Author's note: An old X-file. I've been sitting on this one for a long while -- since November 1998. When I started, I was a math major. Now I've got the degree! Anyway, the abstract world of mathematics abounds with strange phenomena. 'Disquisitiones Arithmeticae' is the name I gave to a few stories with nothing more in common than the fact that they are mathematically inspired. But that's as far as the math goes, I promise. You don't need to be a math person to understand the story.

This story gets its roots from real analysis. To construct the set of reals from the set of rationals, you use a special type of set called a "cut." In essence, you can see a real number in two different ways:
1) an infintesimally small point on a line
2) a rational "cut," which looks a lot different but behaves the same way as 1).
A cut, instead of being infintesimally small, is a huge set of rational numbers. So I got to thinking, "what would people be like who could see the rational world around them like a cut? What would cause them to do so?" "Cuts" follows from those ramblings.

Norristown State Hospital, and the Philadelphia Hospital for the insane ("Byberry") really do exist, though I've never been to either and any interpretation as such is directly from my mind (I've since been told Norristown is a much more campus-like place, rather than a city hospital).

Disclaimer: All X-files characters belong to Chirs Carter, FOX, and 1013 productions. Use is unauthorized.

Cuts
by Eve11

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cut: (n)
1. a wound made by something sharp.
2. a gesture or expression that hurts the feelings.
3. a non-empty, proper subset, S, of the rational numbers with the following properties:
  (i) if p is in S then everything less than p is in S.
  (ii) for every p in S, there is an element q in S larger than p.
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Prologue

"Look into it," he said.

She didn't move. He angled her head up, bringing her chin toward her chest. "Look," he said sternly, as though he could force her eyes to focus. A small groan escaped her throat, and he smiled. She would see. She would understand. "You can go there," he said. "Soon it won't hurt no more."

She may have moved, or perhaps it was the grass, swaying in the breeze. It was never silent here. That was why it was so wonderful. Always, the night was filled with voices that rose and fell on the cadence of the wind. This was the sound of peace. This was the closest he would come to serenity, without her. Now, he needed her to get closer.

His hands were sticky and slippery, so he held the knife cautiously. Too light of a grip, and the cuts would falter and sway. Too heavy, and it would slip, flowing through his fingers like water. It was a game of unfathomable subtlety, and he had mastered it. He traced a red cut on her stomach, starting at her navel and sliding down toward her pubic bone. She tensed, but didn't scream, didn't cry out, as with the cuts before.

"You see," he said. "The more there are, the more you can escape." A breeze set the tall grass whispering, and he shivered. She wasn't cold, he knew. She was so close now. The cuts on her wrists were drawing her further away, drawing him closer. He lay down next to her and stared up at the pale full moon. He matched the rhythm of his breath with hers, listening only to the silence in between growing longer . . .

Time stretched before him.

longer . . .

All of everything, in an instant.

and longer . . .

There it was, just a little closer . . .

--------
Norristown State Hospital
Norristown, Pa
1:00 am

". . . look into it . . . "

Fisherman never made sense. Never. Not in the daytime, not when he was drugged, not when he insisted he was lucid. Fisherman was here for a good reason; you never knew what the hell he would say next. So it was a given that everyone did their best to ignore him, especially during the night terrors.

" . . . Look! look at it . . . so close, so close! . . ."

Despite that fact, Bobby found himself staring out the window at the sky, searching furtively, almost desperately, for the glow of the moon. And there it was, seeping past the iron mesh that substituted for traditional bars. Worse than bars, Bobby thought quickly. At least with bars you could get close enough to see past them, pretend they weren't there.

"you see in the cut . . . you can reach it . . . escape."

The window called to him. As though drawn by Fisherman's nightmare, Bobby slipped out of bed, eyes fixed on the mesh. Fisherman's cadence didn't slow.

". . . there . . . you can reach it. . . there . . . the more there are . . ."

Bobby's steps faltered, a clumsiness born of the sedatives they managed to feed him. But he'd been in and out of here too many times; he was never as drugged as they wanted him. And he needed to reach the window.

"Man, if he don't shut up, I'm gonna go fucking nuts," came a hushed Latino voice from across the ward. There were others stirring, their wakefulness a testament to their skill at avoiding the drugs.

"You already nuts, crazy spic, why the hell else you here?" A second voice added intensity to the darkness, murmurs underneath Fisherman's slowly increasing moans.

"Callate, o te dare' razones para gritar! "

"There!" Fisherman cried out in his sleep.

At the front of the ward, beyond the locked gates, movement. The night duty nurse was summoning help.

Bobby stepped up to the window.

"fucking loco..."

Suddenly, the night went from simmer to boil.

"Too much BLOOD!" Fisherman screamed and sat up straight, his pale blue eyes staring past the wall.

Bobby needed only the sound of his voice. He let out an inhuman scream and pounded his bare palms at the window, raking them across the mesh.

"NO! no . . . blood . . . he's slicing her open!" Fisherman was in a trance. Bobby's arms moved to the rhythm of the older man's words, scraping his palms raw and bloody against the window. The murmurs rose to yells for help and screams. The ceiling light slowly flickered on, oblivious to the need for haste, and a white, washed- out glow only added to the chaos. Fisherman was wailing, and Bobby was eerily silent, as three hulking orderlies attempted to restore the calm.

One grabbed Bobby around the waist while a second caught each of his wrists. They were prepared for a struggle, but he relented so quickly that they almost lost their balance. Across the room, the third orderly held Fisherman down on his bed as the night duty nurse prepared a sedative. Four more orderlies and two nurses answered the duty nurse's earlier call and arrived to calm the rest of the ward.

"Real!" Fisherman cried, " . . . it's happening now, now . . . in the whispering grass!" In spite of his struggles, the orderly strapped his hands, chest and feet to into the bed's restraints, and the duty nurse deftly injected the syringe into his arm. Then, she allowed herself a moment to breathe and compose herself, before surveying the maelstrom in front of her.

"Paul, are you two okay over there?" she asked, heading for the two orderlies who held Bobby's slumped form between them.

"Shit, Mel, we're gonna need to get this guy some stitches or something."

She looked down at Bobby's hands and for a moment, she was reminded of the ER and motorcycle accidents. They had a name for that mottled look of curled, stripped flesh, bone and blood. Street pizza, she thought, eight floors up. Pushing the thought aside, Mel said quickly, "Get him down to the infirmary. I'll call you in."

Five minutes later, the ward was dark and silent. She'd leave the cleanup for Sandy in the morning. After all, Sandy or some other damn day nurse hadn't paid enough attention when it came to handing out the drugs. At the desk, Mel turned on a small monitor, listening for signs that the sedative was taking effect in the isolation room across the hall.

" . . . he's real . . . in the fields . . . addisonlane, addisonnorth . . . addisonlane . . . north" Fisherman's wails subsided fitfully, until he was once again only murmuring in his sleep,

" . . . addison lane . . . north . . ."

--------

Later, he had no idea how long, he awoke feeling small and empty. The still form beside him was cold, and the tall grass swayed around him, voicing its discontent.

No escape.

The grass whispered and sighed, and he felt the crush of the world around him again.

--------
********
Chapter 1
North Addison Lane, lot 13a
Malvern, Pa
11:40 am

Bizarre, was the first word that came to Dana Scully's mind upon viewing the crime scene. That was one way to describe it. It was also probably what the Philadelphia P.D. thought at first glance, which would explain why she and Mulder had been summoned from D.C. to investigate. The scene was definitely strange. But an X-file? Not that she could see. She ventured a glance at her partner, who was studying the perimeter, asking questions to a young detective at his side. Mulder wasn't working under any paranormal pretenses, either. No wild theories on the drive up. Just complaints.

"I do not want to become Mr. Rent-a-Profiler for the psychotics of the world, Scully. I don't care how deranged they are, this is not what we are here for. The X-files are not the VCU 'top ten sickest' list."

She hadn't argued; in fact, she agreed with him. But since the re-opening of the X-files, things had been rather quiet. It put them both on edge. As strange as it seemed, the X-files were back in service, but they were still waiting for justification. And this was definitely not the case they needed.

This was their fourth VCU case in two weeks.

She sighed. Whether or not it was desirable, they were here. She turned her focus outward, toward the trampled, blood-soaked grass in front of her, and the pale, unnatural white-on-brown of the body at her feet. The detachment came with practiced ease and familiarity.

The victim was a young woman, unidentified as yet, probably a transient. She was nude, covered only in spots of her own dried blood. Scully could see no bruises on any of the exposed skin, no strange twists or positions to suggest broken bones. No signs of a struggle.

Just cuts. Precise, delicate cuts over all of her body. Scully leaned down and studied the woman's wrists. The gashes there were deep and angry. The skin around the cuts was purple and brown.

Someone had watched this woman slowly bleed to death.

"See anything interesting, Scully?" came Mulder's voice from behind her. Had this been any less of a gruesome scene, Scully might have admitted to hearing a tinge of sarcasm in her partner's voice; a remnant of his reluctance to take this particular case. Instead, she pointed to the victim's wrist.

"Well, this looks like the cause of death, here," she said. "These cuts look like they were made first, and the majority of the blood loss occured through the wrists."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah. It almost looks like the rest of the incisions were made after she had less blood to spill. Almost like an afterthought." Then, "They noticed the wrists. Detective Sawyer told me their first inclination was some sort of sado-masochistic suicide, of all things."

"Not likely," she answered, knowing she didn't need to convince him. "She wouldn't have been able to maintain the precision with the increased loss of blood. These look almost surgical. Not to mention the fact that I don't see any instruments around, or any smearing or droplet patterns around the other incisions."

"From her wrists? Good point, Scully, though I don't think they're going to require too much convincing in that arena. Sawyer told me it was a pretty lame theory, but they wanted to 'keep all their avenues open.'" Mulder lowered his voice. "You should be proud of me. I was going to tell him that I thought it was a Wiccan spirit-summoning ceremony gone awry, and they should be on the lookout for demons, but," he stopped in mid-sentence. "Look at that."

He bent down to her level, eyes suddenly focused, not on the woman's wrists, but her midsection. "Those stains on the torso, extending here," he pointed to her side, in the middle of her ribcage, "up to here," under her arm, beside her left breast. "What does that look like to you, Scully?"

She studied the stains. More like smears, actually. She leaned closer. Was that . . .? "There's some hair here, Mulder." She glanced at the victim's head. "Not hers. Too short, too dark."

Mulder pointed to the left arm. "There's some over here too. There was definitely someone else here."

Scully nodded. "And from the looks of it, he cut her up, and then snuggled down at her side for a nap." She studied the body from head to toe, seeing only a few smears of blood by the base of her neck. "His hands were bloody; they'll probably get at least some partial prints from her neck there, but I don't see any more smears anywhere."

"He didn't hold her down," Mulder said quietly. Then, a pause. Scully could tell what was coming next, but she really wasn't in the mood for his humor.

"Mind control?," Mulder deadpanned.

She shot him a glare. "Wait for the tox screen, Mulder. I take it you're done here?"

"Yeah," he said, standing up and brushing himself off. "No demon tracks, and we've even got prints on the sicko." He glanced at his partner, noted her annoyance, and lowered his voice. "It's a bizarre killing," he said, echoing her first impression of the scene. "Despite that, it's not an X-file. For us, it's a waste of time." He ended the conversation by walking off toward the car.

That was the closest he would come to an apology. Resigned, Scully stood up and followed his path through the trampled grass.

--------
12:15 pm

The Malvern Police Headquarters was a three story brick building in the middle of town. Despite its small size, the building managed to convey an air of authority, with stark architecture and two stately columns on either side of the entrance. The parking lot was packed; obviously, the recent discovery was taxing the limits of the small P.D. Mulder found a space at the back of the lot, pulled in, and killed the engine.

"Allright, let's get this over with," he said curtly, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door.

Scully got out of the car and had to hurry to catch up with his long strides. When she reached him, she put a hand on his shoulder, partly to catch his attention, partly to slow his pace. He met her gaze with determined eyes. He knew what she was going to say. She didn't let that stop her from confronting him.

"I know you're frustrated, Mulder. I am too, but at least try to be civil."

He looked angry for a second, and then let it pass. Sighing, he gave her a rueful smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I always am. I think that's part of the problem. For the past two weeks I've been smiling and handing out profiles like there's nothing wrong."

His response took Scully by surprise. She'd expected him to snap at her, or simply brush off the comment with dry humor. Instead, he'd met her statement with a sincerity that took her off her guard.

He'd left the VCU because of profiling; it was a very intense and stressful experience to try and get inside the mind of a killer. And as irrational as the fear was, right now he was staring at the possibility of having to do it much too often for his liking. Mulder's breaches of protocol, together with their expenses and improbable stories of alien viruses and Antarctic sub-terranean spaceships, had brought an extremely critical eye upon them. And it seemed that Agents Spender and Fowley were leaping at any chance to take the X-files out of their hands.

They couldn't prove their worth if they couldn't find a case. They couldn't keep the X-files open if there were no X-files to investigate. If the current trend continued, the X-files would stay open long enough to be demoted to a satellite under Violent Crimes.

