Sunday. May 15, 1988. 11:37 AM. The Valley Inn, Bridgeport, Ohio. Room 6.

*Hell of a way to spend a Sunday.... *

Harris excused himself from the motel room, dodging crime technicians and equipment with equal care. The carpet was slick with intestines and bits of organs; just walking across the floor could earn a man hazard pay.

The motel, The Valley Inn, was located just off I-70, still in view of the Ohio River. It was small, simple but nice enough, a privately owned affair that could have been the stunt double for the Bates Motel, sans mansion. A maid had discovered the body in Room Six a little after nine; Bridgeport PD had taken one look and put out a courtesy call to Harris. He didn't take long identifying the handiwork: the star-shaped hole of a .22 semi-automatic, close-range, the jagged V-shaped incision that opened the gut from breast-line to groin. There were variables in the presentation, but Mulder had warned them she was adaptable; Harris would lay good money it was their girl.

The deputy at the door stepped aside to let him pass. He eyed the detective like he was expecting an apology or something. Like it was Harris' fault this monster had decided to expand her territory across the river. Harris smiled at him brightly and swore beneath his breath.

*Where the hell is Purdue? Called him a freaking hour ago and if he's off drag-butting around--*

He paused on the porch, squinting in the sunlight. It was a beautiful day with just enough of a breeze to keep things comfortable. A great day for hauling the kids to the zoo, or playing Frisbee with the dog. Not hanging out in blood spattered motel rooms listening to the coroner bitch and moan.

Most people tended to think that Harris' job was glamorous, a kind of Sam Spade routine with a regular paycheck, roughing up bad guys and sweet-talking mysterious dames. Harris swore it was more like being in the army: an unlimited process of hurry-up-and-wait while someone else pulled all the strings. Harris pulled strings when he could get them though: based on Mulder's revelations, Harris had sent two officers to Bellaire, scavenging records of miscarriages for the past twenty years. They'd been at it since Thursday with little to show for it; Belmont County had plenty of records but so far, there'd been nothing mentioning an Enron station. It didn't help that most of the older stuff wasn't on computer yet and a lot of early trimester deaths weren't even recorded. A pretty slow go with not much hope of yielding anything solid. Still, aside from several thousand handgun registrations it was all they had to go on right now.

The squeal of a bad rotor announced Purdue's arrival. Harris spat and got his hands on his hips as the borrowed Chevy pulled into the parking lot. Purdue might have a reasonable excuse for being late but Mr. G-man was overdue for a little ribbing. It wasn't like Mulder to let the locals get the jump on him like this. Besides, the kid had been a little too quiet lately; maybe a good-natured tongue-lashing would get him back to his old obnoxious self. God knew Harris could use the comic relief.

Purdue was the first to exit the vehicle. The look on his face kept Harris on the porch, hands slipping off his hips of their own accord. Reg looked like he'd spent the night grieving-- or maybe drinking. He wasn't meeting Harris' eye, either. Sauceda was next to tumble out; he looked tired, too, but began fussing softly, almost automatically, as he reached into the back seat. Purdue waited for him patiently, both men oddly subdued.

Harris squinted through the glare on the windshield. Sauceda was trying to help Mr. G-man out of the car and his efforts earned him an irritated backhand just this side of criminal assault. He dodged the swing deftly, waiting as Mulder finally managed to unfold his six-foot frame from the back seat. Purdue watched the proceedings with his hands in his pockets.

The profiler's movements were awkward and hesitant and he made several grabs for the car door before actually locating it. Once vertical, however, he took great care with himself, pausing to button his jacket, straightening his tie with studied concern. He was dressed to the usual nines, Armani suit and golder-than-thou shades but his right hand was bandaged, gauze wrapped tight across the knuckles, allowing only the fingertips to protrude. Both hands shook a little as he patted the tie down and his steps were slow and deliberate like he was walking on unpacked sand.

