From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (7/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:20:13 -0500
No Greater Love (7/ 13)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
We've hit the halfway point now. Hang in there. :) As I've
said before, check out Chapter 1 for all the official stuff. This
is just story.
================================================
Fatigue not withstanding, Mulder felt better than he had
all week. Without question better than he had since climbing
aboard that 727 and leaving DC behind.
God, he was close. Like a bloodhound trailing a scent,
he could smell it. Could sense it. Knew that he was within a hair's
breadth of getting that break their case so desperately needed.
Was perhaps, in fact, only minutes away from having the
Reverend Andrew Weaver confess to three killings.
Four, if you counted the unfortunate Mr. Decker.
Truth be told, Mulder hadn't expected it to take this long.
When the Reverend had chosen to be questioned without the
advisement of an attorney, the agent had thought Weaver
planned on simply admitting his guilt, on finally coming clean
as to his role in the deaths the agents had been sent to
investigate. Such a turnaround on Weaver's part had seemed
to Mulder certainly not beyond the realm of possibility. Most
especially when Scully had shared with him the frantic words the
Reverend had muttered upon Decker's demise.
"My god, Scully!" Mulder had enthused, his hazel eyes
wide with surprise and pleasure. "You mean to tell me Weaver
confessed? He admitted to killing Halprin and the rest of them?"
Scully had shaken her head. "No, Mulder. I mean
nothing of the kind. The man was in shock. I doubt he even
had any idea what he was saying."
"All the more reason to take his words seriously,"
Mulder had insisted, leaning into his partner's shuttered face
to drive home his point. "If he really was in shock, his defenses
would have been down. He might have finally been unable to
keep up the pretense, to keep up the lies."
"Mulder, the only one who's certain Reverend Weaver
is lying is you. Besides, I'm the only person who heard it. It
would never hold up in a court of law. We still need proof."
Much as it pained him to admit it, Mulder had to
acknowledge that not everyone shared his certainty as to the
Reverend's guilt. After Scully had accompanied Weaver back
to the sheriff's office, then headed to Jefferson City to perform
the autopsy on Decker, Mulder had been left to question the
Reverend on his own, Lowry and his deputies merely serving
as audience. While the local law enforcement in no way impeded
his interrogation, Mulder could sense their reticence, their
apprehension regarding the proceedings. This only infuriated
him further. Christ! Weaver had motive (granted, it was slight
and did not extend to all four victims), he had opportunity, it
certainly appeared he had the necessary skill, and with his own
words he had admitted his culpability to a federal agent.
So why did everyone continue to resist the idea of the
man's guilt?
Frustrated, Mulder ran his hands through his hair,
pacing like a convict himself in the cramped room housing
Weaver, a table with two chairs, and the increasingly concerned
Sheriff Lowry. Mulder's suit coat had long since been discarded,
his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled to just below his elbows.
Despite the restless energy fueling his movement, the afternoon
had proven long and tedious. Fatigue was beginning to creep in.
He could use another cup of coffee. Still, the sense of impending
victory heartened him. He returned his attention to the white-
haired man seated at the table.
"So let's go over this again, Reverend," Mulder began
for what had to be the tenth time. "You had never met Martin
Decker before today?"
"No," Weaver confirmed, looking far worse for wear
than did the agent standing before him, every one of his sixty
years accounted for in the lines of his face. "As I told you, Mr.
Decker was a newcomer to our church."
"So why did you decide to heal him?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Mulder smiled. He was employing classic interrogation
technique. Lull the accused into a false sense of security by
repeatedly asking him the same simple questions. Then spring
something unexpected on him. This was a new tack. Perhaps it
would lead to something. "Agent Scully did some checking, as
did Sheriff Lowry and his men. According to your parishioners,
this was the first such healing you had attempted in weeks. In
fact, most folks say you haven't performed one of your usual
miracles since the death of your daughter."
Weaver shrugged, not meeting Mulder's eyes. "I . . .
my daughter's death had taken quite a toll on me. Healing is also
rather taxing. I , um . . . I didn't feel I was ready. That I was able."
"Is that what happened today, do you think?" Mulder
asked intently, not really wanting to give the man an out, and yet
curious in spite of himself. "Do you think that maybe you weren't
up to the physical strain of curing Mr. Decker, and consequently
the whole thing backfired?"
The Reverend sat silent for a moment, seemingly focused
inward, his hands slowly clenching and unclenching. "No. No,
I don't think that's what happened."
Mulder nodded, his look speculative, then with a smooth
yet strangely abrupt motion, he pulled out the chair across from
Weaver and straddling it, sat facing the Reverend, his elbows
resting on the seat's back. "So how does this whole healing
thing work, Reverend Weaver?"
Weaver started. "What do you mean, how does it work?"
"How do you do it? What's the trick?"
Weaver blanched; Mulder's purposeful lack of sensitivity
succeeding in getting a reaction. Now, if he could just keep the
man off balance long enough to admit to the unthinkable.
His breathing rapid and a bit uneven, the Reverend
somehow managed to pull himself together, and after a moment,
answered quietly, "It's no trick, Agent Mulder. I do what I do
through the grace of God."
"He's responsible for your success then?"
"Yes, of course He is."
"So, why did He turn His back on you today? Why
did your God forsake you?"
"Agent Mulder, may I have a word with you?"
So intent had the three men in the interrogation room
been on Mulder's rather risky line of questioning that they had
failed to note the near silent opening of the door. Scully stood
there, trench hanging uncinched from her shoulders, her battered
briefcase clutched tightly in her fist, surveying without expression
the scene before her. Mulder knew without having to ask that
she had been privy to his most recent inquiries. The disapproval
carved in her features assured him of that unfortunate fact.
God! Mulder felt like a kid who had just gotten caught
pulling the wings off of flies. He wasn't at all certain as to the
wisdom regarding his current course of questioning. Much
as he intrinsically distrusted the Reverend, Mulder recognized
that he was hammering away at the bedrock of Weaver's world
view. Asking a man of the cloth if he knew the reason as to why
his deity had deserted him wasn't exactly fighting fair.
But--Hell!
They had four unsolved deaths. Four deaths with one
link to them: Reverend Andrew Weaver. Plus, they had another
man, a man who until the death of his brother had never had a
moment's trouble with the law, so positive that said Reverend
was out to murder him that he had been reduced to making a
public spectacle of himself.
And more importantly, Mulder =knew= with a certainty
that made his teeth ache that Weaver was hiding something.
Something big. Something important. Something that would
blow this case wide open.
If he could just get the man to spill it.
So, if Mulder had to play dirty, had to ask the tough
questions, had push the Reverend to his own personal breaking
point, he was willing to do so.
But, that didn't mean the agent was proud of himself.
Especially not when he saw the look in his partner's eye.
To compound the problem and his guilt, Scully looked
beyond exhausted. She had been in Jefferson City for hours.
Judging by the strain around her pensive blue eyes, the
autopsy had not been a easy one.
Mulder excused himself from the room and joined her
in the hall.
"You want to tell me what that was all about?" she
asked quietly, all too well aware of the potential audience they
had for their conversation.
"What do you mean?" Mulder feinted, not quite meeting
her eyes as he leaned his own tired body against the hallway
wall.
"I think you know what I mean, Mulder."
"I'm questioning the suspect, Scully. Just like any
good agent is trained to do."
"I would have thought that any trained agent would
have had better luck *identifying* the suspect."
"Excuse me?"
They were glaring at each other now, Mulder
slouched against the standard institutional-grey painted wall,
Scully standing nearly on tiptoe, her chin tipped up belligerently.
"Last I checked, it was Terry Halprin we were seeking
to press charges against," she reminded the man before her.
"Drunk and Disorderly, and Resisting Arrest are just two of the
offenses that spring to mind."
Gnawing on his lip while he viewed with narrowed eyes
the storm roiling in his partner's gaze, Mulder refused to rise to
the bait. "We did charge Halprin. For those crimes and a couple
of others."
"And?" Scully asked, prodding, her hands fisted on her
hips in a way that made her briefcase stand out like a wing.
"=And=, he posted bail and cleared out of here. It's not
like the guy is an ax-murderer, Scully. We had nothing to hold
him on. We ended up booking him on little more than
misdemeanors."
At that, she glanced away, scuffing the linoleum
beneath her feet while she strove to reconcile her partner's take
on the case with her own. "What did he say when you questioned
him?"
"Not much. True to his word, the guy refused to give us
the time of day until his lawyer got here. Once he arrived, it
was like someone had turned off a switch inside Halprin. He had
nothing to say except the official party line--'He was drunk.
The strain of losing his brother, and now apparently his business
had gotten to him. He snapped. It won't happen again.' One of
Lowry's men took down his official statement. You can read it if
you want."
"What do you mean, 'his business'?" Scully asked, her
brow creased.
