
=========== 
Chapter Eight 
===========

The Plough and Stars 
Manhattan, NY 
Wednesday, March 8, 2000
6:24 p.m.

The Plough and Stars turned out to be just what Mulder had
guessed it would be when he first heard the name:  an old,
smoky, working-class tavern, located in the heart of one of
New York's many Irish neighborhoods.

When Scully proposed meeting here for dinner and a drink
while they compared notes and brought each other up to date
on the day's activities, he'd wondered for a few seconds how
she knew about such a place.  Before he'd had a chance to
embarrass himself by asking, however, he realized that the
suggestion had undoubtedly come from Paul Burks.  Now that
suspicion was confirmed as well, because the place was thick
with cops.

Mulder wished he understood why it was bothering him so much
that Burks had chosen where the three of them would have
dinner.  It was only logical that the man take the lead in
such matters, he told himself firmly.  The detective was the
local resident, after all; the out-of-towners would be smart
to follow his lead.

Mulder took another sip of his soda water, and wondered once
again if he was jealous.  He'd been thinking about that off
and on all day, ever since Scully and Burks had departed for
Rikers Island, and he hadn't reached any useful conclusions
-- at least, none that he was comfortable with.

On the face of it, it was ridiculous.  He knew Scully well
enough to understand that he had no reason for such
feelings.  She'd proven her loyalty to him countless times
over the years, and he had no cause to think she wouldn't
carry that level of commitment over into a personal
relationship, as well.  But no amount of logic and reasoning
seemed to be enough to keep his anxieties at bay.

He shook his head,  forced the troubling thoughts away, and
tried to think about the case as he continued to sip at his
soda water.  The music blaring from the jukebox and the
noisy chatter of the other people in the bar was making it
difficult to think, so Mulder took out a pen and started
doodling on a napkin as a way of focusing his thoughts.

After leaving the Hamilton residence, he'd driven back to
the city, grabbed a quick bite of lunch, and embarked on the
thankless task of beginning interviews with the victims'
families, while Scully and Burks made the long trip out to
New Haven to talk to Sylvia Denson's husband.  Again, Mulder
wasn't completely happy at the division of labor, but he had
to agree that it would have been a waste of time for them to
rendezvous somewhere in the city, and then all go out to
Connecticut together.  This way was better, he assured
himself.  This way was efficient.

Unfortunately, his afternoon had been completely
unproductive.  He'd visited the families of two of the
victims, and none of them had been able to shed any light on
the murders.  Nobody who knew the deceased had noticed
anything different or unusual in the days leading up to
their deaths, and neither victim had been in the habit of
picking up strangers for one night stands.  And the icing on
the cake was that George Ventner, the man Devon McSparran
had killed, was neither gay nor bisexual -- in fact, he'd
been known by his friends and family to be something of a
homophobe.

Mulder supposed he should also contact Marvin Draper's wife,
but since Draper was from the west coast that would have to
be done by phone, and Mulder quite frankly had been putting
it off.  He had no desire to intrude on yet another family's
grief -- especially since none of it seemed to be going
anywhere, and most especially since he would be unable to
establish truly personal contact over the phone.

One thing he *had* done was to call Kendra Prentice, and ask
her about the painting that had caught his attention the day
before.  She'd confirmed his suspicion that the piece had
been produced by the same man who'd painted the work in
Helen Hamilton's home:  Lacrimae Mundi.

Unfortunately, Ms. Prentice had been unable to provide any
information about the artist.  She knew even less about
Mundi -- or whatever his name actually was -- than Mrs.
Hamilton did.  Just that her husband had bought the painting
a month or so earlier, and it had been hanging in the living
room of their condominium ever since.

Mulder frowned as he thought about that again.  McSparran
had bought the painting in early February.  He had met and
killed George Ventner on February 14.  Could there be a
connection?  Or was he making too much stew from one oyster?
 All he really had to go on was the odd feeling he'd had
when he looked at the paintings, and he was sure Scully
would be quick to inform him that it had all been brought on
by stress.

And she might well be right.

Mulder sighed, and finished his drink, then looked at his
watch.  6:45.  Scully and Burks were late; they were
supposed to have been here at six.  He felt another tremor
of anxiety, but quickly suppressed it.  The interview in New
Haven had just taken longer than expected, or they were
stuck in traffic; that was all.  A phone call would have
been nice, but he wasn't her father.  Scully was a grown
woman, and she could take care of herself.

And then suddenly there she was, standing in the entrance
and furling her umbrella.  An instant later, Burks stepped
in behind her, brushing drops of water off his coat, but
Mulder was barely aware of the man's presence.  All he could
see was Scully.

#          #          #

Scully gave her umbrella one more shake, then closed it and
tucked it under her arm.  The rain had started just as they
were leaving New Haven; by the time they reached Manhattan,
it had developed into a steady downpour.  They'd been late
leaving Connecticut in the first place, and the weather and
a traffic accident on I-95 had caused additional delays.

But now here they were at last, at the Plough and Stars, the
same tavern she and Burks had visited the night before. 
They were 45 minutes late, but at least they were here.  It
had been a long, tiring day, a day that Scully wasn't at all
sure had been truly productive, and she was looking forward
to seeing Mulder again.  Splitting up had made sense, and
she had enjoyed Paul Burks' company, once they got past the
initial stiffness.  But he wasn't Mulder.

She spotted her partner almost immediately, sitting by
himself in a booth towards the back.  His eyes were already
glued to her, and he was looking at her with a hesitant,
friendly expression that made her feel warm all over.  So he
had missed her, too.

Scully allowed her own face to blossom into a smile, and was
rewarded as Mulder's smile broadened even further.  She was
about to walk over to his table, when she felt a gentle
touch at her elbow.

"Agent Scully?"

Scully sighed, and turned to see that Detective Burks was
now a few feet away, standing next to a table where three
other men were seated.  "Yes, Detective?" she asked, as she
stepped over to stand next to him.

The other men were already climbing to their feet, as Burks
said, "Agent Scully, I'd like you to meet Captain Swenson,
and Lieutenants Bigelow and Cheung."  To the other three: 
"This is Special Agent Dana Scully; she's with the Bureau,
and she and her partner are giving me a hand with a case I'm
working on."

Scully forced a smile as she shook hands and exchanged a few
polite words with each man.  More liaison, she thought. 
Whether he was conscious of it or not, Burks was seeking to
enhance his own status by making sure his peers knew that
federal agents had been assigned to his investigation. 
There was no real harm in that, and it was far from the
first time she'd encountered this situation.  But right now,
she really wasn't in the mood.

She finished greeting the third man and stood quietly next
to Burks, as he continued to talk to his colleagues. 
Something about basketball -- Scully heard the words "Final
Four" spoken several times.  But beyond that, she wasn't
really paying attention.  Idly, she turned her gaze back in
the direction of her partner -- and frowned.

Mulder was no longer looking at her.  Instead, he was
sitting perfectly still, staring at the empty glass in front
of him.  His face was completely calm and expressionless; he
almost looked bored.  Scully doubted whether anyone other
than herself would be able to detect the fact that her
partner was deeply unhappy about something.

Even as she was making her excuses to Burks and the others,
Scully's mind was working, trying to figure out what was
bothering her partner.  He'd seemed fine only a couple of
minutes earlier, when she and the detective first arrived. 
Then she'd turned away for a moment to talk to Burks and his
friends --

Shit.

Scully shook her head in disbelief as she walked quickly
across the room to Mulder's table.  It had been a long time
since she'd been seriously involved with someone, and it
seemed she'd forgotten what it was like.  And Mulder was
particularly vulnerable right now.

She came to a halt next to Mulder's table.  For a moment or
two she just stood there watching him, as he stared in
apparent fascination at the glass in front of him.  At last,
she cleared her throat and spoke.

"Mind if I join you?"

Mulder hesitated, then nodded and moved over in the booth. 
Scully slid in next to him, deliberately scooting over until
her hip bumped against his.

The partners sat together in silence for a pair of minutes,
while Scully tried to decide what to say.  She knew the
issue needed to be addressed; she also knew that this was
far from the ideal time and place.  But she couldn't just
let the matter drop; if she did, it would be that much
harder to deal with later.  Finally, choosing her words very
carefully, she said, "Mulder, I have to be able to work with
other men.  If I can't do that, I can't function in this
job."

Mulder nodded slightly, and his lips quirked.  "I know,
Scully.  I'm sorry."  But still he couldn't seem to meet her
gaze.

"It's okay," she replied.  "I understand.  We're both still
feeling our way into this whole being a couple thing, and
we're bound to make mistakes."  She hesitated, then added,
"Mulder?  I know we haven't talked about this, but I've been
operating under the assumption that we're involved in an
exclusive relationship.  Is that your perception?"

Now Mulder did turn to look at her, and his eyebrows shot up
in apparent surprise.  "Of course it is," he responded.  "I
don't want anyone but you, Scully.  Ever."

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding,
and replied, "I don't want anyone but you, either.  And that
means we're going to have to trust each other."  Mulder
opened his mouth to answer, but she hurried on, "I know you
do trust me, Mulder.  You've trusted me with your
reputation, as well as your life.  But now you're going to
have to learn to trust me with your heart, as well."

For a moment he just looked at her; then he nodded, and
whispered, "I do trust you with my heart, Scully.  Even when
the world is falling apart, I trust you.  But I've never
been very good at this relationship stuff."  He nodded in
the direction of Burks and his friends, still chatting on
the far side of the room.  "I hope you'll be able to cut me
some slack when I need it."

"Always," she replied, feeling her insides quiver in
recognition of his words.  She paused briefly to swallow the
lump that had suddenly formed in her throat, then reached
out and briefly squeezed his hand.  "And I suppose I should
confess to you at this point that I can also be pretty
possessive at times.  Even territorial.  If I step over the
line, I expect you to let me know.  Okay?"

Mulder smiled, and nodded.  "Sure."

Once again silence descended, but this time is was a
comfortable silence, even a happy one.  Her hand still
rested lightly on his, and Scully felt a warm sense of
contentment settling around her.

She wished that she could kiss him, but her lifelong
resistance to public displays of affection was inhibiting
her.  Scully was a very private person when it came to her
emotions, and the questionable propriety of kissing her
partner, coupled with having Paul Burks and a dozen or more
of New York's finest only a few feet away, was only making
her more reticent.

Mulder was watching her, she realized, waiting to see what
she would do.  Now that he was past his bout of insecurity,
his ability to look down inside her had apparently kicked
in, and she could tell from the sudden glint of humor in his
eyes that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and that he
wanted some sort of reassurance.

But she just couldn't do it, and Mulder must have known
that, as well, because in the next moment he lifted his free
hand and lightly brushed her cheek.  "Rain check," he
murmured softly.

"Absolutely," she replied with a grateful nod.

"But here come the cops," Mulder added in a more normal tone
of voice, as he straightened up in his seat and withdrew his
hand from hers.  He looked past her, and Scully turned to
see Paul Burks finally approaching the table.

"Is this a private party?" the man asked, a friendly smile
on his face.  "Or can anybody join?"  Without waiting for a
response, he slid into the booth across from the two agents,
and went on, "Sorry I took so long, but I was waylaid.  You
know how it is."

"That's quite all right, Detective," Scully replied,
fighting to keep a smile from her face.  She strongly
suspected that the man had noticed her little tete a tete
with Mulder, and had deliberately stayed away until it
seemed to be over.  She added, "If anything, I should
apologize for leaving you standing there.  But my feet are
killing me."

