Apologies again for the slow updates...I've been working on updates for an original novel that I've had sitting around for some time now that I'm trying to get onto kindle publishing. I'm my own worst critic, and I've rewritten it now so much, I'm driving myself crazy, so I've come back to good old Mulder and Scully, who were always so much easier to write! Anywho, as an apology, particularly to those who've taken the time to review (which I appreciate more than I could ever say), I'm posting two chapters this time. Hopefully they'll be worth the wait! :-)

BRIGHTON POLICE DEPARTMENT

BRIGHTON,

TENNESSEE

OCTOBER 19TH, 1997

14:40PM

'It's real difficult to try and work anything out from a photocopy, Agent Mulder,' said Bill Vickers, a Bureau graphologist who had travelled up from Memphis to meet them. 'The weight of the pen strokes is damn near impossible to see.'

He was a wiry man whose scurried yet oddly graceful movements and mannerisms reminded Mulder of a spider. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose and his lank, steel gray hair was combed right back from his forehead.

'I understand, Agent Vickers, but any information you could give us would be helpful. Time is not on our side and we've had to send the original to the crime lab for fingerprint and DNA work.'

He chewed on the corner of his lip and raised one eyebrow as he returned his gaze to the letter. 'The handwriting is quite distinctive and could potentially tell you far more about the person than his name, address and criminal record, which is all you could get from fingerprints anyway.' He took a magnifying glass from his bag and hovered it over the paper. 'It was written by a right handed person, most likely male. Without the original I hesitate to make a definitive conclusion, but it would appear that these are fairly heavy pen strokes. I'd say this person is aggressive, or at least feels strongly about whoever this was sent to. See the long upward tail on the 'e'? That usually shows that the writer may be inclined to fantasize rather than see the reality of a situation. They could also show signs of obsession, for example with the occult, religion or even a person – like a stalker. It's quite subtle really, but definitely there.'

'Fantasies, obsessional…doesn't sound healthy. Any indications as to the potential for violence?' asked Scully.

'I wouldn't like to commit myself in court, but I would say that there is that possibility, yes. See the extreme right handed slant of some of the letters? Adolf Hitler wrote like this towards the end of his life. I'm assuming the negative aspects, of course, considering the circumstances. There will be positive aspects to this person, too. The words were written in a hurry, as if the writer couldn't communicate his thoughts quickly enough, indicating great passion about what he is saying. It can also show an organized mind, which could be worrying when considered with the aggressive strokes of the pen.' He removed his glasses and rubbed at the ridge they had left on his nose. 'Have you found out what the numbers mean?'

'Not yet,' she replied.

'Well, I would say that it's important that you work on that. There are indications that the writer may be prone to obsession, aggression and dedication to his cause. It's troubling. Can I ask if you have any suspects at the moment?'

'Perhaps. A little early to be sure,' said Mulder. 'Thank you very much for your time, Agent Vickers. Will you be available should we need to contact you again?'

'Certainly,' he said, 'I'll be in town for another day or so. Otherwise, feel free to give me a call on my cell. Good luck with the case.'

There didn't seem much else they could do until they got the report back from the crime lab, so they headed back to the motel after a rather unproductive afternoon spent doing background checks on Virgil Anderson. All they discovered was that he had left theological college in New York three years ago but had never worked in his chosen vocation, or any other vocation for that matter. His current whereabouts were unknown, as he had left his last known residence at a boarding house in Atlanta, Georgia almost eighteen months ago. He had been arrested and released with a caution for various offences including public drunkenness, vandalism of public property (which turned out to be almost exclusively churches), trespass and disorderly conduct, all of which had taken place within those eighteen months, but across various states and each time he had listed a different address, none of which actually existed.

In short, they had no idea where he was and no real way of tracing him.

Frustrated and tired, they got back to their motel, the Riverview Suites – which offered neither a river view nor suites – by early evening. They ate at a diner across the street, though Scully barely touched her salad. Mulder didn't want to antagonize her anymore, so he said nothing about her lack of appetite as he tried to conquer a steak, but it turned out that he wasn't as hungry as he thought either.

