TITLE: And So It Goes
AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer
EMAIL: Msk1024@aol.com
RATING: PG 13 for adult language and 
imagery.
CLASSIFICATION: X
CONTENT: M/S UST
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to
Chris Carter, 1013, and the X-Files. The
others are all mine.
ARCHIVE: Just let me know where.
SPOILERS: Through 6th season
COMMENTS: Takes place before Biogenesis.
Assumes that Biogenesis, 6E, and Amor
Fati didn't happen until late October,
early November. A big thanks to
Kestabrook for excellent feedback and
beta reading.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome.

And So it Goes (01 of 03)
By Michelle Kiefer

Weyborough, Massachusetts is only about
fifty miles from Boston, but this dreary
little blue-collar town is light years
from Beacon Hill or Quincy Market. We
drive past empty store fronts and a
depressing red brick school building.
Margaret Stanley Elementary School stands
back from the hardscrabble schoolyard
like a sad old lady.

"This area boomed in the 1940s and '50s,
but lost its manufacturing base in the
late '70s." Mulder, Massachusetts
born and bred, is quite the tourguide. He
is as cheerful as the surroundings are
dismal. Frank's Market and Chirsky
Appliance Repair drift by, their
appearances unchanged since 1967.

"Mulder, why are we here?" I am much more
in keeping with our scenery, grumpy from
being roused from my bed before daybreak.
I huddle down in my coat, against the
October chill; the heater on this rental
car is anemic.

"Scully, a woman is missing from her home
with all the indications of an abduction,
and you wonder why we are here?" He turns
to at me and grins. He is still
insufferably good humored. "You just got
up on the wrong side of the bed." 

"Mulder, at 5:15 A.M., there is no right
side of the bed to get up on. People who
are not farmers are supposed to be
blissfully unaware of the world beyond
their quilt at that hour." I had
been decidedly less than enthusiastic at
that early morning phone call. And, never
a morning person, I had barely finished
my first cup of coffee when Mulder
knocked on my door with an impatient
hand. 

We had gotten an early flight into Logan
Airport, rented a car, and driven to
Weyborough. Cheryl Krasinski was a
barmaid and single parent whose life had
been unremarkable until she disappeared
early Friday morning from her home. Her
nine year old daughter described bright
lights and, faster than a speeding
bullet, there we went.

Mulder pulls a scrap of paper out of his
breast pocket and checks the address
scrawled on it. "523 Clover Street," he
announces as he checks the street signs.
"It should be one of these streets off
this road...Here it is." 

Mulder turns right onto a street of
shabby two story houses and run-down Cape
Cods. He stops the car in front of a
gray, two story house. The paint flakes
in places, and one of the shutters is
loose, making the house look like a
crooked smile.

An unpainted flight of stairs clings
uncertainly to the side of the dwelling.
Halfway up the stairs, a little girl with
dishwater blonde hair sits, hugging her
knees to her chest. She stares at us as
we climb out of the car and walk up the
broken cement pathway. She is dwarfed by
an adult sweatshirt, a souvenir from
Atlantic City. It seems an inadequate
cover on this damp, overcast morning.

"Is this the Krasinski house?" Mulder
asks her as we approach.

She nods warily and asks, "Who are you?"
Her voice is startlingly deep and
strangely old sounding. She is a thin
child with smudges on her face, and blue
eyes like faded denim.

"I'm Fox, and this is Dana. Aren't you
supposed to be in school?" Mulder doesn't
identify us further, not wanting to get
the neighborhood in an uproar unless it
is necessary.

"I don't have to go to school 'cause we
don't know where my mother is." She
pushes out her chin in an unspoken
challenge.

"You must be Nancy." Mulder's face
softens; he's a sucker for the lost and
lonely. At that moment, the door at the
top of the stairs opens, and a woman
leans out.

"Nancy, who are you talking to?" Her
voice has the deepened quality of a long
time smoker, and as evidence of this, she
brandishes a cigarette in her long
fingers. Her long hair was probably the
same dishwater color as Nancy's but now
is over-processed and flyaway Miss
Clairol Autumn Wheat.

Mulder identifies us again, and we
produce our IDs for inspection. Nancy is
fascinated, turning Mulder's badge over
and over in her fingers. The woman
motions us inside, and we climb the
stairs and enter a warm but messy
kitchen. My nose begins to run as soon as
I step into the humid warmth, and I fish
a Kleenex out of my pocket.

"I'm Connie Krasinski. You here about
Cheryl?" Her arms are folded over her
chest. The confrontational tone of her
voice and stance is negated somewhat by
the worry in her eyes.

"Can you tell us what happened the night
Cheryl disappeared?" Mulder asks. 

Connie crosses over to the kitchen table
and begins to shift the piles of papers,
dishes, and one slightly bedraggled
Barbie doll onto the equally cluttered
counter. She gestures for us to sit down
and sends Nancy into the next room to
watch television. The sound of The Price
is Right filters into the kitchen.

