The Common Fate of All Things Rare

By Scarlet Baldy and Aloysia Virgata
cheapredhead@gmail.com


CLASSIFICATION: XRA

DISTRIBUTION/FEEDBACK: cheapredhead@gmail.com

Check us out at
http://undertherug.insatiable-mind.net/Redheads.htm

RATING: R

SPOILERS: Season 4

DISCLAIMER: We read the IWTB novelization, guys. 'Nuff said.

SUMMARY: Ever wonder what happened between the silence of Never Again
and the flowers from Memento Mori? Well, we did...

AUTHORS' NOTES: Thanks to Edmund Waller, whose "Go, Lovely Rose" gave
us the title. Also, we don't like the name Gouveia either, but it's
canon.

Aloysia says: This has been the most fantastic roller coaster ride! I
was skeered to tackle co-writing at first because Scarlet and I have
such different styles and approaches, but we almost immediately got
to this creepy point where we were reading one another's minds and
all doubts about our ability to mesh evaporated. We edited each other
and blended scenes to the point where there are a few bits that we
are each dead certain the other wrote. Doing this by IM and e-mail
with a 5 hour time difference, summer vacations, and other hurdles
has been a delightful challenge. Scarlet is a trooper for putting up
with my hyperactive jumping from scene to scene. Thanks for all the
fish, lady. It's been such fun and, as ever, I couldn't have done it
without you.

I am also deeply indebted to the Holy Triumvirate of Betas - Amanda,
Dasha, and Mim - for tireless nitpicking, warm words of
encouragement, and their contempt for semicolons, nonsense, and the
word "and."

In closing, I would like to add that hosiery and sex are not mutually
exclusive. Just sayin'...

Scarlet says: I second my partner in crime to convey my deepest
thanks to our three amazing betas. Amanda, Dasha and Mim. We were so
incredibly lucky to have you guys around to keep us honest.

I asked Aloysia if she fancied writing a post Never Again vignette on
a hunch. I loved her stories, had been her beta for several months -
and yet, she was still talking to me, in spite of my "Merciless,
brutal criticism involving burning smartassery" (her words). As far
as I was concerned her mettle had been well and truly tested. So we
started writing together and had so much fun, that the vignette
quickly turned into a full blown case file. This happened at around
the same time we stopped letting our respective jaw drop because -
while using Instant Messaging - we'd typed the same line, at the same
time, *again*. Our very own X-File.

I guess the most difficult thing for me - linear girl - was to work
on various scenes at different points in the timeline; but that was
such a small price to pay for the wonderful gift of working with
someone who can turn your ideas into words just like *that*, who
knows the places where Mulder and Scully evolve, who will dig out
hotels and cemeteries layouts for you and who can write an autopsy
scene so brilliantly you can actually smell the blood and guts. Put
it this way, I would never have been able to write something this
detailed on my own, and my Mulder would still be mixing up his
baseball with his cricket. So thank you for doing this with me,
darling. This has been an amazing journey and if I had to do it all
over again, I wouldn't change a day.




**********

CHAPTER ONE

**********



I think that you might want to know
The details and the facts
But there's something in my blood
Denies the memory of the acts

Suzanne Vega, Blood Makes Noise

**********




J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
FRIDAY, JANUARY 17TH
8:56 AM


When the phone finally rings this morning, I dive to pick it up, my
fingers closing on the receiver as though I am strangling my partner
by proxy. I haven't heard from her in nearly thirty-six hours. The
aggravated manager from the Philadelphia hotel where she'd been
staying had no clue about Miss Scully's whereabouts. She had not
checked out; that's all he knew.

"Where the hell have you been?" I bark into the phone.

"Agent Mulder - "

I know Scully's voice goes deeper when she's tired, but I'm pretty
sure that baritone means I've just yelled at my boss. "Sorry, sir. I
thought it was Scully."

Skinner's pause is too long and it makes the hairs at the back of my
neck prickle.

"I just got a call from the Philadelphia P.D.," he says. "Agent
Scully was injured. She's at the hospital."

I feel something hard crush my chest and the pencil I've been playing
with snaps in half between my fingers. "What happened?"

"The suspect is one Edward Jerse. He apparently tried to shove her
into an incinerator yesterday morning. He's also the prime suspect in
the murder of one of his neighbors the day before."

"Where was this?" I throw both broken pencil halves towards the trash
can and miss.

"Near Center City in Philly. They've got her at the University of
Pennsylvania Hospital right now."

I'm already yanking my coat on and come close to ripping the lining
in my haste. "How bad is she hurt?"

"A few bruised ribs and a concussion. Fairly banged up, but nothing
life-threatening."

The knot in my stomach loosens some. "Can I bring this Jerse guy back
to DC for a cozy 8x8 suite on Uncle Sam's dime?"

"Don't be a pain in the ass, Mulder," Skinner growls on the other end
of the line. "Just go check on her for now. And play nice with the
Philly cops until I can get someone reputable from the local field
office to deal with this."

I feel like kicking something hard, but instead I hang up, take the
steps two at a time, and requisition a car.


**********


UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA HOSPITAL
PHILADELPHIA, PA
12:52 PM

My information on what happened is still sketchy at best. I spent
most of the drive scrounging up details, but all I could gather was
that the guy called the FBI switchboard asking for Dana Scully. And
that her injuries occurred shortly afterwards. The charred remains of
his neighbor were found in the same incinerator where he'd planned to
shove Scully. He was still at the scene when EMTs and the police
arrived, and the Philly PD had him in custody.

No one could give me much info on how this Edward Jerse character
figured into our investigation. His apartment was well south of the
Russian neighborhoods and he had no prior criminal history to
indicate involvement with Pudovkin or Svo.

I am more and more curious to know what led her to him in the first
place and I have to control the urge to fidget impatiently as I stop
at the nurse's station to find out where she is.

When I reach Scully's room I see two men by her door; local
detectives by the looks of them. The younger one is sitting and
jotting things on an immaculate white pad while his colleague is
scanning a file and twirling the corner of an impressive walrus
mustache. He's the first one to spot me.

"Agent Mulder?"

"Is she in here?"

The young guy stands up. He's got the fresh-faced air of a Mormon
missionary. "Yes, but the nurse is with her." He extends his hand and
I shake it briefly. "I'm Detective Smith and this is Detective
Gouveia. We're hoping you can help us with a couple of things." Smith
runs a finger between his collar and neck somewhat nervously. "Your
partner - well, she's not been very forthcoming."

Hasn't she? Take a number.

"Forthcoming about what? You caught the guy who hurt her, right?"

Detective Smith looks sympathetic. "We did, but there are a few
things that don't quite add up and, because of the circumstances,
Agent Scully's been a little...reticent."

Gouveia snorts. It complements his facial hair and I consider
offering him a dead mackerel. Or slapping him with one.

I glare at him. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He shrugs. "Seems Agent Scully and Mr. Jerse spent the evening
together. Had a few drinks, hit up a tattoo parlor. And I guess it
was a pretty nice time because she never went back to her hotel that
night."

She did *what*? "I think you've gotten your wires crossed somewhere,
Detective."

Smith taps the edge of his notebook against his palm, obviously
hesitant to continue. "Your partner requested a blood test. Jerse
claims his tattoo drove him nuts, and Agent Scully seems to think his
behavior might have been caused by the ink used. Which happens to be
the same ink used in her own tattoo."

"My partner got tattooed?" I must have fallen down a trapdoor through
the multiverse. This is definitely not my world. I'm expecting a
white rabbit with a big watch any minute now.

"Tramp stamp, dead center. Very classy," Gouveia sneers.

I feel the muscles in my hands start to curl into fists. Play nice,
Skinner said. Fine. I'll play nice. And then I'll snatch this case
out from under them as soon as they tell me what I need to know.

The young detective moves between me and Gouveia with the fluid ease
of a guy who knows it's his job to soften the edges. I wonder if
Scully has ever felt that way around me. I turn towards him, cutting
his partner out of the conversation.

"And she just told you all of this?"

"Not exactly. The first time we met Agent Scully was yesterday
morning. Kaye Schilling had been reported missing and we were going
door to door in the building. When we got to Jerse's place, it was
your partner who answered. "

"And?" And I know exactly what, but I feel a perverse desire to
defend Scully's honor. If anyone's going to cast aspersions on her,
it will be me. I'm so noble that way.

"She was wearing a man's shirt, Agent Mulder, and her appearance
generally indicated that she'd just woken up."

"We're big fans of Occam's Razor," Gouveia points out.

Oh, Scully, what the fuck were you doing there?

I know the operative word is somewhere in that sentence and I just
can't believe that a woman who has marveled at the stupidity of
casual sex could ever be so reckless. Do all of her dates involve one
night stands and body modification?

I really don't know how to feel about this. There are so many
options, and I know that tonight I will have the fun of experiencing
and dissecting them all. In any case, right now all I can do is
double bag everything, seal it tight, and slam the lid shut on the
great shoe box labeled "She Keeps Me Guessing."

I fix Smith with a cool, even gaze. "Tell me more about the tattoo.
Jerse said it drove him nuts?"

Smith flips some pages on his pad before answering. I think he does
this more to avoid looking at me rather than a need for a memory
boost.

"Mr. Jerse believes that his tattoo directed him to kill Miss
Schilling. Agent Scully thinks that he's been suffering from
hallucinations brought on by ergot poisoning, due to contaminated rye
used for the red ink of the tattoo. We've sent his blood to the lab
and we're waiting for the results to see if this theory pans out."

"Where's this tattoo parlor?"

"Some Russian dive near Bustleton, though Jerse was the one who told
us about it. Your partner...well, apart from the ergot poisoning
thing, she refuses to speak to us. Which is why we'd really
appreciate your help."

I shove both hands in my pockets and rock back on my heels. "Well,
I'm afraid you're out of luck. Phone records indicate this guy called
the Bureau to ascertain that Scully was in fact a federal agent. He
knew it when he attacked her, which places his assault under federal
jurisdiction. You fellas better run along and get busy if you want
him for murder."

Smith closes his eyes and looks tired while Gouveia takes a step
closer to me. "In the future, keep your partner on a shorter leash
instead of wasting our time. You never know; she might like it."

I don't even think. I react. My hand is around Gouveia's meaty throat
and his head slams against the wall as my fingers dig in under his
jaw. "You watch your goddamned mouth."

He smirks. "Thoughtless of me. I'm sure this affects you on a
personal level."

I push him against the wall a little harder and Smith taps my elbow.
"You don't want to do that, Agent Mulder."

Oh, but I do.

I hesitate and then release Gouveia with some regret. He clears his
throat and straightens his tie.

"Let's go," says Detective Smith.

"We'll be in touch, Agent Mulder," Gouveia tells me. It sounds like a
threat.

As they leave I can hear him tell Smith, "I don't know why he's so
worked up. I would give my right hand to have a kinky redhead for a
partner. No offense, Matt."

"Lewis, if you had a kinky redhead for a partner, you'd need your
right hand more than ever."


**********


Same smell of antiseptic and bleach. Same low electric hum of
monitors and machinery. Same irritating squeak of dress shoes on
worn-out linoleum.

I've lost track of how many times I've lived this moment, heading
down a drab hallway to find Scully wearing another shapeless cotton
gown in another uncomfortable bed. The scenery shifts a bit, the
background players have different faces, but Scully and I are once
again the stars of Hospital Room Improv.

A nurse emerges from Scully's room and treads silently down the hall
in her rubber shoes. I catch the edge of the door and push it back
open.

Scully's picking at the blanket draped over her, a magazine lying
closed on her lap. She's got a goose egg on her forehead and
miscellaneous cuts and abrasions about the face and neck. There's a
nasty looking bruise on her right arm, just above the elbow. And
another set of bruises above it that appear to be finger marks.

She turns when the door creaks and her eyes widen a fraction at the
sight of me, but she quickly smoothes her face back into a
disinterested mask. "Mulder. You didn't have to come all the way
here."

"What happened, Scully?"

She speaks to me as though I am a particularly dim child, her voice a
precise monotone. "You sent me to Philadelphia on a case. I was
attacked by a murder suspect. Now I'm at the hospital. I could have
told you this over the phone."

I cross my arms and give her an arch look. "If you'd called. Which
would have been nice. Let me know you were okay and everything.
Besides, it seems you've left out a few significant details. Sloppy
reporting, Agent Scully."

She pins me with a withering gaze. "Well, you obviously found them
out, so you can go back home now. And thanks for checking up on me."

"Not so fast. You're an FBI agent, as you may recall. Even when
you're engaged in...recreational activities. It appears discovering
your G-woman identity set Jerse off. You know that makes this a
federal investigation."

"And you've decided to add this to your UFO-rich workload? How
chivalrous." She opens the magazine and examines it incuriously.

"No. Skinner just told me to play nice with the local boys until the
Philly field office coughs up someone he trusts enough to handle it."

She looks up at this. "Handle what? There doesn't need to be an
investigation. I'm not pressing charges."

