Subject: Corpse 1/9
Date: 11 Jun 1995

Corpse
copyright livengoo@tiac.net
Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and the X-Files property of Chris
Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and Fox. Remember it now, kids, because
I tend to forget to include this little paragraph on every post. And, so
everyone knows, reusing any of this without my express permission is a
violation of federal law, 17 U.S.C.. I don't profit, I like mail, but I
really don't like people stealing my work. I give permission to repost,
entire, to the web and ftp sites. No other use is legitimate without my
express permission. ANY use for profit, however meager, violates Chris
Carter's copyright and my copyright. Hopefully, I won't have to ever post
another warning like that.

Emma Courtland, her town and everyone in it belong to me. Some of this
other stuff belongs to some other people, and you get to play guess the
source. Disclaimers to be posted at the end. This critter should
probably rate NC-17 for profanity and violence, so go away if you don't
like that stuff. Corpse was midwived by the estimable Rodent, Amperage
and by Sean Smith. Thanks also to MoBecker and Windsinger for look-overs
and suggestions. I've teased long enough, you folks have some reading
ahead. Kiss some bandwidth goodbye, cause here's part 1 of Corpse.
There's lots more, I just haven't broken and counted it all yet, so don't
jump on my case. There's a LOT of it. I hope you enjoy it. Goo
Corpse 1/?
__________________________________________________________________
I'm putting tinfoil up on the windows,
Lying down in the dark to dream.
I don't want to see their faces,
I don't want to hear them scream.

Splendid isolation,
I don't need no one.
Splendid isolation.

Warren Zevon - Splendid Isolation/Transverse City

I didn't know what to do when I found the body. I mean, whenever
I'd seen horror films I'd thrown popcorn and thought, "Jeez, don't
just stand there! Look around, call the cops!" I thought I'd stay
cool and know what to do. And now all I could do was try not to pee
myself or vomit. I did call the cops. My little phone felt
strange when I unfolded it, and I couldn't remember why I dialed 911. I
had to tell them(I was at the olJ Crossfield"farm because they couldn't
trace my cellphone. Then I just sat there and wait
d to see what
the body would do.

It sprawled there and didn't move. At first I didn't even realize
it had been a young man, it was a thing unto itself now. Oh, it was
complete, nothing cut off, it's just that I couldn't stand to
think that this still object ever walked or laughed or flirted or
anything. Anything. And I was sitting there, watching it, when the cops
and the paramedics put gentle hands on my arms and pulled me away. I
suppose the cops asked me questions, which I must have answered. And the
cop who smelled like cigarettes and had coffee stains on his shirt
spoke to me in soft, raspy tones that matched the
red/blue/red lights on the cars when he took me home, where I
took the pills they'd given me, and I lay there staring at my
ceiling until I wasn't anymore. And I tumbled into long, hard, dry-
mouthed dreams that spun around me until morning's sun blazed
hot and sticky into my face.

I got up then. I must have taken a shower because my hair was wet
and dripped on my blouse when I went to put on my makeup. I had
to go through three different pairs of hose before I could get one
on without holing it. My hands felt like they belonged to someone
else. The drive to the office I can't even remember. I walked in feeling
my feet snag in that carpet law offices use to drown all the sound
and made my way to my office. My little, little box of an
associate's office where the walls were taller than they were wide and the air
was . . .

I found my hands clenched around my coffee mug. Hard.

I don't remember how, but I spent the morning reviewing a lease .
. .a lease. And I do remember walking the land, just like they taught
me, looking for something wrong. And finding . . . him. Him. Not
it. My eyes stung. And at lunch I couldn't eat. I went to get my
clients and stood there with Beth Coughlin and her husband, George,
while she identified her cousin. I wish I couldn't remember that.
George took Beth away after that. He asked if I wanted to go but,
well, I'd found Tommy. Families are for the living, but who's left
for the dead? I never could let go. It was why I avoided criminal law,
or torts. I'd hoped . . .I don't know. That I'd never have to lose
anyone. That everything I dealt with would last forever.

And now Tommy was alone with the police, except for me. They
weren't even locals, not people who knew him. There was this
woman, a doctor. She was beautiful, but she seemed cold to me, so
controlled. She had this man with her. As beautiful as her. It
almost made me laugh when I realized I almost expected someone that
handsome to be dumb. I must have really needed to laugh. I wish I
had. I didn't catch their names. They said they were with the
FBI. And she was going to do an autopsy. And I couldn't leave Tommy
alone with strangers. I didn't want to be there, but I couldn't
leave him alone while she took the last little bits of mystery he had
left. All the other mysteries belonged to his killer. Stolen mysteries.

She pulled the sheet back and turned on her tape machine. She
asked if I wanted to go. I couldn't' leave. I stood against the
cold wall and I trembled and I watched. She stripped him of everything.
The man stood against the other wall. I could see his eyes glitter
a little in that harsh, unnatural light. Tommy had not died well. He
looked okay at first, but her voice tolled his pain. His fingers
were burned, and he'd been probed and explored in ways that must have
brought him terror and pain before they brought him death. And
every detail she found, if I understood them at all, was . . . He
must have been so scared.

The room was growing dark around me. The smells . . . The man, her
companion, walked over and took my arm.

"I'll be back, Scully. I think Ms. Courtland needs some air."

Our heels clicked on the marble floors as we found our way down to
the old-fashioned cafeteria. He bought the coffee. He said he
kept the receipts and let the taxpayer foot the bill for keeping him up
late. I grabbed my favorite table, the quiet one by the fern, and
watched him put together two cups, slip past the crowd of pudgy,
ordinary men and women seeking desserts, and negotiate the clerk
at the cash register. Did the FBI choose them for those surreal
looks these days? Beauty that stunned us mere mortals into cooperation?

I could feel the smile take over my face to answer his.

"You played basketball, didn't you?"

"All tall people get that." His manner was breezy, light. It
seemed too calm. "I think we need to wear buttons that tell our
basketball status. 'Played, didn't play, was forward,'"

"No. No, I . . .actually, I was thinking you looked like you
wanted to pass the coffee to someone, or were looking for guards to
block you." Graceless answers. I really had thought that, but it sounded
contrived. He let it pass.

"I'm curious. You're related to . . .Mr. Dalbert?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm not. I never even knew him. I
mean, he's, . . ." my voice caught. "I mean, he was only seventeen."
I don't know if he even heard me. All of a sudden my throat felt
tight and my nose was stuffed and running. I knew my eyes were red
and puffy. The sob when I breathed in got away from me. I wanted
to hide from him and everyone else. He watched the other people
there, I think, and gave me time.

When I'd calmed enough to blow my nose he looked back at
me, wearing an understanding expression that said he knew, he'd
seen this, been this road. I tried to imagine the training films
they used to teach guys like him to look that way. I sucked in my
breath, held it. Let it out.

"Look, let me start over here. I never got your name and
somebody must have told you my name, but let's do it right." Stuck
out my hand and saw his just swallow it up. His palm was smooth,
but I could feel muscle, strength, in the dry grip.

"Fox Mulder. Special Agent Fox Mulder." His rueful smile
acknowledged all the comments I might make. I doubted I could
invent any new ones.

"Emma Courtland." Spot him points, grin . . . "My parents named
me after Mrs. Peel. I think they wanted a spy, not a lawyer."

"Could have been worse, they could have named you
Natasha."

"Or Boris." God, they'd lock me up if I started laughing. I
knew trial practice classes would come in handy, they gave me the
lawyer-face I used on him.

"Business lunch, Ms. Courtland. If I'm going to write a
fortune in bad coffee off I need to ask some questions. Are you up
to it now?"

I nodded and breathed, counted to ten. He let me have the
space.

"Okay, you were going to tell me about Tommy Dalbert, and
why you waited. How long have you known him?"

"I . . .I never knew him. Oh, I met him once. His cousin,
Bethie Coughlin, is my client. I was doing this closing for her.
On the Crossfield Farm."

"And you just dropped by and found Tommy?"

"Not quite. They taught us, taught us to always 'walk the
land'" biblical-proclamation voice, and I got that smile again.
"You know, make sure there're no indian graveyards or . . .or midnight
dumpers." That term had always made me laugh before. "Well, you
know what I found."

"Mhm. You reported it. The cops said you stayed with the
body."

". . . yes."
"And you stayed today. Nobody goes to a matinee autopsy, Ms.
Courtland." His voice was still soft, still seemed gentle, but he
didn't seem relaxed or calm anymore. "Do you want to tell me why you
stayed for the autopsy of someone you never knew?"

"He, he was all alone. I . . . he belonged to Bethie, to his
family, when he was alive. But he's dead. And I found him, and who else
does he have? You never knew him, he's just a corpse to you!
Somebody's leavings." I wanted to hit him with the words, wipe the
sympathy and veiled suspicions off his pretty face. Let him know
his looks and his manners and his nice, practiced style wouldn't
buy him whatever he wanted. But he didn't flinch for me, he started
smiling again. I nearly threw my coffee in his face. I let him
have the rest of it. "I didn't know Tommy before, but I knew his
cousin. I grew up in this town. This place is mine, these people are
mine. You just catch your monster and get out, you don't belong here.
You don't have anyone here. You're just a stranger."

His eyes flickered. He wasn't smiling anymore. That touched
him. I don't know why. He tapped the paper sides of his cup for
a minute, watching me, then nodded carefully and sighed.

"You're right, Ms. Courtland. I don't have anybody here. And
I didn't know Tommy, but I may know how to catch the people who
killed him." He glanced at the clock on the wall above the buffet.
"I think we should get back to Scully. She may have something."
When he left the room ahead of me his step didn't spring, and he
wasn't looking for the other team's guards anymore.

