************
Chapter 2
************

Wentworth, Nebraska
November 3, 2000
2:35 p.m.

She's hungry more than she is thirsty, which surprises her.
A person can live much longer without food than water, but
she can't discount the growling spasms in her stomach any
more than she can ignore her paranoia and the wild thumping
of her heart.

Another day and the stalemate continues unabated, bitter and
relentless as the prairie autumn outside her window.  All
she wanted was one phone call, just one simple connection to
put her mind at rest.  But no -- she's pacing her room like
a caged lioness, like a zoo animal driven stir crazy in
captivity.  Back and forth, to and fro, from dresser to bed,
from barred window to bolted door.  Linoleum glued to the
floor, no carpet; they're afraid she might peel up a corner
and fish out a tack.

No trust, no privilege, no believing.

Now she suspects they want to sedate her, and she can't
allow that.

She'd have been smarter to play along and pretend from the
outset.  Refusing the meds was a mistake; she'd slapped them
to the floor in fear and fury and watched the pills skitter,
the tiny paper cup of water splash and collapse.  Couldn't
they see?  Didn't they *know* what was at stake?

Why can't they believe her?  Years ago, when they first
locked her away, there was someone who did.

Oh, God -- the dreams, the visions.  What made them return
again after so long?  She felt that first wave of dread two
evenings ago when she began refusing meals, terrified the
staff would lace her food and water with chemicals that
could put her at their mercy.  "I know how it works," she
warned them savagely.  "I know how you people operate, what
you can do.  I was a police officer, remember... I *know* --
"

And she was, she reminds herself, dissolving to tears again.
She was a damn good cop, like her father was before her,
even after she'd fumbled and made some unwise personal
decisions.  But, it was so special at first... *he* made her
feel special and loved.  Brian.  Dinners and candles and
secret meetings together.  Sharing a bed and the sex he
couldn't get with any regularity at home, or so he claimed.
The affair was covert and no one, not even Joe Darnell, his
oldest friend at the station, had any idea in the beginning.
The closeness lasted until his wife became suspicious and
drew him away.

After that, his behavior turned unpredictable.  He'd seem
protective one minute, and then would hold her at arms'
length, especially when he learned of her pregnancy -- and
after she reconsidered aborting the baby.  What happened to
the love she thought they'd shared?  The Cokely
investigation shot it all to hell.  Everything, gone...

And the dreams... they kept coming, like they are again.
Horrible dreams of fear and helplessness.  Evil dreams of
mutilation and blood and death.

Thank God she's locked away, unable to act on the urges and
vicious pictures swirling through her mind.  So who, she
wonders with revulsion, will be the unwitting pawn to this
phantasm that somehow originated with Harry Cokely over
fifty years before and continues into the present day?

Who'll end up taking the blame this time?  Pray to God, not
the boy!

No, don't cry, can't cry.  She wipes her eyes, amazed at the
profusion in light of her refusal to eat or drink.  It uses
up her body's moisture reserves and she has no realistic
estimate of when she can slake her thirst.  No need to use
the commode in over twelve hours, except to yank off toilet
paper for her nose.  She rocks on the edge of her bed, arms
wrapped at her stomach when the spasms strike again.  God,
why now?  Why now after six years...?

On the door, a heavy metallic rap.  She hears the soft click
and buzzing feedback from the hidden microphone.

"You want to share with me what's going on in there?"

"Dr. Reinholdt?"

"That's right.  From what they're telling me, you've been
causing some concern for the last day or two, B.J.  What's
wrong?"

An adrenaline surge of desperation heaves her forward from
the bed.  Catapulted, sweating, she presses her forehead to
the thick metal door.  It's cold against the heat of her
urgency, calming her so she can speak with coherence.  "I
need to make a phone call, doctor.  Please!  I need to talk
to Brian Tillman right away."

"You know the rules same as I do.  By court order and terms
of your incarceration, no contact with Lieutenant Tillman or
his family unless he takes the initiative first."  The
doctor's voice sounds engaging, congenial.  "I see on the
reports that you haven't taken your medication in three
days.  Care to tell me why?"

