Too Close

Prologue
FBI Academy
Quantico Virginia

Special Agent Trainee Ezekiel Withers leaned back in the uncomfortable auditorium chair, his mind barely noticing the creak of the wood as he shifted his weight. All his attention was focused on the tall, slender man standing on the dais and the soft, but penetrating voice that spoke rhythmically, punctuated with sharp stops. The dark hair was slicked back, shimmering wet under the spotlight, yet already disarrayed, bangs sliding forward, a few loose pieces curling around his neck. Bright red spots on the speaker's tie were the only flash of color in his dark suit, the glimpses of the white shirt stark against the black of the jacket. But that red was a vivid echo of the gore on the screen, almost seeming to be a reflection rather than innate to the silken cloth.

An image of a panther Ezekiel had once seen in the zoo flashed before his eyes, the big dark shape moving around its enclosure with the same sparity of motion, the same fluidity of muscle and bone as the man pacing the platform. Energy, power, simmered below a surface which held the apparent calm of a pond on a clear summer day, barely hinting of the secrets trapped within its depths.

A discordant voice broke through the spell the lecturer wove and Ezekiel jerked in his seat, as though waking from a dream. His pen dropped from his hand with a loud clatter, and he bent to pick it up, grateful for an excuse to hide the blush that crept into his cheeks as others turned in his direction. Picking up the pen, he nonchalantly settled back into his chair as though nothing had happened, and was glad to see the guest lecturer's bright eyes focused on another student while he spoke.

Question, then answer, then back into the flow of the talk. Slide after slide of horror made subject, death turned into bare fact. And yet always with a certain reverence, a softening in that rich voice, a haunted look in those burning eyes. There was a sense that this man never forgot the humanity of the piles of ragged, torn flesh displayed on the screen. A feeling exhibited, perhaps, only by a downturn of the mobile mouth, a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of emotion across the eyes. Gone in an instant - but there for one who took the time to look. And Ezekiel looked, with unwavering attention. Absorbing it all.

And when the lecture was over, the volley of question and answer done, the painfully thin, almost gawky young man was one of the last to leave. Silently getting to his feet and weeding his way through the narrow aisle, he might not have noticed two of his classmates to his right if they had not suddenly burst out into raucous laughter. Like a startled deer, his head turned, brown eyes wide, staring.

Realizing they had caught his attention, one spoke loudly to his companion. "Well, they say Spooky is supposed to be the best in the Bureau at solving these psych cases. Guess it takes one to catch one." With sidelong glances at the man below, apparently involved in collecting slides, the two left the room together, leaving Ezekiel standing frozen in the aisle. But a crawling feeling on the back of his neck told him he was being watched, and he turned to meet a pair of hazel eyes burning from the stage below.

Everything closed down into that moment, the distance between them shrinking into nothingness. Those eyes bored into his soul, questioning, probing, weighing, sorting... and then they were gone. The connection was broken abruptly. The lecturer turned on his heels and was gone, leaving Ezekiel standing alone in the room with nothing but a memory of those green-tinged eyes.

Memphis Tennessee
3 months later

It was a massive manhunt. Nearly fifty of the Bureau's men drawn off of various other assignments, now crowded into the small environs of the Memphis office. All due to one man. If you could call him that.

Fox Mulder grimaced at his partner, then took a resigned bite of the semi-stale donut in his hand. Powder flaked down across his dark sleeve, and he shook his hand absently, his mind wandering. The local ASAC was droning on across the room, but Mulder had learned long ago how to let one small part of his mind act as a tape recorder, while the rest was busy elsewhere. Simply put, they weren't going to catch this particular psycho without more bloodshed, and most certainly not soon enough by the kind of dogged, blanket-the-town approach this particular FBI bureaucrat preferred. No, despite a grip on reality that was tenuous at best, this killer was smart. Very very smart.

Fifteen dead women, including the governor's niece, all strangled, mutilated and then abandoned. Crosses, dozens of them, little ones, big ones, had been carved with meticulous detail across practically every spare inch of the victims' bodies. Consecrating them perhaps. Sending them off to Jesus - wasn't that always the reason? The perfect rationalization for the adrenaline rush caused by dealing death with a kitchen knife - sending them to the glory of God. An angel told him to do it, therefore he was not to be held responsible. For the chosen of the Lord was only doing what the majestic voice in his head had told him to do.

Another bite of the donut, then Mulder gave up. Dropping it on the desk beside him, he brushed the bits of white sugar off his hands and legs, then abruptly froze. An image flashed in front of his mind. One of the victims, spread out as an offering on the cold concrete. And then another and another. Patterns of crosses. Patterns...

Could it really be so simple?

Suddenly he was on his feet, striding across the room, ignoring his partner's call, the mix of confusion and jeering amusement from the other agents, as he pushed them out of the way. Another girl was missing, and Mulder knew her time was short. Too short to play games of protocol.

"Agent Mulder...what the hell do you think you're doing?" yelled the regional ASAC as Mulder shoved him aside and reached for a large black magic marker sitting below the wall-sized map of Memphis. Giving the man an elbow in the gut when he tried to reach for Mulder's arm to stop him, Mulder began to systematically replace each site of death with a cross. Some little, some big. Each a copy of the one that had sat alone on the victim's forehead. The rest of the bodies had been completely covered with crosses of various sizes, often overlapping, but each had had one single, lonely cross branded onto the space just above the eyes.

A swell of whispers broke across the room, voices rising and falling. Snatches of conversation caught at the edge of his awareness, "What is he doing....Spooky's gone around the bend...wait, maybe he knows what those crosses mean...Connolly's gonna fry his ass..." And above them all, the murmur of his partner's voice calmly trying to soothe the ASAC's ruffled feathers.

Finally, all fifteen were there, fifteen black crosses disfiguring the bright map of the city like giant black spiders. And three more empty spaces, not boxed in. Grabbing the red marker, Mulder circled them with broad, bloody bull's eyes. Then he stabbed at their centers, leaving a splatter of red marks behind.

"There...The next victim will be found in one of these three places. There or there or there."

It had taken some convincing, but desperate men will try any remedy, and they had the governor himself breathing down their necks. So six agents were detailed to the sites, with one more young agent serving as a connection point, wired into a telephone and a computer.

Mulder and Scully flitted from site to site, his tension growing. "He'll kill her soon, Scully. And he needs to get her on site to do it right."

"I know Mulder. I know," she would say. Scully always supportive, always understanding, even when he reached beyond her and pulled knowledge from some place he couldn't describe, some place deep within, a meeting place for memory and consciousness and unconsciousness, all circling each other until a connection was made.

But the hours dripped away, and he took to standing below the map, staring at it as though it would somehow speak. Somehow tell him what he had still missed. What he could do to save the life of the young woman held captive by a monster.

"Sir?" a tentative voice spoke to his left. He ignored it, but it spoke again. More insistent.

"Sir?"

"What is it?" he barked, not turning his eyes away.

"I thought you might like some coffee and something to eat." That, and the smell of the thick dark fluid wafting up from the cup in the young man's hand, finally broke through, and Mulder turned with an apologetic half-smile.

"Yeah - thanks," he said ruefully. Taking the mug and the plate, he turned and perched on the edge of the desk, and then looked up at the young agent for the first time. The face was narrow and pointed, straight ash-blond hair framing a pair of wide brown eyes. There was something familiar about the face and the way he stood, like a startled deer about to bolt back into the woods, that tugged at Mulder's memory.

His mouth pursing around the edge of the steaming mug, Mulder tried to bring the memory into focus.

"Have we met before?"

"Uhn...no, sir, I don't think so." The voice was as hesitant as the face, but there was a strength underlying it. Mulder knew the boy wouldn't have made it into the Bureau without something going for him.

"Fox Mulder," he introduced himself quietly, waiting for the response.

"Yes. I mean, I'm Zeke Withers."

Mulder nodded, then took a bite of the sandwich and found himself smiling as he chewed and swallowed. Unless he missed his guess, this was chicken salad and prepared the way he liked it, with mustard instead of mayonnaise. Scully had teased him often about that propensity, and the pleasant memories suddenly made him aware that his partner was no longer in the room. His smile easing into a frown, he glanced anxiously around him.

"Where's Scully?"

"She went down to admin to pick up a fax from Quantico. The latest autopsy results just came in."

"Good." Mulder took another bite, then looked up sharply as the phone rang, jarring him into sudden motion. Swallowing, then chasing it with a gulp of the hot coffee, he watched as Ezekiel reached for the phone.

Moments later, the young man was handing out the receiver to him. Mulder grabbed it, hardly noticing as their fingers brushed, and then was too busy listening to notice the flood of color that lit up across the other agent's pale skin.

"Yes, yes... We'll be there..." he glanced his watch, "in fifteen minutes. Get the place surrounded, I want every possible access blocked."

Then he dropped the receiver and took off, nearly leaping around desks and chairs, a predator who had finally caught the smell of his prey.

Mulder's brainstorm had paid off. It still took several tense hours of stand-off between the psycho and the FBI's local hostage negotiators before it exploded in sudden, final violence, but at long last, it was over. The girl was bloody and in shock, but alive. And the Memphis slasher was DOA, his body ripped apart by the bullets from nearly half-a-dozen FBI guns.

Mulder and Scully retired to their hotel rooms, Scully insistent that he try to get the sleep he had neglected for the past few days. He had shrugged but gone quietly, knowing full well she would not rest until he did. That familiar, stern look in her eyes would brook no argument.

Besides, the ASAC was in his element cleaning up the mess, talking to the governor on the phone, lining up a press conference. This one would look good for the FBI, even though it had taken them 15 deaths to catch the killer. In the end all that mattered was a front-page story with a picture of a live victim.

Ezekiel found himself overloaded with paperwork, or at least the computer version thereof, as they began shutting the operation down. Normally, he would not have minded in the least, loving the work itself. When he was at his computer, he felt in control of the world. It was freedom, access, a place where he could outsmart any of these loud arrogant men without a second thought. Well, all perhaps, but one.

And thus he found himself distracted from his work. His eyes darted from face to face, form to form, looking for one tall, lanky but graceful man, with a flash of red by his side. But neither the man nor his female partner appeared. So Ezekiel tried harder, watching the screens flow from one to another. Typing almost by rote, turning scribbled notes into smooth easy text.

Yet his soul was elsewhere, and snatches of conversation jarred at him. The ASAC himself and another of his buddies came wandering by, utterly unaware - or uncaring - of the young agent who sat nearby at his console.

"Looks like Spooky pulled off another one." The second agent said. "Who would have believed that writing a bunch of crosses on a map would find this psycho?"

The ASAC frowned. "So he had one good guess - I'm not going to give him credit for that. Our men would have spotted that location anyway. It was good solid FBI procedure that solved this case, not one man's hallucinations."

"Yeah, but that map of crosses he made - it was an exact replica of the one found in the slasher's basement. It was creepy."

ASAC Connolly snorted. "So he got lucky for once. Face it - the man is an embarrassment to the Bureau. For God's sake, when he isn't messing with someone else's case, he's out chasing UFO's."

The second agent shrugged. "Perhaps, but he is good at catching these psychos. It's like he knows what they're thinking." He shivered slightly.

The ASAC frowned then bellowed out a laugh. "Yeah - well let's hope Washington keeps its pet crazy on a tight leash. I'll be glad to have him out of my hair. He makes my skin crawl."

Striding away, the two men did not notice the silent young man they left behind, his eyes focused somewhere below the computer screen in front of him. His hand was clenched so tightly on the mouse that his knuckles had turned white, the pads of his fingertips burning red. His lungs held air - held - then released in a loud gasp as soon as they were out of earshot. And neither noticed his eyes following them as they stopped to exchange pats on the back with another agent, then with broad smiles, strode out to meet the incoming press. To take credit for an arrest that wasn't theirs to claim.

As they were about to separate into their adjacent hotel rooms, a stray thought caught Mulder's attention and he called out her name, "Oh, Scully..."

"What Mulder?" she sighed, leaning around the door to peer at him underneath a wing of auburn hair.

He grinned a little sheepishly. "Just wanted to thank you for sending me the sandwich."

"Sandwich?"

"Yeah - you know, my favorite kind. Chicken mustard salad."

"Ugh, Mulder. I don't know how you stay alive on the stuff you eat."

