By Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley

Cresthaven Hospital
March 10, 1991
4:01 pm

Mulder paced the foyer, occasionally pulling back the lace curtains
to peer out into the darkening sky. The clouds overhead were thick
and heavy with snow, plus the wind had picked up just within the
last few hours. He was working against the clock and he knew it. 

He'd been allowed to call the airlines after his final session with
Candice. If he could convince Harrison to take him directly to the
airport, he could still get a flight out to Sacramento that evening.

He thought about just calling Deakins direct, then reconsidered. In
all likelihood, the man would dismiss him as a crank and end up
dead anyway. The only real way to put a stop to the killings was to
go out there and be on the scene _before_ the victim was attacked.

Mulder had thought about it for most of the afternoon. The more
he thought about his dream of the night before, the more he
wondered if he even knew exactly what he was dealing with. He
remembered all too well what had happened in Las Vegas. He
could still feel the hands, or whatever, around his throat, cutting off
all air. But he also remembered that there was nothing there to see,
there had been no 'unsub', no perpetrator, no one to pick out of a
line up. It wasn't that he couldn't describe the face. There had
been no face to describe!

Which left him with a real problem. It would be impossible to put
out any kind of bulletin when the killer had no corporal form. He
almost giggled at that thought. Here he was, in a gold-plated nut
house, devising a plan to catch a killer that appeared to be an
apparition, a ghost. He wished he had time to do a little research
on the subject. He was sure there must have been some
information on the murderous paranormal somewhere. 

Patterson would have a cow at Mulder's new revised theory. He
knew for a fact, had personal experience, that the evil they were
hunting was not of a human nature. Or maybe just not human any
more. That would most certainly get him another psych review, of
that he had no doubt. But it wasn't that far off from things he'd
read as a child, or even stories he'd heard from other agents. 
Sometimes, the normal, rational way of thinking just didn't give a
complete picture. Sometimes, there was a need to look at all the
possiblities, even the most extreme. He felt that was most definitely
the case with the killer he was going after.

But he was running out of time. As it was, he had just enough time
to get on a plane and out to the scene of the crime. A crime that
might very possibly take place before he even landed. That upset
him, frustrated him. But Colleen's words echoed in his head. 'You
can't save them all.' But maybe, just maybe, he could save the next
one. There were still two more hotels left on the tour list.

Sacramento Airport
8:15 pm PST

The moment he got to New York's LaGuardia Airport, he knew he
would be too late. No matter how fast they flew, no matter how
much time they saved travelling west, beating the setting sun by
three hours, he knew he would still be too late.

He'd hoped his new found sense of self would curb the crushing
feelings of responsiblity and guilt, but it didn't. He still felt like a
failure. It burned in his gut and made him angry. It made him
angry enough to want to punch something, take his frustration out
on an inanimate object, or maybe even an animate one. Punch the
lights out of the first guy to grab a cab out from under him or
something like that. He was on the balls of his feet coming off the
plane in Sacramento.

He turned all the anger into a focus on the search. He started at the
Capitol City. Sure enough, when he asked directly if Deakins had
made it to work, the reply was an unconcerned 'no'. The woman at
the desk wanted to know if Mulder was a bill collector. 
Apparently, Deakins was late on most of his bills and a sheriff 's
deputy had been looking for him eariler over a couple of rubber
checks. Mulder almost felt the need to take a number and wait in
line to find the guy. But he also knew that only he would more
than likely to find him.

He thanked the woman and ventured out of the hotel. It was dark,
cold, a wind had blown up and even his heavy
winter-on-the-North-Atlantic coat didn't keep it at bay for long. 
But he closed his eyes, pictured the alley of his dream in his mind
and started walking.

He walked for over two hours. Mulder searched every alley in a
one mile radius of the hotel and then expanded his search
methodically, one block at a time. He was about ready to call the
Gunmen and get Deakins' home address when he literally stumbled
on a body lying half hidden under a dumpster.

Mulder looked around, searching for a moment for the shadow, a
wind, anything of the presence from before. There was nothing,
just the late winter drizzle and the cold. The killer was long gone. 
He sighed in frustration.

He didn't have to pull out the wallet to know it was Deakins. 
Wrists slashed, half congealed blood flowing slowly down the pale
skin. The dead man's eyes were open and the look on his face was
one of surprise. That was odd, in Mulder's mind. And evidence,
he decided. People who commit suicide shouldn't be surprised at
the results of their actions. A camera. He needed a camera.

No, he needed to call the police. He ran to an all night drugstore
he'd spotted around the corner and called out the troops.

Sacramento Police Station
March 11, 1991
1:30 am

Detective Robert Anderson looked tired. He was a big man, stood
6' 3" in his stocking feet. Not a rookie, either, he'd spent 18 years
on the force and he'd seen enough to know that some things just
weren't what they appeared.

He stood in the doorway of the small interrogation room and
looked hard at his interviewee. A witness. A Fed. Should have
been a piece of cake. So why was the guy making it so
goddammed hard on him?

"Agent Mulder," Anderson called, walking into the room and
pulling up a chair at the table to sit down across from Mulder. "We
still have a few questions."

Mulder snorted. He just bet. Mulder called the police from the
drugstore. A squad car had been sent out immediately. The two
beat cops had taken one look at the body and called out a forensics
team. In Sacramento, a dead body, even one with obvious suicide
traits, was still a dead body and deserved to be investigated.

Mulder had given the detective who arrived, Anderson, the full low
down as he knew it. He didn't bother to hide or sugar-coat all the
information he had. He told of the other deaths, of the 'suicides'
that now trailed across the Rockies. He told exactly when each
death happened. The only aspect he got stuck on was the
description of the unsub.

Anderson looked over at Mulder with a forced smile. "Gotta tell
ya, I was sure surprised to find an FBI profiler standing over that
body in the alley," he said affably. "I guess I thought my work was
over, huh?" The sound he made was probably meant to be a
chuckle but sounded much too painful to be caused by something
humorous.

"Detective, I'm sorry if I haven't been much help . . ." Mulder
started to apologize. 

Anderson held up a hand and shook his head. "On the contrary. 
You found a body for us. We appreciate it when out of town
guests patrol our streets," he said just barely hiding the sarcastic
tone to his voice. "And especially when they find murder victims. 
The problem, you see, _my_ problem, is that all the evidence seems
to be telling me that this is a suicide."

Mulder just stared at the man. "But . . ."

Anderson drew in a deep breath. "But . . . I got an FBI criminal
profiler telling me there's a murderer on the prowl," he said in one
breath, then stopped. Mulder waited. Anderson finally continued. 
"And my gut's telling me the Fed's right."

Mulder tamped down the grin that wanted to break free on his face. 
He simply nodded.

"So, when will he strike again?"

"Four days," Mulder replied confidently. "But it won't be here."

"Where?" Anderson pursued.

"Carson City," Mulder replied. "Nevada."

"Crossin' the state line. We should put up road blocks," Anderson
said, taking out his notebook to jot down the information.

"Won't help. I can't give you a description," Mulder said, chewing
nervously on his lip.

Anderson looked up, closing the notebook slowly and pursing his
lips into a grim thin line. "What _do_ you know about the unsub,
then? I mean, you do have a profile that you're working off,
right?"

Mulder drew in a deep breath. "I did. I had a profile, back a month
ago. But I was wrong, way off. Then I got sick, pneumonia. I've
been laid up for almost six weeks now."

Anderson nodded. "So, you revised the profile, yet, or are you
pulling this information out your ass?" It wasn't meant to be
derogatory, Mulder could tell by the earnest expression on the older
man's face.

"Look, I know the connections." Mulder said, then explained
quickly about Stephen Paige and Abigail Crowne, about the tour
dates, the motels. How all the victims to date had been working
nights at each of the motels and hotels on the tour. "That's how I
know pretty much victim and city, and even when, but not who the
killer is. I was close in Las Vegas, but . . ." He trailed off. 

"The guy got away," Anderson nodded, with a grim look.

"You could say that. I was unconscious when they found me, with
a bruised larynx where I was nearly strangled."

Anderson sighed heavily, then scratched the brow above his left
eye with his left forefinger. "That's all wonderful news, but my
hands are tied. I can't get the jurisidiction to cross the border. 
_You_ guys are the ones to do that. Can you get help from back
east?"

Now it was Mulder's turn to sigh. "I'm officially on medical leave. 
And because these cases appear to be suicides, I'm not getting a lot
of support for my theory," he said cautiously.

Anderson nodded and chewed on his lip. "No doubt," he said
dryly. "What do we do?"

"Know anybody in Carson City who might listen to me?" Mulder
asked hopefully.

The detective thought for a moment, then broke into a smile. "I
might. Old Army buddy of mine. We were in the reserves
together. He's on the force over there. He might listen. Name of
Steinhower."

"I'll do some checking with some friends who were getting me the
names of potential victims in Carson City." He looked at his watch. 
Two a.m. was fast approaching. "Maybe you better wait till morning to
call your friend," Mulder said with a lopsided smile. "I want the
guy to be in a _good_ mood when I talk to him."

He found a motel at Anderson's urging and after a quick shower to
warm himself from the rain, he called DC.

"Lone Gun Men." It was Byers this time. The other two were
probably still fighting over the cherrios box.

"Byers, it's Mulder," he said quickly.