Harris frowned, scanning the solemn faces surrounding the profiler. *What the hell have they done to you, kid?*

Sauceda hovered behind his partner, watching Mulder's progress carefully but staying well beyond the range of his swinging arm. Harris took the hint and stepped back as Mulder approached. There was a single step to the porch and Mulder navigated it with a care that should have been hysterical. The detective's mouth went spitless. He made no attempt to hide his anger as he looked Purdue square in the eye. The ASAC jerked his head away with the disgrace of the guilty.

Harris bit his lip and led the way into the room. Sauceda proceeded to the already well-perused body and began digging in his bag. Purdue stationed himself in a bare spot against the wall, an unobtrusive location that put him only a couple of steps from Mulder, Harris noted.

Mulder refused to enter, though, taking in the room from the door, leaning against the frame like he was just to tired to go any farther. Golden mirrors reflected the body across the room and the shades didn't move for a long time. Mulder's breathing was quiet but rapid and Harris recognized the tension pouring off him: he'd seen that bare edge of hyper enough times in Nam.

The ASAC wearied of the silence and settled his arms across his chest. "What've we got, Nat?"

Harris shrugged and waved at the room in general. "Like I told you: same crap, different day. It's a weeknight so the motel didn't have many guests. Nobody saw nothing and, of course--" he sighed, "nobody heard anything, either."

"There's music," Mulder announced. The steadiness of his voice surprised Harris, the direction of his shades still hadn't moved from the body. "A record," Mulder insisted. "A tape. Something." It was not a question. Sauceda was watching him, chewing the inside of his cheek. Harris poked a thumb at the boom box on the dresser behind him. "I rewound the tape. It's a homemade dub. One song. No background noises as far as I can tell but we'll have it analyzed, of course." Mulder nodded. "Tell me about the body."

Harris raised an eyebrow at Purdue, stoic, busy watching his profiler. "Male, twenty-five, single. Just moved into the area for a job with the Wheeling PD. The East Precinct. Apparently he's been living here waiting for his apartment to empty out at the end of the month."

"But we're back to the routine guttings," Mulder noted. This wasn't a question either. "No apartment three-oh-four."

"Maybe the last one kind of vented some steam, you think?"

"If she hadn't gutted him according to pattern, we wouldn't have been called," Mulder answered wearily like such facts should be clear. "Play the tape."

Harris hesitated but Mulder stood like it was everything he could do to keep from self-detonating. It was apparently a delicate balance and Harris had no desire to unsettle it. He hit the play button without comment.

Jump-back-Jack beat. Swing horns. And Phil Collins. "We're two hearts, living in just one mind, we'll be together till the end of time--"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Purdue squinted, "but isn't this song a bit recent to be one she'd associate with a bad childhood?"

"She's got her own repertoire now," Mulder's voice was distant, listening. "It's just the chorus? No verses?"

Sauceda shook his head fretfully and pulled out his measuring tape.

Harris shrugged. "I'm not all that familiar with the tune, son."

"It's just the chorus," Mulder repeated the words to himself, then seemed to recall there were other people present. "She's afraid we won't take the hint," he explained, finally swinging the shades in Harris' direction. "We got a newspaper on the premises?"

"Yeah," Harris grimaced, suddenly unable to withstand Mulder's scrutiny himself. "Sunday's Ohio Sun. Look, Mulder, I'm sorry about--"

"Where was it?" Mulder demanded, his expression unchanged.

"Under the tape player."

Purdue frowned, chewing on his lip as he studied the profiler.

Mulder was nodding. "The whole paper or just the section on me?"

Harris sighed. "Well, just the section on you, actually--"

"Your friend Nilson must not write too well," Mulder smiled vacantly. "She thinks we're idiots." He frowned, the action not greatly affecting the dispassionate cast of his face. "Or maybe she's trying it on for size," he brooded. "Yeah. She'll go for subtle later."

Purdue was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. "Mulder, what the hell?" He waved a hand at the bed. "You think this was set up for your personal benefit?"

Mulder didn't answer, busy weaving his way over to the body. Sauceda stepped back but the profiler ignored him, regarding the bloodied form coldly. "She left the eyes," he noted.