"Hey - it's good!" he insisted with a bright grin. "Night Scully." And then he was gone.

"Good night Mulder," she replied, gently closing her own door behind her. As she tumbled into bed, hardly taking time to remove her shoes and stockings, she wondered briefly why he thought she had sent him a sandwich. But she was too tired to care, and no sooner did her head hit the pillow than she was fast asleep.

FBI Headquarters
Washington DC.
3 weeks later

It must have been fate. Less than a month after the Memphis slasher had been caught, ASAC Connolly was promoted and transferred to the organized crime section of the FBI, housed in Washington DC. The first time Ezekiel saw him in the hall of the Hoover building, the young computer expert felt an extraordinary sense of rightness. It was as though a sudden calm had descended upon him, bringing with it a clarity of vision he had never before experienced. He wondered if this was what he felt when he made one of those brilliant, intuitive leaps of logic that left the rest of the Bureau lost in his wake. This narrowing of focus onto one target, the knowledge that all was suddenly as it was meant to be.

But time for thought could come later, now was time for action. Slipping unnoticed past clusters of dark-suited men, Ezekiel tracked Connolly to his lair, then found his way back to his own desk two floors below. Waiting the next two days was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but the groundwork must be laid properly. And with steady typing, the machines gave him what he needed, piece by piece, as they always did.

Mulder and Scully were safely away, pursuing a serial killer in Cleveland. Connolly's assignment and present case- work was there, easily accessed, easily followed. The arrogant senior agent's new living quarters were a little harder to find - though not much so. And the data on his car soon followed. Bureau security recorded the entrances and exits of its agents from the building, and Connolly was a man of habit. Some judicious conversation with a secretary flustered by a dysfunctional PC and Ezekiel knew every step that man would take.

Preparing to leave a short time before he knew Connolly would check out, he found himself sitting at his desk, nearly frozen with fright. So many 'what if's' buzzing through his mind. So many possibilities unfolding before his dilated eyes. His body tensed like a coiled elastic, he reached into the desk and found his Walkman. Soon the familiar, rich tones were falling on his ears, wrapping him in satin, soothing his anxieties, restoring his purpose.

It was time.

The underground FBI parking garage was always dark, even on the brightest of days. And on a dusky fall evening, it was even colder than it looked. Connolly drew the lapels of his overcoat closer together, heading towards his car by habit, his mind elsewhere. Got to get a wiretap approved tomorrow for that bastard Grimaldi, he thought. He knew that sleaze was up to his ears in dirty laundry, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on the proof yet. Just give him time...

"Aaaannngghhhh, what the hell?" He cried out as something bulldozed into his side and knocked him against one car only to bounce against another and slide into the small space in-between. Twisting onto his side, automatically reaching for his gun, he paused as the face of his assailant came into focus under the dull yellow glow of the ceiling light.

"Watch where you're going!" he growled, his hand moving away from his gun to help lever himself off the floor. But before he could get up past one knee, a sudden sharp pain struck him between his ribs. His eyes widened as he clutched at his chest, finding the steel knife handle still there. Blood gurgled out of the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak, his hand curling around the hilt, fingers convulsively opening and closing. Then he toppled sideways and lay still.

His assailant freed the weapon from his body, then stood over him, a thin dark shadow in the faint light. The slight figure moved swiftly, turning the blade and bringing it down hard on the dead man's wrist. Strike, and strike again, but it still took some careful sawing to break the hand free of the arm. Finally it was done, and the severed appendage was dropped into a plastic evidence bag, sealed away and casually pocketed in the long black overcoat.

Two quick steps away, then a sudden pause, the stained knife blade lifted out from below the coat and studied for a single breath. Then a glance backwards, eyes dark pools in a narrow face, followed by a rapid, sweeping motion - turn, down, wrist flipped one way, then another. Pause. And a look of satisfaction. Now the world would know. The thief marked by his deed, by bloody cross and ancient punishment. Justice was done and the one who must be protected was safe forever from this one's hatred and greed.

X-Files Division
Next Day

Mulder jabbed at the keyboard angrily. The computer squealed in reply, then sat sullenly. Unresponsive.

Error. Unable to find components of winword.exe. Check all associated libraries.

"Damn!" he muttered, not noticing the door as it opened and closed behind him.

Click on ok and then try again. Buzz and whir, then squeal. "Error...unable to find...."

"Damn, damn, damn!" The frustrated agent wasn't even yelling, in fact he was practically whispering, but that didn't stop his partner from leaning over his shoulder and chiding him with amusement.

"Watch your language, Mulder."

He simply frowned at her, his high forehead crinkling up into tight furrows as he looked back at the recalcitrant computer screen.

"Don't suppose you know what this thing did with my word-processing program, do you?"

Scully chuckled lightly, pushing at the back of his chair to give herself room to slip into the corner. Perching herself on the edge of the desk, she glanced at the computer screen.

"The real question is, what did you do to it?"

"I didn't do anything!" Mulder protested. "All I did was turn it on and try to go into Word so that I could write my report. Skinner is going to have my ass in a sling if I don't get it to him today."

"I told you that you should have started it sooner."

He grimaced, though his eyes brightened as they always did looking at her. Definitely a sight for sore eyes, he thought appreciatively, though he held in the comments that came instantly to mind. There were some things you just didn't say to a woman with a gun - especially a woman who had already shot you once.

Scully saw the green-tinted glint of growing amusement in his eyes, which had been almost pure black with anger a moment before, and only barely resisted asking him for his thoughts. However, she was too tired from the last case to feel like sparring with him, and settled for simply dropping the latest news in his lap.

"By the way, did you hear what happened to Connolly?"

"No," Mulder replied with little interest, still glaring at the computer as though he could make it work out of sheer will-power. "But don't tell me, let me guess..." He leaned back in his chair, pretending to think, then the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "He got one hemorrhoid too many and bled to death in the executive washroom?"

Scully sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "No, Mulder. He was murdered in the parking garage."

That got Mulder's full attention, and she imagined she could actually hear his cervical spine crack as his head spun in her direction.

"Murdered? How? When?"

"About three days ago. He was killed almost instantly by a knife-thrust through one lung and his right ventricle. The knife was yanked free and he bled to death, though not before his killer sliced off his right hand at the wrist and carved a cross into his forehead."

Mulder was on his feet by then, pacing the room like a caged tiger, his controlled yet frenetic movements a mirror for the wheels spinning in his brain.

"A cross? But the Memphis slasher..."

"Is dead and buried, Mulder." She eyed him with prepared skepticism, ready and waiting, but he had already moved past her.

"No, the slasher made thousands of crosses," he looked at her for confirmation and she silently raised a single finger. He nodded and continued as though he had not stopped, "and he never removed a body part or sliced deeper than a few inches. This one stabbed most of the way through the chest..."

"Yes, almost out the back in fact. Must have been a long knife, and it was slightly curved, almost like a scimitar."

"Who's handling the investigation?"

"Colton and Greenstein." Her mouth pursed as she answered as though tasting something sour.

Mulder grimaced, then perched himself on the edge of the desk facing her. "Let me guess, they think it was a signature hit of some kind. Organized crime." His voice dripped sarcasm.

Scully shrugged. "Well, he was working in that area for the last month. It seems the most obvious answer."

"Sometimes the obvious answer isn't the right answer..." He broke off in mid-sentence at a series of knocks on the door. Leaping to his feet, Mulder went to the door and opened it, glowering down at the young man standing in the hallway, looking like he was trying to fade into the opposite wall.

"Yes," Mulder barked, irritated at having his train of thought interrupted.

"Agent Withers, sir. You requested technical help from Operations, sir?" The kid barely squeaked out, but the words drew out a bright, toothy flash of sunshine from the taller agent. Mulder took Ezekiel by the arm and propelled him into the cluttered room.

"Yes, about time! This damn computer ate my word-processor and I've got a report due in this afternoon!"

Scully smiled at the obviously overwhelmed young agent before going over to sit in her own chair at the other end of the room. Mulder pushed Ezekiel into his old wooden chair and jabbed at the computer screen.

"It keeps saying it's missing part of the program!"

Ezekiel took hold of the mouse, trying to keep his hand from shaking in response to Mulder's breath coming hot across the crown of his head. Click and click again - and the same response from the computer.

"See!" Mulder cried in perverse triumph.

"Yes, sir," the computer expert replied. "Something probably got deleted or damaged. Sometimes heat or static buildup can cause problems like this. You haven't been doing anything inside the computer have you? Like installing memory or..."

"I didn't do anything to it, except turn it on." Mulder stood back a step, watching as the young agent manipulated the windows, bringing up both file manager and sysedit. "Can you fix it?"

"Sure," Ezekiel swallowed hard, then turned to look up into the hazel eyes burning down at him. "The quick fix is to simply delete and reinstall winword, but I'd recommend letting me take a look inside to check the hardware. If it is a bad disk or loose connection, the problem will almost certainly reoccur."

"How long?"

Ezekiel shrugged. "An hour or two - depends on what the real cause is. Let me see if the reinstallation works first. Do you have the disks?"

"The disks?" Mulder looked slightly sheepish. "I...unh...I think I took them home, to install on my own PC..."

Ezekiel managed a slightly reassuring smile.

"Don't worry about it. I have the disks upstairs, and I can upgrade you if necessary. Besides, I have equipment up there that might help diagnose the cause of the error."

Mulder ran a hand through his short dark hair, knocking loose several strands that slid stubbornly over his temples. Ezekiel's eyes followed that hand, and those sliding bangs with nervous attention, then flew back down to stare at the computer screen. Mulder didn't notice the attention, his mind running in other directions.

"You're the expert," he agreed. "Do what you think is best."

Then Mulder finally looked at the young man perched on the edge of his chair, and his eyes focused. "We've met before haven't we?"

"Unh...yes, sir. In Memphis. I..."

"That's right. Did I ever thank you for the sandwich and coffee?"

"That's ok, sir. You had more important things on your mind."

"Still no excuse for bad manners. So thanks."

Ezekiel felt sure he was turning bright red, he could feel the flush working its way up through his skin. Terrified he was appearing a fool, he turned his back on Mulder and busied himself with turning off and disconnecting the computer, every move feeling obscenely clumsy.

Mulder held the door for him, casually asking if he needed a hand taking it upstairs. Ezekiel couldn't bring himself to gaze into those too-penetrating eyes, instead he murmured, "no," and fled down the hallway with the computer, trailing a loose cable like a tail.

Mulder paused for a moment, watching the retreating agent, with a sick feeling curling through his stomach. Did they all have to treat him like he had cooties? Sighing under his breath, he closed the door behind him and turned to his partner.

"Ummm, Scully, I don't suppose you'd..."

"Let you borrow my laptop? I'm not sure I ought to let you within five feet of it, Mulder." She leaned back into her chair, her full lips curved into a gentle smile.

"Haha. Seriously, I'll owe you one." He thrust out his full lower lip in an exaggerated appeal, causing her to shake her head in pretend exasperation.

"OK - OK - but you don't owe me one, you owe me dinner!"

"Done!"

X-Files Division
Later - Same Day

Trying to juggle Mulder's computer and knock at the same time, Ezekiel was surprised when the door swung open before he had a chance to tap on it. He blinked, then barely controlled a sigh of mixed relief and disappointment as he came face to face with Dana Scully. He never did well with women, especially beautiful smart ones, and Scully...well, she simply terrified him.

"I brought..."

"Oh," Scully looked up from the file she was reading in one hand, empty coffee mug in the other. Her glasses slipped down on her nose to give her a schoolmarm look.

"Mulder's computer. That was fast."

"Yes, Ma'am. It didn't take long."

Silence.

Then, she answered.

"I think it would be best if you set it up, if you don't mind. Safer not to let Mulder do it." Her lips curved in a gentle smile, then she went past him, leaving him space to enter the room. He darted inside and gratefully set the machine down on the desk.

Mulder wasn't in the office and Ezekiel froze as he realized he was alone. In here. He stole a moment to drink in the room, trying to commit every inch of it to memory. His stomach turned as his eyes fell on a lurid spread of crime scene photos, then he found himself smiling at a large, slightly faded poster.