"According to Halprin's lawyer that was what was
behind the guy's trip to Columbia yesterday. It seems that the
bank holding the mortgage on Backroads is getting a wee bit
nervous over the scandal surrounding the place--not to mention
the sudden drop-off in revenue. They're putting pressure on him.
Apparently, there's even talk of foreclosing."
"News like that would give him even more reason to
want to harm Reverend Weaver," Scully murmured thoughtfully.
Mulder snorted in derision. "Scully, the person we
need to worry about =is= Weaver. Halprin is more a threat to
himself than anyone else."
"Mulder, I think you're wrong--"
But, Mulder wasn't listening. Instead, his voice rose
with a mixture of excitement and frustration as he cut off her
objections. "Scully, Weaver is the key to this. To =everything=.
He is the only link between the four deaths. One of the dead men
quoted the guy's words of doom to his mother just before he was
killed. Hell, given the Reverend's behavior today--all the innuendo,
the dodging of questions--the man did just about everything but
confess--"
"That's just it, Mulder," Scully countered heatedly, her
own voice climbing in volume. "He did everything =but=
confess. What he said to me came out of a state of shock. He
had just seen a man die before him. A man for whose death he
felt responsible. I don't think you can hold him accountable for
anything he might have said at that moment in time."
"A man for whose death he =was= responsible,"
Mulder muttered stubbornly, his eyes dipping away from hers
to study the black and white speckled floor at his feet, his
hand coming up to wearily rub the back of his neck.
Scully shook her head. "Not this time."
"What do you mean?"
She reached into her briefcase, and passed to her
partner a folder. "Martin Decker was in the advanced stages
of stomach cancer. So advanced, in fact, that it had spread
throughout his abdomen, affecting nearly all his major organs.
Sad though it is to say, I doubt that even on his best day
Reverend Weaver could have done anything for the man. I'm
surprised poor Mr. Decker lasted as long as he did."
"Are you sure?"
Scully scowled in indignation. "What do you mean
'am I sure'? What you have in your hand are his medical records,
faxed to me by his physician in St. Louis. Believe me, Mulder--
Decker was a very sick man long before he came to Pine Grove."
Mulder leafed through the file in his hand, not really
looking at it. "Couldn't Decker's illness have been exacerbated
by something Weaver did? Some manipulation of his body's
chemistry."
"To what purpose, Mulder?" Scully asked, her voice
just this side of a roar. "Why would the Reverend do something
like that in a church full of witnesses? What could he hope to
achieve?"
"I don't know," Mulder said tightly, choosing to
dramatically drop his voice in volume to emphasize his point
rather than trying to top his partner. "It just seems awfully
convenient to me that Decker managed to keep himself alive
until the very moment that Weaver got his hands on him."
Scully shook her head, her lips thinned in annoyance.
"Mulder, I think you're grasping at straws here. You're so
desperate to pin these deaths on Weaver that you're willing
to ascribe to him any of a number of implausible motives."
"=I'm= grasping at straws?" Mulder sputtered in
disbelief. "=You're=--"
"Everything all right out here, folks?" Sheriff Lowry
asked mildly as he stepped into the hallway, clearly able to tell
from a cursory glance at Scully's flushed cheeks and Mulder's
rigid shoulders that everything between the two was far from
all right. "You about ready to wrap up, Agent Mulder? I think
we've kept the Reverend here as long as we can without charging
him."
Scully swung her gaze from Lowry, who stood behind
her just outside the interrogation room's doorway, to her partner.
"You haven't charged him with anything?"
Mulder felt as if he had shrunk to about a half an inch
in height. And yet he answered the petite redhead with laudable
calm. "Not yet."
"Because you *know* we have nothing to hold him
on," Scully accused, the fire in her eyes threatening to leap out
and singe the man opposite her.
"Not yet," Mulder repeated doggedly, his cool a
marked contrast to her heat. "Which is why I was questioning
him."
"Enough is enough, Mulder. You've been at this for
hours and gotten nowhere," Scully gritted out, her arms rising
and falling at her sides in pure exasperation. "The next thing
you know Weaver will have you up on harassment charges.
To tell you the truth, I don't understand why the man has put
up with it this long."
Mulder could feel his golden opportunity to solve
their case draining away from him like water through a colander.
Much as part of him understood Scully's reservations about the
way he had chosen to handle things, another part of him wanted
to strangle her. Why couldn't she trust him on this? Why couldn't
she let him go with it, follow it through to the end? She had
never squelched his unorthodox methods before. Just what the
hell was so different this time?
Unaware of the turmoil eating away at the insides of
the man before her like acid, Scully turned her attention back to
Sheriff Lowry. Laying a hand on his arm, she asked softly,
"Sheriff would you see that Reverend Weaver is released and
given a ride home? Thank him, and tell him that if we need
anything further we'll let him know."
Lowry nodded, offering the female agent a charming
smile, plainly glad to at last be able to set the Reverend free.
"You've got it, Agent Scully. I'll have one of my men take care
of it."
Scully nodded as well, a slight smile warming her lips.
"Thanks, Sheriff Lowry. I appreciate it."
Mulder felt the dark cloud which had been slowly but
steadily descending upon him turn one shade blacker and miles
more dense. Saying nothing, he watched as his partner smiled
up at the handsome sandy-haired sheriff looming over her in a
manner she usually reserved for him, her small hand still setting
lightly on the man's arm. For his part, Lowry beamed down at the
female agent, his pleasure at being on the receiving end of
Scully's approval blatantly obvious.
But it was what happened next that turned Mulder
nearly homicidal.
Lowry hesitated just an instant, then took his hand
and placed it on Scully's back. Low. Right about where Mulder
usually rested his. The gesture seemed way too familiar to
Mulder. And the fact that Scully allowed it, painfully telling.
"Uh, Agent Scully . . . you sure everything is okay
here?" the tall good-looking man asked diffidently, his
worried eyes flickering to Mulder's stone still form and back
again. "I mean--"
"Everything is just peachy, Sheriff," Mulder said
softly, yet with an edge that would with all probability have
cut through glass. "So why don't you be a good boy, and do
as Agent Scully suggested. Get Weaver out of here."
And still, Lowry refused to budge. Not until he got
a small nod from Scully. Reluctantly, he retreated back into
the interrogation room.
Leaving the two agents alone to silently stare at each
other.
Mulder reacted first.
Not even really knowing where he planned on taking
her, he reached out and firmly grasped Scully's arm just above
the elbow.
"Come here."
Offering no resistance, she followed him, her briefcase
thudding lightly against her hip as she strove to keep up with
her partner's longer stride. Giving her no explanation for his
actions, Mulder stalked blindly down the corridor. His eyes
scanned the walls on either side of them with an almost furtive
intensity. At long last, he paused before the hallway's final door,
which resided along side the office water fountain. Noting the
portal was labeled simply "Storage," Mulder considered a
moment, then tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand.
Saying not a word, he ushered Scully into the room, and closed
the door behind them.
Once inside, it was evident the word "storage" referred
to the vast array of what looked to be official documents the room
housed. File cabinets lined all four walls, obscuring the lone
window granting the chamber light. Only a single scarred table
and chair relieved the decor's monotony. Mulder crossed to these,
and leaning against the chair's back, folded his arms over his
chest, regarding Scully with undiluted indignation shining in his
eyes.
"Would you mind telling me why you just sabotaged
an afternoon of my work?"
Her eyes widened in shock. "You're accusing =me=
of trying to undermine you?"
Damn, he thought in consternation. It sounded so
much worse when the words came out of her mouth.
"Maybe not purposefully," he allowed with a small
shrug. "But the end result is the same. Weaver is walking."
She took a step towards him, her posture so taut that
Mulder wondered for an instant if she might be in danger
of snapping in two. "As well he should, Mulder. I've said it
once, and I'll say it again: We don't have a case against him."
"But I might have," he insisted, surging forward from
his resting place to meet her toe to toe. "I might have gotten a
confession out of him, if you had just trusted me enough to see
this through to the end."
One slim auburn brow arched dangerously. "Oh. So,
this is about trust now is it, Mulder?" she asked softly.
"It's always about trust, Scully."
She just looked at him for a beat, then cocked her head,
her voice no less fierce for the hushed tone blanketing it. "Did
you ever stop to think, Mulder, that it's perhaps you who doesn't
trust me?"
He jerked back almost as if she had slapped him.
"What are you talking about?"
She pressed her advantage, taking a step still closer to
him. "I'm talking about how ever since you got it into your head
that Weaver is guilty you haven't listened to a word I've had to
say to the contrary."
"That's bullshit, Scully. I've listened to you every step
of the way. Hell, you're as much responsible for this conclusion
as I am. More, even. You were the one who discovered the
irregularities in Halprin and Cullins' deaths, you were the one
who found out about the destruction of Kimberly's remains, you
were the one Weaver admitted his guilt to--"
"I was the one who told you I don't believe Weaver is
a cold-blooded murderer."