Burks laughed.  "Don't tell an old beat cop about sore
feet," he commented.  He turned his attention to Mulder, and
asked, "So how was your day?  Did you find the missing
link?"

Mulder seemed to hesitate, and Scully felt her eyebrows
rising slightly.  Did her partner actually have something? 
But then he shook his head, and said, "No, not really.  Just
the same story we've been hearing.  Nobody knows anything,
and nobody has any explanation for what happened. 
Everybody's appalled, shocked and hurt."  He shrugged
awkwardly, and concluded, "The usual."

"Same with us," Burks replied, disappointment evident in his
voice.  "I didn't really expect that we'd find anything, but
I'd hoped maybe we'd turn up *something* that would link the
cases."

Scully tuned the detective out, and studied her partner's
face.  He was holding something back, she realized.  From
the slight tension in his posture and the exaggerated poker
face he was wearing, she could tell; he was holding
something back.  Again, she doubted if it was evident to
Burks, let alone anyone else -- but she knew her partner
very well, and she could tell.

"What's this?"

Her attention was drawn back to the conversation as Burks
reached across the table and picked up the napkin sitting by
Mulder's glass.  There was something scribbled on it, but
Scully couldn't make out what it was.  For a moment the
detective held the napkin, staring at it intently, his brow
furrowed in concentration.

"Just some doodles," Mulder commented, as Burks continued to
stare at the napkin.  "I guess my mind was wandering a bit."

"A bit," the other man agreed.  He glanced at Scully, then
handed the napkin to her.  "Take a look," he suggested.

Scully took the napkin and studied it for a minute.  She
immediately recognized her partner's drawing style -- Mulder
was by no means a professional sketch artist, but he was
quite capable of rendering a simple scene in a recognizable
manner.  This particular drawing seemed more abstract than
usual for him, though.  There was something odd about it,
something not quite right, and it took her a moment to
realize what she was looking at.

It was a drawing of a table, with a nude woman sprawled
across it, face down.  There weren't many details visible,
but something about it was familiar; *very* familiar.  And
then suddenly she realized what it was.

"It's the Hamilton crime scene," she said, looking up at
Burks for confirmation.

He nodded.  "That's right."

Scully frowned, and went on, "But I don't remember it quite
this way.  Wasn't the victim face up in all the photographs
we saw?"  She looked over at her partner.  "Mulder?"

He nodded slowly.  "Yes, she was," he responded.  "That's
the way they found her."  He took the napkin from her and
stared at it for a minute.  "But I don't remember drawing
this at all.  I do remember doodling."  He pointed to a
small caricature of Skinner down in one corner.  "But the
rest of it ... I don't remember."

The incident was obviously bothering him, and Scully wasn't
quite sure why.  It was just a drawing, after all.  She'd
been momentarily startled when she realized what she was
looking at, but it wasn't really that inexplicable.  They'd
both been focusing on this case a lot for the past
forty-eight hours; the sketch was probably just a reflection
of that.

But still, Mulder seemed perturbed, as he continued to study
the drawing.  There was something going on inside his head,
and Scully had a feeling it was related to whatever it was
he wasn't telling them.  She was tempted to ask what was
wrong, but she didn't want to challenge him in front of a
stranger.  No matter how pleasant and helpful Paul Burks had
been, there were some things that needed to remain private.

She glanced across the table at the detective, and saw that
he was studiously not looking at them.  Well, the man wasn't
stupid, she reminded herself.  Fortunately, he apparently
had the discretion not to intrude, at least at this stage. 
Of course, if Mulder really did have something, they were
going to have to discuss it with Burks at some point.  But
not just yet.

At last the detective turned back to them with a smile, and
changed the subject, and the rest of the evening passed
without incident.

==========END CHAPTER EIGHT==========

=========== 
Chapter Nine 
===========

The Best Western President Hotel 
Manhattan, NY 
Wednesday, March 8, 2000 
11:07 p.m.

It was dark, but he wasn't alone.  Mulder wasn't sure how
much he liked that.

They'd stayed on at the Plough and Stars for a long time
after dinner, much longer than Mulder had really wanted. 
But Scully actually seemed to be enjoying herself -- she'd
even allowed herself a couple of beers, something she almost
never did.  Mulder found himself captivated by the vision
she presented:  relaxed, happy and at ease, chatting amiably
with Paul Burks.  She had even flirted with him at one
point, surreptitiously and in a low-key sort of way, while
Burks was in the restroom.

Mulder had also found himself warming to the detective, as
the evening progressed.  He did not actually talk to Burks
much, himself, but as he watched his partner interacting
with the man, he gradually came to realize that whatever it
was that was forming between the two, it wasn't a threat to
*his* relationship with Scully.  Not professionally, and
certainly not personally.  Mulder had known that in his head
all along; now, after an evening of careful observation of
Scully and Burks together, he was coming to feel a little
easier in his heart, as well.

And of course, that had merely cleared the decks for Mulder
to start worrying about other things.  Specifically, the odd
experiences he'd had yesterday and today when he looked at
those paintings.

Mulder suppressed the urge to turn over in bed.  He'd been
lying here in bed virtually motionless, now, for over an
hour, and the reason for his immobility was simple:  Dana
Scully was nestled up against his side, apparently fast
asleep, and he didn't want to disturb her.

When they got back to the hotel, a little after 9:30, Mulder
had supposed they'd each go to their own rooms.  In
retrospect, he didn't know *why* he'd assumed that, after
he'd finally allowed Scully back into his bed the night
before, but somehow that had seemed like what would happen.

But as she so often did, his partner had surprised him.  She
had gone to her own room, but only long enough to brush her
teeth and change.  She'd knocked lightly on the connecting
door a few minutes later, wearing only one of his t-shirts,
and matter-of-factly crawled into his bed.  Then she simply
lay there, calmly looking at him, silently daring him to ask
her to leave.  And after only a second's hesitation, Mulder
had smiled, stripped down to his boxers, and slid under the
covers next to her.

Unfortunately, he'd found himself unable to sleep, and
having his partner curled up next to him was preventing him
from trying any of his usual remedies and distractions.

"What are you thinking about?"

Scully's voice, coming as a whisper out of the darkness,
made Mulder start in surprise.  Immediately, he heard a soft
chuckle.  "Sorry," she said, still speaking very softly.  "I
didn't mean to startle you."  He felt her body shift
slightly against his, and her hand, which had been lightly
gripping his shoulder, moved down to gently stroke his
chest.

"I thought you were asleep," Mulder replied, also in a
whisper.  Somehow, lying here together in the dark, in the
middle of the night, it seemed right to whisper.

"Uh uh," she responded.  "Not even close.  I've just been
lying here next to you.  Thinking."  Her hand continued to
pet and tickle his chest, and Mulder felt the distant tingle
that signaled the beginning of arousal.

"About?"

Scully was quiet for a minute, and Mulder waited patiently
as she apparently considered her response.  The hand that
had been stroking his chest now slid up and around his
shoulders, and she gently pulled on him, until he turned on
his side so that he was facing her.  She snuggled in against
him, then, nuzzling her face against his neck, and Mulder
felt his cock begin to harden at the intimate contact.

"I've been thinking about us," she said at last, breathing
the words against the base of his neck.  "You.  Me.  The
X-Files.  Where we've been.  Where we're going."  Pause. 
"How I feel about getting out of the car."  She had both
arms around him now, and was lightly touching and caressing
his back.

"Mmm hmm."  For some reason, Mulder wasn't having any
difficulty following the conversation.  Normally, his
cognitive ability rapidly deteriorated when Scully started
getting physical, but for some reason, tonight, he wasn't
having any trouble concentrating.  "That's a big subject,"
he commented.  "Have you come to any conclusions?"

"Not really."  He shivered a little as her lips brushed
against his collar bone.  "Other than the obvious one.  That
I love you, and I want to be with you."  A brief pause as
she nipped at the base of his neck.  "It's not really a
topic that lends itself to final conclusions, anyway. 
Someone told me once that having respect for the journey is
what really matters."

"Sounds like a wise man," Mulder said.  He shifted his hips
so that his now fully erect cock was pressed firmly against
her abdomen.

"I've always thought so."

For a few minutes neither of them said anything, as they lay
next to each other, holding, touching, kissing.  There
didn't seem to be any hurry, either to continue the
conversation, or to bring the physical encounter to its
logical conclusion.  Neither of them was going anywhere, and
they had plenty of time.

Mulder let Scully take the lead, taking comfort from the
warm reassurance of her touch, and the silent promise of her
body, pressed against his.  This was not foreplay, he
realized with distant satisfaction.  This was not a
necessary build-up to something else.  This was lovemaking
in its own right, but in a different form, and no less
satisfying for that.  It was tender, intimate and erotic, in
ways that he had never experienced before -- not with
Scully, and certainly not with anyone else.

At length, Mulder found himself lying on his back once more,
his partner snuggled firmly against his side.  At some point
they had both divested themselves of their clothing, and now
Scully was lightly stroking and caressing his erection.  It
felt good; it felt impossibly good.  Yet somehow, her touch
was not creating the sense of urgency he usually felt, and
Mulder knew that even if they stopped now and simply went to
sleep, he would not be disappointed.

"I love to touch you like this," she murmured.  It was the
first time either of them had spoken in the better part of
an hour, and Mulder admired the way the sound of her voice
seemed to surround and enfold them, adding to the sense of
contentment that had settled over him.  And Scully
continued, in the same soft, drowsy tone of voice, "I love
to hold you in my hand.  It feels so profoundly ...
intimate, that I can make this happen.  In my head, I know
that it's just a physiological reaction, but in my heart --"

"It's all about you, Scully," he said softly.  "Don't ever
doubt that, and don't try to explain it away, because you
know better.  Your *heart* knows better.  I can become
aroused for a lot of reasons, but it's always different when
it's you.  It's always special."

There was another period of silence, as Scully continued to
stroke and caress his cock and balls.  Finally, her voice
sounding slightly choked with apparent emotion, she said,
"Thank you.  Thank you for saying that."

"I was only telling you what I feel.  What I thought you
already knew."

"I did know.  But it's good to hear."  Her hand closed more
firmly around his erection, and now Mulder did feel himself
sliding a little off the plateau of contentment he'd been
occupying.  Then his partner went on, in a lighter tone of
voice, "Mulder?  Would it spoil what just happened if I told
you I now want very much to be fucked?"

Mulder chuckled, and tilted her chin up so that he could
kiss her.  "Not at all," he replied, once his lips were free
again.  "In fact, I've been thinking along those lines
myself."

Before he'd even finished speaking, Scully had rolled him on
his back and was straddling his hips.  She hovered above him
for a moment, still holding and stroking his cock, the
expression of open adoration on her face almost too much to
bear.  Then she closed her eyes, and slowly lowered herself
down onto him.

Once again, silence fell, broken only by their breathing and
the soft sounds of their lovemaking.  Mulder's hands rested
on Scully's hips, following their motions as she moved up
and down, while his gaze was focused on her face.

He never grew tired of watching her under any circumstances,
but these moments, when they were together, were the best of
all.  She was so intelligent, so thoughtful, and even when
she was in the throes of passion, her brain never completely
disengaged.  Mulder was always fascinated to watch as her
brow knitted in concentration, and he tried to imagine what
thoughts might be flowing through her at such a moment.

And it suddenly occurred to him that he didn't have to
wonder; he could simply ask.  He shook his head in amazement
that it had never occurred to him, but it hadn't.  He
smiled, then, and spoke her name.