"I got a call at work in the middle of
the night from Fred--Officer Doyle. I
work graveyard at the diner. Nancy had
run screaming to the next door neighbor
that Cheryl was gone." Barbie has left a
tiny stiletto behind, and Connie turns it
over and over in her fingers. Barbie has
some serious "fuck me" shoes there. "All
Nancy would say was that she was gone--
just gone."

"You share the house with your sister?" I
ask, and she nods.

"Yeah, Cheryl worked three to eleven at
the bar over in the bowling alley. I just
saw her for a minute that night--kind of
like the changing of the guard. It was
just like any other night--nothing
unusual." She lights another cigarette
and draws a shaky drag from it. 

"I don't know what I'm gonna do. I can't
leave Nancy alone, and my boss don't pay
me when I don't work. I can't believe
Cheryl's gone." The hand holding the
cigarette trembles a little as she knocks
the ash into a dirty ashtray.

"Has Cheryl ever left before without
telling anyone where she was going?" I
can feel Mulder's gaze settle on me like
a cold fog. Damn it, someone has to ask
this question. 

"No. She's gone away with some guy or
another before, but she always let me
know. Maybe not much notice, but she 
never went off without me knowing it."

"Can we talk to Nancy now?" Mulder asks
gently. I watch Connie relax under his
attention. The effect Mulder has on 
women never ceases to amaze me. He
doesn't flirt or use charm, yet old women
and young women, gay women and straight
women respond to him like a knotted
muscle to a massage. I suppose his beauty
and good manners have something to do
with it, but I suspect the complete
attention he pays them is the real trick.
Sometimes, I find myself coming under his
spell even after all these years.

Connie stubs out the cigarette in the
ashtray and rises from the table. "Sure,"
she says. We move into the living room.
Bob Barker implores the contestants to
"Come on down." 

Mulder drops onto one knee next to Nancy
and asks some meaningless question about
the show she is watching. I wander around
the room, taking in as much as I can
about the family from the evidence that
people leave around.  

Like the kitchen, the living room is
cluttered and dusty. Is the house a mess
because of the turmoil contained within
it, or is the condition its normal state?
It's hard to tell. The furniture is a tag
sale and hand me down jumble. True love
and movie magazines cover the coffee
table, and a harlequin romance sits
open on the end table--"Turnabout Bride."

School photos grace the top of the
television set, showing Nancy moving
through her young life--a tooth missing
here, a new haircut there. The most
remarkable thing about the decor is a
series of gaudy Valentine candy boxes
that sit upon the mantle over a fake
fireplace, like trophies in a hunter's
study.

Mulder is now sitting cross-legged in
front of Nancy; his overcoat is draped
over the end of the couch. He asks her if 
he can turn off the TV so they can talk.
She shrugs an assent, and Bob Barker is
silenced.

"Nancy, I want to talk about what
happened the other night." Mulder's voice
is soft, and he sits forward with his
elbows on his knees. "Where do you
sleep?"

She points to a doorway to another room.
I can see through the open door that it
is a bedroom, not done up all pink for a
little girl, but just an ordinary
bedroom.

"And where did Mom sleep?" Mulder asks. 

"She slept out here. She said I needed my
privacy now that I'm getting big, and she
didn't want to wake me when she came home
late." Nancy's deep, husky voice is
incongruous , coming from such a little
girl. I think she must be channeling
Tammy Grimes. I also think that Mom was
the one who wanted the privacy.

A picture mixed in with the school photos
catches my attention. I pick it up to get
a better look at the woman posed with
Nancy. She is pretty but looks like very
little in her life has been easy. Her
hair has those wing things that sweep
back from the sides like Farrah Fawcett,
and she wears blue eye shadow applied
with a generous hand. I stoop down to
show the photograph to Mulder and Nancy.

"Is this your Mom?" Mulder asks. "She's
really pretty." Nancy nods and traces her
mother's image with her finger. "Nancy,
can you tell me about that night? What
woke you up?" Mulder asks. 

I can see Nancy relax, just like her aunt
did. Yep, young ones and old ones. She is
drawing lines in the dust on the floor.

"I heard a sound; it was like when wind
makes the windowshade slap back and
forth, but it came from outside. It got
louder and louder." She doesn't look up
but draws circles now among the lines.
She is talking faster and faster, as if
she has to push all the words out. "There
was a bright light in the living room. I
wanted to see where it was coming from,
but I was afraid. I came out when the
light went away, but my mom wasn't there.
The blankets were on the couch, but my
Mom was gone." Nancy looks up, and there
are tears pooled along her lashes. I
think that if my heart is breaking,
Mulder's must be in fragments by now.

"Can you remember anything else?" Mulder
prompts. 

Nancy concentrates, her eyes unfocused.
"There was a funny smell--like a burned
out match. But like someone burned lots
and lots of matches." Nancy tucks her
legs up inside the too-big sweatshirt so
only the tips of her dirty white sneakers
show. Mulder thanks her and gets up 
from his tailor position. He moves a
little slowly, untwisting his long legs, and I
smile to myself that he is getting older.
We are both getting older.

