Title: Trust I: Fire
Author: Parrotfish
Series: Trust
Written: September 1996
Rating: PG (violence, disturbing imagery)
Classification: X (X-file)
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no right to be appropriating these characters, their stories, or anything else about the X- Files. It all belongs to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen and Fox, excepting the character of Rachel Sachs, who is all mine. Stanton, Virginia is an entirely fictional place.

Summary: A new friend becomes a rare bright spot in Scully's decidedly dark and disturbing life as she and Mulder take on a case involving children who die by fire.

Author's Note: This may or may not be the first in a series [archivist - it is]. If I write more, the titles will each begin with "Trust."

"And the person that applies to mediums and to wizards, to go astray after them, I will even set my face against that person, and will cut him off from among his people. Sanctify yourselves therefore, and be holy: for I am the Lord your God. And you shall keep my statutes, and do them: I am the Lord who sanctifies you."
Leviticus 20

"Excuse me?"

I turned around to see if those strange words were addressed to me. She was standing a few feet away, also wet from the shower. She was nude, but the first thing I noticed about her were her eyes - large, deep brown, almond-shaped eyes with thick, dark lashes. She wasn't very tall - just a couple of inches taller than I - but she gave the impression of length because her body was so lean and athletic. At a glance, I took in the sleek, muscular lines of her legs and torso and the small, firm breasts that would have looked like they belonged to a 12-year-old had they not appeared on a body with the smoothly rounded hips of an adult. She was pretty, but not in the usual way. She had the beauty of strength and a kind of comfort with herself. I estimated she was about my age. Later, I learned she was a couple of years older.

"I said, I bet they don't honor your warranty any more."

"My warranty?"

Her eyes scanned my body. "Looks like you've put on more than the normal wear and tear."

I glanced down at myself and understood. She had noticed all the scars that had been left by various encounters with knives, fists, bullets - the marks of my trade, plus some.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I have."

I'd noticed other people looking at me in the locker room before, wondering how a petite, red-headed young woman might have acquired so many signs of violence. No one had ever had the nerve to say anything to me before. Somehow, I minded her off-handed comment less than all their thinly veiled, invasive stares.

She opened her locker, pulled out a pair of panties and an undershirt, and put them on.

"I didn't mean to be rude," she said. "It's just so unusual. I'm sorry, I should at least introduce myself. My name is Rachel Sachs."

"Dana Scully."

"I see you here all the time. You do a lot of weight training. Looks like you're building upper body strength."

"It's a requirement of the job. I'm an F.B.I. agent." Now why had I said that? I didn't normally go around telling strangers what I did for my unusual living. But there was something about Rachel Sachs that made me want to talk. That was a feeling that I know now would never go away for as long as I knew her.

"No kidding? I guess that explains a lot," she said, nodding vaguely toward my scarred torso.

"Yeah." There was a brief silence. "Well, my locker's over there."

"See you around."

"Yeah. See ya."

"Mulder?"

My partner looked terrible. Not tired-terrible - well, he always looked like that - but the terrible of the cold, sharp edge of a razor. He had that look in his eyes, the one he puts there when he's got a case he knows will leave some extra rips in his already-tattered psyche. Every agent's been through cases like that. But Mulder and I make them our specialty. I've always wondered why X files, cases involving the paranormal and unexplained phenomena, should be inherently horrific

"Slide show?"

"Yeah. Sit down, Scully."

He flicked off the light, leaving the dismal basement office in almost total darkness. The projector came to life, the low hum of its fan providing a soundtrack to Mulder's running narrative.

"Four fires have taken four lives in the small town of Stanton, Virginia," he began, the image of a charred ruin appearing on-screen. Great. Fires. Mulder was terrified of fire. Not an auspicious beginning.

"All four victims were children between the ages of four and eight." Worse and worse. Kids. These cases were especially personal to Mulder, who'd only spent his entire adult life looking for the sister who disappeared when she was eight. And in his spare time, he indulged in heaping helpings of mental self-abuse for his failure to find her. His failure to protect her in the first place.

Burnt children. My god, how come Mulder and I never get a break, I thought. Mulder went on.

"The fires took place over a five-month period. In each case, one victim died, and in each case, no cause for the fire could be determined." Mulder clicked through pictures of each destroyed house. Then, for good measure, he ran through photos of the hideously charred remains of the children.

"Coincidence?" I asked hopefully.

"With a single child's death in each case? Not very likely, Scully."

I sighed, knowing he was right.

"Why can't the local authorities handle this on their own?"

The picture of the fourth blackened corpse was replaced on-

screen by one of a smiling, dark-haired, olive-skinned little girl.

