By Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

Finished: April 25, 1999
Summary: It's 1991. Fox Mulder has been a profiler under Bill
Patterson for over a year and a half. He's facing one of his hardest
cases, and a nasty cold. Both of them are about to get a lot worse.
Category: X A MT (no Scully)
Rating: R for language, violence (no sex--sorry ;)
Archive: Yes
Disclaimer: If I owned them, this would be the NEXT X Files
book  But since I don't, no copyright infringement on 10-13,
Fox or anyone else is intended. But if you are looking for authors,
I'm looking for work 

Started a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Finished March,
1999.

Author's notes: This is my longest work, to date. I started it as a
simple little story, Mulder with a cold. I wanted to venture back
into the heady days of Bill Patterson, Reggie Purdue and Jerry
LaMana. I wanted to know Fox Mulder before the X Files, before
Scully, even before he decided his sister was abducted by aliens. 
And yes, even before he ran across a *itch named Diana :)

The following is what came of that wish. It took a great deal of
time, and a lot of simmering on the back burner. 

I am not a doctor, so please forgive any medical inaccuracies you
find. I have had pneumonia, and have nursed someone with
pneumonia, so I'm not a total novice in that regard. As for the
mental institution near the end, I need to thank a lot of people who
have forged that trail before me. Not the least of which is the
wonderful writer, Amperage, whose work 'the Sacrifice' was one
of the first 'long' works I read. Also, Goo and Amp's excellent
efforts in Oklahoma, which gave us one view of the young Fox
Mulder, must be mentioned here. JoAnn Humly gave us a glimpse
of Mulder at the Academy, her work blazed this trail also. 

Dedication: No work that's 25 parts long can exist without a lot of
beta readers. Some of my beta readers have seen this work
languishing for months (even years) at a time. These hardy souls
deserve far more than just a thank you in my author's notes, but
here it is. Thanks (in alpha order) to Amanda, Brandon, Kathy,
Kristina, Sally, Susan & Ten. Each and every one of you are in here
somewhere. You'll know you when you see you :)

Posting notes: For the sake of readers who like to read a story
from start to finish, this story will be posted complete on MulderTorture 
Anonymous and my own website listed below. For all mail lists (MTA, 
XFC, and any others it might appear on), it will be posted 5 parts per
day. It's a 25 part story (not counting the disclaimer, which is part 00)

Thanks for your indulgence :) Feedback is appreciated, greatly! 
vmoseley@fgi.net

Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net

January 30, 1991

Fox Mulder was cold. Freezing cold. He shivered. Snow was
falling all around him and he was at the top of a very large hill,
much taller than any he'd ever seen before on Martha's Vineyard,
his home. The little sled he was holding looked flimsy in the face of
the evergreens towering below him at the base of the hill.

"C'mon, Fox. Ya gonna ride that thing or not?" He heard a shrill
taunt through the frigid air. It was his sister, Samantha, and when
he narrowed his eyes and squinted, he could see her standing at the
bottom of the hill, waiting for him. He waved at her impatiently.

"Be quiet, Sam. I'm finding the good path down," he yelled in
return. He hefted the sled, a red and brown flexible flyer that was
getting too small for him, but would make it through the season. 
Before him the snow spread out like a blanket of white cotton. 
There were bumps and dips in the blanket, and he knew that any
one of them might be a tree stump or a rock. He'd been tossed off
enough sleds to avoid making the same mistake again. 

Finally, he set the sled down on the snow beneath him, steadying it
before lying down on it on his stomach. He used his hands and
arms to push the sled back and forth, setting the runners in the six
inches of fresh powder. He closed his eyes and gave a final
push off.

He was flying! Straight down the hill, or rather the mountain, from
where he was lying prostrate in the little wood and steel sled, he
plunged at a dizzying rate of speed. He'd never been this fast on a
sled, never felt like the ground under him had fallen away and he
was suspended over the snow, rocketing toward the bottom. He
laughed, and the sound left him before it reached his ears. He could
feel the snow sting his face as it flew up, trying to dodge the
runners of the sled. Tiny icy shards, whipping at his eyes, bringing
tears of joy. This was sledding!

He was so intent on the freedom of flight that he completely
ignored the warning screams of his sister. He was so enjoying the
feel of the snow on his cheeks that he didn't open his eyes to see
the giant blue spruce towering above him. He didn't know he'd hit
the tree till he was jarred smack against it.

Mulder jerked up off the cheap motel desk like his back was on a
tight spring. Sweat was pouring down his face, his whole body
shaking with the force of the dream/memory.

"You all right, Mulder?" came a voice behind him. Jerry LaMana
walked over to his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Mulder? 
You OK, man? You were sleeping, I thought you needed a few
winks. Musta been some nightmare, huh?"

Mulder swallowed past the boulder in his throat. He wanted to
wave his friend off, tell him he was fine, but his voice box wasn't
cooperating. In the end, he shrugged, struggled to get his breathing
under control and decided maybe it was a good time to hit the
bathroom.

Standing at the sink, his legs still wobbly, he splashed water on his
face. It was the most realistic reenactment of his fateful meeting
with the big blue spruce on his grandmother's homestead that he
could remember. He'd had the dream before, several times since
he'd actually lived through the events, but only when he was having
fever dreams. It had become a portent of illness and he was not at
all happy to see it again.

He'd been fighting a cold for weeks. First the sniffles, then the
scratchy throat had hit about three days ago. It all started back at
Quantico and had dogged him all the way to Chicago and now to
the lonely motel in Minot, North Dakota. 

The winter in DC had been cold and wet and he'd gotten tired of
just swimming some laps in the pool. His legs wanted to run, and
so he'd gone out a couple of times in the rain. He knew that
wouldn't cause a cold--he'd told his mother that a thousand times
as a teenager. But it didn't stop his coming down with one just to
spite him, either.

Running had been his only escape, of late. The year and a half that
he'd been working with Bill Patterson's elite Investigative Support
Unit had provided him with much intellectual stimulation, and
exactly six weekends off. He'd accumulated enough compensatory
time to retire at the ripe old age of 40 and there was no end in sight. 

At this point, a cold, or worse yet, the flu, was NOT an option.
To make matters worse, Mulder didn't even have the luxury of
being miserable by himself. He had to hide his poor health from his
partner. 

Mulder grabbed one of the thin white squares of terry cloth off the
rack next to the mirror and wet it, then rubbed it over his face. He
drew in a breath and fought the urge to cough back at his reflection. 
Finally, he shrugged and walked back into the bedroom.

"I was working on that," he said, noticing his partner staring at the
yellow legal pad he'd left on the desk.

"Ready to show it to Patterson?" LaMana asked, dropping the pad
to the desk top.

Mulder shook his head. "Not yet. You're back quick. Find
anything at the library?"

Jerry sighed and dropped soundlessly to the bed. "Nothing useful. 
Mulder, I know we keep finding matches from various motels at the
crime scene, but I don't know that it means it's where this guy
came from. Maybe it's just a sick joke, or his way of covering his
trail."

"Maybe, Jer, but I can't shake the feeling that he's baiting
us--trying to draw us in," Mulder replied with a slow shake of his
head.

For three weeks they had been working on this case. No one had
suspected it to be a serial killing until a detective in Norfolk called
his old college roommate, who happened to be a detective in
Philadelphia. A murder had happened, young man, butchered and
mutilated. Amazingly enough, a murder matching that description
had occurred in Philadelphia recently, as well. In both cases, a book
of matches was found in the pocket of the suit coat. Nothing
unusual, except neither man smoked.

When the third murder of similar circumstances was discovered in
Chicago, Bill Patterson's Investigative Support Unit at the FBI had
been called in. As Patterson's duly appointed 'best and brightest',
Fox Mulder had been tapped to write the profile.

Usually, Mulder didn't have to go into the field. He was given file
folders containing police reports, crime scene photos, autopsies,
and from those patchwork pieces, Mulder would follow the steps of
the killer to determine what made the guy think, what were his
motivations, what kind of a person he really was. And in the end,
Mulder could give his fellow field agents a description that even the
murderer's own mother would be hard pressed to equal--or deny.

In this case, however, the murders were coming at an alarming
pace. One every four days, and the trail of bodies was being left
across the continent. Norfolk to Philadelphia to Chicago to Minot. 
Why the hell can't this bastard like warm climates, Mulder cursed
to himself as he picked up the legal pad again.

"Did you have lunch, yet?" Jerry asked casually, noting the contents
of the wastepaper basket. Wadded up yellow paper couldn't hide
completely the half consumed bag of chips and empty Nestea can.

"Yes, mother," Mulder replied, not looking up.

"You know, Bill thinks you're not eating on purpose," Jerry said,
picking up the remote and clicking on the television.

"Bill can eat my shorts," Mulder retorted, not tearing his gaze away
from his writing. "Could you turn that down, please," he added,
slightly irritated at the disturbance.

There was a knock at the door and both men stared at each other. 
Finally, Jerry broke his gaze and got up to answer it.

Bill Patterson stood in the door way, looking to Mulder just like
one of God's avenging angels. His thinning hair and dark rimmed
glasses lead to the confusing image that this man was a scholar, a
teacher. Mulder alone knew the truth. This man was the Marquis
de Sade, with a badge and gun.

"We need that profile, Mulder," Patterson growled low, not
bothering with formalities such as saying hello.

"I'm about finished, Bill. Just putting on the final touches," Mulder
said evenly, looking the older man directly in the eyes. Jerry,
Mulder could see just at the edge of his vision, was all but cowering
on the opposite side of the room.

"Let me see what you've got," Patterson spat out with a frown.

Mulder sighed, picked up the legal pad and handed it to his
superior. He resisted the urge to read over the other man's
shoulder, instead took the opportunity to scrutinize the piles of
frozen slush in the motel parking lot out the window.

"This doesn't tell me squat, Mulder," Patterson said, throwing the
pad down on the desk.

Mulder knew better than to flinch under Patterson's gaze. He
stared back, calm, collected. "I told you it wasn't finished, Bill. 
Give me tonight--I'll have it in the morning."

Patterson looked like he was about to object when the phone rang
from the table between the twin double beds. Jerry was closest, so
he took the call.

"We don't have until tomorrow. There's been another one."

Union Pacific Railyards
Billings, Montana
Jan 30, 1991 4:15 pm
Temp. minus 3 degrees

The car tires slid on the icy patch at the entrance to the yards. 
Mulder looked to the horizon, marveling at the towering peaks
completely engulfed in snow. It was difficult to make out even tree
lines on the mountainside. Finally, the tires found traction and the
rental car jerked back into forward motion.

