************
Chapter 1
************

Northwestern Missouri
November 1, 2000
4:58 p.m.

Another balloon explodes with an ear-splitting pop, children
shriek, and in the kitchen Natalie Warner jumps.

"Oh, *God*," she groans, drawing the name of deity from her
mouth as she would a strand of played-out chewing gum.
"That's got to be the *fourth* one in fifteen minutes!  Can
you *imagine* what their teacher goes through every day?
You couldn't *pay* me enough to teach kindergarten, you
really couldn't, Gwen..."

Her new neighbor snickers and licks a red-nailed finger
sticky from the chocolate ice cream she scoops into Chinette
dishes.  "Be glad you have only Shawna -- and that birthdays
come once a year."

"Tell me about it.  And the *nerve* of her to be born just
after Halloween... she wanted all her friends to come to
this party in their *costumes*, can you believe it?  But I
put my foot down about that.  And, get this... I actually
told Greg, right there in the delivery room after she was
born" -- lowering her voice further -- "that it was either a
vasectomy for him or the funny farm for me.  Thank *God* he
bought it."

"Nat!  You never told me that Greg --"

"Yes, munchkin?  Whatcha need?"  Natalie swings sideways and
kneels before a curly-haired five year-old, resplendent in
her peach voile party dress.  The child turns around.

"Mrs. Warner, can you tie me?"

"No problem, Babe," she says, looping the two lengths of
satin ribbon into a quick bow and rolling her eyes at Gwen.
The little girl scoots back to the living room, a scene of
riotous color and high-decibeled merriment, and Natalie
frowns.  "I wonder how she gets her hair to curl like that?
Those Shirley Temple banana-curl things?"

"How does who?"

"Alice.  That's Kari, her youngest granddaughter *and*
Shawna's current best friend."

"I dunno, ask her.  You're the one who's supposed to know
everything about everybody.  That's what you said when we
moved in next door."

"Hah!  Gwen, you just wouldn't *believe* the dirt and
factoids I've accumulated over the years..."

Another pop, screams, and the sound of galloping feet
reverberate from the next room.

"Speaking of Alice," says Gwen, "I think we ought to bail
her out pretty soon.  She's in there alone with a dozen
starving kids, holding down the fort."

"She can handle it.  She *thrives* on it; she's a
grandmother five times over, for God's sake.  *I'm* the one
who's about to go postal here.  Damn, I'm *dying* for a
smoke..."

"Natalie!"  A woman shouts above the din.  "Shawna wants to
know when you're bringing in the cake."

"Tell her to hold her horses!"  The two women quickly gather
up trays of ice cream, paper plates, plastic utensils, cups.
"And napkins," adds Natalie.  "Grab the whole damn package,
Gwen, we'll need every last one."

She edges her fingers under the glass plate, admiring the
huge orange and chocolate-frosted confection, and hefts the
cake with effort.  "Shit, this must weight five pounds," she
gasps.  "No wonder the bakery charges an arm and a leg..."

"Take it on out and I'll get the rest," says Gwen
reassuringly.  Alone for a brief quiet minute, she shakes
her head and finishes stacking and lifting the other tray.
Some women, she thinks, just aren't cut out to be mothers.
But that Natalie is *such* a riot --

Hoping to circumvent the swirl of young bodies, Gwen takes
an alternate route to the living room, through the Warner's
tiled entryway.  There her eyes pass over the massive front
door, its sides framed by expensive beveled glass inserts,
and she sighs with envy.  At the same time, she spots a
kindergarten-sized shadow cowering outside behind the glass.

"Nat?  I think you've got another one out here," she calls.

"You're *kidding* me, right?"  Natalie hustles past, peeks,
and groans.  "Oh, God, and it's a boy.  I don't remember
inviting any *boys*.  Shawna must have done it behind my
back."

She opens the front door, cool air gusting within, the
children's muffled, merry voices tumbling out onto the
landing. The shadow takes a scuffling step backward.  Like a
small potted shrub he lingers just outside the front door,
blue jacket zipped to his chin.  He clutches a gift, the
flowered paper crackling between his reddened hands, the
crimped, glossy bow trembling in the November breeze.

"Let's see... you're Benjie, aren't you?  From way down the
street?"

Hesitating, the little boy nods, then keeps his head dipped,
chin tucked to his chest.  His brown hair ruffles in the
wind like fur on a puppy's back, his whole demeanor shrunken
into painful shyness.

