DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters in this story belong to CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network. I mean no infringement. The character of Trent Madison is my own invention and should not be used without my permission. This is chapter two of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees of Separation. The events in this story precede the events in 12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations. 12 RITES OF PASSAGE #2: "Release" By Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com Feb. 12, 1998 4:47 p.m. F.B.I. Headquarters Washington D.C. Fox Mulder picked up the framed photo that had sat on his desk for as long as he could remember. The small, smiling face that stared back at him was as familiar as his own, as familiar as Scully's. Wavy dark hair, a dusting of freckles, a gaptoothed grin that haunted him asleep or awake. It's strange, he thought, that I never really understood how much I loved her until she was gone. Before, she'd been a pest, a kid sister whose constant ploys for attention had bugged the hell out of him. He'd always assumed she was his father's favorite--whatever Samantha wanted, Samantha got, while he himself had never seemed to be able to do anything to please his father. Strange that when it came time to make a choice, his father had chosen to let the bastards take Samantha.... He shook his head, lowering the photograph gently to the desk, as if he were holding the precious and fragile essence of his lost sister in his hands. She'd been gone for twenty-four years--three times the number of years that he'd known her. Like an ancient creature preserved in amber, Samantha lived in this photograph, captured in time, unaltered by the intervening years. When he was younger, he took comfort in that thought--he held onto the photo, memorized it, learned everything he could about who she had been--what she had loved, what she had dreamed about, what she had hated. He'd searched his memories, hounded his parents and Samantha's friends for stories, searched through her room and her books and even the little girl's diary he'd found hidden under her mattress in the old house in Chilmark. He made her more real to him in absence than she had ever been before, and he'd clung to that picture of her, imprinted it on his heart and his mind against the day when she came back. He'd thought it would be a matter of days, maybe weeks. Not months. Not years. Not decades. He put on his reading glasses and picked up the fax that Trent Madison had sent a few minutes ago. It was a proposal for putting the house in Chilmark on the market. Property taxes in Massachussetts were slated to go up at the beginning of the next fiscal year, and, according to his father's estate lawyer, the house in Chilmark would quickly become a drain on the estate. "It's sitting there, unused and unvisited, Fox," Madison had said over the phone a few minutes ago. "It's time to put it on the market, get some return out of it. Your mother won't listen to me about this, Fox, but I think she'll listen to you." He shook his head again, barely restraining the urge to crumple the fax and throw it across the room. He knew that the house was just a house--wood and bricks and sheetrock, inanimate and of no real value beyond its function as a home. It could burn to the ground tomorrow and the world would keep revolving, the sun would keep shining, the clocks would keep ticking. But in his heart, he knew that something essential would die. Maybe something as essential as hope. As long as the Chilmark house was there, he could pretend that any day now, Samantha would be coming home. He'd find her and take her back to the house in Chilmark and everything would finally be okay again. His adult mind recognized the foolishness of those thoughts, but there was a part of Fox Mulder that would forever be 12 years old, scared and longing for his sister's return. And that was the part of him that knew the phone call he was about to make would change his life forever. He took a deep breath and picked up the telephone. Three rings later, his mother's voice greeted him. "Hello?" "Hi, mom. I need to see you. Can I come up tonight?" * * * * * 4:47 p.m. F.B.I. Headquarters Records and Information Division Dana Scully frowned at the computer operator. "A week ago?" Gail Coen nodded. "Her roommate at Yale reported her missing on February 6th. Her parents flew up from somewhere down South--" "Charleston," Scully supplied softly, staring at the impersonal lines of information scrolling slowly down the computer screen. Sarah Elizabeth Chandler, age 34, hair brown, eyes green, 5'6" and 116 pounds, finishing the first year of her PhD candidacy at Yale. Most of the information on the screen she knew already. It was what she DIDN'T know that worried her. She slowly circled Gail Coen's chair, pinching her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger. "Do the New Haven police have any leads on her disappearance?" Gail shook her head. "Not that we know of." Scully sighed. "Thanks, Gail. Can you print me out a copy of everything you have there?" "Sure." As Gail went to work, Scully picked up the phone on the desk nearby and punched in Mulder's extension. It was busy. Scully frowned at the receiver for a second, then hung up the phone and turned back to Gail, who passed her a file folder. "There you go." Scully took the file and tucked it under her arm, murmuring her thanks to the records clerk, and headed for the elevators. As she was waiting for the elevator, she switched on her cellular phone and punched in a New Haven, Connecticut number. After three rings, a warm, masculine voice answered. "Dr. Crane." "Hi, Benton, it's Dana." Benton's voice hugged her through the airwaves. "Dana, honey! Long time, no hear!" "Listen, I have a favor to ask...." The elevator reached her floor as she was turning off her phone. She slipped the phone into her jacket pocket and stepped into the elevator. She pressed the button for the basement and flipped open the folder. The photograph that the New Haven Police had scanned and faxed to the FBI was about three years old and, according to the accompanying note, not completely accurate. The woman in the photo wore her hair short and apparently colored, for in the black and white photo she looked more blonde than brunette. The memo jotted by the detective in charge of the missing persons case noted that Sarah's hair was now a few inches past shoulder length and back to her natural chestnut brown. Scully held up the photo and tried to visualize the woman with darker, longer hair. It was strange, she thought. She'd been corresponding with Sarah for months--had even chatted with her in I.R.C. a couple of times--and considered her a friend, even a close friend. Was that why she looked at this photograph of an unfamiliar face and felt a deep sense of--what? Recognition? Familiarity? "So