************
Chapter 10
************

DiAngelo residence
November 6, 2000
11:18 a.m.

Mulder squints into the wind and thanks his lucky stars that
no snow has hit Aubrey yet this November.  The locals think
it's unusual, but he's more inclined to call it fortuitous
than strange.  Snow would cover up necessary evidence and
murder weapons still elude them.

By the same token, snow would also display footprints and
tracks of entry and escape.

He puffs clouds into the arctic-cold air, poking around the
DiAngelo's less-than-manicured back yard in the overcast and
gray light of late Monday morning.  All effort at
landscaping and visual appeal seems to have been directed
toward the front of the house.  Here in the back, he steps
over rocks, frozen weeds, and old garden areas that have
outgrown their railroad tie borders.  A swing stirs and
squeaks its rusty chains, prodded by the breeze.

He squats and casts back toward the kitchen sliding door,
mottled with bi-chromatic powder, then eyeballs the route a
fleeing child might have taken in the dark.  No fencing in
the back or on the side leading down the street to
Tillman's.  A tall one, meant as a privacy barrier, blocks
the impressive house sitting on the right side of the yard.

Darnell and some of his people are working inside, snapping
additional evidence photos and giving the rooms a more
thorough sweep.  Mulder has, in the meantime, taken great
pains to extricate himself from the group.  With his partner
commandeering their Corolla for her morning autopsy at the
hospital, he was forced to carpool with the serious, but
unimaginative detective.  A good man, Mulder decides, but
one who gives new meaning to the expression, "Dead on your
feet."  Scully's patience here last night is still a source
of amazement to him.

*She* amazes him.  After very little sleep and their
emotional, whispered tete-a-tete in the early morning hours,
she was up at dawn.  Methodical, intent on her impending
autopsy, she let him lounge on her bed to watch her get
dressed.  Delectable curves and graceful movements of leg,
arm, and torso.  Short brushes through her hair, a flurry of
light make-up.  Her kiss on her way out was soft and
precise, so as not to mar her lipstick.  Impeccable Scully.

He thinks back to the phone call that came from Shamrock
Women's Prison after she'd gone.  B.J.'s doctor, Reinholdt,
reported she'd had several more disturbing visions of death.
Mulder corroborated that the dreams were rooted in reality
and explained about last night's murder.  He also obtained
Reinholdt's permission to speak with B.J. by telephone, if
the need should ever arise during the investigation.

"What the hell is it you think's out here?"

Craning, he spots a head peeking over the privacy fence.  A
blonde woman, hair swirling, swathed in a cinnamon-colored
parka.  Myopia and cold wind in his eyes blur her features,
so he stands, smiles, and moves closer.

The coat is buttery suede and in high fashion.  The woman,
however, seems pinched and predatory, despite the seductive
smirk on her face.  Granted, it's cold and windy out, but he
can recognize good looks that are rapidly heading south.
She raises a hand and sucks the end of a cigarette.

"Beats me," he says, "though you sound like a person who
might have something to share."

Smiling, she blows smoke.  "Insider's information.  I got
it, if you want it, Agent..."

"Mulder."  Unwise to divulge his more-than-unique first name
under these circumstances, he decides.

"Yeah.  Agent Mulder... I'm a very cooperative lady when the
right person comes calling."

"Glad to hear it."

He wants to laugh, seeing through the transparently obvious
trap she's setting.  Scully was right on the money about
this woman.  "Teeth and claws, I kid you not, Mulder.  Watch
your jewels," she'd warned him with arched brow, while they
ate dinner last night.

"Well, come on over, we'll talk," he parries to the blonde,
who's already lighting up another smoke.

"I can not *believe* you want me to come into that yard!"
She looks at him like he's sprouted two heads.  "I mean,
gimme a Goddamn break here!  I get the creeps just living
next *door* to this place now!"  Her eyes dart toward the
back entrance, then away, as though the murder was still in
visible progress through the glass.

"So, you'd be much more comfortable sharing in the privacy
of your own home?  Is that what I'm hearing?"

Her demeanor and tone alter magically.  "You hear pretty
well," she purrs.