"Scully."  He waited until she opened her eyes and looked
down at him, a slight smile on her face.  Then, as her hips
continued to move, in a slow, steady rhythm, he said, "What
are you thinking about?"

Her smile broadened a little, and she slowed the motion of
her hips a bit.  "You've never asked me that, before."  She
cocked her head, and seemed to think for a moment.  "No
one's ever asked me that."  Her smile grew even wider.  "Not
under these circumstances, anyway."

Mulder chuckled, and then moaned as she clenched her muscles
around his cock.  "Sorry, Scully," he murmured.  "You must
admit you can be a bit of a distraction when you get like
this."  For emphasis, he thrust up with his own hips, just
as she was coming down with hers, and they both gasped.  "So
come on, Scully.  Talk to me.  Tell me what's going on in
your head."

Her face grew thoughtful again, her head tilted back and her
smile disappeared.  She didn't look unhappy, though; she was
just concentrating again, apparently trying to bring back
whatever it was that had occupied her thoughts a few moments
ago.  Finally, she looked back down at him and smiled once
more.  "I was thinking about the case," she said.

Mulder felt his eyebrows shoot up; he wasn't sure whether he
was more amused or surprised.  "You think about *work* when
we're making love?" he asked.  He supposed he should be
offended, but somehow he couldn't keep himself from smiling.
 This woman never ceased to amaze him.  God willing, she
never would.

"Yeah, I do," Scully admitted.  She slowed her motions, and
carefully stretched out on top of him, until her forehead
rested against his.  "Does that bother you?"

Mulder shook his head, fascinated by her revelation. 
Fascinated and, for some strange reason, even more aroused. 
"No.  Not at all."  He kissed her, briefly but thoroughly,
and slipped his hands back and around, until they cupped her
buttocks, drawing her farther down onto him.  "Tell me about
it."

"Well ...."  She paused for a moment and returned the kiss
he'd given her.  "Mostly, I was thinking about that napkin."

"What napkin?"  For a moment, Mulder was confused, but then
it came back to him.  She was talking about the sketch he'd
made while they were at the Plough and Stars.

"What was it you didn't want to say, Mulder?"  She was
looking down at him intently now, her fingers tangled in his
hair, her hips still moving gently against his.  "I
understood that you probably didn't want to discuss it in
front of Burks, but he's not here now."  She smiled again,
briefly, and ground against him a little.  "Obviously."

Mulder chuckled along with her, but then he sobered.  This
was it, then.  He'd known the moment would come when he'd
have to tell her about what had happened; he wasn't even
sure why he'd been resisting it.

A month ago, he wouldn't have hesitated.  Hell, a month ago,
he probably would have spun the whole thing out in front of
Detective Burks, and thought nothing of it.  He would've
been eager to build a theory that would link these three
cases, and anxious to find evidence proving that it was an
X-File.

That was the difference, of course.  He didn't *want* this
case to be an X-File.  He wanted it to be what it appeared
to be:  a series of unconnected crimes, with superficial
similarities.  He wanted to prove that, wrap everything up,
hand it back to Burks, and go home.

Which was fine, except that he didn't really have a home to
go back to.  Not in the deeper sense of the word.  He'd
carefully avoided building anything resembling a home,
because that might have caused him to stray from his
mission.  It might have made him stop looking for Samantha. 
He hadn't wanted a home; he hadn't *deserved* a home.  Not
while his sister was still missing.

But he *did* have a home, and the joy of that realization
spread through him seemingly at the speed of light.  He had
a home, and she was at this moment poised on top of him,
looking down at him with love and compassion, and waiting
for him to come back to her.  Waiting for her partner to
reemerge from wherever he'd gone.

Something must have shown in his face, because suddenly
Scully was grinning from ear to ear.  She'd smiled at him
before, but never like this, never so openly and without
reservation.  Mulder found himself grinning in response,
feeling like an idiot, but also feeling just too damned good
to stop.  He wasn't out of the darkness; not yet.  There
were still things he needed to work through.  But at least
now he thought he saw the way.

He reached up and cupped the back of his partner's head,
drawing her down for another long, deep, kiss.  Then he
released her, and after just a moment's pause to get his
thoughts in order, Fox Mulder began to talk.

#          #          #

He got that feeling again, today -- the feeling that someone
was walking on his grave.  It was stronger, this time,
harder to ignore.  He feels wronged; he feels unclean; he
feels violated.

He feels angry.

He went to the studio again tonight.  He went to the studio
and stripped off his clothes and started the music, but
again, like the night before, he's just standing there,
staring at the canvas.

His body is trembling now, though.  He can feel the energy
flowing within him, he can feel the process starting again. 
The pressure is building, slowly, slowly building, making
his body throb and ache with suppressed power.  He's close,
so very close --

He abruptly thrusts his brush into one of the pots of paint,
then smears it savagely across the canvas in counterpoint to
the beat of the music.  A single stroke is all he has
tonight; he already knows this.  But he also knows that this
stroke is right; it is good; it is true.  It will shape the
rest of the work, leading to the ultimate release and climax
once again.

He closes his eyes as his pulse continues to beat in time to
the music, but in his mind he can still see the canvas, and
the violent, untamed splash of red.

==========END CHAPTER NINE==========

=========== 
Chapter Ten 
===========

The New York Sanctuary for Contemporary Art 
Manhattan, NY
Thursday, March 9, 2000 
1:12 p.m.

"Mr. Carstens will see you, now."

Scully glanced up from the notes she'd been studying, to
meet the cool, disapproving gaze of the receptionist.  When
Scully and Mulder had arrived at the art museum, twenty
minutes earlier, the woman had greeted them as if she wanted
to ask them to use the side entrance, along with the rest of
the hired help.  Now, her expression and tone of voice
transmitted quite plainly that the interview her boss had
agreed to was, in *her* opinion, in questionable taste.

Scully glanced briefly at her partner, trying to gauge how
he was taking the receptionist's display of attitude.  He
seemed to be in a much more positive mood this morning than
he had been the day before -- hell, he looked better than he
had for most of the past month.

She knew better than to think he was completely recovered
from his funk, though.  As much as she'd have liked to have
believed that a couple of nights of her lovemaking could
heal any ailment Mulder might have, she realized that the
things that were bothering him ran much deeper than that. 
In the end, he was going to have to work through it all,
himself.

Already, she was seeing unmistakable signs that Mulder was
backsliding.  No -- that was the wrong word, because he
didn't seem to be losing ground, exactly.  But he had become
increasingly morose as the morning progressed, and now he
seemed nearly as tense and unhappy as he'd been yesterday.

The day had started with a call from Paul Burks, informing
them that his captain had called him into the office for a
series of meetings -- meetings that Burks said were a waste
of time, but that would probably last most of the day. 
Scully and her partner proceeded to spend the morning tying
up loose ends:  they'd conducted a phone interview with
Marvin Draper's wife, that had netted them nothing much, and
then spent the rest of the morning going over their notes
and trying unsuccessfully to find a pattern in the killings.

They hadn't talked much at all about Mulder's experiences
with the paintings.  After he'd told her about that, while
they lay in bed together the night before, Scully had been
as tactful as she could in expressing the view that he was
simply reacting to accumulated stress.  Mulder had surprised
her by agreeing that this was probably so, and they hadn't
spoken of it since.

And now here they were at this art museum, trying to tie up
a few more loose ends.  This morning, after the call to Mrs.
Draper, Mulder had hesitantly suggested that they should
talk to someone from the art community who wasn't directly
involved in any of the murders, to see if any light could be
shed.  He said he knew someone from his Oxford days who was
an executive director at one of the city's many art museums.
 Scully had agreed, and when Mulder called his contact, the
man had readily consented to see them.

Now they were being ushered into Allen Carstens' office.  It
was large and opulent, with a thick, expensive-looking
carpet, and hardwood furniture that Scully suspected were
genuine antiques.  Several paintings hung on the wall,
including one that she recognized as being by Winslow Homer.
 She didn't suppose it was likely to be a copy.

"Fox!  It has been a long time."  The man stepping out from
behind the desk appeared to be in his early forties.  He had
dark hair and eyes, and was short and powerful-looking, the
sort of man who looked as if he might split the seams of his
suit jacket at any minute.  He spoke with an English accent.

"I'd heard you were with the FBI, of course," Carstens
continued, as he reached out to shake Mulder's hand. 
"Alumni bulletin, and all that."  A smile that didn't look
completely pleasant crept across his face, and he added,
"And I do still see Phoebe every once in a while."

Scully couldn't keep herself from shooting a glance at her
partner at the mention of Phoebe Green.  Of course, she
thought.  If Carstens was at Oxford at the same time as
Mulder, and they knew each other, it stood to reason that he
would also have known Phoebe.  Why hadn't that occurred to
her?

Mulder was nodding, his face an expressionless mask.  "I'm
sure you do, Allen," he commented.  There was an edge to his
voice that Scully didn't like very much.  He opened his
mouth to go on, but Carstens beat him to the punch.

"You know, Fox," the other man said, "we should get together
sometime.  You and me and Phoebe, I mean.  It would be just
like in the old days."

Mulder nodded, but didn't say anything -- and Scully was
startled to see a glint of something in his eyes.  Anger? 
Pain?  She wasn't sure.  But whatever it was, it wasn't
good.  Time to put things back on track.  She stepped
forward and extended her hand.

"Mr. Carstens," she said coolly.  "I'm Special Agent Dana
Scully.  Obviously, you already know my partner.  I want to
begin by thanking you for making time for us on such short
notice."

Carstens turned towards her and took her hand, giving her a
frankly appraising look up and down as he did so.  Scully
was suddenly reminded of one of Sylvia Denson's comments the
day before:  //While I was waiting on the subway platform, I
noticed this man looking at me.  You know how it is, I'm
sure.//

Yes, Scully did know how it was, and now Carstens was doing
it to her -- undressing her with his eyes.  She could almost
see her own nude body reflected in his pupils. 
Unfortunately, she'd never found a really good solution to
the problem of unwelcome attention.  If she objected to it,
and confronted the man, he would probably view it as a
challenge, even an expression of interest.  If she looked
away, it would be interpreted as weakness.  A no-win
situation.

"Oh, no trouble at all, my dear."  Carstens was practically
purring, and for just an instant Scully was afraid he might
try to kiss her hand.  But then he released it, and went on,
"Phoebe has mentioned you, too, on occasion.  But I must say
that her description didn't do you justice."

"That surprises me," Scully said dryly.  "Inspector Green
struck me as being a very keen and objective observer."  She
nodded towards the desk, and the two chairs situated in
front of it.  "But Agent Mulder and I don't want to take too
much of your valuable time.  Shall we get on with it?"

"Of course," the man murmured.

Scully couldn't tell for sure what Carstens' reaction was to
her implied dig at Green, and after a moment she decided she
didn't care.  This man wasn't a suspect; he was only a
witness -- and not a very important witness at that.  She
resolved not to waste any more time and energy sparring with
him.

A moment later they'd all taken their seats.  Glancing at
Mulder, Scully saw that he was looking a little better. 
Whatever had been bothering him when they first arrived, he
at least had it under more control now.  Just as she reached
that conclusion, he caught her looking at him, and nodded
slightly, indicating that she should begin the questioning.

"Mr. Carstens," she began, turning to face the man.  "I'm
sure you're aware of the three murders that have recently
been committed by members of the New York art community."