"I Want to Believe," he read aloud. Yes, he thought. Yes. His mother had worked hard to teach him the importance of God's chosen ones, like the saints in her paintings and the preacher who spit fire on the pulpit of their church. She had taught him the names of each of the martyrs, repeated the stories of each of the prophets over and over until they pervaded his dreams and filled his waking hours. And though he himself never would qualify to walk with God's hand upon his shoulder, as his mother had so often bemoaned, he had at last found one of the blessed ones to help and protect.

The sound of footsteps set him scurrying to reconnect the computer, and he was bent down under the desk when voices spoke in the doorway.

"Damn idiot!" That instantly recognizable, usually silken voice was now vibrant with emotion, anger and frustration clear in the bell-like tones.

The reply was warm and throaty, tinged with both amusement and concern. "Who? Colton or Kavorski?"

"Both." Mulder pushed the door shut, then stripped his jacket off and tossed it onto the top of the file cabinet.

"Though I meant Kavorski. Why bother to have me write a profile if he's simply going to ignore it? It's not like I don't have better things to do with my time. And besides, he's got the wrong guy."

"Are you sure?" Scully sat back down at her desk, taking a careful sip of the hot coffee.

Mulder perched himself on the edge of the desk beside her, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves as he spoke.

"Of course I'm sure. This was a carefully planned and well- executed set of killings. Time and care was taken with the positions of the bodies. Look at the elaborate way in which the bodies were displayed; these were hardly spur of the moment kills. Also, the lack of an obvious break-in means that the killer looked acceptable. He was able to gain entry without struggle and the neighbors never noticed him. But the man Kavorski arrested is a street case. Sure, he has a history of violent behavior, but he is homeless, hasn't bathed in months, is dressed in filthy salvation army rejects and has a beard Moses would envy. And he can barely put together a full sentence. Hardly someone a suburban mother is going to let into her nice, clean home or who could pass unmarked in an upper middle class neighborhood."

"Did you tell Kavorski all this?"

Mulder gave her an aggrieved-innocent look. "Of course I did."

"After you told him he was just plain wrong," Scully stated. "Or was it just plain stupid." An auburn eyebrow arched up over one sea-blue eye.

"I didn't tell him he was stupid." The eyebrow crept a little higher.

Mulder sighed, shrugging his shoulders.

"I told him he was a fool."

Scully's reply was disrupted by a loud crack. Both agents were on their feet and across the room before Ezekiel could get himself to his feet.

"Are you all right?" Scully asked, kneeling down beside him.

"Uh...yes, I'm fine. Sorry. I was just plugging in the computer and I hit my head on the desk." The pain lancing across the back of his eyes was enough of a distraction to stop him from blushing. However, heat rushed up through his arm to fill his entire body as Mulder took him by the elbow and helped him to his feet. He settled gratefully into the creaky wooden chair.

"Let me see," Scully ordered in a voice Mulder instantly recognized as her doctor mode.

"No, really, I'm OK," Ezekiel protested, giving the top of his head one more rub. Mulder eyed the young agent with sympathetic eyes as Scully insisted on not only looking, but also probing at the wound.

"Well, you'll have a slight bump," she pronounced, "but nothing too serious. Put a little ice on it if it swells."

"Yes Ma'am," he replied, grateful to pull away from her examination. Behind him, Mulder grinned slightly at the old-fashioned honorific. Scully threw him an irritated look, knowing she was probably going to get Ma'am-ed by him for at least a week.

Ezekiel missed the exchange over his shoulder, his only concern was to get the computer going and get out of there before he embarrassed himself further. Why, oh why, did he always manage to screw things up? He had dreamt so often of how things might go if he got to work with Mulder. But it wasn't supposed to be like this. His stomach doing somersaults, he switched on the computer and was rewarded with a series of beeps and whirs. A few seconds later it had loaded Windows and was waiting for further instructions. Pointing the mouse, he clicked on MSWord and it buzzed happily as it brought up the program screen.

"There," he said with some relief. "I reinstalled Word and it should be functioning now. The hardware looks fine, though I cleaned out some dust and rearranged the cables so they would be a little less pinched. I think it was just a fluke of some kind. Let me know if it happens again."

He was suddenly aware with every fiber of his being of Mulder's close proximity as the taller man leaned over his shoulder.

"Great! I owe you one."

Ezekiel shrugged, hoping he didn't look as red as he felt.

"It was nothing really."

Mulder looked down at the pale young agent and found himself wondering if he had ever been that wet behind the ears. No, he thought sadly. He had always had a weight on him, put there at the age of twelve, and it carried years with it. Mulder had given up being young the day Samantha was taken away.

Shaking those memories aside, Mulder focused on the nervous young agent. Ezekiel did blush this time under the weight of that stare, and almost missed the question when it came.

"How'd you end up on repair duty?"

"Oh...Well, the techs were a bit overwhelmed this week, so I offered to help out. I'm really good with computers, and I don't mind the work." What Ezekiel didn't say was that this was the only repair request he had taken, and only after overhearing two of the techs arguing over who had to brave the basement to deal with Spooky Mulder. Occasionally it amazed him how much time Bureau personnel spent in gossip, and how much of that gossip was devoted to these two agents. But then he only had to gaze into Mulder's glittering hazel eyes to remember why. This man was a chosen one, born with the mind of a prophet and the soul of a saint. The others reacted out of fear, insecurity, and jealousy.

His increasingly angry thoughts were broken as Mulder replied with a wry grin, "Better you than me! I don't think they like me very much."

It took Ezekiel a moment to realize Mulder meant computers, then he smiled anxiously. "I think they know when you don't like them, or worse yet are afraid of them."

Mulder laughed appreciatively. "Yeah, reminds me of my neighbor's dog. At least computers don't bite." He grimaced ruefully.

Scully grinned. "Well, maybe you ought talk nicely to it more often."

"Sure, sure." Mulder reached over to pat the top of the monitor. "Nice computer. Good computer." A loud electronic bell-like sound filled the room and Mulder jerked his hand back as though he had been bitten. "What?"

"It's just the phone." Scully told him with obvious amusement. Then she picked up the receiver and calmly spoke her name into it.

Meanwhile, Ezekiel quietly assured Mulder that the computer ought to be fine. "I'd better get back upstairs," he added.

Mulder nodded and stood back to give him room to walk past.

"Thanks," he said distractedly as his attention was drawn by Scully repeating "yes, sir" into the phone.

"No problem." Ezekiel stopped in the doorway to look back at the tall dark man leaning expectantly down over the petite fiery-haired woman, her face warm and vivid as she looked up into his eyes.

"Skinner wants to see us. I think he has a case..." Her voice followed the young agent as he slipped away into the dark basement hallway.

FBI Headquarters
Three Days Later

Kavorski was easy prey. It took only seconds to catch him around the throat with the wire after a quick stab at the elevator's emergency hold button. The agent's gasp of surprise was strangled instantly as the thin metal cut into his skin. Pull, twist, tighten, hold.... and then release. The thick, heavyset body crumpled in a heap to the floor.

Then the eye - that took a little longer. But it was late, the building nearly empty, so there was no real hurry. Still, it was difficult to control the surge of nausea when fluid gushed out of the hole in a raspberry swirl of white and red to join the puddle draining onto the floor from the open throat. But it was done. Dropping the severed orb into an evidence bag, which was then secured inside a yellow interoffice envelope, he next sent the elevator sliding down to the basement.

One last triumphant glance at his handiwork, then he stepped out into the dusty hallway. He could have walked this pathway in his sleep, he had done it so often before. Around the corner and two doors down, coming to a halt before the thin wooden door with the small bronze plaque. Just one name on it - the only one that mattered.

Pulling out two lumpy envelopes from inside his raincoat's copious internal pockets, he carefully propped them against the door. One more deep breath, a raspy catch in his throat, then he tightened the raincoat around his slender frame and hurried off down the hall. The stairwell was dark, but it led to a rarely used side door. Out into the night, and no one to know he had been there at all...

Except for the evidence left deliberately behind.

X-Files Division
The Next Day

Mulder balanced his way down the cramped hallway, hands awkwardly clutching the top of a paper sack and two Styrofoam cups, the heat from them warming his cold fingers. Several files were tucked haphazardly under his left arm, squeezed against his side in the hope that they wouldn't fall out until he had reached the sanctuary of his office. But already three slick glossy photos were beginning the slow slide backwards, the corners tipping dangerously towards the floor.

He gave one quick thought to what Skinner might say to a request for a secretary, then dismissed it nearly as soon as the idea arose. It was hard enough to convince the powers- that-be to let two agents 'waste' their time on the X-Files. The cost of paying a secretary even a minimal wage would be beyond the pale. Besides, when it came down to it, the thought of having someone else poking into HIS files, messing with his carefully arranged system - or worse yet, trying to clean his desk - made him cringe. He LIKED things the way they were.

Ah, finally the door. He might - just - make it. Trying to press the two cups against his chest with one hand so that he could free the other to open the door, he lost control of his files and they tumbled to the floor. Folders flew open and documents scattered across the dusty linoleum.

"Damn!" he muttered, abandoning the attempt to open the door in favor of putting the coffee cups and paper bag down carefully on the floor. As he began to retrieve the scattered files, his eyes were caught by a pair of lumpy yellow interoffice-mail envelopes. Forehead crinkling as he reached out to add them to the pile of paper in his arms, he felt one squish slightly under his fingertips.

"What the hell..." he murmured under his breath, a sudden prescient feeling stabbing at his mind. That creepy intuitive sense of knowing that had, even more than his fascination with the paranormal, earned him the nickname Spooky was setting off bells. Something was terribly wrong here. His first instinct was to drop the envelopes, to pretend irrationally that they weren't there. But the second impulse was stronger. The need to KNOW.

With a sense of resignation he picked them up, added them to the pile clutched in his arms, then opened the door. His pulse rate accelerating, he patiently took the time to pile the folders on his desk, the two mysterious envelopes resting precariously on top, then retrieved the two cups and bag from the hall.

Closing the door, he rested one cup in the small neat area that was by definition Dana Scully's domain, then took the other and the bag to his own desk. Taking the cover off the cup he breathed on the hot beverage then took a small sip, pursing his lips at the scalding heat, while his eyes never wavered from the waiting envelopes.

Then, one hand delving into the paper sack to bring out a powdery jelly donut, he closed the other around the unlatched flap of the top envelope. Just as he took a bite of the donut, causing bright red raspberry jelly to ooze out of the resulting hole, he pushed his fingers into the envelope and pulled on the plastic edge of the bag inside.

Using the back of the donut filled hand as leverage, he removed the sheer plastic bag and held it up to the light. And froze as the yellow glare of the ceiling light hit on the contents plainly.

He was still sitting there, unmoving, when his partner found him only a few short breaths later. One hand was clutched around a leaky half-eaten jelly donut, red goo sliding down over his fingers, the other clenched on the edge of a plastic evidence bag, the bottom corner swelled out with the unmistakable red-streaked white orb of a detached human eye.

Office of the Assistant Director
Same Day

"There is no question, Sir," Agent Scully spoke with the cool professional tones of an experienced forensic pathologist. "The eye found by Agent Mulder is the one missing from Agent Kavorski's body. And the hand belonged to SAC Connolly. The envelopes and the plastic evidence bags are being examined by the labs now, but preliminary results indicate they are clean of any useful fingerprints or trace evidence. It seems obvious that the killer is quite familiar with the Bureau and FBI procedure, which is not surprising since he obviously has easy access to this building."

Assistant Director Skinner's scowl somehow managed to deepen. Behind the thin wire-frame glasses, his eyes burned with barely concealed anger as he glared from one of the agents facing him to another. Most squirmed slightly in their seats as he focused on them, but Mulder managed to look relaxed and at ease, his long, lanky body sprawled across the chair with apparent unconcern. However, Skinner knew the brilliant, difficult agent better than that. Nothing could mask the fire in those gleaming hazel eyes, and while the tension might not be apparent in his stance, it was writ large around his eyes and tight-lipped mouth.

If Skinner could read his Mulder-sign right, the agent was about ready to explode, his hatred for wasting time in protocol and bureaucratic meetings waxing strong behind the closed face. And that was the last thing his superior needed now - Mulder out playing the Lone Ranger. Especially since the bad feeling between the unpredictable agent and the agent in charge of this case was already legend.

