************
Chapter 8
************

Gainesville, Nebraska
November 5, 2000
7:02 p.m.

Nothing's left of the two-story farmhouse except a broken,
blackened skeleton.  An old burn, by the look of it, and
Mulder doesn't give a rat's ass whether the cause was
lightning or arson.  It just seems fitting to find Harry
Cokely's last home and place of decease in a state of
scorched, hellish ruin.

The wind blows bitter from the northwest, whipping his loose
coat like a tarpaulin around his body, rifling his hair down
to the scalp.  Wide, lonely reaches of prairie sprawl in
every direction, crosscut by dirt roads and leafless trees,
rangeland and cold austerity.  Today he's seen enough
rolling, empty miles to last a lifetime, and feels a
peaceful satisfaction when the sky dims to purple-gray and
the horizon line fades.

He's on a roundabout journey to rejoin Scully in Aubrey,
where he can bask in her warmth and feel whole again in her
stabilizing presence.  After a day spent in the dank belly
of a psychiatric prison hospital second-guessing paranormal
powers with an ex-cop-turned-murderess, he finds himself
drawn to the grounding and constancy he knows awaits him
with his partner.

Sniffing the back of his fingers, he can still smell her
musk, a stark reminder of their recent intimacy.  His groin
stirs to the accompanying rumble in his stomach.  Melded.
He likes the sound of that word, as it relates to Scully and
smiles into the wind, recalling her explicit rejoinder
yesterday morning in the car.

A vibrating chirp from his cell phone makes him jump.
Fishing it out of his coat pocket, he shoves it next to his
mouth.  "Mulder."

"It's me," she says, not at all warm or welcoming.  "Mulder,
where are you?"

"Sorry I didn't call.  I'm out here on the lone prairie,
where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free... right next
to what's left of Harry Cokely's former domicile.
Somebody's torched it big time, Scully.  I'm talking frozen
charcoal."

"You need to get back here right away."  Her low, urgent
tone raises his radar.  "There's been a murder."

His curse is smothered by a sudden gust to which he turns
his back.  "Who?"

"Gwen DiAngelo.  Her husband came home about ten minutes ago
and found her.  I'm here with Darnell and the coroner right
now.  17 Laramie Street, Sterling.  Down the road from
Tillman's."

Wincing, he climbs into the car, gut clenched into a knot.
"Where is Tillman?"

"Out looking for Benjie.  Gwen was babysitting him today at
her house, an arrangement they made last night.  When the
husband came home, Benjie was missing."

"Shit!  The MO --?"

"So far, a probable match with '94.  Only the date changes,
Mulder."

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

DiAngelo residence
November 5, 2000
7:49 p.m.

Mulder locates the house not by the address Scully gave him,
but by the blazing, twirling lights of squad car and
electric bulb.  A crowd peppers the lawn and sidewalk
outside, neighbors bundled in coats and hats to whisper and
gawk behind the tight orange tape that keeps them at bay.
It looks like a cold weather street party gone awry and
number 17 is lit up like a jack-o-lantern.

There's no need to flash his badge.  Several officers
recognize him from his Saturday visit out to the station and
wave him in.  The acrid stench of burned food hits him in
the face despite the opened door and night air that chills
the rooms to near outdoor temperatures.

Horrific, he thinks, and unimaginable how someone could
invade the secure haven of a kind woman like Gwen DiAngelo
with intent to murder her while she babysat for a child.
The body's not long removed, but underneath the taped
outline blood remains, quantities of it black and tacky in
the dense pile of the rug.  Mulder stops for a moment to
puzzle over the heap of colored plastic pieces, some
splattered with gore, while others lay strewn across the
carpet like shards of confetti.

He locates Scully in the kitchen, busy supervising the
collection of evidence.  Still wearing her coat and latex
gloves, she bends to confer with Darnell who crouches over
the linoleum.  The detective peers beyond her forefinger at
something on the floor that's caught her eye.

