by Tasha Abrams
syrinx42@yahoo.com

First started: April 21, 1999

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully do not belong to me. They are
the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen and Fox.

Classification: TA, slight MSR. Lots of angst.

Rating: R for violence and language -- Content Warning.

Spoilers: Monday, Pilot, small ones for Leonard Betts, Memento
Mori and Gethsemane. Story takes place immediately after US6
Monday.

Summary: Released back into society, Monty Propps begins a
campaign of violence against the man responsible for
imprisoning him. But when they begin their investigation, a
new threat arises against Mulder and Scully. Sometimes, the
faceless monster isn't the only one you should fear.

Note: The cities mentioned in this story exist, but I have
taken liberties with them. The city of Fox Hunt, Tennessee is
from my own imagination, and no resemblance is intended to any
existing place.

Thanks: To Rachel, for all her editing help and support --
without her, this story would not exist. To XScout, for her
beta reading and suggestions. To Pellinor for her Deep
Background site, and for taking the time to answer some
questions for a fellow X-Phile.

Feedback: Is greatly desired at Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

****
 

Newspaper headlines from around the country:

January 30, 1997 -- Washington Post
 EMT Killed in Freak Accident

March 2, 1997 -- Wall Street Journal
 Lombard Clinic Tightens Security After Leak

May 5, 1997 -- Seattle Times
 Murders in Canadian Mountains

****

Lost among these...
 

April 19, 1997 -- Raleigh News and Observer
  Killer Released From Prison
  AP - Ten years ago the city of Greenville was terrorized by
a series of killings, as young women from around the city were
kidnapped and murdered. For weeks the city was a hotbed of
local and state police, and finally FBI agents. Eventually,
38-year old Montgomery Propps, known as Monty to his friends,
was arrested for the half-dozen murders the city had
experienced.
 Yesterday, Propps was released from prison on good behavior,
by all accounts a changed man...

****

Headline from the Chicago Tribune, page 6...

November 15, 1997 -- Murder Puzzles Authorities
 AP - Authorities of Fox River Grove are scratching their
heads over a killing yesterday in their small community...
 

****

Thursday, March 4, 1999
6:58 a.m.
 

Her dreams were haunted. The foiled bank heist at Cradock
Marine was still fresh in her mind. Time and again she had
woken in a sweat, a scream on her lips, Mulder's blood on her
hands. She had no idea why she should dream such a thing, but
each time she woke with the certainty that she was dead,
victim of a catastrophe beyond her comprehension. Each time
she experienced a moment of limbo, where she existed neither
in the spirit world of dreams, or the real world of the flesh.

Finally giving up on sleep, Scully had dragged herself out of
bed and gotten ready for work. While moving through her
morning routine, she had felt sluggish and heavy, and she
finally arrived at the Hoover Building earlier than usual and
still tired.

Despite the early hour, her partner was already there. Only
slightly surprised to see him, she nodded a greeting. "Hey,
Mulder."

He glanced up, eyes red-rimmed behind his reading glasses.
Files and papers were haphazardly spread across his desk, and
computer printouts were stacked on the floor by his feet. His
sleeves were rolled up, his tie was loosened, and Scully
frowned as she realized it was the same tie as yesterday.

She set her briefcase down. "Mulder, have you been here all
night?"  Mulder said nothing. He just drew a line through what
he was reading and dropped the piece of paper onto the floor.
Scully sighed and went down the hall for a cup of much-needed
coffee.

When she returned, steaming cup in hand, Mulder was standing
in front of a wall map of the United States. Red push pins
were scattered across it, with two yellow ones throw in for
variety. Scully put her coffee mug on the desk and went to
stand beside her partner. He was staring intently at the map,
and she felt her arms break out in sudden gooseflesh. The
bright red of those pins seemed ominous in a way she could not
explain.

"Mulder?" She kept her tone carefully modulated. She knew if
she showed too much curiosity she wouldn't get any kind of
answer. "What are we looking at?" When he did not reply, she
raised her voice. "Mulder?"

"Murders," he said hoarsely.

Scully did a cursory count of the pins stuck in the map.
Thirteen red, two yellow. "All of them?" Mulder nodded. "What
are the yellow ones?"

He said nothing. Scully pursed her lips and fought the urge to
grab her partner by the shoulders and shake him until words
spilled forth. "Who's being murdered, Mulder?"

A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. "Little girls," he bit
out.

Her heart constricted painfully. The loss of her daughter, her
Emily, was suddenly right there with her in vivid detail,
fresh and aching, a wound that was never allowed to heal. Her
eyes closed. Little girls. Jesus. And what must Mulder be
thinking?

She laid a hand on his arm. "Mulder, have you slept at all?"

Impatiently he brushed off her query. "I can't."

"Why not?" she asked.

Without removing his eyes from the map, Mulder pointed behind
him.

His desk was littered with faxes of police reports, newspaper
articles and FBI field office reports. Laying on top of this
explosion of paper was a single sheet. It was a photocopy of a
newspaper article from the Raleigh News and Observer.  The
headline read, "Killer Released From Prison." There was a
photo accompanying the piece, and the caption underneath read,
"Taken two months before his arrest, Monty Propps relaxes
outside his home in Greenville."

Astonished, Scully looked up. "Mulder, what is this?"

Mulder never blinked. "He's kidnapping and killing little
girls. He stabs them to death, and leaves their bodies draped
over the signs bearing the town's name."

She frowned, knowing she was lacking an important piece of
information. The problem was how to get that information from
her unusually taciturn partner. "What's the key here? How did
you connect these murders?"

Mulder swallowed convulsively, then jabbed a finger at the map
and a red push pin in the Pacific Northwest. "Fox Island,
Washington state." A pin in New England. "Foxboro,
Massachusetts." The Midwest. "Fox River Grove, Illinois.
Should I continue?"

Another shiver shook her. "My God," she breathed. "And these
murders are all being committed by Monty Propps?"

"It's his M.O.," Mulder said tersely. "He's out there, with
every reason to hate me. This is his way of making sure I know
about it."

"What about the yellow pins?" she asked.

"Fox Chase, Kentucky, and Fox Hunt, Tennessee. The only two
cities without a murder."

Yet. The word hung heavily in the air between them.

Scully stood still for a moment, at a loss. Finally she walked
forward, placing herself between Mulder and the map, forcing
him to see her. "Mulder."

He blinked, then focused on her. "Yeah."

"Why don't we go tell Skinner about this? Then I suggest we
figure out where Propps will strike next, and warn the local
police in that town. I'll look into flights out of National --
we can try to beat him to his next victim."

Slowly, Mulder nodded. With a silent sigh of relief, Scully
put a hand on his arm and guided him from the room.

****

7:27 a.m.

A clearer picture emerged in Skinner's office.

Monty Propps had been released from prison in April of 1997.
An official letter from the North Carolina prison system had
been sent to Mulder, informing him of this event. A faxed copy
of this letter was now in Mulder's possession, but the
original could not be found anywhere. "I probably threw the
letter away without ever reading it. I was...preoccupied at
the time," Mulder said in his defense.

Preoccupied, Scully thought, feeling a burn of dull anger.
Hadn't they all been, during that horrible spring and summer
when she had been dying of cancer?  Propps' release had gone
unnoticed by any of them, until now, when it was far too late.

Immediately following his return to society, Propps had lived
with his mother in Raleigh for several months, before moving
out in August. Since then no one had seen him.

The first murder had occurred in November of 1997. A nine-year
old girl in Fox River Grove, Illinois had been kidnapped from
her backyard, in broad daylight. One minute she had been
playing on her swing set, and then she was gone; the next time
her parents saw her was in the morgue. Her body had been found
three days after her disappearance, draped over the wooden
sign welcoming visitors just outside city limits; she had been
stabbed over a dozen times.

Citizens of the small town northwest of Chicago were
understandably upset. Police had vigorously pursued the case,
but with no success. The murder went unsolved.

In late December, just after Christmas, another little girl
was kidnapped and killed in Fox Chapel, Pennsylvania. Same
scenario, same M.O. No one linked this murder to the one in
Illinois.

There were no killings in January or February, then six months
in a row with a little girl being murdered. September went by
uneventfully, then the murders began again, right up until
last month, for a total of thirteen deaths in all. Each town
had "Fox" in its name, except for Muldrow, Oklahoma, and
Muldraugh, Kentucky. In each case the victim was a little girl
between the ages of seven and eleven.

The killings were spaced out over the course of the months --
in both the beginning, middle and end of the thirty-day
period. Assuming that there would be a murder in this month
gave them no clue as to when it would happen. It could be
today, or on the last day of the month.

Skinner was clearly perturbed by all this unfolding
information. "What do you propose to do about this, Agent
Mulder?"

Scully watched as her partner sat up straighter. "I've been
thinkig about that, sir. From what I've been able to gather,
there are two cities most likely to be targeted next by
Propps: Fox Chase, Kentucky, and Fox Hunt, Tennessee."

Skinner frowned. "Where do you think he'll go?"

Mulder sighed. "I don't know, sir. After those two towns, I
have no idea what he'll do." A grimace crossed his face.
"Well, that's assuming he's working off the same atlas that I
am, and that he realizes these two cities are the only ones
left with 'Fox' in their name. My guess is that he's hoping
for a confrontation before he runs out of towns."

He paused and shifted in his seat. "It's my belief that he'll
go to Fox Chase next, leaving Fox Hunt as his last target."

"How sure of that can you be?" Skinner asked.  Scully looked
up at him sharply, both resenting the question on her
partner's behalf, and wishing she had thought to ask it.

Mulder seemed genuinely baffled. "As sure as I can be, sir.
It's been eleven years since my original profile of Propps.
He's probably changed some since then, but not overly much.
He'll still put together complicated plans and stick to them
at any cost. He prefers order and organization -- to him a fox
chase is a disorganized melee, but a fox hunt is a carefully
planned-out event. He'll move in that direction last." As he
talked, Mulder's voice had grown in confidence and he now he
said with quiet assurance, "He'll go to Kentucky first."

"All right, then." Skinner dismissed them. "Report to me as
soon as you can, agents."

****

11:54 a.m.
Ronald Reagan National Airport
Washington, D.C.

Their flight was scheduled to arrive in twenty minutes, Mulder
saw with a frown. Scully sat beside him, leafing through the
latest issue of the "New England Journal of Medicine". An open
notebook lay on her lap, and occasionally she took notes in a
neat cursive hand. The pervasive noise of the airport terminal
seemed not to faze her at all.  Mulder envied her and her
calm. He himself sat restlessly, foot tapping, hands drumming
on the armrests of the uncomfortable plastic chair.

Monty Propps. After all this time, it was so unbelievable as
to be ridiculous. If asked to choose those former UNSUBS who
would come back to haunt him in later years, he would have
chosen carefully -- John Lee Roche, John Barnett, Luther Lee
Boggs, all a tentative yes, but Monty Propps? A definite no.

He hadn't even been a full-fledged agent yet during the spring
of 1986, when he'd first written that monograph. He'd been
toiling at Quantico, one of a class of twenty-two prospective
FBI agents. In class, he had shown an aptitude for profiling,
for putting together a model of human behavior based on few
clues. Even back then, he had exhibited the scary ability to
put himself into the mind of a killer.

His paper on serial killers and the occult had been nothing
more than classwork. His instructor had distributed it at the
Bureau, and two days a later a dour man from the Investigative
Services Unit had come down to visit. He had asked several
questions, shaken hands, and told Mulder to look him up when
he graduated.

The agent's name had been Bill Patterson.

That monograph had helped capture Monty Propps, not quite two
years later. Mulder had not personally been involved, as it
had been Patterson's case from the start. But it was Mulder
who remembered the paper, when things looked bleak and
hopeless on the case, and who used it to come up with a
working profile of the UNSUB. Patterson had been furious at
what he perceived as Mulder's sneakiness, but he had evidently
not scrupled to use the profile, because within four days
Propps had been captured. Three months later Mulder had
received a public commendation from the Bureau, and a private
one from Patterson himself.

The monograph, that cornerstone of his reputation, superseded
him from that point on. His peers looked at him with a mixture
of irritation and envy. Superiors watched him with a careful
eye; Patterson kept a tight leash on him.

He'd found the X-Files just in time to save his sanity. It was
a relief to lose himself in tales of alien abductions and lake
monsters, after years of serial killers and psychotics. Diana
Fowley had entered his life around the same time, believing in
both him and those files, and giving him the first guilt-free
sex he'd had since leaving Phoebe Green and Oxford.

Within months his golden-boy reputation had first tarnished,
then been destroyed. After that, his peers just laughed at him
-- the nickname Spooky Mulder took on a derogatory note. His
superiors tried to talk some sense into him, then finally
shook their heads and washed their hands of him.

In 1993, Dana Scully had been assigned to the X-Files as his
partner, and since then he had done the occasional profile,
but he had never thought back to how it all began, to the
Monty Propps case.

Perhaps, Mulder now thought ruefully, he should have.

****

End Part 1
 
 
 

Thunder in the Air (2/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

Fox Chase, Kentucky
4:12 p.m.
 

The city of Fox Chase lay to the south of Louisville, close
enough for an easy day trip, but too far to be properly called
a suburb. They had flown into the Louisville airport, where
the sheriff of the small town had met them. He had explained
that nobody in town knew of their federal visitors, and given
the purpose of their arrival, he didn't want them to know
until he was fully prepared.