"You don't believe?" he repeated, incredulity contorting
his features. "And so I'm supposed to turn a blind eye to the
evidence?"
"No," she told him quietly, her eyes flashing tiny blue
sparks. "You're supposed to respect my judgment and my
intuition. Just like any good partner would."
Mulder's jaw tightened so viciously that his ears popped.
"Oh, so suddenly you don't like the kind of partner I am
to you?" he demanded in a low voice, the words barely stumbling
past his lips.
She paused for an instant, as if mentally editing her reply.
Then finally, her eyes shadowed, she allowed honesty to carry the
day.
"At this moment, Mulder . . . no. I don't like the kind of
partner you're being."
Mulder staggered with the force of her words, feeling
their effect as keenly as if they were razor edged blades slicing
through his very flesh rather than mere nouns and verbs.
And needing, even if only for a instant, to hurt her as
badly as she had just wounded him.
"Well, you know something, Scully," he muttered darkly,
his hands on his hips as he turned away from her to pace without
direction in a tiny square, the emotions he had churning inside
him fairly screaming for a physical outlet. "I can't rewire my mind
to placate you, you know? I can't pretend to believe something--
or even =not= believe it--just so you can feel safe or just."
"I never--"
He rounded on her. "Yes. Yes, you do! Even though
you may not know it, every time the going gets a little weird, I
can see it in your eyes. You're hoping against all hope that you
can prove me wrong. That you'll have the dubious honor of
proving to me that my theories, my concerns are nothing more
than my imagination working overtime."
Scully shook her head, her brow knitted, obviously
disturbed by what he suggested. "Mulder, that's not true--"
"Sure it is, Scully," Mulder said with a wave of his hand
and a mockery of a smile on his lips. "You know it is. I mean,
come on--you can't stand there with a straight face and tell me
that you actually hope that one day we'll finally stumble across
a downed U.F.O. You don't really *want* to find evidence of
extra-terrestrials, or mutants, or humans with some sort of
heightened psychic sense. You don't want that."
He stared at her, daring her to contradict him. She didn't.
But, instead of feeling triumphant, her silence only made him sad.
Angry that his tirade should seemingly be having a more adverse
affect on him than on her, Mulder plunged on.
"You don't believe, Scully. You never have. You follow
along because I ask you to. Not because you think the work has
value or meaning. You're only here because of me."
She continued to stand before him, slim and pale in the
hazy late afternoon light that filtered in through the room's venetian
blinds. Yet, despite the shadows surrounding them, her eyes
seemed overly bright to Mulder's way of thinking. Unnaturally
so.
Almost as if she sensed his train of thought, she blinked.
Once. Then, again. Her hand clutched her briefcase so tightly
that he could see her knuckles' every crease, every hollow. Her
teeth worried her lower lip for the space of a breath. Finally, she
spoke. Softly. The words leaden with hurt.
And truth.
"That's right, Mulder. I do it for you."
Then, saying nothing more, she turned gracefully
on her heel, and left him.
And Mulder realized with a kind of awful blinding
clarity that the one who had committed the unthinkable
that day wasn't Weaver at all.
It was himself.
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Part VIII
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (8/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:27:53 -0500
No Greater Love (8/13)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
All comments and criticism are welcome. Please send them to
the above address. Thanks.
================================================
He found her sitting on Twin Orchards' porch swing.
Just seeing her there when the house rolled into view,
small and slight, the cool evening air lifting strands of her auburn
hair so that they floated around her face like smoke, eased some
immeasurable burden that had settled in the pit of his stomach.
Heavy like granite. Sour like bile. Irrational though he knew it
was, some little niggling part of what had been, until recently,
his painfully overactive conscience had been taunting him with
the fear that when Dana Scully had turned and walked out of
that cluttered storeroom, she had, in fact, walked out of his life.
For good.
She didn't move when the squad car that served as
Mulder's limousine made the turn into the bed and breakfast's
property and crunched slowly up the gravel drive. Instead, she
continued to look off into the west, her gaze seemingly focused
on the milky shades of pink and blue and purple that leaked
through the puffy gray clouds which lingered still, the cool
watercolor palette signaling the close of day, although no sun
could be witnessed to make the act official.
Mulder's eyes clung to her for as long as she remained
in sight, willing her not to leave her solitary berth, not to walk
away again. Not until he could fix things. Could make them
right once more.
However the hell he was going to do that.
The agent glanced over at the deputy behind the wheel.
The young man in uniform kept his eyes trained front as they
approached the sprawling farmhouse before them with the same
deliberate speed they had maintained the entire journey.
Mulder grimly mused that perhaps they would reach
the top of the drive a mite faster if he just got out and pushed.
Of course, the only speed that would truly satisfy him
at that point would by necessity involve a sonic boom.
And that would surely startle Scully.
So he waited, hands fisted in his lap, jaw clenched.
It was just that it had taken so damned long for him to
get to her. Once he had realized just how horribly wrong their
conversation had gone, Mulder had set about finding a way to
catch up with his runaway partner. But before he could leave
the sheriff's office, paperwork had to be processed so that
Weaver could be released. Then, he had to scout up a ride, a
task that had wound up being easier said than done. A willing
chauffeur had proven difficult to locate, their very scarcity
suggesting to Mulder that perhaps his pal Lowry had somehow
contrived to contribute to the agent's misery. Finally, however,
Deputy Harrelson had come back from his dinner break, and
offered to take Mulder back to his lodgings.
But nearly two hours had passed.
Enough time for Scully's hurt to harden into hatred.
Finally, the car reached the b & b's front steps. With
a nod and a murmur of thanks, Mulder sprang from the auto,
his suit coat draped over his arm, his tie shoved in the jacket's
pocket, struggling with every molecule he possessed to keep
from bounding up the stairs and dashing around the corner of
the wraparound veranda to his partner's side. Taking a deep
breath, he instead forced himself to walk. Slowly. Like an adult.
With each step, he could hear the air as it flowed unevenly into
his lungs, could feel the steady, rapid pounding of his blood
against the paper thin skin at his temples. Somewhere between
the car and the stairs his mouth had gone horridly dry. And
his legs felt . . . funny. Rubbery, as they did sometimes after
he had indulged in a particularly strenuous run.
When at last he turned the corner and Scully came into
view, Mulder realized with a dollop of ironic humor that it
appeared that she actually had been running. She was dressed
in navy blue sweat pants, cross-trainers, and a gray Quantico
T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a loose pony-tail, the brightly
colored strands he had witnessed hovering around her face
defiantly escaping its confines. She sat with both legs on the
swing's seat, one knee pointing straight up, her arms looped
loosely around it, her other leg bent and laying flat so that it
curled around her body. Mulder recognized without conscious
thought that this was a Scully he didn't know very well. Had
thus far had only a fleeting acquaintance with. The young
woman before him didn't have a tailored suit for armor or a
medical degree for identity. Her gun was probably somewhere
floors away, tucked safely out of sight in a drawer; her badge,
no more useful than a stage prop given their current situation,
stowed nearby. No. The usual things that Mulder thought of
as defining this woman he called his partner were missing. Now,
she wasn't Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully. At that moment,
she was simply a woman. A friend. Someone he had come to
care for. More deeply than he would ever have believed possible
on that day not so long ago when she had sauntered into his
office, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.
And he had accused her of being sent to spy on him.
He hesitated there, on the imaginary threshold, so
close to where he wanted to be and yet so unsure as to how to
take those final few steps. As to how he should approach Scully
when everything about her telegraphed her desire to be left alone.
Much as he wanted to respect her wishes, he could no more leave
this yawning chasm between them unbridged than he could
suddenly start collecting his paycheck from Cancerman and his
shadowy co-horts. He had to cross that last short yet seemingly
endless expanse between them. Had to go to her.
Perhaps she had been listening to the light thudding of
his tread against the porch's weathered boards, or had felt the
force of his eyes, unwavering and unblinking as they studied her
profile. Or perhaps she had simply known. Had felt his presence,
his energy, his heat beside her.
Because she turned to look up at him. Her eyes admitted
no surprise upon seeing who stood nearby. But instead shone
with gentle sadness, their color more heart-stoppingly blue than
he could ever remember having seen it before. Her gaze was wary,
but not unwelcoming. And certainly not accusing.
Not like he had been afraid it might be.
Not like he believed he deserved.
Discovering with a touch of wonder that his fears were
apparently unfounded, Mulder allowed himself to hope.
They merely watched each other for a time. She didn't
ask him to sit down, and he didn't feel he had yet earned the right
to ask. So, he waited.