"Here's the part that got my attention, Scully. Lisa Cannon, age six. She was acquainted with each of the victims."

"That hardly seems unusual, Mulder. In a town the size of Stanton, all the kids probably know each other."

"True. But Lisa Cannon knew a lot more than that. On each occasion a fire broke out, while it was still burning, Lisa Cannon was found somewhere nearby, unconscious. She claims to have no idea how she ended up at the scenes."

"So she was attracted by all the commotion, then fainted. There's nothing so mysterious in that."

"Four times? Scully, your willingness to believe in coincidences is more inexplicable than my willingness to believe in extraterrestrials. However, there's one last piece to this puzzle: Each time, when found and revived, the first thing out of Lisa Cannon's mouth has been the name of the victim in the fire. And in three out of four cases, the victims hadn't even been found yet."

As Mulder built his case, I found myself desperately seeking a rational explanation that could spare us this investigation - although I knew it was already too late. "No doubt, she already knew the names of the children who lived in those houses," I ventured.

"She did. But in each of the four families, there were two or more children, and at least one adult. Lisa Cannon knew exactly which person had died in the fire."

That was it, then. I'd run out of facile explanations. This case was ours. Another nightmare to add to the collection.

At least it was in Virginia, close to Washington. There would be no seedy motel to face each night after the daily challenges of this case. I could have those nightmares right in the comfort of my own home.

And Mulder could have his own nightmares right where he always did - on his couch. I wondered which of us would come out of this one more broken, and which one of us would be picking up the pieces.

Mulder had already had three corpses exhumed - the fourth hadn't yet been buried, as the last fire had only occurred the previous night. They were waiting for me in the F.B.I. headquarters morgue, and I figured I might as well get started - see if the local medical examiner had missed much. They always missed something. The only question was whether it was something important.

Mulder went for coffee, and I took advantage of the opportunity to prepare myself mentally for the autopsies. Burn victims were pretty awful. They had a tendency to fall apart at the slightest touch. No matter how many times I've dug around inside dead people looking for clues, I've always been unnerved when an arm or a head breaks off in my hands. I've seen Mulder go grey at moments like that, then look into my eyes, searching for a hint of distress or at least disgust. When he doesn't find it, I can feel him go cold all over. I wonder if he really thinks I don't feel anything at those moments. I've never asked.

Gotta give him credit, though. He can make it through any autopsy. I've never seen anyone else who wasn't a medical professional who could.

Well, maybe credit isn't exactly the right word.

I found myself then thinking not of the autopsy, but of my partner. It seemed the horrible drew him like a moth to a flame. In this case, the analogy was almost literal. On the surface, the explanation lay in his passion for getting at the truth as it related to extreme possibilities. But I always thought there was more to it than that. It was almost as though he felt he deserved to be forced to stare into the pit of hell his entire life. Anyone else would at least stop and wonder why. I always do. Before every autopsy, I always ask myself why I don't just stand up and say, "Not this time. Never again. I quit." Then, I find the strands of a reason - something to do with justice, or truth, or professionalism. But I don't even think Mulder asks. For him, saying no to horror has never been an option.

When he returned with two cups of coffee, he found me staring at an empty spot on my desk.

"Scully? You okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

I was halfway through the second autopsy when Mulder joined me. He stood for a long moment, staring at the blackened, child-sized corpse on the table. This one had been more thoroughly burnt than the first. It looked more like desiccated remains retrieved from a millennia-old stratum of an archaeological dig than the body of a little boy who had died just a couple of months ago.

"Anything?"

"Nothing unusual."

A small smile turned up the corners of Mulder's mouth. "You don't call a toasted ten-year-old unusual?"

"You know what I mean. I can't find much of significance that the county medical examiner missed. Of course, with bodies in this condition, there's not all that much to find."

I was working as I spoke, trying to get a clean cut into the throat - no mean feat, and I failed miserably when, instead of cutting a neat slit, the whole head broke off in my hands.

"The Queen of Hearts," Mulder mumbled. I was surprised when I heard him leave quickly before I could look up.

Yeah. Off with their heads.

I met Mulder for lunch after finishing all four autopsies. Sitting in a local diner, I ordered my usual salad while Mulder tucked into his burger and fries.

"So what's the upshot?"

"All four died of smoke inhalation. Hard to tell if they ever felt the burns. Those houses must have been infernos to char the bodies so badly. I'd guess the work of a pro, given the lack of physical evidence of arson."