Of course, two weeks was perhaps a bit premature to start tolling funeral bells.

"When we get back," she said, "we can meet with Skinner and discuss this, but for now, I'm not sure what we can do."

It was the wrong thing to say. Of course, attitudes as they were, nothing was really the right thing to say.

He interrupted her, quickening his stride. "For now, I'll suck up and deal, Scully. I promise." So much for a serious conversation. Those last words were as good as walls. He held the door for her, and they entered the building in silence. Mulder approached the receptionist with the air of someone who had better things to do. Had it not been unprofessional, Scully would have rolled her eyes.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, FBI," he said curtly. They flashed identification, which the receptionist noted with a nod. "We're looking for detective Torrence," he continued.

Unfazed by Mulder's cool attitude, the receptionist glanced at a worn list of hand-written names on the counter. "Mm-hmm. She's one of the Philly personnel. They've set up shop in room 12D, down that hall," she pointed. "You the specialists she sent for?"

Mulder nodded. She handed him a pen that was chained to the counter, next to the list. "Okay, then just sign in here and knock on the door. I'm sure somebody's in there, and if it's not her, they'll have a better chance of knowing where she is than I do."

They signed the list and headed in the direction the receptionist had noted, toward room 12D. As they navigated the open, desk-filled floor, Mulder apparently decided that giving his partner the silent treatment was detrimental, even with respect to this non-case. He broke the tension with a peace offering. "Detective Torrence is the one who contacted Skinner," he remarked lightly. "I think so far the only thing supernatural in this case is how fast the ball got rolling."

Not one to hold a grudge, Scully accepted. "When was the body discovered, again?"

"Six-thirty a.m." he replied. "A resident of the area was walking his dog before work, and came across it. Skinner talked to me at eight- thirty. By then, they were already waiting for us to view the crime site before moving anything."

"In two hours, they've got a _Philadelphia_ cop on the case, calling the FBI for 'specialists'?"

"Uh-huh." He brought his fist up to the door. "Somebody knows something more about this. I want to know what this detective Torrence isn't telling us so far."

Before he could knock, the door opened, swinging slowly inward.

"One thing she can tell you is that she's got good ears," came a voice from inside. "Come on in. I'll catch you up on everything." There was a desk and chair to the right of the door, in which was seated an African-American woman, probably in her mid to late 30s, furiously scrawling a few lines into a small notebook on the desk. As Mulder and Scully entered the office, she ended the note with an emphatic period, let the book fall closed, and stood up. She was of average height, of slender build, but not petite. Her dark skin was free of wrinkles, except for the beginnings of crow's feet around her eyes, and her hair was cropped short in almost a crew-cut.

"Sorry about that," she said, gesturing toward the notebook. "I was in the middle of something. Gotta write inspiration down when it comes, else I'll forget." She extended her hand to the agents, shaking first Scully's hand and then Mulder's. "Detective Samantha Torrence, Philadelphia P.D." Mulder's wince at the name was imperceptible to all but Scully. A slight narrowing of the eyes. Probably more of a feeling of adding insult to injury than anything else. The detective continued, oblivious. "You can call me Sam . . . or Torrence, or whatever. You must be Agents Mulder and Scully."

They nodded. Scully spoke up. "I'm Agent Scully, this is Mulder," she offered.

"Well, have a seat," Torrence pointed to a few empty chairs. "I'm sorry about the lack of information around. Things are hectic, everything's screwed up, and nobody knows the whole picture." She picked up the notebook, pulled up her chair and sat down. "Have you been to the site yet?"

"We just returned from there," Mulder replied.

Torrence caught the nuance of his voice. "Not much there, I guess," she added. "One cut up transient. One psychotic bastard, from the looks of it. But I wanted to make sure that you all didn't notice something new. That crime site, right now, is the least interesting aspect of this case."

She handed Mulder a manila folder, and leaned forward in almost a conspiratorial fashion. "I've got two more that look just like it." Torrence waited while Mulder opened the file, and he and Scully examined its contents. Reports. Faxed photographs. In both cases, an open field, and one body, covered with small, precise cuts. "Of course, the cities are different," she continued. "Watertown, New York, two months ago, and then last month in Lock Haven, north central P.A.. Neither victim has been identified yet."

Scully paged through the reports, noting the similarities between the sites pictured and the scene from Addison Lane earlier that morning. Victims were close in age, an estimated mid-twenties to early thirties, one male and one female. Both victims bled to death through the wrists; both showed no signs of struggle. Both sites indicated what she and Mulder had noticed earlier: the killer apparently lay down beside the victim as the victim bled to death.

A remarkable piece of detective work, given only a few hours to research the case. Scully brought up that point.

"How did you find out about these so quickly? Did they file reports with the Philadelphia P.D.?" she inquired.

"No, but I was aware of them," came Torrence's reply. "Let's just say I've got a thing for the weird stuff. Somehow or other, the bizarre cases end up at my doorstep. I've got a knack for solving them, noticing things. You know, it's sort of a . . . gift. . . of mine, I suppose."

Mulder wasn't convinced. "What makes you so interested in this case? As far as I can tell, it's just another . . ."

"Run of the mill screwed up psychotic?" she ended, her voice gaining intensity. "Ah, agent Mulder, we can't jump to conclusions here. It's more subtle than that." Her tone carried the excitement of a child.

Mulder leaned forward, offering a challenge. "Try me."

For the first time, Torrence opened the notebook, and Scully had the sudden, almost exhilarating premonition that her partner was going to lose this confrontation. She could see the signs of the same feeling in Mulder's eyes. A spark of recognition, and a surge of enthusiasm. Was there potential here after all?

"At first," Torrence began, "just a small detail. Tox screens on the previous two victims came up clean of anything. No alcohol, no drugs. No prescriptions. Nothing. And the victims seemed to be in good health, before the bloodletting. They would have been able to defend themselves. I'm guessing our latest will show the same pattern. Our UNSUB -- and he is an UNSUB, his prints aren't on record -- he's either an extremely endearing person, or he's got mind control powers."

Mulder shot his partner a quick "I told you so" glance. Scully replied with as close to "sarcastic guesses don't count" as facial expressions could come.

"Second," Torrence continued, flipping through the notebook pages, "there is the strange complication of Michael Vostow, a twelve year old child in the foster care system in Watertown."

"What about him?", Mulder asked coolly.

Torrence checked her notes. "On the night of the Watertown murder, at 1 a.m., Vostow's foster parents made a frantic call to his case worker, stating that he was 'ranting and screaming about knives and blood.' Vostow's background included family violence, but he hadn't had a night terror in over four years. He was inconsolable. He kept screaming about cutting people open, and then the hysteria reached a state of paranoia, where he thought that someone was watching him, trying to find him, and he needed to hide himself. His foster parents finally had to take him to the local hospital, where he was sedated."

"Is there anything more concrete that would connect him to the case?" Scully asked. Four years nightmare free or not, so far this complication seemed entirely explainable within the realm of science.

"The circumstances are strange, to say the least. Forensics show that Vostow had pretty good timing as to when the crime occurred. And when he recovered enough, after three days, he described the nightmare as taking place outside, as well as admitting that in his dream, the victim of the bloodletting was not himself, but a young woman. He didn't know her name. Authorities chalked it up to coincidence or concoction."

"Well, he did have a few days where he could have heard about the crime and incorporated it into his nightmare," Scully offered. Even if this was an X-file, there was no reason to leave rational explanations behind. Of course, her partner slipped into his usual role just as quickly.

"What about the killer?" Mulder asked. "Did he see the killer at all?"

Torrence eyed her notes. "No. In Vostow's own words, 'He was dangerous. I couldn't look at him because then he would know who I was and would come after me.' More paranoid delusions?"

"Possibly," Mulder asserted. "But we've seen cases where people seemed to have a psychic connection with a total stranger. Any more complications in Lock Haven?"

"None there," Torrence continued. "But about a half-hour ago we got a very interesting call from Miss," she checked her notes again, "Melanie Jackson, who works nights at the state hospital in Norristown. Apparently, someone over there was having strangely preminiscent night terrors."

--------

********

Chapter 2

Jackson residence
133 West 36th street
Norristown, Pa
2:00 pm

"I didn't think much of it last night. We get a lot of patients that cause disturbances, and Fisherman does it at night."

"Fisherman?" Scully repeated questioningly.

"Yeah, that's his nickname. I'm sure his real name's on the admittance papers, but that's all I ever heard him called."

Mulder gave Scully a swift glance. What kind of hospital has a staff that doesn't keep track of patients' names?

"They don't give his proper name on prescriptions?" he asked quietly.

Melanie Jackson shifted in her overstuffed maroon recliner, growing embarrassed and defensive. "Look, I'm only the night duty, okay? They might put it on the prescriptions, but I don't never have to look at 'em unless there's trouble. And everyone knows what to give Fisherman if he starts having episodes." She paused, then added, "You start looking after a floor of street junkies and transients and figure out how important real names are."

Scully spoke up, trying to smooth out the session. "Miss Jackson, we are not here to investigate the hospital and its policies," she emphasized as much for her partner as for the woman in front of her. "You called the police department a few hours ago regarding a disturbance last night?"

Jackson nodded. "That's right. I worked the midnight shift last night, and at about 1am Fisherman started in with a nightmare. It happens sometimes. They don't take the meds we give 'em, or the meds just plain don't work. He started screaming about blood and cuts and shit like that, like I said, I didn't think much of it, except he excited one of the other patients to hurt himself on the window."

"Who was this other patient? Was it someone Fisherman knew?" Mulder asked.

"No, he's a junkie. When he's not in the eighth floor ward, he lives on the streets until the cops pick him up for disturbing the peace or possession or whatever and send him back. His name," she paused at the word, directing her next statement explicitly to Mulder, "is Bobby Castillo, and he tore his hands up last night, scraped them to a pulp against the mesh on the window, when Fisherman started screaming about the blood."

"What about this episode made you call the police?" Scully ventured.

Jackson paused, took a deep breath, and let out a shaky sigh. "This is going to sound nuts, but I saw it on the news. I saw his nightmare on the news today." She looked at them, waiting for someone to tell her she belonged locked up with the people she oversaw, but neither Mulder nor Scully stopped her.

"In what way?" Mulder asked.

"I . . . well, I usually go to bed after working nights, but I don't have to work tonight or tomorrow, and I don't know, I guess I just wanted to see the sun or something," she gave a nervous chuckle, avoiding the question until she gathered her thoughts. "Anyway, so I was trying to fix my sleep schedule, watching the news at noon and they mentioned this murder that happened in Malvern. On North Addison Lane, they said. Addison Lane. And I realized that's what he was saying in isolation. 'Addison Lane, north.'"

"He was repeating the road name?" Mulder clarified.

"Yeah, I've got it on tape. If you go in, they'll play it for you."

"I think that's going to be our next stop, Miss Jackson. Thanks for your time," Scully stood up, offering to shake the young woman's hand. "Is there anything else you think might be relevant to the investigation?"

Jackson stood up from the chair, but instead of taking Scully's hand, asked quietly, "The victim, she bled to death didn't she? She was . . . cut, wasn't she?"

Before Scully could mention the nature of classified evidence, Mulder spoke up. "What makes you ask?"

"It's what he was screaming. I remember. I usually don't listen to his ranting, but it sent chills down my spine, I swear to god. He kept saying, 'he's slicing her open.' It wasn't like a stabbing. I kept getting an image of scalpels." She almost shuddered, before suddenly moving to escort the agents to the door. "It's just that I hate to think of someone who can kill that way. Precise. Cold."

It was an accurate description of what they had seen earlier. A calculated killing, specifically engineered and carried out. All the evidence at the crime site pointed to psychopathic behavior. Jackson had reached that same conclusion from the listening to the rantings of a nameless transient. Perhaps 'Fisherman' was worth investigating after all.

As she ushered the agents out, Jackson added one more comment. "I don't know if Fisherman'll help you or not. To tell you the truth, I don't know what to think about this. But when I thought of what he was describing . . . I guess I'll risk sounding like a mental case if it means catching someone like that."

--------

Norristown State Hospital
8th floor ward
2:40 pm

Mulder hated hospitals. The antiseptic air always seemed to barely mask an aura of sickness. Over the years, disease seeped into yellow, washed-out walls until they were caked with it; a layer of grime that can't be cleansed, even with the strongest detergent. The eighth floor ward at Norristown was no different. As they walked down the dull, bare hallway, Mulder could't help remembering the last time he'd been at a psychiatric hospital.

Committed, for trying to expose the truth about a telemarketing manager named Pinkus, who could cloud the minds of his co-workers to hide his mutant nature. No one belived Mulder, not even Scully, his one in five billion. Folie e' Deux, she'd called it. A madness shared by two. And he'd been left alone to face drugs and restraints. The bleak future he had envisioned during those hours was much more frightening than when Pinkus had finally come after him in the ward.