Just because the rain had ended didn't mean the wind
had. The night was cool, not bone-chillingly so, but brisk. Mulder
was comfortable in his shirtsleeves. However, when a particularly
strong gust whipped against the house with a strength that set
the flower baskets dangling from the overhang to spinning, Scully
hunched slightly against the onslaught, hugging her leg more
tightly as if for warmth. Mulder didn't hesitate. He crossed to
her and gently settled his suit jacket over her shoulders, his
fingers just barely brushing against the tops of her arms as he
did so. She favored him with a ghost of a smile.
"Thanks."
The single softly spoken word was all the invitation he
needed to join her on the swing.
And so they sat. Side by side. Close. But not touching.
Saying nothing. While Mulder was content to follow his partner's
lead, he ruefully recognized that this silence wasn't as comfortable
as those they usually shared. At least not for him. Instead, this
one served as prelude to a discussion he knew he would be
unable to sidestep. A talk he understood they had to have, and
yet was not looking forward to. He had never been any good at
that heart-to-heart stuff. To be frank, it scared the shit out of
him. The opportunity for hurt was just too great.
"Pretty, isn't it," Scully murmured after a bit, indicating
with a small lift of her chin the rolling landscape laid out before
them like a lush green carpet.
Mulder glanced for just an instant at the countryside
stretching out and away from Twin Orchards. And yet his
apparent disinterest was in no way a criticism of the scenery.
He knew what he would see, had already taken in the view from
inside the b & b. The establishment commanded what had to be
one of the finest vistas in the county, overlooking fields arranged
like checkerboard squares. The neighboring farms and farm
animals appeared so distant from this vantage that they looked
like a child's toys scattered on a playroom floor. The silver
winding river that Ginny had told them earlier contributed to
Twin Orchard's livelihood and the property's own stand of fruit
trees decorated that imaginary child's domain with a flair not
even Martha Stewart could match. But none of it was nearly
compelling enough to tempt Mulder's interest at that point in
time, and his eyes quickly returned to his partner's face.
"Beautiful."
She turned to look at him once more, regarding him
solemnly, her eyes searching his. At first Scully said nothing.
Then, she quietly admitted, "I don't know what to say to you."
Mulder shook his head, his lips thinning in self-directed
annoyance. "You don't have to say anything. I'm the one who
should be talking."
"So talk."
A wry smile pulled up the corner of his mouth. Leave
it to Scully to cut to the chase.
Still a bit unsure as to how to proceed, he rubbed his
hand restlessly over the side of his face, from his cheekbone
down to his jaw while he got his thoughts in order. He could
feel the slight bristle of whiskers poking through his skin. It
reminded him just how long a day it had been, how very much
had transpired.
And how through his own selfishness he had
destroyed the opportunity to share with the most important
person in his life his impressions regarding that Sunday's
events. To kick them around. To mull it all over. To revel in
the rush to be had by witnessing his ideas transform when
coming into contact with hers, and hers with his; until the
theories they held, the course of action they plotted were no
longer merely Scully's or his, but =theirs=. God, even though he
had only been deprived of that outlet, that bond for a few hours,
he missed it like an amputee must a lost limb. And with a
sudden surge of resolve Mulder knew there was simply no way
he could allow this rift to continue a moment longer.
No way in hell.
"Scully, I was out of line back there," he began in a
low voice, for all his good intentions, still unable to meet her
eyes just yet, choosing instead to watch the wind chase a few
errant leaves around the b & b's grounds. "What I said at the
sheriff's office . . . it came out of frustration and fatigue. I had
no right to take it out on you, to accuse you of those things.
No right at all."
"What about the truth?"
Mulder swung his startled eyes in her direction. Geez.
He knew he wasn't exactly a pro in the apology department, but
he had meant what he had just said. Had intended it with a
kind of heartfelt sincerity that didn't particularly come easy to a
guy whose chief line of defense against the cold cruel world was
a quip and a self-deprecating smile. Maybe that was the problem.
Maybe he was so rusty when it came to expressing something
real, some true emotion or sentiment, that even with the purest
motives the words registered as false.
Then, he got a good look at Scully's face. She was the
one having trouble meeting his eyes now. Her lips twisted as
she absent-mindedly rubbed her cheek against the lapel of the
suit jacket enveloping her. The one that belonged to him.
"I would think that after all this time, Mulder, we would
be able to tell each other the truth. And you should never have
to apologize for that."
Although he was still having trouble pinpointing exactly
to what she was referring, Mulder sensed that he alone was not
the cause of the melancholy gripping the woman next to him.
"What do you mean?" he asked softly, turning slightly
to face her more fully, his arm resting on the back of the swing so
that his hand shadowed her shoulder.
She hesitated for a moment, a wistful smile tugging at
her lips, her eyes flickering front again, away from his. "I mean
that while you came down pretty hard on me this afternoon,
your words weren't entirely without merit."
"Scully, don't you even *try* to take any of this on
yourself," he warned, a surprised chuckle escaping him. "I'm
the one at fault here."
She looked at him, that fragile smile still in place. "You
may be to blame for overreacting, Mulder. But, I've given this a
lot of thought. And some of the stuff you said . . . about my not
wanting to come face to face with the very thing that defines the
X-Files . . . that hit home."
Mulder nodded just the tiniest amount. "All right. But
that still doesn't give me the right to use the things that frighten
you or fly in the face of what you believe as some sort of weapon."
Scully nodded in return, one brow arched a bit as if in
agreement. Her fingers came up to grip the opening of the suit
coat and pull it more snugly around her. Tipping back her head
so that it rested against the back of the swing and Mulder's hand,
she said, "Have I ever told you what it was like growing up in a
military family, Mulder?"
"I don't think so."
She smiled a touch more broadly. "It was . . . different.
Or at least, I guess it was. After all, it's my only childhood
experience."
She glanced over at him. He was fascinated by the
turn their conversation was taking and smiled his encouragement.
"What I remember most was moving around a lot. Every
couple of years we'd change bases. Sometimes even more often."
Her eyes narrowed as if she were trying to view once
more from a distance pictures long stored in the vault of her
memory, snapshots she had forgotten she owned. "That got
to be hard sometimes, you know? You'd just get used to one
school, one set of friends, and it would be time to pull up
stakes again."
"I bet it drew your family closer together," Mulder
ventured quietly.
She turned her head to look at him, the action gliding
her cheek against his wrist. "It did," she said, her small smile
widening in appreciation of his insight. "Even with my father
having to be away for weeks--sometimes months--at a time.
The family was close. Missy was my best friend."
Mulder felt his heart wrench. After all, he too had lost
a sister. The only difference was that he still held out hope of
Samantha's return. Scully's face was resting on his hand. Raising
his index finger just a fraction, he let it slip over her cheek. Softly.
Gently. Just the back of it over her downy skin. Hoping to say
with the caress all the things he felt so inadequately able to
express with words.
Scully sat as if transfixed by his touch. Absolutely still.
Her eyes locked on his. Her lips parted ever so slightly. For his
part, Mulder continued the slow slide against her skin longer than
he knew he probably should; realizing he should quit, that the
action tiptoed into some very dangerous territory, and yet, unable
to stop himself. There was something about the moment that
made him loath to give it up.
Finally Scully blinked, and breathed in a great shuddering
breath.
And it was over.
She bent her head forward once more. Away from
temptation.
"What I'm trying to say, Mulder, is that I didn't have
many constants in my life. None of us did. The only thing we
could count on to always be there was each other."
Upon hearing her words, he yearned to reach out to
her again. He knew from first-hand experience how bleak the
sort of isolation she described could be.
"And the Church."
Mulder felt his sense of kinship with his partner
suddenly dissolve.
"Why the Church?" he asked, puzzled.
She cocked her head, looking at him from over her
shoulder. "The Catholic Church is pretty much the same no matter
where you go, Mulder." She smiled at him dryly, her eyes alight
with humor. "Now, some people may see that as limiting. But
when I was growing up, I found the whole thing rather comforting
instead."
"How so?"
She shrugged slightly. "We'd wind up in a new town,
have a new base layout to master, new friends to make, teachers
to figure out. Then, come Sunday we'd all troop out in our best
clothes, and like magic, everything was familiar. Same prayers,
same hymns, same ritual. It was like coming home."
"And home was important?" Mulder asked softly,
beginning to understand how his strong confident partner might
once have longed for a sense of belonging, of community.
"Yeah," she said with a nod, a measure of bittersweet
surprise evident on her face. "I wasn't aware of it at the time,
but in retrospect, I guess it was."
"What about now?"
Scully shook her head ruefully. "Now . . . now is . . .
different. Or it was."
Mulder frowned. "I'm not following."
She smiled with self-deprecation, then turned on the
swing to face him fully, her knees bent, tenting the jacket, both
feet flat on the seat. "My love affair with the Catholic Church
didn't last much past junior high, Mulder. Although I was never
as much a rebel as Missy, there came a time when piling into
the family car and driving to Sunday Mass lost its appeal."
