From: DashaK@aol.com
Date: Wed, 25 Aug 1999 00:45:25 EDT
Subject: Submission- The Professional
Source: direct

On Wednesday Scully did what she often did when she needed 
guidance and strength; she went to church.

There was something appealing to her about St. John's 
church when it was empty of parishioners.  Tonight it was 
lit only with a few of the overhead fixtures and felt cool 
without the body heat of families crowded in for Sunday 
mass.  The large worship space was quiet, except for the 
rumble of the furnace and the occasional strain of singing 
from a choir practice in the basement.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee . . ."

So comforting to sit in the pew, bow her head and repeat 
the prayers that were as familiar to her as her own name, 
her onyx and silver rosary beads clutched between her 
fingers.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . ."

Even though she rarely did it anymore, she would never 
forget the order of the Holy Rosary.

"Glory be to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit . . ."

After she'd said the entire rosary, Scully's prayers turned 
more personal and free form:

Lord, give me the strength to get through this time, and 
the wisdom to make the right choices.  I love him so.  I 
love him in a way that is elemental.  It is almost as if 
I've never had a choice in the matter-- I just love him and 
I know now that I always have, since the very beginning.

We've been so happy until this.  I never thought my life 
could contain such joy in learning to love another and 
learning to be loved.

But now I wonder if we were living a lie.

I have to ask you a question, Lord.  Why does it always 
have to be so difficult?  I know that you choose some to 
walk a difficult and dangerous path and I accept that, but 
is it so wrong for me to want a small piece of contentment 
and security?  Must I always be tested so?

Please help me to forgive.

She blinked away tears and bit her lip, coming out of the 
depth of prayer to the reality of the vacant and dusty 
church.  The light touch of a hand on her shoulder made her 
start and she turned her head to see Father McCue.

The priest was out of clerical garb and it was strange for 
her to see him casually dressed in a pair of khakis and a 
Loyola University sweatshirt.  "Dana," he said with a 
smile.  "Please forgive me for interrupting you in a 
private moment."

"It's okay," she said.  "I was just leaving."

"You look as if you could use some company.  I was just 
about to have a cup of coffee.  Would you like to join me?"

Scully shook her head.  "I should go," she said, gathering 
up her coat and purse.

The elderly priest tilted his head.  "Sometimes it helps to 
talk to someone."

She considered his words.  Truth be told, she had few 
friends with whom she felt comfortable sharing her dilemma.  
She might have told Ellen, but she and her husband were on 
vacation in England.  And her mother, who already harbored 
enough reservations about Mulder, was out of the question.

Scully rose from the pew.  "A cup of coffee 
sounds wonderful."

They went to the Rectory kitchen, a pleasant room with pale 
yellow walls and a large wood table.  Father McCue fussed 
around making coffee and putting chocolate-chip cookies on 
a plate, all the while giving her little tidbits of parish 
news.

The coffee made, the priest sat down with her and handed 
her a steaming mug and a cookie.  "It was nice to see you 
at last Sunday's mass, Dana."

"I'm sorry I don't get out here very often," she said, 
enjoying the warmth of the mug between her hands.  "I'm 
often out of town on a case on the weekends, and sometimes 
I attend mass at the church around the corner from me."

"I wasn't trying to give you a dose of Catholic guilt," 
Father McCue chuckled.

Scully smiled in chagrin at her defensiveness.

"You seem to be troubled, Dana," he said.  "I'd like to 
think that I've known you long enough to be able to tell."

She nodded, staring down at her hands on the table.  "I am 
troubled," she whispered.  "I'm angry and sad and confused 
all at once and I don't know what to do."

"Why don't you start by telling me about it?"

Where to begin, she thought.  How do I explain this to a 
priest?

She stalled by taking a long swallow of the strong coffee.  
"I'm struggling with forgiveness," she said.

"Forgiving yourself or another?" the priest said.

"Both," she said.  "But mostly another person.  Someone I 
love very much did something in the past that I find to be 
morally wrong and I'm having a difficult time forgiving 
him.  And I'm so angry with him that I've been behaving 
horribly, which has been making me feel guilty."

"Forgiveness is never easy, my child," Father McCue said.

That was the understatement of the year, she thought, 
stifling a bitter laugh.  "I want to forgive him, though," 
Scully said.

"What will happen if you aren't able to forgive?"

She shut her eyes for a moment and tried to imagine her 
life without Mulder.  The images just wouldn't come.  She 
shook her head.  "I don't know.  I guess everything ends."

"Have you stopped to consider that you are human and it may 
take some time?  That the anger is natural and a step to be 
gotten through on the road to understanding and 
forgiveness?"

"I just want this to be over; I want things to go back to 
the way they were before."  She knew it was a childish 
wish, but Scully wished it all the same.

Father McCue's blue eyes were full of compassion.  "That's 
not possible, Dana.  I think the fact that you're upset 
about your difficulty in letting go of the negative 
emotions speaks of your willingness to try to forgive."

She nodded.

"Let me ask you this," he said.  "Do you truly love this 
man?"

"Yes, I do."

"Is he remorseful about his past actions?"

"He is," she said in a half-sigh.

"Has he asked for your forgiveness?"

"He has."  In fact, he'd begged her again and again to 
forgive him.  Scully could still hear the anguish in 
Mulder's voice.

"Dana, do you think that what he did in the past is 
something he would do again?"

She shook her head.  

The priest's voice was gentle, far different than the voice 
he used to give his stirring Sunday homilies.  "Dana, I 
can't tell you what to do.  All I can do is help you sort 
out your feelings and your priorities."

"What if I'm never able to forgive?" she said, feeling her 
lower lip begin to quiver like a child's.

"I know you, Dana, and I know you have a generous heart. 
What you have to decide is whether or not you want to move 
on from this moment and work with this man to salvage what 
you have together that's good."

"I do," she said, nodding.  "I want the rage and the 
recrimination to stop.  I want to be able to stop punishing 
him for what he's done."

Oh, I want laughter, and breakfasts, and bad movies, and 
sharing our fears and walking together on the Cozumel beach 
again, she thought.  I want to understand why he felt he 
had to be with the prostitute, and then I want be able to 
kiss him and not think of the two of them together.  

"Never would I tell anyone to stay in a relationship if it 
causes unbearable pain and suffering."  He gave her a wry 
little grin.  "Don't tell the Pope I said that.  When I do 
marriage counseling, I always strive to have the end result 
be the couple together in a happy, healthy relationship, 
but there are undeniable reasons for two people to part."  
He paused for a sip of coffee.  "I haven't asked you what 
he's done, because I want to respect your privacy, but you 
need to ask yourself, is it so bad that I would advise you to 
leave him?"

She shook her head.  "No."

He patted her hand.  "Dana, you are a strong woman and I 
have faith that you can find the strength to forgive him.  
Just remember that true forgiveness is the greatest gift 
one person can give another."

"I'm going to try," she said, and felt a sudden rush of 
optimism that she could do it.  "I love him enough to try 
with everything I have."

"We are all imperfect beings," Father McCue added.  "Don't 
ever forget that.  He isn't perfect and he made a mistake.  
You aren't a saint and you're feeling angry and having 
trouble forgiving.  But you are both God's creatures and no 
matter what happens, He will love you."

"That's comforting to hear," she said, smiling for the 
first time in days.

The priest leaned closer.  "Would you like me to pray with 
you for guidance?"

She remembered lying in her hospital bed, wasted with her 
illness, praying the rosary with Father McCue. She'd come 
so precariously close to losing her faith then, and he'd 
helped pull her back to the shore of belief.  In a way, 
she'd witnessed several miracles during those dark days-- 
the resurrection of her health, her faith and Mulder.

Who was to say there couldn't be another, smaller miracle?

"Yes, I'd like to pray," she said.

They bowed their heads and began.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With an odd new feeling of lightness, Scully left the 
rectory.

She paused to light a candle at the side of the nave.  Two 
months ago, on a freezing cold morning, still in pain from 
her gunshot wound, she'd lit a candle for Mulder and 
herself.  That same morning they'd kissed for the first 
time in her kitchen.

As she gazed at the strong flame burning in the little 
glass holder, she remembered the lovely sweetness of that 
first kiss and the awareness that had shot into her as his 
lips touched hers and her mouth opened to him.  I love him, 
she'd thought, finally sure of her feelings.  I love him.

And I still do, she mused, toying with the taper in her 
fingers.  Nothing has changed.

Scully took a deep breath and looked at the candle one last 
time.

For here on in, I'm going to try to let go, she told 
herself.  Let go of the anger, let go of the sorrow, 
release it and try to love the things about Mulder that are 
good and strong.

I love him, she silently said to the candle.  

She walked out into the chilly, starry night and took a 
deep breath of the fresh air.

An hour later she was home, after a quick stop at Barnes 
and Noble to treat herself with the new Margaret Atwood 
novel and several thick and glossy fashion magazines.  She 
planned to fill up the tub and read until sleep took her 
over.

Mulder was sitting on her front steps when she pulled up at 
her building.  He was bundled in his wool winter coat and 
looked like a lost waif abandoned at her stoop.

"Hi," he said, lifting mournful eyes to her.

"Hi yourself," she said, taking care to smile for his 
benefit.

He stood up.  "I wanted to see you, but maybe it wasn't 
such a smart idea."  Mulder ducked his head slightly, as if 
avoiding a blow.  "I'd better go home."

Scully reached out her arm to him and grasped him at the 
elbow.  "No, don't go home.  Come inside."

A shy smile spread on his face.

Once inside, Mulder sat stiffly on her couch, as if he'd 
never been over before, as if he hadn't spent countless 
evenings with her on that couch in the past few months.  
She sat next to him.

"Mulder," she said, her voice wavering, "I need to 
apologize to you."

He pointed to himself.  "To me?  You're not the one who 
needs to make apologies."

"No, I am, Mulder.  I've been trying to punish you the past 
few days because I've been so angry.  I told you last 
Sunday that I was willing to try to work it out, and then I 
turned my back on you and shut you out.  It wasn't fair of 
me."

"You were just doing the best you could, Scully."  He 
sighed.

Scully leaned into him a little and he put his arm around 
her.  She was surprised at how good it did feel to be 
touched by him again.  "This has been hard for the both of 
us, Mulder, but I'm determined to truly make the effort."

"I just feel bad that it's you that has to make the effort 
when I was the one who fucked up."

She nodded and touched the rough grain of his evening 
stubble.  "It's not fair, but nothing ever is."

He suddenly stood and she wondered what she'd said or done 
to make him react like that.  "What are you doing?" she 
asked.

"I brought you something," he said, and reached into his 
coat pocket, drawing out a flat object wrapped in dark 
green paper and tied with silver cord.

She felt her eyebrow rise.  "A present?"

He sat back down and handed her the surprisingly heavy 
object.  "I'm not naive enough to think that I give you a 
present and boom, everything is all right again.  I just 
saw this and thought of you."

Her lips curled in a smile and she began to carefully untie 
the cord and remove the paper.

The breath left her lungs as she saw a photograph in an 
antique silver frame.

It was Mulder and her on the beach in Cozumel.  She was 
wearing one of the bikinis he'd bought for her, the navy 
blue one, and he was in black trunks.  They were sharing a 
single chaise lounge, their legs entwined, the both of them 
holding margarita glasses and smiling the carefree, drunken 
grins of mid-vacation.  They looked like they'd just had 
sex, they looked like they smelled of salt and sand and 
coconut oil.  God, they looked happy.

"I took this one out of my pictures when they came back 
from the store," Mulder said, tracing their images with his 
index finger.  "I took it to be enlarged and then I went 
searching for a frame.  I wanted to surprise you."

"You did," she said, sniffing away sudden tears.  "It's 
beautiful."

He leaned closer to her and she could smell his warm, 
masculine scent.  "It's us," he whispered.

"It is," she said, nodding and she reached for his hand, 
their fingers lacing together.

He turned to her.  "I'm so afraid of losing you over this, 
Scully.  Whatever I can do to make it right again, I'll do 
it.  I'll do anything."

I know you will, she thought, and again fought to keep the 
tears in check.  She leaned over and softly kissed him on 
the cheek.  "I'm feeling a different emotion every hour," 
she said in a quiet voice.  "All I ask is that you allow me 
to have those feelings."

He kissed her lightly on the lips and stood.  "Well, I 
should shove off.  I just wanted to give you the picture."

Scully rose and touched his shoulder, taking a steadying 
breath.  "Mulder, stay with me tonight."