Mulder absently rubbed his wrists, for a moment still feeling the cloth straps that had restrained him during his stay in Illinois. Pre-occupied, he didn't notice his pace slow, but when he finally looked up, Scully was still pacing him, watching his hands. Immediately, he stilled the nervous gesture, but the look in Scully's eyes told him she knew what he was thinking about.

For the second time that day, Mulder quickened his pace-- an effective wall against her questioning glances. For the first time since the re-opening of the X-files, he felt enthusiastic about a case, and he wasn't going to let his own damn morbidity get in the way.

"We take a right here," Scully said quietly, gesturing at a hallway he almost passed by. Damn. He remembered the directions from the receptionist. Now she would really know he was brooding.

"Right," he said, turning quickly. His speed caught Scully off guard. He stopped, turned around, and gave her a glance of his own that would hopefully tell her to drop any worrying. "Well, c'mon and quit lagging, Scully. Let's go."

She gave him a patented Scully Look before following him down the hallway, which was blocked about half-way down by a mesh grate and a desk. They approached the nurse behind the desk and explained the nature of the visit. The nurse shook her head.

"Fisherman's been in isolation, under sedation, all day," she said. "He's not going to be able to talk to you until he comes out of it."

"When will that be?" Mulder asked quickly.

She sighed and searched through a pile of papers until she came up with the one she needed. "His last treatment was at 10am... he'll probably be awake by four, if you want to wait around."

Well, that would give him some time to check the records on Fisherman, and maybe interview the other patient, Bobby Castillo. "We'll be back then," he said, "but first I want to hear the tape from last night."

"Sure," she said, opening a drawer. She handed them a cassette and a small tape recorder. "Mel called earlier, said you would want to hear it." She directed them to a small office where they could have some privacy.

There was no mistaking the voice on the tape. "Addison lane, north" repeated for a full five minutes before the patient finally succumbed to the sedatives he'd been given. Mulder stopped the tape and looked up at his partner.

"So, what do you think?" He could already see the gears clicking in Scully's head; for the past two weeks, her scientific reasoning had been as starved as his own paranormal theories. Now was the test. Hopefully, he hadn't lost his edge in combat.

"Well, this 'Fisherman', whoever he is, might have met the killer; maybe he was a patient in the hospital and told Fisherman about his plans," Scully began. A weak opening.

"Except we know he's been on the loose for at least two months," Mulder countered easily. "And he's been traveling around a bit."

Scully met the challenge, nonplussed. "You heard Melanie Jackson. The ward is full of transients. He could have been here months ago."

Time for a shift in direction. "Be that as it may, something tells me our killer isn't the bragging type, Scully."

He anticipated her response almost word for word. "On what do you base that opinion?" she said slowly, her face closed.

Now for the 'spooky' stuff. How to explain it? "I'm not sure. His prints aren't on record... he picks out-of-the-way locations for the bloodletting, and even the murder itself, Scully, seems," he searched for the right word, "subtle. I know the P.D. think they're looking for a psychopath, but there's more to this." He paused "He's not going to brag about this. Three formulaic murders. He's using them to fulfil a need." He glanced at the door. "And I think Fisherman might know what it is."

Scully sighed, a sign that she'd been defeated. She never did figure out how to counter the 'spooky' argument. "Well, you should check out his records while you're waiting to talk with him," she said, gathering her coat.

"What about you?" he asked. She wasn't giving up already, was she?

Scully checked her watch. "I can't stay here, Mulder. I've got an autopsy to assist with at quarter of four. I'll tell them to send a car out for you."

He gave her a look of mock hurt. "Scully, are you ditching me?"

She smiled, the first real smile she'd given him in weeks. "You have your arena, I have mine. Yours is with the wackos, mine is with the dead. Makes you wonder which of us has the better deal."

He smiled back, and then glanced at his watch. "Well, you don't have to wait for yours to wake up," he said.

She chuckled, then headed for the door. "I'll let you know if I find anything interesting," she said quickly, and then left, shutting the door softly behind her. Mulder stared at the tape player for a moment, again hearing the panicked, drugged voice repeating the name of a street he'd probably never even seen, and then he gathered his things and headed for Records, determined to learn more about Fisherman than just nicknames and stories.

--------
3:00 pm

The wide-head mop glided slowly in front of him, its passage smooth and silent. He could hear the creak of his shoes on the linoleum, but the air around the mop seemed stagnant. Still. For a second, he was convinced that he, his clothes and the mop were all completely still, and the rest of the world was scrolling beneath them without so much as the sound of wind. For a second, it was the rest of the world ignoring him.

For the time between seconds, it was a fleeting glimpse at everything that was happening now. It was drawing away from a crowded room and seeing a clearer picture of it. It was watching the air currents shift. It was hearing the concrete below him expanding from the change in heat. It was feeling the wooden handle flex beneath his hand from the tiny changes in pressure that he applied. It was feeling vibrations and knowing that someone was coming down the hallway. It was feeling the potential behind every move, every nuance. It was time, rushing and expanding in all directions at once.

For the time between seconds, it was knowing what would happen next.

It was the smallest breath of escape, and it was gone before he could even savor it. He hadn't even broken his stride. His foot came down on the linoleum with a small creak as the rubber in his shoe resettled. And the mop was in front of him, gliding like a phantom.

"Hey, there you are! I've been looking for you."

He didn't even turn. He already knew she was there. Internally, he flinched at her words, always so strange to hear someone speaking to him.

"Mmm," he acknowledged, unsure of his own voice.

"There's a mess in the bathroom in G, second floor. They need somebody there, and you're on duty."

"Mm-hm," he said. "I'll be up, then."

"Good," she said. "You should remember to turn on your radio when you're on duty. Then I wouldn't've had to come down here in the first place." She turned on her heel and left. He carefully stood the mop up against the wall, shattering the last remnants of illusion, and headed outside.

As he walked out the door, his eyes automatically searched the sky. It was daylight yet, but he could sometimes still see the moon, a pale echo of its nightly glory. He found it hanging above the building. In the daytime, it looked almost like a wrinkle in the sky, a pock-marked scar.

It looked like a cut.

He stopped for a moment, staring, but an old uneasiness for stillness and silence started his feet moving again, pounding out a background rhythm where he could lose himself in his thoughts.

Someone had seen him last night. He knew it as surely as he knew that Grace, angry at having to search for him, had waited in the hallway for five minutes trying to erase her annoyance and compose herself before entering the cafeteria.

He knew it as surely as he knew that despite all her attempts to control her stress, Grace's heart was weary and tiring, and would fail within the next few months.

Someone knew. Someone had watched.

And someone understood the escape in cuts.

--------

********

Chapter 3

Paoli Memorial Hospital Morgue
Paoli, Pa
4:20 pm

"Starting the Y incision."

Scully watched the resident pathologist trace a smooth incision in the victim's chest and abdomen. Really, the The Y incision was almost redundant-- he could practically follow the lines that were already there. It seemed almost a desecration. She'd endured so many cuts already. If not for her professional detachment, Scully would have called their actions callous. After all, an internal exam now was only a last resort; they didn't expect to find anything abnormal.

A thorough external exam hadn't turned up much of value. No signs of struggle. No recent marks that would indicate injection of drugs, though that didn't rule out the possibility she'd ingested something. They did find needle marks on the arms, but those were weeks or months old. Drug addiction was not uncommon in transients, but it was a point of interest that this woman had apparently overcome it, if Torrence's assertions about the tox screen were true.

They were still waiting on the tox screen. When Scully last talked to Torrence, the detective assured her that the screen would be negative for sedatives, or anything else for that matter.

"We didn't even find caffeine in the other two," she'd said succinctly.

If that was actually the case, Scully had a working theory of her own. A nice, plausible, mundane solution. Well, partial solution, anyway. She focused her attention back to the resident pathologist. At that moment, her cell phone chirped. She quickly excused herself and headed for the hallway before answering the call.

"Scully," she said tersely.

"Scully, it's me. How's the autopsy going?"

"We just finished the external exam. I should really be in there observing," she started.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Mulder said quickly. "I won't keep you long. I'm going in to talk to our mystery man right now, and I wanted to know anything you found out before I interview him."

She recounted her findings. "We found old needle tracks in her arms. If Detective Torrence is right about the tox screen, I'd say she was a recovered heroin addict."

"Recovered?"

"If the tox screen is clear, then she's been off the drugs for weeks." She paused, then presented her theory. "I think the suspect has been targeting drug rehab clinics. It would explain the clear tox screens -- some of those programs are really strict about any kind of addictive substances, and it might also be a reason why they've had so much trouble identifying the victims. Programs like those have high attrition rates."

"Sounds plausible," he said, with the slightest trace of disappointment. She didn't take it personally; he just liked it better when the truth was something more... interesting. "That doesn't account for how he subdued the victims, though," he added.

"Mulder, right now, that's still in your arena. Some of the cuts around the wrists and neck are more abrasive -- indicative of rope or wire, but we agree that this restraint was removed before the actual bloodletting." She paused. "Is there anything else you wanted to know? I really should get back . . ."

"One last thing, and I'll let you go," he said. "Have you ever heard of Byberry Hospital, in Philadelphia?"

Byberry... the name struck her as familiar. Byberry . . . suddenly it hit her. "Byberry, yeah. Psychiatric hospital. It caused a really big scandal during my first year at med school. I remember reading about it. It was shut down . . . that would have been 1986, I guess, for health violations. Atrocities, really, committed against the patients. Did it come up in your records search?" she asked.

"I'd say so," he answered. "The only official record I found was from 1985. 'Marcus Fisher, birthdate June seven, nineteen forty- eight, transferred from Byberry Hospital to Norristown on November seventeenth, nineteen eighty-five. Authorization and funding provided by T. Samuelsson. Awaiting complete records.'"

Scully shook her head. "Curiouser and curiouser." Then, "Fill me in on the details tonight. I need to go."

"Right. Hopefully, I'll have a clearer picture as to what's going on here by then."

Scully switched off her phone, then headed back to the autopsy bay.

The internal examination turned up no new evidence.

The tox screen came back clear.

Apparently, neither the living nor the dead were willing to relinquish their secrets in this case.

--------

Norristown State Hospital
8th floor ward
isolation room 2
4:30 pm

The interview with Marcus Fisher was off to a bad start.

Mulder was on edge as soon as he entered the isolation room. Fisherman was still in five point restraints -- leather straps bound his hands, feet and chest to the bed. Upon hearing the door, the older man turned his gaze from the ceiling toward the visitor. A slow, fluid movement. There was no fear in it, and no hope. The simple turn of his head was a practiced action.

It spoke of a hated covenant, a long history of dealing with straps, and a resignation to the fact that they were inescapable and inevitable. And for the moment, It gave Fisherman the upper hand.

One look at those tired blue eyes told Mulder that the older man was coherent enough to despise the humiliation of being tied down, helpless. Despite his preparations, Mulder found himself at a loss for words. His stomach turned, twisting into a knot he knew would stay with him for the duration of this interview. For a moment, memories of his own hands strapped to a hospital bed surged forward, and he had to remind himself to breathe. For a moment, he simply wanted to run -- an assurance that he could still escape if he wanted.

And in a flash of insight, Mulder had the stark realization that calling his partner those few minutes before had been nothing but a stall tactic. A part of him did not want to talk to Marcus Fisher. A part of him was sure that doing so would leave him vulnerable.

The older man's gaze swept past Mulder like a rush of air. He could feel it passing over him, and he almost shivered. Fisherman siezed the opportunity and spoke, his voice slicing the tension like a rough knife.

"You," he said tiredly, "are not real."

And how to respond to that? It wouldn't do well to play Fisherman's game; Mulder had already relinquished enough ground with his hesitation. Time to gain it back. Ignoring Fisherman's statement, he opened the door and summoned the nurse.

"Untie him," he said simply, in answer to her questioning glance.

"Sir, I don't think I should . . . you already requested his meds be delayed, and . . ."

"This is a police interview," he answered. "I need to know what he knows and it will help if I can read something in his body language other than..." he hesitated for the slightest second, "discomfort." He could almost convince himself that his words were true.

She said nothing for a minute, considering, and then answered, "I'll have to leave his hands, but I'll undo the others and sit him up."

"Fine."

As she untied Fisherman's leg and chest straps, she spoke to him like a parent speaks to an unruly child. In an over-loud, chiding tone, she gave him reminders to be good, pay attention, and not kick. Before leaving, she threw Mulder a look that said he'd better be prepared to reap the consequences if the patient took advantage of his new relative freedom. When she was gone, Mulder pulled a chair to the side of the bed and situated it so that Fisherman could see him without straining. Before beginning, he gave himself a moment to examine the man in front of him.

Marcus Fisher looked older than his fifty years. His face was thin and pale. He had a straight, thin nose that seemed to give him a pinched expression. His hair, cut short, was as gray as it was blonde. And his eyes, pale blue, stared out from sunken sockets, making his eyebrows appear larger than they actually were. He wore a slight frown, whether in concentration or habit, Mulder couldn't tell. He hadn't spoken a word after his initial, unorthodox greeting. Perhaps he realized that between the two of them, Mulder had regained control. As it was, Fisherman was awaiting Mulder's next move. Well, no reason to keep the main waiting.

