Chapter 3
March 23rd
Sarah's place
"Can I have pancakes with blueberry jam for dinner?" Roberta asked her mother in the kitchen. "I will do all my homework. Promise. And I'm so hungry."
Sarah thought it was not the best time to teach her daughter a lesson about the difference between breakfast and dinner, so she nodded.
"Okay, but the blueberry jam's in the basement. Can you handle getting it alone?"
"Sure." Roberta went back to the living room. "I can do the batter, too!" she shouted before taking the rug away that covered the hatch. It was heavy, and she struggled to pull it open.
"That's fine with me," Sarah answered from the kitchen. Her clean kitchen would be a mess, but she loved watching Roberta prepare meals. She thought her little girl was intelligent and practical. 'Every mom thinks that,' she thought smiling. She heard the hatch to the cellar drop open and went to check.
Roberta had already climbed down the ladder. That's why Sarah had rented this house in the first place: unlike most houses, it had a basement to stow preserves and old clothes, but - even better - it had an exit to the back side of the house, near the stable. She remembered that Roberta and her friend Debbie had used that exit to get to the two horses Sarah had taken into care. She had almost gone insane searching for them, although she understood that an early morning among the corn must have been heaven for the two little girls. "You okay?" she asked now.
"Yep." Roberta returned to the ladder with a glass of jam in her hand.
"You let me do the batter, okay?" She climbed up again.
"Sure. I'll do the dishes afterwards."
"Great." Roberta ran to the kitchen, the glass firmly pressed against her chest, but stopped short on the threshold. "What about Mulder? Will he...?"
She grimaced, remembering the way he'd retched earlier.
"Don't think he would care for pancakes right now, honey." Sarah closed the hatch and pulled the rug over it.
"But what will he eat then?"
Sarah sighed. That exactly was the point. She didn't know what to give him. He needed fluids the most, and he should be in a hospital... She shook her head. He was in her responsibility. Heaving a sigh she realised Roberta was still standing at the kitchen door with the jam in her hands.
"I'll..."
"You'll take care of him, I know." Roberta smiled and nodded. Her confidence was a fountain of hope for Sarah. She followed her daughter into the kitchen.
Watching Roberta measure the ingredients for her pancakes, Sarah prepared a broth for the agent. She knew it might be a waste of time, but she'd give it a try anyway. Roberta placed the first spoonful of batter into the pan, and Sarah could see pure delight on her small face. A year ago Sarah had strictly kept her away from the hot stove, now she could lean back and watch Roberta with pride. With all the misfortune they had had, she was thankful for how normal Roberta behaved. 'Children adapt so easily' she mused. 'And I have many reasons to be thankful.' The first pancake slid from the pan onto the plate. Roberta took the next spoonful, watched it bake, while she nibbled on the first one.
Sarah hoped there would be more peaceful evenings like this one.
When the baking was done, Sarah took the big mug with the broth to the spare bedroom. Mulder had slept, and the blanket under him looked like he had wrestled a tiger in his sleep. He opened his eyes. They were full of fear. Sarah pitied him for the memory of the attack. He would carry this heavy weight for quite a while.
"I brought you some broth. You think you could give it a try?" Mulder wetted his lips. He was hungry, yes, thirsty, too, but the mere thought of eating caused him uneasiness. "I don't want to push this, but... I have no possibility to feed you intravenously, and you have to..."
"Sure." Mulder looked up at her standing there with the mug in both hands. "I'm really grateful for everything you've done for me. Without you..."
"Well, you had to wreck your car to get my attention." She added a straw to the mug and held it for him. "When will your colleagues start searching for you?"
"What time is it?"
"Past six."
"They've already started," he said, knowing Scully and her way of driving people to what she wanted them to do. "They should be here in a few hours." He wanted to sound convincing, but failed. He could read Sarah's face.
"Where did you start out from yesterday?"
"Over at the farms. I was investigating."
"Alone? Don't FBI agents always work with backup?"
"My partner got sick, and I didn't want to wait." He took the last sip and leaned back. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." She placed the mug on the table, biting her lip. "Could it be that... that, whoever did this to you, might come here?"
"No." He met her eyes. She was demanding the truth. "One is dead for sure, the other... might be dead, but if not, he's injured and won't follow me. Not any more."