Harris scanned the tight faces in the room. "Significant?"

Mulder leaned over for a closer view of the corpse. "She wants me to see," he explained reasonably. He glanced up at Purdue. "He looks a little like me, don't you think? Same hair color. Same build. Similar jobs." Mulder managed another smile; this one bordered on genuine.

"He's a couple inches shorter," Sauceda offered warily.

"He's staying in a motel," Mulder insisted. "I'm staying in a motel."

Harris stared down at the baggied newspaper. "Christ. She wanted this to be you?"

Purdue approached the foot of the bed and stared down. "We need to put a body guard on you, Agent?"

"No," Mulder answered hastily. "No, it's not me she's after." He noted Purdue's look and set his jaw. "It's not. Not really. But she'll escalate. She's got something to prove now," he explained patiently. "And her own personal fan club courtesy of the Ohio Sun." He shook his head, his voice going soft. "She's been manipulated all her life. Lied to and controlled. And she's tired of it. She's just so damned *tired* of it." It sounded more like a confession and Mulder's voice containing all the weariness in the world at that moment. Harris felt as if his life force had drained away just listening to it, that if he were not careful his heart might forget to beat. Purdue was frozen, watching Mulder's profile in fascination. The profiler's face behind the shades was pinched and hard. He removed the shades to rub at his eyes and put them back on without looking up. His hands were shaking again.

Sauceda shifted beside him, swallowing hard. "Marty, how'd you know about the music?" His voice was guarded.

Mulder shrugged vaguely, pocketing his hands. "Maybe I heard it in a dream."

Sauceda grimaced at the mess that was the body on the bed. He grabbed Mulder's arm and a few of Harris's alarms went off when Mulder jerked at the contact.

"Marty, did she do this to y--"

Mulder shook him off, his voice a soft warning. "It's just music, Len. Don't get bent out of shape."

Sauceda had to be tired: Mulder's response had him seething. "Let me explain something to you, kiddo," he growled. "This shit ain't exactly easy for the rest of us, either. These damned dreams of yours are so hot, why don't you just dream us up a name? Huh? Then we could all get home--"

Mulder's whole body shook and Harris stepped forward, watching the dam crack just this side of disaster.

"A name?" Mulder hissed. "I gave them a fucking name in Shreveport and they had you shoot me full of Thorazine. Put me down like a rabid dog. Just like you did last night."

Purdue stepped forward, arms ready, but he didn't touch the young man. Mulder ignored him, intent on his partner.

"You want a name now, Lenny? Sisyphus. How's that for a goddam name? 'Sisyphus, her sleeves rolled, ready now to start getting that apocalypse out of the cellar' while we bear up under a genocide or so." He smiled bitterly. "There. More poetry over dead bodies. Chalk that one up on the Spooky chart while you're at it."

Mulder spun on his heel and promptly froze at the sight of Purdue so close. He got his shivering under control by what must have been sheer force of will. In a voice barely a whisper Mulder announced, "I need some air. And some aspirin." Purdue allowed him to sidestep him, watching as Mulder stalked back out into the sun.

The men stood quiet a minute, waiting for some of the tension to dissipate from the air.

"Sorry," Sauceda shook his head at the ASAC. "Not real bright on my part. I'll go find him."

Harris managed to restrain himself until the pathologist was out the door. "And just what the hell," he hissed, "do you think you're playing at here, Reg? You had no business bringing that man in here, expecting him to work a crime scene, for Chrissake."

Purdue set his shoulders. "He was... agitated. I thought if he could see it with his own eyes, it would-- I don't know. Calm him down. Maybe."

"Oh, well yeah," the words were bitter. "I know this kinda thing just soothes the hell out of *my* nerves." Harris held up his hand against Purdue's protest. "Look, I don't pretend to know how Mulder works these things, okay? And I don't wanna know. But he's obviously in trouble. And apparently we're all just supposed to stand around and watch him fall apart?"

"I deny him access, he'll see it as failure--"

Harris shook his head. "You just don't get it do you?" Purdue blinked at him. "Look, you have problems getting the kid off this case, fine, I'll do it for you. I've got a profile. He's done good work on the other cases I handed over, I'll write him a nice commendation and you take his butt home."

