TITLE: A DEAFENING SILENCE AUTHOR: Katvictory RATING: NC-17 - Warning. This story deals with child abuse/molestation and incest. CATEGORY: Heavy angst for both Mulder and Scully, Muldertorture. SPOILERS: Some of Season 6 SUMMARY: Mulder's and Scully's investigation of a Satanic cult turns into something much more sinister. FEEDBACK: Katvictory57@aol.com THANK YOU: Mori knows I can't even dot my own i's, so she makes things readable; Laurie knows where I'm from and that English is a second language to a redneck, so she translated for me. Aly and Dave - - they both have eagle eyes and keep me from falling into bottomless plot holes. Without all you guys, I'd be lost. Thank you all! An added note here for Laurie. You touched so many of us with both your heart and words. You're in all our thoughts and prayers. Get well soon, Cher! The campus isn't the same without you! Also, this story has been cleaned up especially for Michelle! A DEAFENING SILENCE by Katvictory <><><><><><> Chapter 1 <><><><><><> We keep the closets locked. All families do -- each of us hiding the skeletonized bodies of our secrets. Are they better left in the darkened shadows of our memories? Is it worth the pain it causes when the door bursts open and the light of truth shines in? The truth is not always out there. Sometimes it's kept deep inside. Maybe, sometimes it's better left unfound. *************** We were on this case armed with the flimsiest of evidence, which, for an X-File, was nothing new. Sometimes, though, I tire of the chase for things that go bump in the night. I grow weary seeking the elusive truths about UFOs, alien visitations and far-reaching government conspiracies. Sometimes, I wish for a case that hasn't been reported first on the Jerry Springer Show or in the National Inquisitor. I looked over to my partner, as he surveyed the clearing where we were standing, and posted the first query of my usual routine when he and I were on a case. "Now, Mulder, tell me again why you think this is the site of a black mass and not just a spot where some high school kids threw one bodacious party?" I got the patented, "Scully, get real, you're always wrong," glance and tried to remember my importance in the scheme of things according to Fox Mulder. I was here to keep him honest, right? "Well, the fact that the bonfire was built so that it burned the grass in the shape of a pentagram might be a clue," Mulder replied sarcastically, still perusing the alleged symbol. "Scully, do you just hate Texas, or is it the cases that involve witchcraft that get your panties in such a bunch?" I waited a minute before I answered, wanting to read his reaction to my words. He looked up because my reply wasn't forthcoming, so I let him have it. "Are those the only choices I have of what I hate?" I spat, and walked away from him to the rental, but not before I saw the hurt in his eyes. By the time I'd climbed into the passenger seat of the car I regretted my angry display. It was definitely not very professional to allow my temper to get the best of me on the job. Not everything that was wrong with my life was Mulder's fault. If I allowed him the distinction of being the entire sum total of my problems, I was subscribing to his own grand delusions that everything was about him. That, in fact, was the personality trait that irritated me the most about the man. I needed to deal with what was at the root of my dilemma. I had lost direction in my life. The path I was treading did not lead where I wanted to go. We were following Mulder's guideposts, not the ones I'd set for myself, but it was my own damn fault for trailing after him. I'd made the choice; he hadn't forced me. I had to be the one to set my life back on course. With a sigh, I climbed out of the vehicle and trudged back over to the site where my partner was squatting, studying the area around the burnt grass. He didn't acknowledge my presence, except to unintentionally allow his lower lip to protrude in a gesture I'd come to know well, after seven years of partnership. It was, of course, his -- "Scully hurt my feelings, but I'm not going to let her know that," expression. For a moment, the predictability of the situation made me desire another hasty exit, but I pressed on, wanting to get this case over with. "So someone burned this pentagram into the grass, and it's not even drawn right." I stated, trying to guess where his line of reasoning might veer next. "So this is a case of harassment, not part of a true satanic ritual." He nodded and stood up, offering me a look at the clump of ground he had clutched in his hand. A stiff breeze caught the tiny bits of ash, dirt and plant and carried it away. Mulder reached into the pocket of his overcoat and removed a pair of latex gloves, deftly donning them before plucking a clear evidence baggie from his other pocket. He squatted once more and grabbed another handful of soil and singed grass, placing it in the bag to be analyzed. "So, where to now? Back to talk to Brother Godwin?" I asked, still trying to initiate the conversation. Mulder surveyed the area, once again lost in thought, biting his bottom lip, as he wrestled with how to proceed. It was another look I'd come to recognize from our time together. The man is brilliantly intuitive; perhaps that was part of my problem. He was made for this type of work. Mulder makes leaps of logic that boggle the mind. They come out of nowhere, yet are usually uncannily right on the money. Could my own problems have started when he'd made the comment that 99% of the time he was correct in his assumptions, and that I had rarely proven him wrong? Was I really so shallow that my current discontent stemmed from a bruised ego? Was I jealous? "You're right Scully, I don't believe we're dealing with devil- worshipers here." His words brought me from my reverie. Did I hear him correctly? I'm right? I was too stunned to speak. "I think this is all a hoax. So I think we need to talk to Brother Godwin again," said Mulder. I stared after him as he strode purposefully across the field to the car, stunned that he'd never even heard me. "Yeah, why don't we do that?" I called out to his back and as always, followed after him. *************** We'd been officially assigned to this semi-official case by Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Apparently, Brother Lovelace Godwin had been our supervisor's platoon corpsman in Vietnam. Godwin was now an ordained minister and ran a home for young, preteen offenders that was partially funded by the state of Texas. Heaven's Way Ranch was well known, and highly respected, as a tough-love rehabilitation center that could reach troubled youths when other, more conventional, methods had failed. Skinner informed us that the ranch, and Brother Godwin specifically, had been receiving threats for approximately six months. The threats were supposedly from a local area "cult" that worshipped the devil and practiced witchcraft. Apparently, Godwin never reported any of these letters to the local law enforcement agencies until last week when the threats had turned into blatant harassment, trespassing, and the performance of a satanic ritual on his property. The minister had seemed oddly belligerent during our first meeting that morning, to the point of being hostile. Mulder and I had initially assumed it was because we had first met with local law enforcement. It's usually a matter of courtesy that we inform them of our presence in an investigation. Sometimes they are able to supply more information that helps us get a better perception of the area and the case. Since the Dallas office was closer, the sheriff had seemed stunned that we had journeyed all the way from our nation's capital for this case. After explaining that our expertise included the occult, he was extremely helpful. He had nothing but praise for Godwin. We were informed that the good reverend was a pillar of the community, a prince of a man. I disliked Brother Lovelace Godwin the moment I laid eyes on him. I know allowing such personal feelings to cloud my assessment of the case was unprofessional, shallow, and not very nice, but there was something about the man that immediately made me uneasy. It might have been his story. I felt he was lying. What troubled me more than that we might not be hearing the truth was the question of why Godwin felt the need to lie. Perhaps he'd made up the tale of persecution for publicity. Although the state helped fund his "ranch," at least half of the money to support the home came from his ministry which, of course, was funded by his flock of supporters. Reverend Lovelace Godwin had a regional television show that, according to the public record of his church, brought in close to three million dollars annually. I couldn't help notice the ring on his pinky. That ring alone was worth my salary for a year. The man definitely had NOT taken a vow of poverty. No, I did not like the Reverend Godwin. In fact, there was something about him that turned my stomach. I couldn't quite place exactly what it was, but the feeling was akin to lifting a rock and seeing the pallid, squirming, crawly creatures that hide from the sun, beneath it. My partner had qualms of some kind also. I could tell by Mulder's expression, when we questioned Godwin the second time, after our trip to the site of the pentagram. We had decided not to divulge the fact that his charges of harassment were in doubt. Brother Godwin had all the right answers for our questions. He had no enemies. He knew of Satanists in the area but had never had a confrontation. Yes, he preached against the devil and all who followed him, but had never named names. Godwin even had an excuse as to why he didn't have any of the threatening letters when Mulder asked to see them. Not a good excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. He claimed to have burned the foul, satanic epistles right after he read them. The Bible says, "Suffer a witch to burn." Or words to that effect, according to Brother Godwin in his attempt to explain why he had destroyed the letters. Seeing we were getting nowhere with Godwin, Mulder and I left. After dropping off the sample taken from the site to be analyzed, we drove to our motel in silence. I was trying to figure out how to break the news to A.D. Skinner that we believed the case was a hoax, perpetrated by his friend. I decided not to tell him until the report came back as to how the grass had been burned. I had just settled in my room when Mulder knocked on my door. He was in a quiet, subdued mood as he asked me if I wanted to join him for dinner. There wasn't too much choice in the little town of Deweyville. We settled on a restaurant called, of all things, The Pig Stand. Apparently, there is a chain of these all over Texas. While it wasn't exactly four star dining, they did have a nice, broiled chicken salad and Mulder, of course, had his usual greasy burger and fries. I wondered why the man bothered with jogging when he clogged his arteries with such fare. If his quest for the truth didn't kill him, he was probably going to drop dead with a massive coronary on one of his early morning runs. He interrupted my musings of his eating habits with a question that came out of left field. "Scully, I know you loved your father, but would you say you were a daddy's girl?" His eyes were wide with curiosity. I snatched one of his greasy fries to nibble while I pondered his query. "Do you mean was I my father's favorite?" His eyes grew dark gray and troubled with my question