"Wait a minute, Mulder. Let me turn off the tape." Mulder smiled. 
The guy was just too polite sometimes. "There . . . where have
you been! We've been trying your apartment for three days. You
called and asked Frohike to find the names of the men in Carson
City and then you fell off the face of the planet. What gives?"

"The hearing," Mulder answered succinctly. "I ended up in a psych
hospital for 72 hours of evaluation."

"But they let you out?" Byers exclaimed, then forced his tone to be
calmer. "I mean, that's a good thing, right?"

Mulder chuckled. "Yeah, that's a good thing. Guess I fooled 'em
again, huh?" There was silence on the other line and then the
bearded man must have finally understood the joke.

"Hey, good one, Mulder. Well, anyway, let me get Frohike. He's
got those names you wanted."

"Fresh from the nuthouse, huh, Mulder?" Frohike teased. Byers
had apparently filled him in on the way to the phone.

"Still have the salt on me to prove it," Mulder returned. "So, what
have you got for me."

"Three names this time. It's a smaller place, or so I guess. But all
three appear to be likely candidates," Frohike said with a warning
tone. "Anyway, here goes. Jeffrey Bell, 29, desk clerk, never
married, but had a live in girlfriend until last year about this time. 
Denver Nugget, 35, and yeah, that's an alias, a stage name. He was
the piano player in the lounge, now he's the bartender. In between
female engagements at the moment. Guess he sucked as a pianist
_and_ other things. Ahem. And last by not least, Tim Blake, 25,
had just been hired last year as a bartender. Now, he's the manager
of the lounge. No steady girlfriend, but quite a few one night
stands."

"You're right, Frohike. Any one of them could be the next victim. 
I need to talk to all three of them."

"Did the other guy . . . I mean, the one in Sacramento . . . did you
get there in time?" Frohike asked hesitantly.

"No," Mulder said bitterly. 

"Bummer," muttered the little man on the other end of the line.

"Yeah," Mulder agreed. "But I might be able to work with the
Carson City PD this time. There's a guy there who might listen to
what I have to say."

"Somebody to listen to _this_ story? Wow, you are coming up in
the world," Frohike teased lightly. "If you need me to . . ."

"For the Airport Holiday Inn," Mulder replied to finish the question
for his friend. "Denver, if you will. I'll need that information for
later, but I'm hoping we can clear this up before then."

"You and me both. Hey, Mulder, they didn't just poke you, prod
you and let you out. I'm familiar with the process. When does the
judge make the final ruling on your mom's petition?"

"The 16th," Mulder said grimly.

"Five days. Not much time to get this case in the can," Frohike said
outloud, reading Mulder's thoughts. "But, hey, you're the big
G-man. You can handle it," Frohike said confidently.

It brought a smile to Mulder's face that his friend was so sure of his
abilities. "We'll see, Frohike. And thanks, for all your help."

As wired as he was, Mulder's body quickly told him that he had to
rest. He laid down on the bed and didn't open his eyes until the
phone rang in his ear.

"Agent Mulder, this is Det. Anderson. I called Ben Steinhower just
a few minutes ago. It took some convincing, believe you me, but
he's willing to meet with you."

"How far a drive is it to Carson City?" Mulder asked, wiping the
sleep from his eyes and staring at his watch, which he'd neglected
to remove. It was half past 8 in the morning.

"About 2 and a half hours, if you obey the speed limits. I can give
you directions. Anyway, Ben said to meet him at the station house
at one o'clock. He'll do what he can to help you."

"Thank you, Det. Anderson. I really do appreciate all your help,"
Mulder told the older man.

"Hey, just catch this creep. That's all the thanks I need," Anderson
replied and said goodbye.

Mulder let his body drop back to the bed for a moment. If it was
only 2 and a half hours to Carson City, he had plenty of time. 

Time to take a shower, time to get some breakfast, with lots of
grease and butter. Time to think.

Now that he was away from Cresthaven, it was so easy to slip back
into his old mindset. Find the killer, so he could go on to the next
profile. Forget his promises to himself and his father, ignore that
he'd almost died pursuing this suspect. Just get back to his life as
he knew it.

His father's words were haunting him. Samantha's file had an X. 
What the hell was that supposed to mean? He knew of the files that
got put 'somewhere else'. Files that were unsolved. Some of them
strange and unexplained. Some just trails so cold or witnesses so
crazy that they would never be solved. That's the category that
Sam's file fit in.

He'd been 12 when his sister was taken from their home. He was
alone, in charge. And by the time he'd woken from his catatonic
state, the trail was cold, the clues and evidence lost to time. He
was the only witness, but his testimony was unreliable, at best. 
After joining the FBI, he'd even learned that he'd been a suspect at
one point, but that doctors and psychologists had assured the police
that the young boy could not have murdered his sister and hidden
her body. He simply hadn't been strong enough, nor did he exhibit
homicidal tendencies.

Such glowing endorsements would have served to build his
confidence as a teenager had he known about it, he laughed bitterly
to himself. 

He glanced down at his watch. He'd been laying around, wasting
time for 20 minutes. Time to stop all the thinking and take some
action. He hauled himself up off the bed and headed for the
shower.


Carson City, Nevada
Police Station
March 11, 1991
4:45 pm

Mulder gulped his fourth cup of coffee and flipped to another page
on the notebook in front of him. To his right, Ben Steinhower sat
in a similar position, but on his fourth diet Coke. Before the two
men sat a very nervous Timothy Blake.

"I remember her, sort of. I mean, it was hard to ignore her. She
wore these skimpy little crop tops and long pants that only came
about to her belly button," he said, toying with a styrofoam cup. 
"But I didn't do anything about it. I mean, I didn't . . . well, she
sort of hinted about maybe gettin' together, but, well, I just sort of
thought that was all talk. I mean, they were sharing a room and all. 
And he was a good sized guy. I didn't want to cause any trouble,
you know what I mean?"

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, Tim, I know what you mean. So, in other
words, you didn't have sex with Gail Crowne while she was at the
hotel."

Tim's eyes widened. "No sir! Absolutely not. Not once, never. 
No way." He glanced at the door. "So, do you think this guy is
gonna kill Denny or Jeff?" 

Mulder regretted having to give so much information to the
potential victims, but he wanted any information they could give
him in return. He'd told Tim Blake the whole story in hopes of
getting his full cooperation. Instead, he scared the poor kid nearly
half to death.

"I'm confident that we can avoid another murder," Mulder said
firmly. "Your assistance has been invaluable, Tim. If the other
two are as forthcoming as you've been, I'm sure we can get this
matter settled without any further bloodshed." He flashed Tim one
of his patented smiles and was pleased when the younger man
relaxed visibly.

"Good. Great. Can I go now?" Tim asked, a little more calmly.

"Certainly. But if you have any other information that you think
might help us, anything Gail might have said in your presence, or
anything, please give me or Det. Steinhower a call here at the
station." Mulder got up and shook the young man's hand, followed
by Ben, who did the same. They both waited until Blake was out of
the interrogation room before speaking.

"We're screwed," Steinhower said in defeat.

"Somebody is lying," Mulder said, shaking his head. They had
already interviewed both Jeff Bell and Denver Nugget. Each man
had denied ever meeting with Gail Crowne and both flatly denied
having sex with her.

"So what do you want to do? Put them all under surveillance?"
Ben asked.

Mulder chewed on his lip. The Carson City Police Department was
small by anyone's standards. The kind of surveillance Steinhower
was talking about could only be accomplished with the Bureau's
assistance. "I'm hoping we scared them so they're afraid of
their own shadows. But if it comes down to it, yeah, we might
have to keep tabs on them."

"If I had to pick the liar out of the crowd, I'd have to say that
Nugget character," Ben said, flipping through his notes. "The guy
couldn't keep a story straight with a ruler and a T-square."

"I got the impression he thought he could handle anyone who came
after him," Mulder said, nodding. "He's the one we should watch."

"Fine with me. Guy's no good, from what I can see. We'll
probably catch him holding up a convenience store or something,"
he grinned. "Hey, wanta grab some dinner? We got a little place
here that serves a steak an' cheese, make you think you're in
Philly."

"Sounds great," Mulder said. 

Ben Steinhower was not a push over, Mulder had discovered when
he'd arrived at the station. He'd had plenty of questions about the
murders and how Mulder had arrived at his theory. But after two
hours of intense interrogation, Ben had shoved his chair back and
declared that he'd help Mulder in any way he could. They called
the list Frohike had given Mulder and started interviewing the
potential victims. But once that was over, there seemed nothing
to do but wait.

The two men sat back in their booth at the restaurant/bar about
three blocks from the station. Mulder was nursing his first beer
since his illness and Steinhower was already on his second.

"Profiling. Man, that takes guts," Ben said, wiping his chin where
steak sauce threatened to ruin his tie.

"I've done it for a long time," Mulder replied. "At least, it sure
seems a long time to me."

"But this one sure doesn't sound like your run of the mill serial,"
Ben noted. "Not from what you describe attacked you in Vegas."

Mulder shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I know how it sounds,"
he started to explain.

"Rein it in, son!" Ben laughed. "I'm not about to call you crazy. 
I've seen stuff in these mountains, ain't no way I'd ever put it down
on a report. I gotta admire your balls, though. You seem hell bent
on solving this thing. Even if it means getting laughed at . . . or
worse. That's a trait we should be looking for, not ridiculing."