"Mr. Fisher, my name is Fox Mulder. I'd like to ask you some questions about your dream last night."

He leaned his head back. "Not real," he said in slow concentration, "but closer . . . yes." Again, he brought his gaze level with Mulder's own, again without actually focusing on the agent in front of him. "You've been here --," he shook his hands slightly, "You've been here before."

It was not a question. Was his uneasiness that obvoius? Mulder resisted an urge to look at his wrists. "Can you tell me about last night?" he reiterated, changing the subject. "Can you tell me what you saw?"

Fisherman seemed to ignore the remark. "He's been here too," he added, whispering. His eyes unfocused; he was concentrating inwardly. "Years ago. It was dark, dark and he couldn't move. Always dark, and then all he could see were the cuts."

Cuts again. In a short interview earlier that afternoon, Bobby Castillo had mentioned cuts. In fact, he said Fisherman told him to cut himself. He hadn't even noticed the pain until Fisherman stopped screaming. Until then, he'd said, he needed to escape.

Mulder turned his attention outward again, trying to make sense of Fisherman's statement. "Who was seeing the cuts? The man in your dream? Was he trying to escape from something?"

For the first time, the older man met Mulder's eyes. It took effort for him to do so, Mulder noticed. Fisherman stared at him like he was trying to make sense of the colors and shapes in an optical illusion. Mulder realized that he was attempting to ground himself. He was trying to capture this moment, struggling past his own visions. When he spoke again, it was halting and quiet.

"After a . . . long time, Agent Mulder . . . you stop looking for escape. But then it's always there. Right. Out. Of. Reach." With each word, he tried to bring his hand forward, tugging slightly on the restraint that bound it to the bed.

Mulder wasn't understanding. "Out of reach?"

Fisherman sighed in frustration. He was having difficulty with words. Mulder noted that it was a sign consistent with patients who constructed elaborate fantasies; they understood them in their own minds but couldn't explain their situations to others. For those patients, outsiders cannot understand because they do not have the perceived skills necessary.

As if to confirm Mulder's suspicions, Fisherman spoke. "You don't understand because you're not real."

Damn. He started to ask another question, trying to steer Fisherman away from unconstructive ideas, but Fisherman surprised him, offering another attempt at an explanation.

"It's like...it's like salt in water," he said. "It's there, it's all around you everywhere. You smell it, taste it, feel it, and all you find is water because you are the water."

A pause. Then, "You can only see it if you're real."

A more coherent answer. Mulder didn't want to push too hard, but at that moment his intuition screamed at him that this was important; this was the key to understanding the need for all those cuts. More than that. This was something bigger. He forced his excitement down, kept his expression neutral.

"How is it different? What changes?"

"You stop looking . . . stop caring. And the rest of the world . . . forgets. You are not," he emphasized the word, "and then . . . then you are real."

He was stumbling over the words again. "What is the difference? What could you do differently if you were real?"

"I am real!" he answered gruffly, intensely. His words came quickly; Mulder could tell he was losing his hold. "He's real, the man you're looking for . . . he . . . he thinks he can reach it again with two . . . together . . . he thinks he can cut them and they'll understand . . . help him . . ."

He was slipping away. Mulder needed more; he needed more to go on than vague ramblings. In haste or desperation, he miscalculated. "Do you know where he is? Do you know where we can find him?"

One question too many, and it was enough to push Fisherman over the edge.

"No!" he screamed. "No!" His eyes unfocused. He started breathing shallowly, and he looked confused and fearful. Mulder recognized the signs. It was the start of a full-blown panic attack. Damn. He should have been more careful.

"I know you," Fisherman spat. "I know your type, self involved moody pricks, using guilt as excuses," he started pulling at the restraints. Mulder was trying to get him to calm down, trying to salvage the session, but Fisherman ignored his words. "You leave me alone!" he shouted.

Behind him, the duty nurse hauled the isolation room door open. An orderly followed close behind. Ignoring Mulder completely, they went to work calming the patient, which amounted to the orderly holding him still as the nurse injected a sedative into his IV. She then replaced the restraints, stopping afterward only to shoot Mulder a look of pure annoyance.

But Mulder didn't see it. He was still focused on Marcus Fisher, still hearing his words. Fisherman had trained his gaze on Mulder, speaking in frenzied tones even as they held him down.

". . . chasing phantoms and shadows! You still see her face around every corner, and where's your truth gotten you!? Nowhere. Nowhere, so you stay away from me, he's not going to cut me . . .!"

"Agent Mulder, I think it's time you left," the nurse said sternly, but he made no sign of hearing her.

"Agent Mulder, now," her voice came from beside him, and he jumped, startled. He couldn't force himself to move. Sam. How did he know about Sam?

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and numbly, he let it lead him from the room.

--------

5:00 pm

Detective Torrence was waiting for him downstairs. "So what do you say, Mulder?" she asked when he joined her. "Is this guy the real thing? A . . . what's the designation . . . an 'X-file'?"

He nodded. "Seems pretty genuine," he offered, trying to shake off his anxiety. He didn't offer her more than that, choosing instead to follow her silently out into the parking lot. Scully could read him pretty well, but he'd be damned if he was going to let this woman know how much that session had shaken him. As they approached the car, he tried changing the subject.

"How'd you get stuck as my chauffeur?" he asked.

"I offered," she answered back. "I thought it would be a good opportunity to discuss what you found out."

He really didn't feel like talking about it right now. "He wasn't very lucid for very long, and then he became antagonistic," he said quickly. Trying to lighten the mood, he added, "I don't think he liked me. You could try talking to him. Maybe he'd like you better."

For a second, Torrence stiffened, but she covered it well, moving to fish her keys out of her pocket. Her next words came with only the slightest hint of nerves. "Hey, I'm in charge here! That's why I've got minions," she paused, then added with a smile, "excuse me . . . 'specialists.' To do the dirty work."

She opened the door and disappeared into the car. Mulder hadn't missed her discomfort. Detective Torrence most definitely did not relish the idea of interviewing Marcus Fisher herself. His common sense told him it was uneasiness; she probably hated mental hospitals as much as he did. Still, she was on her guard, if anything. She wasn't going to let it down again. He heard the click of automatic locks, opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

"Marcus Fisher thinks he's real," he said by way of introduction.

"Real?" she echoed, starting the car.

"He believes that the killer we're trying to track is real as well."

"Sounds intriguing," she said slowly. "Are you being vague on purpose, Agent Mulder, or was the interview that unhelpful?"

He sighed, then proceeded to fill her in on the details, as they were. He didn't mention Fisherman's uncanny insight into his own past. For her part, Torrence seemed uninterested in the patient's fantasies; instead, she wanted to know if Fisherman could provide them with solid facts: the killer's name, his appearance, or his occupation. Mulder had to admit to failure in those categories, though he did mention Scully's idea about the rehab centers.

"We can do a check on any in the area," he said. "Get a list of their new hires. He could be an employee."

Torrence nodded, adding a few comments, but Mulder was only half- listening. During the ride, he found his hand straying to his coat pocket, toying with the audio tape buried deep within. He didn't need it, really. With his eidetic memory, Mulder could recount the entire brief interview word for word.

He thought about throwing it away, but decided against it. Scully would probably want to hear it, and he owed her that much, anyway.

Even if she did ditch him.

--------

*********

Chapter 4

Motel Six
Malvern, Pa
8:45 pm

Scully poked at her lo mein, alternately twirling noodles onto the fork and studying the meager notes on the table in front of her. Mulder figured she'd been averaging about one bite of take-out per four minutes. Not much slower than the times he'd seen her try and tackle chop sticks, he thought, letting the slightest smile cross his face. His own meal was long gone, devoured ten minutes after it arrived; he didn't need any more distractions from the case at hand. He tried to concentrate on the laptop in front of him, on the UNSUB's profile, but his eyes were starting to complain and his thoughts kept drifting back to Marcus Fisher.

Mulder again glanced at his partner, saw her neatly arranging her notes, and decided she'd had enough time to collect her thoughts. He saved the three paragraphs he'd managed to pound out, intent on picking Scully's brain instead, but she surprised him by speaking first.

"Okay," she said, rubbing her eyes, "the autopsies on the two previous victims show signs of past drug abuses -- needle scars in the arms or scar tissue in the sinuses and nasal passages that would indicate cocaine use. Looks like we've got something."

He nodded. "How's the rehab center search going?"

She sighed, checking a slip of paper. "Out of 15 rehabilitation centers in the area, I've come up with five that have extreme restrictions for anything addictive, including caffeine and tobacco. I suppose tomorrow we can start checking them out." She turned her gaze to his direction, her blue eyes glinting in the dim yellow light. "How's the profile going?"

He sighed. "White male, age -- I'm not sure, but not older than forty, loner. More than a loner, though; he feels alone. Isolated. He was probably abused as a child -- physically or emotionally. Wary and untrusting of people; he doesn't like attention. He doesn't like cities either, but it seems his victims do, or he wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be surprised if he grew up rural, you know what I mean -- four dogs under the porch and the hulk of a '58 Ford on the lawn, but don't quote me on that, it's not going in the official report. Anyway, he skirts the borders, trying his best to stay on the fringe; he needs solitude, but the city itself will give him a good base to find what he needs in a victim. Hmm," he paused, thinking about Marcus Fisher's words that afternoon.

"Scully, did you listen to the tape of the interview?"

"Mm-hm," she nodded, still trying to digest the barrage of facts he'd thrust at her. "It didn't go too well, did it?"

"I screwed up," he said. "I didn't realize he was so unstable. But, if Fisher is genuine, and I think he is, then I did get some good leads before he decided to hare out on me. 'He thinks he can reach it again with two,' he said." He looked up, seeing the confusion in his partner's eyes.

"Our killer is looking for something -- an outlet, maybe a specific euphoria," Mulder explained. "Whatever it is, he's been there before. And the cuts are a rite that his victims need to endure in order help him achieve it again."

What does it take to become real? The thought flashed through his mind.

"He wants to find others like himself -- what Fisherman described as 'real', maybe -- that would explain why little Michael Vostow didn't want the killer to know he was there. He'd become a target."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Or he was just a terrified child witnessing a murder, or," she added before he could mention her acceptance of such a thing, "he was having delusions or nightmares, Mulder. The same goes for Fisher; you can't base the killer's motives on the ramblings of a paranoid psychotic whose been in institutions for fifteen years!"

"I think Fisher's right, Scully. I think he's Real, with a capital 'R.' Did you hear what he said to me?" Mulder knew he was hanging on by a thread here, but he needed this. He needed an X-file.

Scully could see the anticipation in his eyes. She knew what he was looking for; she needed it as much as he did. But, she wasn't about to leave science and rational explanations behind. As it was, just the hint of a paranormal explanation had revived her passion for the truth, and had done wonders for her strained relationship with Mulder of late.

"I heard a generalization on that tape, Mulder, that could have applied to anyone. Really, you have no idea who he was talking to at the end of that interview." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "We've always looked for the truth," she said. "I don't want throw away a chance at finding it by grasping paranormal straws."

For a moment, she couldn't gauge his response. Then, of all things, he flashed her a slight smile. "A two minute discussion, and we're both back to square one, Scully. It seems we've recovered our form pretty well."

He was right; X-file or no, they'd both slipped comfortably back into their old patterns. Well, no reason to change them now. "So what if Fisherman isn't 'genuine,' as you put it?" she asked, refusing to let him change the subject. "Where does that leave us?"

He leaned back in his chair, eyes turned inward for a moment, considering her challenge. Then, without bringing his eyes to meet hers, he said quietly, "It leaves us with T. Samuelsson."

"Mulder . . ."

"Hear me out, Scully," he interrupted. "Fisherman doesn't have many contacts with the outside world, doesn't have family, and yet we know he had some sort of insight into the killer's motives. You can't argue that he knew a murder was going to take place, and he knew where it was happening."

She nodded. "True."

"I'll give you the fact that he may not be a mind reader, or a psychic... I'm going against my intuition here, but I suppose I've asked you to do that often enough. So now we have one friend, or aquaintance, who cares enough to move Fisherman out of the hellhole of Byberry hospital and fund his care at Norristown -- not a stellar place, but a far cry from the atrocities at Byberry as you described it."

"Fourteen years ago, this person cared, yes."

"More than that. 'T. Samulesson' still pays a monthly rate to keep Fisherman at Norristown. It was in the records; I just didn't realize it until about two minutes ago."

Scully's eyes widened, her voice gaining urgency. "You think they're still in contact? Does Fisherman ever get visitors?"

"I didn't think to ask at the time."

Her face was frozen for a moment -- mouth open in disbelief -- before she managed an incredulous, "What?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked at the ceiling. "Psychics don't need visitors."

"Mulder, this could be our UNSUB!"

"I am aware of that," he said. "Now."

She gave a sigh of frustration, then composed herself. "Do we know anything about this person?"

