************
Chapter 13
************

Tillman residence
November 7, 2000
10:15 a.m.

Scully holds up a manicured forefinger, drawing it back and
forth before the child's bemused face.

"Keep your eyes on it, sweetie," she instructs, and Benjie
obliges.  His blue, watery gaze tries to match the
hypnotizing movement of her finger and his lower lip tucks
back in safely under the upper.

Following Mulder's example, she prepares the way for
progress with these small games and pseudo-medical exercises
that bamboozle both father and son.  Both are cooperative.
Tillman, attired less casually than a few mornings ago, has
his eye directed more to her than to his boy.  Benjie, on
the other hand, must consider this to be just another
enigmatic task required by an adult authority figure in his
life.

She's pulled up a chair and installed the boy on the couch
cushions, his legs dangling, Legos piled into his lap like a
security blanket fragmented to pieces.  Symbolic.  Breakfast
hangs heavy in the warm air around them: bacon, eggs, and
toast, she guesses by the odors, prepared by Mr. Mom
himself.

It's exactly what Mulder ordered at the Grill this morning
when he woke up bright-eyed and ready to wrestle the world.
She wasn't quite so perky, feeling the effects of little
sleep and several vigorous couplings in close succession.
Not that she's complaining, by any means...

Vulval massage the new foreplay?  Oh my, yes -- she won't
press for where Mulder got his information, but the proof is
certainly in the pleasure.  Thank God for a man who's not
afraid to do a little gratuitous research on his own.

Research is what occupies him now at the Aubrey police
station.  Focusing on the victims in each case, he feels
compelled to wade back through the files and find the missed
threads, the hidden common denominator that might link the
victims and shed light on the newest of killers.

Tillman, with reluctance, departs the living room to answer
a personal phone call.  Rather than waiting to question this
child under his father's critical eye, she decides to take
advantage of his brief, though not unwelcome absence.

"Benjie," she begins with lowered voice, "what do you
remember about last night?  Can you tell me?"

The boy considers the colorful clump of Lego blocks heaped
in his lap and shrugs.

"What are you making now?"

"A house."

It's evident he doesn't want to share about his newest
project, so she moves on to more important matters.  "You
dressed yourself last night, didn't you?"

He nods, his gaze climbing up to her face.  "After Daddy
fell asleep.  He didn't hear me 'til I went downstairs."

These longer sentences are music to her ears, making her
smile encouragement.  "Who told you to get dressed... to go
outside?"

"*It* did."

She swallows at his frankness, preparing to enter these dark
unknown waters without Mulder's navigational aid.  "Who is
*it*?  Does *it* have a name?"

"I don't think so."  Benjie's husky voice lowers and he
fiddles with the blocks in his lap.  "It talks to me, but I
don't hear anything.  I just... know."

"Well, it sounds to me like you also obey.  What would
happen if you didn't do what it said?  If you decided to say
no to it?"

Fear shines in the boy's eyes and his lip trembles.  "I
can't.  It's too scary.  And mean.  It would do things to --
"

She leans closer, her hand touching the child's arm in a
reassuring caress.  "To what?"

"To hurt people."

"You mean, like Viola, the bus driver?  And Mrs. DiAngelo?"

He nods, eyes swimming in a sea of such fearful apprehension
that he lifts a hand to wipe them.  He blinks and the cause
is lost in the profusion of tears that course down his
reddened cheeks.

"What's the matter, sweetie?  What are you so afraid of?"

"It hurts..."

The boy's shy fingers touch the back of her hand.  In spite
of herself, she feels a chill run through her body when she
strains to hear his next whispered words.

"It hurts people who are nice to me."

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

Aubrey police station
November 7, 2000
10:47 a.m.

"Coffee, Agent Mulder?"

He swivels his head a bit too quickly in order to see who
holds the steaming carafe.  Pain stabs between his eyes and
he wrinkles his forehead at the same time as smiling his
acceptance.

"Uh, sure.  Thanks."

The woman officer hands him a disposable cardboard cup of
the hot liquid, to which he gives a ginger sip.  Black and
acrid, it's just the ticket to get him through the morning
and the profusion of file folders that mound the desk before
him.  "This should qualify as a legitimate food group," he
cracks, lofting the cup in gratitude.

"Around here it does.  Say, that must've been some conk on
the head," she pursues, eyeballing his stitches, fore and
aft.

"Rang my bell but good."

Smiling, she retreats back into the long and spacious
station house, which seems to be the nerve center of the
department.  Still divided into the cubicles he remembers
from six years ago, the place seems fresher, more efficient.
A modest complement of detectives and cops man the desks,
answering telephones.  Their constant buzz makes him
appreciate the quieter, adjacent room he occupies for
research purposes.