for some reason, but he pushed on. "Yeah. Isn't that part of being daddy's girl?" "I guess so," I shrugged, grabbing another fry from his plate. "Yeah, I probably was my dad's favorite. I know he was always hardest on Bill, and Melissa was always such a rebel. Charlie, of course was the baby. Charlie and Ahab got really close after we all left. But, yeah, I think I was his favorite." I took a quick sip of my diet pop to quell the lump that was growing in my throat. Even after all these years, it's still hurts to remember he's gone. I never got to say goodbye. After a moment, I succeeded at composing myself and I started in on my salad. "Why?" I asked, glancing back up at him. He was once again, a thousand miles away. "Mulder, where did this come from?" "Huh?" Mulder murmured, finally returning to me. "I asked why do you want to know about my father and me?" He picked at the French fries on his plate, drawing designs in the catsup. Oddly, Mulder did not seem to have an appetite. It vanished somewhere between the waitress setting his plate in front of him and his question. "I dunno," he replied with a shrug, full concentration going to his condiment art work. It was not like him to play with his food. Usually it was inhaled too fast for it to become of interest. "Is something bothering you?" I asked, though it was obvious something was. "Did you notice how Charlotte acted?" He queried, finally looking up at me. His eyes were dark with intensity but there was another emotion lurking there in the gray-green depths. Given other circumstances, I would have labeled it pain. "Charlotte?" I tried to place the name. It finally came to me. "Charlotte, Godwin's daughter?" He nodded and patiently waited for me to recall our brief meeting with the young woman, earlier that morning. I hardly noticed her. She was a tall, big-boned girl, who hung back as we talked with her father. It was no use. I had no idea what had caught Mulder's eye. "Sorry, I didn't even really remember her being there 'til you mentioned it. Why, did she say something when she showed us in?" Mulder shook his head and shrugged again, then spoke to his plate. "Nothing. It was probably nothing." It had been a long day. I was not in the mood for twenty questions. Mulder was not acting like himself, but I was tired of being his private doctor, confessor, and all around caretaker. What was he going to do when I was gone? I guiltily glanced up at my partner as though he could read my thoughts. The proof that he couldn't was that he was still contemplating his uneaten meal. Still, I felt contrite and lost my own desire for dinner. I quickly stood and he stared up at me expectantly. "My treat tonight; you grab the tip," I mumbled, a smile straining my lips. We made the trip to the motel in gloomy silence, as was becoming our habit. <><><><><><> Chapter 2 <><><><><><> The sky was overcast the following day as I drove out to the encampment of the people Godwin claimed were Satanists. I got a little more information about the tribe that resided in the woods, outside the city, from the sheriff. It seemed that he and most of the citizens of Deweyville eyed the members of this hippyish cult with, if not fear, at least trepidation. Mulder and I now felt certain that the reverend had burned the sign into his grass, for some unknown reason, and wished to implicate these alleged cultist. I drove up the dirt road to the compound and saw where some of the townspeople's ideas came from. The archway that announced "FOUR WINDS" was adorned with symbols. One appeared to be a pentagram. I was soon to learn, on this case, things were most definitely not what they appeared to be. *************** Mulder was waiting for me at The Pig Stand, sitting in the same booth we had occupied the night before. Today, however, his eyes were a twinkling, light gray and he had his, "I'm so pleased with myself," cockeyed grin locked and loaded. I knew he had made some astounding discovery that would quickly wrap up this case, but I had to smile myself. My morning of investigation had reaped rewards, too. I slid into the booth across from him. "Well, how did it go?" he asked, motioning to the waitress that we were ready to order. Actually, I hadn't even opened the menu, but the salad I'd ordered the night before had been good, so I settled for that. Apparently, Mulder's day had gone so well he felt lucky, so he ordered the "World Famous Pig Stand Specialty Roast Pork Sandwich," (with fries of course!) He lives so vicariously. "Well, they're not Satanists," I began, ready to share with him all I had learned at the coven. "They're Wicca." Mulder nodded knowingly, "Well, we already knew it wasn't Satanists. Godwin has to have done it. It's clearly a hoax and I found out why he's doing this." I don't think he realized how he'd popped my bubble because I hid my disappointment pretty well. With a quick sigh, I leaned over to glance at the papers he pulled from his jacket pocket. They were copies of some kind of official record. "I never made it out to Heaven's Way. I know I told you I was going back out there, but I just couldn't stomach the thought of talking to that pompous asshole again. Kelly, the waitress here," he nodded to the tall, dyed redhead who'd taken our order, "told me when I stopped for coffee this morning, that some of the kids from the ranch do community service around town here. There were a few out on the highway, doing the 'Keep America Beautiful' thing so I drove out where she said they'd be." He stopped a moment when Kelly arrived with our order, flashing her that patented Mulder grin. "Here ya go, handsome," Kelly drawled, setting his overflowing plate before him. I was granted a tight-lipped polite smile as she placed my meal down. After giving my partner a quick wink, she scurried off. Mulder gulped down a huge bite of sandwich before continuing. "I got lucky. The kid I met up with apparently doesn't like the reverend and proceeded to ask me if I was there because of Casey. Turns out this Casey disappeared. " "A runaway?" I questioned. "Exactly," Mulder replied, stuffing his mouth with a couple of fries. After a sip of tea he continued. "Apparently, two weeks ago this girl, Casey, vanished from Heaven's Way. I came back into town, accessed Godwin's records for that time period, and discovered that the reverend is being audited by the state for his funding. Also, it seems that the kid was never reported missing until the day before the "Black Mass" went down." "Well, what's that supposed to prove? What does Godwin scamming the government have to do with him claiming Satanists are harassing him? What good would that do him?" "Well, it proves he's covering something," Mulder muttered defensively. "Maybe after lunch we'll just go ask him some questions about what we found. "Mulder, why would Godwin have contacted Skinner with this if he was trying to hide the fact he was receiving funds not due him? Don't you see? Something is missing from this picture. I think we should figure out what it is before we confront him. After all, we're actually down here on Skinner's behalf to help an old friend. I don't think accusing Godwin of defrauding the government was what he had in mind when he asked us to check things out." Mulder's frown announced he wasn't happy that I questioned his judgment, but I could tell I had gotten him to slow down and consider that we might best proceed with a bit more caution. "Well, then, we won't start by accusing the good brother of anything. We'll just go out to the ranch and I'll talk to a few of the kids. And you can see how Godwin reacts to the news that we know about Casey." I didn't wish to talk to the reverend any more than Mulder, but I knew I was better able to control my feelings. Sometimes, he gets too caught up with his search for the truth and his questioning begins to resemble something out of the inquisition. The thought of having to deal with the disagreeable minister put a damper on my appetite. I watched Mulder eat his lunch, silently mulling over how quickly life was moving, but how much of it was passing me by. *************** We left The Pig Stand and drove to the sheriff's substation to see what else we could discover about the runaway Casey. All we learned was she was still missing. While there, we called ahead to set up an appointment for me with Lovelace Godwin and were informed that he was away for the day. Reluctantly, Charlotte Godwin agreed to see us. I decided I wanted to speak with the woman because there was something about her that was troubling Mulder. I wanted to see if I could figure out what the mystery was. The young woman met us at our car. She hesitated when Mulder asked if he could take a look around the ranch while I did the interview, but Mulder flashed his grin and she relented, asking a boy who was doing yard work nearby to take Mulder on the tour. I studied Charlotte as she led me inside. She was very tall, and while not fat, she was a big girl. I judged her to be just a bit shorter than Mulder's six feet and at the most, twenty pounds lighter. Her hair was a light, strawberry blond and her eyes were bluish-green. If asked, I would have to describe her as plain, but I believe it was more because of the painfully shy way she presented herself than because she lacked physical beauty. I started the interview by getting right to the point. "Miss Godwin, who do you think burned that pentagram into your field?" "Daddy says it was the Satanists," she mumbled, unable to meet my gaze. "I know what your father says, I just wondered who you thought did it. See, the people he's accusing aren't actually Satanists. So who do you think did it?" "Daddy says it was the Satanists," she replied, finally lifting her head so I could see her face. Her expression was blank. I wondered for a moment if the girl was mentally handicapped, but then a storm blew in. Her eyes became hard and glittering, her face creased into an angry frown, "Are you saying Daddy's a liar?" Her response took me by surprise. I hadn't expected such fury from the girl who had seemed so timid, so I changed my tactic accordingly and tried to smooth things over. "Charlotte..." "Call me Charlie," she insisted with a sly grin. I was stunned by the sudden mood change, and I hate to admit it, I lost my bearing." Uh, OK, Charlie, I'm Dana," I stammered. "Dana, why are you people starting trouble for Daddy?" The young woman glared at me defiantly. "Don't you have enough sense to see that he's the one who's been wronged here? My father is a very good man. Why aren't you out there trying to find out who's persecuting him?" I wondered to myself where this person who sat across from me in the small rocking chair had come from. This was not the girl who had let me in her house. Charlotte now seemed somehow younger, but amazingly wiser, more in tune, than she had when I'd first been greeted by her. Was this changeling what Mulder had seen? This other side of Charlotte? What did it mean? "Why are you even here?" Her question brought me from my silent musings and I met her eye. "Charlie, your father is in some kind of trouble. He knows our supervisor and he asked him for help, so our supervisor sent us," I explained, keeping my voice low and even. "That's not how it happened," she smiled, her eyebrow raising at my answer. "Your boss just sent you. He didn't even ask Daddy if he wanted help. We could have handled this all by ourselves. So you see, you can just run along home now. Daddy's getting everything straightened out. That's where