"Got here as quick as I could," Mulder says, his glance
panning from the bustle of officers dusting for prints and
salvaging evidence to the scorched pot of food on the stove
and the open sliding door.  "I'm surprised you didn't go
with the body."

Scully straightens and motions him into a corner of the
living room, out of earshot of the other detectives.

"I gave it a cursory examination before it was bagged; the
MO seems consistent with what happened to the previous
victims, as far as I can tell before an autopsy.
Bludgeoned, slashed, the word 'sister' gashed into her
chest.  It's like turning back the clock six years, Mulder."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here," he persists.

"My prerogative.  With Tillman gone after Benjie, I felt it
more important to stay here and keep an eye on things."  She
lowers her voice and he bends closer to hear, his nose
almost touching her hair.  "Darnell's in charge in Tillman's
absence... but this whole thing has made him a little
squeamish -- the viciousness of the attack and quantity of
blood.  I wanted to stay nearby for the time being."

"It happens to the best of us," he says, impressed by her
unobtrusive tact and sensitivity.

"That's what I told him.  And we just noticed something else
in the kitchen, Mulder.  A blood track.  I hate to say this,
but it looks like a partial of a child's sneaker.  An exit
print."

He curses under his breath and returns her stare, forehead
creasing at the significance of her words.  From the kitchen
they hear the trilling of a cell phone and then Joe
Darnell's shout.  "Agent Scully!  The Lieutenant's found
Benjie back at their house.  Pretty shaken up, but he seems
all right."

"I'll go," says Mulder quickly, cupping her elbow for the
briefest moment and looking again into her face.  From the
intense blue of her eyes and the impatient way she purses
the corner of her mouth he knows Scully's in a quandary --
torn between remaining with the queasy detective at the
crime scene and supervising the proper collection of
evidence, or accompanying her partner to examine the
traumatized child-suspect down the street.  "When I need
you, I'll call without fail.  Will that redeem me for being
incommunicado earlier?"

She gives him a level gaze, eyebrows cocked, and without
another word turns back toward the kitchen and the business
at hand.  An Aubrey cop, seeing she's no longer detained,
sidles over to show her something and ask a question.  After
giving the room one last visual sweep, Mulder ducks out the
front door into the night.

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

When the call came in from 17 Laramie, Tillman felt pure
terror.

His first thought was for Benjie's welfare and there were no
quick answers.  Anthony DiAngelo had been understandably
hysterical, making the almost incoherent call from a corner
of his bedroom after coming home and finding his wife's
mutilated body.  He'd also phoned a personal friend.
Tillman, first at the scene, was mere minutes ahead of
another stunned young man who came in to usher Tony away
from the tragedy.  Questioned about Benjie, the bereaved
husband could only sob and shake his head.

So Brian Tillman did what any father would do when faced
with such an emergency.  He panicked and followed his gut
reaction, but buried it all under the guise of prudent
delegation.  After a frantic search of the house and his son
still nowhere to be found on the premises, Tillman
instructed a dazed Darnell to continue with the crime scene
investigation until Agent Scully's arrival.  Then, he'd
struck out on foot alone.

The sliding back door was found ajar, spilling cold air into
the kitchen.  He bounded into the yard with his flashlight,
whipping the beam from one end of the small, unfenced area
to the other.  Swing set.  Shed.  Rocks and the ever-present
woodpile.  No sign of his child huddled and hiding in fear.

Kidnapped?  No, he felt in his bones that Benjie had simply
fled in terror from the scene.  He was fast as the dickens
for a kid his age and fairly coordinated.  All-boy.  Benjie
would escape and elude a pursuer with the instinctive
agility of the very young and very frightened.

("My guess is you don't really need to ride the bus anyway,
do you?  I bet you get around just fine without it.  I have
a feeling you know your way all over this town...")

