************
Chapter 11
************

Conestoga Motel
November 6, 2000
8:12 p.m.

This time Mulder is the partner with no appetite.

Hungry for substance and theory rather than burgers and
fries, he's a man on a mission.  All the way home from
Edmond he stewed over what was revealed at Linda
Thibodeaux's and the impasse that taunts them in this case.
His foot tapped the gas pedal in time to an inner beat only
he could fathom or follow.

Now he's pounding willy-nilly down the rabbit trail,
something he's done for years.  She knows it's how he thinks
best, after countless hours, countless cases observing this
behavior.  Fluctuations of intensity.  Engrossed in thought
one minute, then flicking the TV in his room from station to
station the next.  As always, she's expected to keep pace
with his long strides and unbelievably high hurdles of
logic, to put rationality on hold and hang on for the ride.

"Scully, what would happen if a train suddenly jumped its
own tracks?"

When he's not silent and meditative he's driving her crazy
with disjointed, unrelated questions thrown out like fly
balls to confound and challenge her thinking.  She feels
more like the scrabbling outfielder run ragged during a
practice session than a fellow contender.  But ever the
sport she plays his game, catching with her usual smooth
poise, drawing from a well-used cache of thoughtful, honest
responses.

"Logically?  I suppose it would derail and wreck, Mulder.
Why?"

"Or..." He savors his words, his eyes glowing green-gold and
glued to the screen of the muted TV, "suppose it was somehow
able to find an alternate route.  A new groove.  Another way
to continue on its journey."

She gives voice to her disbelief with an impatient huff.
"Even the 'little engine that could' had its limitations.
The Cannonball Express, with Casey Jones at the throttle,
couldn't defy gravity or the laws of physics..."

Shaking his head, he snaps the off button on the remote and
tosses it onto the coffee table with a thud of dismissal.
"I was thinking about Chaney and Ledbetter... Something
Chaney wrote down in his journal, in reference to the
psychopathic mind: 'One must wonder how these monsters are
created.  Did their home life mold them into creatures that
must maim and kill, or are they demons from birth?'"

"I'll admit he was perceptive for the times."

"High praise coming from a charter member of the Tim
Ledbetter fan club."

His sarcastic taunt, a by-product of their first abrasive
exchange in Aubrey, infuriates her to the point of
defensiveness.  "That's a low blow -- I have nothing but
respect for Chaney.  He broke ground in a very unforgiving
field that, back then, was denigrated by the law enforcement
community in general."

"Why, thank you, Dr. Scully."

It's just like Mulder to esteem her scowl and raised middle
finger.  Such spirit invigorates him when he's on the chase
and, understanding that, she decides to bridle her
indignation for the good of this impromptu brainstorming
session.

"I was going to elucidate," she points out, "that the
psychological and scientific communities in the early '40's
were also less than sympathetic toward the perpetrators of
such heinous crimes as well as the men who sought to solve
them.  Especially with psychopathology still in its
infancy."

He nods, encouraged by her participation.  "The term wasn't
even a part of psychiatric nomenclature until the early
1950s.  Chaney derived most of his theories from a man named
Hervey Cleckly, who published a landmark book called 'The
Mask of Insanity' in 1941.  Hot off the presses,
revolutionary, and a wealth of information for an agent who
was hell-bent on investigating so-called 'stranger killings'
in his spare time.  Good thing Chaney and Ledbetter were
fast readers."

Curiosity piqued, she toes off her shoes to curl up on
Mulder's small couch, tucking her legs.  "What made
Cleckly's approach so distinctive?"

"Ah, so kind of you to ask..."

Warming to his subject and her apparent interest, he claims
the cushion next to hers, tossing away the puffy pillow and
crowding her feet.  She watches him loosen his tie as he
sits back, his long legs stretched out over the carpet.