"What about you?  Did you hear anything last night?  See
anything suspicious going on?"

She looks irritated at his sudden deviation.  "Uh, no... but
I have *plenty* of other important information.  Believe
me."  She jerks her head back toward her house, eyes never
leaving his.  "And there aren't any distractions right now,
with everyone else at work and at school."

"You make it so easy," he smiles.  "Why don't you go on back
inside where it's warm and prepare your thoughts, um..."

"Natalie.  Natalie Warner," she supplies, showing the teeth
Scully cautioned him about.  Tossing a sultry, parting look
over her shoulder, she disappears.  He hears a door slide in
its track and then click shut.

Shit, this is better than a sit-com.  He may actually bust a
gut before it's all over --

Darnell, the perfect sacrifice, opens the back door with
gloved hands, looking for him.  After hearing the same,
repetitive spiel about the progress made inside, Mulder
tells him he has to meet Scully and suggests that the
detective go next door to obtain a statement from the
neighbor, who seems eager to talk about the case.

"You never know what might be revealed," he adds, enjoying
the double-cross, and Darnell nods in sage agreement.  He
gives his coat pocket a slap as though searching for his
notepad as he heads toward the end of the fence.

Watching him go, Mulder feels no guilt.  Somebody's got to
check it out and it might as well be Darnell.  After
Scully's special consideration for the man's squeamishness
last night, he's of the opinion that Darnell owes them big
time anyway.  Maybe he'll acquire some valuable information
during his unexpected visit to the other side before he gets
thrown out on his ear.

Then, again, who knows?  Darnell may just get lucky.

He punches Scully's number on his cell phone and begins
walking with purpose around the side of the house toward the
front.  "Hey.  How'd the autopsy go?"

"Fine, routine.  By the way, I ran into Linda Thibodeaux at
the hospital afterward.  Viola is being discharged today and
plans to stay with her in Edmond until she's back on her
feet."

"She want to talk anytime soon?"

"We've been invited up this afternoon, in fact.  She seemed
willing, but wants it kept quiet."

By now the front yard offers sanctuary and he steps within
the hedgerow that lines the porch area, glancing backward
toward the Warner house.  "Hey... I, uh, could use a ride
pretty quick.  Where are you?"

"I'm --" She fumbles on the other end, enough to bring up
his radar.  "I'm just down the street, getting into the
car."

"Tillman's?  Why?"

"To show him some photos... and to keep him abreast of
what's going on."

He frowns, blinking into the wind.  "That's Darnell's job."

"I was under the impression that he's busy over there with
you, Mulder."

Something about their exchange disturbs him, but he can't
put a finger on it.  The wind gusts again, and he hunches
forward to escape the brunt.  Under the shadowed overhang of
the shrubs sweeping the ground behind him, something catches
his eye.

"Mulder?"

He crouches now, pawing with one hand at iced debris and old
growth in order to get a look.  What he sees is a stone,
about the size of a medium orange.  No big deal, since there
are plenty of rocks strewn around the back yard and
hedgerows, except this one is dark with what looks to be
dried blood and wisps of hair.  He digs in his pocket for an
evidence bag and peers down the street in the direction of
his partner's approach.

"Better get over here, Scully.  If I'm not mistaken, I've
just found one of the murder weapons used on Gwen DiAngelo."

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

Tillman residence
November 6, 2000
11:38 a.m.

Scully has the tenuous feeling she's skating on thin ice.
That her judgment, tact, and sense of what's appropriate are
skewed just enough this morning to lure her to a place of
compromise, which could crack beneath the weight of her good
intentions.

She's gotten used to seeing this in Mulder, when he's
salivating after some paranormal carrot, chasing it down the
first rabbit trail that sends him come-on vibes and the
promise of new discovery.  But not rational, level-headed,
scientific-minded Dana Scully.  She'd sooner err on the side
of cool detachment than cross the line into a reckless
breach of protocol.

Her heart gets her into trouble.  Right now it's sensitive
and empathetic, affected by past grief and this present case
in Aubrey.  Her vision of Emily last night at the Tillman
home still shakes her confidence.  Thank God for Mulder's
unequivocal support and love, his insight into her psyche
that's evolved over years of close association and trust.