A genuine smile, unguarded and surprised, spread across his 
face.  "Are you sure?  Maybe you need some time alone."

"I think too much time alone is what often gets us into 
trouble."

"I just don't want us to rush things."

She laughed a little.  "I'm not promising you a night of 
hot passion, but I'd like to sleep with you tonight."

While brushing her teeth and changing into her pajamas, she 
thought about the time when she had been missing.  She and 
Mulder had never really discussed what those months had 
been like for him.  She wasn't admitting that his 
experiences with Amy were right, but she acknowledged that 
she was at least trying to put it all into proper context.

Mulder was already in bed, stripped to boxers and a Rolling 
Stones concert t-shirt he kept in his designated drawer.  
He took off his glasses and turned back the comforter in 
invitation.  "Mmmm, flannel PJs, Scully.  I never would 
have found that look sexy before you."

For better or for worse, she thought and climbed in beside 
him.

He switched off the lamp and rolled onto his side.  "I'm 
glad you asked me to stay," he whispered.

It took her a moment to find her words.  "We've come so far 
in the last months, Mulder.  As much as I've entertained 
the idea, I can't just walk away."

"You're a far more forgiving person than I am.  If the 
situation were reversed . . ."

The face of a dark-haired man, sitting next to her in the 
booth of a bar, appeared behind her closed eyelids.  "Well, 
there was Ed Jerse--"

A look of hurt crossed his face, but he said,  "That was 
very different.  You didn't pay him, for one thing."

"No, but I used him for sex, all the same."  She sighed.

"Loneliness will do some pretty powerful things to a 
person."

Scully moved in closer, so their bodies were touching.  She 
could feel his body heat through the thin cotton of his 
nightclothes.  "Mulder, I want you to tell me what it was 
like when I was gone."

She heard the breath catch in his throat.  "I can't-- I 
can't put it into words," he stammered.  "It was dark, like 
being sucked into a whirlpool of unending guilt and 
remorse.  I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep.  And when I did 
sleep, I had constant nightmares about you: about the pain 
and torture you were experiencing, about finding you dead, 
about never finding you at all."

A single tear began to trickle down her cheek.

He continued, "Being with Amy wasn't just about the sex and 
the release.  It was a twisted way to pretend, for a few 
minutes, that I hadn't fucked up and lost you.  She looked 
so much like you, Scully; she even smelled like you."

She raised her head off the pillow a little.  "She smelled 
like me?"

There was silence for a long moment.  "I don't want to tell 
you this, Scully, because you're not going to like it.  But 
I also know that you want me to be honest with you."

Her stomach lurched.  "Tell me," Scully whispered, and 
braced herself for more ugly revelations.

"After I saw Amy the first time, I found myself at the 
perfume counter at Nordstrom's, sampling all the perfumes 
until I found the one that smelled like you.  It was like I 
was sleepwalking, watching myself buying the bottle of 
Paris and then going to the jewelry department, where--" 
she heard him inhale, "--where I found a gold cross and 
chain that was almost exactly like yours.  And from then 
on, I had Amy wear the perfume and cross whenever I saw 
her."

Scully fought the oncoming sobs building in her chest, but 
it was a futile effort.  It came out in ragged waves, her 
wet face pressed against his t-shirt.

He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her like a little 
girl needing comfort after a skinned knee as she gave 
herself into her sorrow.  She wasn't sure, but she thought 
she heard him crying, too.

Finally, the storm subsided and she pulled away, sniffling 
and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her pajamas.  Mulder 
climbed out of bed and returned with some tissues from the 
bathroom and a glass of water.  She wiped her face, blew 
her nose and gulped down most of the cold water.

Mulder reached for her hand.  "I'm sorry, Scully, that was 
unforgivable."

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "I'm not crying because 
I'm angry with you.  I'm crying because it's so damn sad."

It was terribly sad, the thought of Mulder so desperate to 
have her back he'd tried to re-create her in another woman.  
It ripped at her heart and made her realize how selfish 
she'd been not to fully consider how her abduction had 
affected him.

He lay back down and gathered her in his arms again.  "I 
wish I could go back in time and do it differently this 
time."

"You can't," Scully whispered.  "The only thing we can 
really do is to choose how we deal with it from now on."

She brought her hand to the back of his neck and kissed 
him, taking time to explore the contours of his lips and 
mouth with her tongue.

It was possible she might never fully understand Mulder, or 
comprehend his need to pay a woman for sex, but she was 
beginning to remember that, yes, he was a good man who had 
never intended to hurt her.

Mulder groaned and began to clumsily unbutton her pajama 
top as they continued to kiss as if afraid ever to part.  
She felt him hardening against her and she reached down to 
tug off her panties and bottoms.

He moved down the bed a bit to take a nipple between his 
lips and suck.  With her hands she got him to lift off the 
bed and she pulled his boxers off.

She felt him smile against her breast and she nearly 
whimpered with her need to be connected with him as his 
hand moved down between her legs, where she was rapidly 
becoming slick with her arousal.

Throwing her head back, she heard herself plead, "Please, 
Mulder . . ."

Oh God, were they really going to do this?

Was she ready?

She was, she was.

He lifted her leg over his hip and with one fluid thrust he 
was inside her, huge and hard.  They began to rock together 
as if in a slow-motion sequence of an erotic video.  Her 
hand reached over to grab his behind and bring him deeper 
into her.  He couldn't go deep enough to satisfy her, she 
hazily thought as she ground her pelvis and clit into his 
body.

"Oh," he breathed.  "I don't want this to end."

She nodded and clamped her eyes shut as she began to go off 
in a series of agonizingly slow, gentle waves of pleasure 
with each languid stroke of his cock into her.

As she came back to reality, he rolled her over and brought 
her legs high up on his back and the lazy pace ended for 
good as he rode her hard, gasping with each thrust.

Mulder buried his head in her shoulder and gave a harsh cry 
as he drove into her for the final, shuddering time and 
collapsed on her.  Once he stopped panting, he kissed her 
with tender reverence and brushed the damp hair off her 
forehead.

She couldn't help but smile, and in the faint light she 
could see him smiling, too.  They lay wrapped together in 
contented silence for a few minutes and then he stumbled 
off to the bathroom and returned with a damp washcloth for 
her clean herself up.

Finally they moved together under the covers to meet like 
two sticky spoons in the dishwasher.  Sleep began to pull 
at Scully as the pleasure slowly faded from her body.

"Hey," he whispered, trailing his hand against her cheek.  
"I love you, you know."

She smiled and nodded.  "I love you, too."

And for the moment, all was right with the world.  Perhaps 
it was simply a momentary thing, but she was going to have 
to take those brief moments and savor them.

For the first time in days, they slept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amy stepped off the plane warily, scanning the crowd at the 
gate, wondering if her stalker was walking unseen, watching 
her.  Her intense expression changed to a broad smile, 
however, when she heard a rich southern voice practically 
yodel, "Damn, if it isn't little Amy Callahan!"

If there was anyone guaranteed to lift her spirits, it was 
Lisa.  Six feet tall, with a mane of bright blonde hair 
only girls from Texas were able to grow, Lisa stood out in 
direct opposition to Amy, who tried her best to blend into 
the crowd.  While she had to attempt to look conservative 
for hotel work, when she was on her own time, Lisa was 
flamboyant in the extreme.  Amy appraised Lisa's latest 
fashion concept-- violently sharp Manolo stilettos and a 
clinging white slip dress that showed off her artificial 
tan.  A golden-red fox fur coat was flung over her 
shoulders, a look that seemed to be capturing the undivided 
attention of several pilots standing at the check-in desk.

Amy threw her arms around Lisa.  "You look like a whore," 
she said as she hugged Lisa.

"Listen, bitch, if it walks like a duck," Lisa snorted.  
"You look like a banker, Miss Uptight."  With cool blue 
eyes, she appraised Amy's dark green shift dress and 
matching cardigan sweater. "Let's get out of here."

On the way to the party, careening down the highway in 
Lisa's BMW convertible, they blasted the stereo as loud as 
it would go, the two of them singing along with Madonna.

"Living in a material world, `cause I am a material girl . 
. ."

"Story of my life," Lisa said and they laughed.

The party was in a private room at an Italian restaurant 
called Fortissimo, a place so hip Amy herself couldn't get 
reservations.  Sixteen of the Tiger Lilies girls showed up, 
mostly the long-term employees.  Girls came and went from 
the agency.  Some couldn't take the regulations and left 
for less-restrictive agencies.  Quite a few were college 
girls with big loans or debts who quit as soon as they were 
more financially stable.

We're the professional professionals, Amy thought, as she 
drank a vodka martini and made small talk with her 
colleagues.  She made a point of having friends from all 
walks of life, but there was something reassuring about 
spending an evening in the company of her fellow working 
women.  The conversation was more stimulating when she was 
with Michael's friends, who were artists, writers and other 
creative types, but these women truly understood the 
contradictions of her life.

She was midway through her second glass of Valpollicella 
and the roast lamb when something occurred to her.  She 
interrupted Lucy and Lisa, who were debating the merits of 
Michael Kors versus Todd Oldham.  "Hey guys, where's 
Vanessa? "

Lucy shrugged her thin shoulders.  "She said she was coming 
tonight, but you know Vanessa . . ."

Unfortunately, Amy did know Vanessa.  Vanessa had been the 
one who'd provided her introduction to the agency in the 
first place and remained her oldest call girl friend.  
Twice that year Vanessa had been suspended from the agency 
for flunking random drug tests.  She'd spent some time 
cleaning up in the prairies of Minnesota at Hazelden, and 
seemed to be doing better.  Now, as she finished her last 
bite, Amy devoutly hoped her friend hadn't relapsed.

Joanne stood and tapped her wineglass.  "I want to propose 
a toast to Deborah.  She's off to LA for a whole new world.  
Who would think that professional life would be the 
ultimate springboard to writing for the new Adam Sandler 
sitcom?"

The assembled women laughed and toasted Deborah, who 
serenely grinned and sipped her wine.

Around 3 am, Amy and Lisa wound up at Lisa's apartment, 
stumbling on their heels and laughing at how disheveled the 
convertible had made their hair.  

"It's good to see you havin' some fun," Lisa said, removing 
her shoes.  "You're always so serious."

"That's how I am, Lisa," she said.  "I've always been a 
serious, directed kind of person."  She giggled at how hard 
it was to get the words out when she was drunk on good 
wine.

"Well, don't you worry about any stalker.  Security is good 
in this building and I got a big-ass gun and I'm not afraid 
to use it.  I was the Holton County Fair Girl's Shooting 
Champion when I was eleven."

Amy flopped onto the purple velvet couch and laughed until 
her stomach hurt and the mascara ran down her cheeks.  She 
realized it had been months since she'd felt so free and 
relaxed.

The next morning, the two women cured their hangovers with 
orange juice and strong coffee and headed off to Amy's 
apartment, so she could pick up her laptop computer and 
some more clothes for her stay in New York.

As they headed up the stairs, Amy's heart started rapidly 
beating.  She stopped at the landing, suddenly overcome by 
a wave of dizziness.

"You okay, honey?" Lisa asked, resting her hand on Amy's 
arm.

Amy nodded and gulped.  There was a tingling in her hands, 
a sensation she only got when something terrible was about 
to happen.  "I have a bad feeling," she whispered.

"You've been going through some rough stuff," Lisa said.  
"Of course you're going to have a bad feeling about going 
home."

In her purse, Amy looked for her gun and realized it was 
still in her apartment, since she'd flown to New York and 
back, and couldn't bring it along.  It wasn't a reassuring 
thought.

She unlocked the door and they both warily stepped inside.  
The living room was untouched from the day Jess was killed; 
the cup of tea she'd been drinking was still resting on the 
coffee table.  Amy breathed a sigh of relief and headed off 
to the bedroom, shaking her head at how over-dramatic she 
was being.

"Hey Lisa," she called out, "Can you go in the hall closet 
and --"

Her words abruptly stopped as she stepped over the 
threshold of the bedroom.

She couldn't make another sound as she stood, paralyzed, in 
the doorway.  In her bed was Vanessa, nude, with her arms 
splayed out at each side of her body.  Her head was tipped 
back to display the long slash that ran from ear to ear.

Vanessa's blue eyes were large and open, appearing to stare 
right at her.

No, she couldn't possibly make another sound.