Mulder grinned at the disgruntled tone in her voice.
"So I began not to go to church as regularly," she said
lightly. "By the time I went away to college I had basically
stopped going altogether. Real life intervened. I had stuff to
do on a Sunday morning."
"Like trying to sleep away the excesses of a Saturday
night?" Mulder teased.
Her brow arched, her smile echoing the mischievous
look in her eyes. "*You'll* never know, Mulder."
He dipped his head, graciously surrendering the point,
his smile matching hers.
"Finally, I had narrowed down my attendance to Easter
and Christmas. And even then, only going because it made my
parents happy."
She rested her chin on her knees, pausing for a moment,
suggesting to Mulder that whatever was to come was harder to
share, less simple, more intimate.
"I had gotten to the point where I didn't feel I needed
that anymore, Mulder, you know? I didn't *need* religion.
Didn't feel as if it spoke to me anymore. I had my life, my studies,
my friends. I mean--who had time for it? It felt as if all those
hours spent sitting in a pew beside my mom and dad had
belonged to someone else. To the person I was. Not the
person I had become."
Mulder nodded. "And now?"
"Now . . . ," she repeated softly, her gaze floating
down, turning inward. "Now, so much has happened in my
life. Just in the past three years. My family has . . . well,
scattered. I mean, what with my dad and Missy being gone,
and the guys living so far away--it's like that thing, that
haven that I had always believed would be there, isn't anymore."
"You've still got your mom," he reminded her gently.
She smiled. "Yeah. I know I do. She's great, isn't
she? But, she's just one person. And she's had so much to
deal with herself the last few years that I hate to burden her
anymore than I have to."
He nodded again, in total agreement with his partner
as to the strength and character of her mother. He felt certain
that during the time Scully was missing he would quite simply
have splintered into a million self-loathing little pieces were it
not for Margaret Scully's repeated calm assurances that he
personally was not at fault, and that one day he would find her
daughter.
"I need something, Mulder," Scully whispered hoarsely,
her fingers sliding along the opening of the jacket, her eyes
following their motion, her brow wrinkled. "I need something
that reminds me that not all the rules have changed. That there
is still right and wrong. That the virtuous are rewarded, and
that evil can and will be stopped."
Mulder chose to say nothing, sensing that she needed
to vent this more than she needed his opinion on the subject.
She shook her head, smiling with a touch of
embarrassment. "Listen to me . . . I guess what I'm trying to
say is that lately I've found myself looking for an anchor.
Something to hold on to. And so, . . . I've found myself
considering God."
Mulder cocked his head thoughtfully. "Have you
started going to Mass again?"
His partner chuckled. "No. Much as I know it would
pain my mother to hear this, the Catholic Church just doesn't
do it for me anymore. Their policies towards women are right
out of the Middle Ages, Mulder!"
He echoed her laughter. "You'll get no argument from
me."
They just smiled at each other for a time. Then, she
spoke once more. "No. It isn't about the institution, you know?
I'm not really looking to attend services someplace. I just need
to get in touch with my spirituality again. To remember that we're
all more than just flesh and bones. And I guess that Reverend
Weaver feeds into that. I want to believe that he is somehow
touched by God. That miracles really do occur. I need that hope
sometimes when all the cross and double-cross gets to be too
much. Can you understand that? Or even more importantly,
can you accept it?"
Mulder nodded, his lips still curved in a subtle smile.
What a joke. Scully was worried that he would be unable to
accept her need for miracles? He hoped for a miracle everyday.
The only difference was that he really didn't believe his would
come through divine intervention. And yet, he hoped for his
partner's sake that hers would. That God would answer all her
prayers.
Hell. All this talk of God made him want to offer up a
prayer or two of his own. Not only had he gotten his partner
back with an ease that stunned him, but she had chosen to
share with him that evening thoughts and emotions he knew
she had kept secret from the rest of the world. The knowledge
humbled him. Life was good. In fact, he was feeling so
fortunate at that moment, so positively lucky, that he wondered
if he shouldn't go right out and buy a lottery ticket. Maybe he
was on a roll.
"What about you, Mulder?"
"Hmm?" Her softly spoken query had startled him out
of his musings.
"How do you cope?" she asked, her eyes gravely
regarding him.
"Well, some people would argue that I don't," Mulder
offered wryly, that familiar discomfort pricking now that the
focus had shifted to him.
"Forget it," she murmured, ducking her head and her
eyes, but not before he saw them tinged with disappointment.
"No, Scully," he said swiftly, his fingers sliding
beneath her chin to raise her gaze level with his once more.
"I don't want to."
She looked at him for a good long moment, her blue
eyes shining in the twilight. And Mulder knew that he was lost.
Much as he would normally rather crawl across hot coals than
talk about the kinds of things that Scully had just so freely been
sharing with him, he could sense that this was a night for
opening up. For confidences. For intimacies. It wouldn't be
the first time. Scully and he had enjoyed this sort of interlude
before. Hell, even on their first case together, when she had
laid clad only in her bathrobe and underwear on his motel bed
and he had sat close by on the floor beside her telling her about
Samantha, and the reasons for his single-minded pursuit of the
truth, they had known they could trust each other. And yet,
somewhere along the line they had each forgotten the potency
of that connection. The power of it. Not that they had ever
stopped believing in it. Or each other. Not for a second. But
rather, their very desire to protect each other had made each of
them wary of turning to their partner for support. They had made
the mistake of equating vunerability with weakness. And so
instead of reaching out, they had each burrowed inside
themselves, put up walls. Scully had taken the first step
towards pulling down some of those barriers. And now, it was
his turn to raze a few more
"You talked about needing an anchor, Scully," he
began with some hesitancy, his hand dropping away from her
face, his eyes scanning the horizon. The gray sky had turned
black with the coming of night, the transition having taken place
without fanfare, almost as if nightfall had entered as a thief
stealing away with day. If he squinted, he could just make out
a star twinkling in the northwest. Perhaps all this wind was
blowing some better weather their way. "You mentioned how
you feel like you need something to hold on to. Something to
remind you what's . . . real. What's true."
She listened without speaking, watching him intently.
"Well, you see, I haven't ever really felt that need. I
don't have that void in my life. Not anymore. Not since I've had
you."
He turned to look at her then, and had to swallow the
urge to chuckle over the look of utter astonishment on her face.
"I mean, it isn't exactly 'The Wind Beneath My Wings',
Scully," he said lightly, hoping against all hope that he hadn't let
slip too much. "But the sentiment is sincere just the same."
Silence wiggled awkwardly between them for a time.
Then, she softly spoke. "It's funny that you should
think of me as your anchor, Mulder. You see . . . the same
thought had occurred to me. Only the connotation wasn't
particularly a positive one."
"How do you mean?"
She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "I don't know. I
guess sometimes I've worried that I might be holding you back.
It must be grating for you to be working with someone who is
always looking to disprove your theories. I've wondered if,
despite your assurances to the contrary, my inability or . . .
unwillingness to believe might be getting to you."
His eyes went wide with amazement. "Scully, how
could you even think that?"
She glared at him, thoroughly disgruntled, the look
leavened with humor. "Well, Mulder what in the world do you
=expect= me to think?! You continue to ditch me every chance
you get."
"I do not--"
"You =do=," she insisted. "All the time. Hell, you even
took off to Hong Kong without me."
Mulder could swear he could feel a blush creeping across
his cheeks. "That's not fair, Scully. I called you. There just wasn't
time for anything else."
She shook her head, all amusement banished from her face.
"This isn't about my hurt feelings, Mulder. This is about your
nearly being killed. Not just in that car crash with Krycek. But
on the train with that guy who claimed he was NSA. Even when
you took off after that sub in the Arctic Circle."
Scully had a point, he had to admit. It seemed that every
time they separated, his predisposition towards injury worsened
alarmingly.
"You're not a stupid man," she continued quietly, her eyes
blazing into his. "Surely, you know that our chances for survival
are greater together than apart. So, I figure there has to be another
reason why you continue to take off without me. Your wanting to
be free of me and my skepticism seemed as good an explanation
as any."
Mulder knew he had really manuevered himself into a
corner this time. What could he tell her? That at least half the
reason he left her behind from time to time came out of a desire
to protect her? Scully would murder him if she discovered that
little secret. And, to be honest, he couldn't say that he would
blame her. If he ever found out that she was pulling something
like that on him, he knew the urge to handcuff her to him would
be overwhelming. No, he couldn't give away the game. But,
he could admit another reason. One no less honest. And yet,
somehow far more revealing.
"Scully, the last thing I want is to be 'free' of you," he
told her in a hushed voice, leaning towards her as if to impress
upon her the truth embedded in his words. They sat facing
each other, their faces so near that he could feel her breath
against his cheek. "It's just . . . habit, I think, more than
anything."
"Habit?"
He chuckled ruefully, glancing away. "Yeah. Habit.