Skinner's eyes flickered over to Colton's surfer- handsome face, its skin tone slightly flushed, even though every strand of his blond hair was perfectly in place. The slightly stocky agent was dressed in an FBI standard suit and tie, pressed and neat, not a single stray piece of lint marring the presentation. A young agent on the rise, appearing in direct contradiction to Mulder, the Bureau maverick whose short- cropped hair was already mussed, bangs sliding stubbornly over the high temples, his dark suit thrown off balance by the riot of color in the tie. The AD's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the bright spots on that thin piece of silk. Could those possibly by flying saucers? Good heavens!

Skinner swallowed hard and forced himself to deal with the mess confronting them.

"All right," he said pensively, rising from his chair to briefly stare out the window behind him. "I think it is clear that we have a possible serial killer operating within the FBI itself."

"Or someone clever enough to gain access. Possibly someone both men knew and thus were willing to bring into the building." That was from Colton's partner, Greenstein, a slightly pudgy man with a receding hairline and streaks of gray in his dark hair. His face had a slight hangdog look to it, but the eyes were sharp, holding the experience and cynicism of a long-time law enforcement officer. It would not do to underestimate his intelligence, as many a criminal had only to find themselves caught in a steel trap. It was Skinner's hope that he would be a good influence on the ambitious, reckless Colton.

"Security has no record of visitors entering the building at the times of the deaths," Scully disagreed. Skinner's eyes focused on the only woman in the room, his eyes betraying only a slight flicker of approval. She was an outstanding agent, probably second only to her partner in her sheer talent as an investigator, and Skinner felt a familiar sense of sorrow that she had been caught up in Mulder's dangerous world. "I think it is safe to assume the killer is a Bureau employee with full access to the building," she continued, returning her boss's gaze with cool confidence.

"We have lists of everyone who was signed in during the relevant hours," Greenstein took her opinion seriously, he had only been proposing a possibility he still didn't think could be ignored. "But we all know that the agents don't always sign in, especially late at night. And there are side doors that someone with a key could use to enter and leave."

With return professionalism, Scully gave a slight nod of her bright auburn head. Tapping her pencil against her knee, she frowned in concentration. "It IS possible that both Kavorski and Connolly met their killer at one of those doors and let the person in. But that still leaves the fact that the killer obviously knew their way around the building, was able to take and use internal envelopes and evidence bags, and was able to find Agent Mulder's office in order to leave the two body parts there."

Skinner nodded. That much was obvious. "But why leave the body parts in the basement for Agent Mulder to find, especially since anyone with that much internal access ought to have been able to find out that he - and you - were out of town for several days? They must have sat in the hallway for at least three days."

"Closer to five," that was Mulder's first contribution. He shrugged as four pairs of eyes turned to focus on him. "From the amount of dust on them."

Colton chuckled slightly, muttering under his breath. "How could you tell?"

His partner, Skinner and Scully threw him impatient looks, Mulder simply ignored him the way someone might ignore a buzzing fly. His mind was occupied with another question.

"And why me?" He glanced over at his partner. "Or Scully, I suppose. But I think they were meant for me to find."

"Maybe the perp just wanted to dump them somewhere they wouldn't be found for a while, and the fact that it was outside your door was an accident," Colton interrupted in a sharp-edged voice. "Maybe it has absolutely nothing to do with you."

Mulder considered that for a moment, then shook his head.

"No, it wasn't an accident. The killer is trying to communicate with me...somehow..." His brow crinkled as his voice trailed off. He bit at his lower lip in concentration, then he looked up at Skinner. "I'll start piecing together a profile but it would help to have full access to the case files, and to the cases that both agents were presently working on. And..."

"No way!" Colton broke in, getting to his feet. "This is my case. We don't need your interference." He glared at Mulder, who slowly, languidly eased himself to his feet.

Towering over the shorter agent, Mulder leaned down and stage-whispered. "I think you need all the help you can get." Then he turned and stepped closer to Skinner's desk.

"Look, the killer has already involved Agent Scully and myself. For some reason, he wants my attention. And while I don't particularly like giving this guy the attention he craves, I doubt he is going to give up now. If we ignore this now, he'll simply try again - and I think he is likely to escalate."

"The whole world doesn't revolve around you, Mulder," Colton snarled. "There is no evidence that the killer meant to involve you. The bags ending up outside your door was pure coincidence. Hell, the guy probably thought he was dumping them outside the maintenance supply room."

"Yeah, that's right Colton," Mulder replied with taunting humor. "All supply rooms have a plaque on the door that say Special Agent on them. Whether you like it or not, Scully and I are involved in this case."

"I won't have you interfering in my investigation!" Colton bellowed. "I've already had to pick up the pieces after you once!"

That finally did it, and though Mulder's fury was self- contained, he gave off waves of sheer electricity as he glowered down at Colton, stepping up to stand bare inches from the other man. Jabbing at his chest, Mulder spoke in a cold, steely tone.

"The only mess was one that YOU made, and it almost cost Scully her life. Your damn-fool arrogant stupidity almost got my partner killed!"

"That is enough!" Skinner roared. Colton jerked around to face his angry superior, while Scully tugged at Mulder who was still staring with nearly coal-black eyes at Colton. He resisted her attempt to pull him back, then gave in when she persisted, his shoulders working tensely as he turned towards her uplifted, pleading face.

Silence fell, then Skinner pronounced judgment.

"This remains Colton and Greenstein's case, they will proceed with their investigation as planned." Colton preened, breaking out into a smile of triumph that instantly fell into an angry scowl as Skinner continued to speak. "However, I expect Agent Scully to continue with the forensics aspect of the case, and I want Mulder to pursue a psychological profile of the killer. All of the case files will be made available to him, and I expect to see the result on this desk in an appropriate period of time. I expect full cooperation from all of you on this case. I don't give a damn if you're not going to be racquetball buddies - but I do expect you to work together in a professional manner. Two agents are dead. I want this killer caught before there are more. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" Scully and Greenstein spoke in unison. Colton bit off the same words. Mulder simply inclined his head. Skinner sighed, it would have to do. Sitting back down at his desk, he waved his hand at them.

"Dismissed."

Next Day

The FBI was abuzz with rumors. Fear mixed with curiosity, leaving clusters of agents whispering intently over desks, water cooler, bathroom sinks. People mixed and wandered, each looking at the other with just that slight edge of uncertainty. A killer stalking the halls of the FBI itself was enough to unnerve the most experienced of agents. If you couldn't trust your own, who could you trust?

But Ezekiel passed his day in comfortable anonymity. Finishing up the last details of the case that had held him preoccupied for the past week, he finally found some time to sit at his desk, relax and think. His mind circled itself, running around and around. Bits and pieces of conversation floated around his cubicle, most focused on the two deaths, some on the investigating team itself. Of course, Mulder and Scully had become involved - that was only as it should be. But to have Colton in charge of the case - no - that could not be borne. Ezekiel had known from the beginning that he was sacrificing himself, and had little fear of that eventuality. He welcomed it. But not like this.

Memory flew him backwards on beating wings. The face of his mother as she lay dying centered in front of his eyes. She looked up at him, her eyes almost bruiselike in their color amid the white, wrinkled parchment of her skin. Her hand clutched on his hand, then pulled away, as she stared at things he could not see. He had knelt there, praying, as he had for so much of his childhood, to be given the gift to see what she did. To see the glory of God's angels as they hovered around his mother's deathbed, to see their wings beating as they took her soul away to heaven.

But there was nothing for him, for as always his soul was tainted by his father's evil. The shadow of a father he had never seen, but who had left him with a smudge of the devil in his heart, a darkness that kept him from seeing the light of God as his mother did. As the others of his mother's faith did. How jealous he had been of them, as they collapsed and writhed in the hands of God, speaking in the tongues of the ancients, glowing with the knowledge that their savior was within. And he, always alone on the outside. Praying, begging, for some sign of welcoming that had never come. Until now.

The moment he had set eyes on the tall, intense agent whose words held such power, whose eyes burned as though a fire raged within, he had known in an instant of certainty so pure it stole the breath from his lungs. His time had come at last. In the service of this Chosen One, he could finally redeem himself of the taint of his father's evil and purify his soul for the meeting with God. And perhaps, his mother would be there, when it became his turn to ascend to the heavens, her eyes finally shining with the pride he had never before earned from her.

But not this way, not at the hands of that devil-spawn Colton. No, it must be at the hands of God's earthly angel that he left this flesh and went to meet his maker. Then the realization struck him that again, things were indeed as they should be. For his tasks were not yet done. There was more, much more for him to do before the time came for him to fall at Mulder's feet. And Colton, yes, his heart ached with a burst of pleasure, then he buried his head in his hands, sending up a silent prayer begging for forgiveness for the gladness in his heart. But for all his search for humbleness, he could not fully mask the joy he felt at the thought of crushing that demon with a pretty face and sending him to burn in the fires of hell.

Afternoon
FBI Files and Records Department

Special Agent Tom Colton walked briskly down the hallway, ignoring the glances that swung in his wake. His face bent into a scowl, his mind kept reviewing the meeting that morning. Damn that lunatic Mulder, and to hell with Skinner too. He would solve this case without them, and finally win his bump up the ladder. It had taken months to get past the Tooms fiasco, and now that he was back on the VCS's fast track, he intended to make it take him all the way. No one was going to stand in his way!

He stepped around a corner and entered the huge quiet file room, his mind barely on the pursuit at hand. Normally, he'd have sent someone else to do the busy work of pulling the personnel records of the people recorded present in the building during both deaths, but this case was too important. He needed to catch this killer and quickly before Mulder could steal the credit.

Brusquely giving the yawning clerk his authorization to enter, he waited impatiently as the young woman tapped at the computer in front her then turned and stamped his pass. With barely a muttered thank you, he hurried around her desk and stalked down into the seemingly endless rows of paper folders, lined up in shelf after towering shelf. Behind him the clerk threw him an irritated glance, then settled down to continue her interrupted game of Tetris.

An hour later, her eyes focused tightly on the computer screen, she barely noticed the thin young agent who hurried past, waving him by absent-mindedly as she instantly recognized the thin narrow face with its shock of sandy- colored hair. He waved back at her, then slipped quickly into the files.

At her desk, the clerk never wavered from her games, except to answer the phone. In the midst of one of those brief conversations, her mouth tightened in annoyance at the impossible demands echoing in her ears, the corner of her eye caught the slender young man as he hurried out, his hands clutching the file he had retrieved from the 'vault.' She grimaced at him as he passed, and gained a quick, shy smile in return. And moments later, she had forgotten he had been there at all, so familiar was his presence, and so preoccupied was she with a sudden influx of calls for information.

When the day finally ended, she watched the computer screen turn blank as she switched it off. Then she gathered up her coat and purse, and scurried out the door, locking it behind her. Her only thoughts were focused on the dinner ahead and the movie she had picked up on her lunch hour. "Interview with A Vampire"...nothing like a cozy night curled up on her couch with Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt for company. A stray wish for a live man to share it with impinged on her thoughts, but no memory of the agent who had entered her domain so many hours before, and had never come back out, ever cluttered her mind.

X-Files Division
Two Days Later

Crunching on a sunflower seed, Mulder looked up as the door opened to admit his partner, her arms overflowing with envelopes and files.

"Need a hand?" he asked, swinging his chair around towards her, though he remained seated. She walked over, dumped the mail in his lap, dropped the files on the pile in front of him, then leaned back against the edge of the desk.

"Sure, most of that's yours anyway."

He grimaced, tossing most of it up onto the cluttered desk, then swooping down to retrieve a few scattered pieces off the dusty floor.

Watching him, Scully smiled softly, an expression of pure warmth that faded into seriousness as he sat back up, throwing two pieces of obvious junk mail in the general direction of the wastebasket.

"By the way, have you heard from Colton recently?" she asked.

His head jerked up from his perusal of yellow interoffice envelope, his eyes focusing intently on her face.

"Are you kidding? He's been trying to avoid me all week, and I still don't have the complete case files I need to write my profile." He frowned, then looked at her sharply.

"Why?"

Scully sighed, tucking her bright hair behind her ears.

"No one is able to find him. Greenstein is going nuts, and Skinner is on a rampage - apparently Colton missed a meeting with him."

