By Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley

Mulder Residence
Greenwich, CT
4:25 pm

The jingling of the phone woke him out of a sound sleep on the
living room sofa. Mulder cleared his throat, thankful he didn't have
to cough this time, and reached for the receiver. His mother had
beat him to it.

" . . . asleep, Mr. Purdue. I'll have him call you tomorrow . . ."

"I've got it, Mom, thanks," Mulder interrupted and then waited
until his mother put down the phone in the living room before
addressing his friend. "Reggie, did you hear back from Reno?"

Mulder could hear his old friend sigh. "Yes, Mulder, I did. I'm
sorry, but no one found a matchbook."

"Did they send someone back to go over the site again?" Mulder
asked anxiously.

"Mulder, this wasn't considered a crime scene, remember? The
building was scheduled for demolition and as soon as the Coroner's
inquest was returned with a suicide verdict, the building came
down. I'm sorry."

"How about Tahoe?" Mulder asked, still not discouraged.

"Nothing, Mulder. Nothing was found."

Mulder felt the cold pang of disappointment, but was not
completely desolate. "That's OK, Reggie. It just would have given
me some physical evidence of the next site. I have the tour dates in
my head. I wish they had included the actual motels and hotels
Paige appeared at and not just the cities."

"Mulder, ah, Bill Patterson called me this morning," Reggie said
quietly. Mulder could tell he didn't want to talk about it, but felt he
had no choice.

"What did ole Bill want, Reg?"

"He found out you are still working on this. Mulder, keep in mind,
Patterson's ego is about as big as the Pacific and just as deep. He's
not happy that you won't let this thing go."

"So? Patterson and I have never really gotten along. Big deal,"
Mulder scoffed.

"He went over our heads this time. All the way to the AD level. 
Ever hear of Walter Skinner?"

Mulder thought for a moment. "He was in the New York regional
office, wasn't he? ASAC, I think."

"That's the one. He got bumped to AD. Jumped over Blevins to
do it. Fair haired boy, apparently. Anyway, the orders came down
from his office. No one is to help you with this one. No one."

Now Mulder did feel desolate. "Reggie, I'm stranded here," he
wailed. "What the hell can I do from a goddammed bed?!"

"Recover from your illness and get back to work," Reggie said
gently. "I'm sorry, man. I'll help if I can, but I can't make any
more 'official' phone calls or call for technical assistance in anyway. 
It's out of my hands." There was silence on the phone until Reggie
spoke again. "You really can't let this one go, can you?" he asked
softly.

"No, I can't," Mulder said firmly.

"I always suspected you were part pit bull. I just thought it was
that nose," Reggie chuckled.

"Thanks, Reggie. Want to wait till I'm on the floor laughing so you
can kick me when I'm down?" Mulder shot back.

"Sorry man. Hey, remember Danny? In Research." Something in
the way Reggie said it made Mulder certain this was not just a
change of subject. 

"Sure. We used to play basketball at lunch."

"Well, he asked about you. You might consider giving him a call. 
For old times sakes." Reggie's voice was full of underlying intent.

"Thanks, Reg. I just might do that."

Mulder remembered Danny more for his lay ups than for any
expertise in research, but was more than happy to find a
sympathetic ear. After talking for a few minutes, he got down to
the matter at hand.

"I just wish I could find the names of the motels where Paige and
Crown stayed during their tour dates. Patterson had it, but I have
to tell you, by that time, I was pretty much out of the loop."

"I heard you almost croaked on him, Mulder. That would have
really pissed the old man off," Danny said with a laugh.

"Nah, I think I pissed him off more when I lived," Mulder said in
perfect deadpan. "Do you think you could find those locations for
me?"

"Let me work on it. You know, there was a general bulletin put
out that none of us are to talk to you," Danny said quietly, so as not
to be overheard. "But that doesn't mean I can't clean up my files,
right?"

"That's my read on it, Danny. And thanks. I'll figure out some
way to repay you."

"I've got my eye on that sky box you're always promising my
colleagues," Danny replied. "I'll get back to you."

"Thanks. Oh, and Danny, if my mom answers and tells you I'm
asleep, have her wake me."

"Geez, what a life," Danny muttered in disgust and disconnected
the line.

Mulder Residence
March 4, 1991
9:30 am

Danny was true to his word and called a little after nine on Monday
morning. Mulder had just finished his breakfast, finally convincing
his mother that he could sit at the kitchen table and eat. She had
been clucking at the sink since he'd walked in, muttering little
phrases like 'needs more rest' and 'has to eat more'. He'd done his
best to ignore her and choke down as much of the oatmeal as his
stomach would let him. Danny's call was like the bell at the end of
a very hard round of boxing.

"OK, Mulder, here's what I have. Five more cities. After Reno,
Paige appeared at the Majestic in Tahoe. Two nights, four
performances. Then he hit the big time--sort of. A little casino in
Las Vegas--the Paramount. Three nights. A stint in Sacramento,
just two nights in the Capital City. After that they went to Carson
City, Nevada and appeared at the Mountain View. The tour ended
in Denver at the Airport Holiday Inn." 

"Danny, you're a god send. Can I have your baby?" Mulder teased.

"No, but you can get me tickets to the season opener for the
Orioles. I hear you have connections," Danny said sarcastically.

"Actually, I do," Mulder said with a sly smile. "Thanks, Danny. I
might have need of your expertise again."

"I'm here, Mulder. Just holler."

Mulder retreated to the bedroom and the lap pad. At some point,
he considered asking his mother if she could get a desk moved into
the room, but it wouldn't fit with all the little 'touches' she'd put in
the room already. Not to mention that she wouldn't stand for him
_sitting_ at a desk. He was pushing the limit to sit up in bed.

She hadn't always been so smothering, he tried to convince himself. 
But the period after Samantha's disappearance had turned her into
a quintessential smother-er. He remembered waking up in the
hospital, his mother sitting by his bed, just as she had in Portland. 
For three days she refused to answer his questions about his sister. 
She wouldn't tell him anything, and kept the doctors and the police,
even his own father at bay. 

Finally, when the doctors assured her that she was harming her son
more by not telling him about his sister, she allowed them to tell
what was known of the night of November 27, 1973. When the
young Fox Mulder had become hysterical at the news that his sister
was missing, she had refused to allow the doctors to sedate him and
instead, had sat by his side, in the narrow hospital bed, cradling him
like a baby as he sobbed himself to sleep.

Mulder realized that he'd made her fragile then. She was afraid that
she would lose him, too, and she knew that she couldn't survive
that. He was the last chance, but by clinging so hard, neither of
them had a chance to find happiness in each other. He sighed, and
went back to work.

He was getting a clearer picture now. Abigail tended to go for men
who were working the night shift. It was easier to slip away from
Steve at night, find a quiet closet or empty room and have her
trysts. She didn't seem to be looking for more than sex, at least
that was how Mulder viewed it. A release. Something that Paige
couldn't give her, or maybe something she lacked in herself.

He stopped himself. Crown might not be the killer, but she
definitely played a part. She was the reason these men were being
killed. She was the marker, the one who identified the victims. By
profiling Crown, and maybe the previous victims, he might be able
to figure out the next likely target in Las Vegas. He glanced at his
watch and moaned.

The murder in Tahoe would have already happened.

Atlanta Regional Office of the FBI
March 4, 1991
11:15 am

"Agent LaMana, there's a call for you on line three. A Stephen
King," the receptionist said in her soft Southern accent.

Jerry looked at her quizzically, waiting for the punch line, but when
none was forthcoming, he picked up the phone. "Agent LaMana."

"So, find any hot women in the Peach State, LaMana?" came
the voice that put a smile on Jerry's face.

"More than you ever could," he shot back. "God, Mulder, how are
you?"

"Very tired of my mother's attempts to fatten me up. Aside from
that, I'm feeling better."

"Hey, I'm sorry I haven't called," Jerry apologized sincerely. "I got
down here and they've been running my ass off. I did talk to DC a
couple of times, and they told me that you were home with your
mom now."

"Yeah, I'm being the perfect little patient here, Jer. Hey, I have a
favor to ask. Remember the case from Portland?"

Jerry felt his stomach drop out from under him. "Yeah," he
answered hesitantly. "What about it?"

"Jerry, remember when you and Patterson came to see me in the
hospital?" Mulder prodded gently. 

Jerry snorted. "I might not have a photographic memory, like you,
Mr. Polaroid, but I think I can remember past two weeks ago," he
huffed.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Jer. I'm just trying to set this
up. I'm certain we didn't catch the killer. I know that Abigail
Crown didn't kill those men."

Jerry was silent on his end of the line, trying desperately to think of
anything to say that might dissuade his friend. 

"Jer, you still with me?" Mulder asked, concerned.