She reflects back to a few hours previous, the tender
interlude spent huddled with him in his bed.  They'd
discussed difficult things -- rather, he'd drawn them from
her with patience, wisdom, and caring.  He, of anyone, can
understand her deepest, most personal pain.

She didn't plan to stop at Brian Tillman's house after her
morning autopsy, any more than she made special arrangements
to bump into Linda Thibodeaux in the hospital hallway.
Things just occur naturally sometimes, as though
foreordained, pre-destined.  They evolve and happen, like
her whimsical trip to the local variety store after leaving
the hospital.

Tillman answers her knock, his eyes conveying relief more
than surprise when he welcomes her into the entryway.

"Not even one day and already I feel like I'm under house
arrest with my hands tied behind my back," he jokes badly,
offering to take her coat and brief case.  She demurs and
smiles toward the kitchen door where Benjie stands, his jaws
working, large eyes woeful.

"Hi, sweetie," she says softly, and the boy hides his mouth
behind a bashful forearm.

"Early lunch," says Tillman by way of explanation for his
son's lack of social graces, "or call it a late breakfast.
He doesn't seem to care that his Dad's not Mr. Mom."

"As I recall from the movie, Mr. Mom was unconventional and
innovative, but still very adept at getting things done."
She pauses, conscious she's just vaguely described her
partner.  "And I'm sure you'll do just fine, Lieutenant.
How's the leg today?"

Glancing down, he shrugs it off.  "Nothing serious.  Just a
scrape."

"Have you been able to contact your wife yet?"

He shakes his head grimly, and she's reminded of Benjie in
the quick, side to side movement.  "I've called several
times, but there's no answer at her sister's house."
Looking down at her, he seems to grow suddenly pensive.
"So, what brings you over here, Agent Scully?"

Her evasive glance takes in his old jeans and socked feet,
the flannel shirt that hangs loose on his frame.  A man
dressed for home and comfort, rather than work.  Not the
side of Tillman she cares to see, and she's not about to be
compromised.  The boy, she notices, stands motionless in the
doorway, watching with flickering eyes and listening to
every word.

"I have some questions I'd like to ask you about the case,"
she says, lowering her voice, "plus I have evidence photos
with me.  It's probably better that Benjie doesn't
overhear."

Tillman slaps his hands together in a sudden display of
enthusiasm as he heads toward his son, hustling him back
into the kitchen.  Scully exhales slowly and seats herself
on the couch.  She hears the clink of plate against glass, a
scrape of chair legs on the linoleum, and the hushed command
of father to son that he stay put and finish his food.  Such
private exposure to the domestic inner workings of this
household makes her feel intrusive, uneasy.

"Coffee?" He returns to the living room, licking something
from the edge of his finger as he sits down beside her.

"No, thank you."

"Jelly," he explains, bringing his hands together in a clasp
over his parted knees.  The comment reminds her of their
reunion meeting at the Conestoga Grill, when Tillman offered
a somewhat belated, though brief clarification about the
dripping, unwanted mug of root beer that was slammed on the
table before her.

Instead of replying, she opens a large manila envelope,
handing several glossy photographs to him while she proceeds
to describe them in a soft voice.  "I thought you'd want to
be updated on what was found last night.  This morning's
autopsy only confirmed what we already suspected: the same
MO as in '94.  The word carved into the chest, though with
much shallower cuts this time.  No bone damage, except for a
massive skull fracture toward the back, which exposed a
large portion of the brain and probably caused death before
mutilation commenced."

She glances at Tillman and sees that his jaw is squared, his
lips drawn into a pucker, which accentuates the short
bristles of his mustache.  He ponders the photos with hooded
eyes, looking at each one for long moments before handing
them back.

"There was no rape, so it's similar to the case that
involved B.J.," she continues, sheaving the pictures.  "But
we've just been made aware of something else.  If you
remember back to '94, the word "Sister" was smeared on the
wall with the victim's blood in all instances except
Cokely's.  There is a hint of that same thing at the
DiAngelo home, but so indistinctly rendered on the living
room wall that at first it was overlooked as simple blood
spatter."

