************
Chapter 3
************

Aubrey Regional Elementary School
November 3, 2000
8:25 p.m.

He promises her dinner and instead she gets excuses and a
schoolyard crime scene.  Peeved, Scully tells him as much.

"Bus lot," Mulder corrects, sinking into an easy crouch and
fanning the flashlight's beam across the blacktop and into
hard-packed gravel.  "Kids play in schoolyards."

"That sounded suspiciously like 'bull-shit', Mulder."

She hears him chuckle deep in his throat and watches the
light dance along the grilled fronts of the buses that sit
parked with military precision at one end of the school
property.  "Projecting your own thoughts, Scully?"

"It doesn't take a psychic," she mutters.  Her breath hangs
like cotton in the dark night air and she stands to one
side, tracking Mulder's progress down the row by his tinker
bell beam and gusts of exhalation.  Nothing remains for his
trouble.  The swaths of orange police tape are gone; the
crime scene is picked, powdered, and wiped clean, left
pristine as a winter campsite.

No moon tonight.  She casts around while she waits, looking
for other landmarks in the blackness, and spots the top of a
distant swing set in the schoolyard.  Schoolyard,
playground, whatever.  It isn't often she feels like an
intruder, out-of-place, but tonight she's not one of the
privileged, being neither parent nor staff in a microcosm
where children learn and play and spend most of their
daylight hours.

Frosty air bites her ankles and she shifts restless feet,
hunching inward against the chill.  "You know, it's much
colder this time."

"Uh-huh."

"When we were here last, Aubrey was unseasonably warm.  The
ground still hadn't frozen; B.J. was able to unearth
Chaney's bones from the field with her bare hands.
Remember?"

"I remember her piss-poor excuse for an alibi about taking a
short cut through a field where she saw a dog.  And Tillman
backing her up and watching us like a hawk.  It was a dodge,
Scully.  Just like tonight."

She remembers Mulder's blatant sarcasm when they accepted
the case in 1994.  ("I'd like to know why this policewoman
would suddenly drive her car into a field the size of Rhode
Island and for no rhyme or reason dig up the bones of a man
who's been missing for fifty years.  I mean, unless there
was a neon sign saying 'Dig here'--")

"You think the phone call was staged?"

"I think, with luck, he skated this time.  I think he's
running scared and doesn't know who he can trust."

"Still, he called our office this morning --"

"Because he's backed into a corner.  He needs help and we're
the only logical choice.  That doesn't mean he's gonna make
this a picnic for us."

"So only the date changes," she murmurs to the emptiness
around her.  It's late, but not late enough; too little time
has passed since last night.  She feels the squeeze of loss
closing in on her heart again and thrusts it away.  Shutting
her eyes to the murky orange of the buses lined before her,
she turns and crosses over the hard-frozen gravel of the
parking area toward the school.

She's confronted by the kindergarten wing, dimly lit with
security beams, windows still adorned with the motley paper
shapes of pumpkins, ghosts, and witches.  Halloween
leftovers.  Children's art.

No, she can't allow her mind to wander there.  Not now, not
after her feint at the office earlier this morning, when
Mulder questioned the wisdom of her direct involvement in
this case.  She understands his concern, but resents the
inference.

Yet, drawn as a moth to light before the mismatched rows of
construction paper faces, she wonders how Emily's little
pumpkin would have looked.  Snaggle-toothed with triangle
eyes, perhaps... carried home to be scotch-taped in the
living room window for passers-by to enjoy or stuck high
onto the refrigerator...

"Hey, Scully --"

Wheeling around, she watches him emerge as though through a
dark rippling filter and masks a furtive dab at one eye.

"-- I bet you didn't know that Al Capone's business card
said he was a used furniture dealer."

Long years of interpreting his off-the-wall logic and
patterns of deduction prime her for an answer.  Bowing her
head to salvage her thoughts, she quickly sifts through the
little bit of information they'd gleaned from Brian Tillman
earlier at the Grill.

Mulder crunches to her side, puffing clouds into the air.
She tugs her coat tighter and lifts her chin toward him.
"Let me guess -- by the same token, you think Viola Whatever-
Her-Last-Name-Is could be something much more sinister than
a sweet, unmarried, Aubrey, Missouri school bus driver?"