Icy winds threatened to tear the car door right out of his hand. 
Mulder glanced over at Jerry, who was wrapping his woolen
muffler more firmly over his face. The frozen wind clawed deep in
Mulder's lungs, and for a moment, he considered asking his friend if
he had a spare muffler somewhere in his bags. A shouted greeting
from a uniformed Montana state trooper banished the thought.

"The body's over here."

The victim, identified by his driver's license, was one James Edward
Nelson of Billings. The police were in the process of notifying the
family. Because of their proximity in Minot, and with the aid of a
chartered jet, the FBI team had made it to the scene before the
coroner had removed the body. It would be the first time Mulder
had been to a crime scene that was relatively intact since he'd been
brought on the case.

Mulder slowed his pace as he followed along behind Jerry and the
state trooper. It wasn't any squeamishness on his part. He was
looking around, taking in the surroundings. Trying to see it first
from the eyes of the victim, then from the eyes of the killer. As he
walked, he absently pulled on latex gloves, so as not to disturb any
prints that might be found at the site. So far, the killer had been
fastidious, leaving nothing incriminating behind but the
matchbooks, which contained no prints. Even so, Mulder was
hoping this time, the killer might have left them a surprise.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Jerry hissed just under his breath. Mulder let his
gaze skim over to the victim. Mutilated. That's what all the
reports said. The black and white photos of the victims did little to
portray the gruesomeness of the crime. Blood was smeared
everywhere, covering the body, obliterating a once immaculate
white shirt. Fingers removed, chopped off with a surgical precision
and all before death, according to the autopsies. Eyes gouged, jaw
almost pulled from the skull.

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, but the image wouldn't leave. 
He drew in a deep breath, but the cold air caused a fit of coughing,
rather than clearing his mind. When he raised his head, he could
see the worried look on LaMana's face.

"You OK, man?" Jerry whispered, stepping around the body to be
close enough to his partner to be heard over the wind and the
sounds of the railyard.

Mulder swallowed, wished he could take another deep breath, but
thought better of it. "I'm fine, Jer. Just the cold," he assured his
friend.

The uniformed officer was standing at a distance, but stepped
forward. "The ME's wagon is here. They want to move the
body." It was a request for direction.

Mulder nodded. "Tell 'em to go ahead," he said, fighting another
cough. Now that he'd let one of the little coughs out, other bigger
ones were quick on its heels.

Jerry was quick on Mulder's heels, too. "That cough sounds bad,
Mulderman. You need to get out of this wind."

"LaMana, the last person who got to boss me around like that had
the added benefit of being my wet nurse," Mulder shot back, not
bothering to look at his friend. "I'm OK. I want to check this
place out a little first, then we'll find a motel nearby."

Jerry threw up his hands in defeat and walked away, but stayed well
within glaring range. Mulder ignored him, and everyone else. He
was in observation mode, all senses focused on finding the details
that might lead him to some answers.

The ground was hard, frozen, and had been for some time. It
would be impossible to find good tire tracks on the mud and ice. 
The snow that remained in that particular area was slush turned to
ice as well. Mulder crouched down and stared at the ice crusted
slush. "I need photos over here," he called to anyone who might
listen. 

Within a heartbeat, a plain clothed officer with a camera was beside
him, flashing pictures of areas as Mulder pointed them out. When
the officer had finished, Mulder gave him a tired smile and a hasty
'Thanks', then turned back to his examination.

His mind was going a mile a minute. It looked as if there had been
two cars there recently. Two cars. Either the killer wasn't working
alone, or it confirmed something Mulder already suspected--the
killer lured his victims to the site and killed them there. But there
hadn't been a volume of blood at the other sites. Here, blood was
everywhere. Could the killer have changed his ways? Could it be
that this murder was done by someone other than the killer they
were tracking?

Mulder's head ached at that thought. If this wasn't their man, they
were wasting precious time. If it was a copy cat, they were really in
trouble. But the press had very few of the details of the other
cases. The only possibility for a copy cat might be that they were
somehow connected with the police. Mulder shook his head to
clear that thought. Sometimes the mind tried too hard to reach a
conclusion. That wasn't it, he knew it.

He wanted to see the autopsy results, but that would be hours. For
the meantime, all he had was the railyard, and while it was fresh, he
had to make use of it. He went back to his search.

An hour and a half later, his exhaustion and the jet lag finally caught
up with him. He slipped on a patch of ice and went down on his
right knee. Jerry was next to him in a second, helping him up. 
Mulder was so tired, it was everything he could do to get to his
feet, even with assistance. 

"Mulder, I won't take 'no' for an answer. It's time to go. You've
got this place committed to memory now, give it a rest," Jerry
chided with a good touch of compassion.

"Make sure they call me when the autopsy's done," Mulder told
one of the uniforms and gave him a business card before allowing
Jerry to guide him toward a squad car which would take them to a
motel.

Stay and Save Motel
Billings, Montana
Jan 30, 9:00 pm

Mulder could hear voices, but couldn't manage to get his eyes open
enough to acknowledge them. He could identify the first voice easy
enough--it was Jerry. The second voice was lower, but he could
finally place it, too. Bill Patterson, checking up on him.

"I heard he collapsed at the scene," Patterson's voice sounded
almost concerned for the young agent.

"I don't think he collapsed, Bill," Jerry objected. "It was icy as hell
out there. He slipped and I helped him up."

"Then why did you bring him back here? And why is he asleep?"
Bill was a pit bull when he was on the trail of something. He could
sense that someone was hiding something, no matter how innocent
it might be.

"He's got a cold, Bill. Good enough for you?" Jerry barked
angrily, than lowered his voice. "For God's sakes, Bill, the guy
hasn't had any time off in months. He's got a goddamn cold and
he's worn out. Let him sleep tonight. He'll be fine in the
morning."

There was silence for several heartbeats, then Mulder heard the
door creak.

"Are you bunking here," Patterson's voice sounded somewhat
relieved.

"I guess I don't have a choice. Who ever heard of a Shriner's
convention in Billings?" Jerry shot back with a chuckle.

"Just as well, you can keep an eye on him. I can't afford to lose
him on this case, LaMana. Make sure he takes care of himself." A
direct order, but Mulder wondered sleepily how they'd bring
charges against Jerry if he failed to obey it. 

The door shut and the room grew quiet again. Mulder let sleep pull
him back down into it's blanket, and stayed there for the rest of the
night.

From: Vickie Moseley 

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part two of twenty-five

January 31, 1991
3:35 am

Jerry was usually a sound sleeper, which helped a lot when it came
to rooming with Mulder. He never knew that more often than not,
Mulder would awaken sometime during the night and turn on the
television to banish the nightmares that came in his sleep. Mulder
never told his friend about his nightmares, and Jerry never
suspected anything was wrong.

So it was a big surprise to both of them when Mulder started
screaming as if the dogs of hell were chasing him.

Jerry shot out of bed like a rocket, grabbing for his service revolver
sitting next to the bed. Mulder kept screaming for a good three
minutes, running out of breath and choking and coughing. Finally,
when Jerry figured out they weren't under attack by an army of
psychopathic killers, he grabbed Mulder's arms and tried to break
him out of the dream.

Mulder's skin was on fire. For the first time since arriving in
Billings, Jerry started to fear that his friend might really be sick. 
"Mulder. Hey, Mulder. Come on, guy. Snap out of it," he
conjoled. After several seconds, which seemed like an eternity to
Jerry, Mulder seemed to gain an awareness of his surroundings. He
looked Jerry in the eyes and seemed confused.

"LaMana, get the hell out of my bed," he growled, and a cough
punctuated his words. Slowly, he shoved Jerry aside, and stumbled
into the bathroom.

"You have a fever," Jerry informed him upon his return. 

Mulder promptly shot his friend a middle finger salute. "Fever
this," he replied and crawled back into bed.

"You had a nightmare," Jerry said, not quite sure where he wanted
the conversation to go, but needing to say something.

"I figured that out," Mulder said, pulling the blankets up tightly
under his chin. He felt miserable. A solid dose of adrenaline
pumping in his veins was doing battle with his aching chest and
rubbery muscles. Not to mention, he felt like he was cold beyond
his wildest nightmares. "Turn the fucking heat up. It's a fucking
freezer in here," he growled. It was the only thing he could think of
that might help him feel better.

Jerry sat there for another moment, then reluctantly went over to
turn on the heater by the window. "You should see a doctor,
Mulder. Patterson said I needed to make sure you took care of
yourself."

"Do you get extra pay for 'babysitting duty?" Mulder sneered and
shivered. "LaMana, I've got a cold. It's a virus. What the hell is a
doctor gonna do? And what do we do if he says I need to go
home? That would go over real well with Mother Bill, wouldn't
it?"

"He'll be more pissed if you keel over in the middle of a crime
scene," Jerry pointed out.

"I didn't keel over. I slipped on the ice," Mulder said firmly.

"Mulder. Look, if you're sick . . ."

"Jerry, I promise, if I am really sick, I will go to the doctor. But in
the meantime, I want to sleep, so if you don't mind . . ."

"OK, Mulder. But if you need me . . ."

"Go to sleep, Jerry. The night I 'need' you, we're both in big
trouble," Mulder chuckled and the room settled down into silence
again. It took a few minutes, but the discussion with Jerry had
given his body time to calm down. Mulder fell asleep almost fast
enough to miss hearing Jerry's snoring.

Six am came awfully early. Fox Mulder rolled over, his whole body
aching. He coughed and something came from his lungs and
burned in his throat, threatening to choke off his air. He rushed to
the bathroom, spitting out some truly vile looking greenish sputum
into the toilet. "Shit," he muttered, leaning against the sink. 

He didn't think looking in the mirror was going to improve his
outlook on the day, and he was right. He looked like death warmed
over. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, giving him the look of a
raccoon. His eyes held a glassy look, too, and the image in the
mirror shimmered on its own, making him wonder whether it was
his sight or its surface that was the problem. 

The outer room was unbearably hot. He tugged at the tee shirt
he'd slept in, pulling it off and tossing it in the vicinity of his
suitcase. He needed to take a shower, but standing had become an
activity too strenuous to contemplate, so he simply fell face first
onto his rumpled bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Jerry had groggily opened his eyes when Mulder had slammed the
bathroom door shut. Now, with his partner doing a 'dead man's
float' on the other bed, Jerry dragged himself and a clean suit into
the bathroom to shower and change. He'd already decided that
their first stop, regardless of objections, was to the nearest
doctor/emergency room/prompt care medical clinic. And he was
more than willing to use his weapon to back up his intent.