"He was the first to develop sixteen distinct criteria for
clinical assessment of so-called 'moral insanity.'  In
essence it was early cataloguing or profiling, using
descriptors like 'manipulative,' 'self-centered,' and
'lacking in empathy' in order to focus on the specific
behavioral manifestations that characterized these
offenders."

"Except now," she adds, "the focus is on APD or Antisocial
Personality Disorder, which has slowly broadened its field
to include genetic inheritance, environment, physiological
imbalances, temporal lobe injury, the body's own
neurochemistry --"

He leers at her.  "You trying to turn me on?"

"Be serious, Mulder.  Our culture, to a certain extent,
still resists blaming the body for psychotic abnormality,
rather than more thoroughly pursuing that avenue.
Physiology, the environment, and comportment are all
interconnected.  Thus, it's believed that a child with
inherited criminal traits can still be nurtured, through
good parenting, toward acceptable social behaviors."

"Doesn't sound like anyone we know..."

His sarcastic allusion to the Tillman child clouds her
thoughts; she settles her chin into a palm, conscious of a
heavy weight when she sees regret in Mulder's face.  He
reaches down to massage her toes with a reassuring hand.

"Hey, forget I said that.  Shake it off for now, Scully.
Let's go back to Chaney's quote about demons from birth."

"The bad seed scenario?"

"Yeah.  You're the classic movie buff," he says, twisting
toward her on the cushion.  "Just for grins, give me a quick
synopsis of the film that helped shape popular thought and
layman's theory in the 1950's."

She closes her eyes for a moment, summoning recollections of
one memorable shore leave from childhood.  Dimmed living
room lamps, her father's accommodating arm and whispered
narrative, and the soft, silvery black and white flicker
from their old TV in San Diego.

"The story revolved around an eight year-old girl, blonde
and pig-tailed.  Impossibly sweet on the outside, she was
actually a manipulative and cold-hearted killer.  She
dispatched -- most foully, by the way -- a landlady, a young
schoolmate, the handyman, and had her own mother's murder
planned before the movie ends."

Mulder raises his brows, impressed.

"It seems that the little girl's mother was adopted as a
toddler.  While investigating her roots the woman discovered
she was, in actuality, the biological offspring of a
psychotic murderess who exhibited no conscience or respect
for human life."

"Did justice prevail?  With the little girl, I mean," he
prompts.

"Well, she was zapped by a lightning bolt in the movie's
final scene, while going to retrieve a prize she had killed
for.  A very biblical and just retribution.  See it
sometime, Mulder, you'd appreciate the allegory."

He grins.  "I'd rather watch you tell it."

The words bring shy warmth to her cheeks, self-consciousness
making her fight to keep her thoughts aligned.  "So... in
essence, the young girl had inherited this 'bad seed' from
her grandmother and was perpetuating the same gross
iniquities."

"And hence the spread of the false, though widely-accepted
theory that a 'bad seed' will skip a generation -- like
twinning.  Gotta love the power of Hollywood."

"My one close encounter with Hollywood," she states with
quiet emphasis, "was enough to last a lifetime, thank you."

"Agreed."

"So, why bring up the subject of the bad seed again?"

The movie industry has nothing on her simple question, which
galvanizes Mulder from his comfortable perch on the couch to
resume a well-worn path over the carpet.  She watches as he
paces, navy blue suit coat flapping open and askew, tie
swaying in a small arc when he makes his turns.

"Psychopaths.  Let's think about this... Are they demons
from birth, as Chaney posits, or..."

"Or what?"

He gives a melodramatic spin on his heel and stares at her,
eyes green and cat-like.  "Or can the demon be directed by
other means?  Can it pick its target?  Let's think beyond
genetics and blood relatives, here.  I'm talking about the
hypothetical train jumping its track, Scully.  Something so
uniquely paranormal that it would appear impossible and
therefore go undetected and circumvent normal investigative
procedure."

"My God, Mulder..." She wants to throw in the towel after
this declaration and decides to rub her temple instead.
"You call *that* a respectable hunch?  A cogent leap of
logic?"