Mulder walks around the room as I have
just done and stops by the window. He
pushes the curtain aside and calls me
over. "The windowsill looks warped, like
it sustained heat damage." 

I run my fingers over the metal frame and
feel the bumpy texture.

Mulder opens the window, and the cold air
invades the room. He leans out, and when
he pulls his head back in, he shows me
the smudges of black on his fingers.
"Black residue covers the outside of this
window."

"Mulder, this is a heavily industrial
area. There is going to be a lot of soot
in the air. I have to wipe my sills off
all the time at home."

"Yes, but the other windows on this side
of the house don't have this much and
neither do the windows on the house
across the way." 

I don't offer any further opinion--such
as, for instance, the woman across the
way might be a better housekeeper than
the Krasinski sisters. The only person
who would be impressed by that is Nancy,
and she doesn't need to know her house is
dirty.

Mulder pulls an evidence bag from his
pocket and uses the blade on his pocket
knife to scrape some residue into the
bag. We bid our good-byes to Nancy and
Connie and walk next-door to talk to Helen
Mirich, the neighbor to whom Nancy had
run the night her mother vanished.

We approach a trim Cape Cod house and
wait at the top of the cement steps for
Mrs. Mirich to answer. The house is
painted white with green shutters and
door, and there are yellow mums in flower
pots on the steps. When she opens the
door, Mrs. Mirich is as neat as her
house, a widow in her early seventies. 

If the Krasinski house was warm, Mrs.
Mirich's house is a sauna. She seems duly
impressed by our FBI credentials and
confesses a real enjoyment of crime shows
on television.

"Mrs. Mirich, can you tell us what
happened early on Friday?" I begin.
Mulder is perched on the edge of a
plastic covered arm chair. I am grateful
that it isn't summer and I won't stick to
the plastic covered sofa when I get up. I
wonder exactly how long she wants this
furniture to last. I suspect this sofa
will outlive us all by a century.

"Nancy came banging on my front door
around a quarter to two in the morning.
She was screaming and screaming that
her Mom was gone. Something about 'the
light' took her away." Mrs. Mirich is
quite enthusiastic at being in her own
crime drama but then turns somber. "She
was trembling so much and her teeth were
chattering, so I could hardly understand
her. Poor little thing."

"Did Nancy wake you?" Mulder asks. He
sits forward and speaks softly. I can see
Mrs. Mirich respond much as Connie and
Nancy did. So far Mulder is three for
three, four for four, if you count me.

"No, I was awake before that. I'm not
sure what woke me. I don't sleep as
soundly as I did when I was young." 

"Do you remember hearing or seeing
anything before Nancy came here?"  I can
almost hear the hope in his voice. 

"I really can't say what woke me up. It
can be so noisy around here. They come
and go at all times of the night next-door; car doors slamming--loud voices.
Sometimes I hear men's voices late at
night in the driveway; sometimes they're
yelling." Mrs. Mirich's mouth is pursed
in disapproval. 
 
We bring the interview to a close and
prepare to leave when Mrs. Mirich asks,
"Do you think you can find Cheryl? I...we
may not have been friendly, but she
really is a good mother. I see them
outside sometimes. I remember watching
Cheryl teach Nancy to ride a two-wheel
bike last year."

"We're going to do all we can," Mulder
assures her. 