Mulder took another pull on his beer. "What things have you seen,
Ben?" he asked with a smile.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur of food, drink and some of
the best campfire-ghost stories Mulder had heard since he left
Oxford to come back to the states.

Stay N Save Motel
Carson City, Nevada
8:45 pm

Mulder unlocked his room and tossed the his keys on the low
dresser. He didn't realize how tired he was until he had gotten in
the car to drive back to the motel. Twice in the 10 block ride he'd
almost fallen asleep at red lights. All the traveling across country
was starting to wear him out.

But he'd promised himself that he'd make one more phone call
before he went to bed.

"Dad, it's me. Fox."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line worried
him a little. 

"Dad. Is something wrong?"

"Where are you, Fox? You aren't at home, I know that. I've been
trying to reach you."

"I'm in Nevada, Dad," he said, trying for a calm voice. His father
had always been able to reduce him to a blubbering idiot; it
appeared their recent alliance had not changed much of anything
between them.

"I thought you were going to stay at your apartment until this thing
with your mother was settled."

"Dad, . . ." He stopped. What could he say? He could lie and tell
his father he was out in the mountains on a vacation. He could tell
his father that he was skiing. But he'd never been able to lie to the
man. Not once, in 29 years. "I'm working that case, Dad," he said
dejectedly.

"Fox, how can you be so irresponsible?" his father seethed. "Can't
you see . . ."

"Dad, Cresthaven gave me a clean bill of mental health. They
couldn't keep me. Mom doesn't have a case against me. All I have
to do is show up on the 16th and all this will go away."

"I thought we'd agreed. I thought you'd decided to walk away
from profiling," his father interrupted.

"Dad, I have agreed. I am going to request a transfer, effective the
minute I'm allowed back at work. It's just . . . Dad, what you said
the other night struck a chord with me. About cases that were
shoved aside. Dad, this is one of those cases! If I don't pursue it,
if I don't try to find out what is happening . . . no one else will,
Dad. It will end up where ever all those other cases end up."

"In the basement," his father said in the barest of whispers. "Just
do me a favor, son. Be very, very careful. If anything were to
happen to you . . ." 

Mulder waited breathlessly for the next word, any indication of his
father's feelings for him. 

". . . It would kill your mother."

And once again, two ships passed in the night, neither knowing the
other was so close by.

Mulder sighed. "I'll be careful, Dad."

Sleep came quickly, but with it, so did the dreams. None of these
were very long. Most were flashes, like watching a television
screen and clicking the remote every four or five seconds. Flashes.

A young man walking toward a car in a parking lot.

Flash.

The same young man, struggling with a larger man, the glint of a
knife as it raised above their heads.

Flash.

A small woman, Abigail Crowne, eyes wide and frightened, but
doing nothing to stop the two men as they struggled.

Flash.

Police swarming a crime scene. A body lying in a puddle of red,
blood everywhere.

Mulder groaned and rolled over in his sleep. The dreams were
disturbing, but not enough to wake him. More flashes followed,
each one a memory. Crime scene photos in black and white. Chalk
outlines of dead bodies. The rail yard in Billings, the dock in
Portland. The alley from the night before. Like a deck of cards
being flipped to show a moving picture, the flashes sped up until
they seemed to be a running video of the horrors of the case.

The flashes slowed, no longer memories. He saw Tim Blake,
walking toward a car parked on a deserted street. The shadow
seemed to come up from under the car and surround the young
man. Mulder saw Blake fall to the ground . . .

And he woke up.

He was still shaking. It took a moment to get a deep breath, but he
was almost giddy with joy that he was able to get enough air into
his lungs. 

He was sweating up a storm. Disgusted, he rolled out of bed and
went into the bathroom, turning on the light.

He looked like shit. Even he had to admit it. He didn't feel as bad
as he had when he'd first gotten to his mother's, but he couldn't
remember a time when he didn't feel half there, not completely
himself. When was he going to feel _well_ again?

After a quick shower, he went back and crawled back into bed. It
was only 4 am and he knew better than to even think about taking a
run. Maybe sometime in the next year, but not much sooner.

He rolled over onto his side and stared at the clock on the
nightstand. His dreams came back to him, but this time, he could
slow them down, hold them and look at them like so many pictures
in a photograph album. He started with the first one.

He hadn't recognized the victim, but he'd recognized the airport in
the background. It was the Denver Airport. There was talk of
building a new one and already a heated argument over the
expense. He knew ground was already broken for the new
terminals and runways.

Stephen Paige had been murdered in a parking lot at the Denver
Airport.

In the report, which he'd read briefly after coming back from
Springfield to meet with Mrs. Henderson, Mulder had read Abigail
Crowne's statement to the police. She claimed that she'd been at
the motel, packing, when Stephen went over to the airport. Their
car had developed engine trouble and he'd taken the shuttle over to
one of the rental agencies to get a car that would take them on to
Nappa Valley, their next stop.

According to her statement, Abigail Crowne had fallen asleep
waiting for his return, and had been awakened by the police, telling
her that Stephen was dead.

Now, Mulder knew that wasn't the case. At least, according to his
dream, she'd been a witness. A witness who had done nothing to
stop the killing.

He tried to look harder, mentally, at her features from the dream. 
Had she seemed frightened? And for whom, the killer or the
assailant. Had Abigail Crowne been involved with the murder of
Stephen Paige, or had she just been too scared to move and then
felt the guilt afterward?

A cold chill ran down his back. Could anyone really know who was
an accessory to murder and who was a second hand victim, except
the person it happened to?

The phone ringing broke his thoughts.

"Mulder, sorry to wake you. Ben Steinhower here. There's been
another one. Tim Blake."

17th Street
Carson City, Nevada
March 12, 1991
5:03 am

Mulder shivered against the cold mountain wind that blew down the
street and stirred up dried leaves on the pavement. The whole city
seemed more dead than alive at this dark hour before dawn. Ben
Steinhower was standing near a squad car with lights still flashing
and waved him over.

Steinhower handed him a paper cup of coffee. "You'll need this, if
you stand out here too long," he assured Mulder. "Body's over
here."

Mulder walked over to where several officers, one with a camera,
were huddled around something on the ground. As he approached,
he saw the blood. But it wasn't coming from the wrists this time.

"He was ripped up the middle. Stem to stern. If this is a suicide,
I'll eat my shorts," Steinhower said grimly.

Mulder closed his eyes. This was definitely not in the pattern. 
They had three days. The previous murders, at least since Gail
Crowne had been killed, all appeared to be suicides, even though he
knew they weren't. Was the killer, who or whatever it was,
escalating? He licked his lips.

"How soon till we get the autopsy back?" he asked, stooping to the
ground to get a closer look. Pulling on a latex glove offered by
Steinhower, he gently lifted the dead man's arm at the wrist,
examining. Was that bruising around the wrist? His eyes flicked to
Blake's throat. Could that be bruising around the neck, too, or was
it just the pre-dawn shadows?

"Once the ME takes him, should be two, maybe three hours. Our
guy's good. Used to work for the state. Came here to retire."

Mulder nodded, half hearing. There were definitely marks on the
body besides the most obvious wound all the way down the torso. 
Maybe he was finally getting his break after all. Unless this death
had nothing to do with the others.

He let that thought flow over his brain a moment. There were so
many differences. He shouldn't let the fact that the victim was one
he'd already identified blind him to the obvious answer. That this
crime was unrelated, chance, just a really rotten coincidence.

"I think we need to talk to Bell and Nugget again," Mulder said,
pulling himself up to stand next to Steinhower. "We might consider
putting them both in protective custody."

The older man nodded. "We'll pick 'em up, get 'em down to the
station."

Carson City Police Station
7:15 am

Denver Nugget pulled on a cigarette nervously. "We all did her,"
he said simply, before Mulder had the chance to get seated at the
table.

"All of you? Was it rape?" he asked, his voice calm but his eyes
flashing angrily at the two men on the other side of the table.

Nugget laughed. "Hell, probably, but not us on her. More like her
on us. And Blake, well, he wasn't really too willing till she
started going down on him. Got in the mood real quick after that."

"Why didn't you say something before?" Steinhower demanded. 
"It might have made a difference."

"What difference? How could you have protected him? Any of us,
for that matter?" Bell demanded, his eyes wild and terrified. 
"Besides, who would have thought . . ."

"Gail called me about four months after that night," Nugget
interrupted. "Said she was scared. She'd hooked up with a guy in
Denver. Mean son of a bitch. She was running from him. Wanted
to know if I could help her, hide her somewhere." All eyes turned
to him.

"I didn't bother asking for details. Figured she just got somebody
who could give as good as she did and that's what scared her. But
I didn't have anyplace to stash her, ya know. She didn't call me
after that."

Bell chewed on his lip. "She called me, too." He closed his eyes,
trying to remember, or maybe trying to forget. "She told me Paige
got murdered. Not that she really gave a damn, he was just her
personal wallet. But whatever happened, she was scared to death."

"A name. I need a name. Did she tell you who this guy, this son of
a bitch, was?" Mulder demanded.

Both men shook their heads in unison. Then Bell looked directly at
Mulder. "But I got the impression that he worked at the place in
Denver where they had a gig. That was Gail. She liked to pick up
guys who were right nearby. Right under Steve's nose, if you
know what I mean."

That was all the information Mulder needed.