Neither could Vanessa.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully shivered as she ran from where she'd parked her car 
up the block to Mulder's apartment.  In her arms was a 
paper bag full of the ingredients for making lasagna, and 
several bottles of wine.  They'd parted company an hour 
before at the office and she'd decided, on the way home, to 
surprise him.

These days, the pretense of knocking was over.  She fished 
out her key and unlocked the door, expecting to see him on 
the couch, watching the news as he normally did after work.  
Instead, the living room was empty.  Curious.

She dropped the bags on the kitchen table and headed for 
the bedroom.  The door was shut, but she pushed it open.

The breath caught in her throat.  Mulder was in bed, but he 
wasn't taking an early-evening nap.  He was lying on his 
back, his face a contorted mask of ecstasy as a woman 
crouched between his spread legs, her head bobbing up and 
down.

The woman had red hair.

She wanted to scream, to turn on her heel and march out of 
the bedroom, but she was paralyzed, watching Mulder as he 
shut his eyes and groaned as he came into the mouth of the 
redhead.

Mulder looked up and noticed her standing there.  Instead 
of looking alarmed or ashamed, he merely started laughing, 
as if her presence were the most amusing thing he'd ever 
seen.

The woman lifted her head and brushed her hair out of her 
blue eyes, licking a droplet of come off her lower lip with 
her tongue.  She, too, started laughing.

And then Scully knew she was dreaming, because the woman in 
bed with Mulder was herself.

She sat up and found herself in her own bedroom, alone.  

Oh wonderful, she thought, now this whole Amy situation is 
invading my dream life, too.

Stretching, she glanced at the clock and realized it was 
about time to get up and start getting ready for work.  It 
was drizzling a little outside and she just wished she 
could spend the day languishing in bed, drinking tea and 
reading a good, cozy novel.

The ringing of the phone made her jump a little.

"Hello?" she mumbled into the receiver.

It was Mulder's scratchy voice that greeted her.  "Morning, 
sunshine, up and at `em."

"Since when do I get wake up calls?" she grumbled.

"Well, usually I just get to nudge you . . ."  He had spent 
the night at his apartment, at her request.  While she was 
certainly coming to accept the Amy situation, she'd needed 
to spend the evening in her own company.

"I had the oddest dream," she said.

"Oh yeah?  Was I in it and if so, was I naked?"

Scully decided to let that comment pass without further 
comment.  "Is there something going on?" she asked.

His voice immediately turned professional.  "Yeah, get 
dressed and meet me at Amy's apartment.  She came home this 
morning to find a body in her bed."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drizzle had turned to a full-scale downpour by the time 
he reached Amy's building.  Scully's car was pulling up 
just as he parked.  The many police cars and the waiting 
ambulance were a testament to the gravity of the situation 
inside the small brownstone building.

He fumbled for his umbrella and caught up with Scully just 
as she was about to head inside.

"Do you know who the body is?" she asked without preamble.

Trying to be a gentleman, he opened the door for her.  "Amy 
was pretty incoherent on the phone, but it sounds like it's 
a friend of hers."

"Oh God," she said as they began to climb the staircase.  
"He's escalating."

Exactly, Mulder thought.  The phone calls and the following 
weren't enough anymore to satisfy this man's impulses, nor 
was killing Amy's pet.  He needed to kill real live women 
now, and Amy was most likely next.

At the top of the stairs was a uniformed police officer.  
"You can't go in there, folks, it's a crime scene."

Mulder flashed his badge.  "We're with the FBI."

The cop nodded his head.  "Doesn't matter, the forensic 
team and the photographer are working in there."

Scully spoke up.  "Who is the detective in charge?"

"Watters is on this case.  He's next door, questioning the 
woman who found the body."  The officer jerked his thumb 
towards the second door on the landing.

They walked through the door and found a few uniformed 
officers talking in low voices, and Amy sitting on the 
couch, hunched over as if in great pain.  Even from the 
doorway Mulder could see how white her face was, and how 
haunted her eyes looked.

There were two men with Amy.  The one sitting in the green 
chair opposite the couch was obviously the homicide 
detective, given the wash and wear suit which made him an 
unlikely candidate to occupy such expensive real estate.  
The other man sat next to Amy on the couch, his arm around 
her.  He was in his fifties, a well-built man in khakis and 
pink button-down shirt, with thick silver hair.

One of the officers walked up to them.  "Can we help you 
with something?"

This time, Scully flashed her badge.  It was funny how 
they'd developed an unspoken rhythm over the years about 
that sort of thing.  "Agents Scully and Mulder, FBI," she 
said.

"Who called the feds in on this?"

"We're actually friends of Ms. Callahan," Mulder said.  
"Can we talk to Detective Watters?"

Amy looked up at the sound of Mulder's voice, but the drawn 
expression on her face didn't alter.

The detective rose, tugging at his trousers as he stood.  
"You need something, folks?"

Mulder flashed his badge, beginning to be sick of the 
exercise.  "What's going on here?"

"It seems Miss Callahan came home this morning to find her 
friend, Vanessa Maitland, dead in her bed.  Throat slit and 
she appears to have been sexually assaulted, although we'll 
have to hear more on that one from the M.E.," the detective 
said in a voice that betrayed his southern origins.

"Any idea on time of death?" Scully asked.

"Nope.  I'd say, just by eyeballing it, sometime last 
night, but again, we'll need to get that from the autopsy.  
Is this part of an active case for you guys?"

"No," Mulder shook his head.  "Ms. Callahan is a friend of 
ours, and asked for some help when she began to get 
disturbing phone calls."

"Yeah, that's what she said.  And that he killed her dog.  
Sounds like we got ourselves a possible serial fella," said 
the detective, giving his pants another hitch over his 
belly.

"Can we talk to her?" Scully asked in a soft voice.

"We're about done with her for now, but I want her to come 
down this afternoon for a more comprehensive interview.  
She had a friend with her," Detective Watters looked down 
at his notepad, "named Lisa Horton.  We already sent her 
home."

"We'd just like to ask Ms. Callahan a few questions."

Watters indicated with a tilt of his head that they were 
welcome to have a crack at interviewing Amy.

They walked over to the sofa where Amy and the silver-
haired man were sitting.  Mulder dropped down into a squat, 
to look Amy in the eye.

"Amy?" he said softly.

The older man's arm tightened around Amy's shoulders.  "I'm 
Ms. Callahan's lawyer," he said.  "How much longer are you 
people going to question her?"

She glanced over her at him, and smiled faintly.  "It's 
okay, Richard.  He's a friend of mine."

"I'm not another police detective," Mulder explained.  "I'm 
with the FBI, here unofficially because Amy asked for my 
help.  My name is Mulder, and this is my partner, Agent 
Scully."

The man's wary posture relaxed.  "Richard Haskell," he 
said, reaching out to shake Mulder's hand without getting 
up.  "I'm Amy's next door neighbor."

"I told you about Richard, remember?" said Amy, looking up 
at Mulder.  "He and his wife keep my extra key for me."  
She turned and smiled fleetingly at the older man.  "You 
don't have to tell everyone you're my lawyer, Richard.  
That's very sweet of you."

Haskell actually blushed.  Interesting, Mulder thought.  
He'd never seen a lawyer blush before.  For an older, 
married man whom Amy trusted completely, Richard Haskell 
seemed awfully susceptible to Amy's smiles.  

"You live here next door, Mr. Haskell?" Mulder asked, 
straightening.  "Did you see or hear anything unusual?"

Haskell shook his head.  "The police cars were the first 
indication I had that anything was wrong.  As soon as I saw 
them I thought of Amy, and checked to make sure she was 
safe."

"Did your wife hear anything?" Scully asked.

"No, she's been in Seattle for the past week, visiting her 
sister," said Haskell.

Beside him, fresh tears slid down Amy's face.  "I can't 
believe how horrible this is.  I keep thinking it's a 
nightmare, and I'm going to wake up, but I don't."

"I thought you were in New York, Amy," Mulder said.  "You 
told us you were going to stay with your boyfriend for a 
while."

"I know," she said, wiping at her tears, "but I came back 
for a friend's retirement party."

"You should have let us know," Mulder said.  "We could have 
put a tail on Marchand.  If we'd had him under surveillance 
this might never have happened."

"This isn't my fault!" Amy said, shifting her head so she 
was looking at her shoes.  "I never knew he would hurt 
someone else.  I'm the one he's been sending the pictures 
to.  I'm the one he's been calling.  Vanessa was my friend.  
Do you think I wanted this to happen?"

"You can't blame her for this," said Haskell, with more 
than a hint of anger.

"Of course not.  I didn't mean that," said Mulder quickly.  
"I just meant that it's dangerous here, and we could have 
taken precautions -- "

"I took precautions!" Amy cried.  "I stayed with a friend 
last night, and I haven't been alone for a second since I 
got back into town.  How was I supposed to know he would go 
after Vanessa?"

"Would Marchand have known that Vanessa was a friend of 
yours?" Scully asked behind Mulder.

Amy shook her head.  "I don't know.  Maybe.  I only met him 
the one time, but if he's been stalking me . . .and she did 
work for Tiger Lilies."  She swept tears from her eyes.  
"Vanessa is the person who introduced me to the agency, in 
fact."

"Did Vanessa have any reason to visit your apartment last 
night?" Mulder asked.

Again Amy shook her head.  "No.  She didn't have a key 
anyway.  She couldn't have gotten in on her own."

"Okay, Amy," Mulder said, his voice low and sympathetic.  
"Scully and I are going to have a look around for a little 
while.  If you think of anything else that seems important, 
let us know."

He walked out toward the landing, Scully falling into step 
beside him.  "We have a problem, Scully," he said to her 
once they were out of Amy's hearing.  "If Vanessa didn't go 
to Amy's apartment on her own, the killer must have brought 
her here.  He could have picked a more opportunistic target 
-- a neighbor, a passer-by.  Instead he targeted Vanessa."

Scully nodded.  "Another prostitute."

"Exactly.  And that changes the profile drastically.  This 
isn't just some sociopath who is getting a thrill from 
trying to scare Amy.  Instead he sees himself as a 
missionary, a crusader.  He wants to eliminate 'immoral' 
elements in his world.  In his eyes, that includes women 
like Amy and Vanessa."

"What about the phone calls?  Those didn't sound angry to 
you?"

Mulder frowned.  "They don't really fit, do they?" he 
admitted.  "But that was before he escalated to killing 
Amy's dog, and now to taking a human life.  Maybe it was an 
effort to get our attention somehow, to publicize his 
crusade."  He shook his head.  Even he was not entirely 
satisfied with his explanation.

"What did you think of Haskell?" Scully asked.  "Did he 
seem especially friendly to you?"

Mulder glanced at her.  "You noticed that too, huh?  And in 
some respects he fits the rest of the profile.  This is 
someone who appears normal on the outside, who doesn't 
exhibit any obvious psychosis, but who is inwardly driven 
by a hunger for justice.  He'll be Caucasian, and have 
above average intelligence.  Only the age doesn't fit.  He 
should be someone younger, twenty-five to forty I would 
say."

"That doesn't fit Marchand, either."

Mulder shrugged.  "Profiles are rarely perfect.  I'm good, 
but even I would never make that claim."

"You're modest, too," said Scully, deadpan. 

The door to Amy's unit opened, and a forensic photographer 
came out, slinging his camera over his shoulder.  "How long 
until the rest of the investigative team can view the 
scene?" Scully asked him.

"We're just finishing up," the photographer said.  "If you 
move fast, you should be able to have a look before the 
coroner takes the body."

They signed the crime scene log, and went into Amy's 
apartment.  Nothing appeared grossly disturbed, Mulder 
noted as they moved carefully toward Amy's bedroom.  From 
the sleek modern furniture to the bright paintings on the 
walls, everything looked not only normal, but also 
inviting.

That was, until they walked into the bedroom.  Then there 
was no way of avoiding the cold, vacant stare of Vanessa 
Maitland's dead eyes, or the purposely lewd way in which 
her blood-spattered body had been posed.  Mulder felt his 
stomach tighten.  He'd seen victims hundreds of times, and 
yet the first glimpse of a dead body was always disturbing.

He shut those feelings off, and clicked resolutely into 
profiling mode.  He noted the way the body was positioned -
- nude, centered on the bed, arms and legs spread wide, the 
murder wound prominently displayed.  Whoever had killed 
Vanessa Maitland, he thought, had obviously intended the 
discovery of her body to make the maximum possible impact.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully stood on the other side of the bed from Mulder and 
looked at the body of Vanessa Maitland.  It seemed such an 
obscene and humiliating way to die, spread nude and bloody 
in front of a room full of strangers, people who knew 
nothing about what kind of person Vanessa had been: what 
she'd wanted to be when she grew up, what she'd dreamed of 
when she closed her eyes, what she had been thinking as the 
killer began to cut her throat.