The buzz ceases for a moment, prompting him to peer out the
opened door with curiosity.  It's Scully, back early from
her appointment with Benjie Tillman.  Mulder notes the heads
that turn, the looks that follow in her wake and feels a
burst of pride, since every cop in the place knows her
official connection to him.

Their private connection, however, remains another matter
and is nobody's damn business.

He watches.  His partner's hair, soft and penny-bright, bobs
as she walks between the cubicles, brushing the collar of
her dark wool coat.  Her cheeks bloom, touched by the
outside morning cold.  Lips full and glossy, she smiles back
with uneasy civility toward the few, more obvious cops who
grin like clowns and shift in their seats to follow her
progress.

"Some catwalk, huh?"

Scully smirks at his greeting and removes her coat, sliding
into the seat opposite.  "Almost makes me homesick for our
basement office," she says, "where isolation is the norm and
visitors stop by out of desperation or necessity only."

"You make it sound like we work out of a cell somewhere in
Tunguska."

Her brow arches and he concedes the sentiment.  "So," she
sighs, "how's the head now?"

"Twinges.  But I'm staving off that mother of all headaches
you predicted by downing more of the good stuff."  He lifts
his cup to prove his point.

"You had a gallon of it at breakfast, Mulder."

"See? Must be working."

"As well as your plumbing?"

He grins and sips, not about to reveal how many trips he's
taken to the john in the last hour.  "How goes it with
Benjie?  You're back a lot sooner than I expected."

It isn't his imagination that she appears troubled and
slightly distant.  Forehead wrinkled in thought, she
hesitates long enough for him to assume a tragic turn of
events and set down the half-filled cup next to the file
folders.

"No, he's fine," she qualifies, noticing his reaction.
"Motor and spatial skills normal, hand-to-eye coordination
checks out.  Normal appetite.  Playing with toys and holding
his own.  But he's still a tired, fearful little boy
carrying a big burden."

"Did he talk to you?"

She focuses on her hand, rubbing the back of it while she
speaks.  "Tillman stepped out of the room for a phone call
and I used that time to question Benjie about last night...
about what motivated him and what he felt or knew of this
*it* he refers to."

"So, that's how he identifies this force that controls him?"

"He pretty much reiterated what he said to you the other
night.  *It* tells him what to do and he 'knows' without
actually hearing an audible voice.  It sounds like he's a
pawn in a game of chess, moved from a distance by an
invisible master."

"Similar to what B.J. is experiencing also, except she's
merely subject to torment because of her location, while the
boy --"

"Is young, free, and reachable.  To be honest, I'm not yet
ready to hop on this demon force bandwagon you've got
rolling.  There could be other causes, Mulder --
psychological and physiological, which may have a lot to do
with his other symptoms and what's happened to him over the
past week."

Disheartened, he sets the cup down and leans back in his
chair.

"It still doesn't explain why we have one woman dead and
another who's injured.  Think about it, Scully... the boy
doesn't have the strength to perform the murders himself.
The real killer, through supernatural or paranormal means,
summons the boy so he'll be present during the attack and
subsequent murders.  Why?  To throw suspicion on him, to
have him partake, in some sick way, in the events that are
unfolding again.  This killer, this force, is on the same
kind of rampage that occurred in '94 and in the early '40's,
and Harry Cokely's direct descendents through Linda
Thibodeaux are major players."

Scully sits quietly, her hands clasped, avoiding his gaze.

"Ever heard of the term 'Synchronicity'?"

She gives an impatient sigh.  "I could venture to give my
understanding of it, but I'd rather you simply tell me your
version and save me the time and energy involved."

"Carl Jung originally coined the term.  In its simplest form
it's a meaningful coincidence of two or more events, where
something other than the probability of chance is involved.
A synchronistic event occurs when we recognize that two or
more causally unrelated events resemble each other and catch
our attention, Scully."

"So, we go from Goethe to Jung... If you mean this
succession of slash murders that seems to recur over time
and involves individuals with a unique point of connection -
-"

Energized now, he sits forward, pushing the folders to the
side.

"It goes much deeper than that.  Synchronicity is associated
with a profound activation of energy deep in the psyche, as
if the formation of patterns within the unconscious mind is
accompanied by physical patterns in the outer world.
Synchronicities are therefore often associated with periods
of transformation; for example, births, deaths, falling in
love, psychotherapy, intense creative work, and even a
change of profession."

