Summary: How do you catch a killer when the only witness is a 89 year old nursing home resident who sees the murders on her broken television? Rating: R for violence and gross and disgusting medical stuff Category: X A UST Keywords: Mulder Torture Spoilers: Mentions of season four and season three. Surgeon General's Warning: This product is cancer free Archive: Please post anywhere, including the newsgroup. Author's Notes: Hi. This is what happens when you start talking on e-mail :) Kristina came up with the idea, and kept coming up with the ideas, I put it all in English (as opposed to Swenglish--which I am becoming quite proficient in :) and here it is. We'd love comments, and we put our addy's in each part, so you have no excuse whatsoever :) Getting Old by Vickie Moseley and Kristina Johansson vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com Disclaimed in part one FBI Academy Training Center Quantico, VA Dec. 9, 1997 11:45 am WHUMP! Fox Mulder's 6 foot frame hit the mat with a resounding thud. For a second, all air rushed out of his lungs and he lay there, dazed. But just for a second. His eyesight clearing, he saw the ash blonde hair of the defensive combat instructor as she leaned over him. "Are you all right, Agent Mulder?" she asked, seriously concerned. The poor woman looked like she thought she might have just killed him. "I'm fine," he assured her and tried to verify that statement by pulling up into a sitting position. His vision darkened and he blinked rapidly to escape the dizziness. "Just fine," he said, but it was more to convince himself than the instructor. The barely stifled chuckle from the doorway gave him the incentive to get the rest of the way to his feet and shake off the various aches and pains. "Laugh it up, Scully. Your time's coming," Mulder growled, and pushed away the young instructor's arms as she attempted to help him to the nearby bench. "You older guys need to come in for retraining more often," the instructor, whose jumpsuit identified her as Agent Collins, said firmly and handed him a water bottle. He returned her remark with a glare that could have fused rock. "Yes, Agent Collins, I think you're right. Why don't you see if we can't get that included in the annual review," Scully chimed in from the doorway. Mulder shot her a look to keep out of it, but she merely grinned in response. "Maybe even _twice_ a year. The 'older guys' get soft so easily--and then they get hurt in the field." "I'm hitting the showers," Mulder hissed, knowing that to try and argue the point, or even just defend himself, would only lead to a knock down argument with his partner that he was certain to lose. "Be careful. You know how many falls happen in the shower room?" Collins called to his retreating back. From her position at the doorway, only Scully could discern the well hidden extended middle finger that Mulder shot at the young woman as he disappeared into the locker room. He could hear his partner's laughter through the closed door. Dana Scully was leaning against the wall in the hallway when Mulder emerged, hair damp from the shower. She was still grinning. "Boy, Mulder, that was quite a show. Maybe we should get you _two_ ankle holsters, since hand to hand isn't likely to save your life in the near future," she teased. "She caught me off guard," he mumbled as they moved down the hall. "How was the autopsy?" he said a little louder, obviously changing the subject. "Cut and dried," Scully said with a decided twinkle in her blue eyes. He moaned in reply. Scully had been brought in to autopsy a corpse that had been found in the Mojave desert--it was practically petrified. His partner was feeling her oats, he could tell. "Actually, it appears that this one can be chalked up to Vinnie DeMarco, that Vegas hit man that the VCS put away a few years back. Guy had been out there at least 8 years. It was too easy. It had his signature all over it. I still don't know why they had to call me in," she sighed. "Because you're the best pathologist they have?" her partner offered. "More likely they called me because it _was_ easy. They still expect me to start bleeding all over the building and keel over," she shot back. He smiled at her. "Give 'em time, Scully. Besides, as long as Skinner let's us follow our own cases, who cares what the rest of the Bureau thinks?" Secretly, he was still having a bit of a hard time realizing that his partner was no longer under a death sentence. Her tumor had been gone for only a few months, but she was almost oblivious of the terror they had both had at the prospects of her death. Just like the last time I almost lost her, Mulder reminded himself for the hundredth time. "Well, I'll be all too happy to get out in the field. I can't imagine what they'll come up with for me next, but I don't intend to stick around here and find out," she answered and with a smile, held the door open for him. "Age before beauty," she grinned. "Just for that, you're buying lunch," he grinned in return and led her out to the parking lot. Lunch was a quick stop at Hardees on the way to Washington's National Airport. As they were leaving Scully's car in short term parking, she had a chance to quiz Mulder about their newest case. "OK, you promised to bring me up to date on this case since last night and you keep finding a way to avoid the subject. What is it, Mulder? If it involves woodland areas, you better start running," she said in mock warning. "Now, Scully--did I tell you to bring your hiking boots? You know me better than that. As a matter of fact, we are heading to a very civilized area. Belleville, Illinois. No forests, but lots of corn and soybeans," he grinned. "Mulder, I already know _where_ we're going," Scully said, no longer hiding her exasperation. "I want the _why_!" He ignored her question as they made their way through the security checks and over to the boarding lounge. Finally realizing that he could put it off no longer, he sat down, patted the chair next to him and opened his briefcase. When she was comfortably seated, he handed her a file folder. "It came in last night. The ASAC in St. Louis, Jeff Andrews took the call from the locals, even though technically it belongs to the guys in Springfield. Anyway, I went to the Academy with Jeff and he took one look and called me." Scully was listening with only half an ear. "According to this report filed by the police, this woman, Mrs. Roberta Cravins, claims that she has witnessed four murders in the last five months." Mulder nodded, digging into his coat pocket for his bag of seeds. "Yeah, but the tricky part is, Mrs. Cravins is 89 years old and happens to live in a nursing home. She's been confined to her bed since a year ago last April when she suffered a stroke that left her paralyzed on her left side." "So how could she--" "She claims she sees them on her television. Like they were featured on the evening news," Mulder replied with a shrug. "Except by all accounts of the staff, Mrs. Cravins television has been on the fritz lately and gets only snow." "She's obviously delusional," Scully concluded, crossing her arms in her usual defiant manner. "Well, you might be right, Scully. Except Jeff Andrews says that four bodies turned up, each one only two days or sooner after Mrs. Cravins 'visions', each one exactly matching her description--right down to the socks," Mulder said. He was trying hard to be casual, but he could tell that she was making the same connections he had when he'd first heard of the case. It was disturbingly similar to the case of a mentally handicapped janitor at a bowling alley. A case where both he and his partner were frighteningly aware of Scully's mortality, and her seemingly fatal illness. Scully's eyes clouded over for a moment, but she shoved the thoughts from her mind. He was amazed, really, at how she could do that so effortlessly. He'd spent the night tossing and turning, worrying about how he was going to deal with telling her about the case. She, on the other hand, was not going to let it throw her. "Mulder, we've seen this sort of thing before. It's just too easily explained by coincidence. And besides, is this another serial at work? Are the murders related in any way?" "Aside from Mrs. Cravins, no. They aren't related. And that is what has the Bureau in St. Louis stumped. The murderer, or murderers as the case may be, seem to have no identifiable signature, no identifiable target and no identifiable motive. It just don't add up," he concluded. "But Mrs. Cravins has assured Jeff that another body will turn up in the next day or two. And she's convinced that all these people are being murdered by the same person." "So let's get her to sit down with the mug books and pick out our UNSUB," Scully insisted. "Were it that easy. She hasn't actually seen his face. She says--" "She says what, Mulder? Come on, it can't get any worse that it already is," she encouraged. His grin turned slightly embarrassed. "She says--he smells funny. Each time he kills, he smells the same." Scully was trying hard not to let her mouth gap open. "And how does he smell?" she asked, her voice betraying her amusement. "Like a horsebarn. In the springtime," he said and shrugged. "I can't wait to collar him," Scully answered with a wrinkled nose. Just then, the public address system announced the boarding of their flight. Scully jumped to her feet, anxious to gather her purse, laptop and carry on, as well as her winter coat. Mulder was much slower raising out of his seat and gasped, then grabbed his back. His actions were not unnoticed by Scully. "Mulder? You OK?" she asked, taking his arm where he was rubbing his back. He gave her a scowl. "Yeah, my back is just reminding me how I hit that mat this morning," he said. When she wouldn't let go of his arm, he shrugged out of her grasp. "Scully, it's nothing. I'm just recovering from retraining," he assured her. "Look, I'll go to the motel and soak in the shower. I'll be fine by morning. Honest." She finally seemed placated. "I guess you're right, Mulder. And I promise not to make any more 'old' jokes. I don't want to give you an excuse to ride me when I go through retraining," she said with a smile. It was cold at Lambert Field in St. Louis when they touched down. The wind out of the north rocked the tunnel that lead to the passenger lounge. Mulder cocked his head and scanned the awaiting crowd, finally resting his eyes on his old friend. He lifted a hand and waved. Jeff Andrews waved back and headed over, hand extended in greeting. "Good Grief, Mulder, it was nice outside until you showed up," he teased affably. Jeff was about Mulder's height, with light brown hair and gray green eyes. His face was handsome, but not drop dead gorgeous. Still, Scully remembered Mulder telling her that Andrews was married and he and his wife were intent on putting together a football team--they were well on their way with four little boys already. "Hi, Jeff," Mulder said, shaking his hand and smiling big enough to light up a few city blocks. "You're looking good." "Yeah, well, if Kathy doesn't quit with the Christmas baking, I'm gonna kill myself trying to keep my weight down," he replied with a grin. "You bachelors don't have to worry about that stuff, though, right? I mean, you can spend all your off time in the gym, making sure you maintain that 'babe magnet' physique." "Yeah, well, let's not talk about 'gyms' right now," Mulder deftly changed the subject. "Jeff, this is my partner, Dana Scully. Scully, this is Jeff. And only half of what I told you on the plane was true. He's actually much worse than I let on." Scully shook his hand. "I've heard a lot about you, and not all of it from Mulder," she assured the other agent. "Youngest ASAC in the midwest region, building quite a reputation dealing with the financial industry in St. Louis. You're getting a name for yourself in DC," she noted. Jeff blushed. "Aw, enough about you, let's talk about me," he joked. "Naw, really, I'm having a good time. I always thought I'd hate being in a position of authority. Remember, Mulder? We had that suicide pact if they ever tried to make us ride a desk? But it's not that bad. Sometimes, it has it's uses." He looked over at his friend. "And to be real honest, there are people in my office who think of you two as riding the same tradewinds as Pecos Bill and Paul Bunyan," he smirked. Mulder winced and Scully tried not to laugh. "I'm serious. The 'Spooky' stories are out there and getting larger than life! Don't be surprised if you get asked for your autograph while you're in the office." "Make a note, we stay out of the office as much as possible," Mulder whispered to Scully as they started toward baggage claim. "You got that right," she whispered in return. Jeff insisted that the two travelers eat with his family. Mulder had been best man at Jeff and Kathy's wedding, but really hadn't kept in touch. Kathy was happy to see them and set out a meal to feed them for weeks. "I've been in a cooking mood," she explained to Scully. Scully watched in amazement as dinner was on the table and four little tow headed boys appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Food was eaten, plates were cleaned, dessert was served and the dishes cleared with the precision of a military campaign. "I have to hand it to you, you sure know how to feed an army," Scully complimented Kathy. "Aw, it's not that hard. You just wait. When you and that partner of yours settle down, you'll see how easy it is. You just have to train them right--at the beginning. See how Jeff helps clean the table? His mother assured me he was a complete klutz in the kitchen. She just never gave him a chance. Not my boys, they're learning how to cook now." Scully was glad Kathy didn't notice the decided flush that she felt in her cheeks when she'd mentioned her partner and 'settling down'. "Kathy, about Mulder and I-- I mean, we're _not_ . . ." she stammered as she helped load plates in the dishwasher. Kathy smiled brightly. "Oh, Dana, I didn't mean you two were sleeping together or anything! I know Mulder better than that. He loves you. He's not the kind to take advantage of you before you are both ready. But I can see it in your eyes. I know you'll end up together." She turned so that she couldn't read the look on Dana's face, and the agent was eternally grateful. That a stranger could somehow know so much about them by just looking at them for an evening unnerved Scully. And the subject was one that was often in her mind in the past months. "I just have a feeling about it. Call it a 'sixth sense' or 'woman's intuition'. I'm very good with these things. So I won't be at all surprised when we get the wedding invitation. But until then, I won't say a word to Jeff or Mulder. Men just don't understand these things." Scully was more than happy to turn the conversation to the topic of men and what they did and didn't understand until the kitchen was in order and the two went to join the 'men' in the family room. Jeff arranged for a Bureau car for his friend and gave them directions to the motel where they would be staying. He made a point of assuring Scully that _he_ had picked out the motel, not Mulder. It was on the Illinois side of the Mississippi, in Belleville and just built. She smiled her gratitude. The ride to the motel was quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Scully was trying hard not to think about what Kathy had said, but the idea kept popping up in her mind. Mulder was busy going over the facts of the four murders that Jeff had told him about. "Scully, every wonder what makes a serial killer?" he asked, out of the blue. She shook her head, at a loss for words. "I don't know, Mulder. I would have to say that the scientific evidence is pointing to a genetic defect or a chemical imbalance. Something physiological that negates the basic tendency of human nature to avoid preying on it's own kind. In the serial killer, studies have shown--" He cut her off with a wave. "I know the studies, Scully. I helped write the protocols for a couple of them. And they are all nice and tidy. But I don't think we're going to come to a day when we can tell who is going to be a killer simply on the basis of a blood test. There is more to it than that." "So what are you asking?" she inquired, knowing full well that his original question had been more of a jumping off point for him and not a real question. "What if there is something beyond the normal in a serial killer?" He glanced over and could see her shoulder's tense. "Now, before you get out the armor for a battle of wills, Scully, hear me out. Suppose that serial killers exert a sort of, well, I hate to use the word psychic--" "Why let it bother you now?" she asked with a sarcastic grin. He put a hand over his heart. "You wound me," he whined in mock agony. Then he grew serious. "Scully, I've been there. Inside their minds. They don't work like we do. They _think_ differently than we do. It was Einstein who said humans only use 10 percent of their brain power. What if a serial killer actually uses _more_ brain than we do? More than we give him credit for." "Which would make him that much harder to catch," Scully pointed out, hoping her didn't notice her shudder. She didn't like the haunted look that had come to her partner's eyes. "But the reality is that they _do_ make mistakes, Mulder. In the end, most serial killers are crying out to be caught. Each and everyone of them. 