Headed south now on I-65, Sheriff Smithfield said, "Well now,
it sure was good of you to come all this way yourself. Seeing
as how you're the one responsible for it all." The big man
paused and cleared his throat. "No offense."

Mulder smiled tightly. "None taken." He supposed he couldn't
blame the man, though. Through no fault of their own, the
town's little girls were suddenly in danger. It was only
natural that he take out his frustration on that man who was
responsible for creating that danger.

"We need to get the alert out as soon as possible," Scully
said, "but we don't want to alarm people unnecessarily."

The sheriff nodded. "Absolutely."

"We're having a composite sketch made up," Mulder said. "We'll
have it faxed to you as soon as it's ready."

The problem with the sketch was that it probably wouldn't be
very accurate, Mulder mused. FBI agents in North Carolina had
visited the home of Sylvia Propps, but as expected, the woman
had been very tight-lipped regarding her son. She had no
recent photos for the agents, and she repeatedly claimed she
had no idea of Monty's whereabouts. That left only the Raleigh
prison guards to give a description of Propps, and they were
going off two-year old memories. In all likelihood, Mulder
knew, Propps would look nothing like the sketch made of him.
Still, it would be better than nothing, and for a town
suddenly made to fear for their daughters, it would be good to
have a face to pin that fear on.

"I can call Johnny at the TV station," Sheriff Smithfield
said. "I'll let him know we'll be coming by later today."

"Thank you," Mulder replied. "We'd like to go straight to the
police station, though. I need access to a phone and your fax
machine."

Smithfield nodded again. "Sure."

"Sheriff, are there any local activities involving children
that you could put a police presence on?" Scully asked. "Girl
Scout meetings, that sort of thing?"

"Well, I don't know, right off the top of my head," Smithfield
answered. "But I'll have someone get right on that when we get
to the station."

Mulder tried not to frown. It was a good idea, but one that
wouldn't do any good. Propps avoided social situations like
that. His victims had been kidnapped from their own backyards,
or on their way home from school; one girl had disappeared en
route to a friend's birthday party.

Smithfield steered the police cruiser into a broad expanse of
asphalt surrounding several red-bricked buildings. City hall,
the police station, the post office, and the library all
shared the same parking lot.  Most of the spots were filled,
and Mulder watched as a young woman and her daughter left the
library, books clutched to their chests. His throat tightened
as he watched; that little girl might wind up dead in three
days, all because of him and a paper he'd written eleven years
ago.

Inside the station it was almost uncomfortably warm, as
heaters worked overtime to combat the chilly March air. Scully
unbuttoned her coat as they walked through the halls. The
building was quiet too, with phones and voices all sounding
vaguely muted, as if coming from far away and not just down
the hall.

Smithfield ushered them into an empty office. "You can use the
phone in here," he said. "Fax machine number's there." He
pointed to a list of numbers thumbtacked to the wall. "Holler
if you need anything." He left.

Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. "Good ol' Southern
hospitality," Scully murmured.

They shrugged out of their coats and wasted no time. While
Scully set about finding out community events involving
children, Mulder made a call to Washington and gave the sketch
artist the fax number at the station. He then called the
police department in Fox Hunt, Tennessee.

The woman who answered the phone had an accent so thick it
could be cut with a knife. "Fox Hunt Po-lice," she drawled.

"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI," he said. "I
need to speak with the sheriff, please."

"Just a moment, suh," the woman said. The phone clicked loudly
as it was put on hold.

The man who picked up had an only slightly less thick accent.
"Bedford here."

Mulder introduced himself again. "Sir, I'm calling to inform
you of a potential threat to your town and its citizens."

There was a full ten seconds of utter silence from the other
end. "Excuse me?"

"I have reason to believe that a man named Montgomery Propps
may be in the vicinity of your town, sir, and that he may be
planning a crime. This man has been kidnapping and killing
young girls, from the ages of seven to eleven, for several
months now."

Scully appeared in the doorway, a sheaf of paper in her hand.
She tapped something on the paper, and Mulder held up a
finger, signaling her to wait.

"Agent...Mulder, was it? Is this some sort of prank?"

Mulder sighed. "No, sir. This man, Monty Propps, was released
from prison almost two years ago, for committing the same type
of crimes back in 1988. Now that he's been released, he's gone
on a--"

"What makes you think he'll target us?" Bedford demanded.

"I can't quite explain it to you over the phone," Mulder said,
"but I--"

"Maybe you better explain it to me in person, Agent Mulder,"
the sheriff said harshly. "Because as of this morning, I've
got a little girl missing from my town, and now you call me
up, telling me you know who did it. Seems to me you've got
quite a lot of explaining to do."

Mulder could barely hear the sheriff through the sudden
roaring in his ears. "We'll be there as soon as we can," he
managed to say. He laid the phone down with a shaking hand,
missing the cradle. The handset fell to the desk with a loud
clunk.

"Mulder?" Scully hurried forward, hanging the phone up. "What
is it?"

"He's there, Scully." He choked the words out. "I was wrong.
He's there. He's already taken a victim."

****

4:46 p.m.

Scully took charge; she had to. Mulder was too shell-shocked
to do more than stare at the phone with a dreadful
fascination, as if expecting it to ring any second and deliver
more bad news, to lay another dead little girl at his feet.

Smithfield was agitated by this latest turn of events. "You
mean to tell me that this pscyho is coming here next?"

Scully glanced at Mulder, but he gave no sign that he'd heard
the sheriff's question. "If he holds to his M.O., he won't
come here until sometime next month. However," she hastily
added, "Agent Mulder and I will apprehend the suspect before
that can happen."

"I sure hope so," Smithfield said darkly, "for that little
girl's sake."

Mulder said nothing, but he winced as though the sheriff had
physically struck him.

Scully glared furiously at the man. "When the sketch of Propps
is faxed over, show it to all your men. Increase police
presence at local events likely to feature children. Have an
officer go around to the schools and do the usual speech about
staying away from strangers." She gathered up her coat. "And
get someone to take us to the airport."

Smithfield nodded. "You could probably drive it faster," he
said blandly.

"What?" Scully snapped.

" 'S only about a four-hour drive. By the time we got you to
the airport, you flew into Memphis or Nashville, and then
drove out to your new destination, you coulda driven there
yourself."

"Fine," Scully said, with only slightly less hostility. "Know
anyone who can get us a car?"

Smithfield smiled, although his eyes remained hard. "Sure do."

****

Western Tennessee
8:47 p.m.
 

The town of Fox Hunt made tiny Fox Chase in Kentucky look like
a thriving metropolis. The police station stood by itself off
the state route that served as the town's main street. The
post office was a small addition in back, and a single Chevy
truck emblazoned with the U.S. Post Office logo was parked in
back. Two police cruisers were in front of the building, and
inside, light shone through the lobby windows and only one
other office.

"You say they're expecting us?" Scully asked anxiously, as
they pulled up.

Mulder nodded, swallowing hard against the icy ball in the pit
of his stomach. He had faced many horrors in his career at the
FBI, but the thought of walking into that police station
terrified him like few things had. How could he face these
people and hold his head up? He, who was single-handedly
responsible for the recent grief and fear these people were
experiencing?

Scully took a deep breath. "May as well do it," she said
softly.

Mulder followed her out of the car, walking slowly, each step
a struggle forward. Even the air here seemed oppressive,
slumping his shoulders and weighing him down.

At the door, Scully paused. "Mulder... I know what you must be
thinking, but you can't blame yourself. You couldn't have
known."

He tried to smile and failed miserably. "I said he'd go to
Kentucky first," was all he said, before pushing open the
door.

It was warm inside the station, and deathly quiet. A water
fountain in the lobby gurgled once, sounding abnormally loud
in the stillness. "Hello!" Scully called.

Footsteps sounded down the hall. "Hello!" a man called. From
the lone lighted room, a young man emerged. He was dressed in
a khaki uniform, and had hair so blond it was almost white. He
seemed surprised to see them. "Y'all made good time," he said.
"I didn't expect you for another hour."

"Oh," Scully explained. "We forgot about the change in time
zones, when we called and said we'd be here at 9:30." She
paused. "I'm Special Agent Scully and this is Special Agent
Mulder."

*Special* agent, Mulder mused cynically, recognizing the ploy
as one aimed at gathering respect from the audience. It didn't
work.

"Officer Rowland," the deputy said. He shoved his hands into
his pockets and rocked back on his heels. It was a curious
gesture, at odds with his youth. Mulder realized he must have
copied it from someone he admired, someone older.

"Officer, where is everybody?" Scully asked, making no effort
to hide the doubt in her voice.

"They're down at the church," Rowland said, "havin' a town
meeting over what's happened."

"Will you take us there?" Mulder asked.

"Can't," Rowland apologized, with no trace of actual apology
in his voice. "Can't leave the station untended."

"Well then maybe you could direct us there." Scully's tone was
icy.

Rowland nodded. "Sure. I could do that. Just head into town,
and turn left on Vine Street. The church'll be on your right.
You cain't miss it."

"Thank you," Mulder replied in his best colorless, G-man
voice. He and Scully turned and left.

"A town meeting," Scully murmured, as they walked to the car.
"What do you think they're discussing?"

How to run me out of town, Mulder thought sourly. "Maybe the
sheriff's telling them we're coming." He slid behind the wheel
of their borrowed car.

"Oh, good," Scully observed acidly. "More Southern
hospitality."

Despite himself, Mulder looked at his partner and felt a wry
grin spread across his face.

****

End Part 2
 

Thunder in the Air (3/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

Heavenly Star Baptist Church
8:57 p.m.

Rowland had been right; there was no way they could have
missed the church. Not only was it topped by a huge, gory
crucifix, it was the only building along Vine Street with cars
in the parking lot.  Even on the front steps, they could hear
the voice of someone from inside, and as Mulder opened the
door, the shouting grew louder.

"Are we gonna to stand back and let this happen to our
children? Are we gonna let them be taken from our bosoms, and
from our homes? Are we gonna let them be kilt by the light of
the moon?"

"No!" roared the crowd.

"Then I say we fight back against this monster, this madman
who dares come into our peaceful town and breathe his foul
breath! I say we fight him, with our prayers, with our fists,
and with our weapons, if we must."

The throng roared again, wordlessly. Mulder looked down at
Scully and was relieved to note that the expression of shocked
confusion on her face was physical evidence that she felt the
same way he did.

The man at the front of the church was obviously the minister.
He strode back and forth with an ease that had to come from
Sunday after Sunday of doing the same thing; despite his
shouting and evident agitation, he hadn't broken a sweat.  Off
to the left were two police officers, uniformed as Rowland had
been. To the right stood a burly man with a gold star pinned
to his chest -- the sheriff, Dave "Buck" Bedford.

Bedford noticed the two new arrivals only seconds before the
man with the microphone did. He started forward, but not
before the pastor cried, "And look! Into our midst comes the
one responsible for unleashing this monster on our helpless
children. The one--"

The microphone emitted a shocked squeal as Bedford yanked it
away. "That'll be enough," he said gruffly.

As one, the people of Fox Hunt turned in their seats to stare
at the federal agents as they walked up the main aisle of the
church. They had to sidestep the baptismal fount in the
middle, and as Mulder stepped away from Scully, he felt
strangely vulnerable. When they met again in front of the
fount, relief washed over him, but his unease did not entirely
vanish.

People muttered to themselves as they passed, and one weeping
woman hissed, "Babykiller!"  Mulder refused to avert his gaze
from the sheriff, but beside him, Scully's head whipped to the
right and she glared at the woman who had spoken.

"Now, let's all stay calm," Bedford said into the mike. "These
here are FBI Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. They're going
to help us get little Linda back. You can count on it." There
was a reassuring note in the man's voice, but his eyes were
flinty hard as they bored into the approaching couple. <You'd
better,> they said.

Stripped of his mike, the minister slunk to his seat, giving
Bedford center stage. The sheriff waited until Mulder and
Scully had joined him before speaking again. "Now I know you
all are upset. I'm upset myself. I knew and loved Linda Moser,
like most of you did. But there's no sense in getting all
worked up over something we can't control." He threw a dark
look toward the minister. "I know some of you are thinking
about what Reverend Doutrie said, and thinking that it makes
sense. But I am here to tell you that I am the law in this
town, and anyone who takes a gun into his or her hands will
have to face me. Is that understood? There will be no
vigilante justice in Fox Hunt. Not as long as I'm sheriff."
Bedford stared out into the audience, not threatening, merely
stating a fact.

Mulder felt marginally cheered by Bedford's speech. After his
rude welcome by Officer Rowland, he had not expected such a
show of support.

The sheriff turned to him. "Now, Agent Mulder. You told me
over the phone earlier today that you knew who had done this.
What can you tell us about this man?"

A hush fell over the crowd as Mulder took the proffered
microphone. For over ten years he had delivered profiles to
expectant law enforcement officials. He had made speeches
about alien abduction or UFO crashes, spoken to people who had
scarcely waited for him to finish before starting to laugh.
Giving lectures had always been something he had excelled at,
yet standing at the front of this church full of people
waiting for him to deliver a miracle, he felt horribly nervous
and uncomfortable.

"As Sheriff Bedford told you, I spoke with him earlier today.
I was calling to warn him that--"

"You shoulda done that *yesterday*!" a man in the back cried
out.