"Run the name through database. Maybe we'll come up with something. Might as well try Fisher's, too." He heard the whir of her laptop and knew she was taking his advice. He watched her progress for a minute, his mind still focused on any possible connection between Fisherman and Samuelsson. He was still considering possibilities two hours later, when the database returned no useful information on either Marcus Fisher or T. Samuelsson.

"No military service, no criminal records, no D.P.A. records. Nothing on either of them," Scully said, leaning back from the computer and rubbing her eyes.

Mulder stifled a yawn, and then answered. "I guess they just fell through the cracks in the system." As much as he hated it, there was little else they could do tonight.

--------

11:00 pm

Two hours past curfew, the grounds were deserted, unless you knew where to look. The sidewalks were empty, bathed in harsh light from the street lamps, but every once in a while, he could detect movement in the shadows between buildings. Sometimes the tiny pinprick glow of a lit cigarette stood out, betraying the smoker's attempt to stay hidden. Detox or no, some addictions were tougher to break than others. Absently, he brought a hand to his right shoulder, tracing an old circular scar beneath his tee-shirt.

He screamed when the man did it; a slow motion from the corner of his field of vision, and then a white-hot pain dug into his flesh as the cigarette was extinguished. He let out a yelp and a howl before he could regain control, and cringed. But the man's eyes never looked down from the table; the man's face was blank and empty. And so he sat on the floor, vision blurred, fire exploding from the wound, and sobbed. It was worse, so much worse, when the man did nothing at all.

He avoided the smokers. The Concentration didn't work so well on them. Focusing worked best when you were pure, when there was nothing to distract you, nothing to take away from the moment. It was not a first step, but he was seeking those who had already taken the first steps. Here was where he found them; in a collection of people struggling up from rock bottom. Most were not useful, but there were always a few who could be taught, a few who might understand how to escape. He cleared his mind, listening only to the murmur of his footsteps, and searched.

Even as he walked, he could feel a calmness descending on his body. Blessed detachment. Footsteps became distant, and for the moment, he was not of the earth.

For the slightest instant, he was forgotten, and all the secrets he could possibly know were at his fingertips. Out of infinite possibility, he found the one thread he needed. Surging forward, he took in as much as possible, absorbing time and space as a sponge absorbs water, and always there was something beyond . . .

But it was fleeting. The feeling dissipated, leaving cold knowledge and an empty ache. Still, he discerned her slight form, leaning against the south wall of Building C. Her posture was wary. He approached slowly, carefully categorizing her from the vision. Her name was Tammy, and she was a veteren of one of the filthiest, drug infested slums of North Philadelphia. She used to do cocaine. She also used to be pregnant, but she had no children.

Instead, she had scars. He could see the cuts as clearly as if they were painted across her dark body. Not enough; it was never enough. But something told him he didn't need her for that. It had only been one day since his last attempt, and he was tired.

Someone had seen him last night. Someone close by.

He silently approached her, and when she turned to face him, he Concentrated on her cuts, on the one long gash that twisted its way around her. He needed to act. The visions said he needed to act now or he would miss his chance. He spoke softly, gaining a foothold.

"You wanted 'im once. Even had a name -- you were goin' t' call 'im Marshall."

She froze, and any cry she would have made died on her lips as the cut opened. It had to be this way; it had to engulf her all over again. Oh, he'd tried with the ones who were still in the throes of their nightmares, but the escape was so subtle they never saw it. And the cuts he searched for would only grow deeper with time.

Someone would still be watching tonight. He wasn't going to lose this chance.

She started moaning, and he covered the action by placing a feather light touch on her shoulder, leading her toward the parking lot. "When did you change yer mind?" he murmured in a low monotone. "When did the chil' in yer belly become a cancer? You were so high when you had 'im you thought he was a devil. What does it feel like to crush a baby's throat? You ain't never told anyone."

She whimpered, but he wouldn't let her cry. Instead he seized the cut so hard she gasped for breath. She was nothing, and no one cared. It was her and the pain, and there was only one way to escape. He held her in Concentration, focusing even more intensely on the cut, but his voice was as soft and brittle as ashes.

"You wanted t' disappear, you wanted t' get away so bad when you saw 'is broken little body in your lap. You were covered with blood and dirt and trash in that alley and all you wanted t' do was leave, crawl inside out if it meant you could get away. But there weren't nowhere t' go." He opened the door, guiding her gently into the passenger seat. He closed the door with a barely audible 'click,' and paused before moving to the driver's side.

Hungry eyes looked upward, gleaming in the white reflection of a pale full moon.

"You never saw the way out. You never will."

But someone would be watching him. And soon the search would end.

--------

2:00 a.m.

A small, muffled sound broke the dense silence.

". . . no . . ."

But, in spite of that plea, the nightmare continued.

". . . no . . . no, don't . . . don't! No! NO!"

Samantha Torrence gasped and sat up in bed, for a moment still locked in the dream. But gradually the fear left her eyes, replaced by urgent panic.

"Shit!" She turned on the lamp and grabbed wildly for the small black notebook and pen on the nightstand. Notebook in hand, she opened it to a blank page in the middle and started scribbling notes as fast as she could.

M - trouble
cut - not real
sis - Sam?
BF - Cnshkn x-prswy
- Tammy i see u
- stone X

She tried to grasp more, but the memories were already fading. With trembling hands, she examined her frantic scrawl. Agent Mulder was in trouble -- how? She'd seen him, she was certain, his body criss -crossed with cuts. Those delicate, terrible cuts -- but not cuts -- that she'd seen on herself in these nightmares. The cuts were his sister: a little girl, but definitely an image of his sister.

Sam. Samantha.

Torrence sighed. No wonder he didn't like her name that morning. She usually made everyone call her Sam, god knows she hated her last name, but there was something about him. She always noticed things, and she'd noticed that he most certainly didn't want to call her Sam. Sam was painful. And these cuts-that-weren't-cuts were going to hurt him more.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

A black woman was dying. Sam glanced at the clock, red numbers staring back at her, pronouncing the sentence. The woman's name was Tammy, and she was already dead, her throat cut, her blood turning black on the grass. They'd find her in Conshohocken, under the shadow of route 76 -- the expressway.

I see you.

This was an unfamiliar voice. Not that she ever really heard voices, but she didn't know what else to call it. This voice was cold and pale. Hungry. It was enough to make her want to run away, as far away as she could, and hide.

I see you.

He wasn't moving anymore. The M.O. was shifting, just as she knew it would. Another murder, this one even closer to the city itself, and he was waiting for them. As before, she saw a stone cross, and it screamed danger at her.

Nothing had changed. Sam saw the words in front of her blur, and tears of frustration escaped her eyes. She slammed the notebook closed and hurled it across the room.

"Dammit!" she screamed into the darkness. "You're still playing his game!" That it was Mulder now and not her was no comfort. She swiped at the night table, sending the lamp hurtling from the stand and plunging the room into darkness. "You start this up again for what!? What!?" The tears were falling freely now, and she sat on her bed, rocking and trying to regain control. When the hysteria faded, she was left with a cold ache she knew too well.

Helplessness.

"You're going to get us all killed," she murmured, then got up, avoiding the pieces of the lamp on the floor, to shower and dress and wait for the dispatch she knew was coming. She wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight.

--------

*********

Chapter 5

Route 76, exit 28
Conshohocken, Pa
7:00 am

"What took you two so long?" Torrence asked jokingly.

As they stepped out of the car, Scully raised an eyebrow, staring pointedly at the highway she and Mulder had just left. Cars crawled along the expressway at less than a snail's pace. She and Mulder had just taken twenty minutes to travel the short distance around route 76's "Conshohocken Curve", despite the fact that Mulder made most of the drive on the shoulder of the road.

"I thought the Beltway was bad at rush hour," Scully said, "But that," she pointed, "That is insane."

"Welcome to the wonders of the Schuylkill Expressway," Torrence answered, pronouncing the word Schuylkill as 'skoo-kill.' "People around here call it the 'Sure-kill.'" She brought her gaze around to the crime scene in front of them. "Of course, they usually mean traffic accidents, like the one that started this jam at around five this morning. This," she pointed, "was no accident, but it came in on the scanner at five-thirty."

Mulder nodded, only half listening, silently noting Torrence's appearance. Detective Torrence looked haggard; her voice was bright, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and she was having to stifle yawns every few minutes.

She'd been listening to her scanner at five in the morning? She must have had a worse night than he did. He hadn't had any nightmares the night before, and yet something had kept him from sleeping. Adrenaline, urgency, telepathy, whatever it was, he had stayed awake from 3a.m. on. Torrence looked like she'd gotten less sleep than that.

"Restless night?" he asked, but Torrence's only reply was a shrug.

"You know how it is sometimes, with these cases," she said matter-of- factly. Then, "C'mon, check this out. I want your opinion here."

They followed her past the yellow crime scene tape to survey this latest site. When the scene came into view, Mulder was shocked at what he saw. A clear tarp flapped in the wind, kept from flying into traffic by the dark, heavy body sprawled atop it.

But it wasn't the gruesome nature of the crime that surprised him.

"It's not him," he said quickly. Why were they wasting their time here? This woman had had her throat cut; a cut, yes, but nothing like the delicate incisions from before. There were a few gashes around the wound, but the body was clothed, and showed no sign of cuts anywhere other than the throat. Not to mention the location. And no blood; she'd been dumped here.

Scully knelt down to examine the body, directing her words to her partner. "No needle tracks in the arms to indicate drug abuse," she said, "though I'd like to get a look at her sinuses."

Mulder turned to face Torrence. "This isn't his M.O. Not even close -- you know that. Why are we here?"

"Forensics lifted his prints off her bracelet there," Torrence said coolly, pointing to a wide piece of metal costume jewelry on the victim's left wrist. "A perfect thumb, and latent partial pointer and middle finger from the wrist that match the partials pulled from the others. It's him, I know it, and I want to know what he's up to."

"You got confirmed fingerprints in," Scully checked her watch, "an hour?" she finished, in obvious disbelief.

"This is closer to home for me than Malvern," the detective answered. "The boys at the precinct owed me some favors." She dropped the subject by turning to face Mulder. "So what's he thinking?"

Mulder knelt down beside the body, staring at the deep cuts on her throat. Then, without a word, he stood up and walked away from the crime scene. Slowly, he paced the perimeter of the grassy patch where she was found -- maybe thirty feet from the exit ramp. Hidden from sight of any cars on the ramp, but . . .

He looked up to see the traffic jam on the Schuylkill Expressway. Cars that normally would have been speeding by at seventy miles per hour were at a crawl, giving the drivers plenty of time to look at what otherwise would be a fleeting glimpse of green. It had been a tractor-trailer driver, stuck in the jam, who radioed the police about the body. If not for the terrible engineering of the Expressway, it might not have been found for months. Mulder continued his walk, gathering his thoughts before addressing Torrence and Scully.

"He didn't want her to be found, but he's new to the area and didn't know about this spot's propensity for traffic jams," Mulder said upon his return. "I don't think he even thought that far ahead with the others. They were there to help him with his purpose, but after their deaths, he just left them as they lay and moved on. New town, new try."

Torrence kicked at the tarp. "He didn't move on this time."

"Her murder didn't serve the purpose of the other ones," Mulder answered. "With the others, it was the ritual -- the cuts, the seclusion. There's none of that here." He focused on the woman's neck, on the deep, angry gash that rent her flesh from ear to ear. The ritual didn't matter here. Here, it was the death itself. Slow. he saw a slow cut. A few smaller ones first . . .

". . . to get his attention," Mulder murmured. "Then a long, slow cut to draw it out . . . "

"What? To get whose attention?" Scully asked, though the gleam in her partner's eyes already answered her question.

"Fisherman's," Mulder said. "Melanie Jackson said Fisher was fixated on the blood. Our killer knows Fisherman's watching him and wants him to know it too." His mind was whirring. All those cuts, for what? What was he missing?

Scully wasn't convinced. She drew her partner aside before Detective Torrence could rip his argument to shreds. "Mulder, there's no evidence to support that!" After a pause, she added, "Besides, I thought we agreed Fisher wasn't psychic."

He gave her a half smile. "I said I'd consider it. I have."

Scully was about to protest, but Mulder anticipated her words, countering her argument before she could even state it. "He's getting someone's attention here, and it's not the police, or he'd have dumped her in an easy-to-find location. So who is it, and how does a secluded murder serve that purpose?"

"Maybe he already kidnapped another victim and killed this woman in front of them," Scully answered.

"He's got another victim in mind allright," Mulder answered. "And that victim is sitting in the eighth floor ward at Norristown State Hospital." He gestured to Torrence, who joined them. "Detective, do you have the notes you read us yesterday regarding Michael Vostow in Watertown?" he asked quickly.

Torrence produced the black notebook from her coat pocket. "Mmm-hmm, what do you want to know?"

"The boy's words -- 'I couldn't look at him because then he would know who I was and come after me' -- were there any more statements like that?"

Torrence checked her notes and shook her head. "Nothing that I can see," she said. "What's on your mind?"

"I'm wondering what happens when the killer finds out someone's watching him," Mulder answered. "Scully, are you finished here? I want to talk to Fisher again."