He wished Scully goodnight, then headed back to his room. He showered and got into bed but though he was aching and nauseous with fatigue, he had trouble falling asleep. His thoughts were lingering not only on the events of the previous few days but on Scully, too. She had been so quiet since their conversation with Reverend Cork and on the few occasions she had spoken, she had been sharp and abrupt. Mulder supposed that the Reverend had touched some raw nerves with her, but she clearly didn't want to talk about it and he had to respect that, no matter how much it disturbed him.

Eventually he did fall asleep, but it was a restless relief haunted by nightmares. He was standing at the edge of a pit of quick-sand, Scully was drowning in the center, struggling to keep her head above the sand that pulled at her legs like a hungry animal. Every time he tried to reach over to help her, the pit got wider and she was sucked further and further away from him. Yet her expression belied her plight. She was so calm, even smiling, just allowing herself to fall. As she disappeared below the sands another figure appeared in the area just beyond. As it drew closer he could see that it was the Cancer Man, his smile as cold as the wind that had begun to whip around the surface of the pit. Mulder screamed as he fell to his knees and begged him to help her, even though he knew it was already too late. In desperate anger Mulder pulled out his gun and began firing at him, hoping to salve his pain by inflicting it back upon Cancer Man a thousand fold, but every shot missed and rebounded on Scully, who had not been lost to the pit after all, but was standing beside the man, clutching his hand. Each round struck her and burst like a red flower against her ice-white blouse as she fell to the ground, her blood staining the sand. Mulder screamed, oblivious now to the Cancer Man as he turned the gun on himself, unable to bear the grief any more…

He awoke in a bath of sweat, as breathless as though he had been running for miles. The sheets had bound themselves around his legs, increasing his frustration and desperation to feel the cool bite of the air conditioning upon his skin. When he succeeded in throwing them off, he headed straight for the bathroom and stood beneath the shower for as long as it took for him to feel human again.

He had never ached for Scully's pain more than he did then, and the memory of her face and the way she had looked at him in that dream clawed at his insides like a rabid animal. It was all the more bitter now, to wake and realize that the nightmares were real and that there would never be relief when he opened his eyes again.

She was dying. He was going to lose her. And it was his fault.

He slid down onto his knees and allowed the water to absorb the tears that wracked him as he clung onto the edge of the bath as though it was the only thing keeping him from descent into an even darker place that would see him doing exactly as he had in his dream.

He emerged from the shower just after 3.00am, sleep way beyond him now. He tried turning on the TV, but there was very little worth watching except for the infomercials, and even they drove him crazy after a while. He figured that the best thing he could do was to get dressed and go for a drive. The motion of the car and early morning radio was almost guaranteed to make even the most determined of insomniacs yearn for the comfort of bed, and it was the only place he could be sometimes when the thoughts, memories and the lingering pain they left behind would be muted, just for a while.

When he stepped outside he drank in the cool, clear air with the verve of a man who had just escaped drowning. He looked up at the stars overhead and instantly felt both humbled by their permanence and awed by their beauty…and very grateful that he was still alive to enjoy them. He had often stared at the stars as a child when sleep didn't come easily or he was troubled, but they had failed to have that same effect since Scully's diagnosis. Instead they seemed cold and indifferent; distant and so vast in the vault of black sky drowning them that they seemed to be little more than a celestial model of the isolation and futility he felt, and sometimes the grief became too much when he considered how insignificant her life must be to the universe when she was the only thing that made it real for him.

He sighed as his gaze turned to more earthly concerns and he pulled the keys from his pocket. Only then did he notice the thin slant of light leaking from beneath Scully's door onto the wooden veranda outside. He moved closer to the door, convinced that she had merely left the light on by mistake, but he could hear the muffled tones of the TV too. Trying not to think of himself too much as a peeping tom, he risked a glance through the window and, through the partially open drapes, he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed. She was bent over, her hand covering her face. He wasn't sure whether she was upset or ill, so he waited until he saw her move. She stayed like that for a few moments until eventually she sat up straight and threw the bloodstained tissue she had been holding to her nose into the bin. He tried to tell himself that she was alright and that she didn't need his help…but he knew that she did, no matter what she had said earlier on. She always called him. She needed company, she needed to know that she wasn't alone in dealing with this; she needed someone who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.

