From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Subject: [xfcreative] NEW: Out of the Cold (09 of 25)
Date: Saturday, May 01, 1999 8:43 PM

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
Part nine of twenty-five

Mulder Residence
February 22, 1991
10:14 am

His mother woke him up a little after ten the next morning. 
"There's a phone call for you.  Mr. Purdue.  I can tell him you're
still sleeping--"

"No, thanks, Mom.  I want to take this," Mulder said, hurriedly
wiping the sleep from his eyes.  The usual morning coughing fit
didn't last as long as it had the day before, for which he was
eternally grateful.  He'd eaten breakfast at 8 but was back asleep by
9.  Sleep seemed to be the most strenuous activity he could handle
lately.  

He finally made his way into the living room and to the phone. 
"Reggie, what've you got for me?" he asked without greeting.

"Mulder, are you sitting down?" Reggie asked.

"Always," came the short reply.

"There was a suicide.  A David Markem.  The body was found in
some old tenement houses that were due for demolition last week. 
The bomb crew were doing a walk through and found him."

"How long had he been dead?" Mulder asked, his chest growing
tight with the realization his dream had played out.

"They said not that long, maybe three days.  That would put the
death on the 13.  A little past the date in your dream."

"Doesn't matter, so the killer took a little time, laid low after almost
getting caught," Mulder muttered to himself.  "Markham, he
worked for the Sands, didn't he?" Mulder asked, closing his eyes
and leaning heavily against the sofa, fear building in his mind and
body.

"Night clerk.  Ten years," Reggie answered.

"No previous signs of depression," Mulder stated.

"Not according to the Manager at the Sands.  Said he was on cloud
nine recently--was engaged to an heiress or something."

"He didn't commit suicide, Reggie--"

"Mulder, look.  You asked, I found.  But the bride to be didn't
think it was suicide, either.  She ordered an autopsy.  He slit his
own wrists--"

"How?"

"A folding Buck knife," Reggie answered with a tired sigh.

"Prints on the knife?" Mulder demanded.

"Just his own.  It was his knife, apparently she'd given him
a set of camping stuff for an engagement gift.  His initials were on
the knife handle."

"That doesn't prove he killed himself," Mulder objected.

"Mulder, in every state in the union, yes it does.  The Coroner's
inquest was Monday--they ruled the death self-inflicted.  What the
hell do you want, a signed confession?"

"He didn't leave a note, did he?"

"And you know, Mr. Psychologist from Oxford, that not everyone
leaves a note," Reggie snapped back.

"Marrying an heiress, no history of depression and the guy ends up
dead in an abandoned building scheduled for demolition--yeah,
Reggie, you're right.  Suicide, plain and simple," Mulder hissed,
sarcasm dripping off his words.  "This one stinks, Reg," he added,
his voice rough and low.  A cough, completely out of nowhere,
shook him to the core.

There was silence on the line as Reggie waited patiently for Mulder
to finish.

"Reg?  I'm OK," Mulder said, clearing the last of the cough from
his throat.  "Were there at least pictures taken?  For the inquest? 
Maybe I can use them to get Bill to take another look."

"There's nothing you can do about it, cowboy," Reggie said gently. 
"You're sick, and Patterson isn't going to give it the time of day. 
Put it aside."

"There are going to be more deaths, Reggie.  I thought our jobs
were to prevent that kind of thing," Mulder said tersely.  His chest
felt tight, making it hard to catch his breath.  His eyes were burning
and it wasn't from a fever.  Suddenly, he was so very tired of being
sick, but beyond that, he was just very tired.  He hated being so
helpless.

"Mulder, let it go.  You shouldn't be worrying about this shit.  You
almost died, goddamnit!   Would you give it a rest?!" Reggie all but
shouted over the phone.  He lowered his tone immediately.  "I'm
sorry, man.  I'm just . . . you had me worried, OK?  Don't let it
drag you under, Mulder.  You're too good for that.  Maybe it's
time to walk away from it."