"Shut up, Bill Henry!" half a dozen people chorused. Bedford
glared in that general direction, and silence descended again.

Mulder continued as if the interruption had not occurred. "I
was warning him that there was a potential criminal in his
jurisdiction. I had reason to believe a convicted serial
killer might be targeting the populace of this town." He
paused, and said the words that would forever brand him in the
eyes of the people who lived here. "However, I did not believe
that this man would come here today. I had every reason to
believe he would instead target another city, in Kentucky. I
was wrong."

"Damn straight!" "Why didn't you come here first?" "What kind
of FBI agent are you?" The shouts rose up from the crowd, ugly
and full of pent-up anger in search of a target.

Mulder glanced helplessly at Bedford, then froze. The sheriff
had his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and was rocked back
on his heels. His face was studiously blank; there would be no
help from him.

Surprising him, Scully grabbed the microphone. "We're getting
off the subject here," she said, her voice firm. "What's
important here is that we find Linda Moser and return her to
her family."

"How you gonna do that?" yelled a woman in the front row.

"By gathering all the evidence," Scully said coolly. "Not by
standing around shouting at each other. This is a police
investigation, and in order to do our jobs right, Sheriff
Bedford, Agent Mulder and I need your cooperation and help. I
think we'd all agree that we want to find that little girl as
soon as possible. We need to work together on this."

People were nodding in agreement now, and Mulder silently
blessed whatever God had seen fit to give him Dana Scully as
his partner.

"Starting tomorrow morning, we will be working around the
clock on this case. We'd ask that you go about your business
like normal. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything
strange. If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary,
don't do anything yourself, but report it to the police, or to
Agent Mulder or myself." Scully paused, then looked at
Bedford. She held up the microphone, one eyebrow lifting in
silent query.

Lazily, the sheriff pulled one large hand from his pocket and
took the mike. "Listen to what the lady says, folks. Go on
back to your homes. Try to get some sleep tonight. We'll all
get through this, together. Good night."

For a moment the throng stayed put, then one person rose,
followed by another. Within ten minutes, the church had
emptied, except for a few people clustered in the aisle.

Bedford gestured to them with the hand holding the mike. "That
there's the Moser family. I asked them to stay behind. I
figured you'd want to talk to them."

Mulder nodded. "Yes. Thanks."

Bedford looked at him, and all his earlier neutrality was
gone, vanished just like the crowd it had served. In its place
was a thinly veiled anger. "Don't be thanking me yet," he
said.

****

Including the minister, there were five people who remained
standing in the aisle -- two men and two women. One of the
women was the lady who had called Mulder a babykiller.

Bedford waved them forward. He put a hand on the elbow of a
crying woman. "This is Brandy Moser," he said. "It's her
little girl who's been kidnapped. And this," he tilted his
head to indicate the man standing beside her, "is her husband,
Douglas."

Something needed to be said. "I'm very sorry for what's
happened," Mulder said sincerely. "I want you to know--"

"This is Brandy's sister, Lea Presslee," Bedford continued.
"And her brother, Quinn Presslee."

Four sets of eyes bored into him. Mulder bit his lip and
fought against the overwhelming urge to bow his head and
accept their silent reproach. <Murderer>, those hard eyes
said. <You did this. Your fault.>

Douglas and Brandy Moser had obviously spent much of the day
crying. They were young and blond, and had matching sets of
red-rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes. Doug still wore the
olive-green work uniform he had been wearing when the police
had informed him that his daughter was missing. His hands were
rough and calloused, but they lay on Brandy's arm with
gentleness. The blond woman stood with her arms wrapped
tightly around her ribcage, but she leaned into her husband's
touch.  They were still very young; Mulder guessed they were
not much over thirty.

Lea Presslee was shorter than her sister, and blonder. She
stood slightly to the side, occasionally muttering what were
probably supposed to be words of comfort. Round and pale, she
was not really a part of the group. She was the one who had
hissed the epithet at Mulder, and she glared at him with
undisguised anger.

Quinn Presslee was also short, but what he lacked in stature,
he made up for in sheer bulk. Mulder had never seen a more
solid-looking man. He had short, grizzled hair cropped into a
crew-cut, and the reddened complexion of an alcoholic. His
hands were large-knuckled, and looked capable of committing
acts of brute force.

It was Scully who broke the uncomfortable silence that had
fallen over them all. "We appreciate you staying, but I know
you have all had a long, exhausting day." A soothing note
entered her voice. "Why don't you all try to get some sleep?
Agent Mulder and I can come by tomorrow and ask our
questions."

"Why wait?" Lea Presslee asked. "Every moment we wait is time
we could be spending looking for Linda." There was a thin,
reedy note to her voice; Mulder guessed she went into fits of
hysterics at least twice a week.

"Time is important, Ms. Presslee," Mulder said. "But I think
we'd all agree that we won't accomplish anything tonight. It
would be better if we all got some sleep and started in the
morning with rested minds."

As if the parents of little Linda Moser could sleep. Mulder
knew they would spend a sleepless night, crying over the fate
of their young daughter.

For himself, too, sleep would be an unattainable goal. It
mattered not that he had been up all last night, uncovering
the horrific details of this case. He would not sleep tonight.

He supposed it could be considered a self-imposed penance, for
being solely responsible for the death of fourteen little
girls.

****

After the Mosers and Presslees had left, Sheriff Bedford gave
them cursory directions to the Rest Inn. "Frank Jessup, who
runs it, he'll probably charge you an arm and a leg, but he
don't get much in the way of business this time of year." He
gave them a smile that said, <He'll screw you over, and he'll
do it with my permission, and if you don't like it, why, that
back seat of your car looks mighty comfy.>

Scully forced herself to maintain a blank expression. "Thank
you, Sheriff. We'll come by the station in the morning."

Bedford waved them off. "No need. You can jes go straight to
the Moser's. They're the third house on the right, once you
turn on Elm Street." He didn't say which way to turn.

Scully nodded. "Good night, Sheriff." He grunted, then walked
out of the church. She watched him go, a pained expression on
her face. As a federal agent, she had encountered prejudice
and lack of cooperation before -- most notably from Sheriff
Teller of Connersville, Oklahoma -- but rarely had she been
met with such blatant hostility.

"You ready to go, Mulder?" she asked.

He nodded briefly, staring off into space. "Those people hate
me, Scully," he said dully. "And the thing is, I can't blame
them. I can't get angry with them for judging me before they
even met me. Because if I were in their position, I'd hate me,
too."

She laid a hand on his arm. "But you're not in their place,
Mulder. You're you, and you're going to catch this man, before
he can hurt that little girl." She squeezed his arm. "You
*will*, Mulder."

He looked down at her. "I hope so."

****

Rest Inn
10:13 p.m.
 

Frank Jessup did indeed take advantage of them, practically
salivating with greed as he wrote up their bill. "You folks
enjoy your stay here," he said, one eye closing in a brief
wink.

Scully took back her credit card and mustered a grimace that
could almost pass for a smile. "Thank you."

Jessup had plenty of rooms available, and he'd given them two
that were side by side. He'd lamented the fact that the rooms
lacked a connecting door, and managed to imbue even that
fairly innocent statement with innuendo and suggestion. Scully
had clenched her fists at the man's crudity, and fought the
desire to go for her gun.

She clutched her room key tightly as they left the office and
got back in the car. Mulder drove across the parking lot to
where their rooms were located. Besides Jessup's battered
pickup truck, there were only two other vehicles parked there.
Neither one looked as if it had been driven in months.

She had Room 19; Mulder was in 20. He parked the car directly
in front of her door, and turned the keys with a small sigh.

In their haste to arrive in Tennessee, they had not made time
to eat, and Scully ventured a timid, "How does a late dinner
sound?"

Mulder shook his head as he got out of the car. "I'm not
hungry."

She wasn't surprised. She said nothing as Mulder retrieved
their luggage from the trunk. They walked up the sidewalk,
separating at the doors to their rooms, each painted a garish
shade of blue, and flaking badly.

"Are you going to be all right?" she asked, reluctant to enter
her room and leave her partner alone for the night.

"Yeah," he replied, but he stared at the ground as he spoke.

"Will you do me a favor?" she said.

He looked up at her. "What?"

"Try to get some sleep," she said softly.

A sudden smile crossed Mulder's face, momentarily illuminating
his eyes. "I'll try," he promised.

Heartened by his words, she smiled back, then went into her
room.

****

End Part 3
 
 

Thunder in the Air (4/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

Rest Inn
Room 20
3:42 a.m.

The sound of a car engine shutting off woke him. For a moment
he was disoriented, then the air conditioner under the window
kicked on, and Mulder remembered where he was.

He got out of bed, feeling vaguely surprised that he'd slept
at all. He had seen midnight come and go, sitting at the
chipped Formica table in the corner, poring over old case
files and police reports. At some point he had moved to the
bed, intending only to lay down, but the papers strewn
carelessly on the floor were mute evidence that he had indeed
slept.

It was chilly in the room, and Mulder approached the window
reluctantly. The drapes billowed slightly outward as cool air
was blown under their fringed hems. Mulder stood to the left
of the window and pushed the thick drape aside with his hand,
peering outside.

Through the dirty glass, he could see a fourth car in the
parking lot now, sitting next to their own borrowed Ford. Two
amorphous shapes sat in the front seat, and two or three more
in back. None made any move to get out; they merely sat there,
watching.

Mulder waited.

Fifteen minutes later he accepted that the people in the car
seemed content to merely sit there, and Mulder yawned and let
the drape fall back. He turned around, heading back for the
warmth of the lumpy bed.

He had no warning or alert; there was just a split-second
filled with the sound of splintering glass, then something
struck him in the small of his back, driving him to the floor
with a muffled grunt. That impossibly heavy something thudded
onto the carpet beside him, scant moments after he fell. He
lay still, paralyzed by the sudden tingling pain that swept
through his entire body. Whoever they were, they had either
been standing right outside the window, or they had one hell
of a good arm.  Dimly, he heard the slam of a car door and the
roar of an engine swelling, then fading into the night.

Scully. The pain was starting to melt away from his
extremities, and center on his back, where he had been struck.
He managed to push himself to his knees with rubbery arms.
Scully. A blow strong enough to knock him down could snap her
spine in two.

The door leading outside rattled in its frame as someone
knocked on it. "Mulder?" Scully called, sounding scared, but
unhurt. "Mulder, are you all right? Let me in."

Shakily, he stood, wincing at the pain emanating from the
middle of his back. Beside his left foot was a huge rock, with
a note rubber-banded around its bulk.

"Mulder!" Scully was shouting now. "Mulder, answer me!"

"Coming," he rasped. Jesus, that rock was huge. Good thing it
had only struck his back, and not his head.

Scully had her weapon out and seemed to be on the verge of
shooting out the lock when Mulder finally staggered to the
door and opened it. She was wild-eyed and panting, but her
hands were steady on her weapon. "Mulder, what happened?" she
cried. "Why didn't you answer?" She lowered her gun, and
became just a short woman in blue pajamas, standing on the
sidewalk of a seedy hotel in Tennessee.

Mulder tried to shrug, then winced. One hand vainly reached
behind him, seeking to assuage the pain. "More of that
Southern hospitality, I guess," he said.

Scully shouldered past him, and into the room. Her eyes swept
around, seeing the rock, the shards of glass on the floor, the
hole in the drapery where the missile had shredded it. She
turned to look at him. "Mulder, did it hit you?"

"I would say, more like it...*landed* on me," he said, going
for some humor, but falling far short.

"Are you hurt?" she demanded, striding determinedly forward.

"I'm fine, Scully. Really. I--"

"What's goin' on here?" Frank Jessup waddled up, all five feet
of him wrapped in a ragged maroon bathrobe and an impenetrable
cloak of indignation. "You two tearing up my hotel?"

Mulder gave Scully a weary look, and slumped against the
doorframe. Let her deal with it.

****

Scully shot her partner an alarmed glance as he sagged against
the wooden doorway. She wanted to make sure he was all right
and find out who had done this, but right now Frank Jessup
demanded all her attention.

"Who did you talk to tonight?" she asked the man, using her
best Ice Queen tone of voice.

He blinked at her. "Huh?"

"I said, who did you talk to? Who knows we were staying in
these rooms?" She took a step toward Jessup, uncomfortably
aware that she was clad only in her pajamas, but refusing to
show it.

"N-no one," Jessup blustered. "Hey, you gonna pay for fixing
that window?"

"No," Scully said coldly. "We will not. You'll be lucky if we
pay for these rooms at all. Now I want you to tell me who you
spoke to tonight."

The proprietor looked from her to Mulder, who was now standing
erect, although his face was too pale for her liking. Seeing
no help from either quarter, he shrugged one chubby shoulder.
"I talked to lots of people," he said petulantly.

"Who?" she demanded.

"I can't remember all of 'em!" Jessup cried. "Lots of people!"

"Did you know that endangering the life of a federal officer
is a crime punishable by time in prison, Mr. Jessup?" Mulder
asked lazily.

Jessup's face went white. "P-prison?"

Mulder nodded. "Add obstruction of justice to that charge, and
I think you're looking at a minimum of three years."

"I can't remember!" Jessup cried. His eyes were round and
fearful. "Honest!"

Scully looked long and hard at him, then nodded. "Mr. Jessup,
I suggest you find us two new rooms. *Nice* rooms. And I also
suggest you think twice before telling anyone which ones we
are staying in."