Mulder hadn't moved a muscle when Jerry stepped out of the
bathroom, fully dressed for the day. Jerry walked over to the bed,
and tugged at Mulder's size 12 feet. "Throw some clothes on," he
ordered. "We're gonna find a doctor."

More than anything, Mulder wanted to tell Jerry to have explicit
sexual favors with himself, but he knew it had gone beyond that. 
Jerry got serious about precious little, but when he did, there
weren't many ways to stop him. Mulder tried, anyway. "Will you
let me eat first?" he whined.

"What do you want to eat?" Jerry asked, not quite as sternly as his
earlier command, but still firm in his intentions. "We can stop along
the way."

"Hot tea, with lemon," Mulder requested, struggling to a sitting
position and pulling on the dress pants he'd left hanging over the
desk chair back. "And a goodly shot of Jack Daniels."

Jerry grinned. "Well, at least you aren't at death's door," he shot
back. "You're still requesting brand names," he added, and helped
Mulder locate a shirt, his socks and shoes. "C'mon. If you're fast,
we might get you back before 'Mother Bill' finds out."

Billings Memorial Medical Center
January 31, 1991
8:30 am

"You have a nasty case of bronchitis, Agent Mulder. We'll send
this specimen to the lab, but I'm betting that you've developed a
secondary infection in the lungs already. I'm prescribing an
antibiotic, you must take all of it, and an expectorant. You will
cough, but it will be a productive cough, it will bring the infection
up and out of the lungs." Mulder winced at the description and
fought back the urge to throw up on the doctor's shoes. The
doctor didn't seem to notice and continued.

"I want you to drink 8 to 10 glasses of water a day, and it wouldn't
hurt to take as many hot showers as you can tolerate. The humidity
will open the airways and moisten the lining of the lungs. Plus
you'll feel a heck of a lot better. And, of course, bed rest until the
fever is gone," the doctor said with a knowing smile. "That will
probably be no more than four or five days. When you get home,
check with your own doctor before going back to work. Oh, and
any over the counter pain reliever for the fever and aches." 

The man smiled that patented 'doctor' smile at the agent and 
handed him two prescription slips. "We have a pharmacy here in
the hospital. They can fill those while you wait." Without further
notice, he turned and left the cubicle.

Jerry was just finishing up a five year old Sports Illustrated. "Hey,
what did the doctor say?" he asked cheerfully.

"I have a cold," Mulder lied. "He gave me a prescription for a
cough syrup that should help me with this cough. Other than that,
he said to get enough sleep at night and I'll be fine." 

All the time Mulder was talking, Jerry noted that he wouldn't look
him in the eye. "That so?" Jerry asked, instantly suspicious. 
"Mulder, you aren't shittin' me, are you?" he finally inquired,
making sure he had a good look at Mulder's eyes when he replied.

"Jer, honest, I'm fine," he said and waved a white prescription slip
in front of him. "The pharmacy is right up there. I'll go get this
filled and you can go bring the car around. That way I won't be
out in the cold that long," he reasoned.

Jerry looked like he didn't want to buy that, but couldn't figure out
what was amiss, so went to get the car. Mulder heaved a sigh of
relief and went off to fill the scripts.

"Got everything," Jerry sneered sarcastically as Mulder finally got
in the car. While he was standing at the counter, waiting for the
pharmacist to fill the prescriptions, he'd noticed displays for
Tylenol and cough suppressant that guaranteed to stop a cough. It
sounded good to Mulder, so he'd picked up bottles of those, as
well.

"If you're gonna 'mother hen' me, LaMana, you better not
complain when I _do_ get medical attention," Mulder growled. He
stuffed the antibiotic in his overcoat pocket, then put the pain
reliever and cough formulas in his suit coat pocket. "Let's roll," he
said to Jerry, who pointed that car back to the motel.

Billings Police station
10:35 am

Patterson was waiting for them when they arrived. "You better
have a good excuse . . ."

Jerry cut him off. "I took him to a doctor this morning," he
explained.

Patterson stared holes in both of them for a moment. "OK, don't
keep me in suspense. What did he tell you?"

"I have a cold," Mulder said flatly. "I have stuff for it," he added,
pulling out the expectorant from his pockets to show the older man.

Patterson leaned over to read the pharmacy label, then narrowed his
gaze at Mulder. "Make sure you take that stuff," Patterson
growled. "And watch it next time you walk on ice."

"Duly noted," Mulder grumbled. "Did the autopsy reports come
back?"

Patterson nodded and handed a file to Mulder. "I got them about
three this morning. From the looks of it, the victim was killed at
the scene. But the knife strokes and the rest of the damage appears
to be done by our guy," he noted.

Mulder was reading and nodding. "No prints off the body?"

"No. The ME figures gloves were used."

"Toxicology?" Mulder asked, flipping through the pages of the
report.

"Normal levels on everything. No drugs, if that's your question,"
Bill replied.

"That doesn't make sense," Mulder said to himself.

"What, that there were no drugs?" Jerry asked.

"No, that the victim just stood there and let someone kill
him--there are no signs of a struggle, either."

"Blow to the head?" Jerry suggested.

"No sign of it," Mulder said, skimming the file again.

"Maybe the first cut was fatal," Bill chimed in.

"Not according to the ME. Victim bled to death. That takes time,
especially in below freezing weather. The body bleeds more slowly
in the cold," he explained, pacing the room. A coughing fit snuck
up on him and almost brought him to his knees. When he could
straighten again, both Bill and Jerry were staring intently at him, not
moving.

"Sorry about that," he said, and reached into his suit coat. He
opened the expectorant and took a big swig. "You're driving for
the rest of the day," he informed Jerry.

"Maybe you should stay here and rest," Patterson interjected. 
Mulder was instantly suspicious. Patterson was _never_ 'nice' to
any of his agents, unless he had something up his sleeve. Mulder
didn't really want a plane ticket home and the shit work he'd be
saddled with if he was removed from the case for illness.

"Nope, Bill. I got things to do, people to see. Newspapers to
read," Mulder said with a lopsided grin. "There is a library in
beautiful downtown Billings, I assume?"

"Probably," Jerry said, pulling the phone book out of the bedside
dresser. "Yeah, here's the address. You want to go to the
library?"

"Yep, gonna catch up on my reading," Mulder informed them and
grabbed his coat as he headed out the door.

"Keep an eye on him," Bill warned. "I don't think this is just a cold
anymore."

"Neither do I," Jerry admitted and followed his friend to the car.

Billings Public Library
4:35 pm

The expectorant, Mulder quickly discovered, did not help his
cough. It made him cough more, which was the last thing his
stomach muscles wanted. An hour after taking it, he pulled out the
cough suppressant and took a good swig from that bottle. Half an
hour later, he found himself in the bathroom, tossing up both
substances and the Egg McMuffin he'd snagged on the way to the
library, but he felt better. His stomach finally settled and he wasn't
coughing so much. He went to the periodicals section and got to
work looking through back issues of the local newspapers.

By late afternoon, he was wearing out. Mulder sat back, took his
glasses off and rolled his shoulders. He'd been searching for hours,
but he had a sizable stack of xeroxed pages next to his microfiche
reader. Jerry was snoozing in the chair across from him and Mulder
woke him up with a short kick of his chair.

"Whaa!" Jerry startled, then glared at his partner.

"I'm done. We can go back to the motel," Mulder said, getting up
and pulling on his suit jacket.

"Did you need to take anymore cough stuff," Jerry noted. He'd
been keeping track of the time, alerting Mulder every four hours
when he needed another dose. Mulder had figured out his earlier
mistake and had been sticking with the suppressant for the rest of
the afternoon.

"Not till 5," Mulder reminded him. "Want to grab a pizza? I saw a
familiar red roof about a block from the motel."

"Works for me--but none of that anchovies crap. I want pizza, not
seafood," Jerry growled.

"Philistine," Mulder shot back and purposefully let the door close in
Jerry's face. Jerry caught the door and shot Mulder a glare.

"You must be feeling better," he commented dryly.

"A little. The Tylenol and the cough formula are doing the job. I'll
be fine in a couple of days," Mulder assured him. Of course, he
wasn't about to tell Jerry about the headache that was threatening
to split his skull in two. Mulder had convinced himself about 2 in
the afternoon that it was from staring at the fiche reader, and
drinking the two cups of coffee at lunch. Now he was hoping some
food might deaden the pain. He was also praying his stomach
would agree with the plan.

They ordered a large supreme, with no mention of anchovies, and
iced tea for Mulder, diet Pepsi for Jerry. A waitress seated them at
a booth and Mulder pulled out the stack of copies he'd made at the
library.

"What were you looking for today? And did you find it?" Jerry
asked, trying to get his mind off the long wait for the pizza.

"I didn't know what I was looking for, but I found something
interesting." Mulder tossed one of the pages he'd copied over to
his friend.

"These are the entertainment pages," Jerry said, not bothering to
hide his confusion.

"I know. Check this entry." Mulder reached over and circled an
article with his still unwrapped straw.

"An illusionist? So?" Jerry shrugged and handed the paper back to
Mulder.

"A specific illusionist. He was pretty well known, actually. He
even finished in the finals on 'Star Search'," Mulder grinned.

"Mulder, what exactly is in that cough syrup?" Jerry asked
derisively.

"Jerry, look at this. I found a couple of papers which detailed the
guy's entire tour. The Great Stephano," Mulder said, handing over
more pages.

Jerry read the pages, then looked at the date line. "Mulder, these
papers are from _last_ year," he pointed out. He looked up to
notice the pizza had arrived and Mulder had already beat him to the
first slice.

"I know," Mulder said, happily munching on a piece of pizza. 
"Eeow! That's hot. Watch the cheese," he warned his friend.

"So if this guy was touring a year ago, why are you interested?"
Jerry asked, putting the papers down to grab his own slice before
Mulder got the ones with all the cheese.

"Because, he traveled the exact same route as our killer," Mulder
stated calmly.

"But he did it a year ago," Jerry repeated. "Unless you think this
guy's the killer," he said, his eyes glowing with anticipation.

"Would be a bit hard," Mulder said with a grin. "Poor Stephano
was murdered--in Denver. The one year anniversary of that killing
is a month and a half from today," he added, shaking a flourish of
romano cheese on his second slice. "And they haven't found the
killer."

"So if he didn't do it? Mulder, I'm confused," Jerry stated.