Mulder grimaced, then got to his feet, still clutching the now forgotten envelope in his hand. Scully watched him silently, recognizing his movement as a reflection of his mind's frenetic pace. It was as though he needed to release a flood of energy, the wheels turning in his mind forcing his body ahead of it - letting out the pressure of its own effort through the muscles below.

"It's not like Colton to miss a chance to kiss the AD's butt," he said dryly, though his expression was abstracted, his face taking on the look she had dubbed as his 'I've lost my keys' look. The one where he was just on the edge of putting the pieces together. So she sat back and waited patiently for him to work it through.

"And this investigation is too important, he wouldn't just abandon it." Mulder was talking aloud, but Scully knew he wasn't really speaking to her, he was simply expending energy again, letting the words coalesce into meaning as he spoke.

"So something must have happened to prevent him. But what? Why Colton?" He stopped in mid step, one foot still raised, then he dropped it to the floor and spun to face her. "Of course, Colton, of course. It had to be..."

"Had to be what, Mulder?" Scully broke in, her patience beginning to fade.

"Colton had to be the next victim!" he exclaimed, waving the interoffice mail folder at her, his eyes alight with discovery. "I couldn't figure out what the connection was between Connolly and Kavorski. They never worked together, probably didn't even know each other. The Bureau isn't that small, and Connolly had only been in Washington a couple weeks. So I assumed they were random choices. Taken because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I knew that didn't feel right, Scully." He rubbed at his chin with his empty hand, then came over to sit on the edge of the desk facing her.

"The killings themselves were almost - well, sloppy. Quick and easy. As though they were a chore that had to be gotten out of the way. But the taking of the hand and the eye, that part was well-thought out. It was done for a reason. To send a message. The deaths were less important than the symbolism of the mutilations. Or that is what I thought." His voice faded out, his eyes focusing on empty space, as though reading invisible writing suspended in the air itself.

"But you don't think that now?" Scully prompted. He jerked in response to her words, then turned to look at her again.

"Why send the body parts to me? A demand for attention, of course. But why me?"

"Despite your penchant for weird cases, Mulder, you're still considered one of the best behavioral analysts in the Bureau."

Mulder smiled and nodded gravely at the complement, then his expression turned wry. "An opinion not exactly shared by either Connolly or Kavorski, though. Or by Colton. To say the least."

Scully stared at him, her eyes widening, but not quite able to put it into words. So he did it for her, his voice grave and certain, though he couldn't suppress the shiver that shook his slender frame.

"Someone has decided to start killing my enemies. I think the gifts were not a demand for attention or a challenge, I think they were some kind of sick tribute."

"But why? And who?" Scully's voice rose at the end of her question, while her skin bleached.

Mulder shook his head, walking around her to sit back down in his chair with an almost imperceptible sigh. His eyes were dark pools of granite as he returned her wide-eyed gaze.

"I don't know. But my guess is that Colton's body will turn up soon as will..." His eyes suddenly focused on the envelope still in his hand.

"Mulder?" Scully asked as he cautiously placed the envelope down on the edge of the desk and undid the flap. She moved to lean over his shoulder, as he poked at the inside of the yellow folder with the tip of a pencil. His breath catching in his throat as the probe met resistance, he snagged the bag inside and carefully, slowly, drew it out.

"Oh my God," Scully whispered as Mulder displayed the clear plastic evidence bag with its small, pitiful contents.

"He took the tongue."

It took more than a few hours to search the FBI complex for the missing agent's body. The one piece they had, that particular, gruesome little piece of flesh, sat in sad isolation in the path labs while teams of agents scoured the nooks and crannies of the sprawling building for its former owner.

Finally, the body was discovered, wedged into a dark corner of the vault - the massive storage facility for decades of Bureau paperwork. Scully took charge of it quickly, and Mulder was grateful to be able to stand back, a silent figure on the edge of the scene. Absorbing it all with the eye of a trained investigator, it was still difficult to ignore the series of pinpricks that ran up and down his spine. A chill seeped through his bones, forcing him to unconsciously draw his jacket tighter around him as he watched the body being sealed up into the inevitable black bag.

And then there was the sensation of being watched. Eyes, curious, hostile, watching, focused on the back of his neck - not just those of the unknown killer. His stormy, bitter relationship with Colton had been fodder for Bureau gossip, and this was only adding fuel to the fire of speculation. And he couldn't really blame them. He knew he was at the center of these deaths, that certainty pounding at his heart with a familiar weight of guilt. Could he have missed something important? Seen something, done something, noticed something, anything, that could have prevented this from happening?

Frozen in place, his eyes pinned to the spot where the body had lain, unnoticed, for two days, Mulder didn't notice Scully beside him until she closed a small hand on his elbow and gently tugged.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently.

He shook himself, almost like a wet dog, then turned to look down at her.

"Yeah."

She shot him a disbelieving look, but said quietly,

"Come on, let's go."

He nodded and followed her down the aisle.

Office of the Assistant Director
Next Morning

Skinner was not happy. He had three dead agents, the FBI director breathing fire down his neck, and a room full of uneasy agents, and no goddam leads. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, the AD ignored the stares of the men in his office and eyed the door with well-concealed irritation. Where the hell were they?

As though in direct answer to his unspoken command, the door opened to admit a pair of agents. Mulder was a tall, dark shadow behind his fiery-haired partner, his skin peaked, eyes dark sunken pools. Scully, however, was all business, and throwing her partner only one quick glance of concern, she launched into her report.

"Agent Colton was killed by strangulation. Initial examination of the body suggests that he was first struck a non-fatal blow on the back of the skull with a blunt instrument." She paused, carefully considering her words. "Without further examination, I can't be sure...but I'd guess it was the butt of a handgun or pistol. Regardless, once Colton was rendered unconscious, his tie was used to constrict his windpipe until he died of asphyxiation. Based on the lack of extensive bleeding, I'd say that his tongue was removed following death rather than before. It seems likely that the tongue delivered to Agent Mulder this morning is the one missing from the body, though that is yet to be officially confirmed. I'd estimate the time of death to be somewhere between forty-two and forty-eight hours prior to discovery of the body. With any luck we'll have more information after the autopsy."

Skinner nodded, then looked pointedly at Greenstein who was standing in the corner. The bulky agent stepped forward, then paused, his hands unable to stay still. He tapped at his tie, his sides, brushed at his hair, then suddenly stilled.

"The last time I saw Colton was two days ago. I was running down a lead from Connolly's latest case, which took me away from the building until late last night. He wasn't at his desk when I got in, but I figured that he'd already gone home. But when he didn't show up this morning, I called his wife, and she told me that he'd not come home in two days. She was nearly frantic, since he always called if he couldn't make it home. That got me worried, and I started looking for him. About noon, Agent Scully called to say that Mulder had received another body part and that he thought it was Colton's. So we grabbed some people and started a more thorough search. We found him in a corner of the 'vault'."

"Surely, he must have checked in and out of the file room?" Skinner asked.

"Yes, sir." The reply came from another agent, a middle-aged man with alert brown eyes and curly blond hair that fell back from a deeply receding hairline. "That is," he corrected himself, "Agent Colton is recorded as having checked in at 1:17 pm, but there is no record of him leaving. The front-desk clerk does remember him coming in, but things got busy that afternoon, and she apparently forgot he was in there."

"Forgot!?" Skinner frowned mightily.

"Yes, sir," the curly-haired agent continued. "We have the list of people who went into the file room between Colton's entry yesterday and the discovery of his body this afternoon, but I'm afraid that it may not be complete. The clerk was called away from her desk more than once during that time, and there were a large number of requests coming through. She and the rest of the file room staff were kept hopping that afternoon. So someone could have easily gotten in without being seen."

Skinner opened his mouth to begin a tirade on the failure to follow proper procedure and security precautions, but clamped his lips down tight, swallowing the words. This was not the time. Instead he nodded gravely, then focused his eyes on the tall man leaning against the office door.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder eased up out of his slouch, then hunched his shoulders slightly and stepped forward.

"Obviously, our perpetrator is an FBI insider. My guess would be a full agent rather than a secretary or clerk. He has access to the entire building, and knows his way around well. He is handy with tools, and is an expert at blending in. He probably looks like an average agent, a Caucasian male in his late twenties or early thirties, unmarried and doesn't date much. His colleagues probably consider him a good, even diligent worker. Conscientious, thorough, dedicated, and easy to get along with, he is likely to go out of his way to be friendly, especially to the staff. The secretaries probably adore him."

Mulder paused, running a slender hand through his straight dark hair, closed his eyes briefly, then continued to speak.

"The killings themselves were quick, almost haphazard. Seemingly disorganized. The manner of death is different in each case, a knife wound in the chest, a wire through the jugular, strangulation after a blow to the head. No pattern there, and I think the means of death is not considered important, rather as a messy chore that must be done. What IS important to the killer is the mutilation. Here he becomes more organized - more patterned. The taking of the hand, the eye, and the tongue has significant meaning. It takes time and planning to remove them, with added risk of discovery given the increased time at the scene. Therefore, he was careful in his planning of the attacks, picking locations in which he could be assured enough time to finish without being disturbed.

"The first trophy wasn't sent to me immediately, it was held until the second killing, then both were sent at once. I'd guess that idea came later. The first killing was an experiment, and taking the hand may have been an afterthought. He was more prepared for the second one, and then decided to send the pieces on to me. They are meant to communicate something specific - something *I* am supposed to understand."

Mulder frowned. "The killer is directing this at me specifically. But I don't think it is meant as a threat. A challenge perhaps, daring me to catch him. That's possible..." His voice trailed off, his eyes focused on empty air, staring off over Skinner's shoulder. Aware and yet unaware of his audience, almost as though he were talking to himself.

"But more likely, he is trying to give me a message of some kind. The choice of body parts is vital, as is the fact that he chooses victims who have had public confrontations with me. Connolly and I had our share of disagreements in Memphis, Kavorski and I had an argument barely a week before he was killed, and Colton - well..." A quick wry grin quirked at the corners of his mouth, then his lips settled into a thin line.

"As for the meaning of the mutilations. Cutting off the right hand could be a punishment for a theft of some kind. Or related to some action the killer perceives Connolly as responsible for. The taking of Kavorski's eye seems obvious, a statement that Kavorski was blind to something the killer thinks he ought to have seen. Taking Colton's tongue is either a way to shut him up, or a punishment for something he said." Mulder stretched his head back, as though relieving tension in his shoulders and neck. "Of course, they could be meant as part of an over-all pattern the killer is trying to make, but if so, I can't yet see what it is. What I do know is that he's escalating. He didn't start sending the trophies to me until after the second death, but he sent the tongue on to me even before Colton's body was found. The first two deaths were carefully committed while I was out of town, this one was done with me here. And the timing between deaths is getting shorter. I'd say he's already getting psyched up for the next one."

Mulder bit at his lower lip, then focused a burning pair of eyes on Skinner's impassive face.

"And he's close by. I'm certain he's someone I know, maybe even someone in this office right now." He slowly, silently stared from one face to another. Some met him straight on, others shuffled, their own eyes darting away from the disturbing intensity of his gaze.

Skinner broke the silence, clearing his throat, then issuing a series of brisk instructions. Everyone in the building was to be questioned, and the results cross-checked by teams of agents working in threesomes. Special attention was to be paid to those who were in on the Memphis slasher case, and on those who knew Agent Mulder personally. Greenstein would be coordinating, but regular progress reports were to be made to Skinner himself. Meanwhile, Scully was to coordinate the forensics effort, with priority given to the autopsy on Colton.

When he was finished, Skinner leaned back in his chair and waved a hand in dismissal. The agents filed from the room in pairs and groups, whispers and unsubtle glances directed at Mulder who had stepped off to the side. His hands dug into his pants pockets, Mulder stood quietly, almost melting into the wall, until he and Scully were the last to remain in the room. She placed a hand on his arm, her fingers wide-spread across his biceps.

"Let's go," she told him softly. He nodded, and moved to follow her towards the door. But before they could exit Skinner spoke abruptly.

"Agent Mulder, could I have a minute."

Mulder stopped abruptly, stood still with his shoulders squared for a long tense second, then he turned around.

"Yes, sir" he replied softly. Scully remained silent by his side.

"Was that really necessary?" Skinner asked, leaning back in his chair to look up at the tall agent.

