************
Chapter 6
************

Aubrey, MO
November 4, 2000
1:30 p.m.

After a comfort lunch following the Tillman interview,
Mulder urges that they hit the road for Edmond, Nebraska.

"Call first," Scully insists, calculating from memory the
distance to Linda Thibodeaux's house.  Bleak miles of
frozen, empty fields, tufted here and there by stands of
leafless trees.  An occasional community, a house or two,
farms, rivers, then rolling, open land again as far as the
eye can see.

Mulder makes the call, gets an answering machine, and hangs
up.  "The hospital," he says, winking at Scully in triumph
as he punches the numbers.  Conversation is abrupt, but
decisive; he steers the Corolla onto the highway and heads
northwest.

"Are you going to make me guess?"

He grins.  "They told me Mrs. Thibodeaux spent most of the
morning with Viola Rains, then indicated she was on her way
home.  I wager our reunion visit isn't long in coming."

"We'll see."

A familiar landmark on the edge of town is the decrepit
Motel Black, still in business, though now a much darker,
shabbier version of its former nefarious glory.

"Wonder if they change the sheets between customers," Mulder
quips.  The Motel Black was the place where it all began six
years before: Lieutenant Brian Tillman ran late for a
rendezvous with his pregnant lover, Detective B.J. Morrow,
and bizarre visions assailed her in the darkness.  She was
drawn to the field beside the motel, kneeling and digging
with her hands until Agent Sam Chaney's long-missing bones
came inexplicably to light.

Today, the same field stretches away cold and undisturbed
toward the metal legs of electrical transformers.

"Well, I have no real complaints about the Conestoga,"
returns Scully.  "I think it's better than the place we
stayed in the first time around."

"In my opinion, anywhere's better, now that our personal
dynamics have... well, melded."  He draws out the 'm' sound
and enunciates each syllable, quirking a lascivious eyebrow.

She graces the passing countryside with a non-committal
smile.  "You mean, now that we've thrown caution to the wind
and actually have sex, Mulder?  Pleasuring one another in a
variety of pretty satisfying ways?  Is *that* what you mean
by 'melded'?"

"Ah... yeah, that about nails it."  His expression hovers
between injured and amused.  "*Pretty satisfying* is the
best descriptive you can come up with?"

"Mmm, 'Exceptional', then."

"Better..."

Linda Thibodeaux is a no-show, though she's acquired a
bristly beast of a guard dog since the last time they
visited in 1994.  Mulder beats a hasty retreat out the gate
and back to the car, the animal rounding the house in
pursuit and then snarling at them through the fence.  They
wait a long, unfulfilled hour and a half at the end of her
driveway before heading back to Aubrey.

There's little more to be gleaned so late on a Saturday at
the Aubrey Police station other than the renewal of a few
old acquaintances.  The station house has been refurbished
in the intervening years.  Tillman is nowhere in sight, but
Joe Darnell, now a detective of standing among his fellow
officers and a valued assistant, greets them warmly and
introduces them around.

"Been some changes, mostly for the better," Darnell admits,
giving each agent another firm handshake on the way out,
"but it's sure good to have both of you back.  The Kansas
City field office would have been more than happy to
dispatch a few agents, but the Lieutenant insisted on
calling you two instead.  He appreciates your cooperation
more than you realize."

"I'll have to take your word on that," says Mulder.  "Let us
know if anything new surfaces."

Since parking is tight around the Conestoga, he drops Scully
off before rounding the lot.  Maid service, she notes
appreciatively, has visited both their rooms with clean
bedding and towels.  Peeking through the connecting door at
Mulder's neatened bedspread, she sees the phone light
blinking near his bed like a beacon.

He unlocks his door a minute later, stripping off his coat
and loosening his tie as he enters.  "Message for you," she
says, nodding toward the phone, then retreats to use her
bathroom and freshen up.  By the time she reappears in the
doorway, Mulder's hung up the phone.  Sitting on the edge of
his bed, he sports a pleased, though bemused expression.

"What is it?"

"Call it a stroke of luck, forwarded from D.C.  Shamrock
Women's Prison wants me to talk to B.J. ASAP."

She frowns.  "That's strange.  Would it have anything to do
with Tillman's contact a few days ago?"