'Catch me before I kill again.'--You know that as well as I do. They make mistakes and we catch them. So I don't think there is psychic powers involved." She looked up and noticed the turn off for their motel. "I think we take this exit," she directed him. "I hope you're right, Scully," he said, just barely aloud. She knew he was referring to more than just the road. ------- He'd spend half an hour in the shower, water close to boiling before the ache had left his back. Mulder toweled off, dragged on a pair of sweats and fallen into the almost comfortable bed, asleep within minutes. What really amazed him was the fact that he slept through the night--a feat usually reserved for his visits to Intensive Care and large doses of morphine. He woke up in the morning feeling pretty good. The first fingers of sunlight were marking the horizon and the pavement looked dry enough to indulge in a good run. He enjoyed his runs in winter, as long as he remembered to bring his woolen cap and gloves that Scully had gotten him a past Christmas. He dressed appropriate for the temperature--21 degrees and was pulling on his shoes when his back decided to change his plans. As he straightened up, a shooting pain that started just above his hip, radiated all the way up his left side coming to an abrupt halt at his shoulder. He froze in position, not wanting a repeat performance of the pain. "Damn that retraining," he huffed. He was certain that it was the hour spent in the gym with that 'Miss Body Building' wannabe Collins that had resulted in a sprain in his back. "Just what I don't need," he groused. Slowly rising to his feet, he noted that the pain wasn't that bad when he was leaning over more slowly and he could lift his foot up to the bed to tie his shoe. One thing was certain--he was NOT going to tell his partner. Scully was a mother hen in normal times, but since her own recent hospitalizations, she'd become positively smothering in her ministrations. Just a month earlier, she'd driven him home and forced him to stay there for the day just because he'd been running a low fever. He'd conveniently stolen, and tossed, the thermometer from her desk, but he was certain that once the theft was uncovered, she'd simply replace the offending item. Even so, he wasn't going to take any chances with her deciding that he needed to go home at the beginning of a new case. The case had him puzzled. It wasn't so much that he didn't believe Mrs. Cravins. From all reports, she appeared to be completely forthright and very possibly extremely gifted, psychically. But the fact that each of the murders had been done in a different manner, a different murder weapon, under seemingly unrelated circumstances--that had him concerned. Serial killers were nothing if not predictable. He'd learned that early in his time under Bill Patterson. By and large, the killer used the murder of an individual as their statement to the world. And they tended to be boring in those statements. The murder weapon was always the same, be it knife, rope, piano wire, whatever. The presentation of the body, whether there was abuse before or after the death, all of these things could be traced from the first victim to the last. In some cases, there were refinements, additions, but these were by and large subtle in nature. Even the vampires he'd hunted in Los Angeles had used the same brand of hypodermic syringes to extract the blood from their victims. Here, the only connecting link was an 89 year old nursing home resident with a faulty picture tube. The first body had been found just under the I-55 overpass in East St. Louis. It had been chalked up to gang activity--the heart and the tongue of the hapless victim, Mr. Kevin Anderson, had been hacked out with a boning knife. But Mrs. Cravins had told Detective David Moser of the Belleville PD that he would find a nice man from Chatham, Illinois, dead, under the bypass. She informed him of this two days before the body was discovered. Mr. Anderson's car was later retrieved from the River, some five miles downstream. He'd been on his way to the airport and was only passing through when his car had been forced off the road and he had been car jacked. Two weeks later, Mrs. Cravins called Det. Moser again and told him that he would find a St. Louis man murdered in his motel room in Fairview Heights. A bullet wound to the head. She even gave the room number. It wasn't until the police found that the murder weapon was missing that anyone suspected it hadn't been a suicide. Mr. Ted Edwards had been depressed for weeks and his estranged wife was suing for total custody of their children. But according to Mrs. Cravins, the 'Horseman' killed him. Jane Goldman was next. A nurse at Barnes hospital, she'd been on her way home to Maryville, Illinois after working the late shift when she'd stopped at the 7-11 for a blue raspberry slurpee. She was later found strangled, in the alley, just as Mrs. Cravins had predicted--twenty-four hours before. The Horseman, according to Mrs. Cravins, had used the strapping plastic from a refrigerator box in the alley to kill her. Again, there were no prints on the body. The most recent murder victim, James Hatfield, had been murdered in his car, in the parking lot of the Shrine of Our Lady of the Snows, in Belleville. He had been waiting for the early Mass when someone had bludgeoned him to death with the snow shovel he kept in his trunk during the winter. Mrs. Cravins even described the carved cherry Rosary that was clutched in the elderly man's hands at the time of his death. This time, the Horseman had used gloves to conceal his prints. Mulder had already memorized the files he'd received from Jeff. What he needed was to speak to Mrs. Cravins, go out and see the murder sites, try to get into this sick-o's mind. It wasn't something he looked forward to, but he knew it was a necessity. The sooner they got this guy behind bars, the sooner he and Scully could go back to the office and find a nice, sane ghost haunting to investigate. He recognized her knock on the door and smiled. He didn't need to look at his watch, it was 7:30. Scully, the punctual. He silently wondered if that was a genetic trait in his partner, or if it had been instilled in her by a Naval father and all those priests and nuns who molded her in her early years. Whatever the cause, it was a trait that he very much appreciated. She knocked again when he took too long to answer the door. He pulled the door open and waved her in. "Did you go out for your run?" she asked. How in the world does she do that, he mused. Sometimes, he wondered if she had eyes in the back of her head, too. "No. I forgot my watch cap and the wind chill sounded nasty this morning. I'll do some laps in the pool later if we have time." "How's the back feeling?" she asked, and he didn't miss the fact that she was in full 'doctor mode' when she said it. "Terrific," he lied. "Not a problem. The shower last night and this morning really helped loosen the muscles." Stop now before you start blubbering and tell her all the gory details, he ordered himself. "Whatever," she shrugged. "Come on. We have just enough time to get some breakfast before we're supposed to be at the nursing home at 9." Walnut Valley Retirement Home Belleville, Illinois Dec. 10, 10:15 am Mulder fidgeted on the metal folding chair he'd been sitting on for the last hour and fifteen minutes and attempted not to drop either the coffee cup or the oatmeal raisin cookie he was holding. He glanced over at Scully and was immediately jealous that he hadn't nabbed the chair close to the windowsill, as his partner had. She'd set up shop over by the window, giving herself somewhere to put the food forced upon them by their 'hostess' and still get out her notebook to jot down what the woman was saying. Mrs. Cravins--Bert to her friends--was not a small woman by any means. Mulder surmised that she would probably come close to looking him straight in the eye, if they were standing toe to toe. Her hair was shock white, and had recently been curled and set. It was obvious that all the fuss over her 'visions' were giving her the only visitors the poor woman had entertained in years. "Now, I wish I could tell you more about the Horseman," she sighed. "I know that's what you need. But you have to understand--it's just like a news report. And when I see the poor person who's been murdered, I guess it's like the Horseman is the cameraman. That's why I can't see his face. But that smell--I can smell him! Which is why I knew they didn't get my TV fixed like they tried to tell me," she added with a grim look. "They tried to tell me that I was seein' things, too, but that's a lie." "Mrs. Cravins, have you ever had this 'ability' before?" Mulder asked politely. "Why, shoot, yes. I've always had the 'sight'. Oh, it was on little things. Back when the lottery came in, oh, must have been '74 or '75--now wait, it was Dan Walker in the Governor's office so would have been '74-well I picked those numbers left and right." Mulder couldn't stop the smile that broke out on his face at this revelation. "Course, I never played. Gamblin's the devils work. Mr. Cravins, God rest his soul, the only gamblin' that man ever did was farmin' and that was gamblin' enough for the both of us. So I just made a game of it--I'd write down the numbers and hide 'em, then watch and see if I was right. Did that up till Jeffy, that's my grandson, came over to help with the mowin' and found the slip of paper and snuck out to play those numbers. He was just turned 18 and he won, the little whippersnapper! Won $25,000. His ma, my daughter, was madder than a wet hen at him, but his pa, her husband Bill that is, not that lazy no account she's married to now, he said it was God's way of getting Jeffy to college and we should just take the money and be grateful. But I stopped playin' my little game. Don't want to lead one of my own to the devil--that's for sure!" "Did you ever witness any murders--before, when you were younger?" Scully asked, keeping a straight face that Mulder knew was about to kill her. Her eyes were positively dancing at the old woman's stories. "Well, there was once. I was just a girl then." She looked over to Scully and smiled. "I _was_ a girl once, you know," she added with a laugh. "Anyway, there was this man move into our little town of Rushville. Said he was a Veteran of World War One and would go to the farms and try to sign on as a hand. It was the depression and times were lean, I tell ya. Well, suddenly, old Mrs. Wilkins--she was the fifth grade teacher when I went to school, nice woman, but a tad on the senile side even when I had her--she up and disappeared. They didn't have nursing homes back then, you understand. We took in our own when they got old. Not like now--" she said wistfully and sighed. "Anyway, some thought she wandered off and there was a big hunt. I had a vision and I told Mr. Cravins--we were just going steady at the time. He went to where I told him and sure enough, he found the body. But it scared him so. He was afraid that people might take advantage of me, if they knew I had the gift. So he told the Sheriff that he was lookin' for morels in the woods and found her. She'd been stabbed through the heart with a pair of her own knittin' needles. Well, later, they arrested that man and found out that he'd never been overseas. He was a criminal and had been in jail during the war." "What about now, Mrs. Cravins? Have you had any visions since that last one about Mr. Hatfield?" Mulder asked. Mrs. Cravins looked up at her television. "No, nothing that I can see." Mulder finished his cookie and reached into his pocket, withdrawing his business card. "Here is my number. It's a cell phone and I always have it on. Please, the minute you have any more 'visions', call me. Agent Scully and I will be here as fast as we can." He handed her the card and their hands brushed. Mrs. Cravins looked at him intently. "You're not well, child. You need to see a doctor." Mulder's eyes grew wide and he stammered in protest. "No, Mrs. Cravins, I'm fine. I'm not sick," he assured her. Her eyes creased in a frown. "Just like Mr. Cravins. Men are so stubborn." She turned to Scully. "You get him to a doctor, honey. He might not be hurtin' now, but he will soon enough, I promise!" Mulder stuffed his offending hand in his pocket and bolted for the door. Scully took the time to shake the old woman's hand. "Well, thank you, Mrs. Cravins. For the cookies and the information. We appreciate it." "No trouble at all, honey, no trouble at all. Take care of him, he needs you. Oh, and I'm awful glad you're feeling better. Don't let those men lie to you. They're the devil's disciples and they'll lie and kill and no one's gonna stop 'em--'cept you." Scully found her partner waiting in the car in the parking lot. "So, Mulder, bet you could break that four minute mile today, the way you took off," she teased. "I remembered I forgot something in the car," he mumbled. "Is there something you aren't telling me, Mulder? And I only ask because of your reaction, not because I believe that Mrs. Cravins can tell by touching you that you're sick." Mulder sighed. "I pulled my back. I think I might have sprained it." "Yesterday?" Scully asked. He nodded grimly. "Does it hurt now?" He shook his head. "Only when I bend a certain way. That's why I didn't go for my run this morning. Scully, I'm fine, really." She smiled at his concern. "Mulder, you're getting older. We both are. You'll have little aches and pains. I get little aches and pains. We'll just make sure that you don't go jumping on any moving trains while we're here. But I'm glad you told me. I need to know when you aren't feeling one hundred percent." "Oh, you mean like all the times you tell me?" he asked innocently and she closed her eyes and dropped her head. "I'm sorry, Scully, it just slipped out," he apologized. She looked up at him. "Maybe you're right, Mulder. We do need to tell each other more about how we're feeling. I admit, I don't do it enough, either. So I'll start. If you don't get this car in gear and get me to a gas station, I won't be responsible for the flood--I just had four cups of coffee in an hour and a half and I desperately need a pit stop." "That makes two of us," he grinned and started the car. After a quick stop for gas and other things, the two agents made their way to the Belleville Police Department. Belleville was actually a good sized city, and the police station was large and efficient. In minutes, they were sitting in a conference room, waiting for Det. Moser. They didn't have to wait long. A tall young man, late twenties, with reddish brown hair and a multitude of freckles entered the room and extended his hand in greeting. "Hi, I'm Dave Moser. You must be Agent Mulder," he said, shaking Mulder's hand. "This my partner, Agent Scully," Mulder said, nodding toward her. "Nice to meet you. I gotta tell you, this one has my Chief ready to pull his hair out. He was all set to chalk it up to random occurrences, I mean, St. Louis