"Was what really necessary?" Mulder echoed.

Skinner's jaw twitched, then he leaned forward.

"Tension is high enough in the Bureau right now without you throwing around unsubstantiated accusations."

"Unsubstantiated?" Now Mulder stepped forward, his eyes sparking. "Someone here is a murderer, and it could well be someone working on this case. You know as well as I do that serial killers often have a fascination for law enforcement and may get involved with their own cases."

"That may be so, but even if you were right - it was not the time or place...

"So let me know when it is the time and place? In the meantime I've got a murderer to catch." He turned as though to leave, and was again stalled by Skinner's voice.

"No."

"No?" Mulder echoed again, this time with obvious sarcasm.

"No," Skinner was implacable. "I think it would be best if you stepped back from this investigation."

"No way!" Mulder was just as determined. His eyes darkened to coal. "I'm in the middle of this. The killer sent his little gifts to me, remember. Those men were killed because of me. I may not know why yet, but there is no way I could walk away from this even if I wanted to." His lips curled up into a bitter smile. "He won't let me."

Skinner shook his head.

"First, there is no real evidence that the killer is focused on you." Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but Skinner forestalled him, waving his hand in the air between them. "There could be other reasons he sent the body parts to you. As you said yourself, it could be a challenge. Or it could be a set-up. You do realize that about half the Bureau thinks that you are responsible for these killings."

Mulder's face darkened, but Scully interrupted, pushing herself between the two men.

"Sir, that is impossible. Mulder was in Cleveland during the first murder and in Seattle during the second. There are plenty of witnesses to that, including myself."

Skinner sighed.

"I know that, you know that...but people are scared and angry. They are looking for someone to blame and ...Mulder... you have hardly gone out of your way to make friends. If I let you in on this investigation it will only make a bad situation worse."

"It's only going to get worse, period." Mulder stated coldly. "And I don't give a damn what 'people' think. He's going to kill again, and again, until he is stopped. That goon squad of yours isn't going to catch this guy - he's too smart."

"You are not the only agent in the Bureau capable of solving a case."

"But I am the one the killer has chosen to communicate with. He's someone close to me. Someone I know. I can feel it." Mulder gestured vehemently, his usually generous mouth drawn tight with frustration.

"If you are right, then that is all the more reason for you to step back away from this. You're too close to it. That's final." Skinner was adamant. "By all means finish your profile, but I don't want you involved in any other way."

"Sir," Scully interrupted. "I think we need to take one more possibility into consideration. As Agent Mulder mentioned before, the sending of the mutilated parts to him could be construed as either a challenge or a threat. We can't underestimate the danger he might be in. I think we should set up some protection for him."

"What? Place me under guard? Is that it?" Mulder's voice dripped bitterness, his face set in stone.

"Mulder..." her voice was soft, pleading. "Please...what if he comes for you? What if he's sending you a warning, trying to scare you before he attacks. We can't rule out that possibility." She pressed her hand against his arm, he jerked away.

"No." Mulder was dead certain. "He's not trying to hurt me. He wants to tell me something. He's trying to communicate with me. I just haven't deciphered all the clues yet. But I will." He spun on his heels and marched out the door.

"Mulder!" Skinner barked, getting to his feet. Scully put her hand up between them, signaling for him to stop. He paused and looked at her.

"Let me talk to him, sir. Please."

Skinner thought for a second, then nodded.

"All right. But keep him away from the investigation. Tempers are high right now and the dead agents had a lot of friends. Friends who are angry and looking for a scapegoat."

"I understand, sir," Scully responded, then she turned and hurried after her partner, trying not to run.

X-Files Division

She found him in his office, seated at his desk, staring off into space. Closing the door behind her, she walked up to him. "Mulder..."

"He's close Scully. I can feel him." He angled his head to look up at her, his eyes glinting green in the soft light. "I can feel him."

"I know." She perched herself on the edge of the desk, unconsciously tucking her hair behind her ear. "And that is all the more reason to take Skinner's advice."

"You mean his orders," Mulder replied brusquely.

"Well, he IS our boss," she reminded him gently. Mulder grimaced, then got up to begin pacing the room. Back and forth, like a caged tiger caught in too small a space, yet marking what space there was as his own.

"I can't just pretend this isn't happening Scully."

"No one is asking you to. Work on your profile, Mulder. Think about the case, but leave the leg-work to Greenstein. It's what you do best anyway."

He shrugged his shoulders, bending his neck from one side to another. Then he rested an arm on the top of a filing cabinet and stared at her for a moment. "They really think I might have done this, don't they?"

Scully answered as gently as she could. "No one really thinks that, it's just that they're upset. People aren't thinking too clearly. They want someone to blame..."

"And I'm an easy target. Yup, ole Spooky has finally gone around the bend this time." His voice was light, almost playful, but she knew him well enough to read the anguish in his stance. His entire body was one coiled spring, taut and ready to explode.

"They'll find the killer. There is a finite number of people who have that kind of access to this building. In the meantime, you just have to try to relax. Let Skinner and Greenstein do their jobs while you do yours. Though right now, I think what you need is some sleep. You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?"

Mulder shook his head.

"No. I'm not tired." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "And I've still got that profile to finish." He walked around her and sat back down at his desk. Picking up his pen, he looked at it for a moment, then sighed and turned his eyes up to her warm face.

"I'm missing something, Scully. He's trying to tell me something and I can't hear it. He's right here, and I can't see him. He's so close."

"Maybe he's too close, Mulder. I think Skinner was right about that. You're way too close to this investigation. You need to step back and let someone with some distance handle it."

"I can't Scully. If I don't figure this out, someone else is going to die. Soon."

"You don't really have a choice. Skinner said you were not to be involved, he meant it." Scully brushed his shoulder with her hand, almost reaching up to sweep the loose dark bangs off his forehead, but her hand wavered in mid-air and then withdrew before completing the caress. Her voice was soft and resigned as she added. "I've got an autopsy to finish. Why don't you go home and try to sleep. You won't do anyone any good if you're asleep on your feet."

Mulder pursed his lips, then sighed.

"Maybe in a little while," he offered.

She smiled a mixture of warmth and resignation, knowing full well he wasn't going anywhere. Going to the door, she stopped before she left the room to give him one more word of caution.

"Be careful, Mulder."

He nodded and waved. She left. And he sat alone in the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent light, pen clasped tightly in his hand, his eyes staring out at something not quite there.

Computer Crimes Division

Several floors higher, Ezekiel Withers was ostensibly busy at work on his computer console, tracing the lines of evidence in a computerized bank fraud case. Normally it was just the kind of case he loved, the kind he excelled at. He was the FBI's best in these investigations, he knew that with a sense of fatalistic recognition. He wasn't particularly proud of his skills, they just were. Surface phenomena that didn't cut to the heart of his soul. The sounds echoing in his ear did.

His Walkman earphones pressed to his ears, the wire ran down his chest and into his desk drawer. Anyone who bothered to look would simply assume that they were attached to a tape or CD player out of sight in the drawer. Only the young man listening intently as his fingers ran automatically over the keyboard in front of him knew that it was something entirely different.

Instead of the soft refrains of music, he heard a woman's voice say softly, "You don't really have a choice. Skinner said you were not to be involved, he meant it." A short silence followed, and then she continued, "....if you're asleep on your feet." This time her voice was sincere and concerned, gentle and throaty. Reaching out to the man whose reply was short and indeterminate.

Ezekiel savored each of those few words

"Maybe...in...a...little...while...", wishing for more, but it didn't come. One last echo of the woman's voice then silence descended on his ears. Silence broken only by the occasional tap-tap of a pen against wood and the faint echo of a man's breath.

Stabbing at the keyboard, Ezekiel found the quietness soothing. Somehow even in that lack of sound, he could still sense the mind within it working. If he closed his own eyes briefly, he could see the man seated at his desk, his long- limbed body sprawled in the old wooden chair, perhaps with his head cocked slightly to the side.

Finally, Ezekiel reached into the desk drawer and rewound the tape, repeating the conversation again and again, stopping every so often to check for signs of activity in the basement office. There was nothing, leaving him to concentrate with increasing fury on the meaning of the words he had previously ignored in favor of their very sound.

Skinner had taken Mulder off the case? Mulder was being blamed for the deaths? No. No. No. That was wrong, so very, very wrong. Anger boiled in his chest. Those fools. That damned bureaucrat of an assistant director. Yes, this was Skinner's fault. He was more than willing to use Mulder, sending him off on the most dangerous of cases, risking his life and limb, but only when it suited the pleasure of the earthly powers and their satanic master.

And how very clever to slide the blame for these deaths onto Mulder's already overburdened shoulders. Nail the innocent to the cross, let him pay for the sins of others. But not this time. This time God was ready to see His Chosen One protected, and Ezekiel himself would be the instrument of that purpose. First, the Assistant Director, and then the others, would suffer for their sins.

Before he could begin to plan further, voices sounded from down below.

X-Files Division

Mulder jerked in response to the sudden sharp knock on the office door. His mind still focused on the case, it took him a moment to remember where he was, then he got to his feet and walked over to the entrance-way. Opening the door, he found himself facing a pair of men in navy blue suits, both with FBI nearly etched across their foreheads. Barely stifling the impulse to ask them why they weren't wearing their sunglasses, he remained standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other hanging loose by his side. Tall shoulders held high, he blocked them from view of the room behind him.

"Yes?" he demanded abruptly.

"Agent Mulder?" The shorter of the two asked, shifting slightly on his feet.

Mulder simply nodded, staring at them with barely concealed impatience.

The other man responded this time, his eyes a faded blue behind small wire-framed glasses. "Agents Harper and Tibbit. Assistant Director Skinner assigned us to you as security."

"Security?" Mulder echoed blankly, then his face hardened bleakly. "Forget it," he tried to close the door, but Agent Harper got his foot into the doorway and stopped it short.

"We're under orders, sir, not to let you out of our sight, especially in this building. The Assistant Director believes that you may be the next target of the FBI killer."

Mulder snorted. "The Assistant Director is full of shit." Releasing the door, he ignored the shocked look on the two men's faces and turned away. "But never let it be said I ignored his orders," he added wryly, reaching for his coat.

"Look...," Tibbit began, but Mulder waved him off, donning his overcoat, then pushing past them into the hall. "Close the door behind you, please," he instructed over his shoulder, his long legs eating up the hallway as he strode away.

The streets of Washington DC
Early Evening

The pavement was hard beneath his feet, but the wind in his face was exhilarating. Mulder ran like a gazelle, legs eating up the ground, his arms pumping at his sides. His breathing steadied, instinctively matching to his pace. God, how he loved to run. This was freedom, the air rushing past him, the cool wind stinging his cheeks and his lungs, the streets rushing past in a blur of shapes and shadows. He sometimes felt that he could run forever, just keep going until he hit the end of the world.

His route so engrained that he could have followed it in his sleep, he was able to let his mind wander. A vivid slideshow of images shot across his field of vision, each captured and preserved by his perfect memory, each bringing with it a kaleidoscope of emotions, sounds, and smells. He was close to the answer now, very close. And that thought brought with it another image, one of a woman's heart-shaped face, stubborn slightly pointed chin framed by a wing of bright copper hair. Scully. She had said he was too close to this case, and he knew she was right. But that was as much a strength as a weakness for him, though he knew she'd never understand.

It was his ability to get close to these killers, to see the world through their eyes, or through the eyes of their victims, that had given him some of his greatest successes. Painful, yes it often hurt even more than he could have ever expressed. Sometimes it felt as though they were still within him, the psychopaths with their twisted, skewed views of reality. And the victims, he felt them too. Their anguish was as much as part of him as the air he breathed. But it was a gift, a talent he could use to save lives, to keep more innocents from falling under the butcher's knife. He couldn't save the ones already lost, but every one he could save tipped the balance in his favor, paying back some of the failure he would live with for the rest of his life. If he couldn't save his Samantha, he could at least try to save someone else's.

A familiar knife twisted in his gut, then was gone in a final burst of speed. Now everything was focused down into the motion itself, each impact of his foot on the solid ground, each breath of cold air burning into his lungs. Another and another and another. On and on...until he came to an abrupt stop, bending down, his hands clasped onto his knees, his face tilted towards the ground.