"Mulder, look. That case is closed. Stapled shut. Why are you
doing this?" Jerry asked, hating the whine in his voice.

"Jerry, there have been more murders. Two of them, I'm certain. 
There was one on Saturday night," Mulder hissed, losing his
temper for a moment before reigning it in. "Please, Jer, as a favor. 
I don't ask many, you know that. Could you please make some
'quiet' inquiries?"

"What kind of inquiries?" Jerry moaned.

"Look at suicides that happened in the last 48 hours. Particularly
any male staff members at the Majestic Hotel in Lake Tahoe. 
Would be a clerical position, probably night desk clerk or
something. And call me back."

"Majestic, Tahoe. So what am I doing here, calling to see if
somebody didn't show for work?"

"That would be a place to start. And call the morgue, the guy
might still be there, if they've found him," Mulder said, thinking
aloud.

"I'm on it. And Mulder, how are you, really? I mean you sound
great on the phone, big improvement over the last time I talked to
you, but . . ."

"I'm doing better, Jerry. Really. I'm not quite ready to go back to
work, yet. Even I'll admit that one. But I'm feeling better every
day. There might be something to this 'rest and recuperation' crap
the doctors are handing me."

That brought a smile to Jerry's face. "I know how much that took
for you to say that, Mulder," he said seriously. "And I won't
breathe a word of it to anyone," he added with a small chuckle.

"Make sure you don't," Mulder warned in an amused tone. "Jerry,
this means a lot."

"Well, I can't promise how much I can help after this, but this, I can
do."

Mulder put the phone down and stared at the papers on the bed. 
He needed a list of employees at the motels in question. He needed
some way of contacting them and warning them to the possible
threat to their lives, but he didn't want to start a panic. And it was
clear that he would have no official backing in such a warning. The
frustration, coupled with a nice dose of eye strain, was giving him a
headache.

Slowly, he pulled himself off the bed and headed into the kitchen.

"Lunch is almost ready," his mother said as she breezed from the
stove to the sink. He could smell the pot of chicken rice soup, his
favorite from childhood, bubbling on the stove. "I ran out and got
some deli meats for sandwiches. And believe it or not, I was able
to get my hands on a tomato! Didn't even have to mortgage the
house, either," she said with a grin as she turned to look at her son. 
The grin faded and was replaced by a concerned frown. "Fox, you
don't look well. Sit down, Sweetheart."

Mulder rubbed his temples and obeyed her command. "I've just
got a little headache, Mom. I need some aspirin and I'll be fine."

"No aspirin on an empty stomach. Maybe you should go back and
lie down. I can bring your tray . . ."

"Mom! I don't want to lie down! I'm sick of lying down, damn
it!" he yelled and immediately regretted it as the bass drum in his
head increased the tempo. "Ouch," he winced. 

She was at his side instantly. "I'm sorry, Fox. I didn't mean to
upset you," she murmured, standing next to him and rubbing his
temples in slow gentle circles. Mulder would never have admitted
it, but it did seem to help.

"No, Mom, I'm sorry. I over-reacted. It's just so hard to do
anything from a phone. And it's so frustrating, not being able to
get to any files or anything." He stopped short, realizing this
discussion would only lead into a field of emotional landmines.

He was surprised when she didn't take her customary side of the
argument. "Maybe you just need a break for a few hours," she
suggested. "Clear your head. You know, you've been cooped up
here for the better part of a week, only going out to the doctors. 
Why don't we eat lunch, you can take some aspirin and maybe take
a short nap. Then I'll see what's on at the movies. We can take in
a late matinee before supper. If you're feeling up to it, we might
even have dinner out tonight. How does that sound?"

He looked at her in amazement. Quickly, he thought about whether
or not Jerry would call. Chances were good that he wouldn't find
anything out immediately, it would take some checking. The offer
of a movie was enticing, but getting out of the house was absolutely
too good to pass up. His mother was offering him something he
really could use, a night out, a chance to relax. He didn't want
to reject the offer.

"That sounds wonderful, Mom. I think I'd really like that," he said,
giving her an open smile. "Now, how about some of that soup?"

After much debate, mother and son settled on seeing the new movie
'City Slickers' starring Billy Crystal and then going to a local
seafood restaurant that his mother claimed was as good as any on
the Vineyard. They were both in good spirits as they waited for
their salads to be served.

"Fox, I wanted to talk to you about something," his mother said,
nervously unwrapping a cracker package.

Mulder fought to repress a frown. It sounded like the evening
might have been a set up. "What about, Mom," he said evenly.

"Your job," she replied and then hastened to cut of his objections. 
"Fox, Sweetheart, hear me out, please. I'm not going to nag you. I
know you love your work, I can see how important it is to you. 
But Fox, I would be lying if I didn't say it scares me. I mean, I've
been watching you these last few days and when you're working,
Sweetheart . . . you get so intense. Sometimes you don't even hear
me when I'm talking to you, just a couple of feet away." 

"I'm sorry, Mom. I know I get wrapped up in things. But it's
really not that bad," he interjected.

"Fox. You have been on your own for a long time. Longer than I
would have liked. You were taking care of yourself from the time
you were in high school. Lord knows I wasn't in any condition to
take care of you," she sighed guiltily and took a swallow from her
iced tea. "But be that as it may, you aren't taking care of yourself
now."

"Mom . . ."

"Fox. I know you were on an important case. Mr. Patterson told
me that you were the only one to correctly predict the killer's
moves. That they would never have found her if it had not been for
you. But Fox, I think it's too much. I think you've done this
profiling long enough. I think it's too hard on you." She pursed
her lips and idly toyed with her knife and spoon.

Mulder wanted to deny everything she'd said, but a part of him
realized the truth of her words. In the beginning, it had been
exciting. He'd been the bright, young star. People fell all over
themselves to get his opinions. Then, after a while, only Patterson
was there, demanding, driving, pushing him farther than he felt
comfortable going. It became a routine. He'd finish one profile
only to begin the next. Sometimes he worked on more than one at
a time. 

The nightmares surprised him. He'd had nightmares all his life. 
Many featured his sister, crying, calling out to him. Those
nightmares were without form, substance. He was in a fog and
couldn't see but could hear her, shouting his name over and over
again. The nightmares brought on by work were different and more
frightening, if that were possible. He could see himself as the killer. 
He saw himself as the victims. Each and everyone of the those
torturous dreams had ended in his own screaming death. It was the
stress of the job, he knew it. But there was nothing he could do
about it.

"Mom, I'm sorry you're worried. But it's all right. I just have to
do a better job dealing with the stress," Mulder said lightly, happy
that the waitress had brought their salads and now they could turn
their attention to food.

"I've heard your crying at night, Fox," she said. It was somewhere
between a confession and an accusation. "I've gone in to check on
you and your face is streaked with tears and you're clutching your
pillow as if it's some sort of life line. That isn't normal."

"It's stress, Mom. Plain and simple. I'm seeing Dr. Franklin, aren't
I?" he deflected.

"I want you to consider another job." She held up her hand as he
shook his head vehemently. "Fox, listen to me. You don't have to
leave the Bureau. I'm not a complete fool, I know there are more
divisions than Behavioral Sciences, and even there, more sections
than the one you are in. I want you to consider asking for a
transfer. I think you've put in your time, it's time to think of your
health. Mental and physical."

What could he say? If he said nothing, she'd continue. His only
option was to agree. "I'll give it some thought, Mom."

At her open disbelief he firmly added "I promise."


March 5, 1991

It was late morning by the time Mulder opened his eyes. He
couldn't remember where he was for a moment, but the frilly lace
curtains on the windows and the chintz throw pillows on the floor
which matched the bedspread quickly gave him all the information
he needed. Then, there was the knock on the door.

"Fox? Honey, are you awake yet? You have to get up,
Sweetheart. You have a doctor's appointment at 1 and the
respirator therapist at 2:30. Get up, you have to shower, then eat
some lunch."

He rolled over and groaned when he saw the time on the alarm. 
11:15? How in the world had he slept that long?

"Be right there, Mom," Mulder answered absently, and rolled out
of bed. A few coughs, but nothing the warm spray of the shower
wouldn't fix, he was certain. Still, he was amazed that he could
have slept for 12 straight hours. That was more sleep than he often
got in a week. But he had to admit, if only to the mirror, that he
felt better after it, stronger. Then he remembered which doctor's
appointment he had.

Franklin again. The biweekly appointments were already getting
annoying.

He shaved quickly, showered and dressed. His mother was busy in
the kitchen when he joined her.

"Here, Sweetheart," she said as she placed his sandwich in front of
him. He looked up at her in surprise and she simply smiled and
winked at him.

"It's not my birthday. Or I really slept a long time," he said
derisively.

She gave him a superior smirk. "No, it's not your birthday. Fox,
can't I make my favorite son his favorite sandwich without him
becoming all suspicious?"