he probably is right now, tellin' Sheriff Ortmayer that everything is fine. That we just want everything all dropped." "Charlotte, why did your Dad burn that pentagram into the field?" She stood up to her full height, towering over me. "It's our field, if my father did it, it's his own business. Look, you don't have any more reason to be here, lady, so why don't you just grab your skinny- ass, pretty-boy partner and get off our land." Charlie didn't look angry, in fact, she was smiling as she said the words but I felt compelled to do as she asked. I rose and walked out the door, trying to act as composed and in control as possible. I wasn't about to let her know she had shaken me. I sat in the car, waiting for Mulder, keeping a wary eye on the front door of the Godwin's big, rambling farmhouse/office. Try as I might, I couldn't quite figure out what had just happened. Charlotte was definitely not mentally slow, as I had first thought. She did, however, seem somewhat disturbed. Now, psychology is not my field of expertise, but I could tell the young woman did seem to have some problems. Mulder strolled up about fifteen minutes later, his forehead creased in concentration. He soundlessly slipped into his seat beside me. "Let's get outta here," he murmured, shifting in his seat. I put the car in gear and drove away, glancing at his face, trying to read what was troubling him. "Mulder, what's wrong?" "First, tell me what you found out," He replied, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "Well, we don't even have a case anymore..." "Say what?" Mulder voice crackled with anger. It had been a very long day. I was extremely tired and I had been screamed at one too many times. I hit the brakes and slid to a stop, then turned to face my partner. "Mulder, I'm not in the mood for your young man with a cause routine," I told him, keeping my tone hard but controlled. "Apparently, Godwin just wants the whole matter dropped. So there is no cause now. There is no case. Tomorrow, we drive to Beaumont, then catch a flight home. All of this is none of our affair. It never should have been in the first place. We'll tell Skinner what we suspect, but he can handle it from there. I would like to know what you found out that has you so upset, but whatever it is, it has nothing to do with us." "Scully," he stopped me. I studied his face and saw that look in his eye again. It was the same haunted, hurt expression he had when he'd asked me about my relationship with my father. It made me feel cold. I shivered. "He's doing something to these children," Mulder's voice was a low whisper. I had to strain to hear him. *Something to the children?* I thought I knew what he meant, but the fact he was unable to say the words concerned me. "Mulder, somebody there reported sexual abuse to you?" I questioned, wanting to make sure I was understanding his statement. He nodded. "I talked with Casey's best friend, Megan. You know, Casey, the girl that ran away?" Rarely have I ever seen him so upset. What had he been told? "Mulder, tell me what happened then we can go talk to the sheriff. You can report the accusations to him, but they'll have to handle it. Our part is done here." Mulder rubbed his hands over his eyes, then pushed himself up in his seat. He seemed more in control when he next spoke. "Charlotte admitted it was a hoax?" "No, but you forget, no charges have been filed; it was all just accusations. From what Charlie says, Skinner jumped the gun. It was probably just what you thought, Godwin is scamming the state. He was just gilding the lily when he told Skinner the 'Satanists' story and didn't count on his old friend trying to help by sending us here. I think we should let Skinner make the call of what he wants to do with all we found out about the fraud." "And what I just heard? What the kids told me? " Mulder sighed and shook his head wearily. "I think we should be very careful what we say to the sheriff," I murmured softly. Mulder wanted to make a report of what could be construed as scandal. When push came to shove, even though the accusations of sexual abuse would most likely be followed up on, would the local law enforcement take the word of a troubled youth or a leading citizen of the town? "You need to tell me everything you were told, Mulder. We have to make sure we have everything in order before we present this to the sheriff." Mulder passed a hand over his face and gave a quick nod of agreement. He reached into his jacket to grab his notepad and pen but then paused and turned to face me. "Scully, you know what that girl said to me?" he asked, his eyes shining with tears. "No," I murmured softly, placing my hand on his. "She asked me if I had ever felt I was screaming, but all anybody could hear was silence?" he whispered. <><><><><><> Chapter 3 <><><><><><> We gave Sheriff Ortmayer information he really didn't want to hear, but the man did move on it, contacting the county social service offices. Child Protective Services was immediately sent out to Heaven's Way to gather Megan into protective custody and Ortmayer went to the foster home to sit in on her questioning. Mulder and I really had nothing else left to do, so we returned to the motel to get ready for our trip home the next morning. I volunteered to catch Skinner up on what had transpired, a conversation that was tense, but mercifully short. A hot shower washed away some of my stress and I rushed through my packing, wanting to check in on Mulder. Everything about this case had been hard on him. The ones that involved children always were. They seemed to stir memories that were covered by the most tender of scars. My rap on his door produced a muffled 'come in' and I stole inside. It was dark, the curtains were drawn and the only light was the flickering television, but I could see from the clothes lying about, his packing had not gone well. Mulder was sprawled across the bed, coat off, tie askew. I was surprised to notice a half-empty Jack Daniel's bottle sitting on the table beside him. "You start the party without me?" I asked, motioning to the glass in his hand. He gave me a hard smile and nodded to the cellophane covered plastic cup the motel had provided, "Help yourself." I fixed my own and stretched out on the bed beside him, watching him pretend interest in some low budget sci-fi movie. My thoughts turned dark, wondering what would happen to him if I decided to leave. Would he go on and continue his quest alone? Should he? "Ever notice how it's always a man and a woman -- 'together against the world' in these old movies?" Mulder murmured, nodding to the screen. "Partners." My hand shook as I quickly downed a sip of my drink. Sometimes the man was uncanny. Here he went reading my mind again. Damn him. "I wouldn't exactly call them partners," I commented, trying to compose myself. "I mean, really, what was her role? To look pretty and scream?" "Well, you gotta consider the times, Scully. The fifties weren't exactly peek years for the ERA. Still, it did seem that at the end, they were always standing there together. You always knew, in the final reel, that they would save the world together. That never changed." "Times change, Mulder," I replied defensively. He never looked over, his eyes were still focused on the screen. "Times change -- people change..." his voice was slurred and he finally turned to face me. "They go their separate ways -- nothing lasts forever..." I pushed up to sit beside him and grabbed his hand. "When?" He asked, searching my face with eyes that were swimming with tears. When he didn't find what he was looking for he melted into me. "Mulder, I don't know," I admitted, whispering the words softly into his ear. "Maybe never -- I, I just don't know." He gave a disheartened sigh, burying his face in my lap, so I smoothed his unruly hair as I tried to think what I could tell him. He turned over so he could look up at me and reached a hand up to cradle my cheek. "I know why," his voice was so soft I had to bend down to hear him. "I'm sorry." "It's not you," I replied. I was suddenly, finally sure of that fact. "It's me, Mulder. I'm the one with the problem." He didn't hear my confession for he had drifted off into a drunken slumber, mumbling over and over that he was sorry. I set my drink down and studied his face. The lines of worry and pain were smoothed out now by sleep and my hand shook as I caressed the tanned skin of his cheek. "Is this why I'm here?" I asked Mulder, myself, maybe even God. Not one of us knew the answer. ****************** I didn't return to my room, not wanting to leave him alone. I finally slept, curled up beside him, until we both were awakened by the jangling phone. With a bleary eye I saw the time -- 4:48. Mulder was stirring as I sat up to answer the call. It was Sheriff Ortmayer, calling to inform us a body had been found, down river from Heaven's Way. An early morning fisherman had found Casey. I jotted down where he wanted us to meet him and hung up, just as my partner made it to an upright position on the side of the bed. "What is it?" Mulder rasped, rubbing a hand across his face. I'd seen him look worse, but not by much, and I knew telling him where we were going was not going to make his morning any brighter. "They found a body; they think it's the girl, Casey." I caught a look of pain in his bloodshot eyes before he stumbled into the bathroom to be sick. As I stood outside the door, listening to him retch, I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days that start out bad and go down hill. When I'm right, I am definitely right, because this was one day that soon became a nightmare. *************** The Sabine river is a natural boundary between Texas and Louisiana. In the past, before the reservoirs were built, its course would vary, depending on the rain. There was a time, way back, before Texas achieved statehood, that this area of the Big Thicket was no man's land. Fugitives from the United States would hide out in these woods and few lawmen dared venture into the dense, forest primeval to search them out. The area picked up the nickname 'The Devil's Pocket.' It's a colorful label that has stuck to this day. We arrived by boat at the site where the body had been found as access from the road to the river at that point was impossible. The fisherman who had found the small, nude form had already been allowed to travel back home to his cabin on stilts downstream. Sheriff Ortmayer rowed us to the scene where the forensic detectives from the county were already at work. Dawn was just breaking, so the investigators were using huge spotlights run by portable generators. Ortmayer informed us as we walked to the brightly lit, cordoned off area by the bank, that the body had been found at around 2:00 AM. I questioned that as being an unusual time for fishing but the sheriff shrugged, explaining that Jimmy Herbert fished some odd hours with a few bottles of Lone Star under his belt. They were almost ready to move Casey to the body bag and the waiting flat-bottomed boat so the deputies could ferry her back upriver to the hearse. Countless photos had been taken of her as she'd been found, face down in the mud, bloated, weeds and pine needles adorning her sodden hair. The weather and nature had not been kind to the corpse and Mulder could only take one glance at the child before he had to hurry off to get sick once more. I followed him over to the bushes where he was losing the tomato juice I'd convinced him to drink as a hangover cure, ignoring the