Thunder in the Air by Tasha Abrams First started: April 21, 1999 Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully do not belong to me. They are the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen and Fox. Classification: TA, slight MSR. Lots of angst. Rating: R for violence and language -- Content Warning. Spoilers: Monday, Pilot, small ones for Leonard Betts, Memento Mori and Gethsemane. Story takes place immediately after US6 Monday. Summary: Released back into society, Monty Propps begins a campaign of violence against the man responsible for imprisoning him. But when they begin their investigation, a new threat arises against Mulder and Scully. Sometimes, the faceless monster isn't the only one you should fear. Note: The cities mentioned in this story exist, but I have taken liberties with them. The city of Fox Hunt, Tennessee is from my own imagination, and no resemblance is intended to any existing place. Thanks: To Rachel, for all her editing help and support -- without her, this story would not exist. To XScout, for her beta reading and suggestions. To Pellinor for her Deep Background site, and for taking the time to answer some questions for a fellow X-Phile. Feedback: Is greatly desired at Syrinx42@yahoo.com **** Newspaper headlines from around the country: January 30, 1997 -- Washington Post EMT Killed in Freak Accident March 2, 1997 -- Wall Street Journal Lombard Clinic Tightens Security After Leak May 5, 1997 -- Seattle Times Murders in Canadian Mountains **** Lost among these... April 19, 1997 -- Raleigh News and Observer Killer Released From Prison AP - Ten years ago the city of Greenville was terrorized by a series of killings, as young women from around the city were kidnapped and murdered. For weeks the city was a hotbed of local and state police, and finally FBI agents. Eventually, 38-year old Montgomery Propps, known as Monty to his friends, was arrested for the half-dozen murders the city had experienced. Yesterday, Propps was released from prison on good behavior, by all accounts a changed man... **** Headline from the Chicago Tribune, page 6... November 15, 1997 -- Murder Puzzles Authorities AP - Authorities of Fox River Grove are scratching their heads over a killing yesterday in their small community... **** Thursday, March 4, 1999 6:58 a.m. Her dreams were haunted. The foiled bank heist at Cradock Marine was still fresh in her mind. Time and again she had woken in a sweat, a scream on her lips, Mulder's blood on her hands. She had no idea why she should dream such a thing, but each time she woke with the certainty that she was dead, victim of a catastrophe beyond her comprehension. Each time she experienced a moment of limbo, where she existed neither in the spirit world of dreams, or the real world of the flesh. Finally giving up on sleep, Scully had dragged herself out of bed and gotten ready for work. While moving through her morning routine, she had felt sluggish and heavy, and she finally arrived at the Hoover Building earlier than usual and still tired. Despite the early hour, her partner was already there. Only slightly surprised to see him, she nodded a greeting. "Hey, Mulder." He glanced up, eyes red-rimmed behind his reading glasses. Files and papers were haphazardly spread across his desk, and computer printouts were stacked on the floor by his feet. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie was loosened, and Scully frowned as she realized it was the same tie as yesterday. She set her briefcase down. "Mulder, have you been here all night?" Mulder said nothing. He just drew a line through what he was reading and dropped the piece of paper onto the floor. Scully sighed and went down the hall for a cup of much-needed coffee. When she returned, steaming cup in hand, Mulder was standing in front of a wall map of the United States. Red push pins were scattered across it, with two yellow ones throw in for variety. Scully put her coffee mug on the desk and went to stand beside her partner. He was staring intently at the map, and she felt her arms break out in sudden gooseflesh. The bright red of those pins seemed ominous in a way she could not explain. "Mulder?" She kept her tone carefully modulated. She knew if she showed too much curiosity she wouldn't get any kind of answer. "What are we looking at?" When he did not reply, she raised her voice. "Mulder?" "Murders," he said hoarsely. Scully did a cursory count of the pins stuck in the map. Thirteen red, two yellow. "All of them?" Mulder nodded. "What are the yellow ones?" He said nothing. Scully pursed her lips and fought the urge to grab her partner by the shoulders and shake him until words spilled forth. "Who's being murdered, Mulder?" A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. "Little girls," he bit out. Her heart constricted painfully. The loss of her daughter, her Emily, was suddenly right there with her in vivid detail, fresh and aching, a wound that was never allowed to heal. Her eyes closed. Little girls. Jesus. And what must Mulder be thinking? She laid a hand on his arm. "Mulder, have you slept at all?" Impatiently he brushed off her query. "I can't." "Why not?" she asked. Without removing his eyes from the map, Mulder pointed behind him. His desk was littered with faxes of police reports, newspaper articles and FBI field office reports. Laying on top of this explosion of paper was a single sheet. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article from the Raleigh News and Observer. The headline read, "Killer Released From Prison." There was a photo accompanying the piece, and the caption underneath read, "Taken two months before his arrest, Monty Propps relaxes outside his home in Greenville." Astonished, Scully looked up. "Mulder, what is this?" Mulder never blinked. "He's kidnapping and killing little girls. He stabs them to death, and leaves their bodies draped over the signs bearing the town's name." She frowned, knowing she was lacking an important piece of information. The problem was how to get that information from her unusually taciturn partner. "What's the key here? How did you connect these murders?" Mulder swallowed convulsively, then jabbed a finger at the map and a red push pin in the Pacific Northwest. "Fox Island, Washington state." A pin in New England. "Foxboro, Massachusetts." The Midwest. "Fox River Grove, Illinois. Should I continue?" Another shiver shook her. "My God," she breathed. "And these murders are all being committed by Monty Propps?" "It's his M.O.," Mulder said tersely. "He's out there, with every reason to hate me. This is his way of making sure I know about it." "What about the yellow pins?" she asked. "Fox Chase, Kentucky, and Fox Hunt, Tennessee. The only two cities without a murder." Yet. The word hung heavily in the air between them. Scully stood still for a moment, at a loss. Finally she walked forward, placing herself between Mulder and the map, forcing him to see her. "Mulder." He blinked, then focused on her. "Yeah." "Why don't we go tell Skinner about this? Then I suggest we figure out where Propps will strike next, and warn the local police in that town. I'll look into flights out of National -- we can try to beat him to his next victim." Slowly, Mulder nodded. With a silent sigh of relief, Scully put a hand on his arm and guided him from the room. **** 7:27 a.m. A clearer picture emerged in Skinner's office. Monty Propps had been released from prison in April of 1997. An official letter from the North Carolina prison system had been sent to Mulder, informing him of this event. A faxed copy of this letter was now in Mulder's possession, but the original could not be found anywhere. "I probably threw the letter away without ever reading it. I was...preoccupied at the time," Mulder said in his defense. Preoccupied, Scully thought, feeling a burn of dull anger. Hadn't they all been, during that horrible spring and summer when she had been dying of cancer? Propps' release had gone unnoticed by any of them, until now, when it was far too late. Immediately following his return to society, Propps had lived with his mother in Raleigh for several months, before moving out in August. Since then no one had seen him. The first murder had occurred in November of 1997. A nine-year old girl in Fox River Grove, Illinois had been kidnapped from her backyard, in broad daylight. One minute she had been playing on her swing set, and then she was gone; the next time her parents saw her was in the morgue. Her body had been found three days after her disappearance, draped over the wooden sign welcoming visitors just outside city limits; she had been stabbed over a dozen times. Citizens of the small town northwest of Chicago were understandably upset. Police had vigorously pursued the case, but with no success. The murder went unsolved. In late December, just after Christmas, another little girl was kidnapped and killed in Fox Chapel, Pennsylvania. Same scenario, same M.O. No one linked this murder to the one in Illinois. There were no killings in January or February, then six months in a row with a little girl being murdered. September went by uneventfully, then the murders began again, right up until last month, for a total of thirteen deaths in all. Each town had "Fox" in its name, except for Muldrow, Oklahoma, and Muldraugh, Kentucky. In each case the victim was a little girl between the ages of seven and eleven. The killings were spaced out over the course of the months -- in both the beginning, middle and end of the thirty-day period. Assuming that there would be a murder in this month gave them no clue as to when it would happen. It could be today, or on the last day of the month. Skinner was clearly perturbed by all this unfolding information. "What do you propose to do about this, Agent Mulder?" Scully watched as her partner sat up straighter. "I've been thinkig about that, sir. From what I've been able to gather, there are two cities most likely to be targeted next by Propps: Fox Chase, Kentucky, and Fox Hunt, Tennessee." Skinner frowned. "Where do you think he'll go?" Mulder sighed. "I don't know, sir. After those two towns, I have no idea what he'll do." A grimace crossed his face. "Well, that's assuming he's working off the same atlas that I am, and that he realizes these two cities are the only ones left with 'Fox' in their name. My guess is that he's hoping for a confrontation before he runs out of towns." He paused and shifted in his seat. "It's my belief that he'll go to Fox Chase next, leaving Fox Hunt as his last target." "How sure of that can you be?" Skinner asked. Scully looked up at him sharply, both resenting the question on her partner's behalf, and wishing she had thought to ask it. Mulder seemed genuinely baffled. "As sure as I can be, sir. It's been eleven years since my original profile of Propps. He's probably changed some since then, but not overly much. He'll still put together complicated plans and stick to them at any cost. He prefers order and organization -- to him a fox chase is a disorganized melee, but a fox hunt is a carefully planned-out event. He'll move in that direction last." As he talked, Mulder's voice had grown in confidence and he now he said with quiet assurance, "He'll go to Kentucky first." "All right, then." Skinner dismissed them. "Report to me as soon as you can, agents." **** 11:54 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport Washington, D.C. Their flight was scheduled to arrive in twenty minutes, Mulder saw with a frown. Scully sat beside him, leafing through the latest issue of the "New England Journal of Medicine". An open notebook lay on her lap, and occasionally she took notes in a neat cursive hand. The pervasive noise of the airport terminal seemed not to faze her at all. Mulder envied her and her calm. He himself sat restlessly, foot tapping, hands drumming on the armrests of the uncomfortable plastic chair. Monty Propps. After all this time, it was so unbelievable as to be ridiculous. If asked to choose those former UNSUBS who would come back to haunt him in later years, he would have chosen carefully -- John Lee Roche, John Barnett, Luther Lee Boggs, all a tentative yes, but Monty Propps? A definite no. He hadn't even been a full-fledged agent yet during the spring of 1986, when he'd first written that monograph. He'd been toiling at Quantico, one of a class of twenty-two prospective FBI agents. In class, he had shown an aptitude for profiling, for putting together a model of human behavior based on few clues. Even back then, he had exhibited the scary ability to put himself into the mind of a killer. His paper on serial killers and the occult had been nothing more than classwork. His instructor had distributed it at the Bureau, and two days a later a dour man from the Investigative Services Unit had come down to visit. He had asked several questions, shaken hands, and told Mulder to look him up when he graduated. The agent's name had been Bill Patterson. That monograph had helped capture Monty Propps, not quite two years later. Mulder had not personally been involved, as it had been Patterson's case from the start. But it was Mulder who remembered the paper, when things looked bleak and hopeless on the case, and who used it to come up with a working profile of the UNSUB. Patterson had been furious at what he perceived as Mulder's sneakiness, but he had evidently not scrupled to use the profile, because within four days Propps had been captured. Three months later Mulder had received a public commendation from the Bureau, and a private one from Patterson himself. The monograph, that cornerstone of his reputation, superseded him from that point on. His peers looked at him with a mixture of irritation and envy. Superiors watched him with a careful eye; Patterson kept a tight leash on him. He'd found the X-Files just in time to save his sanity. It was a relief to lose himself in tales of alien abductions and lake monsters, after years of serial killers and psychotics. Diana Fowley had entered his life around the same time, believing in both him and those files, and giving him the first guilt-free sex he'd had since leaving Phoebe Green and Oxford. Within months his golden-boy reputation had first tarnished, then been destroyed. After that, his peers just laughed at him -- the nickname Spooky Mulder took on a derogatory note. His superiors tried to talk some sense into him, then finally shook their heads and washed their hands of him. In 1993, Dana Scully had been assigned to the X-Files as his partner, and since then he had done the occasional profile, but he had never thought back to how it all began, to the Monty Propps case. Perhaps, Mulder now thought ruefully, he should have. **** End Part 1 Thunder in the Air (2/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** Fox Chase, Kentucky 4:12 p.m. The city of Fox Chase lay to the south of Louisville, close enough for an easy day trip, but too far to be properly called a suburb. They had flown into the Louisville airport, where the sheriff of the small town had met them. He had explained that nobody in town knew of their federal visitors, and given the purpose of their arrival, he didn't want them to know until he was fully prepared. Headed south now on I-65, Sheriff Smithfield said, "Well now, it sure was good of you to come all this way yourself. Seeing as how you're the one responsible for it all." The big man paused and cleared his throat. "No offense." Mulder smiled tightly. "None taken." He supposed he couldn't blame the man, though. Through no fault of their own, the town's little girls were suddenly in danger. It was only natural that he take out his frustration on that man who was responsible for creating that danger. "We need to get the alert out as soon as possible," Scully said, "but we don't want to alarm people unnecessarily." The sheriff nodded. "Absolutely." "We're having a composite sketch made up," Mulder said. "We'll have it faxed to you as soon as it's ready." The problem with the sketch was that it probably wouldn't be very accurate, Mulder mused. FBI agents in North Carolina had visited the home of Sylvia Propps, but as expected, the woman had been very tight-lipped regarding her son. She had no recent photos for the agents, and she repeatedly claimed she had no idea of Monty's whereabouts. That left only the Raleigh prison guards to give a description of Propps, and they were going off two-year old memories. In all likelihood, Mulder knew, Propps would look nothing like the sketch made of him. Still, it would be better than nothing, and for a town suddenly made to fear for their daughters, it would be good to have a face to pin that fear on. "I can call Johnny at the TV station," Sheriff Smithfield said. "I'll let him know we'll be coming by later today." "Thank you," Mulder replied. "We'd like to go straight to the police station, though. I need access to a phone and your fax machine." Smithfield nodded again. "Sure." "Sheriff, are there any local activities involving children that you could put a police presence on?" Scully asked. "Girl Scout meetings, that sort of thing?" "Well, I don't know, right off the top of my head," Smithfield answered. "But I'll have someone get right on that when we get to the station." Mulder tried not to frown. It was a good idea, but one that wouldn't do any good. Propps avoided social situations like that. His victims had been kidnapped from their own backyards, or on their way home from school; one girl had disappeared en route to a friend's birthday party. Smithfield steered the police cruiser into a broad expanse of asphalt surrounding several red-bricked buildings. City hall, the police station, the post office, and the library all shared the same parking lot. Most of the spots were filled, and Mulder watched as a young woman and her daughter left the library, books clutched to their chests. His throat tightened as he watched; that little girl might wind up dead in three days, all because of him and a paper he'd written eleven years ago. Inside the station it was almost uncomfortably warm, as heaters worked overtime to combat the chilly March air. Scully unbuttoned her coat as they walked through the halls. The building was quiet too, with phones and voices all sounding vaguely muted, as if coming from far away and not just down the hall. Smithfield ushered them into an empty office. "You can use the phone in here," he said. "Fax machine number's there." He pointed to a list of numbers thumbtacked to the wall. "Holler if you need anything." He left. Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. "Good ol' Southern hospitality," Scully murmured. They shrugged out of their coats and wasted no time. While Scully set about finding out community events involving children, Mulder made a call to Washington and gave the sketch artist the fax number at the station. He then called the police department in Fox Hunt, Tennessee. The woman who answered the phone had an accent so thick it could be cut with a knife. "Fox Hunt Po-lice," she drawled. "This is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI," he said. "I need to speak with the sheriff, please." "Just a moment, suh," the woman said. The phone clicked loudly as it was put on hold. The man who picked up had an only slightly less thick accent. "Bedford here." Mulder introduced himself again. "Sir, I'm calling to inform you of a potential threat to your town and its citizens." There was a full ten seconds of utter silence from the other end. "Excuse me?" "I have reason to believe that a man named Montgomery Propps may be in the vicinity of your town, sir, and that he may be planning a crime. This man has been kidnapping and killing young girls, from the ages of seven to eleven, for several months now." Scully appeared in the doorway, a sheaf of paper in her hand. She tapped something on the paper, and Mulder held up a finger, signaling her to wait. "Agent...Mulder, was it? Is this some sort of prank?" Mulder sighed. "No, sir. This man, Monty Propps, was released from prison almost two years ago, for committing the same type of crimes back in 1988. Now that he's been released, he's gone on a--" "What makes you think he'll target us?" Bedford demanded. "I can't quite explain it to you over the phone," Mulder said, "but I--" "Maybe you better explain it to me in person, Agent Mulder," the sheriff said harshly. "Because as of this morning, I've got a little girl missing from my town, and now you call me up, telling me you know who did it. Seems to me you've got quite a lot of explaining to do." Mulder could barely hear the sheriff through the sudden roaring in his ears. "We'll be there as soon as we can," he managed to say. He laid the phone down with a shaking hand, missing the cradle. The handset fell to the desk with a loud clunk. "Mulder?" Scully hurried forward, hanging the phone up. "What is it?" "He's there, Scully." He choked the words out. "I was wrong. He's there. He's already taken a victim." **** 4:46 p.m. Scully took charge; she had to. Mulder was too shell-shocked to do more than stare at the phone with a dreadful fascination, as if expecting it to ring any second and deliver more bad news, to lay another dead little girl at his feet. Smithfield was agitated by this latest turn of events. "You mean to tell me that this pscyho is coming here next?" Scully glanced at Mulder, but he gave no sign that he'd heard the sheriff's question. "If he holds to his M.O., he won't come here until sometime next month. However," she hastily added, "Agent Mulder and I will apprehend the suspect before that can happen." "I sure hope so," Smithfield said darkly, "for that little girl's sake." Mulder said nothing, but he winced as though the sheriff had physically struck him. Scully glared furiously at the man. "When the sketch of Propps is faxed over, show it to all your men. Increase police presence at local events likely to feature children. Have an officer go around to the schools and do the usual speech about staying away from strangers." She gathered up her coat. "And get someone to take us to the airport." Smithfield nodded. "You could probably drive it faster," he said blandly. "What?" Scully snapped. " 'S only about a four-hour drive. By the time we got you to the airport, you flew into Memphis or Nashville, and then drove out to your new destination, you coulda driven there yourself." "Fine," Scully said, with only slightly less hostility. "Know anyone who can get us a car?" Smithfield smiled, although his eyes remained hard. "Sure do." **** Western Tennessee 8:47 p.m. The town of Fox Hunt made tiny Fox Chase in Kentucky look like a thriving metropolis. The police station stood by itself off the state route that served as the town's main street. The post office was a small addition in back, and a single Chevy truck emblazoned with the U.S. Post Office logo was parked in back. Two police cruisers were in front of the building, and inside, light shone through the lobby windows and only one other office. "You say they're expecting us?" Scully asked anxiously, as they pulled up. Mulder nodded, swallowing hard against the icy ball in the pit of his stomach. He had faced many horrors in his career at the FBI, but the thought of walking into that police station terrified him like few things had. How could he face these people and hold his head up? He, who was single-handedly responsible for the recent grief and fear these people were experiencing? Scully took a deep breath. "May as well do it," she said softly. Mulder followed her out of the car, walking slowly, each step a struggle forward. Even the air here seemed oppressive, slumping his shoulders and weighing him down. At the door, Scully paused. "Mulder... I know what you must be thinking, but you can't blame yourself. You couldn't have known." He tried to smile and failed miserably. "I said he'd go to Kentucky first," was all he said, before pushing open the door. It was warm inside the station, and deathly quiet. A water fountain in the lobby gurgled once, sounding abnormally loud in the stillness. "Hello!" Scully called. Footsteps sounded down the hall. "Hello!" a man called. From the lone lighted room, a young man emerged. He was dressed in a khaki uniform, and had hair so blond it was almost white. He seemed surprised to see them. "Y'all made good time," he said. "I didn't expect you for another hour." "Oh," Scully explained. "We forgot about the change in time zones, when we called and said we'd be here at 9:30." She paused. "I'm Special Agent Scully and this is Special Agent Mulder." *Special* agent, Mulder mused cynically, recognizing the ploy as one aimed at gathering respect from the audience. It didn't work. "Officer Rowland," the deputy said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. It was a curious gesture, at odds with his youth. Mulder realized he must have copied it from someone he admired, someone older. "Officer, where is everybody?" Scully asked, making no effort to hide the doubt in her voice. "They're down at the church," Rowland said, "havin' a town meeting over what's happened." "Will you take us there?" Mulder asked. "Can't," Rowland apologized, with no trace of actual apology in his voice. "Can't leave the station untended." "Well then maybe you could direct us there." Scully's tone was icy. Rowland nodded. "Sure. I could do that. Just head into town, and turn left on Vine Street. The church'll be on your right. You cain't miss it." "Thank you," Mulder replied in his best colorless, G-man voice. He and Scully turned and left. "A town meeting," Scully murmured, as they walked to the car. "What do you think they're discussing?" How to run me out of town, Mulder thought sourly. "Maybe the sheriff's telling them we're coming." He slid behind the wheel of their borrowed car. "Oh, good," Scully observed acidly. "More Southern hospitality." Despite himself, Mulder looked at his partner and felt a wry grin spread across his face. **** End Part 2 Thunder in the Air (3/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** Heavenly Star Baptist Church 8:57 p.m. Rowland had been right; there was no way they could have missed the church. Not only was it topped by a huge, gory crucifix, it was the only building along Vine Street with cars in the parking lot. Even on the front steps, they could hear the voice of someone from inside, and as Mulder opened the door, the shouting grew louder. "Are we gonna to stand back and let this happen to our children? Are we gonna let them be taken from our bosoms, and from our homes? Are we gonna let them be kilt by the light of the moon?" "No!" roared the crowd. "Then I say we fight back against this monster, this madman who dares come into our peaceful town and breathe his foul breath! I say we fight him, with our prayers, with our fists, and with our weapons, if we must." The throng roared again, wordlessly. Mulder looked down at Scully and was relieved to note that the expression of shocked confusion on her face was physical evidence that she felt the same way he did. The man at the front of the church was obviously the minister. He strode back and forth with an ease that had to come from Sunday after Sunday of doing the same thing; despite his shouting and evident agitation, he hadn't broken a sweat. Off to the left were two police officers, uniformed as Rowland had been. To the right stood a burly man with a gold star pinned to his chest -- the sheriff, Dave "Buck" Bedford. Bedford noticed the two new arrivals only seconds before the man with the microphone did. He started forward, but not before the pastor cried, "And look! Into our midst comes the one responsible for unleashing this monster on our helpless children. The one--" The microphone emitted a shocked squeal as Bedford yanked it away. "That'll be enough," he said gruffly. As one, the people of Fox Hunt turned in their seats to stare at the federal agents as they walked up the main aisle of the church. They had to sidestep the baptismal fount in the middle, and as Mulder stepped away from Scully, he felt strangely vulnerable. When they met again in front of the fount, relief washed over him, but his unease did not entirely vanish. People muttered to themselves as they passed, and one weeping woman hissed, "Babykiller!" Mulder refused to avert his gaze from the sheriff, but beside him, Scully's head whipped to the right and she glared at the woman who had spoken. "Now, let's all stay calm," Bedford said into the mike. "These here are FBI Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. They're going to help us get little Linda back. You can count on it." There was a reassuring note in the man's voice, but his eyes were flinty hard as they bored into the approaching couple. they said. Stripped of his mike, the minister slunk to his seat, giving Bedford center stage. The sheriff waited until Mulder and Scully had joined him before speaking again. "Now I know you all are upset. I'm upset myself. I knew and loved Linda Moser, like most of you did. But there's no sense in getting all worked up over something we can't control." He threw a dark look toward the minister. "I know some of you are thinking about what Reverend Doutrie said, and thinking that it makes sense. But I am here to tell you that I am the law in this town, and anyone who takes a gun into his or her hands will have to face me. Is that understood? There will be no vigilante justice in Fox Hunt. Not as long as I'm sheriff." Bedford stared out into the audience, not threatening, merely stating a fact. Mulder felt marginally cheered by Bedford's speech. After his rude welcome by Officer Rowland, he had not expected such a show of support. The sheriff turned to him. "Now, Agent Mulder. You told me over the phone earlier today that you knew who had done this. What can you tell us about this man?" A hush fell over the crowd as Mulder took the proffered microphone. For over ten years he had delivered profiles to expectant law enforcement officials. He had made speeches about alien abduction or UFO crashes, spoken to people who had scarcely waited for him to finish before starting to laugh. Giving lectures had always been something he had excelled at, yet standing at the front of this church full of people waiting for him to deliver a miracle, he felt horribly nervous and uncomfortable. "As Sheriff Bedford told you, I spoke with him earlier today. I was calling to warn him that--" "You shoulda done that *yesterday*!" a man in the back cried out. "Shut up, Bill Henry!" half a dozen people chorused. Bedford glared in that general direction, and silence descended again. Mulder continued as if the interruption had not occurred. "I was warning him that there was a potential criminal in his jurisdiction. I had reason to believe a convicted serial killer might be targeting the populace of this town." He paused, and said the words that would forever brand him in the eyes of the people who lived here. "However, I did not believe that this man would come here today. I had every reason to believe he would instead target another city, in Kentucky. I was wrong." "Damn straight!" "Why didn't you come here first?" "What kind of FBI agent are you?" The shouts rose up from the crowd, ugly and full of pent-up anger in search of a target. Mulder glanced helplessly at Bedford, then froze. The sheriff had his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and was rocked back on his heels. His face was studiously blank; there would be no help from him. Surprising him, Scully grabbed the microphone. "We're getting off the subject here," she said, her voice firm. "What's important here is that we find Linda Moser and return her to her family." "How you gonna do that?" yelled a woman in the front row. "By gathering all the evidence," Scully said coolly. "Not by standing around shouting at each other. This is a police investigation, and in order to do our jobs right, Sheriff Bedford, Agent Mulder and I need your cooperation and help. I think we'd all agree that we want to find that little girl as soon as possible. We need to work together on this." People were nodding in agreement now, and Mulder silently blessed whatever God had seen fit to give him Dana Scully as his partner. "Starting tomorrow morning, we will be working around the clock on this case. We'd ask that you go about your business like normal. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything strange. If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, don't do anything yourself, but report it to the police, or to Agent Mulder or myself." Scully paused, then looked at Bedford. She held up the microphone, one eyebrow lifting in silent query. Lazily, the sheriff pulled one large hand from his pocket and took the mike. "Listen to what the lady says, folks. Go on back to your homes. Try to get some sleep tonight. We'll all get through this, together. Good night." For a moment the throng stayed put, then one person rose, followed by another. Within ten minutes, the church had emptied, except for a few people clustered in the aisle. Bedford gestured to them with the hand holding the mike. "That there's the Moser family. I asked them to stay behind. I figured you'd want to talk to them." Mulder nodded. "Yes. Thanks." Bedford looked at him, and all his earlier neutrality was gone, vanished just like the crowd it had served. In its place was a thinly veiled anger. "Don't be thanking me yet," he said. **** Including the minister, there were five people who remained standing in the aisle -- two men and two women. One of the women was the lady who had called Mulder a babykiller. Bedford waved them forward. He put a hand on the elbow of a crying woman. "This is Brandy Moser," he said. "It's her little girl who's been kidnapped. And this," he tilted his head to indicate the man standing beside her, "is her husband, Douglas." Something needed to be said. "I'm very sorry for what's happened," Mulder said sincerely. "I want you to know--" "This is Brandy's sister, Lea Presslee," Bedford continued. "And her brother, Quinn Presslee." Four sets of eyes bored into him. Mulder bit his lip and fought against the overwhelming urge to bow his head and accept their silent reproach. , those hard eyes said. Douglas and Brandy Moser had obviously spent much of the day crying. They were young and blond, and had matching sets of red-rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes. Doug still wore the olive-green work uniform he had been wearing when the police had informed him that his daughter was missing. His hands were rough and calloused, but they lay on Brandy's arm with gentleness. The blond woman stood with her arms wrapped tightly around her ribcage, but she leaned into her husband's touch. They were still very young; Mulder guessed they were not much over thirty. Lea Presslee was shorter than her sister, and blonder. She stood slightly to the side, occasionally muttering what were probably supposed to be words of comfort. Round and pale, she was not really a part of the group. She was the one who had hissed the epithet at Mulder, and she glared at him with undisguised anger. Quinn Presslee was also short, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in sheer bulk. Mulder had never seen a more solid-looking man. He had short, grizzled hair cropped into a crew-cut, and the reddened complexion of an alcoholic. His hands were large-knuckled, and looked capable of committing acts of brute force. It was Scully who broke the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over them all. "We appreciate you staying, but I know you have all had a long, exhausting day." A soothing note entered her voice. "Why don't you all try to get some sleep? Agent Mulder and I can come by tomorrow and ask our questions." "Why wait?" Lea Presslee asked. "Every moment we wait is time we could be spending looking for Linda." There was a thin, reedy note to her voice; Mulder guessed she went into fits of hysterics at least twice a week. "Time is important, Ms. Presslee," Mulder said. "But I think we'd all agree that we won't accomplish anything tonight. It would be better if we all got some sleep and started in the morning with rested minds." As if the parents of little Linda Moser could sleep. Mulder knew they would spend a sleepless night, crying over the fate of their young daughter. For himself, too, sleep would be an unattainable goal. It mattered not that he had been up all last night, uncovering the horrific details of this case. He would not sleep tonight. He supposed it could be considered a self-imposed penance, for being solely responsible for the death of fourteen little girls. **** After the Mosers and Presslees had left, Sheriff Bedford gave them cursory directions to the Rest Inn. "Frank Jessup, who runs it, he'll probably charge you an arm and a leg, but he don't get much in the way of business this time of year." He gave them a smile that said, Scully forced herself to maintain a blank expression. "Thank you, Sheriff. We'll come by the station in the morning." Bedford waved them off. "No need. You can jes go straight to the Moser's. They're the third house on the right, once you turn on Elm Street." He didn't say which way to turn. Scully nodded. "Good night, Sheriff." He grunted, then walked out of the church. She watched him go, a pained expression on her face. As a federal agent, she had encountered prejudice and lack of cooperation before -- most notably from Sheriff Teller of Connersville, Oklahoma -- but rarely had she been met with such blatant hostility. "You ready to go, Mulder?" she asked. He nodded briefly, staring off into space. "Those people hate me, Scully," he said dully. "And the thing is, I can't blame them. I can't get angry with them for judging me before they even met me. Because if I were in their position, I'd hate me, too." She laid a hand on his arm. "But you're not in their place, Mulder. You're you, and you're going to catch this man, before he can hurt that little girl." She squeezed his arm. "You *will*, Mulder." He looked down at her. "I hope so." **** Rest Inn 10:13 p.m. Frank Jessup did indeed take advantage of them, practically salivating with greed as he wrote up their bill. "You folks enjoy your stay here," he said, one eye closing in a brief wink. Scully took back her credit card and mustered a grimace that could almost pass for a smile. "Thank you." Jessup had plenty of rooms available, and he'd given them two that were side by side. He'd lamented the fact that the rooms lacked a connecting door, and managed to imbue even that fairly innocent statement with innuendo and suggestion. Scully had clenched her fists at the man's crudity, and fought the desire to go for her gun. She clutched her room key tightly as they left the office and got back in the car. Mulder drove across the parking lot to where their rooms were located. Besides Jessup's battered pickup truck, there were only two other vehicles parked there. Neither one looked as if it had been driven in months. She had Room 19; Mulder was in 20. He parked the car directly in front of her door, and turned the keys with a small sigh. In their haste to arrive in Tennessee, they had not made time to eat, and Scully ventured a timid, "How does a late dinner sound?" Mulder shook his head as he got out of the car. "I'm not hungry." She wasn't surprised. She said nothing as Mulder retrieved their luggage from the trunk. They walked up the sidewalk, separating at the doors to their rooms, each painted a garish shade of blue, and flaking badly. "Are you going to be all right?" she asked, reluctant to enter her room and leave her partner alone for the night. "Yeah," he replied, but he stared at the ground as he spoke. "Will you do me a favor?" she said. He looked up at her. "What?" "Try to get some sleep," she said softly. A sudden smile crossed Mulder's face, momentarily illuminating his eyes. "I'll try," he promised. Heartened by his words, she smiled back, then went into her room. **** End Part 3 Thunder in the Air (4/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** Rest Inn Room 20 3:42 a.m. The sound of a car engine shutting off woke him. For a moment he was disoriented, then the air conditioner under the window kicked on, and Mulder remembered where he was. He got out of bed, feeling vaguely surprised that he'd slept at all. He had seen midnight come and go, sitting at the chipped Formica table in the corner, poring over old case files and police reports. At some point he had moved to the bed, intending only to lay down, but the papers strewn carelessly on the floor were mute evidence that he had indeed slept. It was chilly in the room, and Mulder approached the window reluctantly. The drapes billowed slightly outward as cool air was blown under their fringed hems. Mulder stood to the left of the window and pushed the thick drape aside with his hand, peering outside. Through the dirty glass, he could see a fourth car in the parking lot now, sitting next to their own borrowed Ford. Two amorphous shapes sat in the front seat, and two or three more in back. None made any move to get out; they merely sat there, watching. Mulder waited. Fifteen minutes later he accepted that the people in the car seemed content to merely sit there, and Mulder yawned and let the drape fall back. He turned around, heading back for the warmth of the lumpy bed. He had no warning or alert; there was just a split-second filled with the sound of splintering glass, then something struck him in the small of his back, driving him to the floor with a muffled grunt. That impossibly heavy something thudded onto the carpet beside him, scant moments after he fell. He lay still, paralyzed by the sudden tingling pain that swept through his entire body. Whoever they were, they had either been standing right outside the window, or they had one hell of a good arm. Dimly, he heard the slam of a car door and the roar of an engine swelling, then fading into the night. Scully. The pain was starting to melt away from his extremities, and center on his back, where he had been struck. He managed to push himself to his knees with rubbery arms. Scully. A blow strong enough to knock him down could snap her spine in two. The door leading outside rattled in its frame as someone knocked on it. "Mulder?" Scully called, sounding scared, but unhurt. "Mulder, are you all right? Let me in." Shakily, he stood, wincing at the pain emanating from the middle of his back. Beside his left foot was a huge rock, with a note rubber-banded around its bulk. "Mulder!" Scully was shouting now. "Mulder, answer me!" "Coming," he rasped. Jesus, that rock was huge. Good thing it had only struck his back, and not his head. Scully had her weapon out and seemed to be on the verge of shooting out the lock when Mulder finally staggered to the door and opened it. She was wild-eyed and panting, but her hands were steady on her weapon. "Mulder, what happened?" she cried. "Why didn't you answer?" She lowered her gun, and became just a short woman in blue pajamas, standing on the sidewalk of a seedy hotel in Tennessee. Mulder tried to shrug, then winced. One hand vainly reached behind him, seeking to assuage the pain. "More of that Southern hospitality, I guess," he said. Scully shouldered past him, and into the room. Her eyes swept around, seeing the rock, the shards of glass on the floor, the hole in the drapery where the missile had shredded it. She turned to look at him. "Mulder, did it hit you?" "I would say, more like it...*landed* on me," he said, going for some humor, but falling far short. "Are you hurt?" she demanded, striding determinedly forward. "I'm fine, Scully. Really. I--" "What's goin' on here?" Frank Jessup waddled up, all five feet of him wrapped in a ragged maroon bathrobe and an impenetrable cloak of indignation. "You two tearing up my hotel?" Mulder gave Scully a weary look, and slumped against the doorframe. Let her deal with it. **** Scully shot her partner an alarmed glance as he sagged against the wooden doorway. She wanted to make sure he was all right and find out who had done this, but right now Frank Jessup demanded all her attention. "Who did you talk to tonight?" she asked the man, using her best Ice Queen tone of voice. He blinked at her. "Huh?" "I said, who did you talk to? Who knows we were staying in these rooms?" She took a step toward Jessup, uncomfortably aware that she was clad only in her pajamas, but refusing to show it. "N-no one," Jessup blustered. "Hey, you gonna pay for fixing that window?" "No," Scully said coldly. "We will not. You'll be lucky if we pay for these rooms at all. Now I want you to tell me who you spoke to tonight." The proprietor looked from her to Mulder, who was now standing erect, although his face was too pale for her liking. Seeing no help from either quarter, he shrugged one chubby shoulder. "I talked to lots of people," he said petulantly. "Who?" she demanded. "I can't remember all of 'em!" Jessup cried. "Lots of people!" "Did you know that endangering the life of a federal officer is a crime punishable by time in prison, Mr. Jessup?" Mulder asked lazily. Jessup's face went white. "P-prison?" Mulder nodded. "Add obstruction of justice to that charge, and I think you're looking at a minimum of three years." "I can't remember!" Jessup cried. His eyes were round and fearful. "Honest!" Scully looked long and hard at him, then nodded. "Mr. Jessup, I suggest you find us two new rooms. *Nice* rooms. And I also suggest you think twice before telling anyone which ones we are staying in." The hotel owner nodded frantically. "Sure, sure," he agreed. "Anything else?" "Yeah," Mulder said. "How 'bout some ice?" "Sure, I can do that," Jessup said. "Just give me a few minutes. You folks wanna get your stuff together, and meet me in the office? I'll get you your new keys, and your ice." He left, bowing and scraping cravenly, bathrobe flapping in the night wind. As soon as he was gone, Scully rounded on her partner. "Mulder, let me look at you." "I'm fine," he said faintly. The edge to his voice was gone. "I just need to sit down." He wobbled his way to the bed and sat. "Oh, and that ice." "Where did it hit you?" she asked, walking forward. "My back," Mulder said. "It knocked me down." Scully shook her head, looking at the size of the rock laying on the floor. "I'll bet," she whispered. Mulder lifted his T-shirt reluctantly, letting her see the injury. An angry red patch was centered in the small of his back. Tentatively she pressed her fingers to the spot, and Mulder winced, inhaling sharply. Scully dropped his shirt, and stood back. "Well," she said, "it missed your kidneys, and anything vital. But you're going to have one hell of a bruise there, and you'll be sore for a day or two." Mulder scowled. "If this is Southern hospitality," he muttered, "I think I'm moving to Canada." Scully chuckled, then yawned. Half an hour later they were installed in their new rooms, an ice bucket brimming with frozen cubes sat on each bathroom countertop, and the note that had been wrapped around the rock was bagged as evidence. Scully pulled off her latex gloves and sat at the table across from Mulder. Between them, the rock and note sat, tagged and labeled, utterly innocuous-looking in their plastic evidence bags. The note read: "Maybe we should ask this killer if he likes tall FBI agents, instead of little girls." **** Friday, March 5, 1999 8:12 a.m. 112 Elm Street The Mosers lived in a small house, but it was the nicest one on the block. Their lawn was a neat square of green, and the paint job was only a couple years old. A black pickup truck stood in the driveway, and another, nearly identical vehicle was parked at the curb. Scully carefully schooled her expression as she got out of the car. She was probably being paranoid, but maybe she hadn't imagined that twitch of the window curtain. Either way, it just made good sense to be cautious. After the intrusion on her night's sleep, she had gone back to bed, but only tossed and turned fitfully. Toward dawn she had dozed, but it had been a restless, uneasy sleep, and this morning she was exhausted, and her eyes felt full of gritty sand. She had dressed carefully, sure that she would forget something in her fatigue, and leave the motel sans pants or something else equally unforgivable. Frank Jessup had provided a box of donuts and some weak orange juice for a "continental breakfast", but Scully had not eaten. Mulder looked as tired as she felt. There was a downward slump to his shoulders, and he carried himself tightly, as if any jostling movement would break him. She wondered if he was in pain from where the rock had struck him, but she knew better than to ask. A T-shirt-and-overall'ed Quinn Presslee answered the door before they could even knock. Scully decided it must have been him peeking through the window, watching for their approach. He said nothing as they came in, but grunted slightly as he shut the door behind them. Inside, the house was clean and tidy. Most of the furniture was secondhand, and bore a chipped finish, or bad upholstery, but it was free from dust and stains. Framed photographs hung on the walls; some were of Douglas and Brandy, but most were of a beautiful red-haired girl with dimples and a wide smile. The Mosers sat on a flowered loveseat, knees touching. They murmured a greeting to their guests, but did not get up. Quinn Presslee sat on an armchair covered in a yellow sheet with a grunt. Scully sat beside Mulder on the couch and pulled out her notebook and pen. She had thought Mulder would leave it up to her to start, but he surprised her by speaking right away. "I know this is difficult for you, Mr. and Mrs. Moser. I know you've already told your story to Sheriff Bedford, and we'll try to be quick, and get this over with as soon as possible." The men were silent, but Brandy inclined her head. "Thank you," she murmured. "Why don't you just tell us what happened, from the beginning?" Mulder asked. Brandy Moser inhaled deeply, threw a glance at her husband, then began speaking. "Linda didn't go to school yesterday. When she woke up she told me her throat hurt and she felt a bit feverish, so I kept her home. She went back to bed for a few hours, while I did some housework." She paused, and her hands gripped each other tightly on her knees. "Around nine o'clock, Linda got up, and said she felt better. She asked if she could go outside and play. I told her she could, as long as she stayed in the backyard, and kept her coat on." Reflexively, Scully looked up, toward the rear of the house. A tiny kitchen was to her right, and over the sink was a window. Surely Brandy Moser had stood there for years, watching her only child at play. "She went outside around nine-thirty, and I checked on her every now and then. When I looked for her at eleven o'clock, she wasn't there. I went outside and I--I called f--for her. But she wasn't there. She was g--gone." Brandy broke down into tears, unable to speak anymore. Scully winced. The pain of losing a daughter was one she knew all too well, but losing Emily was entirely different from what the Mosers were experiencing. "What did you do then?" she asked softly. Douglas gave her a look that said, What do you think she did? From his armchair, Quinn Presslee grunted sourly. Brandy wiped her face. "I went outside and looked for her. I called, but she didn't answer. I