"First, I'm your _only_ son, Mom. Second, you never make me
tuna fish because it makes _you_ gag, and third, . . . there is no
third. That's more than enough to make me suspicious," he said,
but picked up the sandwich and took a healthy bite.

"Well, even if I had a dozen sons, you would be my favorite," she
told him, ruffling his hair as she sat down across from him. He
noticed she was having turkey breast instead of tuna.

He frowned for a moment, but decided it wasn't worth the effort to
pursue the matter. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth," he
muttered and finished off the sandwich in contented silence.

He picked up his plate and took it to the sink. "Did I get any calls
this morning, Mom?"

She appeared to think on that for a moment. "No, none that I
recall. I got a call from the bridge club. I told them that I wouldn't
be able to join them today. I forgot all about them. We've been
getting together on the last Tuesday of the month now for I don't
know how long. Well, since I got here, I guess. The woman two
doors down is the 'organizer' and we take turns being hostess."

She prattled on and he smiled, but something in the one sided
conversation bothered him. 

He helped her with the dishes, even though she tried twice to shoo
him away. He was feeling better after the long sleep and even a
little edgy. Mulder would have given his right arm for his running
shoes. It struck him that he really didn't know what had become of
his clothes from Portland. He'd left his bags in the motel room. His
gun and badge were somewhere. A cold feeling of dread shot
through his gut at the thought that some maid at the motel was now
in possession of his sidearm and FBI identification. No, Patterson
or Jerry would have made sure to secure it before leaving the motel. 
Still, without them, he felt sort of lost.

"Are you ready, Fox? What are you doing?" his mother demanded
as she stood with hands on hips, surveying the mess he'd made of
the contents of the hall closet.

"Mom? What happened to my stuff from Portland? My luggage,
my shoes, . . . my gun?" He was pulling boxes out in an effort to
look into the corners of the closet.

"Fox, I sent the luggage back to DC. It's at your office, I suspect. 
Mr. Patterson packed up the room at the motel personally. If you
have any questions, you can call him when we get back. Now, if
we don't get moving, we'll be late for the appointment. I think it's
starting to snow, and that gets just dreadful on the interstate."

Franklin again met Mulder at the door, shaking his hand warmly. 
"How's the case?"

"You're only taking me on as a patient so you can 'ghostwrite' a
crime novel, aren't you?" Mulder teased as he made his way over to
the leather couch along the wall of the office.

Franklin snorted and brought his steno pad and pen over to the
matching leather wing chair across from the couch. "You know
that's not only illegal, it's unethical. Not to mention, I couldn't
write fiction if my life depended on it. My sexual fantasies are
pretty boring by their standards."

Mulder smiled broadly. "And how does that make you feel, Dr.
Franklin? A little inadequacy rearing it's ugly head?"

"Down, Oxford. You're paying me to analyze _you_, not the other
way around. Now, let's talk about your dreams."

"From the Freudian perspective or the Jung approach of
archetypes," Mulder said through a smile that was all teeth and no
warmth.

"Ah, it's going to be one of _those_ sessions," Franklin sighed. 
"Mulder, I thought we had an understanding," he said wearily,
rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Mulder frowned. "How is this going to 'smooth my veneer', as we
agreed to be doing?"

"OK, let's back up a bit. Let's not talk about your dreams just yet. 
Let's just talk about your sleep patterns. When do you typically go
to bed at night? Do you sleep through the whole night, or do you
wake up before morning?"

Mulder snorted. "First, let's define 'typical'. I don't have a lot of
what you might call 'typical' nights."

"You tell me. You set the parameters," Franklin encouraged.

"OK, if I'm just in the office and I've only got one profile, or maybe
just helping on another, I sleep about six hours a night. Go to bed
around midnight or one, wake about 6 or 6:30 and go for a run."

"What about 'bad nights'?" Franklin prodded.

"Bad nights, I sleep for maybe an hour or two, tops. Night terrors,
on occasions. Nightmares, pretty frequently, but I don't remember
much about them."

"When you say 'night terrors', what do you mean?"

"I wake up in the middle of a panic attack. Hyperventilation is a
given. If I have more than one night of those in a row, I keep a
lunch sack on the nightstand, so I can keep from passing out."

Franklin frowned at that. "Have you ever passed out?"

Mulder shrugged. "A couple of times. Not for long. And I'm all
right when I come around. Unconsciousness is a wonderful 'reset
button' for the body. It's like shutting down your computer and
then rebooting. When I come to, I'm breathing normally. And I
never remember what the terrors were about, but then, that's
typical of night terrors in general."

"Pretty rough way to wake up," Franklin noted.

"I'd like to avoid them, but that's not possible. They just come and
I have no control over them," Mulder said casually.

"Have you had any since you've been out of the hospital?"

"Since I've been at Mom's? No, I haven't."

"Ever had them before. When you were in college, maybe?"

"No, not that I recall. They're a pretty recent phenomenon."

"In other words, you haven't had any since you've been away from
work and you didn't have them before you started with the FBI?"

Mulder narrowed his gaze. "Smoothing the veneer does not
include switching job titles, Dr. Franklin," he said in a low, warning
voice.

"Maybe, maybe not, but let's look at this a moment. You said
before you've had nightmares all your life. Have you had night
terrors all your life, too?"

He sat there, saying nothing for several seconds. Absently, Mulder
reached up and pulled on his lower lip. "No, not the terrors. Not
even after Sam . . ."

"So this is somehow connected to your work. Don't you think?"

Mulder shook his head. "I won't leave my job. It's a shit job, but .
. . it's important to me."

"It's something you succeed at. You're doing things no one else
can do, isn't that right?"

Mulder's eyes flashed red for a split second. "Don't patronize me,
Franklin. I hate that!"

Franklin looked surprised. "Mulder, I mean what I'm saying. You
make it possible for people like me to sleep at night. You catch the
bad guys. But that takes its toll, after a while. I just want to help
you." He looked down at the pad of paper on his lap. "I did a little
research, Mulder. Called an old friend from college. Most agents
don't stay profilers for that long. They move up the ranks fairly
quickly. Especially the good ones. Like you." He watched
Mulder's expression, but it seemed to tell him nothing.

"Maybe it's time to move along."

There, Franklin had said it. Echoing the words he'd been hearing
from his mother, even Reggie Purdue. The words that kept running
through his head as he fell asleep at night. For a moment, Mulder
wanted to take the bait. It would be so simple to agree, to let
himself be guided away from Bill, away from VCS, away from the
terror that stalked him in the night. But his dreams, just a few
nights ago, called out to him. He couldn't walk away. He had a
job to do and he'd better get to it.

"Thanks, Doc. But I think I'm as smooth as I'm ever going to
get."

He stared at Franklin, waiting for an answer. 

"You're going to fight any attempts to help you, aren't you?"
Franklin said, folding his hands into his lap and leaning back in the
chair. The doctor seemed to sense that the trust was broken, they'd
have to work very hard to rebuild it. If it were ever there to begin
with.

"I intend to fight any attempts to control my life that don't originate
with me," Mulder said flatly.

"You can't continue like you have been, Mulder. It's eating you
alive. The terrors will grow worse. Next time, it won't be
pneumonia. You're on the road to a complete breakdown. I don't
want to read of your suicide in the obituaries."

"You won't," Mulder said confidently. I'll make sure of it, he
added to himself.

"Then, I guess all I can do is wish you 'good luck'. If you need me,
I'll still be here."

"Thanks, Dr. Franklin. Have a good life," Mulder said lightly and
shook the man's hand before walking out into the lobby.

Teena Mulder looked up from her magazine as her son came
toward her. "We just need to set up your next appointment," she
said, gathering her purse and coat.

"No, we don't, Mom," Mulder said, helping her on with her coat
and then putting his own on.

She stood rigidly still for a moment. "Why?" It wasn't a question
as much as a demand for information.

"Because I'm cured," Mulder said lightly and headed out to the car.

He was seated in the passenger's seat when his mother got in and
started the car.

"We can find another doctor. I know they're doing wonderful
things with those new drugs . . ."

"Mom, it won't work. And I won't stand for being drugged for the
rest of my life. Just leave it alone." He sighed deeply, fought the
little cough that threatened to sneak past his Adam's Apple and
stared out on the snow covered parkway. "I've been good, Mom. 
I've rested, I've done everything you've asked. But it's my life. 
It's been my life for a very long time. You can't live it for me and I
can't let you try."

She was silent for a long time. Finally, he heard a distinct sniffle
coming from her direction.

"Aw, shit, Mom, don't start with the tears," he pleaded.

"I suppose I deserve this," she said, not bothering to disguise the
melodramatic tone to her voice. "I wasn't there when you needed a
mother. How can I expect you to turn to me now?"