derisive snickers of the local boys, who found my partner's queasy stomach terribly funny. Mulder's gagging stopped soon enough, there wasn't that much left in him to come up. He took my offered tissue with a grim, half smile and murmured his thanks. I knew that his problem wasn't so much a tender stomach but a tender heart. "What's that?" Mulder asked Sheriff Ortmayer as he walked with me back over to where the lawman and his young deputies were standing. He was pointing at a large, moss-covered, stone building that stood across the river. "That's Louisiana," the youngest deputy quipped snidely, bringing guffaws of laughter from everyone, except the sheriff and, of course, Mulder and I. "Looks like an old cottage or something like that. Why?" Ortmayer asked, trying to smooth over the rudeness of his underlings. "I think there's somebody's there, and that they're very interested in what we're doing over here." Mulder replied with a shrug. "Agent Mulder, it's probably just some transient we woke up." The tall Texan waved a hand toward the abandoned building, dismissing it, then turned to meet our gaze, his eyes steely with intensity. "Look, I sat in on the interview of the Nalen girl and there's absolutely no doubt in my mind that Lovelace Godwin is our chief suspect in this murder. I plan on bringing him in for questioning as soon as we're done here. Did you two want to come sit in on it?" I glanced to my partner and seeing the light sheen of sweat that dotted his brow, shook my head. "No, but I think I'll go ahead and reschedule our flight home until we know where this is all going." Ortmayer mouth was a thin, tight line of anger. " I'll tell you where this is goin'. It's goin' upriver. This child's been layin' here since 'Brother' Godwin first told me his bullshit about the Satanists. I can't believe I fell for his line." His voice was heavily laced with disgust, mostly at himself for believing in the charlatan. "Maybe if I'd had my eyes a little more open, this little girl might not be layin' here being fly bait." At the peace officer's bitter words, Mulder turned away from where they were carefully placing Casey in her plastic shroud and walked over to where our boat waited for us. After giving the sheriff a nod of goodbye, I followed my partner and we left the scene. I found out where they were taking Casey and decided to sit in on the autopsy. Mulder, uncharacteristically admitting he was feeling under the weather, asked that I return him to the motel. He told me later that the memory of someone watching the early morning investigation from the abandoned house bothered him. The autopsy took over six hours. By the time I returned to the motel, Mulder was gone. *************** Mulder tried to rest, but every time he closed his eyes he saw two things -- Casey's nude body lying face down in the mud and a tall, shadowy figure watching from across the river. Neither picture was conducive to sleep. There was nothing he could do to banish the memory of the first, but he decided the second bore investigation, so after two hours of tossing and turning, my partner set out to discover who had been so avidly spying on us. We still had the second rental, so he drove out to where he believed he could hike through the woods up to the murder site. It was a foolhardy quest to be sure, but he didn't wish to try to find someone who would allow him to gain access to the river by way of their property, as we had done that morning. He was just heading into the thick undergrowth, having parked along the side of the road, when a tall figure strode purposefully out of the trees. It was Charlotte Godwin. "Charlotte," Mulder sputtered, surprised at seeing the shy young woman so far from home. "Where'd you come from?" "I was checking out where they found Casey," the girl mumbled, speaking to the ground. "I'd like to go check out the site, too. Is there anybody left still there?" Charlotte shook her head, then shyly met Mulder's eyes, "I can take you. I know the way. You'd never find it by yourself." "Okay by me, lead the way, Charlotte," Mulder flashed a grin and the woman's eyes brightened. She trudged into the dense brush, Mulder following close behind. By the time they made it to the riverside, Mulder, still under the weather from his prior evening's overindulgence, was overheated and a bit shaky. They had exited about ten yards to the north of the place where Casey's body had been found. A small rowboat floated directly at the point ahead. "Say, Charlotte, can you take me over to that stone building?" Mulder asked, nodding toward the mysterious site. "Do you know what that place might be and if anybody should be staying there?" Charlotte nodded excitedly, "Yeah, come on." Beaming, she grabbed my partner securely by the upper arm and led him to the river. Mulder cautiously boarded the tiny craft, sitting behind the young woman who, after quickly untying the rope tether, expertly maneuvered away from the bank. "I used to call that place my clubhouse," Charlotte explained, as she rowed. "It was the slaughterhouse that belonged to this old style plantation that burned down years ago." "So nobody should have been there this morning?" Mulder queried. Charlotte shrugged, "Somebody could have been there, I guess." She continued her steady, rhythmic, motions taking them across the wide, slow moving waterway in moments. As they pulled up to the marshy bank, she tossed the agent the rope. He glanced at her questioningly and she nodded to an old creosote covered pillar, all that remained of an ancient dock. Mulder pushed out of the craft and wading through the calf-deep water, tied them off. Charlotte led the way to the vine covered building. Mulder watched the strange, timid young woman hurry ahead of him, her actions giving him pause as she seemed to be muttering to herself. Suddenly, she disappeared into the slaughterhouse. Shaking his head in wonder, Mulder grinned and with a shrug followed after her. The glassless windows on three sides and high, stone walls made the building cool even in the muggy afternoon heat. On examination he saw that the openings had once been covered with screens, but they had rusted completely away over the years in the damp climate. The wood frames now crumbled in his hand. "Charlotte," he called, turning from the light. He squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim, shadowed room. The place still carried a faint, fetid odor. His nose wrinkled at the stench of death. It was puzzling that it lingered so, for surely no animal had been butchered there for years. The blast of the gun echoed loudly off the walls. Mulder was stunned when white hot fire exploded in first his hip, then his belly. The bullet struck just below his belt line, spinning him. He slumped hard against the wall nearest the entrance, sliding down to sit on the concrete floor as his legs turned to jelly. The agent gripped the wound, feeling his own warm blood flow through his fingers. There was a searing pain deep inside, but shock still muted his perceptions. He was sure, though, this initial reprieve from pain would soon fade. "Oh God," he murmured, momentarily at a loss at what to do. The flow of blood was already slowing and his hip ached, but the searing pain which was starting in his gut hurt him more. This was not good, he knew. There was a sound of someone stumbling in the darkness at the back of the room. Sweat was running off his brow, down into his eyes, but he was amazed that even in the heat he felt chilled. He was afraid this meant he was slipping into shock. "Charlotte?" He called out, suddenly remembering the timid young woman was still there in the building along with the unknown enemy who had shot him. Instinctively his hand went for his weapon. How many shots had been fired? Had Charlotte been hit, too? "Put your gun on the floor, Mr. Mulder," the command floated out from the shadows. Charlotte Godwin strolled over from the far side of the building, out of the darkness into the dim light. In her hand was a small pistol. She was smiling. <><><><><><> Chapter 4 <><><><><><> The dead speak. They cry out to tell of their passing. No one wishes to leave this world unnoticed, unsung. I think that's why I became a forensic pathologist. I wanted to learn their language, to become their interpreter. "They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead. " I first read that verse when I was twelve. It has stuck with me. Most of the paths I've chosen in life have been colored by the sadness I felt at those words. No one should become just 'an ashen memory.' Even if their death is their only epitaph, the message should be heard. The poem played in my mind after I left Casey's autopsy. She had been so young, so fragile. She had been used, touched in ways that denied her youth. Maturity hadn't changed her body, that fact made the violations inflicted upon her all the more vile. We had discovered the how of her death. We suspected the who. All that was left was the why. Had Casey threatened Godwin with exposure? I had believed that to be the most likely scenario. Nearing the motel, I debated what to tell my partner. I knew his instinctual knowledge of my discontent had been partially to blame for the morose moodiness he'd been suffering, but there had been something else there, something more lurking in the shadows, that was troubling him. I knew Mulder had come from what is commonly known now as a dysfunctional family, but I think The Mulders would stump even the most noted sociologist. Every family has secrets, skeletons hidden from the outside world, but from what I'd gleaned from my association with my partner, few could match his families concealed history in perverse abnormality. A questionable paternity, hints of alcoholism and child abuse, not to mention the scandal of a sister vanishing under mysterious circumstances; all these make my partner's life resemble a Southern Gothic novel, at turns both tawdry and tragic. Add to all this the specter of his parent's involvement in some sort of governmental conspiracy that featured aliens and struggles for world domination and it's a wonder that Mulder didn't turn out like the sociopaths he used to profile. I had decided that I would be truthful, if he questioned me on the autopsy findings, but I would not offer any information except the fact Lovelace Godwin had been placed in custody. They were holding him on charges of sexual molestation of a minor and suspicion of murder. The reverend had confessed to the sexual abuse of Casey. This came as a relief to the Nalen girl, who was released into the custody of her parents, who were already threatening to bring law suits against the state's juvenile offenders program. Casey's mother had not yet been found. Lovelace Godwin denied that he had murdered the girl. He was still sticking to the story that she had run away. Now, however, no one believed him. I called A.D. Skinner and gave him the distressing news about his friend. He asked if Mulder and I would stick around to see how the whole matter turned out. I informed him that we had planned on it. My worry on what to say to my partner was, of course, a moot point. He was not in his room. While I was observing the autopsy, I'd heard that Godwin had confessed to molesting Casey; so I dropped by the sheriff's office when I got back to Deweyville to get the details on what was happening and to see if perhaps Mulder was there. In small towns news travels fast, but my partner was not at the sheriff's office, nor had anyone seen him since we'd left the crime scene. I really didn't get concerned about Mulder's whereabouts until around six when I went to dinner at our favorite restaurant, The Pig Stand. I was greeted by Kelly questioning where my 'purty' partner was. Apparently, she had not seen him all day either. I ordered my salad to go and after paying the check, decided to take a drive, thinking maybe Mulder might have returned to "Heaven's Way" to speak to some of the children. I was on the old highway when I spotted what looked to be our other rental. Skidding to a stop on the sandy shoulder, I soon discovered it was, but Mulder was nowhere in sight. *You didn't try to get to the river here,* I thought to myself, shaking my head in disbelief. I knew that was exactly what he'd done, and yet here I was, crazy enough to follow after him. Night was coming and the long shadows of the dense pines made darkness consume what twilight was left even faster. Flicking on my flashlight, I cautiously edged deeper through the thick undergrowth, cursing both his stupidity for attempting this and my own for going after him. I never realized I was not alone until I felt the tree limb hit me. By then it was too late. *************** "Scully!" Somehow, I knew I would awaken to Mulder calling me. My last thought before losing consciousness had been, * Shit, now I'll know what happened to Mulder.