and vicinity have their share of murders each year. But with Ms. Bert and her predictions--" "Do you know Mrs. Cravins, I mean, other than involving the case?" Scully asked. "Oh, sure. Ms. Bert--why everybody knows Ms. Bert. She and her husband owned one of the largest farms in Madison County. Why, her son-in-law is the Sheriff of Madison County. Well, at least he's married to her daughter," Moser said with a smirk. "Not a lot of love lost between those two." "Is that why she called you with her 'visions' and not her son in law?" Scully interrupted. "You got that straight. Ms. Bert wouldn't call Henry Baker if she'd seen a vision of a nuclear attack. She'd find some way of telling Trudy, that's her daughter, but Henry--she'd let him fry," Moser said with a grin. "But I went to school with Trudy's youngest boy, Billy, and well, Ms. Bert and Mr. Charlie were always having us out for dinner or a bonfire or a hay ride. She was quite the hostess back in those days," he said fondly. "Do you really think she has psychic abilities?" Scully asked with a frown. "Look, I know out here in middle America we're all supposed to be Bible thumping members of the NRA who get up early on Sunday so we can watch the big haired preachers. But I went to college at Stanford. I'm not one to fall into any soothsaying-claryvoiant, mind that can bend a spoon kind of crap. But Ms. Bert, she's been dead on the money every time. I thought it was just coincidence the first time. By the fourth time, if she calls me, the dispatcher gets me out of the john, you know what I mean." Mulder nodded in agreement. "Do you think you could show us the crime scenes?" Moser hesitated. "I can show the last one. We have jurisdiction over the Shrine. But we need to notify Sheriff Baker if we go out to the other sites. And he won't be happy. He thinks all this is hogwash. Thank heavens there's a Democrat in the White House," he sighed. "What do you mean?" Mulder asked, confused. "Well, if there was a Republican in the White House, he wouldn't give you two the time of day," Moser explained. "Just tell him Ms. Reno sent you, and you'll be fine," he added with a wry grin. "We'll be sure to do that," Scully said with a returning smile. Shrine of Our Lady of the Snows Belleville, Illinois 11:00 am "The car was parked over here," Det. Moser explained as the two agents walked around the vacant parking lot. He was pointing to a spot within easy walk of the front door of the Chapel. "It's about 100 feet to that line of tress, Mulder," Scully commented, shielding her eyes to look against the sun to the forested area near the lot. "I guess he could have snuck up from over there." Mulder frowned. "But if Mr. Hatfield was the only one in the parking lot, wouldn't he have seen someone coming across the parking lot?" "I suppose so," Scully admitted. "But if he'd been praying . . ." "He wouldn't have noticed a murderer get into his trunk, remove a shovel, open the back door and whack him on the head?" Mulder asked, slightly incredulous. "Some people concentrate pretty hard when they pray, Mulder. I know we used to get by with a lot in Church on Sunday if Mom got out her Rosary," Scully smiled in return. "I knew there was more to this 'goody-two shoes' act of yours, Scully," Mulder shot back. "No, my guess is either the Horseman came from back here, in Mr. Hatfield's blind spot," he said, pointing to the area to the back and left of the car, "or the Horseman didn't appear to be a threat. Maybe Mr. Hatfield knew him." "Does that mean the others knew him, too?" Det. Moser asked. "Good question," Mulder said with a grin. "Let's go look at the other crime scenes and see if we can figure that out." Det. Moser made the call to the Madison County Sheriff's Department. It was obvious that the Sheriff took the call, and even more obvious that he didn't want to have the 'Feds' looking into the matter, but finally, Moser was able to set up a meeting and arrange to go to other sites. In the meantime, the agents and the detective decided to go get lunch. Det. Moser stopped at a Ruby Tuesdays, not far from the Sheriff's office. Scully approved, Mulder was noncommittal. All the getting in and out of the car had started the ache in his back and he wasn't really in the mood to eat. He wanted to get out to the crime scenes and start putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Scully, of course, had different ideas. "It won't kill you to eat," she chided as they sat with their menus. "Look, they have Rueben's." "I'll just have iced tea," he muttered and put the menu down He ignored Scully's raised eyebrow and steely glare. Detective Moser conveniently decided to visit the restroom, leaving the partners alone. When they were alone, Scully played with her napkin a moment and then spoke. "Mulder, you are not going to start this, are you? I mean the first couple of years it was cute, but it's getting old, you know," Scully said evenly. "Start what?" he asked, honestly surprised by her question. "Everytime we get a serial murder case, you slowly go off the deep end. You start by not eating. Then, you stop sleeping. By the end of the case, you are on the verge of collapse and I have to practically carry you back home." She was glaring at him now. "Scully, I'm not starting anything. I had a big breakfast and all those cookies and all that coffee--I'm just not hungry yet. I'm f--" "Say it and die, Mulder," she warned. "I'm tired of you saying 'I'm fine'." "Then what do you want me to say, Scully?" he asked angrily. "That I'll try real hard not to become a zombie on this case and I'll eat at least three times a day and I'll sleep at least 6 hours a night? Shit, it's like Patterson, all over again! He was on us all the time, but the work still had to be done. What happens if I sleep only 5 hours one night--you gonna ship me back home? I have one mother already, Scully--I'm not in the market for another one!" He knew he was hitting too close to the bone, but he just couldn't stop himself. It wasn't his fault that she was feeling overprotective. He hadn't changed--she had and he wasn't in the mood. Scully wouldn't have looked more shocked if he'd slapped her. But she recovered quickly. "Fine, Mulder," she said icily. "Don't worry. I'll stay out of your hair. But don't you DARE come to me when you get sick, because I don't want to hear it! Is that clear?" she stormed and left for the ladies room before he even had a chance to answer the last question. Det. Moser was standing back, looking a little sheepish. "Uh, I can leave again, if you want," he offered. Mulder chuckled grimly. "No, please, sit down. I'm sorry we had to put on that little scene. She's a medical doctor and a pathologist. Since the only bodies she gets to work on are dead--well, I'm the closest living being she has to hover over." "We have a Sergeant back at the station. If she catches you putting too many sugars in your coffee, well, your butt's in the wringer for weeks," Moser replied knowingly. "Still, it never hurts to keep your partner happy," he pointed out. "Yeah, you're probably right," Mulder admitted and picked up the menu again. Maybe he could placate Scully by ordering a stuffed baked potato. It was the only thing he could see that didn't make him want to throw up. Mulder ordered a baked potato and played with it while the other two ate their soup and salads. Scully made a point not to look at him during the meal and said no more than two words the rest of the time they were at the restaurant. Mulder closed his eyes and decided he'd have to figure out a way to get on her good side or this case was going to end up looking like a misalignment of the planets again. Before they left, he made a quick stop at the restroom At least, he'd hoped it would be a quick stop. As soon as he started attending to his business, he realized it might take more time. He hadn't felt such a burning sensation in a long time, not since he'd bruised a kidney in a fight with a perp. It hurt like hell to relieve himself and he had a hard time just standing. "You've gone and done it this time," he assured himself in the silent restroom. He didn't think he'd hit the mat hard enough to do internal damage, however it sure felt like it now. But he didn't dare, to use her words, go back out and ask Scully if she could take a look at his back and check for bruising. After she was done running him over with their rental, she'd probably laugh in his face. No, that was not an option. "Besides, what did they do that last time?" he quizzed himself. As he remembered, the doctor at the ER had made him give a urine sample--a very unpleasant experience at the time, checked it for protein and blood, then handed him some Tylenol with codeine and sent him on his way with orders to 'rest'. Yeah, right. Maybe sometime in the distant future, he groused. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and found an ibuprofen, slightly lint covered, that he popped into his mouth with a palmful of water, washed up and went back out just in time to pick up the check. I-55 overpass East St. Louis, Illinois 4:45 pm Mulder got out of the car slowly. He wanted nothing more than to stretch the kink out of his spine, but since the pain had left about two hours ago, he was being extra careful in his movements. And all the time, Scully had been shooting him little looks. He hated it when she did that. It didn't help that the words of old Mrs. Cravins, a true psychic by his own evaluation, kept coming back to haunt him. "Get to a doctor," she told him. It couldn't be that bad, he'd only been dropped to a practice mat. Then again, if you fall right, he had to admit, you can still do some serious damage. He wandered over to where the Deputy Sheriff was pointing out the location of the body. That was something else burning at him--the anger he felt toward Sheriff Henry Baker. Mrs. Cravins opinion not withstanding, he found the Sheriff to be a pain in the ass. At least the man had finally agreed to allow a deputy to escort them to the crime scenes. And that was only after Scully had offered to get him a color photo of the Attorney General to hang in his office. Each scene they had viewed today brought Mulder a little closer to his proving his original assessment--the victims either knew the Hoseman or did not consider him a threat. That wasn't that outlandish a theory. In that case of the first victim, who had been run off the road, the Horseman could have been dressed as either state trooper or a tow truck operator. Mr. Anderson had put in a call to his Amoco Motor Club but when the truck arrived 45 minutes later, there was no sign of either the car or the owner. Likewise, Mr. Edwards could have opened the door to his motel room to anyone who appeared in a uniform or as room service. Ms. Goldman was harder. She was single and according to the statement made by her roommate, very security conscious. She'd known enough nurses on the night shift who had been attacked to put her on the defensive. For her to walk calmly to the alley with a strange man would have been unthinkable. It just didn't fit. "What do you think?" Moser asked, coming up behind him. The sound of the cars over head almost drowned out the detective's voice. "I don't know," Mulder admitted. "Did you say Mr. Hatfield's body was still available?" "Yeah, the County ME performed the autopsy, but I asked him to hold it for you. Wanta see it tonight?" Moser asked, a little surprised. "Let me ask Scully. I think she'll want a look. Then you can release the body to the family," Mulder explained and walked over to talk to his partner. Scully had reluctantly called a silent truce somewhere around the third crime scene and was at least acknowledging his presence now. "Moser said we could see the body tonight, if it's all right with you," he offered. He'd been itching to apologize all day, but just couldn't bring himself to do it. Offering her a dead body was as close as he could come to saying 'I'm sorry'. It would just have to do. She looked up at him and for a moment, he thought she might beg off. He wasn't used to her being healthy anymore. He was still waiting for her to be too tired, to need to take a break more often. Maybe you're a little guilty of being a Mother Hen, yourself, his tiny voice chided him. He brushed it aside when she opened her mouth to speak. "Yeah, I'd like to see it. Want to leave now and get a bite to eat or wait until I'm done?" The look in her eyes was neutral, but he knew how easily the conversation could turn into a battle of wills. "Let's do it now. We can order pizza when we get back to the motel. There was a Pizza Hut across the street," he reminded her. "Yum," she said, without enthusiasm. Madison County Morgue 6:00 pm Mr. Hatfield had been dead only three days. The Medical Examiner had done the autopsy, but it was obvious what had caused the 76 year old's death--the back of his head had been crushed flat. Fragments of the murder weapon had been found mixed with the bone and hair. Death was listed as severe cerebral trauma resulting from a blow with a blunt object and Scully was hard pressed to argue that determination. She was busy reading through the lab reports as Mulder came back from yet another trip to the restroom. "Are you--interested in hearing the lab results," Scully said haltingly. Mulder could tell that she'd been about to ask him if he was all right, but gratefully, their little blow up at lunch was still causing her to rethink her actions. He wasn't really in the mood to lie to her again. "Yeah, sure, what have you got?" he asked, deftly avoiding any questions that might be directed to him about his health. "Well, your theory that the victims knew the murderer seems to be playing out, but this is weird," she said, flipping pages and running her finger down the page. "Weird. Now that's a word I just love to hear from you, Scully," her partner said with a smirk. "Give me weird." "The adrenaline levels are all off. Even if Mr. Hatfield was caught by surprise, the murderer didn't crush the skull with the first blow. It took several blows, as a matter of fact, for death to occur. And yet, there is no accompanying rise in the levels of adrenaline in the blood stream. No struggle. Nothing to suggest that he tried to get away." "Maybe he was stunned by the blow and couldn't move," Mulder suggested, looking over her shoulder. "No, Mulder, he'd have been in a coma for this. It's just weird. It's like even as he was dying, he was perfectly calm, perfectly at ease." Mulder grew thoughtful for a moment. "Is that the case in the other victims? Were they 'at ease' when they died?" Scully looked up at him. "I don't know. I need to check that out." "Let me know, OK?" he replied. "Of course. You're on to something here, aren't you?" she accused. "I don't know yet, Scully. But I think I found all the corner pieces to the jigsaw puzzle," he said, eyes twinkling. Holiday Express Motel Belleville, Illinois 11:00pm He'd suffered through two slices of pizza before he started picking them apart, eating only the toppings and the cheese. If Scully noticed, she kept it to herself. It was as if she accepted that he was in 'processing' mode and she was cutting him some slack. Or, he feared she'd gotten tired of getting shot down and decided she didn't give a damn. He wasn't sure he liked the latter idea, if it had come to pass. They used her laptop to get the copies of the autopsies and lab reports on the three other victims. Just as Mulder suspected, in each case, the victim was completely calm at the time of death. This was in direct contradiction to the violent natures of the murders. The added wrinkle only confused Scully, but it seemed to solidify a theory for Mulder--a theory he was keeping close to his chest. "Look, Scully, I need to sleep," he told her with a yawn. "How about if we go over all this again in the morning--over breakfast," he promised. "I guess you're right, Mulder. The numbers are starting to run together on this analysis," she agreed and got up to go to her own room. She stopped at the doorway and turned, chewing on her lip. "Mulder?" He looked up expectantly. "About what I said at lunch time--I was angry. I didn't mean it. If your back is still giving you trouble in the morning, I