Unaccountably, Fox Mulder's words drift into his mind as he
continues his sprint through the darkness from yard to
sidewalk in a frenzied, zigzagged search down the street.
During yesterday's interview he'd wanted to call all bets
off and send the nosey agent packing.  Now, he frets over
the fact that Mulder knew and sensed such things about his
boy -- things that he, his own father, never bothered to
notice or acknowledge before.

I've let too much slide, he anguishes, alternating between
consuming fear and deep regret as he searches and runs.  His
son.  His wife.  The inability to let go of the past...

His hands feel clammy inside the leather gloves and his
boots slip on frozen clumps; his pulse races ten miles ahead
of him.  The last thing he needs right now is to have a
heart attack in the middle of the neighborhood after dark.
Sincere in effort, but ineffectual in the end.  Failing his
boy miserably...

His throat feels raw as burned flesh, the air grating down
his laboring throat and through his taxed airways.  Blowing
clouds into the air, he stops on the dark sidewalk to get
his bearings, looking back to see how many blocks he's come,
how many different yards he's searched, and then ahead to
calculate how much further to go.  Almost there.  He wonders
how long it takes Benjie on the fly.

His house stands in relief, a pale silhouette in moonlight.
Empty lots frame either side, something that pleased Janine
no end when the last phase of construction stopped well back
from their property.  He bounds up the front steps and
shoves the front door wide.

Darkness inside.  He flicks switches, calling his son's
name, and takes the stairs in two heartbeats.  Benjie's room
is empty, but he checks the closet and glares under the bed.
He works the house, snapping on lights, muttering to
himself, calling out in his frenzy.  Dashing back
downstairs, his ankle tweaks hard on the bottom step and he
curses his age and his body's limitations.

Nothing downstairs.  Moving methodically through the rooms,
he ends up in the kitchen, where Janine's empty glasses
still stud the sink bottom, then out to the sewing room.  He
slaps the porch light on and bursts like a wild man into the
dimly-lit back yard.

"Benjie!"

His shout echoes into the night, bouncing from back fence to
nearby tree line.  In his haste he trips by the woodpile and
his shin slams against the overflow from the cords he'd
stacked last month.  The pain grabs him, makes him bend at
the waist and grimace.  Goddamn, that hurts like hell!  He's
done a number on his leg, but needs to keep moving. Can't
stop until he finds --

"Daddy..." The voice, tiny and quavering, jerks Tillman's
head around.  Close, but where?

"Benj?"

"Daddy!"

"Oh God, son!"  Behind the small shed he finds the shaken,
folded ball of fear that is his child, tucked so compactly
into the tight, black space as to be unnoticeable.  Taking
great, gasping breaths of the cold air, Tillman gathers the
chilled, trembling boy into his arms and carries him.  He
limps back toward the house with a final surge of adrenaline
before it fades altogether and renders both of them helpless
to the mercy of the outdoors.

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

Mulder's phone call is a welcome reprieve not only from the
messy and depressing work at the crime scene, but because
Scully's mind has been playing hooky down the street for the
last ten minutes.

She checks on Darnell and he seems settled, more in control
of his gorge and responses.  With a thank-you and a grateful
smile, he tells her to go where she's needed before he
returns to the grueling task at hand.  Another officer
offers to drop her off down the street.

Few dim lights illuminate the Tillman home.  She knocks and
calls out, opening the door to follow the sound of Mulder's
answering shout.  In the kitchen Benjie sits on the counter,
jacketed, small legs dangling.  Brian Tillman hovers next to
his boy, protective and glowering, while Mulder sets down a
half-filled glass of water that the boy has just refused.

"How is he?"

Before they can respond, she gently elbows the father aside
in order to examine the child and assess his condition.  A
state of psychic shock would be expected, though she doesn't
find the extreme clamminess or pallor of skin one usually
sees in such cases.  Benjie's eyes are wide and wet, but he
seems amenable to her careful though hurried examination and
sits quietly.  She realizes with a start that this is the
first time the boy has allowed her to touch him.

