From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Subject: [xfcreative] NEW:  Out of the Cold (01 of 25)
Date: Friday, April 30, 1999 1:07 PM

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimer in part 00
part one of twenty-five

January 30, 1991

Fox Mulder was cold.  Freezing cold.  He shivered.  Snow was
falling all around him and he was at the top of a very large hill,
much taller than any he'd ever seen before on Martha's Vineyard,
his home.  The little sled he was holding looked flimsy in the face of
the evergreens towering below him at the base of the hill.

"C'mon, Fox.  Ya gonna ride that thing or not?"  He heard a shrill
taunt through the frigid air.  It was his sister, Samantha, and when
he narrowed his eyes and squinted, he could see her standing at the
bottom of the hill, waiting for him.  He waved at her impatiently.

"Be quiet, Sam.  I'm finding the good path down," he yelled in
return.  He hefted the sled, a red and brown flexible flyer that was
getting too small for him, but would make it through the season. 
Before him the snow spread out like a blanket of white cotton. 
There were bumps and dips in the blanket, and he knew that any
one of them might be a tree stump or a rock.  He'd been tossed off
enough sleds to avoid making the same mistake again.  

Finally, he set the sled down on the snow beneath him, steadying it
before lying down on it on his stomach.  He used his hands and
arms to push the sled back and forth, setting the runners in the six
inches of fresh powder.  He closed his eyes and gave a final
push off.

He was flying!  Straight down the hill, or rather the mountain, from
where he was lying prostrate in the little wood and steel sled, he
plunged at a dizzying rate of speed.  He'd never been this fast on a
sled, never felt like the ground under him had fallen away and he
was suspended over the snow, rocketing toward the bottom.  He
laughed, and the sound left him before it reached his ears.  He could
feel the snow sting his face as it flew up, trying to dodge the
runners of the sled.  Tiny icy shards, whipping at his eyes, bringing
tears of joy.  This was sledding!

He was so intent on the freedom of flight that he completely
ignored the warning screams of his sister.  He was so enjoying the
feel of the snow on his cheeks that he didn't open his eyes to see
the giant blue spruce towering above him.  He didn't know he'd hit
the tree till he was jarred smack against it.

Mulder jerked up off the cheap motel desk like his back was on a
tight spring.  Sweat was pouring down his face, his whole body
shaking with the force of the dream/memory.

"You all right, Mulder?" came a voice behind him.  Jerry LaMana
walked over to his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder.  "Mulder? 
You OK, man?  You were sleeping, I thought you needed a few
winks.  Musta been some nightmare, huh?"

Mulder swallowed past the boulder in his throat.  He wanted to
wave his friend off, tell him he was fine, but his voice box wasn't
cooperating.  In the end, he shrugged, struggled to get his breathing
under control and decided maybe it was a good time to hit the
bathroom.

Standing at the sink, his legs still wobbly, he splashed water on his
face.  It was the most realistic reenactment of his fateful meeting
with the big blue spruce on his grandmother's homestead that he
could remember.  He'd had the dream before, several times since
he'd actually lived through the events, but only when he was having
fever dreams.  It had become a portent of illness and he was not at
all happy to see it again.

He'd been fighting a cold for weeks.  First the sniffles, then the
scratchy throat had hit about three days ago.  It all started back at
Quantico and had dogged him all the way to Chicago and now to
the lonely motel in Minot, North Dakota.  

The winter in DC had been cold and wet and he'd gotten tired of
just swimming some laps in the pool.  His legs wanted to run, and
so he'd gone out a couple of times in the rain.  He knew that
wouldn't cause a cold--he'd told his mother that a thousand times
as a teenager.  But it didn't stop his coming down with one just to
spite him, either.

Running had been his only escape, of late.  The year and a half that
he'd been working with Bill Patterson's elite Investigative Support
Unit had provided him with much intellectual stimulation, and
exactly six weekends off.  He'd accumulated enough compensatory
time to retire at the ripe old age of 40 and there was no end in sight.  

