Title: My Life as a Puzzle 
Author: msk
Email: msk1024@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Keyword: M/S, 
Spoilers:  None	
Summary: It's 11 years after the events of the Fringe
Series and 13-year-old Kate has a lot of questions 
about her parents, her life and the secrets that
surround her.


For as long as I can remember, my life has felt like a 
puzzle with a bunch of missing pieces. It's not like 
I have this crazy, exciting life or anything. We live 
in the middle of nowhere--the most boring town in the 
whole world. But in the middle of this dullness is a 
mystery that I just haven't been able to solve.
 
My mom says we lived in Washington, DC until I was three, 
but I don't remember. I try and imagine what it was like 
living in a big city. On TV, people in the city rush around 
all the time, doing exciting things. It's not like nobody rushes
in Sachem, but it's pretty boring wherever you go, so there's
not much point to getting there fast.

I asked my dad what it was like in Washington, and he said 
it was noisy. He said it was better here in the country where 
you could hear yourself breathe. Mom says that we're safer 
here, away from "urban crime."

My mom is the medical examiner for Litchfield County, but 
she consults all over New England. She puts a lot of miles 
on her SUV. Mom sees urban crime, country crime and a 
whole lot of human stupidity--everything from hunters 
mistaking each other for deer to teenage gangbanger 
casualties from the streets of Hartford.  

I know that Mom and Dad worked for the FBI before I was 
born, but neither of them talks about it much. Dad said 
they investigated weird stuff--mutants and monsters. He
might have been kidding me, though. Dad's got a strange
sense of humor sometimes. I mean really--monsters 
made of garbage? Monkey-babies? The FBI couldn't
possibly get involved with stuff like that.

I know they were partners; I guess I'm the product of that 
partnership. My mom has a picture on her desk of the two 
of them at a crime scene, looking all young and intense. 
My mom's hair is shorter in the picture and Dad is 
clean-shaven.

But back to my totally boring life. The school bus bumps 
along the road, and I wonder if Dad has already driven 
to Torrington to look at the chest of drawers in the used 
furniture store. I hope he waited so I could come along. 
I love watching him study a piece and run his fingers over 
the wood. 

Dad doesn't look for antiques, just sturdy old furniture he 
can make into something wonderful. He does more than
refinish stuff--he practically rebuilds some of it. Like he
might have the good top part of some broken shelves and 
graft them onto a little cabinet and make a whole new thing.

Once in a while, he finds something like what they have on 
the Antiques Roadshow. He calls an antique dealer friend 
for those pieces. That guy returns the favor when he finds
something he thinks Dad could use.

The bus screeches to a stop at the end of our driveway, and
I walk down the aisle to get to the door, stepping over Kevin 
Haystrup's ginormous feet.

"See ya tomorrow, Beanpole," he says as I pass by. He's 
sprawled out in his seat, grinning at me from under the 
mess of his long curly hair.

"Not if I see you first, Haystack."

I hate being called Beanpole, but, let's face it--I'm a
head taller than all the boys except for Haystack, and
skinny, too. Straight up and down, skinny. My mom says 
girls develop at different rates, but this is ridiculous. 
She says I have "breast buds" and before I know it
I'll have all the normal secondary sex characteristics
as I move through puberty. 

God, I wish she'd stop talking about it already. It's 
so totally embarrassing. I'm thirteen already and wish 
my breasts would show up, so I could stop being a freak.

The wind is biting despite the bright November afternoon
sun. I open the mailbox by the curb and pull out a bunch of 
letters and catalogs. Leaves crunch under my feet as I 
carry them up the driveway. I'm happy to see that Dad's 
truck is parked over by the old barn he uses as a workshop. 

The barn is empty, but amid the sawdust, I spot the table 
he's been working on for the last few days. It had been 
covered by a coat of ugly green paint, but somehow Dad 
knew that once he sanded off the paint he'd find beautifully 
grained oak. I'm not sure how he knows this stuff. I call 
it furniture ESP. He thinks that's real funny.

I head over to our house, which is really old. The floors are 
uneven and it's drafty in the winter. Sometimes I wish we 
lived in one of those nice houses in the new subdevelopments. 
I don't think we're poor, or anything: Mom's a doctor and Dad 
does a pretty good business. Mom and Dad like living in an 
old house. They say it's got character.  

I let myself in the back door. I do love our kitchen, though. 
Dad built the cabinets himself and refinished our big pine table. 
He comes into the kitchen pulling his shirt over his head. 
His hair looks wet. He must have showered to wash off the 
sawdust.

"Hey Katydid," he says. "I didn't hear you come in."

He tugs the shirt down, quickly covering the scars on 
his chest. Dad's kind of self-conscious about them and 
doesn't talk about them at all. There is another scar 
under his beard--I remember from when he used to still 
shave. 

The scars on his chest are the worst--they come up from 
his stomach to each shoulder and then around to the back. 
Kind of like a "Y" incision that took up another couple of 
letters. 

I asked about them when I little and Mom said that 
Dad was in an accident. I asked Dad about the accident, 
but he just shook his head and said it was a long time ago 
and then he changed the subject. Around our house, the 
subject gets changed a lot.
 
"Are we gonna go to Torrington?" I ask, as I rummage
around the fridge looking for a snack. I pull out a
container of yogurt. 
 
"Do you have homework?"

"I can do it later."

"Your mom will have plenty to say about that,"
he says.

Mom has plenty to say on just about every aspect of my
life and most of it falls into the category of bitching.

I really don't see the point of homework. I get "A"s 
on every test. Teachers and parents must have some kind 
of deal going to keep kids busy every minute of the day 
so there is no time to have fun.

"Oh, all right," I sigh. "I'll do it in the truck."

We drive to Torrington, the radio tuned to a sports
station. I work on algebra equations, my books and 
papers spread over my lap and the seat between us.

When we get to Second Hand Ralph's, we're greeted by
none other than Ralph, himself. 

"Hey Mulder, I see you brought the 'enforcer'." 

I grin as Dad inspects the chest. He's the smartest
guy in the world, but he lacks the killer instinct when
it comes to doing business. Dad is the artist. I'm 
the one who haggles with the buyers and the sellers.

I move close to Dad. He pulls out a drawer and turns
it over. "See how the joints dovetail? That's good,"
he says so only I can hear. "Too bad about this crack 
in the wood, Ralph."

Dad crouches down to run his fingers along a crevice
where the wood has split. He holds up 4 fingers out
of Ralph's line of vision.

"We'll take it off your hands for $30," I say. 

"I oughta throw you two out of my shop," Ralph growls. 

I open my eyes real wide in my best "innocent kid" way.

"Nobody's going to want it with a crack," I say sweetly.
"Not to mention the water damage on the feet."

Dad shoots me a smile, proud that I picked up on the 
warped feet without having him point it out. The chest 
must have been stored in a basement that flooded. 

"Minor issues," Ralph insists. "This thing is worth
at least $50."

We settle on $40, which is exactly what Dad wanted to
pay in the first place. 

"We're a good team," Dad says as we get back in the
truck after the chest is tied down in the back. I feel
myself blush with pride. 

We get home, and I help Dad get the chest off the truck
and into the workshop. When we go into the house, the
message light on the phone is blinking. I hit play.

"Hi guys," Mom says on the tape. "I'm going to be stuck 
here, so don't wait on me for dinner. It may...it's...I'm
probably going to be late." 

Her voice sounds weird--cloggy and tense. Dad leans back
against the kitchen counter and frowns. He worries about
her when she drives home late at night.

We order pizza from Salvatore's, the only pizza place in 
Sachem. Dad grumbles as he goes to pick it up, saying that
it's sucky pizza, that you have to drive to Hartford or 
New Haven to get the good stuff. 

The suckiness doesn't seem to stop him from eating four
slices. I wrap up the leftovers for Mom and go upstairs
to finish my homework. 