My stomach ached from anger, but dread knotted it further as
he opened the door to the morgue. The smells of formaldehyde
and death and Vicks rolled out, almost visible. He braced himself.
I could tell by the way his shoulders rose and fell. Somehow, it
was a comfort to know that even perfect people couldn't face this
easily.

The fluorescents beat down more steadily here. Overhead light
like that made everything seem oddly exposed and darkened at
the same time. Colors were washed out and Scully looked almost
as pale as Tommy. Tommy. From the back of my nose to my knees
I felt my guts clench and fought back the nausea. She had him . .
opened. His skull and chest spoke obscenely of their contents.
She looked up at us, letting her eyes graze me before stopping
with her partner.

"Mulder, I think you need to take a look at this." She sounded
clinical, cold. Her voice could have been one more tool to be
used. He stepped over, slowly. I don't think he wanted to know
the secrets Tommy held. His face had a dark expression that
really shouldn't belong to a man like him. The high-school
hero I'd goaded was gone. I'd never seen anyone like the man
in his place. God, I was watching them, trying not to think about what
she was saying, what I was seeing.

"Here, look at the mucous membranes . . " she was showing Agent Mulder
Tommy's nose, his throat. She lead him through a category of harm to
every orifice, any sensitive point, hands, feet, belly, sex. She was
watching Mulder, glancing between the body and him as though
waiting for something she didn't want to hear.

He paced slowly around Tommy, leaning close but touching
nothing. His face was blank, all his attention going inch
by inch over Tommy's skin, and below. I pressed back against
the wall by the door. I felt, strangely, like a voyeur, not to
Tommy's pitiful exposure but to the two of them. She was
standing back now, watching him. There was something
intensely . . . personal about them. Almost sensual. I shivered
at the thought. He straightened finally, turned to her. He
seemed unconsciously attentive, she stepped in close, looking
up and shaping her words, too low for me to hear, for him
alone. I couldn't bear to stay there and I wrenched myself
out that door and fled to the protection of sun and life and
street.

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

They came together to find me. I had been sent home early.
I think they were all afraid that death might rub off. I
retreated to my garden where I pulled weeds until I could no
longer see them. I had set a thawed dinner and a glass of wine
when my doorbell rang. They stood there. She gleamed
red-gold in the light by my door. His black coat and dark
hair ate the light. I tried to keep them at bay on my porch,
but they intrigued me. I gave way and let them in, let their
frightening questions and alien ways widen the crack that
Tommy Dalbert had put in my life.

Scully and Mulder sat in my living room, making the familiar
strange and lonely. Their suits and manners were little
different from mine, but whatever drove them had no place
in my world. The questions began and suddenly Dr. Scully
gave way, no longer in charge. Agent Mulder's cognac voice
lead the way. They pulled my life apart, there in my little house.
Dissected the hours of my days and the paths taken and left. I'd
known this would happen in time, I thought I was prepared. But
when you lay your life out to strangers, sleek and foreign, you
dread the self you see through their eyes. I hated them. I wanted
what they had.

They began as I knew they would. Simple traceries of my paths and
how they intersected with Tommy's and Bethie's. I answered readily
enough, they were hunting my enemy, too, after all. The questions
were ones I would have asked myself. The familiar regained its
shape in those moments, his voice and hers could almost have
belonged in my world. I could see, for the first time, tiny flaws,
wrinkled suits, the faint stain of coffee on his tie, the tiny scuff on
her shoe. I nearly smiled, lulled by the little commonalities that
gave them weight and dulled their sheen.

I had their measure now, set up the walls I would need to defend
myself against what they took. I thought I knew what they were,
when he twisted in my grasp and I saw her track the change, as
though she'd been waiting for it.

"Ms. Courtland, have there been any unusual occurrences? Sounds
or lights that seem out of place?" His voice was too calm again. Too
intent. Her eyes held an odd look, patience, fear, things I wasn't
prepared to see there. What was he asking? Why had she known
and not wanted it? Why did I know he already knew every answer I
could give.

The ivory light that spilled from my lamps seemed suddenly pale,
insignificant in the indian summer night. His eyes seemed light,
but their centers were as dark as the night outside my windows.
Her red hair no longer reflected light, but drank it in. I was alone
in my light, it could no longer touch them. There could never be
enough light to drive back the darkness these two brought.

"Lights." It took a moment to remember which lights he had asked
about. "Yes, we do have lights here. They come when they will.
Some years are better than others."

He nodded. Agent Scully leaned forward in her seat, drawing my
eyes.

"Have you ever seen the lights yourself?"

"Ah. There. The ragged hem of it. Her voice was so cool and level,
where his held barely leashed need. I smiled into hers eyes,
savoring that first piece to their puzzle.

"I've seen them. I first saw them years ago, when I was a girl. But . . .
lights didn't kill Tommy Dalbert. And whatever did has done it
before." I was feeling my way in their darkness now. Learning the
edges of this second piece. An amused glance shared between them,
I was watching whole conversations.

"This is routine, Ms. Courtland. We're just trying to establish
conditions so we'll be able to see any aberrations." His voice again,
returning my volley. What was it about him? The all-American
male, so why were his eyes so dark, so lost? No matter how much I
told him, how clear it became, I thought it could never be bright
enough to make him feel happy, safe. They were building the walls,
now. What would entice them to trade?

"You already know about the lights." Never ask a question you can't
already answer. "You could tell me just how often, when and where
they've been." Calm certainty I hadn't felt before came to me as I
watched them not react. "And lights never did what happened to
Tommy Dalbert." Watch him now, watch his eyes narrow just that
much. What's hiding behind that face? His move. His trade.

"Alright. Yes. This has happened before."

"Mulder!" Sharp reproof. And it was there again, a conversation in
a word. But the names, like pretentious British TV. Walls again?
Against whom? Protecting what? A world of response in a glance,
a silent, momentary battle and truce. The light-dark eyes came
back to me.

"This has happened before."

"Not here."

Not here. Other towns that saw lights."

Don't smile. You haven't won. There's more. What will he give,
what can you trade? Attack.

"It's going to happen again. There's more. If Tommy was all you'd
be gone by now, wouldn't you Agent Mulder?"

He was leaning in towards me now, elbows on knees, one thumb idly
tracing the lifeline across his palm as he planned what to do. She
settled into her chair, watching me, wary but waiting. He'd
followed her lead with the dead. She'd follow his with me. He looked
up, hiding behind his smile, and prepared to redirect.

"You should have been a prosecutor. Ever think about joining the
FBI?" His hands were still now. "Look, with an investigation like
this we cannot give out information. It's more than just FBI policy.
If we give out what we know, the bad guys know how to jump, know
where the holes are in the net. I don't doubt you want to help, but
we can't tell you. All we want is to find the killer, we're on your
side." He was offering me the sensible, hard, reliable ground of
procedure. And I wasn't going to walk there anymore.

"You don't know this place. You know what he's done before." I
found her now, on my flank. "Nothing you found surprised you. I
was watching. I know." Hold my breath. Look for my cliff. "You're
still here, even though you know what you'll learn. So you know
he'll do it again." Find the edge, feeling it in the dark, under
watchful eyes. "I want him, too . . ." What could I say? I didn't
know, couldn't think, how to ask? "Let me help." I was breathing so
fast in the panic of that need. What would I do? Tunnel vision
found them, darkness crowded every edge and they were alone in
its heart.

Slow, slow, shake of the heads, hers copper bright, his dark and
calm. "I'm sorry, no. We can't." More hollow offers of safety,
procedure. FBI rules and professional prerogative. They were
showing me safe, hard ground again but I had already stepped off
the cliff. I showed them to the door, then sat in my empty house,
sipping my wine and listening to the wind whistle past the edge.

****************
Cont.

=====================================================================
======

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 2/?
Date: 12 Jun 1995 05:18:28 GMT

Corpse 2/?
It's Monday where I live, so here's part 2. One every day or two. My
favorite form of mail, as some of you may recall, is the death threat
because I don't post often enough and my posts are too short. Be
inventive! And I hope you quite enjoy it. Have a Goo time!

Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and the X-Files property Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen and Fox Broadcasting. Emma Courtland and her town and
everyone in it, and everything that happens there are mine. I don't get
any profit from this, but I do like to get mail.

Copyright 1995, Livengoo@tiac.net Any use or reproduction without my
specific permission is in violation of Sec. 17 of the United States Code.

_____________________
The sun was hard this morning, etching vacuum-hard edges
wherever I looked. The golds and wines of autumn softened
nothing, and my blood felt too thin for the chill. Coffee's heat
barely warmed my throat and was lost in the chill in my belly.

I called the office and told them I was sick, that I wanted my
personal time. Two weeks to myself. Two weeks to hunt. The
melancholy smell of leaves and autumn wind caught me where I sat
on my porch, feeling the sun and considering my moves. I didn't
need to solve a murder. It wasn't a killer I'd hunt. So I wouldn't
solve a murder, I'd solve an investigation.

The house across the street was empty. It was for sale, the sign
swung in the wind. He'd kill again. He'd killed before. I didn't
know when or where, but they did. How would I find who had come,
who didn't belong? How would *I* have found him? The smile that
crept across my lips might have reached my eyes, but I didn't feel it
there at all.

The inside of my car was warm and smelled of old papers and stale
croissants. The drive to the courthouse, lined with maples and old,
fine homes, was lovely in that hard, crystalline light. I found a
place and listened to the staccato clatter of money as I fed the meter.
Up steps of nineteenth century marble, to doors of ornamental
bronze, where the sun threw my shadow in sharp-edged relief and I
hesitated a moment, maybe two, then pushed through the doors into
the dim light of incandescent bulbs swinging too far away.