"You're late, Tiger," she admonishes him lightly, guiding
him over the threshold.  "But just in time for the cake and
ice cream.  Where's your Mom?  Did she bring you over?"

He shakes his head.

"She lets you walk all that way by yourself?  God, she's
braver than *I* am."  The boy, divested of his jacket,
allows himself to be steered towards the living room.
"Shawna, come over here, please."

Shawna bounces out of the crowd of classmates, exquisite, a
miniature of her mother's blonde curls and tart sassiness.
She gives an aggrieved sigh, hand on hip, and swaggers
toward the two women with her eyes narrowed.  When she
notices the latecomer, her step slows and both eyes widen.
"Benjie!"  She glances nervously at her mother.  "You
came..."

Blanching, head lowered, the boy extends the brightly
wrapped package towards the girl.  "'S for you," he says in
a rough, husky whisper, and all the room quiets, every child
hushed and attentive.  Taking a curious, collective breath,
they gawk at the boy.

He raises his head just a bit, enough to reveal the chapped
redness of his face and chin.  His eyes are soft and watery;
long, dark lashes, like twin paintbrushes, sweep his cheeks.

At her daughter's lag, Natalie galvanizes the party into
action.  "Well, thank him for the present and let's get the
ball rolling," she says with exaggerated eagerness.  "The
ice cream'll melt in no time.  Shawna, get him a chair.
Alice, please be a doll and cut the cake... small pieces,
okay?"

Muted complaints reach their ears.  "Noooo, not next to
*me*... Shawn-na!"  "Yuck! Boys are so icky."  "*He's*
icky..."

Alice, as planned, leads a rendition of the traditional
"Happy Birthday" song, but with the children's loud
participation the last notes climb toward shrill dissonance.
Shawna blows out the candles and cheers erupt.

"You know, you can't blame them," murmurs Gwen
apologetically.  "A group of little girls all having fun
together -- and then a boy shows up."

Twirling a short blonde curl with long-nailed fingers,
Natalie shrugs.  Every age, every class has its goat and
she's thankful that Shawna is among the popular, pretty
group, just as she had been.  Appearance is everything, she
learned long ago -- good looks, charm, the right
connections, charisma.  Thank God Greg maintained enough of
his youthful attractiveness, yet not so much as to burden
her with worry lest another woman make a play for him.  *He*
should be the one worrying more about *her* needs, damn it,
staying away so much on business lately...

The girls on either side of the little boy lean away, giving
him a wide berth as though for a leper.  He waits with good
manners and fortitude until Alice serves him, then watches
the others before he takes a bite of the cake and ice cream,
chewing slowly, carefully.

Gwen seems perplexed.  "Now, who's he again?"

"Keep your voice down.  That's Janine Tillman's little guy.
They must live at *least* four blocks away.  I hardly ever
see him around, to tell you the truth."

"Janine, whose husband's on the force in Aubrey?  Isn't she
kind of old to be having kids?"

"You don't know the half of it -- he's *not* hers."

"What?"

"Well, he's *his*, but not hers..." She grinds to a stop at
Gwen's puzzled expression.  "I guess I can't expect you to
know *that* story.  God, I wouldn't take her place in a
million years, I swear!  Wait 'til the kids leave and I'll
tell you the whole mess.  I thought just about *everybody*
knew."

"Does Alice?"

"*Please* don't say *anything* to Alice, okay?  She's sweet,
but old-fashioned.  Really touchy about gossip."

"Uh... sure."

Alice's voice swells at that exact moment.  Animated, a
picture-perfect grandmother with her silvery hair bobbing,
she tries to cajole the squirming children into another game
while they laugh and gorge.

"I know!"  She gushes, overly effusive, and Natalie grimaces
in distaste.  "Since this is Shawna's sixth birthday and on
birthdays you give and get presents -- all of you think of
the one thing you'd love to have the most.  Your favorite
wish.  Anybody want to go first?  Shawna?"

"A trip to Disneyland," says the girl promptly, wrinkling
her nose in her mother's direction.

"Very nice, dear!  Who's next?"

"I want a big, big swimming pool with a high dive!"  This
from Alice's own granddaughter, and she smiles at her with
warm indulgence.

The children pick up the spirit of the game, each
suggestion, each dream more elaborate and impossible than
the next.  "A candy store!"  "A pet polar bear!"  Tinkling
laughter.  "My very own credit card!"

