The Fires of Spring II: Cleansing Fires by Maureen S. O'Brien 0723 ZULU FRIDAY, MARCH 6, 1998 SPECIAL AGENT DANA K. SCULLY'S APARTMENT "Scully," she answered sleepily. Now who would be calling me at this hour? Mulder, of course. "It's me. The DC police think they have the Domestic Killer." Scully held the phone to her ear as she grabbed up clothes. "Think?" "Well, they must be pretty sure. He's one of their own." "That would explain how the killer found his victims.... Who's their doer?" "Remember Detective Coster?" "Not with pleasure," she said slowly. "That's hard to believe. He wasn't the best cop I've met, but...." "Not much doubt, apparently. His latest victim was a Marine lawyer in the, um..." "Judge Advocate General Corps?" "Right. She and her partner caught Coster in the act." "It would explain how the killer stayed ahead of us." She put on her shoes. "Where should I meet you?" He told her. The streets were empty, so she made good time. She stopped only to get breakfast for two, and a couple decent cups of coffee. She knew what station house coffee was like. And they'd be drinking a lot of it over the next few days. "No," the voice explained reasonably but loudly, "we don't want to wait until some Fibbie profiler primadonna deigns to show up. My partner and I've had a hell of a night, and I think you should let us go home!" Mulder winced. That must be the Navy lawyer; you could hear him bawling out some poor cop from halfway down the hall. Probably a soulmate of that jerk brother of Scully's. He walked in anyway. What was in the room? A shellshocked rookie, currently being chewed out. A woman with short dark hair and a short knit dress sitting on a couch -- she would have looked like heaven if she didn't obviously feel like hell -- Major Sarah Mackenzie, obviously, the near-victim. And the chew-er, Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb Jr., currently wearing a black civilian suit, blue tie, and one nasty look on his face. Scully, where are you? I hate these military guys, and they hate me! "Sorry it took the primadonna a half hour to get here," Mulder said, "but the Navy hasn't made teleportation commercially available yet." Navy Boy startled, turned, and reached for a sidearm that wasn't there. But Mulder noticed that his turn had positioned him in front of his partner, while she had scrambled to her feet to back him up. Not bad for lawyers, he acknowledged. "Fox Mulder, FBI," he said, not bothering with the bells and whistles. "As far as I'm concerned, you can both go home. We'll want to talk to you both later, but this morning I doubt either of you could say anything too coherent." Mackenzie flashed Mulder a grateful look. Navy Boy gave him a considering glance, then a nod. Well, don't put out the welcome mat too fast for your friendly neighborhood primadonna. Scully walked in behind him. Mulder didn't even have to turn to know she was there. Telepathy? Or as she'd prefer, subconscious recognition of her heels clicking down the corridor? No matter. By the smell, she'd brought breakfast. And coffee. "Dr. Dana Scully, FBI -- I'm Mulder's partner." She gave them a professional once-over and didn't look happy about the results. "You're both swaying in your tracks. Have something to raise your blood sugar before you go." She opened up the bag and set out a surprising amount of food. And two coffees. That smelled really, really good. Mulder, surprised, caught her eye with a puppydog look after the lost coffee. She looked back at him for a moment. Sorry, Mulder, her glance said. He glanced back, That's okay. We don't need our witnesses to survive a serial killer only to die in traffic on the way home. Mackenzie gave her coffee back to Scully. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I should drink that right now. Coster forced me to swallow a lot of alcohol to make me easier to handle. I threw up most of it, but some of it's still in my system," she said. "No coffee then," Scully agreed. "There's nothing worse than a wide-awake drunk." Mackenzie flinched. Rabb put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," Scully apologized, looking at them worriedly. "I didn't mean anything by that...." "I know," Mackenzie said quietly. "You couldn't know, but you touched a nerve. You see, I'm an alcoholic. Coster knew it. That's why he made me drink." Scully let her eyes speak her sympathy. Mulder didn't. His mind was racing after this bit of information. Had the other victims been alcoholics or drug addicts? Had Coster used their problems to keep his victims under control, or was this a new procedure that Coster had designed just for Mackenzie? He only