* It was pitch dark. My hands were bound with what I blearily decided must be handcuffs, most probably my own. "Scully!" Mulder's hoarse call was more than frantic. "'M awake," I answered, trying to clear my throbbing skull. I noticed, as my eyes cleared, a faint illumination -- my watch. They'd left me that at least and forcing my eyes to focus, I discovered I'd been out for a little more than an hour. "Finally," Mulder's relief that I was awake filled his voice. "Are you okay?" I sat up and found my hands were cuffed to some kind of heavy pipe that ran into something that felt like, of all things -- a sink. It sure wasn't moving and I followed the metal to its other end with my fingertips. It ended into a stone wall, so I probably wasn't going anywhere, either. "Scully!" Mulder hissed one more time, worry and frustration giving his tone a harsh edge. "I'm okay Mulder," I replied softly, sorry that I'd not answered him sooner. "You sure?" Mulder inquired, still concerned, "I couldn't get you to wake up." "I got a nice size egg on my head but I think I'll be okay," I reassured him. I heard him groan, then came the sound of chains rattling and a dull thud. My heart stopped. Something was wrong with Mulder. "My God, Mulder! Are you hurt?" "Scully, she shot me," his voice was a painful moan. I didn't understand him. I guess I wasn't thinking clearly yet. "Who? Mulder, what's wrong? " Panic was making my voice shake. "She shot me." he repeated. "Who? Where?" "Charlotte. In the stomach," I heard chains clank and pictured him moving to try to see me. "It hurts, Scully." That news made me feel a little light-headed. "Mulder when did this happen? How bad is it? Did the bullet go through? How's the bleeding?" My concern came out in this flurry of questions. Mulder gave a slight chuckle that ended in a hiss of pain. "It only hurts when I laugh. Shit." There was a cough and a groan. A full minute ticked by before he spoke again. "It was probably about two -- three o'clock, I guess. Bullet's still in me, but it's not bleeding much. It just hurts like hell and I keep getting dizzy." "Charlotte did this to you?" I asked, straining to see him. It was no use. The night was too dark. I forced myself to think logically, to try to grasp all that had happened. "You mean Charlotte did this to US? Where are we, Mulder?" "We're in a slaughterhouse -- on the Louisiana side. It's that place I noticed this morning. She was watching us. Scully, she's upset 'cause we arrested her dad," he explained. His voice seemed a little less tight, so I assumed his pain was easing some. There was no way that the agony from a gunshot wound to the belly could abate, but the less he moved, the better it was for the pain and the injury itself. "He abused her too, but she wants to protect him. She's gone over the edge since he was arrested." "I'd say so, Mulder. When most people get upset, they don't shoot somebody." I jerked against the pipe, but all I got for my efforts was a bruised wrist. "She's got you cuffed to a pipe behind this huge tub." His voice kind of drifted off at the end and I panicked again. "Mulder!" "I'm okay, Scully," he murmured softly, "just trying to get comfortable. I'm dizzy, but I don't think I'm dying." *Yet?!* I pushed those thoughts away quickly. "Why is she doing this?" I cried out in frustration. "She didn't say." Another chuckle, another moan. "I don't think she even knows why. He used to lock her up, until she gave in to him." The suffering in his voice was tangible through the darkness. I wanted to go to him. I couldn't. *************** "Mulder!" It was midnight. I think we both had drifted off. Two hours had passed since we'd last spoken. I needed to know how he was. "What?" he answered, a bit surly, but his voice was strong -- a good sign. "What are you doing?" I inquired, wanting to make sure he was lucid. "Building a tower out of office furniture," he muttered sarcastically. I heard the chains rattle, signaling he was changing position. He swore softly. "Scully, I was sleeping." "Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you're okay." "I'm okay." His tone had softened. He understood my concern. We'd been through so much together, these last seven years. "Scully, I know why you have to leave ..." I think he wanted to say "me", but changed his mind, "to leave the X-files, but are you leaving the bureau, too? Will I still see you?" "Mulder, I really haven't even decided for sure that I'm leaving. I just feel so ... I don't know. Mulder, I don't know if I'm doing what I'm meant to do. Maybe I'm not made for this kind of work. For you, well, for you it all comes so natural. I don't see where I help you, where you even need me." "I need you, Scully," his reply was almost a whisper. "Mulder, maybe if I left the X-files we COULD have a relationship. You know, the kind where it would be right to need me the way you're talking about. I might be ready to try that. Maybe. For a change. But as far as work goes, I'm not sure I'm right for this line of work." "It took you seven years to decide this?" Mulder kept from laughing but I could hear the smile in his voice. I failed to find any humor in this matter. "No, it took YOU telling me I'm never right about anything." The moment the bitter words left my mouth I wished I could take them back. I don't know when my timing had been as bad as it was that early morning. Why was I letting him push me into dealing with this now? "Let's just drop it, okay?" "Okay," his reply was barely audible. The silence was as thick as the humid air. Our misery was palpable. I didn't know how to ease the suffering for either of us. "I'm sorry, Scully," Mulder finally whispered. "Why Mulder, you were just telling me the truth." I sighed, knowing it was not in his nature to let the matter drop. When something was preying on his mind, he worried at it like a dog worries a bone. I had to change the subject. There would be time for this later. When we were safe. When he was okay. "How's the bleeding Mulder?" Silence. "It's not bad, Scully." He sounded so weary. "It's down to where it seeps just a little bit when I move too much. It's hardly bleeding at all." "Okay, Mulder. Try to lie still. Okay?" I instructed hopefully. "Okay," he replied softly. The endless night closed around us once more and we waited. <><><><><><> Chapter 5 <><><><><><> "Mulder, somebody's coming!" I announced, after the dull, yellow glow of a light caught my eye. "Charlotte," he murmured sleepily. "Nobody else knows we're here." There was a quick laugh, followed by another groan. "You okay?" I asked, worried. It was 1 a.m. How long could he take this? I was exhausted, thirsty, hot and had a pounding headache and I didn't have a bullet lodged in my belly. "How are you feeling Mulder?" "I've felt better, Scully, but I think I'm doing okay," he reassured. His voice became stronger as he woke more. That was a good sign, I decided. I could see her now, as the light grew near. She entered carrying a backpack and a lantern. Her first glance was at me, as she walked through the door, but she averted her eyes when she saw me watching her and walked straight over to Mulder. My breath caught in my throat at seeing him. He was so pale, he was almost transparent. The front of his dress shirt was covered with blood, as were his pants. What had I expected? It had been well over 10 hours since he'd been shot. "I told you I'd be back, Mr. Mulder," Charlotte whispered, kneeling down beside my partner. She removed a small white box from her backpack, which I recognized to be a first aid kit, and began to unbuckle his trousers. Mulder hissed in pain when the cloth stuck to his wound. I eased up so I could better see how badly he'd been hurt. There was a small black dot near his right hip. He became even more pale as she cleaned it. "Charlotte, can Scully take a look at me? She's a doctor, really, I'm telling you the truth. You've got a gun, let her come over and see how I am, please," Mulder asked, his tone soft and pleading. Charlotte shook her head and glanced over to me. I was surprised to see tears in her eyes. "I can't," she replied, placing some gauze on the wound. "It's not bleeding anymore," she reported to me, her tone hopeful. "Charlotte, the bullet's still in there. He's been complaining of tenderness in his abdomen. Is his belly hard?" I asked. The young woman seemed a bit embarrassed by my request to touch Mulder, but she pushed on his lower stomach. "Fuck," he moaned, trying to move away from her hands. "Yes," she answered me, a touch of panic in her voice. "Kind of. It feels tight." "Charlotte, you have to let us go. You could be killing him," I ordered. She blanched and looked at me, shaking her head. "I can't. You took my daddy away." It was the whimper of a small child. She pulled a water bottle from the bag and offered it to Mulder. Her hands were shaking. I wasn't sure if he should be taking anything with a stomach wound, but I decided he needed to be hydrated and this was the only way we could do it at the present. "Small sips, Mulder," I cautioned. He complied. It seemed to help him. A little color came back to his face. "Charlotte, I told Scully what you told me about ... well, she knows what happened between you and your father. People will understand, Charlotte. If you let us go, we'll make sure nothing bad happens to you." "You can't tell nobody that! No, nobody is supposed to know." Charlotte's eyes were wide with fright. "They know about him now. Because of what happened with Casey, Charlotte," I reminded her. "It wasn't your fault. He won't blame you." "Daddy's in jail." Her reaction was like she was hearing the news for the first time. It was frightening. "Oh, God, NO!! Everybody knows. He's gonna kill me! Everybody knows how bad I am. No! It's not my fault. You don't know what it's like! I told you. I just wanted him to love me! I wanted to tell him no, but he'd still come for me. You don't understand!" She fell down against the stone table near Mulder, sobbing hysterically. He reached a shaky hand out to pat her shoulder. Her head came up instantly. "Don't touch me. You're not allowed to touch me. Understand?" I could