"The guy tried to turn your ass into S'mores and you won't press
charges?"

"He's already being charged for murder; there's no need."

"It's not your call."

She shrugs indifferently. "What else is new?"

She's letting me know something with this; something important about
her and her needs and the way we work. And in any other circumstances
I would have caught her pitch and demanded to know what the hell kind
of a curve ball she was throwing at me. But I need to stand on firmer
ground to do it properly; not here in this sterile room as she looks
at me like that, all banged up and distant and strange.

So I change the subject. "Can I see your tattoo? It sounds kind of
hot."

I never said I was going for transitional subtlety.

She sits up fully, wincing as she does, and drops her magazine to the
night table before turning to me. "Is there something you'd like to
ask me that actually pertains to the case?"

I arrange my face into a thoughtful expression. "If Comrade Svo is
Boris Badenov, does that make me Rocky or Bullwinkle? I'm thinking
Bullwinkle because I'm taller, but I look better in hats than you."

She closes her eyes briefly and exhales a long-suffering sigh.
"They're releasing me this afternoon pending some blood work. Go
home."

"Yeah, about that blood work. Not just a tattoo, Scully. A
psychedelic tattoo. You really know how to live it up in the City of
Brotherly Love. I usually just get a cheesesteak."

She turns her head to stare out the window and I see more bruises
smudged against the white line of her neck. There's one tucked into
the tendons of her throat that looks suspiciously like a bite mark.
For Christ's sake, Scully.

"Is that what's making you act like this, Mulder? That I did
something you didn't expect? That I didn't fit your profile?"

Mostly.

"What's upsetting me is that you were almost killed and that you
don't seem too concerned about it. I need your help to get this guy.
Do you know what he did to his neighbor? He dismembered her with
poultry shears and a saw and stuffed her into a cardboard box. He
then fed her piece by piece into the incinerator, which is where they
found her bones and her teeth and the melted locket she got as a
graduation gift. "

Scully goes still for a moment, then her shoulders drop a fraction
and she looks down at her hands. The knuckles of the right are
scraped raw. "We had a few drinks. We went to the, uh, tattoo parlor
and then back to his place. The weather was bad. I decided not to
drive back to the hotel."

She swallows and then I see a stream of dark blood come from her nose
and spill over her lips and chin.

"Scully! Jesus." I look around for a tissue but she's already got
one, dabbing at her face while she pinches her nose and tilts her
chin upwards to staunch the flow.

"It's nothing. The air in here is so dry."

Her nose isn't broken so I must accept her word that I cannot lay
this at the feet of Edward Jerse. Back to questioning. "What happened
in the morning? The detectives said that you answered the door."

She drops her hand from her face and looks at me sharply. "You know
all this already then. Do you just like hearing me say it?" Her voice
is angry now, which is almost a welcome change from the flat affect
of before.

"I need your perspective on what happened. Details, his frame of
mind, triggers. Help me get into his head."

"Why? He's been caught and he's confessed. You don't need to profile
him now. Just drop it."

"Aren't you curious to know why he did what he did? What made him
tick?"

"He was hallucinating, Mulder. You want me to get into someone's
head, you bring me a corpse and a skull key. This is your area of
expertise. Not mine."

Maybe she doesn't want me to get into his head because I might look
into her own while I'm there. "Why are you protecting him? He must
have been great in the sack, Scully. But the thing is, you're federal
property and the government doesn't like seeing its agents get
smacked around. Even if they like it a little."

A subtle change comes over her face, hardening her jaw and narrowing
her eyes ever so slightly. "Get. Out."

I glance at my watch. "I've got a hot date with your boy toy anyway.
I'll send him your love."

She doesn't deign to reply; just stares fixedly ahead in her
maddening way.

I leave her room and head for the Burn Center at Temple University
Hospital, where I hope for a warmer reception from Ed Jerse:
Homicidal Maniac.


**********


ST JOHN BURN CENTER
PHILADELPHIA, PA
2:48 PM


I impatiently jiggle some loose change in my pocket, wishing I had X-
ray vision while the cop guarding the hospital room unlocks the door.
I am about to meet Edward Jerse, the man who laid his hands on my
partner.

The man who left bruises on her skin.

Some of which I am now pretty sure she didn't entirely object to.

The man who then beat her up and tried to shove her unconscious body
into an incinerator like she was a bag of dry leaves.

I feel the love.

The cop pushes the door open and steps sideways to let me in. An
acidic web lines my stomach as I enter.

I expect a monster. I want him ugly, one cleft palate away from white
trash inbreeding, but the man who raises his head and stares at me
anxiously as I step inside the cramped white room is disappointingly
normal. I hear the door being locked behind me, the sound metallic
and final.

So that's Ed Jerse. Rather handsome, dark hair, blue eyes and young.
Somehow I've always pictured Scully going for older men; the bookish
university professor type, with glasses and worn tweed suits. This
guy does not fit the profile at all.

The skin around his eyes is red and puffy. Poor baby.

"Edward Jerse? I'm Special Agent Mulder, Agent Scully's partner." I
hope the full title will make him shake in his boots.

He straightens up. "Oh, God. Dana. Is she okay?"

Dana.

I pull up a chair and sit in front of his bed, picking up the scents
of iodine and cotton and charred flesh from the gauze-wrapped bundle
of his arm. "It seems a bit late to worry about her well-being, don't
you think, Ed?"

He rubs his eyes and runs his good hand through his hair with the
jerky movements of the sleep-deprived. "Look, if you're here to tell
me what a crazy sack of shit I am, don't bother. I already know."

"You think you're crazy?"

"My Betty Page tattoo told me to kill people. What do you think?"

Where is your remorseless psychopath when you need one? Virgil
Incanto, I miss you, buddy. I want to retain the cold, cold rage I
nurtured all the way here, the one that made me want to kick Ed's
teeth in and bash his pretty boy face viciously until I hear bone
crack; but he looks so lost and dejected I can't seem to get a proper
grip on my fury now that I'm sitting in front of him.

This guy is no Ted Bundy.

I rest my elbows over the bed rail and steeple my fingers. "Ed, why
don't you start from the beginning and tell me what happened?"

He smirks joylessly. "I got the tattoo I deserved."

And he tells me about his divorce. How ugly it went, how devastated
he was when he found out that his wife was moving to California with
the kids and he would hardly ever see them.

He tells me about getting blind drunk and getting his tattoo. How he
started hearing the voice of a woman in his head mocking him and
calling him a loser, how he lost his job because of it and how he
thought in his delirium that the downstairs neighbor was taunting
him.

"I just wanted that voice to stop. It was right inside my head, She
was laughing and...and hateful and it was driving me fucking crazy."
He stops and looks at his good hand as if he could still see the
blood on it. "I completely lost it."

"Did you kill Kaye Schilling, Ed?"

"Yes, I did."

I was at least expecting an attempt at denial or some 'it wasn't my
fault' argument, but Ed doesn't seem to care enough about himself to
lie. What I have here is major damaged goods. I stand up and knock at
the door. The chubby police officer who let me in opens it and I ask
him if we can get something to drink. He nods and the door closes
again.

I turn back to Ed, who's staring at the wall. "How did you meet Agent
Scully?"

"She came in the shop when I went back in the morning to ask that
Russian guy to cover that damn tattoo. He asked her what she thought
of it and we got talking."

Hmm...she was probably following Pudovkin. I take the chair and turn
it around so I can straddle it. "And you asked her out?"

"Uh, yes. No. I don't know. I was wondering what someone like her was
doing in such a crappy neighborhood. She sure didn't look like a
regular customer. But she seemed lonely and, uh, kind of sad and
there was like a vibe between us, so I gave her my card in case she
wanted to go to dinner." He smiles ruefully. "I never thought she'd
call."

I know Scully was feeling blue before leaving for Philadelphia - our
parting conversation had been less than cheerful and she was mad at
me for sending her here. I guess my phone call where I all but
questioned her abilities to handle the case didn't help either. Would
she have called Jerse if I had been less of an asshole?

A vibe; right.

A knock on the door makes Ed start. I get up and accept the two cans
of Dr. Pepper from the cop before returning by the bed. I set one can
in front of Ed, who ignores it and gives me a pathetic look.

"Please, at least tell me she's not hurt too badly."

The bastard actually seems to sincerely care. I open my drink and
take a sip. "She's got a concussion and some bruised ribs. It must
hurt like hell when she breathes. I bet you hit her pretty hard,
didn't you, Ed?"

Jerse makes a pained sound in his throat and takes hold of the
wheeled stainless steel tray table. He does his one-armed best to
steady it, then slams his forehead right on the edge.

"Hey!"

His soda rolls onto the bed as he does it again, and again. The idiot
wants to split his head open.

"Ed! Cut it out!"

I move around the bed to stop him and wrap my arm around his throat
in a headlock as he struggles against me. "Ed, that's enough."

He suddenly goes slack and I release him.

"Are you done?" I ask behind his back.

He rubs his hand against his neck and, as his hospital gown collar
slips a bit, I notice something. Oh, this can't be what I think it
is. I push his head to one side and pull on the fabric to take a
closer look. Holy fuck. It *is* exactly what I think it is.

I may lack Scully's forensic expertise, but I hardly need dental
records to know whose teeth left that neat ring above his collarbone.
His 'n' hers. How cute.

Ed shrugs me off and pulls at his gown self-consciously before
looking up at me - his tone suddenly defensive. "I didn't rape her,
you know."

"That's not what she said."

His eyes narrow. He knows immediately that I'm baiting him. "You're
lying."

"How do you know?"

"Because she wouldn't."

"You think a one-night stand gives you insight into what my partner
would and wouldn't do?"

"Maybe I know more than you think. She talked to me, man." He
retrieves the can from his bed and traces patterns on it with his
thumb. "Sometimes it's easier to let go with a stranger."

And that she did. "Too bad you tried to kill her. You guys might have
had something really special."

His head drops and he is quiet for a while, turning the can over and
over between his fingers. When he looks back up his eyes are bright
and pleading. "Could you please tell her how sorry I am? It won't
mean much to her now, but for what it's worth, I really am."

"I'll let her know." I stand up and cross the room. The guard sees me
through the window and ambles over to unlock the door.

I glance back at Ed, who is staring at his drink as though he's
waiting for a sign. "You're right, Ed. I was lying. If you had done
such a thing to her, you'd be dead already."

He nods and, for a heartbeat, we share an understanding. But the
moment passes and I leave him to his demons while I head back into
the stinging January drizzle to face my own.


**********


J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
TUESDAY, JANUARY 21ST
7:51 AM


I'm walking down the hall more briskly than usual, the sharp click of
my heels making me feel efficient and purposeful. In addition to a
sarcastic reception from Mulder, yesterday morning brought unabashed
stares and some whispering, so I arrived an hour early today in hopes
of avoiding an encore. I'm almost to the elevator when Skinner's
assistant comes up to me.

"Agent Scully? Assistant Director Skinner would like to see you right
away."

I knew this was coming and that not being summoned yesterday was only
a stay of execution. My stomach lurches slightly anyway.

I follow Kim up to Skinner's office and notice her sneaking in a
stare when she thinks I'm not looking. I feel like slamming the door
in her face, but instead push it gently closed as protocol dictates.

"Welcome back, Agent Scully," Skinner says.

"Thank you, sir."

"Back on your feet?"

If Mulder had said that, I'd assume the word choice was deliberate.
But coming from Skinner, I let it slide. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Please, take a seat." I perch at the edge of a chair,
attempting to look both relaxed and engaged, which is no mean feat in
my present state.

Skinner returns to his desk. He looks at me like I'm some new fish he
never noticed was in his tank before. "I understand you're reluctant
to participate in the federal case against Edward Jerse."

"That's correct, sir." I'm sitting very straight with my hands
resting flat over my thighs, trying to focus on how the fabric of my
skirt feels under my palms. Anything to make me forget that the soles
of my feet are itching with the urge to bolt.

Skinner folds his hands on the desk. "Unfortunately, it's not really
an option. The man tried to kill you. We just can't let him get away
with this."

"With all due respect, sir, he did not attack me because I was a
federal agent; he attacked me because he was hallucinating."

"From what we've pieced together, he called the Bureau switchboard
asking for you just before the attack. That seems to indicate your
position may have been a motive."

I shift in my seat, trying not to wince as a stabbing pain shoots
through my battered ribs. "I doubt he can be held responsible for his
actions at that time. He's already confessed to murder and it is my
opinion that he committed his crimes under the influence of a
psychotropic substance. Keeping him in prison longer for his assault
on me isn't going to make the world a safer place. What difference
does this make?"

Skinner pushes his glasses further up his nose, settling back in his
seat. "The difference, Agent Scully, is that if the Bureau goes after
him, we can't be accused of going easy on the guy."

Just because he got lucky with one of our agents, is what he doesn't
say. But the unspoken words hang in the air like a greasy fog.

I remain silent and stare at the brass lamp on his desk.