came out of the trance when Scully handed him the spare coffee. He tried to refuse it, but she waved it off. And the smell of the coffee pried at his willpower. He drank. Ahhhhh. Caffeine. Scully was a saint. What would he do without her? A few months back, that hadn't been an idle question. He had almost lost her to a manmade cancer. Before that, there had been other times when she had almost been killed. And every time, it felt like losing half of himself. Given that they were just lawyers, this had probably been the first true threat to Mackenzie and Rabb's partnership. From what the police had said, Coster had intended to kill Rabb in front of Mackenzie and then take her off to a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. After a few weeks, her body would probably have been found back in DC, just like the others. He looked at them, sorry that they had to face this. Mackenzie practically had to choke down her food. Rabb had no such problem, but he watched her worriedly as he ate. They had survived the killer, but now they would have to survive the aftermath. He looked at Scully, and their eyes met again. The scars healed, but they never disappeared. Mulder reached for his professional detachment. It was too easy to picture himself in Rabb's shoes; he'd been in them when Scully was taken by Donnie Pfaster. Where he needed to be was inside Mackenzie's head, to understand the victim, and inside Coster's, to understand the killer. But he couldn't begin without evidence. The process would have to wait. Then Rabb stopped in mid-bite and turned that considering look on Scully. "Did you say *Dana* Scully?" "Yes." "Was your father Captain William Scully?" "Yes. Did you know him?" She brightened a little. He laughed. "You don't recognize me, do you." Mackenzie rolled her eyes. Mulder felt much the same way. He knew Scully had been a Navy brat, but sometimes it seemed like the entire service was on her family's Christmas card list. Scully shook her head, obviously trying to place him. "I'm sorry, but I don't. What's your name?" "Harmon Rabb." She looked puzzled for a moment more. Then dawn broke across her face, and a delighted ScullySmile came with it. "Harm?" She backed up a step and looked him over with amazement. "I haven't seen you since... I couldn't have been much older than five. You lived next door to us out at Miramar." "Yeah, your brother Bill took me out to visit your mom in Annapolis a couple times when we were both at the Academy -- he was a pretty nice guy, for an upperclassman. But you were at U of Maryland then. I guess I'd heard vaguely that you were going to med school, but I didn't know you joined the G-Men." "My dad and Bill weren't particularly happy about that. My daughter the doctor is one thing; my daughter the forensic pathologist is a little harder to work into conversation." Harm gave her a look. "Speaking for all of us in JAG and NCIS, I would like to say that *we* are very fond of pathologists. Though the pay has got to be better with the Bureau." Scully shrugged, trying not to look too pleased with her lot. "Agents are supposed to complain about their pay. I've got a good partner to watch my back. And I've been lucky; since I'm with the X-Files I haven't been transferred to another city." "That was the part you liked least about Navy life," he said, sounding surprised that he could still remember. "You didn't want to move anymore. And you were sorry for me when my mom and I moved, even when it was only out to La Jolla." "Well, you haven't done too badly, Commander. Two Libyans...Bill was so jealous. I heard about your accident, but then I heard about your medal. And I guess you're doing all right as a lawyer, from what I hear." "I think so. And I've got a good partner, too. Mac keeps me in line." "Good," Scully said firmly. "Because I hear you still like to pull crazy stunts." She smiled. "Seeing you brings back so many old memories. And you look just like your dad!" Scully's smile faded, and her hand rose to cover her mouth. Mackenzie turned to look at her partner, looking worried. "So I'm told," Rabb said quietly. "And it looks like you were right about Dad being alive. Mac and I found a book with names of POWs who were transferred to the USSR, and he was one of them." "Why wasn't that on the news?" "A KGB agent stole the book." Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. Mackenzie gave Rabb a warning glance, which Mulder caught. He glanced back at Scully again. They think we're not going to believe it! "Funny how that happens," Scully said. "Just when you think you're getting somewhere...." "That sounds like the voice of experience," Mackenzie observed. "It is," said Mulder. "Believe me. They want you to give up." "Give up?" Rabb sounded amused. "I kept on looking all these years without a shred of evidence. If somebody cares enough to send the very best, we must be getting somewhere. And the Pentagon agreed. Unfortunately, their inquiries haven't been getting very far." "Of course they haven't," Mulder said contemptuously. "They're probably in on it. After all, they've been waging a campaign of disinformation, abduction and...." "Mulder." Scully interrupted his speech. "You said they could go home." Mulder saw that the food and coffee had all been polished off, and that Mackenzie was staying on her feet with an effort. "Right," he said, embarrassed. "We'll be in touch." "Fibbie primadonna?" "Yeah, well, you know how I feel about Kubrick and Novack and his crew... I didn't know that Dana worked there!" "Just because Novack was stupid doesn't mean the whole Bureau is. And Danny -- that guy from the FBI Crime Labs -- was the one who helped me out on the blowback residue question at your hearing." "Would this be the same Danny you dated in exchange for answers about the bomb that killed Laura Delaney?" "That's him." "So what did you have to do in exchange for the blowback tips?" "Nothing." Harm shot her a look. "Really, nothing. He had a grudge against Novack. Something about a Christmas party." "Ohhhkay. Maybe my theory that the Fibbies are all crazy isn't so far off. Especially considering Dana's partner. Did you hear that rant of his at the end?" "Did you hear yours?" she countered tiredly. "Your friend Dana's not the only one whose partner's handsome & crazy." "But earlier tonight, I was a genius." He sounded a little hurt. "You're still a genius," she assured him. "But you're a fighter pilot, so you have to be a little crazy. As pulling 7 G's taught me." He grinned. "I'll accept that." "And he's a profiler," she went on. "Juries like profilers. That'll come in handy at Coster's trial." "So play nice with the Fibbies? Don't worry. I have no reason to give Dana trouble, and her partner seems nice enough. But geez, that deadpan face and that monotone...did he watch too much Dragnet as a kid or what?" "So he'll never be a lawyer...." Mac looked out the passenger window and saw her apartment building approaching. "If Coster had just waited a little bit longer to move my car out of sight, I could have driven myself home." "But we need every bit of evidence we can get. It's not likely that he'll just confess," Harm pointed out. He pulled up in front of her building, opened her car door, and started to walk her inside. She didn't object. She felt safe enough, but she didn't really want to be alone quite yet. And Harm, for all his air of calm, had to be feeling terrible. If the tracking device had failed for more than a moment, he would have blamed himself the same way he did for every other death of a friend. So she let him walk beside her, and wore his jacket around her shoulders, because he needed to know that she was still alive, and he was helping. To be honest, maybe she needed that too. She opened the door and flicked on the light. For a moment, she flinched, wondering what she'd see. But her peach-colored living room walls were still unmarked, the desk she'd moved by the window to take advantage of the spring sunlight still its messy self, and her couch pillows and blanket still sat where she had left them to go to the Admiral's party, only...five hours and forty-three minutes ago? It didn't seem possible. "I still wish you'd stay with someone," Harm said. "I know Harriet offered. And my...." She shook her head. "Coster's behind bars. I'm not in any danger. And if I didn't let him drive me out of my home before, I'm not about to do it now." "Even if it made you feel better." "It wouldn't. Not any more than bringing Harriet or you into danger would have made me feel better." She closed her eyes for a moment, almost giving way to the pain. "Coster hated you, Harm! When he asked me if there were any other men in my life, he must have been hoping I'd name you. All that time, when he suggested I stay with someone, he knew you'd had Lane stay with you, and Annie, because we talked about it on the phone! And he was hoping I'd stay at your place, so he could trash it as well as kill you." "I was hoping you hadn't thought of that," Harm replied quietly. "I couldn't help thinking of it." He hugged her, the way he'd meant to at the murder scene before he saw Coster watching and judging. "I'm your partner, Sarah. I'm supposed to watch your six, and any danger is my problem." "No, it's my problem," she countered. "I'm supposed