At this point, a cold, or worse yet, the flu, was NOT an option.
To make matters worse, Mulder didn't even have the luxury of
being miserable by himself.  He had to hide his poor health from his
partner.  

Mulder grabbed one of the thin white squares of terry cloth off the
rack next to the mirror and wet it, then rubbed it over his face.  He
drew in a breath and fought the urge to cough back at his reflection. 
Finally, he shrugged and walked back into the bedroom.

"I was working on that," he said, noticing his partner staring at the
yellow legal pad he'd left on the desk.

"Ready to show it to Patterson?" LaMana asked, dropping the pad
to the desk top.

Mulder shook his head.  "Not yet.  You're back quick.  Find
anything at the library?"

Jerry sighed and dropped soundlessly to the bed.  "Nothing useful. 
Mulder, I know we keep finding matches from various motels at the
crime scene, but I don't know that it means it's where this guy
came from.  Maybe it's just a sick joke, or his way of covering his
trail."

"Maybe, Jer, but I can't shake the feeling that he's baiting
us--trying to draw us in," Mulder replied with a slow shake of his
head.

For three weeks they had been working on this case.  No one had
suspected it to be a serial killing until a detective in Norfolk called
his old college roommate, who happened to be a detective in
Philadelphia.  A murder had happened, young man, butchered and
mutilated.  Amazingly enough, a murder matching that description
had occurred in Philadelphia recently, as well.  In both cases, a book
of matches was found in the pocket of the suit coat.  Nothing
unusual, except neither man smoked.

When the third murder of similar circumstances was discovered in
Chicago, Bill Patterson's Investigative Support Unit at the FBI had
been called in.  As Patterson's duly appointed 'best and brightest',
Fox Mulder had been tapped to write the profile.

Usually, Mulder didn't have to go into the field.  He was given file
folders containing police reports, crime scene photos, autopsies,
and from those patchwork pieces, Mulder would follow the steps of
the killer to determine what made the guy think, what were his
motivations, what kind of a person he really was.  And in the end,
Mulder could give his fellow field agents a description that even the
murderer's own mother would be hard pressed to equal--or deny.

In this case, however, the murders were coming at an alarming
pace.  One every four days, and the trail of bodies was being left
across the continent.  Norfolk to Philadelphia to Chicago to Minot. 
Why the hell can't this bastard like warm climates, Mulder cursed
to himself as he picked up the legal pad again.

"Did you have lunch, yet?" Jerry asked casually, noting the contents
of the wastepaper basket.  Wadded up yellow paper couldn't hide
completely the half consumed bag of chips and empty Nestea can.

"Yes, mother," Mulder replied, not looking up.

"You know, Bill thinks you're not eating on purpose," Jerry said,
picking up the remote and clicking on the television.

"Bill can eat my shorts," Mulder retorted, not tearing his gaze away
from his writing.  "Could you turn that down, please," he added,
slightly irritated at the disturbance.

There was a knock at the door and both men stared at each other. 
Finally, Jerry broke his gaze and got up to answer it.

Bill Patterson stood in the door way, looking to Mulder just like
one of God's avenging angels.  His thinning hair and dark rimmed
glasses lead to the confusing image that this man was a scholar, a
teacher.  Mulder alone knew the truth.  This man was the Marquis
de Sade, with a badge and gun.

"We need that profile, Mulder," Patterson growled low, not
bothering with formalities such as saying hello.

"I'm about finished, Bill.  Just putting on the final touches," Mulder
said evenly, looking the older man directly in the eyes.  Jerry,
Mulder could see just at the edge of his vision, was all but cowering
on the opposite side of the room.

"Let me see what you've got," Patterson spat out with a frown.

Mulder sighed, picked up the legal pad and handed it to his
superior.  He resisted the urge to read over the other man's
shoulder, instead took the opportunity to scrutinize the piles of
frozen slush in the motel parking lot out the window.