"Away from what?  The job?  You know I can't do that, Reggie--"

"Maybe you just need to get out from under Patterson.  The man's
a slave driver.  You aren't the first agent to end up hospitalized on
his watch, and I dare say you won't be the last.  He chews people
up and spits them out.  I'm not telling you to leave the Bureau, just
get out from under William the Terrible.  Just think about it, OK? 
That's all I ask.  You're in a position to go wherever you want. 
Take it and run with it."

"Yeah, right.  Where would I go?  Where would they let me go?"
Mulder grumbled.

"They're passing around the Props monograph to the kids at the
Academy.  That has to be worth something," Reggie offered.

"Big deal," Mulder sighed.  "I did that two years ago.  Do the
words 'what have you done for me lately' mean anything to you,
Reggie?"

"Look, I'm just asking you to think about it.  Who knows, you
might find someplace you'd _like_ to be," Reggie said, in an
obvious attempt to get his friend off the other end of the line. 
"Hey, I gotta go, man.  Take care of yourself.  And remember,
Mulder . . ."

"Rest.  Yeah, Reggie, I remember," Mulder sighed.  "Thanks for
looking into this for me."

"No problem.  I'll see you when you get back.  We'll catch a game
on the tube or something.  Just take care of yourself, and that's an
order," Reggie said with mock gruffness.

Mulder smiled wearily.  "Yes, sir."  He hung up the phone and
crawled into his room where he promptly fell asleep.

1:30 pm

Mulder was sitting up on his bed, a yellow legal pad he'd grabbed
out of the 'this and that' drawer in the kitchen propped on his
knees.  The pencil in his hand flew over the paper, unintelligible
scribbles stretching out across the page.  He was deep in thought
when his mother appeared at the door of his room.

"Sweetheart, you're awake!  You missed lunch and it's time for
your medicine.  Should I bring in a tray for you?  Or would you
rather try sitting at the kitchen table?"  She was rather relieved that
he'd seemed to have slept after his phone call.  Maybe he actually
was resting, she hoped.  But then, she looked down at the bed. 
Noticing the already torn pages scattered on the bedspread, she
frowned.  "What are you doing?"

"A profile," he muttered, not bothering to look up or answer her
previous question concerning lunch.

She chewed on her lip and picked up a page.  Only his mother, and
the one typist in the Bureau who was versed in cryptography, could
have gleaned intelligent sentences from the chicken scratches on the
paper.  After reading the page, she dropped it back to the bed and
started gathering them into a neat pile.  "Fox, you must stop this,"
she said, keeping her voice even.

That brought his eyes up to meet hers.  "Mom, I'm in bed.  I'm
resting.  How is this any more strenuous than watching Oprah?"

"Do you really want me to get out a blood pressure cuff?" she
demanded.  "Doctor Sullivan said . . ."

"Doctor Sullivan got his degree in Psychiatry from Sears
Correspondence School," Mulder snapped.  "He doesn't know shit
from shinola."

"Fox William Mulder!  That is enough!  Put all of this away
immediately and I don't want to hear another word about it!"  His
mother didn't get mad often, usually choosing to ignore
confrontation rather than engage in it, but she was angry now.

He blinked at her.  He sat in silence, just looking at her, but not
making a move to put down either the pencil or paper.  He had to
reason with her, but his first response was to match fire with fire. 
"Mom, I'm 29 years old.  You can't boss me around."  The minute
he said the words he realized what a mistake they were.  Childish,
even to his own ears, he could just imagine what they would invoke
in his mother.

She glared back at him, picked up the papers and tore them in half. 
"No more.  And if you continue to defy me, I'll have you admitted
to a hospital.  One that can deal with this obsession you have," she
growled, turning to leave the room with the torn papers still in her
hands.

"Mom.  Stop."  His voice was no longer contentious, it was
pleading.  She turned around slowly, her face still taut with anger,
but her eyes softening at the sound of his words.  "Please," he
continued and she took in a deep breath, then stood next to the bed
with her arms crossed.

"What, Fox?" she asked calmly.