Up a flight of stairs worn gently smooth and concave by a hundred
years of passing feet. Down a hall where the doors were stained
antique dark, to the Registry of Deeds. A smile of triumph drew up
my face when I saw him there, tall and slouched in his chair,
glasses on top of his head and fingertips trying to wipe the ache of
too many hours of fine print from his eyes. I stepped up behind
him, silent on rubber-soled shoes, to lean past his shoulder and read
what he'd found. His startled flinch made me oddly glad.

"Let me buy the coffee today, Agent Mulder, and I just may be able
to help." The look on his face hung somewhere between wary and
amused, but he let me lure him from his work. "You need to find a
house that's leased or sold within a certain time?" He nodded, but I
already knew the answer to that.

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

The stained glass skylight shone red and gold and blue with the
midday sun, although the colors had all diffused into a soft, pale
white light by the time they reached us. It was still sufficient to
keep the fluorescent glare at bay.

Agent Mulder looked tired, and grateful for even bitter, municipal
coffee. He sat with his elbows on the Formica table, eyes shut,
letting the caffeine work hot and sharp through his system. When
he finally looked up and smiled, the professional armor plate was
back in place.

"I have to admit, I'm a bit startled to see you, Ms. Courtland. I
thought Wednesdays were golf and meeting day for lawyers."

"I was always better at tennis." Coy suited him better than
me, but I had taken my lessons, too.

His eyes were tracking behind me, now. I wasn't surprised to hear
high heels on marble, and Agent Scully's voice greeting him. She
turned to me, plainly trying to puzzle out why I was sitting there
with her partner. I think the smile he gave her then was the first
wholly honest and genuine expression I'd seen on his face. He
pulled a seat over for her, and asked if she cared to try our brand of
paint thinner. She was more offended for me and the honor of our
coffee than I could ever have been over a statement so true. I had
to explain that we figured they just used the bug-tar from summer
to make it.

Minor pleasantries between strangers must be an acquired skill.
Observations on weather and architecture standing for questions
not so easily asked. I left the first offer to them, and they did not
disappoint.

"I think Ms. Courtland was about to tell me about the lights."
his voice was breezy, pleasant, but her look - exasperation and . . .
fear? - gave it the lie.

Offer. Partial acceptance, counter-offer. "Yes. I was only eight or
so, but I remember watching them for what seemed like hours.
You're looking for recent arrivals?"

One of those conversations I wanted so much to hear, but could only
watch. Her hair caught the gold gleams that made it this far down. He
was pale and out of place in the light of day.

"I think I've about found what I needed." For a man who hid
so much he was an awful liar. "Were the lights just blurs, or could
you make them out?"
"You've seen pictures." No doubt whatsoever. "It depends.
Sometimes they were blurs. They'd loop the loop, dive. Other times,
you think you can almost make them out. I've seen them twice." My
cup was almost empty. "When we saw them first, men came to our
house and told us not to ever say. They don't come so often now, but
every spring and fall people stand on the hills outside of town with
these signs that say "I believe" and "Take Me With You." Scully
smiled, but she held her cup too tight. Mulder's lips curved but a
smile should reach your eyes. I had as much as I thought I could get
right then. I left, and climbed to the mezzanine. I watched her
argue with him, out loud now, though still out of my hearing. They
stopped, and I left, but I don't think either one of them won.
************

Claude and Tammy were happy to see me, as always. They gave me
cookies and tea, the way they had before I ever left for law school.
When I came back they gave me clients from their real estate agency,
too. But they hadn't given Scully or Mulder much at all.

"Those two? Batch of strangers, trying to stir up trouble. No
one here'd do such a thing. They should be looking for drifters and
perverts, not picking on honest people." I knew this one. To
Claude, all evil came from the cities. To Tammy, cities were just
people who should buy a home here, preferably from her. An odd
twinge of sympathy for the two agents ran through my satisfaction
with what I could do that they couldn't."

"Tammy honey, look, I want to know who they're going to try
to talk to and what they're looking for, think you could work that up
for me?"

She smiled all over her face, and winked. "Don't know what you
want with that and I don't want to know. You just don't tell them
where you got it, okay?" She got my nod, good as an oath on my
blood with these two. I walked out of there half an hour later with a
copy of Tammy's lead files and notes, houses shown houses sold,
families, pets, preferences, what kind of car they drove, what food
they liked to eat. Everything a persistent, curious, and easily
underestimated real-estate agent could collect. I doubted the FBI
had files as complete.

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

My next stop was home. I pulled up under a maple, shut the engine
off and listened to hot metal tick. Home. My half of the little brick
duplex sat there, stolid, clean. The white wood porch looked just
slightly seedy. It needed paint. I could remember planting the
brown, and burgundy, and white chrysanthemums myself. And I'd
still almost driven past it. A chill put gooseflesh up my arms. That
house was so warm and cozy and normal. How could it be home?

And for all that, my key still fit in the lock. The mail still had my
name on it, and my perfume still hung in the air. The hot spill of
afternoon sunlight threw my shadow, short and small, across the
threshold. It was refreshing to step into the cool house beyond it.

A cup of tea and a sandwich, and my computer. I reached over,
adding a few more crumbs to those lodged in the keyboard, and
turned it on. Dial Lexis, bill to my name. Martial my details, choose
all newspapers for the last two years, put in my search and sit back
to see what I'll find. The cursor blinked to me. The screen was an
unreal blue, drowning the indirect light the reflected from the
floor in the front of the room. I came up with over four hundred
articles. Okay, start narrowing. I tried "UFO," and "Mulder," "FBI,"
and "unexplained phenomenon." I wound up with seventeen
results, seventeen murders. Wait, closer examination made it thirty-one
murders. Eliminate the anomalies. Eliminate copycats. And I had
twenty-eight deaths, fourteen towns, most of them before Mulder started
investigating. He'd connected the few killings he'd seen with the earlier
ones, and come up with twenty-eight. I ran my hands up my arms to chase
the chills away. Twenty-eight murders. Just in the big city papers
alone. My throat ached when I swallowed.

Fourteen pairs of murders. Brutal, long, hard deaths, always a
young man followed by one about fifteen to twenty years older. All
unsolved. I needed more information.

Download and sign off and call my personal source and old college
friend, Gerald Riggins.

"Jerry Rigg, the classmate voted most likely to fix a jury."

"Who the hell . . .wait a minute . . .Emma-girl? That you, Mrs.
Peel?" His deep voice kindled with welcome.

"It's me, you old liar! You working for the Inquirer yet?"

"Nah, they still haven't caught on. I'm higher than ever in the
respectable press. Subvert 'em from the inside."

A foolish grin took me by surprise. I'd have married him if he'd
wanted me.

"Jerry, I know you. You still got your weirdo file?"

"My freak file is my largest file! It's where I get my best
information. What do you need, two headed Elvis? Newt's tete a tete
with space aliens?"

"Murder, Jerry. I need bloody murder." He was quiet as I told
him what I had. I could feel his tension as I heard the papers rattle
under his hands. His breathing was loud when he pinned the
phone between shoulder and ear.

"Ugly stuff, Emma. What do you want this for? I thought you
were a proper exploiter of the masses, a capitalist-queen?"

"Yeah, but this bastard hit close to home. What have you
got?"

"Close to . . .? Oh jeez. Oh god." His voice was a hoarse
whisper. "I'm sorry Emma, did you know the . . .was it a close
friend?"

"It's a little hard to explain. Friend of a friend. But the FBI's
here . . ."

"FBI?" The laughter was back. "You got a tall, thin, cover-
boy cop there?" He smacked his lips. Jerry was light in his loafers
and his tassel-oxfords had been out of the closet since freshman
year. He'd majored in journalism but minored in disconcerting
professors. I always loved his society-column style descriptions of
political figures and wished I could subscribe to his paper in this little
town.

"He's here, him and this FBI cop-doctor. You know what
they're looking for, Jerry?"

A chuckle. "Give me your e-mail and let me ask some
questions.

My tea was cold, but my house felt like home again. The warm touch
of my past clung to me as I put my things away, grabbed Tammy's
list, and headed back out to see if I could outflank them.

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

The sky was light but the ground swam in blue gray shadow when I
pulled in down the street from William Lawrence's ranch house. I
could smell the sweet, mildly illegal smoke as someone burned their
leaves. Crickets still rattled in the trees and grass, and the roofs of
two storey homes caught a golden tip of sunlight. The one storey houses
had slipped too low for the light and were sunk in shadow.

Williams wasn't home. The car was gone, the blinds were drawn,
everyone gone and no lights on. I grinned and tapped my wheel to
the rhythm of my rhyme. After I had eliminated families and
single women from my list, I was left with single men. Lawrence
was the earliest arrival on my list, and I wanted to get a look at him.

I had John Hiatt on my radio, and my eyes on Lawrence's house
when a plastic crinkle and a dry voice brought me upright, heart in
my throat.

"Seeds?" Focus on a bag of sunflower seeds two inches from my
nose, then up to Agent Mulder, leaning against my car trying to
look annoyed and not getting much past amused.

"What are you doing here?" If I hadn't been stunned by adrenaline
I'm sure I would have done better than that. He took mercy and
answered the question.

"I followed you." He cracked a seed and tossed the shell. "If we keep
meeting like this people will talk." Another shell. I decided sitting
in the car felt a little too much like being in a penalty box, and got
out to lounge along with him.

"I'm willing to believe in coincidence once, Ms. Courtland, but
you're starting to stretch credibility a little." He had that smug look
guys get when they think they're miles ahead of you. I reached
over and took a seed.

"You might as well call me Emma. You're right, coincidence doesn't
exactly explain what I'm doing here." He crunched another seed
and raised an expectant eyebrow. "Can I call you Fox?"

"No."

"Agent Mulder, . . ."

"You can call me Mulder." The amused tolerance in his voice
announced his certainty that he had the upper hand in whatever
was going on here.

"Last names again. Did you go to school in England or something?"

"Yes, and 'or something'."