"This doesn't tell me squat, Mulder," Patterson said, throwing the
pad down on the desk.

Mulder knew better than to flinch under Patterson's gaze.  He
stared back, calm, collected.  "I told you it wasn't finished, Bill. 
Give me tonight--I'll have it in the morning."

Patterson looked like he was about to object when the phone rang
from the table between the twin double beds.  Jerry was closest, so
he took the call.

"We don't have until tomorrow.  There's been another one."

Union Pacific Railyards
Billings, Montana
Jan 30, 1991  4:15 pm
Temp. minus 3 degrees

The car tires slid on the icy patch at the entrance to the yards. 
Mulder looked to the horizon, marveling at the towering peaks
completely engulfed in snow.  It was difficult to make out even tree
lines on the mountainside.  Finally, the tires found traction and the
rental car jerked back into forward motion.

Icy winds threatened to tear the car door right out of his hand. 
Mulder glanced over at Jerry, who was wrapping his woolen
muffler more firmly over his face.  The frozen wind clawed deep in
Mulder's lungs, and for a moment, he considered asking his friend if
he had a spare muffler somewhere in his bags.  A shouted greeting
from a uniformed Montana state trooper banished the thought.

"The body's over here."

The victim, identified by his driver's license, was one James Edward
Nelson of Billings.  The police were in the process of notifying the
family.  Because of their proximity in Minot, and with the aid of a
chartered jet, the FBI team had made it to the scene before the
coroner had removed the body.  It would be the first time Mulder
had been to a crime scene that was relatively intact since he'd been
brought on the case.

Mulder slowed his pace as he followed along behind Jerry and the
state trooper.  It wasn't any squeamishness on his part.  He was
looking around, taking in the surroundings.  Trying to see it first
from the eyes of the victim, then from the eyes of the killer.  As he
walked, he absently pulled on latex gloves, so as not to disturb any
prints that might be found at the site.  So far, the killer had been
fastidious, leaving nothing incriminating behind but the
matchbooks, which contained no prints.  Even so, Mulder was
hoping this time, the killer might have left them a surprise.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Jerry hissed just under his breath.  Mulder let his
gaze skim over to the victim.  Mutilated.  That's what all the
reports said.  The black and white photos of the victims did little to
portray the gruesomeness of the crime.  Blood was smeared
everywhere, covering the body, obliterating a once immaculate
white shirt.  Fingers removed, chopped off with a surgical precision
and all before death, according to the autopsies.  Eyes gouged, jaw
almost pulled from the skull.

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, but the image wouldn't leave. 
He drew in a deep breath, but the cold air caused a fit of coughing,
rather than clearing his mind.  When he raised his head, he could
see the worried look on LaMana's face.

"You OK, man?" Jerry whispered, stepping around the body to be
close enough to his partner to be heard over the wind and the
sounds of the railyard.

Mulder swallowed, wished he could take another deep breath, but
thought better of it.  "I'm fine, Jer.  Just the cold," he assured his
friend.

The uniformed officer was standing at a distance, but stepped
forward.  "The ME's wagon is here.  They want to move the
body."  It was a request for direction.

Mulder nodded.  "Tell 'em to go ahead," he said, fighting another
cough.  Now that he'd let one of the little coughs out, other bigger
ones were quick on its heels.

Jerry was quick on Mulder's heels, too.  "That cough sounds bad,
Mulderman.  You need to get out of this wind."

"LaMana, the last person who got to boss me around like that had
the added benefit of being my wet nurse," Mulder shot back, not
bothering to look at his friend.  "I'm OK.  I want to check this
place out a little first, then we'll find a motel nearby."

Jerry threw up his hands in defeat and walked away, but stayed well
within glaring range.  Mulder ignored him, and everyone else.  He
was in observation mode, all senses focused on finding the details
that might lead him to some answers.

The ground was hard, frozen, and had been for some time.  It
would be impossible to find good tire tracks on the mud and ice. 
The snow that remained in that particular area was slush turned to
ice as well.  Mulder crouched down and stared at the ice crusted
slush.  "I need photos over here," he called to anyone who might
listen.  

