By Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

Out of the Cold: Part II
by Vickie Moseley


Portland Memorial Medical Center
February 7, 1991
1:15 pm

Mulder's fever was down to manageable levels, hovering at one
hundred, but the sun was high in the sky. He could go without the
cooling blanket during the day, and that alone made his disposition
better. Since he usually slept most of the daytime, his mother took
frequent naps herself, so that she could sit with him during the
night, when he was worse. Both of them, mother and son, were
dozing when Bill and Jerry came to visit.

"Maybe you shouldn't wake him," Bill muttered to the nurse as she
led them into the room.

"Oh, it's all right. He's been expecting you. The doctor told him
this morning that you'd be allowed to visit for a little while. He
was very anxious to talk to you," the nurse informed them with a
smile. She was no more than twenty-five, very pretty, and Jerry
almost envied Mulder if that was who was taking care of him. 

"Fox? Fox? You have visitors," she called softly.

Slowly, Mulder dragged his eyes open. He struggled in the bed and
the nurse helped him by raising the head a bit and adjusting his
pillows.

He was no longer wearing a full oxygen mask, but a nasal cannula
was still feeding him oxygen. He had an IV in his right hand, drips
from two bags mingling in the line. His left hand was bandaged. 
Monitor pads were strung like Lilliputian restraints to the machines
on the far side of the bed. A small blue clothespin looking device
was attached to the finger of his right hand. 

Mulder smiled at Jerry, nodded to Bill. "Hi, guys," he said. His
voice was rough and not very loud. He breathed deeply after just
saying two words.

"How are they treating you?" Jerry asked.

"Not bad," Mulder replied. "Nice view," he said with what could
almost pass for a leer.

"I could see that," Jerry grinned and looked out the glass window
where the nurse was writing in a chart at the desk.

Bill shifted nervously. "You're missing out on the paperwork, you
know," he said affably.

"What happened?" Mulder asked, sitting up straighter. Jerry noted
with alarm that one of the monitors started to creep up into higher
numbers and glanced back through the window toward nurses
station. Mulder followed his gaze.

"It's OK, LaMana. I'm fine," Mulder assured him tiredly. "Tell me
about the docks, Bill."

"I don't know what you saw, Mulder. When we got there it was all
over. The victim's name was George Drake. He'd been a night
manager at the hotel where Paige and Crown were a lounge act. 
He was dead from loss of blood, just like the others. And Crown
must have known she was caught and slit her wrists," Bill said
simply.

"She was murdered," Mulder insisted.

"Did you see that?" Bill demanded, annoyed.

"Yes. No. I don't know if I saw it or not, but it's true, Bill. She
didn't kill herself," Mulder insisted, more emphatically. Jerry
watched the one monitor climb higher on the number range.

"How, Mulder? How could you have seen that? You were
semi-conscious when we found you. You weren't coherent or
responsive. How did you see anything?" Bill asked, lowering his
tone as if speaking to a third grader who didn't want to eat his
lunch.

Mulder's eyes flashed. His breathing became rapid and shallow, his
lips turning pale. "Look, Bill. I can't tell you more than I know. 
But I saw . . . a shadow. It . . . attacked her. She was frightened!"

"Mulder, she was frightened because you stumbled onto them. She
knew she'd been caught, that she was going to jail. She killed
herself, saved the taxpayers a bundle. We should all be happy with
a job well done."

"It's not over, Bill. It's going to continue," Mulder said
breathlessly and through gritted teeth. 

A shrill cry issued from the monitor Jerry had been watching and
Mrs. Mulder nearly jumped from her chair. "Fox?" she cried out,
then noticed the other two men. "Mr. Patterson, I presume. What
is going on here?"

Before Bill could answer, the pretty, young nurse was in the room. 
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to leave. Mr. Mulder has to
remain calm. Your presence is endangering his health. Perhaps you
can come back another time, when he's feeling better," she said
firmly, standing to the side of the doorway in clear indication of
their direction.

"We'll call later, Mrs. Mulder. I'm sorry if we upset him," Bill said,
looking suitably contrite.

"I'll have to talk to the doctor, Mr. Patterson. But I don't think
our experiment was successful," Mrs. Mulder said dryly. "Good
day," she dismissed them both.

Jerry cringed as the door shut behind them, but Bill just looked
stoically on and shook his head. Then he turned and started to
walk toward the elevators.

The two men were silent all the way to the car. Jerry was frowning
most of the way, going over what his friend had said. "You know,
Reno is the next city. And tonight . . ."

"LaMana, give it a rest. Mulder is out of his head with a fever. He
was hallucinating on the docks. We couldn't even call him as a
witness if there had been a trial, he's not credible. We'll clean up
the details of the report, shouldn't take more than a couple of days,
and then we'd better be getting back to DC."

"Without Mulder," Jerry stated, then turned his head to look out
the car window.

"Without Mulder," Bill agreed sadly. "He'll be out for a couple of
months, at least. I've seen it happen. Burnout, physically and
mentally. Some guys never come back."

"Mulder's not like that," Jerry snapped. "He'll come back." The
car was silent for a few miles. "Are you going to check with
Reno?" Jerry asked finally.

Bill shook his head and gave Jerry a sarcastic glare. "Sure, why
not? I'll just call them up and say, gee, you know that big press
release we sent out because we were certain we'd caught the
'Motel Murderer'? Well, it looks like we were wrong. We're
issuing an All Points on a 'shadow'. Yeah, I like that, LaMana. 
Tell you what, I like it so much, I'm gonna let _you_ call DC and
tell them that's why we decided to spend a few nights in Reno,
looking for a possible victim."

Jerry met Bill's glare with one of his own, but then turned his head
and was quiet for the rest of the ride.

Portland Memorial Hospital
February 9, 1991
3:06 am

Mulder shivered in the darkness. His body was shaking so hard it
was difficult to take a breath. Something icy was being dragged
across his body. The aftermath felt like fire. Everywhere it
touched, he first froze and then burned. It hurt his skin, the cold
caused his muscles to clench. The muscles in his back were
cramping, twisting him and he couldn't relax them, he couldn't
even move. Mulder was in the most horrendous torture and he
couldn't remember what he'd done to deserve it.

He could hear his mother. Her voice was soft, gentle. She seemed
oddly calm, considering she was witness to the anguish he was
engulfed in. He wondered vaguely if she were a party to it. Was
this her revenge at him for losing Samantha? He had always known
of his father's anger toward him, but he'd always thought that his
mother felt only sorrow and love for her only remaining child. 
Could he have been so wrong? Was she the torturer most
cruel, leading him to believe he was loved when she could later sit
by and watch him calmly delivered into the throes of agony?

He couldn't believe that. He called out her name, hoping that she
would understand his pain and end it. But all he got in return was
more cold, more fire. Now the cold was smothering him, only his
face and head escaping it. They, whoever they were who were
making him their sadistic plaything, figured out that there was an
oasis and put a stop to it. The cold was being dragged across his
face, down his neck. He wanted to scream, but didn't have the air
to force his voice out of his lungs. Something was pressing down
on him and breathing was almost impossible.

Mulder wanted to struggle, didn't want to give in without a fight. 
He wanted to open his eyes and face his tormentors, see if his
mother was trying to put a stop to the agony. But his eyelids had
been fused shut, again by persons unknown to him. The same ones
who were now trying to pry his mouth open, trying to choke him
with objects in his mouth, down his throat. Something cold and
smooth, but hard and sharp on the edges. It was being forced
deeper down his throat and he fought hard against it. He gagged
and coughed, but the thing would not be dislodged. He sobbed
against it, tried to call for his mother again, but knew his cries
would go unheeded.

"Is this really necessary?" Mrs. Mulder pleaded. She was at her
wits end, but it looked like the night was far from over. Her son's
fever had soared with the coming of night, and no amount of
antipyretics seemed to be able to bring it down to allowable levels. 
His lungs, still terribly congested, had begun to weaken due to the
stress. The doctor's now feared that his heart might sustain
damage, along with his mind. They were forced to take drastic
measures to deal with the situation.

The doctor had exercised extreme patience when he explained the
intubation would help her son breathe and would allow him to rest. 
But she'd been terrified as she sat and watched them fight with Fox
to bring the oxygen to his lungs. He was not just sick anymore. He
was wrestling with death. 

Morning was her only hope. With dawn, he might be better. The
fever would go back into its lair and leave him alone to sleep. But
for now, sunrise was still over three hours away.