Skinner brings his hands forward and leans towards me. "What the hell
were you thinking, Dana? Do you have any idea how bad this makes the
Bureau look?" His voice is edged with the tremors of someone trying
very hard not to shout.

I look straight at him. "Well, I guess that makes us even now."

Skinner blinks, the Marine equivalent of a shocked gasp. Yes, Walter,
I remember when you were an embarrassment to the Bureau too.

"Don't play games with me, Scully. You were on a case," he hisses
between clenched teeth.

"Actually, I wasn't anymore. I'd given the case to the local PD. And
if this is such an embarrassment to the Bureau, why the hell do you
want to drag it in front of a courtroom?"

"I don't want to drag this in front of a judge any more than you do,
but the law is the law. You're an FBI agent, and your behavior should
always reflect that. We take pride in the standards we set; even
Mulder knows that. You're the last person I thought I would have to
give this lecture to."

Oh, I've had enough of this.

"Are we talking double standards here, sir? It's okay for you to pick
up a woman at a bar but I can't accept a dinner invitation from a guy
I just met?"

"I was set up. I didn't get drunk and get myself a tattoo."

"I wasn't drunk."

Skinner stares at me for a long time. The new fish may not be a fish
at all. "I didn't ask you up here to argue with you about your life
choices, Agent Scully. The Bureau will be moving forward with the
case against Edward Jerse, whether you like it or not. It's my hope
that I will not have to order you to comply."

He opens a folder on his desk and pulls out two thick folders before
picking up the phone. "Agent Mulder? I'd like you to come up to my
office. Agent Scully's here already and I have an assignment for the
two of you."

I sit rigidly in my chair and try not to look sullen while Skinner
organizes his paperwork. Mulder appears in mercifully short order and
takes a seat next to me. "So what's the assignment?" he asks with
contrived lightness, keeping his eyes on Skinner. I don't seem to
register much beyond the chair I'm sitting in.

Skinner hands a folder to each of us and begins speaking as we flip
through pages of gory details.

"A series of kidnappings and homicides in Baltimore. The local police
aren't making much headway and our guy observes a strict timetable.
He kidnaps a victim, kills her, then leaves her body at the home of
the next woman he kidnaps. This occurs five days from the date of
abduction. His second victim was found this morning. The woman who we
hope will not become the third was taken from the apartment."

Mulder looks up from an 8x10 glossy. "Sir, this case is clearly
disturbing, but it's not an X-File."

"This guy is working fast, Mulder. Serial killers are a breed all
their own, and it's a breed you know well. The ritualistic elements
of the crime scene were enough to get it assigned to you."

Mulder throws an uncertain look towards me. He thinks I'm not ready
to go back in the field. I avoid his gaze and examine a picture of
one of the dead women. She is lying on a wooden floor, her left
breast cut away and the ribs exposed. A patch of bone has been cut
away and then replaced just slightly off-center. Her throat has been
slit several inches superior to the clavicles. Just above her head,
the word "sinister" is scratched into the floor. To say the least, I
think.

Mulder is reading a page of the report. "Their hearts were removed?"

Skinner nods grimly. "And replaced with small metal beads that have
been identified as selenium. April Larsen, the woman taken today, was
a nurse at Union Memorial. She never showed up for her 6 AM shift and
when police went to her apartment to check on her, they found the
body of Heike Brandstatter, the last woman taken. I want you both to
head to Baltimore immediately. Based on the coroner's estimated time
of death, the women are killed approximately twenty-four hours prior
to being left at the scene. We have less than four days."

He watches us intently for a moment and then turns his attention to
another file. "That'll be all," he says.

Mulder opens the door in his oblivious, gentlemanly way. I walk out
into the hall, studiously ignoring Kim's transparent curiosity.

Mulder and I head to the elevator. "I need to go get my coat from the
office," he says. "And grab some clothes from my apartment. You need
anything?"

"No, I still have my bags in the trunk."

He presses the down button. "Okay. Well, uh, do you want to meet me
at my place or should I pick you up here? Or what?"

He's trying, I tell myself. Be appreciative. "Thanks, Mulder. Pick me
up at Constitution Gardens, would you?"

His face registers surprise, but he doesn't comment. "Sure thing.
I'll be about an hour, then we can hit the road." He presses the
elevator button a few more times. "Are you sure you're up for this,
Scully? They mostly need a profiler for this case. Skinner would
understand if you need more time to recover."

The elevator arrives and we step in. "Thanks Mulder, but I'm okay."

He looks like he wants to say something else, but I stare ahead until
the doors slide open at the lobby. "I'll see you in an hour or so,
then," I tell him.

I walk back out into the gray morning and hail a cab.


**********


CONSTITUTION GARDENS
9:03 AM


The Vietnam Veterans' Memorial Wall is a stark and imposing thing. A
rising circumflex accent made of seventy-five meters of solid black
granite; sloping upwards from eight inches high to an apex of just
over ten feet. And then back down again. Standing before the Wall,
one is reflected in the highly polished panels, appearing like a
specter behind the seemingly endless lines of names.

All along the base are tributes to the dead. The other night I
plucked a single rose petal from among these trophies. And like the
soldier it was left here to honor, it too has crumbled away to dust.

Leonard Betts' voice has been playing in a steady loop inside my head
since we left Pittsburgh.

//You have something I need.//

You can't sense that a person has cancer, says the part of my brain
where Doctor Scully, M.D. resides. It's impossible.

But Agent Scully, who has seen inexplicable things, is not so sure.
Why didn't you want the doctor to do a CT scan in Philly?

Because the Glasgow Coma Scale did not indicate it, the good doctor
points out. No need. No memory loss. Alert and responsive. Pupils
equal size.

Sure, says the woman who is twice an X-File herself. How's that
nosebleed?

Doctor Scully sniffs in annoyance. Dry air.

Whatever. Checked in on Betsy Hagopian lately?

I close my eyes and sigh. This inner dialogue is driving me insane. I
still haven't told Mulder what Leonard said to me. What I'm afraid it
could mean. And how crazy I think that fear makes me.

I look up when I hear a rustling noise and see an older woman stoop
down to make a rubbing of someone's name. She wears a wedding ring on
her right hand. Widowed. Was this her young husband who died? Is this
all she has left of him?

The nature of my job has made death an intrinsic part of my life, but
losing my father and my sister so recently has made me fully
appreciate that actuarial tables do not represent a guarantee.

It seems so wrong to die of cancer. I'm young. I'm fit. I order my
salad dressing on the side and that college smoking habit has
dwindled to the occasional stressed-out cigarette. I have imagined
that if I were to die of anything other than old age, it would be
work related. A blaze of glory, not a slow decay.

I thought about this a lot on the trip back from the Betts case. What
mark would I leave behind if I died? No spouse, no kids. I don't even
have fish. The X-Files office is Mulder's territory; I'm still a
guest there. No desk to clean out. No pictures to take down and send
to my next of kin. Mulder said he thought of the back area as mine,
but everything back there is a permanent fixture. I could go and it
would stay, leaving no empty space to say, "Scully was here."

A few more people shuffle past, their faces tucked into scarves
against the cold. Hands slip out of gloves to touch the etched names
frozen in this bleak place. The Wall is dug into the earth like a
grave, and the full height of it creeps up on you slowly, swallowing
you in a V of black stone. It is a place of deep and foreboding
sadness.

I had a gravestone, I have discovered. My mother had it made when I
was taken away. She didn't think I would ever come back. But Mulder
did, Mom told me tearfully. He was angry with her, and disappointed.
Mulder believes in the fantastic, and he believed in me.

Past tense. What happened in Philadelphia left a serious dent in my
profile, and what Mulder doesn't understand, he doesn't trust.

Contrary to popular belief, Mulder doesn't do blind faith.

I look one last time at my dark reflection and the thin scars of
names seem to be crossing me out over and over again, negating my
existence.

There isn't anything to worry about, says Doctor Scully in her
clipped voice. Nothing's wrong with you.

I pull my collar up and walk away.


**********

CHAPTER TWO

**********


1621 ALICEANNA STREET
BALTIMORE, MD
11:09 AM


Mulder and I make our way to a wide living room where the forensic
team is still collecting evidence and dusting for prints. A tall man
in a black trench coat is talking with one of his colleagues in the
living room.

"Tell them I'm busy not finding their daughter."

"Jack, come on. They just want to meet the guy who's in charge."

"I don't have time for this, Charlie. You go play the lapdog."
Charlie walks off and Jack redirects his attention to a pair of techs
crouched next to the coffee table. "No, Rick! Just use the bi-
chromatic powder for that." Rick sighs and pokes around the box at
his feet.

"And Jasper - last warning. It is not charmingly ironic to wear
serial killer movie shirts to crime scenes."

Jasper looks down at his Manhunter shirt. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Jack turns abruptly and notices us. "Ah, here's the Hoover cavalry.
So nice of you to come. It's hard to find good help these days." He
gestures broadly to Rick and Jasper.

"We're helpful," says Rick sullenly. "You'd be nothing without us."

"And my shirt was a tribute to the profiler guy," Jasper adds,
pointing at Mulder. He waves at me. "Hello, Clarice."

Jack rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern."

We introduce ourselves and wait for him to do the same. Instead he
ogles me shamelessly. "Nice suit. Shame about the badge."

"Didn't you get the memo? Law enforcement agencies are supposed to
get along now," Mulder says, stepping in front of me.

"The memo, right. That must be where the ink on my ass came from." Oh
Mulder, it looks like we just found you a match in the smart-alec
department.

The detective is carelessly handsome, slightly taller than Mulder and
broader through the shoulders. A thin scar cuts across his face from
his left eye to the top of his mouth. His dress shirt is slightly
rumpled; blue tie loosened at the collar. He jams his hands deep into
his pockets and catches me watching him; holding my stare with his
dark eyes and -

// - Ed's mouth is hard against mine, one hand pulling my hips
against his, the other tugging impatiently at my shirt - closing on
my breast. It's been so long and I don't have to see him again and
he's kissing me, kissing me as I - //

I avert my eyes, feeling myself blush.

Mulder rubs his hands together while scanning the room. "We read
through the case file. Body of a prior kidnapping victim left behind
and the occupant of the home taken?"

Our companion shakes his head with a mock sigh. "It's getting
tragically routine. This guy's just determined to remove their left
breasts, take out their hearts, fill the chest with metal beads, and
make off with a new victim."

Bold words, but his dark eyes look tired and his hair - touched with
gray at the temples - appears not to have been cut recently. His
fingers tap against his thigh in the jittery way of someone who has
been living on too much coffee and too little sleep.

"Is the body still here?" Mulder asks.

"She was starting to stain the rug. We sent her for an autopsy to
teach her a lesson." He steps over a tech and points to a dark spot
on the floor.

I crouch over it. "She wasn't killed here. So how'd he get a body in
without anyone noticing? And how did he get April Larsen out?"

"I assume those are rhetorical questions for the moment."

"I didn't catch your name," Mulder says.

"I didn't give it to you. I'm Detective Wickham. But you can just
call me Detective Wickham."

Mulder serves him the whatever-you-say-asshole nod and smile combo
I've learned to spot over the years.

I get to my feet and gaze absently at the rug, letting the image swim
in front of my eyes while I think. "There are no connections among
these women beyond being single and living in a certain geographic
area. And those are both likely just factors of convenience. What
does he see in them?" I wonder aloud.

Wickham eyes me up, lips curved in a knowing smile, as if he'd seen
something in me that he knows I didn't mean to share. "You're the
pathologist? Why don't you head down to Penn Street and the folks
there will let you play with all of their pointy toys? Crime scene's
pretty much under control. These guys here are checking for
fingerprints. We've been told that's useful."

"And why don't you tell us what exactly it is you've been doing that
would be deemed useful since these murders began, Detective?" I snap
back.

He laughs. "Oh, be still my heart."

"She can arrange that for you." Mulder kneels with his head tilted as
he examines the floor boards and traces a gloved finger along the
letters carved there.

Mulder gets back to his feet and looks down at the place where the
body was lying, as though meaning will reveal itself with the proper
view. "Scully..." he says, resting his hand on my back.

I flinch and pull away before I realize it. Mulder's eyebrow quirks
slightly, but he says nothing. Detective Wickham, however, has
clearly noticed and is looking at the both of us with the calculating
eye of a scientist given a rare and unexpected specimen. I'm cursing
myself for being so careless and hurry to distract him from whatever
analysis he's begun to establish in his head.

"I was hoping you could answer a few questions for us before I begin
the autopsy, Detective."

"Isn't your job supposed be answering a few questions for me? Isn't
that how it works? The mighty FBI swooping in from DC to enlighten us
poor fumbling rubes? "

Mulder steps in before I lose my temper."Detective Wickham, my
background is as a behavioral analyst. Why don't you let me see what
I come up with and then you can decide if my profile is of any use to
you?"