She grinds her teeth in frustration.  More tears leak and
she swipes at them with the edge of her palm.  "I can't risk
it, that's why.  I'm afraid they'll give me drugs to put me
under and I -- I have to be awake.  I have to stay alert."

"The dreams again?"

"Yes, dreams... but, it's more than that."

"Tell me about the *more*, B.J."

The tone is cloying, manipulative, but she has no choice.
No choice and no power for the prisoner-patient.  Suck it up
and tell him what he wants to know, that's all she can do.
Calming herself, she runs a shaky hand through her short
sandy hair.  "It started about dinner time... three days
ago."

"Let's see... that would be Wednesday?  First day of
November?"

"Yes, yes!  Something was wrong.  Almost as if something
horrible had woken up... from a deep sleep..." She pauses,
breathing hard.  What she's saying sounds ridiculous, but
every word stabs her heart with a new and ominous fear.

"You know, you've been doing so well for years."

"I know. I am still, please believe me."

"But you refused your meds and dinner.  Now I see you're on
a self-imposed hunger strike?"

"I can't take the risk of being sedated.  I need to be
alert, because something might happen... and I -- I think
something has, but I'm not sure what."

Silence hangs heavy around her, like the thick walls and
reinforced windows of the prison.  How far out on this limb
dare she creep before it breaks under the weight of her
folly?  She feels something else, like a band constricting
her chest, so tight and so familiar around her lungs and
heart that she panics from breathlessness.

The mothering instinct.  It, too, has awakened, re-energized
after years of dormancy.

"And, doctor...?"

"Yes, B.J.?"

She whispers the precarious words into the seam between door
and jamb.  "I'm -- I'm afraid for my little boy."

Silence on the other side of the door, then murmurs and
retreating footsteps.  The footfalls return and she waits,
trembling.

"All right, B.J.  I'm coming into your room now.  I have an
orderly with me and a lunch tray, which I'll expect you to
finish in front of me.  No tricks.  You know the Shamrock
rules.  Do we have a deal?"

"I can't --"

"Then it looks like we have a problem.  Lack of cooperation
is a problem, even when it stems from unaccountable dreams
and premonitions that force you to deviate from routine..."

Dreams and premonitions.  The doctor's voice fades, sinks to
a dull, insignificant murmur as B.J.'s ears roar and
another, familiar voice from the past takes precedence.  A
voice of belief and trust and hope.

("Have you ever, um... have you ever had any clairvoyant
experiences?  Premonitions, visions, precognitive dreams...
things like that?")

"Doctor -- If I can't get a message to Brian, can you call
someone else for me?"

"That will depend."

"I need to talk to the FBI agent who handled my case in '94.
His name is Fox Mulder.  He had a partner named Dana Scully.
Special agents Mulder and Scully in Washington, DC.  Look in
my files, please, and tell them I need to speak with them as
soon as possible.  Tell them it's urgent!"

"B.J., you may have forfeited privileges by your little
stunt, I hope you realize that --"

Her mouth feels parchment-dry, her throat ready to rip in
shreds as she sobs into her hands, big wrenching sobs that
can be heard on the other side of the door.  Oh God, oh God!
So much at stake and no one willing to believe or help.  The
sobs turn into a keening wail when the door swings open and
Doctor Reinholt and his aide step within the sparsely-
furnished room.

"Will you do it?"  A gasping plea...

"Now, just relax.  Settle yourself down."

"Doctor, tell them, please tell them --" Her eyes widen and
roll in terror, red and veined from grief and lack of sleep.
Oh God!  One last try before it's too late and she either
hyperventilates or feels the needle's jab --

"Please!"  Her voice rises to a crescendo.  "Tell Agent
Mulder that I think it's happening again --!"

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

Aubrey, Missouri
November 3, 2000
6:07 p.m.

Not many men in law enforcement have an affair go sour --
and then discover their partner/lover has both a checkered
genetic history and a penchant for murder.

Mulder heard fear over the phone when speaking with Brian
Tillman.  He sensed it on the plane while he thumbed his way
through pages of the six year-old file, noting the
desperation and disbelief that had marked the man's first
reaction.  Though the Lieutenant had been a bastard to work
with and his foot-dragging hampered the investigation's
progress, Mulder had to admit that the guy came by it
honestly.