"He was out back," Mulder explains.  "Wedged so tight behind
the shed the Lieutenant almost needed a pry bar to pop him
out.  One heck of a resilient kid."

While she works with Benjie, whispering questions to him
about his physical condition, she notices Tillman's sharp
glance toward her partner and feels for the first time the
tension that crackles between the two men.  Knowing Mulder,
he's jumped right in with both feet to question this child
about events at the DiAngelo house.  And having learned a
bit more about Brian Tillman, he probably reacted with
vehemence and denial, wanting to shield his son from
intrusion.

"Benjie, you're gonna be fine," she says in a calm,
reassuring voice, tilting her head up to make eye contact
with the child on the counter.  "In just a few minutes your
daddy can put you to bed or let you lay down on the couch.
It's important that you stay quiet for awhile and rest,
okay?"

The little boy nods and she urges him to sip from the glass
of water.  He blinks, wipes at his eye, and when he
acquiesces she feels a swell of satisfaction.

"Have you questioned him?"  She turns to both men, eyes
flicking back and forth.

Mulder answers first.  "Not much forthcoming yet."

"Now's not the time," Tillman hisses.

"Now's the *best* time," Mulder counters heatedly, "while
it's still fresh in his mind."

She faces Tillman, hoping to bring down the man's guard with
reason and a softer tone.  "Now *is* the best time,
Lieutenant, as hard as it may be to accept.  Physically,
Benjie appears to be fine.  Emotionally, sharing what he's
seen might even be cathartic for him.  And what he tells us
tonight could be crucial in pinpointing whoever's
responsible for what's happened."

The distraught man rubs a hand over his face and mustache,
apparently torn between his sworn obligations as police
lieutenant, yet remaining the anxious father, concerned for
his only child's well being.  In light of the confidential
information she's gained this morning from Darnell, she
senses the depth of indecision that torments Tillman in the
silence that follows.

"We're only after the truth... and please believe me, we
won't ride roughshod over your son in order to get it," she
assures him, looking from Tillman to Mulder and back again.

"All right," he mutters to Scully, as if expecting her to
resume the questioning herself.  "But go easy."

She steps back from Benjie, toward his father, so her
partner can have unrestricted access to the child.  Once
more she goes by instinct, trust, and the supposition that
Mulder might have a better angle on the situation, since
he's spoken at length to B.J. Morrow only hours before.
Never mind that Tillman's set to protest again -- Mulder's
already taken up position and faces the boy like he did the
previous morning.

"Pretty rough day, huh?"  He pats Benjie's knee and gets a
shaky nod.  "I'm gonna ask you a few more questions and I
want you to answer them the best you can.  Like we did
before, all right?"

With awe and some emotion Scully watches the unique
connection that slowly forms between Mulder and this strange
little boy in the quiet kitchen, their eyes locked, their
breathing almost synchronized.

"Benjie," he says with quiet gravity, "As much as I hate to,
I *have* to ask this question first... did you in any way
hurt Mrs. DiAngelo?"

The boy's eyes go big with fear, but he responds with a
slow, negative shake of the head.

"All right, good.  Then, tell me... did you see someone else
hurting her?"

Benjie's eyes, still wide, flicker toward the kitchen window
and Scully, following his glance, sympathizes with his
childish paranoia -- fear of being overheard and pursued by
whoever committed the horrible act he no doubt witnessed.
Expected and understandable.  "It's okay, sweetie," she
soothes, "no one can hear you except us."

He swallows, then nods his answer.

Mulder leans forward.  "Is it somebody you know?  Somebody
you recognize from town?"

A shake.

"Did you see a face?"

Another negative shake.

Mulder's voice hushes.  "Okay, no face.  Nobody you know
from around here.  So, tell me the truth, Benjie... is it
someone, or some*thing*, you've seen before?  Maybe by the
buses at school?"

"For the love of God!"  Tillman rages beside them, but
becomes immediately silent when they behold the boy's
undeniable and hesitant nod of assent.

"Did it speak to you?"