"Shit, they learn fast," whispers Natalie to Gwen.

"How about you, young man?  What special thing would *you*
most want to have?"

Startled, the boy drops his plastic fork onto the tablecloth
and blinks in disbelief as all eyes swing his way.  His face
grows redder, more scalded, and he stares down into his
plate.

"Come on, Benjie," encourages one of the more gracious
little girls, and they all snatch up the chant, some even
banging on the table in their childish enthusiasm.  "Tell us
what *you* want!  Come on!  Tell us!"

He has no choice except to comply.  As the room waits and
watches, he sucks in a small lower lip, chewing in an agony
of bashfulness before taking a short breath to speak.
Raising his head, he gazes at the sea of expectant faces and
opens his mouth.

"I want --" He falters, indecision darkening his features.

"Yes, dear?  Hurry up, tell us what you want," urges Alice,
smiling.

The boy's gaze, locking with that of the older woman,
hardens in sudden malice.  He blurts out in his distinctive,
husky voice, "A sister.  I want a *little* sister."

A pall of confusion settles over the group and the children
fidget from nervous tension, not comprehending the reason or
what has transpired before them.  Alice, nonplussed, looks
over to the two younger women when the boy picks up his
fork, ducks his head, and resumes eating.

"Good *God*," hisses Natalie, rubbing the gooseflesh on her
arms with a vengeance and turning away.  "The little creep."

"What, Nat?  What?"  Gwen presses, but her friend shakes her
head and, chilled for once to silence, walks quickly back
into the kitchen.

************

Georgetown/Washington DC
November 3, 2000
8:16 a.m.

Autumn colors lay in the same wizened piles along the
curbside of Scully's neighborhood.  Pausing on the walkway,
she throws back her hair to sniff the morning air and clear
her head, hearing the cornflake crunch of leaves underfoot
on the way to her car.  Early November.  The same earthy,
smoky smells, the exact same time of year she was returned
comatose following her abduction six years before.

She reappeared harboring two ignominious secrets.  One was
infertility.  Second, she was a new mother, though at the
time she was in ignorance of both these contradictory
truths.  It would be three more years before she learned of
Emily's existence and matching date of birth according to
the certificate issued in San Diego County.

November 2, 1994.  A red-letter day in the life of Dana
Scully.  What synchronous irony, what mockery of fate that
she would resurface in a hospital, unconscious and stripped
of her ova, the same day her biological child was reputedly
born.  What gross manipulation of cellular structure had
taken place, what unnatural acceleration in rate of growth
had occurred to develop a child so quickly?  Or had viable
ova been somehow, somewhere, taken from her body at an even
earlier date than the August abduction by Duane Barry?

There's little she can believe with any sense of surety.
Even Mulder, a human clearinghouse for unorthodox theory,
flounders for answers.  After so many years they still face
the same surreal, dubitable questions...

Shake it off, she orders herself ruthlessly, thrusting the
fall of red hair from her brow into a smooth curve behind
her ear.  The day has passed, thank God, and it's time to
move forward --

Steering into the flow of early morning traffic, she wonders
why so much celebration unfolds in the human realm this time
of year.  Days shorten after the autumn equinox and the
world rejoices in its bounty.  Harvest time.  Thanksgiving.
Cold and snowfall.  Religious holidays of joy and
commemoration:  gratitude, faith, blessing, birth.  Hope and
promise.

For some, it's a time for new beginnings and the resumption
of routine, when children make the yearly, migratory trek
back to school.  For others it's a first step on the
scholastic treadmill.  Glowing with the excitement of new
clothes and books, hungry for friendship and knowledge, they
slide from summer's carefree play into fall's stricter
academia.

Outside her car window a school bus blusters to a stop, then
turns the corner out of sight, yellow-orange, windows frosty
with morning condensation.  It reminds Scully of a ripe
autumn pumpkin, large and pregnant with purpose, bulging
with precious cargo.

This should have been Emily's first year in school.

She takes a shuddering breath and blinks once, twice, hands
choking the wheel.  She's still marking time; potent
reminders like a child's lunchbox and the scent of leafsmoke
overpower her better judgment.  It's intriguing to her that
she's more affected by the day of her daughter's birth than
she is by the time of her death.  Every birthday should be a
celebratory event, an occasion for joy and thankfulness, not
a time for bitterness or to mourn years spent in ignorance.