I sighed. "Mulder then. I told you before, this is my place. I feel
like somebody broke into my home, took something from me." I
could hear a tone in my voice I'd never really heard before, almost
pleading, but not. "You aren't getting rid of me. No matter what
you do, I will be there when you take this man down."

The annoyance had finally beaten out amusement, but he changed
gears on me. "What makes you think it's a man?"

"Hey, I read Silence of the Lambs. I read cases in school. You're
looking for a serial killer and they usually kill people who resemble
them. It had to be somebody strong enough to sling Tommy around.
It took a while to do what he did to Tommy, so he had to have
privacy. Besides, serial killers are almost always men."

"The ones we catch, at least." he looked like he had a headache. "As
far as it goes, that's not bad reasoning Ms. Courtland. But I do have
the psych degree, and doing the profiles and catching the bad guys
is what I get a paycheck and a good health plan for. You, on the
other hand, get paid to conduct land transactions and fight zoning
battles. No criminal law enforcement duties there unless we catch
our killer dumping hazardous waste." He let his mouth twist into a
small grin. He was on a roll and I let him finish. "So please go back
home, go back to your life, and let me hunt nightmares."

I could feel my scowl. He was trying to stare me down and I wasn't
about to let him do it. I shook my head, very slowly, keeping my
eyes fixed on his, and held out my list. "No. No. This is still my
place. My people. We can use your help, but we don't need you coming in
to wave a wand because we can't think our way through our problems. don't
carry a gun, and I won't be arresting this psycho, but you couldn't get
this list. You don't know these people. Our cops have enough to do and,
and . . ." and I found
Tommy. Tommy haunted my dreams now, he was mine now. I had
found Tommy and I owed him this. Owed myself this. I was a
lawyer, I upheld the law. That had to mean something. I wouldn't
let a charming, arrogant mind-cop flaunt that obligation any more
than I could let a monster do so. Mulder was reading my list, and
looked up to hand it back to me. Somehow, I didn't think that meant
I had won.

"Ms. Courtland. I appreciate how you feel. I really do. But this
work is psychologically and physically dangerous. Scully and I
both have scars to prove that. Even if Bureau policy didn't
completely prohibit the kind of involvement you are asking for, I
would stop you." He was watching me now, without any of the
defensive humor I was used to seeing. I could just make out his
expression through the gloom, lit faintly by house lights across the
street. His eyes were wide and dark again, and he looked at home in
the night.

I bit my lower lip and tried to think how to explain it to him. How to
make him understand. "Mulder," I could hear the hesitant note as I
tried to feel my way through my own jumbled thoughts and words.
"I know crime happens. I know people die. I wanted to work with
things that never die, that will be there when I'm not, that outlast
us and mean more than we do. But, when I found Tommy, . . ." I was
so frustrated, where were the words for this? I looked up, expecting
a quizzical stare and found a calm, knowing sadness instead. How
could he know how this felt? I grabbed the things I felt and just let
the words shape themselves, right or wrong.

"I found Tommy and nothing safe is left. I'm all he has now, no one
else will see him safe, he'll only be a victim to everyone else. I need
to find the reason, I need to give back what I can . . .I look at my
house and my life and all of a sudden nothing stays in place.
Human isn't human anymore. Somebody did this *thing* to that
young man. They turned a young man into a , a. . . " I could feel the
stammers, and tears of anger and pain and fear prickled in my head
and made my nose run. "I *need* to help you catch this bastard. I
*need* to know that I'm not just sitting there, waiting for the
monsters to harvest me. I need to fight back. Don't make me a
victim, Mulder. Let me fight back. I'll just go around you if you
don't."

His arms were wrapped around him now, too tight to be called
crossed, as though he were cold. His hands were pale where they
wadded handfuls of long, black coat. He wasn't looking at me, was
watching the early stars with a blank, distant expression on his
face that was as lonely as I'd felt sitting with Tommy. I stepped
closer and put a hand on his shoulder, was startled by how tense he
felt under my hand. I hadn't touched him since I'd shaken his hand
when I met him. Somehow, it was jarring to be able to touch him, to
realize that he was human, flesh and blood, not really that different
from me. I left my hand on his shoulder, and now I felt him draw
a long, shaky breath. He looked back at me, pale, less clear now in
full dark. He stepped back out from under my hand.

"Let me talk to Scully." His voice was soft, too soft to really hear
nuances. "And you don't need to watch Williams. He was working
in Russia when the last three murders took place." The smile was
back in his voice, his armor falling into place as he turned and
walked to the rental car I had never noticed following me. I could
hear his footsteps crunch in dry grass, see the swing of black coat
in the sharp, nighttime air. He'd shut off his dome light, so he
stayed in shadows as he got in the car and drove away. I stood there
a long time before I turned around and got in my car and left.

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

Thai carry-out and e-mail when I got home. I felt exhausted and
fragile after talking with Mulder, but Jerry Rigg had left two
messages on my phone telling me to check my e-mail. The urgency
in his voice was enough to have me sitting now, bathed in blue
light brighter than the single lamp I'd switched on when I came in.

FROM: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
TO: IN%"DIRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ:

Hope you pick this up tonight, babe. I'm worried and I'll call in if I
don't get mail by tomorrow bright in the A.M. I called some
nameless sources. Erase this the minute you finish with it. I've
already shredded every hard copy I have of this info, and wiped the
relevant disc. I suggest you do the same.

Fox Mulder. I can't decide if this guy has worms in his head, or is on
to something so big the rest of us are afraid to get near it, or both.
He's been FBI for several years. PhD psych from Oxford, profiles
serial killers and hunts unexplained phenoms, aka UFOs. Real
weird. I'd have laughed except that when you look there's this trail
of bodies where he's been, assuming any body is left. A lot of folks
disappeared after Mulder had been anywhere near them. A lot of
dead and gone. BE CAREFUL. I don't think he knows how dangerous
he is to people and you owe me a batch of Christmas cards and $20
from that poker game in 1987. His partner looks more straight
arrow. Pathologist, good marks, everybody likes her and thinks
she's blown her career following Mulder. I guess they call him
Spooky Mulder around the FedBu.

Spooky's sis disappeared when he was a kid. It's in the papers from
his hometown. My folks say it's common knowledge he looks for
little green men when people disappear. You guys get some
unexplained shit out your way, I bet he's been hound-dogging you
for that stuff. Get this, some of my sources think he's right. Yeah.
And these are not rubber-room types. Some of the suits think he's
right. Be careful.

Your killer, whatever or whoever, has been around for about
eighteen or twenty years. Hard to tell, we know some early murders
but can't exactly pinpoint the first. Copycats and the fact that No. 1
is likely to be just one murder instead of two. Nobody connected
them until about six years ago. Spooky took on the x-files at FBI
with all these open dead-files about five years ago. Three years ago
he started trying to hack through this one. He's done one profile,
and the cops think it's top notch. Real seance-creepy material.
Spooky posits obsession stemming from unknown causes, re-
enacted every year. Sounds good, my sources say he's still trying to find
little green men and can't decide if it's people or not.
Apparently the profile assumes human agency and was designed to
make the cops happy with him. Real button-pushing bastard. Don't
let him pull your strings, Emma.

Your killer always follows a pattern. He kills one young guy.
Drilled teeth, burns, object rape, bruises, indications of torture over
about a week. Then a guy about fifteen or twenty years older, mid-
thirties to fifty. That one's really bad. He takes about ten days from
what my people said. xx. Sorry , my hands are shaking. I threw up
when I saw the autopsy report. All kinds of assault and torture.
Vivisection. Like the young one but a whole lot worse. Then he
burns his house and vanishes. And two more guys die in some other
town. Very little info, seems quiet, ordinary looking, white guy.
The descriptions change a little, but this Average White Male shows
up in town, buys a house, travels on business so he's away a lot. One
day a kid disappears, then a man. No connection except how they
die. House burns and Spooky shows up. That's really all we know
right now. This guy isn't little and he isn't green, but he likes UFO
towns.

Leave these guys alone Em. Don't get near them. The killer and
Spooky both. Please. Call me. Erase this. I've given you the least I
thought you could work with. It is not safe to know too much about
these people, Emma. Don't ask for more. Just keep away from them.

Jerry

I sat and looked at my screen for a long time, rereading what Jerry
had written. Then I erased it, threw away my dinner, and took a
shower. I wanted to take my brain out and scrub it. I'd read
enough, and seen enough, to be able to picture what he was talking
about a lot more clearly than I liked. And it was still too late. I'd
already stepped off the cliff.

I sent mail to Jerry and sat there in my robe, with one light on in
my room and thought about Mulder. Thought about how his
shoulder had felt under my hand. He was warm, and handsome, and
funny, and scared me half to death. How somebody perfect, and
confident, and sharp could have as much hurt as I thought I'd seen
tonight was . . . terrifying. It meant nobody was immune. Nobody
was safe. Ever. And all that had happened to me was that I'd had to
wake up to that fact. So he and Scully had scars. I had a bad, bad
feeling I was going to learn how that felt, if I hadn't picked up my
first scar already. It was a long time until dawn.

Cont.

=====================================================================
======

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 3/?
Date: 13 Jun 1995 00:13:38 GMT

Corpse 3/?
Fox Mulder and Dana Scully property of Chris Carter, etc. etc. Emma and
Co. property of Livengoo@tiac.net and you guys should all be able to
recite this stuff in your sleep. Suffice to say we all know who was
created by whom, and that I'm not making any money, but might be getting
mail.
______________________

My eyes felt grainy and the mirror had shown them red and puffy.
I was starting to miss my office, to feel cut off from the stream of
my days. Another sharp, bright day plucked my nerves when I left
the house.