Mulder winced and shook his head. "Mom, it's not like that and
you know it."

"Oh, do I? You almost died, Fox William. And how did I find out? 
I was called in the middle of the night, by a man I've never even
heard of, who turns out to be your boss of almost two years. I had
no idea who Bill Patterson was, Fox! And then, he's telling me that
you're in Intensive Care, that you've collapsed on a case and that
the doctors need to speak with me and he'll get an agent to drive
me to the airport. It was too much, Fox, it was simply too much!" 
She was crying now, tears running down her cheek and ruining her
foundation and mascara.

"Mom," Mulder said sadly. "Please. I'm sorry. I never meant to
make you worry."

"Well, it's a little too late to worry about that, Mister, now isn't it?"
Teena snapped angrily. "About three weeks and a coma too late."

"Mom, please. If you'd just listen . . ."

"We don't have time to discuss this. You're already late for your
appointment with the respiratory therapist." All further discussion
ceased and an icy silence invaded the car. Mulder tried to think of
anything to say that would defuse the situation, but knew it was
beyond salvage. Maybe later, but for now, he'd just have to endure
her silent fury.

His breathing treatments were never fun. Breathing in moistened
air through a tube that reminded him just a little too much of the
ones he'd had to use at the hospital. Feeling the drugs being
absorbed by his lungs and then, the odd sensation when those same
drugs hit his brain. By the time he'd gone through the regular
rotation with the therapist, he was reeling from the drugs and in
serious pain in his chest. 

The therapist smiled at him as she helped him to the door. "A
heating pad, set on low, should help with the pain. And take some
tylenol, that will help you, too. Call your doctor if you have trouble
falling asleep. And see you next week."

"Not if I see you first," Mulder muttered as he walked out to find
his mother in the waiting room. She pulled on her own coat and
headed for the car without waiting to see if he was coming. 
Slowly, he shuffled out to the parking lot, wincing when the cold
air hit his lungs. "God, I just love being home," he mumbled
sarcastically before he opened the door and lowered himself
painfully into the car. They didn't speak for the entire ride home.


He stooped over to touch the body. The young man had a look of
surprise on his face. The fingers were clenched and, as the first to
lose any blood, had gone cold. But at the neck the body still held
some warmth. No pulse, but some warmth.

Mulder cursed softly. He'd been too late. Too late to save this
young man. Just like he'd been too late to save Abigail Crown and
David Markham. Just like he'd been too slow to save Samantha.

Samantha? 

Flashes of the regression memory played across his mind, reflected
on the gray wall paper of the abandoned apartment in time to the
lights from the passing cars.

Samantha. Crying, screaming his name. The house, shaking,
pictures dancing on the walls, a clock on the mantel falls face down. 
A gun gripped in his hands, but there's no where to point it. Light,
blinding light coming through the window . . .

He realizes the light is coming from outside the apartment. He
starts to walk toward the window to see its source but as he
moves, he hears a sound coming up behind him. 

He turns to find the source of the sound and sees the shadow. Even
in the darkness he can make out its shape, its almost formless
boundaries. It moves over the victim as if stepping around a
muddy spot on the sidewalk. Gracefully, it moves toward him and
he's mesmerized. Powerless to move, but fascinated to find out
what is there, what is in the shadow.

In a heartbeat that lasts hours, days, the shadow engulfs him. 
Suddenly, all the fear, the anguish, the terror and the pain slams into
him like a wrecking ball into a crumbling brick structure and he's
down on his knees, fighting for breath.

The razor gleams in his right hand and he stares at it, confused at
its sudden appearance. The shadow is controlling his every
movement now. He can feel its iron grip on his wrist as it forces
his hand steadily to its destination. 

A quick but deep swipe against the tender skin of his left
forearm.

His screams woke him. He sat straight up in bed, shaking, unable
to pull in a full breath. 

It takes minutes to calm his racing heart. To finally look around
him and figure out that he's in his mother's house, in the guest
room, that it's morning, early.

When did he fall asleep? He remembered coming back after the
appointment with the respiratory therapist and being too exhausted
to move. Too tired to sit in the frigid silence that was his mother's
presence.

She was angry that he'd stopped the sessions with Franklin. She'd
given him the cold shoulder all the way back to the house. Sleep
had seemed a far more favorable option than giving her the
opportunity to tire of the silent treatment and begin berating him for
his decision. Or what she would undoubtedly call his reckless
actions.

He'd gone to bed a little after 5 and had once again slept through
the night. All this sleep had to be counting for something, his mind
wandered lazily as he stretched muscles still taut from his dream.

At least he wasn't in a panic attack. Just an everyday common, run
of the mill nightmare. Which the back of his mind knew to be more
significant than he was emotionally ready to admit. 

But right at that moment, the phone was ringing off the hook in the
living room.

He scrambled to get it, somewhat surprised that he'd managed to
change into pajamas when he'd closed himself off in his room the
night before. By the time he caught the phone, the answering
machine was picking up.

"I'm here, hold on a minute," he said gruffly and took a second to
figure out what to push to turn the damned machine off. Giving up
in disgust, he heard his voice echo as it was recorded, but ignored it
and answered again.

"Mulder residence."

"Geez, Mulder, I thought you'd had a relapse or something!" Jerry
LaMana exclaimed. "I've been trying to get you for two days! 
You too good to return your phone messages now?"

Mulder was at first dumbfounded, then slowly enraged. His mother
. . .

"Sorry, Jer. Must have been a communications breakdown," he
said through gritted teeth. "What have you got for me?"

"You wanted me to check into any suspicious deaths in Tahoe over
the weekend, right?"

"Jer, my lungs are bad, not my brain. I know what I wanted. Now,
what did you find?"

"Night manager. Kevin Alvarez. Thirty-three years old, divorced,
father of two. Died of blood loss in a building undergoing
renovations about a mile from the Majestic."

"It wasn't suicide," Mulder stated firmly.

"He left a note, Mulder."

That stopped him, for a moment. "Found at the scene?" He didn't
breathe for the time it took Jerry to answer.

"No, not at the scene. It was found at his apartment. In a desk
drawer."

"Jerry, that could have been written months ago. OK, so the guy
was depressed. I still think . . ."

"Mulder, would you stop and listen to yourself for a minute? You
are trying to convince me that a guy all the way across the country,
who was recently divorced, known to be depressed, had left a note
telling his kids goodbye, did not commit suicide, but was murdered. 
If somebody else in the whole damned section came to you with
that theory, tell me that you wouldn't spit in their eye and laugh in
their face?"

"Jerry, you have to understand. I'll bet my last dollar that the
reason Kevin Alvarez was 'recently divorced' is because his wife
found out he has been cheating on her. And just as certainly, that
Abigail Crown was one of his 'little side trips' away from his
marriage contract."

"I don't think there's gonna be a record of that, big guy," Jerry said
quietly.

"Jerry . . ." Mulder thought hard, tried to find something that
would persuade his friend. "It's . . ."

"Your 'spidey sense' again, right," Jerry said tiredly.

"Basically, yeah, Jer," Mulder said, trying to suppress a grin. 
"Jerry, you know . . ."

"I learned a long time ago not to question the power of the Force,
Luke. Just beware of the 'dark side'," Jerry said ominously.

"Yes, oh, Jedi Master," Mulder said in mock seriousness.

"So, how are you gonna play this? I mean, I really hope you don't
plan on going out to Tahoe and trying to convince the local yokels
that their suicide was a murder."

Mulder sighed. "No. I think that would just get me a padded motel
suite. I'll just have to be where the next one is supposed to
happen."

"I don't think I have to point out that if the killer keeps to his
schedule, that means tonight," Jerry said with discomfort.

"I know that, too. And Vegas is such a quiet, little town," Mulder
joked to hide his own discomfort.

"If you need anything else . . ."

"My gun, my badge," Mulder rattled off.

"Bill took those back to DC, I'm almost certain. Probably locked
up in his office. He had me box up your clothes and I shipped 'em
to your landlady. She said she'd keep them at her place until you
got home."

"Then I guess my next stop is Hegal Place. Then on to Vegas. 
And I better get a move on," Mulder replied.

"Hey, before you take off, how . . . how are you, really, Mulder? I
mean, you're OK to take all this on, right? Because if you aren't up
to this, I'd really be pissed if I helped you kill yourself, man."

Mulder had to smile. It was the second time someone had
concluded that he was suicidal in as many days. Their concern
touched him, even if it was misplaced. "Jerry, I'm fine. Much
better. Almost good as new. And besides, if I have to spend one
more day cooped up in that pastel prison I've been forced to sleep
in, I really might decide to do myself serious harm."

"Just watch your back on this one, Big Guy. You know Patterson
on a tear. You screw this up and you might find yourself doing
Cub Scout meetings out of the Office of Public Information for the
rest of your life," Jerry warned.