She shivered.  She was fairly inured to death, given her 
profession, but there were times when it could get to even 
her.

She bent more closely and examined the slash on Vanessa's 
neck. The wound was clean, not jagged, which indicated to 
her that the same kind of blade which had been used on 
Amy's dog had also killed Vanessa.

Her eyes flicked over to Mulder and she saw he was deep 
inside his head, trying to put the pieces together into 
some kind of coherent pattern.  It was always fascinating 
to watch Mulder in profiling mode, the way his breathing 
became more even, as if he were sleeping, and his eyes 
slowly tracked back and forth over the still body of 
Vanessa.

With a sigh, she stepped out of the bedroom and back into 
the living room.  There wasn't much she could tell from the 
condition of the body without an autopsy.

A masculine voice made her lift her head.  "Dana Scully, as 
I live and breathe."

She smiled to see John McMillan, the coroner who was 
obviously handling the Vanessa Maitland case.  She'd been 
part of a panel discussion with him at a forensics 
conference a year or so before, and had since run into him 
a time or two at various crime scenes around the city.  He 
was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with sandy brown hair and 
a perpetually bemused expression behind wire-rimmed 
glasses.

"Hello John," she said.  She made to offer her hand for a 
shake but realized he was still wearing gloves.

"So why are you guys interested in this one?"

"My partner and I are here unofficially.  Amy Callahan 
asked for some help with a stalker a week or so ago."

John made a thoughtful noise.  "Any thoughts you want to 
share with me?"

She shrugged.  "Not much from my end, I'm afraid.  Her dog 
was killed last weekend.  I examined the body and it 
appeared to have been done with a straight razor."

"That's what Maitland's wound looks like.  She has a few 
defensive wounds, too.  A few of her fingernails are 
broken.  I can't help but think that somewhere out there, 
there's a guy with a few scratches on him."

"There's a pleasant thought," Scully said.  "When are you 
doing the autopsy?"

"This afternoon.  Why, you want in, Dana?"  He leaned 
closer to her, so close she caught a faint whiff of his 
cologne.  Oh God, was John trying to pick her up at a crime 
scene?  Strangely enough, the idea didn't bother her all 
that much.  He was good-looking, smart and they certainly 
had things in common.  In fact, he was the kind of man her 
mother made novenas to various saints for.

"I don't think it's necessary.  It's a city case, not 
federal.  And I trust your skills.  But how about giving me 
a call when you're done, with the interesting details?"

A smile spread on his face.  "I can do that.  Just one 
little thing . . ."

"What's that?" she asked, feeling her heart rate pick up a 
little.  He *was* going to ask her out.  

"If you'll meet me for a drink, it's a done deal."  His 
smile got wider.

Okay, let the poor man down easy, she thought.  As 
attractive as he was, she really wasn't torn for more than 
half a second.  

"That's a sweet thought," Scully said, forcing herself to 
smile.  "but I don't think it's possible."

He stepped back.  "Oh, I see.  Is that a nice, roundabout 
way of saying you're taken?"

She nodded.  "Yes, I suppose it is."

"I can deal with that, as long as it's not my personality 
or my breath.  And I'm such a nice guy, I'll call you 
anyhow."

Thanking him, Scully handed him one of her cards and walked 
out of the apartment.  She never liked having to reject 
someone, especially a man as nice as John.  A few years 
before, she might have taken him up on his offer, but 
everything was different now.  There was Mulder.

Inside the Haskell's apartment, Detective Watters was 
yammering away on his cell phone, while Amy remained 
huddled on the couch.  Richard Haskell was nowhere in 
sight.

Scully sat next to Amy and forced her voice to be gentle.  
"You okay?"

Amy shook her head.

"Did you tell the detective about the phone calls and 
Marchand?"

Another nod from the other woman.

"Good, that's good."

"I had to tell him . . . what I do . . ." Amy said in a 
near-whisper.

"He's not going to arrest you for that."

"I know."  Amy sighed a little and Scully wondered what it 
would be like to be ashamed to tell people what she did for 
a living.  

Amy looked up and her eyes were large and swollen from 
crying.  "I have to go to the police precinct and be 
interviewed again.  I can't do it.  All I want to do is go 
back to New York and be with Michael."

Scully nodded.  "I know that's what you want to do, but you 
need to talk to the police if you want this monster to be 
caught."

Mulder walked in the room and motioned for her to come 
over.

"What's up?" she asked.

"We have to do something about Amy," he said.

She tilted her head.  "Isn't that what we're doing right 
now?"

He shook his head.  "No, what I mean is that she can't go 
to New York.  I don't think she's safe anywhere right now.  
We have to protect her."

"And what does that entail?"  Her back instinctively 
stiffened.

"I was thinking we should get a hotel room, under an 
assumed name, and one of us should stay with her until the 
case breaks."

Scully inhaled sharply.  "And which one of us is that going 
to be?"  

It wouldn't be him, of course, which meant she'd have to go 
to ground with Amy.  Impossible.

"I guess it would have to be you."  Mulder's face took on 
an apologetic expression.

"You can't be serious, Mulder.  First of all, what happens 
on Monday, when I'm supposed to be at work?  And to be 
perfectly honest with you, I don't want to do it."

"As far as work goes, we'll figure something out, some 
excuse for Skinner.  And the other thing, well, I don't see 
any way around it."

For the eight millionth time, she deeply regretted that 
Mulder had answered the phone that night.

She looked right at him.  "You are going to owe me for 
this," she muttered.

He nodded and his brow creased in guilt and anxiety.  
Scully knew him too well to not be able to read the signs.  
"I hate having to do this to you, but you know it's the 
right thing to do."

Damn him, he was right.  She hated it when that happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder had reserved a room at the Sheraton near National 
Airport, under the name of Tara McCauley.  It was her 
sister-in-law's maiden name and she didn't dare ask where 
he'd gotten a Visa card in her name.  Scully shrugged as 
she signed the receipt at the front desk.  No doubt the 
card was the work of the Lone Gunmen.  It made sense, 
though, to check into the hotel with an assumed name.  
There was no guessing how much the killer knew about Amy.

The room was large, but certainly no suite.  Scully walked 
in, with Amy trailing behind her, and prayed they would 
have to lie low in the room for no more than a day or two.  
Spending all day, every day, in a mauve and cream hotel 
room with the prostitute her lover had slept with wasn't 
exactly her idea of a good time.  No, it definitely ranked 
behind identifying stomach and rectal contents on a hot 
summer afternoon in an autopsy bay with no air 
conditioning.

Amy tossed her black Prada overnight bag on one of the beds 
and opened the heavy flowered draperies, staring at the 
dull view of Airport Hotel Gulch.

"Well, here we are," Scully said, for lack of something 
better.

Absently, the other woman nodded without turning around.  

Scully sat on the bed, tugged off her shoes and checked her 
watch.  It was almost 5 p.m.; the day was still young and 
the hours until it was time to go to bed seemed endless.

Amy stepped away from the window and announced, "I'm going 
to take a shower."  Scully noticed how white her face was 
and felt a pang of sympathy.  After all, Amy had lost a 
friend and worse yet, she'd been the one who'd found her 
body.

Amy grabbed a toiletry case and some clothes from her bag 
and walked off to the bathroom.  After a few minutes the 
shower started up, but it didn't quite muffle the sound of 
Amy's sobbing.

Scully felt like the worst kind of voyeur, sitting in the 
next room and listening to the wails over the spray of the 
shower.  Truthfully, she wasn't much good at dealing with 
the grief and pain of others.  It was one thing when 
Mulder's mother had died a few months before.  Mulder was 
her lover by then and she'd been his partner for six years.  
She'd known how to handle his sorrow after all that time 
together.  Amy Callahan was an entirely different story.

There was a reason why she'd become a pathologist, aside 
from the gratification she received from solving difficult 
cases with her science.  She just didn't have a good 
bedside manner.

Still, no matter how she felt about her, Amy was a woman in 
pain.  Scully would just have to make the effort.

Amy came out twenty minutes later, dressed in an old pair 
of jeans and a plain white t-shirt, her eyes swollen and 
red-rimmed.  Not for the first time, it struck Scully how 
much the call girl looked like her.  Amy's face was a bit 
rounder and her nose was more snub-shaped than Scully's own 
high-bridged nose, but the effect was still uncanny.

"Are you okay?" Scully asked, putting down the book she'd 
been pretending to read.

Sitting down on the opposite bed, Amy shook her head.  "I 
feel like shit," she flatly said.

"It's rough at first, to lose someone.  Especially when you 
feel like it's your fault.  Believe me, I know," Scully 
said, drawing her legs up under her and leaning against the 
headboard of the bed.

"What would you know about something like this?"  Amy 
flopped onto her back and covered her eyes with her arm.

"A whole lot," she replied, remembering her sister lying in 
a hospital bed, still covered with tubes and bandages, the 
monitors gone flat and quiet.  "My sister was murdered 
three years ago.  She was shot in my apartment and the 
bullets were meant for me."

The arm lifted off Amy's face and she sat up.  "Are you 
serious?  Oh God, I'm so sorry."

Scully nodded.  "I blamed myself for a long time, let the 
guilt eat at me every day.  But the thing is, I didn't ask 
for someone to break into my apartment and wait to ambush 
me, I didn't ask to be murdered, so how could it possibly 
be my fault?  Melissa was in the wrong place at the wrong 
time.  It was a horrible tragedy that she was killed, but 
it was *not* my fault.  The man who pulled the trigger 
bears full blame."

Amy sighed.  "Wow, your sister.  If someone killed one of 
my sisters, I don't know if there would be a great enough 
form of revenge."

It was funny-- Scully had never stopped to consider that 
Amy had a family.  "How many sisters do you have?"

"Two-- one older and one younger. Patti and Erica.  And two 
younger brothers, named Tom and Chris.  My parents are good 
Catholics."  A wry smile spread on Amy's face.

"Does your family know what you do for a living?" Scully 
hoped it wasn't an inappropriate question.

"No."  Amy vehemently shook her head.  "They wouldn't 
understand.  They think I'm a very successful art dealer.  
I hate lying to my family, but I want to spare them the 
pain the truth would cause them.  And it's not entirely a 
lie, since I do some of that work on the side, from time to 
time."

Scully realized she could understand that feeling as well.  
While she never lied outright to her mother, there were the 
small sins of omission.  Her mother had little concrete 
idea of how dangerous her life often was.  The poor woman 
worried enough.

"You don't mind me asking questions, do you?" Scully asked.  
She hated having her own life pried into, and didn't want 
to offend Amy.

Amy shrugged.  "No, I don't really mind.  I'm not ashamed 
to be a professional woman.  I make a lot of money and have 
the free time I need to pursue my interests-to travel, take 
classes, collect art.  Frankly, I think a lot of the shame 
I'm supposed to feel comes from society.  It's my body, why 
can't I use it to have a nice lifestyle?"

"That's a hard concept for me to grasp."

"Why is that?"

Fair was fair.  If she were going to ask Amy questions, 
she'd have to answer some of her own.  "All my life I've 
struggled to get past being viewed as a weak woman or an 
object of sexual desire.  I've always wanted to be 
recognized for my intelligence and skills.  When I was in 
medical school I thought the attitude I caught from some of 
my male classmates was obnoxious, but it was nothing 
compared to going through FBI Academy.  I can't imagine 
willingly being treated as a sex object."  She looked down 
at her hands and realized they'd balled into fists.

Amy nodded and Scully noticed that without makeup, the 
younger woman had a fine sprinkling of freckles across her 
nose and cheekbones.  "I can appreciate how hard that must 
have been.  But I've turned the concept around.  If men 
want to look at me as a piece of meat, fine, go ahead.  I 
just laugh and head off to the bank to deposit my money."  
She spread her hands wide.  "I know I'm more than that.  I 
know what I'm worth as a person."

Scully briefly wondered about the tough center that 
appeared to be beneath the surface of this outwardly 
amiable young woman.  God, to offer her body to any man who 
waved money at her.  The thought made her vaguely 
nauseated.

This woman sitting across from her had touched Mulder, made 
him come.

Judge not, lest you be judged, she reminded herself.