Stay N Save
Carson City, Nevada
11:00 am

Mulder didn't even think twice when he got back to his motel
room. He just dialed Reggie's number from memory.

"Reggie Purdue," came the gravel voice on the other end of the
line.

"Reg, it's Mulder. It's the real thing, Reg. Not a suicide. Murder. 
And I have a good lead on the UNSUB. Can we finally get a little
help out here?" Mulder hated the whining quality his voice had
taken on, but if he had to beg for help, he was willing to do so.

"Whoa, slow down a minute. OK, Mulder, since I'm not 'out
there' where ever the hell you are right now, take a deep breath and
tell me what the hell is going on."

Mulder had to smile. Reggie was the perfect ASAC. Calm,
rational to a fault. 

"OK, here it is. I've been tracking the . . . 'deaths', for lack of a
more specific word. I've been to Las Vegas, Sacramento, and now
I'm in Carson City, Nevada. In Vegas, I was attacked . . ."

"I heard about that. Patterson hit the roof when the LVPD called
after they found you lying next to a stiff in an abandoned building. 
Mulder, you better watch yourself around Patterson. He's gonna
make it a kill shot if he gets you in his sights," Reggie confided.

"I don't care about Patterson right now, Reggie. He's out of the
loop. But in both Vegas and Sacramento, well, it could have been a
suicide. The killer made it look convincing. But not so here in
Carson City!"

"What do you have?"

"Timothy Blake. Employed by the Mountain View Motel, where
he's been working since a year ago. And the Mountain View was
on the list of tour spots for Paige and Crown. He was killed early
this morning. I'll have the autopsy report faxed to you as soon as I
get it. He was split up the middle, Reggie. If this guy committed
suicide, he watched _Shogun_ too many times."

"What are the Carson City locals saying?" Reggie was always one
to cover all the bases.

"They're asking for our help. Denver is the next stop and it's over
the border. For that matter, Sacramento would like our
involvement, as well."

"Been making friends along the way, have you, Mulder? Good, it's
about time you quit pissin' off everybody you meet," Reggie teased
with good nature.

"Hey, you go out on your own, you adapt," Mulder shot back with
a grin. "Seriously, Reggie, I have more. There were three possible
victims here in Carson City. I talked to all of them. All three
claimed they had met Abigail Crown, but none of them had touched
her. Blake was probably my last pick, sort of a choir boy from our
talk. But he was real nervous during the interview."

"He was the one 'doing her'?" Reggie interrupted.

"Turns out all three of them were doing her, Reg. At once."

"Rape?"

"No, that was my thought. Guess Gail just wanted to party-hearty
as they say. But when Blake was murdered, we pulled the other
two in for protective custody. They started talking. Apparently,
Crown had contacted both of them about 8 months ago. Said she
was scared. She'd gotten involved with someone and now she was
running from them."

"You think it's the UNSUB," Reggie said it out loud so Mulder
didn't have to.

"Yes. And I'm pretty sure that he is or was an employee of the
Airport Holiday Inn in Denver."

Reggie was silent for a moment. "According to Bill, you were
spinning some long yarn about a ghost attacking you in that
abandoned building," he said cautiously.

Mulder licked his lip. "Reggie, I don't know what attacked me. I
got a bruised larynx, that's all I know for certain."

"So it wasn't a shadow that got you? Like the dream you were
talking about when you called me from your mom's? Or what you
told Patterson happened to Crown in Portland?"

"Reggie, I just don't know!" Mulder said loudly in exasperation. 
"But I have a solid lead on a possible murder suspect. Reggie, this
guy probably killed Stephen Paige. That's how all of this started in
the first place. Whatever else you might believe of my story, that
one part has checked out all along. All of this comes down to that
murder in Denver a year ago."

There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line.

"Reggie. You gonna help me or not?" Mulder asked bluntly.

"Patterson wants you out of the Bureau," Reggie said in a whisper,
as if there were others who might be listening in.

"I want out from under Patterson," Mulder answered back calmly. 
"I'm gonna call some people, just as soon as this is over. I want
out of ISU. Like you said, Reg. It's time to walk away. While I
still can."

He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a deep sigh of relief on the
other end of the line. "Well, that's the first intelligent thing to come
out of your mouth in a long time, Mulder," Reggie said, his voice
sounding more relaxed than it had during the entire conversation. 
"All right. Here's what I'll do. You get somebody from Carson
City to call _me_, and I'll take the request up to Skinner himself. 
He's new, and I don't get the impression he's as taken by Patterson
as any of the other AD's. He might make this thing work."

It was Mulder's turn to sigh in relief. "Thanks, Reggie. You don't
know what this means," he said honestly.

"Yes, I do, Mulder. You just make sure you don't screw this up. 
And call those contacts on the Hill ASAP. You gonna need all the
protection you can get when Bill gets wind of this."

By three o'clock, Mulder had a complete list of employees. Of
course, he still ended up calling Frohike, for his list, which came
annotated with the male employees sex lives, in detail. Mulder
really wondered where Frohike was getting his information, but was
too afraid of offending the little man to ask.

Denver FBI Regional Office
March 12, 1991
5:15 pm

Even though he was still 'officially' on medical leave, Reggie had
managed to smooth the way for him. It felt good to be back in an
office, surrounded by his own kind.

It seemed that everyone in the Denver office had heard the stories
going around about 'Spooky Mulder meeting Casper the Ghost' in
an abandoned casino in Vegas. Most of the agents were tickled
pink to take turns ribbing the 'hot shot' profiler from the ISU out
east. Mulder ignored it all. He was just glad to be back.

With a solid list of suspects, and a fresh off the fax machine autopsy
report, a task force was assembled. The ME in Carson City ruled
cause of death blood loss from a knife wound 18 inches long. A
coroner's inquest ruled the death 'foul play' when the ME testified
that the angle of the wound prevented it from being self-inflicted. 
In addition, a print was found on the crystal of Tim Blake's watch. 
A single thumb print that was being run through the NCIC date
base.

The Bureau list consisted of nine names. As was standard
procedure, the list was being whittled down, one at a time while
waiting for the print identification to come back. But Mulder was
working on his own list, the one from Frohike. That list pointed to
only one possible suspect. The other men employed at the Holiday
Inn were either 'past their prime' as the shortest Lone Gun Man
had put it, or weren't working there the year before.

It came down to one man according to the fingerprint. James
Nelson Packard, the same man Mulder had already identified. Aged
33, married once, ex-wife still had a restraining order on him. Had
a list of priors starting at the ripe old age of 18. Juvenile records
were sealed by the court, but rumor had it he'd started his crime
career at the age of 14. Most of his rap sheet contained battery
charges.

It was uncertain how a man with such a record could have gained
employment in a hotel, specifically the airport hotel. The simple
answer was he was the bartender and bouncer in the lounge. He'd
never been arrested for stealing, mostly just busting people's faces. 
It was obviously a flaw the management felt they could live with,
since he'd never been reprimanded or arrested at his work place.

Two agents were sent to arrest him at his home.

Mulder was sitting in a conference room at the Denver Field Office
when the call came in. James Nelson Packard was not at his
apartment. He was now considered a fugitive and a full manhunt
put in place.

1456 S. 34th Street
Apartment C
Denver, Colorado
6:35 pm

Mulder pulled on his latex gloves as he walked into the apartment. 
The warrant for the search was taped to the door, just in case the
occupant might decide to come back. The forensics team was
dusting the place and searching through closets, under the ratty
sofa, among the drawers in the kitchen. The weapon had not been
discovered at the crime scene. Everyone was hopeful it would be
discovered at the apartment, preferably, still with traces of the
victim's blood, but everyone also knew that was a long shot.

Mulder had held himself back from most of the festivities of
searching. His eyes were busy, taking in the life of the man they
were all searching for. A tumble down apartment on the wrong
side of the tracks. Second hand furniture, way beyond the
fashionable 'distressed' state. No books, but some magazines he
recognized from his own hidden library. At least the man has good
taste in porn, Mulder mused as he tossed one dog-eared issue back
on the pile next to the stained and unmade bed.

He looked around the bed. A torn and yellowed bed skirt hid the
floor underneath. Mulder thought for a moment, looking at the
dirty dishes stacked in various level surfaces, and could just imagine
what lurked under the bed. No one else had bothered with the
bedroom after searching the closet and the chest of drawers.

Blowing out a deep breath, he knelt down next to the bed and
unconsciously grimaced as he lifted the skirt. Even though his skin
was protected he couldn't help but wonder at the grit and filth he
was coming into contact with. He shone a flashlight under the bed.

Aside from several years incubation of dust bunnies, only a lone,
wooden cigar box sat undisturbed. Mulder instinctively gravitated
toward the cigar box. He reached out and pulled it from under the
bed.

Taking it to the flat surface of the bed, he slowly opened the lid. 
First, he chewed on his lip. Then his face broke into a broad smile. 
As he reached out a tentative hand to lift up his prize for closer
inspection, an all too familiar voice boomed from the doorway.

"Jesus H. Christ, Mulder, can't you just stay the hell in your sick
bed and give me a break!" yelled Bill Patterson.

Mulder couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry at that
statement. He knew more berating was to follow, and relatively
soon, so he stood up, grabbing a handful of the contents of the
cigar box. He walked over to the older man, never breaking eye
contact. Taking Bill's hand and positioning with the latexed palm
up, Mulder deposited the items in his supervisor's hand. 