He grins.  "It bears checking into."

"We can determine that after speaking with her tomorrow
morning.  But no one would willingly subject herself to a
painful, brutal attack like this -- or self-inflict such
wounds.  I think it's more likely that your hunch is
skewed."

"Maybe.  Maybe not."

"We're better off focusing on the Tillman household.
Connections.  Someone close to them -- and to Viola -- with
a personal vendetta."

His heavy overcoat brushes her shoulder and he sounds like a
squirrel in the stillness, cracking sunflower seeds with his
molars.  Turning aside while he spits a husk, she senses the
unmistakable, relentless presence of Mulder-radar.  "Sounds
reasonable, I guess.  So... how're *you* feelin' tonight?"

"My feet are cold," she replies with emphasis, "and I'm
hungry."

"Seed?"

"No, thank you --" She bites back the words "for the
thousandth time" and huffs an impatient, breathy cloud into
the air.

"Then, what're we doin' out here, anyway?  I say we get the
hell out of this God-forsaken bus lot, Scully, and go have
dinner some place where it's warm."

She has a sudden flashback to a rooftop in Dallas -- heat,
sweat, exasperation.  Without acknowledging his attempt at
levity, she picks her way through the darkness toward the
Corolla.

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

A half hour later they're hunkered in his motel room, opened
boxes of cashew chicken, egg rolls, and pork-fried rice
decorating the coffee table like short, winged luminaries.
Mulder flicks a sticky grain from the file balanced on his
thigh, careful to preserve the yellowed pages while he
simultaneously reads and inhales his plate of Chinese
carryout.

"Take me back to the '40's for a day... I think I'd be in my
element working alongside Sam Chaney," he ruminates.
"Ledbetter, too, but Chaney... he's the Man, Scully.
Legendary within the FBI as the one who shaped criminal
profiling in its infancy and theorized about the motivations
and origins of serial killers --"

"He recorded everything.  His partner didn't."

"Well, yeah..."

"Maybe some of that legendary theory came from Ledbetter."

He halts, then resumes chewing.  "That's possible."

"I've read the files, too," she reminds him.

Her face is lowered into shadow, hair bronzy in the
lamplight, only the pale point of her chin visible.  Mulder
watches how she picks at her food, finally dropping the
paper plate and chopsticks into the bag they've designated
for trash.

"That bad, huh?"

"No..."  She startles at his question.  "It's not.  I'm just
full."

"I didn't mean the food."

Succinctly, she wipes her fingers with a napkin. "I did."

He backs off for the present, not eager to antagonize.
Though he's already wolfed his portion, he warms to the
leftovers, knowing there's no refrigeration at their
disposal.  Feeling like a billy goat, he plows ravenously
through each container and scrapes it clean, then calculates
how much food was heaped on Scully's plate before she tossed
it away.

"The Imperial Dragon deserves another visit this week," he
proclaims, leaning back and stifling a burp with the back of
his hand.

She nods, disinterested, and rubs an arm.

"Warm enough?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

Quick, monosyllabic replies are about all she's offered
since their cruise through downtown Aubrey in search of
dinner and welcome heat.  He blew it big time by seizing the
earliest opportunity to fart around and examine a crime
scene that he knew was already clean, cold, and wrapped.  On
this particular night, that should have come second after
appeasing his partner's hunger and uncharacteristic
emotional fragility.

He grabs the Styrofoam cup of hot jasmine tea and takes a
hefty gulp.

"Caffeine," she observes dryly, "will keep you up."

"I'm counting on it."

She averts her face, rising from the couch for clean-up
duty.  With a pang he realizes that she's allowed the potent
innuendo to fall flat between them, unrecognized or ignored.
So much for reciprocity.

He's hopeful that yesterday's open door will encourage her
to speak up on her own.  But Scully's still Scully, her
private life and secret thoughts surrounded by a wall as
high and thick as the Washington Monument.  Last night, on
that particular anniversary date, she was soft and aching
and approachable; she wanted him and had come to expect his
comfort and company in order to weather that yearly storm.