see the fire in her eyes from my corner of the room. I feared for my partner. But the cloud passed as quickly as it came and she only offered him another sip of water. Her outburst had shaken Mulder. He was weak. He was tired, so he ventured into waters that held unseen dangers. "Charlotte, I understand," Mulder hoarsely muttered. "He kept you like a prisoner. You never had a normal life." "Oh, he's really not so bad," she shrugged, strolling over to me with the water bottle ready. The sudden change in her mood had puzzled us both so I watched her face as she came closer, reading answers to questions that should never be asked. It wasn't the same girl that stood before us now. It was Charlie. "Mulder," I murmured softly, trying to speak as evenly as possible. "Don't go there ..." He refused to hear me. Her words had struck a chord of indignation and anger in my partner. He thought he was doing right. "What do you mean? Didn't you hate him for what he did to you? For locking you in your room?" Charlie turned to him, a smile kissing her lips. "He always let me go, all I had to do was give him a blow job. I know how to get what I want out of him." I'd known what was coming. Mulder's face turned ashen at her answer, but he, of all persons, should have understood how a child will do what's necessary to survive. Charlie was definitely a survivor, but it had come with a price. "He doesn't want you." She had turned to me. Jealousy made her green eyes flash, "You're too old for him, you know." I nodded, her words sickened me, but I knew better than to fan the flames. Finally, the water bottle was pressed against my lips and I drank greedily. The girl left quickly. I could hear the sound of her bare feet padding against sand as she ran away. "She doesn't want our help?" Mulder's voice was tired. I was tired, too. "We're about five years too late to rescue her, Mulder," I replied, closing my eyes and resting my head on the blood stained tub. The metal felt cool against my face. It was going to be another hot one. I could tell, even though the sun had not made an appearance. "The only person who can save Charlie now is Charlie." The stillness and heat swallowed us again and I felt my lids grow heavy. ************** "Mulder!" I yelled, checking my watch from habit. Almost 3 a.m. -- thirteen hours since he'd been shot. "Yeah!" he answered. His voice was no weaker, but it still was not strong. "You okay? What ya doin'?" He was too tired for his smart ass rejoinder. It worried me. "Thinkin'." "About what?" *Talk to me, Mulder, so I know you're okay.* "The scream," he murmured, so low I had to strain to hear him. "The scream?" "I know you know that picture, Scully. I remember the first time I saw it was in school. You know, it's by Munch. The one where the person has his hands on his face, screaming." I nodded to myself, I knew the painting, "Yes" I choked, trying make sure he could hear me past the lump that had grown so huge in my throat. I didn't want him to know I was crying. It was better that he felt I was strong. "I used to sit and look at it. I felt like that. That was me. Nobody hears you scream. Nobody hears you cry. When you're a kid, nobody really hears what you're trying to tell them. I thought it was better now. I mean, I know there's still child abuse, but I thought now, people listened more to kids. I just thought it was better." I didn't know what to tell him. "Scully, you know, Sam used to crawl in bed with me?" he murmured. His tone was raw, he'd been crying and he slurred slightly as he spoke. "When she was scared?" I questioned. I knew he should rest, but I wanted to hear his voice. I needed to hear his voice. There was a sigh that was almost a sob. "Mom worked nights. When Sam started to school, she went back to work. Did you know she was a biochemist?" "No, I didn't," I never even pictured his mother working. She hadn't struck me as a career woman. "That's when Sam started sneaking into my room. She was always scared, Scully. She'd always come in crying. I -- I just thought it was bad dreams. It wasn't every night. Not every night." He paused, choking with his tears and I heard him begin to retch. "Mulder," I called, my heart in my throat. "Mulder, are you okay?" "I think I'm sick Scully," He gasped, breathing heavy. "I just puked on myself. Great." I heard the chains clanking and knew he was trying to get away from where he'd vomited. He couldn't get far. I heard him gulping for air to calm his rebellious stomach. When he spoke again, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear him. "This went on for more than a year, 'til Mom found out. My mom didn't think it was proper for us to share a bed. She's a great one for propriety, my mom. So Sam stopped coming." His voice broke. He took a few deep breath to steady it. When he spoke again, the words came out in a rush. "That's when I found out what scared her. It was about a month after she started sleeping back in her room. I got up to go take a leak and I heard her. Her door was closed. I could hear her crying. I started to go to see what was wrong, but when I got to the door, I heard my father. He was in there with her. That's why she was crying. He used to call her his Daddy's girl, Scully." I felt ill. Again, I didn't know how to respond. I could hear the sounds of his chains rattling. I knew he had pulled himself into a ball. He always did when he was in pain. It is the classic position of the abused child. Protection and self-comfort, personified. "I got my mom to buy me bunk beds not long after that. We were on opposite sides of my room, so Mom didn't mind her sleeping in there. Scully, that's when I first had trouble sleeping. I'd stay awake, because I was always afraid Dad would come in and take her. You know, when I first started remembering her abduction, I thought she'd been taken from my room. I don't know how many nights I stayed awake, waiting for him to come in and take her from me. I didn't know what I could do to stop him, but I knew I couldn't let it keep happening. I couldn't let him hurt her anymore." I heard Mulder moan, then it was quiet. I was almost going to call for him when he spoke again. "He never touched me that way, Scully," Mulder cried. His voice was a horse whisper now. He was growing so weak. "He never did." Did I believe him, that he was spared that one abuse? Did it matter? Wasn't knowing what went on down that hallway, hearing the muffed tears of his little sister, bad enough? If he chose to remember it didn't happen to him, who was I to try to take that small comfort away? "Do you hate him, Mulder?" I asked, already knowing the truth. He took so long to answer it frightened me and I strained to hear his breath sounds in the night. Yes, he still was okay, still alive. "Yeah, but hate hurts so much, Scully. Hate makes you sick, so I just went on loving him, but, you know, that hurt, too." Silence again. I thought he'd drifted off to sleep until I heard the clank of the chains and knew he'd pushed himself up. In my mind's eye, I could see him straining to see me through the black, sweltering night. "Scully, does it hurt you to love? I've always wondered. Does love hurt normal people like you?" There was a touch of bitterness in his tone. "Yes," I answered, fighting the urge to tell him he'd asked the wrong person. We'd had enough confessions for one night. More than enough pain had been shared. I bit back tears. "Mulder, just try to sleep now okay? Lie back down." "I can't," he moaned, but I heard the rattle that told me he'd done as I'd suggested and laid down. He'd lost quite a bit of blood. Both physically and emotionally, he was exhausted. For awhile I heard the restless sound of him trying to find a position that afforded a bit of comfort, but at last there came the slow, steady breathing that meant he slept. Then, knowing he wouldn't hear, I rested my face on my arm and cried. <><><><><><> Chapter 6 <><><><><><> Mulder slept and I dwelled on all that had been said. The events in our life shape us, mold us into the human beings we finally become. I was my father's favorite. My older brother, Bill, bore the brunt of his expectations. The simple facts of our birth order and gender had much to do with who we both are today. So did what happened between my brother Bill and I, so many years ago, make me into this person I am now? Perhaps. I do know the secret Bill and I share created a chasm between us that has kept us apart to this day. What happened is mild compared to the atrocities Charlotte and Mulder suffered through. It began with curiosity and ended in a threat. I kept silent because I loved Bill and knew our father was always too hard on him. I think what hurt me the most was not his adolescent groping and explorations; what created the wound that has never healed was Bill's threat that he would tell our mother I had brought it all on myself. So no one knows, and no one will ever find out. At least not from me. My eyes were dry when Charlotte returned. The night was fading, dawn was breaking. I checked my watch and saw it was a few minutes past five o'clock. I immediately made the calculation -- fifteen hours and counting since Mulder had been wounded. The young woman entered and went straight to Mulder's side. "Mr. Mulder," she whispered, touching his face. Mulder stirred, but did not wake up. This frightened me and I strained against my bonds to see what was happening. "Mr. Mulder?" she shook him and I winced when he only responded with a half-conscious moan. Charlotte turned to me, her face a stricken mask of fear. "He's dying." She choked. "Charlotte, let us go, please," I begged. My wrists were aching from my struggles but I didn't care. She was right. He WAS dying. "I'm sorry," she cried, rising to her feet. Tears streamed down her face and she strolled out of my sight to the back of the room. I wasn't watching her, my eyes were on Mulder. I could see him now. He lay limply on his back, his eyes half open. My heart pounded in my ears. I've never been so frightened. It was my worst nightmare, come to life -- watching helplessly while Mulder died. "You have to tell Daddy I'm sorry. Let him know, I didn't mean for him to suffer. I was just jealous." Charlotte passed me, walking toward the door. She had her small gun clutched in her hand. "Charlotte...," was all I was able to utter before she turned to face me. "I'm sorry. Tell Daddy I know he loved her. I didn't mean to do it. I just wanted him to love me again." She walked out the door, firing the tiny hand gun blindly as she passed through the opening. I heard a barrage of weapons' fire and then nothing. The long night was finally over, my sobs were all that broke the deafening silence. *************** My friend and supervisor, Walter Skinner, helped me make it to my feet and placed a protective arm around my shoulders, leading me over to where the EMTs worked on Mulder. They were just about to load my partner on the gurney as I made it to his side. The medical technicians had him stabilized for the trip. IVs were in place, an oxygen mask covered the lower part of his face. I was surprised to see two gray-green eyes tiredly smiling at me when I reached to take his hand. I didn't have to wage a battle in order to ride with the emergency crew to the hospital. Skinner had already taken care of the matter by informing the medics that I was Mulder's personal physician and knew every bit of information they would need of their patient's medical history. "Okay, we're in route with a thirty-six year old