"I can't just--"

"Murder's not a federal jurisdiction, Reg. He's off the case. Dammit, take him home."

Purdue closed the distance between them, his voice a painful hiss. "*You* don't get it, Nat. If I take him home, that's just where he goes-- home. And--"

"Shit-- Would you listen to yourself? If he's so damn bad you don't trust him to his own supervision, then get him in a hospital, Reg. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Purdue sighed, paced two steps away and turned. "Patterson's used the mental health system like a club. I swore I wouldn't do that to him--"

"Reg, If the kid needs help--"

"But Mulder doesn't see it that way. He *won't* see it that way. Don't you understand?"

"Yeah. I understand. I understand you've got a hell of a problem. Look. I'll give you a couple of days to make some kind of arrangements. But as far as I'm concerned, Mulder's off this case. Off any case in my jurisdiction. For his own sake." He shook his head. "Hell, take him back to Quantico and let him teach--"

"Patterson'll have him back in a heartbeat. The Bureau's not going to let that kind of talent stagnate sitting on his thumbs."

"Talk to Skinner, explain the circumstances." Harris's eyes narrowed. "Or is he still not returning calls? Christ." Harris shook his head. "Then God help him, Reg. Because you obviously can't."

"Like hell."

Reg's face flushed red as he passed. Harris grabbed his arm.

"'She's been manipulated, lied to and controlled'" He quoted Mulder softly and waited for Purdue to look him in the eye. "God Almighty, Reg," he hissed. "Just who the hell is he *really* profiling now? The perp or himself?"

Several hours into the dissection, however, Sauceda glanced up to find his partner watching through the window of the autopsy bay. Mulder hadn't even changed clothes, his hair as rumpled as his navy suit. The shades were gone, though. Mulder held an unopened can of soda in one hand; his forearm lay across the glass, forehead resting against it. His eyes were hollow, haunted. Sauceda smiled at him, Mulder didn't change expression but he at least seemed to take Sauceda's greeting as a kind of invitation.

He entered quietly, nodding without actually looking Sauceda in the eye. The pathologist watched him swing himself up to sit on a cabinet across the room.

Sauceda's mind was a whirl. Marty didn't often visit with him in morgues. In fact, Marty never visited with him in morgues. Marty occasionally popped round to spend time with a *corpse* he found particularly unsettling, but that was an entirely different thing. Sauceda shut his tape recorder off.

"Hey, kid."

"Hey." Mulder's voice was soft. He busied himself scanning the array of equipment on the cabinet beside him.

"You get some sleep?"

Mulder shook his head.

"Hell. Marty--"

"Kay called."

Sauceda swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So. So how is she?"

Mulder shrugged, still not looking at him. "I told here we're just in town a couple more days." Sauceda waited him out. "She wants to see me tonight."

Sauceda finally let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He grinned. "See? Told ya."

Mulder stared down at his unopened can of soda. "I didn't mean to hurt her, Len."

"Shit, Marty, you didn't hurt her. Didn't she tell you? What? You didn't believe her?"

Mulder didn't answer.

"Marty--"

"I just don't remember!"

Sauceda sighed. "Look, don't get yourself agitated, kid. I just need to finish up here. Almost done, then we'll go get something to eat. I'll tell Purdue I picked you up at the motel. Okay?"

Mulder nodded.

Sauceda watched him a minute before turning on the recorder. He didn't really have much to add to his report, just a few general observations but he liked to keep the recorder on in case something occurred to him. He moved from the stainless-steel table containing Kress' yellowed body, to the scale hanging beside him. He scooped up the stomach and internal organs hanging there and patted them down into a clear plastic bag.

Across the room, Mulder began rattling a bottle of pills. Bag in hand, Sauceda watched as the profiler dumped about five too many aspirin into his palm and popped the top on his soda can. Mulder was in the process of downing both when he noticed Sauceda's glare.