I've . . . um, I've been alone for so long. Had nobody to rely on
except myself, no one to count on, that I've just gotten used to
following my instincts, you know? I've never had anyone I had
to be accountable to before. Well, . . . no one I've *wanted* to
be accountable to."
Smiling softly, Scully slipped her hand out from beneath
the coat and laid it on his. "I don't want to be your keeper, Mulder.
Just your partner."
He gave her his very best leer. "Ah, but Scully--there's
nobody I'd rather be kept by than you."
She squeezed his hand. "I couldn't afford you. Not on
what the government pays me."
The porchlight popped on, blinding the pair.
"Ow!" Mulder yelped.
"I think Ginny is trying to tell us something," Scully
murmured as, keeping her hand in his, she tugged Mulder up
from the swing. "Come on. You're probably turning into a
popsicle by now anyway."
"Ooh, Scully--you just gave me an opening it's going
to kill me to walk away from"
"Try, Mulder. If you know what's good for you, try."
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Part IX
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love (9/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:28:42 -0500
No Greater Love (9/13)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
We're inching our way home. I hope you're enjoying the ride.
================================================
The following morning, Scully had to stifle the urge to
skip down the stairs from her room. She felt good. Beyond good.
Great. Fantastic. The tension that had been hanging like a pall
over their investigation had finally lifted.
Leaving her and her partner behind.
Together.
Even though she doubted that Mulder would ever fully
understand the things that had been motivating her of late, at
least she now knew that he was aware of them. And better still,
his actions the night before had assured her that he respected
her beliefs. And that was all she had ever asked of him. They
didn't have to mirror each other. To parrot each other's view,
each other's tenets. In fact, the vast majority of their strength
as a team came as a result of their differences, not their
similarities. She had no desire to change him, to make him as
reliant on fact and reason as she. She liked him the way he was.
The way he looked at that moment as he smiled up at
her from the breakfast table.
"Hey, Scully. Sleep well?"
"Like a baby," she said blithely as she strode to sit
across from him, then poured herself a cup of coffee.
Mulder looked as if he had also had a deep and
dreamless night's sleep. The circles that so regularly
shadowed his expressive hazel eyes were missing. His
entire countenance seemed more relaxed, more at ease.
Smiling her approval, she noted not for the first time that
her partner was a handsome man.
"I've been sitting here making a few notes as to
what I think we need to follow up on," he told her, slipping
his glasses from his face and laying them on the table next
to a legal pad filled with scribblings.
"I want to go to Columbia," she told him simply
after taking a sip of her coffee.
He smiled quizzically. "Okay. Any particular
reason why?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I've been thinking. About the
case and some of the stuff you and I talked about last night."
Mulder's smile turned warmer. "And you've
obviously made a connection I've missed?"
The fact that the man with whom she worked so closely
applauded her catching something that had eluded him instead
of feeling defensive about it made her smile want to widen into
a full-fledged grin. "I guess we'll see. It just occurred to me
that this entire case hinges on Kimberly Weaver."
"How so?"
Scully leaned her elbows on the table, steepling her
fingers. "Well, think about it. It all started with her death.
It's almost as if her dying set the whole thing in motion.
Now, you believe that her father has turned killer out of some
need for vengeance--"
"Although I now see that my hunch could use a little
substantiation."
Mulder looked at her, his expression mild, but his eyes
watching her closely. His remark wasn't meant casually. Scully
realized that the man across from her had just admitted the
need for proof as a sort of peace offering, an olive branch to
soothe some of the hurt he had engendered the day before.
She smiled at him, her eyes shining, gladly accepting his gesture.
"Maybe we'll find it in Columbia. I just think that we
may have overlooked a key element. It seems we've talked to
everyone in Pine Grove about Kim, and yet we haven't spoken
to those who knew her best."
"Her classmates?"
"Yes," she said, her hands coming down to rest on
the tabletop near his. "I mean--I know how I changed when I
went away to school. It's only natural. You run into new
people, new experiences. Getting an education doesn't just
mean what you learn in the classroom. I know I didn't share
with my parents half the stuff that went on."
"Ooh, keep talking Scully, and I'll have some juicy
stories to share with your mom," Mulder said, leaning back
in his chair with a chuckle.
She chose to ignore him, even though the corner of
her mouth did quirk at the playful threat. "What I mean is
that, helpful though the good citizens of Pine Grove have no
doubt been, the young woman who grew up here and the
young woman who spent the last six months of her life away
from here were not the same person. They couldn't have been."
Mulder nodded. "It's late in the semester though,
isn't it? Are classes still even in session?"
"Classes where?" Ginny asked as she breezed in
through the kitchen door, a tray laden with food in her hands.
"The University of Missouri," Scully said, stifling the
urge to help the woman maneuver her burden. In the end, their
breakfast made it to the table without mishap.
"Oh, they should be starting finals this week," Ginny
said as she served them. "My sister Brenda works for the English
Department. She's one of their admins. She was saying just this
weekend how the professors she works for are dreading having to
grade all those essay tests."
Scully glanced at Mulder. He grinned back at her. She
had a feeling her partner might have once dreaded a few of those
essay tests himself.
"All right," the red-haired agent said with satisfaction
as she picked up her fork and surveyed the feast laid out before
her with a touch of dismay. "After breakfast I say we hit the road
and see what Kimberly Weaver's friends can tell us about her."
* * * * * * * *
The time was 10:50, and Mulder and Scully leaned against
the concrete border running the perimeter of Ellis Library's lawn.
They were on the campus of the University of Missouri. Before
they had left Twin Orchards, they had made calls to the Dean of
Student's Office and the Office of the Registrar. After convincing
the powers-that-be of who they were and why they were asking
the questions they were, the agents had managed to get MU's
hierarchy to release the name of Kimberly Weaver's roomate.
Luck was with them. The girl was still on campus, and had
agreed to meet them at 11:00 before heading off to a study group.
The two visitors watched the students scurrying past
them, most clad in shorts, sandals, the ever-present backpack
strapped to their shoulders. Some wore Walk-Mans, others were
trying their luck with in-line skates. Many looked worried. It
was finals week, after all.
The weather had turned warm once more, the sky an
egalitarian mixture of clouds and sun. Scully felt overdressed in
her black pants suit with its matching blazer. Mulder was faring
no better in his navy suit. Try though they might to blend in,
they were both obviously interlopers.
"I think this may be her," Mulder murmured softly in
her ear.
Scully too had noted the girl. They had agreed to
meet in front of the library. To facilitate matters, the agents
had given their descriptions. The young woman in question
had done likewise. The dark-haired girl walking slowly towards
them certainly fit the bill. She was of medium height, her hair
hanging down to nearly her waist and held back from her eyes
by a wide cloth band. She had a round face with large intelligent
brown eyes and a mobile mouth. She wore little to no make-up,
shorts, strappy sandals, a T-shirt featuring a rock band Scully
didn't recognize, and a menswear vest over that. A collection
of silver necklaces in various lengths circled her neck. Hiked
onto her shoulder was the ubiquitous backpack.
"Amy Larson?" Scully asked tentatively.
The girl gave them a nervous smile. "Yeah. You must
be the feds."
"What gave us away?" Mulder murmured dryly, as
following Scully's lead he reached out and clasped Amy's hand
in greeting.
"Thank you for sparing us a few minutes," Scully said
as the threesome strolled to a nearby bench. "We realize this
probably isn't the best time for distractions."
They sat, Amy settled between the two agents. "It's
not that big a deal," the student said, shrugging. "I've only
got three finals. And the toughest isn't until Thursday.
Besides, you said this was about Kim. And she's more
important than any test."
Scully liked the girl immediately.
"What can you tell us about Kim, Amy?" Mulder
asked quietly.
The brunette hesitated for a moment, playing instead
with the strap of her pack which she had dumped at her feet.
"Kim was . . . special, you know?"
"Special in what way?" Scully inquired quietly after it
appeared the girl wasn't going to continue.
Amy flattened her lips, apparently in self-directed
exasperation. "I'm sorry. It's just that it's tough to explain. I
liked Kim. A lot. We got to be close. Not that I thought we
would at first."
"Why's that?" Mulder asked with a gentle smile.
Amy smiled dryly back at him. "Well, first off is the
age thing. I'm 21. I'm a transfer student so because not all
my credits counted, I'm only a sophmore. But still--when I
found out I was going to have a freshman for a roomate I
wanted to open my veins."
Scully smiled. "I take it everything worked out?"
"Yeah," Amy said softly, her expression going from
wry amusement to barely masked grief with alarming speed.
"Yeah, it did. Kim wasn't anything like I thought she'd be.
Well--that's not true. In a lot of ways she was the stereotypical
preacher's kid."
"What do you mean?" Scully asked, glancing at
Mulder to see if he understood the reference, and gratified to
learn that he was as in the dark as she.