"Certainly," Carstens responded.  Once again his eyes were
boring into her, his gaze frankly appraising her as he
continued, in smooth tones of impersonal sincerity.
"Terrible tragedies, all of them.  All three were valued
members of the community -- each in his or her own way, of
course.  Their contributions will be sorely missed."

"I'm sure the victims' families feel for you," Scully said,
more sharply than she'd intended.  She shook her head
slightly.  She didn't need to bait this man, but she
couldn't seem to help herself.  She was finding his manner
intensely annoying, and not just on a personal level.

"I see your point, of course, Agent Scully," Carstens
replied.  He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up
again.  "And I did not in any way mean to be giving short
shrift to the pain those poor people must be experiencing. 
I was simply responding to your statement."

Scully nodded reluctantly.  There was some truth in that. 
Time to move on.  "Are you acquainted with any of the
suspects?" she asked.

"Of course," the man replied easily.  "I think I know
everyone of consequence in the community.  None of them were
people I would count among my friends, but we got along."

"Did they get along with each other?"

"So far as I know," he replied with a shrug.  "As I said, I
didn't know any of them very well.  I wasn't privy to the
intricacies of their interpersonal relationships."

"Did you find it surprising that these people would commit
such crimes?"  This interview was going nowhere fast, Scully
thought.  But now that they were here, there didn't seem to
be much choice but to run through the list of questions.

"Of course," Carstens responded.  "I was shocked.  I don't
like to think that *any* human being is capable of doing
such things.  But to wake up one morning and find that
someone you sat in a conference room with only last month
has committed such a hideous crime ...."  His voice trailed
off, and he shook his head.

Something about his choice of words and tone of voice struck
Scully, and she cocked her head and asked, "Which of the
three are you referring to?"

The man looked surprised.  "All three.  I thought you knew."
 He glanced at Mulder.  "Isn't that why you called me, Fox?"
 Mulder shook his head in apparent puzzlement, and Carstens
looked back at Scully.  "Dev, Sylvia, Brad and I were on a
jury together in early January."  He repeated, "I thought
that was why you called me."

Scully's eyebrows shot up in surprise.  "A jury?"

"Yes," the man said with a nod.  "An exhibition jury.  We
were helping put together a show for one of the galleries. 
'The Dawn of the New Age', or some such dreck."  He waved a
hand disparagingly.  "I wasn't too interested in the theme,
quite frankly, but we all have to pay our dues."

Scully nodded.  She paused for a moment as she tried to
digest the new information.  Slowly:  "So you and the three
suspects served together on an exhibition jury two months
ago."

"That's right," Carstens replied.

"We weren't aware of that," Scully said.  She glanced
quickly at Mulder, and he nodded confirmation.  "In fact, we
asked each of the suspects' families, and none of them were
aware of any instance where the three had worked together at
all, let alone recently."

Carstens shrugged.  "None of their families were really very
involved in the business end of things," he said.  "They
went to openings and receptions and such, but they didn't
participate in the politics.  And there was no real reason
for them to know."

"Was it a secret?  Confidential?"

"No."  The man shook his head, and his brow furrowed for a
moment.  Then:  "Do you mention the names of all the agents
and police officers you work with to your friends and
family?"

"I see your point," Scully answered.  She thought for a
moment, then added, "So what transpired in this jury?  What
did you discuss?"

Carstens hesitated, then said, "The actual deliberations
*are* confidential.  But in general, we looked at proposals
for works to be included in the exhibition.  We looked at
the works, themselves.  We came to a consensus on which
works to include.  The whole process lasted through three
long sessions, spread over a couple of weeks."

"Were there disagreements?" Scully asked.

Carstens shrugged again.  "There always are.  Nothing out of
the ordinary, though, and we managed to resolve them."

Scully wasn't surprised at the answer.  *Nothing* was out of
the ordinary in this case.  These cases, she amended.  Three
separate cases, with no connection other than a common
interest among the perpetrators.  Three respectable, upper
middle class people who just decided, each for his or her
own reasons, to commit cold-blooded murder.  None of the
crimes made any sense, but murder seldom did.

She was really starting to wonder why she'd urged Mulder to
accept this assignment.  There was nothing here, and she'd
known it from the start.  But, dammit, they had needed to
get back into the field together, and nothing better had
appeared to be forthcoming.  And it *did* seem to be
helping, at least on a personal level --

"Allen," Mulder said suddenly, "have you ever heard of an
artist named Lacrimae Mundi?"

Scully felt her eyebrows shooting up in surprise, but in the
next instant she wondered why.  She should have known better
than to think that Mulder would allow the matter to drop. 
She'd been lulled into inattentiveness by the passive,
dispassionate Mulder of the past few weeks, and now that her
partner was starting to reemerge, it was coming as a bit a
shock.  A pleasing shock, all things considered, but a
shock, nonetheless.

"Yes, of course," Carstens was saying.  "He's fairly new,
but he's made a bit of a splash.  Of course, Lacrimae Mundi
is almost certainly not his real name.  That's a Latin
phrase, not a name."  The man smirked slightly.  "Are your
... linguistic skills any better now than they were fifteen
years ago, Fox?"

If she hadn't been looking at her partner when the other man
spoke, Scully would have missed the brief, intense flash of
anger and -- self-loathing? -- that passed across his face. 
As it was, the emotions were so quickly wiped away that she
wasn't entirely sure they'd really been there at all.  And
when Mulder spoke, his tones were cool and dispassionate.

"My *linguistic* skills are fine," he said.  "It means
'Tears of the World', right?"  Scully couldn't force herself
to look away from her partner, but she saw Carstens nodding
out of the corner of her eye.  "So what do you know about
him?"

"Honestly, not much," the other man said.  "He's produced
only four works, but they're really quite unique.  All of
them have been sold at private auctions; bidding is by
invitation only."

"Who gets invited to bid?" Mulder asked.

"Again, I don't know," Carstens replied.  "I've been invited
to bid twice, but was unsuccessful each time.  It was all
handled through a third party, with funds supporting each
bid held in escrow.  The identities of the other bidders
were not disclosed, and in each case the bidders were
required to sign agreements not to exhibit the work to the
public."

"Isn't that all a little unusual?"

Carstens shrugged.  "Yes, it is.  But these works really are
remarkable, Fox.  I would go to considerable trouble and
expense to obtain one for my private collection.  And the
use of the third party intermediary assures me that
everything is on the up-and-up, as far as the bidding and
the details of the transaction are concerned."

"Have you met Mundi?" Mulder inquired.

"No."  The other man shook his head.  "He seems to be a bit
of a recluse.  But I've spoken to his agent on the phone,
and met her in person several times.  She's a member of the
community, albeit a peripheral one.  A bit of a looker, too,
if you like redheads."  He turned his gaze to Scully, giving
her the once-over again.  "And I do."

There was a moment of silence, and Scully felt her grip
tightening on her notebook.  She was *not* going to react to
this; she was determined to do nothing that Carstens could
construe as encouragement.  She just wanted the interview to
be over so she could get out of this man's presence and
forget about him.

She could feel the tension radiating from Mulder, though. 
She knew he liked it even less than she did when other men
hit on her, and she prayed that he wasn't about to make a
scene.  Somewhat to her surprise, however, he didn't respond
to that last comment but simply said, "Mundi's agent, then. 
Do you have a way we could get in touch with her?"

"Certainly," Carstens replied, his eyes still on Scully. 
"Ask my secretary on your way out; she has the number on
file.  Will there be anything else?"

"No," Mulder grated.  "I think that about covers it."  He
rose to his feet, and Scully and Carstens both followed
suit.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," the other man said,
finally looking back at Mulder, with seeming reluctance.  He
reached across the desk and the two men briefly shook hands.
 "It's been nice to see you again, Fox, after all these
years.  I'll be sure to mention it to Phoebe, the next time
I see her.  I'm sure she'll be pleased to hear you've kept
up with your linguistic skills."

He turned to Scully.  "And I'm *very* happy to have made
your acquaintance, my dear," he went on.  "By chance will
you be in town long?  I'd be honored if you would allow me
to escort you about some evening, perhaps take in a few
sights.  New York is nothing compared to the Old World, of
course, but there are some things of interest --"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carstens," Scully replied coolly.  "But I'm
already involved with someone.  And we won't be in town
long, in any case."

"Pity," the man replied, a slight smile on his face.  "Of
course, he wouldn't have to know --"

"Yes, he would," Scully answered sharply, cutting him off. 
"Because I'd tell him.  And this conversation is completely
inappropriate.  More importantly, it's over."  She turned to
leave, without further comment -- but just as she reached
the threshold, she felt Mulder's hand settling possessively
on the small of her back.

Scully smiled.

==========END CHAPTER TEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Eleven 
===========

Outside the New York Sanctuary for Contemporary Art
Manhattan, NY 
Thursday, March 9, 2000 
2:05 p.m.

"Jesus, Mulder.  I thought you said that man was your
*friend*."  Scully had barely been able to contain her
obvious annoyance until they were outside.  Now she strode
purposefully along the sidewalk next to Mulder as they
walked to the car, her shoulders set and guarded, the
expression on her face enough to cause the other pedestrians
they encountered to give way, even before her diminutive
frame.

"I don't think I have ever used the word 'friend' to
describe my relationship with Allen Carstens," Mulder
replied quietly, suppressing a shudder at the thought. 
"He's just someone I knew at Oxford, and we needed a
contact."

"We should have asked Burks," Scully muttered.  "I'm sure he
knows somebody."

"What's done is done," Mulder said simply.  "But I *am*
sorry, Scully; I should never have subjected you to that. 
I'd ... well, I hadn't exactly forgotten what Allen was
like; I don't think that would be possible.  But I didn't
stop to consider how he'd respond to you."

Scully abruptly stopped walking, and Mulder had to turn
around to face her.  "Mulder," she began, and then stopped
and shook her head angrily.  "Mulder, you did nothing wrong.
 Nothing.  The world is full of men like him; it's not your
fault --"

"Scully --"

"I mean it, Mulder," she insisted, her eyes flashing.  "I've
been dealing with men like Allen Carstens all my life; I can
handle it."  She appeared to force herself to relax a bit,
and now she suddenly was looking at him intently.  "Besides,
you seemed to have some issues of your own with him."

Mulder hesitated, then nodded slowly.  He wasn't at all sure
he wanted to get into this, but she deserved to know.  She
was already aware that his life consisted of one fucked up
mess after another, he reflected bitterly.  He might as well
tell her about this, as well.  "Let's get in the car," he
said, very softly.

By the time they had walked the remaining half block and
taken their seats, him behind the wheel and her on the
passenger side, Scully seemed to be having second thoughts. 
She sat fidgeting in her seat, fiddling unnecessarily with
her seatbelt and refusing to meet his eyes.

"Scully," he said, still speaking softly.  "Scully, it's
okay.  We don't have to talk about this.  It's not a very
pretty story, anyway."  And it should probably stay buried,
he thought grimly.  He should never have --

"Mulder, don't."  He focused his gaze on his partner again,
to see that she was looking at him with warm, understanding
eyes.  "You don't have to tell me whatever it is, if you
don't want to.  But you know you can tell me anything, and
I'll understand."

Mulder shook his head.  "You don't know what you're asking,
Scully."  He forced a weak smile.  "I haven't always been
the suave, sophisticated man you've come to know and ...." 
His voice trailed off, and he silently cursed himself for
being unable to complete the familiar phrase.

"The man I've come to know and love," she finished for him,
quietly.  "Whatever it is, it's okay."  Her lips quirked
slightly.  "I haven't always made the smartest possible
decisions in my personal life, either.  As you know."