Wickham shrugs indifferently. "That's fine, Agent Mulder. You do
whatever it is you do. Get in his head, analyze his mother, make a
list of his probable favorite foods and start canvassing restaurants.
I don't really care. As long as you do it without interfering with my
end of things, you'll get no complaints from me."

He has turned away from us to begin directing the team to pack up the
evidence they've gathered and Mulder and I are left standing
uselessly, like the last kids chosen in gym class.

"You heading over to the ME's?" Mulder asks me.

"Might as well. There's nothing else to do here. I'm going to grab
something to eat first and review the autopsy notes again before I
get started. I don't want to find another body on Saturday. We have
to find this guy."

Mulder is watching me too closely and I feel as though every bruise
and scrape is emitting a flashing light to catch his eye.

"Cut it out, Mulder. I'm fine."

My partner doesn't respond, but gives me a hard look and then scans
the room one more time as though memorizing it. He hands me the car
keys, then takes his leave.

"Detective Wickham?" I begin. The man unsettles me somehow, but I
need his cooperation.

"You're still here? How I've missed your dulcet tones in the past few
minutes."

"I'm heading over to the Medical Examiner's office to get started on
the autopsy. Will any of your people be joining me?"

"Oh, pick me!" says Rick, waving his hand while doing a terrible
rendition of John Hiatt's "I Spy for the FBI."

Wickham ignores him. "My people? I don't really have any people. But
*I'll* be coming along, now that you've usurped my authority and have
turned out to be impressively attractive."

I groan inwardly, but manage a tight smile. "Well, you can meet me
there in an hour."

"It's a date."

I give no reply and leave in search of someplace quiet where I can
obtain lunch and water to wash down the Motrin I need to fight off
the monster headache I've got coming on.


**********


There's a dingy restaurant across from the Medical Examiner's office
and I'm sitting at a corner table, picking at an egg salad sandwich
and reviewing autopsy data before I take a look at the body found
this morning.

Cause of death in the prior case was due to the severing of the
carotid arteries and the jugular veins and there's no reason to
expect otherwise in this instance. The incision was neat - ear to ear
- and was done in a fluid, even motion with no evident hesitation.
The blood loss would have been enormous and messy, so it is highly
unlikely that either victim was killed at the scene. Histology
reports for the first victim came in this morning; serotonin and free
histamine levels indicating that death was extremely rapid. The
removal of the left breast and the heart were both post-mortem. Both
bodies show signs of refrigeration.

The waitress plunks down the steaming mug of coffee I ordered and her
mouth widens in an O of shock when she sees the pictures scattered
around my plate. I smile tightly as she backs away from the table,
eyeing me cautiously.

I sigh and swallow half of the coffee in one long gulp. It's
terrible, but it's caffeinated and thus perfectly suitable.

A toxicology screen indicates sedation by flunitrazepam and
sevoflurane. Stomach contents consisted of bread, fruit, and venison.
The women were kept in generally good condition prior to their deaths
with no evidence of torture or sexual abuse.

Chewing thoughtfully on a chunk of celery, I wonder about the
apparent lack of motive. Because the crimes have come so close
together, it has been difficult for anyone to completely figure out
exactly what's going on. I read the notes over again, wondering what
I'm missing. How is he getting the bodies in and the women out
undetected? Why does he take the hearts and breasts? And what
possible motive could anyone have for such brutality? He scratched
the word sinister onto the knotted pine floor. Does it mean he is not
unaware of his evil?

I write "sinister" on a napkin and doodle around it, waiting for an
epiphany.

I know these questions are circulating through Mulder's head right
now, working deep into his brain, intersecting in an elaborate neural
network. An EEG of his prefrontal cortex would be a wonder to behold.

I'm not sure exactly where we stand with each other right now. Is
Mulder another one of those controlling authority figures? Is he
someone else I've let down? The jury's still out on that, really. I
know he's disappointed in me, but I'm not sure if it's professionally
or personally. Mulder has managed to slip past my defenses and become
more than a metaphor for the father I was never sure I could please.
I'm not certain how to proceed with that. My relationship with him is
a strange and wonderful thing, constantly evolving and throwing me
off guard.

Mulder and I have always played at flirtatiousness and he is
undeniably attractive, but lately I feel something more serious
growing between us. Unsurprisingly, it has made me distance myself
from him slightly. I like to believe it has to do with where I am in
my life right now rather than a genuine romantic interest, but I know
better than to over-think it.

To distract myself, I drain my mug and signal the waitress for a
refill, then cringe slightly at the memory of what I confessed to Ed.
"There are other fathers." Oh, Dana. How *could* you? The idea of
what the trial will be like is ice water down my spine.

I shake my head, hoping the thoughts will scatter, and return my
attention to the papers before me. There's a third woman out there
somewhere. She is not yet dead.

The papers go back into my briefcase. After tossing some money on the
table, I leave the restaurant, crossing Pratt Street without waiting
for the light to change.


**********


HOLIDAY INN INNER HARBOR
12:36 PM


The walk from the crime scene to the hotel was colder than I'd
anticipated and the hotel lobby is pleasantly warm. The friendly
woman at the welcome desk hands me my key card and I sprint up the
steps in a bid to warm up. I enter the familiar confines of another
bland hotel room, dumping the stack of files Skinner gave us on the
small desk against the wall. Scully's got my clothes in the car.

She went to the ME's office with Detective Wickham, Charm City's
Finest, and I make a mental note to pull a file on that guy. It has
nothing to do with the way he looks at her. I like to know who I'm
working with.

In any case, Scully will be tied up for hours. I remove my jacket and
throw it on the bed, loosening my tie with irritated fingers. I cross
the room to make a pot of bad coffee and hear the whine of a siren
outside. The Holiday Inn is just a few blocks east of the Medical
Examiner's office and the endless noise of Lombard Street provides a
steady background hum below my window. I pull the curtains wide open
to stare at the rain hitting the glass. I half expect to see the
droplets clinging to it ascend like weightless crystal tears.

My world is all askew.

Something is amiss between Scully and me. It's not that she doesn't
talk to me, because she does. And it's not like she's sulking or is
angry because I would know if she were. But she keeps our verbal
exchanges to a bare minimum, doesn't bounce my ideas back like she
used to and ignores my jokes. Well, that last part isn't new - but
previously I could at least see that she was deliberately choosing
not to indulge my dubious sense of humor.  Now she doesn't even seem
to notice it.

It's as if some part of her has detached itself and flown away like a
party balloon, ever since she came back to work yesterday and
informed me with an indulgent, sad little smile that not everything
is about me.

And now she won't even let me touch her.

I kick my shoes off and drop to the bed, tucking my hands behind my
head as I try to focus. I really should not be thinking about my
personal issues with my partner right now. I have a killer's mind to
invade.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, lifting my right hand,
holding it high above me. I exhale slowly and step backward inside
the dark corners of my head. Yes, I can feel it now, the weight of a
knife - or is it a scalpel? - in my hand. I give a few experimental
slashes in the air.

I cut their throats smoothly and efficiently. They died fast, in a
hot spray of arterial blood. Did that matter? Did I let it rain over
me, or did I kill them from behind?

They died fast, I think again. They don't matter to me while they're
alive, because my work doesn't start until they're dead.

I took the time to remove their breasts carefully. Scully pointed out
that the cut on the last victim looked neat and professional. I have
done this before; maybe I'm a doctor - or a butcher. The flesh is
soft and heavy under my hand as I slice. Do I like this? Do I like to
see their blood escape them like a burst fruit? Is that an added
bonus, or don't I really care? I can't remember that just yet. I know
I have to reach their hearts. The hearts are important, that's why I
keep them. I slice their breasts off and steal their hearts. Like
they stole mine? Am I a spurned lover?

Why do I keep them?

I can't remember that either. I leave a message in the wood:
sinister. Am I passing judgment on myself or on these women? Do I
know what I am and do it anyway? I know I'm not a vulgar thief, I
also leave payment. Selenium beads. Why do I choose to leave these?
It means something. Selene is a moon goddess.

Is this the connection?

Missing breast.

Missing heart.

The moon.

Women and the moon.

Women and their moods.

Lunar cycles.

Changes.

She's got a tattoo now.

Shit.

Focus, for God's sake.

The moon and the hearts.

She still won't tell me what it is.

Maybe it's a caduceus. Or some cryptic Equation. Not E=MC^2, too
obvious. And I'm pretty sure it's not some lame tribal or Chinese
symbol either.

The moon and the hearts.

Scully would go for something meaningful - well, the Scully I thought
I knew would. Except that the Scully I thought I knew would never get
a tattoo in a million years. She wouldn't have a one night stand
either.

THE MOON AND THE HEARTS, DAMMIT!

I punch the mattress with both fists and release an exasperated sigh.

This isn't working.

I jump off the bed and open the window, letting in a rush of freezing
air through the screen. The Bromo Seltzer tower rises from the corner
like a rook, wrapped in a swirl of exhaust fumes and fog. Outside the
sky is heavy and gray. The rain has stopped and it's still early in
the afternoon. I glance at the desk, where the pile of documents and
photos waits to be assembled into a coherent picture of our killer.

I sigh again and get ready for a shower, hoping the water will rinse
away thoughts of Scully and put me in the right frame of mind to
solve this puzzle.


**********


MARYLAND STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
BALTIMORE, MD
1:13 PM

The other pathologists are pretty much wrapped up for the day down
here. I suit up in borrowed laboratory finery before pulling the
woman's body out of the refrigerator. Wickham should be here shortly
and I want to get started before he arrives.

I unzip the body bag and wince a bit at the gaping wound. The left
breast has been sheared away entirely. I examine her hands for any
defensive wounds or other evidence that may have been missed.

Her nails have been scraped clean of trace evidence, though not by
the forensics team. I uncurl the fingers of her left hand and see
where the nail polish has slopped a bit onto her cuticles. The right
is much tidier; handedness being the bane of do-it-yourself
manicures. So she's left-handed. Beyond this, her hands tell me
nothing. These are the moments that humanize victims for me. Melissa
was a leftie and always had to be strategically placed at dinner
tables so she wouldn't bump someone's elbow.

I shake off the memory and return my attention to the victim's chest.
I remove the jigsaw puzzle piece of bone and muscle that's been cut
to allow to access to her heart. Cupped in the hollow between her
lungs are a few dozen gunmetal-gray beads. Selenium.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," calls the voice of Detective Wickham.

Splendid. "I'm just getting started, Detective. You're welcome to
watch."

"Agent Scully! We've only just met." He shrugs out of his overcoat
and hangs it on the stool next to me.

I ignore him, knowing that any reaction will only be viewed as
encouragement. "Take a seat. And hold this cup." I hand him a small
plastic container and begin scooping the beads into it.

He watches them tumble into the bottom, clinking softly. "Like a
goddamned pachinko machine," he remarks. "The Japanese love pachinko,
you know. Maybe we're dealing with one of those obsessive Japanese
collector guys. What are they called? Otaku? Some of them get
into that hardcore hentai. Really bizarre S&M comics. Once saw
one that involved a threesome with an octopus. You ever read
hentai?"

I open Heike's lower abdomen and try not to think of some kind of
pachinko machine torture fetish.

"I'm afraid I haven't. I'm hoping that I can find some evidence
linking these beads to the killer. My reading on the way up here
indicates that anode metal from electrolytic copper refineries is the
primary source of selenium, and that the element has applications in
glassblowing, photography, and several other fields."

"Talk nerdy to me, baby."

"You need to be mindful of your conduct, Detective Wickham," I say in
a steely tone.

"Commanding. I like that. So what next, federal agent?"

His nonchalance is beyond irritating but I push it away for now.

"The report says you've been interviewing people in the fields I just
mentioned, so you've either not come across him yet, or you have and
he's not rattled by it."

"Your firm grasp of the obvious is dazzling."

I ignore the bait. "Any evidence regarding what he does with the
breasts and the hearts?"

"None so far. Trophies I suppose. I imagine his freezer will be a
treasure trove of both evidence and protein. Though you know Ed Gein
liked to fashion little craft projects. I think he had a belt made of
nipples. Maybe this guy's making throw pillows or something."

I run my finger over the cut edges of her ribs. "He knew what he was
doing. Look how neat these cuts are. I think he used a Stryker saw.
He has some experience with this. There's no evidence of hesitation
marks on the skin or other tissue. It's a fluid motion."

"Admiring his work?"

His question is meant to put me on the defensive. It works, too, but
my voice hardly ever bleeds my true feelings. Years spent working
side by side with a profiler will teach you a thing or too about the
need for obfuscation.

"Just taking notes." I lift my head up to look straight at him. "How
did you get that scar, Detective Wickham?"

His smile is surprisingly gentle. "How did you get those bruises,
Agent Scully?"

Primum non nocere, I remind myself. But the scalpel glints
temptingly.

I turn my own Stryker saw on and remove the other half of the ribs
that cover her thoracic cavity. Bone dust flies everywhere and it
occurs to me that our killer's probably going to have traces of it
all over the place.