think we should probably get it looked at. You might have done more than just sprain it," she said, her eyes begging him to accept her concern. His eyes softened and for a moment he wanted to tell her that he'd been having problems all day. But in his heart, he knew her too well and she would jump on his problems like an attack force. Before he'd be able to object, she'd have him tied up with IV tubing and flat on his back and he couldn't solve a string of murders that way. So he decided to keep his secret, if just for one more night. "Thanks Scully, but I'm feeling a lot better--honest," he smiled encouragingly. "OK, Mulder. Good night," she said, and left. The call came in at 3am. Mrs. Cravins needed to see them--right away. Holiday Express Belleville, Illinois Dec. 11, 3 am As soon as he got off the phone with the nursing home attendant, he was on the line to Scully's room. He could hear the phone ring and heard her pick up. "Sorry to wake you, but Mrs. Cravins just called. She's had another vision." "I'm on my way, Mulder. I'll be at your door in 15 minutes." It was a trait in his partner that he'd always admired. The woman could be dressed to the nines in under half an hour. He never figured out how she could do it, since he knew that make-up and hair styling could take some women he'd know forever and yet Scully always looked great no matter how little time he gave her. Then he reminded himself that he'd better hurry if he was going to be ready when she came to get him. The pain hit the minute he stepped in the shower. Intense, white hot pain that started in his back and traveled directly to his groin. It doubled him over and he had to grab the shower curtain to lower himself to the floor of the tub. For a minute he just lay there, trying to decide if he had the strength to call out, or if anyone would be able to hear him if he did. He'd just about decided to wait it out until Scully came to get him. But his bladder made it quite clear that was not an option. He pulled himself up and moved to the toilet. Pain he had never known greeted him and made itself at home in his lower reaches. In one second he went from praying for help to arrive to begging for death to be quick. An eternity later, it was over. He was still breathing heavily when he realized that he was all in one piece. Whatever had hit him so suddenly, it had gone with equal speed. He gingerly stood up, testing to see if everything was in working order. He noted the pink stain in the water of the toilet bowl, but figured if the pain was gone, that was all that mattered. Scully's pounding on the door startled him and he grabbed a towel to wrap around himself before letting her in. "Mulder, come on! If I can get ready--" she stopped in her tirade and stared at him. He hurried off to the shower before she could get a really good look at him. From beyond the bathroom door, he could hear her voice. "Mulder, are you all right? You look really pale." "Just the lights, Scully. I'm fine. Hey, while you're standing there, could you find a pair of socks in my suitcase?" Anything to get her mind occupied on something other than him. "Sure, Mulder. Want me to press your suit while I'm at it," she muttered derisively and he knew that he'd succeeded in diverting her attention. She continued to stare at him all the way to the nursing home, but didn't say a word. He was grateful that when the pain left, it didn't leave any lingering after effect and he actually felt pretty good--for a quarter of four in the morning. The nursing home was quiet when they arrived. A nurses aide led them to Mrs. Cravins room. The old woman was sitting up in her bed, wringing her hands and obviously distressed. "It's awful! You have to stop him," she said before they'd even gotten their coats off. "What did you see, Mrs. Cravins?" Scully asked gently. "Oh honey, I don't want to tell you. It's just too awful--too awful." "Will you tell me, Mrs. Cravins?" Mulder asked, directing the woman's attention to him. "What did you see?" "He cut him up so bad. Not like the first man. Not at all. Just cut and cut and cut till there was nothing left of him but blood and bone. I could hear him laughing this time. Before I couldn't hear the laughing. That poor boy. That poor sweet boy. I remember when he'd come to our house with Billy. He was such a sweet, sweet boy . . ." Mrs. Cravins broke down in tears. "Mrs. Cravins, are you telling us you know the victim?" Mulder asked anxiously. Before, the victims had all been strangers to the woman crying before him. "It was Davey. Davey Moser. Horseman's gonna kill Davey 'cause I told on him. I know it. Oh sweet Jesus, what have I done, what have I done? I've got that poor boy killed." She sobbed harder and Scully moved to the bed to hold her as the force of the sobs racked her large frame. While Scully had her hands full calming Mrs. Cravins, Mulder had his phone out, putting in a call to Det. Moser. After a few minutes, he looked up at his partner, concern marking his expression. "No answer, Scully." By this time, the floor nurse had come in and gave Mrs. Cravins a mild sedative. The woman seemed to have exhausted herself, she was dropping off to sleep. "Mrs. Cravins, please. Can you tell us where? It's very important and we might be able to save Dave if you can just tell us where," Mulder begged. "Outside the station. There are some abandoned buildings downtown--the old five and dime store. They're gonna knock 'em down to make room for a parking garage. Down there. Hurry, please hurry before it's too late," she sighed and her eyes drifted closed. Mulder was out the door like a shot and it took Scully a moment to catch up with him. She pulled at his sleeve. "Mulder, this could very possibly just be a nightmare," she reasoned. He shot her a glare and kept moving. "Face it, Mulder. It could be nothing at all." When they got to the car, he finally slowed down enough to really look at her. "Scully. The woman has been right four out of four times. Are you willing to risk Det. Moser's life on the off chance that she's having a nightmare this time and NOT a vision?" "Why don't we put a call into the police station and have them look around? They're closer than we are, anyway," Scully offered. He gave her a smile. "Yeah, Scully, that's a good idea. But let's get there as fast as we can, too." Traffic was non-existent at 5 in the morning, but even so, the two agents were racing the ambulance to the downtown area of Belleville. As they pulled up, several uniformed officers were crowded around the front of an old Woolworth's. A plainclothes detective hurried over to them and introduced himself as Det. Yaeger. "We found him. God, he's cut bad, but he's still alive. I can't figure out how it happened--he was in the station house until about an hour ago," he said, shaking his head. Scully had broken away and was assisting the EMT's as they started IV's and tried to bandage the multitude of cuts on the young detective's body. Mulder came up behind her. "Is he conscious?" he asked. She shook her head. "He's lost so much blood, Mulder," she said standing up and allowing the paramedics to load the gurney. "He might not make it to surgery," she added in a much lower voice. "The Horseman is still here, Scully. Mrs. Cravins said she heard him laughing. He's probably in one of these buildings, watching us and getting off on it," Mulder said with a scowl to the rooftops above. Det. Yaeger had joined them. "We're doing a search of the buildings, but so far, we haven't found a soul." "Mind if we take a look around?" Mulder asked. The Detective started to agree when Scully interrupted him. "Mulder, I think I want to ride with Moser. I might be able to give a hand on the way," Scully said with a meaningful look. "Good idea, Scully. I'll catch up with you there," Mulder nodded. "I just want to look around this place, see what I can find." As she turned to climb into the back of the ambulance, she stopped and looked at him. "Be careful, Mulder," she said tenderly. He smiled back. "Aren't I always?" he accused with a grin. She smirked at that, then got in the ambulance and it pulled away. Mulder made his way through the building. It was still dark out, sunrise not arriving for another 20 minutes. In the darkness, the pencil thin beam of his penlight illuminated a path through the rubble of the old department store. He searched the first floor--a vast expanse of nothing but years of dust bunnies and filth, broken occasionally by an old shipping carton, but found nothing. There was no where anyone could hide on that floor. The elevators had long since been shut down and the mechanism removed. The old iron grates guarded the drop to the basement level. He shone his light down and up, but found nothing but ripped out wiring and severed cables. Next, he attempted the fire exit and found the door opened with a ear shattering squeal. "So much for a surprise entrance," he muttered to himself and ascended the narrow stairway. The building was only three stories tall. One floor down, two to go. On the second floor the space was more divided, with partitions chopping the floor space into departments. His mind flashed back to shopping trips with his mother and Sam, before school would start. The excitement of his younger years all too soon gave way to the embarrassment of pre-adolescents when they made these trips into Boston. Sam would always want to spend hours looking for dresses and ribbons to match. At the time, all he wanted to do was get his new pair of Converse All*Stars, a couple of pairs of sturdy denims and one or two shirts--button downs, like his father, and go someplace to eat. But he would have to stand, or in the really nice stores, he might get to sit and wait impatiently for his sister to model the latest fall fashions for the 'Barbie Doll' set. If only he could have just one of those afternoons back again, he sighed. The second floor proved to be as vacant as the first. He moved again to the fire stairs, and started to climb. About half way up the steps, the hair raised on the back of his neck. At first, he thought it was a breeze coming from the roof top doorway. Then, upon further reflection, he realized it for what it was. The Horseman was there. Somewhere on the third floor or possibly the roof, but he was close. So close Mulder could 'feel' him. Mulder berated himself for getting lost down Memory Lane on the second floor. It was self-indulgent, but beyond that, it was damned stupid. Not to mention dangerous, a voice that sounded amazingly like Scully's echoed in his mind. He grinned. Even when she wasn't right beside him, she was _still_ right beside him. I'll be careful, he silently vowed to her again. He stepped through the fire door and into a hallway. The third floor of the building had been relegated to office space and consisted of a long hallway with glass and transomed doors on both sides. He flashed the light down on the floor and could make out footprints in the layers of dirt. His skin was tingling now. Wonder if this is what 'spidey sense' feels like, he mused, and not for the first time. It was the anticipation, the adrenaline rush, that was causing him to sweat in the cold air, to tense at every sound of the wind through the rattling windows. Just relax, he told himself. Calm. Cool. No need to panic, no need to flee. He noticed that his gun was in his hand, he couldn't remember drawing. Instinct. No, training--and that was better than instinct in many ways. Maybe it was a little of both. He was halfway to the end of the hallway. Judging from the light in the window at the far end of the hall, he was moving east. He could see the silhouettes of the buildings across the street that the rising sun was creating. In a few minutes, the sun would top the buildings and would in all likelihood blind him, if he wasn't careful. A door banged behind Mulder and he spun on his heel in that direction. A gust of wind hit him in the face as the fire door was opened. In the twilight, he couldn't make out the person fleeing into the stairway, but the scent on the wind was all he needed. It smelled like horses. He was running before he even had a chance to process all the information his mind was gathering. Up the stairs, two at a time, bounding with a grace that he usually only felt when he was running in the mornings. Or at times like these. He reached the top stairs and wasn't even winded. The thought flashed through his mind like a giggle--getting old, indeed! The building across the street was taller, and the rooftop was still mostly in shadow. It was not a total darkness, more of a gray and deceptively bright after the blackness of the stairs. He gave himself a second for his eyes to adjust, then cautiously moved out of the stairway and onto the roof. Hogan's Alley never contained a rooftop scenario--but it always seemed he was on top of a roof. Another idea for the suggestion box at Quantico. Mulder heard scraping off to his left. The roof was gravel and tar, with several outcroppings of air conditioners and heating ducts. Perfect places to hide from a pursuer. Perfect place to stage an ambush. Careful. Careful. Careful. His mind was chanting, but it was Scully's voice in his ear. He had the irresistible urge to swat at the voice to silence it. I _AM_ being careful, he wanted to shout. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his chest, he wanted nothing more than to face this bastard down and put an end to all the games. He got his wish. He didn't see the six foot length of two by four as it connected squarely with the back of his head. He doubled over, eyes filled with stars, and received a second blow directly across the small of his back. His face hit the gravel of the rooftop and all was blackness. When he came to, he was first amazed to find himself alive. In the split second before his nose and mouth hit the rocks, he was certain that his death was eminent. But as he raised his head, he found himself still on the roof, alone. The Horseman was gone. Blood was flowing from his nose and a split on his lip. He rubbed a hand across his face and wiped gravel from his mouth. He was halfway to his feet when Det. Yaeger cleared the stairs. "Agent Mulder! Ohmygod! Are you all right?" the young detective was next to him instantly, taking his arm and guiding him over to an a/c unit to sit down. Mulder waved Yaeger off but accepted the handkerchief the younger man offered. He wiped his face and grimaced at the sting and the trail of blood. "I'm fine, Yaeger. I'm fine. But the bastard got away," he grumbled. "I know. We saw him clear the rooftop to the building across the alleyway. My god, that man must be half gazelle. We've been searching the other buildings, but chances are good we won't find him. He seems to know the layout better than the building designers." "Nah, he probably just read their minds," Mulder muttered cryptically. He pushed off the makeshift chair and gasped at the pain across his back. He was sitting again immediately. "You're hurt," Yaeger accused. "No, he hit me with a board. I'm fine, just bruised. Really." "Did he knock you out?" Yaeger asked, and took Mulder's chin in his hand to look into the agent's eyes. Mulder brushed him off. "No," Mulder lied. "He just knocked the wind out of me. I sprained my back a couple of days ago and he hit me in the wrong spot." "Well, we better get you to the ER anyway. You might be hurt worse than you think," the detective advised. "No time, Yaeger. I have a profile to write. If it makes you happy, Agent Scully is a damn fine doctor, and not just on dead bodies. If I feel bad later, I'll have her take a look at my back. It saves the tax payers a mint on my health insurance," he grinned. "I'll just bet," Yaeger shot back and Mulder might have consider them fighting words, or at least argumentative words, but he was too winded and in too much hurt to bother. All he wanted was to get back to the motel and to Scully's laptop. He was on to this bastard, and it was time to start playing hard ball with this loser. ------ By the time he was unlocking the door to his motel room, his cell phone was ringing. It was Scully. "How's Moser?" he asked, unconsciously crossing his fingers. "He made it this far," she said hopefully. "He's