Partner.  He kneads the steering wheel of the rented Corolla
and glances toward the passenger seat beside him, dragging
his gaze down the familiar length of Scully, from sleek red
hair to leather-shod toes.  It's getting to be serious dusk
and she's switched on the overhead light to browse through
the sheaf of files again.  Each page of field report, one
grisly photo after the other, she tabs with a manicured nail
in order to bring herself up to speed.  She'd slept most of
the way on the plane.

Lover.  His gaze lingers a moment on the concavity in her
lap below the seat belt and on the soft swells of her
breasts.  Masked under her navy-blue suit, they tremble with
the car's vibration.  It reminds him of the new changes he's
come to savor in their relationship: satiny skin molded into
his hands in the dark, the shimmer of her body over his,
breasts bobbing against his face like soft, velvety fruit as
she thrusts herself downward.  They should be doing it far
more often, given how pleasurable, explosive, and satisfying
it is to make love with her.

The sun vanishes, drawing the last purple ray of daylight
into the rolling Missouri horizon.  He thinks about what
happened at Scully's apartment last night.  Her red-eyed
insomnia.  The burden she carries within her like a malarial
fever.  Brave, yet fragile.  Clinging to the stiff veneer
she shows the world, yet granting him entry.  It baffles him
that one solitary day she never experienced personally
should have such a lasting effect on her.

He wonders if she understood why he did what he did -- or
whether she'll ever comprehend his true intent.  It went
beyond sex, beyond physical closeness or desire.  No matter.
His reasons are above reproach and he feels a righteous
peace for suggesting such a thing... and would do it again
without hesitation.

"Mulder..." She'd hedged, eyelids heavy, drooping like the
soft, roomy pajamas she wore last night.  "This won't make
me forget --" And she turned toward him with something less
than acquiescence, as if pleading first for enlightenment
before accepting his solace.

"That's not why I want to do it, Scully."

When she shook her head to object, he stilled its movement
with both hands and kissed her gently.  "Listen... you're
precious to me," he whispered, his lips punctuating each
word over her mouth.  "Every part of you is precious.  This
is my gift."

His persistence won out.  His desire to ease the ache from
her heart and give her relief as no one else could,
transcended whatever propriety stood in his way.  Soon she
began nodding in time to his kisses and lay slack, resigned
yet expectant, while he unbuttoned her pajama top with slow,
soothing fingers and slipped the bottoms down her legs and
from her feet.  She received his touches as she would the
preparations for a sponge bath, head back and lips parted,
watching him cat-like in the semi-darkness.

Her eyelashes flickered as he dipped his head and began to
suckle at her breasts.  Pulling reluctant pink nipples to
firm points in his mouth, like a child nursing, he
alternately sucked and teased them with his tongue until her
breath caught.  The feelings he awoke washed over her; he
felt her arms move and her fingernails graze through the
hair on the back of his head.  She sighed, legs trembling,
when he slipped downward to root softly, reverently at the
juncture between her legs.

He loves this place, where his ears press into her warm
inner thighs.  The rich scent and heat of her, the tickle of
her downy pubic fur on his nose and cheeks, the feel of her
tender slit yielding under his mouth.  The intoxicating
taste of her folds and fluids, sweet wet layers pulsing
around his face and lips.  He worked his tongue slowly into
her depths, paying homage to this sacred place of love and
fertilization, of birth and fetal passage.  Her vagina,
denied its reproductive function, was still a thing to be
honored and cherished and respectfully nurtured.

It mattered, she mattered, and he wanted her to believe and
gain strength from that truth.

When he moved to her clitoris, lingering, his mouth
lavishing over it in gentle sucking circles, her knees rose
higher and he felt her arousal peak.  She arched and tensed
beneath him, surging with the force of orgasm until tears
darkened her lashes and she fell back, exhausted, onto the
pillow.  Sleep came soon after, like he knew it would, with
Scully curled small and motionless on the bed, against him.

Yes, he'll do it again next year, in the same way and for
the same reasons, if circumstances demand it.  For her sake,
he hopes they don't.

Scully sighs under her breath, not quite a whimper, and
shifts in her seat.  The sound and movement snap him back to
the present and he looks at her again.  It's dinnertime and
his groin twinges; memories of last night's selfless
generosity remind him that he's hungry in more ways than
one.