"No, I think it's something more involved than that.  Just a
feeling," he adds.  "I told them where I was and that I'd
head over first thing tomorrow morning."

"Fortuitous for them."  She sits down near him and crosses
her legs, acutely conscious that the invitation was
exclusively Mulder's.  "I suppose I could follow up on a few
contacts here on my own.  We need to speak with Natalie
Warner, whose daughter allegedly invited Benjie to the
birthday party.  And maybe I can catch Linda Thibodeaux
unawares at the hospital."

"You don't need to knock yourself out in my absence.  Here's
your chance to be a secret slug, Scully.  Saw a few extra
logs.  Grab a late brunch from across the street."

"I can plan my own day, thank you."

"Just wanna be sure you'll be okay while I'm --"

She stares at him, eyes widening in shocked comprehension.
"Oh, for God's sake," she hisses under her breath.  Rankled
to the core, she jerks upright, but feels his lightning hand
snag her wrist.

"Stay," he says in a firmer tone, holding on until she sits
again with stubborn reluctance.  He shifts closer, their
thighs nearly touching, his hand claiming hers.  "And drop
the damn defensive posturing.  Remember our conversation the
morning we flew out here... and what's been riding you
ragged since Thursday.  Trust me... at any other time I
wouldn't dream of monitoring your involvement; it's enough
that we watch each other's back.  Scully, you know that."

"I..." She looks away, jaw tense and squared.  "I know
that."  Shame colors her cheeks at the blatant reference to
her personal foible and it's conjunction with the case;
Mulder's argument is reasonably worded despite its sting.
"You're right.  At any rate, I can probably avoid charging
another rental by calling Joe Darnell down at the station
tomorrow morning.  Someone should be willing to give me a
lift around town."

"I don't doubt it."

They sit together on his bed in prickly silence, hands
clasped, until the smallest shreds of offense stirred up
between them settle like dust motes in sunlight.  Closing
her eyes, she regrets her vehement reaction to logical,
thoughtful concern from a partner and friend, in the field,
and under unusual circumstances.  During the day her demons
hide so well, giving her a false sense of confidence, only
to reappear as night approaches.

It should pass soon.  God, it better, she prays.

She feels a squeeze on her hand, glances at him, and
realizes with some chagrin that he's been watching her face
the whole time.  "What?"

"Nothing."

"Well, we need to get to work before it gets any later," she
states with a mixture of renewed vigor and healthy denial.
"The brainstorming you wanted to do, remember?"

He has that tender look in his eyes, as though he wants to
kiss her, but the last thing she needs right now is to feel
placated.  To deter such a move, she puts distance between
them and re-crosses her legs.  Mulder smirks and settles
back toward the head of his bed, one long leg bent, the
other draped to the carpet.

"Okay, then, let's get it on... I want impressions, Scully.
Impressions of Benjie Tillman from the interview this
morning and the physical traits that could connect him to
this crime."

"Such as his voice?  Viola heard a raspy voice, similar to
what happened in '94."

"Exactly.  Very unusual in a 5-year old.  It reminded me of
that little blonde kid in the movie 'Kindergarten Cop' whose
father was the drug dealer perp.  The Schwartenegger flick,
where he goes undercover as a teacher --?"

She shrugs.  "A guy movie in disguise.  Must've missed it."

"Every time the kid spoke his lines it made me want to clear
my throat.  Low and gritty, phlegmy, harsh... like Bengie's.
What medical reasons could account for that?"

Scully considers a moment.  "A pediatric otolaryngologist
would be the one to give the most accurate conjecture, but I
would tend to agree it isn't natural to a child his age or
attributable to a motor speech disorder."

"Go on."

"Generally, laryngeal abnormalities are caused by simple
vocal abuse -- shouting, coughing, excessive chatter,
forcing the vocal cords into making sounds they're not meant
to for a prolonged period.  Over time, the vocal folds
become inflamed, eventually causing a form of chronic
laryngitis or worse."

Mulder yanks off his tie, undoes his collar button, and
searches his suit pocket for seeds.  "I wouldn't call Benjie
Tillman the loudest kid on the planet, would you?"

"Not even close... but consider this: volume isn't always
the culprit.  Maybe he was never permitted to be loud at
home.  When children speak at inappropriate pitches, most
often the very *low* ones tax the vocal cords just as
harshly."

