years, extreme hyperextension in the
abdominal, pain reflex in the kidneys. Bloody urine detected earlier
today. Has been experiencing frequent urination and pain over the
last 48 hours. Fever is just exhibiting. I think he might be septic,"
she sighed and he felt her move away and other rougher hands start
to prod and poke at him.

"Jesus, lady, if you're a doctor and knew all that, why the hell
didn't you get him to a hospital sooner?" a second voice demanded.

"Because he's a pig headed male and you better make damned sure
he makes it through so I can kick his ass from here to DC," she
retorted angrily. "Now, start an IV of Demerol and one of keflex.
Call base and order a sonogram, lower GI series and have an OR on
stand by. Get a urologist on the horn, I need to get some guidance
here," she spit out at them and Mulder almost smiled to himself at
the speed at which they seemed to be moving.

Moving to the gurney was his new definition of hell, but that was
quickly redefined by moving the gurney into the ambulance. For
the short seconds out in the wind, he welcomed the chilling
numbness of the ice on his face. He cried out each time the pain
started to overwhelm him and each time, her tiny cool hand on his
skin brought him back, if not unharmed, at least comforted.

As the ambulance rolled away down the gravel road, the Demerol
began to cover over him with a soft blanket of relief. He was
fading in and out, half listening to the sounds of the EMTs and his
partner, mingling in a strange symphony of sound and motion.

" . . . possible hydronephrosis diagnosed by doctor on site." The
words meant nothing to him, but as long as he could hear them, he
knew he was probably still alive.

" . . . ETA 35 plus, due to road conditions." At that, the grip on his
hand tightened and he noticed for the first time that his partner's
palm was sweating.

" . . . short cut? Another route?" Frantic words from Scully. Her
voice had taken on that edge that it got when she was well and truly
frightened. The bad guy's dead, Scully, he thought. You said that
yourself. We can relax.

" . . . fucking blizzard out there, lady!" That caused the hand to
grip his so tightly that it started to hurt. He moaned and moved his
hand and the pressure was instantly released.

"Sorry, Mulder," she whispered close to his ear. Her hand released
his, but didn't leave him. It found it's way back into his hair and he
was lulled to sleep by the rhythmic motion as her fingers glided
through the strands, dividing them, caressing them . . .

He jolted awake as the gurney hit the ground and he was being
pushed through double glass doors.

"In here," someone shouted. Scully's hand was in his, holding
tightly. He could hear her shoes on the tile floor as she ran to keep
up with the gurney.

"Sorry, miss, but only the doctor is allowed--"

"I am a fucking doctor," Scully hissed. "And a fucking FBI agent.
That is my partner and I am going with him. Now, get your hand
off my arm or I'll put you under arrest for assaulting an officer of
the law!"

" . . . scully?" he rasped and hoped she could hear him.

"Right here, partner. Just rest easy, now. The pain should be a
little better, isn't it?"

He felt himself nod but it was little more than reflex.

"Good. We're going to get a sonogram. If you're pregnant, do
you want to know the sex of the baby," she teased gently.

He screwed up his face. " . . . name it . . . after you . . ."

"If it's a boy or a girl?" she shot back.

" . . . both . . ." came the reply.

He was being stripped of his clothing, but aside from hoping he
hadn't messed in his boxers, he didn't have the energy to care. He
was carefully rolled onto his stomach and something cold that felt
like jelly hit his back just above his waist. He felt something round
glide over the gel and he heard a hissing sound like a hand brushing
over a microphone to test it.

"There it is," an unfamiliar voice announced. "Shit, that sucker's
jagged. No wonder it lodged and blocked. And it's location--that's
a bitch and a half."

He heard Scully clear her throat loudly and all further comments
stopped. He felt her hair brush his ear as she leaned forward.
"Well, it's not a baby, it's a rock. Still want to name it after me?"

He nodded and tried to smile, but never opened his eyes.

Many hands rolled him on his back and he was moving again. He
could see the overhead lights strobe past him through his eyelids.
Scully's hand had moved to his arm now and she was rubbing there
in slow circles. "You're going into surgery. It won't hurt, I
promise. I'll be right out here, waiting for you. It's going to be all
right, Mulder. I promise. Just don't leave me, OK? Promise me
you won't leave," she begged and he felt warm drops of liquid fall
on the skin of arm.

He reached over and took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze.

" . . . never . . ."

St. Jude's Medical Center,
Belleville, Illinois
December 15, 10:35 am

Mulder felt something at his neck. It wasn't strangling him, but it
was sticking in him and was annoying. He lifted his hand and
brushed at it with his fingers.

"Don't touch," Scully voice chided.

He opened his eyes and looked directly into a machine that he'd
never seen before.

"It's a kidney dialysis. You're married to it for a couple of more
days. We decided your kidneys needed a good rest and so this little
baby is taking up the slack for them," Scully said cheerfully.

" . . . too damned loud," he rasped and closed his eyes, leaning back
in the pillows.

"Sorry, but it doesn't have a volume button like the heart monitors.
You'll get used to it. It hasn't stopped you from sleeping all this
time," she noted.

" . . . why my . . . neck?" he asked and she finally got the hint and
held some water up to his lips. He drank greedily and looked at her
for an answer. She didn't disappoint him.

"They use the carotid artery. It's easier to find and it's better on
the heart this way. I know you probably hate it, you hate all IV's
on general purposes, but it's necessary, so learn to live with it."
She was back in her no nonsense mood--no gentle caresses this
morning. That was only for when he had one foot in the grave.