As we descend the steps, I can see Nancy
has resumed her vigil on
the stairs, huddled in her sweatshirt
against the chill. I wonder if she will
wait there until her mother reappears. We
wave as we get into the car.

~~~

As Mulder puts the car in drive and pulls
away from the curb, he turns to me and
says, "Okay, let me have it. Cheryl is 
AWOL, and I'm nuts for making this more
than it is."

"Well, if you're going to continue to do
my job for me, I can sleep later in the
morning." I fiddle with the heater
control and again coax no more than a
lukewarm breeze from it. "I wasn't going
to say that at all. While Cheryl may be
what my Aunt Olive would call 'no better
than she should be' which, come to think
of it, is an expression I never
understood, she doesn't have a history of
abandoning her daughter. That still
doesn't mean this is an alien abduction.
She could have been a victim of foul
play."

"You know what this area reminds me of?"
Mulder asks.

I gaze out the car window at the broken
windows of an abandoned factory building,
the brick facade now graffiti covered.
"The dark side of the moon?" I quip. 

"Allentown was like this...town fallen on
hard times. Maybe someone thinks no one
cares about women in these areas."

I can hear something in his voice, but I
can't identify it. "Mulder, those men are
dead. We saw the bodies ourselves. Who
would be continuing to take women and for
what purpose? If your theory is correct,
they had completed the testing and had
what they wanted."

"That is my point exactly!" He throws up
his hands and then remembers that he is
the one driving, and he grips the
steering wheel again. "We shouldn't be
seeing activity like this. Anyway, I'm
not convinced that they are all dead. We
didn't exactly have a roll call"  

We continue the drive to the police
station in silence, agreeing to disagree
as usual. In spite of the mysterious
nature of the cases we investigate, they
proceed in the most predictable fashion:
interview the witnesses, confer with
local law enforcement, gather evidence,
have evidence disappear under suspicious
circumstances, and wait to see if the
missing person returns. We rarely find
the purported abductee. She either
returns on her own, or she doesn't--and I
was no exception. And so it goes; in the
end, we have precious little for our
efforts, and it is beginning to wear me
down.

Weyborough's police station is a brick
building on the main road amid the
insurance offices, pharmacy, and dry
cleaners. The inside smells of burnt
coffee and old cigarettes. We find 
Officer Doyle without much difficulty.
Except for the other officer at the front
desk, he seems to be alone. Doyle appears
to be in his mid forties with a ruddy
complexion that speaks to an appreciation
of beer; his gut is further evidence of
this.

"What can I tell you about Cheryl?" He
asks, rocking back in his chair as if he
needs to think about this. "She gets
around, I guess you could say. Works down
at the Ten Pin--never been in trouble
with the law past a speeding ticket." 

Doyle rummages around and pulls a folder
out of his desk drawer. "Her sister said
she arrived home alone at twenty minutes
past eleven. The call came in from the
neighbor at 1:55 A.M. There was no
evidence of a break-in, and nothing was
stolen. Connie says she wasn't seeing
anyone currently and hadn't mentioned
anyone harassing her."

"Officer Doyle, did you notice the
buckling of the window sill in the living
room?" Mulder asks. 

"That's a second story window, with
nothing underneath it. We found no
evidence of a ladder against the window
or in the soil under it." Doyle shrugs. 

To be honest, he is no worse than most of
the local officers we see. He seems to
have done a fairly thorough investigation
and isn't prejudiced against Cheryl for
her lifestyle or background. Mulder seems
frustrated, and we draw the interview to
a close. 

"Officer Doyle, is there a good motel
nearby?" Mulder asks.

We have learned to check with the local
law whenever possible before choosing
accommodations. It seems that one motel
in a community gets the short stay
traffic, and we learned the hard way that
"No Tell" motels are not very restful.
The sounds of passion in the next room
can be very distracting for single people
traveling together on business. I can't
speak for Mulder, but I have enough
trouble keeping my thoughts from drifting
in a certain direction without auditory
prompting.

Doyle suggests a Mom and Pop run motel
down near the interstate and a decent
restaurant nearby.

We leave the police station. It is after
six, and we decide to break for dinner,
seeking out the Italian restaurant that
Doyle recommended. 

Half an hour later, we are seated at a
table at Villa Romana. The decor is
strictly out of Lady and the Tramp: red
checkered table cloth and chianti bottle,
bumpy with dripped candle wax. We face a
wall covered by a mural depicting the map
of Italy and typical gondola scenes. The
air, scented with the aroma of cheese and
garlic, promises something delicious. 

Mulder has ordered the Osso Buco and
closes his eyes in ecstasy on his first
taste of tender veal. "I haven't had veal
this good since that case in Boston.
Remember that place in Little Italy--
across from the church with the bocci
court?" He smiles at me with that
incredible flash of white teeth as he
takes a bite of risotto.  

I find myself returning the smile. I
remember every detail from that night,
the way the air smelled of chocolate as
we wandered through the narrow cobble-
stoned streets, the old people in
straight-backed chairs on the sidewalk
arguing in Italian over something in an
animated fashion. 

We had finished up a case earlier than
expected in Boston that time and had gone
to the North End for dinner. The air that 
evening was sweet and warm. The walk back
to the hotel, stuffed with the best food
I had ever eaten, is one of my most
cherished memories. He had taken my hand
as we crossed Congress Street and didn't
relinquish it until we entered the
revolving door to the hotel lobby. 

That was a long time ago; a lifetime ago,
before the cancer, before Emily, before
Ruskin Dam. Not long after that came
times that made it difficult to haul
myself out of bed in the morning, times
that were too sad to think of a future
beyond the end of that day.

I think gradually we have emerged from
the shadow of that time. I feel
cautiously hopeful for the first time in
what seems like years. Mulder seems more
centered than I have seen him in a long
time, and I know he wants something from
me that I am not sure I am ready to give.
I don't know if I am capable of the leap
of faith he wants me to take as he grows
impatient with my reluctance to admit
what I've seen with my eyes and heard
with my ears. 

When I was a little girl, my mother would
tell me that if I held onto something too
hard, I wouldn't be able to reach for
anything else. I think that is what I
have to do now and not only in relation
to the work. I'm afraid that if I cling
too hard to this comfortable friendship,
I will never know if we could ever have
more. I don't know if I can open my
fingers and take that chance. 

I take a bite of my gnocchi in pesto
sauce and make small talk. "I can't
believe how good the food is here."

"In this part of the country, almost any
little hole in the wall has great Italian