The look in his partner's eyes told him she didn't like this turn of events. As it was, she answered with a sigh. "I'll drop you off, but I want to start checking on those rehab centers."

That got Detective Torrence's attention. Flashing a weary smile, she asked, "You've got the list and information on the halfway houses here?" At Scully's curt nod, Torrence continued. "Tell you what, Agent Scully. You come with me, we'll go door-to-door, and Mulder can brave that traffic jam up there by himself."

Scully smiled. "Sounds like a plan. What do you say, Mulder?"

For a moment, Mulder wanted to say no. Something about Torrence rubbed him the wrong way. He didn't dislike her, he decided; it was just . . .

The smallest hint of a wry grin passed over his face as he realized what it was. He didn't trust her. Not completely.

Well, there's a surprise, his thoughts quipped, and he let the grin form on his lips for a few seconds.

"Fine," he said. Torrence was hiding something, he was sure, but it wasn't a murderous nature. And if they ran into trouble, Scully would be safer with the detective than by herself. Maybe Scully would even get her to divulge whatever it was she didn't feel like sharing with the group.

Scully gave him a copy of the list of rehab centers they would be visiting, and then she and Torrence headed for the detective's car. Before they got too far, his partner turned around, offering one more piece of advice before they split up.

"Just don't forget to ask the Norristown staff about visitors this time."

--------

Norristown State Hospital
8:15 am

Traffic had been hell. For close to an hour, Mulder had fought a losing battle with the Expressway, before getting off at the first exit he reached and battling traffic lights instead.

All of which, it seemed, had deemed it necessary to turn red as he approached them.

For that whole time, he'd sat in a pocket of silence, mulling his thoughts over and over. If Scully'd been there, he would have thrown them all at her and listened to her deft counter-arguments. As it was, the details of this case just hummed in his mind like a chord. Scully could help him pick out individual notes and tones -- details, specifics, but instead he found himself listening not to parts, but to the whole thing, all at once.

And Marcus Fisher was the resonance, the imprint that kept coming back to him in harmonics.

He quickened his step, quelling his distaste for the place as he entered the hospital. Still, he couldn't stop his heart from quickening its beat. He flashed his badge at the front desk and was directed toward an elevator in plain view.

"Check in with the duty station when you get there," the nurse said as he headed for the elevator.

Duty station . . .

He turned around. "Do all visitors have to sign in there?" he asked quickly.

"Mmm-hmm. Standard procedure," the nurse replied absently, directing his attention to a stack of papers in front of him.

"Do you keep the logs?"

"Yeah, upstairs, at the desk," he answered, waving his hand in the general direction of the elevators.

Mulder didn't bother to thank the man; it was obvious he was already taking too much of the nurse's valuable time. Instead, he stepped into the waiting elevator without a backward glance. When he checked in at the eighth floor, Mulder was told that Fisherman was asleep and under sedation. Not only that, but Fisherman had slept the sleep of the dead the night before.

"Not a peep out of him all night," the duty nurse assured him when he asked about night terrors. "They made sure he took his meds last night. Sandy Marks caught hell yesterday for not being careful at the end of her shift two days ago. God, what an incident." She looked relieved -- probably glad she wasn't involved in any incidents herself.

Mulder sighed, disappointed. "Will he be waking up soon? I need to ask him some questions."

"Probably in an hour or so," she answered.

Ah, the waiting game. He asked the woman for the visitor logs, which she relinquished, informing him that older ones were kept in the basement records. When he asked her if she'd ever seen Fisherman receive visitors, she shook her head solemnly.

"I think even the Sisters of Mercy stay away from him. He gave one of them a black eye once."

--------

Hazeldon Dependency Clinic
Highland, Pa
9:10 a.m.

The man in front of them was nervous and defensive.

"Uhm, well of course we have many patients who don't, uhm, complete rehabilitation. Mostly state-sanctioned. You know, court orders mandatory rehab and, uhm, they break parole." He stiffened. "Our institution is not responsible for their actions, nor do we have any legal obligation . . ."

"Mr. Sanders, the Hazeldon Clinic is not under investigation," Scully assured him for the fifth time, allowing only a small tinge of annoyance seep into her voice. "We merely want to see a list of recent hires, within the last six weeks, and we'd like to ask some of the patients if they recognize the woman in this photo." She held out the autopsy photo from Jane Doe number one, a close up of her face, but unmistakably a picture of a dead woman.

Sanders looked at the photo with a slight shudder. "Hmmf," he said, trying to cover his discomfort. "Well, there's a lot of folks here who've seen worse than that, I suppose. Ask what you want."

He directed Scully and Torrence to the Human Resources department and the lists of recent hires. Torrence took one look at the list, scanned through thirty-two names, and cursed.

"Christ, what a turnover rate! They hired this many in the past six weeks?"

"We can probably dismiss most of them," Scully said, her eyes tracing the names. "Just look at the ones that match Mulder's profile."

Torrence retrieved her notebook from a pocket and started to jot down names. The she paused, bringing her gaze to the other woman. Scully noted the silence, and looked at Torrence questioningly.

"He's really good at that, isn't he?" Torrence asked, trying to maintain a conversational tone. At Scully's confused glance, she added, "Profiling. Knowing what someone else is thinking."

Scully nodded. "Best I've ever seen," she answered. "He makes huge leaps sometimes, on the smallest pieces of evidence. I have no idea how he does it."

Torrence looked lost in thought.

"What is it, detective?"

"Please, call me Sam."

"Sam," Scully started, hoping she wouldn't insist the same from Mulder, "Do you think he missed something? I assure you, the paranormal slant might not be all he hopes, but the profile..."

Torrence shook her head, effectively clearing the air, coming back to the present. "No, no, nothing like that. Really, I was just curious. I've never worked with anyone from the ISU before."

"He's not there anymore," Scully said, her voice hard. She didn't want to continue this line of conversation.

"Past or present," Torrence continued. "After reading his profile, seeing him this morning and all, I just wonder how much of that they can really teach at Quantico."

Scully wasn't sure how to answer that. Instead, she took the autopsy photo from her coat pocket. "I'm going to see if any patients here recognize our Jane Doe. You coming?"

"In a bit," Torrence answered. When Scully was gone, the detective flipped her book to the scrawled, hurried notes she'd taken the night before.

"I wonder what it was, really," she murmured, then pushed the thought aside. Turning her attention to the names on the list in front of her, she narrowed them down one by one against the profiler's word.

--------

Norristown State Hospital
8th floor ward
Isolation room 2
11:30 a.m.

After two hours of searching through visitor logs, Mulder had come up with nothing. Now, he was just hoping the coming interview would be more helpful.

Fisherman was awake, and the eighth floor staff didn't like it. Mulder had insisted on talking to him before they gave him any more drugs. The nurse had obviously heard what happened during the interview the day before, and it took Mulder fifteen minutes to convince both her and her supervisor that he wouldn't excite the patient to hysteria. As a condition, Mulder was conducting this interview in the presence of both nurses, who, alert and stone-faced, had taken positions on either side of the man's bed.

"Mr. Fisher, my name is Fox Mulder. We spoke yesterday . . ."

Fisher interrupted him with a slow whisper. "He saw me."

Mulder stopped in mid-sentence, letting the older man speak. It might not hurt to let the patient steer his own course for a bit. It might open a few doors.

"Not enough," the man continued, "He saw, but not enough of me, not enough." Fisherman's voice was low and weary. But there was no trace of the fear he'd shown the day before. Instead, the agent detected anticipation, even yearning.

"What did he see?" Mulder asked slowly.

Fisherman gripped the bed railing. "He . . . he's in the past," he murmured. "He needs to see more, but . . ." he trailed off into silence.

"Aren't you afraid of the blood?" Mulder asked. "The cuts?"

"No, he doesn't have to cut me," Fisher said. "Because I understand. He saw me, and I understand. I understand, but it's too late."

"What do you understand?"

"That I need to find him!" Fisherman moaned. There was desperation in those words, and for a moment, Mulder was afraid that the man would break down. But Fisher calmed, adding, "Two. Two can reach it. It was the moon, outside, dark, so dark, and they were both there." His eyes clouded, and he turned his head away from the agent. He tried to bring a hand to his face, but was stopped by the straps.

"And now it's too late," he whispered. One of the nurses took a handful of tissues from a shelf and coaxed the patient's head around to face the ceiling again. Tears snaked out of his blue eyes, shimmering on his cheeks, and the nurse wiped them away.

"I think that's enough for now, Agent Mulder," came the duty nurse's terse suggestion. She emphasized her point by starting another round of drugs into Fisher's IV. But Mulder wasn't going to let her win that easily.

"One more question," he said, more a command than a plea. Before either woman could object, he turned his gaze to the man in the bed. "Did you have any dreams last night, Fisherman?"

There was a long silence before he answered. He let more tears fall, and when he brought his eyes to meet Mulder's, they were lucent. Focused.

"No," Fisher whispered. "I don't remember -- the drugs, they . . . I forget them. But I know. I know anyway."

"Can you remember . . . ?"

Fisher shook his head, tired. "No," he murmured, turning away as the drugs clawed at him. Then, "Sammy knows."

Mulder was taken aback, at first seeing only an image of a lost, dark- haired child. Fisher's frantic words from the day before hammered in his head, and his heart leaped in his chest. He was sure he could feel his hands shaking. Then, he found his reason and his voice.

"Sammy? T. Samuelsson?" he asked urgently.

Fisher murmured wearily. "Sam . . . Samantha. She always knows. She remembers. When I forget . . ."

It was like a punch to the stomach, to hear that name. And it wasn't his Samantha. He knew it. The pieces clicked into place -- the speed with which she took over the case, the quick detective work, her sleepless nights -- even 'T. Samuelsson' seemed a rather obvious alias.

"I want a guard outside this door," Mulder ordered the nurse. "I have go talk with someone."

Samantha Torrence was in contact with Marcus Fisher. She was seeing what he saw. She had been for quite some time.

Eyes unfocused, Fisherman drifted away, murmuring.

". . . she remembers."

--------

********

Chapter 6

12:00 pm

Something had gone wrong last night. He knew it even as the woman's lifeblood flowed through his fingers and she gurgled her last, wet breath. The watcher was still and distant, despite his attempts to draw those unseen eyes.

He only caught small glimpses of the watcher's surroundings. It was not enough to find him. And the visions this morning had warned him. Before he knew why, he was rummaging in the old lock box, searching desperately for the revolver he knew was there. He remembered the revolver; its cold steel on his fingers stirred up hollow, gray memories.

But the visions were insistent. The future was dangerous. Make your move at the clinic, and be prepared, they told him. Or you will never find the watcher. And you will never escape.

Now, pushing the broom ahead of him in near silence, he waited.

--------

Route 611
12:30 pm

Scully's phone chirped, and she brought it tiredly to her ear, pulling her gaze away from the scrolling pavement.

"Scully."

"Scully it's me. Where are you?"

She detected a fair amount of concern from her partner's tone of voice. For what reason, she didn't know. Not that he usually needed a reason to be concerned about her safety. "We're on route," she directed a question to Torrence, "What's the number again?"

"Six eleven," came the even reply.

"Route six eleven, headed for Overbrook, Mulder."

There was a pause, and a shuffle of paper on his end. "Are you on your way to Saint Catherine's?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's it. We're about forty minutes away. No luck at Hazeldon or Glenside," she informed him.

He didn't take notice of her update. Instead, he said simply, "I'll meet you there. We've got some things to discuss. Is detective Torrence still with you?"

Scully raised her eyebrow. Maybe it was just the pause at her end, but Mulder managed to judge her reaction correctly. "Right. Stupid question, I know."

"Are you okay, Mulder?"

"Fine. I'll tell you more in person. See you there." The line clicked, and over the steady dial tone, Scully found herself trying to decipher her partner's mood.

"Everything okay?" Torrence asked, her voice showing genuine concern.

"Fine," Scully answered, distracted. "Mulder's meeting us at Saint Catherine's. He sounded," she paused. "He sounded excited."

It was Scully's tone -- slightly confused, slightly unsure, that set Sam on edge. That tone didn't suit the woman in the passenger seat at all. Mulder hadn't been excited; he'd been downright cryptic. She had heard him ask his partner about her. She knew when she was being talked about. Her heartbeat quickened, and her dream sense, the same thing that woke her up at all hours of the night, quietly offered two words. The calmness in them made Sam want to scream.

He knows.

Dangerous memories swelled within her, and for the briefest moment she was nine years old again, in the suffocating darkness of her own bedroom.

You don't tell anyone, hear?

No she thought, burying the memory. Never again. She wouldn't go there. She kept her hands on the wheel and her eyes on the road.

"Must've learned something from our psychic mental case," she said, silently cursing Fisherman and his god forsaken Reality. "I hope it's more helpful than what he told me yesterday."

--------

Norristown State Hospital
8th floor ward
Isolation room 2
12:30 pm

His thoughts were dull and thick in his head, but the whole of his mind was focused on one thing, and it was pounding its way through the haze of the drugs.