"'kay." She scratched her forehead. "Looks like I need to change the linens."
"I'm fine." She gave him a 'Yeah, right, and I'm Bette Davis' look, shook her head. Roberta waited at the door, eyeing the agent as best as possible from her position. "I'll get some fresh sheets. Roberta, have you finished eating already?"
"Sure. Cleaned my plate, too. Not the pan. 't was too hot."
"Good girl." Sarah left the room, Roberta stayed.
Mulder looked ruefully at the girl. What did she think when her mother found him on her porch - bleeding? And acting the way he had when he woke? He tried to smile, but he had little experience with children. Scully would have been perfect in this situation, knowing exactly how to talk to the girl, what to do. She sensed the feelings of a child and react accordingly.
"Come here, please," he said softly.
Roberta swallowed, didn't know what to do. He was a good guy, all right, but a stranger as well. And mom hadn't said anything like 'Don't go near him' or 'It's all right to be at his bedside.' She knew that men could be cruel. She remembered the way her father had hurt her mom, and though mom didn't talk about him, that didn't mean she had forgotten about the bruises and gashes. Roberta shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
"Promise not to puke on me?"
Mulder would have laughed if it hadn't hurt so much.
"I'll let you know before I do so you can get away in time."
"'kay." Roberta stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and stood at his bedside, waiting. And able to jump back any time.
"I wanted to thank you, too, for taking me in last night."
"Neighbours would've spoken ill of us," she answered with all seriousness she could muster.
"The neighbours? Thought there's nobody else around here, right?"
"That was a joke, Mulder." Her tone made clear that she thought he was a brick short of a full load. 'And my reputation as a wise ass is going down the drain,' he sighed inwardly, but nodded.
"Sure. But now that you mention it - is your father around here? Does he work on one of the farms?"
"No." She didn't meet his eyes, and when he didn't press the subject, she looked up again, asking, "Did they really chase you at home?"
Again he didn't understand what she was thinking.
"Chase me?" Some people had chased him in the past, but at home?
Roberta cocked an eyebrow, and Mulder saw the resemblance to her mother.
"For being called 'Fox'," she explained impatiently. "That's why you made everyone call you Mulder, right?"
"Ah, Roberta..." Sarah had entered with a load of linens, hardly able to retain a giggle. "Could you gimme a hand with this?"
Roberta repeated, "Right?", taking a blanket from her mother's hands.
"Sure... you're right," Mulder answered and locked eyes with Sarah, who was short of laughing herself silly. Now he understood and curled his lips. There'd be a time for pay back. But right now he had enough to deal with himself, giving the little help he could while Sarah changed the sheets and pillow cases. Roberta volunteered to carry the soiled laundry. Watching her, Sarah realized how much work she had to do.
"I'm sorry, Mr... Mulder. Just Mulder." Again she could hardly remain earnest. She expected him to have a witty retort, but their conversation was interrupted when she heard a car drive through the always open gate. Hurriedly she took a look and braced herself. "We're in trouble," she murmured.
"Not my partner?"
"No. My husband's coming."
"Deep trouble?"
"Try to breathe."
"My gun..."
"I put it away." She shot him a look. "Nobody's shooting anybody in my place." She ran out of the room, shut the door, and sent Roberta down into the basement. The girl looked at her frightened.
"Mommy..."
"Stay put until I get you out. I mean it!" And with a heavy heart she added, "If you don't hear from me in thirty minutes, slip out the back entrance and take the horse. Take Lizzy. Ride to the next farm and wait there, okay?"
"To Marten's?" Roberta got a nod from her mom, then she quickly descended the stairs, and Sarah closed the hatch in time to cover it with the rug, before Charles knocked on the front door. Sarah's heart was beating so fast she could hear it in her ears. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt and opened the door. Charles would not have been Charles without the worn out brown leather stetson, three days' beard, earring, broad shoulders covered by a checkered cotton shirt, and jeans that needed mending. And he was wearing working boots, which meant he had been working somewhere nearby. He smelt like a week of sweating.
"My, my, my love, gone so far away?" His voice sounded slick, and she wondered how she could ever have loved this man so much that she would marry him. It was for his body, she knew, not his wits. He was big. Strongly built. She loved that on a man. Back then. In another life.
"You got business around here?" she asked.