"Just a little present, Bill. From me . . . to you."

Bill looked down and closed his eyes for a moment. In his hand
was a bunch of match books. He recognized the names of the
motels.

"Told you she didn't do it," Mulder said in a whisper in the other
agents ear. He then swept out into the other room, leaving Bill
exactly where he stood.

"Look, Mulder, you were the one who was so convinced it was the
girl," Patterson roared as he followed the younger man into the
front room.

"No, Bill, I said she was involved. And in the hospital, I tried . . ."

"In the hospital? Goddammit, Mulder, in the hospital you were
almost a fucking vegetable!" Bill shouted, causing all the other
agents to stop all conversation and stare at the two combatants for
a moment, before resuming their work.

Bill lowered his voice to a teeth clenched raspy whisper. "You
were out of your head, Mulder. Fever dreams out the ass. I had no
reason to believe you in the hospital."

"And after? What about after I got out, Bill? I told you those men
weren't suicides. You cut off all resources, you basically shut me
down. What about then, huh, Bill?" Mulder hissed back, keeping
a maniacal smile plastered on his face for the benefit of the
onlookers.

Bill's eyes narrowed. "You have been on medical leave, Agent
Mulder," he said formally. "For that matter, you are _still_ on
leave. You have not been cleared for work, and as such you should
not even be here."

"Oh, cut the fucking crap, Bill," Mulder spit out. "You're just
pissed I was right and you chose to ignore me." He turned to walk
away, but Bill caught his sleeve and whirled him around, then
promptly landed Mulder on his ass with a vicious left hook.

All activity stopped instantly. At least nine pairs of eyes stared in
abject horror at the head of the Investigative Support Unit towering
over his subordinate agent now sprawled out on the floor some two
yards away.

Mulder rubbed his jaw absently, breathing heavily. After a few
seconds, he hauled himself to his feet, shaking off the offered hands
of assistance that tugged at him. He walked over to Patterson, got
right in his face.

"Feel better, Bill?" he asked calmly.

Patterson said nothing, just narrowed his glare.

"Good. Because we have a killer to track."

FBI Regional Office
Denver, CO
March 13, 1991
10:35 am

Mulder sat hunched over the rap sheet containing Packard's life,
where he'd been for most of the night and all of the morning. It
wasn't that pretty, but at least it was giving him some information. 
Two agents had taken statements from Packard's landlord, his
manager at the hotel and the neighbor who wasn't stoned out of his
head at the apartments. His ex-wife had been cooperative, but had
little contact with him over the last two years. So far, no other
living relatives had been located. So far, no one really had given
them much to go on.

The picture Mulder was getting was of a very angry man. That
much seemed almost cliche. The various assault and battery
charges, the ex-wife's claims of abuse, even down to his job
description, led Mulder to see a ticking bomb, just waiting to go
off. But what had caused the explosion? What had detonated the
bundle of dynamite and resulted in the deaths of nearly a dozen
people? 

More importantly, where would a man like that hide?

Once again, Mulder felt himself thinking of Abigail Crown. She
was the last woman known to have been in contact with Packard. 
Mulder was certain now that Packard was the shadow he'd seen on
the docks in Portland. Packard's mug shots showed a dark man,
steely gray eyes peering out from under long black hair that rarely
saw either a comb or a pair of scissors. A full, bushy beard hung to
his chest. The man looked more like a grizzly bear than anything
else. In the dark, he could very possibly be mistaken for a shadow.

But that didn't explain what happened in Las Vegas, a little voice
whispered in Mulder's mind. A man that big, with that much hair,
wouldn't have been mistaken for the wind, the little voice taunted. 
Mulder brushed it aside ruthlessly. Thinking about the extremes of
possibilities were not going to help him track the killer.

Mulder picked up the cigar box again. Match books. The only real
link they had to the other murders. He sorted through them,
putting them in the order of each of the crimes. Until he found one
that didn't fit.

Zak's Mountain Campgrounds and Fishing Lodge.

Mulder stared at the match book for several minutes. It was more
than a long shot. It was a leap off a cliff. But as he held the match
book in his hands, chewing on his bottom lip, he knew in his gut
that Packard was there, just waiting for them.

Office of the Special Agent in Charge
Jeffrey Davis
11:03 am

"How's the jaw, Agent Mulder?" Davis asked calmly, as Mulder
took a seat in front of his desk. Davis had met with Mulder for less
than a second the day before, and had handed the assignments out
to the task force. Apparently, he kept better tabs on the activities in
his office than Mulder had suspected.

Mulder fought the urge to rub the bruise he knew had formed
during the night. "It's fine, sir. That's not what I came to talk to
you about."

"You know, I would be happy to put Patterson on report. He had
no business taking after you like that. It shouldn't be allowed to
slip by. This is serious, Agent Mulder. And you have more than
enough witnesses to substantiate any claim you might want to
make."

Mulder shook his head in frustration. "Sir, SIC Davis, I'm here
because I have reason to believe I know where Packard may be
hiding," he blurted out before the other man could interrupt.

That got Davis attention. "Where?"

"Zak's Mountain Campground and Fishing Lodge," Mulder said
evenly, handing the match book over to Davis.

Davis stared at the match book cover, squinting at the tiny lettering. 
"I know where this is located. About 20 miles west of here. It's
pretty secluded territory." He handed the match book back to
Mulder. "How did you come to the conclusion Packard is there,
Agent?"

Mulder winced internally. "This was in with the match books from
the crime scenes. It was the only one that didn't fit." Then he
waited.

Davis nodded, motioned for Mulder to continue. 

"The witnesses we've interviewed haven't been very helpful, sir. 
The man was a loner. Save for a disastrous marriage that lasted
less than two years, he's pretty much kept to himself, from what
we've been able to determine." Mulder forced himself to breathe,
ignoring the urgent desire to hold his breath while waiting for the
other man to speak.

Davis took his sweet time. He flipped through the file folder in
front of him. He picked up a pencil and inspected it closely. 
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Mulder, he looked the
younger agent square in the eye.

"Guess it wouldn't hurt to go take a look," he said casually.

Mulder felt the blood start rushing to his head. "No sir, it sure
wouldn't hurt."


Zak's Mountain Campground and
Fishing Lodge
March 13, 1991
1:21 pm

In the end, Davis had sent Mulder and two other agents, Chuck
Fraase and Dave Highland, to check out the Campgrounds. In the
event that more men were needed, the whole task force, as well as
the Denver Police HRT were in position to move at a moment's
notice. It was decided to try and take Packard quietly, if the man
was even where Mulder thought he would be.

Zak was actually named Henry, having bought the campgrounds
and lodge from his father-in-law some twenty years before. Henry
Mullins. Henry was more than cooperative about who had been
staying at the campgrounds and positively identified Packard's mug
shot, although he noted that the man had cut his hair and shaved his
beard recently. 

Henry also noted he'd not seen the man, but Packard was a hunter and
kept his Jayco pull behind there 12 months out of the year. He then
directed Mulder, Fraase and Highland to a lot number 53, where
Packard's trailer was parked.

The campground was built into the side of a mountain, with
wooded lots. Each lot sat on the side of a trout stream which
tumbled in a snakelike loop through the area. A graveled area was
located close to the water with a fire pit and electric hook up, but
farther back and higher up at each site was a place to pitch a tent. 
The trees and the deep undergrowth, even in the throes of late
winter, made it difficult to get a good look around. Visibility in
some sites was no more than ten or fifteen feet into the woods.

After taking a look around, Mulder turned to Fraase and Highland
and motioned for them to go around and try to get behind the
trailer, sight unseen. He took the front approach. Breathing
deeply, and grateful that he felt he could, he walked up to the door
of the trailer, pulling out his badge. He rapped loudly on the side of
the trailer.

Inside, through the grimy window, he could see a small black and
white television turned to a grainy daytime game show. Lights
were on over the small sink. The smell of coffee permeated the air,
fighting with the overwhelming smell of pine and the running
stream.

But Mulder could detect no life inside the trailer. He knocked
again, more loudly, and this time added his voice. "James Packard,
this is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the Federal Bureau of
Investigation. Open the door, please!" The 'please' was window
dressing only, his tone of voice. firm and commanding, was
anything but polite.

Again, no answer. Mulder decided the warrant he had was all the
invitation he needed.

Mulder tried the knob and found it unlocked. Quietly, his gun
drawn and held up out of range, he opened the door. The trailer
looked no better kept than the apartment. But from the bowl of
half eaten corn flakes and the plate of still warmed pork and beans
on the table, it was obvious that someone had been in residence at
sometime during the day.

Mulder walked out of the trailer and called to the other two agents.
Highland came at a trot, with Fraase right behind him. 

"I think there's a trail going up the mountainside, over that way,"
Highland gestured.

Fraase pointed to a rusty and tangled fishing pole leaning against
the trailer. "He might be trout fishing," he noted.

"He's running from the cops and he's trout fishing?" Highland said
in disbelief.

"Can't live on beans and weinies forever," Mulder grinned. "Well
you can, but not everyone has my tastes," he added and the other
two groaned and shook their heads. 

"If he's in the woods, we better call back to Denver. We may need
help," Highland suggested.

"True, but he could take off in that time, too, and we'll have a devil
of a time finding him in these woods," Fraase countered.