in surgery. Some of the cuts were pretty deep, he's got at least one severed artery. They called in an arterial specialist from Barnes across the River. I don't know, Mulder. All we can do is wait." He was sure he heard the silent `and pray' that she tacked onto that directive. It was a subject they usually avoided between them. "Where are you now? Did you find anything at the building?" she said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "Yeah, we did," he said, trying to hide his disgust at his own performance. "And . . .?" she prodded. "I had him, Scully. I had the bastard right in my hands and . . . and he got away," he seethed. "What did he hit you with?" she asked, and he could almost see her, standing before him, that concern/anxiety look in her eyes that she always got when he did something she didn't approve of. "A two by four," he replied reluctantly. "Were you unconscious?" she continued digging. "I saw stars. And I never got a good look at the guy. I'm OK, Scully. I looked at myself in the mirror of the car--no dilation of the pupils. I don't have a concussion," he assured her. "Mulder, are you now going to tell me you're planning on performing brain surgery on yourself so you can remove what ever it is up there that makes you do things so monumentally stupid?" she growled. "Scully, look, I'm OK," he said again. "This is not the first time somebody whacked me on the head. I really don't think it'll be the last. I know a concussion when I have one and right now, this doesn't even qualify as a decent sized headache. Look, I'm back at the motel. I'm going to start on the profile--I think I have a handle on this bastard. Yaeger's going to call me if they find anything else at the building. You gonna stay there with Moser?" He heard her swallow back her protests. "Yes, I planned on it. His Mom is here, and his girlfriend. I don't want to be in the way, but I was hoping that if he pulled through--" "He might be able to ID the guy better than me. Good thought. OK, then call me if there is any change or if you need me down there." "OK, Mulder, but only if you promise to call me if your headache gets worse or if you start feeling dizzy . . ." "--Or nauseous, or start seeing spots before my eyes, yeah, Scully, I know the routine," he sighed. "I'll call, I promise." "Yeah, right," she muttered, but it was obvious to him that he wasn't supposed to hear it. He started to say something in return, but she spoke again. "I'll meet up with you back at the motel when I know what's going on here." "Sounds like a plan. Bye, Scully." He disconnected the call and stuck the phone in his jacket pocket, then shrugged off his overcoat and started to stretch. Damn! His back again. He'd almost forgot that the Horseman had nailed him right across the back. Mulder had to be honest with himself, the back hurt worse than his head did at that point. He fumbled through his travel bag for his bottle of ibuprofen, decided it hurt enough to take three of the little red pills rather than his usual two and chased it with the left overs from a can of warm cola from the night before. Then he set up the computer on a little table near the window and started to get his thoughts down on the screen. Profiling was not really a science. It was an art. That was something Bill Patterson had drilled into his underlings. And when it came to that art, Mulder was a Piccasso. It required all his knowledge of psychology, of the workings of the human mind, he was more than willing to admit that. But all the writings of Jung and Skinner (B.F. not A. D.) were nothing more than the paints and brushes that he used to create the masterpieces. He wasn't the only artist in the world. The men he worked with (and recently, the women in his old workplace) were accomplished artists in their own right. Each one a Monet, a Van Gogh, a Goya. But none of them could do what Mulder could do. He'd once heard a reporter on late night talk show radio tell of the time he and a bunch of other young men were covering Europe, several years after the war. They were in a nice restaurant in France and as young men do, they'd forgotten that each bottle of wine they had ordered and consumed came with a hefty price tag. When the bill arrived, the young men pooled their resources and came up woefully short. An older man, sitting at the next table, overheard their plight. He grabbed a napkin, deftly scribbled some lines on it and handed it to the waiter. The waiter accepted the napkin gleefully and then went to tell the young men that the check had been paid in full. When they inquired as to the identity of their benefactor, the waiter simply showed them the napkin. It was a simple pen rendition of flowers. A sketch, nothing more. The `art work', however was signed by the artist. Piccasso. Mulder could write profiles on the backs of envelopes if need be. Just like Piccasso, he was just that good. Figuring out the UNSUB was a little easier now that he'd walked in his footsteps. For one thing, he could say with some certainty that the man was as tall as Mulder himself. He was fit, indicating that his weight was near Mulder, maybe a little heavier. He was graceful, which could mean youth, but could also mean that he worked out and kept in shape. All that was the simple part. It was his mind that Mulder really wanted to dissect. Mulder had a suspicion from the moment Scully had told him about the low levels of adrenaline in the victims. There was no fear in them. Now, the latest victim, Det. Moser, seemed to only underscore that point. Dave Moser was a good detective, an experienced cop. He probably had the same `spidey sense' that Mulder often relied on. It was inherent in all law enforcement, but Mulder suspected that it was more like `survival of the fittest'--those without it ended up dead soon. Moser was armed, Mulder had seen his gun in his holster as the paramedics worked to keep him alive. What the hell was an armed Detective doing walking into an abandoned building like it was a park on Sunday? Mulder had a theory that the Horseman had mental powers that could override the victims natural tendency to sense danger and therefore negate the `fight or flight' response that accompanied high levels of adrenaline in the body. The victims didn't move as the Horseman calmly killed them, taking all the time he needed. Mulder mentally pulled data from all the articles he'd ever read on the `fight or flight' response. Even if the victims couldn't see their attacker, none of them had been killed on the first blow. The adrenaline rush is almost instantaneous in humans. Unless the death was just as quick, the response would be evident. It was one of the discussions that he and Scully had at length on several stake outs. It was a way pathologists knew if the victim had been conscious enough to see the attacker or be aware of the attack. It was physical evidence to back up his theory. His mind wandered for a moment back to another `mindbender' he'd pursued. Robert Modell could manipulate a person's mind and make them do things that they would ordinarily never do. Mulder had first hand experience in Modell's mental power over others when he was forced to hold Scully at the point of a loaded gun. But as Mulder could also attest, Modell's victims quite definitely experienced fear and anxiety response. His own body told him as much when he tossed up his lunch and breakfast in the tiny bathroom of the private hospital room while Modell was being taken to surgery. Scully took her partner home and sat with him until the shakes had finally left his body. So even Modell couldn't manipulate the human body's response to fear. The smell was important. Now that Mulder had been close to the man, he knew that Mrs. Cravins had not been imagining the smell. He couldn't be as exact as saying `a horsebarn in springtime', but his own experiences in the stables of the polo team at Oxford had taught him the unique scent of horses. The UNSUB worked with horses, owned horses, might be a groomsmen. It was a place to start. He made a quick look in the yellow pages and discovered, to his dismay, that the metro St. Louis area was awash with horse farms. Nearly 70 different horse breeders were listed, and those were the ones big enough to advertise. Plus, there were two racetracks on the Illinois side alone. More than plenty of people to interview. It was getting close to three o'clock when Scully finally came back to the room. She looked tired and defeated. "How is Moser?" Mulder asked upon her arrival. "Not good. He made it through surgery, but he slipped into a coma once they had him in recovery. He's in ICU," she sighed. Mulder bit his lip. Moser had treated the agents with respect, had been helpful and in general, had seemed a nice guy. "Will he make it?" he asked fearfully. "I hope so," she whispered. "His girlfriend is actually his fiancee. The wedding is supposed to be New Year's Eve. They wanted to ring in the New Year together. Oh, god, Mulder, I just hope he makes it till then. He lost a lot of blood and he was cut bad." She flopped down into one of the two chairs at the table. "Did you get the profile done?" "Pretty much, but it sure would have been nice to add a description," he said with a shrug. "Take a look, I have to, ah, well, I'll be right back." He made a hasty retreat to the bathroom. What Scully didn't know, and what Mulder was not about to tell her was that is was about the hundredth time he'd been to the bathroom since he'd come back from the Woolworth's building. He'd had a glass of water, and a can of cola from the machine, but no coffee and not nearly enough liquid to justify a full bladder. His urine was burning again, and he briefly thought about letting Scully look at his back. The ibuprofen had kept the back ache at bay for a while, but it had returned and was making him miserable. The decision he had to make was whether the discomfort he was in was enough to make him endure the agonies and humiliation which Scully and the medical community were sure to inflict on him if he admitted that he was hurting. No, he decided. No pain was that bad. Until it doubled him over. He looked down at the water in the toilet. A bright red stream--blood--and it was coming from him. "Not a good sign," he muttered. God, all he wanted to do was end the pain and feel better. Maybe the Horseman had done some damage with that damned two by four, he considered. Whatever, he really was ready to tell Scully that he was feeling bad and might even agree to a trip to the ER to check it out when she startled him by knocking on the door. "Mulder, Det. Yaeger just called you on your cell phone," Scully said through the door. "They found a woman who says she saw a man race out of one of the abandoned buildings downtown. She may have a description. Come on, I told him we'd be there in 15 minutes." Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep breath. So this is what that phrase `Duty Calls' means, he mused silently. He washed his hands, flushed the evidence of his injury down the toilet and opened the door to find his partner holding his jacket and overcoat out to him. They were out of the room in under five minutes. Down at the police station the front desk was busy, and in more than one way. Det. Yaeger came and showed the agents to a interrogation room. A young woman with long dark hair was already seated there. She would have been rather attractive if she didn't use so much makeup or wear sleazy clothes. Scully started at once with the questioning and that suited Mulder just fine. He could feel the pain in his back which had also centered to the lower abdomen. A dull nausea was threatening to break out in full blown vomiting any minute. The witness, whose name was down on the sheet as `Carole King', had seen a man with a black raincoat running out of the alley. She couldn't see his face, but she could see that he was rather a big build and that he had a slight limp when he ran. Det. Yaeger informed the agents that they'd found a homeless person, throat cut, in the alley behind the buildings. `Carole' said she knew the victim whose name was Rosa Parks, 18 years old. After the interrogation was over, Det. Yaeger suggested that the agents should continue the discussion in his office. Once there, Mulder sat silently on a chair and watched Scully and Yaeger discuss the case. He had trouble sitting still because of the pain in his lower regions and he squirmed enough that he was sure to attract his partner's attention. Mulder longed to be back at the hotel, to the warm comfortable bed. This train of thought surprised him, he had never held beds in high regard--unless he was sick or injured. .Suddenly Mulder heard his name being called repeatedly. He jerked and found that it was Scully who was desperately trying to get his attention. "Mulder did you hear what Det. Yaeger's saying?" she asked with a concern look in her eyes. "What? Yeah..sure," he answered, slightly confused. Scully looked like she doubted her partner but said "Det. Yaeger want's to know if you're interested in a cup of coffee." Coffee was the last thing Mulder wanted, he was just going to say no thank you when he changed his mind. It would look too suspicious, so instead he forced a smiled and nodded. Scully was still staring at Mulder when he got up from his chair and excused himself. To Mulder's despair the visit at the restroom was joined with a lot of pain and more blood. There was no turning back. He had no choice but to tell Scully. He moved slowly back to Yaeger's office and sat down. Fortunately, Yaeger was on the phone, so he wasn't privy to the conversation. Mulder leaned over to Scully, to keep the conversation private. "I don't feel very well," he told her. "What's wrong, Mulder?" Scully asked, and her eyes looked almost relieved. Mulder started to detail the entire list of pains and indignities, but stopped. The thought to telling Scully everything froze his heart. There had to be a way to get back to the motel and lie down without having Scully slap him in an ambulance and chain him to some hospital bed for the duration of the case. Necessity is the mother of invention and Mulder came up with a plan double quick. "The pizza we ate last night didn't quite agree with me". He sat back in the chair with a heavy sigh. Scully started to question him and he answered her questions as patiently as he could. He left out a few, not so important details like the incredible pain in his back and lower regions, the burning sensation and the blood in his urine. That left him telling her about the nausea and the fatigue. He soothed his conscience by telling himself that the rest of the list would only upset her and he really didn't want to go to the hospital when sleeping would improve his condition dramatically. Scully decided that they should go back to the motel and that Mulder should get to bed in a hurry. "You know, Mulder, nausea can be a symptom of something more serious and if not attended to, it can get worse." she said in her most evil doctor's voice. Mulder tried to look suitably contrite, but simply looked miserable. About that time, Yaeger finished up his phone call and Scully informed him that they were going back to the motel to get some rest, and that he could call them if any new developments occurred. He saw them to the door of his office and promised to call if he heard anything. The agents went back to the motel and Mulder went immediately to bed and fell asleep. Holiday Express 9:15 pm The pain in Mulder's back and stomach had settled down to a dull ache. The nausea was gone when he woke up. Scully was nowhere to be seen and he found a note saying that she went to the morgue to do the autopsy on the latest victim. Mulder stretched and found out that he was just a little bit sore all over--what he would expect if he was getting over something like the flu. Relieved, he went in the shower and stood there for almost half an hour letting the warm water soak into him. It felt great and he felt better at once. Even though it was getting close to 10 o'clock at night, he got dressed. The color of his skin was back to normal and he looked much better than he had before. He decided to get back to work on the profile. There was plenty of work