His eyes watered for a moment, then refocused on the dusty gray expanse of concrete. Where was he? He stood up, wiping the sweat out of his eyes with the back of a ropey forearm, the muscles bundled under taught skin. He was in the park, which meant he had managed to run nearly four miles. And in response to the thought, his body suddenly felt the effect of its exertion.

Taking a deep breath, he looked around for the babysitters Skinner had insisted on assigning to him, but there was no sign of the one who had been running behind him or of their FBI-issue blue car. In fact, he appeared to be alone in the approaching dusk. Guess I must have lost them, he thought, chuckling under his breath as he broke into a gentle walk, slowly working down the muscles as he moved. Skinner was going to be furious!

And then it hit him in a sudden flash of understanding. An instant of pure recognition, nearly blinding in its intensity. Skinner. Of course. His eyes darting around him, he focused on the familiar metro sign in the distance, then broke back into a gallop. He had to get to Skinner now.

Two miles away

Tibbit groaned, rubbing at his aching side. "Damn, that man can run!"

Harper glanced at his partner with open amusement. Eyeing his partners short, albeit muscular frame, he teased. "I think he has about a foot's worth of leg space on you."

Tibbit glared back, always a little sensitive about his height. He had been an all-star offensive lineman in college, and being passed up by the NFL because of his height still rankled. So he was a little short, so what? Harper grinned, then straightened in his seat, pulling the car up to the side of the road.

"Well, we've certainly lost him." He sighed. "Skinner is going to have our asses for dinner."

Tibbit frowned, staring around the darkening street.

"This is ridiculous. I can't believe we're stuck playing babysitter for that kook."

"That kook is one of the Bureau's best agents. I saw him in action on a case down in Raleigh. His profile was so dead on that it gave me shivers. It was like he could see things no one else could. And with three agents already dead..."

"Who's to say Mulder didn't do it himself? I heard that he had had fights with all three before they got hacked."

Harper shook his head. "Na, Mulder was on the opposite side of the country when the first two murders happened. Unless you think he was able to teleport here and back, there's no way he could have done it."

Tibbit shifted in his seat, stretching out an aching calf.

"Well, considering the way he disappeared right in front of us, I'd almost believe it."

"Start thinking things like that and you'll end up in the basement working with Spooky himself." Harper chuckled.

Tibbit frowned. "Don't even think it..." He shivered.

"Still, the man gives me the creeps. Did you see the way he looked at us before he started running?"

"He was just playing with our heads. Probably got a kick out of dumping us. Bet you ten bucks he's sitting in a bar somewhere right now laughing in his beer." He pulled the car away from the curb, bringing it around in a U-turn to head back the way they had come.

Tibbit nodded reluctantly. "No bet." He sighed loudly, then added fatalistically, "Skinner is going to kick our butts."

Office of the Assistant Director
FBI Headquarters

Skinner put down the file he was reading and glanced at his wrist-watch. Quarter after seven. Stifling a yawn, he got up from his desk, stretching out the sore muscles in his back. Definitely time to head for the gym. He liked to work out at least five times a week, though sometimes his schedule just didn't permit the time. Still, for a man his age, and one desk- bound to boot, he had managed to stay in pretty good shape.

Donning his coat, he made sure he had his keys, then stepped through the door. As he locked the door, he found himself wondering just how Mulder had reacted to Tibbit and Harper. Making the assignment had been a difficult decision, weighing the effect of how it would look - like Mulder really was a suspect - against the likelihood that Scully's fears for her partner were real. In the end, the value of Mulder's life had tipped the scales. With any luck they'd catch the psycho soon, which would clear the situation. And give Skinner a brief respite.

Striding down the hall, then waiting semi-patiently in the elevator, the tall, imposing Assistant Director still couldn't escape a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This storm was hardly over, and he couldn't help being afraid for the man caught in the middle. How had one difficult, rebellious subordinate come to mean so much to him? Shaking his head as though to banish the thoughts, he checked out of the FBI building and headed for his car. Never once noticing the thin shadow following close behind.

Mulder ignored the stares that followed him as he ran for the elevator. He knew he was sweaty, the old torn Oxford tee-shirt sticking tightly to his damp chest and arms. The sweatpants were stained and grimy, and his hair was very likely sticking up on end. But his appearance was the least of his concerns. If he was right, then Skinner was in serious danger.

Bounding out of the elevator, he raced for the AD's office, only to find it closed and dark. Frustrated, he banged loudly on the outer door. Come on, damnit, still be there! But there was no answer; the hallway was silent except for the low snickers emanating from a pair of agents walking past.

Finally giving up, he leaned one hand against the door, rubbing at his sticky neck with the other. He had no proof that Skinner was in any danger, and if he tried to call out the cavalry and was wrong, Skinner would be furious. But somehow Mulder knew he was right. Turning around, he ran back for the elevator. With any luck Scully would still be in the building.

X-Files Division

Dana Scully dropped into her chair, breathing a soft sigh of relief. As many autopsies as she had done in her career, many of them under far more difficult circumstances or on bodies so horribly damaged as to give anyone nightmares, conducting one on a man she had once considered a good friend was worse. Whatever else Tom Colton might have been, he had been full of life. The pale body laying stiffly on the metal operating table had been only a shadow of the man, a broken, damaged shell.

Closing her eyes, she grabbed hold of her professional detachment and slammed the shutters down into place. But before she could do anything more, the office door slammed open.

"Mulder?!" she exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at her frantic, dingy, sweat-soaked partner. As his intense eyes focused on her face, he slumped for a moment, then recovered in a burst of energy.

"Scully, thank God you're still here. We have to find Skinner!" He hurried over to the desk and began tossing things around.

"Wait...What's going on? Mulder!" She grabbed his arm, spinning him towards her.

"Skinner is going to be killed next. Tonight. But his office is closed and he doesn't answer his cellular phone. We've got to get over to his home."

"Skinner...but how? Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure!" Yanking out the big yellow phone book, he placed it on top of a pile and paged through it urgently. "Skinner....Skinner...Damn, he's not here. And Operations wouldn't give me his home address."

"Of course they wouldn't if you went in there acting like this. You've got to calm down."

Mulder met her eyes, watching him with deep concern.

"Yeah, yeah...you're right." Running a hand through his hair, he only sent it into worse disarray, the thick dark bangs blanketing his forehead, short strands curling against the back of his ears and neck.

"Look, I know this is just a hunch, but it all makes sense. Skinner is the next logical target, and I don't think our killer is going to wait any longer. He's got to be feeling the pressure. Hell, the whole Bureau is up in arms over this."

"OK, say you're right. What makes you think Skinner would be attacked anywhere but here in the building? All the others were done here."

"True, but security is tight, and Skinner is more likely to be noticed than the others were. It's easier to take him somewhere else. The deaths and their situation isn't that important to this guy. It's the choice of victim and the mutilation that matters."

Scully weighed his words for a moment, then came to a rapid decision. She'd seen his wild hunches proven right one time too many not to take this one seriously.

"All right, let me see what I can do."

Mulder sat down wearily in his chair as she reached for the phone, briefly wondering why he was so upset. There had been times he could have strangled the AD himself. Then he caught himself, sickened that the thought had even crossed his mind. True, he had thought that all of the victims deserved a good right punch in the nose, especially Colton. But not this. No one deserved this. Well, almost no one. And besides, Skinner really wasn't all that bad.

Mulder found himself reviewing his relationship with his boss over the past couple years. Rocky it had been, the two men aggravating each other on every level. Still, there had developed a kind of grudging respect. Perhaps in his own way, Skinner had tried to protect Mulder. He had given Mulder the X-Files back, and had been there when he was most needed, even after Mulder had belted him one. If only for that, Mulder owed him.

"Got it, thank you Sarah." Scully hung up the phone and turned to her partner. "I've got his home address, but apparently he usually goes to the gym on his way home. I've got that address too."

Mulder got back to his feet.

"The gym - why doesn't that surprise me?"

Scully chuckled, though she grabbed her own weapon from the desk drawer and carefully examined the clip before putting it in its holster at her waist. As she followed him out of the small office, she glanced at him, retorting coolly.

"Well, you certainly won't be out of place."

Capitol Health and Fitness
687 Grand Ave.
Washington DC

Hefting the gym bag over his shoulder, Walter Skinner left the warm and brightly lit interior of the health club for the chilly darkness of the parking lot. Dressed casually in jeans, sweater and dark blue jacket he looked less like a federal bureaucrat and more like a blue collar worker, big muscles still warmed by exertion, bald head glistening with a faint sheen of moisture from the shower. His determined stride eating up the concrete, he sighted his car in the corner and skirted around the edge of the lot to reach it.

The attack came seemingly out of nowhere, a sudden sweep of sound behind him, forcing him to turn, arm half- raised in instinctive protection. But he was not quite fast enough, and a hard metal object slammed down against the side of his head with a sharp crack. He staggered, the bag slipping off his shoulder to land on the concrete, while he dropped to his knees. Wrapping one arm protectively over the source of the excruciating pain, his other fumbled at his waist, reaching for his gun. His assailant was quicker, and chose to hit that elbow instead, sending a river of agony screeching up his arm, flooding down to the very tips of his fingers. But Skinner was a fighter, and he didn't give up easily, twisting aside, he pushed himself upwards, ignoring his glasses as they hung unevenly from one ear. He squinted into the shadows, hazed by a fog of pain as well as the cover of night, tightening his body into a ready crouch. Turning slowly, all he could make out was a narrow form, one long arm outstretched, moving towards him with bitter intent.

"HHEEELLLAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHUH," Skinner screamed, as it descended again, barely missing the side of his head, instead bouncing off his shoulder. He fell onto the wounded arm, a small part of his mind recognizing it was probably broken, then sliding into blessed unconsciousness.

His attacker breathed a sigh of triumph, only to freeze at the sound of footsteps behind him.

"Federal agents! Don't move!" cried a woman's voice. Sharp clicks warned of guns being cocked, and he turned on his heels and dove behind a nearby car. Rolling over, he stifled a groan as his shoulder hit the pavement hard, then he picked himself up and ran.

Behind him, he could hear voices shouting, and then the sound of footsteps racing after him. Drawing in deep drafts of the cold night air, he burst into a gallop, running as though the hounds of Hell were behind him, for in his mind, they were.

"Federal agents! Don't move!" Scully shouted at the first sight of the spindly silhouette, cloaked in darkness, raining blows down on an unmoving figure on the ground. It seemed to pause for an instant as she raised and pointed her gun, then it was gone, disappearing behind the blunt shape of a car.

Mulder raced up and past her, his long legs eating the ground in pursuit, and she left it to him, knowing she could never keep up. Instead, she went to the body on the ground, tucking her gun into its holster and reaching for her cell phone, even as she came to her knees. Her heart skipped a beat as her fears were confirmed, the faint light from a lamppost reflecting off Skinner's shiny head. He was curled up into a ball, his left arm cradled against his chest.

Stabbing at the phone, she put it to her ear, then reached down to check his pulse. It was there, beating strong in his throat, but blood was already trickling down from a wound on his right temple, and his skin was damp and cold to the touch. Shrugging out of her coat as best she could, while shouting into the phone, she demanded an ambulance and back up, knowing that the words officer down would stimulate the fastest possible response, praying that it would be quick enough. Dropping the phone in order to get her second shoulder out of her coat, she wrapped the cloth around the man trembling at her feet.

He moaned and shifted in place, and she gently, but firmly, restrained him.

"Easy, sir, stay still. Help is on the way."

He reacted to the sound of her voice, his eyes fluttering as he tried to focus on her face.

"Whhhhhh," was all he got out, and she tried again to soothe him, speaking slowly, rhythmically, soothing him with the sound more than the words. Meanwhile, her eyes were darting again and again to the road, her ears alert for the sound of sirens, her mind repeating over and over again..."Hurry, please hurry, please hurry..."

A few blocks away

Mulder ran, suddenly wishing he had not decided to take such a long run earlier. His muscles were aching and his lungs felt like they were on fire. He could just barely see his quarry's shape as it darted through the semi-darkness ahead. Thin, narrow, covered in a long dark cloak, it suddenly shifted direction and shot across the street, barely avoiding an oncoming car. Mulder broke into the street after it, the flash of the headlights giving him no more than a glimpse of form and color, the hair was light, the figure tall and straight as a board. Male, as Mulder had already assumed it to be.