"Don't give me nightmares, LaMana," Mulder shuddered in mock
fear. "Take care, Jerry. I'll be in touch."

He was putting his one small bag by the door when his mother
arrived back home.

"What are you doing?" she asked sternly.

"Where were you, Mom?" he asked, trying to divert her attention.

She glared at him, then took off her coat to hang it in the hall
closet. "I had an appointment with my lawyer," she said haughtily.

"Writing me out of the will?" Mulder dead panned.

She spun on him, her eyes flashing, her entire look now turned
completely serious, dangerous, even. "I was starting guardianship
papers. I'm seeing a judge for a temporary commitment hearing
this afternoon at one."

His jaw dropped. "Mom," he said in disbelief and fear.

"You have left me no options, Fox. I talked to Dr. Franklin again
last night, after you collapsed."

"I didn't collapse, Mom!" he interrupted. "I was exhausted, I went
to bed. You were giving me the silent treatment and so I just went
to bed . . ."

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I asked him what my
options were. I must admit, he did think this was a little drastic. 
But he was very up front with me. He said the moment he tried to
move you in a direction that would help you, you ran for the door."

Mulder shook his head, backed toward the wall. "It wasn't like
that, Mom. I was never out of control. All my actions were well
thought out and rational . . ."

"Fox! I am only doing my job! My job as your mother. I have a
responsibility to protect you, even if I'm protecting you from
yourself," she said tersely. "If you fight me on this, you'll lose. I'll
give the judge the records from before . . ."

His stomach was a knot, his head reeling. His chest was tight, he
couldn't breathe. Don't panic, he warned himself. Don't you dare
pass out on her. "Mom, that was seventeen years ago. He won't
care about that. I've passed psych exams at the FBI on several
occasions. That's old news, Mom. Don't drag that up," he
pleaded.

A horn sounded outside the house. Mulder glanced out the door
and realized it was the taxi he'd called.

"Mom, I gotta go," he said grabbing his bag and backing toward
the door.

"Fox, I will not permit you to leave!" she shouted and stamped her
foot.

"Mom, that worked great when I was ten. Right now, I'm afraid
it's just pissing us both off. I'll call later."

"Where are you going? Fox, I want an answer! Where are you
going?" she demanded, loudly, following him out to the curb.

He got in the cab, tossed an apologetic look to the cabbie and gave
him the destination. His mother was pounding on the window now,
tears streaming down her face. 

The cabbie turned in his seat. "Messy divorce?"

"Not exactly. Titanium apron strings," Mulder shrugged.

The cabbie shook his head. "Can't take off with her poundin' on
the door. I'll knock her on her ass if I do."

Mulder sighed and rolled down the window. Teena Mulder was in
near hysterics, screaming a mantra over and over. "Where are you
going Just tell me where. Where are you going?" Neighbors were
coming out front doors and staring from porches.

"Home, Mom. I'm going home."

She fell back as if slapped, but it was enough to allow the cab to
move. Mulder wiped silently at his face, and forced himself not to
glance at her image in the rear view mirror. 

He arrived at the airport with about 30 minutes to spare. The
confrontation with his mother had left him with a decided buzz,
wired on adrenaline. Fight or flight, he mused silent, he'd basically
done both. But as the minutes stretched out, he knew that things
were only going to get worse, possibly much worse, if he didn't get
some assistance.

When he decided who he could trust to help him, the selection
surprised him. He went to the nearest pay phone and dialed a
vaguely familiar number.

"Bill Mulder."

Apprehension, regret for making the call, and indecision all warred
in Mulder's mind as he stood silently, holding the receiver up to his
ear.

"Is any one there?"

He had to act. He just hoped that he was taking the right action. 
"Dad? Umm, it's Fox."

"Fox? How are you feeling, son?"

The concern in his father's voice confused him for a moment. His
father had come to visit him once after he'd awakened from the
coma in Portland, and that was to say goodbye. He had made no
attempt to call him during the long days when his son was with his
ex-wife. It sounded strange that he was interested in his son's
welfare now.

"I'm fine, Dad. Much better. Hey, um, I really need a favor." 
Mulder winced, he sounded like a seventeen year old asking to use
the car to take his date to the prom. If only it were that simple.

"What do you need, Fox?" The tone, which had been almost light,
now darkened. Mulder tensed at the change, but forged ahead.

"Mom is, uh, well, she's sort of . . . she's gone off the deep end,
Dad," Mulder blurted out abruptly.

"Her lawyer called me just a little while ago. Apparently she
showed up at his office this morning and wanted to start
commitment proceedings on your behalf."

Mulder half-laughed at that. On his behalf. Yeah, right, he mused
silently. "Dad, I'm not crazy."

"I know. The lawyer called because he was afraid that you might
decide to fight this action and would undoubtedly enlist my aid. I
have to say, Fox, I saw this coming."

Mulder's stomach dropped and his heart clenched. He knew it had
been a slim chance that his father would see things his way. He
almost missed the next words said to him over the phone line.

"I told Dr. Sullivan that your mother had never been that good at
dealing with you when you were ill. I wanted you to come home
with me, but your mother wouldn't hear of it."

Mulder swallowed around the dissolving lump in his throat. "What
did you just say, Dad?"

"I said I wanted to bring you home, here, to the Vineyard. But
your mother insisted that you come with her. I figured that
somewhere along the line she'd get a fool notion in her head. I just
was a bit surprised when she actually took legal action."

"What can I do?" Mulder almost whined. He hated this, he was
pitting his parents against each other. Something else he didn't
miss from his adolescence.

"I've contacted John Harrison. You remember John, he's my
lawyer. You met him the summer before you left for Oxford. 
Anyway, he's going to file an objection to the petition. He's going
to need your approval, but he would like to have the FBI provide
the court with your most recent evaluations. You are driven, no
one is going to argue that. But with the types of commendations in
your file, I don't think a seasoned judge will be willing to call you
incompetent and incapable of making your own decisions. More
than likely this will be chalked up to an overprotective mother. 
Now, I'll give you John's number, call him as soon as you can. 
He'll need you to contact the FBI to release the files he'll need."

Mulder licked once dry lips and smiled into the phone as his father
rattled off Harrison office phone number. "Dad, I don't know how
to thank you," he said with a relieved sigh.

"Think nothing of it, son. Your mother still regrets that she was,
well, not as aware as she could have been while you were growing
up. You're a grown man, now. You make your own decisions. 
She knows that, you just worried her and now she's not thinking
straight. I'll call her myself later, see if I can't settle her down. 
Now, are you going back to DC?"

Even as grateful as he felt, Mulder still couldn't get over the feeling
that he shouldn't reveal too much to his father. The man had done
about faces on him in the past, it would be the end of the line if he
decided to betray him now. So Mulder answered with the abridged
version. "Yeah, Dad. I'm going home. I'm gonna take it easy for
a while, till my doctor OK's my return to active duty. I just . . ."

"I understand, son. And, for the record, she means well," Bill
Mulder said in an unusual display of honesty with his son. "Take
care."

"Yeah, Dad. You too."

The plane was boarding as he hung up. He'd use a sky phone to
call Harrison. He'd call EAP at the Bureau from his apartment. It
would be a little out of the way, but if they needed him to sign any
release forms, he could accomplish that on the way to National. He
just hoped he'd get to Las Vegas before it was too late.


March 6, 1991

His apartment was cold. The landlady had apparently turned the
heat down in his absence. He noted that the fish tank was devoid of
life or even death. Another burial at sea, no doubt. When he got
back from Vegas, or where ever, he'd have to remember to change
the water and get more fish.

It didn't take long to pack a bag. Basically he just changed the
clothes out of his two suiter and put in fresh. His shaving bag was
well equipped. He did condescend to pack his medications, he was
nearing the last of the antibiotics, but he still needed the
expectorant at times. He frowned when he discovered the mostly
full bottle of antibiotics that he'd shoved in the bottom of the
suitcase. If only he'd remembered to take the damned pills weeks
ago, none of this would have happened.

But then, that was the story of his life. If his parents hadn't left him
in charge just a month after his twelfth birthday, his sister would
have never been taken from their home. If he'd been a better son,
had figured out how to hold it all together, his parents never would
have divorced. So much of the tragedy that had happened in his life
had just one source, himself.

But such thoughts only served to drag him down, tire him out. He
was getting tired, he had to admit to himself. He'd napped on the
two hour ride down the coast. Now, he fully expected to nap his
way out to Vegas. Digging into a trust his grandparents had left
him, he went for broke and got a first class ticket. That would
ensure his comfort, as well as a little more attention from the flight
attendants in case he fell asleep and didn't make it off the plane at
his destination. 