The doctor broke through her thoughts. "Mrs. Mulder, I'm sorry,
but yes, I feel it is necessary. Your son is on the verge of
respiratory failure. We are taking the burden off his lungs by
intubating him. It's only for a while. And if he would just relax and
accept it, stop fighting it so hard, he would feel better, too. He
could sleep. Right now, more than anything we can do, he needs
rest, Mrs. Mulder," the doctor repeated tiredly.

The doctor and Mrs. Mulder had been through one argument
already during the evening, over the use of sedatives. The older
woman had allowed their use once, but no more than that. The 
doctor still didn't understand why the woman was so adamant that
her son not be given a sedative to calm him during his struggles. 
She kept referring to a childhood trauma, a time when he'd been
heavily sedated and for a rather lengthy period of time. But that
was in the past, and his patient needed rest. Rest he wasn't getting
at the moment.

"Please, let me do that," Teena Mulder begged the nurse who was
dutifully wiping an dampened cloth over Mulder's face. The nurse
hesitated, she'd been witness to the last blow up between doctor
and mother. Finally, after a reluctant nod from the doctor, she
moved out of the way and handed the cloth over to the older
woman.

Without breaking the slow gentle stride the nurse had set, his
mother took up the task, but in addition, she stroked his face
opposite where the cloth was touching. "It's all right, baby boy. 
What say we count the stars? Can you see them, Fox? Just outside
the window? See the big dipper, and Orion? Can you find his belt
and his dagger. And the rabbit and the lion and his hunting dogs?"

"Remember how you wanted a belt like Orion's for your birthday?"
she murmured. "And see if we can find the twins. Are they there? 
I can find the North Star. See how bright it is. If we look real hard
maybe we can see the Northern Lights. Remember, Fox, you told
me once that they were like lasers in the sky." 

At first Mulder didn't want to listen, but gradually her voice cut
through to his mind and he began to relax. Feeling her hand on his
face brought back a thousand memories of times when he was small
and his mother lulled him to sleep at night. His perfect recall could
reach back to his toddler days. 

He'd been wrong before. She wasn't the tormentor. She was here
to help. She was his mother and she loved him. She'd stay by him,
protect him. With her there to watch over him, he could slip into
the darkness and escape all the pain for a while. 

His struggles tapered off and finally ended. Now that he wasn't
fighting the tube in his throat, the machine caught up to his shallow
breathing and deepened it for him, bringing oxygen to cells
beginning to perish from starvation. The blue tinge that had
colored his lips began to change to a very pale pink--a much
welcomed improvement. Even his heart rate slowed and settled to
a comfortable 60 beats a minute, his blood pressure 120 over 90
and holding steady.

The doctor put his hand on the old woman's shoulder. "Good
work, Mrs. Mulder," he whispered in her ear. He waited quietly,
watching his patient be drawn down into sleep. He left them alone
for several minutes, making necessary phone calls on other patients. 
But half and hour later, he was back in Mulder's room. 

"I hate to interrupt, Mrs. Mulder, but I think we need to talk," he
finally spoke when he was assured that the patient was still asleep. 
Hesitantly, she looked at the doctor, then finally nodded. She
followed him into the hall.

There was fire in her eyes when they stepped outside the room. 
"Why isn't he better? He's been here for days now, and he's only
getting worse. What are you doing for him?" she demanded and
accused.

"Mrs. Mulder, as I explained earlier, your son is suffering from a
resistant form of pneumonia. We have him on a course of very
strong and effective antibiotics, but it is going to take some time. 
What has me concerned is his mental state. He fights all treatment. 
Even during the day when he's alert, he seems to want to ignore
stated orders. He's still concerned with work and what is
happening there. I understand his position is important, but he is
sick and his only concern should be getting better. Maybe if your
husband was here . . ."

"My ex-husband is on his way ," Mrs. Mulder spat out through
gritted teeth. "But believe me, William will not be a help in this
matter. In fact, I'm certain his presence will only upset Fox all the
more."

"Then we must sedate him. I know you don't agree, but until he
rests, we will continue to have these episodes," the doctor said
forcefully. "I don't know if you realize the gravity of the situation
tonight, Mrs. Mulder. If he had gone into respiratory arrest,
cardiac failure would have been right on its heels. And in his
current weakened condition, I am quite certain he would not have
survived resuscitation." His words were cruel and meant as a
warning, but his eyes were sad and pleading.

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, something her son
could not imitate now. The doctor didn't need to try and frighten
her, she was terrified already. She knew her son's life was in the
balance. What good would it do to win a small battle only to lose
the war? At this point, the only thing that mattered to her was her
son's continued survival. 

Finally, she nodded slowly. "I give my permission," she said, and
without another word, walked back into the room and took up her
vigil.

The night nurse came in with the sedative, but since the patient was
still sleeping, she made her checks and left without administering it. 
Mulder slept on and his mother, feeling the effects of several days
and nights without any real rest herself, fell sound asleep in the high
backed chair next to his bed.

February 9, 1991
7:55 am

Jerry LaMana felt hurried and guilty as he ran through the lobby of
the hospital and to the bank of elevators. He glanced at his watch
again, noting that if he could work it right, he could still make the
9:30 flight to Atlanta. It had been an eventful evening, all the way
around.

He'd called the hospital, wanting more to find out how his friend
was doing than to impart any information on his own. But the
nurse at the desk said that Mrs. Mulder was not available and gave
him the standard 'Mr. Mulder is resting' line that he'd gotten for
the last five days. He didn't want to head home without saying
goodbye, and maybe to give Mulder a heads up on things in DC.

The minute he stepped off the elevator on the floor housing the
ICU, he knew something was amiss. An older man, his face lined
with deep creases was standing at the nurses desk. There was
something about him that looked familiar, the way he leaned against
the desk--it hit Jerry that this man looked a lot like Mulder. As
Jerry walked up to the desk, he overheard the man speaking.

"I said I want the name of the best neurologist in this city, no, in
this state. And I want it now!"

"Mr. Mulder, as we told your wife, Dr. Westholm is one of the best
neurologists on the Pacific Coast. He called to say that he'll be
here about 8:30. If you would just take a seat in the waiting lounge
. . ."

"I did not fly all the way across country to sit in a waiting room. 
I'll be in with my son," the older man growled.

"Only one person is allowed in his room at a time, Mr. Mulder. I'm
sorry, but that is hospital policy."

"To hell with policy, I'm going in there now!" With a stern look to
Jerry for no discernable reason other than he was standing there,
Bill Mulder marched off toward the patient rooms.

The nurse blew out an exasperated breath and shook her head. 
Then, noticing Jerry still standing there, she looked toward him and
narrowed her eyes. "Can I help you?" she asked, and he was
almost afraid to give her an affirmative answer.

"I wondered if I could see Fox Mulder?"

His demeanor must have seemed suitably contrite, because the
nurse's glare softened. "I'm sorry, unless you're immediate
family . . ."

"I'm . . . I'm his partner. We work together," Jerry explained. "I
have to leave today, I really wanted to say goodbye."

The nurse chewed her lip for a moment. "He can't have visitors at
the moment. I'm sorry. But if you wait a moment, maybe I can see
if his mother will come out and see you."

In minutes, Mrs. Mulder came out, looking worn and haggard. It
was apparent that she'd fallen asleep and hadn't had a chance to
freshen up. She regarded Jerry coolly. "Mr. LaMana, is there
something you wanted?"

"Mrs. Mulder, I'm sorry to disturb you. I wanted to say goodbye
to Mulder, ah, Fox. Is he awake?" Jerry took in the sad look in the
older woman's eyes and felt his own stomach drop.

There was a distinct crack in her icy veneer as she lead him over to
some chairs. After they were both seated, she took a moment to
collect her thoughts. "Mr. LaMana, Fox is in a coma. He lost
consciousness earlier this morning. He can't have visitors right
now, just his father and I."

Jerry felt cold all over. "I thought . . . I mean, I'd hoped . . ."

"The doctors can't explain it at the moment. It seems connected to
the fever, but now the fever seems to be coming under control. 
They're bringing in a neurologist to determine if there might have
been some brain damage from the fever."

"Mrs. Mulder, I . . . I don't know what to say," Jerry stammered. 
"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not that I can think of, no," Mrs. Mulder said with a sad smile and
a shake of her head. "We're just getting through this one day at a
time right now. Once he wakes up, and he's recovered sufficiently
to be moved, he'll be coming home for a while," she said
optimistically. "He'll see you at the office when he's better and I'm
sure he'll call as soon as he can," she added.