It's pretty late when I decide to get some ice cream. I
fill a soup bowl with rocky road and leave the kitchen
light on, since Mom isn't home yet. I walk through 
the living room to go up the front stairs. 

After several additions over its 150 year history, there 
are two stairways in our house.  The back stairs are 
right off the kitchen, but they're steep and narrow and
shadowy despite the bare light bulb at the top. I used to 
be scared of them when I was little. I still avoid them at 
night.

I'm just about to climb the front stairs, bowl in hand, when 
I hear the back door open. I move back into the darkened 
living room--Mom hates when I take dishes up to my room 
because once in a while I forget to bring them back down. 
I decide to sneak up when Mom isn't looking. A deep shuddery 
sigh from the kitchen catches my attention and I edge toward the
doorway.

When I see Mom I know something is really wrong. Her
face, which is pale on a good day, is as white as milk 
and her eyes look haunted. She grabs onto the counter 
as if she'd fall to the ground without it. Her free hand 
shakes as it covers her mouth. 

"Are you okay, Mom?" I ask, walking back into the kitchen.
I wonder if she hit a deer on the way home. She did that
once and it upset her a lot. She jumps, letting go of the
counter.

"Kate," she says, her voice wavers. "You startled me."

"Sorry. We saved you some pizza. I can nuke it for you."

"Thanks, Honey," she smiles, weakly. "I'm not very hungry,
actually. I...I'm going to go up to bed."

She kisses my cheek as she passes me. I look down at the
melting ice cream in my bowl and then I really start to
worry.

Mom was so distracted, she didn't even notice I was 
bringing food upstairs.

      ~~~~~~~~~

"Scully, you look like hell," my Dad says a few nights
later. I'm up in my bedroom, in my favorite spot--lying 
on the floor next to the grate, reading and being enveloped 
by the warm air. 

Mom and Dad must be in the little room they use as 
an office. I wonder if they realize that our old farmhouse 
has these weird acoustics through the heating registers. 
 
"Gee, thanks, Mulder. It's so good to know that you
think that."

"I'm sorry, but you look like you haven't slept in 
days and I haven't seen you actually eat a full meal
in as long."

"I'm fine. It's been crazy at work this week, that's
all. Two traffic fatalities, one stabbing in Winsted
and a suspected overdose--you'd think we were a big
city ME's office."

"It's more than that and you know it, Scully. Work
has been busy before, but it's never tied you up in
knots like this."

"I'm tired, Mulder. Can we just...not do this now?"

They must have moved away from the heating vent after
that because I can't work out what they're saying. 
I fall asleep to the low murmur of their voices. 

In the morning, I can tell that Mom hadn't told 
Dad what was really bothering her. Tension hangs 
in the air and they're hardly talking. 

Dad's eyes stray to Mom every once in a while as 
he drink his orange juice and eats cereal. Mom keeps 
her eyes down, concentrating on her coffee cup like 
there's a million dollars hiding there.

It's so quiet that the scrape of Dad's chair echoes
in the kitchen. The sound of his bowl dropped in 
the sink sounds like a clap of thunder. He ruffles
my hair before he goes out the back door and across
to his workshop.

It's hard to keep my mind on school all day. Mr.
Giotto has to call on me three times in Western
Civ before I hear him. I'm so distracted, I hadn't
been listening to the discussion and stammer as I
ask him to repeat the question.

I have this unfortunate tendency to forget that I
have homework for certain classes. Health class
homework is always so completely and utterly
pointless that I forget to do it and I find that
today, I hit Mrs. Hemenway's limit of 5 missed
assignments. Which means I have a ninety minute 
detention.

Which also means I miss the late bus. Ninety minute 
detention is diabolically arranged so that the late
bus leaves 10 minutes before it ends. I note with
a kind of perverted gratification that Haystack is 
sprawled at a desk in the back of the detention
room. 

The juniors and senior "detainees" drive to school 
and most of the freshmen and sophomores call some 
annoyed parent to pick them up. 

I don't want to bother Dad, and I would rather chew 
my right arm off than call Mom to come pick me up. 
Haystack lives with his grandparents and they...well,
he says they've made it clear that he's on his own
when it comes to detention. So, Haystack and I are 
the only kids who decide to walk the four miles home. 

Mom would probably have a cow if she knew I was 
walking home with Haystack. His family is kind of 
rough. His dad is in prison and his mom lives 
in Hartford. Haystack says she cares more about 
meth than she does about him. It makes me so 
sad to think about it. 

We walk along, not really talking about anything
important. Haystack says Mrs. Hemenway is offended 
by my lack of enthusiasm on the subject of good 
nutrition. I laugh when he keeps repeating "we
must eat more legumes" in Mrs. Hemenway's 
high-pitched voice.

The sun is starting to set when we get to my driveway. 
There is an awkward moment as the two of us look at
our feet and nobody talks. 

"I better get home," Haystack says. He lives 
another mile down the road. 

"Well, see you, then," I respond, pulling my
hoodie around me as I suddenly feel cold. 

"Not if I see you first," Haystack says with a 
wave of his hand. I watch him walk away
before turning and heading up the driveway. 

"Where were you?" Dad asks when I come through
the back door. "I was getting worried."

"I had detention," I say. When I look into his
eyes, I feel bad that he was worried. I hadn't 
thought about how late it was or that Dad would 
wonder where I was. I could lie and say the land
lines weren't working, or my cell didn't have any 
reception, both of which happen all the time. 

The truth was, I think I just wanted to walk home 
with Haystack and Dad would have insisted on 
picking me up.

He doesn't say more on the subject, not like
Mom who would harp on it until I'd want to
scream. 

"Mom called. She's going to be late tonight,"
he says.

"Again?" I gripe. "She hasn't been home for 
dinner all week." 

"She doesn't like that any more than we do, Kate."

I'm not so sure of that, I think to myself. Mom
is hiding something and maybe it's easier for her
not to be around us. 

We make spaghetti for dinner. Mom usually does 
the cooking, but there are a few things Dad and I 
can manage. We open a jar of sauce and boil the 
noodles. I survey the food when it's on the table 
and shrug. Pulling a bag of salad out of the fridge,
I dump it into a big bowl.

"Mom would be proud," Dad says. 

"Yeah," I say as we sit down at the table. If she
was here, she'd be thrilled with the iceberg lettuce.
I don't say that though. 

For a few minutes, the only sound is the scrape of 
forks on plates. I look up to see Dad smiling at
me. 

"The first time we all had dinner together, your 
mom made spaghetti."

"Really?" 

"You made such a mess with it. You were just about
two, and you ate spaghetti with your hands.
Mom and I had to give you a bath right away."

He smiles at the memory. I push the last strands
of spaghetti around on my plate, watching the 
patterns they make. 

I wonder why our first dinner as a family didn't 
happen until I was two. Mom and Dad never talk 
about any of this stuff but I've always wondered 
why it's only Mom and Grandma holding me in my 
baby pictures. When I'm a little older, there 
are lots of pictures with Dad. 

"Why...um...where were you when I was a baby?"
I ask.  

Dad's smile is sad and wistful. "It's a long story,
Katydid."

"I've got plenty of time," I say. 

"You've got plenty of homework," he says. "Or am 
I mistaken about why you had to stay after school?"

"How'd you know that's why I got detention?"

"Let's just say I spent my share of time avoiding
my homework and paying the consequences."

I try to get that little window of conversation open 
again but Dad had gently but firmly closed it. 

When the dinner dishes are done and the leftovers
put away, Dad goes upstairs to watch a basketball
game on TV. I sit at the kitchen table, catching
up on the five health class assignments that got
me stuck in detention. 

I'm slumped over my work, doodling a heart and 
lungs in the margin of my notebook when Mom
lets herself in the back door.

"Hi Sweetheart," Mom says, taking off her coat. 
"It smells good in here. Did you and Dad cook?"

"We made spaghetti," I respond. "There's some in
the fridge if you want."

She fixes herself a plate with a teensy amount of 
pasta and a whole bunch of salad and sits down at
the table.