As we ate in silence, I took advantage of the time to take Mulder's temperature - try to gauge his mental state in relation to the case. He was wolfing his food, as usual, taking impossibly large bites of hamburger and chasing it with loud slurps of soda. He was acting for all the world like we were discussing last night's Knicks game instead of the hellacious, painful deaths of four small children.

So far, he was on the outside of this one, looking in. I was glad. The alternative - the cases where Mulder wrapped himself up with guilt and caring and fear and anger - was much worse. Of course, things could change at any time.

Trouble was, I was starting to feel pretty wrapped up myself.

"So what's next?"

Mulder chewed and swallowed before answering. "Lisa Cannon. Let's go have a talk with the mystery girl."

We stood on the very ordinary porch of the very ordinary house in the very ordinary suburban neighborhood where the Cannon family lived. We paused before ringing the bell, taking in the surroundings: the perfectly manicured lawn, the flagstone path leading to the driveway where the family Volvo sat waiting, the painted wooden windowboxes overflowing with unrelentingly bright pansies. I half expected Bud, Princess or Kitten to answer the door.

Nope. Mom. She even had the apron.

"Can I help you?"

We flashed our F.B.I. identification, and I started the ball rolling.

"Ms. Cannon?"

She nodded. "Yes?"

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, and this is Special Agent Fox Mulder. May we come in?"

" Of course."

We were shown into a living room that looked for all the world like no one lived there. It was incredibly clean, tidy, orderly. The place was so depressingly neat that I found myself yearning for the chaotic clutter in which Mulder kept the basement office.

"Please, sit down."

I giggled inwardly when I noticed Mulder sit gingerly on the edge of a chintz-covered chair. Then I realized I was sitting the same way.

"Ms. Cannon," I began, "we understand that on several occasions, your daughter, Lisa, was found near the scenes of a number of house fires, unconscious, and that each time she awoke with information about the victim."

"Yes. That's right."

'Yes that's right?' I thought. Just, 'Yes that's right?' No trace of undue concern in her face or her voice, no crack in the calm, vacant, vaguely pleasant way she looked at us. As if this kind of thing happens in every normal, American family.

"Has Lisa been exhibiting any other unusual behavior?"

"No. She's such a good girl. Why would she do anything unusual?"

"Wouldn't you call her unexplained proximity to and knowledge of four fatal fires 'unusual?'"

"Yes. I suppose so."

It was pretty clear that Stepford mom wasn't going to volunteer any useful information, or even display a hint of concern about her daughter.

Mulder cut to the chase.

"May we speak with Lisa, Ms. Cannon?"

"Certainly. I'll just go get her."

When she'd left the room, I heard Mulder mutter something under his breath.

"What's that?"

"I said, 'Now she is spooky.'"

Ms. Cannon returned with her daughter before I'd even managed to wipe the smile off my face.

"Lisa, say hello to the special agents."

"Hello."

Mother and daughter looked at us expectantly.

"Hi, Lisa. Is it okay if we ask you a few questions?"

Mulder spoke very softly and gently. I sat back and watched in fascination as everything about him became softer and more gentle: the set of his shoulders, the lines of his face, the look in his eyes. There was a quiet sorrow behind the change that I had learned to recognize; a sadness he always wore around children. Kids burrowed right under his paranoid, cynical skin and effortlessly touched the place where he'd stored up a lifetime's worth of pain and guilt. Poor Mulder. For him, every kid represented a frightened eight-year-old girl abducted from her home, or her helpless, tormented 12-year-old brother - or the happy kids Fox and Samantha Mulder might have been had none of it ever happened.

"Sure, I guess," Lisa Cannon replied.

"Lisa, how much do you remember about the nights of the fires?"

"I don't know. I remember the fireman gave me a Snickers one time."

"Do you remember how you got outside those nights?"

"No."

"Do you remember going to those houses?"

"No."

"Do you remember fainting, or waking up and saying a name?"

"No."

The girl didn't seem upset by Mulder's questions. She didn't look like she was trying to hide anything, either. She just looked completely blank.

Mulder sighed. "Okay, Lisa. Thanks for answering our questions. If you think of anything about those nights that you haven't told us, tell your Mom and she'll call us up. Okay?"

"Okay."

"That wasn't very helpful," I said as we walked back to the car.

Mulder didn't say anything at all.

I needed not to think anymore. I needed not to think about children getting char-broiled. I needed not to think about the bizarre veneer of apple-pie normalcy that served only to emphasize the horror. I needed not to think about the fact that we had found no evidence of any kind whatsoever - nothing even indicated that arson had occurred, let alone who might have committed it. I needed not to think about what extreme theory Mulder might be hatching right at that very moment to throw at me first thing in the morning.