Jerry looked guiltily out the window. "I won't be in Quantico, Mrs.
Mulder. I just got word late yesterday afternoon. I've been
transferred to Atlanta."

"Oh, I see," she replied cryptically. "Well, I'm sure you're quite
excited."

"I wanted to tell him in person, you see," Jerry tried to explain. 
"He knew I was being looked at for that position, and so it won't
be a complete surprise. I've enjoyed working with your son, Mrs.
Mulder. He's an incredible agent. I know he'll go far. He just
needs to take care of himself a little better." Jerry was rambling,
but didn't know how to stop.

"Would you like to say 'goodbye' in person?" Mrs. Mulder was
just barely holding on to her composure at that point. Jerry wasn't
sure which answer would cause her to lose her balance.

"I'd like to tell him that I'll see him next time I'm in DC," Jerry said
carefully. "If you think the doctors will allow it."

That seemed to relieve the older woman and she nodded. "I think
we can arrange it," she said and motioned for him to sit down and
wait for her to return.


Jerry stood at the edge of the bed, frowning. He'd known Mulder
almost 3 years, they had gone through the Academy together. 
Never, in all that time, had he seen him less than the 'mega-star',
less than the best and the brightest. Now, looking down on him as
he lay in the bed, Jerry saw something few people ever saw. He
saw a kid, just in his twenties, younger than Jerry himself. He saw
someone weak and vulnerable and just barely holding on. Jerry
shuddered and fought to remain calm. 

Mulder was a good guy, they were basically friends, but Jerry knew
so little about him. Oh, he knew that his folks lived somewhere
near Boston, that Mulder had grown up on Martha's Vineyard. 
That he'd gone to Oxford on a full ride and had been recruited by
Patterson for the Behavioral Sciences Unit before the ink was dry
on his degree. He'd watched him graduate at the top of their class,
beating scores in both academics and in physical conditioning. He
watched him rise to the top of the heap that was Behavioral
Sciences, and in record time.

But beyond that, Mulder was a locked door, a secret cabinet. Jerry
knew little of his friend's life outside the office. Didn't know if he
was seeing anyone. Had only been to his apartment a handful of
times, and those were to go over a case or a file. Jerry wished he
knew more, wished he knew enough to help his friend out of the
horrible place he was in. To help him find his way back.

Jerry glanced at the clock and realized he didn't have much time. 
The doctor had agreed to this visit only if he kept it short, five
minutes, tops. He'd already wasted 4 of those minutes standing
just in the doorway, staring. He didn't want to waste anymore.

He walked on tiptoe over to the bed. Gently, he reached over and
touched Mulder's hand. He purposefully avoided touching the tape
from the IV, which meant he really only got brief contact with one
long finger. "Mulder?" he spoke hesitantly, his voice above a
whisper. "Mulder, it's Jer."

LaMana swallowed. What did you say to a friend who seemed to
be slipping away? He took a deep breath and started again. "I, uh,
I just wanted to come by and let you know I'm leaving today." 
Why did it hurt so much to tell him this? Jerry had been wanting
the Atlanta spot for as long as he could remember. Mulder knew
that, he had encouraged him to go for it. So why was it so hard to
tell Mulder that he was leaving? Could it be that Jerry was afraid
he was saying goodbye for the last time?

"I got some good news," Jerry said in a rush. "I got the Atlanta
position. Yeah, I know, about time, huh?" Now that he'd said that
much the rest was a little easier. "I leave this morning, start
tomorrow. I'll be living out of a suitcase for a week or two, then
I'll be back to Virginia and pack. You'll probably be at your
Mom's by then. Let her spoil you for a while," he said, letting a
chuckle escape. 

"I just wanted to tell you that, well, it's been an honor to work with
you, Mulder. A real honor. And we'll be working together again, I
just know it. So you take care of yourself, huh? And next time,
take the damned medicine, Mulder. It'll save everybody a whole lot
of grief."

Jerry startled at the sound of tapping on glass behind him. The
nurse was standing just on the other side of the window, motioning
to her watch.

"I gotta go, here, man, they're tossing me out. But you get better
soon, OK? And I'll call you, as soon as I can. Just get better." 
Jerry stood there for a moment, then turned and walked out, feeling
lower then he'd ever felt in his life.

February 11, 1991
time unknown

Just on the edges of consciousness, he listened. He couldn't move,
the _thing_ was still down his throat, but it had been there so long
it didn't irritate and gag him anymore. He wondered idly if he'd
spend the rest of his life lying in a bed with a tube down his throat. 
Then he begged every deity he could think of not to let that happen.

He could sense someone in the room. Not his mother. There was
no soothing hand on his forehead or his arm. Just the feeling that
someone was looking at him, watching him from a very short
distance. He heard a throat being cleared and recognition came to
him slowly, like on the wisp of a cloud. His father was there.

"Fox." Mulder couldn't remember the last time his father had
called him by his first name. It was usually 'son' and more than
often said with a sneer to the voice that cut like a knife. But this
time, when his father said his name, it sounded like nothing he
could remember hearing before. His father sounded sad. Lonely,
almost.

"Fox, they say you might be able to hear us," his father said, the
sadness not leaving his voice. "I hope you can, son. I hope you
can."

A sigh. Deep and filled with emotion. Mulder was growing tired
waiting for the words he felt would come eventually. The words of
anger, the words of demanding. Telling him what he had to do,
what he'd done that had messed everything up once again. 

"Fox. Please listen, son. I want you to get well, son. Please. For
your mother. She's so very, very worried, Fox. She's sat here by
your side for over six days now. She hasn't slept except for an
hour or two here and there. I've had to force her down to the
cafeteria or she'd never eat. She's there now."

Silence. A scratching sound, a chair moving across a floor just
enough to mar the polished surface. Then he felt it. The rough
stubble of his father's day old bearded chin as the older man placed
a gentle kiss on his forehead. 

"Please. Fox. For your mother. For me. Please, come back to
us."

He wanted to. More than anything he wanted to give his father
this. But the darkness caught him in its web and dragged him
down again.

February 13, 1991
time unknown

"I don't care how you do it, William, I just want him _out_!"

Mulder had been hearing the voices around him for some time, but
none of them made sense to him until his mother's voice broke
through the fog that clouded his awareness. She was angry, and
from the sounds of it, his father was the receiving party to her
wrath.

"I don't know what you expect me to do, T," his father's voice
replied, sounding tired and frustrated.

"You got him that job, get him another one!" His mother's voice
again, righteous indignation tinting her words.

"I've told you, I only 'suggested' the Bureau look at him. I didn't
'get him the job'," his father protested. "He got it on his own and
he's kept it the same way. He's damned good at what he does, T,
and if you can't see that . . ."

"It's killing him," she sobbed. "It's killing him," she repeated,
softer and softer until all Mulder could hear were her shuddering
breaths and deep intakes of air. 

"I still don't know what I can do," his father answered one last
time, this time his voice cracking with emotions no longer
controlled.

A long time later, more sounds came through the haze.

"His lungs are improving, Mrs. Mulder. He's been doing well since
we removed the respirator. All things considered, he should be
waking up soon." It was a male's voice, not his father's. Someone
in authority. A doctor?

"Can't you give him something, something that will make him wake
up?" his mother's voice demanded. If it was good news she was
hearing, she didn't seem willing to be grateful.

"No, Mrs. Mulder. I'm sorry," the man replied. He sounded tired,
like he'd given this answer before, several times too many. 

Mulder could hear his mother's sigh as the door squeaked open and
then clicked shut. Feeling was returning with the awareness of
sound. He could feel the sheets covering him, could feel the thin
plastic tube bringing oxygen to his nose. He was dimly aware for
the first time that he could breathe. His chest still hurt, but at least
he was taking in air and on his own. No tube down his throat. 
That alone was time for rejoicing.

His body was cool, except for one place. His arm. A small area of
his arm felt warm. Not just warm, it felt safe, too. After some
concentration, he realized his mother was holding his arm. It gave
him the courage to try and open his eyes.

She wasn't looking at him when he opened his eyes. He got the
luxury and pain of seeing her clearly. His mother looked so much
older than he remembered her. Not the beautiful woman who stood
on the beach, watching with trepidation as his ten year old self went
farther into the surf. Her hair had more than a little gray in it, but
she'd taken time, usually to ensure it was in place. Now, it looked
like she hadn't come in close contact with a comb more than once
or twice in the last week. And her face was drawn with wrinkles
he'd never seen before. Whatever had happened, he'd put her
through hell. His own mother. 