But she couldn't help asking just one more question.  Her 
voice was soft.  "Don't you find it degrading?"

Amy bit her lip.  "Sometimes, not all the time, though.  
You have to understand that I do nice, clean, expensive 
hotel work.  I'm not on the streets hustling for a pimp.  
Mostly I think it's the men I'm with who are truly degraded 
by the experience.  There's something pathetic when a man 
can't find the satisfaction he needs from a real 
relationship, and has to hire a woman by the hour to give 
him what he wants.  It seems so lonely and sad to have to 
pay for sex, doesn't it?"

Bowing her head a little, Scully thought of Mulder, 
knocking on the door of a hotel like the one where they 
were now, waiting for Amy to open it.

A soft hand touched her shoulder.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't 
mean that as an insult to Mulder.  I wasn't talking about 
specific men I've seen, just my clients as a whole."

"It's okay.  I'm still trying to get used to this," she 
said, shaking her head a little.

"I know," came the soft reply from the other bed.  "I 
honestly never wanted to mess things up with you and Mulder 
when I asked him for help.  I was so desperate and he was 
the only one I could think of to turn to."

Scully looked up and forced a smile.  "We'll survive.  We 
always do."

With a deep breath, Scully stood up and found the Room 
Service menu on the desk.  "Maybe we'll both feel better if 
we eat."

She knew she was changing the subject.

Amy nodded.  "I think a bottle of wine would improve things 
immeasurably."

Scully picked up the phone and dialed Room Service, hoping 
that bottle of wine would arrive quickly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marchand was giving a party.  As the maid admitted him, 
Mulder could hear the distant sound of voices raised in 
convivial conversation, of laughter and the clink of 
crystal.  He had to work to keep his fury from overtaking 
him, that Marchand could be hosting a dinner party when 
Vanessa Maitland lay in the morgue with her throat cut, 
blood dappling her cold body.

"I'd like to speak to Monsieur Marchand," he'd told the 
maid when she'd answered the door.

"He's entertaining right now."  She'd tried to shut the 
door in his face, but Mulder had stopped her with a hand on 
the paneled wood.

"It's an emergency."

Now he stood in the entry hall, looking around at the 
tasteful Directoire splendor of Marchand's townhouse.  The 
high-ceilinged rooms held striped silk sofas, gleaming 
mahogany tables, lush drapery, and crystal chandeliers.  
Apparently diplomats did quite well for themselves, Mulder 
thought acidly.

Marchand approached, dressed elegantly, a look of 
irritation on his scarred face.  "Yes?  You have some other 
questions to bother me with?  I am giving a party."

"Perhaps we ought to step outside for just a moment.  It 
won't take long, and I would hate to disturb your guests."  
Mulder's voice held an unspoken threat:  he could create a 
scene for Marchand's friends if he so chose.

Marchand frowned, but followed him outside.  They rounded 
the brick face of the building, and stopped in the dark 
little alley that ran alongside it.

"Now what is this all about?" asked Marchand impatiently.  
"I've already told you, Mr. Mulder, I'm not interested in 
your questions."

"You're going to answer them, just the same."

"I've already talked to the police.  I don't have to talk 
to you."

"I'm not leaving until you do."

Marchand swore, and threw a punch at Mulder.  Mulder was on 
his guard, however.  He caught Marchand's fist in his hand.

"Let me go," said Marchand angrily, his normally sallow 
face turning purple with rage.  "Let me remind you, I have 
diplomatic im -- "

The last word had not even left his mouth completely before 
he hit the ground.  He blinked in a stupor up at the 
twilight sky, too dazed by Mulder's punch to react with 
anything more than a choked gasp.

Mulder leaned over him.  "Don't try to pull that fucking 
'diplomatic immunity' crap on me.  I don't give a fuck 
about your immunity," he hissed.  He grabbed Marchand by 
the front of his shirt, and hauled him roughly to his feet.

"Get your hands off me -- "

Mulder's fist collided with his body.

Marchand doubled over, wheezing and clutching his middle.

"Shut the fuck up!  I don't care what kind of immunity you 
think you have.  You think you can do whatever you want, 
because you're above the law and Amy is supposedly beneath 
it?"

Marchand shook his head, as if he wanted to deny the charge 
but lacked the oxygen to answer.

Mulder loomed menacingly over him, his hands clenched into 
fists.  "You killed a woman," he said through his teeth.  
"I'm going to see to it that you don't get away with it."

Marchand's head snapped up, his eyes wild with alarm.  "No!  
I have killed no one!"

"That's a lie.  I know you've been harassing Amy Callahan, 
I know you killed her dog.  And this morning she found the 
body of her friend Vanessa Maitland in her apartment -- her 
throat slit with a razor."

The color had drained from Marchand's sallow face.  "But it 
was not me!  Mon dieu, I swear it was not!"

"And I suppose it wasn't you harassing her either."

Marchand grabbed the front of Mulder's jacket.  "I called 
her -- I admit I called her.  But I wanted only to frighten 
her, to pay her back a little for what she did to my face.  
I was angry, yes, and I admit it, but I am not a killer!"

Mulder paused.  He did not trust Marchand but there was 
something in the diplomat's babbling terror that made him 
think perhaps the man was telling the truth.  "You broke 
into her apartment.  You killed her dog."

"No!" cried Marchand desperately.  "Even that I did not do!  
The threats, yes, I made the threats.  But I am not some 
cold-blooded assassin!  I have a temper, I do not like Miss 
Callahan, but I wanted only to scare her."

"I know about your juvenile record.  You were convicted of 
attempted murder."

Marchand stared at him in alarm.  "How do you know this?"

"Never mind how I know it.  It's true, isn't it?"

Marchand stroked his reddened jaw, looking resentfully at 
Mulder.  "It is true.  But it was not what you think.  Not 
something -- how does one say? -- premeditated."

"Oh, so you accidentally attempted to commit murder."

"I was in love, and she was cheating on me.  We argued -- 
violently.  I hit her, and she grabbed a knife.  I grabbed 
it away from her.  She tried to call the police, and when I 
would have stopped her, she hit me in the face with the 
telephone.  The knife was in my hand, and without even 
thinking, I stabbed her."

The throb in Marchand's voice and the flash in his eyes 
told Mulder he was telling the truth.  He was a man with an 
ugly temper, a coward who abused women, but he lacked the 
patience, the coolness, and the dissociative personality of 
the serial killer.  Mulder swallowed down his anger.  "What 
about the girl in Lisbon -- the fourteen-year-old?"

Marchand's eyes glittered.  "You do your homework, don't 
you, Mr. Mulder?"  Now that Mulder had stopped throwing 
punches, a little of his bravado was creeping back.  "Yes, 
the girl was underage, but it was not rape.  She was in 
love with me.  I did not force her to do anything she did 
not want to do.  When her mother found out, however, she 
brought charges -- perhaps to save face, perhaps to see if 
I would pay her off."

"But you admit you made the threatening calls to Amy 
Callahan."

"Yes, I admit it," Marchand said, almost defiantly.  "I 
wanted to punish her for what she did to me.  I had a voice 
disguiser and I called her whenever the mood took me -- 
usually when I'd had too much to drink."

"And the photographs, you sent her those too."

Marchand looked confused.  "Photographs?  I don't know what 
you mean.  I never sent that woman anything."

"You never followed her, and sent her pictures of her you 
had taken?"

Marchand shook his head.  "No, certainly not."

Mulder hit him again, hard.  

Marchand staggered.  "Monsieur, please!" he cried, one hand 
to his jaw.

"I want the truth."

"I'm telling you the truth!  I don't know anything about 
any photographs!"  Shaking, Marchand turned and spat a 
mouthful of blood onto the asphalt.

Mulder was satisfied.  "How did you get her real name, and 
her phone number?"

Marchand spoke around the swelling in his cheek.  "The 
friend who sent me to Tiger Lilies spotted her one Saturday 
in a department store, and looked over her shoulder as she 
paid for something with a credit card.  After I knew her 
name, it was not hard to find her phone number.  I know 
someone who is good with computers."

"My friends' kung fu can beat your friend's kung fu."

"What?" said Marchand in confusion.

"Never mind," said Mulder, and shoved him toward the front 
of the townhouse.  "Go back to your party."

With a last backward look over his shoulder, Marchand slunk 
quickly away.

"And never try to contact Amy Callahan again," Mulder 
called after his retreating back.

Marchand was innocent, Mulder thought.  He was a bully and 
a coward, but he was not a murderer.  He was not above 
striking a woman or trying to frighten her with anonymous 
threats, but he would not risk his own hide to commit a 
crime as calculated as Vanessa's murder.  So who did that 
leave?

They were back to square one, Mulder thought, rubbing his 
skinned knuckles.  Someone was stalking Amy, someone 
growing more deadly by the day, and he and Scully didn't 
have the first idea who.  The phone calls had been nothing 
but a dead end.  At least this time he didn't need to worry 
that Marchand would go to Skinner, not when the diplomat 
knew they were aware of his attempted murder conviction.

Now the only problem was how to tell Scully all this 
without revealing the method he'd used to get the 
information.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amy poured the last of the bottle of Cabernet into Scully's 
glass and leaned against the pillows piled up on the bed.  
Their dinners had been finished and the plates had already 
been removed to the hallway.  "Desperately Seeking Susan" 
was playing on the television, and Amy watched the antics 
of Madonna and Rosanna Arquette through heavy-lidded eyes.  
She was exhausted, but afraid to really try and sleep.  God 
only knew what kind of dreams were waiting for her after 
finding Vanessa's body.

If she closed her eyes, she could only see the blank look 
in Vanessa's blue eyes, and the deep gash in her neck.

She could see only her friend, helplessly lying on her bed.

No, the last thing she wanted to do at that point was 
sleep.

The other woman meditatively rolled the wineglass between 
her fingers and sighed.

"Are you okay?" Amy asked.  This was so uncomfortable, 
sharing a room with Agent Scully like this.  She was sure 
that Scully was a perfectly kind person under normal 
circumstances, and the agent was trying her best to be 
civil, but the tension was definitely still in the room.

Scully nodded.  "Yeah, I'm just thinking."

"Care to share with the rest of the class?"

After a swallow of wine, Scully set the glass down on the 
bedside table.  "I'm just thinking about Mulder, and you, 
and me.  Such a strange situation we're in here."

Amy nodded.  "Tell me about it.  I just don't want things 
to be awkward between you and me here.  I've said it 
before, but I never wanted to ruin things with you and 
Mulder."

There was another sigh.  "I know that, Amy."

She smiled.  This was the first time Scully had called her 
by her first name, and not Ms. Callahan.  "Are things going 
to be okay with you and Mulder?"

Scully turned to her, and Amy noticed how serious and sad 
her face was.  She slowly nodded.  "I think so.  I'm trying 
to get more insight into why he felt he had to do what he 
had to do."

"He was lonely," Amy said.  She still could picture his 
large, haunted eyes and how much he seemed to crave being 
touched.  "He wasn't one of my pathetic loser clients, 
though.  To tell you the truth, I couldn't really 
understand why he needed to see me.  Mulder is the kind of 
guy who could just stand at a bar and women would be 
flinging their phone numbers at him."

A tight smile crossed Scully's face.  

Amy knew she was pushing it, but she had to ask.  "How come 
you two weren't together then?"

"I don't know," Scully said, shrugging.

"Come on, you can do better than that."  Now she really was 
pushing, but she wanted to know.  Amy had had two years to 
ponder the mystery of her handsome client, and now she 
could finally have some answers.

"I'm not good with personal stuff, Amy."  Her head bowed a 
little and her smile became self-conscious.  "Especially 
talking about Mulder."

"That's cool," Amy said.

Scully sat up straighter and ran her hand through her short 
waves.  "Can I ask you a question?"

"Fire away."

Amy noticed how the other woman's pale skin rapidly turned 
a deep rose.  "I have to ask you this, because it's been on 
my mind.  It's like--" her hands fumbled, "--some kind of 
morbid fascination with me."

"You want to know what it was like with Mulder," Amy cut 
in.  She tried to give Scully a reassuring smile.

The fumbling hands clasped in Scully's lap.  "Yes, I want 
to know," she whispered.

Amy tried to keep her tone as light as possible.  "If 
you're thinking we did anything exotic or kinky, you'll be 
disappointed.  It was pretty routine."

The agent's head lifted and one red-brown eyebrow rose.  "I 
suppose that depends on your definition of routine . . ."