In another day or so, she'll have recovered enough to put it
behind her again, of that much she's certain -- emotionally
resilient, committed to her job, and in control for the next
twelve months, with the passing of this annual crisis.

Mulder is the only other person who knows of her secret
sorrow.

Though she divulged nothing to him on that first November
anniversary in 1998, she knew he sensed something amiss.
Playing by her rules, unobtrusive, he asked no questions,
but his actions spoke volumes about comfort and caring.
Masked as an excuse to avoid Kersh's endless and mind-
numbing background checks, he surprised her at lunch with an
ice cream cone and a walk in the park.

1999 was the year he survived near-fatal brain surgery at
the hands of the Smoking Man.  His first foray outdoors,
after attending Diana Fowley's funeral, fell on November 2.
He asked Scully to accompany him for a 'constitutional' and
stopped to purchase a rosebud, which he tucked into the
buttonhole of her coat.  Then, engulfing her hand in his
large, warm one, they ambled the cool autumn streets, leaves
and raw emotions swirling in tandem at their feet.  Grateful
that fate had spared Mulder's life, touched by his
undemanding thoughtfulness, she cracked the door open
between them.  Like light bleeding over a threshold, she
shared a small part of why this date and time of year still
marked her so deeply.

This year, last night, he stayed with her.

It's not by any means the first time.  Months earlier, in
the spring, they finally became lovers and forever altered
the boundaries between them.  They prefer to keep it
confidential.  For now sex is a delectable, yet still
intermittent treat -- they find themselves alternating
between prudence and gusto as they partake of this new
repast to which they're now entitled.

With no expectation for anything more, he stayed to offer
comfort and companionship.  He held her close against him on
the couch while they watched TV, stroking her hair,
whispering silly commentary, massaging her back muscles to
induce slumber.  As the weary hours passed and she moved
from couch to bed, still restless, Mulder grew resolute and
proposed a solution.

Unorthodox, of course.  She needed persuasion, brought by
feather-light kisses and murmured reassurances.  Gazing up
at him in the semi-darkness, she finally allowed him to peel
away her doubts and proprieties along with her pajamas.  He
eased his head down and prepared her for sleep, sweetly and
gently, with his mouth.

Now, rejuvenated in the light of a new morning, she stands
wedged between other late-coming agents in the Hoover's
elevator, a rosy glow on her cheeks.  Coat draping her arm
and chic in her dark suit, badge in place on her lapel,
service weapon holstered, she ponders the implications of
this secret life she shares with her partner and the
sporadic complaints of her faux-biological clock.  Despite
the melancholy, her nerve endings tingle as she clips down
the hall toward the familiar sanctuary of the office they
share.

Mulder straddles a corner of his desk, his arm extended in
the act of replacing the phone in its cradle.  He swivels
toward her, concern and expectancy evident in his face as he
stands.

"Sorry.  Traffic held me up," she explains, masking a coy
smile and slow flush behind her sweep of hair.  He waits;
with measured reluctance she looks up and their gazes fuse.
"You left early."

"Before dawn.  You okay?"

"Yes... I, um, slept like a rock, actually," she admits and
he chuckles with appreciation, his eyes twinkling at the
news.

"So my little antidote for insomnia worked."

"Like a charm.  You had doubts?"

His grin grows wider by the second and he steps closer,
catching the shaft of early morning sun that sneaks through
the window above him.  It casts a hazel gleam of affection
into his eyes, accentuates the thickness of his dark hair
and stirs her body afresh.  His lips form a teasing curl,
the same lips that just a few hours ago were --

"Not a one," he murmurs.

"The important thing is I managed to get in a few hours'
sleep before work, thanks to your... antidote.  And since
today *is* another day, I guess life goes on..." she
continues philosophically, turning to hang up her coat.  If
only she had a cup of hot coffee to sip, the day could bode
well after all.

"You might want to hold on to that," he advises, arresting
her movement, "as well as the positive outlook."

Scully's eyebrow arches, her lips part in anticipation of
disclosure.  "Meaning?"

"I just received a phone call from a Lieutenant Brian
Tillman of the Aubrey, Missouri police department.  What can
you remember about him?"

She leans into a thoughtful tilt, brain cells harkening back
to mid-November 1994.  It's one of the many cases from their
first few years together that she can recollect with unusual
clarity because of the overwhelming human pathos involved.
The mutilated bodies of new victims and the scored bones of
older ones that came to light -- all found their way into
her capable hands and were crucial in pinpointing important
details of the crimes, though not the perpetrator. It took
Mulder's intuitive mind to focus on Detective B.J. Morrow,
Tillman's preferred partner and paramour, nailing her as the
killer.