Amy turned from one agent to the other, clearly
enjoying their befuddlement. "I take it you've never spent a
lot of time around kids with ministers for fathers?"
"Can't say I've had the pleasure," Mulder said mildly.
Amy grinned. "Well, I have--if you want to call it
that. Before I came to Mizzou I spent two years at Iowa
Wesleyan."
Scully shook her head. "I'm not following."
"It's a Methodist school," Amy explained patiently.
"Children of Methodist ministers attend for free."
"So there were a lot of them?" Mulder surmised.
"Tons," Amy confirmed succinctly. "And let me tell
you--the minute you get those kids away from their parents
they are just trouble waiting to happen."
"A bit wild, are they?" Mulder asked with a smile.
Amy raised an eyebrow. "Try a *lot*. Ministers' kids
are amazing. It's like all those years of having to be good, of
trying to live up to the standards set by their families takes its
toll. They're just dying for a way to let off a little steam."
"And this is how Kimberly was?" Scully inquired,
remembering how Sheriff Lowry had mentioned that Weaver's
daughter had possessed a wild streak.
Amy grimaced slightly as if struggling to find the
proper words. Then, her eyes softened, her lips curving fondly.
"Yes and no. I mean--yeah, Kim had this need to break loose,
try new things. But the ways she chose to rebel were so . . .
lame . . . that I wound up laughing at her half the time instead of
being worried."
"How so?" Scully asked, yearning to get a clearer
picture of the young woman who had been Kimberly Weaver.
Amy chewed on her lip, thinking. "Well, there was her
hair."
"She colored it, right?" Scully prompted, peering over
the girl's bowed head to meet her partner's eyes.
Amy chuckled. "Yeah. With that temporary stuff. I
think it all washed out after like the second day. I told her it
was commitment-free rebellion. And the reason she did it was
so bizarre."
"Bizarre how?" Mulder asked.
"She did it to go and have her driver's license photo
taken," Amy said, some residual disbelief coloring her statement.
"Isn't that goofy? She said she wanted an official document
recording the moment. I mean--how weird is that? She was
always doing stuff like that. Stuff that appealed to her own
warped sense of humor, but made no sense to the rest of us."
"Stuff like what?" Scully asked, intrigued now, trying
to reconcile all the different versions of Kimberly Weaver she
and Mulder had thus far uncovered.
"Well, she'd borrow my clothes," Amy said, searching
for examples. "Not that that's weird, or even unusual. But,
she'd pick the funkiest things out of my closet. The stuff I
had picked up at flea markets or thrift stores, and wear them
when we'd go out. But she'd never =buy= anything like that.
Never. I tried to get her to go downtown with me to The Closet
--it's this place where you can pick up the most amazing bargains.
Great clothes. But she wouldn't go. She'd say, 'You pick out
some stuff and I'll see what I like'."
"Still that fear of commitment?" Mulder ventured wryly.
Amy shook her head, a shrug accompanying the gesture.
"I guess. It's as if she liked the *idea* of doing something new,
something forbidden, but then had trouble on the follow-through."
"What about parties, boys?" Scully asked carefully, not
wanting to offend the dead girl's friend. "Did she go out much?"
"All the time," Amy said without hesitation, a smile
flickering across her lips as a memory sprang to life. "I told it
was my duty as her roomate to see that she got drunk at least
once her freshman year."
"And did she?" Mulder inquired, his amusement at
Amy's quest evident.
Surprise crossed the girl's brow as she recalled. "No.
No, I don't think I ever even saw her tipsy. To tell you the truth,
I'm not sure why she let me drag her along. She never really
seemed to enjoy herself."
"How's that?" Mulder asked.
"Well, these parties usually fit a pattern, you know?"
Amy said, her hands punctuating her explanation. "We'd go.
Kim would grab a beer, and then nurse it the entire evening.
That's it. One beer. I mean--what kind of party is that? What
used to make me even more crazy was that she would go off
in a corner somewhere with the one guy or girl nobody else
wanted to talk to, and spend the entire night chatting with
them."
"So, she wasn't seeing anyone?" Scully asked.
"There was no one special she was going out with?"
"Not at first," Amy said hesitantly. "Not through
most of first semester. Then, right before Thanksgiving
break she started going out with JJ."
"JJ?" Mulder repeated.
"Jeff Jefferson," Amy clarified, her mouth twisting
wryly. "Is that not the name of a future president of the Young
Republicans?"
Scully chuckled. "And this Jeff is a student here?"
"Yeah," Amy said with a nod. "Sophomore. He's a
Sigma Pi. Third string quarterback. Cute, I guess. Not a bad
guy for a football player."
Mulder smiled at Amy's assessment of her friend's
beau. "What can you tell us about him, about their relationship?"
Amy shrugged with a measure of apology. "Not all
that much. As close as we were, Kim kept a lot of things to
herself. I think the whole boyfriend thing was new to her. Still,
she seemed happy. They were together all the time. He seemed
to treat her well, and that's all I cared about. Then, she went
home for Christmas break."
"What happened then?" Scully asked, intrigued by the
girl's doomsday tone of voice.
Amy hesitated. "Well, I never got the whole story,
only bits and pieces. But, from what Kim told me, her dad didn't
exactly approve of JJ."
Scully caught Mulder's eye. The interest she saw
there mirrored her own.
"I mean, I know her father wasn't crazy about Kim
going away to school in the first place. And then when she
came home after one semester and reported that she had a
football playing frat boy for a boyfriend--"
Amy let her voice trail off meaningfully.
"Her father went ballistic," Mulder finished dryly.
The co-ed nodded. "Exactly. I don't know the details,
but Kim said they had a huge fight. Apparently, it ended with
Reverend Weaver forbidding her to see JJ again."
"And did she stop seeing him?" Scully inquired.
Amy shook her head ruefully. "Not a chance. That
little spark of rebellion just burned out of control. She started
staying out later. Studying less. She even stopped going home
on the weekends. She'd do that before, you know? Drive down
every couple of Fridays. But not anymore. Drove her dad
=nuts=. And then when he heard she was hanging out at that
bar near her house--"
"Backroads?" Mulder asked quickly.
"Yeah, I think so," Amy said, her brow furrowed as
she tried to recall the information the agent sought. "It's some
dive outside Pine Grove. A roadhouse, Kim said."
"And she went there alone?" Scully inquired intently.
"Oh god, no!" Amy said laughing. "She hadn't gone
=that= crazy! She'd meet some friends from home there. They'd
missed her when she stopped visiting like she had, and had
called her up. I think the whole pseduo-rebellion thing kicked in
again. From what she said, the guys at this Backroads weren't
too thorough about carding. She'd drive down. Meet her
friends. Sometimes with JJ, sometimes without. The whole
set-up appealed to her. You know--flaunting her 'badness'
right in her daddy's backyard."
"Amy, did Kim ever tell you she was frightened of
her father?" Mulder asked with deceptive nonchalance.
"Afraid perhaps of what he might do if he found out about
her running around."
The brunette laughed once more, the sound tinged
with sadness. "No. That was what was so stupid about it, you
know? She wasn't afraid of her dad. She loved him. More than
anything. But, she wasn't just his little girl anymore. And it
frustrated her that he couldn't get past that."
She picked up her pack once more, hugging it to her
chest. "Kim was a good person. And she was my friend. I miss
her."
Scully laid her hand gently on the girl's arm. "What
do you think happened at that motel, Amy? Do you think Kim
might have tried to kill herself?"
"No," Amy replied fiercely, her eyes shining with tears.
"No way. Kim wouldn't do that. It would go against everything
she believed in. Besides, she had no reason to. She and JJ were
still together. In fact, he was the one she got the motel room for."
"Excuse me?" Mulder said quickly, leaning in towards
the girl.
Amy said nothing for a moment, clearly struggling with
her sense of loyalty to her dead friend. "Um . . . Kim and JJ had
never been . . . intimate. I know this because she asked me
about birth control. She told me she was a virgin and was a
little overwhelmed by the whole thing."
"So I take it she was considering changing that about
herself?" Scully guessed.
"Yeah," Amy said with a grimace, her fingers picking
at the trim on her backpack. "JJ had been after her about it for
awhile. It was the one thing about him that drove me nuts. He
should've known that with a girl like Kim he couldn't rush
something like that."
"So, that night at the motel--was that their first time?"
Mulder asked with as much delicacy as he could muster.
"As far as I know," Amy said with a rueful shrug,
apparently a bit embarrassed about the subject they were
discussing. "I know that Kim prepared for it like it was. She
went to Planned Parenthood, the whole nine yards."
"Do you know what happened, Amy?" Scully asked
quietly, knowing how painful this must be for Kimberly's friend,
but determined to forge on regardless.
Amy wouldn't look at them. "No. Nobody knows that
except Kim and JJ."