"I call it a fucking rational probability when all the
other, usual theories have come up dead or empty.  Stay with
me on this."

She straightens up on the soft cushion of the couch,
crossing her legs at the ankles and spreading her hands
expansively over her lap.  "Okay, Sherlock, I'm all ears.
Give it to me with both barrels."

Circling, he pulls up a chair to face her and sits down,
thighs apart and tensed as though he's prepared to spring to
his feet again.

"We've both run into empathetic transference, which B.J.
experienced here six years ago.  Now, the biological,
genetic lineage from Harry Cokely goes nowhere, except to
Benjie Tillman.  Like you, I doubt he possesses the physical
stamina necessary to carry out these attacks.  I think the
real killer has taken pains to throw suspicion on the boy,
but is still controlled -- as B.J. and Benjie are affected -
- by the re-awakened demonic power that  lusts to kill.
Remember Bill Patterson from ISU and the demon-spirit of the
gargoyle that jumped straight to him from John Mostow?"

She gives a somber nod.  "But why now?  What triggered it
again here in Aubrey?"

"Good question.  And one we may not understand until we can
focus on who the real killer is.  Which in the meantime,
leaves our boy Benjie in a world of hurt."

"Do you have any ideas?"

Still rapt in contemplation, he takes her hands in his,
running his thumbs meditatively over the fine bones on the
backs.  He traces the network of thin veins as though each
slow pass of his thumb will guide him closer to unraveling
the mystery.  Large and warm, compelling, his hands rest on
top of her thighs; she allows him to use her flesh to guide
his thoughts.  A far cry from the old days...

"No," he confesses, "but I'm convinced we've been diverted
by false assumptions.  We're stymied.  We need to regroup
and come up with something else before there's another
attack."

"Or before Skinner decides to shorten our leash and haul us
back to D.C."

"Exactly.  So, instead of following the killer's trail and
second-guessing his motivations... I think it would make
better sense to turn the spotlight back onto the victims
themselves."

She finds herself reacting with irritation, pulling her
hands away.  "Mulder, I realize victimology is a field of
study that's just recently getting the respect it deserves
as a science, but how would you even proceed?"

"By finding the common thread, like I told Linda Thibodeaux.
We need the single denominator, the one synchronous element
that can pull this all together... and bingo--"

"What?"

"We have the killer nailed."

"Too simplistic," she demurs, shaking her head.

"No, too easily overlooked, too easily dismissed."
Clutching her hands, he brings them up to press against his
lips.  Staring over them, his gaze penetrates hers with
sheer, focused determination.  "It's time for extreme
possibilities, Scully, because the usual methods have
crapped out on us again.  And let's face it -- because time
is getting short."

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

Tillman residence
November 6, 2000
8:45 p.m.

"No word yet?"

Tillman shakes his head, standing.  He snicks off the TV
with a finger, wipes his mustache, and then stacks the limp
and dirtied paper plates and Styrofoam boxes that litter an
end table.

Nachos and buffalo wings from The Grill.  Bachelor fare.
Nice of Darnell to stop over with food and two cold Fat
Tires after Benjie went down to sleep, but now his stomach
feels like popping its top, even without the beer factor.
He tries -- and fails -- to stifle a rousing burp.

"Nothing," he says, patting his stomach, "and it makes me
damn uncomfortable.  I'd at least expect her sister to be
home.  Someone in the family."

"Maybe she joined them on a trip.  You never know."

"That's the trouble... I never know."

Darnell shrugs on his coat and stands in awkward silence,
digging into his pockets.  A small car made from multi-
colored Lego blocks catches his eye and he gestures toward
it with an elbow.  "The boy doing okay?"

"Yeah," Tillman replies grudgingly, "even though he's been
through hell.  He still won't talk about it."

"Except to Mulder," he could add, but doesn't.  He battles
too much shame and pride to admit that Fox Mulder touches
something in his child that he, as a father, hasn't been
able to reach in six years of close contact.  Hasn't
bothered, or wanted to, until now...