to watch your six, too." "Then we should probably tell each other when we are watching and why...I don't know if that made any sense at all," Harm said, stepping away. "It made sense." She smiled, took off his jacket, and handed it back to him. "See you in the morning, partner...." "In the morning?" He stared at her worriedly. "You're still coming into work?" "If I'm not at work," she said reasonably, "I'll be brooding about Dalton and all of this. And I don't want to brood. Brooding makes me do stupid things." Like go to the bar where he was killed and have vodka for lunch. "Mac...." He shook his head. He didn't have the right to say what he wanted to say, and she certainly didn't need one more male trying to control her life. Maybe he could talk the admiral into making her take some leave. "Well," he finally said, "if you're coming in, that means I have to work too." He grinned wryly. "But if you need *anything*, you call me. I mean it." "I will. Maybe this weekend you can make me that cup of Oolong." "Okay. We'll do that. See you later this morning." She let him out, and he was gone. She opened the window a little to let the spring noises in, taking care not to spill the tiny plant dish in front of it. Mostly she heard the distant sound of cars, to be honest, and Harm's footsteps. But in the early morning, before rush hour began, she liked to hear the noisy dawn chorus. She watched Harm get in his car and drive away. She had watched him do it once before, when Novack had come for him. She had hated that. You're his partner, her mind had screamed. Don't just stand there; do something! But she had needed to stay free, so she had pretended ignorance. And then she had gone to plan his defense as thoroughly as a dog chewed a rawhide bone. She suspected that Danny had seen that devil-dog in her eyes, and known better than to ask her for a date. She wished that Dalton had. It might have saved them both a lot of trouble. And come to think of it, Coster's little collection hadn't had any angry pictures of her. Mistake, mistake...because if he had killed Harm, she'd have killed him. Period. There were things she could have done if she hadn't cared if she died, if she hadn't been mostly stalling. And she would have done them. Coster would have found out the hard way what a mean drunk she could be. But she and Harm were alive and well...which meant she had to deal with more difficult opponents. Like alcohol. Like figuring out what to do about the Admiral and herself. Like watching out for Harm, and trying to get Bud and Harriet back together, the way they were meant to be. Like life. She turned the lights off in the living room and went back into her bedroom. "EVEN GOD FORGIVES" screamed back at her. She'd left it there for motivation. She looked up at it. There'd be time over the weekend to clean that off. Right now she just wanted to sleep. If she dreamed, she didn't remember. But when she woke, her sheets were drenched with sweat. 0755 ZULU COSTER RESIDENCE The place was crawling with activity. Scully wondered what the neighbors thought. She and Mulder pulled up in the Crown Victoria that was their Bucar for the week. It looked just like all the other Crown Victorias parked on the street, except that their car didn't feature DC police markings and did feature the handy ceiling shotgun rack. They walked past the cars and up the driveway toward the scene. Someone was waiting for them. "I didn't know we rated a welcoming committee, Scully," Mulder said under his breath. "Think of it as keeping an eye on us, if it makes you feel better." Mulder understood mockery by the locals. It was respect that made him nervous. "Detective Howard. It's been a while." "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. Glad you could make it so quickly. Did you talk to those lawyers?" "They were worn out. We'll talk to them tomorrow," Mulder said. "How's the scene?" "Take a look." He led them inside. It was just a ranch-style house. Living room with pictures on the mantel of Coster's wife and family. A few plaques for his police work. Hallway with three bedrooms and a bath. Dining room. Kitchen. Utility room with washer, dryer, and furnace. And a door leading to the basement. Detective Howard led them downstairs. The stairs were cheap, the kind that don't even fill in the risers between wooden steps. She was glad she hadn't worn her heels, and she felt the roughness of the banister. Bill had loved hiding under stairs like this, reaching out to grab her ankle and scare her.... She glanced down and saw fingers. They let Mulder and Howard pass. They were laying in wait for her. She stepped on them. Not hard