Within a heartbeat, a plain clothed officer with a camera was beside
him, flashing pictures of areas as Mulder pointed them out.  When
the officer had finished, Mulder gave him a tired smile and a hasty
'Thanks', then turned back to his examination.

His mind was going a mile a minute.  It looked as if there had been
two cars there recently.  Two cars.  Either the killer wasn't working
alone, or it confirmed something Mulder already suspected--the
killer lured his victims to the site and killed them there.  But there
hadn't been a volume of blood at the other sites.  Here, blood was
everywhere.  Could the killer have changed his ways?  Could it be
that this murder was done by someone other than the killer they
were tracking?

Mulder's head ached at that thought.  If this wasn't their man, they
were wasting precious time.  If it was a copy cat, they were really in
trouble.  But the press had very few of the details of the other
cases.  The only possibility for a copy cat might be that they were
somehow connected with the police.  Mulder shook his head to
clear that thought.  Sometimes the mind tried too hard to reach a
conclusion.  That wasn't it, he knew it.

He wanted to see the autopsy results, but that would be hours.  For
the meantime, all he had was the railyard, and while it was fresh, he
had to make use of it.  He went back to his search.

An hour and a half later, his exhaustion and the jet lag finally caught
up with him.  He slipped on a patch of ice and went down on his
right knee.  Jerry was next to him in a second, helping him up. 
Mulder was so tired, it was everything he could do to get to his
feet, even with assistance.  

"Mulder, I won't take 'no' for an answer.  It's time to go.  You've
got this place committed to memory now, give it a rest," Jerry
chided with a good touch of compassion.

"Make sure they call me when the autopsy's done," Mulder told
one of the uniforms and gave him a business card before allowing
Jerry to guide him toward a squad car which would take them to a
motel.

Stay and Save Motel
Billings, Montana
Jan 30, 9:00 pm

Mulder could hear voices, but couldn't manage to get his eyes open
enough to acknowledge them.  He could identify the first voice easy
enough--it was Jerry.  The second voice was lower, but he could
finally place it, too.  Bill Patterson, checking up on him.

"I heard he collapsed at the scene," Patterson's voice sounded
almost concerned for the young agent.

"I don't think he collapsed, Bill," Jerry objected.  "It was icy as hell
out there.  He slipped and I helped him up."

"Then why did you bring him back here?  And why is he asleep?"
Bill was a pit bull when he was on the trail of something.  He could
sense that someone was hiding something, no matter how innocent
it might be.

"He's got a cold, Bill.  Good enough for you?" Jerry barked
angrily, than lowered his voice.  "For God's sakes, Bill, the guy
hasn't had any time off in months.  He's got a goddamn cold and
he's worn out.  Let him sleep tonight.  He'll be fine in the
morning."

There was silence for several heartbeats, then Mulder heard the
door creak.

"Are you bunking here," Patterson's voice sounded somewhat
relieved.

"I guess I don't have a choice.  Who ever heard of a Shriner's
convention in Billings?" Jerry shot back with a chuckle.

"Just as well, you can keep an eye on him.  I can't afford to lose
him on this case, LaMana.  Make sure he takes care of himself."  A
direct order, but Mulder wondered sleepily how they'd bring
charges against Jerry if he failed to obey it.  

The door shut and the room grew quiet again.  Mulder let sleep pull
him back down into it's blanket, and stayed there for the rest of the
night.

end of part one 
Vickie

Come visit my web page, brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley!

http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dimension/5821/index.html

Now featuring 'Out of the Cold':

"Bill Patterson stood in the door way, looking to Mulder just like
one of God's avenging angels.  His thinning hair and dark rimmed
glasses lead to the confusing image that this man was a scholar, a
teacher.  Mulder alone knew the truth.  This man was the Marquis
de Sade, with a badge and gun."

Out of the Cold, part one, by Vickie Moseley



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