He remembered waking up in a hospital once before and finding her
crying next to his bed. He's been a child at the time, but before that
day was over, he'd grown into a sullen young man. He had grown
under the weight of responsibility and guilt. His actions or lack of
them, had caused his family great pain. He'd vowed never to do
that, never to let that happen. Never to be the cause of his
mother's tears. And now he had, once again. The guilt almost
crushed him.

And then she turned her head just a fraction and her eyes caught his
face. Suddenly, the lines erased as she broke into a smile. 
Instantly, twenty years were erased from her face by that smile. It
was the smile she'd always given him when he'd done something
she approved of, something that pleased her, something that
touched her heart. A smile that showed how much love she had for
him, no matter what he did.

"Sweetheart," she crooned. "You're awake."

He couldn't answer, he had no voice. The tube had left his throat
raw and aching. All he could do was smile faintly, nod and accept
her embrace, her tears.

Office of Dr. James V. Sullivan
Head of Psychiatry, Portland Memorial Hospital
February 18, 1991
10:13 am

James Sullivan looked across the desk at the two people waiting for
him to begin. The woman, concern lining her face, especially
around her eyes, held a hopeful expression, almost as if anything
Jim would tell her would bring her peace of mind. The man sitting
next to her, however, seemed to display a sense of distrust and
disapproval.

"I've looked over your son's records, and I've spoken with him. I
understand that there is some concern that his 'obsession' with his
work is impeding his recovery from this current bout of
pneumonia," Jim stated evenly, trying for that bedside manner that
always put his patients at ease.

"He got the pneumonia because he was obsessed with the case to
begin with. So obsessed that he didn't see how sick he was
becoming," Mr. Mulder interrupted tersely. His ex-wife shot him a
glare and he slunk back into his seat.

"His work is very important to him, that I will grant you. But I
don't know that it's just an 'obsession' with his work that is driving
him at this point," Jim said diplomatically as he could. "Your son
told me that he's undergone regression hypnosis, were you aware
of that?"

Two pair of surprised eyes greeted that statement. Jim hastened to
continue. "He told me I could reveal that information to you. But
he wouldn't go into any details of what the sessions produced, if
any memories were recovered." Jim settled back, a little
uncomfortable with the obvious lack of communication in this
'family'. "I believe that your son is trying to deal with a great many
things right now: his work, which is obviously very important to
him and some event in his childhood that he is seeking to
remember."

"Why can't he just leave it alone," Mr. Mulder growled.

That comment earned him another glare from his ex-wife. "Like
you did?" she returned in kind. "If any monsters are on the loose in
his head, William, I know who their creator is," she added angrily.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mulder," Jim interrupted. "We're discussing your
son, and his treatment," he reminded them. That got their
attention. "I have discussed this with his medical doctor, Dr.
Hannig, and we feel that it would be safe to take Fox back east at
this time. He is not well enough to return to DC by himself, or to
return to work. He'll need several more weeks to regain his
strength, to rebuild his lung capacity. It's going to be a frustrating
time for him. And quite frankly, he needs to confront his, shall we
call them 'monsters'. Someplace safe."

"He'll come home with me," his mother answered quickly.

"You were never that good at dealing with him when he was sick,
T. Maybe he should come home with me."

"Dr. Sullivan just said he needed to be someplace 'safe', Bill," she
replied evenly. "I don't see how your place fits that description."

"Maybe we should be looking at an intermediary placement, a
nursing facility of some sort," Jim interjected. "Tension is the last
thing he needs right now."

Mrs. Mulder squared her shoulders. "There won't be any tension. 
I want him home, where I can take care of him. If he seems to be
having problems, we'll discuss an alternate placement at that time. 
Right now, I don't think he wants to go to another hospital, or
'nursing facility'. I think he's had enough of these places for a long
time."

Jim Sullivan shrugged. "That was pretty much his assessment, as
well." He handed Mrs. Mulder a slip of paper. "I took the liberty
of contacting an old med school friend of mine. He has a
psychiatric practice in Boston, and he'd be happy to see Fox and
continue with the work we've started here. And I'll be available by
phone, if the need arises." 

He stood and offered his hand, first to Mrs. Mulder and then to Mr.
Mulder. "Your son is a brilliant young man. I read the reports in
the paper. He was instrumental in capturing a killer. His work
saves lives. You have a lot to be proud of."

The couple looked at each other grimly, and left the room without
another word.


JFK International Airport
New York
February 20, 1991
3:00 pm

He was exhausted, but he didn't want his mother to see that. It was
everything he could do to remain upright at the curb of the airport
terminal. Mulder tried to stand up straight, but his shoulders
wanted to hunch over, curling in on his rib cage. It still hurt to
breathe, still hurt to cough. 

The coughs were more or less confined to the mornings now, or
whenever he did something strenuous. Like walking off an airplane
and waiting for his mother to bring the car around. He fought
valiantly to stifle the coughs that were tickling his throat. If he let
one through, the rest would follow on its heels and his mother
would drive him straight to the nearest hospital instead of to her
house.

Mulder wasn't thrilled about the final destination of this trip, either. 
It wasn't that he didn't want to see his mother's new house in
Greenwich, CT. He couldn't have cared less where she lived. It
was that he really didn't want to spend two weeks or better being
hovered over by his mother. 

He had pleaded his case fairly effectively, he thought. He pointed
out that he was a grown man, had been on his own for almost ten
years. He had a small apartment, he could get anywhere in it in less
than 20 steps. And it was _his_, he was comfortable there. He
hadn't stepped foot in his mother's new home since she'd moved
there six months before. He'd feel awkward, like a stranger.

All arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Even his doctors in
Washington, upon reading his hospital file, had conspired against
him to make sure Mulder ended up in his mother's care. He
couldn't be left alone, his medication needed to be monitored and
his breathing exercises were essential if he was to regain his full
lung capacity. 

In essence, no one trusted him to take care of himself, and everyone
concerned made it clear that the source of that mistrust was his own
attitude while he was hospitalized. His mother had even used the
dreaded 'you made your bed, now lie in it' statement that he could
remember from a vicious bout with mono in high school. In the
end, he hadn't even been allowed to make his own travel
arrangements, and the FBI made it quite clear that until all his
doctors signed off on his return to duty, he wasn't to set foot in the
building.

No longer just tired, he was becoming disheartened. It was more
than he could handle, being sick _and_ staying with his mother. It
wasn't that long ago that he was the caretaker, the one to make
sure she took her medicine, ate three meals a day, even helped her
wash and dress herself in the mornings. To have her return those
favors now to him only served to embarrass him. He'd gotten beyond
needing her long before he left for Oxford. But everyone was
telling him he needed her now.

He was getting dizzy again. Breathe, he ordered his lungs, and
reluctantly they complied, but not before the black spots marred
his vision. Just as he was starting to sway, his mother drove up to
the curb, and hurried around to open his door. A maternal gesture,
she guided his elbow as he sat down. "I'm not an invalid, Mom,"
he reminded her dryly.

"I didn't say you were, dear," she shot back. "But it would have
been more embarrassing for you to fall flat on your backside there
on the sidewalk, now, wouldn't it?" She drove off toward the
interstate. He was surprised when she didn't mention his dizziness. 
"I went through some of the boxes I brought from the other house. 
I'm pretty sure some of your old clothes should still fit. At least
until we can go shopping," she commented, attempting to make
small talk.

He stared glumly out the window.

"And I can move the little TV into your room. I was thinking
about getting a VCR for that one, in case I wanted to record a
show while I was watching a movie or something. Would you like
that?"

He tore his gaze away from the passing snowy landscape to give
her a pained look. "Mom, when can I go home?" he asked,
desperately trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

"You're going home right now, sweetheart," she answered with a
bright smile.

"No, Mom. _My_ home. DC. When do I get to go home and go
back to work?"

"When the doctor feels you can be alone, sweetheart," she replied
cheerfully. She shook her head at him, giving him an affectionate
pat on the arm. "It won't be that bad. I promise not to hover too
much. I just have to agree with the doctors on this, Fox. You need
to recuperate, and you would never follow their orders if left on
your own. Remember how you got to this position in the first
place," she pointed out evenly.

He closed his eyes with a sigh. "Wake me in three to four weeks,"
he muttered, and with little effort, fell asleep for the rest of the ride.

