Chapter 5

Holiday Inn
Room 212
12:20 pm

Mulder had insisted on driving her back to the hotel to pack. Since Bradford Regional's only flight to New York would be leaving in forty- five minutes, she didn't have time to argue.

"How long will you be gone?" He was leaning against the connecting doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

Scully breezed past him carrying her cosmetics bag and hair dryer. "It depends on how many leads develop out of the first interview. You know that." She tossed the items into her duffle, then opened the top dresser drawer and grabbed a handful of lingerie. "Two days. Three, at the most." She tucked the lingerie into a corner of the bag and headed for the closet. Living out of her suitcase was a way of life, but some nesting urge had made her unpack it all last night. It would have saved a lot of time if she'd stuck to tradition.

"There's another flight tomorrow. You could go with me on some interviews."

She stopped pawing through the closet and looked at him. He was focused on the carpet at his feet. "I'm sure Michael would be happy to go with you."

He looked up then. "Not funny."

"It wasn't meant to be. She knows these people. They might be more open if she were with you."

He shrugged, and she went back to her packing. When the suitcase was filled and zipped, she set it on the floor and picked up her coat. "I can still take the shuttle. You could get started on your interviews an hour sooner."

"I want to drive you." He came over and took her suitcase, then headed for the door in a familiar round-shouldered sulk. He really didn't want her to go.

"Mulder, what's wrong?"

"You're gonna miss your plane." And he was out the door.

She let an exasperated sigh escape, and followed him to the car.

They didn't exchange more than a dozen words on the ride to the airport. When he pulled up in front of the terminal building and left the engine running, she realized he wasn't going to come in with her. It appeared, in fact, that he wasn't even going to look at her. Scully checked her watch. She really didn't have time to indulge his mood, but he was starting to worry her.

"Mulder, I'll call you from the hotel."

He nodded, and reached for the trunk release. "I'll be out doing interviews. You can leave me a message." Eyes on the windshield.

Oh, for heaven's sake. "Don't tell me this is all about Michael."

"It's about your eagerness to ditch me at the first opportunity."

What? "Mulder, it's my job. One of us has to follow up on this, and I'm the obvious choice."

She touched his arm, and he finally met her eyes. Their gazes held for a moment. Finally, he smiled. Faintly. "I'm just feeling a little inadequate in the intuition department. Ignore me."

So, it was about Michael. "My impression is that she's a very talented actress who's used to getting what she wants. Don't beat yourself up too much."

His eyes warmed. "She didn't get past you, I notice."

Watching other women salivate over her partner was nothing new. Karen Berquist. Detective White. Phoebe Green. Diana Fowley. Marita Covarrubias. Mulder's record for misreading women was legendary, and unbroken. "It's easier to spot the subterfuge if you're not its target."

"Just hurry back." He hit the trunk release button and opened his door. "I'll get your bag."

And for once, she didn't grumble a bit.

* * *

Marcy Brackston's home
3:30 pm

The kitchen was exactly as she had left it two days ago, spotlessly clean and lemon-scented. Her favorite coffee mug sat next to a stack of unopened mail on the counter. A laminated card with her prized recipe for New England pot roast waited on the wrought iron stand next to the stove. Dinner would have been ready at 6:30, just like always.

Instead, the three-pound rump roast in the refrigerator had passed its prime and was headed for the trash whenever Ken Brackston got up the energy to move it there. He had gotten home from his Elks meeting Sunday night to find the house dark and the expected scent of beef and potatoes noticeably absent. Mild annoyance had rapidly become panic when he'd called his in-laws and found that his wife had failed to come pick up their two sons without calling to explain why. Frantic calls to her cell phone and various friends had yielded nothing. Eight hours later, the sheriff was at his door with the bad news.

Mulder kept his questioning as brief as possible. His instincts regarding predatory women might be lacking, but he was having no problem reading Mr. Brackston. The man was near collapse over the loss of his wife. Ruling him out as a suspect-- a necessity no matter what the apparent circumstances-- was a no-brainer.

"Just one more question, Mr. Brackston. Do you know of anyone who might want to harm your wife?"

Hollow, red-rimmed eyes regarded him sadly. "I can't imagine anyone who knew her wanting to hurt her. Everybody loved Marcy." His voice hitched on her name as it had every time he'd said it.

The kitchen door opened, and two little boys came in on a puff of icy air, stomping snow onto pristine blue and white vinyl tile. They noticed Mulder sitting at the kitchen table and stopped in their tracks. "Daddy?"