"Routine as in my parents probably have done everything 
Mulder and I did."  Amy was reassured to hear a small 
snicker from Scully.  "Most of the time he just wanted oral 
sex.  A few times we had straight sex.  Like I said, 
routine."

The whisper became fainter.  "What was he like?"

Amy still could picture his nervous, yet excited face the 
first time he walked into the hotel room, how she could 
already see the erection bulging his suit pants.  "He was 
polite, sweet, a good tipper.  Very passive, let me do all 
the leading and rarely made any demands of me."

"Passive, Mulder?"  Amy was surprised to see an amused grin 
on Scully's face.  How much wine had the woman had to 
drink, anyhow?

"Yes, passive," she replied.  "Very gentle, as if afraid to 
break me."

"Wow," Scully said and headed for the mini-bar.  "Can I get 
you something?"

"A Diet Coke would be fine," Amy said.  Scully returned 
with two cans of soda.  "What do you mean by wow, Agent 
Scully?"

"It's okay," she said, "You can call me Scully.  The only 
people who really call me Dana are my family and old 
friends from school. And if we're sharing a room, Agent 
Scully is going to get old pretty quickly."

"What do you mean by wow, Scully?" she repeated.

"Let's just say that Mulder is the farthest thing in the 
world from passive . . ."

Amy smiled.  Now things were getting good.  Damn, she 
should have suggested another drink instead of a soda.  
Then Scully would have *really* opened up.  "Now you just 
have to share . . ."

Scully rolled her blue-gray eyes.  "I don't do that kind of 
talk, Amy."

"Bullshit.  All women do that kind of talk.  Even my sister 
Erica, who goes to mass every day, does that kind of talk."

Popping open her can of Diet Coke, Scully got a mischievous 
expression on her normally stern face.  "Mulder is, well," 
she stammered, "a tremendous lover.  He's creative, he's 
fun in bed, he's very *appreciative*, but the last thing I 
would say about him is that he's passive.  He can do gentle 
very nicely, but he's never passive, unless I ask him to be 
that way."

Oooh, now she was sharing.  Amy leaned forward, delighted 
to finally get the goods.  So sue me, she thought, I love 
gossip and boyfriend chat.  "Well, a man is usually 
different when he's with a professional," she said.  "Some 
men who are wimps in real life can be as bossy as they want 
to be and some men who would be the most wild and crazy 
lovers with a woman they really care about are passive and 
shy with a call girl.  That's how Mulder was.  Not a 
perfect gentleman, of course, but we weren't hanging off 
chandeliers or anything."

It pleased her to see a look of relief pass over Scully.  
"Ever since I found out, I've been worried that maybe he 
enjoyed the sex more with you, because it was exotic or 
forbidden."

Amy snorted.  "Please.  I make no great claims on being the 
world's greatest lover, although Michael might disagree."

"Is it hard for you to go to bed with Michael after what 
you do in your professional life?"

She smiled, picturing the last time she'd made love with 
Michael, how she'd lost herself in wave after wave of 
intense pleasure and love.  "No, not at all.  When I'm 
working my body is doing the job, but my mind and my 
emotions aren't involved at all.  I get no physical 
pleasure from my job, ever.  There's business sex and 
there's Michael sex."

"And Michael doesn't mind--"

As usual, Amy interrupted.  "No, Michael is a breed apart.  
He's an unusual guy in that respect.  He's the most unusual 
guy I've ever known-- intelligent and completely focused on 
his work and his goals.  Michael would probably be too 
intense for a lot of women, but I find it exciting."  Just 
thinking about Michael was enough to make her crave the 
touch of his callused hands on her skin.  "We don't talk 
about my work a lot, but he accepts it.  I know he'd be 
happier if I stopped working, and has been asking me to 
quit and move in with him a lot in the last few years, but 
I need to make enough money to open my own gallery."

"It sounds like you're a lucky woman," Scully said.

Amy thought of Michael and all their years together, all 
they had been through together.  How he had been the one to 
rush her to the hospital when an ovarian cyst ruptured, how 
she'd wake up and find him intently sketching her, how he 
secretly wrote poetry about her that he was afraid to show 
her.

She smiled at Scully.  "I am a lucky woman," she said.

Scully smiled back at Amy, as if thinking of Mulder and the 
fact that she was a lucky woman, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder lay on his couch.  The television was playing The 
Daily Show, but he wasn't watching it.  Instead he was 
visualizing Vanessa Maitland's body and trying to figure 
out what it was about the crime scene that nagged at him.  
A beautiful woman, minimal signs of struggle, a razor 
applied with surgical skill...  

He sighed, and rolled over restlessly.  The killer's crimes 
were obviously escalating -- he'd already gone from 
stalking, to killing Amy's dog, and now to taking a human 
life.  It was only a matter of time before he struck again.  
The problem was, now that Marchand had been eliminated as a 
suspect, the killer could be almost anyone.  Amy's work had 
brought her into contact with so many men.

Contact.  He flinched a little at his own euphemism.  He'd 
been one of the men with whom Amy had had contact; he knew 
exactly what that kind of "contact" entailed.  

He wondered now why he'd ever felt so compelled to keep 
seeing her.  There had been momentary pleasure, of course -
- determinedly he pushed from his mind the memory of Amy, 
whispering encouragement as he panted above her -- but 
there had always been the guilt afterward too.  He'd felt 
lonelier than ever, walking away from a woman he'd just 
paid to have sex with him.  He'd felt dirty, knowing that 
the real Scully was somewhere, blissfully unaware he'd just 
spent an hour getting his money's worth from a prostitute 
he'd been pretending was her.

He wondered how Scully and Amy were getting along now, in 
the hotel by the airport.  He wished he could be a fly on 
the wall.  It was a little difficult for him to picture 
Scully, so reserved and so unwaveringly true to her 
principles, spending the night with the prostitute he'd 
patronized.  He couldn't help wondering if they were 
talking about him.

A knock on his door interrupted his reflections.  He 
checked his watch.  11:30.  He went to the door and opened 
it just far enough to see who would be paying him a visit 
at such an hour.

It was a man, about his own height, with short black hair, 
handsome features, and a lean build.  Except for the 
sapphire stud in his nose, he looked clean-cut and 
conservative enough to be a banker or a lawyer.

Mulder's eyes narrowed.  It was a little late for someone 
to come by peddling The Watchtower.  "Yeah?  Can I help 
you?"

"I'm looking for Amy Callahan."

"Just a minute."  Mulder closed the door and retrieved his 
gun, tucking it behind him in the waistband of his jeans.  
He went back to the door and opened it all the way.  "Who 
are you?"

The man regarded him somberly.  "My name is Michael Corey.  
I'm Amy's boyfriend."

"Come in."

Michael stepped inside, looking around as if expected to 
see Amy.  "I hope you don't mind my coming here like this.  
Amy told me earlier this week that you were helping her.  I 
found your address in the phone book -- "

"Is something wrong?  Why do you need to contact her?"

Michael stared at Mulder.  "I'm worried about her.  I came 
down to surprise her, because I knew she was upset about 
her dog.  When I got to her brownstone, it was cordoned off 
and there were policemen everywhere.  No one would tell me 
anything at the scene, not even if Amy was okay or not.  I 
spent a nightmarish couple of hours today thinking she was 
the reason for all the police cars, until I heard about her 
friend Vanessa on the radio.  And then I got a brief 
message from her on my answering machine, telling me she 
wouldn't be able to get in contact with me for a while."  

Mulder examined him.  He wondered what it was like to be in 
love with Amy, knowing what she did for a living.  He liked 
to think of himself as a fairly open-minded person, but he 
wasn't sure he could be as open-minded as that.  

"Amy's in a safe place," he told Michael.  "Until my 
partner and I can find out more about who killed Vanessa 
Maitland, I don't think anyone else should know where she 
is."

Michael's eyes widened.  "But she's my girlfriend.  I'm 
worried about her."

"Then you'll understand why I want to make sure no one -- 
not even you -- knows where to find her right now."

"I only want to make sure she's safe," said Michael.

"She's safe," said Mulder.  "I'll get your message to Amy, 
that you're worried about her."

"You mean you're really not going to tell me where she is?"  
He stared incredulously at Mulder.

"I'm afraid I can't." 

"But this is wrong," said Michael.  "I mean, how do I know 
you're not the very person who's stalking her?  How do I 
know she's safe, just because you say she is?"  He looked 
around the apartment again, apparently hoping to spot some 
clue to Amy's whereabouts.

Mulder ignored the questions.  He was intrigued by the nose 
piercing, so unexpected on a man who otherwise looked 
conservative enough to pass for one of the young 
Republicans who hustled up and down the steps of the 
Capitol every day.  "You're an artist?"

"What?" said Michael absently, dragging his attention back 
to Mulder.  "Oh, yeah, I paint contemporary figures.  I 
have a show coming up next month, in fact."

"How did you meet Amy?"  Mulder couldn't help wondering 
about their relationship.  Here he was, suffering under a 
mountain of guilt because of what he'd done with Amy, while 
Michael lived with her career every day.

Michael sighed, but answered calmly, "Not professionally, 
if that's what you're thinking.  I don't go in for that.  I 
met her through a mutual friend, at a show.  Amy's very 
into the art world, but I guess you knew that."

He hadn't known it, but he nodded anyway.  "And you've 
known her how long?"

"Almost five years now."

Which meant, Mulder thought with a feeling of unpleasant 
realization, that the two of them had been seeing Amy at 
the same time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder stood at the hotel room door, wondering for the 
fifth or sixth time whether this was such a great idea.  It 
was late, nearly 1 a.m., and both women were most likely 
asleep.  He shut his eyes and took a big inhale for 
strength, smelling the universal hotel hallway smell of 
room deodorizer and carpeting that had been trod upon by 
too many pairs of shoes.

No, he thought, shaking his head.  He needed to see her; he 
craved her like a heroin addict craved his next hit of 
smack.  Things were better with Scully, in fact he could 
say that things were going remarkably well, but he felt 
that achy need to connect with her, to be sure that it was 
going to be all right. And he had to tell her about the 
confrontation with Marchand.  An excellent excuse, indeed.

I'm a whipped boy, he mused and smiled at the no longer 
very painful thought of his pathetic drunken state the 
other night as he had begged her to love him again.  I 
can't help myself.

He raised his hand and tapped lightly on the door.

Who would answer?  It was all too similar to nights 
standing outside the door at the Marriott, feeling shame 
and anticipation rushing through his body as he waited for 
Amy to answer.

There was no response for a minute and he was just about to 
turn on his heels and head down the hallway with his pride 
still intact when he heard a feminine voice through the 
wood.  "Who is it?"  He couldn't tell which woman it was.

"It's Mulder," he called out.

The door opened a crack and he was rewarded with a sliver 
view of a few strands of red hair and a suspicious blue 
eye.  There was no mistaking whose suspicious blue eye that 
was glaring at him.  The eye appraised him and apparently 
he passed muster, for the door opened wider.

Scully was standing in her cream bathrobe, her hair still 
damp from a shower, holding her gun.

"Is that a gun in your hand or are you just happy to see 
me?" he said.

"Shhh," she admonished.  "Amy's asleep."  She pulled him by 
the arm and into the long, narrow bathroom, tiled in white 
and pink.  

Her face was alarmed.  "Is there something going on?  Did 
you learn anything new?"

Mulder nodded his head, simply struck dumb by her 
proximity.

"Ever hear of calling ahead?"  She tilted her head and her 
eyes narrowed.  "You scared me."

"Sorry," he said, reaching to run a strand of her hair 
between his fingers.  "I just wanted to talk to you."

"Okay, let's talk."  Scully put her hands on her hips and 
waited for his next words.

The trouble was, he wasn't entirely sure what to say.  
They'd reached a resolution the other night at her apartment,
but he still felt the tension pulsing between them, the unspoken 
agreement that it wasn't quite right yet between them.  
Mulder threw up his hands in defeat.  "I don't know what to 
say."  The whole Marchand scene had fled his brain now that 
he was near her.

A full smile blossomed on her face.  "That's so cute, 
Mulder."

"What's so cute?"

"You came by here for what the kids would say was a 'bootie 
call' . . . "

Mulder snorted a laugh.  "A bootie call?  Who did you pick 
that one up from, your new roommate?"

She flashed him an indignant look.  "I have MTV, Mulder.  
Despite evidence to the contrary, I do know about things 
other than pathology and the latest in conspiracy 
theories."