"How was your day?" she asks between bites. 

"Boring. The usual." 

Mom sighs and looks at me with tired eyes. I can tell 
that she wishes I would talk to her, but I don't tell 
her about the detention and walking home with Haystack. 
It's not like she's been opening up to *me* lately.

Mom finishes her dinner and with a long glance in my 
direction, puts her dish and fork in the dishwasher. 

"I have some work to do," she says as she kisses
the top of my head. "I'll be in the office."

I pack up my books and papers and go up to my room.
Few traces of my life as a little kid remain. A couple of 
years ago, I begged to redecorate, so the pink walls are 
now mossy green. Dad refinished my white dresser 
and headboard and now they're coffee colored. 

About the only things childhood items I kept are some 
books and the doll furniture Dad made when I was little. 
My favorite piece is a tiny carved cradle. He must have 
made it when I was really little, because I don't remember 
a time when it wasn't there.

My conscience nags at me as I brush my teeth and pull
on flannel pajama pants and an old sweatshirt. I don't
want to go to sleep without saying goodnight to Mom.

The office door is ajar as I walk down the hall. We 
have a house rule as far as Mom and Dad's office and
the bedrooms--even if the door is slightly open,
we still knock. My fist is raised to rap on the 
woodwork when I hear Mom on the phone. Here I am
eavesdropping again. I know it's wrong, but nobody 
tells me anything around here, and something is 
really wrong.  

"It's out of the question, Walter" she says. "He's
been doing so well."

I try and remember who Walter is, but all I can
come up with is a name on a Christmas card. Mom
and Dad don't have many friends--a few people in 
town, but nobody really close. Nobody Mom would
be talking to like this.

"No...no, I can't tell him. It'll send him into a tailspin."

Mom has never sounded like this, so upset, her voice
trembling. I hate hearing her sound so worried.

She continues on, but her voice is lowered and I can't
hear any more of what she's saying. But I can still 
here the tone in her voice, how fond she seems of this
Walter person. It hurts that she's opening up to some 
guy over the phone and not to Dad. Or to me. 

I want to burst into the office and ask Mom what she
can't tell Dad about. Instead, though, I'm frozen
with my hand still poised as if to knock. I turn
and go up to bed.

       ~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday afternoon, a few days after Mom's late night 
phone call, I'm sitting cross-legged on top of the 
workbench in Dad's workshop. A sandwich in 
one hand, I flip through the local "penny saver" 
newspaper, planning our weekend itinerary of 
furniture trawling.

"Mr. Hastings has a pair of end tables for sale," I
say.

"Probably pressed board," Dad says, with a grunt as
he pushes himself up from the floor. He's just 
finished replacing a drawer slide in a dresser he's 
repairing. Dad usually works on stuff he buys
to fix up, but this job is a special order. A lady over
in Goshen inherited some old furniture and wants
this dresser restored. 

"Still, it's worth a look," I say. Dad's probably
right. Mr. Hastings is a junk man who cleans out
people's sheds and basements for them. Most of the
stuff he advertises in the penny saver isn't worth
much, but once in a while he finds a real treasure.

Dad starts sanding the top of the dresser, and I go 
back to flipping through the paper. We both look up
at the crunch of tires on gravel outside. I think 
maybe it's a customer. 

Dad sells most of his furniture through a few 
one-of-a-kind specialty shops in the towns around 
here. People show up at our house, sometimes, 
through word of mouth. It happens a lot more in
the fall when people are driving around gaping at
the leaves. It's a little late for that now--the 
trees are almost all bare.

I turn and peer through the dusty window of
the workshop. A big gray Lexus pulls to a stop on the
driveway and a huge bald man climbs out. Something
tells me this guy isn't shopping for furniture.

Dad's face gives no clue to what he's thinking as he
brushes his hands off against his jeans.  I hop off 
the workbench and follow him. When I see Dad 
break into a grin, I move back in the doorway of
the workshop. Dad approaches the man.

The man walks forward, his wire-rimmed glasses
glinting in the sun. I'm so curious I want to scream. 

"Mulder," the man says, smiling and reaching out
to take Dad's hand.

"It's been a long time, sir," Dad says. "You 
haven't changed much."

"A little less hair," the man says. "And more gray
among what's left. You're looking downright 
shaggy."

"It's the 'country' look," Dad says, running a hand
through his thick hair. 

I can't stand the suspense a minute more and move
out into the driveway. My steps catch their attention
and Dad and the man turn to me. 

"Is this..." 

"This is Kate," Dad says, slinging an arm around my
shoulders. 

"You were just a baby when I saw you last," the man
says. 

"Kate, this is Assistant Director Skinner," Dad
says. "He was our boss at the FBI."

"Theoretically," Mr. Skinner says.  "Your dad had
a mind of his own."

"Let's go inside," Dad says. "It's cold."

We head into the house and Dad makes coffee. He tells
me to take Mr. Skinner into the family room. 

"I can't believe how grown up you are," Skinner says
as he stands somewhat awkwardly looking at the photos
on the mantle. 

I don't know what to say to him. Did he really expect 
me to stay a baby? Why do grown-ups say dumb things
like that? I hope the next question isn't about what 
grade I'm in. 

We're both relieved when Dad comes back. He has a 
tray with mugs of coffee for him and our visitor and 
hot chocolate for me. They settle into chairs by the 
fireplace. I take my cocoa and wander off to sit on the
windowseat. I flip through a magazine and hope they
forget I'm there.

"So, what brings you to the wilds of Connecticut?" Dad
asks. 

"I had a conference in Boston," Mr. Skinner answers. 
"Rather than fly back, I thought I'd rent a car and see 
some of the country over the weekend. Thought I'd 
look you up since I was so close."

Dad snorts with laughter. "Walter, you've never been
a 'take the road less traveled' kind of guy."

Walter. Walter was the name of the guy Mom was talking 
to the other night. I try not to show my reaction, all the
while straining to hear the man's soft reply.

"I think about you two all the time. I used to hear from
Scully fairly often, but the last few years, it's dwindled
down to Christmas cards and the occasional email. I
wanted to see how you were doing."

My head spins as I try to figure everything out. Why is
this guy lying to Dad? He's been talking to Mom, so this
visit isn't out of the blue. It makes me mad that Dad
seems to think this guy is a friend. 

I listen to them talk, mostly stuff about the FBI and 
a bunch of people I've never heard of. Dad seems pleased
that some guy named Colton pissed off the wrong people
and was warming Dad's old chair in the background check
department.

The rest of their conversation is boring, about how
the FBI was changing. I tune them out.

For the first time in about three weeks, Mom comes home
from work early. There is much hugging and happy, happy,
joy, joy with our visitor. Mom asks Skinner to stay for
dinner and he agrees pretty quickly.  Then she says 
it makes no sense for him to find a motel when we have
tons of room.  This is all getting weirder and weirder. 
We never have house guests except for my Grandma 
a few times a year.

The three of them talk about the old days while we eat dinner.
Actually, Mom and Mr. Skinner do most of the talking. Mom 
is animated, telling stories about freaks and mutants. I look
from one to the other, my mouth open. I'd heard about the
crazy stuff from when I was little.  When he told me about the 
Flukeman, I thought he was teasing and that Mom was
going along with it.

Apparently, though, it was real. Mr. Skinner doesn't strike me as
much of a joker. Dad describes one guy could spark fires just 
from his body and another one who ate people's livers. 

I watch Dad while Mom and Mr. Skinner talk. He laughs often,
his eyes sparkling with enjoyment. Dad occasionally offers a 
comment about Mom's skepticism in the face of piles of evidence.  
But he says he had to hand it to her--she never flinched when 
it came to the dirty work.

"She performed an autopsy on an elephant," Dad says, 
affection warming his voice. "From the inside."

"And then there was the invisible man," Mom says, laughing.
"I was so excited about presenting him to the scientific 
community."

"I don't remember an invisible man," Dad says. 