"Is it reversible?"

"Usually, but it takes work.  A patient speech therapist can
help the child to identify and thus, over time, eliminate or
modify the destructive vocal behaviors."

He cracks and munches several seeds before replying.  "So...
Benjie being a shy, quiet kid... what type of environment
would encourage such inappropriate lower pitches, if that's
the cause?  Tillman's a busy man in the public eye who's
spent the last six years extricating himself from a sticky
mess -- and Benjie is the direct result.  His wife, he
claims, has had a rough time dealing with the whole thing."

"She, who couldn't join us this morning," points out Scully.
"I would assume she's the primary caregiver when Tillman
isn't around.  The mother by default.  We just don't know
those details yet."

Remembering Benjie's red-scoured skin and his obvious
discomfort, his cowed demeanor and weepy eyes, she feels a
slow burn of anger for a woman who would be so negligent in
her responsibility for a child, however suspect his origins
and unwanted his presence in her life.

"Could she be doing something to aggravate the condition?"
Mulder wonders aloud.

"I don't think so.  That would suggest MSBP --"

"Munchausen Syndrome By Proxy," he says, nodding for her to
elaborate.

"Yes, when a mother deliberately and repeatedly injures or
sickens her child in order to gain a continuous stream of
comfort and attention for herself.  That's not happening
here, Mulder.  Quite the opposite, in fact, in light of her
desire to be left alone.  This looks more like an outright
case of child neglect."

"And more appropriate for the Department of Social Services,
than the FBI," he finishes.

She rubs the tension lines from her forehead, in her mind
picturing the boy's eyes: large, heavily-lashed, so watery
he dabbed at them from time to time.  For some reason this
image disturbs her more than his neglected skin.  Emotions
bottled up as though with a cork, yet leaking under stress
despite inordinate self-control for one so young.  Like a
pressure cooker ready to burst --

"Mulder, speaking of movies..."

"Uh-uh.  'Steel Magnolias' is a monumental see-once, in my
book."

"No, just a minute...  When I was a little girl, I remember
joining my father in the midst of an old, black and white
WWII movie he was watching.  Some of it took place overseas,
maybe France or Italy, and involved a U.S. military couple
who ended up adopting a war orphan, a little girl."

"And they all lived happily ever after?"

"Only after an unusual catharsis in the middle of the film.
They'd almost decided against adoption, because the girl had
a strange, obsessive habit no one could account for: she
kept dabbing at her eyes.  The cathartic moment came when
the couple urged her to tell them what caused it.  And she
began to sniffle very softly --"

The vividness and raw emotion of the scene revisited makes
her pause and swallow.  Mulder leans forward from his
pillow, but she waves him back.

"Anyway, the girl started crying in stages... whimpering,
which turned to noisier weeping and then to outright, open-
mouthed sobbing.  Apparently she felt she was in a place
safe enough -- and with people understanding enough -- in
order to vent her true grief.  The terrors of war, the loss
of her family, the fear of abandonment all came pouring out
after being denied for so long."

"Denied because of the overwhelming fear of even more brutal
and continued rejection if she dared to show what lurked
within... Shit, Scully --"

"Hmmm?"

He springs from the bed and begins a slow meander in front
of her, hands thrust into his pockets.  "Your old black and
white classic just might have uncovered the key that can
make sense of some of the strange behaviors we observed
today."

************

Their brainstorming accelerates into hours, running the
restricted gamut of environmental factors that could create
or nurture psychopathic tendencies in children.

Mulder points out that well over half of all known
psychopathic individuals have lost a parent in childhood or
have been adopted.  "That in itself provides a breeding-
ground for tremendous family dysfunction," he muses.  "You
get single parent homes, re-marriage and/or subsequent
divorce, estrangement, rejection, latch-key situations,
possible negligence, not to mention the emotional trauma of
losing the original parent or parents."

"Is Benjie even aware that Janine Tillman isn't his
biological mother?"

"That's something we should find out.  But the fact remains
that he came innocently enough into a home situation that
had all the potential for instability and damage."

"True.  A love child separated from his mother, salvaged to
be raised by his father and the father's already resentful
wife.  Which brings up another important factor --
deprivation of love.  Emotionally detached or absent
parents."