Traffic still cluttered the road, slowing me. I pulled into the
parking lot of the hotel later than I had planned, and half-ran to
the hotel coffee shop. It was a relief to see them there. I wanted to
face them both before they could gather their reasons to keep me
out. I could see Mulder wince from across the room. Agent Scully
was saying something to him that gave him a look I remembered
from my days on the Socratic hot seat in law school. If I had any
doubts as to what she was saying, the grim look she turned on me
would have eliminated them.

"Ms. Courtland. I was afraid we might see you this morning." Her
voice was polite and distant. He was avoiding both of us, looking out
the window. I could sympathize but I wasn't letting my one ally off
the hook. I slid into the booth next to him, feeling the vinyl seat,
chill through the legs of my jeans. Mulder pointedly kept looking
out the window, leaving me on my own with his partner.

"Good morning Dr. Scully." Smile brightly, go on the attack. I
handed her my list. "I hope you'll find this useful."

She glanced at Mulder and back to me, pulling out an identical list.
"I believe we have a copy of that already." Mulder was still trying
to stay out of it. It was my turn to glare at him, and I wondered how
he'd done that. I looked back at her, she was the one I had to
convince now and she was not offering the openings Mulder had
left.

"Dr. Scully, I assume Agent Mulder mentioned encountering me last
night?" The sour look on her face left no doubt as to that. "I can
only tell you what I told him. I'm involved in this. I have been
since I found that body. I'll try on my own if you won't let me
help." She was wearing the same expression my mom had used
when I wanted to get my ears pierced in grade school. This could
have gone better.

"Please listen to me, Ms. Courtland. We can't let you work with us.
Mulder should have told you." He winced at another pointed glare.
"Our work is specialized, it can be dangerous. FBI policy . . ." She
could see me tune that out, I was sure. She sighed. Ms. Courtland,
law enforcement groupies have tried to ride along before and we
cannot allow that."

I could feel the sullen, mulish expression settle on my face. "I'd
rather help you. You are the specialists. But I will pursue this."
I wanted to draw Mulder in, but he was totally unresponsive,
looking out the window, avoiding us both. Scully was probably as
irked at him as I was. She glared at him again, and there was a soft
thump that might have been a kick, that ended in another wince.

"Please don't push this, Ms. Courtland. If you continue you will be
interfering with our investigation." I glared back.

"False arrest. Abuse of process. Private citizens do have rights, Dr.
Scully."

"And I'm not interfering with your rights. I'm trying to keep you
safe, and out of the way of an investigation."

"I'm not doing this for fun, Agent Scully. This isn't entertaining
for me, this is terrifying. But it's worse to do nothing. Worse to sit
and wait. You're not my shepherd. Don't make me sit and wait for
slaughter."

She smiled and went for the feint. "Ms. Courtland, we're not
endangering you. Just the reverse. This person has given no
indication of striking at women. If you do not involve yourself in
seeking him you should be safe."

There. "If he were the only one. If no one else ever hit, or harmed,
or killed. But what about the others, Agent Scully?" Lean in, she'd
gone still. I was on to something, but I had no idea what. "You hunt
them, Scully. He's not the only one, you know he's not. You're a
hunter. You don't have to sit in your house, alone, in the dark,
waiting to hear them outside the door." God, her eyes were gray.
Pinpoint pupils and solid gray, flushed spots marked her
cheekbones against a pale face. I sat back, took a deep breath, and
tried to let my focus expand.

Mulder was watching us both, Scully with concern, me with veiled
hostility and respect. I knew I was threatening her somehow, but
for the life of me I didn't know how.

"Scully," I worked a coaxing tone into my voice. "I'm not a groupie.
I'm an officer of the court. So it's land law, so what. I have to
uphold the law. We're alike that way." She drew a breath that was
shakier than I think she wanted me to see. "This man broke the law
and it touched my life. He murdered Tommy. It could easily have
been me." What was this? She was reacting too hard.

"Emma, I don't . . .," Mulder's voice was taut, I could feel him ready to
stop me. I leaned back in to lock eyes with Scully before he could
cut me off.

"Do you *know* how it feels, Agent Scully? To know all of a sudden
that you're only alive by a fluke? This guy kills men. Plenty of
others don't. You're just leaving us here to wait for the wolves and
then you'll come save the rest of us once a few of us are gone."
Mulder was trying to stop me now, hand on my arm, but the world
was me and her and no one else right now. Whatever I'd hit, she
seemed stunned. "So you're a hunter and he's a hunter and you're
both fighting over us sheep, Agent?" She flinched.

"No" Her voice was harsh. "He's a parasite. He feeds off you and I
hunt him." Her words were low and vile, cutting under the
breakfast clatter and spoiling the good smells of food, the innocence
of Formica and white china.

"So he's a parasite. I don't have to sit and wait for your cure. I'm
not helpless. You take that away from me and you're just staking
me out for him." I was playing instinct, and it was scary. She
looked like she wanted to slap me. I couldn't decide whether to keep
pushing her or not, I was far past the point where I knew what
answers I might get or whether they would help me. Push too hard
and they'd both push back. "Scully, Agent Scully, I'm not the
enemy here. I won't get in your way. As soon as I do, I'll quit. Let
me help. Don't make me sit and wait for somebody else to save me."
I'd hit her again, I hadn't meant to this time. She was playing with
her cup, putting way too much sugar in her coffee, trying not to
look at either me or Mulder.

He finally caught her eyes, but the only silent words this time were
of worry and guilt. She straightened, and looked back to me. "You
are a good lawyer, Ms. Courtland." Biting now, acid. "Listening to
you, I could almost believe you were the victim here. You should
take a show like that on the road, they'd love you in Congress." Now
I'd done it. "I've dealt with these monsters. I've met them first
hand. Baby-sitting a body doesn't come close. Find a shrink and get
on with your life." She cut me then, turned to sip her coffee and
glare at her partner.

I swallowed. I'd almost had her, she already had me. They had me. I sat
up, reached out, touched her. Her glare was incandescent, and
not enough. "You're half right, Agent Scully. Baby-sitting Tommy
doesn't come close. But Tommy's not what took away everything
safe. He's not the reason I figured out how dangerous it can be."
She opened her mouth and I rolled right over her. "Even his killer
didn't take away warm and safe and familiar. You did. Tommy's
killer is just one man, there's only so much he can do." Her coffee
sat ignored in the saucer while she watched me. The waitress who'd
been watching us saw that we weren't done yet, and kept away.
"Tommy's dead. That's sad and lonely and painful, but not strange.
It happens. But you . . . you two mean something. You mean Tommy's
killer isn't alone, there are more. Lots more. You mean we need
protection. You mean there are things we don't know how to see, secrets
we never knew were kept. And you help keep them." I felt Mulder shift,
saw Scully's eyes narrow again, but not from anger
this time.

"If it weren't for you, I could have moved on. Some bad dreams and
bad days, and then this would fade and I'd know there weren't any
more of them. Reality would have a crack or two, but the pieces
would all be there. But you've hunted before. You've met them
before. You. . .you mean we aren't safe. I'm not like you. But I'm
not like me anymore, either. Were you always like this? You can't
have been." She was still again.

"I wasn't. I. . .I remember before." She sighed. "You need to go
back, Emma. You still have a different place to go."

"I can't." She looked at me, heard it in my voice. "I can't. Like I told
him," nod at Mulder, "I can follow you or go on my own, but I can't
go back. There just aren't any safe walls anymore."

She was leaning in to try one last time, when Mulder put his
hand on her arm. The look she gave him wasn't a glare. I wasn't
sure what it was, a mix of worry and irritation and curiosity,
something loaded with shared history.

"Scully, would you be able to leave it?" He leaned close to her, I
could barely hear them. "You remember, how it feels when it stops
being safe, when there's no place left." And then there was
nothing left to hear, but entirely too much being said. I looked
away and swallowed a wash of loneliness.

When I glanced back she was still looking in his eyes, but was
beginning to nod. She looked back at me, searching for something.
She slowly nodded again. I could see it in her eyes, the knowledge
that no walls could hide you. Jerry's words had held none of the
things in her eyes, but he would have recognized them. And he
would have told me to run.

"I don't like it, Ms. Courtland. I don't like risking your life. You are
not trained for this. This is not part of your brief."

I smiled. I could feel her finally wavering. "I won't take risks,
Doctor. I KNOW what this man can do. I saw it. Please let me help
you. I *need* to help. If I can't, I mean, if I just sit here he wins. Do
you understand?" She didn't say anything but I could see it.
Someone had taken something from her, too. She knew. She looked
back at Mulder, who gave her a quizzical smile. I could read the
exasperation there. She finally grinned at him.

"I guess I deserve that. The two of you ganging up on me. It better
not happen again."

I smiled, then wondered why. I had just talked myself through a
door I never should have opened. I ordered coffee and toast,
finishing breakfast with them in a noisy silence, and wished I
knew why.

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

They came to Tommy's funeral with me. It was expected. I'm sure
they also hoped to see a face none of the rest of us knew. No such
luck, whoever had murdered Tommy had no interest in the poor
thing he'd left behind.

Cookies and tea at the Dalbert home left me with crumbs on my skirt
and a painful tightness in my chest. I'd never really known Tommy
alive, only dead. His cousin had identified him because his own
parents traveled for work. He'd been alone so often. He was alone
now. I sat on their gold velvet couch, listening to their stories and
learning things I'd hoped never to know. Mulder and Scully
wandered, talking with other guests. Their fine, dark clothes
weren't so out of place for once. Everyone was dressed in their
finest to pay their respects.