The hotel owner nodded frantically. "Sure, sure," he agreed.
"Anything else?"

"Yeah," Mulder said. "How 'bout some ice?"

"Sure, I can do that," Jessup said. "Just give me a few
minutes. You folks wanna get your stuff together, and meet me
in the office? I'll get you your new keys, and your ice." He
left, bowing and scraping cravenly, bathrobe flapping in the
night wind.

As soon as he was gone, Scully rounded on her partner.
"Mulder, let me look at you."

"I'm fine," he said faintly. The edge to his voice was gone.
"I just need to sit down." He wobbled his way to the bed and
sat. "Oh, and that ice."

"Where did it hit you?" she asked, walking forward.

"My back," Mulder said. "It knocked me down."

Scully shook her head, looking at the size of the rock laying
on the floor. "I'll bet," she whispered.

Mulder lifted his T-shirt reluctantly, letting her see the
injury. An angry red patch was centered in the small of his
back. Tentatively she pressed her fingers to the spot, and
Mulder winced, inhaling sharply.  Scully dropped his shirt,
and stood back. "Well," she said, "it missed your kidneys, and
anything vital. But you're going to have one hell of a bruise
there, and you'll be sore for a day or two."

Mulder scowled. "If this is Southern hospitality," he
muttered, "I think I'm moving to Canada."

Scully chuckled, then yawned.

Half an hour later they were installed in their new rooms, an
ice bucket brimming with frozen cubes sat on each bathroom
countertop, and the note that had been wrapped around the rock
was bagged as evidence.

Scully pulled off her latex gloves and sat at the table across
from Mulder. Between them, the rock and note sat, tagged and
labeled, utterly innocuous-looking in their plastic evidence
bags.

The note read: "Maybe we should ask this killer if he likes
tall FBI agents, instead of little girls."

****

Friday, March 5, 1999
8:12 a.m.
112 Elm Street
 

The Mosers lived in a small house, but it was the nicest one
on the block. Their lawn was a neat square of green, and the
paint job was only a couple years old. A black pickup truck
stood in the driveway, and another, nearly identical vehicle
was parked at the curb.

Scully carefully schooled her expression as she got out of the
car. She was probably being paranoid, but maybe she hadn't
imagined that twitch of the window curtain. Either way, it
just made good sense to be cautious.

After the intrusion on her night's sleep, she had gone back to
bed, but only tossed and turned fitfully. Toward dawn she had
dozed, but it had been a restless, uneasy sleep, and this
morning she was exhausted, and her eyes felt full of gritty
sand.  She had dressed carefully, sure that she would forget
something in her fatigue, and leave the motel sans pants or
something else equally unforgivable.  Frank Jessup had
provided a box of donuts and some weak orange juice for a
"continental breakfast", but Scully had not eaten.

Mulder looked as tired as she felt. There was a downward slump
to his shoulders, and he carried himself tightly, as if any
jostling movement would break him. She wondered if he was in
pain from where the rock had struck him, but she knew better
than to ask.

A T-shirt-and-overall'ed Quinn Presslee answered the door
before they could even knock. Scully decided it must have been
him peeking through the window, watching for their approach.
He said nothing as they came in, but grunted slightly as he
shut the door behind them.

Inside, the house was clean and tidy. Most of the furniture
was secondhand, and bore a chipped finish, or bad upholstery,
but it was free from dust and stains. Framed photographs hung
on the walls; some were of Douglas and Brandy, but most were
of a beautiful red-haired girl with dimples and a wide smile.

The Mosers sat on a flowered loveseat, knees touching. They
murmured a greeting to their guests, but did not get up. Quinn
Presslee sat on an armchair covered in a yellow sheet with a
grunt. Scully sat beside Mulder on the couch and pulled out
her notebook and pen.

She had thought Mulder would leave it up to her to start, but
he surprised her by speaking right away. "I know this is
difficult for you, Mr. and Mrs. Moser. I know you've already
told your story to Sheriff Bedford, and we'll try to be quick,
and get this over with as soon as possible."

The men were silent, but Brandy inclined her head. "Thank
you," she murmured.

"Why don't you just tell us what happened, from the
beginning?" Mulder asked.

Brandy Moser inhaled deeply, threw a glance at her husband,
then began speaking. "Linda didn't go to school yesterday.
When she woke up she told me her throat hurt and she felt a
bit feverish, so I kept her home. She went back to bed for a
few hours, while I did some housework." She paused, and her
hands gripped each other tightly on her knees. "Around nine
o'clock, Linda got up, and said she felt better. She asked if
she could go outside and play. I told her she could, as long
as she stayed in the backyard, and kept her coat on."

Reflexively, Scully looked up, toward the rear of the house. A
tiny kitchen was to her right, and over the sink was a window.
Surely Brandy Moser had stood there for years, watching her
only child at play.

"She went outside around nine-thirty, and I checked on her
every now and then. When I looked for her at eleven o'clock,
she wasn't there. I went outside and I--I called f--for her.
But she wasn't there. She was g--gone." Brandy broke down into
tears, unable to speak anymore.

Scully winced. The pain of losing a daughter was one she knew
all too well, but losing Emily was entirely different from
what the Mosers were experiencing.  "What did you do then?"
she asked softly.

Douglas gave her a look that said, What do you think she did?
From his armchair, Quinn Presslee grunted sourly.

Brandy wiped her face. "I went outside and looked for her. I
called, but she didn't answer. I knew something was wrong
then." She lifted wet eyes to Scully. "You see, Linda is very
bright. She's a lot smarter than Doug and me. She wouldn't
hide for no reason. She wouldn't do that. So...so I went back
inside and I called Doug, then I called the police."

The young woman scrubbed at her tears. "When the police came
out, they couldn't find anything. There was an adult-sized
footprint near the back fence, but that was all."

"Until you called Buck," Douglas Moser said to Mulder, "and
said you knowed who did this."

"I do know," Mulder agreed. "His name is Monty Propps."

Brandy stared at him, wide-eyed. "How do you know that?"

"He's done this sort of thing before," Mulder said. "In 1988,
in North Carolina. He kidnapped and killed six women. He was
very good at it; he was hard to catch."

"But you caught him, dincha?" Quinn Presslee said. They were
the first words Scully had heard him speak.

Mulder nodded. "Yes, I did. Propps was released from prison
two years ago. Since then he has been committing crimes,
moving from one town to another."

"Killing little kids," Doug Moser said sickly.

"Mr. Moser, we will find this man before he can hurt your
daughter," Scully said firmly.  Even as she spoke the words,
she was mentally berating herself. <Don't make promises you
can't keep.>

"Got any idea why he'd come to our neck of the woods?" Quinn
asked. "I bet you got some idea, doncha, Mr. Fox Mulder?"
None-too subtle anger colored his voice, deepening it.

Mulder met the man's stare levelly. "You seem to have an idea
of your own, don't you, Mr. Presslee?"

"Damn straight I do," Quinn said. "That fellow's pissed at you
for putting his ass behind bars. And now that he's out, he's
getting himself some revenge. Only he's killing little girls
to do it." He looked at Mulder challengingly. "Am I right, or
am I right?"

"You're right," Mulder said quietly. "However, what Agent
Scully said is correct. We will find this man first. Your
daughter will not be harmed."

Scully gripped her pen tightly. Oh Mulder....

The Mosers seemed uncertain what to do now. They stared at
Mulder in mingled anger and hope. "I-- So what happens now?"
Brandy finally asked.

"I'd like to take a look around outside," Scully said,
standing up. "I'm sure the police did a thorough job gathering
evidence, but I'd like to see it anyway."

Douglas nodded. "Sure. Just go on through the back door."

Scully walked through the family room and into the kitchen.
The back door was curtained in the same flowered material that
covered the loveseat. Feeling slightly ill, she pushed the
door open and stepped out into the morning.

****

The Moser's backyard was as tiny and well-maintained as the
front. A swing set dominated the area, and a wooden fence
surrounded it all. Yellow police tape was strung across the
yard, jarringly bright against the gray March morning. A
slighty frayed jump rope was tied to one of the swings. The
hot pink plastic end wobbled back and forth in the cool wind.

Mulder stared at it all, his throat tight and aching. That
jump rope, sole evidence that once-upon-a-time a young girl
had played here, struck a painful chord deep within him. There
were probably half a million jump ropes with hot pink handles
scattered around the globe, yet at the moment, the only one he
could picture was one that was probably stashed in an attic
trunk somewhere on Martha's Vineyard: Samantha had loved to
jump rope.

He glanced over at Scully, and was unsurprised to see her eyes
were wet. A different kind of pain clutched him then, one that
was reserved strictly for his partner -- there would be no
pink jump ropes in her future.

They walked down the lawn toward the gate, Mulder moving
slowly because of his back, and Scully matching her pace to
his. Eventually, they ran out of grass to cross, and there was
nothing to see but wooden fence and a single footprint.

It was a smallish print; it could have been made by either a
short man or a taller woman. Set off from the fence by a yard
at most, it existed by itself, a single imprint in a grassless
patch of red earth. Looking down at it, Mulder felt sudden
fury sweep through him.

Somewhere in this small town, a little girl was crying, and
Monty Propps was laughing at him.

****

End Part 4
 

Thunder in the Air (5/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

Fox Hunt Police Station
9:42 a.m.
 

They mounted the steps to the station slowly. Mulder was
chagrined to admit he didn't want to go inside that building,
and face the anger and resentment within. He was tired and
hungry, and the aspirin he'd taken early that morning was not
working; his back hurt terribly, and he longed for a few
hours' uninterrupted sleep.

For a fleeting moment he thought of leaving, anyway. He could
do it; God knew he was good at it, even. He could turn around
and skip down the steps, throwing Scully an excuse over his
shoulder. He could let her be the one to deal with the police,
with the ugliness this case was stirring up. He could sneak
back to the hotel and sleep, then come back later, feeling
rested and human again.

One glance at his partner was enough to dispel any ideas along
that line. Self-disgust filled him. Dear God, had he really
entertained the thought of ditching his partner? Now? Here?
When all this was his fault, did he really think that running
away from it would solve anything?

Scully climbed the steps beside him, unhurried, her head
bowed, a stray lock of red hair bouncing against her cheek.
Her expression was grim, but determined. Mulder knew she would
never think of running, she would never abandon little Linda
Moser, and a town whose need for hope outmatched its need for
anger.

She would always stay, she would always carry on, and that was
one of the reasons he loved her, Mulder knew. Her
stubbornness, her willingness to overcome any obstacle in
order to go forward, her loyalty, her sheer persistence -- was
it any wonder they were still partners after six years? Anyone
else would have run off screaming within the first three
months.

But Dana Scully was not "anyone else." She was who she was.
She was Scully, and he loved her. He couldn't run off on her,
not now, not ever.

Mulder increased his pace a bit, just enough to ensure that he
reached the top of the steps before Scully did. He opened the
door for her, and as she walked through he touched her back
lightly, the way he always had, and the way he hoped he always
would.

****

9:44 a.m.
 

The receptionist was almost seventy, with graying hair pulled
into tight curls all over her head. She wore a shapeless blue
dress, and looked as solid as Quinn Presslee. Quite probably
she had worked here all her life. She stared at them as they
walked past, glaring at these two strangers who dared intrude
on her turf.

Two younger officers were walking down the hall toward them as
they entered the station; one of them was Officer Rowland. He
nodded slightly in greeting. "Enjoying your stay?" he asked.

Mulder clenched his fists inside his coat pockets and wished
he could slam the kid against the wall. No doubt Rowland knew
all about the rock being thrown through his window, right down
to the identity of the man who'd done it.

"Actually, we are," Scully replied in a too-bright voice. "In
fact, I was thinking of getting some real-estate information
about this area. I really like it here. I might buy a summer
home here."

Rowland and the other officer stopped dead in their tracks.
The young mens' eyes narrowed, meeting Scully's in a contest
of wills. Mulder stood off to the side, utterly forgotten by
all three of them.

The other deputy surrendered first. He pointed to an open door
on his right. "I gotta-- " He quickly ducked into the room.

His exit broke the spell. Rowland gave Scully a brief smile.
"I'm sure we could fix you up just right," he said. The double
meaning of his words was not lost on either agent.

Mulder strode forward. This was ridiculous. "Do you have an
unused office we could use, for our investigation? We need a
phone and access to a fax machine. I also need to see the
police report on Linda Moser's kidnapping."

Rowland made no move to help. He crossed his arms and rocked
back on his heels, mimicking Sheriff Bedford. "Speaking of
faxes, we never did get that sketch you promised us of this
guy, Agent Mulder. What's that all about?"

Dammit. Mulder cursed inwardly. He had wanted to make copies
of that sketch, and post one on every upright surface in town.
He'd planned to broadcast the sketch on the local TV station,
fly it from a banner behind a Cessna-152 -- whatever it took,
he wanted the people of Fox Hunt to know their enemy.

But now, with no sketch, Monty Propps was still the faceless
enemy. And he, Fox Mulder, was known to the townspeople all
too well.

****

10:13 a.m.

After coming up with every excuse in the book, and some
original ones, Officer Rowland had finally caved in and taken
them to a back office. While passing through the hallway,
Scully had seen Sheriff Bedford sitting in his office, feet up
on his desk, smiling lazily in their direction. He had
probably heard every word of the confrontation in the hallway.