to do and no time to waste. The Horseman could strike again at any moment and before he was arrested not a single person could walk safe. While he was sitting there, staring at the computer screen, it struck him that Mrs. Cravins hadn't called on the last victim. That was odd, considering she'd called them in the middle of the night just a few hours before. He decided they really needed to talk to her again, and as soon as possible. Scully arrived about ten minutes later. "Mulder, is that you or did you get abducted and replaced by an alien clone?" she teased as she tossed a sack of roast beef sandwiches and fries on the bed. "You look like you feel a lot better than you did when I left you earlier," she added with a smile. "I do, Scully. But I want you to know for the record that I still chalk this up to some kind of food poisoning, or you'll be forever harping on me about the benefits of a good night's sleep," he informed her. She laughed at that. "Well, whatever, as long as you're feeling better. I remembered that we really haven't eaten all day, and figured you'd be starving as much as I was. There are big roast beefs and curly fries in the bag. I'm running down to grab something to drink. I think I saw they had Nestea in cans--want something?" The smell of the sandwiches and greasy fries hit his stomach like a small nuclear device. He fought the queasiness that was rising in his throat and bit hard on his lip. "Ah, tea sounds good. Thanks, Scully." He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of change which she gratefully accepted and left the room. Screwing up all his courage, he opened the bag and withdrew a sandwich. "No way. There is absolutely no friggin' way," he said aloud. Again, inspiration hit at the moment he needed it most. He unwrapped the sandwich, carefully placing the wrapper on the nightstand. Then he ran into the bathroom and flushed the sandwich and the majority of the fries from one carton down the drain. He returned and sat down, just in time for Scully to return. "Hey, sorry, but I was starved. I started without you," he said, idly munching one lone fry. She looked at him in disgust. "Typical, Mulder. You just get over an upset stomach and you wolf down fast food like you haven't eaten in days." She took her sandwich and unwrapped it, taking a big bite. "But I guess, under the circumstances, I can forgive you," she mumbled around the mouthful. "You know, I was thinking. We really need to talk to Mrs. Cravins again," Mulder said, playing with the same french fry he'd had in his hands when his partner had returned. "Mulder! It's 9:30 at night. You can't go over there now! She'll be asleep," Scully chided. "She wasn't asleep last night," Mulder said thoughtfully. "And we don't have to drive over. I was thinking of calling to see if she's still up. If not, no big deal, but if she is, I can ask her a few questions." Scully shook her head, almost spilling her drink in the process. "Why, Mulder? We're on to this guy. You've narrowed down the field considerably and with `Ms. King's account, we know we're looking for someone with a limp. Mrs. Cravins has never given us a description of this guy. It's like Clyde Brunkman deja vu--she can tell us neat stuff, but none of it is useful." "She saved Dave Moser's life this morning," Mulder said pointedly. Scully sighed in exasperation. "Mulder . . ." "Come on, Scully. It's a dumb phone call. Give me a break, OK?" She stared at him a moment, and he could almost see her weigh the options in her mind. Finally she sighed again and waved him toward the phone. "But if they say she's asleep, you leave it until morning, got it?" she directed. He held up a two fingered scout salute as promise and quickly dialed the nursing home's number. Holiday Express Belleville, Illinois Dec. 11, 9:35 pm Mulder waited for the floor nurse to answer the phone. "Agent Mulder, I just checked in her room, and Bert says she doesn't want to talk anymore tonight. She'll see you in the morning." Mulder scowled. That didn't sound like the Mrs. Cravins from a day ago. "Oh, well, tell her I said good night, then, and we'll see her first thing in the morning." He hung up the phone and looked at his partner. "That's strange." Scully huffed at him. "No it's not, Mulder. You saw how frightened she was this morning. It's no wonder she doesn't want to talk to us this late at night. Besides, I'm sure she'll call us if she has another vision." She yawned dramatically. "And to tell the truth, I'm glad we don't have to go out there. Unlike some people," and she glared directly at him, "I didn't get a nap today. I need some sleep." He looked at her and nodded. "You're right, Scully. I'm sorry. And I could use the time here working on this profile a little more. Why don't you hit the sack? Let's try to get over to the nursing home around 9. Come get me about 8:15 and we'll get breakfast." She started out the door, but turned at the doorframe. "Mulder, you haven't been feeling well--" She held up her hand to stop his protests. "I know you feel that you have to finish this case first, but you won't be able to do that if you don't take care of yourself. I mean that. Try to get some more sleep, you look like you could use it." She left before he could object to what she said. "I hate it when she does that," he muttered to himself. He spent the next two hours trying to work on the profile, but ended up making several trips to the bathroom and actually got very little done. His stomach was queasy and he couldn't find a comfortable position to sit. In exasperation, he took off his pants and shirt, laid down on the bed and feel into a fitful sleep. 8:15 am He couldn't figure out why the alarm clock sounded so strange. Then he opened his eyes and realized that it wasn't the alarm clock, but the door. Mulder stumbled out of bed just as Scully used her lockpick to let herself in. Both of them stood there in embarrassed silence. Sometime around dawn, Mulder's boxer shorts had been left behind on the bathroom floor during one of his trips to the toilet. Scully's face turned a lovely shade of crimson, but it clashed horribly with her hair. Mulder gained enough control to grab for the blanket that he'd tossed on the floor and wrap it hastily around himself. "You didn't answer and I got--" she tried to explain. "You _could_ get breaking and entering if you don't get more judicious in the use of that thing," Mulder growled and headed for the bathroom. He could hear her giggle behind the closed door. "I only use on your motel rooms, Mulder," she called. "Oh, that makes me feel -sooooo- much better," he returned. He looked soulfully in the mirror. He'd had an awful night. He slept in little spurts, but they were interrupted by trips to the toilet. At first it was his bladder's fault, but toward morning, his bowels had joined his body's rebellion against him and he'd started having diarrhea. Somewhere around the cold midwestern dawn, he'd fallen into what little restful sleep he'd gotten during the night. And now, he felt more tired than he had in days. He showered as quickly as he could and then realized that all his clothes were out in the main room--with Scully. I've already given her one stellar performance, he decided, I'm not up for an encore. "Ah, Scully?" he called from the bathroom. "Yes, Mulder?" "Want to meet me at the car? I'll be down in a jiffy," he returned, hoping she wouldn't decide to argue. She was quiet for a moment, and he was certain he heard her snickering. "Sure, Mulder. I'll be waiting," she replied and then he did hear her laughter as she closed the door to the room. Well, at least I made Scully happy, he thought dryly and proceeded to get dressed. When he got out to the car, Scully was talking on her cell phone. She finished the call and looked over at him. "That was Mrs. Moser. Det. Moser woke up about an hour ago. The doctor's been in to see him and told them he's stable enough to talk to us. I'd like to get right over there." "Good idea. But I wanted to get to Mrs. Cravins first thing, too," Mulder replied. He wanted her to come up with the solution to this one, because if he suggested they separate, she'd hit the roof. Scully sighed and stared out at the overcast day. The weather reports all predicted a storm from the Rockies, with 6 to 10 inches of accumulation, but that was for later in the evening. "OK, here's an idea. You drop me off at the hospital, it's on the way to the nursing home anyway, and you go on and talk to Mrs. Cravins. Then you come back and get me at the hospital." He smiled. "Fair enough," he said and started the car. Her hand grabbed his arm in a death grip. "And Mulder, don't even think about checking out any of the farms without me," she said low and threatening. "I wouldn't dream of it, Scully," he answered, and tried his hardest to look suitably offended at her accusation. She smirked at him and settled back in for the ride. When they arrived at the hospital, Mulder remembered something. "Scully, why don't you call Jeff and see if he can get one of our composite artists over here. I know they probably have one at the Belleville PD, but our guys have the newer computers and it would be easier to match on the NCIC," he suggested. "I'm on it," she replied and he watched her dial the number as she walked up to the entrance to the hospital. Mrs. Cravins was waiting for him. "Oh, good, child. I was hoping we could talk alone," she said cheerfully when he came in. "Mrs. Cravins, I'm a little confused. Did you know the Horseman was going to kill again?" The old woman dropped her head and her good hand clutched the blankets. "I know'd it was wrong. But it was between her and Davey. And Davey's been such a good boy all his life and she was, well, I didn't know her. And I didn't really get a glimpse her until it was already too late. I know'd, I know'd I should have said something. But I don't cause these deaths, Agent Mulder. I just see 'em. And there was no helpin' that girl. She was dead the minute he laid a hand on her. He was so mad at not getting to kill Davey that it wasn't no fun for him this time. He was just pure rage." "Her throat was slit," Mulder replied. "Did you see it?" Tears were forming in the old woman's eyes. She nodded sadly. "Her name isn't Rosa Parks, either. That was that black woman in Alabama years back. Don't know her real name, but she's from Chicago and her mama and daddy never paid her no mind. Poor little thing." "I'll contact Missing and Exploited children and see if they can turn up her family," Mulder said gently and squeezed the old woman's hand. "So is that why you didn't want to talk to me last night? Because you felt guilty?" She harumphed at him. "Oh Lordy, no, child. I didn't want to talk to you because you needed the sleep. When are you gonna tell that sweet Agent Scully how bad you're feelin'?" she said, her eyes narrowed. "Mrs. Cravins, I'm fine, really," Mulder protested. "Doubled over, can't take a breath, feeling cut in the middle or at least hopin' that's it. Throwin' up and bleedin' inside. I don't call that 'fine', young man," she chided angrily, shaking her finger at him. "You are the only one who can find the Horseman. I know that. He knows that. But if you wait too long to tell your partner that you're poorly--it won't be the Horseman that kills ya. It will be your own foolish pride," she said with fire in her eyes. "Don't you see how that will hurt that sweet girl?" she continued. "All you're thinkin' about is yourself. You were scared to death that she was gonna leave you, die on you and you'd be left alone. Don't you see that you're leavin' her--and she's gonna be just as alone as you would have been? That's not how you treat someone you love, son. I know'd. I told Charlie I didn't want to be stuck here without him. And that selfish bastard went and had a heart attack four days before our 51st wedding anniversary and here I sit, waitin' to die so I can yell at him in person!" "I'm not going to die, Mrs. Cravins. Not yet," Mulder said, barely above a whisper. Mrs. Cravins eyes softened. "I don't know everything, child. If I did, I woulda been in that car with Charlie when he went to check the fields. We'd have gone to see Jesus together, him and me. But I can tell you this. Your future is mighty dark and it's comin' sooner than you think. I can't rightly say that we'll ever talk again after today. I hope so, I hope so with all my heart. You're a good man, Fox Mulder. Don't kill yourself because you think you've got plenty of time. Time don't work that way. And that's all I have to say on the subject." She turned her head and refused to talk anymore. Mulder touched her hand and left. Scully was just coming out of ICU when Mulder arrived at the hospital. "Did you get to talk to him?" he asked anxiously. Scully nodded. "Yes, and I got it on tape so you can listen. The composite artist is in there now, with Jeff. We've only got another five minutes and I don't know how helpful the composite is going to be--" she let her voice trail off. "What do you mean? He had to see the guy--he hacked at him for a good ten minutes from the looks of those cuts," Mulder exclaimed. "That's just it. He did get a good look at him. But I don't think it's that much help." She led Mulder over to the visitor's lounge and sat on one of the chairs. "Mulder, he's on morphine. He's probably not thinking clearly." "Scully, what did he say?" Mulder asked again, trying to control his impatience. She played with the buttons of the micro recorder for a moment and then started the playback. She held it up so they could both listen. >> "Dave, I don't want to tire you out, but could you describe your assailant for me?" >> (Rustling of sheets) "I didn't get a good look at first. I was hit from behind. Cut me low, on the back of my leg and I went down. (pause) When I was laying on the ground, I looked up. It wasn't her--I know it wasn't her, but it looked so much like her--her face, her hair . . ." >> "Looked like who, Dave? Can you identify the person?" >> "Lexie. I looked up and it was Lexie looking down at me." >> "Lexie? Who's that, Dave?" >> "My fiancee. Alexis. I thought it was Alexis. I called to her a couple of times and then I passed out. I never did see who cut me." Scully turned off the tape. "That's all there is, really. He doesn't remember why he went into the building, doesn't even really remember leaving the station house. Sorry, Mulder, I wish it could have been more help." Mulder looked at her in astonishment. "No, Scully, that _was_ a help. I was right. Dammit, I was right! He controls their minds, Scully. Don't you see it? He makes them think that he's someone they can trust, someone who's not a threat. That's how he gets them to lie still while he rips out their hearts or puts a bullet through their brain. Shit, what power this guy has! But he must need them isolated for it to work. He's only gotten them when they were alone." Mulder was on his feet now, pacing and talking, but it was obvious that he was talking to himself, and not his partner. "Mulder, that's crazy," Scully replied. "It's more likely that Dave is confused with all the painkillers he's on." "I don't know, Scully. You tell me. I remember somebody showed up at your motel room once and you said he looked just like me," he said pointedly. "And we won't even mention that time at your apartment a couple of months ago--" She cocked her head and glared at him. "Eddie the monkey boy is still in jail, and you aren't going to start on your 'alien bounty hunter' kick again, are you Mulder? I've been on the receiving end of that guy's fist twice now and as I remember, you've escaped relatively unscathed." "Well, except for that nasty case of flu he gave me," Mulder shot back with a grin. He realized he'd probably stepped over the line with that one. "Chill, Scully. I'm not saying this guy is an alien. Besides, I left my 'off planet ice pick' at home so we're better off if it's not him. No, I remember that guy, too and he never smelled like horses. And as much as the thought terrifies me, he's no an Eddie Van Blundht, either. I think we're after someone who is all too human, a full-fledged, card carrying resident of planet Earth, but incredibly powerful. I think it's a mental