Brackston's smile was immediate. "It's okay, guys. Agent... Mr. Mulder was just leaving." He stood up, and so did Mulder. "Go on and get changed. I'll be up in a few minutes."

The two boys gave Mulder a wary glance as they scooted past him and out into the hall. A moment later, he heard the thunder of feet running up the stairs.

"I told them we'll be going to see Mom tonight," the man said faintly. "The funeral home," he explained.

An unexpected rush of empathy for this man and his motherless sons tightened Mulder's throat. "I won't take up any more of your time, Mr. Brackston. You've been very helpful. I know how hard this has to be for you." He offered his hand, and Brackston shook it absently.

"Whatever you can do to get this animal off the streets... " Barely-controlled tears choked his voice down to a whisper.

"We're doing everything possible, I can promise you that." He took his coat from the back of the chair. "I'll just see myself out." He got a faint nod in response.

Mulder closed the front door behind himself with a guilty sigh of relief. He'd been prepared for the grieving husband, but not for the man's young sons. The bewildered loss in those wide, innocent eyes would be with him for a very long time.

* * *

Scarsdale, NY
3:30 pm

Jacqueline Acres' next of kin was her brother, Jeremy Grissom. Scully had arranged to meet him at his sister's apartment, so she was extremely surprised to find him waiting when she got off the plane. He'd described himself to her over the phone, but it was the "Agt. Scully" sign he was holding that clinched it. They made eye contact, and she walked over to him.

"Mr. Grissom?"

He tucked the sign under his arm and held out his right hand. "And you must be Agent Scully." His handshake was firm and brief. "I started thinking about the directions I gave you and decided this would save us both a lot of aggravation."

"I was going to take a cab, but thanks." He was reaching for her bag, and she let him take it. "Do you have a car?"

His smile was charmingly crooked. "Uh, I left it at the train station in Scarsdale. We'll take a cab to the train."

He was younger than she'd imagined from his mellow voice over the phone. Early forties, at most. Dark hair going gray at the temples. Blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. An honest face. About Mulder's height, maybe an inch or two taller. Stunningly white, even teeth. Altogether a pleasant surprise.

He was also quite a conversationalist, as it turned out. By the time they got off the train in Scarsdale, she knew more about this stranger than she did about many people she'd known for years. He made his living selling real estate, which didn't surprise her, and he was first violin with the community symphony part time, which did. His sister Jacqueline had been his only living relative, and the two of them had dinner together several times a week. It was when she failed to meet him for one of their regular dinners that he had reported her missing.

The sadness in his eyes when he talked about his sister was so much like Mulder that it startled her.

"My car's right over here." He picked up her bag once again and headed off across the parking lot toward a shiny black Lexus sedan.

They drove for twenty minutes through gently rolling blocks of luxurious homes and condos set back from the road. He turned right into a wide driveway flanked by iron gates with fancy scrollwork. At the end of the drive was an impressive Georgian brick mansion.

Scully gave him an eyebrow, and he smiled. "I found this for Jackie five years ago. The rent is a lot more reasonable than you'd think."

"Rent?" It certainly didn't look like any apartment building Scully had ever seen.

Grissom parked at the front door and popped the trunk. "Six two-bedroom apartments, two four-beds and a penthouse." He grinned. "If the third floor can be called a penthouse."

Inside, it still looked more like a private residence than a multi-family dwelling. There was a discreet bank of brass mailboxes along the right-hand wall, and brass-plate numbers on two doors along the left. Wide carpeted stairs rose along the right wall and curved into a balcony that ran the width of the entryway at the second floor level. It was tasteful and quite lovely.

"Jackie's apartment is this way." Grissom led her up the stairs and through a door at the left side of the balcony. He fished a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the door, then stepped back to let her go first. "Let me make some coffee, and I'll take you to her study."

Grissom put down her bag just inside the door and headed off toward the back of the apartment. Scully looked around, trying not to stare.

The main room was huge, but nothing like the rest of the house. In fact, it reminded her so strongly of Mulder's apartment-- on a much larger scale-- that she couldn't stop staring.

Dark walls, mismatched furniture, eclectic prints on the walls and venetian blinds on the windows. Hardwood floors with throw rugs. The faintly dusty ambiance of a room that served only to hold belongings. A stopping off place, not a home.