I fill several vials with various bodily fluids and squeeze her gall
bladder into a cup to collect the bile. I am aware of Wickham's eyes
moving over me and I'm unsure if he's just being a cop, monitoring my
actions, or if he's checking me out.

Probably both.

//The red neon glow of the tattoo parlor fills my head. The needle
pierces my skin - unbearable delicious sting - Ed's eyes are full of
lust and I want, I need-//

"Wanna go for a drink after this?"

I nearly drop the container I'm holding and turn around to stare at
him. "I beg your pardon?"

Wickham stands up, smoothing the sides of his coat as he approaches
me. "You, me, beer. We could exchange Tales of Two Cities."

"Are you asking me out, Detective?" I carefully place the vials onto
a rack.

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. "What if I am,
Agent Scully?"

I don't even look at him as I load my samples into the dumbwaiter
that goes to the lab and then return to the cadaver. I make an
incision across the back of the head.

"I'd say you're way out of line."

"As far as I know, asking a pretty woman out is not against the
law." He winks at me. "I should know. I *am* the law."

"I'm flattered but I'm not interested," I say, peeling away the front
half of Heike's scalp. "Besides we're in the middle of a case."

"I see. Things seem to be off with you and Mr. Behavioral Analyst,
but I wouldn't want to step on any toes."

I blink at him. "My partner? Let me assure you that my reasons for
declining your offer are entirely my own."

"And those would be...?"

"None of your concern," I tell him firmly, turning the saw back on.
The blade dips easily into the exposed bone.

"How long has this lover's spat been going on?"

I insert a skull key into the neat cut I made in the cranium and give
a firm twist, hoping my contemptuous glare conveys my thoughts on
Wickham's impertinence.

"It's fairly obvious. You two seem tense around one another," he says
glibly.

Everyone's a pop psychologist.

"Thanks for your concern, but Mulder and I are fine." Wickham watches
as I carefully pull Heike's brain out and set it into a pan. I reach
in with a pair of tweezers and crack the sella turcica like a walnut,
plucking out the pituitary gland and dropping it into a test tube.
Push a little further with those tweezers and I'm right in the
honeycomb of sinus cavities. Right where all those women had their
tumors.

I take a deep breath and the thought recedes for now, but I can still
feel it lurking at the corners of my consciousness.

I reach into the gaping chest cavity, working my hand upwards to free
the tongue, and lift the large block of organs out of the body. I
deposit them onto the stainless steel counter, snipping off bits to
send to the lab.

"I don't know whether to throw up or be turned on," Wickam tells me
as he walks over and leans against the wall. "Well, let me know if
you change your mind." He sounds confident that I probably will.

I must confess to finding him attractive and strangely intriguing,
but this is not the time. For so very many reasons.

"I'll keep you posted," I reply dismissively.

He grins and then looks concerned. I can feel something tickling my
upper lip.

"Agent Scully...?" He rips off a sheet of paper towel and holds it
out to me. I peel off my bloody gloves and accept it, trying to look
casual - as though I am always plagued by mid-autopsy nosebleeds.

"It's nothing," I say, looking up and pinching my nose. "Happens to
me in the winter." This winter, anyway.

"I have to say it would have been the most creative rejection I'd
ever encountered. Why don't you head out anyway? Dr. Riviera is still
here and he can finish up for you. I talked to Karen Chase, our joint
lab manager, and she's going to have everything rush ordered, but
can't promise anything before morning. Go get some rest because I
don't want you dragging around tomorrow. You look exhausted."

"I'm okay," I tell him, pulling on fresh gloves and turning my
attention to the dark slab of liver.

He nods slowly. "All right. Have it your way. Well, I'm going to look
through the interview transcripts again, see if anything jumps out at
me. If I hang around here I'll probably ask you out again and give
you another n Later, Madame Doctor." He heads out into the hall and I
feel a rush of relief.

It doesn't take me long to finish up. I toss my bloodied cover-ups
into the trash and hang the borrowed lab coat back where I found it.
Only a few people are left downstairs. I take a solo ride in the
elevator up to the lobby.

The air outside is raw and bone-chilling. A glum rain has begun to
fall, but I've parked close and crank the heat up as soon as I start
the car. The drive to the hotel is short, offering little time for
thought, though Mulder, Wickham, and the ruined bodies of the dead
women have all paraded through my head by the time I reach the front
desk to get my key. I almost forget to ask where my partner's room
is.

I load our luggage on a cart and take the elevator up to the seventh
floor where I knock lightly at Mulder's door. He answers it in a
hotel bathrobe, steam curling out from the bathroom behind him.

"Thanks," he says, pulling his bags off the rack. "I was hoping I
wouldn't have to lounge around in this all night." I lean awkwardly
against the doorframe while he hangs his garment bag in the closet.
"Come on in, Scully," he says. "Tell me what you found."

I shrug. "Not much, really. I'm heading back to the ME tomorrow
morning. They're supposed to have some results for me. Wickham's
looking back over the interviews they've conducted, so you might want
to give him a call and see what he turns up."

"Sure, thanks. You want to grab something to eat? Just let me get
dressed and we'll order something up." He's pulling jeans out of his
duffel bag.

I chew my lip. "No, I'm okay, Mulder. I had a sandwich not long ago.
Not really hungry, but you go ahead. Let me know if you think of
anything, okay? I'm two rooms down in 746."

He looks up and seems mildly surprised, but I pull the door shut and
head down the hall before he can ask me anything else.


**********

HOLIDAY INN INNER HARBOR
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 22ND
7:17 AM


I finish shaving and gulp down some scalding coffee before looking at
the files again. The closeness of the room is making me anxious. I'm
tingling like a lightning rod about to be struck. I really have to
cut back on the caffeine.

Scully was distant again last night and I wasted more time thinking
about her, wondering what the hell is going on under that glossy red
hair. I want to go for a run this morning, to help clear my head, so
I toss on some sweats and sneakers, then grab the orange that was
left from my dinner last night. I stop by Scully's room before I
leave, knocking at the door.

"Room service!" I say when she answers, offering her the fruit. Her
hair is sleep-rumpled, her eyelids heavy.

"Hey," she says, accepting the orange and setting it on the counter.
"Thanks."

"Heading for a run. You off to get those test results?"

She glances down at her pajamas. "Yeah, just have to shower first.
Call if you need anything. I'm going to try and get a closer look at
the cuts on her ribs. I want to see if I can narrow down the blade
used to a particular manufacturer."

"Good luck," I say and she nods before shutting the door. I take the
stairs down to the lobby and walk over to the map on the wall to plot
out my route before heading outside.

Baltimore is a good sports town. Babe Ruth was born here and his
childhood home's been turned into a museum. There's a Sports Legends
museum too and even I teared up when Cal Ripken broke Gehrig's streak
at Camden Yards in '95. Our hotel is situated right near these prime
attractions. I'm hoping the change of scenery will do my brain some
good. The wind smacks me in the face as soon as I open the lobby
door.

After a brief warm-up, I kneel by a hot dog stand to tighten my shoe
laces. Two guys waiting to be served are arguing loudly about the new
football team. The Ravens just finished their first season in
Memorial Stadium. I meant to catch a game, but DC belongs to the
Redskins and I felt vaguely disloyal about it. 4-12. I didn't miss
much anyway.

"You don't know what you're talking about, man. The Ravens are the
shit. Football's back in Baltimore!"

"Still a stupid name. First Orioles, now Ravens. Birds suck."

"Your mother sucks."

"Whatever. I'm just saying that ravens aren't scary. Maybe vultures.
They're kind of badass."

"It's from that poem! By that guy! That creepy dead motherfucker. You
know the guy. They leave the whiskey and stuff on his grave. Aw,
who's that guy?"

"Dr. Seuss?"

"Edgar Allan Poe," I offer.

"Yeah, him! He wrote all kinds of fucked up stuff and that Raven crap
was freaky. I always forget that guy's name."

"Have you been quaffing any nepenthe?" I inquire.

"Are you a narc?"

I laugh and decide to incorporate old Edgar into my run. His grave's
not far from here, so I can take a nice meander past my desired
tourist attractions and still keep on the safe side of MLK Boulevard.
I wonder if Scully's killed Detective Wickham yet. He does not fully
appreciate what he's tangling with.

I start running and soon the rhythmic sound of my sneakers hitting
the concrete helps me concentrate on the case again. So, am I a
hateful killer or a vengeful one? I follow a precise ritual and so
far, I have not deviated from it. After I've killed them I leave
-//no, not leave//, display - my victims - //no, they're not victims,
they had it coming, it was for the greater good, it was an honor to
be chosen//. Okay, so I display my trophies, //my messages//, in the
same place where I catch my next //project//. I display, I carve the
word "sinister" in the wood and I take, and again - like a chain - a
necklace? Is this why I leave beads in their chest? Am I doing this
according to a geographical pattern? How many beads?

Must ask Scully.

Scully owns a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Sometimes, when
she is deep in thoughts, she plays with one, head titled to one side
- a study in Pre-Raphaelite stillness - who'll introduce you to the
barrel of her gun if you startle her.  Like the oyster where her
pearls originated, she hides things from me; the surface of her shell
has turned hard, jagged and uneven and I can't find a way to pry it
open without damaging either of us.

I look down Penn Street towards the ME's office, wondering what she
and Wickham are doing in there. What has she found on the dead woman?
Scully with her keen eye and her cold blades. Scully with blood
spilling down her white face over the fading ghosts of bruises.

I press the heel of my hand against my temple. Stop thinking about
her. She's irrelevant to this.

I slit their throats. A nice clean cut. I do this casually, without
rage; it is something that needs to be done. Do I feel that what I'm
doing is sinister? Have I retained enough humanity to feel guilt
about what I'm doing? Maybe, but it would seem that I have no other
choice than to display my message until the work is complete.

I need the world to know.

What's the message?

I pause at a traffic light, jogging in place. I am nearing the
cemetery. I slip back within myself to get a bird's eye view of the
situation.

These women are all part of a whole. They are the compulsive re-
enactment of some deep trauma, something that hurt the perpetrator so
profoundly it sent him around the bend. Not many murderers will admit
they enjoy killing. Luther Lee Boggs and John Lee Roche were among
the few I've met who truly did.

Killers will often dissociate themselves from their crimes by saying
voices in their heads made them do it, or blame some vague,
irresistible urge. Something they can't control or fight. "This is
not who I am!" they'll claim tearfully in court and there's always a
neighbor around to say: "Such a nice man, I just don't get it!"

I follow Fayette Street and slow down to a brisk walk, staring up at
the Gothic structure of Westminster Hall. All arched windows and
time-worn brick, it sits incongruously between unimaginative modern
buildings. Wrought iron and a low masonry wall come together to
shelter its famed cemetery from loiterers.

The darkness that floats in the souls of men doesn't come to the
surface if it knows it's being observed. People only let you see the
side of them they've designed for you. There is no such thing as
uncharacteristic; there is only previously unwitnessed.

If Ed Jerse hadn't been driven mad, I wouldn't have known about my
partner's one night stand and fondness for inked needles. She would
have come back -smooth and prim as ever in her sober suits and fuck
me heels - and I would have been none the wiser.

What do I really know about Doctor Dana Scully?

First and foremost, Scully is her work. And she's well-known for it.
The few times she's let me look over her shoulder at her inbox, I've
seen the stack of queries she receives daily from students and other
respected doctors.

She's a loyal, trustworthy workaholic who's compassionate and
straight as an arrow. And she's saved my ass more times than I can
count.

I know she's a fine shot and a fast driver. She's a health
food nut, but I have seen the Ben & Jerry tubs in her freezer
and she's got a weakness for spare ribs. She can be playful and
sarcastic and her smile is dazzling.

I know she's stubborn, rigid in her beliefs, and capable of some
impressive feats of righteous anger. I've seen her outstare Skinner
and unsettle hardened criminals with the raise of an eyebrow. She can
make you feel like you're not even worth being scraped off her shoe.
I know she can be cold and so distant you might as well try touching
the Orion belt. She has a hard time letting her weaknesses show, but
her faith helps her cope with the horror we regularly witness. She
goes silent when she's hurting.

I know she's hot. Yes, I have noticed. Just because we have a mutual
unspoken agreement to keep things professional between us doesn't
mean I can't enjoy the view. I'm tall, she's short and she doesn't
button those silk blouses all the way to her throat. It's simple
math. I've been known to rise to the occasion after having scientific
jargon whispered in my ear. And I've caught her checking my ass out a
couple of times. These things happen when you work with a partner of
the opposite sex. It's no big deal.

I don't know much about her private life. I tease her about
boyfriends and she teases me back about my video collection but
that's as far as it goes. She dated her instructor at the Academy, so
I figured she had a thing for older men. Her reactions to the Kindred
case and Skinner's hooker were disdainful. After that I'd pegged her
-maybe unfairly - as somewhat conservative in bed. But to be honest,
my partner's sexual preferences are not something I had much pondered
until Philadelphia. And the only reason I'm pondering them now is
because the latest events upset my collected knowledge of her.
Really, that's all it is. Professional pride. I like to know who I'm
working with. So let's update her profile and be done with it:

Scully doesn't mind one-night stands.