"I see Tillman as often absent, but he seems plenty invested
and protective," says Mulder, remembering the man's remarks
in the restaurant and how he hovered hawk-like throughout
the interview, even squelching it when it felt the questions
to be inappropriate for Benjie.  "I think he really loves
his son."

"Commonly, it's the absentee father who's detached, but
suppose in Benjie's particular situation it's the mother?"

"The classic evil step-mother?"

"Mulder, I'm serious.  It stands to reason that Janine
Tillman, if she *is* the caregiver, would have complete
power and control over what that child hears, does, and how
he behaves and reacts all through his pre-school formative
years.  On a daily basis and behind closed doors.  A child
often doesn't make his real neighborhood debut into the
public until starting school."

"Okay," he says, ticking off on one finger, "the neglected
skin.  Then, the voice disorder, possibly aggravated over
time from inordinate amounts of stress on a young kid forced
into a painful, restrictive situation."

He glances at his partner, who sits at solemn attention.

A second finger, then a third.  "The eye-wiping.  The
whipped puppy appearance.  Like the girl in your movie, he
has no choice but to endure in silence -- or face rejection
and/or recrimination too overwhelming for his young psyche
to handle. That could also account for his wandering off."

Scully stands and stretches slightly forward, hands at her
lower back, then walks to the window.  When she pulls the
curtain aside, he sees darkness outside; the Grill's dinner
crowd noise, drifting over from the opposite side of the
building, has already begun to thin.  Neon lights flicker,
casting a multi-colored glow over her face and hair,
accentuating the weariness in her eyes.

"That's summation enough for me," she murmurs, letting the
curtain drop back into place.  "It's getting late and I'm
losing steam."

"Something we still haven't fully explored yet, Scully, is
Benjie's own genetic inheritance from B.J.... that came
ultimately from Harry Cokely.  Remember, someone warped
stabbed that woman and said those same words."

Her sigh sounds heavy with discouragement.

"I suspect," he continues, "that Benjie knows or feels
something he can't talk about without fearing rejection and
ostracism.  Or can't express it without releasing a fiend in
the process.  Maybe he saw something too horrifying to
relate.  If that's the case, the kid may be up the creek
without a paddle."

"Then we need to find one for him...or do the paddling
ourselves," she says, rubbing her eyes.  "However, I can't
even go there now -- everything we've already covered has
depressed me enough for one day."

"So we bag it.  Hey... it's Miller time."

That gets him a grudging laugh and another stretch.
Watching her fluid movements, his former tenderness revives
and his body wakes to the inimitable sensations evoked by
her nearness.  Love, protectiveness, desire.  He moves
closer, hoping to convey his thoughts.  "C'mere," he urges.
"I think *I* need a hug right about now."

Scully responds with willing affection, arms wrapped around
his sides, hands pressed flat against his back.  His
answering embrace swallows her.  They share a long, tight
hug of support, a slow rock from side to side that drives
away some of the unpleasant ambiance created during their
hours of discussing unsavory aspects of the case.

Hungry for her fragrance, he plows through her hair with his
nose, eyes closed, breathing her in.  "D'you want any
dinner?"

"No... What I really want is to put it all from my mind.
Give it a rest."  Her forehead rubs against his shirt, skims
his chin.  "I need to forget *everything* for awhile."

"We could work up an appetite," he suggests in an off-hand
way.  "Explore our options.  See if you've really got the
touch."

She lifts her face to him, smiling, and his response is
immediate; he seals her lips with his, wide and soft and
searching in a deep and languid exploration of mouths that
leaves them both gasping for air.

"Time to lose the shoes," she says in breathy huffs, drawing
slowly back from his embrace to toe off her own clunky heels
and peel away the dark knee-highs.

He follows suit, shucking jacket and tie, shoes and socks.
His body thrums with anticipation.

Her hands never fail to tantalize him, sifting along his
sides on a seductive journey down to the front of his pants
where he hardens almost instantly under her curving palms
and talented fingers.  "You," she maintains softly, "have
been more than patient under the circumstances.  As for my
touch, you already know how --"

From her room, the phone rings, loud and insistent in the
stillness.

"Oh, fuck..." she mutters.