By the time we left it was early afternoon. Scully was "Scully" or
"Dana" to me now, I supposed I was on probationary status,
provisionally accepted after the morning's fight. I still felt wrung
out, and she seemed dulled, less bright. It was almost a relief when
we left, to see dark clouds on the horizon, even though the sun still
shone gold across the trees and lawns around us. Mulder held the
door for Scully, and took the driver's seat. I drove behind them to
their hotel, quietly following them up the outside stairs that lead to
their rooms. Mulder had papers spread on every surface his room
could offer, and we had to clear spots to sit. It was no more than
three. He glanced at his notes then up at the two of us. A smile to
Scully,

"Okay, Emma. We have your real estate list. We know who moved
here in the last year, know the families, couples, women. We're
waiting on the Bureau to provide information they may have on file
for any of the single men. Now what would you do?"

What was this, a pop quiz? Scully was watching me with a
smothered smile. "Umm, I'd go to the newspapers, and maybe the
DMV if I could, get anything with photos so I could check the locals
against any past description that might be available." Mulder
smiled and nodded.

"I'm on that already. Anything else?"

Scully saved me this time. "Hardware stores. He's using accelerants
to trap the house to burn. He doesn't buy them all at once, but we
can get regular purchasers for kerosene and paraffin. And flour."

"Flour?" I looked back and forth.

Mulder grinned. "Yeah, you put the sack above ground. Flour
burns, but what you really want is to get the flour to drop and
suspend in the air, like dust. It's explosive that way. That's how
they leveled Richmond before Sherman could take it. And no one
asks questions, they just assume you like bread, or make your own
Play Doh, or whatever."

I'd never heard of anything like that. I must have looked bemused,
because Scully almost giggled, then informed me that Mulder knew
more trivia than anyone she knew.

"You think that's trivial, the biggest car on the back of the ten
dollar bill is a 1932 Huppmobile." He was grinning, showing off.
He'd grabbed a folder and flipped through it, now he dropped
several torn-out Yellow Pages on me, and a list on Scully.

"I think you two get to let your fingers do the walking."

"And you will be . . .?" Scully looked up from her list, her voice
quizzical.

"Doing what I said, checking photos." He grabbed his keys, and she
frowned.

"You are taking me?"

"One of us should work with Emma, and it would be better to get the
calls done. Besides, I'd rather it not look like we're ganging up on
them."

"Mulder, I don't like you running off on your own . . ." her voice
had a dangerous undertone. This was clearly a long-running
argument between them.

"Don't worry mom, it's daylight. I'll call between every house and
let you know where I'm going, and I'll stay out on the steps. I only
want to meet them. I'm certain all of them already know we're
here." He looked to me for confirmation, and I nodded. "I want to
level the playing field. At worst, our killer may just jump early, and
we'll be right behind him."

Scully looked skeptical, but let him go. I picked up my sheaf of
phone book pages and she and I started hitting the phones.

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

We'd been on the phones for two hours and the phone buttons felt
like sandpaper under my fingers.. The sun glowed close to the
horizon outside, and thunderheads gathered dramatically overhead
in contrast. Another cinematically appealing weather pattern. I
could hear the first peals of thunder that warned it would be a
climactically exciting night.

I sat back from my phone, stretching my arms out, then overhead
and cracking my knuckles. Mulder's notes cluttered the table, the
bed, most flat surfaces, in stacks that Scully warned me not to touch.
She said he had his own "piling system" and would be lost if we
"organized" his notes.

I wandered into the bathroom, rubbing an ear sore from the phone
receiver. My face in the mirror was still formal in my funeral
make-up. My dress felt sticky in the growing humidity and I'd long
since abandoned my heels and hose. The bathroom tiles were cold
and pebbly under my bare feet as I put the toilet seat down. I
finished and washed my hands and face, wondering if Fox Mulder and Dana
Scully only had two rooms for show. A quick glance around answered that
question in the negative. His razor was left out on the sink. The first
time a woman borrowed a man's razor for her legs, he learned not to be so
trusting. I hadn't really thought they were sleeping together, but that
razor made it certain. Igrinned at my own reflection, and at my idle
curiosity.

Mulder had called in three times already. One man had been home,
two not, and he'd had a nice discussion of late cabbages. Scully had
him on the speaker phone now and was enjoying his drawn-out
description of the gardener while she updated her notes on
hardware purchases. I padded over to my yellow pages and my
notes, eavesdropping shamelessly.

"Okay, Scully, I'm going to do one more house, mm, the Selman
house, and call it a night . . ." his voice trailed off. "Scully, there's a
blue truck behind me. It's too dark to get details, but he's been back
there about eight minutes." His voice sounded alert, but not overly
worried. I saw Scully's knuckles whiten a little, however.

"And you didn't think I'd be interested by that, Mulder?" She kept a
bantering tone in her voice.

"It could just be going the same direction. I just thought I should
mention it." His voice was starting to fuzz with static. He must be
reaching the edge of his cellular tower range, going into a dead
zone. "It's a blue pick up, paint seems a bit dull, it may be oxidized.
I can't get make or model from here, and it doesn't have a front plate
so I don't have a license number. I'm going to speed up, see what he
does." There were a couple minutes of increasing static, then his
voice came back. "He's kept pace. Wait a minute. He's overtaking."
It had been hard to make the last comments out. As we waited, static
obliterated the connection and the phone went dead. The pencil Scully
held snapped in her hand.

Cont.

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 4/?
Date: 15 Jun 1995 07:03:39 GMT

Corpse 4/?
Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files property of Chris Carter and
Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting. Story and Emma Courtland, her town
and everyone in it are property livengoo@tiac.net and alter ego. Any
reproduction without my emplicit permission is illegal, in violation of 17
U.S.C., all relevant chapters. ]

Let me hear from you, folks!
6/14 - Ahhh! I got mail yesterday! Love it! And see, here ya go, more
Corpse and I have a LOT of it where this is from. The Goo

___________________________
Scully stared at the phone for a few moments, then turned a hard,
controlled look on me.

"I need your car, Emma." Her hand was out.

"I'll take you. I know where he had to be when the call dropped out." I
was balanced on one high heel, pulling the other on to a bare foot,
then reaching for my coat and purse. Scully already had hers and
an umbrella. She didn't bother to argue.

The rain broke before we were halfway there, thick, gray ropes of
rain gleaming on my windshield and trailing into windows, open an
inch so they wouldn't fog up. I drove much too fast for the weather,
and even so it took hellishly long to reach where he had to have
been.

I'd lost enough phone calls to know where the dead zone began. I
pulled over and fished my big umbrella and a flashlight out of the
back. I had spare sneakers in my trunk, thank god, and stood in the
rain changing my shoes. Scully was already out, visible only as a
smudge of light in the rain. She hadn't said a word on the way out,
but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. I took the other
side, looking for tire marks or broken glass in the narrow beam of
my light. If the night had been clear I'd have looked from my car,
but in this rain we'd never have seen a thing.

You know, you think of rain falling in sheets, or in buckets, but it
doesn't. It falls in shards that catch the light at the corner of your
eye and tease you with images that might be there. I fought my way
through rank grass on the roadside, afraid to walk closer to traffic
but needing to see that edge he might have gone over. I found glass
in little, glittering piles here and there, but no car. I looked up at a
faint shout once, to see that Scully had found a car. I scrambled
across the slick, wet ribbon of highway to her side. She was pale in
the flashlights, her hair plastered to her face in spite of her
umbrella. Her light picked out blue paint, broken windows, but on a
car long lost to weeds and sprouting baby trees. She'd seen the
paint and somehow hoped, and was standing there when I reached
her. I've never seen such a lost, empty look. I touched her
shoulder, I didn't know what I expected. Maybe a sob? She
straightened up, and held herself tight and determined, and sent me
back to my search.

More glass. No cars on my side of the road, but every drunk's skid
marks sent me questing in hope of finding something, or maybe
fear of finding the wrong thing. Tall grass sliced my legs, and dirt
gritted between my toes. My nice, black dress was pasted to my legs,
and rode up in soggy bunches from my walking. I gave up trying
to pull it down, except when it threatened to creep too high. It just
wasn't the most important thing in my mind. I kept seeing Tommy
in my mind's eye. I kept seeing what Jerry wrote. I couldn't
picture Mulder that way, couldn't see him like that. I was so scared
that I might have to learn. And Scully . . . whatever I'd hit that
morning, I could see it in her eyes tonight.

At some point someone must have stopped by Scully to ask what we
were doing, because a man was wandering back, rechecking
ground, when I looked up towards her after a while. In general,
though, the few cars out in this blew past, eager to get home.
Their wet roar and the hiss of their tires on pavement ran raw on
my nerves. I tried to phone for a cop. I'd forgotten, of course. I
couldn't phone out. My phone didn't work here.

I was cold, and when lights caught me and slowed I turned, hoping
for a cop at long last. I started towards it, squinting in the
headlights, half deaf in the rain, when his voice stopped me cold. I
had to be sure. My heart was hammering, I was so scared my ears
were wrong. I ran a few steps, slid on gravel, walked close enough
to see. He was in front of his car now, backlit by headlights and
calling to me.

"Emma! Emma, where's Scully?" He was walking towards me.
I could barely hear him in the din of rain on trees, and thunder,
and couldn't see his face against the lights, but I had no doubt now
and turned to scream for Scully.

She must have seen him. Thank god there were no cars then,
because she didn't look left and she didn't look right, and she nearly
knocked him off his feet. She'd dropped her light and umbrella,
and I thought she might have been hammering on his chest. I
couldn't hear her words, but the tone made me feel like a voyeur. I
turned and trudged back to my car, where I sat trying to work my
soaked dress around and waiting for the heater to warm me up.

Scully finally broke away from Mulder, her fingertips and his
broke contact last, and she turned towards me, running to my car.
He stood, silhouetted in the headlights and rain. She leaned into the
passenger side, pulling the door just wide enough for her head and
shoulders. Her hair was plastered to her face, but her cheeks
glowed with her relief. I let my eyes slide away, embarrassed by
her intensity. She smiled and reached for her purse - I could see
Mulder off getting her flashlight and umbrella now - and explained
she'd ride back with him.