She woke him with a gentle shake of his shoulders. "I'll get your
bags, sweetheart. Please go unlock the door for me," she requested
and handed him the key. He wanted more than anything to protest,
to get his own damned bags and have her hold the door, but his
body wasn't in the mood to agree. He was stiff and sore and more
tired than he could ever remember being and not being asleep. 
Reluctantly, he shuffled up the sidewalk and unlocked the door to
the little bungalow.

It was dark inside the house, the sun almost gone behind the
horizon and the leafless trees. He fumbled on the wall for a light
switch and found it just as his mother entered with their bags on her
shoulders. "Go on in the living room, dear and put your feet up,"
she directed. "I'm going to put these away and then I'll start some
dinner. I have some beef stew in the cabinet I can heat up. Would
you like that?"

She'd never been much of a cook, even when he was little, and he
had to smile at her definition of 'home cooked meal', stew from a
can. But he was just hungry enough for it to sound good to him. 
"That's great, Mom. I'll see what's on the news." After settling
into a comfortable position on the couch, he clicked on the TV and
closed his eyes briefly through the few commercials.

Mulder couldn't see at first, it was dark in the room. A smell
permeated the air, the smell of mildew. A light flashed across the
wall--headlights from a passing car outside the window. The
brightness burned itself on his retinas, but allowed him to get a
better look at the room around him.

It was an old flat--long abandoned. The single window was
curtainless and the panes of glass streaked with years of dirt and
grime. He could see piles of rags in the corners, probably left there
by the apartment's most recent inhabitants--a family of rats. 
Mulder shuddered at the thought, and felt the bile rise in the back of
his throat. There were parts to his job that he still had trouble
dealing with.

A scraping sound pulled his attention away from the rat's nest. 
Something was being dragged across the floor in the room next to
the one he was standing in. He moved carefully toward the door
that separated the two rooms, feeling his hip for his gun, hefting the
weight of it in his hand before going too close to the opening. His
eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness provided by the distant
street lamps outside. He could make out shapes, shadows. Mostly
shadows.

Another flash of a headlight beam and he could make out the body. 
Lying on the floor, a dark puddle spreading from both hands. He
could see the shadow hovering over the body, it seemed
malevolent, sinister, evil. He recoiled from the shadow, but
couldn't pull his eyes from it. 

As he watched, riveted to his position not five feet from the door,
the body on the floor gasped its last breath. The shadow engulfed
it, seemed to draw strength from it. It took on an intelligence that
Mulder could sense, could feel. And without any warning, it turned
on Mulder and moved rapidly toward him . . .

"Fox! Fox, wake up! It's a dream, sweetheart. Just a dream!" His
mother was practically holding him in her lap, shaking him
vigorously, both arms surrounding his shoulders. He tried
unsuccessfully to draw in a breath, but no air would enter his lungs. 
He panicked and flailed out of her arms, still gasping for oxygen.

"I'm calling the hospital," his mother announced, her own voice
carrying a panicky edge. "You need an ambulance."

At her words, the dam broke and fresh sweet air flooded his lungs. 
His ribs expanded painfully as he sucked in great gulps of it, with
each breath his dizziness faded. Finally, he was able to grab his
mother's arm.

"Don't," he gasped out, still concentrating more on bringing
oxygen into his body than on getting words out. 

She hesitated, still holding the receiver of the phone. "I want to call
the doctor, then. At the very least. You couldn't breathe, Fox." 
She stated the obvious to him as if she were providing new insight
into his condition.

"Nightmare," he replied, struggling to calm down and take in
normal breaths. Now that the dizziness had passed, he was afraid
he might bring it back with a bout of hyperventilation. "I'm OK,
Mom. Really," he assured her.

She sat down beside him, he leaned back, dropping his head to the
back of couch. She reached over and brushed damp locks from his
forehead. "I was only in the kitchen a few minutes."

"Sorry," he answered.

"Fox, you barely had time to fall asleep. That was too fast for a
nightmare," she told him grimly.

"I fall asleep at the drop of a hat, Mom. It doesn't take me long to
get to REM sleep," he shrugged, still not looking at her. "I think
the medicine has something to do with it."

"Then we'll see the doctor in the morning and have him change the
medicine," she said firmly. "We can't have more of these kinds of
episodes," she added with a fierce glare, as if her will alone could
prevent them.

"I'll go see him tomorrow, Mom, I promise," he vowed. He'd play
along, go see the doctor, take all the shit they handed him whether
pills, inhalers or shots, and grin through it all. At some point,
everyone would get tired of bossing him around and they'd leave
him be to go back to his own world. It happened when he was a
kid, it would surely happen again. 

His mother's interest in him had never had a long shelf life. He
figured she was good for about another two weeks, tops. At the
end of that time, she'd help him pack his stuff, kiss him on the
forehead and tell him to call her when he got back to his place. 
And that's the last he'd hear from her until his birthday, or next
major Hallmark Holiday. Two weeks was a relatively small price to
pay, all things considered.

Mulder Residence
Greenwich, CT
February 21, 1991
12:03 pm

It was noon the next day by the time they had finished with the
doctor and gone to the pharmacy. Mulder was so tired he didn't
think he could walk all the way from the driveway to the front door
and into his bedroom. His bedroom, the spare room that his
mother had decorated straight out of _Better Homes and Gardens_. 
It didn't even have his books from college. They had been stored
away in crates in the attic. The only memento left over from his
childhood room was a framed picture of himself and Sam, and even
the frame was new to match the new decor. But it was a place to
sleep, and that was what he seemed to be doing constantly.

He woke up about three, hungry and cranky. He had only been at
his mother's house for a day and already he was bored out of his
mind. The rules his doctor had laid out were particularly annoying. 
Twice a day, he had to practice taking deep breaths which was an
exercise in futility since it only produced a fit of coughing. His
mother was supposed to 'help' by pounding on his back, which
succeeded in bringing up some foul substance from his lungs. 

If he lived through that ordeal, he was then ordered to take two
puffs from his inhaler and then could do no more than sit in a chair
because it made him dizzy. If he hadn't fallen asleep again, he
could eat, try to read until the words swam on the pages or watch
some mindless drivel on television.

His mother had decided they needed some more food in the house
and left him to watch a movie she had rented for him. The minute
she was out the door, his hand was on the phone. Not wanting to
worry her, or cause her to incur a large phone bill, he used his own
calling card to place a call to Washington DC.

Reggie Purdue answered his own phone, an attribute that Mulder
had always admired. He smiled at the terse greeting. "Purdue. 
Make it short, I'm busy."

"I doubt that, Reggie. The new Baseball Digest isn't out for two
weeks," Mulder replied with a chuckle.

"My god, Mulder! Is that you? I was just passing the hat for your
funeral bouquet," Reggie shot back over the phone lines.

"The reports of my recent demise are greatly exaggerated," Mulder
pined back.

"How are you, really?" Reggie asked, concern in his tone. 
"Patterson was saying that you might not come back from this."

"Patterson should be so lucky," Mulder retorted. "I'm doing much
better, thanks. As a matter of fact, I was sitting here doing some
thinking."

"Why does that statement strike terror in my heart?"

"Reggie, give me a break," Mulder moaned pathetically. "I was
curious what happened with that last case I was on."

"So call Patterson. I'm sure Bill would love to answer any and all
questions," Reggie said evenly.

"We both know better, Reg. Bill and I never saw eye to eye on a
lot of stuff, but on this one, I think we're definitely at odds."

"Mulder, that case was closed in Portland. Why are you interested
in it now?"

"Reggie, c'mon. I'm not going off the deep end here, I'm just
curious."

"Mulder, you haven't answered my question. Why do you care?" 
That was the bad thing about his relationship with Reggie Purdue. 
>From the time Mulder had stepped foot in the ASAC's office,
Purdue had been able to read him like a book. One of the only
people Mulder had even known who could, or even cared to try.

Mulder was quiet for several seconds. He could hear his friend
frowning over the line. "I've had dreams, Reggie," he admitted
softly.

"Dreams," Reggie repeated.

"Yeah. Something happened on that dock, Reg. I don't think that
Abigail Crown was the killer. I think she was another victim. And
I'm pretty sure that the killer is still out there, or somewhere, and
that they are going to strike again."

It was Reggie's turn to be quiet. "All this on the basis of a dream?"
he finally asked.

"Well, more than one."

"And how high was your fever when you experienced these
dreams?"

"I wasn't hallucinating, Reggie. I was thinking about the case and
it came to me. It's happened before, you know that," Mulder said
testily.