enough to hurt. Just a warning. "Ow!" Well, maybe it hurt a little. "Don't tease the Fibbies, Gupta," Howard said, amused. "I just wanted to demonstrate how Coster tazered Rabb," the guy under the stairs said. Not 'Detective Coster', she noticed. "See, it gave him a pretty good jolt but it was too far from the brain to knock him out." "He was probably working through socks," Scully pointed out. "That could have been enough to insulate him from the worst of it." "Yeah, but he was still limping pretty bad when they took him and Mackenzie to the station. How was he when you saw him, Dr. Scully?" "He wasn't limping. But I bet it still hurts." She looked wry. "Typical pilot. Afraid of doctors because they can ground him." Mulder looked up. "Maybe he heard that all your patients are dead? Speaking of which, were there tazer marks on any of the previous victims?" "No. No drugs or alcohol traces, either. But the victims were missing for over a month. If he used the tazer in their capture, the marks would have had plenty of time to fade. But ropemarks...." "Yeah, I remember. Wrists, ankles and waist, just like on Mackenzie's report." They moved on downstairs. Beside and behind the stairs -- invisible to anyone casually looking down from the utility room -- was Coster's shrine of photos of Mackenzie. Mulder seemed very interested in the fact that they were hung on a square arrangement of clothesline rather than pasted up on the walls. "Less permanent," she heard him mutter. "But also more concentrated than a room. Everything in the house arranged neatly except the pictures...and the pictures themselves are beautifully composed. Definitely an organized killer. He knows what he's doing, he's done it before...though we knew that already. The only thing that's disorganized is his feelings for his victims. He cares about them, he finds them attractive, and that makes him want to possess them." "But people have so many sides," Scully murmured. "They're messy. They can't be boxed up into neat packages." "And that fascinates him," Mulder agreed. "But it also makes him angry. So he captures them. He keeps them tied up. He owns them. He tries to get rid of their less attractive qualities, but he also needs their weaknesses so that he can control them. He can't find a balance, and that makes him anxious. When the stress becomes too much, he kills them." "And brings their bodies back home to DC, where he poses them neatly under a blanket in places where they're sure to be found before they can decay?" Gupta put in shyly. "Of course," Mulder answered. "He doesn't want them to rot. He still loves them, even though they've been proven unworthy of his love." Mulder swept on, making notes into his pocket tape recorder, listening and accepting or rejecting the comments that Scully and the cops made. Scully was surprised by that. Mulder usually wanted everyone else to get away while he dove into the mind of a killer. But for the last few weeks, Mulder had been grappling with a crisis of faith in his quest the likes of which Scully had never seen. Mulder depressed? Sure. Mulder with a death wish? Almost normal. Mulder sure that his quest was going nowhere? Nothing new about that. But for a while, Mulder seemed to have gone from agnosticism about aliens to a refusal to believe despite evidence. It had shaken her. Even being forced to abduct herself by the implant in her neck and the recovered memory of seeing what might have been aliens had not shaken her as much as his behavior. Even now, she didn't know what would become of their quest and partnership, any more than she knew why she and the people found with her hadn't been burned to a crisp like the rest. And so, both she and Mulder found relief in dealing with the merely human evil of the Domestic Killer. He wasn't something they wanted to understand, but it was at least a possibility. 1444 ZULU INTERROGATION ROOM, PRECINCT 12 WASHINGTON DC "Well, well, well. Agent Fox Mulder." "Detective Coster. Or should I say, the Domestic Killer?" Scully watched Coster shrug. "If you say so." But he looks pleased, she thought. There is a place for subtlety, she thought, but it isn't here. She went through her cupboards and picked out certain glasses: the old Burger King ones, the cheesy ones she didn't like now. Maybe someday they'd be antiques, but these particular glasses would never get that chance. She smiled with satisfaction. She looked in her window. The tiny sprouts were doing nicely. And why not? They had plenty to feed on: bad luck, bad judgement, bad days, and even evil -- some of it her own. Time to start over, she thought. Time to start fresh. She needed that.