She shoots a warning look to her partner, wanting to rein
him in.  But when Benjie replies with an almost
indistinguishable, yet audible, "Yes," her skin prickles
into gooseflesh.

"Out loud?  With words?  Or just in your mind?"

The boy's composure weakens.  He begins to crumble before
them like a sandcastle at shoreline, wiping his eyes
obsessively, lower lip extending in a prelude to full-blown
tears.  He peers back at the agent and gives a pathetic
shrug.

"Mulder, I think that's enough for one night," Scully says
hurriedly, stepping to the child when he covers his face
with the sleeves of his winter jacket.  She reaches up to
touch his head, ruffling the thick brown locks with
comforting fingers.  Patting the boy's knee in thanks,
Mulder capitulates, as though sensing the uneasy direction
she's preparing to steer them before their departure.

Words are one thing, actions another.  And what she's about
to require of the boy may rupture any trust they've gained
this evening with both father and son.  Undeterred in her
duty, she brings her hand down to the small dangling ankle.

"Lieutenant, does Benjie have another pair of sneakers?
Something he can wear as a backup?"

"I guess so.  Why?"

Just the sight of the large evidence bag as it leaves her
coat pocket is enough to rattle Tillman's cage.  "Christ,
Agent Scully!  You heard what the boy said.  He had nothing
to do with it, dammit!"

"Because of certain evidence at the scene, it's necessary to
follow through and cover all our bases.  This is routine.
I'm sure you can understand and cooperate with us on this."

She unlaces the sneakers and eases them from the boy's feet,
feeling ruthless and criminal when his little clenched and
sock-clad toes are exposed.  Dropping the shoes into the
bag, she notes blood and a tear on the lower part of
Tillman's pant leg.  "Excuse me, Lieutenant -- are you
injured?"

"I --" Caught off-guard he glances down at the damage, and
then shifts to test his weight on it.  The resulting grimace
tells Scully all she needs to know.  "I tripped in the yard,
looking for Benjie... fell against the woodpile..."

"Can I treat it for you?  I'm a medical doctor, remember."

Coloring in embarrassment, he refuses and turns toward the
boy's soft, urgent cry.

Coat hanging loose, Mulder approaches from behind her.  He
dangles one of Benjie's discarded mittens by a thumb and
forefinger.  "Got another one handy, Scully?"

"Um, yes..." She fumbles in her pocket, opens a smaller bag
for the stain-tipped mitten.  A dark smear, blood-like and
sinister.  Again she feels a chill.

"Just hold on a minute, before you try to build a case
here," Tillman interrupts, torn from what his son is
whispering to him.  "That's probably from me, when I carried
him into the house --"

"We'll find out soon enough," says Mulder grimly.

What is the boy asking his father?  Scully tunes in to the
muted, tearful conversation, hears Tillman murmur, "Don't
worry about it... we can always buy some more, Buddy-boy.
Isn't that right?"

Rainbow colors flung across the carpet, splattered with
blood at the crime scene.  Lego blocks.  Her heart sinks.
Benjie's favorite toy, now bagged as evidence and lost to
the child when he most needs familiar pleasures in order to
provide comfort and stability after a trauma like this.

In the back of her mind she hears Mulder advising Tillman to
remain at home for the time being, to insure his son's
safety.  He'll be able to monitor the investigation and do
deskwork until his wife's return or the perpetrator is taken
into custody.  Besides, they need to speak with Mrs. Tillman
as soon as possible...

As Mulder speaks, she focuses dream-like on the boy, still
sitting on the hard unforgiving edge of the kitchen
countertop.  She's struck by the resiliency and amazing
fortitude of young children in the face of danger and the
world's inexplicable harshness toward them.  Nothing
prepares her for the transformation she sees when she
focuses on Benjie's tight, stoic expression.  Pained, brave,
so solemn and forbearing...