Despite Benjie's exposure to trauma and murder, Tillman has
to admit that the boy has changed since Janine's departure.
Could it be because he's away from school and no longer
dealing with the stress of bus rides and peer pressure?
Even today he seemed more relaxed, looser, more like a
normal kid.  Most surprising was the way he came forward of
his own accord this morning to thank Agent Scully for her
gift.  A shy, backward boy like Benjie...

"Listen, Joe," he says to Darnell, "I want you to know I
really appreciate the way you've handled things these last
couple of days, especially with me tied up here after the
murder.  Go on home and let the rest of the gang take over.
You deserve a break."

Rather than looking pleased, the other man wears an odd
expression of discomfort that almost resembles guilt.  He
turns at the door and hesitates before replying.

"Gotta be straight with you, Brian.  I had mucho help.  If
it wasn't for Agent Scully, well... let's just say this
DiAngelo case wouldn't be nearly as clean or by-the-book;
she's something else to work with.  I'm glad she's back for
this.  Agent Mulder, too."

He feels a sense of loss when Darnell leaves, grief so sharp
he slumps into a chair, the cleaning up forgotten.  He could
almost cry, faced with the bleakness of another long night
alone.  Uncertainty for the future hangs over him like a
black cloud of judgment and he rubs his face hard with both
hands.  He longs for companionship and simplicity.  He longs
for B.J. and what he used to have with Janine.

Most of all, he sorely misses the unconditional closeness
and acceptance of another human being.  The tender comfort
that only a loving woman can give a man.

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

Conestoga Motel
November 6, 2000
9:20 p.m.

It's late and time *is* getting short.  He's just about
convinced Scully that they should sleep on this new theory
of his.  That wild, thumping sex and then a good night's
rest would do wonders for both of them.

Dinner?  What the hell -- he can forego food if she can.
Besides, her body provides him with enough of a sensual
banquet that he can barely wait to dig in and make a pig of
himself.  No manners, just pure appetite.

On his knees before the couch, boxing her in with his arms,
he breathes into the fragrant curve of her neck and
shoulder.  He notes how her thighs have parted and straddle
his sides little by little, her breasts nudging his chest.
She's tender and compliant, so he's convinced Scully must
need this too.  Last night was all angst and cuddle for
them.  Comfort food.  Now he expects more, hoping to thrust
his way inside to plumb her soft depths again.  To close his
eyes and let his dick be the ultimate guide.

"Hey," he murmurs, sliding his lips to her earlobe for a
languorous suck, "bet you didn't know that every year 11,000
Americans injure themselves while trying out bizarre sexual
positions."

She chuckles and he's not sure whether it's from the tickle
at her ear or his unconventional seduction talk.

"I'm not into bizarre right now, Mulder.  I get enough
'bizarre' from the job, let alone wanting it in my bed."

"Is that so?"  Testing her receptivity, he slides his hands
from behind her back and repositions them at the inner
creases of her thighs, fingertips brushing inward, over her
clothing, to the sweet spot that hides between her legs.
"Z'at feel good?  Not too bizarre for you?"

"Mmmm... you know it does... is.  Isn't."  She shudders and
grasps his head, claiming a kiss with her own searching
lips.  Her fingers do a slow dance through the hair at the
back of his neck, while her hips grow loose and promising
against him.

"How about this?"  His voice sounds drunk, slurred and husky
from want.  With both hands he plucks at her crotch seam,
seeking out the contours of her hidden folds, teasing her
clit with slow and synchronized thumb strokes.  "Vulval
massage is supposed to be the new foreplay.  It's all the
rage."

"The *new* --" That gets him a gurgling belly laugh and an
answering grind of her hips.  "On whose authority, Mulder?"