food." The rest of the meal passes in a
companionable silence broken only by
occasional groans of appreciation for the
food. We pay the tab, and I pocket the
receipt for the expense account. 

As we walk to the door, Mulder's hand
curves around my waist, and I feel my
eyes go wide. Touches like this were
common in the beginning of our
partnership: part protectiveness, part
possessiveness, and part affection. I
feel my body lean into Mulder, almost
beyond my control.

After the stakes of our lives were raised
to such a terrifying height, the little
touches became rare; caresses were
restricted to comfort at the losses that
came too frequently and the wounds that
were too deep. 

We stop by the Ten Pin Lounge to
interview Cheryl's coworkers and
customers. The Weyborough Lanes is busy
with bowling leagues and teenagers with
time on their hands. The interior is
brightly lit, and smells of shoes that
lots of people have worn linger in the
air. We are directed to the manager who
is trying to un-jam a ball from the ball
return. 

"I can't tell you too much about Cheryl.
She showed up for her shift and kept to
herself. You should talk to the
bartender--I think Gary knew her pretty
well." The manager gestures to the
doorway of the lounge.

Mulder and I look out onto the lanes as
the manager is called to the snack bar. I
watch Mulder pick up a bowling ball and
weigh it in his hands, and I feel tears
prick my eyes as I am instantly back to
another bowling alley in a different town
and a different time. I look at Mulder
and see that he remembers, too, and his
eyes turn soft on me. 

He rubs my arm and nods in the direction
of the Ten Pin. "If I buy you a drink
will you come back to my motel?" 

I smirk at him, and we walk to the bar.
We are almost blinded in the dimness
after the bright lights of the alley. The
Ten Pin smells like every other bar: eau
de beer and cigarette smoke. The crowd in
the bar is mostly league bowlers, and
Mulder and I stick out like bikers at a
society ball. 

We approach the bar and order club soda
and wait for the bartender to finish with
an order of drinks. A patron who has
several empty mugs in front of him leers
at me, calling me "cutie." Mulder glares
at him and stands a little closer to me,
draping his arm over my shoulder. I
should be offended at this macho
posturing, but I'm not. I find my hand
covering Mulder's briefly, and I wonder
if my subconscious is going to betray me
in my struggle for distance and
propriety.  

"She worked her shift Thursday night like
regular...I don't remember anything out
of the ordinary." Gary is around fifty,
with kind eyes, and I detect a feeling of
protectiveness as he talks about Cheryl. 

"Did you notice anyone in the bar that
might not have been a regular? Maybe
someone who paid attention to Cheryl?" I
ask, and he shakes his head.

"No, I don't remember anyone that stuck
out. Thursdays are a zoo here, though--a
big league night." He seems to be
thinking hard as he wipes down the
counter with a beery rag. "You know,
there was a guy in here dressed like
you...coulda been Thursday...stuck out
like a sore thumb. But like I said, it
was a zoo here."  

We talk to the other barmaids and find
that one of them was on the same night as
Cheryl and remembers the customer in
the suit, but can't remember if it was
Thursday or Friday or if Cheryl waited on
him. No one remembers any detail about
his appearance beyond the fact that he
wore a dark suit. I can see the little
wheels in Mulder's head turning.

As we walk through the parking lot, I ask
him, "So, you think this was an MIB or
what?" 

"Oooh Scully, do you have any idea what
it does to me when you talk like that?"

He covers his heart with his hand and
looks upward. I smack him on the
shoulder, and we head to the motel. It is
after ten, and I am punchy from a day
that began before the sun.

The Lantern House Motel is just as Doyle
said: a clean, quiet, family run
operation. Mulder hands me my key, and we
open the doors to our adjoining rooms,
and, like a choreographed dance, unlock
the doors between the rooms. It is all I
can do to change into pajamas, brush my
teeth, and fall into bed.

I come to awareness slowly. I can feel
the cold metal of a table on my bare back
and bottom and the scratch of nylon
straps at my wrists. I feel the light
weight of a surgical drape over me. I
know where I am immediately and that
struggling will do no good. I can't get
my eyes to open, but I can feel the 
hard edges of the stirrups against my
bare feet and the slippery cold of the
speculum as it is pushed into me. I hear
a man's voice say, "She won't remember
this," and I hear someone yelling. I
realize it is me. "Scream all you want;
no one can hear you," the voice says
again.

I sit up, heart pounding, gasping for
breath as Mulder stumbles into the room.
His hair is sticking up in the back
like a rooster's comb, and if I wasn't
having a breakdown, I would laugh. "A bad
one?" he asks.

"I give it a nine." I run a shaky hand
through my hair as Mulder brings me a
glass of water from the bathroom. I take
a long drink and wonder why people bring
you water when you're upset.

"Yeah, but I bet you can't dance to it,"
he quips as he hands me the glass and
sits next to me on the bed. He rubs my
back as I take deep breaths and feel my
heart try to escape my chest. "Which one
was it? The one on the examining table?"

I regret bitterly telling him about that
particular stop on the dreamland express.
I fix him with a look that says, "Don't
go there," but he continues. 

"I'm not surprised that this case stirred
up feelings about your abduction." 

"While I thank you for your professional
opinion, Mulder, I don't need an occasion
for that particular dream." I don't
mean for my voice to sound so waspish,
and I draw my knees up and wrap my arms
around them. "Mulder, why isn't this
over?" That comes out in a whisper. 

Mulder resumes rubbing my back and speaks
close enough to my ear that it tickles.
"Move over."

I shift over and roll on my stomach while
Mulder stretches out alongside, elbow
bent, and head propped up. He strokes my
hair and then my back gently, over and
over until I feel myself drifting back
into sleep. Just before I drop off, I can
hear his whisper, "Someday, Scully;
someday." 

I wake to a shaft of sunlight that forces
its way through a gap in the curtains and
the sound of the shower running in the
next room. The bed feels warm next to me,
and for some reason I can't stop smiling.
I gather up my toiletries bag and a
change of clothes and head to the
bathroom.

I stand under the hot water for a long
time and silently compliment the
management for great water pressure and 
immaculate housekeeping. The towels are
thick and soft, and I make a mental note
to thank Doyle for his recommendation.

As I exit the bathroom, hair swathed
turban style, Mulder is hanging up my
phone. "That was Doyle. Cheryl was found
in an alley behind the dry cleaners. She
was terrified and incoherent but doesn't
seem hurt." 

As I process this information, one tiny
part of me wonders what Doyle thought
of Mulder answering my phone at 7 A.M. 

We quickly finish dressing and are out
the door in minutes. Mulder continues,
telling me that Cheryl was taken to
Weyborough Community Hospital. She was
found naked and shivering, wrapped in a
sheet, crouched next to a dumpster. 