"And sometimes, those 'dreams' panned out and sometimes they
_didn't_," Reggie responded with a sigh. "Mulder, you're still on
medical leave. You shouldn't be worrying about this case. You
should be resting."

"Ever tried 'resting' for two weeks, Reggie," Mulder growled.

"Yeah, it was the first definition of hell in my adult life, but I
survived, and so will you. Mulder, go find a good movie on the
tube, put your feet up and get better. You can look into all this
when you're back to work."

"Reggie, please. This won't take long. I just want to know if there
were any suspicious deaths reported in Reno, Nevada about four
days after I was found on the docks. How hard can that be?"

"Suspicious as in how? Get specific, Mulder. And you're gonna
owe me big time for this," Reggie answered gruffly.

"Suicides. Specifically a suicide that happened in an abandoned
apartment building. Probably a six flat or something like that. 
C'mon, Reggie, how hard could it be to answer that?"

"Well, if it's so damned easy, why aren't you calling the Reno
Police and asking them directly?" Reggie sneered. "Ah, hell, I'll do
it. But on one condition," he said firmly.

"Name your price. Orioles Season opener, sky box at JFK for a
Skins game . . ."

"You humble me with your connections, Mulder. No, it's much
simpler than that. Well, maybe not for you. I want you to
R-E-S-T! Got that. I want you to go lie down and sleep and get
better so you can get back here and do your own damned leg work. 
And that's an order."

"Message received, loud and clear. I'm going down for my nap
right now, Unc'a Reggie," Mulder said lightly. The day was
looking up, if Reggie had agreed to help him.

"You do that. I'll call you tomorrow, let you know what I found
out."

"Thanks, Reg. I won't forget this one, really."

"Don't worry, Mulder. I won't let you forget," Reggie assured him
and disconnected that line.

Mulder yawned, the fatigue settling over him again like a blanket. 
He dragged himself into his room and fell into bed. He was still
sleeping when his mother returned and started dinner.


Mulder Residence
February 22, 1991
10:14 am

His mother woke him up a little after ten the next morning. 
"There's a phone call for you. Mr. Purdue. I can tell him you're
still sleeping--"

"No, thanks, Mom. I want to take this," Mulder said, hurriedly
wiping the sleep from his eyes. The usual morning coughing fit
didn't last as long as it had the day before, for which he was
eternally grateful. He'd eaten breakfast at 8 but was back asleep by
9. Sleep seemed to be the most strenuous activity he could handle
lately. 

He finally made his way into the living room and to the phone. 
"Reggie, what've you got for me?" he asked without greeting.

"Mulder, are you sitting down?" Reggie asked.

"Always," came the short reply.

"There was a suicide. A David Markem. The body was found in
some old tenement houses that were due for demolition last week. 
The bomb crew were doing a walk through and found him."

"How long had he been dead?" Mulder asked, his chest growing
tight with the realization his dream had played out.

"They said not that long, maybe three days. That would put the
death on the 13. A little past the date in your dream."

"Doesn't matter, so the killer took a little time, laid low after almost
getting caught," Mulder muttered to himself. "Markham, he
worked for the Sands, didn't he?" Mulder asked, closing his eyes
and leaning heavily against the sofa, fear building in his mind and
body.

"Night clerk. Ten years," Reggie answered.

"No previous signs of depression," Mulder stated.

"Not according to the Manager at the Sands. Said he was on cloud
nine recently--was engaged to an heiress or something."

"He didn't commit suicide, Reggie--"

"Mulder, look. You asked, I found. But the bride to be didn't
think it was suicide, either. She ordered an autopsy. He slit his
own wrists--"

"How?"

"A folding Buck knife," Reggie answered with a tired sigh.

"Prints on the knife?" Mulder demanded.

"Just his own. It was his knife, apparently she'd given him
a set of camping stuff for an engagement gift. His initials were on
the knife handle."

"That doesn't prove he killed himself," Mulder objected.

"Mulder, in every state in the union, yes it does. The Coroner's
inquest was Monday--they ruled the death self-inflicted. What the
hell do you want, a signed confession?"

"He didn't leave a note, did he?"

"And you know, Mr. Psychologist from Oxford, that not everyone
leaves a note," Reggie snapped back.

"Marrying an heiress, no history of depression and the guy ends up
dead in an abandoned building scheduled for demolition--yeah,
Reggie, you're right. Suicide, plain and simple," Mulder hissed,
sarcasm dripping off his words. "This one stinks, Reg," he added,
his voice rough and low. A cough, completely out of nowhere,
shook him to the core.

There was silence on the line as Reggie waited patiently for Mulder
to finish.

"Reg? I'm OK," Mulder said, clearing the last of the cough from
his throat. "Were there at least pictures taken? For the inquest? 
Maybe I can use them to get Bill to take another look."

"There's nothing you can do about it, cowboy," Reggie said gently. 
"You're sick, and Patterson isn't going to give it the time of day. 
Put it aside."

"There are going to be more deaths, Reggie. I thought our jobs
were to prevent that kind of thing," Mulder said tersely. His chest
felt tight, making it hard to catch his breath. His eyes were burning
and it wasn't from a fever. Suddenly, he was so very tired of being
sick, but beyond that, he was just very tired. He hated being so
helpless.

"Mulder, let it go. You shouldn't be worrying about this shit. You
almost died, goddamnit! Would you give it a rest?!" Reggie all but
shouted over the phone. He lowered his tone immediately. "I'm
sorry, man. I'm just . . . you had me worried, OK? Don't let it
drag you under, Mulder. You're too good for that. Maybe it's
time to walk away from it."

"Away from what? The job? You know I can't do that, Reggie--"

"Maybe you just need to get out from under Patterson. The man's
a slave driver. You aren't the first agent to end up hospitalized on
his watch, and I dare say you won't be the last. He chews people
up and spits them out. I'm not telling you to leave the Bureau, just
get out from under William the Terrible. Just think about it, OK? 
That's all I ask. You're in a position to go wherever you want. 
Take it and run with it."

"Yeah, right. Where would I go? Where would they let me go?"
Mulder grumbled.

"They're passing around the Props monograph to the kids at the
Academy. That has to be worth something," Reggie offered.

"Big deal," Mulder sighed. "I did that two years ago. Do the
words 'what have you done for me lately' mean anything to you,
Reggie?"

"Look, I'm just asking you to think about it. Who knows, you
might find someplace you'd _like_ to be," Reggie said, in an
obvious attempt to get his friend off the other end of the line. 
"Hey, I gotta go, man. Take care of yourself. And remember,
Mulder . . ."

"Rest. Yeah, Reggie, I remember," Mulder sighed. "Thanks for
looking into this for me."

"No problem. I'll see you when you get back. We'll catch a game
on the tube or something. Just take care of yourself, and that's an
order," Reggie said with mock gruffness.

Mulder smiled wearily. "Yes, sir." He hung up the phone and
crawled into his room where he promptly fell asleep.

1:30 pm

Mulder was sitting up on his bed, a yellow legal pad he'd grabbed
out of the 'this and that' drawer in the kitchen propped on his
knees. The pencil in his hand flew over the paper, unintelligible
scribbles stretching out across the page. He was deep in thought
when his mother appeared at the door of his room.

"Sweetheart, you're awake! You missed lunch and it's time for
your medicine. Should I bring in a tray for you? Or would you
rather try sitting at the kitchen table?" She was rather relieved that
he'd seemed to have slept after his phone call. Maybe he actually
was resting, she hoped. But then, she looked down at the bed. 
Noticing the already torn pages scattered on the bedspread, she
frowned. "What are you doing?"

"A profile," he muttered, not bothering to look up or answer her
previous question concerning lunch.

She chewed on her lip and picked up a page. Only his mother, and
the one typist in the Bureau who was versed in cryptography, could
have gleaned intelligent sentences from the chicken scratches on the
paper. After reading the page, she dropped it back to the bed and
started gathering them into a neat pile. "Fox, you must stop this,"
she said, keeping her voice even.

That brought his eyes up to meet hers. "Mom, I'm in bed. I'm
resting. How is this any more strenuous than watching Oprah?"

"Do you really want me to get out a blood pressure cuff?" she
demanded. "Doctor Sullivan said . . ."

"Doctor Sullivan got his degree in Psychiatry from Sears
Correspondence School," Mulder snapped. "He doesn't know shit
from shinola."