"And with the entire Harvard Research team there, I pull 
out an empty tray. Nobody. No. Body. You thought it was 
pretty amusing as I recall." Mom finally comes up for air
and that's when she notices Dad's face.

"I don't remember." Dad looks worried. "It's a blank."

"I'm sorry." Mom lays her hand over Dad's.

"I don't remember anything for months before..." Dad
closes his eyes. He's never talked like this before. I
don't know what it all means.

"I didn't realize Mulder still had gaps," Mr. Skinner says,
looking at Dad with concern in his eyes.

"We hoped it would come back, but he doesn't have any 
memories for months before his disappearance," Mom 
says. 

"Disappearance?" What are they talking about? The adults
 all turn to me as if they forgot I was there. "What did they
do to you, Dad? Is that how you got your scars?"

Dad shakes his head and looks at Mom.

"Before you were born, before we even knew that I 
was pregnant, your father went missing on a case."

"Went missing?" I ask. "Like someone kidnapped him?"

Pain flashes across Dad's face.

"We really don't know what happened," Mom says quickly. 
"When we found him, months later, he had the scars on his 
chest and he was very sick. It was a long time before he 
got well again."

I'm embarrassed to have this all dragged out in front
of a stranger. Skinner looks like he wants to disappear
into a hole in the floor. Mom looks like she wants to 
cry and Dad looks like he's in pain. 

"Dad, what did they do to you?" I cry.

"I don't know," he says, the pain in his voice hurts me. 
"I don't remember."

"Somebody kidnapped and hurt Dad and you never 
told me?" I ask Mom, my voice screechy in my ears. 
"Why?"

"We...we were always going to tell you, when you were
older," Mom says.

I'm older, I want to say, but Dad is pushing himself 
away from the table. 

"I'm sorry, Kate," he says. "We should have told you 
sooner."

"Mulder, are you all right?" Mom asks. 

"I have a headache. I'm going upstairs to lay down."

Mom nods and says she'll come up in a little while
to check on him.

I can't bear to stay in the dining room and ask to
be excused. It's only when I get up to my room
that I realize I left Mom with all the cleanup after 
dinner.

Part of me says that it serves her right for keeping
me in the dark for so many years about what happened
to Dad when I was born.  I sit on the bed and listen to 
the drum of the shower in my parent's bathroom. 
I worry about Dad and hope the hot water makes
his headache feel better.

Guilt creeps up over me and I decide to go downstairs
and help Mom with the dishes. I pass my parent's 
room as I head for the stairs. It's quiet inside.

As I reach the bottom of the steps, I hear voices. 
Mom and Mr. Skinner are in the kitchen.  Water 
splashes and dishes clink as they do the dishes and talk.

"Sometimes I'm jealous," Mom is saying. "Kate is so
close to Mulder, which is natural, I suppose. I'm gone
so much for my job and he's here."

I hate that Mom is talking about me with this guy. 
Maybe he's an old friend of hers, but he's a stranger to
me.

"I'm sure she loves you," Mr. Skinner says.

Who is this guy to speak for me? He knows nothing
about how I feel. Okay, I do love Mom, but it's none
of his business.

"I know she does, but we're at odds so much of the 
time. I feel like the 'bad cop' to Mulder's 'good cop'.
He's not trying to curry her favor, it's just that rules
aren't his thing."

Skinner laughs. "I can attest to that."

"Sometimes I think it's because of all he went through.
Wet towels on the bathroom floor and crumbs on the
table are *so* not worth worrying about when you've 
suffered like he has. Maybe he's right."

"Dana, I don't think it's about being right or being
wrong. "

"I know," Mom says. "It's just...it's just so hard
to be on the outside looking in."

I hear clinking and rustling and then soft murmuring. 
My throat feels prickly as I wonder why they stopped 
talking. I don't want to look, but I have to find out.  

I slip into the doorway where I see my Mom 
wrapped up in Skinner's huge embrace.

How could Mom be hugging somebody other than Dad?
I can't believe it. I back out of the doorway as quietly
as I can, dropping into a crouch as soon as I'm safely
out of sight. My stomach hurts. 

After a few minutes, I hear shuffling and then the 
cabinet door open. "Coffee?" Mom asks, her voice
sounds like she's crying. 

"Sure."

I listen to the swooshing of the coffee maker overlaid
by the sound of Mom blowing her nose. Why does the
thought of Mom sniffling make me want to cry too?

"Tell me again about the victim," Skinner says. 
"You were so upset when you called, I don't know
if I got it all straight."

Chairs scrape against the kitchen floor and a spoon
tinkles against the side of a mug. 

"Hikers found the body of a man in a wooded area 
near Wononskopomuc Lake," Mom says.

"Wono-what?"

"Wononskopomuc. It's about five miles from here. 
Anyway, the local police took one look at the
condition of the body and called my office."

There is a few seconds of silence and I picture Mom
looking down at her coffee. I remember seeing an 
article in the newspaper about a body found by the
lake, but I didn't connect it to Mom. I try not to 
think to much about what Mom actually does at work. 

The quiet is broken when Skinner clears his throat.
"What was it about the body?"

"The body was...mutilated. Barely healed scars on the
torso and face. And other places." Mom's voice is 
thick with pain. "I recognized the pattern immediately."

"Like Mulder," Skinner says.

"The placement of the scars was identical--the main
cut running up the abdomen and chest and then radiating
over each shoulder to the back. The scars in other areas
matched, too. Of course, by the time we found Mulder, his
level of healing was more advanced, but I'm convinced 
they're from the same cause."

My hand flies to my mouth and I stifle a scream. I never
believed the story that Dad got the scars in an accident, 
but I never really thought about him being in terrible 
pain or anything--maybe I blocked that out, I don't 
know.

I never pictured somebody torturing him. 

The scars had always just been a part of Dad the way her 
blue eyes were a part of Mom and my mop of brown hair 
was a part of me.

But they weren't just patterns on Dad's skin. Someone 
had cut him and hurt him deliberately. This person was
still out there; he'd cut this other man and killed him. 

"What was the cause of death?" Skinner asks.

"That's the thing," Mom says. "In spite of the scarring,
there was no clear cause of death. Whatever had been
done to him, the wounds were healing. "

"There must have been something."

"Nothing conclusive. Lack of muscle tone, slight dehydration,
possibly the result of a period of captivity."

"That's one way to describe it," Skinner says. 

The kitchen is quiet for a couple of moments, and I'm 
wondering how I'm going to get upstairs without making
noise. Then I hear Mom's voice again.

"I made a few inquiries," she says. "Two other bodies 
have turned up in the last three months--one in New 
Hampshire and one in Pennsylvania."

"With scars like..."

"The same pattern. Varying stages of healing on the 
cuts."

"What do you think?" Skinner asks. 

"I don't know what to think," Mom answers. "I'm so
frightened. I can't tell Mulder. You saw him tonight 
when he was reminded of what happened."

"You may not have a choice, Dana. He deserves to
know about this new development."

"I know," Mom says. "I just hope he's strong enough
to hear it."

My face is wet with tears. I can't bear to think about
something happening to my dad. My mind is racing.

I hear the scrape of chairs again, and wonder how I'm
going to get upstairs without Mom finding me. But 
Mom's compulsive need to leave the kitchen clean 
comes to my rescue. I sneak up the stairs to the
sound of water running.

~*~

I wake in the morning to the smell of bacon and wonder
immediately if I'm in the wrong house. Mom never cooks
bacon. We eat stuff like oatmeal and granola for
breakfast around here. And fresh fruit. 

I'm so tired. I lay awake a long time last night. I 
couldn't stop thinking about Dad and his scars and the 
bad person that hurt him. I was restless, even after I
slept. I burrow down in the covers and try to fall
back to sleep, but the smell of bacon won't let me.

I get dressed and go downstairs.

I almost trip over Mr. Skinner's suitcase by the front 
door as I come down the stairs. In the kitchen, Mom 
is just sitting down at the table. Dad and Mr. Skinner 
are filling their plates with eggs and bacon and toast. 