I went to the gym.

On evenings like this, when physical exertion was the only thing I could think of to blot out my overactive mental processes, I've always tended to overdo. I suppose that's how those extra 10-pound plates made it onto the bar, because I don't really remember putting them there. Lying back on the bench, I lifted the weight off the twin forks that held it up above my head. Lowering it to my chest, I pushed up. And repeated the motion. And again, and again. I could feel the muscles in my chest tighten and strain against the unaccustomed weight. I felt the twitch that I knew would become pain later, felt it in my chest, my biceps, my shoulders. I felt the blood rush to my face as I pushed again, and again, and again.

I felt it, but I thought of nothing. And after all, that was the point.

It came as a shock, then, when I found that all the force I was able to put into the next push had no effect. The bar rested lightly against my breasts, and it wasn't going anywhere at all.

From somewhere behind me, two hands appeared and gripped the weight, lifting, helping me push, until the bar rested back in the forks.

Sitting up, I turned to find Rachel Sachs smiling at me.

"Tough day at the office, huh?"

I was struck again by the sudden way she had of jumping into the middle of a conversation, skipping the pleasantries. I was also struck by the uncanny truth of her statement.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Sure. I figured if you stayed pinned there forever, there'd be one less weight bench for the rest of us to use."

I smiled. In the back of my mind, some detached bit of my personality managed to be surprised that I was smiling, considering how utterly somber I'd been just minutes earlier.

"I'm not ready for that kind of long-term commitment," I replied.

It was her turn to smile.

"You could use a drink. Wanna join me for one?"

The mental alarm went off - the one that had been installed by my partner the day he convinced me to trust no one. No one but him, that is. Ever since then, I'd given up making friends as a dangerous habit.

So I had no idea why the words, "Okay, let me just take a shower and get dressed" were coming out of my mouth.

"Great."

Half an hour later, I was in the corner booth at Finney's with a cold Bass Ale in front of me, wishing I'd said "No thanks" to Rachel's invitation. I just didn't know what to say. It had been so long since I'd just sat in a bar with a friend. And here I was with a stranger.

"You look like you work out a lot," I began lamely.

"Well, you know what they say: Suffering is good for the soul."

A thought began to form in the back of my mind. "I'll bet you run, but you don't really enjoy it."

Her eyes widened. "Yeah. How'd you know that?"

I smiled. "You remind me of someone I know. He's a professional tortured soul."

She grinned back. "Well, 'tortured soul' seems a little extreme. But I admit that, the way I see it, if I pile a little extra guilt on my shoulders, at least I'll be doing the world a service by leaving a little less for everyone else to carry around."

Despite my own better judgment, I found myself enjoying this company. "What do you do, Rachel?"

"I count fish."

"You count fish?"

"Yup. I'm a marine biologist with the National Aquarium. I research environmental factors that affect Atlantic fish populations. Which means that, most of the time, I count fish. Then I write papers about how many I counted."

"You don't make it sound very interesting."

She laughed. "No, I don't, do I? I don't mean to make it sound dull. It's just that so many of my colleagues love to make it sound so damn complicated, like you have to be Darwin and Einstein rolled into one to do what we do. Actually, for nine-

tenths of the job, you have to know how to do two things: scuba dive and count."

"What about the other one-tenth?"

"That's the part where you have to figure out why the count came out the way it did. The last one-tenth is nine-tenths luck and one-tenth brains."

We lapsed into a surprisingly comfortable silence before Rachel began again. "So what was so bad today that it made you feel compelled to crush yourself under a heavy weight?"

Oh, nothing special, the practical, cautious part of my mind answered. Much to my amazement, once again something unexpected came out of my mouth.

"Yet another really gruesome case, with no leads and lots of unanswered questions."

"You do a lot of that kind of thing?"

I sighed. "I do very little else. It's our specialty."

"Our?"

"My partner and I. We specialize in unusual cases that appear to involve mysterious phenomena. Cases like that are often pretty ugly."

"What's the one you're working on now?"

"I can't talk about that. Suffice it to say that a number of children have died in a really unpleasant way."

"Oh." She was silent.

"I'm sorry, Rachel. I didn't mean to spoil your mood, too. I don't normally talk about what I do."

"No, Dana, please don't apologize. I asked Actually, there's something oddly cheering about what you've told me."

"There is?" I stared at her, dumbfounded.

"Yeah. I mean, I'd always imagined the kind of people who investigate crimes to be fat, ugly, donut-grazing guys who carefully cultivate a Clint Eastwood persona while actually projecting the personality of a guppy. It's nice to know that a regular person does that kind of thing. Listen, if I got knocked off, I'd rather have you come investigate than a fishy Dirty Harry any day."