"You say something?"

"I'm curious," she murmurs, clearing her throat and tapping
the manila folder, "whether the woman who was attacked
yesterday was bludgeoned first.  That seems to be the MO in
all the murders, even dating back to 1942.  And if that's
the case, I find it unlikely that a young child could have
the strength or necessary height to execute such an attack."

"Yeah.  Wheaties and spinach don't pack that kind of punch
in real life."

"Spinach?"

"Popeye the Sailor Man," he says, an obliging look on his
face.  "Or maybe nowadays it's Power Rangers --"

"Jesus, Mulder... a little more helpful insight would be
appreciated."  Frowning, she shuts the file and clicks off
the light, looking out toward the approaching lights of the
place called Aubrey, Missouri.  "I just find it baffling
that a little boy would even be considered a suspect.  After
we meet with Tillman, I want to interview this woman as soon
as possible."

"That may depend on whether visiting hours at the hospital
in Aubrey have emerged from the Dark Ages after six years."

In the deepening shadow of the car's interior, he hears a
rustle of clothing and feels Scully's thumb ease along the
skin of his neck, tracing an invisible line above the ridge
of his collar.  "No scar," she whispers.  "I think *you*
were one of the lucky ones."

Lucky doesn't begin to describe what he remembers of that
night.  It happened in harsh images of black and white, in
slow motion -- cold-cocked from behind, slammed against
Harry Cokely's foul-smelling mess of a carpet.  Then the
press of a blade, the sting and itch as it rocked against
his neck, etching a seam of blood into his flesh.  The
abject helplessness he felt.  The horror of turning his head
and gazing into eyes of pure madness, those of Detective
B.J. Morrow.

Scully's touch is fleeting, like a butterfly's airy wing,
and she returns her hand to her lap while he navigates the
traffic toward Aubrey's downtown.  Damn it, she's too fast -
- he wanted to crane his head to the side and kiss that
warm, fragrant thumb.

Instead he reaches over to cover her hand with his, giving
it a slow squeeze, feeling her gaze shift downward as he
caresses the delicate bones of her knuckles, her slim
fingers, her palm.  Even after years of partnership he's
beginning to comprehend her in more subtle ways than before.
He knows without seeing that she watches his fingertips
undulate over and slip between hers at this place of
handholding on her thigh.  As though she needs to be aware
of what's happening to her, around her.

His cautious, beautiful Scully.  Shit, he's got a one-track
mind...

As much as he wants answers in this new investigation, he
hopes the meeting with Tillman moves quickly and the
hospital stays closed to all visitors other than family
tonight.  He wants their two motel rooms to be side-by-side,
conveniently adjoined.  He hopes despite her inner sadness
and the long day of travel, that Scully's somehow in the
mood... or at least open to a certain degree of reciprocity.

"Horny, Mulder?"

He startles in the darkness, feeling busted, like a boy
caught down-blousing.  His fingers halt their seductive
teasing.  "What makes you say that?"

"What you're doing leaves little to the imagination."

"That transparent, huh?"

She chuckles and looks out the window toward the twinkling
neon lights, squeezing him back and lacing her smaller
fingers deftly through his.

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

Hi-ho-Silver, Mulder muses, making a cursory visual sweep of
the Old West kitsch permeating his surroundings.

He sits with Scully in a booth at the Conestoga Grill,
across the red-checked tablecloth from Lieutenant Brian
Tillman.  Long ago on another case, he once told her that a
person's eyes were like windows to their soul.  If Tillman's
guarded, haunted look is any indication, then the man must
exist in a day-to-day living hell.

He's taller than Mulder remembers, worry lines framing his
eyes.  A dapper-looking man with a gentle demeanor who tries
to schmooze the locals; he gives a small-town lawman's wave
to the waitress when they enter.  Years ago he seemed strict
and exacting within his department, curt, surly, somewhat
impatient.  Tonight in the public eye, he acts like a well-
behaved prisoner, walking on the thinnest eggshells of
penitence and fear.