"Mom, sit down, please.  Just hear me out."  She stood for a
minute more, just to make him realize that she could just as easily
ignore this request, but finally she lowered herself to the edge of the
bed.

"So, talk," she commanded.

It was his turn to take a breath.  His thoughts were jumbled and he
reached for the right ones, whatever would make her understand. 
"Mom, I have reason to believe there is a killer on the loose and
I'm the only one who can stop it."

She bit her lip, but kept her expression blank.  "And what leads you
to this conclusion?" she asked evenly.

He winced.  She had no idea what he did at his job.  As a matter of
fact, he'd spent much of his time in her presence making sure she
never found out.  If she knew the horrors he put himself through on
a daily basis in the name of saving lives, she would have locked him
up years ago.  "It's a deductive reasoning process, Mom."  That
sounded more logical than 'I've had dreams'.  He could be honest
with Reggie, Reggie understood, but his mother would see it as
another sign of instability and want to correct it.

"You talked to that Mr. Purdue this morning.  Is that what brought
all this on?"

When he first woke up after having talked to Reggie, he'd felt
strong again, capable.  Now, this fight with his mother was sapping
every ounce of strength he'd savored.  "Reggie had some
information.  I correctly predicted another murder.  I asked him to
look into it for me."  Mulder sagged against the padded headboard,
he didn't want to go through all this, he just wanted to get back to
writing it out, putting the pieces together.  He really felt he was
close this time but so much of the puzzle was hidden from view.

His mother shook her head slowly.  "Fox, this is exactly what Dr.
Sullivan warned us about.  That you would come up with any wild
idea to get back to work."  She took his hand, removed the pencil
and then just held it in her lap.  "Baby boy, I almost lost you.  Do
you understand what that did to me?"  Tears were glistening on her
lashes and the sight of them made the tightness return to his chest.

"Please, Mom.  I don't want to hurt you, but can't you see?  I
_have_ to do this."

"An obsession.  That's what an obsession is.  Don't you think I
understand?  You're not the only one with a college education,
Fox!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing again.

"It's not like that, Mom.  It's not an obsession," he objected.

"You can't let it be, not even long enough to rest and recover from
a life threatening illness.  You fall asleep thinking of it, you wake up
thinking of it.  You have nightmares about it and don't tell me you
don't, because you cry out in your sleep.  That is an obsession, Fox. 
Plain and simple.  Don't you dare try and deny that to me," she
growled, low and threatening.

Tears were forming in his eyes now, but not out of fear, out of
frustration.  "How can I make you understand?" he cried, wiping at
his eyes angrily.  

He looked up at the sound of her shuddering breath and saw the
look of anguish on her face, the pain in her eyes.  It struck him once
again.  How could he do this to her, he berated himself.  His heart
broke, he was always bringing her pain.  "I'm sorry, Mom," he said,
reaching out to pull her into an embrace.  "I'm sorry.  I won't do it
anymore.  I'm sorry," he murmured.  

He sagged against her then, completely spent, her arms were the
only things holding him up.  He was so tired.  Too tired to fight
anymore.  She could sense this and responded immediately.  Gently,
she scooted down the bed, lowering him to a recline against the
pillows.  Then she pulled away, but not before she brushed his
forehead with a kiss.

"It's all right, Fox.  It's all right.  You take a nap.  When you wake
up, you'll feel better and then we can have lunch.  We'll talk about
this later.  Right now, you get some sleep."  She sat there a few
minutes more, rubbing his chest as he fell asleep.

Sadly, she tiptoed from the room and went into the living room. 
She didn't need to look for the business card, it was sitting in her
address book by the phone.  She glanced at the number written in
neat script and dialed it, then waited for the connection.  A young
woman's voice came over the line.  

"Dr. Franklin's office, may I help you?"

She drew in a deep breath, then forged ahead.  "Yes, I was referred
to Dr. Franklin by Dr. James Sullivan in Portland.  It's about my
son.  I'd like to make an appointment."

end of part nine

Vickie

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Never let the fear of striking
out get in your way.

                 Babe Ruth

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


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