He revels in her utter sensuality, her open-mouthed mirth
and acceptance.  Desire pulls him down to the peaks of her
breasts.  He loves the way her chest heaves against his
face, the way her nipples harden and pout just beneath the
thin layers of fabric.  This close, he can breathe in the
distinctive scent emanating from the garden between her
thighs.  Scully's arousal, sweet and so good.  He wants to
lower his mouth to her dark, rosy furrows and graze himself
silly.

"Secret sources," he whispers.  "It's worth a try... see
what all the fuss is about..."

The ring of his phone cleaves his passion as effectively as
Lorena Bobbitt's knife.  He curses and lumbers to his feet,
grabbing for the receiver.  Already his balls clench in
protest; he grabs them, too, for good measure.

"Mulder," he answers, his throat dry.  The fruits of his
efforts slowly evaporate while he's busy absorbing the
message on the phone.  Her high color fading, Scully sits
up, smoky eyes on his.  "Understood, Lieutenant, we're right
on it."  He replaces the phone, bleak of face and blue-
balled.

"Tillman?"

"Yeah.  Intruder across town.  In light of the case, he
thought we should check it out first hand."

It occurs to him that this is the second time a call from
Tillman has played havoc with his love life.  Curving a hand
over his aching manhood, he sees with dismay that Scully has
become all business and hustle, donning her winter coat and
snagging her weapon.

"Later," she assures him, giving his cupped hand a gentle,
knowing pat as she heads for the door.  His stomach rumbles
while he slings on his own gun; hoping she's good for it, he
follows her lead.

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

Few streetlights or homes dot this rural road.  The house in
question rims the south edge of town, bordering woods on one
side, open prairie on the other.  It looks all the same,
however, when he and Scully churn up the driveway in the
windy darkness of late evening.

Gus and Essie Nieslanick, retired farmers.  Their neat, out-
dated kitchen has the same homey smell as Linda
Thibodeaux's.  Mulder can understand their paranoia, with
murder practically in their back yard and the infernal wind
blowing weird tunes around the house.  The husband, he
notes, has a shotgun handy on the counter, resting right
next to the cookie jar.  Mulder smiles at the incongruity.

"It's registered, if that's what you're wonderin' about,"
the codger says gruffly.  "Hunting and home protection."

"Glad to hear it.  NRA?"

"No other way to go, Sonny.  What about you?"

Scully's well-timed interruption prevents him from either
lying his head off or raising the geezer's hackles.  He
watches how the old couple gravitates toward her, drawn to
her womanhood and sympathetic, but commanding tone like bees
to honey.  Just minutes ago he, too, was buzzing around her
hive, hoping to savor her sweetness in more intimate ways.
Giving himself a surreptitious scratch under his coat, he
wonders how Scully fares on that level.  All he can see of
her short figure is windblown red hair and dark coat.

"Somebody's been trespassin', pokin' around with a
flashlight.  Saw 'em out the bathroom window.  And at this
ungodly hour," the old man rants.  "*Damn* inconsiderate, if
you want my opinion."

Mulder can't disagree with Gus Nieslanick's sentiments.  He
opts to go out and check the shed area, while Scully and two
others from the Aubrey police department arrange to sweep
the attached garage and outside perimeter.

It's also ungodly cold out, despite the lack of snow in the
forecast.  His breath looks like cotton and he wishes for
something to warm his ears in the freezing night air.
Scully's hot limber thighs could be squeezing them right
now, if not for Tillman's phone call.  But, never being much
of a hat man, he flaps his collar higher and makes the best
of it.

He locates a ramshackle shed-turned-garage on the edge of
the woods, one end hinged to open.  A score of old license
plates hang along the side, nailed into place like makeshift
quilting blocks.  Entering, he finds the shed home to
various tools and an older model of car, a well-kept beater.
No electric light or heat.  Nothing seems to be amiss, but
he plays his flashlight's beam over the vehicle, scuffed
workbench, and other piles of assorted junk before leaving.

The huge door barely shuts when a blow from behind cracks
against his skull.  He wheels and collides with a tree
trunk, stars flashing before him, empty air meeting his wild
grasps for purchase.