"Good morning, Kate," Mom says as I take my seat at
the table. "I didn't know if you were going to sleep in."

"Couldn't go back to sleep," I say, as Mom hands me a 
glass of orange juice. 

After last night, this feels weird. How can they all act like 
nothing is wrong? I fill my plate and settle back to watch 
Dad.  He seems better than he did last night.

He and Skinner are talking about the FBI and Dad looks
pretty relaxed. 

"You remember Patterson?" Skinner asks.

"I'd pay a million dollars to be able to forget Patterson," Dad
laughs. "Unfortunately, he's seared into memory."

"His parole appeal was turned down."

"Thank God," Mom says. "He's deeply disturbed and 
should never be released."

"I worked for him for two of the longest years of my life,
Dad says. "But I learned a lot from him."

"I thought you worked for Mr. Skinner," I say. "On the 
weird cases."

"That was later. I started out as a profiler, working for
Patterson in the Investigative Science Unit."

"Your dad was probably the finest criminal profiler the
bureau ever had," Skinner says. 

"Wow," I say. 

After breakfast, Skinner shakes Dad's hand and gives
Mom a huge hug. I watch Dad, but he seems okay 
with it. Skinner drives away while Mom and Dad 
stand in the yard and wave. 

My mind keeps coming back to Dad as a profiler. I've
never been particularly interested in crime shows on
TV, but I know that profilers investigate serial killers.
And I know that serial murders are often horrible and
gruesome. Like the guy they found in Lakeville.

Later that morning, Dad goes out to his workshop to 
finish sanding the dresser. Mom gets called into the
morgue after a possible suicide in Bridgewater.

As soon as I hear Mom's car drive off, I head down
to their office and poke around the bookshelves. Mom
and Dad have quite a collection--everything from 
books on ghost ships, paranormal activity and even
some on UFOs. But the books I'm looking for are
in their own section.

Psychopathology, forensic psychology. Big heavy 
books that have bookmarks and notes in Dad's 
handwriting. In among these works are some smaller
books with titles like "Mindhunter" and "Inside the 
Minds of Serial Killers." 

Serial killers. I never realized how many books Dad had
on serial killers. I guess I never paid much attention. 
I flip through a bunch of them, taking some to read in 
my room. I rearrange the remaining books on the 
shelves so no one will notice some are gone.

I spend most of the weekend holed up in my room
with the serial killer books. I tell Mom and Dad that
I have a big project for school. Mom seems so happy
that I'm applying myself to my schoolwork. I feel a
tiny sting of guilt at my lie.

It's tough going with the big books which are dry and
technical and not exciting at all. I'm used to reading
hard books, but these are hard even for me.  The
smaller books are more interesting and easier to read.
Some of the stuff is really gross, though. 

I read about the disgusting murders--the creepy 
old guy who skinned his victims and cut up their bodies
and totally repulsive Jeffrey Dahmer who did worse
than that. It doesn't take more than that to convince
me that whoever hurt Dad and those people was one
of these monsters. 

Whoever did this must have left Dad for dead, not
realizing how really strong he is. Dad never gives up.

As near as I can tell, the kind of big gap between
Dad being found years ago and the bodies that have
turned up recently is usually due to the killer being out
of commission for a while. Usually, the guy is in jail, 
but sometimes they're in a mental hospital. 

I want to ask Mom if the police are investigating the
case, but I'd have to tell her that I was listening to
her conversation with Skinner. I try the indirect
approach when Dad is in the shower on Monday
morning.

"Mom," I start. "When Dad was hurt, back when I
was a baby. . .did they look for the guy that did it?"

"Sweetheart," she says, taking my hand. She looks 
surprised and worried all at once. "To be honest, we're
really not sure what happened to your dad back then. He 
was obviously hurt very badly, but he doesn't have any
memory of those injuries. Of course there was an 
investigation, but we never found out what was done 
to him. I don't want you to worry about Dad. He's
healed and well now."

"But what if the person that did it and comes back?" I ask. 

"That's not going to happen," Mom says, releasing my 
hand with a squeeze. "Please don't worry about this."

I don't even get a chance to push her further because Dad
comes into the kitchen.  I wonder if Mom ever told him 
about the body they found with the same cuts. He doesn't 
seem edgy or worried or anything like that, but he's so hard
to read. I'm not sure how he'd act if he thought something 
bad might happen. 

Mom slings her laptop case over one shoulder and heads
off for work. I watch Dad as he pours a bowl of cereal
and douses it with milk. I know Dad isn't weak, but he 
seems so defenseless as he eats breakfast. 

"Hey Dad, why don't I stay home today and help you 
with that dresser? The customer was really hoping to
get that soon."

Dad chokes on his cereal. "Let you cut school? You're
kidding right?"

"I'm serious," I say. "I'm so bored, Dad. The other kids 
take so long to catch up to me. I don't have any tests
today, so it won't matter if I'm there or not."

Dad's smiles and gives me a hug. "It's frustrating when
you have to wait for everyone else to get to where you
were last week. But, no. You will not be cutting school.
My customer can wait a couple more days."

I argue a little more, but I can tell that Dad isn't going to
budge. I get on the school bus, my head still back in the 
workshop with Dad.  I worry that the murderer might 
come back for Dad and there won't be anybody to help him.

Mr. Giotto springs a pop quiz on us and my mind goes
blank on which Punic War was called "The War Against
Hannibal." All I can think of is Hannibal Lector.

"What's up?" Haystack asks at lunch, when I barely 
touch my mystery nuggets. "You're acting all weird."

"You're weird," I shoot back. I give up on the nuggets.
"You want these?" He nods and I pass him my plate.

It's a dumb question, really. Haystack never passes up
food. He hates being on the free lunch list, but it doesn't 
stop him from loading his tray every day. We usually
sit together at lunch, since we're both kind of outsiders
at Mohawk Regional High. 

"I mean it, Beanpole. Something's up with you."

The weight of worry about Dad is so heavy, I can't 
carry it alone one more second. All it takes, apparently,
is for Haystack to look at me with those damn cow
eyes of his and it's like someone turned on a faucet.
The story pours out of me like a gush of water.

"Why don't you ask your Mom," Haystack says.
"She'd know whether the police are looking for a 
Y-incision-making serial killer."

"I tried. I asked her if whoever hurt Dad might
try to come back. She completely blew me off. She
still thinks I'm a kid."

"Technically speaking, you are a kid."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence. Hey...what 
if we went to the police?"

"They're gonna laugh at you," Haystack says with a hoot. 
 
I can't think of anything else to do, so after school,
I call home and tell Dad that I'm staying late for 
debate club and that I'll get a ride home. Haystack
doesn't call home. Nobody there cares what time he
gets home.

We board the school bus, but get off at the stop that's
near the center of Sachem.  There's not much to the 
town: the library, a gas station, a convenience store, a 
couple of churches and the town hall. The police station 
is located in the basement of town hall.

Haystack and I walk over to the town hall, but he 
hangs back when we come to the police office door.
All of a sudden, I remember his father in prison. 

"You can wait for me," I say. I want him to come
with me so much, but it's a lot to ask of anybody.

"No," he says. "I want to be there when they 
crack up." 

"Thanks," I say, hitting him in the arm. We open
the door and go in.

Picture the Mayberry sheriff's office from the Andy
Griffith Show, and you pretty much have Sachem's 
set up. The jail cells aren't right out front, and the 
chief's office is off the main room, but the sleepy, 
boring feeling is right there.

When I was in the fourth grade, we came to the 
police station on a class trip. They let us go in the
empty cells and then they clanged the doors shut
for a couple of minutes. That and getting finger-
printed were the highlights of the trip. 

I ask the officer at the desk if we can talk to someone 
about a serial murderer. The cop can barely stifle a 
laugh before he tells us to wait and goes into the 
other room.  I hear him say something about "kids 
who watch too much CSI." A second later, he comes
out and sends us back to Chief Putnam.