... sweaty little forehead, baby-fine hair crimped and wet
around flushed cheeks.  Blue eyes bright with fever
confronting Scully with the sudden hurt of betrayal.
("Mommy said no more tests.")

A fragile objection, born of pain and the bewilderment that
threatens to overpower her again... Scully's own sinking
heart upon seeing fear resurrect in the young eyes.  Wanting
to spare her this suffering, hoping to ease that which must
yet be endured in the vain effort to save this one precious
life.

Voice slow and steady, Dana... so she won't sense your
disquiet.  My -- can you even say it without breaking down?
-- *child*... ("We just want you to get better.  That's what
the tests are for.")  My own little sweetheart.  Oh, God --

She jumps at the squeeze to her elbow and the room revolves
and coalesces back into the normal sight and gentle sound of
Brian Tillman murmuring to his son in the yellow light of
their kitchen.  Mulder's at her side, his eyes deep and
questioning, scanning her face when her chin jerks up toward
him.  "You okay?"

"Of course."  She looks down at the bags she grips in one
hand, the plastic edges creased tightly in her knotted
fingers.  Still he stands close, unconvinced, and she fights
to keep a flush from tingeing her cheeks.  "I'm fine,
Mulder.  Let's get this to Darnell right away," she says far
too brusquely.  "Are we done here?"

The question, she realizes, only reflects how out-of-touch
she's been for the last thirty seconds.  With smooth aplomb
he steps one more time toward Tillman to give their
farewells and parting words.  Mulder, her partner in so many
ways.  Watching her back, covering now for her unpredictable
and public snowballing into personal pain.  Protecting her.
He must know, must sense what just transpired...

No wonder she loves this man so much.

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

Edmond, Nebraska
November 5, 2000
8:32 p.m.

The wind surges, hitting the side of the house in angry
gusts.  Moving through the upstairs, she can hear windows
rattle in their frames and old beams creak like the aching
bones of the elderly, like hers.  Methodically she checks
each closet, locks and curtains each window against the
thickening darkness outside, moving from bedrooms to
bathroom to attic opening until the sound of the gusts and
moans becomes unbearable.

The landing on the way downstairs has once again become a
fearful place.  She hurries past as quickly as her ailing
joints can take her.  Too many unpleasant memories inhabit
its narrow space, which force her to envision the horrors of
the past and the sins that surfaced later, like the long-
buried bones of those two FBI agents.

On the first floor her deceased husband's radio alternates
from static hiss to clarity and back again.  The police
channel.  It's the only thing she listens to and why she
keeps the radio at all.  Her early-warning system for peace
of mind.  An alarm, keeping tabs on what's happening
elsewhere before it can happen to her, like the tragedy
tonight.

After peeking through a window at the rear of the house, she
opens the back door and calls the dog, Chief, who
materializes with an obedient whine and pokes his dark
muzzle toward her.  He trundles within for the night, back
fur waffled and wind-blown, while she locks and bars the
door.

Chief heels closely on her round of the downstairs rooms to
seal windows and draw curtains.  Emergency candle, matches,
and flashlight in place on the coffee table.  Mug of hot
coffee at her fingertips.  Finally satisfied, she listens
for a full minute before hunkering down on the old sofa that
hugs a windowless wall and faces both the bolted front door
and the TV toward the side.

She'll watch it with the lights low and the sound muted, the
dog curled on the floor near her feet.  She heaves a thick
comforting afghan over her lap and feels for the handle of
the old revolver hidden beneath its folds.

It's doubtful she'll sleep at all, not after hearing about
the DiAngelo murder on the police band frequency.  No
details given, but she feels in her bones that it's all part
and parcel with what happened to poor Viola -- and to others
six years ago.  Why else would the names Mulder and Scully
be mentioned in the crossway chatter?

And dear, dear Lord, she laments -- this awful blowing of
the wind sure doesn't help matters.  And though the few
neighbors she has are close, they're still too far away if
something unexpected and terrible should actually happen.

It's going to be a very, very long night.

************
End of Chapter 8