"I know you do," he said, running his finger in the 
delicate hollow between her clavicles.  Mulder stepped 
closer and breathed in her baby powder and shampoo smell.  
"I'd say you know about a lot of things . . . like how to 
please a man."

"Hmmm . . .I have picked up a thing or two over the years, 
but I wouldn't quite say I'm a professional."  She bit her 
lip and looked at him through her eyelashes.  He might have 
found that comment insulting if he wasn't getting turned on 
so rapidly.

He laughed as her hand trailed up and under his turtleneck.  
"Well, you know, the dictionary defines an amateur as `a 
person attached to a particular pursuit, especially one who 
cultivates any study or art, from taste or attachment, 
without pursuing it professionally.'"

"Is there anything you don't know?"

He tapped his temple.  "It's all up here, Scully.  
Everything."

Scully rolled her eyes.  Her hands reached up and pulled 
his face to hers and he could smell the Colgate on her 
breath.  "I think it's time for you to shut up, Mulder."  
Her soft lips pressed against his and he opened his mouth 
to her, letting their tongues twine together.

Scully pulled away and licked her lower lip.  Her voice was 
quiet, but even.  "Did she kiss you like that?"

He didn't need to ask whom she meant.  Mulder shook his 
head.  "We never kissed.  You don't usually kiss working 
girls."

"Did you learn that from watching `Pretty Woman?'"

Mulder felt his face growing warm.  "Uh, yeah, actually I 
did."

It had never occurred to him to kiss Amy.  A kiss was 
something personal.  It was one thing to go to her and have 
her suck his cock, or to mindlessly pound into her, but to 
share a kiss with her, that would have been unbearably 
intimate.

Kissing Amy would have been blurring the lines between her 
and Scully even farther than he already had been.

Scully's hand slipped between their bodies and her fingers 
nimbly traced the outline of his hardening cock.  "Did she 
touch you like this?"  Her voice was a whiskey-warm hiss.

He shook his head.  "Don't--"

"Don't what?"

Words were difficult to find when she was keeping up that 
maddening little motion with her fingertips, somehow 
managing to find, even through his jeans, all his favorite 
spots.  "Don't bring her into this," he managed to gasp 
through the fog of his arousal.

She leaned closer and kissed him again, long and slow, with 
serpentine movements of her warm tongue.  "She'll always be 
there," she said, pulling away.

Now his mind was completely shattered, especially since 
she'd begun unbuttoning the fly of his jeans.  "But not-- 
right now." 

The last button was undone and she began to push his jeans 
down.  "I just want to know how I compare, Mulder."  Her 
look wasn't insecure, but playful.

Fine, I'll play along, Scully.  "I think I'll have to do a 
comparison test," he said in a businesslike voice.  "You 
know, to be able to make a fair assessment."

She scrabbled to remove his turtleneck and flung it 
somewhere in the general direction of the toilet.  Mulder 
shivered in the chilly bathroom air and turned off the 
overhead light and turned on the heat lamp, so the room was 
bathed in an obscene red glow.

He started to undo the knot on her bathrobe sash and she 
pulled away.  "No," she said, with one of her familiar 
stern looks.  "I'm in charge this time."  Her hands ran 
over his chest and her tongue began nipping and tasting, 
stopping to greedily suck at his nipples.  His hands flew 
back to grasp the bathroom vanity, since his leg muscles 
had abruptly decided to not hold his body weight any 
longer.

Scully slid onto her knees and he felt her hot breath on 
his belly, which made the little hairs there stand up.  She 
looked up at him, large eyes glowing in the strange light 
of the heat lamp.  "Is this what she'd do, Mulder?  Did she 
kneel in front of you like this?"

Usually he'd sat on the bed, while Amy kneeled in front of 
him on one of the pillows from the bed.

Her fingers hooked around the waistband of his plaid 
boxers.  "Did she undress you or did you do it for 
yourself?"  The boxers were removed and he felt just the 
merest whisper of her fingers along the length of his 
erection.

He tried to act nonchalant, but it was difficult when she 
grasped him at the root and squeezed, the other hand 
cupping and stroking his balls.  "Both," he gasped and she 
gave a close-lipped smile.

"Did it feel like this, Mulder?" she purred and then he 
felt the velvet heat of her mouth around his cock.

It had never felt like that with Amy.

Only Scully could make him feel like this.

Only Scully had that delicate, yet firm way of teasing the 
head of his cock with her wet tongue, swirling it around 
like he was the whipped cream on top of her morning mocha.  
Only she made those happy humming sounds from time to time 
as she flicked her tongue against the ridge of his head.   
And she was the only one who could make him stifle a howl 
as she allowed most of him in her mouth and throat, taking 
him in as far as he could go, applying precise pressure 
with that glorious mouth of hers.

But she still had a few tricks up her sleeve, he found out.  
He had never underestimated Scully's abilities, but he 
hadn't fully considered their depth and breadth.

She allowed him to slip out of her mouth and he sucked in 
air, wanting only for her to return.  With a tiny grin, she 
brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them, which 
made him grasp the countertop still harder, the breaths 
coming out of him with increasing rapidity.  Scully 
returned to him, tenderly cupping his testicles in her 
hand, and resumed her talented sucking.  And then he felt 
her hand slip further still and press against his perineum.  
"Oh my--" he wheezed.  She wasn't done with him, though.  
Her finger moved an inch and then pressed up and into his 
asshole.

Mulder jerked back against the counter, a groan escaping 
his throat.  Her finger moved deeper inside and the red air 
around him began to be speckled with the black of his pain 
and pleasure.  His cock went deeper into her mouth and she 
began to slowly fuck him with her finger.

Jesus Christ, he'd never felt anything like that.  Never.  
He was feeling nerve endings he'd had no idea even existed 
before now.  Mulder looked down and saw her hair, 
phosphorescent in the warm light and felt the surge 
building.  

He couldn't help it, he bellowed as his orgasm struck him 
and he pumped endlessly into her mouth.

He was still gasping and whimpering a bit as she removed 
her finger and pulled away from his cock.  One sculpted red 
eyebrow raised.  "Trying to wake up our friend?"

Burying his head in his hands, he shook his head.  "You are 
evil," he hissed.

She kissed him just above the navel.  "Didn't you like it?"

"I'm not entirely sure there's a superlative that's 
appropriate in this case, Scully."

"I'm just giving you payback, " she said, settling on the 
ground and pulling her bathrobe around her.  "Remember that 
night in my shower?"

His legs finally gave up the ghost and he slid down to join 
her on the tile floor.

"Come here," he said and kissed her, tasting the bleachy 
tang of his come in her mouth.

"I'm glad you came," she said.

He bit back a stupid pun and kissed her again.  After a 
minute he pulled away.  "I forgot, Scully, but I have 
Marchand news."

"Yeah?  Do share, now that we have the pressing business 
out of the way . . ."

Mulder sat up a little and ran a hand through his hair.  "I 
confronted him tonight.  Marchand made the phone calls, but 
he didn't kill the dog or Vanessa Maitland."

"You confronted him?"  She lifted his hand and examined his 
bruised knuckles.  "Oh, Mulder," she said, shaking her 
head.  "You didn't."

He nodded guiltily.  "It was the only way.  But I'm sure 
now that while he's a creep, he's not a sociopath."

He watched raptly as Scully's face hardened and transformed 
into professional mode.  "Are you sure?  He seemed like a 
guilty man."

"I talked at great length with the man tonight, and I can 
give you my professional opinion, as a profiler, that 
Olivier Marchand did not kill anyone in this case.  These 
murders were done by someone calculating and composed.  
After spending more time with him, I can tell you that he 
doesn't even appear intelligent and cunning enough to 
commit escalating serial crime."

Scully made an unreadable noise.  "Why did he make the 
phone calls then?"

Mulder touched his face.  "He's angry about the scars; he 
wants revenge."

"Well, this is not good news.  It means our only lead has 
gone down the tubes and the murderer is an entirely unknown 
quantity to us."

In unison, they both sighed.  

Despite the heat lamp, a shiver ran through Mulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amy woke up suddenly from an uneasy sleep, and felt 
momentarily confused.  Looking around at what she 
immediately recognized as a hotel room, she was not sure 
why she was there.  Had she fallen asleep with a client?  
She never did that.

Then she heard voices, low but unmistakable, from the other 
side of the bathroom door, and it all came flooding back to 
her: Vanessa was dead, and someone was almost certainly 
trying to kill her, too.  She was staying at the airport 
Sheraton, sharing a room with Agent Scully.  

A few hot tears sprang to her eyes and she kicked her legs 
under the sheets, wondering when her life had become so 
surreal.  She was Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole.

She sat up, listening to the voices coming from behind the 
door.  Mulder had apparently arrived while she was 
sleeping.  She cocked her head, trying to tell if he had 
any important news.  She couldn't make out any words, just 
low murmuring.  

Then she heard something that surprised her: a moan.

Hmmm, she thought, and couldn't help smiling.  So, they 
weren't just talking.

She tried her best not to listen after that.  She didn't 
have a prudish bone in her body, but she wanted to respect 
their privacy.  Still, the room was small enough and the 
wall between the bedroom and the bathroom was thin enough 
that it was impossible not to hear.  First came a moan from 
Mulder, and a muffled humming from Scully that hinted her 
mouth was otherwise occupied.  Then Amy heard a breathless 
"Oh my -- " from Mulder, followed by a groan and the sound 
of panting.  "Oh, oh, oh -- " Mulder gasped.

Amy rolled over and hugged one of the extra pillows.  This 
wasn't fair, she thought wistfully.  As if she hadn't felt 
lost and alone enough already, now she could hear two 
lovers ecstatically getting it on in the very next room.  
Not even the next hotel room -- the bathroom not ten feet 
from where she was lying.  

It was making her miss Michael even more.  When this 
nightmare was all over with and she could be with him 
again, she promised herself, she was absolutely going to 
fuck his brains out.  No, not fuck, she reminded herself.  
She was going to make love to him, long and slow, riding 
him until they were both exhausted and dripping with sweat.

If she could just be with Michael, everything would be all 
right again.

Suddenly there was a loud shout from Mulder, which echoed 
from the tiled space of the hotel bathroom.  Bingo, Amy 
thought wryly.  Nice work, Scully.

She heard some rather pitiful whimpering from Mulder after 
that, followed eventually by the soft murmur of more 
conversation.  This time she did catch something about the 
case, the names "Vanessa" and "Marchand."  She strained to 
hear, but the agents' voices were too low.

Finally the door swung open, spilling the red glow of the 
bathroom heat lamp into the rest of the room.  Mulder and 
Scully came creeping out, moving as quietly as possible.

"Any news?" Amy asked them and snapped on the bedside lamp.

They both wheeled around, wearing the sheepish but slightly 
goofy expressions of two people who had been caught having 
sex in a bathroom.  Scully even blushed.

Mulder recovered first.  He cleared his throat.  "No big 
breakthroughs."

"We were just, uh, talking in the bathroom so we wouldn't 
wake you," Scully added. 

Amy tried not to grin.  "That was very considerate of you."

Scully tightened the belt on her bathrobe self-consciously.  
"Mulder was telling me that he doesn't think Marchand is 
responsible after all."

"He made the phone calls," Mulder clarified.  "But not the 
rest."

The news wiped all thought of everything but her stalker 
from Amy's mind.  Her brows drew together in an anxious 
frown.  "So you're telling me the investigation has taken a 
step backwards?"

"We'll find whoever did this, Amy," Scully said.  "It's 
just a matter of time."

"But how much time?  No offense, Scully, but hiding in a 
hotel with you for an indefinite period is not my idea of 
La Dolce Vita.  I miss my life.  I miss Michael."

"He came by, looking for you tonight," Mulder said.

Amy sat back in surprise.  "Michael was here?"

"No, he came by my apartment," Mulder said.  "He wanted me 
to tell you that he's worried about you."

Michael must be worried sick, Amy thought.  He must have 
gotten her phone message and frantically caught the first 
shuttle down.  Frustration and helplessness washed over 
her.  

It didn't cheer her any to have to pretend that she 
couldn't hear Mulder and Scully when they whispered their 
good-byes, an odd blend of professional content and 
flirtatious, post-coital delivery.  Sleeping in the same 
room with Scully was not especially comforting, either, not 
when she thought about how she'd rather be sleeping with 
Michael.  She felt alone and confined, like a prisoner 
denied conjugal visits.

She rolled over and turned off the light and heard Scully 
climb into bed.  For a long time she lay in the dark, 
listening as the other woman's breathing became slow and 
even.