She likes it rough.

She likes tattoos.

There, all done. Let's move on.

I peer over the fence at Edgar Alan Poe's grave. There's a raven in
bas-relief on the gray stone and the famous 'nevermore' quote
inscribed above it. I bend over with my hands on my knees to catch my
breath and the sound of my heart drumming in my chest becomes louder
in my ears.

The heart is important.

The heart reveals the truth.

I lift my eyes and stare at Poe's grave. The raven with its broken
beak seems to mock me.

The Tell-Tale Heart.

A sinister tale of paranoia.

The beating heart.

Under the floorboards.

I get a flash of the latest victim, lying in the living room. A
living room with pale reclaimed pine floorboards.

Could it be...?

I look once more at the raven before heading to the Medical
Examiner's at full speed.

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.


**********


MARYLAND STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
9:28 AM


I refocus the microscope on the section of rib I've removed and then
step back, rubbing my eyes.

"Dammit," I grumble without any real conviction. I wasn't expecting
to find much, but it at least made me feel productive to try. The
edge of the bone cut by the killer is identical to the end I cut with
the saw down here. Stryker saws are available everywhere and it's
going to be impossible to try and trace anyone that way. But at least
the information will be useful if we find such a saw in the home of a
suspect.

I turn off the microscope and check my watch again, hoping the lab
work will be ready soon.

"Thought I might find you here. I come bearing caffeine."

I look up and see Wickham, who is carrying a large cup of coffee.
"Daily Grind. Much better than the swill you had here, I'm sure."

I accept the cup gratefully and take a sip. "Mmm. Thank you."

He sits down next to me. "I went over those interviews again and
nothing's coming up. Any word from Agent Mulder, profiling
wunderkind?"

I shake my head. "Nothing yet. He's out for a run. He'll come through
though."

"Feeling okay this morning?"

I shrug, uncomfortable. "Yeah. Just waiting for data to come back. It
occurs to me that the killer may be a hunter. The women were fed
venison, which isn't commonly sold in stores, and it would certainly
explain his proficiency with a knife."

Wickham nods. "We'll cross-reference hunting licenses as well." Just
as he finishes jotting down notes on his pad, Mulder appears in the
doorway; hair, t-shirt and running pants soaked with rain or sweat.
"I know where the hearts are," he tells us, out of breath.

"Speak of the devil," observes Wickham.

Mulder looks puzzled for a second and then walks over to us.

"I think he hid the hearts under the floorboards, Scully. Both of the
women were on hardwood floors. He scratched that word - sinister -
above them and I think it was at least partly to hide pry-marks."

Years together and I will never figure out how he does this. "Why
would he do such a thing?"

Mulder shakes his head. "I don't know yet. Maybe something to do with
Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart. Did you find anything new on the body?"

"I don't think so. Her nails were scraped clean, but not by the
forensics team. Our suspect probably has defensive wounds and he
scraped the evidence from under her nails. He knows what he's doing,
this guy. He has...proper tools. He's in control of himself."

Kaye Schilling hacked roughly to pieces and stuffed in an
incinerator.

I have the creeping feeling that Mulder knows exactly what's running
through my head. I blink away the thought.

"If you don't mind me interrupting, I'd like to go see if Agent
Mulder's channeling our boy or not," Wickham interjects.

I nod and peel off my borrowed protective gear. "Sounds like a plan."

Wickham twirls his keys around his finger. "Let's go, honey. I've got
a sweet '92 Crown Vic and the backseat is roomy."

"Oooh, I'm definitely sold," Mulder quips.

I roll my eyes, pulling my coat on in the elevator up to the lobby.
We walk out to the car, where Wickham climbs into the driver's seat
and I pause for a second between the passenger and back doors. Mulder
jerks his head slightly to the front. I climb in, scooting my seat up
as far as it will go to give him room.

"So I hear you guys do a lot of this type of work. Not just bogarting
cases, I mean. Rumor has it you two are like the Hardy Boys of the
FBI. If there's weirdness to be found, you stumble upon it," Wickham
says.

"We have worked on a number of unusual cases," Mulder informs him
flatly.

"Anything I'd hear about?  What have you done lately?"

My nails are digging into my palm and I bite down on the inside of my
cheek. How vindictive is Mulder feeling today?

"Just an illegal weapons and smuggling ring," Mulder answers. "Agent
Scully handled it. I've been on vacation."

The yaw is slowly stabilizing, I think. We're coming back to center.

Wickham calls for a photographer and some techs to meet us at the
scene. He turns down Eastern Avenue, then weaves through Fells Point
until we pull up at April Larsen's building on Aliceanna.

Mulder unfolds himself from the backseat and I catch his eye for a
second. He nods almost imperceptibly.

We head into her ground-floor apartment, ducking under the crime
scene tape. Wickham looms like a sentry over the scratched floor
until a photographer trails in with two techs whom I recognize from
yesterday.

Wickham gets to his knees and presses his ear to the floor. "Lo!" he
booms in an ominous voice. "It is the beating of her hideous heart."

I don't dare laugh, though someone snickers slightly. Jasper, who is
tamely arrayed in a Nick Cave t-shirt.

The other one - Rick - begins prying up the floorboards while the
camera clicks softly in the background. Mulder peers over the
proceedings anxiously, watching as Wickham's gloved hand reaches
around in the growing hole in the floor. He blinks in surprise and
then pulls out a human heart.

"I'll be damned," he says to Mulder. "You spooky son of a bitch."

He passes the heart to me so I can examine it. "He tried to preserve
it using some kind of resin or latex, though he may have needed to
work fast because it's a pretty slapdash job and barely dry.  We
should be able to find a manufacturer, but it'll take time."

I turn the organ over in my hands and slip my finger into the
superior vena cava, feeling around the right atrium. I look up in
shock.

"This isn't her heart."

Mulder walks over. "What are you talking about?"

I poke around some more, making certain that I'm not missing it.
"Heike Brandstatter had an artificial bileaflet tricuspid valve. She
had to take warfarin - blood thinner - because of it. This isn't
Heike's heart."

"It's the wrong fucking heart?" Wickham asks.

"That's some twisted shit right there," opines Rick.

Mulder's staring at the heart, utterly at a loss.  Then something
shifts in his face. "The victim before Heike. It's hers."

"What?"

He closes his eyes, tapping his chin. "He takes a woman and leaves
the prior victim at the home. It's a chain. I think that's what he
does with the hearts. He left Heike's body in April's apartment and
the prior victim's heart below Heike. He's connecting them all. Who
was the prior victim? Before Heike?"

"Carla Stewart," Wickham replies without hesitation.

"Okay. I think this is Carla Stewart's heart. And if we don't catch
this guy, we'll find Heike's heart under April."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Wickham says grimly.

"And, of course, the million dollar question is, 'whose heart is
going to be under Carla?' " Mulder points out.

Wickham's face falls. "There's another victim."

"One we haven't found," I finish for him.

"One we're not supposed to find," says Mulder, searching his pockets
for his notepad.

Wickham pulls out his phone and calls the station, making
arrangements to have Carla Stewart's house searched.

When I begin to examine the heart again, I see something glint on my
finger. I look closer. Several tiny grains of what appear to be sand
sparkle under the bright lights. I hold it out for inspection.

"Look at this. Some of the resin or latex or whatever it was is still
tacky in there. This came off on my glove."

Rick whistles, looking impressed. "Damn, FBI."

Mulder and Wickham stare at my hand while the photographer takes
pictures.

"Glassblowers," says Wickham. "Glassblowers use sand. And they use
selenium to color the glass. We've been doing background checks on
people who have ready access to selenium due to their professions,
but we haven't been able to narrow our focus to one field. You know
how many goddamned photographers there are in this town?"

"Glassblowers," Mulder repeats. "How many are in the area?"

Wickham is still fixed on the tiny particles. "In the metro area?
About eight. But we're pretty sure the guy's right in the city based
on his victims. There's only one glassworks in a twenty mile radius.
Right off 83."

"You go ahead," I say to Mulder and Wickham. "I'm going to head back
to the lab, see what I can find with this heart and try to get more
information on these particles."

We leave the crime scene and head our separate ways.


**********


I follow Wickham back out to the car and climb into the front,
adjusting the seat from its Scully-height configuration.

"What is she, like five-six?" Wickham queries as we head towards to
highway.

"Five-three. She wears deceptive shoes."

"Ah," he says, making a sharp left and nearly mowing down a cyclist
in the process.

"How far is it?" I ask him.

"Fifteen minutes with traffic. So Agent Scully. She's single?"

Now we get to it. "To the best of my knowledge," I say. I don't feel
as though I can speak about Scully in the absolutes of less than a
week ago.

"To the best of your knowledge? Not partners with benefits then?"

I laugh. "Scully and me? No. We just don't talk much about our
personal lives." Or body art. "Why? Did she shoot you down?"

He smirks. "That she did. She's a bit prickly, isn't she?"

"She's going through a rough patch," I say vaguely.

"Her injuries...?"

I shake my head. "You'll have to talk to her about that."

He gives me an appraising look, then exits onto Northern Parkway.
"You help solve this case, Agent Mulder, and I'll get you seasons'
tickets to Camden Yards."

"That's very generous of you Detective Wickham, but I think it's only
fair to let you know I'm a Yankees fan."

Wickham looks disgusted, as I expected. "Well, how about this then?
You help solve the case and I'll refrain from running you out of my
fair city on a rail."

I grin. "Sounds like a deal."

We pull up in front of a low brick building surmounted by several
chimneys, all of which are disgorging a dark smoke that blends in
with the low, gunmetal sky.

"So what are we looking for?" Wickham asks me as we walk to the front
door.

"I have no idea," I confess. "I'm hoping I'll know it when I see it."

"I hope so too. Time is running out," he says, holding the door open.

We walk inside and the noise is overwhelming. The roar of furnaces
provides a base note, while the sound of hammering, clanking,
yelling, and other unidentifiable noises makes a cacophonous layer on
top of that.

A man in a heavy leather apron walks over to us. "Can I help you?" he
asks loudly. "Oh! You're that detective. I remember you. Who's this
guy?"

I flash my badge. "Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. Mind if we
have a look around?"

He examines my ID. "You trying to catch that crazy sonofabitch?"

"Yes sir, I am."

"Then make yourself at home. Ask around if you need anything."

I thank him, then take a loop around the room, watching the craftsmen
at work. I am amazed by the way they take glowing blobs from the
furnace, transforming them into sculpture. Glass flowers and animals
and vases take shape in mere minutes, bold colors flowing through the
glass as the artists puff, tap and spin the molten substance into the
forms they've envisioned.

From the corner of my eye I see a glass cat taking form, its back
rising and its face an angry hiss. Something tugs at my brain and I
walk over to take a closer look.

"Wow," I say. "That's amazing, the detail you've got there. It looks
very lifelike."

The man making it doesn't look up, but nods slightly. There are some
snapshots of glass sculpture taped to his work area: a tall, creepy
house where one might expect to find the Addams family, a raven, and
black grandfather clock.

I feel a surge of electricity down my spine. Representations of Poe's
work. The Black Cat, The Fall of the House of Usher, The Raven, and
The Masque of the Red Death.

"Your work is extraordinary," I tell him. "Part of a series?"

He finally looks up. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Doing a display for the Poe
Birthplace. They commissioned a set. I've just got a few more left."

"The Tell-Tale Heart?" I ask. "It's probably one of his most famous,
after The Raven."

If this means anything to him, he hides it well. "Yup. Doing one for
that. Pit and the Pendulum. A few others. I've got it all written
down somewhere, with sketches and stuff. You a fan or something?"

"Somewhat. How about you?"

He shrugs and turns his attention back to the cat. "Sure, I guess."

I signal to Wickham and mouth: "Poe."

"That's a great cat," Wickham remarks as he strolls over.

The man looks suspicious now. "If you guys have something to say,
just say it. I'm busy and I already talked to you people."

Wickham catches my eye and I shake my head slightly.

"No, we have no further questions. Just admiring your tribute to one
of the city's favorite sons," Wickham reassures him.

The glassblower grunts and returns to his work.

We head back out to the car where Wickham wants to know what's up.
"You want to tail this guy?"

"Yeah, I do. Let's find out when his shift ends and follow him. I
don't want to bring him in yet or anything. If he won't tell us where
he hid April we may never find her and she'll be just as dead as if
he slit her throat."

Wickham nods and gets on the phone to delegate responsibility. He
turns to me when he hangs up. "So what now?"

I sigh. "I don't know. What's this guy's background?"

Wickham closes his eyes for a moment, searching his memory. "James
Alfred Montaldo. Served thirteen months of a two-year sentence for
armed robbery. In and out for various scuffles, but nothing serious.
Nothing particularly sadistic or noteworthy."