"Do you have a picture of it?"

"No, not with me.  But I'll ask Detective Darnell to get one
to you, if you want to examine it here, at home... to tell
us what you think."

He nods and his glance lingers over her face.  "I appreciate
you wanting to keep me in the loop, Agent Scully."

"I do have a few, more personal questions to ask,
Lieutenant.  I hope you won't mind."

He opens his hands, palms up, and gives his head an
ambivalent shake.  "Ask away."

"Have you had any communication with Mrs. Linda Thibodeaux
since 1994, official or otherwise?"

The question, posed so unexpectedly, unsettles Tillman
enough that he straightens in annoyance.  "I don't see how
that's relevant.  Where are you taking this?"

"Nowhere, except to underscore the fact that Linda
Thibodeaux has a unique connection to your son... that of
being his great-grandmother through B.J.  Because of that
connection and its possible significance to this case, I
think it's a reasonable question to ask."

He gets to his feet, hands hanging clenched at his sides, as
he gazes toward the kitchen door.

"No.  I've shied away from any contact.  Partly because of
Janine and the gossip that would result, partly because it
would dredge up too many unpleasant memories.  And she
hasn't gone out of her way, either, I noticed."  He faces
Scully who stands up, sensing the interview is ended and her
presence no longer welcome.

"I understand," she says shortly, slipping the folder back
into her brief case.

"Listen to me, I'm not angry at you -- or Agent Mulder, for
doing your jobs.  It's nothing personal," he insists.  "This
whole case has been a nightmare revisited.  It's...
exhausting."

Scully nods in sympathy and buttons her coat.  "May I say
good-bye to Benjie, Lieutenant?  I..." She hesitates,
feeling awkward and foolish, now that the moment has come.
"I have something I'd like to give to him."

Perplexed, Tillman gestures her forward and follows her to
the kitchen.  At the table sits the little boy, slowly
decimating the center of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
like any young child would.  He sets it down, grape jelly
painting the corner of his mouth red-purple, and stares at
Scully's approach.

Embarrassed by the exaggerated solemnity of the moment, she
clears her throat and pulls a package from her brief case,
placing it on the table before the boy.  "This is for you,
Benjie.  So you have something fun to do, okay?"

The boy is speechless, big eyes shining from the new,
cellophane-wrapped box of Legos to Scully and back again.
Tillman leans forward also, his face expressing wonder, then
gratitude.

This is not what I should be doing, she scolds herself,
touching the boy's head and turning on her heel toward the
front door.  Tillman's pleased and tender reaction is also
mildly disturbing to her.  Bad move, Dana, to feel so
personally involved that you bring the house down with a
simple, well-chosen gift.  She doesn't know what Mulder
would think about her stepping over the line in this way.
Hopefully, he would understand and let it go.

She swears she can hear the ice cracking around her... Good
intentions be damned.

At the front door she feels Tillman's hand on her arm,
halting her quick escape.  "That was... very thoughtful of
you.  I don't know what else to say --"

"Then, don't say anything, please.  I just knew how attached
he was to the toy and how much it bothered him to lose it."
The corners of her lips feel strained and tight as she
shoves emotional distance between herself and Tillman.  His
hand releases her arm and she turns to go --

Low on her coat, a gentle persistent tug.  Glancing down she
looks into the soulful eyes of Benjie Tillman, glittering
with unshed tears.  He wipes at the corner of one gently and
his pink lower lip trembles.  "Thank you," he says in a
gruff, heartfelt whisper, dabbing again.

Maligned step-child or boy murderer?  Innocent or guilty?
It's all Scully can do to extricate herself from the house
before her own tears begin to surface, seeking escape.

Thank you, God, she prays when the cell phone rings at the
car and she can funnel all her attention on that...

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

Thibodeaux residence, Edmond
November 6, 2000
1:20 p.m.

Mulder's a little more than just disappointed.  For some
reason Scully doesn't exhibit his same level of appreciation
for the nifty double-cross on Darnell earlier this morning.
Her weak chuckle dies early and she fusses with her
paperwork or stares out the window on the drive up to
Edmond.

