Disclaimer:  I am going to assume that at this point, people will start to assume that I own nothing in this story except the plotline and that Chris Carter is to thank for the inspiration.

Reviews:

Gothic Spook:  Hmmm…perhaps I could hurt Phoebe (gets evil look in eyes) and perhaps I won't (gets halo).  You may never know, until you read the chapter of course.

Moon Goddess:  Phoebe is character from my story Flesh Belonging.  She is a psychic who can see the dead and promises to look out for Luke at the end of the story. 

Samantha:  Glad to see you again!   Here's the next chapter!

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            "We all live,

            We all die,

            That does not begin to justify you…"

                        ~Evanescence, I Must be Dreaming

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            Chapter 7:  Possible Leads and Catastrophe

            Monica Reyes could not express her boredom in words.  She had tried John's cell phone and found it busy.  Just to spite me.  God, John, you can be so immature at times.  She moved back to her work on the day planner, moving to the day that Follmer was murdered.

            The whole day was filled with appointments with Agents, phone calls and numbers, but no mention of R's identity or any mention of a file either.  She was beginning to think that it was just the incoherent babble of her ex, writing down his day and his weeks without any real purpose. 

            She was taking notes now, marking down people she could call to check up on him and notify of his 'mysterious' assassination.  But that one question was still on her mind.  Why was Brad gunned down?  What did he do to possibly deserve that?

            Sure there was the government, but everything in their small office was blamed on the government.  She was getting sick of the same reason.  And besides, Brad didn't have anything to do with hiding the truth.  He was just another pawn, like Skinner, like Kersh, and even themselves.  What could he have possibly done to deserve death in such a horrible manner?  Even Brad did not deserve that.

            She looked over the phone numbers in the back of the book again, looking through the R's.  Many of them were Agents with the CIA, the FBI, and the DoJ…nothing special just agents that he had worked with or was currently working with.

            But the initials D.R. were incomplete.  There was a Washington number, but no address, and no cell phone.  It was a business line too.

            Either way, it fit her description of a possible suspect:  Has an 'R' in his name and appears very shady.

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            Dana Scully found William in his bedroom again, looking out the window without anything to do.  She felt rather sorry for him sometimes.  William seemed so lonely; it was depressing to watch him looking out the window at absolutely nothing.  She had insisted that they move to a house in a nice neighbourhood with lots of children for William to play with.  Meredith was only available every so often.  She was a stage child, always at an audition, dance lessons, music lessons, acting lessons…there wasn't an art in the world Meredith couldn't do and beat the crap out of everyone else.

            Except drawing, this was William's forte.

            He would sit and draw for hours on end.  Dana had found the picture hidden under his mattress, done in crayons and in markers and pencil crayons, whatever he could get his hands on.  Meredith and her parents, she and Mulder, animals and landscapes, angels, devils, demons, muses, everything a boy could imagine about in the confines of his bedroom.

            She closed the door quietly, walking down the hall with the laundry basket balanced on her hip.  Mulder was on the couch, sleeping as usual, feet up on the table, and 'relaxing' for a few hours.  This is the life of a teacher, she mused, laughing quietly to herself as she went to her bedroom and set the basket on the bed.

            The second the phone rang she jumped to it, snatching it off the bureau and putting it to her ear.

            "Scully?"  She said. 

            "Dana?  It's Monica."  Scully leaned against the bureau sighing deeply.  "Sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?"

            "No, I was just folding laundry."  Dana replied.  "What can I do for you?"

            "I got a lead on Follmer's case."  Monica said, looking at her notes.  "I found a phone number in his day timer and got an address on it.  I was just going to go over and ask some questions and was wondering if you would come with me?"

            "Where's John?"  She hadn't meant to sound as dodgy as she did, but usually John liked to be with his wife.  Monica rolled her eyes.

            "He's stormed out of here."  Dana nodded and flopped on the bed, listening.  "I just didn't want to go alone."

            "I understand."  She said.  "Give me 5 minutes and I'll meet you at the office."

            "Okay."  Monica was about to hang up, but she hesitated.  "Have you heard from John at all?"

            Dana said no, making Monica start to worry, despite Scully's attempts to convince her not to.  "He looked so angry when he walked out of here, that's all.  Like someone had tried to kill Luke again.  And now he hasn't called and I'm just worried about him."

            "He's probably alright, Monica."  Dana said.  Monica didn't believe her.

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            John Doggett had been at the top of his driving class.  He was an excellent driver, even and especially under pressure.  It was unfortunate that he forgot himself the second he had the incline of danger, and the sense that someone he knew was about to be killed.  It felt like he was driving to Luke's crime scene, the tress swaying in the springtime wind, the green leaves rustling across a flawless blue sky.

            And then Monica's face turning and her eyes meeting his, and the officers were parting around the corpse of his son.  He was standing in shock, looking at his seven year old son lying dead on the ground.

            Meredith noticed the way her father started to lose his cool.  He looked like several actors before they went on stage, trying not to cry as they faced facts and came to terms with their fear and their inability to make mistakes if they practiced.

            She had been in 14 productions as a star now, 32 as a secondary character, and had modeled for several agencies.  It wasn't an official career yet, she didn't have an agent aside from her parents, but she was known for her adorable stage presence and her lack of fear.

            Right now, she was scared too.  Her father didn't look like himself, and it was beginning to worry her.