"I've about had it with these people," she'd muttered, after
Rowland had left them alone.

Mulder had gotten a look of careful consideration on his face.
"Well..." he'd finally murmured, "we've got a full tank of
gas...it's about three hours to Memphis...wanna go see
Graceland, Scully?"

She'd smiled, despite herself.

That lightness of mood hadn't lasted. Mulder had wasted no
time in calling the sketch artist he'd drafted to make the
composite drawing of Propps. He had not been on the phone for
long before making a series of other calls. Now he hung up for
the last time, and dropped his head into his hands. "Do you
want to hear a story, Scully?"

She pursed her lips. "That depends on if it has a happy
ending."

Mulder spoke into his laced fingers, muffling his voice. "The
sketch artist I contacted got into a car accident on his way
to the prison to interview the guards. He's in the hospital,
in traction with a broken neck. The Raleigh Bureau office has
been trying to contact me since then, leaving me messages,
both at my office in DC, and finally with one Sheriff
Smithfield, in Fox Chase, Kentucky."

He looked up, hair standing up where his fingers had pushed at
it. "Goddammit, Scully! What is with these people? Don't they
understand we're trying to *help* them?" Angrily, he stood,
then winced and sat back down heavily. "God..."

Scully got to her feet. "Mulder." She went to his side, then
stopped, unsure what to do. "You should go see a doctor," she
finally said, falling back on her favorite line.

Her partner gave her a faint smile. "I thought I did that last
night when I let you examine me."

She cocked her head to one side, her gesture of exasperated
affection. "Mulder..." She sighed. "How much does it cost to
get into Graceland these days?" Surprised, he looked up at
her. "What?" she said in mock indignation. "You can talk about
running away, but I can't?"

A strange mixture of emotions crossed Mulder's face, darkening
his eyes. A short chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head
slightly.

"What?" Scully asked.

"Nothing," Mulder said. "It's just-- I'm glad you're my
partner, Scully. I wouldn't want anyone else here with me."

She relaxed somewhat. "I wouldn't either," she said.

"That's good," Mulder replied, "because one of us has to call
Skinner. And I'm going to be busy calling Sheriff Smithfield
and retrieving my messages." He picked up the phone and began
dialing.

****

She used her cell phone, since there was only one phone in the
office, and she'd be damned if she wandered the halls, begging
for the use of another phone.

Skinner was glad to hear from her; although he never said
anything specific, it showed in the tone of his voice. "How
are things in Kentucky, Agent Scully?"

She'd moved to one corner of the office, so their separate
conversations wouldn't overlap, and she glanced up at Mulder,
at the tension in his hunched shoulders, the white-knuckled
grip he had on the phone. "We're no longer in Kentucky, sir,"
she said.

Skinner waited, saying nothing, and she continued speaking.
"After we arrived in Fox Chase, Agent Mulder and I learned
that a young girl had been kidnapped in the town of Fox Hunt,
Tennessee."

Nine hundred miles away, the Assistant Director let out a
sigh. "May I assume that is your new location?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. "We are working toward finding Monty
Propps and bringing him in."

"You're sure it's him?" Skinner asked.

Scully blinked. "I don't see who else it could be, sir."

"All right. Have you contacted the Bureau in Memphis?"

She shook her head, a gesture Skinner couldn't see. "No, sir,
not yet. Although we may have to do that, very soon. We're
finding the local authorities here to be...less than
cooperative."

Skinner grunted. "I'm sure." He paused, perhaps wondering if
he should even ask his next question. "How is Agent Mulder?"

Scully glanced up at her partner again. His posture hadn't
changed much. "He's fine, sir. We're both under a lot of
pressure, but it's nothing we can't handle." In other words,
<Don't be a friend right now. Be my boss.>

He got the message. "Let me know if you need anything," the AD
said.

"Thank you, sir." She hit the End button and put her phone
away.

****

Debbie's Kitchen
12:38 p.m.
 

Whoever Debbie was, Scully mused over a forkful of cold
chicken, she wasn't much of a cook. Fox Hunt's only sit-down
restaurant was mostly empty, even during the lunch hour, which
suited the federal agents just fine.

"The guy in Raleigh said he'd have us a sketch by six
tonight," Mulder said. He hadn't eaten much of his meal,
choosing instead to push the food around on his plate until it
had blended into a cold, brownish hash.

"And Smithfield?" she asked, laying down her fork.

"He'll get a copy faxed to him, too." Mulder drew a wavy line
through the mush on his plate with the edge of his knife.
"After lunch I want to go to the high school."

Scully frowned. "Why?"

"They have a radio station broadcasting from there," Mulder
replied. "The students run it themselves. They do football
games and that sort of thing."

Her stomach clenched hard around the food she'd just eaten.
"And?"

"Propps must know I'm here by now," Mulder said. "I think it's
time he and I finally got together and had a chat."

"Over the radio," she said flatly, one eyebrow unconsciously
lifting.

Mulder shook his head. "In private. Just him and me. I'll
extend the invitation, and hope he shows up."

"Mulder, no!" Through her shock, part of her was completely
unsurprised. She should have suspected Mulder would try
something like this.

"It's the only way, Scully. He's been doing this for over a
year. He knows how to hide, how to get away with it. He'll do
it again here, if we don't stop him."

"So you're going to do, what? Just turn yourself over to him?"
she asked caustically.

Her partner looked up at her, and there was faint hurt in his
eyes. "Do you really think so little of me, Scully?"

Fear for his safety made her disregard caution. "No. I think
more of him!" Mulder winced, but she ignored it. "This man is
a killer, Mulder. You said it yourself -- he's been doing it
for years. He's used to getting what he wants, and right now
what he wants is to get *you*. If you give yourself up to him,
he'll kill you like all his other victims, and then go on
killing, without batting an eye."

Her voice had risen throughout her tirade, and abruptly she
realized that they could probably hear her back in the
kitchen. She leaned in and lowered her voice. "Mulder, look. I
know that you feel...trapped here...like there's no other
solution. But there is. There has to be." She sat up. "I won't
let you do this."

Mulder stared at her. "It's not your decision," he said.

"Whatever happened to not wanting anyone else here with you?"
she asked, aware that she was aiming below the belt by
throwing his words back at him, but not caring. "I think what
you meant by that was that you knew you could ditch me, go off
and do your own thing, no matter how reckless or dangerous,
and I'd not stop you. Anyone else wouldn't let you do it."

"Scully--"

She stood up, interrupting him by the sudden motion. "Well,
I'm telling you now, Mulder, that I won't stand back and let
you do this. And if you persist in doing it, then you'll do it
with someone else here, not me."

Moving quickly, but with deliberate calm, she left the
restaurant.

****

12:57 p.m.

Halfway to the hotel, she realized that by taking the car, she
had effectively stranded Mulder at the restaurant. She took a
perverse satisfaction in this. Maybe he would think twice
about his scheme if he had to walk all the way to the high
school.

Frank Jessup's pickup still sat where it had been parked all
night. But now it had been joined by a newer, black vehicle.
And a man sat in front of her door. Scully got out of the car
hesitantly. Her visitor was Quinn Presslee, Brandy Moser's
older brother. He had not struck her as the voice of reason
earlier, and she could think of nothing that would have made
him change his attitude. Suddenly she wished she had not left
the restaurant by herself.

"Agent Scully?" Presslee had been lounging against the wall,
and at her approach he straightened up. The day had turned
fairly warm, but over his blue coveralls, he now wore a vinyl
black jacket.

"Yes." She made her voice brisk and professional. "What can I
do for you?"

Quinn hooked his thumbs in his belt. "I wondered if I might
talk with you about this case of yours."

She made no move toward her door. "Do you have any more
information on it?"

He frowned. "What does that matter?"

"It matters a lot, Mr. Presslee," she said. "Under federal
regulations, I am not allowed to discuss an ongoing case with
anyone other than the parties involved."

"Linda's my niece," Quinn growled. "I would say that makes me
involved."

She could stand out here and quibble over semantics, or she
could let the man in. Scully pulled out her room key. "Yes,
you are," she sighed.

The big man followed her inside, rubbing his hands together as
he did so. "Gonna storm tomorrow, they say," he said. He shut
the door and looked at her expectantly.

She did not pursue the small talk.  "What can I do for you?"
she repeated.

"I had an idea about how to flush this guy out of hiding,"
Quinn said. "Wanted to run it by you first."

She made a small gesture. "Go ahead."

Presslee unzipped his jacket. "Well, it works like this. See,
a guy like me..." He trailed off and rubbed a large hand
across the lower half of his face. Earlier this morning he had
been perfectly clean-shaven, but already he had the good start
of a stubbly beard across his cheeks.

"A guy like me, Agent Scully, don't have much. I've never been
married. I lost my job a year ago when they put me on
disability down at the factory. I used to be union president,
but I lost that, too. So my sisters and their kids is all I've
got. They're my family, and I love 'em like they was my own
kids."

With a speed Scully would not have thought the man capable of,
he moved. One hand reached into his jacket, and a split second
later, a .45 was pointed at her. "And I aim to see that
nothing happens to that little girl, you understand?"
 

****

End Part 5
 

Thunder in the Air (6/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

Scully stood frozen still, both hands in plain view, cursing
the fact that she still wore her coat. For her to grab her own
weapon would require an extra second to reach under that
additional layer of clothing. Damn.

"I understand you're upset, Mr. Presslee," she started.

"Just call me Quinn," the man said. "I want you to slowly drop
your gun to the floor. I know you're carrying one, even if I
can't see it."

She began reaching backward with one hand, and Quinn cocked
his gun. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "I don't hold
with that. But I will kill you, if I think you're about to
pull a fast one on me. You're not gonna pull a fast one, are
you?"

Scully gritted her teeth and shook her head. "No."

"Good. Now go on, move slowly. Just put it on the floor, then
step over here." He moved toward the chair in the corner of
the room.

Scully did as he ordered, moving as slowly as possible. Maybe
Mulder had asked for help from some diner at the restaurant.
Maybe someone had finally let go of their resentment and anger
and unbent enough to give him a ride. <Yeah, right, Dana.
Don't bet on it.>

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked quietly.

"Nothin'. I don't hurt women. There are some sick guys out
there who do, but I'm not one of 'em. That's not how I was
raised." Presslee gestured with the gun. "Now go sit in the
chair. Put your hands behind you."

She did so reluctantly, eyes on the weapon aimed at her. When
Quinn approached, she tensed slightly, gauging how hard she
would have to hit him to knock him down.

"Don't you be pulling a fast one," he warned. "I told you,
I'll kill you if I have to. My little niece comes first here.
Not you, not that skinny fellow you're working with, not the
Sheriff. Just my little Linda." He spoke the words with quiet
conviction, and Scully knew he believed every word of it. He
would shoot her if she tried to escape; he would later mourn
the fact to his buddies over a beer in the local bar, but he
would still do it.

She held still as he looped thin clothesline around her
wrists, then attached them to the back of the chair.  "Where's
he at?" Quinn asked.

"Who?" she replied, although she knew perfectly well.

Presslee slapped her. "Don't smart off, woman. I know you know
who I'm talking about."

There was blood on her lip and in her mouth, coppery and
slick. "I thought you didn't hurt women," she said, tensing
slightly in anticipation of another blow.

"That's right," Quinn agreed. "But I don't let my women smart
off to me, either. Now answer my question."

"I don't know," she said. Quinn raised his hand again, and she
added hastily, "I left him back at the restaurant. I don't
know where he's going from there."

Presslee frowned. "Debbie's?"

Scully nodded. "Yes." She paused. "What do you want with us?"

"I can't tell you that," Quinn said. He mimicked her.
"Fed-your-al reg-you-la-shuns."

Scully pressed her lips together in frustrated anger. Presslee
approached, and she reared back in the chair as one hand
suddenly dove under her coat. "Don't!" she cried.

"Hush up," Quinn said casually. "I'm not trying to feel you
up. I just wanta find your phone." His hand moved across her
ribcage, and down to her hip, then bumped the cell phone in
her pocket. As he removed his hand, his fingers brushed the
underside of her breast, and a thin smile crossed the man's
face.

Humilation reddened Scully's cheeks, and she sat stock still
as Quinn turned her phone over, figuring out how to work it.
Finally he hit the Power button, and held it out. "I want you
to call Agent Mulder."

She lifted her chin. "No."

Presslee slapped her again. She bit her bloodied lip to keep
from crying out; the man's hands were incredibly strong. "I'm
not gonna ask you again. Call Agent Mulder."

"Why?" she asked, desperate to make the man talk. The longer
she could stall him, the better the odds that Mulder would
arrive on his own. "What do you want with us?"

Presslee squinted at the phone, then pushed Speed Dial #1. As
Mulder's name came up on the display, he smiled thinly again.
"I'm gonna press this here Send button," he told her. "And
when I do, you're going to talk to Agent Mulder. You're going
to tell him to come meet you here." He pressed the barrel of
his gun into her temple. "And if you don't, I'll shoot you and
then I'll go find him anyway. So what's it gonna be?"

She had no choice. "Call him," she ground out from clenched
teeth.

Quinn hit Send, and held the phone to her ear. The gun dug
into the soft skin of her temple, a none-too subtle threat.

"Mulder." He sounded slightly out of breath, and Scully's
heart sank. Was he walking somewhere?