Mulder shrugged an apology and choked down the tablets before the pathologist could protest. Sauceda scowled as Mulder leaned his long frame against the wall above the cabinet and blinked at him innocently. Sauceda sighed. Maybe by the time they were done here the aspirin will have finally convinced the young man that his body didn't hurt anymore; Sauceda just hoped Marty could manage the wait quietly. Mulder in the autopsy room always made him nervous. He'd just never bothered to figure out why.

Sauceda dropped the bag into the open cavity in Kress' abdomen and rolled the contents around a minute, trying to make them fit back in the hole he'd pulled them from. He laid the slab of ribs back on top, stepping back to judge his handiwork. A few adjustments and he finally returned to his discussion with the tape machine.

"Final conclusions: no defense wounds are present on the hands or arms. No blood traces or skin fragments under the fingernails. Victim died without struggle. Tox screens reveal no drugs present, minimal alcohol levels. Death resulted almost immediately from a .22 caliber gunshot wound entering posteriorly just below the aorta. Powder burns and residue indicate skin contact range. Victim has been gutted postmortem via a "V" incision beginning just below the nipples, ending at the bladder--"

"You know," Mulder lisped, ignoring Sauceda's flaming look and the gloved hand popped over the microphone. "When I was in university there was this guy in Suffolk. The constable found his body in a little patch of woods off the main road. He was just laying there, draped over a log, like he'd been sitting there and fell off and never got up."

Sauceda sighed impatiently. "So the guy fell off a log, bumped his head and died. Can I finish--"

"Nope." Mulder took another swig of his beverage, staring absently at the gurney. "Coroner found no evidence of cranial injury, no stroke, no aneurysm. No nothing. Just a perfectly healthy man sitting on a log for a week and a half."

Sauceda was squinting. "A week and a half? What? He just sat there 'til he died?"

Mulder's stare was intense, his voice far too reasonable. "Yep. Inquest ruled a suicide."

Sauceda tried to fathom those eyes across the room. He had to swallow down the tension in his throat before he could speak. "What are you thinking about, Marty?" he demanded.

Mulder head shook almost imperceptibly. "Nothing."

"Well, stop thinking it," Sauceda growled.

Mulder blinked at him but didn't request clarification.

Sauceda swore heatedly before removing his hand from the mike.

"The majority of the small intestine," he continued shakily, "has been excised along with the liver, gallbladder and ascending colon. Stomach and pancreas have been incised randomly but remain intact. Weight of the organs collected from the scene are consistent for an adult male of the victim's general build. No body parts or fragments thereof appear to be missing."

"All items present and accounted for," Mulder quipped. He'd waited for Len to switch the mike off but only just. He winked and took another swig of Sprite while Sauceda snapped off his gloves peevishly.

"You know, Marty, you're awfully smug considering you think this lady is so hot for your liver. And gall bladder."

"Let's not forget that ascending colon." Mulder's voice was tired. "She's not after me, Hot Sauce. She's just out to interest her new audience."

Sauceda removed his scrubs and moved to the sink, washing up carefully, giving the profiler time to inspect the body if he wanted. Mulder made no move to do so, however, apparently content with his post on the cabinet, staring vacantly at his soda can.

Across the room, Sauceda bit his lip, watching the lanky form reflected in the stainless steel back splash of the sink. He didn't much like what he saw. The kid had managed to gain a few pounds since Seattle but they were a few too few to do him much good. Still, the past couple of days had been pretty quiet and the nights blissfully so until last night. Sauceda had begun to hope this Kay had been good for the kid, had even begun chiding himself for not hauling a woman in for Marty in Shreveport when they really needed help.

Sauceda dropped the thought and tapped on the window for a tech to remove the body. He hesitated a minute and then pulled a chair up to Mulder's counter.

"Look, Marty, I... I want to apologize for switching drugs on you last night--"

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently. "Don't. Don't do that. I don't want to think about that right now."

"But--"

"No, dammit. Look, you did what you thought you had to do, what you thought was best for me. Let's just leave it there."