The Grill, famous locally for its hamburgers and root beer,
flanks the Conestoga Motel where they'd made reservations.
At Tillman's suggestion they meet in a far corner, out of
earshot of the truckers at the counter and a few small
families up front.  The overhead lights are bright, the air
warm and heavy with grease and dinnertime bustle.

"Let's get this straight," Brian Tillman says quietly,
"right off the bat -- I want my wife left out of this
investigation as much as humanly possible.  You both got
that?"

Scully opens her mouth, then closes it into a soft pucker,
giving Mulder opportunity to reply.  Tired, he wonders?  Or
an intuitive feeling that Tillman would respond more
positively to another man?  While neither of them harbors
any fondness for him, Mulder feels a sense of pity for a man
whose family life and self-respect lay exposed for his
entire town to read, like a newspaper blown ragged through
the streets.

Tillman notices her deference and his burning eyes seek
Mulder's, trying to communicate the extent of his concern
without further elucidation.

"We can't go into this with our hands tied and hope to
conduct a credible investigation or find the truth," parries
Mulder with wry honesty.  "As for sensitive issues, it's a
little late to be stressing over the dirty underwear already
out on the line, isn't it?"

"The press's fault -- and the gossipers in this town," snaps
Tillman under his breath.  "They had a picnic here six years
ago, because of the nature of the case and those involved.
You might've gone back to our nation's capitol with another
notch on your belts, but for those of us left here to carry
on with our lives..."

He hesitates, choosing his words with obvious care, and
halts at the waitress's arrival.  Thick, glass mugs of root
beer hit the table before them.

"None for me, thanks," says Scully to the girl, who gives
her a quizzical, backward glance.  Tillman waits until
they're alone before picking up the thread of conversation.

"Janine, my wife, had a rough time dealing with the fact of
my... indiscretion, without it being flapped all over town
and then shaken in her face.  And that was only the
beginning."

"The reason you don't live in Aubrey proper?" -- Scully's
query.

"Yes, one reason.  Don't get me wrong.  I appreciate your
quick response and your reputation as investigators.  I
don't know anyone else more qualified to handle a situation
like this, given your familiarity with the case history.
But --" His gaze rakes them with a certain pleading
intensity.  "I know what happened last time: give you two
free rein and you're poking into someone's personal business
with a stick, stirring up more trouble than necessary."

"Sometimes, lieutenant, a stick comes in handy when there's
evidence to be dug out.  Remember back to 1994 -- The truth
can get buried pretty deep."

"D'you think I don't dwell on that every day of my life,
Agent Mulder?"

Mulder glances at his partner, catches her furtive, warning
look.  He can only guess what inner maelstrom must drive
such a man to eventual, emotional shipwreck.  Scully leans
toward Tillman, her soothing tone calibrated to gain his
cooperation.

"Lieutenant, we're here to help -- you, your wife, your
son... and to find the truth behind the attack that occurred
yesterday.  You have our assurance that every person
involved in this case will be handled with respect and
discretion."

Nodding, the man takes a shaky breath, every ounce of pride
and willpower brought to bear as he straightens in his seat.
He places his palms flat on the table as though to gain
equilibrium, gripping the cloth edge and squaring his jaw.
Seeing the waitress approach with her order pad in hand, he
warns her off with a shake of his head.

"At the same time," Mulder murmurs, "you have to trust us
enough to be willing to go out on a limb or two.  You'll
need to tell us what you know, and I'm guessing some of that
won't be easy."

"I don't need an investigator to tell me that."

"Then," agrees Mulder, "we know where we stand.  So, for
starters... how much information did the newspapers actually
manage to get in '94?"

"A little bit of everything -- you name it.  A real
smorgasbord."  Tillman gives a small, bitter laugh.  "Harry
Cokely's criminal history.   My affair.  Details of the
crime scenes.  That half-assed rigmarole about a 'bad seed,'
when B.J.'s biological connection to Cokely was whispered
all over town --"

"Yet, in spite of the rumor-mill, you took in the baby when
he was born," Scully reminds him, with some gentleness.
"That shows courage and integrity."

"I -- yes...  I had no other option.  Janine and I were
childless and able to provide a good home.  I'd always
wanted a son..." He presses stiff fingers into his thinning
hair, as if to quiet the demons within his head.