Gently, he tapped the door.

'Who is it?' she called quietly. She sounded close, probably standing behind the door. There was no peephole, and if her room was the same as his, no chain either.

'It's me, Dana.'

There was a click as she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. She wore simple, peach silk pajamas with a white toweling bathrobe. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and dark traces of blood still stained the creases either side of her nose. She looked so very tired, but it wasn't a weariness that could be slept away.

'Do you have any idea what time it is? Go back to bed,' she said and began to close the door. He stopped it with his hand. She sighed in acquiescence. 'What do you want?'

'I couldn't sleep. I came out here for some fresh air and I saw the light. I wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't mean to make you feel weak or worthless. You're far from both.'

'Oh, Mulder, you didn't.' She sagged back against the doorframe and closed her eyes. 'I didn't mean to snap at you either, but you've got to understand that I'm all over the place right now.'

'I know that, and I do understand. I've been so worried about you, and I'm trying to deal with this the best way I know how, but I don't think I'm doing too well. I want to be there for you because I know you need someone right now, but sometimes I just don't know what to say or do to make things better. I wish I did.'

She met his eyes and a ghost of a smile haunted her lips. 'Maybe that's part of the problem, you know. You don't have to make things better. You can't. But you can make them more bearable just by being normal, forgetting that this thing is going on, you know? That's all I need…just for things to be the way that they always were.'

He nodded because he couldn't do anything else as the burn of tears closed off his throat.

'Come on,' she said, standing aside for him to move past her. 'I'll make you some coffee.' She went back to her rumpled bed to tidy up the papers, magazines and files strewn all over it. 'Excuse the mess. I've just been looking at some…other cases.' Though she was doing her best to hide them from him, he couldn't help but notice the articles that dealt mostly with alternative therapies, herbal drugs, and faith healing.

The ache he had felt when he had awoken from the nightmare returned with a vengeance, sucking away his will and his breath. He slumped down on the chair in front of the vanity mirror.

'Dana, you don't have to hide those from me.'

She flushed as though she had been caught doing something illegal. There was nothing for her to feel embarrassed about, but he knew that she was usually such a level-headed and rational person that it took a lot for her to even consider looking for help in the most extreme of places. 'I know that,' she murmured. 'I just…I guess I didn't want you to tease me about them…or think that I'm a hypocrite.'

Now it was his turn to flush, he could feel the heat rising through his face. 'I wouldn't do that. And I would never think that about you. It's just that I'm not sure that this kind of thing is helpful.'

She dodged his eyes as she stepped past him to put the papers on the table. 'I think that's up to me to decide, isn't it? I don't expect you to understand.'

'I'd like to try. Please…give me a chance.'

'You really want to know?'

'Of course I do. I'd like that coffee first though, if it's still on offer.'

She smiled and shook her head, but she was nonetheless grateful to have something to do. 'Sure.' For the next few moments she busied herself with the kettle and the complimentary packets of coffee while he took a brief look through the magazines, case files, newspapers and photocopied pages of books she had brought with her.

'They're really not that off-the-wall, Mulder. Not when you read them properly. There are a number of documented cases in there that make for some pretty compulsive reading. There are medical records, doctors' statements, reports, all of them state that there have been cases where people have been diagnosed with severe, chronic or even terminal illnesses. Some attended faith healing missions like Reverend Cork's while others attended personal one-to-one sessions. Almost ninety per cent of those cases resulted in improvements, remission and even total eradication of the disease. I know you said that you would question the original diagnoses, but there are statements from doctors here, x-rays, scans that all confirm.'

'I want to believe this, Dana, really I do, but what you also have to bear in mind is that there are also cases where spontaneous remission has occurred where there has been no intervention by faith healers or evangelists. Furthermore, all of the people were being treated with conventional medicine as well as the alternative therapies so it would be next to impossible to prove which course of treatment had any success.'