"Have a seat," Chief Putnam says, indicating two
wooden chairs opposite his desk. "Why don't you
all tell me your names?"

My hands are sweating as I grip the arms of the 
chair and sit down. I glance over at Haystack and
he looks scared.

"I'm Katherine Mulder," I say. 

"Kevin Haystrup." Haystack's voice cracks on his
last name.  

"Haystrup...name's familiar," Putnam says, then
he looks at me.  "And you. Your mother is Dr.
Scully, isn't she."

I nod, swallowing hard. I felt a lot braver before
he mentioned Mom.

"Why don't you tell me what brings you here."
 
"Um...I was wondering if there was any kind
of investigation going on."

"What kind of investigation, Miss Mulder?"

"Like of a serial killer."

Chief Putnam sits back in his chair and smiles
at me like I'm a dumb kid. 

"Is this about the article in the newspaper?
Your mother can probably tell you more about
that than I can, honey."

"What...what article in the newspaper?" I stammer.

Chief Putnam reaches down into his wastepaper
basket and pulls out the newspaper. He shuffles
through a couple of pages before flattening the
paper on his desk and smoothing it flat.

"This--right here," he says, handing me the 
paper. My hands shake as I take it from him. 
It's the Sachem Sentinel, our weekly paper.

*Autopsy Results Inconclusive on Mutilated Body*

It isn't the big headline, but it's on the front page. 
My mind races as I scan the article that talks 
about the body found at Wononskopomuc Lake 
and mentions Mom as having performed the autopsy. 
And it gave details about the pattern of cuts on the
body.  It identifies the victim as a local man, Joseph
LaValley, who went missing from a fishing trip in 
the summer.

At least this hadn't made the Hartford Courant, thank
goodness. At least it hadn't yet. We get that paper 
delivered and Dad reads it every morning. They'd 
had something about the guy found at the lake, but 
no details of what was done to him.  

Maybe Dad hasn't seen the Sentinel. 

"I don't know where you got the idea that this was
a serial killing, but we don't have any evidence of that.
Not that I should be even talking about the case with
you," he says. "You go ask your mother if you have 
questions, young lady."

It's pretty clear that this visit is over when Chief Putnam
stands up. We do the same and he guides us out the 
door. He asks the officer out in the main office to 
drive us home and I figure he doesn't want Mom to
yell at him for letting us walk home. 

We ride in the back of the police cruiser, behind the 
bulletproof glass. I don't try the doors, but I'm pretty
sure they don't open from the inside.  I tell the officer
that he doesn't need to pull all the way up to the 
house when we get to the end of my driveway.

Thank God, he doesn't insist. He just gets out and 
opens the door for me. I guess it's true--it wouldn't
open from the inside. I say goodbye to the officer and 
to Haystack, who looks as miserable as I've ever seen 
him as he sits alone in the back of the police car.

I walk up our driveway, praying hard that Dad didn't
go into town today. Some days, he drives to the Bluebird 
Cafe to have lunch or to the hardware store for supplies. 
As I climb the back steps, I hear loud voices.

"You think I'm a head case, Scully. Why don't you admit
it?"

"Mulder, please. I didn't want to worry you."

"Bodies are turning up and you don't want to worry me?
Give me a little credit here."

Despite my recent career as an eavesdropper, I would 
rather be anywhere--even in health class--than here, 
listening to these angry words.

"We're not even sure these bodies are related to what
happened to you," Mom says, her voice shaking. 
"What was the point of upsetting you?"

"Not sure they're related? You've got to be kidding, 
Scully. We both know what the bodies mean. That's 
why you called Skinner isn't it?"

"I was upset, Mulder. I needed to talk to someone."

"And you couldn't talk to me. I get it, Scully. You don't 
see me as functional. I'm a freak to you."

"No," Mom says. "God, no, Mulder."

I can't stand out here listening to this, but busting
in on them in the middle would be even worse. I make
as much noise as I can out on the steps.

The commotion works, because they get quiet as I 
open the door. They both look at me when I walk in. 
Mom brushes tears from her eyes and stands up
real straight.

"Kate," she says. "You're very late."

I'd kind of hoped that she'd be too distracted to notice.

"I stayed after for debate club."

"When did you join debate club?" Mom asks. "You
never mentioned it before."

"I called and told Dad," I say. 

"She did." Dad's arms are folded across his chest, as 
if for protection, or to hold himself together. He looks
so broken, I want to cry when I look at him. I think
Mom wants to cry too. She reaches out her hand but 
pulls it back. He's all closed up.

The awkwardness is broken only when Dad says he
has some work to do in the barn. Mom's eyes follow
him as he heads out the door. 

"Are you hungry?" she asks. "We have leftovers."

I nod and Mom heats up chicken and rice in the microwave.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she sits opposite me at
the kitchen table.

I look up from my plate to find Mom's eyes are on me.
They're shiny with tears. It seems like she wants
to say something, but can't make the words come out.

"What was Dad upset about?" I ask.

"Dad wasn't upset," Mom says. "He's just tired."

"I'm not a little kid, Mom. Tell me what's wrong," I say. 

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head. "Everything is fine."

I look at her in disbelief. "Mom, everything is not fine."

"You sound just like your father." She dabs at her eyes 
with a napkin, a sad smile on her face. "Really, Kate--
this isn't anything for you to worry about. Dad and I
have some things to work out."

It's clear that the subject is closed. Mom's face is
gentle but shuttered.

Dad doesn't come in the house until after I've
gone to bed and Mom has settled in her office
to work.

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

The next few days are hard for all of us. It's 
windy and rainy, the weather echoing the way 
things feel inside the house. 

Mom and Dad walk around like wounded animals. 
I want to be mad at Mom for hurting Dad, but I can't. 
I know exactly why she didn't tell him. I feel that
same need to protect him. It's not like he's weak.
He's not. He's strong and brave. But he's been
hurt so much, it's easy to believe he's broken.

Dad throws himself into his work. He's out in the
workshop or driving around looking for pieces. I 
figure his muscles must ache a lot from all the 
sanding because the bottle of ibuprofen lives on
his workbench these days.

Mom takes time off work. She says she has "things" 
she needs to attend to, one of which is the house which 
needs a good cleaning. This is bogus, since Mom calls 
a cleaning service a couple of times a year. Personally, 
I think she doesn't want to leave Dad alone.

So, since I'm home because of teacher development 
day, Mom decides it's a great time to wash the windows 
on the second floor.  The weather has finally turned--
the wind calmed and the rain stopped. Whether I 
want to help or not, doesn't matter. I'm drafted.

Mom tells me how much fun she and her sister had 
helping Grandma with the spring and fall cleaning. I 
think grownups make this stuff up about their 
childhoods. I mean, it was either ten times harder
or all golden with wonderfulness. 

I'm not having much fun as I wash the white-painted
woodwork on the window. I promise my future kids 
that I won't make up stories about how great this was.

Mom sprays Windex on the little panes of glass and 
wipes it away with paper towels. She has a little frown
line between her eyes. I think she's worrying about 
Dad.

I try and distract myself from how much I hate swishing
the rag in the soapy water by looking out the window at
our property stretching back to the woods. The 
grass is overgrown out there and it's turning brown as
the fall moves into winter. 

There's a little flash of orange among the bushes at the 
edge of our yard and it catches my eye. I think maybe
it's a candy wrapper but then it moves and I realize
there's someone out there.

"Mom," I say. "I think there's a man in the bushes out
there."

Mom stops her circular wiping motion as she looks down 
at the wood. The man moves forward, and we see him 
clearly now. 

He's not wearing a coat, even though it's only around
40 degrees today. His clothes are rumpled and dirty,
and he holds his arms around his middle as he stumbles
across the grass. 

Mom puts down the Windex and wipes her hands on
her jeans.  The front door makes a very distinctive 
ker-thunk when it shuts and it sounds very loud in
our ears as we stand in the spare bedroom.