knew something was wrong then." She lifted wet eyes to Scully. "You see, Linda is very bright. She's a lot smarter than Doug and me. She wouldn't hide for no reason. She wouldn't do that. So...so I went back inside and I called Doug, then I called the police." The young woman scrubbed at her tears. "When the police came out, they couldn't find anything. There was an adult-sized footprint near the back fence, but that was all." "Until you called Buck," Douglas Moser said to Mulder, "and said you knowed who did this." "I do know," Mulder agreed. "His name is Monty Propps." Brandy stared at him, wide-eyed. "How do you know that?" "He's done this sort of thing before," Mulder said. "In 1988, in North Carolina. He kidnapped and killed six women. He was very good at it; he was hard to catch." "But you caught him, dincha?" Quinn Presslee said. They were the first words Scully had heard him speak. Mulder nodded. "Yes, I did. Propps was released from prison two years ago. Since then he has been committing crimes, moving from one town to another." "Killing little kids," Doug Moser said sickly. "Mr. Moser, we will find this man before he can hurt your daughter," Scully said firmly. Even as she spoke the words, she was mentally berating herself. "Got any idea why he'd come to our neck of the woods?" Quinn asked. "I bet you got some idea, doncha, Mr. Fox Mulder?" None-too subtle anger colored his voice, deepening it. Mulder met the man's stare levelly. "You seem to have an idea of your own, don't you, Mr. Presslee?" "Damn straight I do," Quinn said. "That fellow's pissed at you for putting his ass behind bars. And now that he's out, he's getting himself some revenge. Only he's killing little girls to do it." He looked at Mulder challengingly. "Am I right, or am I right?" "You're right," Mulder said quietly. "However, what Agent Scully said is correct. We will find this man first. Your daughter will not be harmed." Scully gripped her pen tightly. Oh Mulder.... The Mosers seemed uncertain what to do now. They stared at Mulder in mingled anger and hope. "I-- So what happens now?" Brandy finally asked. "I'd like to take a look around outside," Scully said, standing up. "I'm sure the police did a thorough job gathering evidence, but I'd like to see it anyway." Douglas nodded. "Sure. Just go on through the back door." Scully walked through the family room and into the kitchen. The back door was curtained in the same flowered material that covered the loveseat. Feeling slightly ill, she pushed the door open and stepped out into the morning. **** The Moser's backyard was as tiny and well-maintained as the front. A swing set dominated the area, and a wooden fence surrounded it all. Yellow police tape was strung across the yard, jarringly bright against the gray March morning. A slighty frayed jump rope was tied to one of the swings. The hot pink plastic end wobbled back and forth in the cool wind. Mulder stared at it all, his throat tight and aching. That jump rope, sole evidence that once-upon-a-time a young girl had played here, struck a painful chord deep within him. There were probably half a million jump ropes with hot pink handles scattered around the globe, yet at the moment, the only one he could picture was one that was probably stashed in an attic trunk somewhere on Martha's Vineyard: Samantha had loved to jump rope. He glanced over at Scully, and was unsurprised to see her eyes were wet. A different kind of pain clutched him then, one that was reserved strictly for his partner -- there would be no pink jump ropes in her future. They walked down the lawn toward the gate, Mulder moving slowly because of his back, and Scully matching her pace to his. Eventually, they ran out of grass to cross, and there was nothing to see but wooden fence and a single footprint. It was a smallish print; it could have been made by either a short man or a taller woman. Set off from the fence by a yard at most, it existed by itself, a single imprint in a grassless patch of red earth. Looking down at it, Mulder felt sudden fury sweep through him. Somewhere in this small town, a little girl was crying, and Monty Propps was laughing at him. **** End Part 4 Thunder in the Air (5/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** Fox Hunt Police Station 9:42 a.m. They mounted the steps to the station slowly. Mulder was chagrined to admit he didn't want to go inside that building, and face the anger and resentment within. He was tired and hungry, and the aspirin he'd taken early that morning was not working; his back hurt terribly, and he longed for a few hours' uninterrupted sleep. For a fleeting moment he thought of leaving, anyway. He could do it; God knew he was good at it, even. He could turn around and skip down the steps, throwing Scully an excuse over his shoulder. He could let her be the one to deal with the police, with the ugliness this case was stirring up. He could sneak back to the hotel and sleep, then come back later, feeling rested and human again. One glance at his partner was enough to dispel any ideas along that line. Self-disgust filled him. Dear God, had he really entertained the thought of ditching his partner? Now? Here? When all this was his fault, did he really think that running away from it would solve anything? Scully climbed the steps beside him, unhurried, her head bowed, a stray lock of red hair bouncing against her cheek. Her expression was grim, but determined. Mulder knew she would never think of running, she would never abandon little Linda Moser, and a town whose need for hope outmatched its need for anger. She would always stay, she would always carry on, and that was one of the reasons he loved her, Mulder knew. Her stubbornness, her willingness to overcome any obstacle in order to go forward, her loyalty, her sheer persistence -- was it any wonder they were still partners after six years? Anyone else would have run off screaming within the first three months. But Dana Scully was not "anyone else." She was who she was. She was Scully, and he loved her. He couldn't run off on her, not now, not ever. Mulder increased his pace a bit, just enough to ensure that he reached the top of the steps before Scully did. He opened the door for her, and as she walked through he touched her back lightly, the way he always had, and the way he hoped he always would. **** 9:44 a.m. The receptionist was almost seventy, with graying hair pulled into tight curls all over her head. She wore a shapeless blue dress, and looked as solid as Quinn Presslee. Quite probably she had worked here all her life. She stared at them as they walked past, glaring at these two strangers who dared intrude on her turf. Two younger officers were walking down the hall toward them as they entered the station; one of them was Officer Rowland. He nodded slightly in greeting. "Enjoying your stay?" he asked. Mulder clenched his fists inside his coat pockets and wished he could slam the kid against the wall. No doubt Rowland knew all about the rock being thrown through his window, right down to the identity of the man who'd done it. "Actually, we are," Scully replied in a too-bright voice. "In fact, I was thinking of getting some real-estate information about this area. I really like it here. I might buy a summer home here." Rowland and the other officer stopped dead in their tracks. The young mens' eyes narrowed, meeting Scully's in a contest of wills. Mulder stood off to the side, utterly forgotten by all three of them. The other deputy surrendered first. He pointed to an open door on his right. "I gotta-- " He quickly ducked into the room. His exit broke the spell. Rowland gave Scully a brief smile. "I'm sure we could fix you up just right," he said. The double meaning of his words was not lost on either agent. Mulder strode forward. This was ridiculous. "Do you have an unused office we could use, for our investigation? We need a phone and access to a fax machine. I also need to see the police report on Linda Moser's kidnapping." Rowland made no move to help. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, mimicking Sheriff Bedford. "Speaking of faxes, we never did get that sketch you promised us of this guy, Agent Mulder. What's that all about?" Dammit. Mulder cursed inwardly. He had wanted to make copies of that sketch, and post one on every upright surface in town. He'd planned to broadcast the sketch on the local TV station, fly it from a banner behind a Cessna-152 -- whatever it took, he wanted the people of Fox Hunt to know their enemy. But now, with no sketch, Monty Propps was still the faceless enemy. And he, Fox Mulder, was known to the townspeople all too well. **** 10:13 a.m. After coming up with every excuse in the book, and some original ones, Officer Rowland had finally caved in and taken them to a back office. While passing through the hallway, Scully had seen Sheriff Bedford sitting in his office, feet up on his desk, smiling lazily in their direction. He had probably heard every word of the confrontation in the hallway. "I've about had it with these people," she'd muttered, after Rowland had left them alone. Mulder had gotten a look of careful consideration on his face. "Well..." he'd finally murmured, "we've got a full tank of gas...it's about three hours to Memphis...wanna go see Graceland, Scully?" She'd smiled, despite herself. That lightness of mood hadn't lasted. Mulder had wasted no time in calling the sketch artist he'd drafted to make the composite drawing of Propps. He had not been on the phone for long before making a series of other calls. Now he hung up for the last time, and dropped his head into his hands. "Do you want to hear a story, Scully?" She pursed her lips. "That depends on if it has a happy ending." Mulder spoke into his laced fingers, muffling his voice. "The sketch artist I contacted got into a car accident on his way to the prison to interview the guards. He's in the hospital, in traction with a broken neck. The Raleigh Bureau office has been trying to contact me since then, leaving me messages, both at my office in DC, and finally with one Sheriff Smithfield, in Fox Chase, Kentucky." He looked up, hair standing up where his fingers had pushed at it. "Goddammit, Scully! What is with these people? Don't they understand we're trying to *help* them?" Angrily, he stood, then winced and sat back down heavily. "God..." Scully got to her feet. "Mulder." She went to his side, then stopped, unsure what to do. "You should go see a doctor," she finally said, falling back on her favorite line. Her partner gave her a faint smile. "I thought I did that last night when I let you examine me." She cocked her head to one side, her gesture of exasperated affection. "Mulder..." She sighed. "How much does it cost to get into Graceland these days?" Surprised, he looked up at her. "What?" she said in mock indignation. "You can talk about running away, but I can't?" A strange mixture of emotions crossed Mulder's face, darkening his eyes. A short chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head slightly. "What?" Scully asked. "Nothing," Mulder said. "It's just-- I'm glad you're my partner, Scully. I wouldn't want anyone else here with me." She relaxed somewhat. "I wouldn't either," she said. "That's good," Mulder replied, "because one of us has to call Skinner. And I'm going to be busy calling Sheriff Smithfield and retrieving my messages." He picked up the phone and began dialing. **** She used her cell phone, since there was only one phone in the office, and she'd be damned if she wandered the halls, begging for the use of another phone. Skinner was glad to hear from her; although he never said anything specific, it showed in the tone of his voice. "How are things in Kentucky, Agent Scully?" She'd moved to one corner of the office, so their separate conversations wouldn't overlap, and she glanced up at Mulder, at the tension in his hunched shoulders, the white-knuckled grip he had on the phone. "We're no longer in Kentucky, sir," she said. Skinner waited, saying nothing, and she continued speaking. "After we arrived in Fox Chase, Agent Mulder and I learned that a young girl had been kidnapped in the town of Fox Hunt, Tennessee." Nine hundred miles away, the Assistant Director let out a sigh. "May I assume that is your new location?" "Yes, sir," she replied. "We are working toward finding Monty Propps and bringing him in." "You're sure it's him?" Skinner asked. Scully blinked. "I don't see who else it could be, sir." "All right. Have you contacted the Bureau in Memphis?" She shook her head, a gesture Skinner couldn't see. "No, sir, not yet. Although we may have to do that, very soon. We're finding the local authorities here to be...less than cooperative." Skinner grunted. "I'm sure." He paused, perhaps wondering if he should even ask his next question. "How is Agent Mulder?" Scully glanced up at her partner again. His posture hadn't changed much. "He's fine, sir. We're both under a lot of pressure, but it's nothing we can't handle." In other words, He got the message. "Let me know if you need anything," the AD said. "Thank you, sir." She hit the End button and put her phone away. **** Debbie's Kitchen 12:38 p.m. Whoever Debbie was, Scully mused over a forkful of cold chicken, she wasn't much of a cook. Fox Hunt's only sit-down restaurant was mostly empty, even during the lunch hour, which suited the federal agents just fine. "The guy in Raleigh said he'd have us a sketch by six tonight," Mulder said. He hadn't eaten much of his meal, choosing instead to push the food around on his plate until it had blended into a cold, brownish hash. "And Smithfield?" she asked, laying down her fork. "He'll get a copy faxed to him, too." Mulder drew a wavy line through the mush on his plate with the edge of his knife. "After lunch I want to go to the high school." Scully frowned. "Why?" "They have a radio station broadcasting from there," Mulder replied. "The students run it themselves. They do football games and that sort of thing." Her stomach clenched hard around the food she'd just eaten. "And?" "Propps must know I'm here by now," Mulder said. "I think it's time he and I finally got together and had a chat." "Over the radio," she said flatly, one eyebrow unconsciously lifting. Mulder shook his head. "In private. Just him and me. I'll extend the invitation, and hope he shows up." "Mulder, no!" Through her shock, part of her was completely unsurprised. She should have suspected Mulder would try something like this. "It's the only way, Scully. He's been doing this for over a year. He knows how to hide, how to get away with it. He'll do it again here, if we don't stop him." "So you're going to do, what? Just turn yourself over to him?" she asked caustically. Her partner looked up at her, and there was faint hurt in his eyes. "Do you really think so little of me, Scully?" Fear for his safety made her disregard caution. "No. I think more of him!" Mulder winced, but she ignored it. "This man is a killer, Mulder. You said it yourself -- he's been doing it for years. He's used to getting what he wants, and right now what he wants is to get *you*. If you give yourself up to him, he'll kill you like all his other victims, and then go on killing, without batting an eye." Her voice had risen throughout her tirade, and abruptly she realized that they could probably hear her back in the kitchen. She leaned in and lowered her voice. "Mulder, look. I know that you feel...trapped here...like there's no other solution. But there is. There has to be." She sat up. "I won't let you do this." Mulder stared at her. "It's not your decision," he said. "Whatever happened to not wanting anyone else here with you?" she asked, aware that she was aiming below the belt by throwing his words back at him, but not caring. "I think what you meant by that was that you knew you could ditch me, go off and do your own thing, no matter how reckless or dangerous, and I'd not stop you. Anyone else wouldn't let you do it." "Scully--" She stood up, interrupting him by the sudden motion. "Well, I'm telling you now, Mulder, that I won't stand back and let you do this. And if you persist in doing it, then you'll do it with someone else here, not me." Moving quickly, but with deliberate calm, she left the restaurant. **** 12:57 p.m. Halfway to the hotel, she realized that by taking the car, she had effectively stranded Mulder at the restaurant. She took a perverse satisfaction in this. Maybe he would think twice about his scheme if he had to walk all the way to the high school. Frank Jessup's pickup still sat where it had been parked all night. But now it had been joined by a newer, black vehicle. And a man sat in front of her door. Scully got out of the car hesitantly. Her visitor was Quinn Presslee, Brandy Moser's older brother. He had not struck her as the voice of reason earlier, and she could think of nothing that would have made him change his attitude. Suddenly she wished she had not left the restaurant by herself. "Agent Scully?" Presslee had been lounging against the wall, and at her approach he straightened up. The day had turned fairly warm, but over his blue coveralls, he now wore a vinyl black jacket. "Yes." She made her voice brisk and professional. "What can I do for you?" Quinn hooked his thumbs in his belt. "I wondered if I might talk with you about this case of yours." She made no move toward her door. "Do you have any more information on it?" He frowned. "What does that matter?" "It matters a lot, Mr. Presslee," she said. "Under federal regulations, I am not allowed to discuss an ongoing case with anyone other than the parties involved." "Linda's my niece," Quinn growled. "I would say that makes me involved." She could stand out here and quibble over semantics, or she could let the man in. Scully pulled out her room key. "Yes, you are," she sighed. The big man followed her inside, rubbing his hands together as he did so. "Gonna storm tomorrow, they say," he said. He shut the door and looked at her expectantly. She did not pursue the small talk. "What can I do for you?" she repeated. "I had an idea about how to flush this guy out of hiding," Quinn said. "Wanted to run it by you first." She made a small gesture. "Go ahead." Presslee unzipped his jacket. "Well, it works like this. See, a guy like me..." He trailed off and rubbed a large hand across the lower half of his face. Earlier this morning he had been perfectly clean-shaven, but already he had the good start of a stubbly beard across his cheeks. "A guy like me, Agent Scully, don't have much. I've never been married. I lost my job a year ago when they put me on disability down at the factory. I used to be union president, but I lost that, too. So my sisters and their kids is all I've got. They're my family, and I love 'em like they was my own kids." With a speed Scully would not have thought the man capable of, he moved. One hand reached into his jacket, and a split second later, a .45 was pointed at her. "And I aim to see that nothing happens to that little girl, you understand?" **** End Part 5 Thunder in the Air (6/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** Scully stood frozen still, both hands in plain view, cursing the fact that she still wore her coat. For her to grab her own weapon would require an extra second to reach under that additional layer of clothing. Damn. "I understand you're upset, Mr. Presslee," she started. "Just call me Quinn," the man said. "I want you to slowly drop your gun to the floor. I know you're carrying one, even if I can't see it." She began reaching backward with one hand, and Quinn cocked his gun. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "I don't hold with that. But I will kill you, if I think you're about to pull a fast one on me. You're not gonna pull a fast one, are you?" Scully gritted her teeth and shook her head. "No." "Good. Now go on, move slowly. Just put it on the floor, then step over here." He moved toward the chair in the corner of the room. Scully did as he ordered, moving as slowly as possible. Maybe Mulder had asked for help from some diner at the restaurant. Maybe someone had finally let go of their resentment and anger and unbent enough to give him a ride. "What are you going to do to me?" she asked quietly. "Nothin'. I don't hurt women. There are some sick guys out there who do, but I'm not one of 'em. That's not how I was raised." Presslee gestured with the gun. "Now go sit in the chair. Put your hands behind you." She did so reluctantly, eyes on the weapon aimed at her. When Quinn approached, she tensed slightly, gauging how hard she would have to hit him to knock him down. "Don't you be pulling a fast one," he warned. "I told you, I'll kill you if I have to. My little niece comes first here. Not you, not that skinny fellow you're working with, not the Sheriff. Just my little Linda." He spoke the words with quiet conviction, and Scully knew he believed every word of it. He would shoot her if she tried to escape; he would later mourn the fact to his buddies over a beer in the local bar, but he would still do it. She held still as he looped thin clothesline around her wrists, then attached them to the back of the chair. "Where's he at?" Quinn asked. "Who?" she replied, although she knew perfectly well. Presslee slapped her. "Don't smart off, woman. I know you know who I'm talking about." There was blood on her lip and in her mouth, coppery and slick. "I thought you didn't hurt women," she said, tensing slightly in anticipation of another blow. "That's right," Quinn agreed. "But I don't let my women smart off to me, either. Now answer my question." "I don't know," she said. Quinn raised his hand again, and she added hastily, "I left him back at the restaurant. I don't know where he's going from there." Presslee frowned. "Debbie's?" Scully nodded. "Yes." She paused. "What do you want with us?" "I can't tell you that," Quinn said. He mimicked her. "Fed-your-al reg-you-la-shuns." Scully pressed her lips together in frustrated anger. Presslee approached, and she reared back in the chair as one hand suddenly dove under her coat. "Don't!" she cried. "Hush up," Quinn said casually. "I'm not trying to feel you up. I just wanta find your phone." His hand moved across her ribcage, and down to her hip, then bumped the cell phone in her pocket. As he removed his hand, his fingers brushed the underside of her breast, and a thin smile crossed the man's face. Humilation reddened Scully's cheeks, and she sat stock still as Quinn turned her phone over, figuring out how to work it. Finally he hit the Power button, and held it out. "I want you to call Agent Mulder." She lifted her chin. "No." Presslee slapped her again. She bit her bloodied lip to keep from crying out; the man's hands were incredibly strong. "I'm not gonna ask you again. Call Agent Mulder." "Why?" she asked, desperate to make the man talk. The longer she could stall him, the better the odds that Mulder would arrive on his own. "What do you want with us?" Presslee squinted at the phone, then pushed Speed Dial #1. As Mulder's name came up on the display, he smiled thinly again. "I'm gonna press this here Send button," he told her. "And when I do, you're going to talk to Agent Mulder. You're going to tell him to come meet you here." He pressed the barrel of his gun into her temple. "And if you don't, I'll shoot you and then I'll go find him anyway. So what's it gonna be?" She had no choice. "Call him," she ground out from clenched teeth. Quinn hit Send, and held the phone to her ear. The gun dug into the soft skin of her temple, a none-too subtle threat. "Mulder." He sounded slightly out of breath, and Scully's heart sank. Was he walking somewhere? "Mulder, it's me," she began, using her usual greeting. He seemed unsure of what to expect. "Where are you?" he finally asked. "I'm back at the hotel." The .45 pressed into her flesh, bringing tears of pain to her eyes. "I need for you to come back here. I need to talk to you, Fox." She held her breath and waited. Mulder didn't answer for a second. "Scully, is everything all right?" "Sure," she answered, too brightly. "I'll see you soon." Presslee took the phone away and turned it off. "Nice," he grunted. He tossed the phone onto the floor, then stomped on it with a huge yellow work boot. Plastic splintered under his foot, and computer innards splattered across the carpet. "What are you going to do?" she asked. Now that she had spoken with Mulder, she felt strangely calm. Her use of his first name had almost certainly tipped him off that something wasn't right; he would arrive here expecting the worst, prepared for anything. "Hush," Quinn ordered again. He took a red bandanna out of his pocket and before she could jerk away, tied it over her mouth. "I can't have you hollering away in here," he said, almost apologetically. Scully stared at him with wide eyes as he strode over to the phone on the nightstand, and yanked the cord from the wall. He walked back to her and tested the rope tied around her wrists. Satisfied that she wasn't going anywhere, he picked up her gun and the key to her room. At the door, he turned around. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I gotta get my little girl back. One day, you'll have kids of your own, and then you'll understand." The warming March wind momentarily swept into the room as he opened the door, then it closed behind him and she was all alone. **** 1:13 p.m. She had called him Fox. He had not stayed long at the restaurant after she'd left, just enough to settle the bill. He had not held out any hopes of getting a ride from someone, so he had set off along the road, walking toward the police station. He assumed Scully had gone back there. But she had not. She had gone to the hotel, she had phoned him, and she had called him Fox. Scully, who had never tried to use his given name since a dark night on the Eugene Tooms case, had called him Fox. Mulder quickened his pace. Something had to be wrong. He couldn't think of what, and truthfully, it didn't matter. Scully had told him to come, so he would. An old Toyota was coming down the stretch of highway, and Mulder stepped out into the road, badge held high. He stood on the balls of his feet, ready to run if it appeared the driver wasn't slowing, but instead taking his chance to rid the town of a pesky FBI agent. The driver of the car turned out to be a woman, bleached blond and chewing gum. A sticky, screaming three-year old was strapped into a car seat behind her. "What?" she asked, eyes darting around anxiously. Mulder trotted around the car to the passenger side. "I need you to take me to the Rest Inn," he said, yanking open the door. The woman snorted. "I don't have to," she said. "I know you can't commandeer my vehicle. That only happens in Hollywood." As if agreeing, the toddler in the back let out a particularly piercing shriek. Mulder slammed the door shut as hard as he could, out of patience with these people. "I'm not commandeering your vehicle," he said angrily. "I'm *ordering* you to take me to the Rest Inn. And if you don't, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice, and then you can bet your ass I will take your car. Is that understood?" The woman stared at him, slack-jawed, the wad of pink gum in her mouth clearly visible. Finally she swallowed hard, and put the car in Drive again. "Asshole," she muttered under her breath. Mulder closed his eyes and let that one slide. **** Rest Inn 1:24 p.m. The brat in the back didn't stop squalling at all, until the very moment when the car came to a halt in the Rest Inn parking lot. Mulder squinted at the mother through a pounding headache, and wondered if he should investigate her and her child as having a psychic link; surely the two of them had engineered this whole thing. He got out of the car, ignoring the woman as she flipped him the bird when she didn't think he noticed, ignoring the way the toddler waved bye-bye. None of it mattered; it was already fading to the back of his mind. The car they had borrowed from Sheriff Smithfield in Kentucky was parked in the lot, down a few spaces from Room 14, the new accommodations Scully had moved to after the rock incident. Mulder himself was in Room 15, right beside an ancient Coke machine. Both doors were closed. There was a black pickup in the lot now too, that hadn't been there this morning. It looked like the one he'd seen parked at the curb of the Moser's house, the truck he assumed belonged to Quinn Presslee. Was Presslee here? Had he come forth with information on the case? Or had he come to intimidate them? Mulder walked toward Room 14, one hand hovering over his hip, ready to pull out his weapon. In this town, it didn't pay to take any chances. "Scully?" He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. Moving two feet to his right, he knocked on the door to his own room. "Scully, you in there?" He was reaching for his room key when he heard a faint thump from inside Scully's room. Forgetting the key, he pulled his weapon. "Scully?" He tried turning the doorknob, but it didn't budge. "Scully, can you hear me?" That faint thumping noise sounded again, and Mulder turned to the side, ready to throw himself against the door. As he did so, someone came toward him from around the Coke machine. Startled, he looked up, directly into Quinn Presslee's face. It happened incredibly fast. The big man grabbed his wrist, squeezing and yanking down. The gun fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering on the cement sidewalk. He started to bring up his other hand, and Quinn seized it and pivoted on one foot, dragging Mulder behind him. The result was Presslee made a neat turn, while Mulder stumbled around in a large circle, stopping only when he came face-first into contact with the brick wall between Room 14 and 15. Quinn let go of his wrists, and he slumped to the ground, already unconscious. **** Room 14 1:26 p.m. Scully sat frozen in silence, straining to hear something, anything. Mulder had called her name, and she had managed to stand up awkwardly in the chair, then slam the legs down onto the floor. He had seemed to hear her, for he had called out to her again. Then there had been a loud thud against the wall, enough to startle her. Then nothing. She flexed her legs and managed to get to her feet again, bent over at the waist, the weight of the chair pulling painfully at her bound wrists. She took a halting step forward, then another, before having to sit down again. The effort left her panting heavily, and she almost missed the sound of a car engine starting. Wide-eyed, she looked up toward the window, wishing the drapes weren't pulled, that she could see. The sound grew closer, then a car door slammed, while the engine was left on idle. After a minute, another door opened, then was closed as well. The engine swelled as the vehicle was put in drive, then faded into silence as the truck pulled away. Oh yes. Truck. She knew who had just left. Quinn Presslee. And he had Mulder with him. Who needed to be able to see, when she could piece together what had happened just from the sounds from outside. Presslee had Mulder, and until she could get out of this room, no one would know, no one would help. Steeling herself, Scully rose to her feet again and started on the long journey to the door. **** Rhythmic rocking woke him, that of a vehicle in motion. There was a high-pitched screaming noise in his head...that little kid? No, that couldn't be right...he'd gotten out of that car, and there had been closed doors, and Quinn Presslee, and a brick wall coming closer and closer...He groaned, and tried to open his eyes. "Not yet, you don't," a voice said, then something heavy struck the back of his head, sending him back into oblivion. **** End Part 6 Thunder in the Air (7/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** 2:27 p.m. An hour, that's how long it took. Slightly more than one hour elapsed before she reached the door, and at the end of those sixty minutes, she was drenched in sweat and blood, sick to her stomach at the thought of those wasted seconds, struggling not to pass out. Feebly she kicked at the door, hammering her heels against it. The bandanna had slipped from around her mouth as the sweat had poured down her face, and she shouted as loud as she could. Blood slicked her wrists and hands from where the clothesline had bit into her skin. Each painful step forward had put all the chair's weight on that tender flesh, until she had been whimpering under the gag, heedless of who might hear her. And dear God, there had to be somebody who would hear her. There had to be. **** Time Unknown Location Unknown Waking up this time was much worse. He was being lifted, carried through the air by two thick arms, then dropped to the ground. Black agony bolted through his head, and he moaned, fighting to maintain the tenuous hold he had on consciousness. "So you're awake, huh?" A male voice spoke from somewhere above him. Hands stripped off his suit coat, then he was turned over by a boot prodding at his ribs. "Hold still now," the man said. Mulder tried opening his eyes and was rewarded by another blast of pain. A deep groan was wrung from him, and he didn't move as his wrists were yanked behind him, then manacled together with his own cuffs. Strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him upright. The sudden change in posture hurt too much, and he grayed out momentarily, only to be brought wide awake again by sudden sharp pain in his shoulders. "Better stand up," the voice warned. Mulder hastened to get his feet under him, and when he did, the pain lessened. "You keep standing there, and you'll be fine," the man said. Mulder recognized his voice now -- it was Quinn Presslee. "Me and my buddies come here sometimes when we go hunting, and I designed that shelf myself. You're hooked to it nicely, and as long as you stand there nice and quiet like, you'll be fine. But you don't want to be falling down or nothing, or you'll hurt yourself. You got it?" What...? It hurt too much to even think. He started to let go again, to give in to the darkness pressing in so close. His knees buckled and he slid downwards, only to be jerked up short by pain in his wrists and shoulders. He moaned, feet