"Your business." He let himself in, took his hat off and glanced around. "Nice place, darling. Did the draperies yourself?"
"Cut to the chase, Charles, I don't want you around here. So - spare me any compliments or whatever else is on your mind. Just leave me alone." She crossed her arms. Her throat was dry, and she was afraid. Her last encounter with her husband had ended with two bruised rips and a narrow escape. "Please," she added, though she knew he wouldn't leave.
"Oh, still the same old music. What do you like about this castrated goat? Ain't there nothin' you like about me?" She didn't reply, and he stood in the middle of the living room. "Where's Robby?"
"She is staying with a friend overnight."
Charles nodded, pursed his lips.
"How convenient. She does this often?"
"From time to time, yes." And it wasn't a lie after all. If Roberta heard her now - she stopped that thought. Roberta would hear more than a lie from her mother tonight, if she didn't run first.
"Know how I found you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's not you I found, it's my beloved little daughter." He smiled at her. "You haven't changed names, y'know. I just had to ask a few people." He beamed with pleasure. "Won't you offer me something to drink?"
"No. I want you to leave."
He side-stepped her and went into the kitchen.
"No dice. But that's all right, I'll help myself."
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. She had to remain calm, talk him out of here, make herself as uninteresting as possible. She feared he'd want to stay overnight to wait for Roberta to come home. And she didn't want to think of what he would do to them both, if he lost his temper.
"There's blood on the porch," Charles said in a casual tone. He held a glass of coke and raised it to her.
"It's from my nose. When thinking of you I hit my head against the post to get rid of the memory."
He took a sip of coke, smacked his lips and nodded as if to say, 'Yeah, right, that's what I expected.'
"You never really learned to appreciate me, Sarah. I never stopped loving you, you know. And I want us to be a family again. Without you always running away from me." He put the glass down on the kitchen table, and closed the gap between him and his wife. "I do love you, Sarah, and I'll always find you. So, don't you think it's better you stop running away?" He was very close now. She could smell the coke on his lips, the sweat and the smoke from his cigarettes. "Make me happy, Sarah. You know how." He tried to kiss her.
"No, Charles, this time it's over." She pushed him away, trembling, fearful that he would take off his shirt and take her before he had dinner. "Please, I don't want this. Charles!" she shouted when he gripped her arm.
"Get real, Sarah, you're my wife, and I've my rights!"
"Rights!" She freed herself, stepped back. "I think you lost your rights long ago, got it?"
"You owe me, and you know it!" He followed her while she searched for a safe place to defend herself. She'd done this so often, she knew exactly that it would only prolong her suffering. "I love you, Sarah," he repeated, then stopped in his tracks. Looked at the pile of linens on the ground and saw the blood when he picked them up. "What's this?"
"Just a sheet."
Charles folded it out for a closer examination, then held it to his nose.
"Blood stains and... aftershave." He flexed his jaw muscles. "You got a guy here? You're betraying me?"
'Now I'm in deep shit and need a shovel to dig me out.' She didn't even think of reminding him that he had betrayed her for the longest time in their marriage.
"No, I don't. Neighbors brought this over. I have to earn money, y'know."
Weak explanation, and he knew it. He dropped the blanket, nodded and decided with a quick look where to start searching.
"I'll find him. And he'll regret this!" He bolted for the door of the spare bedroom and not, as she had silently hoped, for the stairs. She ran after him, grabbed his forearm, made him stop. "Let go!" he growled.
"No, you stop right here! He has nothin' to do with this - with us." Of course she was no match for him, and he easily pushed her hand off and entered the room.
Charles took in the scene as if confronting the Devil himself. A man in his wife's bed. In his rising fury he ignored the fact that this was a spare bedroom. He gritted his teeth, breathed heavily, then quickly walked over. He would lock horns with this man right now and beat hell out of him.
"Get up, you bastard! Right now! You'll shit in your pants when I'm through with you!"
"He's sick!" Sarah protested, and Mulder added,
"It's not what it looks like. I had a car crash at the post..."
"I never saw no fucking car!" Charles grabbed Mulder's shoulders, pulled him roughly. The agent screamed in pain. Startled, Charles let go, drew back the cover, glanced at Sarah, who watched helplessly. "Your new lover - and beaten to a pulp?"