He pauses, allowing the words to sink in.  "It's no accident
that, when Benjie Tillman was forced to confront the outside
world by starting school this fall, this episode in his life
became a catalyst for latent psychic forces and his own
synchronistic involvement in the chain of events that has
unfolded."

There are other synchronistic events he's aware of, but
won't mention now for fear of alienating his friend and
partner.  The recurring grief caused by her little girl's
unforeseen birth.  The eerie alignment between this dead
child's would-be admittance to school the same year as an
emotionally-bruised little boy in Aubrey, Missouri.

So much seems correlated, yet he dares not mention it.  Not
yet, and not to Scully.

Her mouth wears that pinched, pouty look of doubt he
recognizes and she ponders the back of her hand again.
"Jung doesn't come close to being the final authority here,
Mulder.  In any case, since his pat little theory can't
explain who the killer is, I think you were right to want to
take another look at the victims."

"How so?"

"Something Benjie said to me this morning.  He's afraid to
disobey the impulse that controls him, like leaving the
house last night, because he says *it* will react
vindictively.  He says it hurts the people who are nice to
him."

He stifles an ironic grunt because once again Scully, with
poise and well-timed deflection, has pulled a rabbit out of
her hat at the crucial moment.

"Okay... so we'll put Jungian metaphysics on hold and take a
look at Viola Rains first," he concedes.  "All we've gained
from speaking with her at the hospital is that she was
Benjie's one-time defender on the bus."

"More than that... she seemed to look out for him as well.
By Linda Thibodeaux's own admission, Viola served as her
eyes in keeping tabs on her great-grandchild.  Who else
would even know about that?"

"I don't know," he admits.  "But what about Gwen DiAngelo?
She was just his babysitter for an afternoon when Janine
Tillman went MIA.  Hardly a threatening crime or key
involvement."

Scully is about to reply when Joe Darnell disrupts the
gentle buzz of the station by sauntering in and waving to a
few of his associates.  He bends into a cubicle, nods, and
heads straightway toward the small room where the two
partners sit talking.

"They told me you were taking a break today," Mulder
comments, dragging his chair to the side and looking up.

"Agents," Darnell says in greeting, to which Scully gives a
quick nod.  "Yes, I am, for a change.  But I got a call from
the lab that some of the results were back.  Figured you'd
like to check it out, too," he adds, holding forth a large
yellow envelope.

Scully accepts it first, pulling out a page.  She peruses it
with a frown, then passes it on to Mulder.  The results are
what he expected all along: the blood found on Benjie
Tillman's mitten belongs undeniably to Gwen DiAngelo.  The
print taken from her kitchen floor shortly after the murder
is an exact match to the sole of Benjie's new school
sneakers.  No surprises.

"Proves nothing, except that the boy was there," he says,
flipping the worthless report onto the desk.  "Is that the
best we can come up with?"

"So far.  Still waiting on the tox screen and autopsy
results.  As for fingerprints at the scene --" Darnell
shrugs.  "The killer must've either wiped everything down or
worn gloves."

"What about fibers, hair samples?"  Scully asks the
question, her brow still knit.

"Nothing yet.  The woman kept a clean house and had no pets.
Not many visitors, either, considering she's lived there
just over three months.  No family visits and few friends to
speak of."

The last comment brings a grin to Mulder's face; Darnell
didn't just pull that observation out of his ass.  "Did the
neighbor next door give you some insider's information we
should know about, Detective?"

Scully looks from one man to the other.  "Which neighbor is
that?"

"Uh... a woman named Natalie Warner," Darnell explains after
a moment's hesitation.  "Agent Mulder, here, was kind enough
to arrange an interview with her the other day.  By the way,
Agent..." He steps back, flashing a smirk of his own.
"How's the head?"

Mulder holds up a triumphant thumb, then adds a forefinger
and aims his imaginary gun at the detective.  Darnell, for
all his weak stomach, is an okay guy.  He can take a joke
and retains a sense of humor over the incident, something
lacking in Tillman.  His partner, he notes, has caught on to
the neighbor's identity and opts to not pursue the obscure
exchange.

"Well, I'm out of here," says Darnell, turning toward the
door.  Pausing a moment, he rocks back on his heel and
smiles down into Scully's somber face.  "And I just wanted
to tell you, Agent Scully... I think it's an awesome thing,
what you did for Benjie Tillman, knowing how important those
blocks are to him.  The kid's in seventh heaven now.  I know
the Lieutenant was really impressed by your thoughtfulness
and generosity.  Very nice of you."

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

She wants to take Darnell by the ears and shake him
senseless.