"Jerry, he didn't commit these murders," Mulder said patiently, as if
to a child. "But someone who knows him did. I'm thinking it
might be the same person who killed him."

"How did he die?" Jerry asked, shifting through papers.

"Stabbing, in the parking lot of the airport. Not the dramatics of
our more recent murders, but that was the first murder, it's been
refined with time," Mulder shrugged and grabbed a third slice of
pie.

"Hey, I wanted that one!" Jerry objected. "You makin' up for lost
time or something?"

"Nah, I think this cough syrup is making me hungry," Mulder
smiled sheepishly. He was famished, he hadn't eaten anything all
day, at least any thing that had stayed with him. 

"So are you going to write this theory up and give it to Bill?" Jerry
asked, nabbing another piece before Mulder got it.

"And make him think his death threats work? Never," Mulder
smiled. "No, so far it's just a theory. I would be stupid to give it
to Bill. I need more to go on. But it's a place to start. And if
nothing else, it gives us more cities to notify."

"Notify how? Tell every male in each city between the ages of 20
and 42 to stay away from abandoned warehouses and railyards? 
You don't think that's gonna cause a panic?"

"Probably," he admitted darkly. "Well, we have three days, then,
to find this guy and bring him in. I guess we better get on it,"
Mulder said, wiping his mouth and finishing off his tea.

Stay and Save Motel
12:15 pm

"You think the killer is somehow connected to this illusionist?" Bill
said slowly, brow furrowed in concentration or anger, Mulder
could never be sure which.

Mulder nodded. "And the matchbooks, they're all from motels
where Stephano, whose real name is Stephen Paige, appeared as a
lounge act. They track his tour route perfectly," Mulder said
evenly, not dropping his gaze from the older man. To blink would
have been a sign of weakness and he'd never allow that to happen.

"Did he have any family? Maybe this is revenge run amok?"
Patterson suggested.

"I thought of that," Mulder agreed. "Unfortunately, the only family
Paige had was an elderly aunt who is residing in a nursing home in
Springfield, Illinois. He was orphaned at a young age and his aunt
raised him. I thought I might fly back that way and talk to her."

"Where is the killer likely to hit next?" Bill asked, shifting papers to
find the tour route listing again.

"He hits Oregon. Portland, to be exact, before coming back this
way for a stop in Reno."

"I'll alert those cities. But we can't put out any APBs until we
have more to go on--like a description," added with a sour look.

"I know. I don't like this any better than you do, Bill. We know
where he's going to be, but not who he is or what he looks like. 
It's frustrating as hell," Mulder growled.

Bill glanced at his watch. "It's close to one am. You won't be able
to get a flight . . ."

"I'm booked on a flight to St. Louis at 7:15 this morning. Two and
a half hours there, then it's an hour connecting flight to
Springfield," Mulder said, picking up his papers and stacking them
neatly to fit in his briefcase. He grabbed his over coat to place by
the door and his hand brushed the paper bag that held the
prescriptions from the pharmacy, still untouched. As if contact
with the bag had triggered it, his lungs began to burn and he felt
very tired. "Look, Bill, 5:45 is gonna come awful early."

Bill took the hint and got up from his chair. "When will you be
back?"

"I have a flight out of St. Louis at 8:30 tonight. I figured I would
catch up with you in Portland," Mulder said, going to open the
door for his boss.

"Call me if you find anything," Patterson ordered and for once,
Mulder decided it was too serious a matter to respond with a
snappy retort.

"I will," he replied and closed the door.

Jerry had been sitting quietly through the whole discourse with Bill. 
"You really think an old lady in Illinois is going to lead us to the
killer?" Jerry asked sincerely. It wasn't that Jerry didn't _believe_
that Mulder could know these things, it was just so damned
confusing to Jerry. The leaps of logic, the instinctual insights, the
whole 'Spooky' persona was a little too much for Jerry. Jerry saw
Mulder as a smart guy, a good agent, and a friend. As for his
pseudo-psychic ability to read a killer's mind, Jerry would just as
soon not think about it.

But that was an area where they both agreed. Mulder would just as
soon not think about it, either. "I'm pretty sure, Jer. Pretty sure."

"I'll drive you to the airport," Jerry offered.

Mulder smiled over at his friend. "You don't have to," Mulder said
with a shake of his head. "Jerry, I don't know how to tell you,
man, but you could use some 'beauty sleep'," he teased.

"Har Har," Jerry sneered, but gave Mulder the once over. "You
shouldn't be driving with that cough stuff and as tired as you're
gonna be."

Mulder thought for a moment, and had to admit Jerry was right. 
"OK, Mom, you can drive me to the airport. But when you try to
kiss me goodbye . . ."

"YUCK! Don't make me puke!" Jerry exclaimed and headed off to
the bathroom. He came out a minute later and crawled under the
covers.

"I'm taking my shower now, save time in the morning," Mulder
told him and stepped into the warm bathroom.

He turned on the water full blast and sat down on the toilet seat. 
For some reason, he was dizzy. He drew in a deep breath, thinking
the steam would offer some assistance, but he couldn't get more
than a small gulp of air. More than anything he wanted to cough
but the suppressant was doing its job. Mulder thought about taking
the expectorant, but remembered how that had ended and thought
better of it.

There was another alternative, though. The prescription of
antibiotics was still out in the bedroom. He'd take a couple, just to
make up for lost time.

Sneaking the door open, he moved over to his briefcase as quietly
as possible, hoping Jerry had already fallen asleep. He need not
have worried, Jerry was dead to the world. 

Mulder grabbed the bag of medicine and went back into the
bathroom. He popped two of the antibiotics and chased them with
a half a glass of water. Hopefully, he thought, the antibiotics would
knock out what ever was causing him such shortness of breath. 

He stepped into the shower and let the steam enter his lungs as
much as it could and the hot water pound at the aches in his
muscles. Half an hour later, feeling almost human, he toweled off
and crawled into bed, immediately getting started on his three and a
half hour nap.


Elm Cliffs Retirement Center
Springfield, Illinois
February 1, 1991 1:20 pm

The ride on the plane almost killed him. The pressure from the
cabin felt like it was imploding his chest, and it was now almost
impossible to take a deep breath. Mulder discovered too late that
he'd left the antibiotics on the bathroom sink at the motel after
taking one when he woke up. He thought about calling Jerry to ask
him to pack them before he left for Oregon, but the flight was late
and he almost missed his connection to Springfield.

Elm Cliffs was so named because it rested on Elm Street, in the
middle of the city. It was a nice retirement home, clean and well
cared for. He could see Pink Henderson in the sun room, sitting
next to the picture window and watching a bird feeder with two
cardinals doing a mating dance.

"Mrs. Henderson. I'm Fox Mulder, with the FBI. I asked to speak
with you?" Mulder said, holding out his hand in greeting.

Pink looked him up and down. "Nice, tall, boy, aren't you?" she
asked. "Have a seat. Can't tolerate having boys towerin' over
me," she said with a coy smile.

"Mrs. Henderson, I'm here trying to find out more about Stephen
Paige, your nephew."

"Poor Stevie," Mrs. Henderson said softly, shaking her head. "He
was such a good boy. I raised him, you know. Raised him from
the time he was just a little snip of a thing. My sister, she ran off
and married that no account husband of hers and when he got
hisself killed in that car wreck, well she just took off one day. We
never did hear a word from her. Jus' up and disappeared. So I
wasn't going to let that sweet boy go to no orphanage! I mean, he
was my own flesh and blood. My own John Andrew and I, we
never had children and with him dying in the war--well, Stevie was
all I had. He took good care of me, he did. Good care of me." 
Her eyes took on a far away look and she twisted the handkerchief
in her hands.

"Did you have any idea who might have killed your nephew, Mrs.
Henderson?"

She came out of her thoughts and stared at him. "No," she said,
shaking her head thoughtfully. "I can't say I did. 'Course, I never
liked that little whore who hung on him. Excuse my language, but
that's what she was. A whore. Hung on him, wanted to spend his
money . . ."

"Could you tell me her name, Mrs. Henderson?" Mulder asked
gently.

"Oh, let me think. I never liked her much, hoped she'd get the hint
and find some other patsy. What was that name? Now I
remember! It was Crown. Abigail Crown. He called her Gail all
the time. She was a fine one," Mrs. Henderson sneered. "Called
herself his assistant. HUH! The only thing she wanted to assist him
in was separating himself from his money! No account, two bit
hussy!"

"Mrs. Henderson, where does Abigail Crown live now? Do you
know what happened to her?"

The old woman narrowed her gaze to a glare. "I know what didn't
happen to her. She didn't git killed like Stevie! She's probably
shacked up with some poor sot in Colorado. That's where Stevie
met up with her, after he did so well on the TV show. As far as I'm
concerned, I hope to never lay eyes on her again!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. You've been very helpful."

Mulder had a nice long wait in the Springfield airport waiting for
his flight to St. Louis, so he put in a call to Bill.

"Her name is Abigail Crown. Last known residence is
Colorado--wish I could be more specific," Mulder related over the
phone.

"I'll get someone on it, Mulder. How are you holding up?" Bill
asked.

The concern in his voice almost threw Mulder off track for a
moment. Then he remembered. Bill needed him. Without Mulder,
there was no one to do the magic that made Bill look so good to
the higher ups. Can't have a prize race horse go down with the
colic, Mulder thought angrily to himself. "I'm fine, Bill," he
answered, stifling the burning urge to cough. "I'll be getting in
about 10:45 your time."

"LaMana will be at the airport to pick you up," Bill promised. 
"Why don't you see if you can't get some rest."

"Yeah, Bill. Good idea," Mulder said and hung up the phone
quickly so he could cough again. It left him hurting from his throat
to his stomach and his knees didn't want to carry him to the nearby
lounge, but he forced himself over there anyway. He was hungry,
but he didn't feel up to walking all the 50 feet down the concourse
to the little bar, so instead, he used his coat as a pillow and leaned
back in the chair. In seconds, he was sound asleep.

"Sir. Sir. Your plane is boarding, sir. You have to wake up." The
gentle voice that greeted him was matched by an equally pretty
face, but the airlines services rep didn't look as impressed by
Mulder's appearance. "Sir, are you feeling all right?" she asked
anxiously. "Should I call a doctor?"

Mulder started to open his mouth to object, but a spasm of
coughing reduced him to a gasping lump in his chair. The young
woman looked alarmed and started off toward her desk. Mulder
had to reach out fast to grab her sleeve and stop her.