"Fox William Mulder! That is enough! Put all of this away
immediately and I don't want to hear another word about it!" His
mother didn't get mad often, usually choosing to ignore
confrontation rather than engage in it, but she was angry now.

He blinked at her. He sat in silence, just looking at her, but not
making a move to put down either the pencil or paper. He had to
reason with her, but his first response was to match fire with fire. 
"Mom, I'm 29 years old. You can't boss me around." The minute
he said the words he realized what a mistake they were. Childish,
even to his own ears, he could just imagine what they would invoke
in his mother.

She glared back at him, picked up the papers and tore them in half. 
"No more. And if you continue to defy me, I'll have you admitted
to a hospital. One that can deal with this obsession you have," she
growled, turning to leave the room with the torn papers still in her
hands.

"Mom. Stop." His voice was no longer contentious, it was
pleading. She turned around slowly, her face still taut with anger,
but her eyes softening at the sound of his words. "Please," he
continued and she took in a deep breath, then stood next to the bed
with her arms crossed.

"What, Fox?" she asked calmly.

"Mom, sit down, please. Just hear me out." She stood for a
minute more, just to make him realize that she could just as easily
ignore this request, but finally she lowered herself to the edge of the
bed.

"So, talk," she commanded.

It was his turn to take a breath. His thoughts were jumbled and he
reached for the right ones, whatever would make her understand. 
"Mom, I have reason to believe there is a killer on the loose and
I'm the only one who can stop it."

She bit her lip, but kept her expression blank. "And what leads you
to this conclusion?" she asked evenly.

He winced. She had no idea what he did at his job. As a matter of
fact, he'd spent much of his time in her presence making sure she
never found out. If she knew the horrors he put himself through on
a daily basis in the name of saving lives, she would have locked him
up years ago. "It's a deductive reasoning process, Mom." That
sounded more logical than 'I've had dreams'. He could be honest
with Reggie, Reggie understood, but his mother would see it as
another sign of instability and want to correct it.

"You talked to that Mr. Purdue this morning. Is that what brought
all this on?"

When he first woke up after having talked to Reggie, he'd felt
strong again, capable. Now, this fight with his mother was sapping
every ounce of strength he'd savored. "Reggie had some
information. I correctly predicted another murder. I asked him to
look into it for me." Mulder sagged against the padded headboard,
he didn't want to go through all this, he just wanted to get back to
writing it out, putting the pieces together. He really felt he was
close this time but so much of the puzzle was hidden from view.

His mother shook her head slowly. "Fox, this is exactly what Dr.
Sullivan warned us about. That you would come up with any wild
idea to get back to work." She took his hand, removed the pencil
and then just held it in her lap. "Baby boy, I almost lost you. Do
you understand what that did to me?" Tears were glistening on her
lashes and the sight of them made the tightness return to his chest.

"Please, Mom. I don't want to hurt you, but can't you see? I
_have_ to do this."

"An obsession. That's what an obsession is. Don't you think I
understand? You're not the only one with a college education,
Fox!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing again.

"It's not like that, Mom. It's not an obsession," he objected.

"You can't let it be, not even long enough to rest and recover from
a life threatening illness. You fall asleep thinking of it, you wake up
thinking of it. You have nightmares about it and don't tell me you
don't, because you cry out in your sleep. That is an obsession, Fox. 
Plain and simple. Don't you dare try and deny that to me," she
growled, low and threatening.

Tears were forming in his eyes now, but not out of fear, out of
frustration. "How can I make you understand?" he cried, wiping at
his eyes angrily. 

He looked up at the sound of her shuddering breath and saw the
look of anguish on her face, the pain in her eyes. It struck him once
again. How could he do this to her, he berated himself. His heart
broke, he was always bringing her pain. "I'm sorry, Mom," he said,
reaching out to pull her into an embrace. "I'm sorry. I won't do it
anymore. I'm sorry," he murmured. 

He sagged against her then, completely spent, her arms were the
only things holding him up. He was so tired. Too tired to fight
anymore. She could sense this and responded immediately. Gently,
she scooted down the bed, lowering him to a recline against the
pillows. Then she pulled away, but not before she brushed his
forehead with a kiss.

"It's all right, Fox. It's all right. You take a nap. When you wake
up, you'll feel better and then we can have lunch. We'll talk about
this later. Right now, you get some sleep." She sat there a few
minutes more, rubbing his chest as he fell asleep.

Sadly, she tiptoed from the room and went into the living room. 
She didn't need to look for the business card, it was sitting in her
address book by the phone. She glanced at the number written in
neat script and dialed it, then waited for the connection. A young
woman's voice came over the line. 

"Dr. Franklin's office, may I help you?"

She drew in a deep breath, then forged ahead. "Yes, I was referred
to Dr. Franklin by Dr. James Sullivan in Portland. It's about my
son. I'd like to make an appointment."


Office of Dr. Lawrence Franklin
February 24, 1991
9:14 am

It had taken every trick in the book to get Mulder to the
appointment. His mother had tried to reason with him at first, but
eventually went the gamut through anger, humiliation and finally,
that old stand-by, tears. In the end, she was pretty certain she'd
just worn him down to a point where he would have agreed to
anything just to shut her up, but that really didn't matter. As far as
she was concerned, her job was to get him to the doctor's. After
that, it was up to the doctor to get him the rest of the way.

Mulder was sitting, or more accurately, was slumped in a chair in the
corner of the waiting room. He had picked up a magazine, Sports
Illustrated, but hadn't bothered to open the cover. Every nuance of
body language was directed at letting his mother, and anyone else
who looked at him, know exactly how little he expected of this visit
and how much he didn't want to be there in the first place. Every
two minutes, he would check his watch and emit a just audible
growl of frustration.

"It's not like you have anywhere else to be," Mrs. Mulder said
pointedly after the fifth time he'd gone through that particular
display of impatience.

"I'm missing 'Sally' and 'Oprah'," he grumbled.

"You told me you don't like the talk shows. Too many freaks," she
said absently thumbing her way through a three year old Better
Homes and Gardens.

"Yeah, too close to home, I guess," he shot back and began ripping
through the SI on his lap, not even really looking at the pages.

She shook her head in disgust. "Behave," she ordered, her voice in
a whisper only he could hear.

"I promise I won't throw a tantrum, Mother," he said through a
fake smile. "I'm good at this game, you should have remembered
that," he added before turning his attention to a picture of Denis
Rodman.

That brought a sigh to her lips. "I'm doing this for your own
good," she told him, putting her magazine down and reaching for
his hand. He pulled his arm away before she could get a good grip.

"I've heard that one for 18 years, Mom. It's getting old."

Luckily, the nurse called his name before they had a chance to
venture into another lengthy discussion

Dr. Franklin was a tall, athletic man, early forties and no sign of
gray in his jet black hair. He had a pleasant smile and welcomed
Mulder at the door to his office. "Come in, Fox. Make yourself
comfortable."

Mulder cringed at the sound of his given name. It brought back too
many old memories, all of them bad. The times he had to sit in
psychologists offices, psychiatrists offices, after Samantha had been
taken. Everyone assumed that since he possessed an eidetic
memory he knew what had happened that night. Even he believed
that somewhere in his mind details of her captors were locked and
he had only to access that place within himself to find her. 

The time after Sam's abduction had been surreal for him. He woke
up from a catatonic coma and into a nightmare where his parents
didn't talk to him or each other, and no one seemed to know what
had happened to his sister. For years, night terrors plagued him,
but they never provided any clues, any answers. 

In the last few years, his dreams had taken a dark turn, with images
he didn't understand. Thinking it might finally be the memories of
that night coming to his consciousness, he'd felt the need to seek
professional help. But the regression hypnosis he'd undergone had
left him with more questions than answers. Some of the questions
frightened him worse than the dreams and he was powerless to
move forward. He stopped seeing his hypnotherapist six months
back.

Basically, Mulder had been through it all at one time or another. 
>From his own treatment, as a child and more recently, and even in
college when he'd undergone therapy as part of his course work in
psychology. He wasn't expecting anything out of his sessions with
Franklin, other than getting his mother off his back.

"Your mother called to make the appointment today," Dr. Franklin
stated, breaking Mulder out of his thoughts. "I can only assume
that you agreed with it."

Mulder blew out a breath and stared out the window. "She thinks
it will help," he stated casually.

"And you don't?" Dr. Franklin probed.

Mulder smiled. And this guy was supposed to be 'good'? Mulder
had been down this road so many times, it wasn't even funny
anymore. "I don't think I've been exhibiting behavior that
necessitates professional involvement," he smiled back at the
doctor.