scrambling to push himself upright again. Presslee grunted. "You learn real quick. That's good." Mulder took a deep breath and forced his eyes open. The right one didn't want to open at all, glued shut by blood and pain. Blurrily, he found Quinn and focused on the man. "What do you want?" The sentence came out as a weak croak. A chair creaked as Quinn's heavy bulk settled into it. "Now, I expect you're wondering what this is all about, aren't you, Agent Mulder?" Mulder let his eyes close again. It hurt just to try and see. The entire right side of his face was ablaze with pain; in his mind's eye he kept seeing that brick wall coming closer and closer, and wondered if he'd imagined hearing the snap of breaking bone before falling unconscious. "Well, I'm gonna tell you," Presslee said. "I don't hold with keeping people in the dark on things that are important to them. None of this 'federal reg-you-la-shuns' bullshit from me." Federal regulations. It was just the sort of thing Scully would say. He opened his eyes again, even the reluctant right one. "What did...you do...to my partner?" he gasped. "Nothin'," Quinn said. "She's just fine. Don't worry about her. What you need to be worrying about is how we get in touch with this maniac who's kidnapped my niece." It was unbelievable. His scheme to contact Monty Propps hadn't been necessary, after all. It seemed all he had had to do was wait for Quinn Presslee to show up. The irony struck Mulder has amazingly funny, and a short chuckling sound escaped him. "You read my mind," he said. "What's that?" Quinn asked suspiciously. Mulder shut his eyes again; it hurt to talk. "I was thinking of doing the same thing," he said, moving his lips as little as possible. "Only I hadn't planned on doing it this way." He let his head fall back, and then jerked upright again as something hard and sharp dug into his skull. Presslee said, "You don't want to be moving around there, Agent Mulder. That shelf is just a row of hooks, up and down. I built that for me and my buddies, as a place to hang our hats and wet coats and our gear, when we was out hunting. I got you connected to one of those hooks, but there's plenty more above and below it. So don't be wiggling around a whole lot. You got me?" Mulder swallowed. "Yeah," he said. "Now, the way I figure it, this fellow who's got my Linda is really after you, not her. All we need to do is let him know that I've got you, and he'll come for you. Then we can do an even exchange. You for Linda. How's that sound?" Incredulous, Mulder stared at Quinn. "You want my advice on a plan where I'm the sacrificial lamb?" he asked in disbelief. Presslee's face darkened in anger. "Don't make fun of me, dammit. I'm not stupid. I know this ain't the best way to do this, but I didn't see any other choice. That's my niece he's got! Do you think I can stand back and let him hurt her?" The man got up from his chair and began pacing the small room. "Let me ask you, Mr. Mulder. What the hell would you do, if you were me? What would you do?" There was nothing he could say to that. Mulder stayed silent and eventually Quinn sat back down, calm again. "All right," he said. "That's what I thought. Now tell me, how do we reach this guy?" **** Rest Inn Room 14 6:45 p.m. Under her hand, Mulder's blood continued to pour from the wound, hot and bright arterial red. Already a thin line trailed from the corner of his mouth. Soon he'd start coughing, and the internal hemorrhaging would increase rapidly. "They better know. They damn well better figure it out," the gunman said. "Look," she said desperately. "Just walk in front of the window, and show them." Mulder's eyes opened briefly, glassy with pain and impending death. She thought he was trying to find her, and she stroked his cheek gently. "You want to get me killed!" Bernard shouted. Tears filled her eyes. "I just want everyone to live," she whispered. The flow of blood against her palm was slowing, as there was nothing left to give. Mulder's eyes were closed now, not to re-open. "You're in control here. And it doesn't have to end this way." The SWAT team was coming, and Bernard gave her a look of infinite sadness. "Yeah it does," he said. Her scream woke her up with a jerk. Cramped muscles cried out with pain and she slumped back in the chair with a moan. Four hours now in this chair, and Scully was beginning to think she'd spend the rest of her life in this room. Some fine summer day in June, when Frank Jessup finally got around to renting out all his rooms, he'd open it up to clean it and find her rotting corpse, still tied to the orange plastic chair that came with the room. No, dammit! She couldn't think like that. It was dark out now, and with no lights on around her, it was too easy to succumb to hopelessness. She had to be positive. Wearily, she began kicking at the door again, and shouting for help. Someone had to come, someone had to hear her. Nearly ten minutes later, sudden light bathed the room as a car pulled up. Scully intensified her screams and battered the door as hard as she could. She was rewarded by finally hearing a voice on the other side of the door. "Ma'am? Are you all right?" "No!" she shouted. "I'm locked in! Get me out of here!" "Agent Scully?" It was Sheriff Bedford, she realized with surprise. "Yes!" she cried. "Now get me out of here!" Five minutes later, Frank Jessup opened the door with his master key. He reached in and turned the light on. Scully cringed back from the onslaught of light, and heard both Jessup and the sheriff gasp. "What the hell happened here?" Bedford demanded. He strode forward, further squashing the remains of her cell phone, then bent down behind the chair. "Quinn Presslee happened," she said angrily. "He attacked me, then he kidnapped my partner. He's got some--" "Wait a minute," Bedford said. "He did *what*?" The ropes finally parted from her wrists, and Scully pulled them forward with a grateful sigh. The cuts there had stopped bleeding, but they still needed medical attention. She stayed seated, afraid to try to stand up and fall in front of these men. "Quinn Presslee attacked me. He told me he had an idea on how to get his niece back. He made me call my partner, and when Agent Mulder arrived, he attacked him, too." "Did you see this?" Bedford asked. "No," Scully said in exasperation. "But I heard it. My partner was outside that door, Sheriff Bedford. The fact that he has not yet come inside leads me to believe that he's no longer there." Bedford's eyes narrowed at her sarcasm. "Well," he said. "I guess that's something we'll have to look into." He gave her a long stare. "I think first we need to get you to a doctor, Miss Scully." One hand lifted and gestured to her face. "Looks like he roughed you up some." Scully brushed his hand away. "I'll be fine," she said. "I just need some rest and some water, is all." In the doorway, Frank Jessup said, "I got a first aid kit in the office, if you want it, Agent Scully." She gave him a grateful look. "Thank you, Mr. Jessup. That would be wonderful." Bedford left with Jessup. "I'll head out to the Moser's. See if they know anything about Quinn's whereabouts." Scully gained her feet, and stood, swaying. "No. You wait for me," she commanded. The sheriff stared at her, then shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "I'll be in the office, waiting for you." **** 112 Elm Street 7:28 p.m. Brandy and Douglas Moser were stunned when they heard what Quinn had done. Confronted with the evidence -- Quinn's truck had been seen in the hotel parking lot, the bruises on Scully, a scrape of blood on the wall of the hotel -- they were speechless. "I can't believe he'd do this," Brandy Moser finally said. Scully glared at them. Her wrists were bandaged, and a purple bruise was forming along her jaw from where Presslee had struck her. She was hungry and in pain, and in no mood to take any crap from anybody. "You better believe it," she spat. "Now tell us where he might have gone." Douglas Moser took offense to the way his wife was being treated. "Don't yell at her," he said angrily. "At least Quinn's out there, trying to do something about this. I don't see you guys out there finding this guy." Sheriff Bedford cleared his throat. He had refused to sit, and stood in the kitchen doorway, thumbs in his belt, rocking back and forth on his heels. He seemed perturbed by this latest turn of events, but was doing a good job of not showing it. Only to Scully had he expressed some misgivings. "Ol' Quinn, he's not been quite right since he lost his job," the sheriff had told her, on the way to the Moser's house. "What do you mean?" she'd asked. "Quinn was a welder, and a damn good one at that. He's got all sorts of burn scars on his hands to prove it, too. But he hurt his back one day, and the factory cut him loose, rather than keep him on part-time. They pay him disability, but he's still pissed about it. When it first happened, he threatened to blow the factory up, but he calmed down pretty quick after I came and had a talk with him." Bedford had given her a piercing look. "Quinn's the kind of guy who'll solve a problem with violence, every time. It's the only way he knows. I think maybe you know that now, too." Since then the sheriff had been quiet, but Scully had not forgotten his words. "Mr. Moser, I'm sorry if I've offended you," she said, striving hard for an even tone of voice. "But already today I've been assaulted by Mr. Presslee, and my partner has been hurt and kidnapped. So you can understand that I'm just a little on edge here." Moser inclined his head stiffly. "I don't know where he'd be," Brandy said. "He's only got his little house, out on Kirby Road. He doesn't have any other family. You might ask my sister, Lea." "We've got an officer out there now," Bedford said. "You can't think of anywhere else he might go?" Scully asked. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap, ignoring the pain as the flesh around her cut wrists was pulled taut. "No ma'am, I can't," Brandy said. Her eyes hardened, and Scully realized this interview was over. **** End Part 7 Thunder in the Air (8/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 7:32 p.m. He couldn't be sure, but Mulder thought Presslee had been gone for four hours now. He had stayed around for a while, talking about the best ways to get Monty Propps' attention, then left, mumbling about making things right. He had come back almost an hour later, with grocery bags of food and clothing, but had left almost immediately. He had not been back since. Time had a way of stretching out when you were in pain, Mulder realized. Second became hours, minutes became years, and an hour was a century. His right cheekbone was broken, and that side of his face was swollen and bruised. Dried blood from cuts just over his eye and on his cheek made it difficult to see. Twice now he'd been unable to prevent his knees from buckling, and his aborted downward plunges had dug the steel handcuffs deep into his wrists. He'd discovered that he could bear to lean back against the hooks in the shelf for a little while, before their sharp points started to sink into his flesh, and he had to stand erect again. But the effort of standing straight was wearing on him, and he found himself leaning backwards more and more often as the night continued. Despite Quinn's reassuring words, he worried about Scully. What had happened to her? Over and over he replayed their short phone conversation in his head. She had not sounded hurt, but that didn't mean anything. Presslee could have hurt her after she hung up. She could be injured, or dead, even. No, not dead. He had heard those thumps in the hotel room, just before Presslee had attacked. He had to remember that. Dead people didn't thump. Scully was alive, and he had to hold on to that. She would be looking for him, and probably aware of Presslee's plan. She would be doing everything she could to stop Quinn. Presslee had turned the lights off when he'd left the last time, and the darkness of the cabin was absolute. Mulder let his head fall forward and concentrated on standing. **** Fox Hunt Police Station 8:08 p.m. As they entered the building, a young officer immediately accosted them. It was the same man, Scully saw, who had been talking to Rowland earlier that morning, who had witnessed their silent battle of wills. "Sheriff! You got a fax from North Carolina! It's that guy!" The officer waved a piece of paper around, and Bedford had to literally grab it from the young man's hand. "Thank you, Keith," Bedford said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Thank *you*, sir!" the officer said. He did a smart about-face in the hallway and went back the way he had come. Scully followed the sheriff back into his office, and went to stand at his side. She had only seen Monty Propps in his mug shots, and although she knew the sketch wouldn't be entirely accurate, it would still be her first good look at the man. The sketch showed a man who looked like he'd stepped off a college campus. Thin and small, he wore glasses and had dark hair with a receding hairline. He looked utterly harmless, the kind of man who one would meet in a library or a grocery store buying broccoli. Scully stared at the drawing, committing it to memory. Without moving her eyes from the paper, she said, "Get this out. I want a copy nailed to every telephone pole in town. I want it on the front page of the newspaper. I want it broadcast on TV. I want people to see this man, what he looks like. Someone might have seen him last week, and not known who he was. Someone might recognize him now." Bedford nodded. "Sure don't look like a killer," he remarked. He shook his head. "Then again, I've seen all types. You never know who will be a killer, do you?" Scully looked up at the man. "No, you don't," she said carefully. "Sheriff, I know you are going to focus your efforts on finding this man, but I am going to need some help in finding my partner." Bedford dropped his gaze. "Agent Scully, this here's a small town. I've got a small force, and we're already stretched thin enough as it is." He gave her a deprecating glance. "Fact is, for three years now I've been trying to squeeze more money out of the town treasury for my budget, so I can get some new officers. And every year--" "I don't want to hear your sad history, or your excuses," Scully snapped. "There is a federal agent out there, who is hurt and in danger. Do you mean to tell me that you won't spare any men to help find that agent?" The sheriff met her eyes, and the aw-shucks look faded, replaced by cold cunning. "Agent Scully, you gotta understand something. Probably half this town thinks Quinn Presslee's done the right thing by taking matters into his own hands. And of those half, I suspect none of them would shed a tear if your partner were to die." He crossed his arms, rocked back on his heels. "Now, I'd be happy to lend you an officer to help, but I gotta tell you, I don't know just how much help he'd really be to you. If you catch my drift." Scully was shocked speechless. It was one thing to hold a grudge, to be angry with someone for being responsible for the kidnapping of an innocent little girl. She could understand that, much as she despised it. But to deliberately turn your back on a fellow human being in danger... "Fine," she said icily. "I appreciate all the help you've given us so far, Sheriff Bedford. I will be sure to commend you and your officers to the Department of Justice." Bedford frowned, and she drew herself up to her full height, sadly aware that even so, she was still over a foot shorter than the sheriff. "As a federal officer, it is my reluctant duty to inform you that I will no longer be helping your investigation, Sheriff Bedford. You and your men are on your own." Stiffly she bowed her head once, then turned around and left the station. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:42 p.m. Presslee stumbled as he entered the cabin, and muttered a string of curses. He hit the light switch with one large hand, and watery yellow light pierced the gloom. Against the wall, Mulder shut his eyes from even that weak glow. "All right," Presslee said. He sat in the chair again. "I've done my part. Now all we do is wait." Mulder opened his eyes and stared at him dully. Most of Quinn's words washed over him and made no impression, but he did hear and understand the word "wait". The tiny hope that Presslee's arrival had sparked died a quick death then. Quinn leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. "Didja hear what I said?" he asked, squinting at his prisoner. "I got the word out on the streets," he said. "I even got ol' Bud Williams down at the high school to get a word out on the radio for me. Bud and me go way back, you know. We was in school together, and all that." None of it made any sense to Mulder. He was beyond caring. The only things left in his world were pain and the need to stand up. There wasn't room for anything else. Presslee stood up, knees cracking. "I'm gonna be staying here tonight. I don't know how long this guy will take 'fore he shows up. But I figure, better safe than sorry, you know?" He went into the far corner of the room. A rust-stained sink and battered white refrigerator stood against the wall; a hot plate sat on a Formica counter so warped it appeared to ripple. "I guess you must be thirsty," Quinn said. He turned the faucet on and let the water run for a while, to get the dirt and rust out. From across the room, Mulder stared at that precious water running down the drain and wanted to cry. Seeing the water had admitted a third thing into the narrow scope of his world: thirst. Presslee finally filled a Dixie cup with water and carried it over to Mulder. "Drink it slowly now," Quinn warned "I don't want you getting sick all over ya'self." He tipped the cup, and Mulder opened his mouth, sucking greedily at the few drops Quinn allowed him. The parched tissues of his throat cried out at the liquid, and begged for more. Presslee lowered the cup and drained the rest himself. Mulder watched him drink and could not stop himself. "More, please," he croaked. Quinn shook his head. "Nuh-uh." He crushed the cup in one huge fist. He went over to the door and locked it, then dropped the cup in a trash can by the door. He unrolled a navy blue sleeping bag, and toed off his boots, setting them carefully at the foot of his makeshift bed. Yawning, the big man walked over to the door and hit the light switch. In the dark, he fumbled his way to the sleeping bag and crawled in. He yawned again and said, "You just go on to sleep now. You and me, we got a busy day tomorrow." Within minutes, he was snoring. Mulder closed his eyes and hoped he could remember not to lean backwards for too long. **** Rest Inn Room 15 11:13 p.m. The Coke was warm and flat by now, but Scully took a sip anyway. She needed the caffeine, if she was to stay up. She sat at the table in Mulder's hotel room; she had been too spooked to stay her in own room, and Frank Jessup had obligingly given her the key to this one. Spread around her was the accumulated paperwork this case had generated. The Nashville Bureau office was running a background check on Quinn Presslee. She had given them the fax number of the Rest Inn, rather than that of the police station. Other information had been faxed to her earlier in the evening, but it was still depressingly sparse. Right now she was reading his work record from the factory, which was nearly flawless until his back injury. A co-worker had been carrying some welding face masks, and not paying attention to where he was walking. He'd tripped over a ladder, toppling the equipment onto two men; Quinn Presslee had been one of them. The accident had been over a year ago. Since then, Presslee had divided his time between living off his disability pay, and living off his sisters. Lea Presslee had been as unhelpful as her sister. Divorced at age 26, and the mother of a six-year old boy, she was jaded and bitter far beyond her years. She didn't know where Quinn could be, and furthermore, she said, even if she did she wouldn't tell. Unfortunately, Scully knew Lea's attitude was the prevailing one in town. People were proud of Quinn for taking action; he showed the gumption most of them lacked, but wished they had. Linda Moser was known as a bright, loving little girl; FBI Agent Fox Mulder was just the man responsible for her kidnapping. When it came to feeling compassion for a victim, there was no comparison. A huge yawn cracked her jaws, making her wince in pain. The words on the page blurred before her. She rubbed her eyes and started reading through Presslee's hospital records from the accident. Somewhere, in this mountain of paper, there had to be one small nugget of important information. Somewhere, there had to be the one clue that would point her in the right direction. Somewhere, her partner was waiting for her to find him. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin Time Unknown "Fox." He laughed. "No..I even made my parents call me Mulder." It was a blatant lie, but she wouldn't know that. "I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you," Scully said. She smiled, and he returned the gesture, feeling safe and relaxed. Her blue eyes grew very serious. "I need to talk to you, Fox." Sudden fear blossomed within him. "No," he said, "I can't, Scully. No." If he listened to her, if he went to the hotel, it would all happen again, the pain, that brick wall, the pain...no. Scully merely stared at him solemnly. "I need to talk to you," she repeated. Against his will, his feet began moving. "No," he moaned in protest. But his feet refused to obey. They slid out, and suddenly he was falling, down and down and down, until the blazing agony in his shoulders and arms became unbearable and he was screaming, trying futilely to stand again, stand and stop the pain, just stand... "Goddammit, shut up!" A fist came flying out of the dark, and Mulder jerked fully awake at the impact, horribly aware of who and where he was. He was still sliding downward, his arms slowly being torn from their sockets, his wrists nearly touching his collar as they were pulled further and further upwards. Frantically he scrambled to stand up straight, tasting blood in his mouth from the blow, his face a red mask of pain. "Jesus H. Christ," Quinn Presslee swore sharply. "What the hell are you trying to do, huh?" He thumped back to his sleeping bag, muttering curses under his breath. "Please," Mulder whispered. "I can't--I can't stand like this anymore. Please just let me down." "Nope." Quinn yawned. "I know all about you feds, and that hand-to-hand combat you all know. No, you're staying put." Desperation gave him strength to shout. "I can't even stand up here! What do you think I'm going to do to you?" Presslee didn't reply. "Please, Quinn," Mulder said. "I'm begging you. Is that what you want to hear? I'm begging you, please, just let me down." "What I want," Quinn growled, "is for you to shut the fuck up, or *I* will shut you up. Is that what *you* want?" The sleeping bag rustled as he rolled over. Oh God... There was no point in further humiliating himself. The rush of adrenaline-fueled anger left as quickly as it had come, and all the pain came crashing back, sapping his strength. Mulder hung his head and choked back a helpless sob. **** End Part 8 Thunder in the Air (9/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. **** Saturday, March 6, 1999 Fox Hunt, Tennessee The dawn was barely perceptible. Gray storm clouds loomed on the western horizon, combatting the pearly new light in the east. The weathermen warned commuters to take their umbrellas to work today, and be sure to dress the kiddies in their raincoats. It was going to storm today, and bad. **** 7:36 a.m. 112 Elm Street Just before dawn, Scully had finally managed to get some sleep. She'd lain sprawled across the table, her head pillowed by Quinn Presslee's records. She'd dreamed of the big man, his hand coming toward her face over and over, dispassionately hitting and hitting. She'd woken with a jolt, her neck cramped and aching, eyes swollen and hot. Unable to fall back asleep, she'd decided to pay the Mosers another visit. Maybe in the first light of a new day, they'd be more cooperative. She'd arrived as Douglas Moser was leaving for work, putting in some Saturday overtime to compensate for the hours he'd missed on Thursday and Friday. Brandy had greeted her and now the two women sat in the kitchen, sipping weak coffee. "Doug and me," Brandy said, "we got a special savings account down at the bank. Every month we put some of Doug's paycheck in it. It's to pay for Linda to go off to college. Some months it's harder to get by, but we never miss a deposit in that account." The woman's lower lip trembled briefly, then her mouth hardened. "Linda's going to go to college. Hardly anyone from this shitty little town ever leaves, ever gets away, but my Linda will. She's smart enough. She's going to go away, and I hope she never comes back." Scully gripped her coffee mug. "I had a daughter once," she said softly. Brandy looked up at her, wide-eyed. "What happened?" she whispered. Usually when she thought of Emily, Scully kept herself under a tight rein. Now, however, things were different. She'd never use her dead daughter for personal gain, but she would not deny herself her emotions this time. "She died." Brandy Moser's face softened. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 6:48 a.m. Quinn Presslee woke up early, as he always did. He washed up in the cracked sink in the corner, then dressed in a clean T-shirt and the same overalls he'd worn yesterday. He made himself some eggs for breakfast, whistling tunelessly as the yolks sizzled in the frying pan. When they were done, he sat at the table and ate. **** 112 Elm Street 7:50 a.m. "What happened to your little girl?" Linda Moser's mother asked. Scully drew a deep breath and tried not to hate herself for the tears running down her face. "She got sick. The doctors couldn't do anything for her." "I'm sorry," Brandy said. The treacherous tears receded, and Scully wiped them away, wincing as her fingers touched the bruise on the side of her face. She sipped at her coffee, grateful for the steadiness in her hands. "Brandy, I don't want you to suffer the same loss that I did. I don't want anyone to ever go through that, not if I can help it." She reached out and laid her hand atop the other woman's. "And I *can* help it, this time. Let me help you, Brandy." The young mother nodded through her tears. "Then help me," Scully urged. "Help me find my partner." **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 7:55 a.m. The knock on the door was faint, and Presslee almost missed it. Then it came again and a vicious smile crossed his face. He threw a glance at his semi-conscious captive. "What did I tell you?" he asked. **** 112 Elm Street 7:58 a.m. "I want to help you," Brandy said, "but..." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes slid to the side. Her hand left Scully's grasp. "But what?" Scully asked. "If I help you find Quinn, I'll be the reason he goes to jail," the younger woman said. "Quinn's my only brother. He's looked after me all my life. I can't just turn my back on him now." A slight glint of defiance darkened her eyes. "Besides, at least he's out there doing something." Scully chewed at her lip and forced herself to stay calm. "I understand you wanting to protect your brother, Brandy. I know the feeling -- I have an older brother, too. I know how that is." She paused. "But Agent Mulder is the one who originally caught this man. He's the one who put him in jail the first time. And Agent Mulder is the best way of capturing this man a second time. If we don't find him first, we may never find the man who took your little girl." Scully lifted her coffee cup, then set it down. "Brandy, I know you don't want to hear this, but all those other little girls only lived for three days after being kidnapped. You realize today is day three for Linda. If we don't find her today, we won't find her alive at all." Brandy jerked as if slapped. She turned her head, staring blindly outside, at the empty swing set in the backyard. Scully waited, one foot tapping impatiently. Finally the other woman looked at her again. "Can your partner really find this man?" she asked. Scully stared her in the eye. "Yes," she said. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:02 a.m. The first rumbles of thunder were on the air as Quinn opened the door to the cabin. The wind was freshening from the west, and he could smell rain. The man on the front porch was small and slender, with dark hair and glasses. He wore a brown jacket over a white shirt and jeans. He looked only a few years older than Quinn himself. His face was round, but his eyes were hard, deep set and dark brown. "You the man who's got my Linda?" Quinn asked. The man nodded. "I got someone you've been looking for," Presslee said, and opened the door wider. **** 112 Elm Street 8:15 a.m. Brandy made another pot of coffee, and poured a cup for herself and for Scully. "What will happen to Quinn?" she asked. Scully thought fast. "He'll probably be charged with two counts of assault on a federal officer," she said. "But if he cooperates with us, we might be able to drop the kidnapping charges." Brandy stared at her, brow furrowed. Scully leaned forward. "Brandy, kidnapping is a federal offense. It's also one of the few capital offenses. You can be executed for it. Do you understand what I mean when I say we could drop those charges?" The woman's eyes grew round. "You wouldn't kill him! He's just trying to help!" "We won't kill him," Scully replied curtly. She was running out of patience, but more than ever, she needed to be careful of what she said and did. Brandy was high-strung now, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. She had to keep the woman calm, keep her focused. "What's important here isn't what will happen to Quinn," she said. "What's important is getting your daughter back safely. Everything else is only secondary." "Not to me," Brandy said stubbornly, but her eyes wavered, and the hands gripping her mug trembled. "Where is Quinn?" Scully asked softly. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:10 a.m. There were voices surrounding him. Some were talking, and one of them was whimpering, a soft sound with every other exhalation of breath. But the voices and the whimpers were far off, of no consequence; they couldn't reach him. There was pain out there, too. Bad pain. He didn't want to feel that, or hear those voices any clearer, so he hunkered down where he was and tried to make himself small. Maybe the pain would miss him that way, and pass right over him. Then one of the voices spoke in his ear, close and sinister. "Hello, Fox," the voice said. Reluctantly, Mulder opened his eyes and re-entered the world. **** 112 Elm Street 8:17 a.m. "I wish I knew," Brandy said, shaking her head. Scully got up from her chair; her disappointment was so keen she could not sit still. She paced the linoleum floor. "What do you mean, you don't know?" "I don't," Brandy said defensively. "It's not like he called, or anything. He knows you'll be looking for him." She was still protecting her brother, Scully realized. In two quick strides she crossed the kitchen and knelt in front of Brandy. "Listen to me," she cried. "Your brother will be fine! I give you my word on that. Nothing will happen to him. Just tell me where I can find my partner!" **** 8:21 a.m. Outside, it began to rain, softly at first, then with increasing violence. The wind grew, whipping the trees, bending them nearly in half before snapping them back. Thunder rumbled more insistently now, and on the horizon, the first strobes of lightning lit the sky. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:25 a.m. Mulder was awake now, wide awake and terribly aware. Yet the pulsing agony of his body was pushed to the background. He was too shocked by what he saw. Presslee had done it. He had gotten Monty Propps to come. Propps stood in front of him, watching him the way a man would watch a football game on TV, half with amusement, and half with rapt attention. He seemed genuinely interested in what he saw. "Well?" Quinn could not stay in the background any longer. "I got him for you. Even roughed him up a bit for you, too, since I figured that's what you'd want." He made a sound that was supposed to be a self-deprecating cough. "So how 'bout it? How's about you giving me back my niece now? You take him and we'll call it even. How's that sound?" Propps blinked. "I think..." he said slowly. "Run," Mulder croaked, to Quinn. "He's going to kill you." Presslee frowned at him. Propps reached under his coat, a movement that Quinn could not see. He pulled out a gun and turned around, firing as he did so. The bullet caught Presslee high in the forehead, spinning him around as he fell to the ground, back arching and hands clawing at the air. He landed with a sick thud. For a grisly second his body continued to convulse, then he lay still. Mulder licked his lips as Propps put the gun back under his coat and turned back to face him. "What now?" he asked. Propps smiled, a mere thinning of his lips. His eyes didn't change at all. "Now," he said, "we talk." **** 112 Elm Street 8:28 a.m. Brandy Moser reacted to Scully's loss of control with one of her own. She leaped from her chair. "I don't care about your partner!" she shouted. "All I want is my little girl back!" "Then help me!" Scully cried. "Tell me where I can find your brother." She took a menacing step toward the blond woman. "If you don't, Brandy, your little girl dies. Is that something you want on your conscience for the rest of your life?" Brandy flinched and went white as a sheet. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She took a step backward, shaking her head. "I want my little girl," she wept. "Where's Quinn?" Scully asked, heartlessly refusing to give in to her urge to comfort the crying woman. Brandy bowed her head and wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't know," she sobbed. "He may be at the cabin he uses for hunting. That's the only place I can think of." "Where is it?" Scully demanded. "Out along the state route," Brandy said. "About half an hour west of here." Scully was out the door before she could finish speaking. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:33 a.m. "I must say, of all the ways I'd pictured this moment, I never imagined it this way." Monty Propps seemed genuinely perplexed. He paced the floor in front of Mulder, hands clasped behind his back. "I don't know how to go on from here." "You could let me down, and we could discuss it over a game of Hearts," Mulder offered. Propps smiled again. "I rather prefer you where you are," he said. Mulder let his eyes close, and struggled to force his thoughts into order. "Where's Linda?" "Oh, she's fine," Propps said vaguely. "Don't worry about her." He stopped pacing and sat on the floor, Indian-style. "Actually, if you want to know, she's in my hotel room." It took a moment for the words to sink in. "Hotel?" he croaked. "That's right," Propps said. "Room 23, if I recall correctly." He cocked his head slightly. "I was delighted to learn you and Agent Scully had moved into the Rest Inn. It was a perfect opportunity. Linda and I moved in right beside you, later that night." He paused delicately. "After you changed rooms, that is." Mulder stared at the man in shock. "What?" Propps smiled thinly. "That fat sluggard who runs the place never goes into the rooms, unless he knows someone is going to use them." "How did you know that?" "I watched him. I learned. You can discover a lot about someone by watching and learning, Fox. I'm very good at it. After all, I had plenty of time to learn while I was in prison." He paused, chewed on his lip. "Most people are creatures of habit, Fox. They-- Oh, but of course, you must know that already. That big psychology degree you have gives you insight into everyone on this planet, doesn't it?" For a moment his eyes glinted with anger, the first real emotion he'd shown that morning, then it subsided. "No matter. Suffice it to say, I have been in Fox Hunt long enough to have watched and learned all I needed to know." Propps stood up. "And now I'm going to kill you, Fox. I hope you've learned something from all this." **** End Part 9 Thunder in the Air (10/10) by Tasha Abrams Syrinx42@yahoo.com See intro for disclaimer, etc. Author's Notes at story's end. **** Fox Hunt Police Station 8:40 a.m. The station was on her way, or she would not have stopped there at all. Despite the urgency of the situation, she retained enough presence of mind to want more firearms and manpower at her back when she stormed Quinn Presslee's wooden shack. Sheriff Bedford was apologetic. "I'd love to help you, Agent Scully," he said. "Truly I would. But I've got a situation down on the south side of town. Lightning struck a strip mall out that a-way, and I've got a fire and potential looting problem down there." She pursed her lips. "Fine," she snapped. She was halfway out the door when Bedford called, "I know where Presslee's cabin is. As soon as I get this situation squared away, I'll come join you." **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:45 a.m. The elements raged outside with a fury that only spring storms could summon. The wind howled through chinks in the walls of the cabin, and the lights flickered, then went out entirely. Overhead, clouds collided and the thunder of their meeting shook the earth. Lightning flashed again and again. Monty Propps stood in the center of the cabin, an oasis of calm. He held the gun on Mulder, but seemed disinclined to fire. In the gray half-light that filtered through the dirty windows, his expression was indiscernible. "You know, I never understood how you could do it," he mused. Mulder opened his eyes. "What?" "How you could do what you did," Propps said. Mulder shook his head painfully. "I don't understand." "See, you didn't even know me. You still don't know me, although you think you do. Yet you wrote this paper on me, and what you wrote got me arrested." Propps started pacing again, walking deliberately back and forth, three steps one way, three steps back the other direction. "Understand, I expected to be caught one day. I knew I wasn't invincible. But the way it happened!" The glimpse of anger he'd shown earlier returned. Propps stopped his pacing briefly, and pointed his finger at Mulder. "You didn't play fair." "I did what I had to do," Mulder returned. "Yes," Propps said. He began his walking again. "But while I went to jail, you got all the glory. You and your magic paper. You went on to become famous, the best damn profiler in the FBI." He threw a sidelong glance at Mulder. "I know all about you," he said. "You and your history at the Bureau. I know you could have gone all the way to the top, but instead you pissed it all away on some stupid UFO assignment, or something." "The X-Files," Mulder muttered, not sure why it mattered. "Whatever." Propps waved him off. "But don't you see? You rode my coattails to the top! You had it all, while I rotted away in prison, running for my life in the laundry room, praying to God I didn't drop the soap in the shower. "My life has been a very real one. But you, you've been living a lie all this time. You're a sham, Fox Mulder, a counterfeit. You're not real." Propps came to a halt, and his head cocked to the side again. "The thing is, I couldn't stop thinking about you, and what you did to me," he said. "As much as I wanted to, I couldn't stop. So I decided to get your attention." "By killing little girls," Mulder said wearily. "It seemed fitting, given what happened to your sister," Propps said. Enraged, Mulder tried to lunge forward, to wipe that smug smirk from his tormentor's face. The cuffs about his wrists yanked him up short, and he fell against the wall. One of the hooks in the shelf impaled his lower back, and he jerked forward reflexively, needing to get that awful thing out of his body. Skin and muscle were torn apart; the pain was terrible, and he cried out hoarsely. Monty Propps smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. "Oh dear," he said. **** 9:00 a.m. The storm showed no signs of abating, and Scully was forced to drive slowly. The wipers were useless against the torrential downpour, and she drove with her window down and her head out in the rain. Her hair was plastered to her skull, and the bruise on her face stood out starkly against her pallor. The cabin was two miles from the county line, Bedford had told her. The odometer now said she should be getting close, and Scully slowed the car to a crawl, searching through the curtain of rain for a building, terrified that she'd miss it and have to turn around and start all over. After another three-tenths of a mile, she saw it, set back from the road. She slammed on the brakes, and the car slewed across the wet pavement, wheels spinning, seeking traction. It finally came to a halt at the base of a huge tree whose spreading branches were utterly devoid of leaves. Leaving the headlights on, Scully turned off the car and flung open the door. Instantly the wind grabbed it from her grasp and threw it against the side of the vehicle, where it sprang back. She jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being struck. She was soaked in seconds. The ground here was treacherous, running with rivers of red mud. Slipping and falling to her knees, she made her way to the cabin. **** Inside the Cabin 9:04 a.m. "It's too bad," Propps remarked, "that I haven't got much time to spend here. I'd love to make this last longer. I've really enjoyed our meeting like this, Fox." We'll have to do it again sometime, Mulder wanted to say, but speech was impossible. The pain was all-consuming now; there was nothing else. Propps raised the gun. "If there is any justice in this world, Fox, and I believe there is, you and I will meet again in the after-life. And this time we'll have all of eternity to play around." **** Outside the Cabin 9:05 a.m. Thunder boomed directly overhead, then the lightning struck, horrifically loud, and Scully screamed involuntarily, ducking her head. Behind her a tree splintered and caught fire, burning wood chips flying all around her. One struck her arm, leaving a raised welt there before dropping to the ground where it sizzled briefly, then went out. Over the storm, she heard a single gunshot. **** Inside the Cabin 9:05 a.m. Propps smiled. "Oops," he said serenely. "Missed. Betcha didn't see that one coming, did you? Mulder stared at him and waited. In the heavens, thunder rumbled again, and lightning strobed, blinding him with blue afterglow. And finally, another gunshot. Only, this one missed too. **** Inside the Cabin -- Scully 9:06 a.m. With the last crack of thunder, the storm spent itself. The rain slackened off, and became a soft drumming on the roof. The wind died off almost completely. Outside, the fire fizzled out, although the tree continued to smoke. Monty Propps dropped his gun, an almost comic expression of shock on his round face. In dreadful slow motion, he collapsed, his glasses falling off his nose and hitting the floor first. The rest of his body followed suit with a muffled crunch of shattering glass and plastic. Scully stood immobile in the doorway, weapon still aimed, water streaming down her face and pattering onto the floor. Across the room, Mulder stared at her in wide-eyed disbelief. "Scully," he managed, before passing out. **** Inside the Cabin -- Mulder 9:06 a.m. His own scream brought him back to consciousness, fighting to get his feet under him, breathing in harsh gasps. Oh God oh God... "Mulder!" She was there, miracle of miracles. She was truly there. He had not dreamed her. Her arms went around him, holding him up, and for a blessed moment the agony in his shoulders lessened. Scully. He wasn't sure if he said her name aloud, but she heard anyway. "I'm here," she said. "I'm going to get you out of here. You're going to be all right." She reached behind him, sliding the handcuffs over the hook in the shelf, finally allowing his arms to fall behind him. He cried out at the movement, and Scully tightened her grip around him. "It's all right," she repeated. "I'm here." **** Inside the Cabin -- Scully 9:08 a.m. She managed to get Mulder to the ground and lay him on his side. Blood poured from a fresh wound in his lower back and more of it ran from deep cuts in his wrists. The cuffs there were sunk deep into his flesh from his terrible efforts to stay on his feet. She didn't want to try removing them just yet, so she let them be. The blood bothered her intensely. It reminded her strongly of her dream, of cradling her dying partner in her arms on the floor of the bank. Don't die on me, Mulder, she prayed. Please God, don't die. "Scully." His eyes were closed, but tears of pain ran down his face. Oh God, his face. It was obvious where he'd struck the brick wall of the hotel; the bruising there was a hideous shade of blackish purple. Dried blood crusted over cuts over his right eye and along his broken cheekbone. "Scully." "I'm here," she said automatically. Still on her knees, she crept toward a blue sleeping bag that had been carelessly kicked under the table. She dragged it forward and draped it over Mulder's body. "I'm here," she repeated. "He..." Mulder's eyes opened, wildly searching the room. "Is he--" "He's dead," she said. "Both of them." The cabin reeked of blood; there would be no more hunting parties held here. Mulder's suit coat was balled up in the corner, and she took it up, patting it down until she found the cell phone in one pocket. She seized it and dialed 911. "Fox Hunt Po-lice Department," drawled the old receptionist. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully," she snapped. "I'm at Quinn Presslee's cabin, out on the west side of town. I need an ambulance out here right now. I don't want any excuses. You do it, and you do it now. Understand?" "Yes, ma'am," the receptionist said, startled out of her usual meanness. Scully turned the phone off and knelt over Mulder. He was shaking with pain and shock, and she stroked his uninjured cheek. "It's okay," she said. "The ambulance is coming." "Dint....know they...had one," Mulder gasped between shudders. She smiled, sitting back a bit so she wouldn't drip water on him. "I guess they must," she said. "The woman didn't contradict me." Mulder's eyes opened then. "Linda," he said. Scully shook her head. "We'll find her, Mulder. It's all right." "No!" He shuddered convulsively and groaned. "I...I know where...she is." She frowned. "Where is she?" The idea that a ten-year old girl could be nearby, perhaps having witnessed all this horror, made her blood run cold. "The hotel," Mulder whispered. "Room 23. Propps...had it." Stunned, Scully couldn't speak for a moment. She picked up Mulder's cell phone again. Behind her, the door opened, and Dave "Buck" Bedford stumbled in, soaking wet and hatless, his gun held out before him. He took one look at them and his shoulders slumped. "Dear God," he breathed, then shut the door behind him. **** Epilogue J. Edgar Hoover Building Monday, March 22, 1999 2:12 p.m. The steady sound of typing finally came to a halt, and Scully risked a peek from her reading. She watched as Mulder printed out his report, gathering the papers up, signing them and putting them into a manila folder. Today was his first full day back at work, and he had wasted no time in getting busy. "I thought our meeting with Skinner wasn't until tomorrow," she said. The AD had already gotten a brief summary of the case, including Linda Moser's safe recovery by Sheriff Bedford, and her return to her parents, scared but unharmed. But he had also wanted an in-depth analysis of what happened, as usual, and that was scheduled for first thing in the morning. Mulder looked up. "It is," he said, a bit perplexed. She gestured to the file. "I think this is the first time I've ever seen you write up the entire report by yourself." Mulder glanced at the file, then down at his lap. "I--" He bit his lip. "It seems like I shouldn't let anyone else do the work that's rightfully mine," he said. Scully frowned. "What does that mean?" she asked. Mulder looked at her again. The cuts on his face were almost completely healed, as were those on his wrists. The wound in his lower back still pained him a bit, but he hid it well. "It means," he said, "that--" He stopped, floundering for words. Finally he gave up. "I don't know what it means," he admitted. "I just know that I'm not going to depend on you to do all the work from now on, Scully." She smiled at him teasingly. "What, is there a full moon tonight?" Mulder didn't share in her amusement, and she sobered up. "Mulder, I don't feel like I do all the work. We're partners. We work together." He nodded, and dropped his gaze. One hand fingered the folder on the desk. "My therapist says I should talk to you about what happened," he said, in a low voice she barely heard. Her heart started pounding. "Okay." Mulder started to get up, then sank back into the chair. "I thought maybe we could go back to my place?" he tentatively asked. "Okay," she said again. She closed the journal she'd been reading and laid it on her desk. She stood up and grabbed her briefcase. "How about we take my car?" Mulder looked up at her and nodded. He got up, grimacing slightly, an expression Scully pretended not to see, although it hurt to do so. She met him at the doorway, and as they walked through it, she lifted her hand, meaning to touch his back softly, the way he always did for her. Instead of meeting cloth, her hand bumped his on its way up, seeking to touch her and guide her forward, an instinctive motion on his part. Scully smiled, and let her hand clasp his, squeezing tight. Mulder returned the gesture, and together they walked down the hall. ***** END Author's Notes: This story came from idle musings of mine one day -- I'm embarrassed to say I really can't remember how I originally got on the subject. But the end result was that I started thinking about Scully's comment in Pilot, about Mulder's monograph and how it caught Monty Propps. Of all the fanfic I'd read, none addressed this case, or even really mentioned it, other than in passing. And I wanted to explore it some. At first, this story was going to be a pre-XF one, set in 1988, but I like Scully too much to do a story without her, so I gave up that idea pretty quickly. The only other alternative seemed to be the "killer from Mulder's past comes back to haunt him" storyline. However, this is so cliched that I wanted to give it a twist. Hence, I created Quinn Presslee, the bad guy who makes the other bad guy look downright saintly. Until you meet him, that is. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. As before, I would love to hear from you. You can always write to me at Syrinx42@yahoo.com Tasha Abrams The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Download Other stories by Abrams, Tasha /Please let us know if the site is not working properly. Set story display preferences . Do not archive stories elsewhere without permission from the author(s). See the Gossamer policies for more information. /