This observation left me speechless. Me? A regular person? It had been years since I'd thought of myself that way. But I realized Rachel wasn't far wrong about fat, ugly, donut-grazing Clint Eastwood wannabes. By that standard, I could see her point.

"So what about your partner? How does he feel about donuts?"

I laughed. "Mulder? He loves donuts, but I think that's the only part of your description he fits."

"You mean he's not fat and ugly?"

"Lord, no! He's slim and handsome. Tall. Dark hair. Hazel eyes." I think I might have said that with more enthusiasm than I'd intended.

"Really? Sounds like you hit the jackpot. But please tell me 'Mulder' isn't his first name."

"It isn't, but it may as well be. He doesn't let anyone use his real first name. He hates it."

"So - give. What is it?"

"Fox."

"Fox?"

"Fox."

Rachel burst into a wild laugh that was infectious. The two of us howled.

"So what's Fox like?" she asked when she finally caught her breath. "Other than 'slim and handsome,' that is."

I paused, deciding how to answer.

"Brilliant. Impulsive. Obsessed. Honorable. Damaged."

The last trace of a smile disappeared from Rachel's lips.

"Dana, that wasn't the description of a colleague. This guy obviously means an awful lot to you."

"He's my friend." She stared into my eyes, as though trying to see how much of the truth I was telling her. "That's it. We work together. We can't afford to complicate that with any personal involvement."

"Let me see...I believe your words were, 'brilliant, impulsive, obsessed, honorable and damaged.' And you don't have any 'personal involvement?'"

"Okay, we're personally involved."

Rachel cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Very personally involved. But not romantically. We can't do that."

"Okay, if you say so. But I note you said, 'can't,' not 'don't want to.'"

"Whatever."

Rachel smiled. "The two of you must make quite a pair."

Later, when I was home in bed staring at the ceiling, I replayed the evening's conversation in my head. I had never before said so much to someone I'd just met. I wondered if I'd made a mistake - or if I'd simply made a friend.

"Scully, look at this."

"Good morning to you, too, Mulder."

The good mood left over from the previous evening evaporated. One look at Mulder told me something had changed overnight. He'd shifted into overdrive - that level of intensity he achieves when he's taken the case to heart.

"New information, Scully. About Lisa Cannon. Look at these maps. I marked the exact location where she was found during each fire."

"Mulder, this doesn't prove anything."

"I didn't say it proved anything, Scully. But you have to admit it's odd. She was in exactly the same orientation to the fire each time - west by southwest. Approximately the same distance, too - between 50 and 55 yards."

"When did you make this discovery?"

"Last night." I could tell from the pout in his answer that he knew what I was thinking, and he was warning me off. Yeah, his response told me. I stayed up all night going over the file. So fucking what?

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling every tense muscle in my neck throb with annoyance. Why don't I ever learn? Mulder always lets himself get involved. Involved? Hell, overwhelmed. Always. That's what makes him Mulder. That's how he works. Christ, I hate it.

"Okay, Mulder. So it's odd. It's downright bizarre. But we have no way of knowing what it means. And I doubt Little Miss Perfect Cannon is going to volunteer an explanation."

"We have to talk to her again, Scully."

"And say what?"

"I don't know. I'll play it by ear."

I started to count to ten in an effort to control my temper. Mulder was out the door before I got to two.

"Ms. Cannon, would you mind if we speak to Lisa again?"

"Of course not. Please come in."

Again the irritating tidiness. Again the chintz. Nothing in the room had moved a hair's breadth since we'd been there the previous day. It was as though time stood still in this all-American living room.

Lisa slid silently into the room. Her mother didn't return with her - a stroke of luck, considering the nature of the questions I was sure Mulder would ask. Most mothers couldn't be expected to cotton too well to Mulder's theories.

"Hi, Lisa. Remember us?" Mulder had that you-can-trust-me-I'm-just-an-overgrown-kid tone of voice. Very effective. I just sat back and watched.

"Yes."

"We have a few more questions for you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Lisa, how did you know about those fires?"

"I don't know. I just did."

"Do you like fire?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Do you like to play with matches?"

I was really glad Ms. Cannon wasn't in the room now.

"No."

"Do you like to watch fires?"

"No."

"So what do you mean when you say you like them?"

"I don't know."

Mulder's forehead creased as he frowned in frustration. He didn't seem to be getting anywhere. I could tell he was fishing blindly with no clear idea of the type of information he hoped to elicit.

A sudden thought struck me. 'How did you know about those fires?' Mulder had asked. And her reply: 'I just did.'