"Here's what we do," Mulder offered. "Highland, go back to
Henry's office and call out the troops. I don't know that we need
everybody, but we probably need our guys and alert the others
there may be a manhunt in the woods. Fraase, you and I take the
trail and see if we can track him down." 

The two men nodded in agreement, Highland trotted down the lane
to the campground office and Mulder and Fraase started off up the
trail through the woods.

Fraase took point, because he was born and raised in the mountains
and understood how the little trails worked. Mulder was busy
reminding his lungs that they could work, they'd been working all
morning. About half way up a rather steep grade, Mulder realized
his recent illness wasn't the only thing working against him. The air
was thinner in the higher elevation, and what little oxygen was
getting into his lungs wasn't enough. When his foot slipped under
him and he slid down the grade a bit, Fraase finally stopped and
looked down at him.

"Mulder, you OK?" Fraase asked, finding his footing and coming
back down the trail to help Mulder to his feet.

Black spots were dancing before his eyes, but Mulder blinked them
away. They didn't want to go, but his vision finally cleared. "I'm
OK," he assured. "Just not used to the mountains."

"Shit! I forgot! You've been sick," Fraase said, slapping his head. 
"We should've had you go back and call the office."

Mulder shook his head angrily. The anger was directed at his own
body, not at his companion, but Fraase had no way of knowing
that. "I've tracked this bastard this far, I have no intentions of
stopping now," he said through gritted teeth.

Fraase looked concerned, but finally relented. "OK, but you take it
easy. And if you need help, for God's sakes _say_ something,
OK?"

Mulder snorted. "I need help," he said flatly and nodded up the hill. 
He reached out his hand and Fraase grasped it strongly, pulling
Mulder up the rest of the grade. At the top, both men looked
around. The trail ended in a T that went left and right along the
ridge.

"Got a coin?" Fraase joked.

"Which way to the stream?" Mulder asked, cocking his head to
listen for the sound of running water. "To the left," he decided,
answering himself.

There was a smaller rivulet to cross, and Mulder pointed to a
footprint at the very edge of the water. "He's been here, recently,"
Mulder whispered and Fraase nodded.

The winter had been light and the spring had come early, but there
was still a considerable amount of snow on the ground. Near the
little stream, it was mostly slush and very slippery to walk. On the
trail, there were patches of slush covered ice where the sun hadn't
reached because of the trees. Mulder had taken point and found
himself stepping cautiously to avoid falling on his ass. Fraase
reached out once or twice and wore a continuously worried scowl,
but didn't say a word.

They reached a downward grade and could hear the trout stream
tumbling over boulders and rocks. Mulder held up his hand to halt
their progress and unclipped his weapon from his holster, silently
thanking Davis for issuing him one before he left the office. Fraase
followed suit.

Mulder looked for a way down the incline. Down the stream, he
could see Packard, casting his line out into the water. The man was
knee deep in the near freezing water, insulated waders keeping out
the numbing cold. Mulder frowned, remembering that he and
Fraase were not similarly equipped. He didn't relish the idea of
chasing Packard down by running across the trout stream. He
wanted to take the larger man by surprise, if possible.

Fraase tapped him on the shoulder. Just a few yards away, a
smaller trail led down the ridge, but it was more secluded because
of a bramble bush trailing down the mountainside. Mulder nodded
and searched for another pathway in the other direction. They'd
surround Packard and take him by surprise.

Going down was easier than going up. In the dense brush, the
snow hadn't melted and when Mulder was about two-thirds of the
way down the hill, his feet hit a patch of ice. His right leg flew out
from under him, the left leg sought for purchase and found some in
the snow off the path, but it was too little too late. He ended up
tumbling down the four feet left of the hill and landed in a less
than dignified heap just a yard away from his intended captive.

To say Packard was surprised was an understatement. The man
dropped the fishing rod, stared in wild-eyed amazement at the well
dressed pile of agent in front of him and turned tail to run the other
direction. Running right into Agent Chuck Fraase as he did so. 

"Stop! Federal Agent! Put your hands in the air!" Fraase
commanded. Mulder took the opportunity to pull himself up and
was amazed to discover his gun still gripped in his right hand. He
leveled it at Packard's back.

The big man stood stock still for a moment, and all three men held
their breath. Slowly, he raised his hands, his eyes still glued on
Fraase. Fraase relaxed just a bit, and reached with his left hand for
his handcuffs. He couldn't find them, and dropped his gaze over
his shoulder to look for where they'd slid on his belt. It was all the
chance Packard needed. He took two more steps backward, almost
too tiny to notice and the whirled and took off like a shot, ramming
Mulder right in the abdomen and pushing him into the icy water of
the little stream.

The stream was deeper than he'd first assumed, well over five feet
deep and Mulder quickly sank to the bottom. The cold was such a
shock to his system that it triggered an asthma attack the likes of
which he'd never known. He struggled to get to the surface,
struggled to move his arms and legs. Muffled by the water and his
own terror, he heard two gun shots and then a moment later, strong
arms yanked him out of the water and dragged him onto the bank
of the stream. 

He lay crumbled on the cold frozen dirt and rocks of the bank,
trying to bring air into his lungs. He blinked and saw Fraase, felt
the other man patting him down, searching pockets of his jacket
and pants. Finally coming up with his prize, Fraase pried open
Mulder's mouth and almost shoved his inhaler down his throat. 

Mulder took it from there. He waited for Fraase to push the inhaler
then drew in as much air as he could. It wasn't nearly a full breath,
but it was enough. Another squirt from the inhaler and he began to
feel the medicine reaching down into his chest. Slowly, taking
forever it seemed, his lungs opened up and air rushed in to places
that felt frozen. He gasped for breath and started to cough, not
able to speak or even move from his spot. He could feel Fraase
tugging his own coat around Mulder's body, a small effort, but one
that was greatly appreciated.

It seemed like hours passed, but it was only a few minutes. Finally,
the coughing subsided and Mulder could speak, could look beyond
his own dire condition and find out what had happened. "Packard,"
he gasped out. Questions had to be assumed, they just took too
much trouble.

"He won't be going anywhere," Fraase said dryly. He nodded to
the body lying just a few feet up the stream.

"Dead?" Mulder was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be working
up to two word sentences, but at that moment it didn't seem to
matter as much as figuring out what had just gone down.

"No. I got him in the leg. Managed to cuff him before dragging
your sorry ass out of the drink," he said with a wink. 

Serious shivering had taken hold and Mulder curled himself up
under Fraase's overcoat. He looked at the other agent. Through
chattering teeth, he had to ask. "How d-d-d-did you kn-n-now?" 
His gaze held on the inhaler still gripped in Fraase's right hand.

Fraase looked down at his hand and then back up to Mulder's face. 
"My little brother has asthma. Our mom made him carry his inhaler
with him everywhere. I recognized the noises you were making and
figured I'd find an inhaler somewhere." He handed the little plastic
tube back to Mulder. "Have you always had asthma, or just since
you've been sick?"

"F-f-f-first t-t-time," Mulder stuttered out.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it. That water is just above freezing. 
It probably would have thrown me into an asthma attack," he said
lightly, trying to head off any possible fear or anxiety Mulder might
be having.

He need not have worried. Mulder was too cold to think past
getting some warmth into his body.

The troops arrived about ten minutes later. Blankets and more
blankets were wrapped around Mulder until he began to feel like a
mummy, but couldn't stop shivering from the cold. At Davis'
insistence, and over his own objections, he was placed on a gurney
and transported by ambulance to the nearest hospital.

University of Colorado Medical Center
March 13, 1991
4:45 pm

"You don't look that bad," came a voice from the doorway. 
Mulder pulled open his eyes and hit the button to bring his bed into
a sitting position.

"I'm not, Chuck. I've just missed the taste of lime jello," Mulder
shot back. 

"So, Davis says you're here for the night. Oh, and just in case you
decide to escape, you should know, the place is crawling with
agents and cops keeping an eye on Packard," Fraase said, pulling
up a chair and sitting next to the bed.

"I heard they got the bullet out and he's gonna be fine. I'm only
here for observation," Mulder reminded his friend and himself. 
"Doctor said if I maintain my temp, I can leave tomorrow
morning."

"Any more asthma attacks?" Fraase asked, trying to make the
question sound casual. Both men knew what a diagnosis of chronic
asthma could do to an agent.

"No, not at all," Mulder assured him. "It's like you said. The
water was a shock and just sent me into one. The doctor seems to
think it's left over from my pneumonia and should be a 'one time
thing'. But I'm supposed to take it easy for the next month."

"Well, judging from the case you just solved, you should get that
much time in vacation," Fraase said with a smile. "Packard's not
saying anything at the moment, but the case will be tight. He's
been taking time off, working other shifts. He can't account for his
whereabouts on any of the dates from the earlier murders. You did
good, Mulder. The whole office was buzzing about it this
afternoon."

For a moment, neither man said anything. Then Mulder licked his
lips. "Chuck, I don't think I managed to thank you back at the
campgrounds . . ."

Fraase held up his hand in protest. "Mulder, please, it's
unnecessary. Besides, you're the one who led us to Packard. All I
did was cuff him and fish you out of the stream," he said with a
chuckle. "I gotta tell ya, you scared the shit out of me until I found
that inhaler and you started breathing right again."