"Scully," I caught her eyes now. "I'm glad. I mean . . ."

"I understand," she grinned with everything from her shoulders to
the crown of her head. "Thanks Emma. . . .I guess we'll see you in
the morning." She didn't slam the door. I waited for them to leave
before I finally pulled away.

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

I felt tired and hollow when I let myself into my house. My own
sense of relief had left me exhausted, and my empty house felt too
big for me. My computer had answered my phone several times. I
had the standard complement of phone calls from rabid
telemarketers, a couple calls from concerned colleagues, and
seventeen e-mail messages from Jerry Rigg. The first fifteen were
variations on a theme of "call me, write me." The sixteenth was
different.

FROM: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
TO: IN%"DIRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ: Unmentionables

Emma. You aren't home and nobody who should have
seen you has, so I must assume you're up on top of that
shelf your mother and I warned you to stay out of,
sticking beans up your nose. When everything goes
black, remember - I warned you.

For god's sake Emma, call me if you think you are in
danger, or even just need to talk. I can help you. I
already know you're in over your head. *DON'T* make
the mistake of trying to do everything alone. You
have friends.

Your two new "friends": you better know that HE has
been in therapy several times. He freaked on this
serial killer-hunt somewhere in Oklahoma, started
identifying with the killer, predicting what the bastard
would do before he did it. This guy can't be stable,
Emma. Keep an eye on him.

His partner was stable, at least until recently. I ran
down news reports that she'd been kidnapped and
threatened by another serial k. (What is it with these
two and cereal, Emma? - don't they know about toast
and coffee? JR :)) I wouldn't be stable after that.
Would you?

I got some weird, weird rumors about this guy you think
you want to find. (why can't you settle down with a
nice perio-orthodontist like the rest of the lawyers?).
There's nothing official, but he may know about your
friends. Mulder is kind of well-known on the UFO
circuit. I got some freaky flyers from a guy who says
he's heard of him. Apparently the same flyers got
stuck under FBI's windshield wipers last year in
Gnaw Bone, Indiana, where your boy killed his most
recent pair. Nobody outside the usual suspects got
killed there, but I really, really don't like you getting
yourself in the middle of this. I mean this Emma.
I'm worried. I want you to check in with me every
day or so. And give me your cell-phone and an
emergency contact if I can't find you.

Remember to eat this e-mail message when you are
done reading it.
Jerry Rigg

I sat there looking at my blue screen, then scrambled to hit the
delete button. I wanted to be ill all over again. What had I said to
her? What had I said.

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

I slid into the booth next to Scully and prayed for coffee. The gods
must have heard me because the waitress sidled up and planted a
cup in front of me. Mulder looked tired, and I was certain I looked
the same way. I had not repeated my sleepless night, but I certainly
had slept restlessly, dreaming things I preferred not to recall.

We placed orders for breakfast, toast, eggs, waffles, fruit, yogurt, all
distributed variously. No one ordered cereal, for which I was
thankful. Then I pinned Mulder down - being perfectly placed
across from him to give him my best "we're-in-discovery-and-you
are-under-oath" stare.

"So where were you? Why were we out searching the roadside?
Scully and I were in calling range for quite a while. Couldn't you
call?" He paused with a forkful of high-risk food halfway off the
plate heavy, white.

"Actually, no. By the time I found a phone you weren't in range
anymore." Scully sat back next to me, pale against the pearlescent, red
vinyl. She was pulling a piece of toast into little bits. I could tell
she'd heard his story before and was trying to decide whether to let him
off the hook. He was looking guilty as hell. I felt like I had the first
time I found evidence of a leaky roof in a landlord-tenant case, that
quick rush of the hunt.

"Mulder, it must have taken us thirty or forty minutes to get to
where you dropped out. What happened? What was with that
truck? Obviously you didn't get driven off the road. Why didn't you
turn around and call?" I think he decided his breakfast was going
to be a dead loss. He sat back and let his fork drop, giving me an
exasperated look and then focusing out the window on the hard,
flat day that had followed last night's storm. Pale sun reflected off
puddles and put patterns of light and shadow on his face.

"After I lost the signal, the truck pulled up right behind me. I . . .I
was feeling a little nervous about it." That particular admission
made my hair stand on end. Jerry had said something about second
guessing killers . . . "So I kept the phone up like I was still talking to
you and he pulled on around and passed. Probably just my well-
known paranoia acting up, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
It was too dark to get a good look at him, and the plates were muddy.
All I really could see was that a lot of the thing had been repainted
in what looked like house paint. NOT a high-gloss enamel job."

He sat back to let the waitress maneuver plates in front of us before he
continued. "So I kept on to Selman's, who wasn't home. His
neighbors must have been out at the same barn-raising, or
whatever you people do for fun out here. I kept going until I found
a gas station and started calling the hotel and your phones, but you
were out of cellular phone range by then."

Scully chipped in. "Half true, at the least. There was this stack of
pink notes at the hotel that took up a couple of those little pigeon holes
they use." She eyed me sideways, and I could see her fighting not to
grin.

"So why didn't you turn around, drive back into range, and call?" I
wasn't quite ready to let it drop.

He had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Well, Scully knows I
tend to get a little. . . paranoid about some of these cases. I figured
she'd know I was just being. . . spooky," he grinned at her. "And
she'd expect to hear from me when I got back in range. It really
didn't occur to me until I got to Selman's that you might have
thought I was in trouble." He was shoving his breakfast around the
plate, a few more bites, and he sat back and left the rest of it. The
clatter of forks on plates and other peoples' conversations filled the
space for
a few moments. The shiny walls and tables, and the bright lights in there
made the storm and dark and fear recede a little more. I nibbled down the
last of my toast, and sat back from a nearly empty plate. Mulder's was
still mostly full, and cold.

Scully had done far more damage to a far healthier breakfast. She
must have been used to these scenes with him, because she had
already recovered from the scare,something I had not quite
managed despite having far less at stake. Now she smiled at me past
her coffee cup. "So, do we forgive him for getting us out on that
highway like a couple fools looking for a lost contact lens?"

"I don't know. Is he buying lunch?" She was looking cheerful, far
better rested than either of us. I felt uncomfortable meeting her
eyes for a moment. Jerry's comments, my own, ran back through
my mind. She grinned at me, though, and looked over at her
partner.

"That's a good idea. Mulder, you buy lunch and we let this one slip."

"That's extortion."

"Yeah, but we're the X-Files. We don't do simple blackmail cases, so
you're SOL."

"My pick?" The crafty look in his eyes was all the warning the two
of us needed.

"Hell, no," Scully and I chimed together.

All of a sudden I didn't feel nearly as bad as I had the night before.

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

I never thought about what FBI work entailed. For example, I never
thought about sitting in a library, hour after hour, rolling
microfilm until Dramamine wore off and food sounded like an
insult. I hope I never think of it again. Because that was how I
spent my morning, while Scully and Mulder drove out to hardware
store after hardware store, interviewing owners who thought
anyone had bought unusual quantities of kerosene, paraffin.
Anything that would burn.

My black slacks had dust streaks from the little boxes the rolls came
in, and I was starting to grit my teeth at the squeak and whine of
the take up reels. Slow or fast, the nasty things had some obnoxious
sound to make. The windows in here were high and small and fly-
specked. Our library was old, and this backwater of miserable
research was in the most decrepit back corner they could banish it
to. A row of plastic chairs that prevented comfortable posture
accompanied a row of machines. Machines? Wrong term. I
couldn't repeat the polite term in public. The slanted screen
assured that the whole field would never be in focus, and watching
the film roll, steadily, from right to left had me sort of curling over
sideways in my chair in unconscious reaction. I was so, so thankful
that legal research used books or computers for the most part. This
stuff could inspire a change of career in and of itself.

Three hours of rolling through page after page left me with a
meager stack of xerox copies of grainy photos, a splitting headache,
and a real case of motion sickness. No wonder Mulder had looked so
relieved when I'd agreed to take library duty. He probably would
have paid to get out of this. Scully had just smiled and told me she
wasn't letting him off the leash again. I think we could have
reformed the criminal justice system if we'd just put reading
microfilm in as a mode of punishment. We'd never need the death
penalty. Fear of microfilm would put prison guards galore out of
work.

They rescued me from my dungeon for lunch, since Scully needed
my expert assistance to choose where Mulder should drop some
cash. I worked my headache out by selecting a little bistro I went to
for birthdays and when I wanted to impress a client. He quailed
when he saw the charming architecture and pretty lace curtains,
but we held him to it.

Mulder took a seat where he could see both windows and doors. I
hadn't quite realized it until I saw him tracking people who walked
past. Then I wondered just what he was looking for. Scully settled
in happily, reached out to play with the fresh daisies on the table
for a moment. I got the sense that she didn't eat in nice places as
often as she would have liked. Ice in our glasses sparkled in the
pale sunlight that lit the lace and set the checked table cloth
glowing. It felt decadent to sit in a restaurant that used chairs
instead of booths. Mulder tipped back onto two legs briefly, but
stopped when I heard Scully kick him. The look he gave her could
have been copied from my eight year old nephew.

I saw a waitress eye us carefully, and wondered
at it a moment before I understood. She had to be seeing familiar
Emma Courtland in unfamiliar slacks and shirt, with. . .them. I
looked back at Scully, at Mulder, tried hard to see them the way I
had that first day at the morgue. And Scully refused to look like
anyone but the woman I'd seen last night, soaked with rain and
flushed with relief. Fox Mulder would not become anyone but the
man with notes all over his room, who innocently left his razor on
the counter. And my skin ran with chills as I wondered suddenly
if the stranger the waitress saw was not them, after all.