Tonight, her pattern is altered.  With the actual date past,
she has her bruised, wavering pride and self-respect to
protect, even from him.  They're in the field on a case, so
he can expect her to be rigid as whalebone where weakness is
concerned and striving to focus on the details and
progression of the investigation.  She's his partner;
reliable, professional, loyal, intelligent -- and
overflowing with so much denial right now it makes his head
swim.

"Here," she says, pointing to the bulging, folded bag of
trash and picking up her shoes.  "You can take it out.  If
you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

"Just like that."  It's an observation, not a question, and
he has to tamp down his rising annoyance.

The words catch her at the connecting door to her room.  She
pivots slightly on her heel, a mere suggestion of a turn, to
look in his direction.  Back ramrod straight, her mouth is
set into a tight purse.

Tension crackles the air like the fortune cookie he crunched
down minutes earlier.  "Is that a problem, Mulder?"

"It doesn't need to be."

"I'm not guessing at riddles or playing games, so speak
plainly.  And with alacrity," she adds, pushing the door
open into her darkened room and crossing to the window.  Her
shoes hit the floor with a light thud; he can feel her
impatience begin to dissipate in this nest, the safer haven
of her own territory.

"Just like that, Scully... you shut me out so soon after
letting me in."

Following her in, he notes that the lamp stays off, only
shards of outside neon piercing the blinds and heavy motel
drapery.  With her head erect, she crosses her arms; he
spots a prismatic smear of wetness under her eye and notes
how her chest expands with effort under the navy blue
jacket.

"Look... this may not always work the way either of us
anticipates," she hedges.  "If that's the case tonight, then
I'm sorry."

"I'll accept that."

He won't pretend he hadn't wanted something carnal back from
her.  That her touch to his face and squeeze to his hand in
the darkened car hadn't stoked his growling libido, and that
her teasing choice of words hadn't held promise of bedtime
pleasures.

Still, he doesn't intend to be a selfish asshole about it;
he can take care of his own needs with a practiced hand and
suspects she'd have no tolerance for bullishness anyway.
Sex is just a small part of what he expects from her now;
it's typical for Scully to steer the focus away from the
real problem seething beneath the surface.  Her inner pain
and loss, her grief for Emily, her --

"I saw a school bus today," she says softly.

His thoughts interrupted, he's caught unprepared, surprised.
The plaintive undercurrent in her voice draws him toward her
like a magnet to iron.  "You saw lots of them tonight, too,"
he counters.

"No.  This morning, I meant, coming to work."  She clears
her throat against the rising tears, blinking out toward the
brightly lit parking lot.  "Just down the street from my
apartment building.  It reminded me, that's all."

After such an admission it's safe for him to intrude
further.  Coming behind her, his palms cup both her
shoulders, the span so narrow between his hands that he
marvels every time he touches her like this.  A smaller,
more fragile bone structure, yet with the muscular curvature
of the uniquely feminine form.  Like satin plush over steel,
Scully's form.

His strong thumbs caress her backbone and shoulder blades
through the suit jacket, the same soothing strokes she
absorbed last night like liniment.  She begins to relax into
his touch and he takes the liberty of combing the hair away
from her ear with one hand, smoothing his fingers over the
pale silky skin at the side of her neck.

"I can understand," he murmurs, letting his eyes close and
his nose brush against her hair, taking in her fragrance.

"Mulder... she would've started kindergarten this fall."

He receives this anguished revelation with care and calm,
taking it for the gift it is, like a precious and fragile
egg.  Her arms remain tucked around her waist, but he's
pleased that she trusts enough to lean back against him for
support.  "You're sure?"

"Of course.  With a November birthday, she would have been
past the cut-off date for fall registration last year."

"You would know."  Against his chest, he feels the catch in
her breathing, a deep strangled swallow.  Shit -- he's said
something asinine and now she's fighting for control.  "What
is it?"

"That's the irony," she whispers angrily.  "For so many
years I *didn't* know, I knew nothing, even about myself.
Sometimes we came so close without knowing.  And then --"
She shakes her head and rubs her arms again, as though
kneading away a chill.  "Never mind... I'm sorry I brought
it up."