"What was wrong with me?" he asked, his voice loosening up as he
used it more.

"Kidney stones. I won't embarrass you by asking how long you've
had the symptoms, and quite frankly, I don't want to know until
you are well enough for me to kick the crap out of you," she said,
her eyes gleaming. "But the blockage must have occurred right as
you hit the barn. A large stone entered you urethra and lodged,
blocking the urine stream. That caused a back up, which in turn
caused you to into septic shock. If we'd been there a few minutes
later, or if the ambulance had been snowbound, you'd have been
dead before nightfall." He watched her fight a shiver that ran down
her back.

"What happened to the Horseman?" Mulder asked, deciding that it
might be wisest to steer the discussion away from his almost
demise.

She looked surprise at that. "You shot him, Mulder. Point blank,
through the heart. Skinner says there will be the standard hearing,
but he had a knife and had already sliced up your shoulders so you
have a strong case for justified use of extreme force. I think he was
going to cut you up like he did Dave Moser. Dave, by the way, is
out of ICU and is probably going home in a couple of days."

Mulder's eyes clouded over. "I didn't know it was him, Scully," he
said sadly.

"Of course you did, Mulder!" she exclaimed. "How else would you
have known to shoot him?"

"I saw you, Scully. I thought you had followed me. I thought it
was you," he admitted and dropped his eyes to the blankets he was
gripping in his hands.

"Then why did you shoot?" Scully asked quietly.

He was silent for a time, then looked at her. "He smelled bad,
Scully. Not like you. He wasn't wearing your perfume."

She chucked at that. "I'm glad," she told him.

"Who was he?" Mulder asked. "Did you do the autopsy?"

"Let's go at this systematically, since I know you'll want the whole
story. After we brought you here, you had surgery. You were still
pretty sick, even after the blockage was removed and they started
you on dialysis. So, no, I didn't do the autopsy."

He groaned at that.

"But I did talk to the ME. I had him check the brain. He found
multiple lesions on the brain. Some looked like they'd been trauma
induced. Blows to the head--"

"Abusive family," Mulder interjected.

"Whatever," Scully shot back. "Anyway, he found no tumor, as
we'd previously discovered in Robert Modell. And no skeletal and
musculature abnormality as we'd found in Eddie Van Blundht. So,
I'm at a loss, Mulder. I don't know why he could make people
think he was someone else."

"He used more of his brain than we do, Scully. Just like I said the
other night."

"Well, he had a pretty ordinary life, up to the murdering spree. His
name was Michael Jenkins. He was a groomsman who had worked
at Avalon Acres since high school. Actually, he never made it to
graduation, he started working there when he was seventeen.
When the farm went bankrupt, he couldn't find a job. He's been on
unemployment, and was denied public aid because he was able
bodied and could work. But from what I could gather, he's been
living at the stables, making do by petty theft."

"Did he have any connection to Mrs. Cravins?" Mulder asked.

"You'll love this, Mulder. His connection to Mrs. Cravins was
through her daughter's husband. The Sheriff of Madison County
was his cousin. I don't know if Sheriff Baker suspected he was the
killer or what. He's Jenkins only living relative and he refused to
take possession of the body. It's going to a potter's grave, last I
heard."

"Does Mrs. Cravins know we caught him?" Mulder asked as he
absorbed all she was telling him.

Scully chewed on her lip for a moment, obviously trying to figure
out how to break the news. "Mrs. Cravins died, Mulder. She died
the night we brought you in. Massive coronary. It was quick.
They buried her yesterday."

"Bet Mr. Cravins is getting an earful," Mulder said with a sad smile.
"Don't feel bad, Scully. She was ready to go. It was her time."

Scully smiled in return. "I'm just glad you decided it wasn't _your_
time, Mulder. The thought of breaking in a new partner was giving
me hives," she teased.

There was a knock on the door and Jeff Andrews stuck his head
into the room. "Is he awake, yet?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yeah, I'm awake," Mulder replied.

"Good, because I have something for you," Jeff said and handed
Mulder a hastily wrapped object. The wrapping paper was the
funnies from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and Scully laid them
carefully aside, so Mulder could read them later. Once the object
was unveiled, Mulder stared at it quizzically.

It was a block of wood, with a taller pedestal of wood in the center.
On the pedestal was a cream colored stone, about three quarters of
an inch in diameter and jagged on the edges. Surrounding that
were three smaller stones, smoother in appearance, and of various
sizes. On the side of the block of wood, a piece of masking tape
displayed the name 'Dana' on the front, then similar pieces of tape
held the names 'Frohike', 'Byers', and 'Langly' around the other
sides.

"OK, I give. What is it?" Mulder asked Jeff.

"Don't you recognize your own progeny, Mulder?" he asked
aghast. "Those are your babies!"

"Those are your 'stones', Mulder," Scully corrected. "And the one
on top, the one you promised to name after me, is the one that
caused all the problems."

"So I guess it's official then, huh, Scully. You really are a pain," he
teased. "I love it," he added.

"I was hoping you'd name one after me, but I guess you can do that
with the next one," Jeff said with a mock sniffle of rejection.

"There will _not_ be a 'next one', Andrews," Mulder informed his
friend.

Scully's face split into a truly evil grin. "I'm glad you feel that way,
Mulder, because the urologist is coming in a little while later and
will give you the diet that you are starting and the exercise program
so that you can avoid this in the future."

"Scully!" he whined. "I'm too old to change my ways!" he cried.

"Mulder, you aren't getting older. You're getting better," she
replied.

the end.

We'd love comments :)

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