Instead she woodenly smiles her thanks and watches him go.
Sitting under Mulder's silent, brooding stare, the polite
acknowledgment on her face disintegrates like melting ice.
She feels like the clock has turned itself back to a time in
the not too distant past when she disappeared on a
fruitless, foolhardy mission that yielded nothing except
wasted days and strained emotions between them.

She nods when he tells her they're taking a break outside.

"It's cold," she observes, wrapping her coat shut as they
head for the car.  Swift, long-legged strides are intended
to make her jog in order to keep up.

"And about to get a lot colder."

His smoldering anger contradicts the words; the door on the
driver's side bangs shut.  How much of this reaction is
attributable to his head wound, she's not certain, but she
hasn't seen Mulder this perturbed at her in a long time.
Neither does she know where they're headed until he revs the
car up the highway toward their motel.

Back at the Conestoga, he navigates through the usual
lunchtime bustle and parks the car.  Silence reigns, brittle
as glass.  When she exits, he hooks a hand around her upper
arm, steering her toward the door of his room.  One-handed
he unlocks it, pushes it open forcefully, then slams it
behind them.

She can hear his heavy breathing, the aggravation pouring
off him in waves.  His back looks broad and square,
invulnerable.  When he whirls around, the onslaught feels
like a slap in the face.

"What should we call this, Scully -- the FBI's personal
touch?  Customer service?  So now we're going out and buying
little presents for suspects?  Where the hell on the expense
report do we record that?"

Having no witty answer and outraged by his confrontational
stance, she stays quiet.  He snorts with impatience and
begins to pace between the bed and the bathroom.

"Christ, where to begin... think of the possibilities we let
slip by for so many years.  Maybe a dating service for Eddie
Van Blundht... and liver pate for Eugene Tooms, right?  You
remember Peetie, the Appalachian witchdoctor?  Probably
should have gotten him a doll for a get-well gift after you
plugged him.  Or, how about a carton of Morleys for the
Cancer Man -- great for those long road trips through
Pennsylvania --"

"Stop it, Mulder!"

She was defensive before, but now she's furious.  Her fists
clench at the sarcastic bullshit he snatches from the air
and throws at her feet, her eyes sparking under low, angry
brows.

"Did you even consider the wisdom behind what you were
doing?"

Hands and arms thrown wide, gesticulating, she holds her
own.  "At this point, I don't care whether it was a wise
move or not.  That toy restored some semblance of normalcy
and security to a frightened little boy's life.  I made the
decision and did it.  It's done.  And as much as you
disapprove, I'm very glad I made that choice."

"I'm not passing judgment on what you *chose* to do --"

"Oh, no?  Then why the fucking third degree?"

"You pissed me off, that's why.  You hid something important
from me.  Again.  I thought we'd made better progress than
that.  Whatever the hell happened to honesty, Scully, to
trusting each other?"

At the stark disappointment in his voice, her throat goes
tight and dry.  Before reacting, she should have remembered
that roots grow deep over time, as do scars from past
wounds.  She swallows and the sound is audible in the dim,
curtained room.

"There are consequences for everything we do on a case, for
good or ill.  You know that as well as I do," he grouses,
quieter than before.  "After what Benjie shared with you
this morning, you might have made yourself a target.  Do you
understand what that means?  But, hey..." He flips his hand.
"It's done, like you said."

It still irks her that Mulder's reaction is too extreme, too
over-the-top to be palatable.  "Thank you.  But now you hear
*me* out -- I'm not about to walk on eggshells or have you
monitor my every move.  I know you're concerned about how
I'm holding up through this case -- but in spite of what you
might think, I'm okay."  Dignity ruffled, she turns away and
crosses her arms, the sting of his accusations lingering on.
"So... what else is there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on!  There's got to be more bothering you than my
compulsion to please a small child and then not telling you
about it.  What is it?"  She faces him, mentally groping.
"Tillman?"

The random guess hits home like an arrow through a chink in
armor.  He's stunned into silence by the accuracy of her
potshot, head frozen toward the side.  She's right on the
first try, and the fact sends shock waves straight to her
heart.

"Mulder..."

He gives a dismissive shake of his head, unwilling to
acknowledge the truth so quickly and openly.  Concern and
respect for his ego prompts her to step closer and reach for
his hand.  To connect, to show him that she of all people
can empathize.  Thankfully he responds by circling her wrist
with fingers that are tender, yet possessive.

"He appreciates having you near him. Too much," he asserts
by way of lame explanation.  "You may not see it, but I do."

"He's probably not the first in seven long years of case
work... and it means nothing, of course.  You saw the cops
over at the station.  Are you really feeling that bothered
by something that would never be reciprocated?"