Mulder leans forward against the table.  "Your son's name
is... "

"Benjamin.  I call him Benjie."

"For a man so concerned about his wife's feelings and
reactions, somebody's been getting stiffed in the
sensitivity department," points out Mulder with somber
frankness.  "You could have called the boy anything from
Alvin to Leonard to Zeke.  Yet he gets a name that's a
guaranteed daily reminder of your... *indiscretion*, if you
will."

Tillman deflects Mulder's stare.  "It's my father's name.
In my family everyone's name began with a 'B.' And before he
died I promised him that if I ever had a son, he'd be
christened after his grandfather.  I make no apology for
honoring my father's memory, Agent Mulder."

"Fair enough.  I wonder, though, if your wife feels the same
irrefutable sense of family loyalty."

Red-faced, Tillman moves to stand, reconsiders, and sinks
back into his seat.  "I *knew* you'd start right in when you
got the chance."

"Relax, Lieutenant... just testing the water.  I'd rather
hear why your son Benjie would even be considered a suspect
in this incident."

The new tack dilutes the man's indignation and he pauses to
take a quick, cooling sip of his root beer.  "First glass is
complimentary," he says in afterthought to Scully, wiping
the foam from his mustache with the side of a forefinger.
"It's a Grill trademark."

"I see."  Her quiet brevity draws a smile from Mulder.

"Nothing's official."  Tillman peers across the table from
under lowered brows, making his point.  "About my boy, I
mean.  Just the prevailing opinion of the tongues that wag
in this town.  To tell you the truth, the first call I made
yesterday was to Shamrock... to make sure that B.J. was
still there and accounted for.  And she is, so it looks like
we've got a copycat on our hands."

"Or an outright liar," says Mulder.  "The victim could be
faking the whole incident as a ploy to get back at you or
your family in some twisted way."

Tillman shakes his head.  "No, not Viola.  She's a fixture
around here -- been driving the bus for nearly twenty years
and really loves those kids.  A maiden lady.  She was
kneeling in front of the bus at the school's garage early
yesterday morning, cleaning off the headlights, when
something smacked her in the side of the head."

Mulder gives his partner a miniscule nudge.

"She was disoriented, she said, scared out of her wits.
Screamed for help when she heard --" He swallows.  "Well...
she heard a strange, husky voice say 'You're to blame this
time, little sister.'  Then, she was slashed several times."

"Where?"

Mulder sees a chill run through Tillman's body, knowing his
personal involvement with the perpetrator in the previous
attacks.  "Upper chest.  Face.  Forearm.  Another driver
heard the screaming and called 911 on his cell.  No weapon
was found at the scene.  No footprints, with the ground
frozen rock-hard like it is in the mornings.  And no
visitors tonight," he adds, noting Mulder's sudden
restlessness.

"Why's that?"

"Viola's out like a light, Agent Mulder, I already checked.
This whole incident really did a number on her.  Visiting
hours start at 8:30 tomorrow morning, if you want to try
then."

"I'm still unclear about why your son's name was pulled into
this --"

A cell phone twitters and Tillman rises to answer, turning a
shoulder for privacy.  Finished, he remains standing to
indicate the meeting's conclusion.  "Sorry, folks, but duty
calls.  We'll have to continue this discussion another
time."

"Tomorrow," says Scully, "we'd like to speak with Benjie."

Mulder watches the man's almost painful reluctance; he
closes his eyes, rubs his temple, and then nods to the
inevitable.

"Come by the house after you're done at the hospital.  It's
Saturday, but we're keeping him close to home for the time
being."  He pauses.  "He's kind of a shy kid, doesn't say
much.  No use subjecting him to all the hype and talk."

Stalling, he taps the table with nervous fingers, then balls
them into a fist.  Mulder notes how Tillman's eyes wander
before seeking out Scully's, as if with need and purpose.

"You know... for as long as I can remember, school kids have
taken the rap for being cruel to one another, Agent Scully.
But I've found that some of the adults in Aubrey have never
grown up in that regard.  It's... well, it's unsettling as
hell," he ends, jerking his coat forward onto his shoulders
before nodding at both agents in blunt farewell.

************
End of Chapter 2