Fortunately, he didn't have to go to the Bureau. He had not
relished going all the way out to Quantico and he really didn't want
to trek down to the Hoover just to sign a release form. EAP was
happy to make his record available to his lawyer and the court. As
luck would have it, they didn't ask why it was necessary and that
suited Mulder just fine.

By 3:15, he was on his way to National and on to Nevada. As he'd
expected, the flight attendant woke him up upon landing.

Paramount Hotel and Casino
The Strip
Las Vegas, Nevada
March 6, 1991, 5:35 pm

Mulder stood in a long line of hotel patrons, waiting for their turn
at the desk. The two women at the counter looked harried and
frustrated. Occasionally, one or the other would go to the back and
then come back out shaking their head. It took Mulder a full
twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, and the people behind
him were already discussing making alternative arrangements for
their lodging.

"Got a real backlog tonight," Mulder said casually as he handed
over his Mastercard and filled out the address form.

"We're short handed," sighed the desk clerk, a bleached blonde
with fingernails almost longer than her eyelashes, which were more
than long enough.

"Oh, too bad. Somebody call in sick?" Mulder asked innocently. 
"The flu is hitting hard back east."

"I have no idea," she blew out a whiff of breath to knock the dried
and frizzled hair out of her eyes. "It's our night manager. He's
never missed a day in his _life_. The man is obsessive. He even
calls if there's an accident on the expressway that might make him a
couple of minutes late." She snapped a piece of gum that had
appeared in her mouth magically. "Don't have a clue what's gotten
into him. We've tried his house. He doesn't have a cell phone."

She rambled on autopilot, all the while taking Mulder's card and
making the charge transaction. "Just sign here, please. The health
club is open from 7 am to 11 pm, restaurant, coffee shop, and of
course, the casino are open twenty-four hours a day. Oh, and if
you show your room card to the bar tender, your first drink is on
the house. Enjoy your stay at the Paramount," she fake smiled at
him.

"Um, Tracey," Mulder read off her polished gold plastic name tag,
"I have one question. This is my first trip west and I'm a little,
well, let's just say, cautious. I got mugged driving through the
wrong part of Savannah, Georgia one time and that taught me a
lesson. Do you have a map of the city, and could you sort of point
out the places I should avoid? I get lost fairly easily and if I have an
idea of where _not_ to go, I'll feel a little better." He gave her his
best 'I'm cute and you know it' smile and a wink.

She sighed and looked at the line that was growing geometrically
behind him. Finally, it must have been the wink that got her. 
"Sure," she said easily and dug in a drawer of the counter. "Here's
the city. This is the Strip. Anywhere along here is _completely_
safe, there are cops all over the place and private security guards at
all the casinos. You never have to worry, no matter what time it
is."

"But there must be some, well, older section of town. Someplace
that I should avoid at all costs?" Mulder prodded. Behind him,
several people were voicing their frustration at the delay, loudly.

Tracey looked at him, about ready to give him the heave ho. 
Finally, she stooped over, her ample cleavage brushing the top of
the counter. "OK, now don't tell a soul I told you. I could get in
real trouble if the management found out. We're not supposed to
paint that kind of a picture of 'our fair city' if you know what I
mean. But over here, where they're tearing down a couple of the
older casinos, there's a lot of abandoned buildings. I hear that a lot
of homeless people, bums, mostly, have taken up residence there. 
We can't get rid of 'em, I guess. They come for the winter and
never leave. I wouldn't be caught _dead_ in that area." 

She stood up and smiled. "Now, if you have any further questions,
Mr. Mulder, you can give us a call after you get to your room," she
said, and turned her attention to the next person in line.
Mulder did have one more question, but fortunately for him, it was
answered by looking at a black and gold plaque on the wall next to
the counter. The night manager's name was Allen Vespers.

It was time to call in some help.

"Danny, old buddy o' mine," Mulder said cheerfully into the phone. 
"What did you do to deserve graveyard duty?"

"I'm doing a favor for a friend, Mulder. How're you doing? 
Mommy still tucking you in at night? Oh, hey, isn't it past your
bedtime?" the researcher chuckled into the phone.

"Sore subject, Danny. Hey, I need you to look up a name for me. I
just need to know the usual, address, priors, and how long he's
been employed at the Paramount. Allen Vespers. And was he
always on night shift?"

"Shouldn't take me that long. Do you want me to call you at the
number you gave me before?"

"No, call my cell," Mulder hurried to tell him. He'd blessed his
landlady's sainted little heart when he discovered his cell phone,
plugged into its charger on his desk at his apartment. 

After giving Danny the number, Mulder sat down with the map. He
was glad he'd decided to rent a car at the airport. Taking a taxi to
the area in question, and being dropped off with no possible means
of escape seemed rather unwise to him. Not to mention deadly.

He blew out a breath when he realized he was going in to a crime
scene with no gun, no backup and no authorization or jurisdiction
to speak of. Vigilante style. He didn't even have his ID to bail
himself out if he got caught with a dead body and no witnesses. 
But he couldn't sit in his hotel room and do nothing. He had
traveled all this way to take action, and action was exactly what he
was going to take.

Site of the old 'Golden Nugget Casino'
Las Vegas
7:35 pm

It was still warm outside. Warm enough to make him think it must
be summer. And yet it was dark, as dark as midnight with a
hundred billion stars overhead, if one averted their gaze from the
glaring neon beacons of 'the Strip'. Here, Las Vegas from another
age called. Bugsy Siegal and 'the boys' wandered as wraiths around
the hollow shells of once royal temples built to worship the gods of
pleasure. 

The desk clerk had warned him that 'bums' frequented the place,
but he saw none as he broke through a desert rotted wood door and
made his way into the building. The place looked empty, void of all
life. Like the desert, which twinkled in the distance like a jewel in
the night.

The main room of the casino looked like a tomb. Large, laden with
dust and sand from the broken windows that were once the front of
the building. He almost expected to find a tumbleweed rolling
across the rotting carpet. That thought brought a hysterical laugh
to his lips, but he fought it down.

The main casino wasn't the place he was looking for, anyway. 
There had to be rooms, apartments. He wandered toward the back
of the open hall and found a bank of elevators and next to them, a
set of stairs closed off by a heavy wooden door. 

The beam of his flashlight bounced off the walls for the stairway,
making monsters and ghosts out of the peeling wallpaper which
hung in strips and threatened to take form which would reach out
and grab him. He shook his head. Normally, he wasn't that easy to
scare. Then again, normally, he had the full faith and might of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation backing him up on his efforts. He
had men in flak jackets with weapons worthy of an Armageddon
just waiting for his word, his signal to come in and level any danger
he might encounter.

Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he had gone off the deep end
and sunk like a rock. Maybe he was being too reckless. He'd
almost decided to go back down, get in his car and drive to the
nearest casino where he'd blow a week's pay at some blackjack
table then call it a night. But as his foot stepped off the last step, a
dark foreboding slammed into him. It was almost tangible. He
could taste it, smell it, feel it. It felt like fear, death, anger and
incredible agony all rolled up into one.

No way was he turning back now.

He swallowed hard then looked around for something he could use
to defend himself. A piece of molding, heavy wood, like teak or
mahogany was lying on the floor near his feet. He picked it up,
swung it around him like a good piece of lathed ash with a bone
finish and deemed it worthy of a fight.

He wished he'd brought a stronger flashlight. One of the new ones
that he'd seen a couple of the field agents carry. But he hefted his
trusty hardware store special and danced it around the corridor. 

There were doors on either side. Most of them open. He glanced
in them as he walked by slowly. None of them called out to him. 
The door at the end seemed to stand in invitation. 

"Why is it always the _last_ door in the hall?" he muttered to
himself, more to dispel the fear in his gut than to try and reason an
answer. 

His breath was coming in short, staccato pants. He wondered how
much of it was because he didn't use his inhaler or if he could
attribute all of it to the terror that wouldn't let his neck muscles
relax. He wasn't even sure which reason would be the more
comforting.

He was steps away from the door when he absently reached to the
back of his belt for his gun and cursed softly to remember that it
wasn't there. Gripping the molding-turned-ball bat one handed and
over his shoulder, he moved as silently as possible up to the door. 
He shined the flashlight into the room, finding what had once been
a sitting room of a small suite. Cautiously, he moved the rest of the
way into the room.

Instantly, he felt transported into his dream. Same tattered and
faded wallpaper, same rat's nests scattered over the hardwood
floor. From a distance, the Strip blared its shining presence into
the room. A beam of light cut through the night and invaded the
windows, eerily illuminating the room for a second, no more. He
realized that it was one of the lights from the airport just outside the
city.

He turned slowly toward the door he knew to be just off to the left. 
Cold dread was pounding in his veins. More than anything he
wanted to walk into that room beyond the door and find it empty,
with rat leavings on the floor and nothing else. It was a fleeting
hope and he knew that it was futile.