"Hold that thought," he encourages her, feeling bereft and
suddenly weary as she disappears through the adjoining door.
He can hear her portion of a subdued conversation, sees her
mouth "Tillman" and hold up an index finger in apology
toward him while pacing back and forth over the carpet.

"Try an antihistamine lotion, like Benadryl.  It's available
at any supermarket and should give him some relief from the
itching.  Or a hydrocortisone-based cream.  You won't be
able to get anything greater than one-percent steroid over
the counter.  No, it's just a very mild steroid preparation,
perfectly safe..."

Scully's ambling takes her in and out of his line of vision,
and he sinks onto the armchair, yawning with lassitude while
he waits.  Through heavy eyelids he sees her run a hand
through her hair, fanning its redness through her fingers.
The cord stretches tight, then relaxes when she pivots, back
and forth, making him dizzy.

"... a lukewarm bath, minimal soap.  Nothing that would
potentially irritate, like a brand that's heavily-scented.
Keep his skin as moist as you can.  Yes.  But be careful he
isn't too warm, because..."

Closing his eyes to her drone, he melts back into the
cushions.  His dick still throbs in his pants, aches for her
touch.  He cups his crotch gently, circling with his thumb
and encouraging the heavy tingle in his balls.  Ummm,
yeah... a few firm strokes up the shaft and around the
underside keep it revived.  The contours feel warm and
familiar in his palm, comforting to hold and tease with a
lazy thumb and forefinger while he waits for Scully's
imminent return.

Vaguely he wonders about Tillman's call.  From the
conversation drifting in, it seems her medical expertise is
being tapped.  The kid's skin.  A crying shame, but at least
the jerk's following through by asking for advice.  A dab of
humility goes a long way toward redemption... maybe.  But,
fuck, why now?  Lousy timing, Tillman, you thoughtless
bastard...

"Mulder."

He focuses up at Scully standing over him and realizes he's
still clutching his almost flaccid member.  Exhaling, he
releases himself to grab the hand she offers and looks up at
her imploringly.  "Tell me I don't need to be embarrassed."

"Never," she murmurs.  "Sorry that took so long."

Sitting upright, he notices she's dimmed the lights.  Her
jacket is gone and the white shirt hangs un-tucked and
unbuttoned; her lace-covered breasts quiver before his face
and he leans against them in sleepy satisfaction, rubbing
his nose between their softness, dragging his lips over a
filmy, taut nipple.  His erection returns, stiff and
throbbing.

"God, Scully... I need you... need this."

"I made you a promise this morning."  Like an undersea echo,
her voice is muted, tender and husky through the cushions of
her breasts.  The embrace tightens and her hot breath sweeps
his ear, lips caressing its whorls.  "So, come on, cowboy.
Let's see how well you can ride."

"I prefer bareback ridin', ma'am," he drawls, lurching
forward to his feet.

They gaze at one another, lips parted in mutual arousal,
shedding shirts in the soft lamplight.  His pulse quickens
at the sight her naked arms and shoulders, the mesmerizing
hollows of throat and collarbone, the sway and shadowed
slope of breasts reserved for him alone.  He swims in a
primal, testosterone-infused sea and hopes to drown in it
tonight.

Towering over her, he pulls her to himself, feels how slight
and plush and sexy she is against the hungry angles of his
body.  Her hair a silken scarf over his nose, her velvety
neck under his lips, tempting him lower.  Her slacks fall
between them, releasing like incense the rich, intimate
fragrance of the Scully he craves.  His narcotic of choice,
that deep cleft into which he loves to burrow, to lose
himself...

He feels her hands fumble low, tugging his clothing until
his ass and legs lay bare and exposed to the cooler air of
the room.  Kick the damn pants away...  God, the warm clutch
of her fingers around his bobbing flesh, pumping and
squeezing with knowledge and urgency.  He almost staggers
now, loving how well she reads him -- his rapacity and need,
the immediacy of his appetite.

He peers down past the ruffled waves of her hair to glimpse
sweeping lashes, flushed cheeks, and lips that plump with
longing for him.  Not now, not this time...  Her nipples are
crushed strawberries against the white lace of her bra; to
forestall her crouch he dips low and sucks one hard through
fabric, toying it with his tongue until she moans.  He skims
the panties down her legs and off one foot, sinking several
fingers deep into her vagina, amazed as always at her inner
heat and the wet suppleness he finds.