"So we've established that we can both be pretty stupid
sometimes," he concluded, as if he were summing up the
evidence in a case.  She laughed slightly at his
affectation, but tension was now evident on her face, and
Mulder knew that drawing it out was only going to make her
more anxious.  And so he took a deep breath, and said, "I've
never told you why I broke up with Phoebe."

Scully shook her head.  "No, you haven't.  Was it because of
him?"

Her voice was surprisingly calm.  Mulder knew there was no
love lost between his partner and Phoebe Green, but she
seemed almost serene at the mention of the other woman's
name.  Of course, it had been six years since they'd
encountered his former lover on the L'Ively case -- and
Scully surely knew by now that her place in his life was
secure.

"Yes," he said finally.  "Allen was at the very heart of the
problem.  But he wasn't alone.  I was there, too."  He
paused, then continued, all in a rush, "I came home one
afternoon and found them in bed together.  *My* bed, I might
add.  Phoebe and I never lived together, but I'd given her a
key to my place."

"Jesus Christ."

"Yeah," Mulder said with a grim nod.  "I believe those were
my exact words."  He found himself dropping into an almost
clinical detachment as he continued to speak, and the
psychologist in him recognized it as a necessary distancing
mechanism; a means of self-protection.  This was going to
hurt; it was going to hurt a lot.  But not right now.  Not
as long as he kept it at arm's length.

"Anyway," he went on, "I walked in on them."  He glanced at
his partner, who was looking at him with an undisguised
expression of shock on her face.  "I know you're not a
profiler, Scully, but you know me pretty well.  Care to
guess what happened next?"

She blinked, and said slowly, "What you *should* have done
was throw them both out of your apartment.  Bare-assed
naked, if possible."  She reached up and stroked his cheek
in obvious sympathy.  "But that's not what happened, is it?"

"No."  Mulder allowed himself to lean into her touch
slightly.  "No, that would have been too easy."  Scully
nodded, and he allowed a note of sarcasm to enter his voice
as he added, "Besides, *Phoebe* wouldn't have liked it."

"Of course not," Scully replied.  She hesitated, then asked,
"What did she do?"

"Nothing that you'd expect," he answered.  "Phoebe prides
herself on being unpredictable.  She likes to take risks,
and she likes to shake things up.  She likes to shock and
upset people.  Of course, it goes without saying that she
wasn't embarrassed or regretful or apologetic.  Nothing like
that."

"Did she laugh?"  He could see that his partner was trying
hard to get into Phoebe's head -- something he'd tried to do
for years, without notable success.  He had a brief memory
of his former lover, sitting naked in his bed, the sheets
bunched around her waist and a malicious gleam in her eyes,
as Allen Carstens continued to fondle one of her breasts --

"No," he said, more sharply than he'd intended, as he pushed
the image away.  More softly:  "No.  She didn't laugh.  What
she did was, she challenged me.  Challenged us.  Me and
Allen."  Scully shivered, apparently at his tone of voice,
but he didn't think she'd put it all together; not quite
yet.  He was going to have to spell it out, in explicit
detail.

"Specifically," he said, struggling to stay calm as more
memories of that terrible afternoon filtered into his
consciousness, "she dared us to go down on each other.  She
said it would be exciting.  For all of us.  She said if
either of us wouldn't do it, that proved he wasn't a real
man; that he was a coward and a homophobe, and didn't give a
damn about *her*."  He closed his eyes; he couldn't bear to
see the expression that he knew would be on Scully's face as
his words sunk in.

"Mulder --"

"Wait, Scully," he said.  Eyes still closed.  Deep breath. 
"I haven't come to the best part.  Phoebe also said that
whichever one of us was able to make the other one come
first, would be allowed to fuck her."  He shook his head,
and now he was unable to keep himself from trembling with
shame and humiliation.  "I was stupid.  I still wanted her. 
I played the game.  And I lost."

The hush that followed Mulder's admission was little short
of deafening.  He was, of course, familiar with the old
chestnut about silence being thick enough to slice; now he
was experiencing it.  And with each second that passed, more
memories were assaulting him ....

The strange, warm hardness, invading his mouth.  The sharp,
bitter flavor of the pre-ejaculate, and the strong,
masculine smell that was not his own.  The insistent
scraping of the the other man's teeth, and the hot, wet
sensation of the his mouth, that was somehow different from
a woman's.  The realization that he was losing it, and that
bright, pure moment of orgasm, as he thrust his cock deeply
and savagely into the other man's throat --

Something touched his cheek.  In the fraction of a second
before he would have lashed out at the intrusion, Mulder
realized that it must be Scully, and he turned the motion
into a frantic, needy grasp.  He knew he must be hurting
her, but she did not complain as he tightly gripped her hand
and pressed it harder against the side of his face.  He
needed contact; he needed to be touching her.  Thank god she
was here.  Thank god for Scully.

"Mulder."  Her voice was a whisper; almost a prayer. 
"Mulder, please open your eyes.  Please look at me."

He didn't want to; he still couldn't bear the thought of
seeing her, confronting her.  Much as he craved her
presence, and her love, he was terrified of what he might
see.  Anger.  Disgust.  Disappointment.

Pity.

"Mulder."  Even softer than before.  "Please."

Please.  She'd said please.

With a sigh of resignation, Mulder opened his eyes.  Even
then, it was a few seconds before he could force himself to
look anywhere but straight ahead, through the windshield of
the car.  Finally, reluctantly, he turned to face his
partner.

She was crying.

Dana Scully was crying.

Mulder could count on the fingers of one hand the times he'd
seen this woman cry.  She was always so strong and
self-contained -- sometimes she seemed damned near
invulnerable, and completely impervious to any setback or
hardship.  But now here she sat, in a rented Crown Victoria
on a New York City street, with tears running down her
cheeks.  And she was making no attempt to hide them from
him, or even to wipe them away.

She was crying.

"Mulder," she whispered, tightening her own grip on his
hand.  "Oh, Mulder.  I don't know what to say."

Mulder shrugged sadly, struggling not to look away from her.
 "Then don't try," he said.  "There's really nothing *to*
say.  It happened, but it was a long time ago.  It's over." 
He forced a smile.  "At least now you know why I'm not a big
fan of oral sex."

Scully smiled a little through her tears, and nodded.  "I'd
wondered about that," she admitted.  "You're the only man
I've ever known who doesn't seem to regard a blowjob as his
God-given right."

Mulder chuckled, but his thoughts were elsewhere.  It had
suddenly occurred to him that perhaps now he had an entre to
try to explain something else to her -- something that had
stood between them and threatened at one point to destroy
their partnership.

He'd never quite found a way to raise this subject, but now
here was an opportunity before him.  And so, before he could
second guess himself, he took a deep breath, and said,
"Scully, there's something else you should know that's sort
of connected to this.  It might not be easy for you to hear,
but it's important to me.  It's about Diana."

Immediately, as he'd more than half expected, he saw
Scully's walls start to go up.  He felt a terrible sinking
feeling in the pit of his stomach; he shouldn't have tried
this.  He was an idiot.  He'd fucked up again.  But in the
next instant, to his surprise and relief, his partner forced
the barriers down again, and nodded for him to continue.

And she never let go of his hand.

"I don't know quite how to say this," Mulder began.  "You
already know that Diana was important to me at one time." 
He stopped for a moment, full of misgivings, trying to
decipher the expression on Scully's face, but she was giving
nothing away.  This was a mistake, he thought again.  Diana
was dead; if he had any sense at all, he'd just let sleeping
dogs lie.

"Mulder, it's okay," Scully said, very softly, apparently
reading the uncertainty on his face.  More firmly, she
continued, "Whatever it is, you can tell me.  If it's that
important to you, I *want* to hear it."  Grimly:  "But so
help me God, if *she* hurt you, too --"

"No," Mulder said quickly.  "No.  That's not what I'm
leading up to."  He paused again, and shook his head in
frustration and embarrassment.  If he was going to do this,
he may as well get it over with.  "Look, Scully, after that
... that incident, I couldn't get it up.  Have an erection,
I mean."  He saw his partner's eyes widening, but she made
no move to interrupt.  "I was fine with a magazine or a
video, but whenever I was with a real woman ... nothing. 
Until I met Diana."

"She helped you," Scully said flatly.  It wasn't quite a
question.

"Yes, she did," he answered quietly.  "And I helped her." 
He hesitated, then shrugged.  Diana was dead, he reminded
himself again.  She couldn't be hurt by this, and Scully
needed to know about it, if she was to have any chance of
understanding.

He went on, "When Diana was a senior in high school, she was
raped."  He heard Scully gasp, but he plowed right ahead. 
"Her boyfriend was in college, and he took her to a party at
his frat.  There was beer and grass, and one thing led to
another.  She was so drunk, or stoned, or both, that she
couldn't even remember how many of them had her."

"Dear God."  All of the latent hostility seemed to vanish
from Scully's face in an instant.  "Mulder ... I had no
idea."  She closed her eyes, shook her head, and repeated,
"I had no idea."

"I know," he replied.  "But that's why I felt so close to
her, even years after we broke up."  He reached out and
touched his partner's cheek.  "Even after someone else had
taken her place in my heart.  Diana and I helped each other
get away from our respective pasts, and I couldn't just
ignore that."  He stopped yet again, and swallowed.  Now for
the really hard part.  "But Scully ... you were right, in
the end."

Her eyes flew open, and she shook her head sharply.  "No,"
she said.  "Mulder, you don't have to --"

"You were right," he insisted, overriding her, and ignoring
the ache in his heart as he finally acknowledged in words
what he'd known for more than a year to be true.  Ever since
that last, horrible meeting in Diana's apartment, the night
of the El Rico massacre, he'd known.

"She betrayed me," he said, feeling as if he were ripping
the words from his own flesh.  "She betrayed me, and the
only reason I'm alive to admit to it, is you.  You, Scully,"
he went on, his voice dropping once more into a whisper. 
"You're all that matters to me, now.

"You."

==========END CHAPTER ELEVEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Twelve 
===========

Northbound on the Bruckner Expressway 
Approaching New Rochelle, NY 
Thursday, March 9, 2000 
4:28 p.m.

Scully sat in the passenger seat of the Crown Victoria,
staring unseeingly out the window as her partner maneuvered
the car through the late afternoon traffic.

Throughout the long drive out from the city, the two
partners had remained silent.  Scully didn't know what was
going through Mulder's mind; for her own part, she needed
some time to think.

She really hadn't devoted much of that time to the horrible
ending to Mulder's affair with Phoebe Green.  She knew how
she felt about *that*, and it had taken all her self-control
not to demand to be taken to the airport, so that she could
catch the next Concorde to Heathrow, hunt down Mulder's
former lover, and rip the woman's heart out.

If she even *had* a heart.

But that wouldn't have helped, and Scully knew it.  As
satisfying as it was to imagine punishing *Inspector* Green
for what she'd done, it wouldn't change what had happened,
and it would put the emphasis in the wrong place:  on Green.

The only person in that whole sorry affair who was deserving
of Scully's attention was Mulder.  That realization had made
it easy for her to nod in assent when he suggested driving
out to New Rochelle to interview Lacrimae Mundi's agent. 
She doubted that anything useful would come of it, but right
at the moment, they both needed something outside of
themselves to focus on.