Lieutenant Brian Tillman.  She remembers him as an abrasive,
bull-headed, condescending man, who allowed his personal
loyalties and fears to blind him to the truth throughout the
investigation.  Impatient, thin mustache, heavy on the
cologne.

Aloud she says, "1994.  He was a married detective who got
his associate pregnant.  She, quite remarkably, was the
granddaughter of serial killer Harry Cokely and was
eventually committed to a women's prison hospital after
murdering several people, including Cokely.  She slashed the
victims and carved "sister" into their chests, imitating the
original attacks in 1942."

She sighs and shifts her coat to the other arm, considering
it needless to remind Mulder that he had experienced B.J.'s
razor held against his own throat.  "So, what was the reason
for his call?"

"He's... "  Mulder hesitates, rubbing a thumb along his
lower lip.  Already she can sense his mind collating the
small bits of information he gleaned during the phone call.
"Let's say that there is no joy in Aubrey, Scully, when you
think you're right on top of your game, clipping out base
hits smooth as glass -- and the ball suddenly falls foul.
You're in danger of striking out before you realize it."

She puffs out her lips in annoyance, plunks her coat onto
his desk, and crosses her arms.  "No baseball analogies
before my morning coffee, Mulder.  Give it to me straight."

"The ball being his kid..."

"The baby?  I remember that he'd planned to petition the
courts to adopt, but I never followed what actually
transpired after B.J. was put on suicide watch during her
last trimester."  She'd been occupied with other matters
that year, bizarre cases and experiences which, looking
back, she's still unable to explain to her satisfaction.
And she'd almost lost Mulder again...

"She gave birth, he adopted.  His wife went along with it,
but needed convincing."

"Not surprising," she mutters dryly.  "And B.J.?"

"Still incarcerated at Shamrock Women's Prison.  However,
she hasn't been considered a high security risk for several
years.  Must be one of the lucky ones."  His smirk is barely
discernible.  "Shamrock.  Lucky..."

She ignores the weak attempt at humor.  "Does she have any
contact with Tillman or the child now?"

"Unknown, but doubtful.  I plan to take our files and any
other pertinent information about the 1994 case.  Might be
good reading on the flight to Missouri," he adds, looking
toward the cabinet and then at his watch.

"How soon do we leave?"

"That's something I want to talk to you about."

Facing him, she feels his hand encompass her shoulder, heavy
with his concern.  She can read the hesitancy in his mind,
senses his heart when he says, "It's your call, Scully.  Do
what you feel is best for *you* right now --"

"I will.  I do," she insists quietly, her understanding in
perfect sync.  Her gaze brushes his, then slips away,
shielded and evasive.  She licks her lips, an unconscious
gesture that betrays her edginess.

"Because, this case may encroach upon some areas --"

"Mulder... I'll be fine."

It's her usual stoic avowal, tinged with impatience, but she
knows he recognizes the bravado.  After spending last night
with her and helping her to weather this year's emotional
memory-storm, she can understand why he's unconvinced.

"Really.  You'll have to trust me on this."  She grasps his
hand in her smaller one, giving it a playful squeeze, and
peers up.  "Besides, you'll be there, too..."

"I'll be there," he agrees.  He returns the pressure to her
hand, sharing a pointed look before releasing her.  "I also
know your insights and presence would be invaluable.
Tillman respects your judgment; he asked for you
specifically."

"Then I'm surprised as much as I'm honored.  Can you give me
a hint of the problem in Aubrey?"

"There's been another slashing attack, reminiscent of the
1994 case.  Happened yesterday morning, and this time the
woman is alive and able to provide information on a possible
lead."

She's reminded that not all of Cokely's victims died -- as a
young woman old Linda Thibodeaux was raped and disfigured,
secretly bearing a child by Cokely, which she put up for
adoption.  That same baby grew up to become Raymond Morrow,
the father of B.J.

"Leading to whom, I wonder?"

Mulder's eyes cloud and he yanks out a drawer from the
cabinet with a tooth-grinding scrape before diving in with
both hands.  "The base hit that suddenly went foul.  Right
now, Scully, the only feasible suspect appears to be
Tillman's five year-old son..."

************
End of Chapter 1