Finally, she raised her eyes, pinning Scully with a
solemn stare. "But I'll tell you this--whatever did happen, it
just about destroyed JJ. He's changed since Kim died. He
started skipping class, stopped turning in homework. I think
he's spent nearly every day this semester drunk off his ass.
>From what I hear, if he doesn't pull out a minor miracle with
finals, he's out of here."
Scully met Mulder's eyes once more. So, they had
another suspect to add to the list. Although, if JJ was to blame
for Kim's death, she couldn't fathom how Halprin and Cullins
fit into the picture.
"Well, thank you for your time, Amy," Mulder said,
standing. "You've been a great help."
Amy stood as well, her eyes bright. "That's okay. I
was happy to do it."
"Do you know where we can find this JJ?" Scully
asked as she came to stand beside her partner, facing Amy.
"He should be at the house, I'd think," Amy said
with a shrug. "He's got that same final I do on Thursday,
so he should still be on campus."
The agents murmured their thanks again, then started
to turn and walk away.
"Hey!" Amy called after them, indecision painted on
her face. "Look--despite what I said, I don't think JJ is at fault
here. I really don't."
"Why's that?" Mulder asked.
Amy gestured weakly. "Look, I'll admit there were
times when Jeff and his frat boy friends would get on my nerves.
But, he cared for Kim, you know? He wouldn't do anything to
hurt her."
Scully nodded. Nothing intentional perhaps, she
thought. But, what if something had happened in that motel
room? Something neither of the young people were prepared
for.
Something that left one of them dead, and the other
self-destructing.
* * * * * * * *
The two agents had no trouble tracking down the
Sigma Pi house. It sat on the northern edge of Greek-town,
music blaring from the brick structure's open windows.
Striding briskly up the walk, they ran into a short, red-
haired student sporting shades and a straggly goatee.
"Excuse me," Mulder said politely. "We're looking for
a Jeff Jefferson."
"JJ?" the young man inquired. "What do you guys
want with him?"
With a glance at her partner, Scully pulled her i.d. from
her purse, Mulder followed suit, extricating his from his jacket
pocket. "We just want to ask him a few questions."
The red-head's eyes grew wide. "Feds! Wow. Cool.
Uh . . . come on in."
Saying nothing more, he turned and headed back up
the building's front steps. Mulder and Scully tagged along
behind.
"Hey, JJ! Somebody here to see you!" the young man
bellowed up the stairs. A couple of his fraternity brothers
wandered by, eyeing their guests curiously.
"Tell him to go away!" instructed a listless voice from
floors above.
"It's not a 'him', it's a 'them'," corrected the guy at the
bottom of the stairs. "And I think you're gonna want to talk to
these folks, J-Man. They're here on official business."
A few seconds passed, then an unshaven face peered
down at the trio. "What are you talking about?"
"JJ, we're with the F.B.I.," Mulder said calmly, holding
up his badge although it was doubtful whether it could be seen
from that distance. "We need to talk to you regarding Kim
Weaver."
Scully could see the young man above her sway. For
one alarming moment she wondered if he might lose his breakfast.
On them. Finally however, he merely nodded with weary
resignation.
"I'll be right down."
* * * * * * * *
"I killed Kim."
Scully glanced in astonishment at her partner. Welcome
though it was to hear a confession, she found it hard to believe
that the tall slender young man seated across from her was a killer.
He just didn't have that edge.
They had sequestered themselves in the fraternity
house's study lounge. Although finals were in progress, it was
early in the day and the week. They had only had to kick out a
couple of Jeff's brothers. Mulder, Jeff, and she were currently
gathered around a sturdy round study table that sat in the
room's bay window. Jeff found it impossible to meet the eyes
of the people on either side of him. Instead, his gaze remained
fixed on the street outside.
"Why did you kill her, JJ?" Mulder asked quietly.
That got Jeff's eyes to swing back into the room.
"Not literally, man. I could never do that. But I might as well
have. I'm the reason she's dead."
With a compassionate eye, Scully studied the young
man. He looked horrible. Worn. Thin. Haunted blue eyes
sunken into their sockets. His dark blond hair hung dull and
without shape. She found it difficult to imagine that just this
past season, this boy had suited up as a Missouri Tiger. He
didn't look as if he had the strength necessary to lift the
shoulder pads.
"Do you believe Kim committed suicide?" Scully asked,
her voice pitched low.
Anguish pooled in his eyes. "Don't you? I mean what
else could it be? It's not like anybody would want to murder her.
Not Kim."
"What about an accidental overdose?" Mulder asked
reasonably.
Jeff grimaced. "Kim didn't even take aspirin. She
didn't have a prescription for that stuff. If she was taking it, it
was for a very specific reason."
"So where did she get it, JJ?" Mulder inquired intently.
Jeff shook his head. "I have no idea. She didn't have
it when I was there. Not that I know of."
"How was she when you were there?" Scully asked,
knowing this line of questioning would prove difficult for the
young man, that remembering that night in any detail would
undoubtedly pain him, but needing to hear his answers just the
same. "How did you leave her?"
"Crying," Jeff said shortly, his own self-loathing
evident. "Crying and begging me not to go."
Scully watched as his hands fisted. Nervously they
began bouncing on the tabletop, almost as if he wanted to
punch something, someone, anyone.
But most especially himself.
"JJ," she said softly, laying her hand on his wrist to
calm him, to remind him they were there. "What happened that
night?"
The young man glanced from agent to agent, his
misery palpable within the quiet closed room. Finally, taking
a deep ragged breath, he began.
"Kim and I had been going out together for about
four months. I liked her. I mean, really liked her. She was
different. She made me laugh. I liked spending time with her.
She seemed to like me too. I mean--her dad . . . he had a fit that
we were going out. But it didn't seem to bother Kim. She told
him he was just going to have to deal with it."
Pausing, he stared unmoving at his hands for a time,
then he continued.
"So, . . . I figured that any girl who is going to go
behind her dad's back--especially a girl like Kim . . . well, she
must care about me, right? She must want to have more than
just a casual relationship."
"Did you ask Kim to sleep with you?" Mulder asked
quietly, sensing perhaps that the subject was too awkward for
the boy to broach on his own, particularly before a woman he
didn't know.
Jeff paled. "Uh . . . yeah. I mean--who wouldn't? Kim
was beautiful. And I knew she was . . . interested. But . . . she
just . . . she just had trouble with it, you know?"
"Did you force her, JJ?" Scully asked in a hushed
voice, the very thought sending ice water through her veins.
Jeff braced his hands against the table as if he were
planning to push away and bolt. "Shit! No! God--that's just it.
We never did it. Never! I swear."
"You're saying that you and Kim got the motel room,
made your plans, and then she was unable to go through with
it?" Mulder queried, his eyes flickering to Scully's.
"Yes!" Jeff said with a degree of desperation. "You've
got to believe me, man. To this day, I don't know what happened.
We were fine, you know? Everything was going great. Then, it
started to get . . . physical, and Kim just froze up on me. She
panicked. Said she couldn't, you know? And . . . I lost it."
"What do you mean?" Scully asked.
Jeff shook his head, disgust dripping from his voice.
"I called her a tease. I didn't really mean it. I was just angry,
and . . . disappointed. But I was harsh, you know? Way over
the line. I said some things . . . . And she started crying. And
that just made me angrier. So, . . . I left. I left her there. It
couldn't have been much later than 9:00. And a few hours later
. . . she was dead."
"Did you tell this to the police, JJ?" Mulder asked, his
eyes thoughtful.
Jeff laughed, no amusement in the sound. "No. The
motel room was in Kim's name. Nobody even knew we were there
together. At least, I don't think they did. I haven't talked about
this with anyone. Well, . . . except Kim's father."
Scully's adrenaline went into overdrive. "You told
Reverend Weaver about this?"
Jeff smiled bitterly. "Yeah. How ironic is that? The
guy came here after Kim died. He was so lost, you know? So
. . . empty. I knew how he felt. He said he wanted to make peace
after losing Kim. After both of us losing her. And I couldn't just
sit here and say nothing." Tears began to trickle from the boy's
eyes. "I couldn't lie to him. I owed him that much. I owed her.
So . . . I told him."
Mulder placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"What did the Reverend do after that, JJ? Do you know?"
The question seemed to confuse the boy. He hesitated
for a moment, trying to catch his breath, and struggling to wipe
his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt. "Um . . . I don't know. He
didn't say much. He did ask me where the Holiday Inn was."
"The motel where Kim died?" Scully asked, although
she suspected she already knew the answer.
"Yeah," Jeff said with a hopeless shrug of his
shoulders. "Isn't that weird? Why would he ask me something
like that?"
I don't know, but I think we need to find out, Scully
thought with a touch of rueful amusement. And to do that,
she was going to have to ask poor suffering Jeff Jefferson the
very same question.
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Part X
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