Picking up the phone by the bed, she puts the receiver
to her ear and grimaces. Mom flicks the button a few
times. "Damn it. The phone line is dead and I left my 
cell in my office."

Bad weather always screws up our phone service.  
I don't know if the man is responsible for the phone 
not working or if it's just a horrible coincidence. 
I don't know which idea upsets me more. 

"I'm scared," I say. 

"Kate, listen to me very carefully," Mom says, her voice
is calm, but her hands are shaking.  "I'm going to go 
downstairs. I want you to wait 10 minutes and then go 
down the back stairs and out that door. Get your dad 
and get away from here and call the police."

"I don't want to leave you alone," I say. We can hear
the man moving around downstairs.

"Do exactly what I tell you," she says, gripping my arm
hard enough to leave a bruise. Mom stares into my eyes
until, my mouth dry as dust, I nod okay.

She hugs me so hard I can't breathe and then pushes me
away. Mom gives me one last look before she heads 
downstairs. I move to the doorway, listening to Mom's 
footsteps. 

I try and wait as long as Mom said, watching the alarm 
clock on the night table. It's so quiet downstairs and I'm 
so frightened. The blood pounds in my ears. 

I lose track of the minutes, and finally, can't wait any 
longer. I tiptoe through the upstairs until I get to the
back steps. I keep a death grip on the banister and
inch my way down the steps. They're really creaky,
so I try and keep my feet on the sides of the steps 
where the wood isn't as worn.  

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear voices
from the front of the house. One of the voices belongs
to Mom. I can't hear what she's saying, but I can
hear the tone in her voice, like she's trying to 
sound calm and strong. The other voice is a man's
and he sounds really upset.

"What happened to me?" he shouts. 

Mom says something that I can't make out.

"Tell me! You know what they did. You have to 
tell me!"

I reach the back door, and just as I'm about
to turn the knob, I hear Mom cry out in pain.

All rational thought goes out of my mind in that
moment and I have to get to my mom.

I find Mom and the man in the living room. He
has a knife in one hand and a grip on Mom's 
arm with the other one. 

"Leave my mom alone!" I shout. They both turn
to look at me. Mom looks worried; the man looks 
confused. 

"Get over there," he says, waving the knife to indicate
the area behind Mom. He comes awfully close to her
face with the knife and she gasps. I move closer
to Mom and he lets go of her arm. Mom's arm is
all red where he was gripping it. She rubs it for a
few seconds and then lets it fall to her side.

"Tell me what they did," the man says. He sounds
so tired. Up close, I see that he has dark circles 
under his eyes and his face is dirty.

"I don't know you," Mom says. "And I don't know
what happened to you."

"You cut up Joe. I read it in the paper. He was
there and they....they did stuff to him. "

"Joseph LaValley."

"Yeah. Tell me what they did to him." His face
contorts into a grimace as he pulls open his dingy
white shirt. "They did the same thing to me."

His chest is covered with the same network of
scars that my dad has. But while Dad's are now
puckered pink lines, these marks are angry, 
purplish red.

"Listen," Mom says, her tone soft with sympathy.
"I'll tell you everything I can, but please let my 
daughter go."

"I can't do that," he says. "Not before you tell
me what I want to know."

"What's your name?" Mom asks. 

"I'm the one who's asking the questions," the man 
says. It sounds like he's trying to be tough, but
I don't think it's natural to him.

"You want me to help you, don't you? Tell
me your name." 

"Chris...Chris Tarpley," the man says after a moment
of hesitation. 

"Thank you, Chris. You already know that I'm Dr.
Scully, from reading the newspaper. This is my 
daughter, Kate."

I have no idea why Mom is doing the formal introduction
thing. I can't see the point in knowing the name of the
guy who might kill me. But maybe it's more about his 
knowing our names.  

"Chris, I want to help you. Unfortunately, the autopsy
of Mr. LaValley didn't give us any information about how
he died."

"But you could tell what they did to him," he says, 
desperation clear in his voice. "You have to know
something."

At the sound of the back door opening, we all freeze in
place. Mom goes real white and the guy jerks like he
touched an electric wire. He pushes Mom out of the 
way and in an instant grabs me and holds me in
front of him. He smells really bad and I fight to keep
from gagging. I can feel the cold metal of the knife as
it rests under my chin.

We hear noises from the kitchen, cabinet doors, the 
fridge opening and closing.

"Kate! Scully!" 

Dad repeats our names as he walks through the house, 
his voice getting louder and louder. The man's
arm tightens around my neck as Dad gets closer.

Finally, Dad is in the doorway. I feel my knees go weak. 
If it wasn't for the arm under my neck, I'd probably be 
on the floor.

About seventy emotions cross Dad's face in a flash as 
he takes in the scene before him. "I didn't know we 
had company," he says calmly. 

"This is Chris Tarpley, Mulder," Mom says, her voice
trembling. "Chris was hoping I could tell him what 
happened to the man that was found by the lake." 

"Where are you from, Chris?" Dad asks. I can't 
believe how relaxed he sounds. I've got a knife at
my throat and Dad's making small talk. Whatever
Dad's trying, I don't think it's working because I
feel Tarpley's body go all rigid behind me.

"Wh....what does it matter."

"I'm always curious about where people are from,
where they're going. Humor me," Dad says, softly.

I'm terrified. Tarpley's arm is like a piece of wood
under my chin. Finally, he relaxes the littlest bit.

"Wisconsin. Eau Claire, Wisconsin." 

"Wisconsin," Dad says. "I haven't been there in
years. We had some great barbecue there, didn't
we, Scully?"

"I think so," Mom says. She doesn't sound casual
like Dad. She sounds scared.

"So, what brought you all the way to Connecticut?"

"I came here to find Joe. I was hoping he knew what
happened to us. But I get here and find out he's
dead. The paper said she examined him." Tarpley
looks over at Mom like she let him down.

"You're frustrated and confused," Dad says. "You're 
in agony wondering what happened to you, and you
came here hoping for answers."

"Yes," Tarpley says, his voice sounding ragged. 

"Believe me, Chris, I want to help you. But I need
you to let go of my daughter." 

It takes a few minutes, but Tarpley's arm loosens 
around my neck. I test it, pushing it away a little bit 
and he doesn't fight me. I finally make enough room 
to slip out of his grasp. Dad's eyes narrow a tiny bit 
as he's notices the scars on Tarpley's chest.

I run to Mom, who holds me way tighter than Tarpley,
but it couldn't be tight enough. I can't seem to stop 
shaking.  

"Did he hurt you?" She asks softly as she loosens her 
grip enough to tip my head back and examine my 
neck. 

"I'm all right," I reply. Dad lets out a long breath and
nods.

"Thank you," he says to Tarpley "Do you want 
something to eat? Maybe some water?"

Dad extends his hand, and I realize that he's been 
holding a bottle of water. Tarpley nods slowly and Dad
gives him the bottle. He stares at the bottle for what
seems like a long time before opening it and downing
all the water.

"It's hard to have gaps in your memory," Dad says.

"Hard?" Tarpley snorts. "Try impossible. You 
have no idea."

"You'd be surprised," Dad says. "Listen, maybe I 
could help. Why don't you tell me what you remember?"

"What good would it do?" 

"Won't know until you try it. You know more than you
realize. I used to be pretty good at finding things out."

The man wipes a dirty hand over his mouth and stares
at Dad. Finally, he starts to talk.

"I wanted a cigarette," Tarpley says. "Just a lousy
cigarette. My wife doesn't like me to stink up the house, 
so after dinner, I'd take the dog for a walk and smoke. 
I remember walking down the road. There must have
been a squirrel or something in the woods, because 
before I know it, Astro is off and running and I'm 
chasing after him, wheezing like a freight train."

"And then?" Dad asks, sounding calm and relaxed. 

"What is he doing?" I whisper to Mom. She shushes 
me and holds me a little bit tighter. 