Sarah knew she should say something, but she was too upset to think.
"Anyone's an improvement, right, but he's not my lover," she stressed. "Now get away from him!"
"Ooh, ooh, so protective, little lady?" Charles wetted his lips, gave the agent a speculative look. 'I really don't need no more of this,' Mulder thought wearily, but said,
"She's telling the truth. I was investigating on the farms and..."
"Investigating?" The word put fuel on the fire of Charles' fury. "You're a damn cop ?" He was mad now, Sarah knew it, shook her head.
"It's the truth, Charles, so, please, get out of here!"
Charles ignored her, found the jacket and the pants, searched them and came up with the wallet, the case with handcuffs and the empty holster.
"FBI? What? Fox Mulder?" He mockingly stretched the 'au'. "So you are his 'moll' then? Fine. Really." He threw the wallet against the wall. "Where's the gun?" he asked the agent. Sarah hoped he wouldn't find the spare gun in the drawer.
"Lost it in the fight."
"Fight, hum? You'll think of it as heaven when I'm through with you." Mulder doubted that, but it was like the choice between a rock and a hard place. He was in pain, and it showed. Sarah looked at him worrying what would happen next. "Lost, hum?" Charles smacked his lips again, weighing the little leather case in his hand. "I'll take no chances, FBI." He took out the handcuffs.
"No, Charles, please, don't." By the way Charles looked at her, she instinctively knew that this was just the beginning of a frightful night. Listening to the way Mulder cried out in pain when he was handcuffed to the bedpost, she could only hope that her daughter stuck to the plan and ran away as soon as possible. She knew she wouldn't get away so lucky.
Roberta heard them talking upstairs, heard her mother's plea, and fearfully remembered their last encounter with her father. She sat in the darkness, not daring to light a flashlight, for it might be seen through the slits in the wood, and was biting her lips and her nails (she knew she shouldn't), thinking about the alternatives. She could wait longer and hope mom would get rid of Charles and come and get her, or, and this seemed more likely, she could follow her mom's instructions and get away. She didn't know the exact time, but to her it felt as if she had been waiting for hours already, rocking herself. It was true she had been on horseback alone in the fields, but this time it would be dark, and she worried she wouldn't find Marten's farm.
Another minute passed. Roberta sighed. The voices were further away now. Then she heard a scream. She rose. It hadn't been her mom; from experience she knew that voice in a million, so it had to be Mulder. She swallowed. If her so-called father was hurting the FBI agent, what would he do to her mom? Tears welled up and over her cheeks. Roberta sobbed silently. She had to do something. She didn't want her mom to be hurt. Not again.
Slowly and careful to avoid any sound, she opened the outer hatch and slipped out. The air was cool and dry, and so still a person could hear a mouse whisper. She rushed to the stable. The outer door was open, the inner one closed. She peered back, but was quite sure nobody could see her in the darkness.
"Hey, Lizzy," she spoke to the horse and opened the door. She couldn't handle the saddle, so she'd have to ride without it. She got the harness, though, and quickly put it on. "I know it's late, but we gotta go. You promise not to drop me, 'kay? I'll promise to be really light on your back." She led the horse out of the stable to the trough, which she used to climb up onto the horse's back. "Fine, I'm on. Do you know the way to Marten's farm? I hope I know it, too. You tell me when I'm wrong. Go." The mare was gentle and easily followed the commands. They took off over the field avoiding any lighted windows and escaping unnoticed.
March 23rd,
Harper's farm
Scully stood beside the body of Clint Harper, hands on her hips, worried expression on her face. Forensics was already on the scene, and she could have left, but the need to know what happened here a few hours ago kept her in the barn. The sheriff's men had found a severely injured man on the road half a mile away from the farm. They said it was the foreman, who had been working for Harper for more then ten years. They thought he had been the victim of a robbery, but finding the body of Mr. Harper on the grounds, and the evidence with it, changed this theory.
Forensics had already tested the blood. It could be Mulder's. At least it was his blood group. That was one point that made her sick with worry. The other was that he was missing. Blood was found in the barn and outside, then the traces of a car that had rapidly taken off. Footsteps beside it even while the car was moving, indicated that the man had tried to get into the car or get a hold of the driver. And Mulder's service pistol had been found near by.
She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that Mulder would be found - the sooner the better.