As he crept toward the room, he saw the pool of liquid that spread
out from an unseen area behind the door. It was dark, like sweet
red wine. He clenched his eyes shut. Again, he hoped that it was
the last refuge of an aging gambler, a bottle of Lambrusco dropped
from senseless fingers after the wino had finally passed out. 

He stooped, but stopped himself from touching the liquid. Upon
closer inspection, he knew it wasn't wine or even paint. It was
blood. He swung the door out of the way, and shined his light
upon the body.

Allen Vespers. His name tag identified him even if Mulder hadn't
already figured it out. Dead. Wrists sliced deeply, up the arm to
ensure that the blood didn't clot and the wound close before the
task was completed.

Mulder fought his stomach as it rolled and threatened to overcome
his efforts at detachment. He'd seen death before. He'd even been
the first at a crime scene before. He'd never been this close to
saving a life before. If only he'd gotten an earlier flight . . .

He was pondering his own inadequacies when a foul wind blew
past him and slammed the door shut, jarring the casing. He
started at the sound, loud as a gunshot and even closer to his ear. 
Remembering his trusty piece of wood, he shoved his flashlight in
his mouth and took the weapon in a two handed batter's stance. 
He let himself consider how ridiculous he probably looked, holding
the flashlight in his mouth with a stupid piece of wood for
protection, but just then, the wind blew up again and slammed his
body against the door, hard.

The wind, if that's what it was, seemed to have form, substance. 
And more than enough power to over come a man basically not
long from a sickbed. Mulder stamped down on the panic that
almost caused him to lose any control and struggled against the
door and the wind pinning him. 

Something was enclosing his throat, pressing on his larynx and
cutting off precious air. He was gasping for breath, struggling with
a reserve of strength he didn't know or hope to have.

A light cut through the darkened room, a car's light from
somewhere nearby. The wind, the form, dropped back as if burned
and Mulder collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

8:07 pm

"EMT's on the way, Dave," a voice spoke in the darkness. 

"How about the ME's wagon?" came another voice, deeper, more
authoritative.

"Yup. Should be here soon." Silence for a moment, then a cleared
throat shattered the quiet. "Whaddya figure happened. He 'off' the
guy?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. There was someone else here. He's got
ligature marks on his throat. Possible that whoever killed this guy
went after that one, too. But then, this guy looks like a textbook
poster boy for a suicide. And the razor is still in his hand."

"Coulda been planted there," supplied the first voice.

"Yeah, I guess. We won't know till we get forensics up here, dust
the place for prints. And the ME might be able to tell us more. 
Hey, that guy breathing at all?"

Mulder felt something at his neck, two fingers pressed against his
throat. "Yeah, he's got a pulse, too. Breathin' don't sound too
good, but he's still alive."

"Maybe he can tell us something. Hey, I hear the ambulance. Go
down and show the way up."

Mulder wanted to open his eyes, find out who the hell was
interrupting his sleep and how they got into his room, but the
darkness decided to whisk him away for a little while longer.


St. Martin de Porres Medical Center
Las Vegas, Nevada
March 7, 1991 1:45 am

The sheets were the first clue. They were stiff and smelled of
bleach and something indescribable, but that could only be found in
a hospital. The fact that he was lying between such sheets, with
one of those uncomfortable little tubes in his nose clued him to the
idea that something bad had happened again. He was just about to
go back to sleep and worry about it in the morning when he heard a
voice calling his name.

"Mr. Mulder? Fox Mulder? Wake up, Mr. Mulder. It's all right,
you're safe. You're in a hospital."

The voice sounded real nice, but Mulder wanted to inform it that he
never considered hospitals to be _safe_ places and certainly not
when he got there without his knowledge or permission. All that
seemed like too much work, so he just appeased the voice by
opening his eyes.

And stared right into the face of a nun.

He blinked and forced his mind to work on this riddle. Did the fact
that a nun woke him up mean he was dead, or just in a really bad
way? The good sister seemed to understand his confusion and gave
him a comforting smile.

"I'm Sister Elise. I'm the floor nurse. You're at St. Martin's
Hospital. You've caused us quite a bit of concern, young man. 
But the doctor has assured us that you are really much better than
you looked when you came in."

Mulder struggled to sit up in the bed and Sr. Elise raised the head
of the bed to accommodate him. He swallowed and winced, she
quickly handed him a cup of water and a straw.

"How . . . did I get here?" he asked after a couple of good sips of
the water. He felt so dry, like the moisture was being sucked out of
his body by the desert air. But he was in air conditioning or so he
assumed.

"You were found at the scene of a suicide tonight. There was no
one else there, just a poor man who'd taken his own life . . ."

"No, sister, you don't understand. I have to talk to the police,"
Mulder rushed to explain and paid for it when his lungs balked at
his movement and started closing up on him. He started to cough
and Sr. Elise waited him out.

"Well, we'll have to ask the doctor if you're OK to have visitors,
but yes, the detectives who brought you in are still waiting to speak
with you."

Mulder nodded and leaned back on the pillows. Sr. Elise stepped
out into the hall and was followed back in by a young man in
scrubs.

"Ah, Mr. Mulder. My mystery for the evening. I must say, you had
me a bit concerned until one of the ER nurses found your father's
business card in your wallet. I spoke with your father. He filled me
in on your illness and the hotel was kind enough to look for your
medication so we didn't do you any further damage."

"You knew where I was staying?" Mulder asked, his forehead
furrowed and hurting.

"You had the receipt in your wallet, along with your room card
key. Since your father was certain you were on medication for the
pneumonia, we needed to find out what you were still taking and
quickly. Don't worry, hotel security entered the room and made
sure everything was left exactly where they found it. All part of the
service here in LV," he smiled broadly.

"Now, about visitors. There are a couple of LVPD detectives
outside who insist on speaking with you. Are you up for that or
would you rather I told them to come back in the morning?"

"You're keeping me until morning?" Mulder tried not to whine.

"I'm afraid so. You were unconscious for several hours, you were
having difficulty breathing in the ambulance and upon arrival. 
You're larynx is bruised and generally, you're in need of some
serious sleep. You give a new meaning to the words 'jet lag', Mr.
Mulder. You need to rest, and let us monitor you for a while. 
Your father said that if you tried to override my orders, I was to
contact him and he'd be in contact with a Mr. Harrison to 'change
directions', I believe were his exact words. Now, what will it be,
talk to the police now or in the morning?"

"Now. I think now would be fine. They've been waiting this long,
I don't want them to have to come back in the morning," he
assured the doctor.

Two men entered, making a point to show their badges as they
stood respectfully at the end of the bed.

"Agent Mulder, welcome to Las Vegas," said the first, who Mulder
recognized as the second voice he'd heard at the old casino.

"You've got me at a disadvantage, guys," Mulder said tiredly.

"Sorry, I'm Detective Bob Tanner and this is Detective Larry
Carpenter. We found you tonight at the old Gold Nugget. We'd
just like to ask you a few questions."

"Go ahead." Mulder leaned back in his pillows and willed his head
to stop pounding.

"First and foremost, could you tell us how you managed to be on
the second floor of an abandoned building with a dead body?" Bob
asked, flipping open his notebook. "And for the record, we've been
in contact with the FBI in Washington. According to your
superior, you're on medical leave."

"That's right, I am," Mulder said evenly. "To answer your
question, I . . . I had a hunch."

"A hunch?" Nelson asked, licking his lips. "A hunch that you'd find
. . . what?"

"A murderer," Mulder said, not dropping his gaze from the older
man's face. He could see the look of disbelief as it spread across
Nelson's features.

"According to the ME, Allen Vespers died of blood loss from
self-inflicted wounds to both wrists. He wasn't murdered. Now,
want to give me the real reason you were there?"

"The murderer wants it to appear to be a suicide," Mulder sighed
with exasperation. "And this isn't the first time it's killed. As a
matter of fact, there have been at least four people killed in the
same manner."

Nelson and Carpenter exchanged looks. "We spoke with your
supervisor, an Agent Patterson. Pulled him out of bed, actually. 
He seemed to think that you might be working under a, well,
misconception about a case he claims was solved. You believe the
killer is still at large. Is that what this is about?"

Mulder nodded, chewing on his upper lip. "Agent Patterson thinks
Abigail Crown, the second victim in Oregon, was the killer we'd
been searching for. In reality, I believe she was being stalked by the
real killer. And now that she's dead, the killer is still out there, still
committing murder."

"Agent Mulder, you were 'attacked' at the scene. You have marks
on your throat and your larynx was bruised. Did the killer attack
you?" Carpenter asked, speaking up for the first time since entering
the room.

"I believe so," Mulder said with a nod of his head.