"Both of us," Mulder agreed. Again, the silence descended. 
Something he'd been thinking of before he fell asleep came back to
mind and Mulder looked over at Fraase. "Chuck, have they
cataloged all those match books?"

Fraase shrugged. "I suppose so. Why?"

"I just realized. I saw match books from almost all of the murders. 
All except the most recent ones."

"Which?" Fraase asked, suddenly interested.

"Reno, Tahoe, Vegas, and Sacramento. I found the one from
Carson City, though."

Fraase turned that over in his mind a moment, then gave a one
shoulder shrug. "Maybe they're somewhere else. We've got a
team going over the RV. They might be there."

Mulder nodded, chewing on his lip. "Yeah, probably."

>From the hallway came the sound of the meal cart making
deliveries. "Hey, I think your lime jello is here," Fraase said with a
grin. "Take it easy, Mulder. And if you need someone to pick you
up tomorrow, just call the office. I'll come get you."

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

Mulder didn't realize how tired he was. He'd turned on the
television and didn't even notice when the night nurse came in and
turned it off, shutting off the night light and making her check of his
vitals. The next thing he knew, it was morning and another food
tray was sitting on his bedside table.

Oatmeal. Not his favorite, by a long shot. Not even the three
packets of sugar and half the 8 ounce carton of milk could make the
substance palatable. The toast was cold, but edible. The coffee
tasted wonderful, even for hospital sludge. He was attempting to
pry the foil lid off the apple juice when there was a knock at the
door.

SIC Davis stood in the doorway. Mulder smiled and waved him in. 
"Hate to interrupt your breakfast," Davis said with a nod toward
the tray.

"Really, I think you're doing me a favor," Mulder replied dryly. 
"Nice of you to come by, sir, but they're letting me loose in a
couple of hours."

"So I heard. No, Mulder, this isn't a social call, although I did
want to see how you were doing."

Mulder wiped the toast crumbs from his mouth and sat up
straighter. "What's the matter?"

Davis drew in a breath and then looked at Mulder. "Packard
committed suicide last night."

"What?" Mulder said in shock. "How? He was in the secure ward. 
Sir, last night he was still just out of surgery!"

"I know, I know," Davis said nodding emphatically in agreement. 
"No one can explain it. The nurse checked on him about 11, took
his temp and gave him another shot of pain killer. When the nurse
came in at 3, he'd slit both wrists. Bled to death."

Mulder was shaking his head. "I don't understand it."

"Mulder, he was nailed. We had him. It's not that unusual that a
killer decides it's better to end it all then to go through a trial and
end up on death row. It's happened before, you know that."

"Sir, that's mostly in cases where there's been a crime of passion. 
These were cold blooded murders, sir. It doesn't make sense." 
Mulder was staring at the now congealed oatmeal and quickly put
the lid back over the bowl. It was too disgusting to look at right
then.

"Well, I just wanted to let you know there won't be any
interrogation of the suspect," Davis said, casually tapping on the
bed rail. "Just a report to file and then this case is closed."

"Yeah, right," Mulder said absently. His mind was a million miles
away. Or actually, a month away, on a dock in Portland, Oregon.

"So, Chuck said he'd be by to pick you up later. Just give him a
call with they tell you a release time. If you don't mind, I'd like
your report before you head back east. I want to get this cleaned
up as soon as possible."

"Of course," Mulder said, struggling to stay with the conversation
while his mind was working overtime on something else.

"Well, why don't you get some rest?" Davis said with concern. 
"I'll see you later, at the office."

"Yes sir. Thanks for stopping by." Mulder didn't even hear the
door click shut.


Denver Regional Office of the FBI
March 14, 1991
5:45 pm

Mulder rubbed his eyes, shutting them tightly against the glare of
the yellow paper before him. There was a gap. Missing cases. It
didn't make sense.

With a little footwork, accomplished while he slept the day before,
witnesses and gas purchases could link James Packard to each of
the cities when murders had occurred. Match books further
implicated him. A box of surgical gloves found at his RV at Zak's
campgrounds accounted for the lack of fingerprints on any of the
bodies, save Tim Blake's watch, which positively identified
Packard. And Packard had a picture of Abigail Crown, in her
'assistant's costume' taped to the inside of his locker at the hotel. 
It all fit so nicely. Mulder had finally caught the killer.

Except for the suicides. 

Reno, Tahoe, Las Vegas and Sacramento. In three of those cases,
Packard's whereabouts were unknown. In one case, the death in
Las Vegas, he was working at the Holiday Inn, and had more than
enough witnesses to account for his whereabouts.

Mulder thought back to his encounter with the wind. When he'd
been in the hospital, with little to do but sleep and watch day time
TV, he'd almost convinced himself that it _had_ been Packard. The
feel of whatever had grabbed his throat, almost broken his neck
with its force, could easily morph into hands the size of Packard's. 
It would have even made sense, since Packard had attacked him at
the stream, knowing instinctively that Mulder had his number and
his time was up. 

But with the evidence in front of him, it didn't fit again. Something
else had killed those four men. Something else, something that
didn't leave fingerprints, didn't leave match books and evidence
behind.

In desperation he went to see SIC Davis. Davis had listened
intently to all Mulder had to say. Then, the older man just
shrugged. 

"Mulder, what do you want me to say? From all appearances,
those cases were really suicides. I don't think you have enough
evidence to point to any other explanation. If the ME's thought
they were suicides, we really don't have the time or the manpower
to go digging into it. That's just not what the FBI does."

Mulder sighed heavily and had nodded in polite understanding. But
as he left the room, he couldn't help but wonder. Maybe it was
time somebody started looking into cases that didn't fit. Maybe
that's what his father had been hinting at. Maybe that's what he
really wanted to do with his career.

It niggled him all the way to the airport. In a flight of fancy, he
booked his return home with a six hour layover in St. Louis. He
caught a connecting flight to Springfield and went to see Pink
Henderson.

Pink was sitting in the sun room, looking out on the melting piles of
snow. "Groundhog didn't see his shadow," she said with a quiet
smile as Mulder walked over to stand next to her wheelchair. She
turned to look at him and frowned. "You been sick, boy. You
need some meat on those bones!"

Mulder chuckled self consciously. "I'm gonna work on that the
minute I get home, Mrs. Henderson." He sat down on the armchair
next to her. "I came to tell you we caught the man who killed your
nephew."

The old woman nodded, her face breaking down into tears. She
cried silently for a few moments, Mulder handing her his
handkerchief. Finally, she regained some composure and looked
over at the agent. 

"Thank you. Thank you. Maybe, now, I can sleep easier. I know
Stevie's at rest."

Mulder's own throat grew tight with emotion. "Mrs. Henderson. 
Do you have a picture of yourself as a, well, when you were
younger. I mean, I know that sounds . . ." He was at a loss. The
woman in his dream, the one who had stood in the alley where he
found Deakins, had the same physical attributes that he could see in
the wrinkled old woman before him. Maybe he was just picturing
Mrs. Henderson at a younger age, sort of prodding him to continue
in his search. 

Pink looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. "Why, yes, I do. 
If you wouldn't mind helping me back to my room, I'll show you."

It wasn't very far down the hallway and Pink was pointing toward
her door. Mulder pushed the wheelchair inside and had to smile. 
Stephen Paige had obviously sent his aunt postcards from each of
the places he visited. She had postcards from all over the west and
midwest tacked neatly in place on a three foot by four foot
cork board above her bed. A set of small window boxes held
thimbles Mulder had seen in gas stations, also from all over. A
quick count told him there were well over a hundred thimbles in
place.

"Ah, here it is. My mama's old family album. There are some
pictures in this one. Here I am. Oh, and here's one of me and
Stevie's mother." Pink sighed and shook her head. "Where ever
the hell she is," she muttered.

Mulder took the book and sat down on the little visitor's chair. He
glanced over the pictures on the page. He found the one Pink had
pointed to, two girls, in their Sunday best, smiling for the camera. 
One girl, blond hair hanging in curls down to her shoulders, the
other girl, dark haired with twin braids framing her cherub face.

"Is this you?" he asked, pointing to the blond girl.

"Oh, land's no," Pink exclaimed, chuckling at his mistake. "I
woulda had to use a whole bottle of peroxide to get my hair blond! 
No, that's my sister. That's Stevie's mother."

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place with a thud that Mulder was
sure had to have been audible to everyone in the building. The
woman of his dream had been a ghost. Stephen Paige's mother. It
was she who had been involved in the suicides. It was even
possible that her ghost had been the one to attack him in the Golden
Nugget. It was incredible to him, but he could feel the rightness of
the explanation down to his very toes. 

When he could finally get over his own shock, he looked kindly at
the old woman sitting before him. "Mrs. Henderson, you know, it's
possible that your sister didn't run away," he said, trying to break
the news as gently as he could.

The old woman's expression grew guarded and she shook her head. 
"I know what they tried to tell me. That she got killed. But that's
a lie. A lie, I tell you. She was always a free spirit, never had time
to do her chores or obey the rules. No, I know she's still out there. 
Havin' a good time, raisin' hell like she always did." She took the
book from Mulder and put it back on its shelf by her bed. 

When she looked back at him, it was with eyes filled with pain. "At
least one of us got to live the good life, didn't we?" she said.

Mulder nodded and said nothing more.

Dirksen Office Building
Office of Sen. Richard Matheson
March 15, 1991
11:30 am

"I want to thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir,"
Mulder said nervously as he took a seat in front of the Senator's
massive oak desk.