male...," the bearded young technician began, speaking into the microphone once we had made it across the river and into the vehicle. "He's thirty-seven," I corrected, from my seat at Mulder's head. His partner chuckled in my ear as he cinched the safety belt tightly across my lap. "Why don't you ask her about everything first, before you report in, Kyle? We've got him stable enough for the time being." Kyle glanced up at me expectantly as we pulled out onto the narrow, two-lane highway and the siren started up. I began forming my report in my head, my nerves calming just as the Assistant Director knew they would once I had a job to do. Kyle glanced at his notes and smiled up at me. "Here's what I got so far --Thirty-seven year old male, untreated gunshot wound to the right hip. The patient told us he was shot at around two yesterday afternoon so that would be..." "Sixteen hours," I replied, smoothing Mulder's hair from his brow with my free hand. His color had improved with the oxygen and fluids and although his eyes were closed, I knew he was awake, listening. He still held my left hand tightly and had pulled it up close to his side. "No allergies, he's on no medications, last meal probably 30 hours ago..." "At least," came a muffled comment from behind the mask. The long lashes cast dark shadows against his skin. His eyes remained closed, but he allowed me a hint of his old sly smile. "Hush, I'm handling this, let me do my job," I whispered in his ear, swiping a quick hand across my now damp face. Mulder's eyes slowly slid open, filling with tears at my answer. He'd understood my meaning and was pleased with the decision I'd made. He brought my hand up to touch his cheek, giving me a silent thank you for choosing to stay. *************** I knew it was too soon to be sure, but I had a feeling Mulder was going to be okay. Left in the waiting room when they hurried my partner back to examine him, I had none of the desperate worries that I had felt so many times before, sitting for hours on ugly, uncomfortable furniture, waiting for news of whether my partner was going to live or die. This time, I just knew everything was going to work out fine. It was a good fifteen minutes later when Skinner came striding in through the automatic doors to join me, eyes wide and jacket flapping. I noticed his surprise, out the corner of my eye, at seeing me calmly reading my three year old People magazine. He had been expecting to find me in my usual state, pacing frantically and loudly harassing the staff for word of my partner's condition. "The news is good, I take it?" he sighed in relief, sagging into a chair beside me. I glanced up from my reading and shook my head, "I haven't heard yet." I'll give my supervisor credit; his shocked expression was hardly noticeable. I did get a very readable, steely glare, but I chose to ignore it and return to my article. "You need to get checked out," he finally muttered, stifling a nervous fidget, when I looked up. "I'll wait until I hear how Mulder is," I replied softly. This long awaited proof of my concern must have been what he wanted, for I got the classic Skinner smile -- his lips pursed and the corners of his mouth tugged upward a fraction of an inch. He then grabbed a tattered copy of Sport Illustrated from the table to hide behind. "How did you find us?" I asked, tossing my book aside, more intrigued by the facts of our rescue, than by the news of Madonna's pregnancy. "I'll tell you after your examination," Skinner replied, sotto voce, from behind his magazine. I smiled, knowing I deserved that bit of abuse for my teasing, then proceeded up to the desk with a request to get my head examined. *************** It took the emergency room Doctor two hours to confirm my own diagnosis of a very slight concussion. Since I had suffered no noticeable ill effects after regaining consciousness, I was released with a reminder of what to watch for, and instructions to rest and take Tylenol for the pain. I did put the time before the doctor made his initial appearance to good use by freshening up a bit. Skinner was scanning a copy of Texas Highways, absorbing an apparently fascinating article on what had become of Mussolini's old yacht, when I returned to the waiting room. It seems it's now a floating bed and breakfast in Galveston. "Well, I'm good to go," I sighed, flopping down wearily into my chair which he'd saved for me from the walking wounded who had filled the room during my absence. With a nod, the assistant director tossed his book into his seat to hold it and strode over to the coffee urn, returning with two steaming cups of liquid insomnia. I gratefully grabbed a cup and, giving him a grin of thanks, sipped at the hot beverage, glad to feel the warm energy it gave me. The long, fifteen hour nightmare was catching up with my body, but the coffee helped. It did, however, also stimulate my mind, which really didn't need it. The adrenaline rush of the day's events still lingered there. "They took Mulder up to surgery about an hour ago," I muttered. While still confident in my belief the nightmare was over and all would be well, my thoughts were racing and my hands shook uncontrollably. I pressed them hard against my thighs but nothing seemed to help. "Let's go find a cafeteria," Skinner suggested, noticing my trembling. I shook my head, "I don't think I could eat." What if they came out with word on Mulder and I was gone? "Scully," my superior murmured softly, "we could tell them where we're going and they could page us." I had never realized my mind could be so easily read. First, Mulder knew I had been thinking about a career change and now my boss had divined the fact that I forgot a hospital always has a paging system. Truthfully, I really didn't think I was witnessing the birth of mystical talents in my friends. I realized it was the fact these two very important men in my life knew me better than I knew myself. "Okay," I relented with a smile, "but I want to hear what made you decide to come to Texas." Flashing a rare, broad, amazingly boyish and strikingly handsome grin, Assistant Director Walter Skinner placed a protective arm around my shoulders and led me to our luncheon. <><><><><><> Chapter 7 <><><><><><> I was already halfway through my yogurt when Skinner finally made it through the line and set his heavily-laden tray down opposite me. Never having watched the man eat, I was surprised he was such a trencherman; but he is a tall, robust specimen so I reasoned he must need quite a few calories to keep the machine fueled. Little did I realize that, while Skinner does have a healthy appetite, he had taken such a variety of food on his tray to entice me. It seems Mulder had once told him that if you get me caught up in a conversation, I would clean your plate for you, one snitch at a time. My partner does tend to stretch the truth a bit. "So, why did you came down?" I asked Skinner, hoping that this time my curiosity would at last be sated. I thought I detected a slight blush coloring his cheeks, as he explained. "I just felt bad that I'd even involved you two. Godwin was MY friend, I should have been the one to come down here in the first place." The thought of how everything had ended seemed to stymie the man's appetite and I regretted I'd even asked the question. "It's not your fault, sir," I offered earnestly. "You had no idea what was really happening, none of us did." Skinner nodded that he knew what I said was true, but I think the fact that the entire sordid affair of lies, abuse, and murder, all stemmed from a man who had been a brother in arms, sickened him to his soul. I can't say that I blamed him. "How did you find us?" I asked, hoping this new subject didn't prove to be as painful to my supervisor. "I made it into Deweyville about 8 o'clock last night. Neither of you were in your rooms, but I at that point, I wasn't really concerned. I didn't think that Deweyville had much of a night life. I assumed you were having dinner the next town over or something. It was still fairly early and, after all, you no longer had a case, so your time was your own." "Yeah," I sighed, grabbing one of the cherry tomatoes off Skinner's mountain high salad. "Our time was our own. So where does Mulder go? Out chasing some phantom he'd spotted spying on the murder investigation of a 12-year-old girl." "Well, weren't you sitting in on 'said twelve year old's' autopsy at that exact moment? During YOUR free time," Skinner challenged. I frowned at him, munching on another juicy tomato before I replied, "Yeah, but I've never been gut shot during an autopsy." I grinned slightly, as Skinner grabbed the last tomato. "True, you do have a point there." He downed a quick sip of tea before plunging back into his story. "I went to the substation there in town and Ortmayer helped me wrangle an after hours meeting with Corpsman Godwin." The man pressed a hand against his forehead as though the very act of uttering his old service buddy's name made his head throb. Could it be he wished to erase the memory of his friendship with the pedophile? "It took us almost an hour to get over to the county jail in Newton, so it was close to 11 before I even got to see him. This part went pretty quickly, because a day in jail, carrying around the tag of child molester-slash-murderer, didn't sit too well with old Lovelace. In the first 10 minutes I was there, he told me he'd been covering for Charlotte killing the girl. I tried to call your room again, right after he confessed, to let you in on the news. I think that was when I started getting concerned. I only saw one place open on the drive back to the station but I really didn't think it was the type of place you two would frequent. I AM right in assuming that you and Agent Mulder aren't too big on honky-tonks?" "Well, I can only speak for myself with any certainty, sir, but I'd have to say -- no, I'm not really what you'd call a honky-tonk woman," I replied, not quite able to restrain my grin. "However, as far as I know, Agent Mulder hasn't really mastered his Texas two-step yet, so I'd have to say you were right in assuming that about him, too." Skinner flashed a sly grin and smothering a chuckle, picked up where he'd left off. "Ortmayer had called in a few volunteers to help him bring Charlotte in. I don't think he really felt he'd need the extra men, but he's pretty careful about things like that. They don't get many murders in Deweyville, except for drunken brawls that get out of hand or an occasional lovers quarrel that ends badly. A child killer, especially one that just might be psychotic, isn't what they're used to." Skinner popped open his bag of chips and shook out a few on the far side of his tray, motioning for me to help myself, then continued. "It was around 1:30 when we got to Heaven's Way. It took us better than an hour to search the house, office and barn. So it wasn't 'til almost three when we finally found your cars. Of course, now we knew that you'd met up with Charlotte. We weren't really sure what the young woman was capable of, but since there'd been no word from you two, everyone assumed the worst. I just knew we needed to expedite matters, so I phoned the jail and got them to let Godwin fill us in as to where he thought his daughter might be." A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth as he told me of his conversation with his old 'buddy.' "I told him my agents were missing and we'd discovered his daughter had them. I then proceeded to explain a few interesting facts of law, like