She had been excited as she had explained her theories to him, more enthusiastic than he'd seen her in months, but now there was a tired sort of light that had leaked into her eyes, dampening the edge from her smile. He hated being the one to bring a touch of reality into her thoughts and now he wished that he'd kept his opinions to himself. Surely some hope, even false, was better than none at all. Besides, who was to say that she wasn't right?

'I know what you're trying to do and I know that you have my best interests at heart, but sometimes it would be great if you could just…I don't know…maybe forget about honesty for a couple of minutes to see things from my perspective. If there's a possibility that any one of these could work for me, then I'd like to try. I'm not asking for you to agree with it. I guess I'd just like a little less nay-saying when this is the only thing that's allowed me to get some sleep in weeks.'

'I'm sorry. You're right. Look, whatever you want to try, I'll be there for you, you know that. I'm just a little worried that you may be pinning all your hopes on whatever you think Reverend Cork can do for you. You've been up and down so much lately and I'm concerned that if you don't find what you're looking for, you'll hit a new low that you really don't need to be feeling now.'

'But you have to try and accept that I'm capable of making my own decisions, and these are my risks to be taking.' She stopped and sighed when she realized that impatience was beginning to creep into her tone again. She closed her eyes and turned her face towards the window. 'I had another nosebleed tonight. A pretty bad one. I didn't want to tell you, you worry way too much already.' Her voice was cracking, but still she fought the urge to cry. 'The last time I went to the hospital they told me the tumor had metastasized and aside from treating the pain, there's not much more they can do for me. I'm…dying and…I'm frightened, Mulder. I have to have something to hang onto…don't you understand that?'

The impact of this announcement couldn't have had more impact had it been a freight train. His stomach tightened as he fought the nausea that was forcing its way into his consciousness. His eyes welled and a tear broke loose, hot acid burning its way down his cheek at hearing the words he had known she would speak sooner or later, but words he kept hoping would never come. He had so many emotions tearing through him that they were shorting each other out, leaving him just…numb. He moved closer to her to put his arms around her because it was the only thing that felt right and for a long while he just held her. He felt so inadequate, all he could do as she tucked her head closer to his chest was gently stroke her hair.

'It's okay, Dana, it's okay. You're not facing this alone.'

Eventually, she pulled away and looked at him through bloodshot, tired eyes. 'Thank you,' she smiled.

'No problem,' he replied, wiping a tear from her cheek. 'Feel better?'

'Mm-mm,' she nodded, not too convincingly. She sighed deeply then pulled herself up, adjusted her pillows and brought back some of the magazines she'd been reading and passed them to him. 'How about you help me get through these? I'm looking for anything that might give me…well, you know.'

He smiled as he took them from her. 'Sure.'

They worked in silence for a while before tiredness began to overwhelm him and he just couldn't look at the print anymore. He took off his glasses and glanced across to see her completely engrossed in the reports. The lamp-light cast shadows across her face and played with the shifting colors in her hair as she moved. Her eyebrows arched and she exhaled sharply, she must have read something that troubled her or that she disagreed with. He'd been on the receiving end of that face more times than he could remember as she had tried, very unsuccessfully, to hide her contempt at one of his theories on a case. She had more or less raised a disapproving eyebrow at him through the past few years, but that had always been okay with him. She kept him sane, rational; made him adhere to protocols at times when he would have liked nothing more than to put a bullet in a guy's head when he knew that the justice system would ensure that all their hard work would come to nothing. She understood the frustration, but she had always been the one with the most patience.

The longer he sat there looking at her with her confession still twisting around in his gut, a name for the feelings he knew he'd had for her for a long time now began to form somewhere in the back of his mind. The thought of losing her, of being without her guiding, comforting, grounding presence in his life was a nightmare that he couldn't even begin to contemplate.

He needed to change the subject. He wasn't ready or willing to allow such thoughts to begin creeping into his mind. 'Did you have any more thoughts about the numbers on that card that was sent to Reverend Cork?'