"Lisa," I interrupted. Mulder looked at me questioningly. "Did you know about those fires before they happened?"

"Yes."

I could see Mulder's eyes light up. He gave me one of those how-the-hell-do-you-do-that stares.

"How did you know?"

"I don't know."

Mulder and I stared at each other for a long moment, our eyes communicating the next question, our mouths unwilling to ask it. Finally, he did.

"Lisa, do you know where the next fire will be?"

"Yes."

"Where will it be, Lisa?"

"Joey Lanza's house."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"How do you know it'll be at Joey's house?"

"I don't know."

Mulder and I left without telling Ms. Cannon what Lisa had told us. We didn't even say goodbye. We didn't speak again until the we were driving back toward D.C.

"We'll have to watch that house, Scully."

"Mulder, that could have just been evidence of the child's overactive imagination. She's been through a lot lately, and she's been asked a lot of questions. She's probably just started making up answers, thinking that's what we wanted to hear."

"If that's what you think, Scully, then why'd you ask her? You were the one who asked, not me." Mulder's voice was angry.

I didn't answer right away. I didn't know how to answer, so I dodged. "How the hell are we going to get Skinner to authorize a stakeout based on a six-year-old's precognition?"

It was Mulder's turn to clam up. Finally, he said, "He'll never go for it. We'll just have to do it ourselves."

"So where were you last night?"

Mulder and I were sitting in a dark Taurus, watching a dark house on a dark night.

"Last night? Why?"

"I called your house. You weren't there."

"I went to the gym."

"For four hours?"

"Went for drinks afterward."

"Drinks? Alone?"

"No. With a friend."

Mulder's hand stopped halfway to his mouth, before he could pop in the next sunflower seed. I could tell he was looking at me in the dark.

I smiled, understanding his reaction. Mulder knew damn well I had no friends. Neither did he.

"D'you do something stupid last night, Scully?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"No. Tell me."

"One night stand. Scratching the itch on the nearest tree."

"Mulder! Please don't go out of your way to spare my delicate sensibilities."

"I won't."

I suppose I should have been annoyed with him, but I couldn't manage it. His tone of voice was just too precious - sarcasm so overdone it showed clearly the jealousy lying just beneath the surface. I found myself enjoying his discomfort, but I couldn't bear to keep up the pretense.

"Not to worry, Mulder. Female friend."

The deferred seed finally made its way into his mouth. He sucked, cracked and spit the shell back into his hand before speaking again.

"Old friend in town for the evening?"

"Nope. New friend. Woman I met at the gym."

"Since when do you make casual friends so easily?"

"I don't. But she's different. She's just sort of ... I don't know. I like her. She's easy to talk to."

I sensed Mulder stiffen beside me. "What did you talk about? What did you tell her?"

"What do you mean, what did I tell her? We just talked, that's all." I was getting a little defensive. I knew what Mulder was really thinking - about the shady figures who haunted our lives, who hovered in dark corners waiting for us to slip up so they could derail us, divert us from discovering hidden truths about cover-ups and conspiracies. The worst part was that I'd come to share much of his paranoia. That's exactly why neither of us had any friends. As a lifestyle, "Trust no one" is pretty lonely. I knew I should have been more careful talking to Rachel Sachs.

And yet I couldn't quite believe it had been a mistake.

Mulder would have tried to convince me otherwise if he'd had time. As it turned out, he didn't - The white-hot flash of light that erupted all around us was so intense that the temperature in the car increased perceptibly, despite the fact that all the windows were closed. Next thing I knew, the light was gone and the Lanza home was engulfed in roaring flames.

"Shit! Did you see anyone go in or out, Mulder?" I was screaming, my hand grabbing for the door handle as I spoke.

There was no reply. I looked over to where Mulder sat. He was still as a statue, staring at the flames, transfixed, the old terror in his eyes.

"Mulder! Mulder, listen to me!" I was already out of the car, leaning in to get his attention. "I'm going in to get the people out of there. Call the fire department."

No answer.

"Mulder! Call the fire department!" When I saw his hand start to move toward his cell phone, I took off. I think he yelled something after me, but I'm not sure.

As I ran toward the house, I could see the entire structure was involved in flame. It was bizarre - the fire had just broken out. It must have started somewhere - even the most talented arsonist has to start a fire in one part of a building. But it was as though the entire house had just gone up like a match head, all at once. I didn't relish the thought of going in there, but I knew the whole family was still inside - two adults, three children and a dog. Mentally, I crossed the dog off my list. I had my limits.