Think of something nice, she told herself.  Sleep will come 
if you remember a good time.  Amy shut her eyes and 
pictured the time she and Michael went to Maine, walking on 
the shore of the Atlantic, laughing at the seagulls and 
eating lobster rolls.  

Eventually everything went dark for her, too.

But she woke an hour or so later and realized she'd never 
get back to sleep.  She was wired and jittery, her heart 
beating a mile a minute.

She glanced at the phone.  Remembering that awful moment 
when they'd found Vanessa's body, she wondered how Lisa was 
doing.  Impulsively, she found her cell phone in her bag 
and crept to the bathroom with it in hand.

Lisa was a night creature.  Despite the late hour, if she 
was home, she'd be awake.

"Hello, and this better not be the damned police," Lisa 
answered.

Amy laughed.  "It's me -- Amy."

"Oh, thank the Lord," Lisa said, her Texas drawl bringing a 
smile to Amy's face.  "I talked to so many cops this 
morning, I felt like I was trapped in a bad episode of 
Homicide: Life on the Streets.  The worst part is, there 
wasn't a cute Bayliss in the bunch.  How you doin'?"

"I'm okay . . ." said Amy, but she said it with a sigh.

Lisa laughed.  "Yeah, right -- and I never do it on the 
first date. You thinkin' about Vanessa?"

"Aren't you?"

Lisa sighed.  "Yeah, I am.  That was a terrible thing, what 
happened to her.  I cried and cried until I was sick, and I 
cancelled all my dates for tonight.  I'm gonna sleep with 
my gun under my pillow from now on, for sure.  You 
somewhere safe?"

"Yes," Amy said, playing with the phone cord.  "I'm with an 
FBI agent."

"Is that right?" Lisa said with interest.  "Is he good 
lookin'?"

"It's a she," Amy said, smiling despite herself.  "A woman 
named Scully."

"Awww, that takes all the fun out of it.  I had a nice time 
for about ten seconds there, picturin' you bein' guarded by 
some nice big strappin' Elliot Ness type."

Lisa sounded so good -- so friendly and fun and easy to 
talk to -- that Amy felt tears spring to her eyes.  "I miss 
Michael," she said in a sudden swell of emotion.  "I'm 
scared and I know he's worried about me and I miss him."

Lisa made a soothing sound.  "'Course you do, honey.  How 
long are you goin' to be there with that FBI agent?"

"I don't know.  Until it's safe, I guess."  Amy sniffled.  
"Until they catch whoever's been stalking me."

"You couldn't just maybe see Michael for a little while?" 
Lisa said in a coaxing voice.  "What would be the harm in 
that?  A gal's gotta have a little fun."

"The FBI agents don't think it would be a good idea."

"There you are again, being Miss Serious."  Lisa sighed.  
"All I can say is, I'm glad it's you and not me.  I mean 
that in the nicest way, of course, but I'd go stir crazy 
for sure if I was in your shoes."

Amy nodded glumly.  She knew exactly what Lisa meant.

Stir crazy was her new middle name.

"Hey babe," Lisa said.  "My doorbell just rang.  Greg said 
he'd come over after he closed the club down."  Greg was 
Lisa's boyfriend, the owner of a dance club in Alexandria.

"Okay, Lisa, you have fun tonight."

"Be safe," Lisa said and hung up.

She stared at the phone and fought the overwhelming urge to 
call Michael.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully slapped down some more cards for Solitaire and 
stifled a sigh.  The day had dragged mercilessly.  She 
supposed that deep down she should appreciate some time to 
relax and unwind, but the Sheraton wasn't the place to do 
it.  If she'd been at home, that would have been one thing.  
She could have curled up on the couch with a blanket, a 
good book and a girlie movie like "Little Women," but the 
sterile hotel environment reminded her of too many dull 
road trips in the past with Mulder.

And if she had to be stuck in a hotel room, why couldn't it 
be with Mulder?  They could make good use of the firm 
mattresses and extra pillows, not to mention that heat lamp 
in the bathroom.

A fine flush spread across her face as she remembered her 
boldness of the night before.  She'd have to remember that 
all it took for her to turn into a hellcat was three 
glasses of red wine and a tiny bit of jealous insecurity.  
It had all been worth it to hear Mulder make those 
delicious noises.

She glanced over at Amy, sitting at the table and intently 
making notes on a legal pad, with a book propped on her 
lap.

"What exactly are you doing?" Scully asked.

Amy looked up and smiled.  "I'm doing some research for my 
thesis."

"Your thesis?"  

"Yes.  I'm getting my master's degree from Georgetown.  Art 
History.  I've finished my coursework, but I've been 
dragging my heels on the thesis, and my advisor is starting 
to make some impatient noises.  As long as I'm stuck here, 
I might as well actually get some work done, right?"

Scully took a moment to puzzle out the conundrum of a 
hooker/graduate student. Sometimes the world had a way of 
reminding her that when she saw it in black and white, she 
failed to catch all the gray shades in between

An odd look must have passed on her face, for Amy said, 
"Not all professional girls are brain-dead.  I know one gal 
in law school and my internist is actually an alumna of 
Tiger Lilies.  It's a great way to make money and avoid 
those pesky student loans."

"What is your thesis about?"

Amy grinned.  "It's tentatively titled `Myth and Modality 
in the Representation of Prostitution in Nineteenth Century 
Art.'"

Scully couldn't help cracking, "Write what you know, huh?"

"Something like that," Amy chuckled.  She set her book down 
and stood up.  "Time for a fun-filled trip to the 
bathroom."

Scully smiled and slapped down some more cards.

A minute later, Amy poked her head out the bathroom door.  
"Hey, Scully, may I ask a favor?"

"What's that?"

"Do you have any tampons?"  Amy looked faintly embarrassed, 
which amused Scully a little.  A prostitute sheepish about 
asking for a tampon, indeed.

"Sorry," Scully said.  "It's not the right time for me.  I 
didn't pack any."

"Oh crap.  I guess I'll have to go down to that little shop 
in the lobby . . ."

Scully rose.  "I'll go.  It's safer if you stay in the 
room."  She grabbed her purse and the key card off the 
bureau.

"Thanks so much.  I hate to make you do my errands for me."

"It's fine.  Just don't open the door for anyone, not even 
Mulder.  No one goes in or out that door, okay?"

Amy nodded.  "Of course.  I'll be a little angel. And I 
brought my gun."

Ten minutes later Scully returned with the box of Tampax, 
four chocolate bars and the trashiest magazines she could 
find in the store.  She keyed herself in the room.

The room was empty.  So was the bathroom.

Amy's books, clothes and overnight bag were gone.  There 
was no sign anyone but Scully herself had ever occupied the 
room.

She stopped, two paces inside the room, and bit down on the 
curse that was on her lips.

And then she spotted the note on the bed.


Scully,

I'm so sorry to just take off like this.  You and Mulder 
have been so good to me in this difficult time, but I can't 
spend the rest of my life hiding out in a hotel, and 
neither can you.  I've got to just try to live my life, and 
hope that the police find that man.

I am aware that I've caused some difficulties for you and 
Mulder, and I regret it.  I wish you both the best of love 
and happiness together in the future.

Here's some money to cover the hotel bill.  

Again, I apologize, and thank you for all you've done.

Amy


Underneath the note were two $100 bills.

Scully shook her head in wonder and outrage.  

Picking up her cell phone, she dialed Mulder.  "The chicken 
has flown the coop," she said, foregoing a greeting.

"What?" he said.

"Amy took off.  She got me out of the room under the 
pretext of an errand and left the hotel.  Apparently she 
was tired of my company."  She tapped her forehead in a 
gesture of annoyance.

"She got you out of the room?  How did she do that?"

She grimaced.  "You don't want to know.  I can't believe I 
was hoodwinked like that."

Mulder sharply exhaled.  "Well, she wasn't our prisoner.  
If she doesn't want our protection, there's not a whole lot 
we can do."

"I know," she said, "but I worry about her safety."

"She's an adult, Scully, and an intelligent one at that.  
We'll just have to forget about her."

It was hard for her to believe Mulder could be so cavalier 
about Amy.  And it was even harder for her to believe that 
she was so worried about the call girl.  Life was getting 
curiouser and curiouser all the time.

"What do we do now, Mulder?"

The line was silent for a moment and then he spoke.  "You 
check out of the hotel and then I pick you up."

"Why, do we have a lead?"

He laughed.  "No, Scully, this case, or whatever it was, is 
over for us.  We're going out for dinner."

She sat down on the bed and let out all her breath.  

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Nope," she sighed.  "Only Italian food will cure what ails 
me right now."

Scully punched the End button on her phone and collapsed in 
a heap on the bed.  She was feeling every unpleasant 
emotion she could name: guilt, anger, chagrin and 
embarrassment.  It was still difficult to believe she'd 
been so easily taken in by Amy's story.  

Finally, she got off the bed and began to pack her 
overnight bag, all the while muttering about ingrates.

The shrill ring of her cell phone startled her and she 
dropped the bottle of shampoo she was holding, right on her 
toe.  She stifled an ugly word and grabbed the phone.  
"Yeah," she said sharply.

"Dana, did I call at a bad time?"

Oh God, it was John McMillan.  She softened her voice 
considerably. "Hi, John.  No, everything's fine, I just 
bumped into something when the phone rang."

He chuckled.  "Sorry I didn't call last night, but it was 
crazy down here.  There were two drive-bys, a park 
stabbing, a lover's quarrel gone sour and a body fished out 
of the Potomac.  In other words, another weekend here in 
the city."

"That's okay.  Did you find out anything useful or 
interesting from Maitland's autopsy?"

John's sigh into the phone gave her the answer before he 
even spoke.  "Nope, nothing terribly useful.  Despite the 
defensive wounds, there was no skin or hair under her 
nails, and no fibers on her skin.  The cut to the neck 
caused the massive blood loss that led to death."

Scully gave a twin sigh to McMillan's.  "Any sexual 
trauma?"

"Yeah, that's the only place where we have any useful 
evidence.  We found semen in her rectum, and enough tearing 
and bleeding to indicate it wasn't consensual.  The semen 
is Type O, and he's a secretor."

"So are the majority of men in Washington D.C."

"Too true, Dr. Scully, but at least we have a sample now, 
in case a suspect is found.   DNA testing is a beautiful 
thing."  

His tone sounded as flirtatious as it had the day before, 
and she wondered if he was extraordinarily persistent, or 
if that was how he always dealt with women.  The funny part 
was that it was starting to cheer her up.

"I can't even remember what life was like before we used it 
in forensic medicine."  She smiled.

"Ah, the good old days," John said, still chuckling.  But 
his voice turned businesslike again.  "One more thing for 
you-- Maitland's tox screen came back positive for cocaine 
and heroin."

"Speedballs?  Oh, that's nice," she murmured.

"You know what they say-- `Live fast, die young and leave a 
good-looking corpse.'"

"That's a terrible joke," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You know pathology humor."

Ah yes, she could remember the disgusting practical jokes 
she and her colleagues had played on each other during her 
residency.  Vividly, she could still recall the middle 
finger she'd found on her pillow in the on-call room.  

"Too true, John."  Scully sat up and checked her watch.  
Mulder would be at the hotel in ten minutes and she still 
had to check out.  "Hey, I don't mean to be rude, but I 
have to run."

There was a long silence and she suddenly feared he'd try 
to ask her out again.  Instead, he merely said, "That's 
cool.  I know that girls like you have big plans on 
Saturday nights."

She felt the heat rising in her face. "Thanks so much for 
the information.  That was very generous of you."

After a few more pleasantries, she hung up, relieved he 
hadn't made any kind of move again.  Relieved and somehow 
disappointed at the same time.  The sad thing was that John 
McMillan was her ideal man, the kind of guy she'd dreamed 
about five or six years ago.  

But sometimes the person you're meant to be with isn't your 
ideal, she thought.

As she gathered up the rest of her things, she said, to no 
one in particular, "Mulder, you'd better be worth it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amy lifted her suitcase into the car, and then slammed the 
trunk closed.  She ran around to the passenger side, and 
swung open the car door.

"Oh my god, thanks," she said with a grin, as she settled 
quickly in the passenger seat.  "You wouldn't believe how 
stir crazy I was going in this place.  I knew I could count 
on you."

"No problem," said the man behind the wheel, starting the 
engine.  "You have good timing.  I didn't even have to wait 
long."