On his face in cold leaves and gravel, he hears phantom
footsteps scuffle and fade into the surrounding blackness.
Shit, he's no better than a green recruit caught with his
pants down.  He rolls to his side and tries to sit up, but
flops back onto the ground, helpless and nearly cataleptic,
bleeding into his eyes from his tree-hugging encounter.

How long he's down for the count remains a mystery, but at
some point in time he hears Scully's cry.  Her skillful
hands read his face, head, and neck, then work to staunch
his wound and wipe away the sticky mess with tissues from
her coat pocket.  She calls out to their counterparts that
an agent is down, ordering them with a voice of authority to
fan out and check the surrounding woods and other
residences.

"My God, Mulder," she murmurs, leaning toward him when the
others leap to obey.  "Who did this?  What did you see?"

"Every constellation known to man, and then some."  With her
help, he sits up and groans in pain.  She shines the
flashlight to the back of his head, pointblank into his
eyes, and gives a worried sigh.

"You'll need stitches front and back.  You may also have a
concussion, so let's get you to the hospital.  Can you walk,
or should I call for an ambulance?"

"No... shit, no ambulance.  My attacker took off into the
woods..." In the distance he hears a dog's incessant
barking, reminiscent of Linda Thibodeaux's rangy beast.
Someone crunches behind him, treading heavily on gravel.
"Who --?"

Hands other than Scully's, large bearish mitts, hoist him
upright to his feet.  Turning on wobbly knees, he comes face-
to-face with Gus Nieslanick and his shotgun.  "It's okay,
Sonny.  The other cops went up to check on the Marshalls.
They live right up the way.  That's their dog makin' all the
ruckus."

The name strikes a familiar ring... where has he heard it?
Scully supplies him with the answer when she says, "We've
heard of Alice Marshall, who organizes the hospital
volunteers.  Same family?"

"Yup.  Her son Steve, his wife, and the five kids.  Plus a
nice little grandma apartment right there for Alice.  Dog
doesn't usually bark unless provoked, though.  Essie!"  He
hollers toward the house.  "Get on the horn and call over to
Marshall's, see if everything's okay."

Mulder stumbles along between Gus's grizzled muscle and
Scully's shorter, slighter frame.  The journey seems endless
when he spots the Corolla parked at the side of the house.
Almost there, he needs to rest again, to lay down his poor
splitting head... He feels his knees buckle, his eyesight
swim as they gain on the car.

"Yeah," Gus comments, sounding muted and far away. "Alice is
an old friend of ours.  Heart like gold and sure dotes on
those grandkids.  We loan out the old car back there in the
shed when she has a need to drive anywhere.  Good thing the
bastard that nailed you didn't steal it, or..."

"Or what?"  He eases into the passenger side and lolls on
the headrest toward the man's voice, not willing to accept
that he feels the urgent need to vomit.

"Why, I'd have had to exercise my right to bear arms,
wouldn't I?  Home protection.  My God-given privilege as an
American citizen."

Holding the wad of tissue to his forehead wound, Mulder
breathes back a reply.  He flinches when his partner shuts
the doors, thanks the farmer for his help, and starts the
ignition.  All sounds, all movement seems amplified and
overwhelming, then foggy to his brain as he wavers toward
unconsciousness and back again.  Preoccupied with the
business of driving, Scully asks him what he'd said to Gus.

"Ummm... 'Fucking-A', I think... or was it 'Semper Fi'?"

She snorts, a comforting sound that makes him smile through
the pain, nausea, and jostle over the unpaved road.  He
knows his weak attempt at humor and brave front can't fool
Scully when she's in full-blown rescue mode.  And now he can
kiss good-bye the mind-blowing sex he had planned for later
tonight...

The car accelerates and spits gravel from its rear tires,
proof of her apprehension and urgent rush to get him to
Memorial Hospital.

************
End of Chapter 11