Franklin took a moment to glance through his notes. "Masters in
Psychology from . . . Oxford University! Quite impressive, Fox,"
he said and flashed a smile. "I had to settle for Yale."

"Hey, we all do what we have to, right?" Mulder shot back, the
smile now looking a little dangerous around the edges.

"So, it's obvious that you don't want to be here, and that you know
enough of the field to play mind games till the two of us are past
retirement age, so let's cut the crap, huh?" Franklin said evenly. 
"Why is your mother worried about you? I don't get the
impression that she's exhibiting Munchausen by Proxy. I think she
truly thinks something is wrong. And if you are under the
impression that psychologists never need help, I'd be more than
happy to contact your old professors in England and have a word
with them."

Mulder drew in a breath, but not too deep as to cause a cough. 
"She thinks I'm obsessing over a case that I was working on before
I came down with pneumonia," Mulder said with a sigh. "I had
some more insights into the case and made a few calls. All this
around several naps and I haven't left the house except to go to the
doctor. Basically, my mother is trying to control what I think, and
it's because I scared the crap out of her."

"You were in a coma for some time," Franklin noted. "At one
point, your prognosis was not very good."

"My illness was life threatening, I won't deny that."

"I also note that you didn't seek medical attention when you first
became ill and even after seeing a doctor, you chose to ignore his
instructions."

"I was on a case. A murder case. Lives were at stake. It's what I
do. I stop killers. Get inside their heads."

"A behavioral profiler, I've heard of them. Read some of the
journal articles," Franklin interjected.

Mulder snorted. "Bet that was fun reading," he commented. "I got
the medication for my cold, I just kept forgetting to take it. And as
for staying in bed--when was the last time _you_ canceled all your
appointments for a week and stayed home to get over a bad cold?"
Mulder accused.

Franklin had the good grace to nod with slight embarrassment. 
"You've got me there. I hate being sick."

"Well, I screwed up and got _really_ sick. Since I was released
from the hospital, I've been a very good boy. I couldn't be bad if I
wanted to. Mom counts my pills in the morning and again at night. 
So, I was sick to death of daytime TV and I had some ideas about
a case that the Bureau thinks is closed, but I don't think so. And
for that, Mom drags me to a shrink. No offense, but I think we are
wasting each other's time. At least you're getting paid for it, but
you could be helping someone who really needs you."

"Let me be the judge of that," Franklin said with a grin. "Tell me
about this case. As much as you can, of course."

Mulder was getting frustrated. He didn't want to go into the details
of the case, even when the other person was sworn to uphold
patient confidentiality. "Look, all told, seven people have died, six
men and one woman. There are about four more in line, if my
analysis is correct. They are dying at a rate of one every four to
five days. While I sit here, playing whose university's dick is
longer, the killer is already planning his next attack. And the really
bad part is, I can tell what city it will happen in, the approximate
location, and the time, but I can't tell who is the victim or who is
the killer. And this guy is good. It will look like a suicide."

"Can't the medical examiner tell the difference?" Franklin asked,
suddenly interested.

"No, this guy is good, I tell you. I see him as a shadow . . . a cloud. 
I can't get a picture in my head of the killer."

"You've seen him. How? In dreams?" Franklin's eyes had
narrowed considerably. He was eager now.

"Yeah, dreams. Nightmares. Waking visions." Mulder stopped
and crossed his arms to warm himself from a sudden chill. He
could tell just by looking at Franklin that the little psych wheels
were turning in the wrong direction. "Look, you ever hear of a guy
named Monty Props?"

Franklin chewed on his bottom lip. "Serial killer. Murdered
secretaries and mutilated the bodies. Yeah, I heard of him."

"I caught him. My profile, and later my monograph, lead to his
arrest and conviction and ultimately, his execution by the state of
New York."

Franklin swallowed. "Don't those people in your profession have
to see a counselor on a regular basis?"

Mulder laughed this time. "Yeah, each other. Or if we're really
pressed for time, we just look in the mirror. Get serious! They're
afraid someone might 'cure' us. Especially those of us who are
good at what we do. If we weren't twisted, we couldn't do this."

"You're comfortable being 'twisted'." It wasn't a question, it was
a statement. Mulder thought long and hard before answering.

"I've learned to live with it."

Franklin nodded, then grew silent for a moment. Mulder could see
him trying to come up with some middle ground they could work
from. "This case, the one that's still open, will anyone listen to
you? I mean, aren't they going to discount your analysis because of
your recent illness?"

Mulder shrugged. "Maybe. Some of them will. The ones who
know me, they'll listen. This isn't the first time a case has been
closed until I found it. I doubt it will be the last. And even if they
don't listen to me, maybe some one will. Maybe I can identify the
next victim before the killer gets to him. Maybe I can save a life."

Franklin absently chewed on the end of his pen, then
self-consciously stopped himself. "Let's do this. If you will agree
to come see me, on a twice weekly basis, I'll tell your mother that
you should be allowed some time each day to work on this case. 
You will have to abide by whatever restraints your medical doctor
puts on you, but I dare say if you continue to rest adequately and
take all your prescribed medication, that could be as much as three
or four hours a day."

Mulder frowned. Three or four hours? On a case, he frequently
worked 18 to 22 hours. At the rate of three or four hours, he'd
have the case solved sometime around his 40th birthday. 

"And if I say no? I really don't want to be 'cured'. It could be bad
for my career," he commented with a lop-sided grin to soften the
steel in his voice.

Franklin matched Mulder's grin with one of his own. "I have no
intentions of 'curing' you, Fox. I simply think you might do better
with a 'smooth veneer' over that 'twisted interior'."

Mulder thought about that for a while. He looked around the
room, looked hard at Franklin. The man was truly interested in the
case. Probably as close as the poor sot would ever come to living
'True Crime' and not just watching it on television. Besides,
Mulder assured himself, if the topics got to close too the bone,
diversion was always available as a defensive measure. He was
good at this game. And if it kept his mother at bay, it might be
worth it.

"Well then, if I'm going to be seeing you again, you have to do me
a favor," Mulder said, getting up from his seat.

Franklin waved him on.

"Don't call me Fox. I work on a last name only basis."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Franklin replied with a grin
and watched Mulder leave the room. 

Mulder sat in the waiting room, finally interested enough to read
the ancient sports magazine, while his mother talked to Dr.
Franklin. After twenty minutes, she came into the room, wiping her
eyes, but smiling at him. "Ready to go?" she asked brightly.

He nodded, putting the magazine aside. He got up slowly, his ribs
still ached and it was too easy to get dizzy if he rose too quickly. 
He pulled on his parka and started for the door.

"I'll be right out, dear. I just want to set up your next
appointment," his mother said with a tone that was far too chipper
for Mulder's mood.

He shuffled out to the car and unlocked the passenger side door. 
The doctor had said that he shouldn't drive for at least another
week, possibly longer if the dizzy spells remained. Lack of oxygen
to the brain could do that, and his lungs weren't drawing in enough
O2 for his size at the moment. He lowered himself into the freezing
car and reached over to insert the keys, starting the engine and
creating a whirlwind of cold air right at his face.

Damned New England winters. The air burned as it entered his
lungs and forced more dry coughs out of him. In desperation, he
put his hands over his nose and mouth to warm the air before he
breathed it in. It helped a little.

His mother arrived at her door just as the air from the car heater
was starting to hint at warmth. She sat down, checked the mirrors
and pulled out of the parking lot.

"So, what did you two chat about?" Mulder asked, trying to keep
the sarcasm out of his voice. Tried, but didn't succeed.

"Oh, this and that. I guess I might have over-reacted a little. Dr.
Franklin said that there's no harm in you doing a little desk
work--as long as you rest when you're told and take you medicine,"
she emphasized the last part, for his benefit alone.

"I've been resting, Mom. That's all I've been doing," he sighed and
decided to stare out the window at the white and gray and black
landscape.

"Well, I've got a little lap pad that I use sometimes for my
crossword puzzles. You can use that. And I think I have some
more legal pads. I just don't want you to overdo, Fox. I know you
think this is all very essential, but your health comes first," she said
sternly.

"Yes, Mom," he said, hiding a victorious smile as he turned his face
again toward the window.

"And we're going to have to get more food in you. You are skin
and bones, Fox William. Skin and bones."

"Whatever you say, Mom," he replied calmly. It didn't matter,
whatever his mother forced him to do. His mind was already back
on the case.


Go to Part III