~~~

Weyborough Community Hospital was built
in the early '60s out of yellow brick
which is a nice change from all the
decaying red brick buildings in this
town. We enter through the emergency
entrance and immediately locate the
cyclone of commotion that surrounds
Cheryl. Standing outside the examination
room, Connie is crying onto the shoulder
of Fred Doyle who is holding her tight
and stroking her hair.  

Doyle looks up at our approach, and I
figure that his sheepish expression means
he won't be asking why Mulder answered
my phone this morning. "The nurse and
doctor are in with her now."  

I can hear Cheryl crying and saying, "No
please! No please!" over and over. The
doctor comes out of the examining room,
and I ask him if I can catch a word with
him.

After conferring with Dr. Sena, a small,
dark-skinned man of Indian extraction, I
returned to Mulder to compare notes. He
has been getting background from Doyle
while Connie tried to calm Cheryl. 

"They did a tox screen, and we should
have some results later this morning. She
did have contusions and ligature marks on
her wrists and ankles. She also had a
pelvic exam, and it doesn't appear that
Cheryl was assaulted, but the doctor said
her abdomen was very tender, and her
ovaries felt enlarged." Maybe I was lucky
in a way to miss all the festivities when
I was returned four years ago. I feel my
hair crawl on my scalp as I think of
Cheryl undergoing the poking and
prodding.

"Doyle says they sent the sheet to the
state labs for analysis. Listen Scully,
I'd like you to take a look at her for
trace evidence." He leans down and speaks
low.

"Mulder...I hate to put her through
that." I don't continue because I know he
is right. As a woman, I will be less
threatening to Cheryl, and there are
things for which I know to look. I shrug
in assent; I'm not looking forward to
this, but who would understand better
what Cheryl is feeling? 

We enter the exam room, and Connie
introduces us to Cheryl who looks at us
warily as she fingers the edge of the
sheet that covers her. Her wrists are
circled with purplish-red marks like
gaudy bracelets. Mulder asks her if she
remembers how she got to the alley, but
her eyes glaze over, and she says she
can't remember anything.  

"Cheryl, Agent Scully is a medical
doctor. She needs to examine you to see
if there are any clues as to what
happened to you. We know that this is
difficult, but it's very important." 

Mulder's voice is soft and as non-
threatening as he can make it. I think
for a minute that the Mulder calming
effect is going to fail him this time as
Cheryl clutches the sheet up to her neck
and looks clearly terrified. Connie has
her arms around Cheryl and says speaks
low into her ear. 

Whatever Connie said seems to have made a
difference as Cheryl relaxes and nods her
assent. I tell Mulder that I will meet
him in the coffee shop when I am done,
and then I ask Cheryl if she would prefer
her sister to remain with her. 