"Not quite what you expected?" Jeremy Grissom stood in the archway to the hall, watching her with obvious amusement.

Scully realized her mouth was hanging open. "It doesn't quite fit with the rest of the house," she admitted.

"Neither did Jackie, but that was part of her charm." He turned and gestured for her to follow. "Come on, I'll show you the real Jackie."

She followed him a short distance down the hall and through an open door on the right. This room was much smaller, even darker and seemed filled floor-to-ceiling with boxes. Grissom flipped on a lamp and she could see that the boxes didn't quite take up the entire floor space. There was room for a computer desk and chair.

Grissom pulled the chair out for Scully and switched on the computer. "Whatever you want to know about my sister, you'll find either on this computer or somewhere in the contents of this room. Everyone she ever met will have an entry somewhere." He indicated the area behind Scully. "Or a picture."

Scully turned around and actually gasped. The entire wall was covered with news clippings, photographs, scribbled notes, pages out of magazines. No "I want to believe" poster, she was relieved to note. Otherwise, it was Mulder's office, to a 'T'. Scully cleared her throat. "Your sister was interested in the paranormal?"

"Research, she called it. As long as I can remember, she's been collecting this stuff. About six months ago, she started corresponding with a man who claimed to be an expert. Someone in law enforcement, I think. She said he put her onto a lot of covert information. Some of it's actually valuable, but most of it is nothing but junk." His jaw tightened. "But it was her junk, and I can't imagine throwing it out now."

Scully had a sudden flash of a little girl's room on the Vineyard, preserved intact for twenty years, and of the look in Mulder's eyes when he had showed it to her.

Grissom's mood lightened quickly. "Have a seat, Agent Scully. I'll give you a quick tour, then you can wander to your heart's content. If there's anything to find, it will be here in this room."

Scully looked back at the array of boxes and files. "I have no doubt. I'm just not sure how long it's going to take to find it."

"You can take all night, if you want. I have no problem letting you stay here. I could even stay and help, if you like."

That was certainly unexpected. "It's very generous of you, Mr. Grissom, but I have a hotel reservation."

"I'll charge you the going rate, if it will make you feel better. You're right about how long it would take to go through all of this. And frankly, I'd appreciate having someone else do it." He took a slow breath. "I've known she was dead for five weeks now. I could feel it. Having it confirmed was just a formality. I've been trying to work my way up to going through her stuff for a while now. You would be helping me, too."

There was a wistfulness in his voice that was oddly touching. "Maybe just start with showing me the layout." She sat down at the computer, and he leaned over her shoulder to work the mouse.

"I was here this morning, looking for her address book, when I found something interesting. I would never have given it a second glance if not for the phone call I got at the precise moment I was scrolling past the name."

That would have been the call asking him to come down and identify the photograph from Warren, Pennsylvania, Scully knew. "What did you find?"

He nodded at the monitor display, and the file that was highlighted.

"Warren PA," Scully read aloud, both eyebrows rising.

"Told you it was interesting."

"She knew someone in Warren?"

"As far as I know, she didn't. And this doesn't seem to have anything to do with the town itself anyway. I looked at some of the text files. It's all correspondence from her contact."

She looked at him over her shoulder. "His name is there?"

"He calls himself 'M'. Nothing more. And she didn't save his email address anywhere I could find."

A man whose name begins with "M" who may be in law enforcement and claims to be an expert in the paranormal. It wasn't possible...

Scully took command of the mouse and clicked the folder open. A long list of files appeared, many of them jpeg images. A few were Word documents. Scully scanned the names, but most were number and letter combinations that revealed nothing of their contents.

That was, until she reached the "M's". Her gasp was audible, and Jeremy leaned almost into her lap in response.

"What? What do you see?"

"Mostow," she read aloud. "John Mostow." At his blank look, she added, "It was a case my partner and I were involved in a long time ago. The murders in Warren... the killer uses the same... technique."

Grissom's jaw dropped. "Then, you know who killed my sister?"

Both Bill Patterson and John Mostow were still in prison, and would be until they died. What else it could mean, she wasn't ready to consider. She shook her head. "It can't be the same man."

"How can you be sure?"

"It can't be the same man," she repeated. She clicked the image and held her breath while it opened. It wasn't until later that she realized how traumatic it would be for Grissom to witness.

There, in full color, was an image from a living nightmare six years in the past-- Agent Nemhauser, partially encased in gray clay, his mouth split into a hideous, gaping smile.

* * *