I buried my face in my burgundy leather menu. The sound of
Scully's menu closing and hitting the tablecloth brought my eyes
back up. The red-and-white check cloth reflected a warm glow onto
her face as she grinned at Mulder in some kind of game. He sat
back, menu closed, and rattled off a series of items, ticking off
fingers as she nodded.

"For a man who never eats in places with metal forks and spoons
you're remarkably good at guessing my orders." She was smiling
with everything but her mouth.

"I've seen the pages you marked in your cookbooks." He'd unfolded
his white linen napkin and held it up. "Think they ran out of the
good paper napkins? Oh, and I'm still running better than eighty
percent right on Restaurant Jeopardy."

"You cheat. I should handicap you for that memory of yours."

I paused, looking between them, baffled. "So, I can see there are
points, how are you scoring this?"

Scully grinned, with her whole face this time and spun her glass to
hear the ice tick and clatter.

"We go to a new restaurant and Mulder tries to see how close he can
come to my order. One point each for appetizers and desserts, two
for entrees. I have to put down my menu so he knows I won't just
pick new items to fool him."

"You don't guess on him?"

He pretended to ignore us. "No point." She knew better. "He orders
whatever he doesn't recognize. Of course, in good places that could
be almost everything on the menu." He rolled his eyes and looked
pointedly at the Matisse reproductions on the walls.

"But he barely looked at the menu, do you order the same thing
every time?" I looked between them again. Mulder was suddenly
alert, but Scully didn't seem to notice.

"He's got a photographic memory, it only takes. . . " She trailed off
as he dropped his head into his hand and I swiveled oh. . .so . .
.slowly back to him.

"Mulder? A photographic memory?" Could we call that witness
again, your honor? I was suddenly remembering my real estate list,
and itching to see if I'd been tricked. No, I knew I'd been tricked. I
was itching to see him squirm for it.

The waitress gave him a short reprieve. He looked up to dazzle her
with a smile, ordering for himself and Scully. She lingered rather
noticeably over Mulder, and his order, turning to me when I started
tapping my nails on my menu. I ordered my meal based on price.
His credit card was going to be hurting something fierce. When she
whisked off with our orders, I leaned close over the table.

"Photographic memory. Let me see if I get this right. I wanted to
know how you got my list. The list you just glanced at and gave
back to me? The one I got from friends of mine. You copied it?
>From memory?"

He fidgeted with his silverware and glared at Scully. Then he
nodded, rather sheepishly, and sighed. "You showed it to me. I had
it memorized then. And you were going to use it for leverage.
You're here now. If you were going to be here it would have to be
on something more than leverage." He met my eyes. I nodded
slowly.

"All right. I'll give you that one. Pull that kind of trick on me
again and I will find a way to even the score, I don't care how long
it takes." I took a deep breath and got my temper back under
control. When I looked back up it was to find him watching me and
nodding, smiling faintly.

"I believe you, Emma. Fair enough. I won't pull that kind of trick
again."

I wanted to stay mad with him. He was giving me a look I
recognized as the one he used to bamboozle Scully. Unfortunately,
it worked. I shook my head and gave him my best exasperated look.

"God, I'm glad she's your partner." Scully sounded like she was
choking. I let her get herself back under control. "I'd have
strangled you with one of your own tacky ties." The arrival of
French onion soup and bread relieved him of any need to respond.
I don't think I've ever seen anyone so happy to see food. I glanced
up from my melted cheese and savory soup to skewer him again.
"You're off the hook for now. But puppy-dog looks won't always get
you out of trouble." He grinned at me and Scully, with a look that as
good as announced puppy dog looks had done it so far.

Mulder's leg had to be black and blue, because Scully had kicked
him every time he'd brought the case up during lunch. She'd
announced plainly enough that she wanted at least one meal with
no murders, tortures, or any other perversions mentioned. So I
talked law instead. And what law! The case every first year law
student learns, Regina v. Ojibway, that established that ponies are
small birds for hunting purposes nearly undid Mulder. He choked
so hard on a crouton we thought we'd have to do the Heimlich
maneuver. The look on his face set Scully off, and her story about
an accidental appendectomy performed when a resident slipped had
me doubting the value of the Hippocratic oath. Mulder shared a
risque story of sexual misadventures at Oxford, when he and an
unnamed lover had tried to get closer to nature, but kept rolling
down hills before they could manage to get engaged. They wound
up frustrated, bruised, and discovered by a grade school walking
club. Not his most gallant hour.

White china plates with what was left of rich food had been
removed, and we were settled in over coffee before Scully would
allow murders to enter the conversation. I brought out my few
pictures, but none of them seemed familiar to either Mulder or
Scully. Their hardware store search had revealed that more than
one felt a customer had bought large quantities of materials, but
had not kept records and could not describe the men in question. I
could see the frustration in the faces of the two FBI agents. To get
close and be stalled like that. . . I thought about it again.

"Mulder, you said this man follows UFO sites?"

"Yes. . ." he seemed guarded suddenly, as if something about that
topic made him uncomfortable. I remembered his questions about
UFOs, decided there was a lot more here to learn.

"Aren't there groups for that kind of thing?" Let's drop some
names. "Something like MUFON or something?" The change was so
subtle that if I wasn't used to watching people for such things I'd
never have seen him tense up. "Can't you trace him through a
membership in it?" He relaxed again. Scully was watching us
carefully, too.

"Tried that. To start with MUFON's pretty informal, and they don't
like to distribute names too much. I did get names finally, but I
think our man operates under new names in every town, and I don't
think he's under his own name in MUFON either. I think he's using
a post office box, too. I tried cross-referencing off it, but if you
plan ahead it's pretty easy to make sure no one ever has your name
or address. You just have to pay attention to how your name gets
into the system, then make sure not to let it." He sounded calm and
definite now. I'd like to have known how many times he'd made
sure his own name didn't get into various systems. I'd also like to
have known how much research he'd done on these killings with
MUFON. I took a breath and decided that making a fool of myself
wasn't the worst thing I could do, so I might as well risk it.

"Mulder, do you think something other than a person is doing these
murders?" Scully, next to me, froze with her coffee cup halfway to
her lips. She finished her motion, but I'd seen the hesitation and
the unreadable look she gave both of us. Mulder looked at me, then
out the window.

"When I first picked the file up I. . . had questions about that." He
ran his hand through his hair, hiding his face for a moment, then
dropped his chin in his hand so I couldn't read his mouth when he
answered. His eyes were veiled. "I had some reason to think there
might be. . . other influences involved."

"Other influences? For god's sake, you're saying something other
than a human might be committing murders! These people weren't
killed by wild animals." I could feel myself digging nails into the
table cloth. The fabric bunched under my fingers and my glass
shook in front of me. "Mulder, if I hadn't seen lights that aren't
planes myself, I'd be calling the men in white for you. As it is . . .
isn't human atrocity enough for you? Do you need to find enemies
that make even less sense than that?"

He sighed and looked back out the window, squinting as the light
brightened for a moment. "I'd like to think we're own worst
enemies. Better yet, our only enemies. We're bad enough. But I've
seen enough to convince me that we've got more problems than our
own stupidity." He looked very lonely suddenly. The restaurant's
little, human sounds were loud right then. I felt Scully more than
saw her, as she leaned in closer, where she'd catch his eye. He
looked back and smiled at her.

I let them have the moment, but I couldn't let them have much
longer. I kept my voice calm and neutral now, I didn't intend an
attack. He clearly had reasons to think what he did, and I'd seen
lights most people didn't think existed. "These murders, Mulder, do
you think there's anything but humans in these murders?"

He looked back now, risked looking directly into my eyes. "I don't
know. There are all the trappings, all the hints and clues, but just
not - quite - right. It doesn't *feel* right." He sounded so
frustrated. "If I really thought these were abductees. . . that would
be horrible enough. But this feels like something else. I'm not
even sure why. . ." he was playing with an unused butter knife,
running his thumb along the edge. He'd cut himself if he kept that
up.

"Why would somebody want to make it look like aliens had done
these killings? Who'd believe that?"

"That's what we have to find out." Scully's voice was low, steady. I
had the feeling she'd thrashed this out with him herself many a
time. "This man keeps a pattern, he's consistent, he's probably
acting out some fantasy over and over. His fantasy just happens to
be aliens." Low and steady, but with a tension of its own.
Something about this bothered her, too. Jerry was going to be
asking for overtime from me.

"Maybe." Mulder was watching people walk by again, as if he
expected to see something. "I wonder if he had a brother or sister. I
wonder if his father hit them, too, that time they went to Roswell."
He seemed distracted, unaware. Scully froze, watching him. He
rubbed his eyes and looked back, caught her look. "What?"

"Mulder, you think they went to Roswell? And his father. . .?"

"What?" He seemed confused. Looked like he was playing his
memory back, looked puzzled. "Ah, I don't know. I just . . .look." He
sat up, nervous. "It stands to reason. Our killer has a fixation on
alien visitation and Roswell is the holy grail."

"But a brother? Or a sister? Why do you think. . ." I saw Scully half
reach for me. Mulder was ignoring me, rubbing his forehead like
he had a headache. His eyes looked like he was having trouble
focusing.

"Excuse me." He got up a little too fast, headed back for the men's
room. I looked at Scully. She seemed as pale as he had been.

"What was all that about?"

"I'm not sure, but I'll tell you this. When we catch our killer, I'd put
money on it that he had a brother or sister and his dad hit him. And
all the rest." She was writing down what Mulder had said. "I don't
like it, I don't understand it, Mulder doesn't understand it,but when
he does that he's right." She looked up at me, a nervous, warning
look. She'd wanted me to stop before, she was telling me not to pick
it up again. "He gets to the point where he can think like them. He's
followed this guy for years. Been everyplace he thought this man
had been. I guess. . . I guess he just gets to this point where he thinks
like them."

"Spooky."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

_________________________

cont.