"I thought the autopsy was routine," he quips, fishing for a
rationale and mangling sunflower seeds between his teeth.
Driving headlong into the wind, he's conscious of her
unaccountable preoccupation and malaise.

"It was."

He decides not to press it, if she's headed into another
monosyllabic funk.  Something's rocked her boat, but there
are too many variables that could factor in and he wants
both of them focused when they get to Thibodeaux's.  So
while he gives the car gas, cracks seeds, and ponders the
intricacy of the case, Scully sits at his side immersed in
her own secret silence.

This time the black, snarling beast is chained and staked
toward the side of the house, barking up a storm.  Mulder
feels his balls relax as he and Scully pass through the
gate toward their waiting hostess.

"That's Chief," Linda Thibodeaux says, after greeting them,
"and his bark is far worse than his bite.  He's one of the
few protectors I have now.  But he really wouldn't hurt a
soul unless I'm in distress."

He grins at her, not unfamiliar with alpha tendencies.
"Thanks, but I'd still rather not to test your theory."

The woman hasn't changed in six years' time, from her short
white hair and blue eyes to her expression of painful
determination, made all the more tragic by the jagged scar
that disfigures one cheek.  Harry Cokely's legacy.  Mulder
remembers seeing a picture taken weeks before the incident,
showing a pretty young woman in a 40's 'do.  He looks at her
now, trying hard to detect any similarity to B.J.'s
features.

She leads them through the neat, spare house to the kitchen.
Blue flowers and country decor dot the wallpaper.  His nose
twitches to faint, homey fragrances of spice, fruit, and
fresh coffee brewing.  As they sit, Linda points back toward
the living room area.  "I settled Viola in the bedroom
downstairs here.  She's asleep.  It's my room, really, with
a bathroom close by.  Steps would be too much for her."

"How is it that you two are friends?"

The woman takes her time before answering Mulder's question,
placing cups on saucers and gathering a few teaspoons.  "I
suppose misery loves company, Agent Mulder.  Viola's father
passed on about the same time you two were here last.  After
Detective Morrow's attack on me, I was a nervous wreck and
could barely eat or sleep for fear.  My neighbor Ro --
that's short for Rosemary," she explains, pouring the
coffee, "knew Viola and introduced us.  I've got a good ten
years on both of 'em.  Well, long story short, we clicked
like sisters and she came to stay with me through the worst
of it.  Now it's my turn."

"I'm sure you never anticipated a replay of the same crime,
the same kind of assault on your friend, with Harry Cokely
dead for so many years," he adds.

"Oh, Lord, no!  How something so terrible can be repeated
again, that's beyond me.  And who could it be?  It's a
nightmare for everybody, especially those of us who live
alone or where it's less populated.  I actually fear for my
life now that this fiend is afoot."  She slumps at the
table, grasping her cup between wrinkled hands that tremble.

Scully reaches over to squeeze the older woman's hand with
her own sympathetic fingers.  It dawns on Mulder that the
two woman share a special bond.  He remembers now that Linda
was left in Scully's care during the case of '94, while he
went out in search of B.J.  His partner brought her to the
police station in Aubrey to report the attack, effectively
blowing the lid off of Tillman's complacent denial.

"Who are these other women?"  Scully questions her with
gentleness.

"Oh, Viola, of course.  Ro and Alice Marshall from the
hospital.  Even some of the nurses who work there.  The
check-out ladies at the grocery store have said the same
thing, Agent Scully."

"Did you know Gwen DiAngelo?"

"Just as an aide who helped Viola.  Such a horrible, unfair
way for a person to go..."

"Do you know someone by the name of Natalie Warner?"

At his question, both women turn their heads toward Mulder,
and Linda shakes hers in disgust.  "One of the biggest
mouths there is in Aubrey," she says, venom in her voice.
"Milksop husband and a brat for a child.  Knows everything
and anything, especially if it's hurtful.  The woman's a
hellkite, plain and simple."

"Apt word," comments Scully, throwing a look to Mulder.