power that he has." "Well, I don't know if that makes me feel any better, Mulder," Scully sighed. The double glass doors to the ICU opened and Jeff Andrews walked through them, looking none too pleased. He searched around a moment and then spied the two agents, and headed straight for them. "Well, we have a nice picture of Moser's fiancee. I'm thinking of giving it to them as a wedding present," Jeff said in disgust. "I should have known the guy was out of his head. Hell, cut up like that, and on all the dope, it's a wonder he knows who he is, much less can give a statement." "I'm sorry we called you over," Scully said with a wince. "It's not your fault, Dana. We didn't know what we'd get and there was a chance that he might have been lucid," Jeff said with an apologetic shrug. "I think he is lucid," Mulder chimed in and Jeff stared at his old friend. "Lucid? He's on Jupiter, ready to make the leap to hyper space," Jeff snorted derisively. "I think he's told us exactly what he saw, Andrews," Mulder reiterated. "I think he did see his fiancee. I think that's why we aren't seeing any of the classic 'fight or flight' responses in the victims. The Horseman makes them think he's a friend, a loved one, someone they aren't afraid of. And then he can take his time and kill them anyway he wants." "He didn't take any time with Rosa Parks," Jeff countered. "No, he was in a rage. He'd been stopped in the attempt on Dave and for some reason he didn't kill me on the rooftop. He had to kill. It's in his nature to kill. But he didn't have time to do it nicely because there were so many cops around. So he just slit her throat and left." "Mulder--look, I know the stories about you. Hell, I've passed some of them along. I know you've been dabbling in the 'dark forces' lately. But for the love of God, man, get serious! You're saying this guy 'hypnotizes' his victims into thinking he's the love of their lives and then ices them? How do you stop a bastard like that? You don't. Because when you DO catch him, his $400 an hour lawyer makes sure the jury realizes that no one has identified him as the killer and he walks! Please, give me something I can work with here," Andrews begged. Mulder chose that moment to jump from his seat and run from the lounge. Scully and Jeff both stared after him. "Where in the hell is he going?" Jeff asked angrily. "Somewhere I can't follow," Scully said with a shrug. At Jeff's curious expression, she added, "The Little Boys Room." "Hell, you might not be able to go there, but I can," Jeff declared and started off after his friend. St. Jude's Medical Center Belleville, Illinois 1:45 pm "Well, Old Buddy, I'm here to tell you--" Jeff Andrews started yelling as he hit the interior of the Men's room where he'd seen Mulder enter. He stopped dead in his tracks. "Mulder?" he called in alarm and ran over to where his friend was doubled over against one of the stall doors, obviously in serious pain. "Get out, Andrews," Mulder growled, but his eyes begged his friend to stay. "What the hell happened to you?" Jeff continued and grabbed some wet towels to hand to the prone agent. "Muscle cramp. It's nothing." Mulder was having a hard enough time getting that much of a sentence out of his mouth, he really couldn't go into details. "Nothing--my ass," Jeff exclaimed. "Same kind of nothing that ended you in that hospital in Cleveland when you were working out of BSU," he muttered angrily. "Does Dana know you're sick?" he demanded. "I'm not sick. I got hit in the back with a two by four yesterday and I bruised a kidney. I just need to be careful, that's all." Mulder closed his eyes and leaned back against the stall. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to speak and he was totally wiped out. "You been to a doctor?" Jeff inquired testily. "No, but I've had enough bruised kidneys to know what one feels like," Mulder told him. "Please, Jeff, just let it go," he begged. "Can you get up?" Jeff asked, ignoring Mulder's pleas. "I think so," Mulder said, and held out his hand. He got halfway up and doubled over again. "Shit!" he cried out. "I'm getting Dana," Jeff told him and started to lower him to the floor again. "DON'T!" Mulder shouted. He grabbed Jeff's arm and wouldn't let go. "don't, please," he said, close to tears. "Why the hell not?" Jeff demanded. "What are you afraid of?" "You don't know Scully. She'll over-react. She's a doctor and you know how they get--the least little sneeze and they start sticking you with IV's of antibiotics so you don't go into pneumonia." He was sweating now and he could tell by the look on Jeff's face that he was seriously getting concerned. "Look, give me a minute here. If I still feel bad, I'll tell her. I swear." Jeff looked undecisive and hesitant. Finally he got up, but his gaze landed on the urinal closest to where Mulder had collapsed. "What's that red stuff?" he asked suspiciously and pointed to a small trail of blood in the basin of the urinal. "Beets," Mulder lied with the speed of light. "You want to explain that one?" Jeff growled as he towered over the other agent, arms crossed. "I had pickled beets last night at the diner. I love 'em and haven't had 'em since I was a kid." Mulder consoled himself with the fact that at least that much of his fabrication was accurate. "I ate a whole serving. Makes you piss red for a day or two. It's nothing, really." He underscored his point by staring directly into Jeff's eyes, challenging him to prove him a liar. Jeff stared at Mulder for a full minute and for at least that long, Mulder thought he was a goner. Then, finally, Jeff blinked. "I hate beets," he said dryly. "Your loss," Mulder flipped back. "Now, help me up." When they got back out to the lounge, Scully was nowhere to be seen. Mulder sat down heavily in one of the chairs, while Jeff went to find her. He came back with her at his side. "Moser remembered something else. Something that might help us, actually," Scully said, taking out her notebook. "He used to work cleaning out stables when he was a kid. Said there was one place, Avalon Acres, where the owners used to mix cloves into the timothy hay. Said it kept the horses from getting colic. Anyway, the manure at that stable always had a unique odor. Moser is certain he smelled that manure again this morning, just before he passed out." "Let's call out there and get a list of the hired hands, bring them in for questioning," Mulder suggested getting slowly to his feet. "Would love to, but the place was foreclosed about two years ago. It's been in the receivership of a bank since then. All the horses were removed and placed at stables around the area. The farm is currently abandoned," Scully sighed. "Great spot for a serial killer to hide," Jeff said with a nod. "I'll send a team out there, see if we can't get some backup from BPD. We may need a SWAT team with this bastard. Did Dave say where this place is?" "Outskirts of Fairview Heights. On Route 53 South about a mile and a half out of town," Scully read from her notes. "I need to go to the bathroom," Mulder muttered and left at a slow trot down the hall. He could hear Andrews putting in a call to his office as he got further away. "Keep this up, Mulder, and I'm buying you a box of Depends," Scully yelled after him. 2:35 pm "Damn it," Andrews hissed and disconnected his cell phone. "What's the matter, now," Scully asked impatiently. "The storm is moving in already. Our guys can't get across the bridge, it's solid ice and they're routing everyone south over the I-155 bridge, but that puts an extra 20 minutes on them getting here, if the roads were good." "Jeff?" Scully asked, looking around. "Yeah," he answered absently. "Has Mulder come back from the men's room, yet?" Scully and Andrews were so involved with coordinating the team to go to Avalon Acres that neither one of them noticed that Mulder had failed to resurface for half an hour. Andrew looked around for a minute and then shrugged. "I don't think so." He bit his lip and dropped his eyes to the ground. "Jeff, what do you know?" Scully accused in a deep growl that would turn most men's hearts to stone. "He said he was fine, Dana," Jeff said, starting to jog down the hall toward the restrooms. "Why would he tell you that, unless you thought otherwise?" Scully demanded as she caught up to him. Jeff was clearing the men's room door. She could hear his cursing from in the hallway. "He's gone," he announced, but she already knew that. "He has the jump on us," she countered. "When did the BPD say they could get a backup out there?" "I was hoping we'd get there first," Jeff replied sheepishly. "I told them to wait for my call." "Then call them, dammit and get us out there!" Scully ordered and started toward the elevators and the lobby. After Jeff disconnected the line and stepped in the elevator, he apologized. "I'm sorry, Dana. I found him in the bathroom, doubled over. I should have told you about it, but when he said he'd eaten beets last night--well, some of the greasy spoons around here are known for their 'food poisoning specials'." Scully's head shot up so she could fix him with a glare. "We didn't eat at a diner last night. I brought back sandwiches from Hardees." "He didn't eat beets, then?" Jeff asked, dumbfounded. "Andrews, why do you seem stuck on this 'beet' discovery of yours?" Scully grilled him. Jeff licked his lips nervously. "Dana, I think he's in real trouble," he finally said. "I saw a trickle of red in the urinal. I asked him about it. He told me that he'd had pickled beets for dinner last night. Hell, knowing Mulder, he's the kind of guy who would like pickled beets," Jeff cried in exasperation. "Red?" Scully repeated, trying to make sense of Jeff's ramblings. "He's bleeding? Where?" she demanded. "Dana, he was--relieving himself. Oh God, and he said he'd been hit in the back, that he thought he might have bruised one of his kidneys. Oh my god--he's bleeding--" "He's ruptured the damn thing," she hissed. "Get back on that cell phone and call for an ambulance. Tell them to meet us at the horse farm." Avalon Acres Fairview Heights, Illinois 2:30 pm The wind was starting to kick up and a drizzle had started to fall as Mulder pulled in the gravel drive to the horse farm. Once white rail fences, now dirt covered and peeling, stood like a gauntlet on either side of the road. About 100 yards from the main highway, the formerly prestigious home stood looking forlorn and forgotten in the half light of the December afternoon. "Hey, great place to remake 'Psycho'," Mulder commented to himself. He was pretty amazed that he'd made it this far. His back was killing him constantly now, and he'd had to pull over a couple of times to vomit on the side of the road. Nothing came up, he'd not eaten anything since the one french fry the night before. But the urge to repell whatever was making him sick was too strong to reason with and he'd been racked with dry heaves. Even so, he'd made good time. He wanted to get out to the farm before Scully and Jeff called in the cavalry. He wanted this one for himself--with all the pain he was in, he deserved a piece of this guy. And as Mrs. Cravins had told him, Mulder was the only one who could catch him. Mrs. Cravins words haunted him. "You're future is mighty dark," she'd told him. He thought about her words, about how he was leaving Scully like he'd feared she would leave him. That wasn't true! He would never leave her. Besides, it's not like he was that big a part of her life. He was her partner, she tolerated him at best, patronized him at worst. If he died, she'd mourn, he had no doubt. But in the long run, Dana Scully was made of sterner stuff than old Fox Mulder. Where he would be found with his brains blown out not more than 24 hours after her funeral, she would grieve and then go on to accomplish great things in his honor. He suspected Mr. Cravins felt the same way, and that was why he left his wife behind when he 'went out to meet Jesus'. But why was he even considering this stuff? He had a killer to catch, and a storm coming and one way or another, he was going to live through this day. He didn't bother searching the house. He knew the Horseman wouldn't be there. He would be in the barns, where the horses had been kept. He had a connection to the horses, he loved them and they probably loved him. And when they were gone, he had nothing left. So he killed, because it was the only way he could feel important. The barns were about 50 feet from the house, downwind, Mulder noted. He pulled the car up the drive and stopped. Check the gun, his little voice told him and he did so quickly and efficiently. Then he got out of the car. The wind was ferocious at this point and the snow/sleet mixture stung his face and hands, and froze in his hair and eyebrows. He squinted his eyes against the tiny shards of ice that pounded against his skin. Quietly, although stealth was unnecessary with the wind howling so, he made his way over to the big double doors of the barn and pulled them open. The doors slid open noisily on the rusted tracks. Inside the barn, the wind still roared, but it's teeth were dulled and the ice was left to bay at the wooden clapboards of the exterior walls. It wasn't warm, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a definite improvement over the outside. The barn was spacious and had stalls on both sides. A hay bin, the size of a walk in closet, was against the back wall and was enclosed to the top, with only a small opening toward the bottom. Each stall had full walls on each side and a half wall with the gate in front. Windows at the back of the stall were shuttered, and kept the wind and ice in their own domain out of doors. There was still the scent of timothy and clove, it hung frozen in the air. Mulder fumbled in his overcoat pocket and produced his pen light. Cautiously, he opened the first stall, the one to his left as he entered the barn. He flashed the light around the stall, looking for signs of life. He then looked down, at the compacted and dirt laden hay on the floor of the stall. He could detect no footprints and so he moved on. As he moved to the second stall, a white hot poker of pain stabbed him in the groin. Tremendous in it's force, he felt something move in his body and then--inexplicably, it stopped and stayed. He cried out silently, and dropped both the light and his gun as he fell to his knees, clutching himself to alleviate the pain. When he looked up, Scully was standing over him. "Scully. Thank god. I'm hurt," he cried out and the pain intensified to the point where he considered shooting himself in the groin to make it stop. "Please, Scully . . . help me . . ." He dropped the rest of the way to the floor on his back. Then, Scully leaned over and he felt her touch his shoulder. He looked at her curiously. She usually said something, anything. Mostly, she'd just chastise him for getting hurt, and then, when all those years of Catholic education would catch up with her Irish temper, she'd murmur to him that he was going to be all right, that she would help him. She'd tell him the ambulance was on the way, that she'd stay with him on the way to the hospital. That she wouldn't leave him at the mercy of the buzzards and vultures in the emergency room who would pick at his skin with needles and poke him in places he never wanted uncovered. She would talk, and the words would flow over him almost as softly as her touch as she would brush his hair with her fingers and stroke his cheek to help him forget his pain. Scully was doing none of those things. Pressure was building in his gut and his bowels. He felt ready to explode at both ends. He need relief and couldn't move for the pain. He looked into her eyes, hoping that their own brand of silent communication would be up and running. Then she would see his agony and help him to end it, as she always did. Her eyes were vacant. He drew in a deep breath, gasping as the pain increased and seem to take over his breathing. He was working hard at getting air into his lungs, but with each breath, an overpowering odor met his nostrils. He would have expected it to be Scully's perfume, Chanel number 5--which he had discovered one year by asking her mother what the perfume was that she wore all the time. He'd