I am so far out of practice with bedside
manner that it isn't even funny. The only
live person I ever examine is Mulder, and
he has to be hurting badly or be really
sick before he lets me near him. I tell
Cheryl that I will be scanning her skin
for marks, and I bring an examining lamp
from the corner of the room. Exposing
only one area at a time, I inspect each
inch of skin. I save the more private
areas for last to avoid making Cheryl any
more uncomfortable than necessary. I make
notes as I go along and sorely miss my
tape recorder. It is tedious to stop and
write every few seconds.

When I am done, I find myself speaking.
"It happened to me...a long time ago...
what happened to you. I was very sick
when I was found, and later, I was really
terrified. I got better after a while...
the feelings never went away, but they
got better." I keep my eyes on the bed
rail and run my fingers along the cold,
smooth steel. I had no intention of
sharing that. It was as if the words made
a prison break from my mouth.

I gather my notes and head for the coffee
shop. Mulder is nursing a cup of coffee
in a booth away from the other customers.
Our waitress is Millie, who looks like
Mrs. Santa Claus and has a pin that tells
us that she has 200 hours of volunteer
service. I order coffee and an English
muffin. Mulder orders eggs over easy and
bacon. It's a good thing his cholesterol
runs to the low end of normal.

"First, let me say that it is
considerably harder to do a forensic 
exam when the subject is alive." I level
a look intended to tell him how much I
hated what I just had to do. "Cheryl
didn't show any sign of an implant at the
base of her neck. I asked Dr. Sena to
schedule a series of X-rays. We've seen
nasal implants, and there would be no
scarring. He's also ordering an
ultrasound to check the enlarged
ovaries." 

Mulder's eyes tell me he is pleased at my
direction. "Any other marks?" he asks.

"She had bruises on her arms and
shoulders and the ligature marks, of
course. At first, I didn't see any
injection sites, but I noticed a small
bruise under a tattoo on her hip. It
looks like she may have been injected
there. I'll know more when we get the
blood work back." I pause for a moment as
Millie brings our food and my coffee. I
have a brief flash of Millie flat on her
back in a dead faint after overhearing
the conversation.

"Scully, I want to check the site where
Cheryl was found. Why don't you stay here
and try to talk to her?" Mulder has
shoveled his food and now downs the last
of his coffee. With a wave, he is gone,
his overcoat swaying behind him. 

I flag Millie down for a refill on my
coffee; I am in no great hurry to get
back to Cheryl's room. 

Finally, I can postpone this no longer
and return to the examining room. Dr.
Sena is just leaving and tells me that
he is admitting Cheryl who has just
returned from her tests. I poke my head
into the room, and Cheryl smiles
tentatively. She seems calmer but is
still alarmingly pale.

"Cheryl, can you tell me what you
remember?" I pull the chair up to the
bedside.

"I left work after my shift and came
straight home. Nothing out of the
ordinary happened...I went right to bed.
I don't know what woke me up, but the
room was filled with light--it was so 
bright that my eyes wouldn't stay open.
There was noise all around me, and my
head felt like it was filled with air,
like a balloon that was ready to pop.
That's the last thing I remember." Tears 
are in her eyes, and she turns her head
away. "Agent Scully, I feel like I'm
empty inside now." 

I can't speak for a minute for I am no
stranger to the stifling emptiness. I
have no words of wisdom for her; there is
no comfort in knowing that one gets used
to the yawning gap in her soul. 

"Cheryl, this may seem like a strange
question, but have you ever been treated
for infertility?" 

"I barely had to look at my boyfriend to
get pregnant with Nancy." She finds this
rather funny, and then fear creeps over
her. "Why...why would you ask me such a
thing."

I assure her that it's probably nothing,
but we should know more after her tests
come back. I ask more questions, trying
to spark some memory of what happened in
the three days she was missing, but
Cheryl has no more answers than I did
years ago. We are truly sisters in our
emptiness. 

The transportation aide is a welcome
interruption as he comes to take Cheryl
to her room. I find myself leaning over
to hug her, careful of the bruises, and I
head down to the lobby. I have an almost
uncontrollable urge for a Milky Way bar.
My cellphone beeps as I step off the
elevator.

"Scully, I'm on my way back. I didn't
find anything in the alley except a lot
of old hangers. Apparently that mystery
is solved--where the hangers go after
they multiply." The disappointment in his
voice is palpable when I tell him Cheryl 
doesn't remember anything. 

The gift shop is out of Milky Ways, and I
have to make do with a Snickers. I sit in
the lobby and watch the people come and
go: the happy people with "It's a Girl"
balloons and big fluffy teddy bears, and
the dutiful people making their visits,
checking off another good deed. The
people who call to me are the shell-
shocked ones, too tired to comb their
hair as they steel themselves to return
to a room where death sits on the
windowsill.

I'm polishing off the last of the candy
bar when Mulder appears at my elbow.
"Hey, did you buy me one?" 

I pull a second bar out of my coat
pocket, and Mulder grins my favorite
smile--big and goofy. I fill him in on
Cheryl and her description of the bright
light. My cellphone beeps again, and I
slip my empty candy wrapper into my
pocket and flip the phone open. Dr. Sena
has the test results; he has just been to
see Cheryl.