the definition of complicity and what the penalties are for being connected in the crime of kidnapping federal agents. He decided it might help his case if he was cooperative. He knew where she'd go. He told us to check the slaughterhouse first. Godwin said that was where Charlotte had taken Casey after she'd knocked the little girl out and that's where she finally lost it and cut her throat. I made my report to the sheriff and when I mentioned that the slaughterhouse was supposed to be across the river, it rang a few bells with Ortmayer. We didn't know it at the time, but things just all fell into place after that." I knew things didn't just "fall" together in a case like this. Not without help. A lot of people worked long and hard to solve this crime and I shuddered when I thought of what might have happened if our supervisor had not shown up when he did. It suddenly struck me how lucky we were to work for and with a man like Skinner. "Thank you," I murmured, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. He accepted my appreciation with a gracious smile, then proceeded to finish his story. "Ortmayer called all his men in along with the Calcasieu Parish Sheriff's Department, and got them to requisition a few more boats. Just before sunrise, we all headed down to the river. The plan was to surround the place and get Charlotte to surrender, but instead, she came out firing." "Suicide by homicide," I murmured sadly, shaking my head. "She must have spotted everything that was happening at the ranch and knew you'd find her. I think she just wanted it to all be over. I don't know, but I believe that's what I saw in her face, right before she ran outside." I took a quick sip of tea to wash down the lump that had formed in my throat. It just shouldn't have ended the way it did. I felt Charlotte was a victim, too. The only small consolation I could find, was the fact that the catalyst for the whole tragic chain of events, was in custody. Godwin would be charged with sexual abuse of a minor and at the very least, murder by association -- withholding evidence of the crime. "Did Godwin say if he knew why Charlotte killed Casey?" "He said she told him that Casey made her angry. Apparently, she'd invited Casey to go fishing with her. Godwin said Charlotte confessed that she told the girl to run away or else. Casey threatened to tell Godwin. Charlotte apparently lost it and hit her in the head with the tackle box, then carried her over to the slaughterhouse. Charlotte told her father she really didn't know what she was going to do with Casey at that point but, when the little girl woke up screaming, she wound up slitting her throat to shut her up. Godwin said she kept telling him that it was all like a nightmare; that it wasn't really her killing Casey. She said it reminded her of how you can watch yourself in a dream." "She was Charlie when she killed her, then she was Charlotte to take the blame," I murmured, stunned by the irony. It surprised me when Skinner raised a questioning brow and I suddenly realized that no one knew about Charlie. "Sir, I don't know if Charlotte really suffered from a multiple personality disorder, because it didn't seem like the two sides of her personality were truly separate. I would say there was a definite flaw in her development. The only time I saw Charlotte able to deal with painful emotions, like fear or anger, was when she acted out the brave 'Charlie' side of herself." I stopped short, noticing the rapt attention my supervisor was giving my off-the-cuff analysis, and sighed. Everything I'd said had been purely speculation in an attempt to understand what had happened. Was I really even sure that's what I'd witnessed? My own defense mechanisms were surfacing and parts of what had happened were already starting to blur. Skinner needed to know this. "Sir, I don't know if that's how it was. If that's what it was. I'm not even sure if I believe there really is such a thing as "multiple personalities," at least not the way I've heard it clinically described. I don't claim to be a psychiatrist. I do believe when Charlotte called herself Charlie, she could kill and that Charlotte just didn't have it in her to hurt anyone. Does that make sense?" I asked, hoping he understood what I meant. "You and Mulder, you're the only ones who ever noticed this in the girl?" Skinner asked, in amazement. "I don't think anyone ever noticed Charlotte at all, except Daddy." Saying the word brought a sudden chill and I glumly wondered if I would ever be able to utter that tender nickname for father without remembering the tragedy of a girl named Charlotte. "Can we go back now?" I glanced at my watch and saw that Mulder's surgery was heading into it's third hour. It shouldn't be much longer. Skinner nodded that he was ready and we strolled back to finish our wait. We returned to claim our old seats in the ER It appeared they were having a momentary lull before the next onslaught of patients. I remember my weeks in the emergency room during my internship, and I've heard that they're all alike. It seems the flow of 'customers' is either feast or famine, keeping the exhausted young doctors bored out of their skulls or overtaxed to the point of insanity. I softly chuckled to myself at the memory. Skinner leaned over and tapped my arm, pulling me from my musings. I grinned, embarrassed he'd caught me woolgathering, and I urged him, "Finish up what happened, there's more, isn't there?" "You sure you don't want to stretch out and rest?" he asked, nodding to the now-vacant, bench-like sofa. I looked at that post-modern, torture device and ruefully shook my head. "Like anyone could get comfortable on that. Come on, tell me, what did Godwin say about calling you? Why did he try that silly hoax? When he tried to cover up the murder, was he just protecting his own ass or was there really some vestige of parental love in the man that made him want to save his daughter?" Skinner stared at me, or maybe it was through me, lost in thought. I was beginning to wonder if he'd even heard my questions, if I'd perhaps caught him daydreaming. He finally stirred and shifted in his seat, stretching his long, powerfully built legs out in front of him. He once again turned to face me and purposefully met my eyes. "Agent Scully, you and Mulder spend your time looking for aliens, so I've got a question for you. I've been in this line of work, trying to stop a type of monster that preys on its own kind, for most of my adult life and it sometimes makes me wonder -- are people like you, like Mulder, like me, are we the aliens? Because from what I've seen of this so-called human race, there's nothing humane about it. It scares me. We're all supposed to be the same underneath. Does that mean we're all capable of the things that men like Godwin do?" "I don't think you and Godwin are even in the same species, sir." I softly murmured, shaking my head. "I considered the man my brother," Skinner muttered bitterly, angry at himself for being fooled. "That was a long time ago, you hadn't seen him in years," I replied, trying to reassure him, but my words of comfort seemed so hollow. I sank back in my seat, not knowing what more to say. I guess we'd talked ourselves out. Skinner leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Spotting my magazine, I returned to my article. Once more, I found myself silently waiting. ************** I really should start a web page that rates waiting rooms for comfort. I think I'll use the four-star system as a gauge. Now the ICU waiting room at Baptist Hospital in Orange Texas would be a definite three-star, much superior than the one-star ER waiting room downstairs. This small room had a good-sized couch that was plushily- padded and two recliners that were actually more than comfortable. I slept like a baby, curled up in that wonderful chair, that first night of Mulder's stay. The fact that I did sleep is evidence to anyone who knows me that I was right. My partner came through his surgery with flying colors. There had been no vascular damage. The internal bleeding had stemmed from tissue injury and had only become dangerous because there had been so much time for it to accumulate. For once, everything just seemed to fall Mulder's way. The bullet had perforated his small intestine in a couple of places, but infection never set in and the actual portions that the surgeon had to remove were amazingly small. They kept him in the ICU two days after his surgery under fairly heavy sedation. This hospital had an extremely ridged policy for ICU visitation. I was only allowed 15 minutes with Mulder every three hours and I believe I slept the entire time I wasn't by his side. *************** "Well, you going to fill me in on what this whole nightmare has been about?" Mulder growled, barely giving me a chance to get through the door. Our supervisor had just left, having spent the morning with my partner, saying his good-byes before returning to Washington this afternoon, thus, giving me a chance for some time away from the hospital. It appeared Skinner wouldn't talk to Mulder about our so- called "case" either. My week-long reprieve of not having to think about everything that had happened was about to come to an end. Mulder was not going to allow me the luxury of using his weakened condition to avoid discussing it any longer. He was well on the road to recovery and he wanted to know everything. I couldn't blame him. I'd nagged A.D. Skinner to the point of distraction when I had been the one in the dark. It made me realize that even though I have always tried to deny it, my partner and I shared a major personality 'trait' -- we both possessed an insatiable hunger to know the truth. I smiled; I'd just discovered another reason why I'd stayed. It was growing into a very long list. I was going to have to write them down soon, so if I ever lost my way again, I'd already know the reasons why this is where I belonged. "Where do you want me to start?" I asked with a sigh. I settled down into my favorite chair and slipped off my shoes, wanting to get comfortable for what I knew was going to be an intense interrogation. "Let's get this over with." I really didn't want to do this, so my tone must have been a bit sharp. I really hadn't meant it to be. I was just ready to put everything behind us. It was time we moved on. Mulder, of course, surprised me. The questions didn't come. He sat quietly, propped up with pillows I'd requested during our stay, and studied my face. Suddenly, he frowned and his expression changed. What was it? Worry? Fright? I wasn't sure what was wrong. The silence stretched into minutes before I finally stood up and padded over to take his hand. "You change your mind?" I murmured softly, relishing the familiar warmth that intense, sea-mist gaze always brought me. He nodded, his face still solemn. "Did you?" he asked. "You're still staying?" *With me.* The hope and need in his voice made tears spring to my eyes. I nodded, offering a reassuring smile. "I thought I told you that last week." He grinned, years instantly vanishing from that handsome face. I couldn't help myself, the relief at seeing him smile again made me giddy and I began to giggle. I guess I lost a couple of decades myself when the pain and tension, that had been smothering us for so long, lifted at seeing him smile. Mulder pulled me to him, holding me as tight as his still-sore stomach would allow. I returned his embrace, and together, we managed the perfect hug. We do make a great team. The End