He can read the signals of dismissal.  Remembering her
strict rules of engagement, he knows she's finished with
weakness for the present and needs to recoup and move on, to
be left alone in the backwash of her pain.

Lingering a moment in the tense silence, he has a sentiment
of his own to express before fading away to his room for the
night.

"Listen to me."  He dips his head towards hers, his mouth
sweeping the ivory ear he exposed to the air moments ago.
"I want to share the burden of this with you... and not just
once a year.  Think about it.  Please."  Without waiting for
a response, he presses a kiss to her temple and steps back
into the doorway.

Tonight he'd like nothing more than to hold her close and
massage away her misery, even if it means simply having her
near him on the bed.  He frets about the impossible
standards and hard choices she makes for herself, the
unforgiving lens through which she views her own
vulnerability.  Alone in the shadows, she gazes out the
window with brimming eyes -- brave, forlorn, stalwart in her
self-imposed isolation.  He aches, knowing that solitude is
all too often her chosen companion and lover.

"We talk to the Tillman boy in the morning," he reminds her,
changing subject, "after the hospital.  You're the pro,
dealing with kids.  You make them feel comfortable enough to
trust us.  That part of the show's yours."

A fresh tear glistens on her cheek and she looks down,
turning from the window to prepare for bed, nudging her
shoes away with one nylon-covered foot.

"Try to get some rest, okay?"

She nods.

"Hey, Scully... bet you didn't know that it takes the
average person just seven minutes to fall asleep."

He gets a watery smile for his whispered assurance.  "Thank
you," she says, and he hears gratitude and love choke her
voice, surging over its banks in the short, unobstructed
span between them.

*********

Tillman residence
November 3
10:45 p.m.

The house is silent, but neither peaceful nor serene.  Brian
Tillman hangs his overcoat in the downstairs closet, and
then climbs the steps on weary feet to halt on the second
floor landing.

To his left is the master bedroom.  The door stands ajar,
blackness within, alerting him that his wife is still awake
somewhere else in the house.  Waiting up?  He doubts it:
years ago that might have been likely, but not for a very
long time and no longer by her choice.  He knows her habits.

He has his own ritual as well and strives to keep it
private.  Born of love and lust, it's steeped in guilt so
deep it threatens to scar his conscience and crush his
spirit.  To the right lays his son's bedroom, Janine's
former sewing room, and he steps within to make his silent,
almost nightly visit.

He's done this since his boy was a baby.  Once he overheard
two women discussing their fears concerning their newborns -
- SIDS and accidental injury among the dangers mentioned --
and shared how they peeked into the cribs while their tiny
children slept in order to monitor breathing and well-being.
He felt shame that his motivation sprang from baser, more
selfish roots than the altruistic protectiveness displayed
by the young mothers.

The callous truth is that Benjie is as close as he'll ever
come to regaining B.J.

He enters on a thief's quiet feet.  It's a boy's room in
scent and appearance, much like the one he remembers from
his own childhood.  A dinosaur nightlight glows greenly near
the baseboard where dirty clothes lay mounded next to
scuffed sneakers and a handful of Lego bricks.  More than
once he's mildly wondered about the dearth of decoration on
the walls and how few toys or picture books are evident.
But his son, he reminds himself, is an outdoors, rough-and-
tumble kid at heart.

He approaches the bed.  Under cover of darkness the boy's
features display a beauty that resembles his mother's before
her descent into psychotic madness and prison.  Tillman can
see echoes of her heart-shaped face, broad forehead, the
delicate arch of brow, and the long, soft fan of brown
lashes on the cheeks of their child...

"Daddy?"

That which he dreads and avoids has occurred: the boy wakes
and opens his eyes.

"Yeah... it's me, Buddy-boy," he whispers, kneeling by the
bed with sudden attentiveness.  "Aren't you asleep yet?"

The child shakes his head, blanket tucked to his chin.  He
struggles to focus up at his father, eyes huge and limpid --
like hers.  The eyes do it, Tillman realizes over the
pounding in his chest.  They twist his heart with thoughts
of B.J. every time he sees them like this.