"No, I'm fine," he rasped. "Really. I have to make this flight so I
can catch a plane to Oregon. It's just a cold, really," he pleaded.

"It sure doesn't look like a cold," the woman replied, eyeing him
critically. "My brother's a nurse at the ER and he tells me all the
time about people walking around thinking they're fine, then
keeling over with pneumonia. Just like Kermit the Frog," she
added woefully.

"Kermit--?" Mulder repeated, gathering himself and his briefcase.

"You know, that Henson guy. He thought it was just a cold, too. 
Three days later, they're burying him! You should get to a doctor
as soon as you can, sir," she told him.

"I will, I promise," he pledged. "Just as soon as I get to Oregon."

The plane landed in St. Louis, just as a winter storm hit, coming out
of the Rockies like a freight train. The airport was socked in with
winds gusting up to 55 miles per hour and zero visibility.

Mulder felt like he was going to collapse as he stood with a dozen
or so other would be passengers around the ticket booth.

"I'm awfully sorry," the service representative for the airlines was
saying. "We'd put you up in local motels, if we could. As it is,
they aren't even letting the shuttle buses on the highway. We'll try
to accommodate everyone here in the terminal with pillows and
blankets, but that's the best we can do in this storm."

Mulder glanced at his watch and realized Jerry would have to be
notified. He stormed over to the cluster of pay phones, waited an
indeterminate eternity to get to the head of the line.

Jerry had already called the airport and been informed of the storm
delaying departures. He told Mulder he'd keep calling with the
flight number and would be there to get him in the morning.

Mulder hung up the phone and the suppressant stopped working at
almost the exact same moment. He was hit with a coughing fit that
threatened to knock him to his knees. The bent over, coughing
harder and harder, certain he'd pass out, but he didn't. When he
finally was able to straighten up, several people were giving him
worried looks. He ignored them all.

It felt like all air left his lungs. Mulder swayed, but made it over to
a bank of lounge chairs and sank down into them. The fever was
back, and with it the chills. He huddled in his coat and shook. The
same services rep who'd given them the bad news came over
eventually with a pillow and a blanket. After giving Mulder a good
look, he handed the agent two blankets and then moved on to the
next person.

Sitting up was uncomfortable, so he tried to stretch out on the
floor. That was an immediate mistake, as he found that lying flat on
his back or even on his side made it impossible to breathe. He
pulled himself back up into the chair he'd just vacated.

"Sir, are you all right?" asked a young woman who was also trying
to settle in for the night in the chairs just across from him.

Mulder was really getting tired of everyone taking such interest in
his health. "I'm fine," he growled, then saw the hurt expression on
her face and felt like a heel on top of his other woes. "I've got this
cold," he told her apologetically.

Her face brightened immediately. "Oh, I have some medicine for
that," she said happily, getting up to dig around in her carry on bag. 
She handed him a triangularly shaped bottle. "This stuff will knock
you out," she confided, then glanced around them at the general
chaos they were in. "But that might be a good thing, considering
where we get to spend the night," she added with a wink.

He looked a little concerned. He wasn't used to taking medicine
from strangers. But a couple of words on the label caught his eyes. 
The stuff claimed to help with aches, pains, coughs, and . . . yes,
thank the heavens, fevers! He resisted the urge to snatch the bottle
from her hands.

"Uh, thanks, I appreciate it." He looked quizzically at the little
plastic cup that fit on the lid and squinted at the markings on the
side. 

"You're pretty tall. I'd just take two of those capfuls, if I were
you," his new friend answered his unasked question.

He grinned over at her and poured himself one capful, then tossed it
back. The stuff was awful! It tasted worse than any medicine he
could remember and burned all the way down. He looked over to
find his new friend stifling a giggle. "Go on, you don't want to
wake up in an hour feeling worse, do you?" she encouraged.

"No, I don't," he agreed and slammed back a second capful. That
one wasn't so bad, the first having blazed the trail down to his
stomach already. After swallowing, he suddenly got worried. 
"That stuff isn't a narcotic, is it?" he asked nervously. The last
thing he needed to was to show up in front of Patterson, stoned out
of his head.

She smiled and shook her head. "Nah, it's over the counter. But it
works. You'll sleep like the dead," she assured him.

"Sounds good to me," he told her. In minutes, he was feeling very
drowsy. In less than half an hour's time, he was sound asleep,
sitting up in the chair.

St. Louis Lambert Airport
February 2, 1991
10:15 am

The flight attendant woke him up the next morning and was nice
enough to make sure he made it to his next gate. The four hour
flight to Oregon was almost enough to render him unconscious. A
fit of coughing hit just as they were making their descent, so he was
saved the embarrassment of becoming the Rip Van Winkle of
United Airlines.

Jerry was standing at the gate, looking slightly annoyed. "Did you
forget something?" he asked sarcastically as he handed Mulder the
prescription bottle of antibiotics. "You _said_ it was a 'cold'," 
Jerry's tirade of righteous indignation was cut off when he got a
good look at his friend. "Shit, Mulder, you look like death warmed
over!"

"I think I have to agree with that assessment," Mulder said,
punctuating each word with a few well placed coughs. "Jer, just
get me to the motel, please," he begged. 

Jerry half carried his friend to the car and loaded him in the
passenger seat. "Mulder, are you sure I shouldn't take you to the
hospital. You're lookin' bad, big guy."

"I forgot my medicine, Jer. I'll take one now, and get some sleep, I
should be fine later, I swear. Just take me to the motel." Mulder
could tell Jerry was deciding how much resistance he had in him. 
"Please, Jerry. Don't do this to me. Just take me to the motel and
let me sleep."

Jerry didn't say a word, just started the car and pulled out of the
parking garage. He kept glancing over at his friend, eyes narrowed,
regarding him coolly. Finally he broke the silence. "You start
taking the medicine," he said firmly. It was an order, not a request.

"Absolutely. I feel like shit," Mulder admitted.

"And you go to sleep, as soon as we get some food in you," Jerry
continued, ignoring Mulder's agreement for the moment.

"Sounds like a great plan. How about Chinese? But can we eat in
the room?" Mulder asked, trying to be conciliatory.

Jerry wasn't ready for a reconciliation. He continued on with his
tirade, ignoring the flushed man beside him. "And if I get my ass
reamed out because Patterson finds out you're worse, I'm hanging
you out to dry. I'll tell him you left the medicine behind on
purpose, I tried to stop you but you wouldn't listen," LaMana
finished, glaringly daring his friend to object.

"I'll build my own gallows," Mulder said with a half-baked grin.

Jerry turned his attention back to the road. "OK, no hospital for
now. But if you wake me up moanin' and coughin' up stuff and
shit, you're ass is in the nearest one I can find and I'll stick you
with the needles _myself_!"

"I always pegged you for a sadist, Jer, I just never had proof,"
Mulder grinned evilly for a second, but soon dropped his head back
on the headrest and dozed until they got back to the motel.

They decided to 'dine' in Mulder's room. The Mu Shu Pork was
a little hard to swallow, but the wonton soup went down fine. 
Mulder ate his container and begged some of Jerry's, remembering
the Snicker's bar that had served as dinner the night before. 

After lunch, Jerry imposed his orders. He promised Mulder he'd
wake him up before dinner and they could discuss the case then. 
Mulder wanted to put up a fight, but really didn't have the strength. 
He took one of the antibiotics under Jerry's hawk-like stare, and
then Jerry left for the police station and Mulder crawled into bed.

Mulder didn't remember his head hitting the pillow, but he
remembered LaMana shaking the life out of him much later. 
"Mulder, damn it all, wake up!"

"M 'wake," he mumbled and tried to focus on the alarm clock next
to the bed. It read 10:35 pm. "That can't be the time," he said
emphatically, shaking his head in denial.

"It is if you're in Portland," Jerry said dryly. "You were out of it,
Mulder. I thought I was gonna have to do CPR."

Mulder shot him a glare. "Don't even go there," he warned. He
sat up stiffly on the bed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

Jerry grinned and handed Mulder a styrofoam bowl, it's contents
steaming. "Chicken noodle soup. The coffee shop across the street
from the station makes it. Pretty good, too, I had some for lunch."

Mulder sniffed at it. The heady aroma of chicken broth and just a
touch of garlic on the steam instantly opened up all the clogged
sinuses in his head, and even seemed to be melting the cement block
in his chest. "Thanks, Jer. I owe you one," Mulder sighed
contentedly and grabbed the offered bowl and spoon.

"I'll put it on your tab," Jerry shot back, then sat at the desk and
watched his friend wolf down the soup.

Satisfied that his friend was not going to starve or dehydrate,
LaMana turned his focus to the reports sitting in his briefcase. "We
got some more info on that Crown woman. She was his 'assistant',
you know, helped him in the show," Jerry said, passing a set of
faxed papers to Mulder. "She was appearing as a headliner until a
couple of months ago. Her own hypnotist act."

Mulder looked up from the paper, lowered his face to look over the
rim of his glasses. "Did you say hypnotist?" he asked.

Jerry gave him a shrug. "Yeah. Why?"

"Oh, nothing," Mulder said, making a mental note. "So where is
she now?"

"Good question. She took a powder. Her landlady hasn't seen her
in almost two months."

"The time span of the murders," Mulder muttered.

"She left all her stuff, but she took out a post office box. Her
mail's been picked up, regular as clockwork," Jerry continued.

"Where? In what city?" Mulder asked excitedly.

"Denver," Jerry replied. "You think it's her?" he asked,
incredulous. "Mulder, I have her description here. She's 5 foot
nothing, weighs 90 pounds! These were big guys she brought
down."

"Where is Bill?" Mulder demanded, grabbing the report and
heading for the door.

"Room 315, down the hall," Jerry said, trailing his partner. "He
was beat, he was up all last night goin' over stuff with the locals."

Bill Patterson wasn't asleep, but he wasn't exactly expecting two of
his agents. After some quiet pounding on the door, he let them in,
tieing his robe around him. "Mulder, I heard you were asleep," he
said, staring holes in LaMana.

Mulder turned to stare at Jerry, too. "I told him you didn't get
much sleep last night, at the airport," Jerry explained.

"Oh, yeah, thanks," he said, struggling to find the logic there. He
turned his attention to Bill. "I just woke up," Mulder explained. 
"We need to put out an APB on this woman." He handed
Patterson the report on Gail Crown.

"Give me a reason," Bill said, putting on his glasses and reading the
report.

"She knew Steve Paige. She has been to every one of the motels
that we've located matchbooks for so far and I believe she has a
motive," Mulder said, sitting down on the edge of the bureau.