Dr. Sena's office is filled with medical
books and family photos. Mulder paces
back and forth while the doctor and
I are bent over the results. 

"Mulder, there were traces of Haloperidol
in Cheryl's blood which could account for
her inability to remember any details.
From the levels, I would say she was kept
in an unconscious state most of the time.
But the really strange thing was that 
there were high levels of gonadatropins
in her system."

"'Gonadatropins'?" Mulder looks far too
excited by this news. 

"The hormones that induce ovulation. Her
ovaries were very enlarged--much more
than one would expect for natural
ovulation. These hormones are used
commonly in infertility treatment." I can
practically count the seconds until the
next question pops out of Mulder.

"So, was Cheryl being treated for
infertility?" He is rocking on the balls
of his feet, hands in his pockets. 

Sena watches us lobby back and forth like
he is at a tennis match.

"No, I asked her, and she was quite
amused." I hate this. I want to run out
of this hospital, get in the car, and
drive and drive until I run out of gas.
"Also, the X-rays show no evidence of
implants, either in the sinus cavity or
anywhere else."

Mulder announces that he wants to talk to
Cheryl again, and we leave Dr. Sena who
stands at his desk, shaking his head at
no one in particular. I want to tell him
to join the club of the incredulous and
confused. I am the founding member.

Cheryl is in a room on the general ward,
and Nancy is sitting on the bed, wrapped
in her mother's arms. Cheryl is combing
through Nancy's tangled hair with her
fingers and murmuring to her. Connie
stands a little distance away, her
expression a combination of relief and
protectiveness.

Cheryl looks at us over Nancy's head, and
the terror is still there, but also,
resistance has formed. I know that look;
it is the same one I gave Mulder whenever
he tried to push me further than I was
willing to go. Connie tells Nancy that
she can pick something out at the gift
shop, and they leave. Connie fixes us
with a fierce look as she passes by.

"I think you could benefit from
regression hypnosis, Cheryl, to help you
remember what happened." Mulder has that
earnest "I want to help you" look that is
so effective because it is completely
genuine. 

Cheryl, however, is unimpressed. "No." I
am surprised at the steel in Cheryl's
tone. "Listen, I don't remember anything.
I don't want to remember anything. I just
want everybody to leave me alone." Her
voice is getting louder and louder, and a
passing nurse looks in sternly. 

I think it's time now for me to put an
end to this. Mulder won't like it, but
Cheryl isn't going to budge. I move
closer to the bed and try to engage
Cheryl's eyes. 

"I know how you feel, maybe better than
anyone you will ever meet. You don't have
to make a decision about hypnosis right
now, but I want you to think about it. I
went for a lot of years, like you, trying
to pretend it didn't happen, that I was
still whole, but I didn't start to heal
until I tried to confront what happened
to me." I turn to Mulder and see the
flash of pain that crosses his face. I
fear he will always hold himself
responsible for what happened to me.

Cheryl agrees to think about hypnosis,
but I suspect we will never hear from
her, though we give her both our cards.
We leave the hospital and walk in silence
out to the parking lot. Mulder slaps his
hand on the roof of the car in
frustration. 

"They did this. I'm sure of it. It's
starting again, and I don't know why." He
wheels around to me with anger snapping
in his eyes. 

"Mulder, we don't know for sure what
happened to that woman." I try to keep my
voice level. 

"Why would she be pumped full of
hormones? Who else would do that? Without
Cheryl's help, we're back at square one."
His hands are balled into fists at his
sides.

I understand this frustration far too
well. We have worked for so many years
with so little to show for it. As soon
as we think we've got the game figured
out, someone changes the rules, and we
are again in the dark. And so it goes;
again we have no conclusive evidence and
one reluctant witness.

"Why would they return her so soon? What
were they trying to do?" Somewhere along
the way, I have begun to agree with him.
This was no random act by a pervert with
a hormone fetish, and it is pointless to
deny the obvious. Mulder seems to relax a
bit as he realizes that convincing me is
not another hurdle he must clear. I step
closer and put my hands on his upper
arms, feeling the strength in and muscle
tone of his biceps.

"Mulder, I meant what I said back there.
I don't know if anyone can fully
understand the fear; the terror of not
knowing, and the revulsion of imagining
what might have been done to you. It's
only lately that I have begun to feel
like I had some perspective, some
distance from what happened to me. Cheryl
has to come to that point in her own good
time."

He pulls me close, and I slip my arms
around his waist under his overcoat. He
feels warm and smells heavenly of
aftershave and laundry starch. He rests
his chin on my head, and we stand like
this for what seems hours. When he pulls
away, he has a hint of a smile.

"So Scully, what do you say? We could be
in Boston in an hour. How about dinner at
that restaurant across from the bocci
court?"

I smile up into his eyes because
suddenly, I have a craving for fettucini.

End "And So It Goes" (03 of 03)