remembered her birthday that year, and instead of a stupid key chain, he'd given her a shower set of the same fragrance. She'd been so pleased. He would have known that scent anywhere--it was Scully's scent. All he could smell was a strange mixture of hay, cloves and manure. Through the haze that was threatening to take him under, Mulder felt on the ground for his gun. Quietly, not changing expression and not making a sound, he brought it up between them, and very gently pulled the trigger. ------ When Dana and Jeff pulled up to the horse barn, they didn't bother to look in Mulder's abandoned car. They hurried inside and what they found pulled a stifled scream from Scully's lips. Mulder was laying, face up, eyes clenched in agony. On top of him lay a man, face down, dressed in a black trench coat. There was a gapping hole in the back of the coat and blood was flowing down the sides to puddle into the hay beneath them. "Get him off him!" Scully cried frantically. Blood was everywhere, and Mulder's shoulders and upper arms were sliced through the coat, adding more blood to the growing mess on the floor. Once Jeff pulled the trench coated man off Mulder, Scully was kneeling beside him. Her fingers went to his throat, she grimaced when she had to push harder to detect a pulse. It was thready and weak. "Mulder? Mulder?" she called softly. "Come on Mulder, let me know you're still here," she pleaded. The first sensation was her warm fingers on his throat. She was trying to be gentle, but any movement of his body, no matter how slight, was sending crashing waves of anguish over him. Her hand left him and he felt the chill of the air replace her warmth. He sobbed for his abandonment. "Mulder," she said excitedly. "Mulder, I'm right here," she assured him. Just like he knew she would. She ran her hand down his torso, stopping for a moment at his stomach, then reaching beneath him to press gently at his lower back. " . . . scully . . ." he gasped. " . . . that . . . hurts," he moaned, but it came out as barely a whisper. "I know, Mulder. I can see that. The ambulance is right behind us. It will be here any minute. You just hang on for me, OK?" She reached up and gently stroked his forehead. "Mulder, can you tell me where the pain is generally?" He winced. He didn't want to think about it, much less talk about it. But she had to know or she couldn't make it go away. " . . . I feel . . . like I'm gonna pop . . ." he hissed. Bile rose up in his throat and he could feel himself choking on it. Scully moved quickly to turn him on his side. He heaved and retched, but only stomach fluids came out, bloody and noxious smelling. All the time he was tormented, Scully was rubbing his shoulders, careful not to touch the wound. She must have done something there, because he could feel the tug of a bandage on each side. How the hell did he hurt himself there, he wondered briefly, then his stomach took control of his brain and he was sick again. "How's he doing?" Jeff's voice came out of the fog that surrounded everything beyond Scully's touch on his forehead. "Not so good," she whispered, but he could hear her, just the same. "I think this is more that just bleeding. He's got all the symptoms of going septic." "That's bad?" Jeff asked, a squeak to his voice that Mulder had never heard before. "Very bad. Sometimes a blockage in the urinary tract or kidneys can cause the body to fail to remove toxins. In essence, the body poisons itself. Unless the blockage is removed and the infection it causes treated quickly and aggressively, the patient has a very high morbidity rate." He recognized Scully's 'detached doctor voice'. It meant one thing--he was scaring the shit out of her. "Morbidity? As in dead?" Jeff asked again, but the answer didn't make it over the squeal of sirens and the hiss of tires on gravel. "In here," shouted a voice he didn't know. "What have we got here?" "Over there, dead at the scene. I'm a medical doctor, I can pronouce. Here, male, 36 years, extreme hyperextension in the abdominal, pain reflex in the kidneys. Bloody urine detected earlier today. Has been experiencing frequent urination and pain over the last 48 hours. Fever is just exhibiting. I think he might be septic," she sighed and he felt her move away and other rougher hands start to prod and poke at him. "Jesus, lady, if you're a doctor and knew all that, why the hell didn't you get him to a hospital sooner?" a second voice demanded. "Because he's a pig headed male and you better make damned sure he makes it through so I can kick his ass from here to DC," she retorted angrily. "Now, start an IV of Demerol and one of keflex. Call base and order a sonogram, lower GI series and have an OR on stand by. Get a urologist on the horn, I need to get some guidance here," she spit out at them and Mulder almost smiled to himself at the speed at which they seemed to be moving. Moving to the gurney was his new definition of hell, but that was quickly redefined by moving the gurney into the ambulance. For the short seconds out in the wind, he welcomed the chilling numbness of the ice on his face. He cried out each time the pain started to overwhelm him and each time, her tiny cool hand on his skin brought him back, if not unharmed, at least comforted. As the ambulance rolled away down the gravel road, the Demerol began to cover over him with a soft blanket of relief. He was fading in and out, half listening to the sounds of the EMTs and his partner, mingling in a strange symphony of sound and motion. " . . . possible hydronephrosis diagnosed by doctor on site." The words meant nothing to him, but as long as he could hear them, he knew he was probably still alive. " . . . ETA 35 plus, due to road conditions." At that, the grip on his hand tightened and he noticed for the first time that his partner's palm was sweating. " . . . short cut? Another route?" Frantic words from Scully. Her voice had taken on that edge that it got when she was well and truly frightened. The bad guy's dead, Scully, he thought. You said that yourself. We can relax. " . . . fucking blizzard out there, lady!" That caused the hand to grip his so tightly that it started to hurt. He moaned and moved his hand and the pressure was instantly released. "Sorry, Mulder," she whispered close to his ear. Her hand released his, but didn't leave him. It found it's way back into his hair and he was lulled to sleep by the rhythmic motion as her fingers glided through the strands, dividing them, caressing them . . . He jolted awake as the gurney hit the ground and he was being pushed through double glass doors. "In here," someone shouted. Scully's hand was in his, holding tightly. He could hear her shoes on the tile floor as she ran to keep up with the gurney. "Sorry, miss, but only the doctor is allowed--" "I am a fucking doctor," Scully hissed. "And a fucking FBI agent. That is my partner and I am going with him. Now, get your hand off my arm or I'll put you under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law!" " . . . scully?" he rasped and hoped she could hear him. "Right here, partner. Just rest easy, now. The pain should be a little better, isn't it?" He felt himself nod but it was little more than reflex. "Good. We're going to get a sonogram. If you're pregnant, do you want to know the sex of the baby," she teased gently. He screwed up his face. " . . . name it . . . after you . . ." "If it's a boy or a girl?" she shot back. " . . . both . . ." came the reply. He was being stripped of his clothing, but aside from hoping he hadn't messed in his boxers, he didn't have the energy to care. He was carefully rolled onto his stomach and something cold that felt like jelly hit his back just above his waist. He felt something round glide over the gel and he heard a hissing sound like a hand brushing over a microphone to test it. "There it is," an unfamiliar voice announced. "Shit, that sucker's jagged. No wonder it lodged and blocked. And it's location--that's a bitch and a half." He heard Scully clear her throat loudly and all further comments stopped. He felt her hair brush his ear as she leaned forward. "Well, it's not a baby, it's a rock. Still want to name it after me?" He nodded and tried to smile, but never opened his eyes. Many hands rolled him on his back and he was moving again. He could see the overhead lights strobe past him through his eyelids. Scully's hand had moved to his arm now and she was rubbing there in slow circles. "You're going into surgery. It won't hurt, I promise. I'll be right out here, waiting for you. It's going to be all right, Mulder. I promise. Just don't leave me, OK? Promise me you won't leave," she begged and he felt warm drops of liquid fall on the skin of arm. He reached over and took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. " . . . never . . ." St. Jude's Medical Center, Belleville, Illinois December 15, 10:35 am Mulder felt something at his neck. It wasn't strangling him, but it was sticking in him and was annoying. He lifted his hand and brushed at it with his fingers. "Don't touch," Scully voice chided. He opened his eyes and looked directly into a machine that he'd never seen before. "It's a kidney dialysis. You're married to it for a couple of more days. We decided your kidneys needed a good rest and so this little baby is taking up the slack for them," Scully said cheerfully. " . . . too damned loud," he rasped and closed his eyes, leaning back in the pillows. "Sorry, but it doesn't have a volume button like the heart monitors. You'll get used to it. It hasn't stopped you from sleeping all this time," she noted. " . . . why my . . . neck?" he asked and she finally got the hint and held some water up to his lips. He drank greedily and looked at her for an answer. She didn't disappoint him. "They use the carotid artery. It's easier to find and it's better on the heart this way. I know you probably hate it, you hate all IV's on general purposes, but it's necessary, so learn to live with it." She was back in her no nonsense mood--no gentle caresses this morning. That was only for when he had one foot in the grave. "What was wrong with me?" he asked, his voice loosening up as he used it more. "Kidney stones. I won't embarrass you by asking how long you've had the symptoms, and quite frankly, I don't want to know until you are well enough for me to kick the crap out of you," she said, her eyes gleaming. "But the blockage must have occurred right as you hit the barn. A large stone entered you urethra and lodged, blocking the urine stream. That caused a back up, which in turn caused you to into septic shock. If we'd been there a few minutes later, or if the ambulance had been snowbound, you'd have been dead before nightfall." He watched her fight a shiver that ran down her back. "What happened to the Horseman?" Mulder asked, deciding that it might be wisest to steer the discussion away from his almost demise. She looked surprise at that. "You shot him, Mulder. Point blank, through the heart. Skinner says there will be the standard hearing, but he had a knife and had already sliced up your shoulders so you have a strong case for justified use of extreme force. I think he was going to cut you up like he did Dave Moser. Dave, by the way, is out of ICU and is probably going home in a couple of days." Mulder's eyes clouded over. "I didn't know it was him, Scully," he said sadly. "Of course you did, Mulder!" she exclaimed. "How else would you have known to shoot him?" "I saw you, Scully. I thought you had followed me. I thought it was you," he admitted and dropped his eyes to the blankets he was gripping in his hands. "Then why did you shoot?" Scully asked quietly. He was silent for a time, then looked at her. "He smelled bad, Scully. Not like you. He wasn't wearing your perfume." She chucked at that. "I'm glad," she told him. "Who was he?" Mulder asked. "Did you do the autopsy?" "Let's go at this systematically, since I know you'll want the whole story. After we brought you here, you had surgery. You were still pretty sick, even after the blockage was removed and they started you on dialysis. So, no, I didn't do the autopsy." He groaned at that. "But I did talk to the ME. I had him check the brain. He found multiple lesions on the brain. Some looked like they'd been trauma induced. Blows to the head--" "Abusive family," Mulder interjected. "Whatever," Scully shot back. "Anyway, he found no tumor, as we'd previously discovered in Robert Modell. And no skeletal and musculature abnormality as we'd found in Eddie Van Blundht. So, I'm at a loss, Mulder. I don't know why he could make people think he was someone else." "He used more of his brain than we do, Scully. Just like I said the other night." "Well, he had a pretty ordinary life, up to the murdering spree. His name was Michael Jenkins. He was a groomsman who had worked at Avalon Acres since high school. Actually, he never made it to graduation, he started working there when he was seventeen. When the farm went bankrupt, he couldn't find a job. He's been on unemployment, and was denied public aid because he was able bodied and could work. But from what I could gather, he's been living at the stables, making do by petty theft." "Did he have any connection to Mrs. Cravins?" Mulder asked. "You'll love this, Mulder. His connection to Mrs. Cravins was through her daughter's husband. The Sheriff of Madison County was his cousin. I don't know if Sheriff Baker suspected he was the killer or what. He's Jenkins only living relative and he refused to take possession of the body. It's going to a potter's grave, last I heard." "Does Mrs. Cravins know we caught him?" Mulder asked as he absorbed all she was telling him. Scully chewed on her lip for a moment, obviously trying to figure out how to break the news. "Mrs. Cravins died, Mulder. She died the night we brought you in. Massive coronary. It was quick. They buried her yesterday." "Bet Mr. Cravins is getting an earful," Mulder said with a sad smile. "Don't feel bad, Scully. She was ready to go. It was her time." Scully smiled in return. "I'm just glad you decided it wasn't _your_ time, Mulder. The thought of breaking in a new partner was giving me hives," she teased. There was a knock on the door and Jeff Andrews stuck his head into the room. "Is he awake, yet?" he asked in a whisper. "Yeah, I'm awake," Mulder replied. "Good, because I have something for you," Jeff said and handed Mulder a hastily wrapped object. The wrapping paper was the funnies from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and Scully laid them carefully aside, so Mulder could read them later. Once the object was unveiled, Mulder stared at it quizzically. It was a block of wood, with a taller pedestal of wood in the center. On the pedestal was a cream colored stone, about three quarters of an inch in diameter and jagged on the edges. Surrounding that were three smaller stones, smoother in appearance, and of various sizes. On the side of the block of wood, a piece of masking tape displayed the name 'Dana' on the front, then similar pieces of tape held the names 'Frohike', 'Byers', and 'Langly' around the other sides. "OK, I give. What is it?" Mulder asked Jeff. "Don't you recognize your own progeny, Mulder?" he asked aghast. "Those are your babies!" "Those are your 'stones', Mulder," Scully corrected. "And the one on top, the one you promised to name after me, is the one that caused all the problems." "So I guess it's official then, huh, Scully. You really are a pain," he teased. "I love it," he added. "I was hoping you'd name one after me, but I guess you can do that with the next one," Jeff said with a mock sniffle of rejection. "There will _not_ be a 'next one', Andrews," Mulder informed his friend. Scully's face split into a truly evil grin. "I'm glad you feel that way, Mulder, because the urologist is coming in a little while later and will give you the diet that you are starting and the exercise program so that you can avoid this in the future." "Scully!" he whined. "I'm too old to change my ways!" he cried. "Mulder, you aren't getting older. You're getting better," she replied. the end. We'd love comments :) vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com hemlunda@pitea.mail.telia.com