"A motive?" Bill looked up from his reading.

"Yes. I think she killed Steve Paige and now she's going back and
killing men she knew back then. They might have been men she
met, men she had brief affairs with."

"Are you saying that a, what, a 5 foot tall woman lured these men
to remote locations and killed them without them putting up any
resistance?" Bill sputtered.

"Yes," Mulder said, only now beginning to see the leap this
conclusion required.

Patterson ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Mulder, look. We
haven't established that Stephen Paige is in anyway connected to
this case. This is beyond even your usual 'spookyness', don't you
think?"

"Bill, there is a link. And Abigail Crown disappeared at about the
same time as the murders began. I bet if we looked hard enough
we could backtrack and find her trail during those months, we'd
find that she was in the same city as each of the murders, during the
time the murders occurred." Mulder said, his voice trailing off into
coughs.

Patterson shot a glare to LaMana, who quickly held up his hands. 
"He's taking medicine for it, Bill."

"I think the medicine is affecting his mind," Bill snorted derisively. 
Then he turned his level gaze on Mulder. "Are you willing to stake
your career on this? Because if we spend time and resources
tracking this woman and it turns up a bust . . ."

"I'm flipping burgers at McDonalds, yeah, Bill, I know," Mulder
said seriously.

"And I'll be your crew chief," Bill said sarcastically. "OK, I'll get
someone on this immediately." He glanced at the clock. It was
almost midnight in Oregon, DC was four hours ahead. "Somebody
on grave yard is gonna love you, Mulder," he smirked again. 
"Now, you two go back to your rooms. We won't hear anything
for a several hours. Might as well make the most of it. Get some
more sleep."

"I'm not arguing, Bill," Mulder vowed and he and Jerry left the
room.

He shouldn't have been tired, he'd just slept all day. But by the
time he laid his head down on the pillow, Mulder was
already beginning his journey into dreamland. Jerry frowned, then
returned to his own room next door. Jerry wasn't used to a Mulder
who actually fell asleep before he did. And he didn't like the
sounds his friend had been making all evening, either. There were
sticky sounding rattles coming from Mulder's chest when he
coughed and a telltale wheeze every time he took a breath. But his
friend did look a little better since he'd eaten the soup, and he
seemed to be all right at the moment. 

Too late, Jerry remembered the medicine bottle in his pocket. He'd
made sure Mulder had taken the pill when he'd gotten to the room
from the airport, but that had been around noon. Jerry read the
label. Mulder was supposed to be taking the pills four times a day. 
By Jerry's count, that put him way behind schedule. Jerry thought
about waking Mulder up to make him take it. Mulder had looked
dead to the world as he said goodnight. And that was a very
unnatural state for Mulder. Jerry decided to let 'sleeping dogs lie'
for the night, and just make certain Mulder didn't miss the morning
dose. He watched his friend from the doorway, then closed the
door and went on to his room next door to get some much needed
sleep.

February 3, 1991
7:00 am

There was just a trace of faint, winter sunlight creeping around the
dark curtains when Jerry thought he heard water running. Sure
enough, when Jerry went into his bathroom he could hear water
running next door, Mulder was in the shower. Jerry went back out
to the bedroom and stared at the clock--it was 7:03. He showered,
dressed and went next door.

Jerry knocked loudly on the door. A moment later, Mulder opened
the door, still toweling off his hair.

"I forgot to leave a wake up call," Jerry said.

"I woke up on my own. I was going to wake you in a bit. You
looked beat last night," Mulder offered.

Jerry shrugged, then remembered the pills. He reached in his
pocket for the bottle, shaking out a pill as he came back over to
where Mulder was standing in his boxers digging through his
suit bag. "Here, take this. You forgot last night," Jerry said, trying
not to sound like he was making an accusation.

"Oh, yeah, I did. But I don't want to take it on an empty stomach. 
I'll just toss it up if I do that," Mulder said, not bothering to take
the medicine out of his friend's hand.

Jerry looked around the room until he spied the sacks from the take
out lunch the day before. He smiled triumphantly as he retrieved a
package of two almond cookies. "Here, I'll get you water to wash
it all down," he grinned from ear to ear.

"No wonder you don't get any dates, LaMana, if this is your idea of
'Breakfast' in the morning," Mulder grumbled, but took the cookies
and pill, consuming them all and drinking a full glass of water. 
"Happy?"

"No, but at least Patterson can't accuse me of not trying," Jerry
said. "I forgot my briefcase, I'll be right back." 

Once Jerry was out of the room, Mulder collapsed on the bed. He
was exhausted and keeping up a good front for LaMana took more
out of him than he'd expected. He dreaded keeping up the facade
for Patterson, who wasn't as easy to divert.

He'd come awake around 5:30am with a wicked bout of coughing
that left him weak. His lungs burned with each breath of air. 
Somewhere in the foggy recesses of his mind, he remembered the
doctor telling him that hot showers would open up his air passages,
so he'd crawled into the bathroom and turned the water on full hot. 
He'd sat there for almost an hour before he felt he had the strength
to stand under the spray and clean off. But he knew that if he
didn't face the world standing, Bill would use his considerable force
to put him on a plane back to DC.

There was something about this case that clawed at his mind. He
knew he was on the right track, he just didn't know if he was on the
right train. Steve Paige was the key, of that he was certain. There
was too much evidence pointing his way. If Mulder let his
imagination run wild, he could almost envision a scenario where
Steve Paige had come back from the dead to avenge himself of his
girlfriend's transgressions. A pretty neat trick, if it was remotely
possible. 

But the disappearance of the girlfriend had left him no alternative
than to believe that she was the murderer. He wasn't comfortable
with that. She was a tiny woman, by the picture he'd seen in the
file. The MEs had all agreed that it took considerable strength to
kill these men. He didn't think she was capable of that--but there
weren't a lot of other answers. The important thing was to find her
and question her. It was also possible that she was on the run, that
she knew whoever was committing the murders and didn't want
them to find her.

Mulder got up from the bed and the room spun around him. Big
mistake, he chided himself. Got up too fast. He sat back down,
then decided that maybe laying down would be the better option. 
In the bathroom, he could just make out Jerry singing off key in the
shower. Sounded like the Police. Maybe Genesis. With Jerry's
voice, it was hard to tell. Mulder closed his eyes for just a second
and fell fast asleep.

His feet were running. His legs, thighs, hips, spine, all reacted
to the pounding of the pavement, the pumping of muscles, the
throbbing of blood through his veins. It felt wonderful. He'd hit
the high, his favorite part of any run, when the aches in his calves
and back faded into a dim memory and his vision went slightly
unfocused. When he could look down and see the pavement
speeding past him and wonder at the marvelous machinery of his
body that could work in such perfect rhythm. 

Air was whistling through his nose, puffing out his mouth. He
could feel it as it invaded his chest, cold at first, then warmed by his
body he would expel it out into the atmosphere, sucking in more air
to continue the cycle. It was a wondrous rush, each breath, and
the endorphins were singing in his veins. He felt if he just spread
his arms a little out to the sides, he could fly.

When Jerry peeked in to look at his friend, Mulder was soundly
asleep, arms spread out at his sides, a faint smile on his face. Jerry
smiled in return, closed the door and went on to the station.

FBI Regional Office
Portland, Oregon
February 2, 1991
4:43 pm

Jerry LaMana sipped at the now stale cup of coffee and stared out
at the blinding rain. A winter storm had come up the coast,
bringing near freezing temperatures and rain. There were
predictions for dropping temperatures and then sleet turning to
snow before the night was out. Just perfect, LaMana thought. 
Tonight was the night their murderer was due to strike again.

The NCIC data base, all shining, new and improved, provided some
details that helped in their game of cat and mouse. Mulder had
been right, Gail Crown was surprisingly simple to track. She had
been in all of the cities at the time of each murder, giving Patterson
just enough information and evidence to arrange for an All Points
Bulletin. With some further checking, using Stephen Paige's credit
card accounts, it was discovered what hotel the Great Stephano had
appeared in Portland, and the city police and FBI had the place
under strict surveillance, with Crown's picture circulated in the
general area as a suspect in a murder investigation.

The trap was set. Now they waited for the mouse to take the bait. 

At lunchtime, Jerry had run back to the motel, found Mulder had
finally crawled under the covers, still dressed for the day, but was
still sound asleep. Feeling just a touch self-conscious and praying
his friend wouldn't wake up and catch him in the act, Jerry felt
Mulder's forehead and found it too warm for the liking. 
Remembering the pill bottle again, Jerry got a fresh glass of water
and placed it on the bedside dresser, next to the pills, hoping
Mulder would see both when he woke up and looked at the clock. 
A scribbled note was set beside the water glass, detailing the game
plan for the day and the number of the Regional Office. Feeling
he'd done everything he could, Jerry quietly left Mulder to his
dreams.

"What time is it?" Bill growled from the doorway. 

"Almost 5," Jerry said without leaving his view of the storm.

"Have you heard from Mulder, yet?" Patterson asked, coming to
stand next to LaMana. "Shit, only a woman would kill a guy on a
night like this," he muttered.

"It's getting nasty. And no, I haven't heard from Mulder. I was
just about to call," Jerry said, reaching for the phone. He dialed the
number and listened to it ring. Four times. Six times. Eight times.

Patterson looked over from his own inspection of the storm. "No
answer?"

"Maybe he's in the bathroom," Jerry offered.

"How high was his fever when you left?" 

"Jeez, Bill, I didn't take his temperature! I just felt his head and it
felt a little too warm," Jerry retorted, his cheeks flushing. He had a
horrible feeling that he never should have left his friend alone.

Bill took the phone out of LaMana's hand. "Here, we'll call the
desk, have them go check on him. He might have fallen, or he
might have a higher fever. Our kids always ran up temps when the
sun went down," Bill explained, more for his own reassurance than
for LaMana. Someone at the desk picked up. "Yes, this is Special
Agent William Patterson. We have an agent who is ill, he's in room
255. We just tried to call him and we're not getting an answer. I
was wondering if someone could go check on him for us or if
you've seen him in the coffee shop."

Bill listened to the answer and then went white. "How long ago
was that, do you think? Uh huh. And was it storming there when
you saw him?" Bill's features were tensing and he was straining
hard to control his anger. "And you didn't think it was just a bit
unusual for a man to go out jogging in the middle of an ice storm
dressed for a business meeting and without any kind of coat or
jacket?" he demanded. "Has he come back? . . . You're sure he's
not come back. Thank you, you've been most helpful," Bill intoned
sarcastically. He switch hooked the receiver and waited for another
line to pick up. While he was waiting, he placed his hand over the
receiver and glared at LaMana.