"Mulder, it's me," she began, using her usual greeting.

He seemed unsure of what to expect. "Where are you?" he
finally asked.

"I'm back at the hotel." The .45 pressed into her flesh,
bringing tears of pain to her eyes. "I need for you to come
back here. I need to talk to you, Fox." She held her breath
and waited.

Mulder didn't answer for a second. "Scully, is everything all
right?"

"Sure," she answered, too brightly. "I'll see you soon."

Presslee took the phone away and turned it off. "Nice," he
grunted. He tossed the phone onto the floor, then stomped on
it with a huge yellow work boot. Plastic splintered under his
foot, and computer innards splattered across the carpet.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. Now that she had spoken
with Mulder, she felt strangely calm. Her use of his first
name had almost certainly tipped him off that something wasn't
right; he would arrive here expecting the worst, prepared for
anything.

"Hush," Quinn ordered again. He took a red bandanna out of his
pocket and before she could jerk away, tied it over her mouth.
"I can't have you hollering away in here," he said, almost
apologetically.

Scully stared at him with wide eyes as he strode over to the
phone on the nightstand, and yanked the cord from the wall. He
walked back to her and tested the rope tied around her wrists.
Satisfied that she wasn't going anywhere, he picked up her gun
and the key to her room. At the door, he turned around. "I'm
sorry to do this to you, but I gotta get my little girl back.
One day, you'll have kids of your own, and then you'll
understand."

The warming March wind momentarily swept into the room as he
opened the door, then it closed behind him and she was all
alone.

****

1:13 p.m.

She had called him Fox.

He had not stayed long at the restaurant after she'd left,
just enough to settle the bill. He had not held out any hopes
of getting a ride from someone, so he had set off along the
road, walking toward the police station. He assumed Scully had
gone back there.

But she had not. She had gone to the hotel, she had phoned
him, and she had called him Fox. Scully, who had never tried
to use his given name since a dark night on the Eugene Tooms
case, had called him Fox.

Mulder quickened his pace. Something had to be wrong. He
couldn't think of what, and truthfully, it didn't matter.
Scully had told him to come, so he would.

An old Toyota was coming down the stretch of highway, and
Mulder stepped out into the road, badge held high. He stood on
the balls of his feet, ready to run if it appeared the driver
wasn't slowing, but instead taking his chance to rid the town
of a pesky FBI agent.

The driver of the car turned out to be a woman, bleached blond
and chewing gum. A sticky, screaming three-year old was
strapped into a car seat behind her. "What?" she asked, eyes
darting around anxiously.

Mulder trotted around the car to the passenger side. "I need
you to take me to the Rest Inn," he said, yanking open the
door.

The woman snorted. "I don't have to," she said. "I know you
can't commandeer my vehicle. That only happens in Hollywood."
As if agreeing, the toddler in the back let out a particularly
piercing shriek.

Mulder slammed the door shut as hard as he could, out of
patience with these people. "I'm not commandeering your
vehicle," he said angrily. "I'm *ordering* you to take me to
the Rest Inn. And if you don't, I will arrest you for
obstruction of justice, and then you can bet your ass I will
take your car. Is that understood?"

The woman stared at him, slack-jawed, the wad of pink gum in
her mouth clearly visible. Finally she swallowed hard, and put
the car in Drive again. "Asshole," she muttered under her
breath.

Mulder closed his eyes and let that one slide.

****

Rest Inn
1:24 p.m.

The brat in the back didn't stop squalling at all, until the
very moment when the car came to a halt in the Rest Inn
parking lot. Mulder squinted at the mother through a pounding
headache, and wondered if he should investigate her and her
child as having a psychic link; surely the two of them had
engineered this whole thing. He got out of the car, ignoring
the woman as she flipped him the bird when she didn't think he
noticed, ignoring the way the toddler waved bye-bye. None of
it mattered; it was already fading to the back of his mind.

The car they had borrowed from Sheriff Smithfield in Kentucky
was parked in the lot, down a few spaces from Room 14, the new
accommodations Scully had moved to after the rock incident.
Mulder himself was in Room 15, right beside an ancient Coke
machine. Both doors were closed.

There was a black pickup in the lot now too, that hadn't been
there this morning. It looked like the one he'd seen parked at
the curb of the Moser's house, the truck he assumed belonged
to Quinn Presslee.

Was Presslee here? Had he come forth with information on the
case? Or had he come to intimidate them?

Mulder walked toward Room 14, one hand hovering over his hip,
ready to pull out his weapon. In this town, it didn't pay to
take any chances. "Scully?" He put his ear to the door, but
heard nothing. Moving two feet to his right, he knocked on the
door to his own room. "Scully, you in there?"

He was reaching for his room key when he heard a faint thump
from inside Scully's room. Forgetting the key, he pulled his
weapon. "Scully?" He tried turning the doorknob, but it didn't
budge. "Scully, can you hear me?"

That faint thumping noise sounded again, and Mulder turned to
the side, ready to throw himself against the door. As he did
so, someone came toward him from around the Coke machine.
Startled, he looked up, directly into Quinn Presslee's face.

It happened incredibly fast. The big man grabbed his wrist,
squeezing and yanking down. The gun fell from his suddenly
nerveless fingers, clattering on the cement sidewalk.  He
started to bring up his other hand, and Quinn seized it and
pivoted on one foot, dragging Mulder behind him.  The result
was Presslee made a neat turn, while Mulder stumbled around in
a large circle, stopping only when he came face-first into
contact with the brick wall between Room 14 and 15. Quinn let
go of his wrists, and he slumped to the ground, already
unconscious.
 

****

Room 14
1:26 p.m.
 

Scully sat frozen in silence, straining to hear something,
anything. Mulder had called her name, and she had managed to
stand up awkwardly in the chair, then slam the legs down onto
the floor. He had seemed to hear her, for he had called out to
her again. Then there had been a loud thud against the wall,
enough to startle her.

Then nothing.

She flexed her legs and managed to get to her feet again, bent
over at the waist, the weight of the chair pulling painfully
at her bound wrists. She took a halting step forward, then
another, before having to sit down again.

The effort left her panting heavily, and she almost missed the
sound of a car engine starting. Wide-eyed, she looked up
toward the window, wishing the drapes weren't pulled, that she
could see.

The sound grew closer, then a car door slammed, while the
engine was left on idle. After a minute, another door opened,
then was closed as well. The engine swelled as the vehicle was
put in drive, then faded into silence as the truck pulled
away.

Oh yes. Truck. She knew who had just left. Quinn Presslee. And
he had Mulder with him. Who needed to be able to see, when she
could piece together what had happened just from the sounds
from outside. Presslee had Mulder, and until she could get out
of this room, no one would know, no one would help.

Steeling herself, Scully rose to her feet again and started on
the long journey to the door.

****

Rhythmic rocking woke him, that of a vehicle in motion. There
was a high-pitched screaming noise in his head...that little
kid? No, that couldn't be right...he'd gotten out of that car,
and there had been closed doors, and Quinn Presslee, and a
brick wall coming closer and closer...He groaned, and tried to
open his eyes.

"Not yet, you don't," a voice said, then something heavy
struck the back of his head, sending him back into oblivion.

****

End Part 6
 
 

Thunder in the Air (7/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

2:27 p.m.

An hour, that's how long it took. Slightly more than one hour
elapsed before she reached the door, and at the end of those
sixty minutes, she was drenched in sweat and blood, sick to
her stomach at the thought of those wasted seconds, struggling
not to pass out.

Feebly she kicked at the door, hammering her heels against it.
The bandanna had slipped from around her mouth as the sweat
had poured down her face, and she shouted as loud as she
could.

Blood slicked her wrists and hands from where the clothesline
had bit into her skin. Each painful step forward had put all
the chair's weight on that tender flesh, until she had been
whimpering under the gag, heedless of who might hear her.

And dear God, there had to be somebody who would hear her.
There had to be.

****

Time Unknown
Location Unknown
 

Waking up this time was much worse. He was being lifted,
carried through the air by two thick arms, then dropped to the
ground. Black agony bolted through his head, and he moaned,
fighting to maintain the tenuous hold he had on consciousness.

"So you're awake, huh?" A male voice spoke from somewhere
above him. Hands stripped off his suit coat, then he was
turned over by a boot prodding at his ribs. "Hold still now,"
the man said.

Mulder tried opening his eyes and was rewarded by another
blast of pain. A deep groan was wrung from him, and he didn't
move as his wrists were yanked behind him, then manacled
together with his own cuffs. Strong hands gripped his arms and
pulled him upright.

The sudden change in posture hurt too much, and he grayed out
momentarily, only to be brought wide awake again by sudden
sharp pain in his shoulders. "Better stand up," the voice
warned. Mulder hastened to get his feet under him, and when he
did, the pain lessened.

"You keep standing there, and you'll be fine," the man said.
Mulder recognized his voice now -- it was Quinn Presslee. "Me
and my buddies come here sometimes when we go hunting, and I
designed that shelf myself. You're hooked to it nicely, and as
long as you stand there nice and quiet like, you'll be fine.
But you don't want to be falling down or nothing, or you'll
hurt yourself. You got it?"

What...? It hurt too much to even think. He started to let go
again, to give in to the darkness pressing in so close. His
knees buckled and he slid downwards, only to be jerked up
short by pain in his wrists and shoulders. He moaned, feet
scrambling to push himself upright again.

Presslee grunted. "You learn real quick. That's good."

Mulder took a deep breath and forced his eyes open. The right
one didn't want to open at all, glued shut by blood and pain.
Blurrily, he found Quinn and focused on the man. "What do you
want?" The sentence came out as a weak croak.

A chair creaked as Quinn's heavy bulk settled into it. "Now, I
expect you're wondering what this is all about, aren't you,
Agent Mulder?"

Mulder let his eyes close again. It hurt just to try and see.
The entire right side of his face was ablaze with pain; in his
mind's eye he kept seeing that brick wall coming closer and
closer, and wondered if he'd imagined hearing the snap of
breaking bone before falling unconscious.

"Well, I'm gonna tell you," Presslee said. "I don't hold with
keeping people in the dark on things that are important to
them. None of this 'federal reg-you-la-shuns' bullshit from
me."

Federal regulations. It was just the sort of thing Scully
would say. He opened his eyes again, even the reluctant right
one. "What did...you do...to my partner?" he gasped.

"Nothin'," Quinn said. "She's just fine. Don't worry about
her. What you need to be worrying about is how we get in touch
with this maniac who's kidnapped my niece."

It was unbelievable. His scheme to contact Monty Propps hadn't
been necessary, after all. It seemed all he had had to do was
wait for Quinn Presslee to show up. The irony struck Mulder
has amazingly funny, and a short chuckling sound escaped him.
"You read my mind," he said.

"What's that?" Quinn asked suspiciously.

Mulder shut his eyes again; it hurt to talk. "I was thinking
of doing the same thing," he said, moving his lips as little
as possible. "Only I hadn't planned on doing it this way." He
let his head fall back, and then jerked upright again as
something hard and sharp dug into his skull.

Presslee said, "You don't want to be moving around there,
Agent Mulder. That shelf is just a row of hooks, up and down.
I built that for me and my buddies, as a place to hang our
hats and wet coats and our gear, when we was out hunting. I
got you connected to one of those hooks, but there's plenty
more above and below it. So don't be wiggling around a whole
lot. You got me?"

Mulder swallowed. "Yeah," he said.

"Now, the way I figure it, this fellow who's got my Linda is
really after you, not her. All we need to do is let him know
that I've got you, and he'll come for you. Then we can do an
even exchange. You for Linda. How's that sound?"

Incredulous, Mulder stared at Quinn. "You want my advice on a
plan where I'm the sacrificial lamb?" he asked in disbelief.

Presslee's face darkened in anger. "Don't make fun of me,
dammit. I'm not stupid. I know this ain't the best way to do
this, but I didn't see any other choice. That's my niece he's
got! Do you think I can stand back and let him hurt her?" The
man got up from his chair and began pacing the small room.
"Let me ask you, Mr. Mulder. What the hell would you do, if
you were me? What would you do?"

There was nothing he could say to that. Mulder stayed silent
and eventually Quinn sat back down, calm again. "All right,"
he said. "That's what I thought. Now tell me, how do we reach
this guy?"

****

Rest Inn
Room 14
6:45 p.m.
 

Under her hand, Mulder's blood continued to pour from the
wound, hot and bright arterial red. Already a thin line
trailed from the corner of his mouth. Soon he'd start
coughing, and the internal hemorrhaging would increase
rapidly.

"They better know. They damn well better figure it out," the
gunman said.

"Look," she said desperately. "Just walk in front of the
window, and show them." Mulder's eyes opened briefly, glassy
with pain and impending death. She thought he was trying to
find her, and she stroked his cheek gently.

"You want to get me killed!" Bernard shouted.

Tears filled her eyes. "I just want everyone to live," she
whispered. The flow of blood against her palm was slowing, as
there was nothing left to give. Mulder's eyes were closed now,
not to re-open. "You're in control here. And it doesn't have
to end this way."

The SWAT team was coming, and Bernard gave her a look of
infinite sadness. "Yeah it does," he said.

Her scream woke her up with a jerk. Cramped muscles cried out
with pain and she slumped back in the chair with a moan.