"Domestic violence? Rape?"

"Not that I recall, but we'll double check. I wish we had some
goddamned prints to run from the scenes." He twirls his sunglasses by
the earpiece and looks frustrated.

"Check his juvenile record too. And I want a warrant to search his
place while we're waiting for him to leave work."

"Shouldn't be hard. I got a couple of favors I can call in," Wickham
assures me.

"Excellent. We need to look for all properties in his name and any
aliases. He's going to be working somewhere underground, probably the
basement of a house. You want to look for a large refrigerator where
he can store the bodies and some kind of table where he works on
them. He'll want a back entrance out of the basement to carry them up
and there will probably be an alley behind it too. And a van of some
kind."

"I was thinking he might even have a meat locker down there. Agent
Scully theorized that he could be a hunter."

I am impressed and tell Wickham as much. "The venison the victims had
eaten coupled with the cold storage," I muse. "I didn't even think of
that."

"You think he's keeping them where he kills them?"

"If not in his house, somewhere close by that only he knows about. He
wants ready access to them. He doesn't torture them at all, but this
is very much a control thing. He wants to be able to see the
transition from whatever they represent when they're alive and what
he turns them into. It's important to him."

Wickham regards me with interest. "You're good," he says simply.

"We'll see," I reply, and we head back downtown.


**********

CHAPTER THREE

**********


MARYLAND STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
3:42 pm


Karen comes into the room with a stack of printouts in a cardboard
box. "I've got some good stuff for you, Agent Scully. He attempted to
preserve the heart using plastination, but gave himself nowhere near
enough time. Soaked it in acetone and then dunked it in the liquid
plastic. That can take months but he wanted to rush things."

"The women were killed about twenty-four hours before being found," I
say. "That's barely enough time for the acetone. He bought himself a
few extra days by switching the hearts, but still."

Karen shrugs. "Could have been longer. He was keeping them somewhere
cold -fridge or something - and you know what that does to estimating
time of death."

I think of Donnie Pfaster and shudder. Yes, I am intimately familiar
with that MO. "You have a manufacturer for the plastic yet?"

"Blakefield United Chemicals. These are proprietary compounds so the
manufacturers put markers in them to identify their products. I got
one of Wickham's boys to start making some calls to track shipments."

"Thanks, Karen, this is great work. What about the little particles
we found?"

"Exactly what you'd expect. Silica with a little limestone and
potash. Also some fragments of glass with a very high index of
refraction. Regular glass is about 1.5 and this stuff is 1.7. Lead
crystal. It has a pretty unique makeup and if you can link any of
this to a suspect, they're gonna have a hard time explaining it
away."

I'm feeling a wash of hope. "Anything else on the saw marks or
selenium?"

She shakes her head. "Non-specific on the selenium. It'll be
circumstantial at best and any first year law student can talk their
way out of it. But the glass was a good catch. And I'll let you know
what I hear on the plastic and the cuts."

"Your efficiency is impressive. Ever planned to move to DC? I could
put in a good word for you."

Karen laughs "No, not really, but thank you." She plays with the
charms on her bracelet. "My dad was murdered in Druid Hill Park when
I was twenty-two," she murmurs. "Just one of those things, you know?
They never caught the guy. That's why I chose this job. The crime in
this city is out of control."

"I'm sorry." I know all about loss, Karen.

The young woman smiles ruefully. "Guess you must meet quite a few
people like me in your line of work, huh?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So you understand." She leaves me alone with a box full of puzzle
pieces and a headache that is screaming like a demon behind my eyes.


**********


"Knock knock," says Mulder. "How goes it, Quincy?" He sets a white
paper bag down on the chair next to me.

I smile tiredly and glance at my watch, shocked that an hour has
flown by so quickly. "Pretty good, actually. They're making
everything about this case top priority, so I've got a big stack of
data to go through. What about you?"

"Got a suspect," he says airily.

I almost drop the test tube I'm holding. "Are you serious? Mulder,
that's incredible." I place my sample carefully in the rack in case
he has any more bombshells to drop.

He shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. Wickham fast-tracked a search warrant
but we turned up a whole lot of nothing. And the guy's criminal
history does not fit with my profile."

"Well, maybe he just never got caught for the right crimes." I open a
new box of slide covers.

"Could be, he gets off work in an hour. Wickham and I are going to
keep an eye on him, see where he goes. We had someone watching him at
lunch time, but he just went to Burger King."

"So how'd you find him, Mulder?"

He grabs a piece of Parafilm, molding the clear, flexible plastic
over his hand and pinching the edges to seal them. He starts drawing
a cat on it with a ballpoint pen. "I saw him at the glassworks making
Poe-themed stuff."

I shake my head in wonder. "Remind me never to try and commit a crime
that might fall under your jurisdiction."

"You're saying you don't want me to handcuff you some time?"

"To what? Your couch?"

"We could go to your place. I seem to recall a slatted headboard."

"Mulder, the last time you were in my bed, you were drugged out of
your mind. How do you even remember such a thing?"

My partner laughs, finishes his drawing, and tugs the Parafilm away.
The image of the cat peels neatly from the back of his hand. "All
that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream," he quotes.

He picks up the bag he brought in and hands it to me. "I know you
haven't eaten anything. I got you a Cobb salad. Dressing on the side,
easy on the bacon."

I open the bag and remove the foil tray. I can smell the grilled
chicken and am surprised to discover that I'm ravenous. "Thanks,
Mulder." I pry off the plastic lid and head over to the fridge to
grab a bottle of water.

"No problem. Well, I'm gonna head out. Just wanted to see how you
were coming along. I'll catch you later, Scully."

"Good luck," I say around a mouthful of lettuce, but he's already
gone.


**********


"Ahoy," I say as Wickham pulls up in a decrepit Lincoln Continental.
"Nice land yacht you've got there."

"Please try to contain your jealousy. It's unbecoming," he scolds,
unlocking the door. "We should blend in nicely. Mr. Montaldo, as you
recall, does not travel in refined circles."

I settle back against the cracked leather seats, wondering if I
should be wearing gold chains. "Onward, Jeeves."

We drive back to the glassworks and park the car behind a dumpster
across the street, peering through our binoculars until Montaldo
emerges from the building and gets into his old pickup.

We follow him at an easy distance. He stops to get some drive-through
food, then meanders through questionable neighborhoods until he pulls
up at his house. Our earlier search was extremely careful; his house
looked like a tornado hit to begin with and we touched almost
nothing. Between the two, he shouldn't be able to detect our
presence.

We park across the street and watch him carry in the large bags of
food.

"That's a load of food for one guy," remarks Wickham. "I mean, he's
pretty big, but that is a hell of a lot of burgers for anybody."

"Indeed," I say. "But none of the victims' stomach contents have
shown any fast food. Maybe he has a tapeworm."

We sit in the car for about twenty minutes before Montaldo emerges
from the house carrying one of the bags along with a large flowered
plate. He picks his way across the patchy lawn and goes to the house
next door, ringing the bell once.

"What the hell?" wonders Wickham as he refocuses his binoculars.

The door is answered by a very old woman who stands up on her tiptoes
to kiss Montaldo on the cheek before taking the bag and the plate. I
roll down the window to hold the Bionic Ear amplifier out.

"...for helping us out, Jimmy," she says to him.

Montaldo shrugs. "No problem Mrs. Remmer," he replies. "And thanks
for the cookies. I just want to make sure y'all are okay. I'm gonna
get you some more groceries tomorrow, okay? Some fruit and stuff."

She pinches his cheek making him blush like a schoolgirl. "You're a
good boy, Jimmy. You stay out of trouble."

"Yes ma'am," he says, lumbering back to his own house.

I shut off the amplifier, roll up the window, and turn to Wickham.
"What is he, some kind of renegade Eagle Scout?"

Wickham shrugs. "You think they give out merit badges for grand theft
auto?"

"Let's go ask Mrs. Remmer if he was staying out of trouble on Tuesday
morning. Boss says he didn't work that day."

We get out of the car and head up the cement steps to her tiny porch.
An assortment of wind chimes makes a tinny clanging sound as I brush
against them.

"Hello?" she says from inside the door.

"Mrs. Remmer? My name is Jack Wickham with the Baltimore Police
Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions if that's okay."

She pulls a lace curtain away from the window to peer out at us
suspiciously, dark eyes shining like beetles in her dried-apple face.
"Lemme see some identification," she orders.

We hold our badges up to the glass and she scrutinizes them for a
moment, then opens the door. "Come on in then."

We enter her tidy little house, which is full of doilies and picture
frames and shabby, but clean, furnishings. The air smells of lemon
wood polish and tea. The phrase "neat as a pin" springs to mind.

"Go on and sit down," she says, gesturing at the couch. "What can I
help you with?"

We sit. "We have some questions about your neighbor, Mr. Montaldo," I
begin.

Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. "He's a good boy," she says
firmly.

"Yes ma'am," agrees Wickham. "I can see he helps you out a bit. Did
you happen to see him any time between this past Monday night and
Tuesday morning?"

She snorts. "Didn't you say you was a detective?"

It's our turn to look surprised. "Ma'am?" says Wickham.

"He took us to the hospital Monday night," she informs us.

"Us?"

"Me and Ashley. My granddaughter. She's having a baby." Mrs. Remmer
looks down as she says this, picking at the buttons on her dress.

"Is Mr. Montaldo the father of her child?" I ask.

Mrs. Remmer looks scandalized. "Lord no! Ashley ain't but sixteen.
Jimmy wouldn't do that." She shakes her head. "Ashley's been on bed
rest for a month now and Monday afternoon she started having the
pains and some bleeding and the doctor said we'd better bring her on
in. We don't have a car but Jimmy does and he drove us down to Bon
Secours and waited with us all night. He's a good boy."

"Is your granddaughter home now?" Wickham asks gently.

Mrs. Remmer nods. "She's upstairs. Sleeps a lot. I stay home with her
and Jimmy has been helping out with groceries and carrying the trash
and all the things Ashley did before she went and-" She bites her
lip, shaking her head sadly.

"Thanks for your help, Mrs. Remmer," I say. "What's the name of the
doctor Ashley saw? We'll just need to get his statement so we can put
an official stamp on this."

"Cummings," she says. "Lady doctor."

We stand, thanking her for her time and wishing her well before
leaving her cozy living room for the biting cold. The dismal rain of
the afternoon has morphed into a fleecy snowfall, the tired row
houses suddenly looking like a postcard picture in the halos cast by
the streetlights.

"Shit," Wickham observes. "There's a chance he paid her off, but the
story's too easy to corroborate."

"I think it's legit," I agree. Then I kick a car tire in frustration,
brushing at the snow that has fallen inside my collar. "Dammit! I
thought it was him." I imagine that I can hear April screaming. I
have nothing to go on and no way to save her. My stomach clenches
like a fist.

"You think he has an accomplice, maybe?" says Wickham, though his
voice is doubtful.

I shake my head. "Tandem serial killers are exceedingly rare."

Wickham rubs his hands over his face. "Let's go see if they've turned
up anything at the ME's office," he says tiredly. We climb back into
the ridiculous car and slink down Howard Street like a beaten dog.

I call Scully to let her know we're on the way after Wickham confirms
that Mrs. Remmer's story checks out.

"No luck?" Scully asks sympathetically, her voice crackling through
the bad connection.

"Airtight alibi," I grunt. "You find anything?"

"It's hard to tell right now. We're trying to cross check shipments
of the plastic from the heart with the selenium and some other
glassmaking supplies, but nothing seems to be coming up. The
plasticizing materials went to universities, hospitals and labs.
We're making calls to see who has access to the materials, but it's
slow going."

I sigh as Wickham turns onto Penn Street. "I thought I had him,
Scully."

"Don't beat yourself up," she says quietly. "Any new theories?"

"I'm still wondering how he gets them in and out without any
witnesses. You know, certain grimoires instruct practitioners of
black magic to carry a heart under their right arm to cast a spell of
invisibility. What if that's why he takes the hearts? He brings one
in to make himself and the body invisible."

Scully coughs. "Well...that's a theory all right. But it still
doesn't explain how he's getting them out."

Wickham throws me a sideways glance. "I'm going to pretend I didn't
hear any of this nonsense, Agent Mulder, so I can still respect you
in the morning."

I shrug with indifference. Earning Wickham's respect doesn't rank
high on my wish list, but prodding Scully back into her usual amused
skepticism would certainly make up for the lackluster holiday season.

Scully's hair is bright against the pristine snow as we pull into the
parking lot. "Give me some time," I reassure her. "Your ride is
here." She waves and hangs up the phone.

Wickham and I get out of the car. "Wassup, baby?" I drawl, doing my
overbred New England best to sound like I have street cred. "Damn
girl, you look fine tonight."

She blinks in her Scully-like way, tightening her grip on the large
cardboard box she's carrying. "Pardon?"