"Mulder went jogging, in his suit pants and dress shoes. He left the
lobby about an hour ago. The grill girl saw him about three blocks
from the motel when she was on her way to work. He hasn't
shown up back at the room yet." 

He waited in silence then cursed under his breath. "I hate those
fucking cell phone recordings. He must have left his cell phone in
the room," he growled, then hit the switch hook again and punched
the numbers on the phone hard enough to do some damage to the
plastic. By the look on his face, the other line connected and Bill
turned his attention to the phone. 

"Yes, this is Special Agent Bill Patterson, I need to speak to Chief
Wilison, please. . . . Andy, Bill Patterson. Look, I've got a sick
agent out jogging . . . yeah, on a night like this. We're at the . . .
oh, good you know the place. Yeah, could you send a squad car
out to look for him. Name of Mulder. Six foot, slender, dark hair,
thin face. He'll stick out, he's wearing a white button down shirt
and tie and dress trousers with wing tips. . . . Well, like I said, he
was staying behind because he's sick, I think he's operating under a
high fever. Yeah, I'm heading out now, do you still have my
cellular number? Yeah, that's it. Thanks, Andy. I owe you one."

"Now we're looking for a killer _and_ Mulder," Patterson huffed
and headed out the door with LaMana close on his heels.

Docks along the Columbia River
6:35 pm

Mulder was more than out of breath. He seriously thought he
would never be able to get a breath again. He sucked in the air but
it stopped somewhere in his throat, not reaching down into his
oxygen starved lungs. He was dizzy and weak and freezing cold.

And he had no idea where in the hell he was.

He'd been dreaming. In the dream, he's been running and it felt so
good. But the dream changed and he was no longer running for
enjoyment, he was chasing someone. The killer.

Abigail Crown appeared in his dream, just steps ahead of him. She
would turn a corner and he'd race to catch up with her, before he
lost her trail completely. She led him all the way from the safety of
the neighborhood surrounding his motel to the docks by the river,
over a mile away. Then she had disappeared, right before his eyes.

If he could breathe, he'd try to find her. As it was, he started
coughing again, tasting something thick and strong, like blood in his
mouth and he dropped to the ground. His last conscious thought
was that he had to get warm.

Sometime later, Patterson's voice was booming somewhere above
him, demanding to know where the ambulance was. Mulder tried
to open his eyes, but nothing on his body seemed to want to work
right. He could feel the weight of something covering him, but it
did nothing for the cold dampness that chilled his skin.

"Mulder, can you hear me?" It was Jerry, sounding cold, wet and
worried. Mulder wanted more than anything to answer his friend,
but his throat was occupied sucking the small amount of air into his
lungs.

"He's delirious, LaMana." Patterson again, sounding disgusted and
frustrated. "God damn it to Hell! Where is that damned
ambulance?"

"Coroner's wagon just arrived." Mulder couldn't place that voice,
but what they said definitely got his attention. Was he dead? Then
why had Jerry asked if he could hear him? And why was Bill so
concerned about where the ambulance was?

"So it looks like a murder/suicide?" Another voice, different than
that last. "Damn it, Bill. How did your man know how to find
them?"

"I don't know," Bill said gruffly. A siren cut off his words. "Thank
God in heaven, it's about time!"

Everything went gray for a while, and when Mulder realized where
he was, he was lying on his back, with a mask over his face. His
chest and legs were covered with warm, dry blankets and he could
feel a pressure across him. Web belting, no doubt to keep him stable
on the gurney. There was something taped to his left hand,
something felt warm in his veins of that arm. 

"Where are you taking him? We'll follow behind you." It was Bill
again. This time, probably due to the increased oxygen in his
bloodstream, Mulder's eyes actually obeyed his command to open. 
He blinked at the rain and snow falling on his lashes. It was too
hard to keep them open, so he let his eyes close again.

"Memorial. It's just up the road about five miles. Keep on this
road here and you can't miss it. Do you have his medical
information?"

"It's on file at the Bureau." 

"We're gonna need a history. Can you get it for us? Next of kin
should be notified immediately, too. We might need sign off."

"I'll handle that." Silence as he was slid into the vehicle. "How is
he? Will he be OK?" 

Bill I never knew you cared, Mulder mused bitterly.

"We need to get him in, sir. They'll know more at the hospital." 
The slamming of the doors cut off further discussion with Bill.

Portland Memorial Medical Center
February 3, 1991
9:00 pm

Jerry was cold, but it wasn't the temperature. He sat in one of the
institutional plastic and tubular metal chairs in the waiting room,
staring at the television screen. He had no idea what was on. It
could have been the weather channel for all he cared. He just didn't
want to keep staring at the door that led to the exam and treatment
rooms.

Mulder had been back there for almost three hours. A nurse had
come out not long after they'd arrived to ask about Mulder's
general condition, when he began feeling sick, was he on any
medication, did Jerry know of any allergies. Jerry had told her
about the antibiotics, and that Mulder had been taking cough
medicine. She seemed awfully concerned to find out whether it was
expectorant or suppressant, but Jerry couldn't remember. 

Finally, the nurse asked if the Mulders had been notified about their
son, but Jerry didn't know that either. That was Bill's department
and he hadn't returned. Jerry looked at his watch again and
wondered if Bill was ever coming back.

As if on cue, Bill walked into the waiting lounge. He looked totally
exhausted. He slumped down in the chair next to Jerry.

"Did you get hold of the Mulders?" Jerry asked anxiously.

"Yeah, finally. I had a hard time, his mother moved not too long
ago and Mulder forgot to update the file. But I finally spoke with
them both." Bill leaned forward, removed his glasses and ran a
hand over his eyes. "And I got the Bureau to fax his medical
records."

"Are his folks coming out?" Jerry asked, somehow relieved to hear
that at least they knew of their son's condition.

"His mom is on the next flight out. Weather is shitty out east, too. 
But his dad can't come tonight, apparently. He wanted us to fly
Mulder home."

"I don't think the doctors will allow that," Jerry murmured.

"They won't. His doctor said his condition is too tenuous and he
would only evac if it was a medical emergency."

"Then you talked to the doctor?" Jerry replied, a little jealous that
Bill was more informed than he was.

"Yeah, for a minute. They're running tests but from the x ray it's
definitely double pneumonia. Probably bacterial, which I guess is
bad. Once they finish the tests, they're moving him up to Intensive
Care." Bill sat back, it tired him just to think about it.

"Will they let us see him up there?"

"I don't know, LaMana. Probably not, we're not immediate family. 
Maybe they'll give us a minute before they move him, I just don't
know."

The two men fell silent, each with their own thoughts and prayers.

"Bill, he knew," Jerry stated, breaking the stillness.

"Knew what? About Crown and where she'd take her next
victim?" Bill asked gruffly and stood up to pace. "He did the
profile, he climbed into her head, he followed the leads."

"But there weren't any leads to the docks. And we had nothing. 
We were staked out at the hotel, we were miles off," Jerry pointed
out. 

"What do you want me to say, LaMana? That it's 'spooky'? The
son of a bitch could be dying! Hell of a lot of good being spooky
did him this time!" Bill roared.

The door that Jerry had not wanted to look at opened, and a blue
clad nurse waved at them to get their attention. "Gentlemen. 
Would you care to see Mr. Mulder for a moment?"

Bill glanced over at Jerry and suddenly Jerry knew why the older
man had shouted. Bill was scared. He knew how close Mulder
was to dying and it scared him. Jerry felt the same, but knew that
he wanted to see his friend, fear or no fear. "Yes, we would," Jerry
answered for them both. Silently, Bill followed Jerry and the nurse
into the exam area.

Mulder had never been this cold. Not that his memory was that
good at the moment, but he'd never felt this bad, never wanted to
be totally senseless as much as he did right then. And the cold was
not leaving, no matter how many blankets the nice nurses piled on
him.

Taura was the nicest. She was young and pretty and if he lived
through this, he was going to get her number and see if he could
have her baby. When he first came around and had been so cold, 
she'd been the one to figure out his whimpers and cover him with a
blanket fresh from a warmer. It had helped, for a while. But the
chills came back. Taura couldn't get him any warmer, but she
stood by him, and talked to him and it made him feel a little less
scared, a little less lonely.

But not less cold.

His eyes would open and close of their own accord, and he would
try to focus every once in a while. He opened them one time and
Bill was standing beside him, leaning over, talking to him. Bill told
him that his mother was on the way. In a while Bill was replaced
with Jerry, telling him that everyone hoped he was feeling better
soon. Mulder hoped soon came real quick because at that moment,
he just hoped he'd be unconscious again. Bill and Jerry left and he
was moving, but he couldn't make his throat work to ask where he
was being taken. He'd just have to wait and see.

He'd faded out waiting for the elevator, now he was very much
awake as he was shifted from the gurney to the bed. Try as they
might to be gentle, an IV line was pulled, and Mulder himself began
coughing, a dry hacking that seemed to last forever and
accomplished nothing more than to leave him gasping for breath,
weak and hurting. He was more than happy when everyone
decided they were satisfied with his transition and left him the hell
alone.

But he really didn't want to be alone. He just wanted people to
stop touching him. His skin hurt, it felt fragile, like the next needle
prick or monitor pad would shatter it into a million pieces. His eyes
were burning like fires had been lit in them. He didn't even want to
contemplate the pain in his chest every time he breathed.

"Mr. Mulder?" Had to be a nurse, the voice was too polite to be a
doctor. When he didn't answer, it came again. "Mr. Mulder?" He
managed to get control of his eyelids and opened his eyes to slits
against the harsh lights of the room.

"I'm Jan, I'm your nurse. I know you're hurting right now, but the
doctor has ordered some medicine for the chest pain and to help
bring the fever down. It's going to make you sleepy, but you
probably won't mind that either." He couldn't make out much of
her face, but he could hear her smile and it was beautiful.

Suddenly, he felt the same warmth he'd felt before when Taura had
put the blanket from the warmer on him. Now he'd have to figure
out how to have Jan's baby, too, he mused groggily. "That should
help with the chills, until this takes effect." He could feel
something cold move through the IV line, but at least it didn't hurt. 
He sighed in relief. "I'm putting the call button right here." He felt
a cold thing, round and hard in his right hand. "But I'll be checking
on you and I can hear you out there if you need me. Just go to
sleep. When you wake up, I'll bet your family will be here."