"You feelin' okay?"

"Yes."

"Benj, d'you remember what we talked about earlier?"

The eyes wait.

"Well, a nice man and lady will be here tomorrow morning to
ask you some questions."

The boy shakes his head again.

"It'll be okay, Champ.  Daddy's staying home and will be
right here with you."

Benjie gives a tiny shrug beneath his blanket and blinks
wetly under his father's scrutiny.  He's afraid, Tillman
sees, but won't speak up, won't tell what he fears or why.
Just shyness and insecurity, his kindergarten teacher has
maintained, which all kids go through at some point in
their young lives, leaving it behind as they mature and find
their place among their peers.  If only it were that cut and
dried and simple...

Fox Mulder and his Goddamn, meddling stick --

He doesn't want to deal with tomorrow's meeting and what
could be uncovered.  He shrinks from the possible
implications that his son is in any way connected to the
slashing attack on Viola.  No, there's no way in hell -- he
refuses to give credence to the lame-brained theory that
genetic abnormality or criminal tendencies can be passed
from one generation to the next, like hair color or creative
talent, from mother to son.  He'll never believe in this
outrageous 'bad seed' crap...

As much as Benjie might resemble his mother, he's a Tillman,
too, dammit.

After reassuring his son and bidding him go to sleep,
Tillman backs out of the room and shuts the door.  He finds
his wife downstairs in the small room off the kitchen.  It
was the porch before they enclosed it with insulating walls
and added more traditional window casings, when Benjie first
came to live in their home.  Now it's Janine's sewing room,
except she's not sewing and the lights are off.  Behind
them, the kitchen glows weakly.

"I spoke with the FBI tonight," he says, unable to read her
expression in the darkness.  "The same two agents as before,
Mulder and Scully.  They'll --"

"They're still partners?  After how many years?"  She gives
a bitter laugh and swirls the contents of her glass before
taking a drink.  "You can't tell me *they* don't have
something going on between them.  It comes with the
territory."

"Stop it, Janine.  You've never even met them."

He knows that alcohol is the culprit responsible for her
vindictive slights.  He knows that tomorrow, with official
business pending, she'll be cooperative for him and the
authorities.  Pleasant and polite, she'll invite them into
her home, resuming her 'policeman's wife' persona, the role
of good hostess and mother.  God... he hopes.

"D'you think I'm *stupid*?  It's inevitable, Bri.  Pass the
three-year mark and they're all down there at the station,
fucking like --" Her laugh becomes a rasping cough that
echoes in waves through the shadows and she takes another
belt to ease it.

"That's enough."  He makes a grab for her glass and she
jerks it away.  Her quickness surprises him.  "How many is
that?"

"What do you care?"

"I *care*, dammit..."

Ignoring his plea, she pushes her way past him into the
kitchen's yellow light.  She halts to deposit her empty
tumbler into the sink with the scraping rasp of glass on
stainless steel that makes his skin crawl, and turns away.

"They'll be over to talk with him sometime tomorrow
morning," he persists.

"With Benjamin?"  Her look is one of amused incredulity.
"As if *that'll* do any good.  They might as well interview
the wall or the microwave for all the information they'll
get from him."

He's helpless in his pain, choking and furious in the
fruitless defense of his son.  There was a time earlier in
their marriage when love was fresh and fumbling between them
and they talked from the heart.  Before she slowly drew
away, hardening in front of his eyes, and her disposition
and spirit lost their bloom.  Before shattering
disappointments and poorly chosen salve on both sides built
a wedge of emotional scar tissue that now seems impossible
to excise.

"You know, you could make things a lot more pleasant --"

"Brian, go to hell," she spits, flicking off the overhead
light.  He times the creaks of her footfalls on the stairs
until he hears her reach their bedroom.  A pause on the
landing, and then the door shuts behind her with a distant
snick.

Left alone in the darkness, Tillman leans for support
against the kitchen counter.  He covers his face, weeping
the angry, wrenching tears of a man overcome by remorse and
fearful of certain shipwreck.

************
End of Chapter 3