"I'm not immune where you're concerned.  Especially now,
since we've become..."

Yes, she understands what intimacy brings, the strong
emotion it generates in the heart of a soul mate.  Closer,
deeper, more protective.  Studying their clasped hands,
aware of the utter honesty and gravity Mulder exudes,
something swells within her chest.  Ever the healing
comforter, she draws him into an embrace, wrapping her arms
around his body in a reassuring hug of solidarity.

His response nearly squeezes the breath from her.

"I love *you*, Mulder," she whispers against his beating
heart, "and we're both going to be fine."

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

Thibodeaux residence
November 7, 2000
6:08 p.m.

The light over the front porch is a welcome sight.

Linda Thibodeaux grips the steering wheel with gnarled
hands, puttering quietly up the unpaved driveway toward her
backyard.  The wind has returned in force, lashing naked
saplings against the house, casting spider web patterns over
the charcoal-gray of the sky.  With darkness falling hard
and another long night close on its heels, she's grateful
for Viola's company and the added measure of protection she
brings with her presence.

Last night the wind blew and the radio crackled with
disheartening news: an intruder alert in Aubrey, an FBI
agent attacked, struck down.  It was Agent Mulder, she
discovered, sitting glued to the speaker while Viola slept.
When a surreptitious call to the hospital verified that his
condition was not considered serious, she breathed a sigh of
thanksgiving.

She loops the plastic grocery bag handles over her forearms
and enters through the back door.  Funny that Chief isn't
here to lick her hands or bark a greeting.  But, he gets on
so well with Viola and the two of them must be busy inside
by the TV.

The back porch seems dusk-dim and no lights illuminate the
dark interior rooms or hallways.  Is Viola napping?
Strangely, she feels compelled to leave them off and her
heart pounds with swift, heavy beats as she tiptoes through
the familiar spaces she knows like the back of her hand.  No
sounds except for the infernal moaning of the breezes, the
thwack of tree branches, the sound of --

What can it be?  Grunting.  Laborious grunts and wheezes
from the direction of the living room, wet choking noises.
She stifles a terrified cry, yet moves ever forward on
shuffling feet, drawn toward the unknown tableau that awaits
her.

Chief lies motionless, prostrate near the front door.  A
furry heap on the floor, head askew in a dark pool.

With a desperate sob Linda grabs onto the doorjamb to keep
from collapsing.  Hampered by shock and numbing fear, she
sinks slowly to the carpet, her mind unable to accept the
reality of the surreal scene, processing it only in stark
snapshot images.

A dark form across the room.

It was that way fifty-five years before, when she chose one
fateful evening to stay home.  Thinking herself alone in the
warm comfort of her room, preparing for bed.  Hearing the
wicked chuckle from behind the door, watching in horror as
Harry Cokely emerged, eyes gleaming... The rough hand
slapped over her mouth, the other ripping her blouse apart,
the rape... The flash of the razor --

She sees a figure cloaked in black hunched over a body on
the floor.  Sweatpants and flowered blouse.  Oh, dear
Lord... Viola!  Up and down robotic movements of arms, the
meaty thunk of metal through flesh and bone.  Wet black
stain spread like ink over the rug, spreading still.
Coppery smell of blood.  Dark flecks of it on the wall,
smeared in jagged script, splashing the furniture.  Up and
down, back and forth, in a hideous cacophony of movement
that draws her to the brink of terror as memories of
agonizing pain wash over her.

When she falls, the figure stops, looks up.  It turns toward
her, razor wet and shiny in the murky light.

With distance narrowed, black clothes become nothing more
than plastic trash bags, hugely limp, holes cut for head and
arms.  Dark plastic also bonnets the figure's head, latex
shields the hands.  Approaching her, it lifts its chin...

"NO!"

Pain constricts her chest and shoulders, her heart seizes up
and trembles, shearing her breath into short, struggling
gasps.  She can't breathe, can't move except to fumble the
old revolver out of her coat pocket as the specter opens its
mouth and brays a hideous laugh.

"NO!  Please don't do this!  Not you --!"  Linda's aim
wobbles, hands bobbing under the leaden weight of the gun
and her failing heart.

Husky, low, she hears a taunting singsong reply.

"Someone's got to take the blame... no one ever gets away.
And *you've* already played the game... haven't you, little
sister?"

"STOP!"

Tears blur her vision and with a last desperate clench she
pulls back on the trigger.  The shot echoes through the
night, the last thing she hears before sinking into the deep
blackness that sweeps her under.

************
End of Chapter 13