"How?"  He rumbles, already knowing what he wants.

"You choose."

His hands grip her smooth bottom-cheeks.  Lifting her up, he
spreads her before him, using brute strength and the wide
back edge of the chair to support her weight.  Her feet and
heels arch, anchored around the muscles of his braced legs.
With a squeeze to her hips and a groan he slides into the
slick sheath between her thighs, belly-to-belly now,
shuddering at the incredible tightness that envelopes him
once again.

"Love you..."

"Me, too --" She breaks off, rendered breathless by his
first piston-like thrusts and makes a soft sound,
reminiscent of a sob, arms clutching his neck and shoulders.

"Okay?"

"Oh, God, yes..."

Trusting the veracity of her words, he pounds with abandon,
coming quickly in a paroxysm of blinding, knee-buckling
pleasure.

************

Her turn comes soon after, but not before she's had time to
lie in his arms and ponder the unthinkable.

This case and the child preys on her mind.  Dangerous
thoughts at this time of year, especially after sex.  Mulder
stretches like a spent lion beside her, potent and virile in
his masculinity.  She, the empty, barren vessel tucked close
under his arm...

Ever the survivor, she'd picked up the damaged pieces of her
life after her abduction and continued on with her work,
hers and Mulder's.  For years she's given the best, truest
part of herself to her chosen path within the FBI --
pathology, the autopsy bay, and in the field at Mulder's
side, dealing alone and by stealth with the aftermath of her
sterility and all its implications...

Yet, the knowledge haunts her that somewhere, at a
prescribed past moment in time, a stranger's latex-gloved
hand had dipped a pipette into the vial containing the
stolen diamonds that were her ova.  At some point after
conception -- and she refuses to even consider the
questionable medium for paternity involved -- the embryo
that was to become her daughter Emily was implanted into the
womb of an aged, invalid host.

How long was gestation?  Weeks?  Months?  How many more of
her precious eggs have been used, altered, exploited,
scattered like common roe for the taking?

Dangerous thoughts to ponder.  Blame it on emotional flux,
the case, this same unendurable time of year --

Suddenly, Mulder's hand cradles her cheek, pulling her face
toward his on the pillow.  "You were awfully accommodating,"
he whispers into her ear, nipping its narrow edge, crouching
leonine over her.  "Sorry for being such a cave man."

"'S okay.  I owed you."

"You owe me nothing, Scully.  I made that clear years ago."

His words evoke memories... after the cornfields and bee
domes, after the review board broke them apart... teetering
outside his apartment between fuzzy separation and a dark
conspiracy... his anguished plea to preserve their
partnership, and now --

"This..." Her fingers brush over the wiry hair on his chest.
"This is different.  New game, new rules..." Sighing, she
knows her words sound cliched and inane in the warm heady
space they inhabit on the bed.

"No, no games."  His eyes so close, commanding her gaze, he
the only one alive who knows her best.  "Just reality.  The
truth."

"Which is...?"

"That we love one other, no matter what."

Her eyes fill to overflowing, his face rippling in gray-
green myopic waves until she blinks.  As usual she hates
waffling under her own damnable insecurities and for having
doubted the motivations that dwell in this man's heart.  He
kisses her with lips knowing and tender, and in classic
Eskimo-fashion rubs his nose the length of hers and back
again.

"No matter what," he repeats, and the next kiss is deeper
and longer, tasting of tears.

Finally unhooking the lace bra, he draws its damp web from
her body and tosses it away.  With gentle thumbs he wipes
the incriminating wetness from beneath her eyes and
breathes, "Only good thoughts now... promise?"

Beneath the caress of his mouth and the pressure of his
fingertips there's no room for a little girl's long-ago
misery, no room for a would-be mother's helpless violation
and loss.  Just the repetitive, melting rhythm of lips and
tongue, the swirl of his smooth, buttery fingers and the
stunning spread and blossom of pleasure that drives her ever
higher toward a white-hot light.

A blessed light and surety of love that fills her heart and
plunges to ignite between her thighs like the sweetest of
all wildfires.

************
End of Chapter 6