The things Mulder had told her about his relationship with
Diana Fowley had been harder for Scully to evaluate.  She
had disliked Fowley almost on sight, and those negative
feelings had only deepened as the months passed and evidence
accumulated against the woman.  Mulder's stubborn refusal to
acknowledge what Scully considered to be clear proof of the
woman's betrayal had deepened Scully's antipathy towards
Fowley even further.

It wasn't until after Fowley's death that Scully had finally
acknowledged the depth of feeling that Mulder obviously held
for the woman.  It was longer still before she could admit,
even to herself, that her own behavior had been driven
partially by jealousy, rather than the strictly professional
concern she professed to be acting from.

But it was only *partially* jealousy, she reminded herself
firmly.  There really had been signs of Fowley's treachery,
and Scully's suspicions had been proven right, in the end. 
Something that Mulder had now finally acknowledged.

Now, however, she had finally been confronted with the
reality of her partner's relationship with Fowley.  She'd
known of its existence for a long time, of course -- almost
two years.  But although the Gunmen had been the ones who
first told her about it, they'd been either unwilling or
unable to provide any important details -- and Mulder,
himself, had never seemed to want to talk about it.

Until today, that is.  This afternoon he'd laid it all out
for her, in a few, succinct sentences, prompted by the
emotional trauma of encountering Allen Carstens.  And now,
finally, Scully understood just exactly what it was that had
forged such a powerful bond between her partner and a woman
who had almost literally sold her soul to the Devil.

Scully shook her head, and tried to push the thoughts away. 
She could hardly fault Mulder for his reticence on this
issue; in retrospect, she hadn't been very receptive on the
few occasions he *had* tried to talk to her about it, back
when Fowley was still alive.  And besides, Scully hadn't
shared all of her own past history with Mulder, either --
not by any means.  There was one relationship in particular
that she'd indulged in as a young woman that would make
Mulder's trust of Fowley seem like a minor peccadillo.

Or maybe not.  Her own feelings were so deeply entwined in
all of this that it was ridiculous to pretend that she could
be objective.  Best to set it all aside, and keep her focus
on what was really important.  She was with Mulder, now, and
he was with her, and nothing, and nobody, was going to come
between them.

Not if Dana Scully had anything to say about it.

She was finally drawn from her reverie as the Crown Victoria
came to a stop in front of a ranch-style home in a quiet,
suburban neighborhood.  She turned her head, to see her
partner looking at her quizzically.  "Everything okay in
there?" he asked quietly.

Scully breathed a sigh of relief.  She'd been so lost in her
own feelings, she hadn't even considered Mulder's emotions,
or the possibility that he might wonder where she'd gone.  A
fine lover she was, she thought -- so wrapped up in herself
that she'd neglected the very man who'd set her off on her
internal journey.  Thankfully, he seemed to be doing okay. 
His face was calm and relaxed, almost happy, as if their
conversation after the interview with Carstens had been
cathartic for him, rather than inflicting further trauma.

"Everything's fine," she said, a genuine smile on her face. 
Mulder cocked an eyebrow at her, presumably at her choice of
words, and she broadened her smile and added, "Everything's
great."

#          #          #

Residence of Shara Wyche 
New Rochelle, NY 
4:53 p.m.

"So.  How can I help the FBI today?"

Scully glanced briefly at her partner, then back at the
woman seated on the other side of the kitchen table.  She
was still trying to adjust to the situation.  Looking at
Shara Wyche was almost like looking in a mirror.  No, not a
mirror -- a photo album.  A photo album featuring pictures
of herself, when she was perhaps ten years younger.

Wyche was in her mid-twenties, an inch or two taller and
perhaps twenty pounds heavier than Scully, herself.  Her
eyes were a deep blue, and her face was sufficiently pale
that Scully was sure that her hair color was natural.  She
wore her hair long, too, so that it brushed against her
shoulders, just as Scully's had in medical school and
residency, and into her first few years with the Bureau.

The resemblance wasn't lost on Mulder, either; Scully could
tell from the brief but definite flicker in his eyes as the
agents introduced themselves, a few moments earlier.  Now,
of course, he was cool and calm, the consummate
professional.  And it was all really irrelevant, anyway.  A
coincidence.

"Ms. Wyche, I want to thank you for seeing us," Mulder said,
beginning the interview.  "We'll try not to take too much of
your time."

"That's perfectly all right, Agent ... Mulder?"  Mulder
nodded, and she continued.  "May I ask what this is about? 
You didn't say much over the phone."

"I'm afraid we can't be very specific," Mulder replied. 
"It's necessary that we preserve the confidentiality of our
investigation."  The woman frowned and nodded slowly, while
Scully suppressed the urge to look at her partner again.  He
was treating Shara Wyche as if she were a potential suspect,
or at least a material witness.

"I understand," Wyche said, in tones that said not only did
she not understand, but she didn't approve.

Mulder nodded briefly, and asked, "Ms. Wyche, are you
familiar with a man by the name of Lacrimae Mundi?"

"Yes, of course.  He's my client.  One of my clients," she
amended.  "Why do you ask?  Is he in trouble?"

Scully's partner shook his head.  "I'm afraid we're not at
liberty --"

"-- to say," Ms. Wyche said sharply, cutting him off. 
"That's all well and good, Agent Mulder, but I don't know
you, and now you're here in my home, asking questions about
one of my clients, and you won't tell me why."  She paused,
and seemed to deflate slightly.  "I don't like that."

Scully leaned forward, hoping to mollify the woman.  "That's
very understandable, Ms. Wyche, and we don't in any way wish
to upset you.  But we do have some questions we need to ask,
and we really can't discuss the case we're working on.  I
hope you'll understand, and cooperate."

The other woman raised an eyebrow at her.  "So you're the
'nice cop'," she said.  "Do you always divide it up this
way, or do you take turns?"  She held up her hand and shook
her head.  "Never mind.  You can't tell me anything, but you
want me to tell you everything.  Fine.  Go ahead and ask
your questions."

"What can you tell us about Mr. Mundi?" Mulder asked.

The woman shrugged.  "Not much.  He paints.  I sell.  I get
a commission, and turn the rest of the money over to him. 
What else is there?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," Mulder replied.  "For
example, is that even his real name?  We know it's a Latin
phrase: 'Tears of the World'.  It seems like an odd thing to
name a child."

"What did you say your name was?" she asked.  "Fox?"  She
shrugged again.  "It's the name I have for him.  The checks
I write to him get cashed.  That's all I need to know."

"How long have you known him?"

Wyche stared at Mulder for a few seconds before she answered
that one, and Scully thought she detected a glint of ...
something in her eyes.  "Only a few months," the woman said
at last.  "Only a few months."

"How did you meet him?"

Another pause.  Then, flatly:  "I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Mulder asked, apparently unable to
keep the surprise from his voice.

"That's right," the woman replied.  "I don't remember. 
Look, if you don't like the answers, don't ask the
questions."

"Ms. Wyche," Scully intervened again, before things could
get any further out of hand.  "We don't mean for you to feel
harassed, but we do need to ask you these questions." 
Scully wished she could be sure that was true, but she had
to follow her partner's lead.  "And you have to admit, it
does seem odd that you say you can't remember how you met
this man, given that by your own account it was only a few
months ago."

"I don't see what's odd about it," Wyche replied, shortly. 
"I meet a lot of people in the course of day-to-day
business.  Some I only see once or twice, others become
regular acquaintances or business associates.  I have no way
of knowing in advance which category a given person will
fall into, and so I often don't remember the circumstances
of first meetings.  I meet a lot of people," she repeated
frostily.

Scully nodded.  "So it would be safe to say that you did not
first meet Mr. Mundi when he came to you and asked you to be
his agent?  Surely you'd remember something like that."

The other woman stared at her again, the same odd glint in
her eyes that had been there a moment before.  At last, she
said, "I suppose that's a fair assumption.  And yes, I was
already aware of Mr. Mundi's existence when he asked me to
represent him."

"And how long have you been his agent?" Mulder asked,
picking up the thread of the interview again.

Wyche hesitated, then shrugged.  "A few months," she said.

"That's what you said when I asked you how long you've known
him," Scully's partner pointed out.

"That's true," the woman replied.

After a moment's silence, Mulder said, "That's not very
specific.  I accept the possibility that you might not know
with certainty how long you've known a given individual, but
surely you've kept records of the business you've transacted
with him."

"Of course," Wyche replied with a nod.  "How could I account
for my activities on his behalf, if I didn't keep records?"

"Could you consult those records, and try to give us a more
specific answer to the question?"

The woman hesitated, looking back and forth between the two
agents, and Scully had the sudden impression of an animal
caught in a trap.  At last, Wyche said, "Sure."  Then she
rose from the table and left the room.

The two agents waited in silence while Wyche was gone, and
Scully took the opportunity to study her partner's features.
 He was wearing his cool, poker-faced expression, the one he
used when he thought he was onto something, and didn't want
to give anything away.  She didn't have a clue what was
going on in his head, or what he thought he was picking up
on, but it made her heart beat a little faster, just seeing
that look, because it meant that he was finally engaged in
the case.

Her partner was coming back.

Just as she was coming to that conclusion, Shara Wyche
returned, carrying a dark green ledger.  She took her seat
across the table from the agents and opened the book,
carefully positioning it so that no one could see its
contents but herself.  She turned the pages slowly for a
moment or two, and Scully had the impression she was making
a deliberate production out of the process.  Finally, she
closed the book and looked across the table at Mulder.

"According to my records," she said flatly, "I received the
first painting from Lacrimae Mundi on January 28 of this
year.  The sale is recorded as having cleared escrow on
February 10."

"Quick work," Mulder commented.

"I pride myself on my efficiency, Agent Mulder."

"I'm sure that pleases your clients," Scully's partner
replied.  "Who purchased that first item?"

"I'm sorry," the woman said, shaking her head.  "That
information is confidential.  It was part of the sale
agreement."

"Don't you have to report the names of the payors to the
IRS?" Mulder asked.

"Of course," Wyche answered.  "And that report will be filed
within the timeframe required by law."

Mulder nodded.  "How many sales have you made for Mr. Mundi,
all told?"

The woman hesitated, and glanced at Scully, as if hoping she
might intervene.  At last she shrugged, and turned back to
Mulder.  "Four.  The most recent cleared escrow just a
couple of days ago."

"Can you give us the dates of those sales?"

Again Wyche hesitated, but finally she nodded.  "I don't see
the harm in that."  She opened the book once more and
carefully scanned through it, handling the pages as if they
were those of a rare first edition.  Finally, she read off
three dates, two in February and one in early March.  Then
she closed the book with finality.  "I believe that
concludes this interrogation," she stated flatly.

A few minutes later, Mulder and Scully were in their rental,
on the way back to the city.

==========END CHAPTER TWELVE==========

=========== 
Chapter Thirteen 
===========

The Plough and Stars 
Manhattan, NY 
Thursday, March 9, 2000
7:49 p.m.

The Plough and Stars was busier than it had been the night
before.  In addition to the cops who made it their regular
hangout, there were also a number of other people here
tonight.  Judging from their clothes they were blue collar
workers, Scully thought, presumably of Irish descent.  More
men than women, and most of the women were obviously here
with someone.  This was not a pick-up bar.

Tonight the tables had been pushed aside, converting the
center of the room into a makeshift dance floor.  Loud music
blared from the jukebox, as it had the other two times she'd
been here.  Not current pop; Scully would have recognized
that, from endless hours spent listening to whatever station
the radio on their rental car could pick up.  But this was
older stuff, music that had been popular in her teen years
and her early twenties, and it was bringing back vivid
memories.