I barely slowed down when I reached the front door - just took a flying leap and transferred the momentum of the run from the car to the kick. The door burst open and I fell through. The heat of the flames that licked at every wall assaulted me as I picked myself up off the floor.

"Hello! Where are you? Answer me!" I called out, not thinking about words or names, just hoping a human voice would respond.

There was a staircase in front of me. As I started up, four figures appeared at the top, barreling toward me. One adult held a child's hand in each of his, and he didn't stop to say hello as he ran past with them. The other grabbed me by the shoulders and started shaking as she screamed.

"Joey! Oh my god, Joey! We couldn't get there! Joey! My Joey!"

"Where? Where is Joey?"

"Up there! We couldn't get there!"

"Where? Tell me what room! Where is Joey?"

Her eyes caught mine, and I could see a little of the hysteria ebb.

"Back bedroom...end of the hall. But you can't get there! Maybe the back stairs...."

"Where are they?"

"Through the kitchen!"

"Okay, I'll get Joey. Get out of the house! NOW!"

I followed her back down the stairs and watched her race out the door. Turning, I headed toward the back of the house. Finding the back stairs was easy. Getting up them was going to be more difficult. Already, the wall that ran along them was starting to burn.

I raced back to the living room and spotted some heavy drapes that were still unscorched. It must have taken less than a minute to rip one down and separate it from the curtain rod, but everything was happening in slow motion and it seemed like hours. Dashing back to the kitchen, I stuffed as much of the drape as I could into the sink and turned the water on full blast. When it was soaked through, I grabbed it and wrapped myself inside. I didn't stop to think before racing up the burning staircase. Thinking would have been a mistake at that point.

When I'd made it upstairs, I could see why Joey's parents had been so frantic. The hallway was L-shaped, and a wall of hot, angry flame roared in the bend. The other bedrooms must have been around the corner, on the other side of that impenetrable barrier. There was only one room in the section where I was standing. I flung the door open.

"Joey! Joey! Answer me Joey!"

At first I couldn't see the boy, and I felt myself start to panic. Wrong room? Had he moved somewhere else? Then I heard him - a frightened whimper from under the bed. I bit down on the terror that was starting to rise in my own throat as I sensed the walls all around me grow hot, flames licking out from all four corners of the room.

Dropping onto my stomach, I saw a sobbing ball of huddled boy.

"Joey! Come with me now!" I was putting as much into that command as I could, trying to reach through his hysteria. It was nowhere near enough, so I just grabbed a leg and pulled.

He slid toward me, a dead weight. When I had him free of the bed, I lifted him up and turned for the door.

Which wasn't a door any more. It was a solid wall of fire.

At that moment, the panic I'd been battling was a heartbeat away from winning out. The thick smoke that curled through the room seemed to tighten its iron grip on my lungs; I could feel my skin start to blister from the heat. The child in my arms was forgotten. Everything was forgotten but the horrifying reality that, in a moment, I would burn to death.

Vaguely, I heard something familiar behind the roaring sound of fire all around and the blood rushing in my ears. Like a faint memory of something that happened a long time ago, I felt a touch on my arm.

"Scully!" The sound of my name broke the spell. The light touch became a painfully hard grasp. The sound was Mulder's voice. I wheeled around and saw him, his eyes as wild with terror as mine must have been.

"Mulder! We're trapped!"

"This way! Follow me!" He turned and ran through a door in the wall behind me. The door had been closed when I came in, and I'd thought it led to a closet. No - it was a small bathroom - with an open window. Mulder was already halfway out. I wondered if I'd break anything jumping, but that didn't matter because it was preferable to burning alive.

Then, miraculously, Mulder's face was hovering just outside the window.

He was standing on something.

"Scully! Give me the kid!"

I handed the whimpering child out the window, then climbed through myself. I found myself standing on the roof of the back porch, vaguely aware of the sound of sirens coming from the front of the house. Mulder was flat on his stomach at the edge, lowering Joey Lanza as close to the ground as he could with his long arms. I heard a gentle thud as the boy dropped. Then Mulder went over the edge of the roof. I got there in time to see him shimmy down the corner post. I was halfway down myself when I felt his hands on my hips, like a life saver thrown to a drowning woman. Solid.

When my feet touched the ground, I turned to thank him. It was already too late. He was running down the driveway, pushing his way past the fire fighters who had just arrived. I took off after him.

I didn't have to keep up with him. I knew exactly where he was going, and what he'd find when he got there.

Little Lisa Cannon was already coming to when I arrived. Mulder was shaking her roughly, yelling her name over and over.

"Mulder! Stop it!" I grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away from the prostrate child.