"Shit," says Wickham, draping his arm over the roof of our ghetto
cruiser. "You must be tired, 'cause you've been running through my
mind all night."

An embryonic smile is forming at the corners of Scully's mouth. She
presses her lips together and stares up at the spiraling snow for a
moment before turning her gaze back to us. "Nice car, boys. Did you
beat up a struggling pimp and steal his ride?"

"Don't be a hater," I say, holding the back door open for her. She
climbs in and sets her box on the seat next to her.

"Your pickup lines could use a little work," she informs us in a
businesslike way as she buckles the seatbelt. "From me as a friend."

"If I were an enzyme, I'd be DNA helicase so I could unzip your
genes," says Wickham as he turns onto Lombard.

Scully makes a muffled choking noise, like someone murdering a laugh.

"I've been saving that for the right scientist," he confesses.

"I assume I should be flattered," she snips.

Wickham grins in the rearview mirror then makes a right turn into the
hotel garage. "Goodnight, Agents." he says as we get out of the car.
""We have all day tomorrow before he kills her. I'm not giving up
just yet."

I manage a tight smile while Scully gets her box of files.

"Thanks for the ride," she says.

He waves before driving back out into the snow that has temporarily
softened the hard edges of his city.

Scully and I walk into the lobby in silence. I am trying to adjust my
profile according to the information about the hearts. I was right to
think that these women have been linked together in death.

Why do I swap their hearts?

//They're all the same - interchangeable organs - women all have the
same heart - dead and cold -//

"Mulder?"

"WHAT?"

Scully's eyes widen and her body instinctively presses itself against
the wall. I realize that I just snapped at her without meaning to.

"The elevator's here, Mulder."

"Oh."

I walk in and press the button for the seventh floor before I notice
Scully's already done it. I cast a quick apologetic look at my
partner as the doors slide closed. "Sorry Scully, I didn't mean to -
I was just... "

"...in his head," she finishes for me.

"Yeah."

"That's okay."

But in her eyes is the same concern I saw when my head was full of
gargoyles and she caught a glimpse of what fills my mind when I do
what I do. Probably not the best way to bridge the gap between us,
but there's a case to solve.

"I'll order room service," I tell her. "What do you want?"

Her gaze shifts away from mine. "Nothing for me, Mulder. I think I'll
go straight to bed."

"Scully..."

"I'm just tired," she says as the door opens.

Scully walks out into the hall and sets her box down, feeling around
in her pocket for a moment, then pulling out her key card. She picks
the box back up and I reach over to take the card from her. "Let me
get that for you."

I follow her to unlock the door, opening it as she walks under my arm
and sets her carton of paperwork down with a thump. "Thanks," she
says, holding out her hand for the key.

As I drop it in her hand, I catch her wrist. "Wait."

She looks up at me questioningly. Her skin feels hot, her pulse fast
under my fingertips.

"Talk to me, Scully."

She gently pulls her arm from my grasp. "Mulder, will you stop
worrying? You're getting worse than my mother. I'm still healing and
my energy levels are not quite back to normal. Which is why I'm
pretty tired right now, but I assure you, that's all it is."

She pats my upper arm and smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I watch her disappear in her room before heading for my own. She's
probably right. After all, she's the doctor and being the consummate
professional that she is, I believe she would pull herself off the
case if she deemed herself unfit for the job.

Once in my room I strip down to my boxers, switch the TV on and sit
on the bed, leaning against the headboard. I close my eyes, lift my
hand and feel the weight of the blade again.


**********


THURSDAY, JANUARY 23RD
8:17 AM


"...and that's why I think Edgar Allan Poe came back from beyond the
grave to sacrifice young virgins so the Ravens could win the Super
Bowl."

I push my sunglasses up my nose with a weary finger. "The victims
weren't virgins, Mulder. And the Ravens aren't in the Super Bowl."

My partner's eyes leave the road quickly to cast me a quick smirk. I
can see by the tension in his shoulders that he is not in the best of
moods. "And finally we get some input from Dr. Scully. Here I was,
thinking I'd been talking to myself all this time."

He's not wrong about that. I find it hard to concentrate this
morning. The headache that is currently burning a hole right behind
my optic nerve might have something to do with that.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I guess I'm not quite awake yet."

The look I get this time is a worried one.

"Scully. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Will you stop asking me that?"

"I'll stop asking when you start acting like yourself again."

I straighten up in my seat and smooth my hands down over the crease
of my trousers. "I am myself."

Mulder scoffs as he backs the car into a narrow space in front of the
Baltimore Police headquarters. "Listen, Scully, this is how it works
between you and me. I tell you my theory, you tell me I'm crazy, you
tell me your theory and I tell you you're wrong. Then we put
everything together, give it a good shake, and what falls out is
pretty much what we need to crack the case open."

I can't help but smile. "That's nicely put, Mulder."

He turns the key in the ignition and pulls it out before shifting on
his seat to face me, his eyes dark and serious "Yeah, except that,
since we've arrived here, I've been telling you my theories and,
well...I'm still waiting for the 'Mulder, you're crazy' part."

"I'm biding my time," I tease. "Besides, you've been right. Mostly
anyway. The invisibility thing is...well, you know what I think about
that."

"Don't be cute with me, Scully, I need you here to bounce ideas with
me but I can't do that if you're going to shut me out every night
like you've been doing these past two days."

I am not taking this well and I guess my voice must reflect that.
"I'm not shutting you out, Mulder. I told you, I'm still recovering
from what happened to me."

Mulder slams the steering wheel in frustration. "And what exactly
happened to you, Scully, that is making you lock yourself in your
room and avoid talking to me? Now that's something I'd like to know.
Because I've seen you roughed up before and you've never been like
this afterwards."

I open the door and step out of the car. "Mulder, you're not crazy,
you're delusional."

"That's not an answer, Scully," he calls back, his long coat
billowing around his ankles as he locks the doors. I head up to the
entrance, hearing him follow close behind. As I enter the building
and slow down to welcome the change of temperature, I suddenly feel
Mulder's hand against my back. I hiss and jerk away from his touch.

Mulder grips my wrist, pulling me back roughly towards him. People
are looking at us and I feel embarrassment tingle along my hairline.

"And what's up with that, huh? What did this Jerse do to you that you
won't even let me touch you?"

"Mulder, not here," I plead in a whisper.

He blinks, suddenly aware that he is indeed making a scene in full
view of the now fairly curious Baltimore Police staff as well as
various members of the general public.

Including one very interested Detective Wickham.

He strides over like a game show host. "Who's Jerse?" he asks without
preamble.

I'm contemplating the mechanics of ripping Mulder's tongue out
through his chest with my bare hands when I realize Wickham actually
expects an answer.

"He's nobody," I reply just as Mulder offers, "He's a suspect from
the last case Agent Scully worked on." We do not look at each other.

"I see," says Wickham wryly. He cocks his head. "I'm trying to figure
out which one of your answers is closer to the truth."

"They're both true," I snap.

"Oh good," he replies. "For a minute there I thought he might be the
guy who beat the shit out of you. Guess that was someone else."

I am actually speechless and even Mulder looks stunned.

Wickham shrugs. "Anyway. I have a mound of paper tall enough to rival
the Appalachian foothills and it requires our attention."

He lopes over to his desk and Mulder starts to follow until I grab
his arm. He blinks in surprise.

"Listen, Mulder," I growl. "Tattoos hurt when they start to scab
over, all right? So keep your hands off my back."

"So are you going to show it to me when it heals, or what?"

"Probably not."

"Those are decent odds."

We walk over to Wickham's desk and he hands us each a cardboard box
full of beige folders.

"Agent Mulder, these individuals are either professional or hobbyist
glassblowers and have immediate family members in the allied health
fields. They also have some kind of violent criminal past. We've
interviewed them all already, but I'd like you to see if any of them
seem to fit your profile. Agent Scully, I have here some close-up
photographs of injuries to both soft and hard tissue made by various
implements used by hunters to butcher meat. See if any of it matches
up to the pictures you took of the victim's wounds. We've checked
already, but I always appreciate a fresh pair of eyes. I have a bank
of people tracking plastic and selenium and lead crystal and just
about anything else you can imagine. There are also three men we
haven't been able to track down who all have past or current
enrollment in glassblowing classes. I want those bases covered.
Divide them up as you will."

I am impressed by his efficiency and take the box to an adjacent
empty desk.

Wickham walks off to supervise other members of the task force and I
glance at my watch. Time hangs over us like a guillotine and I pray
for an eleventh hour reprieve.


**********


BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
10:06 PM


"I know everything in the world about glassblowing," Mulder informs
me, pushing a manila folder away from him on the wide conference
table. "I'm thinking about quitting the FBI and sculpting precious
little animals for old ladies. Also, I've pretty much turned up jack
shit and have inhaled my yearly quota of patchouli," he grumbles. He
balances on his chair to prop his feet up on the table. "Did you know
that as you get closer to the art school, the probability of a
glassblowing enthusiast also being a hippie approaches one?"

Mulder smirks as he tucks his hands behind his head, and I think now
is not the point to tell him that, once upon a time, my airy-fairy
sister had some measure of fashion influence on me. It didn't last. I
was never laid back enough to be a flower child. She would coo over
skirts in pretty rainbow colors while I tried to guess the chemical
makeup of the dye.

"You should write an article on that, Mulder," I tell him while
stretching my arms gingerly above my head. "I myself have learned a
great deal about butchering and hunting. Are you aware that over one
hundred people are injured each year by attempting to field dress
bucks that aren't quite dead?"

Mulder pulls off his tie and tosses it onto the chair next to me. "I
was not. The world is a fascinating and stupid place."

Wickham comes over and perches on the edge of the table. "Hola,
federales."

"I took German," I say. "No habla."

"Right. Well, let me spell this out for you in plain English then.
We're up shit creek. I have spent all day talking to unhelpful people
who have done nothing but aggravate me. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I
hate glass and plastic and selenium and Edgar Allan Poe. You guys
find anything?"

I shake my head. "I tracked down one of your three missing
glassblowers. Julius Meltzer has been in Amsterdam for the past five
weeks. No luck on Alibek Chalew or Elliot Dunham."

I kick my shoes off to rub my insteps, wishing I were tall enough to
feel assertive in more sensible footwear. "Can we get a pizza?" I
ask.

"No," says Mulder seriously, rocking his chair on the two back legs.
"No pizza for you."

"Why not?" I demand.

"You know very well why not. You're a pain about the toppings and you
bitch and moan about the amount of sauce and God help us all if the
crust is too thick. Then you blot at the cheese and whine when there
aren't enough napkins."

I glare at him while Wickham chuckles. "There's a good Chinese place
on the next block," he offers.

"Chinese is okay," concedes Mulder. "She deems all Chinese takeout
equally poor, so you get very few complaints."

"I'll go grab a menu," says Wickham, hopping up and rummaging through
a cabinet on the wall.

"I hate you both," I inform them. "Intensely."

"Hate is just love disappointed," Mulder says loftily. "You're only
mad because you know I'm right."

Wickham passes us each a worn-out, stained menu. I examine mine as
though it might contain anything other than the usual suspects. We
tell Wickham our selections and he calls the order in.

"Fifteen minutes," he says, peering into a bin full of miscellaneous
paper goods and plastic utensils. "Chopsticks or forks?"

"Forks are for barbarians," I tell him. "Chinese food doesn't taste
right unless you eat it with chopsticks."

"But they take longer," he says. "Waste of time."

I roll my eyes. "That's such a guy thing to say."

"Why?" Mulder chimes in. "Just because he believes a good fast fork
will lead to more immediate satisfaction? There *are* women who feel
that way too, you know."

I throw Mulder's tie at him as Wickham laughs.


**********


BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
8:15 AM


I wake up in dire need of a shave, with a severely stiff neck and a
crick in my back that feels like it goes down to my spine. I groan
then stretch slowly, working out the kinks and knots.

"Morning, sunshine," says Wickham. "You'll be late for the bus."

"Mmmfff," I grumble, rubbing my hands over my face. I look up to see
Scully enter the conference room, wearing an expression of benevolent
pity.

"I know you miss your couch Mulder, but your near-pathological
aversion to normal beds is beginning to worry me. Here, I brought you
a toothbrush." She hands me a plastic bag.

"You sleep on a couch?" Wickham says incredulously.

"Most nights," I say, feeling stupid. "It's comfortable."

Wickham studies me for a moment before turning to Scully and then
back to me. "I'd say that clears up any lingering doubts I had."

I avoid looking at either one of them by opening the bag Scully
brought and extracting the toothbrush and travel size toothpaste.

Wickham turns back to Our Lady of Oral Hygiene. "You know," he
confides, "I have a nice firm king-size. Pillow top."

Scully tosses her head, but I can see she's amused rather than
irritated.

"Okay, kids," Wickham says, distributing packets of paperwork. "Poe
Society members to check out and a few people who weren't reachable
last time. Let's get going."

We take our files and none of us observes that wherever she is, April
is quite l