Sauceda could tell Mulder really wasn't feeling that generous, he probably just didn't have the snap to win an argument right now. And Marty didn't like to lose. Not to Sauceda, anyway.

Mulder chewed his lip, considering his words. "I meant what I said this morning, Len. That's how I feel... But, hell, maybe you were right. I don't know. I can't-- Maybe."

"And maybe not," Sauceda conceded.

"Yeah. And maybe not."

Mulder's voice had been a little too bitter just then and they sat locked in silence by mutual agreement. Several minutes passed and Mulder began swinging his feet softly against the cabinet doors. Sauceda smiled. The kid just didn't do sitting very well.

"How are you, Marty? Really."

Mulder shrugged, staring at the wall. "I feel a lot better."

Maybe it was true, but it was certainly relative. Sauceda didn't press it, though. He was watching the body being wheeled away, thinking about that incision.

"You heard the music, Marty--"

"Did I feel the knife? We're not discussing that either."

"Marty--"

"Screw you, Lenny," Mulder suggested wearily.

"But we never discuss this crap--"

"That's right. We don't discuss it and I don't keep winding up in shrink's offices for knowing too much." Mulder bit his lip again. "Shit."

Sauceda kept his voice soft. "Purdue wants to know how much of it you're not telling."

"Well, screw Purdue, too." Mulder took another swig of Sprite.

Sauceda rubbed the back of his neck. "Marty." There was no answer. "Marty. How come you told Kay not to tell me you were... sick?"

"'Cause you'd have done just what you did. I don't like the drugs, Lenny. They do... stuff to my head." Mulder wasn't looking him in the eye anymore.

"You told her that I'd tell Patterson."

Mulder sat up straight, looked like he was considering fleeing. The knuckles were white around his soda can. "Is there a point to this, Len?"

Sauceda kept his tone gentle. "You were confused, weren't you? You didn't remember Patterson wasn't around anymore--"

Mulder's eyes were hollow. "I'm tired, Lenny. Just lemme alone. Okay?"

The admission and the plea had Sauceda blinking. Mulder's eyes were hollow, focused on the opposite wall. His jaw twitched convulsively.

"One question, Marty?"

No response.

The pathologist sighed. "So. How is it you can do this when the killer's a woman?"

Mulder frowned and turned to look at him blankly.

"You know," Sauceda nodded, "the spook stuff."

Mulder's laugh was humorless. "Jeez, Len, you're some piece of work. I don't even know what this crap is or where it comes from and you go getting your Latin machismo all in a wad because I'm tuning in with a woman. Hell, why can I tune in with men, for that matter?"

"Cause you are one. Same with the kids. You've been a kid."

Mulder shook his head, his voice sour. "You got it all figured out, partner, you explain it to me."

"It's just a question, Marty." Sauceda scrubbed at his face with both hands. "Hell, never mind."

Mulder's face was pinched. "I don't know," he said distantly, "maybe-- All vertebrae animals are essentially female, right? It just takes the addition of hormones at a critical stage to create the male. Of course, that would imply that this shit is locked in the genetic code..." He rolled his eyes and gave Sauceda a seductive wink. "Hey, maybe all that machismo of yours has just put me in touch with my feminine side."

"Sounds like this Sisyphus of yours missed a few doses of something when she plopped off the assembly line."

Mulder's voice was quiet again. "All the experts will tell you that in violence we forget who we are. She doesn't forget, Len. She finds."

Sauceda reached out and stilled the steadily drumming foot, leaving his hand resting on it. "Some of these wackos find their compulsion to kill fearful and bewildering. They want to be caught so they'll be stopped. Is that why she's focusing on you, Marty? Hoping you'll stop her?"

"She doesn't want to be stopped, Len. She wants to be appreciated."

Sauceda tugged gently at Mulder's shoe, asked softly, "So when does it get to be too much?"

"When she gets caught," Mulder shrugged. "Or when she says it's enough."

"No, Marty. I mean for you. When does it get to be to much for you?"

Mulder tried to smile, failed. "When I get caught," he said. "Or when I say it's enough."