"The light looked funny, like it shimmers on a really 
hot day at the beach. And there was a sound--or maybe 
it was my ears ringing. Then...everything goes blank."

Dad nods. "Do you want to sit down?" he asks. 
 "You must be so tired."

Tarpley looks up at Dad, and I see what Dad
saw--he has purple shadows under his eyes and
looks like there is nothing holding him up but
air. Dad gestures to the sofa behind Tarpley. The
man's legs shake as he drops onto it.

I try and process what Tarpley is saying and
what it means. Funny light, funny sounds. That
doesn't sound like a serial killer. 

"What else do you remember?" Dad asks.

"Nothing...nothing concrete. Just flashes
and images that don't make sense. Hard
surfaces, pain...cold...nothing else is clear."

"You remember Joe LaValley," Mom says. 
"The man that was found by the lake."

A look passes between Mom and Dad--like
their signals are tuned together. "Tell me
what you remember about Joe."

"Joe's the only person I ever saw. Sometimes
I heard voices--people crying, whispering, but I 
never saw anybody except Joe. We were in a 
white room and it was so cold there.  Joe would
be gone for days sometimes, and when he would
come back, he'd be sick and marked with cuts."

"They weren't hurting you then?" Dad's voice is 
gentle, unthreatening. I'm amazed again, not at the
tone which is pure Dad, but at his persistence in
asking questions of someone who clearly wants to
jump out a window and run away.

"In the beginning it was only Joe--they didn't
touch me. Not then, at least."

"It must have been terrifying," Dad offers. 
"Watching Joe suffer and wondering when that 
was going to happen to you."

"What are you, some kind of shrink?" Tarpley
asks. 

"Not anymore," Dad says. "Right now, all I want 
is to help you, Chris. You came here for answers,
but I think maybe the answers are inside you."

"There's nothing inside me," Tarpley says, opening
his shirt wider to show his scars. "They hollowed 
me out."

"It feels like that," Dad says. "But you're still you.
Different, but still you."

"What the hell do you know about it?" Tarpley 
shouts. 

"I know," Dad says. "I *know*." 

"You know shit," Tarpley says, shaking his head.

"I'm like you," Dad says, softly. He slowly unbuttons
his flannel shirt and slips out of it. Then he draws his 
tee shirt up and over his head. 

"Wh...what is this?" Tarpley stammers. "How
many people are there?"

"I don't know how many. I think there are a lot
of us, but nobody talks about it. All I know is, 
thirteen years ago, I was walking in the woods in
Oregon and something happened to me--something
I still don't completely understand."

"Oh God," Tarpley says. "You mean you still don't
know?"

"I have amnesia for the period before and after I was 
taken. I had to come to grips with that fact.
There were terrible things that happened to me, but
I have no clear memory of them. When I was returned
I was confused, in terrible pain. Every siren, every
car alarm sent me into a panic attack."

"I can't stand being around people," Tarpley says. 
"They make too much noise and if somebody bumps
into me, I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin."

"I know what you're feeling, Chris. My fears kept me
away from my family for years. It's the biggest regret
of my life."

Tarpley looks down at his shaking hands. His mouth
is set in a grimace, and I think he's going to cry.

"Have you gone home to see your wife?" Dad asks,
pulling a chair opposite Tarpley. 

Tarpley shakes his bowed head. "Look at me," Tarpley 
says, raising his eyes to meet Dad's kind gaze. "I'm a freak. 
She's better off without me."

"I thought that, too," Dad says. "I was wrong, wasn't
I, Scully?"

"Completely," Mom answers, and I realize she's crying. 
"I wanted you back. I worried that something would 
happen to you and I'd never see you again."

"After they returned me, my mind was clouded for a 
long time. I thought I might hurt Scully or Kate--
she was just a tiny baby. I stayed away, living on the
street. Even when I began to think straight, I couldn't
go back. I didn't want to be a burden to them. But, I
was wrong, Chris."

"What happened after that?" I ask. Mom and Dad 
both turn my way. 

"I used to stand across the street from your apartment
and look up at your window. Your mom never closed
the blinds. She knew I was out there and she would
stand and hold you up for me to see. I guess I realized
she still wanted me, no matter what."

"I did," Mom says.

"Your wife needs you, Chris. She wants you to come
home.  Scully and I know about this stuff. We can
help you."

Tarpley drops his head into his hands, his shoulders
shaking. It seems like a long time before he raises
his head and nods.  

"I'm so tired," he says. "So tired."

"How long has it been since you slept, Chris?" Dad
asks. His voice is gentle, soothing.

Tarpley's head is bowed again and I can barely hear
his reply. "I don't remember. A long time."

"Why don't you lie down?" Dad suggests. "Rest.
It'll all be clearer after you have some rest."

Tarpley shakes his head, but stretches out after 
Dad stacks a couple of throw pillows on the end 
of the sofa. 

His eyes are closed almost immediately and we watch 
him breathe for a few minutes. Soon he's so still, it's 
as if he's dead.

Mom walks over and bends to take his pulse. "He's 
asleep," she says with a wry expression and wrinkles 
her nose.  "I think the sofa's going to need a good 
cleaning."

"Scully," Dad says, jerking his head so she'll follow him 
away from Tarpley. "We can't call the sheriff."

Mom looks over at the sleeping man and sighs. "We 
should," she says. "But, you're right. We can't. 
So...what do we do?"

"We need to call Paul," Dad says. "He's the only one 
I trust. Otherwise, this poor guy is going to get lost 
down the rabbit hole of the mental health system."

"Who's Paul?" I ask. 

Dad looks at me and smiles. "He's a therapist who
specializes in post traumatic stress syndrome." 

It shouldn't surprise me that Mom and Dad are on a
first name basis with this guy, but in a way it does.
They've always been so isolated. Up until a
few weeks ago, I had no idea Mr. Skinner existed
much less was important to them.

"He helped me a lot," Dad says. "I wouldn't be here
now without that help."

"I'll make the call," Mom says. She gives my hand 
a squeeze as she leaves the room. 

"You sure you're okay, Kate?" Dad asks as he settles 
in a chair next to the sofa where Tarpley sleeps. 

"I'm fine." 

Dad runs a hand over his face, his expression soft and kind
as he watches the sleeping man. 

I drift over to the doorway. In the next room, Mom is on
the phone with the therapist. She uses a lot of medical 
language, but I understand most of what she's saying. 

She tells Paul that Mr. Tarpley needs in-patient therapy, 
but from someone who has experience with "this type
of trauma." Apparently Paul knew what she was talking
about because he recommended a clinic in Massachusetts.
Mom comes back into the living room.

As Mom and Dad work out the details of how to get Tarpley
to the clinic, I head outside to sit on the back steps. 

My brain is crowded with thoughts.  Such a short time ago,
I thought I knew my parents. Now, I realize I had no idea 
who they really were. I wonder if I'll ever really understand 
who they are and what their lives were like before I was born.

I guess people are always changing.  The two people in the FBI
photo on Mom's desk are not the same people who looked at 
each other through that window when I was a baby and they're 
not the same people who are quietly arranging for Mr. Tarpley 
to get help. 

I always knew my parents loved each other, but sometimes it 
was hard to figure out. They're like the two most different 
people on the whole planet. But somehow they fit together 
like puzzle pieces--filling each other's empty spaces.  I think 
they've always fit like that--no matter who they were during 
their lives.

The other thing I know is that they love me. And that's something
I knew all along. 

End.

Author's note: Thank you so much for reading along. I've had
this story in my head for such a long time--I'm glad it's finally
out there.  Every time I took a ride in rural areas, I pictured
Mulder and Scully and Kate and their lives.  When I saw the
stills from the movie--with Scully and her long hair and Mulder
with a beard--the story just bubbled back up to the surface.

Many, many, many thanks to Syntax6 and MaybeAmanda
for the very best advice and beta and to my wonderful Kel for 
her unfailing support and fantastic ideas. I am one lucky girl
for having such wonderful friends.