Four hours now in this chair, and Scully was beginning to
think she'd spend the rest of her life in this room. Some fine
summer day in June, when Frank Jessup finally got around to
renting out all his rooms, he'd open it up to clean it and
find her rotting corpse, still tied to the orange plastic
chair that came with the room.

No, dammit! She couldn't think like that.  It was dark out
now, and with no lights on around her, it was too easy to
succumb to hopelessness. She had to be positive. Wearily, she
began kicking at the door again, and shouting for help.
Someone had to come, someone had to hear her.

Nearly ten minutes later, sudden light bathed the room as a
car pulled up. Scully intensified her screams and battered the
door as hard as she could. She was rewarded by finally hearing
a voice on the other side of the door.

"Ma'am? Are you all right?"

"No!" she shouted. "I'm locked in! Get me out of here!"

"Agent Scully?" It was Sheriff Bedford, she realized with
surprise.

"Yes!" she cried. "Now get me out of here!"

Five minutes later, Frank Jessup opened the door with his
master key. He reached in and turned the light on. Scully
cringed back from the onslaught of light, and heard both
Jessup and the sheriff gasp.

"What the hell happened here?" Bedford demanded. He strode
forward, further squashing the remains of her cell phone, then
bent down behind the chair.

"Quinn Presslee happened," she said angrily. "He attacked me,
then he kidnapped my partner. He's got some--"

"Wait a minute," Bedford said. "He did *what*?"

The ropes finally parted from her wrists, and Scully pulled
them forward with a grateful sigh. The cuts there had stopped
bleeding, but they still needed medical attention. She stayed
seated, afraid to try to stand up and fall in front of these
men. "Quinn Presslee attacked me. He told me he had an idea on
how to get his niece back. He made me call my partner, and
when Agent Mulder arrived, he attacked him, too."

"Did you see this?" Bedford asked.

"No," Scully said in exasperation. "But I heard it. My partner
was outside that door, Sheriff Bedford. The fact that he has
not yet come inside leads me to believe that he's no longer
there."

Bedford's eyes narrowed at her sarcasm. "Well," he said. "I
guess that's something we'll have to look into." He gave her a
long stare. "I think first we need to get you to a doctor,
Miss Scully." One hand lifted and gestured to her face. "Looks
like he roughed you up some."

Scully brushed his hand away. "I'll be fine," she said. "I
just need some rest and some water, is all."

In the doorway, Frank Jessup said, "I got a first aid kit in
the office, if you want it, Agent Scully."

She gave him a grateful look. "Thank you, Mr. Jessup. That
would be wonderful."

Bedford left with Jessup. "I'll head out to the Moser's. See
if they know anything about Quinn's whereabouts."

Scully gained her feet, and stood, swaying. "No. You wait for
me," she commanded.

The sheriff stared at her, then shrugged. "Suit yourself," he
said. "I'll be in the office, waiting for you."
 

****

112 Elm Street
7:28 p.m.
 

Brandy and Douglas Moser were stunned when they heard what
Quinn had done. Confronted with the evidence -- Quinn's truck
had been seen in the hotel parking lot, the bruises on Scully,
a scrape of blood on the wall of the hotel -- they were
speechless.

"I can't believe he'd do this," Brandy Moser finally said.

Scully glared at them. Her wrists were bandaged, and a purple
bruise was forming along her jaw from where Presslee had
struck her. She was hungry and in pain, and in no mood to take
any crap from anybody. "You better believe it," she spat. "Now
tell us where he might have gone."

Douglas Moser took offense to the way his wife was being
treated. "Don't yell at her," he said angrily. "At least
Quinn's out there, trying to do something about this. I don't
see you guys out there finding this guy."

Sheriff Bedford cleared his throat. He had refused to sit, and
stood in the kitchen doorway, thumbs in his belt, rocking back
and forth on his heels. He seemed perturbed by this latest
turn of events, but was doing a good job of not showing it.
Only to Scully had he expressed some misgivings.

"Ol' Quinn, he's not been quite right since he lost his job,"
the sheriff had told her, on the way to the Moser's house.

"What do you mean?" she'd asked.

"Quinn was a welder, and a damn good one at that. He's got all
sorts of burn scars on his hands to prove it, too. But he hurt
his back one day, and the factory cut him loose, rather than
keep him on part-time. They pay him disability, but he's still
pissed about it. When it first happened, he threatened to blow
the factory up, but he calmed down pretty quick after I came
and had a talk with him." Bedford had given her a piercing
look. "Quinn's the kind of guy who'll solve a problem with
violence, every time. It's the only way he knows. I think
maybe you know that now, too."

Since then the sheriff had been quiet, but Scully had not
forgotten his words. "Mr. Moser, I'm sorry if I've offended
you," she said, striving hard for an even tone of voice. "But
already today I've been assaulted by Mr. Presslee, and my
partner has been hurt and kidnapped. So you can understand
that I'm just a little on edge here."

Moser inclined his head stiffly. <Apology accepted.>

"I don't know where he'd be," Brandy said. "He's only got his
little house, out on Kirby Road. He doesn't have any other
family. You might ask my sister, Lea."

"We've got an officer out there now," Bedford said.

"You can't think of anywhere else he might go?" Scully asked.
She clenched her hands into fists in her lap, ignoring the
pain as the flesh around her cut wrists was pulled taut.

"No ma'am, I can't," Brandy said. Her eyes hardened, and
Scully realized this interview was over.

****

End Part 7
 

Thunder in the Air (8/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
7:32 p.m.
 

He couldn't be sure, but Mulder thought Presslee had been gone
for four hours now. He had stayed around for a while, talking
about the best ways to get Monty Propps' attention, then left,
mumbling about making things right. He had come back almost an
hour later, with grocery bags of food and clothing, but had
left almost immediately. He had not been back since.

Time had a way of stretching out when you were in pain, Mulder
realized. Second became hours, minutes became years, and an
hour was a century.

His right cheekbone was broken, and that side of his face was
swollen and bruised. Dried blood from cuts just over his eye
and on his cheek made it difficult to see.  Twice now he'd
been unable to prevent his knees from buckling, and his
aborted downward plunges had dug the steel handcuffs deep into
his wrists.

He'd discovered that he could bear to lean back against the
hooks in the shelf for a little while, before their sharp
points started to sink into his flesh, and he had to stand
erect again. But the effort of standing straight was wearing
on him, and he found himself leaning backwards more and more
often as the night continued.

Despite Quinn's reassuring words, he worried about Scully.
What had happened to her? Over and over he replayed their
short phone conversation in his head. She had not sounded
hurt, but that didn't mean anything. Presslee could have hurt
her after she hung up. She could be injured, or dead, even.

No, not dead. He had heard those thumps in the hotel room,
just before Presslee had attacked. He had to remember that.
Dead people didn't thump. Scully was alive, and he had to hold
on to that. She would be looking for him, and probably aware
of Presslee's plan. She would be doing everything she could to
stop Quinn.

Presslee had turned the lights off when he'd left the last
time, and the darkness of the cabin was absolute. Mulder let
his head fall forward and concentrated on standing.

****

Fox Hunt Police Station
8:08 p.m.
 

As they entered the building, a young officer immediately
accosted them. It was the same man, Scully saw, who had been
talking to Rowland earlier that morning, who had witnessed
their silent battle of wills.

"Sheriff! You got a fax from North Carolina! It's that guy!"
The officer waved a piece of paper around, and Bedford had to
literally grab it from the young man's hand.

"Thank you, Keith," Bedford said, his voice heavy with
sarcasm.

"Thank *you*, sir!" the officer said. He did a smart
about-face in the hallway and went back the way he had come.

Scully followed the sheriff back into his office, and went to
stand at his side. She had only seen Monty Propps in his mug
shots, and although she knew the sketch wouldn't be entirely
accurate, it would still be her first good look at the man.

The sketch showed a man who looked like he'd stepped off a
college campus. Thin and small, he wore glasses and had dark
hair with a receding hairline. He looked utterly harmless, the
kind of man who one would meet in a library or a grocery store
buying broccoli.

Scully stared at the drawing, committing it to memory. Without
moving her eyes from the paper, she said, "Get this out. I
want a copy nailed to every telephone pole in town. I want it
on the front page of the newspaper. I want it broadcast on TV.
I want people to see this man, what he looks like. Someone
might have seen him last week, and not known who he was.
Someone might recognize him now."

Bedford nodded. "Sure don't look like a killer," he remarked.
He shook his head. "Then again, I've seen all types. You never
know who will be a killer, do you?"

Scully looked up at the man. "No, you don't," she said
carefully. "Sheriff, I know you are going to focus your
efforts on finding this man, but I am going to need some help
in finding my partner."

Bedford dropped his gaze. "Agent Scully, this here's a small
town. I've got a small force, and we're already stretched thin
enough as it is." He gave her a deprecating glance. "Fact is,
for three years now I've been trying to squeeze more money out
of the town treasury for my budget, so I can get some new
officers. And every year--"

"I don't want to hear your sad history, or your excuses,"
Scully snapped. "There is a federal agent out there, who is
hurt and in danger. Do you mean to tell me that you won't
spare any men to help find that agent?"

The sheriff met her eyes, and the aw-shucks look faded,
replaced by cold cunning. "Agent Scully, you gotta understand
something. Probably half this town thinks Quinn Presslee's
done the right thing by taking matters into his own hands. And
of those half, I suspect none of them would shed a tear if
your partner were to die." He crossed his arms, rocked back on
his heels. "Now, I'd be happy to lend you an officer to help,
but I gotta tell you, I don't know just how much help he'd
really be to you. If you catch my drift."

Scully was shocked speechless. It was one thing to hold a
grudge, to be angry with someone for being responsible for the
kidnapping of an innocent little girl. She could understand
that, much as she despised it. But to deliberately turn your
back on a fellow human being in danger...

"Fine," she said icily. "I appreciate all the help you've
given us so far, Sheriff Bedford. I will be sure to commend
you and your officers to the Department of Justice." Bedford
frowned, and she drew herself up to her full height, sadly
aware that even so, she was still over a foot shorter than the
sheriff. "As a federal officer, it is my reluctant duty to
inform you that I will no longer be helping your
investigation, Sheriff Bedford. You and your men are on your
own." Stiffly she bowed her head once, then turned around and
left the station.

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
8:42 p.m.
 

Presslee stumbled as he entered the cabin, and muttered a
string of curses. He hit the light switch with one large hand,
and watery yellow light pierced the gloom. Against the wall,
Mulder shut his eyes from even that weak glow.

"All right," Presslee said. He sat in the chair again. "I've
done my part. Now all we do is wait."

Mulder opened his eyes and stared at him dully. Most of
Quinn's words washed over him and made no impression, but he
did hear and understand the word "wait". The tiny hope that
Presslee's arrival had sparked died a quick death then.

Quinn leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. "Didja
hear what I said?" he asked, squinting at his prisoner. "I got
the word out on the streets," he said. "I even got ol' Bud
Williams down at the high school to get a word out on the
radio for me. Bud and me go way  back, you know. We was in
school together, and all that."

None of it made any sense to Mulder. He was beyond caring. The
only things left in his world were pain and the need to stand
up. There wasn't room for anything else.

Presslee stood up, knees cracking. "I'm gonna be staying here
tonight. I don't know how long this guy will take 'fore he
shows up. But I figure, better safe than sorry, you know?" He
went into the far corner of the room. A rust-stained sink and
battered white refrigerator stood against the wall; a hot
plate sat on a Formica counter so warped it appeared to
ripple.

"I guess you must be thirsty," Quinn said. He turned the
faucet on and let the water run for a while, to get the dirt
and rust out. From across the room, Mulder stared at that
precious water running down the drain and wanted to cry.
Seeing the water had admitted a third thing into the narrow
scope of his world: thirst.

Presslee finally filled a Dixie cup with water and carried it
over to Mulder. "Drink it slowly now," Quinn warned "I don't
want you getting sick all over ya'self."

He tipped the cup, and Mulder opened his mouth, sucking
greedily at the few drops Quinn allowed him. The parched
tissues of his throat cried out at the liquid, and begged for
more.

Presslee lowered the cup and drained the rest himself. Mulder
watched him drink and could not stop himself. "More, please,"
he croaked.

Quinn shook his head. "Nuh-uh." He crushed the cup in one huge
fist.  He went over to the door and locked it, then dropped
the cup in a trash can by the door. He unrolled a navy blue
sleeping bag, and toed off his boots, setting them carefully
at the foot of his makeshift bed.

Yawning, the big man walked over to the door and hit the light
switch. In the dark, he fumbled his way to the sleeping bag
and crawled in. He yawned again and said, "You just go on to
sleep now. You and me, we got a busy day tomorrow." Within
minutes, he was snoring.

Mulder closed his eyes and hoped he could remember not to lean
backwards for too long.

****

Rest Inn
Room 15
11:13 p.m.
 

The Coke was warm and flat by now, but Scully took a sip
anyway. She needed the caffeine, if she was to stay up.

She sat at the table in Mulder's hotel room; she had been too
spooked to stay her in own room, and Frank Jessup had
obligingly given her the key to this one. Spread around her
was the accumulated paperwork this case had generated.

The Nashville Bureau office was running a background check on
Quinn Presslee. She had given them the fax number of the Rest
Inn, rather than that of the police station. Other information
had been faxed to her earlier in the evening, but it was still
depressingly sparse.