Using the hood of a parked car for leverage, Mulder leaped onto the sidewalk, and shot off down the alley, slowly gaining ground on the other man. His muscles complained, then stretched and accommodated, though not without the silent promise of vengeance to come. But his body was long used to running, his penchant for the track developed in early adolescence. And so he got closer, and closer...

Then he came up abruptly against a brick wall. The alley was a dead end, but the man had entered, so where...

All thought ended in a lightening bolt of pain, a quick explosion of agony on the back of his head, then an answering blow to the back of his shoulders. Darkness shuttered his mind.

Tibbit and Harper were the first on the scene, beating the ambulance by a few long minutes. Scully acknowledged them with spare glance, her attention focused on the wounded man cradled in her arms. Harper bent to a crouch beside her, his eyes wide with shock and concern.

"Will he..."

"He's got a concussion, possibly a fractured skull. And the arm is definitely broken. It will take X-rays and an MRI to see how serious the head injury is." Scully reported tensely, her professional demeanor fighting with her emotions. For all of the rough times between them, she respected her boss deeply. He had done his best for her and Mulder, more than once.

"The attacker?" Harper's inquiry was bareboned, as the ambulance finally made its screeching way into the parking lot, its flashing lights throwing an eerie, every changing gleam across the scene.

"Didn't get a good look at him. He took off as soon as we got here. Mulder is in pursuit."

"Mulder? Which way did they go?" Harper took Scully by the arm, helping her to her feet as she relinquished the still unconscious Skinner to the paramedics. As he was loaded first onto a stretcher and then into the ambulance, Scully turned and pointed towards the back of the lot. "That way!"

Then she turned and leaped up into the back of the ambulance, coolly issuing commands. The door slammed shut, and the ambulance squealed its way back out into the street, but even before it turned the corner, Harper and Tibbit had cleared the back edge of the parking lot, tracing Mulder's steps as best they could.

A brilliant flash of light from the top of a passing ambulance fell across the face of the man at his feet, and Ezekiel found himself suspended in mid-movement, his muscles frozen in place. He stood there for a moment, unbreathing, like a stone statue, one arm upraised, the metal wrench clasped in suddenly icy fingers, his heart stilled within his chest.

Oh no. Ohno,ohno,ohno...Oh Dear God, No!

He never realized he spoke it aloud, would never have recognized that soul-sick remnant of a voice as his own. The wrench tumbled out of his numb grasp and clattered to the ground behind him, while he sank to his knees. Reaching out, his entire body trembling, he pulled the unconscious man on the ground closer to him. There was only faint light emanating from a window above and the street lamp several feet away, but it was just enough for recognition.

Tears welled in his eyes, and he groaned the sick, low moan of an injured animal, only to find the sound echoed by the man in his hands. That broke through the thunderstorm of emotion, and he anxiously sought and found the pulse racing in the neck, then felt for the heat of breath passing through the lips. It was warm and moist against his chilled palm, and he nearly cried aloud in relief.

"Mulder..." Ezekiel whispered, and received another groan in reply. The wounded agent shifted, one hand curling up to reach for his head, but Ezekiel gently restrained him. Pulling the bigger man up into his lap, he wrapped his arms around him and sobbed...

...The walk from the alley, where he had left Mulder curled up unconscious behind an evil-smelling dumpster was wrought with agony. His heart was pounding in his chest, the fierce eyes of God and his angels boring into the back of his head. He could feel the weight of their disapproval and disappointment. It was an accident, he wanted to scream. But his mind kept screaming 'my fault, my fault, my fault...'

Still, he kept going, pushing through the dark of the night until he found his car, set off on a silent side-street, and gratefully slid behind the wheel. He had a chance to make things right, and he swore he would not fail again.

Finally, he managed to get the car wedged deep in the alley with enough room to open the car door so that he could get Mulder inside. First, he attempted to pick him up with both arms under his back, but the senseless agent was much bigger and heavier than expected, with limbs that seemed to go on forever. Awake and in motion, Mulder was as graceful, as sure as a panther on the prowl, but in this state, he was nothing but long loose strands that dragged and caught and flopped. Giving up on picking him up as one might carry a child, Ezekiel gently settled him on the ground and shifted to take him below the arm pits. Dragging him worked well, at least until they got to the car.

It took at least fifteen minutes of pushing, shoving, maneuvering, tugging, but he somehow managed to get Mulder into the car seat...sort of. One leg still trailed outside the car, and his head fell back between the two seats, but it was a start. Ezekiel paused to gasp for breath, rubbing at aching elbows and scraped knees, and bruises that were sure to implode along every surface of his body. However, he considered it a small price to pay, only a small measure of the reparation still to come.

"Mmmm," Mulder groaned and began to shift, his head falling back even further until Ezekiel reached over and caught him. Trying to hold Mulder upright, careful of the wound trickling blood down through the thick dark hair and onto the fair skin, Ezekiel felt downwards with his free hand until he found and released the control for the seat back. Pushing it down as far as it would go, he carefully levered Mulder into a recumbent position, and moved that one last leg into the cavern below the dash.

Mulder groaned again, thick eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, but Ezekiel soothed him with a loving touch and soft words.

"Easy...take it easy...you're ok. I'm going to take care of you, just rest. I'll take care of you," he promised as he retrieved the blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around Mulder's body.

Mulder felt only the comfort of the voice in his ear and the hands cradling him, and he settled down with a soft sigh, and a whisper of the one name he had come to associate with such sensations..."Scully..." he breathed before his eyelids settled and he fell back into the soothing darkness.

Ezekiel jerked slightly in response, his entire body tensing and then releasing. Of course, he realized quickly, of course. Who else would Mulder call for but her - his Mary Magdalene? The woman he had redeemed and turned to the cause of God. It was only right, for soon enough Mulder would be returned to her care. Shrugging off his overcoat, he tucked it under Mulder's head, then carefully closed the car door.

St. Mary's Hospital
Pre-Dawn

The search for both Mulder and the suspect was now under full-swing, though nothing had been found. While Tibbit stayed with it, working his way down yet another dark alley, Harper left to make his way to the hospital. He found Dana Scully sitting in the Emergency Room lobby, one hand clutching at a steaming cup, the other clenched on the edge of her chair. Her normally vivid blue eyes were wide and pale as she recognized him, and she started to her feet.

"Did...?"

But he was already shaking his head. "I'm sorry, no sign of either of them."

She took a deep breath and sat back down, looking much like an air mattress that has had the plug pulled. She simply deflated. Harper sat down beside her and remained quiet for a moment, allowing her to find the words on her own.

"I hardly saw him. He was just a shadow. I know he wasn't too big, maybe 5'7'' or 8''. And very thin. There wasn't much light. Skinner was down, and it just seemed right that I would stay with him while Mulder..." Her voice wavered on his name, but she clamped down on it so quickly that Harper couldn't have sworn he had truly heard it. And when she continued speaking, it was in the voice of a cool and collected professional.

"Skinner has a concussion and a cracked skull, as well as severe bruising and a broken arm. They're doing X-rays and an MRI to see if any slivers of the skull were driven into the brain itself. It depends upon which areas were damaged as to whether they leave any such fragments in place or try to remove them surgically." She paused to take a sip of her beverage, the rich smell identifying it as coffee.

Then she finally met his eyes directly.

"He took Mulder, didn't he?"

Harper shrugged his shoulders, his face grim.

"It is a possibility. We've got men blanketing the area; if they are still nearby, they'll be found."

Scully gave a broken laugh, the sound as bitter as shattered glass. "That's if they are still in the area."

"We'll find them," Harper promised bitingly, his voice sharp and angry. "There are only so many possible suspects, and everyone on duty in the FBI during the four 'incidents' is being located and questioned...again."

Scully smiled, though it was not a happy expression and her eyes remained as cold as diamonds, diamonds bluer than the sea itself. "It's still a lot of people, and I doubt our killer is going to make himself easy to find." She glanced at her drink and frowned, then put it on the side table with a sigh. "I'd better go help."

Harper restrained her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, showing no response when she flinched away, turning to face him with sharp words on her tongue. But he spoke first.

"No, let us do our job. You're needed here. Skinner might be able to help when he wakes up, and you should be here in case he does. Look, I promise to let you know the moment..."

"No." Her voice was unyielding, cold as marble. "Mulder is my partner, he needs me, and if he is going to be able to communicate anything to us, I'll be the one he'll try to reach."

Harper nodded.

"All the more reason for you to stay in one place, where he could expect you to be. Besides..." He swallowed hard. There was no easy way to say this, but somehow she read it before he could frame the words.

"Those bastards!" she hissed.

"No one really thinks..."

"Mulder was with me, we left the FBI together. There are witnesses to that. Unless they think I was involved in it too..." Her eyes flashed dangerously, and Harper instinctively put up a hand between them.

"No, of course not," he soothed anxiously. "Look, four FBI agents are dead, and all had had confrontations with your partner. Now he is missing, right after a nearly fatal attack on the AD. People are just...upset..." he finished unhappily.

"Yeah, well not as upset as they're going to be if Mulder ends up dead because they're too busy trying to use him as a scapegoat instead of finding the son-of-a-bitch who kidnapped him!" Her voice remained low, and was all the more formidable for its softness. A man twice her size, Harper still found himself feeling intimidated by the small fiery-haired woman standing in front of him, hands on her hips, her rich mouth pursed into a thin line above a forward-thrust chin.

"We are searching, and doing our best to match up your description with possible suspects. We will find them, both of them." He gave her a tentative smile. "Not everyone thinks Mulder is ... "

"Crazy..." she finished for him, undaunted. He smiled wryly. "Yeah, well...There are a lot of people in the Bureau who have a hell of a lot of respect for that man, and regardless of his reputation, he is still one of us. The FBI takes care of its own, and that includes Spooky Mulder."

She wasn't particularly consoled by this, but she did settle back a little. Just enough to let him breath again.

"Sit tight here for a while, and let me know right away if Skinner is able to talk. If he could identify his attacker, it would help us a lot."

She frowned, not bothering to even nod her acceptance, but she finally sat back down and reached for her coffee. As he turned to leave, she called out after him, "And you call me..."

"You'll be the first to know," he promised, and then he was gone.

Scully sat still for a moment, fighting the urge to get up and run after him. To run out and start searching herself. But she didn't have a clue where she could start, and that realization stung hard, even harder than the knowledge that some fraction of their coworkers really did blame Mulder for these murders. That simply infuriated her, that anyone could think her brilliant, compassionate partner could be capable of these killings. Certainly, he had a temper and core of solid steel, will-power that sometimes awed her with its strength, and an edge of darkness born of anguish and bitter experience. He could be fierce in his anger towards the killers they sought, ruthless in his determination to find and expose the truth, but no one who had seen him with the victims of violent crime could ever doubt the goodness of his heart. He had a way of reaching out to those in pain that was simply breathtaking; they would turn to him, trust him, before they would let anyone else come near. It was as though they could feel without anything being said that this man not only cared deeply and honestly, but also understood with a sensitivity that ran to the innermost part of his soul.

"Oh God, Mulder," she moaned under her breath.

"Where are you?"

1846 Magnolia St.
Chevy Chase, MD

Mulder was only barely aware of being half-carried out of the car and into the warmth of the house. A brush of cold air assaulted his senses, sending shockwaves of pain through his throbbing skull and down the back of his spine. No sooner than he could groan in protest, than he was hit with a wave of heat and light. Squeezing his eyes shut, he staggered against the hands holding him up.

"Easy, just a little more..." a voice sounded hazily in his ear. His feet half-dragged on the thick carpet, not making a sound, then he was falling...falling... and landing on something soft and yielding. Reaching up to cradle his head, he curled up into a ball, his legs dangling off the edge of the cushioned surface. Again, someone was there, lifting him up, rolling him over to lay on his back. His legs were lifted up, his head propped on a cool linen pillow.

Settling down into the welcome comfort, his mind fragmented, bits and pieces flying across the surface like bright bubbles. Images, faces, sounds...ideas. But it hurt too much to focus, each time he tried to reach for one, his hands unconsciously lifted up to swat at the air, only to be gently restrained again.