"Fox, it's always a pleasure. I understand you've been ill. How are
you doing? Have you returned to work, yet?"

Mulder licked his lips self consciously. "Um, yes sir, I was and I
have. And that's basically what I came to talk to you about."

The Senator raised his eyebrow and smiled, nodding at Mulder to
continue.

"Sir, some time ago we talked about some 'incidents' that had
occurred in your home state."

"Yes, I remember that well. I've had a number of constituents
making claims of UFO sightings, even some going so far as
to make the claim that they were abducted. I asked the Air Force
to look into those claims and they turned me down flat. Informed
me in no uncertain terms that Congress had considered Project Blue
Book to be a waste of taxpayers' money and that Proxmire had
even listed it in his Golden Fleece awards. In other words, they
really rubbed my nose in it."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure they did. I believe that those constituents had
been interviewed by some of our agents locally. You said you
knew what had happened to those files. Sir, Senator, I know that
at the time, I sort of blew you off. I was in the middle of two
profiles and I . . ."

Matheson held up his hand. "You had your plate full, son, I
understand that."

"But that was no excuse, sir. Your office has been a great help to
me on a number of occasions and I should have paid more attention
to your request. I apologize."

"Fox," Matheson grinned slyly. "Men only apologize when they're
prepared to make amends. Are you telling me you want to look
into those cases now?"

Mulder stared at his locked hands on his lap, then looked up at
Matheson. "Yes, sir, I am. And I would like to know if you can
tell me where I can find those cases. I don't believe they're in the
regular stacks."

"They aren't. I've been told they're in the basement. In a couple
of file cabinets that haven't seen the light of day since the new
building was opened. I believe they're all marked with an 'X', to
segregate them from the 'real' cases." Matheson pulled on his lip,
staring at Mulder the whole time. "But I really don't think your
superior, ah, Agent Patterson, isn't it, will be receptive to you
taking on these case in addition to your current work load. This
would be a full time job, Fox."

Mulder was lost in thought and almost missed the last statement. 
The FBI had three sub-basements, all of them with storage rooms. 
It was still a needle in a haystack, but he was getting closer. 
Matheson's words started to sink in and Mulder realized the man
was expecting a response. "I understand that, sir. And I'm more
than willing to give it all I've got. If you'll help me get in a position
to investigate them. On my own."

Matheson's grin turned into a genuine smile. "Let's talk details,
Fox."

New Haven County Courthouse
March 16, 1991
10:00 am

"Well, thank you for all being so prompt. I believe we can get this
hearing started on time and get on with our business. Now, I still
have a petition for guardianship of the assets and responsibilities
of Fox William Mulder, Christina Mulder petitioner. Is the
petitioner still intent upon seeking guardianship?" Judge Crowder
looked over her glasses at Mrs. Mulder, who sat wringing her
handkerchief in her lap.

"Your honor, my client wishes to vacate that petition," said Teena's
lawyer. "She feels that pursuing this matter further would be futile,
in light of the results of the independent evaluation."

Teena said nothing, simply stared at her hands.

Judge Crowder frowned, then shuffled through the papers in front
of her. "Well, I believe that's the best course. The evaluation I
have from Cresthaven made it clear that Mr. Mulder's actions and
behavior are well within normal parameters. I'm afraid I would
have been hard pressed to grant the petition on the basis of this
independent evaluation." She put the papers back in the file folder
and folded her hands atop them. "Mr. Mulder, I hereby vacate the
petition. You are free to go."

Mulder had been holding his breath all through the five minute
proceeding and just then started to breathe again. He looked over
at Harrison and held out his hand. Harrison broke into a broad
smile and accepted the handshake. Then Mulder turned to look at
his mother, and found she had already left the room.

He thanked the judge for her indulgence and help, then Mulder
raced out the door and into the hallway. He saw his mother's back
as she started out the door into one of the first nice days of early
spring.

"Mom. Mom, wait up." 

She stopped, but refused to turn around. He caught up with her,
and tugged at her sleeve. She still wouldn't look at him.

"Mom, wait a minute," he said, not really knowing what he was
hoping to say to her.

Finally, she looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. 
"What, Fox? What do you want? You won, you get to go back to
that job, even if it kills you. You win, your father wins. Just like
always. And I just stand back and watch it all happen. Just like
always." She pulled her sleeve out of grasp.

He dropped his hand, confused. "What are you talking about,
Mom? Dad didn't have anything to do with this. You're the one
who wanted me sent to Cresthaven."

She snorted and reached into her pocket for a tissue to wipe her
eyes. "Yes, well, that was a futile attempt at best, wasn't it," she
laughed bitterly.

Mulder was growing more angry by the minute. "You'd rather I
was locked up in a padded cell, Mom? Is that it? You think I'm
crazy? What the hell do you want from me, Mom? What the hell
do you want?" he yelled at the top of his voice.

She took his anger and his screaming and stared back at him with
an eternal calm. "I want to keep you alive," she said in a voice just
above a whisper. "I just want to keep you alive." 

A dark car pulled up at the curb and a door opened. Her lawyer
took her by the elbow and escorted her to the car, she got in and
drove away. Mulder was left standing on the sidewalk.

Harrison was suddenly at his side. "C'mon, Fox. I'll give you a
drive to the airport."

Mulder nodded, glancing at his watch. He had to be back in DC by
3 for a meeting with Section Chief Blevins.

FBI Headquarters
Sub-basement 2
March 20, 1991
8:15 am

"It's a bit dusty," said the janitor, whose shirt pocket proclaimed him
him to be 'Sonny'. "But we don't have much call for people traipsin' in
and out. Now that you'll be down here, I'll make sure the
wastebasket's emptied and tidy up a bit." He handed Mulder a key
from his enormous key ring. "Here, you take this one. I can make
another off the master." 

Mulder stepped into the room. Three of the four florescent bulbs
burned weakly, the fourth one flicking from gray to bright white
and back to gray again.

"I'll get some more light bulbs, too," Sonny assured him.

"I think I'll need a desk," Mulder said, trying to decide whether to
be totally depressed or incredibly happy. In actuality, he was still in
shock. 

Matheson had been as good as his word. Mulder understood
through the grapevine that not just Matheson, but the whole
Senate subcommittee with oversight for the FBI's appropriation
had contacted the Director and the Attorney General, strongly
suggesting that a new 'division' be opened to investigate various
curious and unexplained happenings throughout the country. 

Although the Director had balked at first, word from the White
House directed him to 'make the Appropriations Committee happy
in any way he could'. That was all it took. 

No one within the Bureau had been happy with the turn of events. 
Blevins had been in a barely controlled rage the entire meeting
when he informed Mulder of his 'new' assignment as well as his
upgrade to Division Head. A division of one until such time as a
suitable underling became available. Mulder figured that would be
right after hell froze over, but he didn't mind. In fact, he liked
working alone.

Leaving ISU hadn't been smooth sailing, either. When Mulder had
gone into the Quantico offices of the Investigative Support Unit, a
few of his co-workers had wished him well on the new assignment. 
Some of them had turned away in snickers, but Mulder ignored
them. Patterson had stood over his desk as he cleaned it out,
waiting for Mulder to look up and notice him.

"Mulder, about what happened in Denver," Patterson started.

"Bill, it's over and forgotten. No more to be said," Mulder replied,
tossing items hap-hazardly in a cardboard box. 

"On the contrary, Mulder. You're in a new position, now. I just
want to make something absolutely clear between us."

Mulder got up, staring the man in the eyes. "Yes, Bill."

"You keep the hell out of my way, you hear me? You might have
been a golden boy at one time, but you have successfully used up all
your golden parachute in one jump, son. So you are walking on
very thin ice right now. I'm betting my retirement that you're
gonna fall through that ice and drown. Just you stay the hell away
from me and my department and make sure you don't pull any of
my men down the rabbit hole with you when you fall, got that?" 
He spun on his heel and stomped away.

"Been reading that book of metaphors again, haven't you Bill?"
Mulder mumbled to himself and finished packing.

Now, Mulder stood in an empty office. Just him and two filled file
cabinets. He chewed on his lip, wondering what the hell to do first. 
He heard a scraping sound behind him. It was Sonny, standing in
the doorway with an ancient folding chair in his hands. 

"Couldn't find a desk, you'll have to requisition that. But I dug this
out of the trash. Still got a little life in it. If you don't catch your
pants on the tears in the metal, mind you." Then he dug in his pants
pocket and brought out a almost empty spool of silver duct tape. 
"This could help that problem, though."

Mulder grinned and accepted both. "Thanks, Sonny. I think I'm
gonna name you my guardian angel."

Sonny grinned in return. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Have a good
one, hear?"

Mulder nodded and watched the older man stroll down the hallway,
avoiding the boxes stacked against the walls like he'd been
'running' the maze for years. He probably had, Mulder decided.

He then turned back to his office. _His_ office. His name on the
door. Special Agent Fox Mulder. What was he supposed to do
now?

Without a second thought, he pulled the rusty chair up within
inches of the first file cabinet. He pulled off a piece of the duct tape
and secured the edges before sitting down gingerly, testing it to see
if it would truly hold his weight. When he was comfortable, he
pulled open the bottom drawer, pulled out the first file, and started
to read.

The end.


Vickie

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