Too late.

He had missed his chance. He had hidden from those strange eyes, shied away from the blood, and the other one had caught only a glimpse of him. Escape had been so close, and he had pushed it away. Years before, he had given up trying to reach it. It was always there, showing him visions of the past and present, showing him snatches of the future. But he had cast himself adrift and let it carry him where it willed, because trying to reach it . . .

He felt the tears squeeze out of his eyes as he listened to one rational thought amidst Reality.

Trying to reach it had driven him mad. And so he'd given up. But he couldn't ignore it anymore; he felt the need for it in every inch of his body. It was an ache that spoke of the void inside him and drew him away from the world of time and space. And release, when it came, was always fleeting. This time, though, when it left him alone in the world, he saw the path to reach it again.

The other saw cuts, but Fisherman always saw lines. Thin, delicate lines tangled around everything and everyone. He never knew exactly what would happen when he pulled on them, but something always happened. It was just a matter of time.

--------

St. Catherine's Chapel of Hope Recovery Clinic
477 N. 58th street
Overbrook, Pa
1:05 pm

Pulling into the entrance of St. Catherine's, Sam and Scully were discussing the specifics of the coming visit -- who would talk with whom, where they would meet Mulder -- and Sam almost drove right past the decorative name plaque at the edge of the driveway. When her eyes finally focused on it -- dreary letters etched into a cold concrete slab, she thought of graveyards.

When she saw the stone cross from her dreams looming over the words, her hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she thought of more immediate death. The car seemed to slow of its own will; Sam didn't notice how her foot eased up on the gas. For a moment, she was swept into the vision again, seeing death and danger in shimmering cuts.

"Sam? Are you listening?" Agent Scully's voice finally broke through, snapping her back into the present.

"Yeah. Seven dorms, 'A' through 'G'," Torrence repeated, not knowing where or how she found the words, "cafeteria cuts through C and . . ."

Cuts . . . snaking across Mulder's body . . .

Oh, Jesus. Here. He was meeting them here.

Sam changed the subject in mid-sentence. "Do you see your partner's car anywhere?" she asked hurriedly as they reached the lot.

The question took Scully by surprise, but she pointed out Mulder's tan Taurus among the spaces. Torrence's panic was starting to show around the edges; she peeled into the space beside Mulder's car, unaware of how fast she was going. The car settled with a jolt, and Torrence found herself at the wrong end of an ice-blue stare.

"What is it?" Scully asked as her hand swiftly sped to her side, manually checking her sidearm. Her eyes didn't release Torrence's gaze for an instant. "Something's wrong, is he in danger?" Scully projected a coolness that made Sam shiver, but the detective could see the fear behind her question.

Damn, but the woman was perceptive.

These two; they were as strange to her as they were familiar. Partners. Torrence understood the give and take of law enforcement partnerships. Co-operation and communication flowed differently between each pair of cops she'd ever seen. And there was so much more to these two; they had a bond -- something stronger than anything she'd seen before. They communicated without words. Beyond words. She saw Scully's eyes focus on the main entrance and knew Mulder was there. Maybe just out of sight. In her mind, she pictured Mulder, intent on some file or face, pausing for a brief moment and fixing his gaze toward the parking lot. She felt his heart beat faster. All those cuts.

Scully didn't bother to wait for an answer; Sam's mute stare was all she needed. She was out of the car in an instant. She slammed the door, leaving nothing behind but the over-loud silence of a stifled echo.

And Sam made a decision. Mulder didn't deserve her silence. Neither did his partner. She reached for the handset and switched it on, radioing the local dispatch. Shit, someone had to keep her head around here. When the hell did they learn how to call for backup in the FBI?

"10th precinct. Overbrook, Parkside," came the reply.

"This is Detective Samantha Torrence, 16th precinct, downtown. I need two black and whites at Saint Catherine's Chapel of Hope Recovery Clinic, North 58th and Woodbine road." She gave them the details, then hurredly exited the car. Despite Scully's small stature, she had to hurry to catch up with the special agent; the woman was practically running across the parking lot.

She caught up with Scully at the main entrance to a long, low building that reminded her of a small elementary school, except for all of the decorative crosses. When she focused on Scully again, she saw tension slip from the other woman's frame in a physical wave. Over Scully's shoulder, beyond the door, Sam caught sight of Mulder. He was seated in front of a desk in the back, talking with a middle-aged Asian woman.

There was nothing wrong.

Scully turned on her before they went inside. "You want to tell me what the hell that was for?" she hissed. "Mulder had you pegged, detective, from the beginning. What are you hiding?"

"This place is dangerous," Sam choked out. "I called for back-up."

There was a pause, long enough for Sam to take a breath, and then Scully asked the million-dollar question.

"Why are you so convinced?"

Sam sighed, chasing away the frantic rabbit-heart kicking in her chest through sheer force of will, and told as much of the truth as she dared.

"Psychic dreams," she said simply.

Scully raised an eyebrow, silence conveying her disbelief. Incredulity, actually, and Sam realized she'd been just a bit too flippant with the woman. Suddenly, she saw years of that remark, or a variation, never sincere, from the mouths of countless local detectives.

Somehow, that made it better. Forget that she had maybe started liking the woman. Let her be angry. Scully was a professional; she wouldn't let her feelings interfere with the job. She was worried about her partner, and as far as she was concerned, Sam was just one more in a long line of smart-ass locals.

Good. At least Scully didn't take her seriously. It was almost like lying, with none of the guilt.

"C'mon," Sam said, opening the door. "Let's check this place out." There was nothing wrong here. Nothing wrong.

But as they entered the building, the stone cross still screamed at her. For the first time, she realized it was a voice, screaming. His voice.

Screaming her name.

-------

The time was close.

He stood the mop against the wall and walked out of the dormitory, letting his feet carry him where they willed.

-------

Grace Chiu was searching the morning logs, compiling a small list of names on the sheet in front of her. "Usually it's nothing," she said tiredly. "They forget to check off the names..." She paused when she realized the man in front of her was no longer paying attention. "Sir?"

Mulder had leaned back in the chair, looking over his shoulder at the entrance to the clinic. A moment later, he saw them. Torrence was aloof as always, her expression guarded. Scully practically stormed into the office; her expression was cool and professional, but he'd long ago learned to see around the edges of that mask. His partner was angry.

And there was something else. Concern, maybe. He didn't want to think of it as fear.

When they approached the desk, Mulder stood and introduced them to Grace, who gave them a polite smile and then continued leafing through log books. Torrence eyed the list on the desk.

"New hires?" she asked.

"M.I.A.'s, actually," Mulder corrected. "Patients who missed morning roll."

"Gee, I hope they don't get after-school detention," Torrence deadpanned, her eyes already scanning the list intently. Despite the joke, Mulder could tell Torrence was nervous. What did she suspect? Over the detective's gaze, Mulder caught Scully's eyes.

"Can I talk to you for a minute," Scully started, but was interrupted as Sam tapped the paper in front of her.

"This one," she said succinctly, pointing to a name halfway down the list. Tamara McCoy. "Can you pull the file on this one? I want to see a picture of her."

McCoy. An Irish name. He wouldn't have picked it out, but he knew what the picture would show. Samantha Torrence's interest had already marked the woman's demise. Well, Torrence was through hiding, it seemed. His mind searched over the information he'd gathered on the detective that morning, and for a moment, Mulder's anger flared. Had she known last night as well? Could she have stopped this?

Grace opened the filing cabinet behind her with a barely controlled 'clang', flipped through the files in a gesture that spoke of years of practice, and retrieved a file and photo of Tamara McCoy.

A pasty, fevered, African-American face stared into the camera, looking sick and defeated. It was the same face he'd seen that morning, lifeless, pushed into a plastic tarpaulin off of Route 76.

"Hellooo Tammy," Torrence said slowly. For once, her sarcasm failed to hide the sadness behind her words.

---------

The gun was heavy in his pocket, a physical presence anchoring him. He didn't like it. The watcher would move before he could find him.

---------

Scully took one look at the photo and knew it was the dead woman from that morning. Years of dealing with corpses had taught her how to construct a death mask in her mind's eye from a photo of a living person. They never really looked the same, even if the cause of death wasn't violence. The difference was at once subtle and pervasive -- an unfathomable and irreversible change conveyed through each tiny cell.

But at least she could understand the process behind it.

Psychic dreams. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. It was all a lie; the woman was withholding evidence and covering for it with a story that would draw Mulder in, hook, line and sinker.

"How did you know she was our victim?" Scully asked, but Sam's attention was drawn to the front of the building again, as four uniformed officers stepped through the doors.

"Ask your partner," she said, heading toward the officers and flashing her badge. "Maybe he can convince you."

As Sam talked with the local police, Mulder drew Scully aside. "She's our T. Samuelsson, Scully" he said excitedly. "Samantha Torrence."

Where had he gotten this? "She's not the killer," she said by way of answer, and she knew it was true. Sam had alibis for the first two killings, and besides, Mulder would have warned her on the phone if the woman was dangerous. Suddenly, their earlier phone conversation made more sense. Mulder had wanted to confront Torrence when he met them here; he'd wanted to take her by surprise.

But apparently, the only one who was surprised was Scully.

"No, she isn't the killer," Mulder asserted, "but I did some checking. In the interview, Fisherman mentioned her -- said she remembered his dreams even when he forgot them."

"I don't buy it, Mulder," she said in spite of the alarms screaming in her mind.

"She grew up on Byberry road by Poquessing Creek, Scully, right under the nose of Byberry hospital. I think she and Fisherman have a psychic link."

"She's impeding an investigation," Scully hissed, but Mulder didn't answer her. Grace Chiu took that moment to draw his attention with a small tap to his shoulder.

"Agent Mulder, I have that list of recent hires you wanted to see. Sorry it took so long -- we're understaffed as it is . . ."

"No, that's fine. Thanks. You've been very helpful, Ms. Chiu," he answered absently, scanning the list.

---------

He saw the path clearly now. This was it, then. His feet continued unerringly toward the far building.

---------

Parker, Carrie Michelle -- Technician.
Frank, Abigail Ashley -- Technician.
Patterson, Charles Fredrick -- Physician.
Raye, Warren Francis -- Janitor.
Curtis, Doreen Marie -- Nurse's Aide.
Halloway, Bradley Carl -- Orderly.

Six names. Three women and one physician were out. That left the orderly and the janitor.

Bradley Halloway was a university student, studying pre-medicine, Grace informed him.

"And Warren Raye?" he asked. He checked the man's age. Thirty-six.

She sighed. "We hired him about a month ago. He's -- how do I put it? He's simple. Slow. Well," she corrected herself, "not slow really," she trailed off.

Not slow, his mind offered. Subtle.

This was it, then.

"It's the janitor, Scully," he said quickly, grabbing his partner's attention. "Do you have a picture, Grace?"

She searched for a moment in the ubiquitous filing cabinet and procured a small snapshot. Dull brown eyes. Short, dark hair, like the samples removed from Jane Doe number three yesterday morning. An angular, expressionless face.

"My god, he looks so young," Scully said, staring at the picture.

"Thirty-six, my ass," Mulder muttered. "Except for the eyes, he doesn't look a day over twenty." He scrutinized the picture for a minute, and then as if coming to a decision, tapped the edge and put it on the desk. He called Torrence and her officers over, practically overwhelming poor Grace Chiu with the speed of his action. She almost didn't catch the question the detective threw at her.

"I . . . he never turns on his radio. I think he might be over in 'C'." She pointed vaguely toward the back of the building.

---------

He saw them come out of the main office. Watched them approach. They were searching.

The watcher cried to him, perhaps from a dream, and the short redhead locked her gaze upon him.

Now.

---------

Scully's glance caught the man standing stock still in front of the farthest building. 'F', her mind told her. Storage. It used to be a dormitory, but that was before funding was cut . . .

Cut . . .

For some reason, her mind stuck on the word. Cut. She watched, and suddenly the figure came alive.

The move was unmistakable -- a calm draw from his pocket. She saw the glint of silver. CUT!! her mind screamed, but it was not that word that made it past her lips.

"GUN!!!" she screamed, dropping to the ground.

--------

It had begun. He drew in one fluid movement, cocked the hammer, and fired.

--------

*********

Chapter 7

"GUN!!!"

At that word, instinct took over and Mulder found himself on the ground before he even knew what was happening. The shot echoed all around them, bouncing off of the buildings that flanked the grounds. Another shot followed in quick succession, stacking echo on echo and making his ears ring. He rolled onto his side, noting Torrence and her officers to his left, all hugging the ground and scanning for the shooter.

It suddenly registered in his mind that his partner's voice had screamed the warning. He sought out her form, finding her in front of him, perhaps ten feet away.

"Scully! where is he!?" he asked frantically.

A third shot pierced the air. All at once, he heard a gasp to his left, and a quick curse from Torrence, and suddenly the sound was drowned by another shot. Torrence cursed again.

"Shit!"

"Building F as in Foxtrot!" came Scully's reply, fighting to be heard over a primal yell of pain from his left.