"It's her, Scully! She's doing it! She knows!"

"Mulder! She's just a child!"

We were both shouting despite the fact that the general ruckus of the fire scene was far enough away to fade into the background. I suppose it was the after-effects of the adrenaline. We were screaming right in each other's' faces.

"She a killer, Scully!"

As if in reprimand, a soft sound bubbled up behind Mulder's yelled words. For a moment, we were both confused. We looked at the little girl who was now sitting at our feet. She was sobbing softly.

"Lisa?" I kneeled so my face was level with hers. "Don't cry. It's all right."

"He's going to be so angry." Her words were barely intelligible through the choking, childish crying.

"Agent Mulder? No, he's not angry with you. He won't yell at you."

"No. Him."

"Who?"

She didn't answer. Just sat there crying helplessly. I stood.

"Mulder, we should take her home. She's clearly..."

A horrible shriek sliced through the air, cutting off my words, my thoughts. I saw Mulder's eyes go wide as he stared at the ground behind me.

I turned. Lisa Cannon lay with her back arched hard so that only her shoulders and legs touched the ground. Her face was white, and there was a trail of frothy spit leaking from the corner of her mouth.

"She's having some kind of convulsion," I said as I knelt beside her. "Mulder, get me..."

Heat. Searing heat. I touched the girl and felt as though I'd touched white-hot metal. I fell backward in shock.

"Molech! Flame of Ben-hinnom! Molech, he is yours!" She wailed the strange words, her body pulled taut like a tortured marionette. "Molech! I'm sorry! Molech! I am yours!"

As suddenly as it began, it ended. Lisa collapsed to the ground, her body now limp and sobbing wordlessly.

I looked at my hand. An angry red blister was beginning to form.

"Mulder," I said, hearing my voice shake. "What's going on here?"

"You were right, Scully. We should take her home."

I was in the office early, though I'd barely had time to go home, shower and change. Still, Mulder was there before me.

"Do you read the bible, Scully?"

"I used to. A long time ago."

He began reading from the book that lay open on the desk before him, his voice the soft monotone to which I was so accustomed.

"'And they built the high places of the Ba'al, which are in the valley of Ben-hinnom, to cause their sons and their daughters to pass through the fire to Molech; which I did not command them, nor did it come into my mind that they should do this abomination, to cause Yehuda to sin.'"

"What is that?"

"Jeremiah 32:35."

"What does it mean?"

"I wasn't too sure myself, so I did some research. Found this in John C. Gibson's Canaanite Mythology. 'Not explicitly found in the Ugarit texts, Molech is a bit of an enigma He shows up in the Old Testament in Leviticus 18 and 20, 1 Kings 11, 2 Kings 23, and Jerimiah 32 From that he appears to be a god of the Ammonites - a region west of the Jordan - whose worshipers sacrificed children in fires at temples, some of which were in the Valley of Hinnom, just south of Jerusalem.'"

"You're saying that a six-year-old girl from Virginia has something to do with an ancient Canaanite god?"

"You heard her, Scully. You saw how that fire started. And you got burned when you touched her. How's the hand, by the way?"

I stared down at my bandaged hand for a long time feeling like my tongue was too heavy to speak.

"Better," I finally managed. "Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for coming in after me."

"You're welcome." I looked up at him. He looked as tired as I felt.

"I guess we'd better go talk to her again, huh?"

We saw the flashing lights from three blocks away. By the time we pulled up to that quiet little block with its row of immaculate front lawns, we knew what we would find.

Some of the fire engines were already starting to pull away. There wasn't much they could do, after all. The Cannon house was a blackened shell.

We flashed our badges at the fire chief.

"Any casualties?" No small talk for Mulder.

"One. Little girl. Six years old."

"Lisa Cannon," Mulder and I said simultaneously.

"Yeah." The fire chief sounded surprised. "You two know the family?"

I glanced over at my partner. "No," I said. I finished typing and hit 'Print.'

"Skinner's not going to like this one," I said. Mulder was sitting at his desk fiddling restlessly with a pencil.

"Skinner doesn't like any of 'em," he replied. He sounded beat. Worse than beat. Depressed.

"Listen, Mulder, why don't we go get something to eat? You could use a drink, too. I know I could."

He didn't even look at me. "No thanks. I'm going home."

Without another word, he was out the door.

"Bastard," I mumbled.

I just sat there for a long time, listening to the whir of the printer until it stopped. Then I sat there for a long time more. Then I picked up the phone.

"Rachel? Dana ... Actually, rotten. You doing anything? ... Wanna go get something to eat? ... Great. I'll meet you there."

End