His only thought, as he drifted off, was how in the world had they
found Samantha and why hadn't they told him sooner?

From: Vickie Moseley 

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part five of twenty-five


He was back on the hill top, snow all around him. The sled was
cold, even through his woolen mittens. He sniffled, wiping his nose
on the back of his sleeve.

"Don't do it, Fox." It sounded like she was standing right beside
him. He looked around and found his little sister, shivering in the
cold. She was wearing her heavy winter coat, her hair sticking out
from under her knit hat. Her gloved hands were shoved in her
pockets for warmth. "Don't, Fox. It's too dangerous."

He looked at her and frowned. "What are you talkin' about, Sam? 
It's a hill, I gotta slide down it," he said, scoffing at her concern. 
"You're just chicken. You don't have to do it, just watch."

"I'm not chicken," the little girl protested, eyes narrowed. "I don't
want you to get hurt!"

"I won't get hurt, Sam. I promise," he vowed, setting the sled
down on the ground, running it back and forth to free up a path
through the powdered snow. The minute the sled caught in the
snow and he began hurtling down the hill, he knew he wasn't going
to keep his promise.

*****

Portland Memorial Medical Center
February 5, 1991
5:03 pm

" . . . Saaaaam . . . Saaaaaammmm," he moaned over and over. 
Someone was touching his forehead, brushing the damp hair off his
face.

"Shhh, baby boy. Shhhh. I'm here, Fox. I'm here." He knew that
voice. It meant comfort once. He hadn't heard it used that way in
a very long time. "Just sleep, baby boy. Just sleep," the voice
murmured until he finally caught hold of it in his memory.

"Mom?" he rasped, coughing again, but this time something came
up from his lungs and filled his throat. He was laying on his side
and a hand was patting firmly on his back. The patting was hurting
the skin and the muscles underneath, but it was loosening the stuff
in his chest and made his lungs feel better.

"Yes, Sweetheart," his mother crooned close to his ear. "I'm here,
Fox." She continued to pat on his back until the coughing spasm
passed and he could spit something vile into the bowl she held to
his mouth. He fell weakly back on the pillows.

" . . .how'd I . . . get . . . home," he managed to get out before
another couple of coughs left him gasping for breath.

"You aren't home, baby boy. I'm here, in Oregon. You're in the
hospital. Remember? You're sick, you have pneumonia."

" . . . is Dad . . . here?" He had forced his eyes open and was
looking at the frown on his mother's face. When she realized he
was staring at her, she plastered a fake smile on her lips. 

"He sends his love, Sweetheart. He couldn't get away right now. 
But when you come home, you'll have to spend some time
recuperating. I'm sure you can see him then."

His chest still ached with each breath and he couldn't imagine a
time when he would feel well enough to fly all the way home. 
"Doesn't . . . matter," he mumbled with disinterest.

"Would you like a little water?" his mother asked, searching for a
safer subject. He nodded and she brought the straw up to his lips
so he could take a few swallows. "Better?" she asked and smiled
when he nodded.

"You gave me quite a scare, young man," she scolded. "I've
always wanted to get back to the Pacific Northwest, but I haven't
had much time this trip for sightseeing."

"Sorry," he said weakly, but he knew she was teasing him by the
twinkle in her eyes.

She picked up a cloth that was laying on the tray table and wiped
his forehead and cheeks. "That's all right. I'm getting to spend
time with you. Wish you were feeling better, so we could both
enjoy this," she added with regret.

"Me too," he answered. "Mom, I'm so cold."

"I know Sweetheart, but that's from the fever. You have the chills. 
We have to get the fever down. The medicine gets it down during
the day but once the sun sets, it spikes back up again. I told your
doctor you've always done that. They don't like to listen to
mothers, as a rule. Medical schools can teach you a lot, but not as
much as taking care of your own sick children."

"How long . . . have you been here," he asked, fighting the fatigue
that dragged at his mind.

"Two days. You were here the first night by yourself. I got here
early yesterday morning. Last night was pretty bad. You spiked a
high fever and they had to use a cooling blanket to get it down. 
Today was a little better, you've slept for a long time. It's evening
now and your fever is up again."

A thought brushed his mind and he tugged at it to bring it into
focus. "The case?" he asked. "Bill, has he been here?"

"Agent Patterson? Yes, he's been by a couple of times. And that
nice Agent LaMana. They can't come in, only immediate family is
allowed on this ward. But I stepped outside to speak with them. 
They've been very worried about you."

"Mom, did they say . . . about the case?" Mulder asked again and
had to force the last words out around a spasm of coughing.

"I don't want you to worry about that case, Fox," his mother said
sternly. "From what the newspapers say, it's over. That woman
killed that man and then killed herself. I just thank God she didn't
turn that knife on you before she committed suicide. As sick as you
were when they found you . . ."

" . . . she didn't commit suicide," he muttered sleepily, but his
words fell on deaf ears.

"She would have killed you before you could have called out. 
None of that matters, baby. What matters is that you rest and let
the medicine work. We'll talk about all of that when you're
better."

*****
February 7, 1991
12:02 am

Mulder could see the woman, Abigail Crown, just standing near the
crates and boxes on the dock. She was tiny, even though he
expected her to be short, he never expected her to be so slight. A
puff of wind would blow her into the water. He halfway expected
to see that happen, since the rain and wind were coming down with
gale force, almost parallel to the ground. He was struggling to
keep standing himself. 

The body of a man was on the ground, motionless, blood mixing
with the rain and streaming in pink trails down to the dock. Mulder
looked to the woman, searching her hands for a weapon. But there
was none.

Abigail started to scream. Mulder started toward her but the wind
and the rain and now sleet were blinding him. He wiped at his eyes
and she now seemed further away. A shadow was engulfing her
and she was screaming again and again and finally she fell, landing
boneless on top of the body already laying on the dock. He
fought the wind to reach her .

". . .not suicide . ." he cried out and lunged forward.

"Hold him!" a voice responded. Mulder fought all the harder
against the hands holding him down. "Get a bandage on that hand. 
Pulled the IV right out," a very disgruntled voice growled. 

"I didn't know what to do--I thought it was a seizure," another
voice complained.

"Probably was," the first voice said. "Get the blanket again. 
Basal's 104.9. He's nuclear."

"Doctor, Mrs. Mulder is very concerned. She wants to know when
she can come back in?" A third voice. How many people were in
the room, Mulder wondered in a fog.

"When we get him settled," came the terse reply. "Mr. Mulder,
please, no one is going to hurt you. You are safe," the first voice
said, trying to sound reassuring and calm. "You have to lie still so
we can reinsert the IV. That's how we're giving you the medicine
to get you better. Please, let us help you."

" . . . mommmmm," Mulder responded and started fighting again,
but more weakly now. He was struggling for breath as much as he
was struggling against the hands and it was sapping his reserves.

"Get his mother in here, Susan. Maybe that will calm him," said the
first voice firmly.

In seconds, he heard her. "I'm here, baby. I'm here," she
whispered, stroking his cheek. "He's so hot," she said out loud.

"I know, Mrs. Mulder. We're trying to get that down, believe me."

There was a rustling and he felt the blankets being pulled down,
leaving just the sheet. Mulder shivered against the coolness and
then moaned aloud as something colder was placed on top of him.

"He hates that blanket," his mother said in disgust. "Do you really
need to use it?"

"I'm afraid we do, Mrs. Mulder. It's the only way to bring the
temp down," the second voice said sympathetically.

Mulder tried to fight the blanket, kicking his legs to dislodge it, but
it had been tucked at the edges of the bed and wouldn't budge. He
sobbed in frustration. " . . . moommmm, help . . . me," he cried out
again.

Mulder's eyes were closed and he couldn't see her face, but he
could hear the tears in her voice. He'd spent his adolescence
listening to her tears. "I can't, baby boy. I can't. You need to
keep it on. I'm sorry."

"Mrs. Mulder, I think we need to sedate him," voice number one,
coming in just above a whisper.

"I'd rather not. He hates to be sedated. Please, if we can avoid
that . . ."

"Mrs. Mulder, he's fighting us. It's only causing him to grow
weaker at this point. His blood pressure is rising, there is the very
real danger of stroke. We _need_ to sedate him," the first voice
said tersely.

"If you think it's necessary," his mother answered, reluctantly. 

"I think it is."

More cold filled his veins and he cried out again. Then his mother
was there, caressing his cheek, placing kisses on his forehead. 
Murmuring how much she loved him and just wanted him to feel
better. Wanted him to get well. It was like a lullaby and drew him
into sleep.

*****

Portland Regional Office of the FBI
February 7, 1991
9:35 am

"Was that the hospital?" Jerry asked, handing Bill a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, well, it was his mother," Bill replied, taking a drink.

"How's he doing?" Jerry asked, hating the fact that they were still
banned from seeing Mulder. He knew his partner was in Intensive
Care and that he was 'holding his own', but it had been three days
since they'd found him half frozen on the Portland docks, just a
dozen feet from two dead bodies.

Bill took another drink of coffee and scratched his head. "He's still
critical. His mother says he spikes a high fever every night. Last
night he had some really bad fever dreams. Kept yelling something
about the case."

"Yelling?" Jerry asked, not bothering to hide his worry.

"LaMana," Bill said patiently. "His fever is spiking. He went into
convulsions last night. He's just dreaming about whatever is
there in his head. Of course, he'd dream about the case, it was the
last thing he was working on when he got sick. There's no big
mystery here."

"Why did Mrs. Mulder call, then? Just to give us a progress
report?" Jerry prodded.

"No," Bill admitted. "The doctor feels that if we came up to see
Mulder, just for a few minutes, it might bring some closure for him. 
To him, this case is still wide open. He was practically comatose
when we found him. If we convince him that the case is closed, the
bad person committed suicide, there have been no further deaths,
maybe he'll stop thinking of it and calm down."

Jerry was nodding. "I see. We just tell him that it's done and over
with, except for the paperwork. Is that it?"

"That's the plan. Maybe if they can get him calmed down, he can
begin to get better. But Mrs. Mulder did say they were dealing
with a resistant form of pneumonia. Apparently he caused himself a
lot of trouble by just taking a couple doses of the antibiotics. It
might have been better for him not to take any at all."

"How so?" Jerry asked.

"When he took a couple, it killed off some of the germs, but not the
hardy ones. They took over. Now they can't get them killed off,
or at least that's the way she explained it."

"Bill, is Mulder going to get better?" Jerry asked point blank.

Bill shrugged. "I don't know. I hope so. I'd sure hate to lose
him," Bill said.