Right now she was reading his work record from the factory,
which was nearly flawless until his back injury. A co-worker
had been carrying some welding face masks, and not paying
attention to where he was walking. He'd tripped over a ladder,
toppling the equipment onto two men; Quinn Presslee had been
one of them.

The accident had been over a year ago. Since then, Presslee
had divided his time between living off his disability pay,
and living off his sisters.

Lea Presslee had been as unhelpful as her sister. Divorced at
age 26, and the mother of a six-year old boy, she was jaded
and bitter far beyond her years. She didn't know where Quinn
could be, and furthermore, she said, even if she did she
wouldn't tell.

Unfortunately, Scully knew Lea's attitude was the prevailing
one in town. People were proud of Quinn for taking action; he
showed the gumption most of them lacked, but wished they had.
Linda Moser was known as a bright, loving little girl; FBI
Agent Fox Mulder was just the man responsible for her
kidnapping. When it came to feeling compassion for a victim,
there was no comparison.

A huge yawn cracked her jaws, making her wince in pain. The
words on the page blurred before her. She rubbed her eyes and
started reading through Presslee's hospital records from the
accident.

Somewhere, in this mountain of paper, there had to be one
small nugget of important information. Somewhere, there had to
be the one clue that would point her in the right direction.

Somewhere, her partner was waiting for her to find him.

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
Time Unknown
 

"Fox."

He laughed. "No..I even made my parents call me Mulder." It
was a blatant lie, but she wouldn't know that.

"I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you,"
Scully said. She smiled, and he returned the gesture, feeling
safe and relaxed. Her blue eyes grew very serious. "I need to
talk to you, Fox."

Sudden fear blossomed within him. "No," he said, "I can't,
Scully. No." If he listened to her, if he went to the hotel,
it would all happen again, the pain, that brick wall, the
pain...no.

Scully merely stared at him solemnly. "I need to talk to you,"
she repeated.

Against his will, his feet began moving. "No," he moaned in
protest. But his feet refused to obey. They slid out, and
suddenly he was falling, down and down and down, until the
blazing agony in his shoulders and arms became unbearable and
he was screaming, trying futilely to stand again, stand and
stop the pain, just stand...

"Goddammit, shut up!" A fist came flying out of the dark, and
Mulder jerked fully awake at the impact, horribly aware of who
and where he was. He was still sliding downward, his arms
slowly being torn from their sockets, his wrists nearly
touching his collar as they were pulled further and further
upwards. Frantically he scrambled to stand up straight,
tasting blood in his mouth from the blow, his face a red mask
of pain.

"Jesus H. Christ," Quinn Presslee swore sharply. "What the
hell are you trying to do, huh?" He thumped back to his
sleeping bag, muttering curses under his breath.

"Please," Mulder whispered. "I can't--I can't stand like this
anymore. Please just let me down."

"Nope." Quinn yawned. "I know all about you feds, and that
hand-to-hand combat you all know. No, you're staying put."

Desperation gave him strength to shout. "I can't even stand up
here! What do you think I'm going to do to you?"

Presslee didn't reply.

"Please, Quinn," Mulder said. "I'm begging you. Is that what
you want to hear? I'm begging you, please, just let me down."

"What I want," Quinn growled, "is for you to shut the fuck up,
or *I* will shut you up. Is that what *you* want?" The
sleeping bag rustled as he rolled over.

Oh God... There was no point in further humiliating himself.
The rush of adrenaline-fueled anger left as quickly as it had
come, and all the pain came crashing back, sapping his
strength. Mulder hung his head and choked back a helpless sob.

<Scully, where are you?>

****

End Part 8
 

Thunder in the Air (9/10)
by Tasha Abrams
Syrinx42@yahoo.com
 

See intro for disclaimer, etc.
 

****

Saturday, March 6, 1999
Fox Hunt, Tennessee
 

The dawn was barely perceptible. Gray storm clouds loomed on
the western horizon, combatting the pearly new light in the
east. The weathermen warned commuters to take their umbrellas
to work today, and be sure to dress the kiddies in their
raincoats. It was going to storm today, and bad.

****

7:36 a.m.
112 Elm Street
 

Just before dawn, Scully had finally managed to get some
sleep. She'd lain sprawled across the table, her head pillowed
by Quinn Presslee's records. She'd dreamed of the big man, his
hand coming toward her face over and over, dispassionately
hitting and hitting. She'd woken with a jolt, her neck cramped
and aching, eyes swollen and hot.

Unable to fall back asleep, she'd decided to pay the Mosers
another visit. Maybe in the first light of a new day, they'd
be more cooperative.

She'd arrived as Douglas Moser was leaving for work, putting
in some Saturday overtime to compensate for the hours he'd
missed on Thursday and Friday. Brandy had greeted her and now
the two women sat in the kitchen, sipping weak coffee.

"Doug and me," Brandy said, "we got a special savings account
down at the bank. Every month we put some of Doug's paycheck
in it. It's to pay for Linda to go off to college. Some months
it's harder to get by, but we never miss a deposit in that
account." The woman's lower lip trembled briefly, then her
mouth hardened. "Linda's going to go to college. Hardly anyone
from this shitty little town ever leaves, ever gets away, but
my Linda will. She's smart enough. She's going to go away, and
I hope she never comes back."

Scully gripped her coffee mug. "I had a daughter once," she
said softly.

Brandy looked up at her, wide-eyed. "What happened?" she
whispered.

Usually when she thought of Emily, Scully kept herself under a
tight rein. Now, however, things were different. She'd never
use her dead daughter for personal gain, but she would not
deny herself her emotions this time. "She died."

Brandy Moser's face softened.

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
6:48 a.m.
 

Quinn Presslee woke up early, as he always did. He washed up
in the cracked sink in the corner, then dressed in a clean
T-shirt and the same overalls he'd worn yesterday. He made
himself some eggs for breakfast, whistling tunelessly as the
yolks sizzled in the frying pan. When they were done, he sat
at the table and ate.
 

****

112 Elm Street
7:50 a.m.
 

"What happened to your little girl?" Linda Moser's mother
asked.

Scully drew a deep breath and tried not to hate herself for
the tears running down her face. "She got sick. The doctors
couldn't do anything for her."

"I'm sorry," Brandy said.

The treacherous tears receded, and Scully wiped them away,
wincing as her fingers touched the bruise on the side of her
face. She sipped at her coffee, grateful for the steadiness in
her hands. "Brandy, I don't want you to suffer the same loss
that I did. I don't want anyone to ever go through that, not
if I can help it."

She reached out and laid her hand atop the other woman's. "And
I *can* help it, this time. Let me help you, Brandy."

The young mother nodded through her tears.

"Then help me," Scully urged. "Help me find my partner."

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
7:55 a.m.
 

The knock on the door was faint, and Presslee almost missed
it. Then it came again and a vicious smile crossed his face.

He threw a glance at his semi-conscious captive. "What did I
tell you?" he asked.

****

112 Elm Street
7:58 a.m.
 

"I want to help you," Brandy said, "but..." Her voice trailed
off, and her eyes slid to the side. Her hand left Scully's
grasp.

"But what?" Scully asked.

"If I help you find Quinn, I'll be the reason he goes to
jail," the younger woman said. "Quinn's my only brother. He's
looked after me all my life. I can't just turn my back on him
now." A slight glint of defiance darkened her eyes. "Besides,
at least he's out there doing something."

Scully chewed at her lip and forced herself to stay calm. "I
understand you wanting to protect your brother, Brandy. I know
the feeling -- I have an older brother, too. I know how that
is." She paused. "But Agent Mulder is the one who originally
caught this man. He's the one who put him in jail the first
time. And Agent Mulder is the best way of capturing this man a
second time. If we don't find him first, we may  never find
the man who took your little girl."

Scully lifted her coffee cup, then set it down. "Brandy, I
know you don't want to hear this, but all those other little
girls only lived for three days after being kidnapped. You
realize today is day three for Linda. If we don't find her
today, we won't find her alive at all."

Brandy jerked as if slapped. She turned her head, staring
blindly outside, at the empty swing set in the backyard.
Scully waited, one foot tapping impatiently. Finally the other
woman looked at her again. "Can your partner really find this
man?" she asked.

Scully stared her in the eye. "Yes," she said.

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
8:02 a.m.

The first rumbles of thunder were on the air as Quinn opened
the door to the cabin. The wind was freshening from the west,
and he could smell rain.

The man on the front porch was small and slender, with dark
hair and glasses. He wore a brown jacket over a white shirt
and jeans.  He looked only a few years older than Quinn
himself. His face was round, but his eyes were hard, deep set
and dark brown.

"You the man who's got my Linda?" Quinn asked.

The man nodded.

"I got someone you've been looking for," Presslee said, and
opened the door wider.

****

112 Elm Street
8:15 a.m.
 

Brandy made another pot of coffee, and poured a cup for
herself and for Scully.

"What will happen to Quinn?" she asked.

Scully thought fast. "He'll probably be charged with two
counts of assault on a federal officer," she said. "But if he
cooperates with us, we might be able to drop the kidnapping
charges."

Brandy stared at her, brow furrowed. Scully leaned forward.
"Brandy, kidnapping is a federal offense. It's also one of the
few capital offenses. You can be executed for it. Do you
understand what I mean when I say we could drop those
charges?"

The woman's eyes grew round. "You wouldn't kill him! He's just
trying to help!"

"We won't kill him," Scully replied curtly. She was running
out of patience, but more than ever, she needed to be careful
of what she said and did. Brandy was high-strung now, ready to
bolt at a moment's notice. She had to keep the woman calm,
keep her focused.

"What's important here isn't what will happen to Quinn," she
said. "What's important is getting your daughter back safely.
Everything else is only secondary."

"Not to me," Brandy said stubbornly, but her eyes wavered, and
the hands gripping her mug trembled.

"Where is Quinn?" Scully asked softly.

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
8:10 a.m.
 

There were voices surrounding him. Some were talking, and one
of them was whimpering, a soft sound with every other
exhalation of breath. But the voices and the whimpers were far
off, of no consequence; they couldn't reach him.

There was pain out there, too. Bad pain. He didn't want to
feel that, or hear those voices any clearer, so he hunkered
down where he was and tried to make himself small. Maybe the
pain would miss him that way, and pass right over him.

Then one of the voices spoke in his ear, close and sinister.
"Hello, Fox," the voice said.

Reluctantly, Mulder opened his eyes and re-entered the world.

****

112 Elm Street
8:17 a.m.
 

"I wish I knew," Brandy said, shaking her head.

Scully got up from her chair; her disappointment was so keen
she could not sit still. She paced the linoleum floor. "What
do you mean, you don't know?"

"I don't," Brandy said defensively. "It's not like he called,
or anything. He knows you'll be looking for him."

She was still protecting her brother, Scully realized. In two
quick strides she crossed the kitchen and knelt in front of
Brandy. "Listen to me," she cried. "Your brother will be fine!
I give you my word on that. Nothing will happen to him. Just
tell me where I can find my partner!"

****

8:21 a.m.

Outside, it began to rain, softly at first, then with
increasing violence. The wind grew, whipping the trees,
bending them nearly in half before snapping them back. Thunder
rumbled more insistently now, and on the horizon, the first
strobes of lightning lit the sky.

****

Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin
8:25 a.m.
 

Mulder was awake now, wide awake and terribly aware.  Yet the
pulsing agony of his body was pushed to the background. He was
too shocked by what he saw. Presslee had done it. He had
gotten Monty Propps to come.

Propps stood in front of him, watching him the way a man would
watch a football game on TV, half with amusement, and half
with rapt attention. He seemed genuinely interested in what he
saw.

"Well?" Quinn could not stay in the background any longer. "I
got him for you. Even roughed him up a bit for you, too, since
I figured that's what you'd want." He made a sound that was
supposed to be a self-deprecating cough. "So how 'bout it?
How's about you giving me back my niece now? You take him and
we'll call it even. How's that sound?"

Propps blinked. "I think..." he said slowly.

"Run," Mulder croaked, to Quinn. "He's going to kill you."
Presslee frowned at him.

Propps reached under his coat, a movement that Quinn could not
see. He pulled out a gun and turned around, firing as he did
so. The bullet caught Presslee high in the forehead, spinning
him around as he fell to the ground, back arching and hands
clawing at the air. He landed with a sick thud. For a grisly
second his body continued to convulse, then he lay still.

Mulder licked his lips as Propps put the gun back under his
coat and turned back to face him.  "What now?" he asked.

Propps smiled, a mere thinning of his lips. His eyes didn't
change at all. "Now," he said, "we talk."

****

112 Elm Street
8:28 a.m.
 

Brandy Moser reacted to Scully's loss of control with one of
her own. She leaped from her chair. "I don't care about your
partner!" she shouted. "All I want is my little girl back!"

"Then help me!" Scully cried. "Tell me where I can find your
brother." She took a menacing step toward the blond woman. "If
you don't, Brandy, your little girl dies. Is that something
you want on your conscience for the rest of your life?"

Brandy flinched and went white as a sheet. Tears spilled down
her cheeks. She took a step backward, shaking her head. "I
want my little girl," she wept.

"Where's Quinn?" Scully asked, heartlessly refusing to give in
to her urge to comfort the crying woman.

Brandy bowed her head and wrapped her arms around herself. "I
don't know," she sobbed. "He may be at the cabin he uses for
hunting. That's the only place I can think of."

"Where is it?" S