There were three couples dancing in the cleared space, and
that was bringing back memories, too.  Scully had loved to
dance, back when she was in high school and college, and
she'd seldom passed up an opportunity to do so.  That had
fallen by the wayside after she'd entered medical school;
the demands placed on her had been too great, and she found
herself with little time for a social life.  She'd always
promised herself that eventually she would come back to
this, but somehow, she never had.

She turned her gaze back to her partner, sitting across the
table in the booth they occupied.  The same booth they'd sat
in the night before.  He was watching her with obvious
curiosity as he bit into an onion ring, the last remnants of
the burger basket he'd ordered when they arrived.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, now that he saw he
had her attention.  He dipped the onion ring in ketchup, and
took another bite.

It briefly occurred to Scully to make a wisecrack about
Mulder's profiling abilities, as she had two mornings ago in
their office.  She could almost hear the words in her mind: 
//You're a profiler, Agent Mulder.  You figure it out.//

But that would be the wrong answer, she realized.  That was
the answer she would have given three months ago, back when
they were still sparring and dancing around each other.  In
their new relationship, there was no room for anything but
the truth.  And so she simply said, "I was just thinking
that you and I have never danced together."

She saw something flicker in his eyes; something that was
not quite a denial.  There was that memory there, the
experience she was sure must have been a waking dream, but
one that, somehow, he had shared.  The grubby little bar
with the Cher impersonator on stage, and Mulder impulsively
pulling her to her feet and into his arms --

"Dance with me, Scully."

Scully felt her eyes widening in surprise at his request. 
She hadn't been fishing, had she?  She'd been feeling a
little wistful, remembering what it was like to be young and
dancing the night away, and she'd just been trying to
express that to him.  Hadn't she?

//Dance with me, Scully.//

Her partner was standing next to the booth, now, holding out
his hands to her.  There are a thousand reasons why we
shouldn't do this, she thought.  More than a thousand.  They
were working, and they were in public.  Burks would be here
any minute, but he already knew about their relationship;
she'd as much as admitted it to him the day before --

And she was in Mulder's arms, swaying gently to the music,
her head resting against his chest.  She'd been tense ever
since Mulder's revelations this afternoon.  She'd been more
than tense; she'd been hurt and angry and a hundred other
things.  She'd felt as if she were being torn to pieces, and
only the knowledge that he needed her and that they had a
job to do had kept her from falling apart.

Now he held her in his arms, and she held him in hers, and
the music was washing over them, seeming to isolate them
from the rest of the world as they began the slow process of
healing each other's wounds.  Began the process again, she
amended in her mind, because that was the way of it for the
two of them.  There were always new hurts and injuries, some
caused by others, some self-inflicted.

The very worst were caused by each other.

Scully could almost hear the puzzle piece clicking into
place as she turned that thought over in her mind.  //You
always hurt the one you love.//  That had been a song lyric
back in her childhood, and even then she'd known it as a
plappy excess of sentimentality.

But there was a kernel of truth there, she realized, with
sudden, blinding clarity.  Loving someone meant opening
yourself to him and making yourself vulnerable.  It meant
accepting the fact that no matter how careful and gentle
your lover was, he would make mistakes, and sometimes those
mistakes would hurt.  But you opened yourself anyway,
because he was also the only one who could make the hurt go
away.

She tightened her arms around her Mulder, and slid her hands
up his back, gently kneading at his muscles through his suit
jacket.  This need for openness was what had always made her
pull back from relationships in the past; looking back at
the previous men in her life, she saw that now.

It was also a large part of the reason that she'd kept
herself aloof from *this* man for so long, because she
couldn't bear to expose herself to the strength and depth of
his passion.  Because she knew the wounds he inflicted on
her would be bone deep, and they would hurt like hell.  The
ones he gave her from a distance had been bad enough.

But she also had been unable to pull away from him, and that
had been the other half of the equation.  Even as he was
hurting her -- even as they were hurting each other -- he
was also healing and soothing her, fixing the hurts of his
own making, as well as those caused by others.

He could not address the harm she did to herself, of course;
never that.  She would not allow it.  And also of course, as
a direct corollary of her own reserve, he had kept her at
arm's length, as well.  Even Mulder was not so lacking in
boundaries that he would let her inside, while she kept him
at bay.

But now, it seemed, that was changing.

Scully snuggled closer into her lover's arms, and they
continued to sway to a gentle rhythm that only they could
hear.

#          #          #

9:02 p.m.

"Sorry to be so late; you know how bureaucracy is."  Paul
Burks' voice was light and easy as he slid into the booth
next to Scully.  Mulder looked at the detective thoughtfully
for a few seconds, while the other man waved across the room
to get the attention of the sole waitress.  "Sylvia!"  Burks
called, raising his voice so he could be heard over the
music.  "Sylvia!  A brat and a Bud, eh?"  The woman nodded,
and Burks turned back to look at Mulder.  "So.  Find any
leads today?"

Mulder hesitated, then shook his head.  "Nothing," he
replied.  He was suddenly acutely aware of Scully watching
him intently from across the table.  "We talked to a contact
of mine who's plugged into the art community in the city,
but he didn't know anything.  He gave us the name of a woman
who seems to have recently done business with all three
suspects, but she didn't know anything either."

"Is that your assessment, Agent Scully?" Burks asked,
turning to look at Scully.

Mulder felt a brief surge of annoyance that he quickly
suppressed.  The man was not playing the two of them off
against each other, he told himself firmly.  There was no
reason to think that.  Mulder should be pleased that Burks
was treating Scully as a professional and an equal, and
asking for her opinion as well, and Jesus Christ if this
wasn't a really petty thing to be worrying about!

"I'm not sure," Scully was saying, causing Mulder's eyebrows
to shoot up in surprise.  "It's certainly true that there's
nothing concrete or verifiable, but Agent Mulder does seem
to be developing a theory."  She looked across the table,
directly into Mulder's eyes, and smiled.  "And I've learned
to respect his hunches."

"Sometimes you have to go with your hunches," Burks agreed,
nodding.  He paused for a moment while the waitress he'd
signaled earlier delivered his order.  Then:  "That's
actually how I got the job I'm in now."

"What do you mean?" Scully asked.

The detective hesitated, then shrugged.  "Look," he said, "I
started out as a beat cop.  MP's in Germany, right out of
high school, then got hired on here when I got out.  I went
to school at night, moved up in the ranks, got my degree. 
You can probably figure the career track, and the details
don't matter."  Mulder nodded, feeling himself one more
warming to the man almost despite himself.

"But cops see strange things," Burks went on, his voice
taking on more intensity.  "Things that are hard to
understand or explain.  You both know that."  For the first
time since beginning his story, he looked away from Scully,
and directly at Mulder.  "I did some asking around while I
was downtown today.  I found out a few things about you."

"Like what?" Mulder asked, suddenly wary.

"Like just exactly what kind of work you do," he replied. 
"And a little bit of how you got into it.  I managed to dig
up a couple of people who've worked with you, including a
cop named Ritter, used to be with the Bureau's New York
office."  The detective's lips quirked.  "He didn't have
much good to say about you."  A glance at Scully, then back
to Mulder.  "Either of you."

"I'm sure he didn't," Mulder said coldly, fighting down a
surge of anger, partly at Burks' intrusion, and partly at
the memory of what Ritter had done.  "Peyton Ritter's lucky
to still be carrying a badge.  *Any* badge."  He forced
himself to stop; he'd already said too much.  Scully's
decision to ask the OPR for leniency for Ritter still galled
him, and she knew it.  No need to be opening old wounds.

"Yeah, I know," the detective replied.  "And I agree.  I
remember when that case went down, and now that I've met the
guy, and ... well, I guess he's not the most boneheaded cop
on the force, but he's gotta be a contender."  He took a sip
of beer, and shook his head.  "But this isn't about Ritter,
and it isn't really about you.  Nor did I spend the day
doing background checks on you; I just asked a few
questions, informally.  I really did have a string of
bullshit meetings I had to go to."

"So what *is* it about?" Scully asked quietly.  Mulder felt
an odd sense of relief that she seemed to be as reserved
towards the detective as he was.  They were a team, he
reminded himself.  She was his partner, and he was a
complete idiot to think that could ever change.

"This is about me," Burks said, very seriously, now focusing
his attention on Scully.  "You asked what I meant when I
said I got my job because of a hunch, but that's a more
complex question than you probably realized."  Another sip
of beer; he seemed to be steeling himself for something. 
"But what happened was, my partner disappeared."

"What do you mean?"  Scully again, but Mulder could see from
the apprehension on her face that she already knew -- or, at
least, suspected -- what was coming.

"She was abducted," Mulder said flatly.  "Wasn't she?"

"That's right," the detective said.  "How did you know my
partner was a woman?"

"An educated guess," Mulder said quietly.  "They often are."
 Looking over at his partner, he saw that she now wore the
cool, professional mask she used to conceal emotional
distress.  He realized that he hadn't been seeing that look
from her very much these past few months; the last time had
been immediately after she killed Donnie Pfaster, and that
had seemed to resolve itself fairly quickly.

Now he wondered, though, if she hadn't simply been covering
better than usual.  That would be bad, but it would also be
so very Scully.  Ever since the night his mother died she'd
seemed to be totally focused on *his* needs -- to the extent
he would let her, which hadn't been very damned much.  Had
he really been so self-absorbed that he'd failed to notice
that *her* emotional needs were not being met?

Impulsively, he reached across the table and lightly
squeezed his partner's hand.  She started slightly, flashed
him a smile, and then, with apparent calmness, she turned
back to look at Burks again.

The detective sighed.  "There's actually not much to tell,"
he said.  "We were on a stakeout, a cooperative deal with
the DEA.  Middle of the night.  I got out of the car to take
a leak, and -- Hell, you probably know the scenario better
than I do.  The radio died, there was a strange whooshing, a
bright, white light that seemed to come from everywhere ...
and then she just wasn't there anymore."  He took a long
drink from his glass of beer.  "That was five years ago."

"Did you ever find her?" Scully asked, very softly.  She
gave every outward appearance of having herself under
complete control, now, but Mulder knew better.  He could see
the tension gathered in the tiny wrinkles at the corners of
her eyes.

Burks shook his head.  "No.  But they finally closed the
file, a couple of years ago.  The official ruling was that
the East River is a big place, and plenty deep."

Scully swallowed, and nodded.  "How does that relate to your
current job?  And what was the hunch?"

The man smiled mirthlessly.  "The hunch was that there was
more to it than that, and so I just kept pushing and
digging.  After a while, they transferred me to Internal
Affairs and gave me this assignment with the firm
understanding that I was *not* to spend *all* of my time
looking for Susan."

"I see."

Scully fell quiet, and Mulder couldn't think of anything to
say, either.  The conversation was obviously bringing things
back for her, and Mulder realized with a shock that he
wasn't sure which set of memories she was reliving.  Her own
abduction and return?  The cancer?  Penny Northern? 
Cassandra Spender?  Did he really know so little about his
partner that he couldn't divine her thoughts on such an
essential matter?

Suddenly, Burks' phone shrilled, and as he spoke to whoever
was on the other end, his face grew even grimmer.  A moment
later he punched DISCONNECT and put the phone away, and
said, without preamble, "They've found another body."

==========END CHAPTER THIRTEEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Fourteen 
===========

Northbound on East River Drive 
Manhattan, NY Thursday, 
March 9, 2000 
10:45 p.m.