She put down the magazines and pinched the bridge of her nose. Tiredness was gradually winning her over, too. 'Yes, actually. I was pretty convinced that there were religious overtones in the message, so I decided to check the bible.' She leaned over to retrieve her pocketbook from the side of the bed. Opening it, she pulled out a white leather bible, inlaid with gold writing, which had several pieces of paper acting as bookmarks.

'That doesn't look like your usual gift from the Gideons. Is it yours?'

She nodded. 'My parents gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday. I don't usually carry it around with me, but I've been wanting to read it lately and… Anyway, the pages I've marked are the verses which I thought the sender may have been referring to.'

She handed the book to him and as he ran his fingers over the soft, pitted leather, he read the inscription on the first page.

To our precious Dana, Happy 21st Birthday, all our love always, Mom and Dad.

He wondered how she felt every time she opened it and saw those words. Probably the same way he felt when he had the courage to open his photo albums and see his parents and his sister looking back at him like parts of a life that belonged to someone else in another time.

He turned to the first bookmark, in Isaiah, chapter thirteen, verse six. 'I take it the 'forward slash thirteen' means to read to verse thirteen?'

'Yes, I think so. I first thought the numbers might refer to a page, but that wouldn't work when there are so many different versions of the Bible. So I decided to try book numbers. I separated each number, so the first number would represent book two, chapter thirty-one; verse thirty-six, but there is no verse thirty-six. Eventually I got to the verse you're reading, which makes sense when you consider it in relation to the picture on the card.'

'"Wail, for the day of the Lord is near… Terror will seize them, pain and anguish will grip them…the day of the Lord is coming – a cruel day, with wrath and fierce anger to make the land desolate and destroy the sinners…"

'Nice stuff, huh?'

'But why would he want the reader to stop at verse thirteen? The rest of the passage seems appropriate too.'

Scully shrugged. 'It's chapter thirteen, ending at verse thirteen, considered by more superstitious people to be unlucky. Maybe that has something to do with it.'

'You don't believe that,' he said, smiling as he looked over at her. 'Maybe it doesn't have any significance. I suppose the rest of the chapter leads on to captured lands and murdering children – perhaps not totally relevant to the point.'

'If this is Anderson, maybe he sees himself as some kind of angel, justly sorting the good from the evil. I don't like the 'I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty' part. We told the Reverend there wasn't anything threatening, but that certainly doesn't sound too friendly. Read the second passage.'

'Book of Matthew, chapter seven, verses fifteen to seventeen? Mmm… 'Watch out for false prophets…By their fruit you will recognize them…' This ties in to what Anderson shouted in the meeting. Reverend Cork seems to have a high success record though. Is the sender implying that if someone were to take a closer look, these 'miracles' may not be so miraculous after all? He must be convinced that the Reverend is a fraud.' He handed the book back to Scully.

'Or she,' she pointed out, holding onto it and affectionately running her thumb over the lettering. 'I wonder why the sender didn't just quote the whole passages. Why the numbers?'

'Maybe he or she enjoys the game. Maybe they were lazy and couldn't be bothered, or maybe it just wouldn't fit on the postcard. Or maybe they just wanted to get the Reverend to actually open his bible rather than just brandish it about like a crucifix at a vampire party.'

She laughed softly, lighting up her eyes and soothing his soul. He wondered what it was about her smile that affected him so deeply. Maybe it was because she showed it so rarely. Particularly lately.

She leaned back into the pillows and stifled a yawn with slender fingers. 'You want another coffee?'

'Maybe the coffee isn't helping, you know,' he teased. 'No, thanks. I'd better be going anyway. I'll have to try and get some sleep sometime.'

He pulled himself up, stretched, and headed for the door. She followed him over and as he opened the door, she stopped him with a touch on his arm.

'Thank you,' she said.

'What for?'

'For listening. Supporting. Understanding. Being there. I appreciate it more than you can know.'

He brought his hand to her face and tenderly caressed her cheek. 'You'll be okay?'

'Uh-huh,' she nodded, giving him another soft smile. 'Goodnight, Mulder.'