"Can you give us a description?" Nelson asked, putting pen to
notebook again.

Mulder sat there for a moment. This would be the hard part. He
knew that the 'assailant' was not like anything he'd ever seen. He
also doubted that the two detectives standing before him had
enough imagination between the two of them to follow any
description he would give them.

"I didn't see my attacker," he said quietly. That much was true,
there'd been nothing to see. Everything had been feeling, not sight.

"Caught you by surprise?" Nelson asked. "But do you have any
idea of height, did he weigh more, was he stronger than you?"

"I've been sick, it wouldn't take much to be stronger than me at the
moment," Mulder said with a lopsided grin. "No, I'm sorry, I can't
give you a description. But I can tell you this, it won't kill again in
Las Vegas."

Nelson cocked his head at the use of the pronoun 'it', but didn't
pursue it. Instead, he blew out a breath. "Well, that's _real_
reassuring," he said dryly. "So we have an apparent suicide which
you think is a murder, an assailant with no description, and you
were at the scene of the crime before police arrived."

"If I can ask, how did you arrive? I mean, have you been patrolling
that area regularly?" Mulder asked.

"A patrol car spotted your rental in the parking lot. They were on
their way to one of the casinos at the time, so they called dispatch
and we came out to check on it. Heard some shuffling upstairs and
went up to take a look. When we walked in, you were unconscious
about five feet from Vesper's body. I gotta tell you, at first, you
were the prime suspect," Nelson said, and in the sub text as much as
told Mulder that he still might be a suspect.

"What changed your minds?"

"ME reported that Vespers had been dead at least three hours. 
And, as we found out by checking you out, you were in the air at
that time. We have you pretty much accounted for the entire
evening. Of course," Nelson said with a fake smile, "those things
are always up for grabs." He flipped his book closed and tucked it
in his jacket pocket. "Let us know before you leave town, won't
you?"

"Absolutely," Mulder said agreeably. The last thing he needed was
being accused of a murder on top of everything else going on.

"Well, you look beat and the doc said we only got ten minutes, so
we'll let you get some rest. Call us if you remember anything,
especially about the assailant," Nelson said with a smile. The three
men shook hands. Nelson and Carpenter left and Mulder tried to
find a comfortable spot on the stiff sheets so he could finally fall
asleep.

But as tired as he was, sleep would not come. He laid there in the
darkened room, thinking back on the events of the night. In his
dream, it had been a shadow which attacked him. In reality, he
didn't see anything, just felt the wind and then the ghostly hands on
his throat. And the dead body at his feet. 

If he'd been faster, he might have prevented Vespers' death. The
man had died while he was still en route, on an airplane, fast asleep. 
He might as well have stayed in DC. He sighed heavily. 

Four days. That's how much time he had to get to Sacramento,
canvass the Capitol City Hotel and figure out who was likely to be
the next victim. He profiled dangerous individuals for a living, how
hard could it be to pick out a guy who liked a 'little on the side'? 
So far Abigail seemed to go after guys who were in long standing
relationships. Or completely losers. He might even find himself on
her target list.

His left arm found it's way over his eyes, and he struggled to keep
his breathing even, to relax and find sleep. There was no way he
was going to be able to function in Sacramento if he was totally
wiped out. And after this encounter, he knew he'd need all the
strength he could muster.

With that thought, he finally allowed sleep to sneak up and take
him.

St. Martin de Porres Medical Center
March 7, 1991
10:15 am

When he'd fallen asleep, he slept for a long time. Not even the
nurses' comings and goings had managed to rouse him. It was his
stomach that woke him up.

Lazily, he yawned and stretched. He'd been in the hospital so much
lately, he was more comfortable there than he'd been in his motel
room. Looking around, he found the bathroom, cleaned himself up
a bit and was crawling back into bed when the nurse entered.

"Mr. Mulder! Finally decided to join us, did you? Good morning,"
she said cheerfully. "I'm Terrie, your nurse. You slept through
breakfast, but I think I can scrounge up some cereal and milk, if
you're interested?"

"Very interested," Mulder replied around the thermometer in his
mouth. When she removed the offending object and he had a
chance to swallow, he winced and remembered why he was there. 
"And coffee? I need something hot for this throat."

"Decaf, and it's a deal," she said with a wink. "Oh, your father
called about a half an hour ago. We told him you were sleeping. 
He wanted to make sure that you called him sometime this
morning."

He thought about putting it off, he really wasn't ready for an 'I
can't believe you do these things' speech from his father. But that
would only delay the inevitable, and as long as he was in a hospital
bed, he could feign exhaustion and keep the conversation short. 

He glanced over to the phone by his bedside. "Can I make a calling
card call from this phone?"

Terrie nodded happily. "Dial 0 to get the switchboard and they can
help you make the call. I'll go see about that coffee and some
cereal."

Mulder dialed and waited. After a couple of rings, his father's
voice echoed over the line.

"Bill Mulder."

"Dad, it's me, Fox. Look, I'm really sorry . . ."

"Fox. Do you have any idea how disturbed I was to find out you
were not in Washington last night? Not to mention getting a phone
call at midnight telling me you'd been brought into an Emergency
Room in Las Vegas, unconscious? What in heaven's name
possessed you to go to Las Vegas to begin with? It's a good thing
the hospital contacted me and not your mother. You'd be in seven
point restraint right now if she had any idea of what you've done!"

"Dad, look, I'm sorry. I know I should have mentioned to you that
I was going out of town . . ."

"Fox, this is very serious business with your mother and her lawyer. 
She is quite convinced that you are acting irrationally. Now, how
do you propose you build a decent defense when you run off and
not tell anyone, then end up in the hospital? What is so important
in Nevada that it couldn't have waited a couple of days until this
matter was settled?" his father demanded.

"Dad, I said I was sorry. And it was important for me to come out
here. Dad, there was another murder. Last night. A night manager
at the Paramount Hotel. He was killed in an old abandoned casino
scheduled to be demolished soon. I found the body, Dad. I was
too late. If I'd gotten here just three hours earlier, the same three
hours I wasted in DC getting things arranged with EAP," he said
through clenched teeth, "that man would still be alive."

Bill Mulder drew in a deep breath, or maybe had just lit up another
cigarette, his son was never certain which. "How did he die?"

"Razor to both wrists."

"That sounds like a suicide, son. It sure doesn't sound like
murder."

Mulder rubbed his forehead wearily. He was going to go through
this same argument until he had some kind of proof, some kind of
physical evidence. "Dad, please, listen to me. That is the killer's
MO. He, she, it makes it look like a suicide. But it isn't. Certain
men are being targeted. I know the criteria, but I don't know
which men match that criteria. I'm close, Dad, I'm so fucking
close." He held back a sob. Why was it his father could always
reduce him to tears, just like he did so often as a teenager.

"Well, that's for the FBI to worry about, Fox. Right now, you
have much greater worries. Your mother's lawyer had scheduled a
hearing for day after tomorrow. You have to appear so that the
judge can make a preliminary decision."

"Dad, I can't come home, yet. I have to be in Sacramento,"
Mulder rasped into the phone. His voice, already traumatized by the
night before, was almost gone.

"Son, if you fail to show up at that hearing, the judge will issue a
warrant. It doesn't matter that you are being judged incompetent,
they will hunt you down and bring you back. And Harrison will
more than likely walk away from this matter as soon as possible. 
You'll be making their case for them, don't you understand that?"
his father growled.

"I thought you were going to talk to her, Dad. Make her see
reason?" Mulder rasped, tired of the fight, tired of his life, just
wanting to crawl in a hole and not come out again.

"Son, I haven't been able to hold a civil discussion with your
mother for seventeen years. And when you're concerned, we often
come to blows. You know that. She's still angry that I encouraged
you to apply to Oxford. And she's never forgiven me for not
stopping your application to the FBI."

Mulder the younger had frequently wondered about that, as well. 
His father had been anything but encouraging when young Fox had
come home the first summer after classes to announce his decision
to enter the school of psychology. But when the FBI had come
knocking, a week before graduation, Bill Mulder had been all
smiles, or as close as he'd come in a dozen years. It confused his
son then and it was continuing to confuse him now.

"Dad, there has to be something you can do. I thought Harrison
was filing an objection."

"That's what the preliminary hearing is about, son. And that's why
it is vitally important that you be there. Do _not_ screw this up,
Fox. It very well could mean your freedom."

Mulder closed his eyes, wishing for the unconsciousness that had
blanketed him the night before. Unfortunately, it didn't come. 

"I'll be there, Dad. I'll figure out a way, and I'll be there. Have
Harrison call my cell phone with the time and place and I'll show
up, looking as sane as possible," he added with a deep sigh.

"Just keep up appearances, Fox. That's all that's required." And
with that, but no further inquiry on his health, his father hung up the
phone.