"Officer down!" Torrence shouted.

He chanced a glance to his left and saw the detective on her knees, trying to drag a writhing officer to safety behind a woefully thin tree. Torrence was spattered with blood, and the cop had taken up her litany of curses. He screamed through gritted teeth.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

Mulder whole-heartedly agreed. In less than a minute, one deranged janitor had managed to plunge them into a war zone.

"Building 'F', last one on the right!" Scully yelled, and when he looked back, she was by the sidewalk, perched behind a green garbage can, weapon at the ready. She pointed -- "Main Entrance!" and he scanned the entrance, looking for a gunman and seeing . . .

"Nothing! I don't see him, Scully!" He was screaming and he couldn't stop it; adrenaline fueled his voice, pumped it harsh and hoarse. He started to bring his gaze away, but a slow, slight movement caught his eye.

One of the front doors to Building F was swinging slowly shut.

"I need a doctor here!" Torrence's voice sounded shrilly into his left ear.

"Inside!" Scully confirmed his suspicions. "He ran inside the building!" She started to get up, but he stopped her with a quick sentence.

"Torrence needs you, Scully!" he pointed toward the detective and her now unconscious charge, and then he was on his feet, heading for the building, hearing nothing but the urgent sound of his footsteps on the concrete sidewalk.

--------

Sam crouched over the injured officer, putting her full body weight into applying pressure to his ribcage. He'd stopped struggling and the cursing was gone. He was unconscious, and even though her arms screamed with effort, she could still feel his blood seeping through her fingers.

He was dying. He was going to die right in front of her, under her own hands. She couldn't see anything except the vivid, cherry-red blood soaking his shirt; she couldn't hear anything except his shallow, uneven breaths.

"I need a doctor here!" she cried, trying to still the panic in her voice. She looked around, saw Scully heading toward her. She was a doctor right? God, she couldn't let it happen again; she was always too late to save anyone. She met Scully's eyes with a silent plea, but her gaze suddenly focused past the female agent, noted a tall figure hurrying toward the far building.

Alone.

"Mulder, no!" she cried, but she couldn't move. Her arms were locked in a losing battle against the officer's beating heart. As Scully reached her side, she nodded frantically toward the other three cops. "Follow him!"

Two obeyed, but the third was already on the way to his fallen partner, shock and anger painted across his face like a scar. Sam felt a hand on her hands and realized Agent Scully was right beside her. Quickly, she focused on the other woman's words.

". . . keep applying pressure!"

It was all Sam could do not to scream in frustration. Instead, she turned the scream into words.

"Scully, I need to follow him! Please! It's supposed to be me, I need to go!" Her fingers were wet and slipping, and she had to go into the building. She had to stop it; it wasn't too late.

Scully's eyes widened. She and Sam stared at one another for a long second. Maybe it was the guilt in her voice, or maybe Agent Scully decided to abandon rationalism in favor of psychic dreams. Whatever the reason, Scully nodded, and Sam's hands exploded from the prone body in front of her, her wrists and elbows aching with the motion. She ran toward the far building without so much as a glance behind her.

Slowly, almost as if in a daze, Scully turned her attention to the bleeding officer in front of her. The look in Sam's eyes had told her more than she wanted to know.

Mulder was in a kind of danger only Sam could understand.

The current of this thought coursed through her; she could feel her body humming in frustration and fear, even as she calmly and efficiently tended to the officer's wound. She forced the waver from her voice, addressing the man beside her.

"You're officer Shenk? This man's partner? Okay, okay Jeff, I need you to put pressure on the wound until we can get him in an ambulance . . ."

--------

The lobby offered Mulder a simple choice: go up the stairs or stay on the ground floor. Higher floors would give the advantage in a shoot out. Historically, desperate gunmen sought the high ground. Mulder squinted into the dim stairwell, looking for any signs that Warren Raye had sought the traditional shooter's advantage. No luck. But then, Warren Raye wasn't a traditional gunman.

Warren Raye was Real. Fisher'd said so. Warren Raye was on a quest. Everything had a purpose. Everything would fit together. He was far from desperate. He'd fired on them to break them apart, and with that accomplished, he'd gone on to phase two.

The gun would be forgotten. He wasn't interested in shooting.

Raye was still in control. He had sacrificed nothing. Which meant he wasn't going to relinquish his exits from this building, either. Decision made, Mulder advanced into the ground floor hallway, his eyes adjusting to the low light, searching for shadows or hints of movement.

--------

Crouched in a dim alcove, he waited patiently, staring at the hallway and the man heading toward him. He'd seen this image before, mired in the watcher's thoughts. The man drew closer, and he felt the world retreating. Ripples and waves. Then nothing.

Then everything.

And nothing again. He peered down the backlit hallway, searching for the other's wary silhouette. When he found it, his breath caught, and the shadows around him stilled. So many cuts! For an instant, he was sure the watcher had found him; he was sure the visions were wrong. He almost cried out, so close was the prospect of escape.

But it wasn't so. Cold, aching knowledge surplanted his hopes. The search wasn't over yet. He closed his eyes and sought his path in the disturbing silence.

Deep, even breaths.

The watcher could not come to him in time.

Focus.

Two women, dark and light, joined by opposition, with the watcher between. One to find him and one to bring him. He opened his eyes, and the path was clear.

Focus.

He exhaled and began Concentrating on the deepest, ugliest cut he could find on the man in the hallway. He needed this one with him.

This was the path.

--------

Gun, his mind said.

Mulder paused, checked the safety on his weapon. It was off. Nothing wrong there. But the thought was urgent. And there was more.

You have to get to the gun.

His footsteps slowed.

--------

The afternoon calm at the clinic was shattered. Torrence heard frightened patients crying all around her, and saw many more, for whom a shooting was probably routine, cautiously rising from the ground, angry and cursing. Patients who'd been indoors were screaming from windows with the bewildered anger of those who knew they'd been put in danger through no fault of their own. Spattered with blood and running like a madwoman, she knew she was doing nothing to ease their nerves.

She didn't care. The only thing that eased Sam's nerves was the nearby sound of an ambulance siren. Blocking out the chaos around her, she focused ahead on the far building and sped up. She caught up with the two officers as they reached the door.

"Watch yourselves in there," she said breathlessly. "Our man plays mind games."

The taller officer, James, snorted and replied through gritted teeth, "Worse than playing us as a fucking shooting gallery?"

"Maybe," Sam replied softly, leaving a smear of blood on the door as she cautiously pushed it open. "Just watch yourselves."

--------

You have to get to the gun.

A door behind him opened, sending a shaft of sharp white light into the hallway. The movement he heard was slow. Whispering.

Alien.

No. A hushed voice sounded behind him. "Check the stairwell!" Detective Torrence. Samantha.

Samantha . . .

You have to get to the gun they're taking her they'retakingherthey'retakingSam . . .

The light! He turned, his eyes wild, and he heard his sister's high-pitched wail. The ground roared and shook. The air hummed. He was losing her.

. . . gun get to the gun they're taking her!

He panicked.

"NO! SAMANTHA!"

And suddenly the light was everywhere.

-------

Sam's heart leaped to her throat when she heard the cry, and she lost all caution. She sped to the hallway and turned the corner, gun drawn.

"Freeze!"

She never said more than that. The hallway exploded in light and noise. A screaming pain tore across her head, and she dropped to the ground.

In a haze and far away, she heard hollow voices all around her.

"You're not taking her! NO!"

"Drop the weapon, Agent!"

Forcing her eyes open, she saw a bright blur in the shape of a man. Mulder. He was wild; she could see his madness even in the tense outline of his form.

"Samantha!" He cried her name again. No, not her. She remembered the vision. His sister. He was seeing his sister.

A voice behind her. "Drop it!" Shit, she should be getting up. She should be saving him. And instead she was down on the floor listening to an orchestra of pain radiating from her temple. She blinked, chasing the tears from her eyes, and forced herself to focus.

Mulder had his gun trained on her. With a start, she realized he'd already shot her once. She brought a hand to her ear and felt it covered in slick, warm blood.

She heard the officer behind her again. "Drop the weapon!"

The only reply from Mulder was a mute stare. Now that she could see his eyes, she could tell that the agent was terrified. He was pale, his gaze flighty and panicked, his hands trembling. Sam stared at the barrel of the gun. One wrong move and she would pay for it with her life.

For almost a minute, silence blanketed the scene. Mulder didn't move, and the officers seemed at a loss for what to do. Then, in the lull, there was a sound. A voice. The low, even whisper swept through the hallway, and Sam felt a shiver course through her body. Without ever hearing it before, she knew this voice. She recognized the hunger behind the words.

"Turn around, Fox. They're behind you. They're takin' her."

Mulder's hands tensed. Then, shouting a desperate plea to a lost child, he turned and ran.

Sam tried to stop him, but all that came from her throat was a hoarse scream. As she dragged herself to her knees, the two uniformed officers rushed past her, giving chase. When she finally looked up, they had already disappeared around a corner, and the building was eerily silent. Mulder had stopped his cries, or someone had stopped them for him. She tentatively stood, and lurched down the hallway after them.

Somehow she already knew what she would see.

When she turned the corner, her eyes first focused on James, lying on the ground in a heap. A gash across his forehead was the only testament to the blow which had felled him. His partner, Reynolds, was quietly sobbing in a corner, staring into his hands at something only he could see.

"Oh god, I shot him, oh god."

There had been no gunshot. Sam scanned the hallway, but it was empty.

Mulder and Raye were gone.

--------

The next two hours were a mass of sirens and questions, and very few answers. Scully lived that hour in a state of free fall.

Jane Doe number 3 was a patient who disappeared three days before. No patient recalled having seen Raye and the woman together.

Warren Francis Raye had no records at the clinic save one: a photocopy of a New York state birth certificate from May, 1962. The certificate appeared genuine. Other than that, he had no memberships, no letters, nothing to leave a paper trail. Scully's mind stuck on her partner's words from the night before. She almost couldn't focus on the words themselves for the sound of his voice.

"White male, age -- I'm not sure, but not older than forty, loner."

A night shift janitor recalled Raye staying late some nights, even when he wasn't on call. "Sometimes, it's just his car in the parking lot -- I take the bus."

The car? "Blue Ford Pinto. Older one -- ten years old if it's a day."

"Naw, never talked to 'im. He didn't like to talk -- didn't like bein' around people."

"Wary and untrusting of people; he doesn't like attention."

She tried telling Mulder to be quiet. She didn't want to admit that all he was doing was scolding her, sending her a coy 'I told you so' from her own mind. Dammit, if they knew so much, they should have known enough to keep this from happening.

As it was, Mulder had profiled a phantom, who emerged from nowhere, swept him away, and just as easily retreated again.

--------

He was so tired. He had held control over the man in the passenger seat for over an hour. Add the pressures of driving, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He didn't need to talk out loud for the Concentration to work, but it helped sometimes. He kept his voice to a low murmur.

"They're takin' her and you can't do nothin' to stop 'em."

Concentration was a juggernaut. The hardest part was starting it.

"They're takin' her and they'll hurt her."

It was not difficult to speak the words. It was not difficult to keep the cut open and harsh. But it drained him. He would have to stop soon.

"You ain't never goin' t' see her again."

Still, for now, it was enough to keep the man beside him within one moment. It was enough to keep the man quiet until they reached their destination. Then he could rest. The cadence of his voice never slowed, but his eyes scanned the highway, searching.

He knew the path, and he would know the road he needed to take when he saw it.

--------

*********

Chapter 8

St. Catherine's Chapel of Hope Recovery Clinic
3:30 pm

Scully weaved her way through the explosion of black-and-whites littering the St. Catherine's parking lot. Each step she took to avoid a haphazardly parked patrol car fueled her anger and frustration. Why the hell couldn't they park in a normal space? Not like they had to hurry to get here. They were too late; her partner was already missing, and probably miles away by now, in the hands of a sadistic madman.

She caught her breath and stilled a surge of panic.

She felt like she needed to be moving. She didn't want to stay in this place. Despite all the information she had given detectives and officers, despite all the background she had read on Warren Francis Raye, she felt trapped and useless here. They had searched the grounds intensely; Mulder was not here. He could be getting farther away with every minute.

Another wave of adrenaline and anguish swept through her, and she forced herself to think of something else. Her shin caught on the bumper of a patrol car, and she let out a small curse that sounded more like a cry.

She had answered all of their questions. She had reacted calmly in the crisis. She had even managed to save officer Williams' life. He was probably in surgery right now, would most likely have a full recovery. She recounted the past hour and all she saw was herself, offering information, answering endless third degrees.

She fixed her gaze to the ambulance parked in front of her. Now, she wanted answers.

Detective Torrence sat on a green bench beside the ambulance, flinching as the EMT tried to clean her ear. Suddenly, Sam jerked her arm forward, jarring the medical technician and sending an antiseptic-soaked cotton ball flying through the air. It landed at Scully's feet.

"Christ! What the hell are you using, liquid fire?" the detective hissed.

"Ma'am, you insisted this be treated on site," the technician started, but he trailed off when he reali