He tucks the point away for later, more private discussion
and attempts to explain the reason for his question to Linda
Thibodeaux.  "I'm trying to establish a common thread or
causal connection among those people we've encountered
during this case.  Some of these connections are obvious,
like your biological ties to B.J. and her son Benjie.
Others are not so clear cut."

Linda's eyes glisten and she blinks at the mention of the
child's name, so he pursues that tack.  "I want you to know
that I visited with B.J. Morrow yesterday, at the prison
hospital.  She's worried about her son's safety in light of
the new attacks here."

"She's a mother," Linda whispers.  "Of course she'd sense
something like that.  It's instinctual.  And as much as I
despise what that fiendish man did to me so long ago, I
truly regret that I never had the joy of raising my own
child or appreciating my granddaughter.  So I feel a special
kind of protectiveness for that little boy."

He doesn't want to risk looking at Scully, to see the effect
these words have on her.  Later, he thinks... later when
they've both had time to mull over the conversation and he
sees how she fares.

It surprises him, therefore, to hear her pose the next
question to Linda.  "Can we safely conjecture, because
you're Benjie Tillman's great-grandmother and concerned
about his welfare, that you've enlisted Viola's help in
looking out for him -- using her as your eyes on the bus and
in Aubrey?"

"It's true," she says, dabbing now with her napkin.  "We
both cringe to see how he's treated by the children.  And
there are other signs, like his skin, his sad little face.
For years we wondered how he was faring.  I don't know Mrs.
Tillman as a person... but I think a woman can take better
care of a child than *she* seems to.  Pardon me for being
overly critical."

"Have you ever approached Lieutenant Tillman about your
concerns?"

Linda shakes her head vigorously.  "No, never.  He seems a
very proud, private man.  I don't think he'd take it well,
coming from me.  I imagine *she* wouldn't, and then I'd fear
for the boy.  You never know how some people will react."

"That's true," says Mulder, scooting his chair closer to the
table.  "Let me deviate for second and ask another, slightly
unrelated question: are you the one who set fire to Harry
Cokely's house in Gainesville?"

He's aware of Scully's startled expression without looking
toward her, but Linda Thibodeaux doesn't blink an eye as she
returns his stare.  Despite years of hardship, fear, and
trauma she displays strength of will and a sense of
vengeance he finds admirable.  The woman has spunk -- and
he's convinced she must have passed these same valuable
survivor's traits on to B.J.... and now to Benjie.

"Yes, that was me."  Her voice is hushed as her eyes become
vacant, dredging past memories.  "I went alone shortly after
he died and never told a living soul about it."

"Why?"

She shakes her head.  "Why did I do it?  Agent Mulder, after
all the harm and heartache that evil man caused me, I took
pleasure in burning the pigsty he called a home.  I wanted
to destroy all evidence of his existence on this earth."

Scully moves closer to the tormented woman, clasping her
hand once more and re-directing her gaze.  They contemplate
one another in the quiet kitchen, the older and the younger
-- two women robbed of their children, sharing similar pain
and experiences that Linda Thibodeaux could not even fathom
or imagine.

"It's possible to obliterate something inanimate, like a
house," Scully points out, her voice low and measured, "but
Benjie Tillman, as a flesh and blood child, is also living
evidence of Cokely's existence --"

"Oh, come, Agent Scully!  I know the difference.  That
little child didn't ask to come into the world in the manner
he did any more than my --" She falters, swallowing, "than
my own unfortunate son who I gave up for adoption.  But what
choice did I have back then -- a child born from rape?  From
a murderer like that?"

Mulder slides back from the table, not wanting to intrude
upon this intensely personal exchange, but Linda Thibodeaux
is quick to notice his intention.  She seizes his hand, both
partners now held fast by her grasping fingers.  Her mouth
works silently for long moments, eyes swimming with tears of
desperation before she's able to speak in a heavy whisper.

"I'm so afraid... for myself and now Viola.  The evil that
came from this man *must* be cut off before anyone else gets
hurt or dies.  Promise me you'll do everything and anything
you can to stop it.  Please..."

************
End of Chapter 10