They rode to the crime scene in Paul Burks' car, and
somehow, Mulder wound up in the back seat.  Much to his own
surprise, he didn't mind.  Not *too* much, anyway.

The drive across Manhattan was giving him an opportunity to
watch his partner's interactions with the detective at close
range.  The first few minutes he'd felt as if he were spying
on her, and that had made him more than a little
uncomfortable.  He told himself he was being irrational,
though; it wasn't as if she didn't know he was here, after
all, and she certainly didn't have anything to hide.  It was
just a case of his own insecurities poking him in the ass
again.

"This bar isn't in the best part of town, I take it," Scully
was saying.

"Not even vaguely," Burks replied with a shake of the head.

"Doesn't that break the pattern?" she asked.  "The other
killings all took place in upscale neighborhoods."

"That's true," Burks replied.  "And I honestly don't know
all the details yet.  But I've got some keywords filed with
central dispatching, and this call apparently triggered at
least one of them."

"That doesn't seem like very much to go on," Scully
commented.

"It isn't," the detective said with a nod.  "I've had two
other calls in the past two weeks that turned out to be
duds."  He glanced at her briefly, and Mulder could just
make out a quick grin.  "But I've got a feeling this one
could be the real deal."

Mulder started to smile as he anticipated a classic Scully
eyebrow, or perhaps a roll of the head, but it didn't come. 
"I guess we'll see when we get there," was all she said.

Mulder found himself suddenly feeling unaccountably annoyed
at his partner's response.  She was only making nice with
the detective, he counseled himself.  Someone had to mind
the political fences when they worked with a local law
enforcement agency, and Mulder knew that *he* was
temperamentally unsuited to it.  He'd long since lost count
of the number of times Scully's tact and diplomacy had
salvaged their relationship with the locals, after he'd made
a mess of things.

His irritation really made no sense at all, he argued
silently.  Burks just wasn't a threat, personally or
professionally.  Mulder also knew that Scully had been going
to great lengths to care for him since his mother's death,
and it was way past time that he put some energy into taking
care of *her*.

"You doin' okay back there, partner?"

Mulder focused his attention back on Scully, who was now
craning her neck so that she could peer into the back seat. 
There was a look of slight concern on her face, and Mulder
had the uncomfortable impression that she'd been reading his
mind.

"Yeah," he said.  He forced a smile, and affected a New
England accent.  "Just settin' and thinkin'."  Scully raised
an eyebrow, and her lips twitched, but she didn't say
anything.  Obviously, she remembered that night, too.

"I'm starting to feel a little guilty, dragging the two of
you all over town," Burks commented, as he steered the car
through the interchange for the Cross Bronx Expressway. 
"But I have a feeling that this call could be the
breakthrough we're looking for."  He shrugged, and Mulder
could hear the smile in his voice.  "Call it another hunch."

"Hunches R Us," Mulder replied, deadpan, keeping his eyes
focused on his partner -- and now she did smile.  But there
was still a melancholy undercurrent in her expression, and
Mulder couldn't for the life of him figure out where it was
coming from.

#          #          #

Outside "The Burning Zone" 
The Bronx, NY 
11:03 p.m.

Paul Burks was out of the car almost before it had stopped
moving, with Scully close on his heels.  Mulder took just a
few extra seconds, due to the difficulty of climbing from
the back seat, and had to run a few steps to catch up.

"Burks, Internal Affairs," the detective was saying, as he
waved his badge at a uniformed officer.  "And these folks
are with the Bureau."  The cop nodded and allowed them to
pass; another twenty yards, and they were in the middle of
the crime scene.

The trio paused for a moment to get their bearings.  They
were standing on the sidewalk in the middle of a block of
dingy-looking storefronts, at least half of which had been
boarded over.  Random bits of litter were strewn about the
area, and a sour, rotten smell emanated from a nearby alley.

Meanwhile, all manner of official activity swirled around
them, most of it centering around that alley.  There was a
disreputable-looking bar on the far side of it, with "The
Burning Zone" declaimed in ancient neon letters over the
entrance.  The garish red illumination from the sign
combined with the strobes of half a dozen squad cars to
create an eerie mix of light and shadow, and a few small
clots of people hung back in the darkness, outside the
police lines.  Obviously, this neighborhood did not usually
welcome the authorities.

"Over here," Burks said, suddenly in motion again.  He led
the way to a short, weary-looking African-American woman,
who was standing with her hands on her hips surveying the
scene with a proprietary air.  Again, Burks flashed his
badge and introduced himself.

"Lieutenant Hodges," the woman replied with a nod. 
Gesturing at Mulder and Scully:  "And you are ... ?"

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully," Scully said smoothly,
offering her own identification.  "And this is my partner,
Special Agent Mulder.  We're with the Bureau."

"FBI?" Hodges asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Agents Scully and Mulder are assisting me with an
investigation," Paul Burks explained.  "This call may be
related to three other murders in the past month, and
there's a possibility of federal jurisdiction."

The woman raised her eyebrows even further, her gaze once
again focused on the detective.  "Really," she said flatly,
her voice suddenly cool.  "Do I take it you're assuming
authority over this investigation?"

"Not at all," Burks assured her, shaking his head.  "We just
want to look around a bit, ask a few questions.  We do need
to see if we can establish a link to the other cases we're
working on, but at this point that's all we're doing: 
trying to establish a link."

Mulder's attention was drawn away from the conversation as
he noticed someone being led towards one of the squad cars
in handcuffs.  Without really thinking about it, he found
himself striding briskly across the intervening space,
arriving at the waiting police car just ahead of the
prisoner and the two officers who had him in custody.

"Excuse me," Mulder said affably, flashing his badge at the
closer of the two cops.  "I'm with the Bureau, and I need to
talk to this man for a moment."

The cop hesitated briefly, then shook his head.  "I'm sorry,
sir.  We need to get him downtown so we can book him.  He'll
be available for questioning --"

"Sometime tomorrow afternoon," Mulder finished for him. 
"But this can't wait.  I need to talk to him now."  He
wasn't sure why it seemed so urgent, but it was.  He didn't
want to wait until tomorrow afternoon to talk to the
suspect, and not just because that would give the man time
to cool down and call a lawyer.

Ever since the strange experience with the painting at
Bradley Hamilton's home, Mulder's instincts had been
quivering.  He'd allowed Scully to talk him down that night,
in the drowsy afterglow of their lovemaking, but he'd never
really abandoned his suspicion that there was a connection
between the paintings produced by Lacrimae Mundi and the
murders.

He noticed that the officer was now looking past him, in the
direction of Lt. Hodges -- and even as Mulder absorbed that
fact, the officer apparently received some sort of signal,
because he shrugged, and he and his partner took a step or
two back.  "All yours," the cop commented.  "Try not to take
too long, okay, sir?"

Mulder nodded absently, already turning his full attention
on the suspect.  He was tall, in his mid- to late-40s, with
just a tinge of silver in his hair.  He was well-dressed, in
expensive clothes, and Mulder was sure that he'd cut a fine
figure earlier in the evening.

But he wasn't making a good impression now.  The man's eyes
were wide, and slightly unfocused, and his face was pale,
almost pasty.  He had several scratches on each cheek, that
looked as if they'd been caused by a woman's fingernails;
looking down, Mulder noted spatters of blood down his shirt
front, and several stains of uncertain origin on his slacks.

"When we got here, they were down around his ankles." 
Mulder looked away from the suspect, to see that the officer
he'd spoken to before had followed his gaze.  "Underwear,
too -- he was lettin' it all hang out," the cop said with a
smirk.  "We actually had to pull 'em back up for him; he
didn't seem to be capable.  Or interested."

Mulder looked back to the suspect.  "Is that true?" he
asked.

The man stood in silence for a few seconds, then seemed to
realize he was being spoken to.  He shook his head, as if
trying to clear it, and spoke in a monotone.  "I guess so. 
It didn't seem to matter."

The agent nodded thoughtfully, and glanced at the police
officer again.  "Has he been Mirandized?"

"Yes."

Mulder looked back to the suspect.  "Have you been read your
rights?  Did you understand them?"

Something flickered in the man's eyes.  "You didn't say
'asshole'."

Mulder blinked in surprise.  "Excuse me?"

"'Asshole'," the suspect repeated.  "It's how the cops do it
on 'Law and Order'.  'Do you understand these rights as I've
explained them to you, *asshole*?'"

The agent shook his head.  "This isn't a game, Mr --"

"Danvers," the cop supplied, holding out his pocket notebook
to Mulder.

"Henry Danvers," Mulder said, taking the notebook and
skimming the page it was open to.  "Age 48, residence on the
Upper West Side.  High rent district."  He looked back at
the suspect.  "That you?" he asked.

"Yes," the man said.  He seemed more in control of himself
now, but he was still very, very calm -- almost eerily calm.
 It reminded Mulder of Devon McSparran's behavior, that
first day in New York -- although Danvers seemed to be a
little rougher around the edges.  That was understandable,
of course; he was a lot closer to the traumatic event that
presumably had caused this emotional shutdown than McSparran
had been.

"I'm going to ask you again, Mr. Danvers," Mulder said. 
"Have these officers read you your rights?  And are you now
waiving your right to remain silent and your right to have
an attorney present?"

Danvers hesitated for an instant, and seemed as if he might
object -- but then he shrugged, and just said, "Sure.  Why
not."

"So what happened here tonight, Mr. Danvers?"

"I killed her," the man said flatly.  "My body killed her. 
After I fucked her."

//My body killed her.//  The simple statement leapt out at
Mulder, echoing the words uttered by the other three
suspects, and he felt a tingle of anticipation at the
realization.

"How did you kill her?" he asked.  He didn't really care; he
wasn't sure it would be relevant.  But he did need the
background, and he wanted to keep the conversation going
while he thought about things.

"With a knife," Danvers replied, his voice still unnaturally
calm.  "It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be."

"As you thought it would be?" Mulder asked.  "Did you have
this planned?"

"No, no," the man replied, shaking his head.  "I just came
here to get laid."  He nodded in the direction of the bar. 
"This is a good place for it, if a man likes variety and
doesn't mind a certain amount of risk."

Mulder nodded, and asked, "So if you didn't have it planned,
when did you decide to kill her?  And why?"

Danvers looked puzzled, and cocked his head.  "I didn't
decide to," he explained.  "I told you; my body did it.  My
body did *all* of it; I was just a ... a spectator.  I had
her up against the wall, over in that alley, and I was
laying it into her -- and suddenly I was furiously angry. 
Completely enraged.  I have no idea where it came from; it
was just suddenly there."

"Were you angry at her?"

The man shrugged, apparently lapsing further into apathy. 
"I suppose so," he replied.  "I killed her, after all."

Mulder nodded again, aware of the two police offers shifting
their weight impatiently.  Time to wrap this up, at least
for now.  "Mr. Danvers, I just have one more question.  Are
you familiar with the work of a painter named Lacrimae
Mundi?"

Danvers eyebrows shot up in surprise, his first show of real
emotion since Mulder began speaking to him.  "Of course," he
said.  A hint of smugness filtered past the man's unnatural
reserve.  "I own one of them."

"Really."  Mulder couldn't make himself feel surprise at the
revelation.  Deep in his mind, so deep that he was barely
aware of it, pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into
place.  "How long ago did you acquire it?"

Again, Danvers looked puzzled.  "Not too long," he said.  "A
few days.  Why?  Is it important?"

"Perhaps," Mulder replied.  He jerked his head at the two
cops, indicating that he was through, and turned and walked
away.

==========END CHAPTER FOURTEEN==========