            John always thought that Meredith was a new start.  He thought that she was the one thing in his life that wouldn't go wrong.  His marriage with Barbara had ended rather badly.  Barbara got the house and half his money, including his son's room and the nicer car.  He remained in New York, just a shadow of his former self in a small apartment looking out on the rugged city.  His son had been murdered, his wife no longer spoke to him, and he had been in an apartment that was much too small.

            So Meredith is my new Luke and Monica is my new Barbara, is that it?

            No, that's not it.  Why would I replace those memories?

            Well, maybe Barbara.

            But that's beside the point.  Maybe I'm just looking for closure and I'm reaching for the first things I can get my hands on.

            JESUS CHRIST JOHN YOU MARRIED THE WOMAN AND YOU WANTED THE KID!  There was no replacement there was closure and there was movement.  THAT'S ALL.

            He pulled to a stop in the parking lot and reached for his firearm unconsciously, trying not to frighten Meredith.  It wasn't like she hadn't seen it before.  She fired Nerf guns and water pistols with William all the time and was quite the shot.  She hated the noise of real guns through.

            "Where are you going?"  She asked.

            "I have to talk to Phoebe for a minute."  He said, debating on whether to leave her here or not.  I can't take her up there.  What if she's there?

            But what if she's down here?

            "Meredith, I want you to stay in the car and keep the doors locked."  His daughter nodded, taking off her seat belt.  "If anyone comes, honk the horn, okay?"

            "What if it's mommy?"

            "Don't honk the horn."

            Another nod.  John gave a lasting look at his daughter and got out of the car quickly.

            I should have told her I loved her, he thought.

            I'll be coming back. 

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            Phoebe hung up the phone with her parents, stopping the conversation early before they could will her psychically to come back home instead of living her own life.  She slumped on the couch with the TV remote in her hand, biting her thumb nail.  It was a bad habit she had gotten into and didn't seem to be getting out of it any time soon.

            She decided there was nothing on TV and flicked it off, relaxing on her couch for a moment or two.  Her eyes closed she focused on the sounds around her.  The wind beat against the windows and the tea kettle in the kitchen wailed with a shrill shriek.  She got up from her place on the couch and went to the small island in her kitchen where her textbooks were.  A small mug with chamomile sat unattended, the powder inside it smelling sweet as it hit her nostrils.

            The hallway creaked very loudly in her apartment.  It was easy to hear when visitors had come for her neighbours and when John and Monica showed up with Meredith. 

            They were her only visitors.

            And John had just been here, and didn't look like he would be coming back anytime soon.

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            John had raced from the car and up the stairs just to be certain.  The second he hit her floor he was hit with the creaking sound of the wooden beams that threatened to fall out from under him.  Once or twice he was convinced that there were holes simply covered by carpet in the building, and even though Phoebe had assured him there weren't, there was a spot by apartment 403 that made him think otherwise.  The carpet curved over a floor that wasn't there.

            He reached her apartment slowly, giving himself time to get his gun.  He wasn't expecting Phoebe to scream.  On the contrary, he was assuming her to die quietly.

            John, you're going to make yourself crazy.

            He raised his hand to the door and knocked, waiting to hear any signs of struggle before he intended to knock the door down.

            But Phoebe will die quietly, right?

            Dear God I hope she says something.

            The sounds of a shrill his made him jump.  He prepared to boot the door in when the scream stopped, and the locks clicked open.

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            Phoebe was hardly amused with John preparing to boot her door in.  She lifted an eyebrow, leaning against the door from and stared at the tense position he had assumed in a public place.  There was silence for a moment, John unable to verbalize why precisely he was here.

            "You know if you fire me at this point it doesn't really matter."  She said, but John just looked around her hallway, peeking into the rooms further down, trying to see a window open or a black clad figure preparing to shoot his babysitter.  "And I know it was stupid of me to leave the picture where she could find it but honestly,"  Phoebe began, trying not to acknowledge his odd behaviour at her door, "It's not entirely a bad thing since she should know that she had a brother John what the hell are you doing?"

            She had finally decided to notice that he was behaving strangely, turning his head and such.  John finally swallowed.

            "Has anyone come in or out of this apartment since I left?"  He asked, keeping his gun low.  Phoebe eyed him strangely.
            "No."  She said, very confused.  "Should there be?"

            "No."  He replied quickly.  "Nothing unusual happened here?"

            "Aside from the gun-wielding maniac outside my door?  No, nothing I can think of."  He didn't notice her sarcasm as she said that.  John finally put away his gun, satisfied that she was alone.  There was no way to climb up to the windows on this building.  No fire escape, no vines or telephone poles.  Even a super soldier would have trouble getting in without the front door. 

            "Can I ask why?"  Phoebe asked, crossing her arms.  John continued to look over his shoulder, paranoid he would see a red haired woman stalking him down the hall with a gun.

            "Nothing I've just been having a bad day."  He said.

            "You wanna talk about it?"

            "No, not really."

            "Alright…"  She said, sounding satisfied that he was okay.  "I have classes all next week but if you and Monica call beforehand I can probably work your schedule into mine."

            There were the sounds of a car horn from the parking lot.  John's eyes went wide as he darted for a window in Phoebe's apartment and looked down at his car.

            A flash of red glinted with sunlight caught him off guard.  He bolted before Phoebe could say anything.

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            Well, another cliffie.  I suppose I could add, but it'll cost you a)  X-Files Action Figures, b)  Matrix action figures (preferably Morpheus and Niobe), and/or c)  REVIEWS!