you're Sarah," she murmured to the photograph. The woman in the photo stared back, her eyes shadowed and mysterious. I've got a secret, the eyes told Scully. Can you figure it out? She studied the photograph until the elevator car reached the basement with a soft "ding." The doors glided open and Scully exited, slipping the photograph back inside the folder. She tucked the file back under her arm and walked down the hall to the office she shared with Fox Mulder. He sat bent forward over his semi-cluttered desk, looking at a sheaf of papers in front of him, his eyes intent behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Scully felt a now-familiar surge of attraction, intensified when his gaze lifted to meet hers. She waited for the little half-smile with which he normally graced her, but today his lips didn't even twitch. "What's wrong?" she asked, immediately aware that all was not well. Mulder shook his head. "Nothing. Did you have a nice visit with your mom and your brother?" Something WAS wrong--and now she was about to head out of town and abandon him. "Mulder, I was planning to drive up to Connecticut to visit a friend this weekend, but if--" He interrupted her. "Really? I'm headed to Connecticut myself." "To see your mom?" "Yeah." His expression was outwardly placid, but Scully had been working with him for almost six years. She knew when something was messing with his head. "What's wrong, Mulder? Is your mother okay? She hasn't had a relapse--" "No." He met her concerned gaze. "It's a long story, Scully. Long and ancient and not worth talking about. So, you're visiting a friend?" She spared him a small smile. "I DO have friends, you know." He smiled back, his expression a cross between affectionate and rueful. "When do you leave?" "I thought I'd leave tonight. How about you?" "Same thing." Scully sat in the chair in front of his desk, wondering if she should tell him the rest of her reason for going to Connecticut. They didn't keep secrets from each other--not anymore, not since they'd almost let secrets and fears drive them apart a couple of years ago. But Scully also didn't want to drag Mulder into another dead-end missing woman case, especially one that involved a woman who had come to believe that she might have experienced alien abductions--a woman who was roughly the age of Mulder's lost sister Samantha. That would be cruel, and Scully would NOT do that to him. Not until she knew more about the case. "Driving up?" he asked. She drew her mind away from Sarah Chandler and looked at her partner, noting the sadness etching small lines in his lean face. Her stomach coiled into a little knot of empathy. In her years with Mulder, she'd learned to take his pain into herself, make it hers, absorb it, wrestle with it, share it with him so he didn't have to be so horribly alone. "Yeah, I thought I'd take the car. You fishing for a ride up?" She gave him a little smile. "Is that an offer?" Her smile faded a bit, his words catching her by surprise. "Sure." He nodded. "I wouldn't mind the company. And my mother's been asking how you are. You wouldn't have to stay and visit, but maybe you could pop in, say hello for a minute." Scully's stomach tightened further. Something must really be wrong, she thought as she studied her partner's expressionless face, looking for clues. Mulder the loner never asked for company, and he sure as hell had never asked her to "pop in" and say hello to his mother. "Mulder, what's going on? Why are you going to visit your mother all of a sudden?" He didn't answer but reached out and touched the picture on his desk, his long fingers tracing the shape of his lost sister. Scully felt an old, familiar ache that had first taken root in her heart almost six years ago in a hotel room in Oregon, when she'd watched a grown man turn back into a scared, wounded twelve-year-old. For six long years she'd watched this man search for his sister--and for his lost childhood--with a ferocity and a fanaticism greater than any she'd ever known. So his next words came as a complete shock. "Scully, Samantha's dead." * * * * * Scully stared at Mulder, certain she had misunderstood his low, hoarse statement. "What?" "It's been too long, Scully. My God, I'm an F.B.I. agent, I know the statistics. Most of the time, you don't find an abductee alive after 25 DAYS, much less after 25 years." Mulder set his glasses on the desk in front of him and rubbed his temples. "Samantha isn't going to be found alive. It's well past time I faced it." "But the tissue sample you found in her file--in the tunnels at the mine in West Virginia--Mulder, it was a recent tissue sample!" Scully's stomach clenched at the dead expression she saw in Mulder's eyes. He couldn't lose hope. She couldn't let him. Even if she knew, deep down, that he was probably right, that Samantha was probably dead, she couldn't bear to see his faith ripped away from him. She wanted to believe that Samantha was still alive, that she was out there, that she could be found. She NEEDED to believe. He shook his head. "It's okay, Scully." He met her worried gaze, his expression almost gentle, as if he were trying to comfort her. "This hasn't been all about Samantha for a long time. She's not coming back--but the truth is STILL out there. I still need to know what my father was involved in--why Samantha was sacrificed." His eyes darkened slightly. "What happened to you...." Tears pricked Scully's eyes as she realized how much he was trying to be strong. He's doing it for me, she thought. So I won't worry about him. She crossed and crouched next to his chair, ignoring the twinge of prostest from her injured leg. She looked up into his pale face, seeing beyond the expressionless mask to the anguish and despair beneath. With great determination, she quelled the soft, helpless moan that rose in her throat. Mulder couldn't bear to know that she was hurting for him. She took a swift, steadying breath through her nose and curled her fingers around his arm. "Mulder, don't give up." He looked down at her, a faint smile playing across his beautiful mouth for a microsecond before it disappeared. "I thought you saved your inspirational speeches for hotel parking garages." A half-smile twitched the corners of her lips as she remembered a clandestine meeting in the darkened parking garage of the Watergate Hotel. He'd been close to giving up, and she'd talked him into continuing, into keeping the faith. What would have happened if I'd stayed silent? she wondered. Where would I be? What would I be doing? Would Melissa still be alive? She looked away, tears burning her eyes. "Scully." Sorrow and regret suffused his voice. He knew her so well, he could practically read her mind. "Maybe this time it's time to give up this fantasy, Scully. Before anyone else gets hurt." She looked up at him again. "Don't do this." He cupped her cheek with his palm, his thumb playing lightly over her chin. "I have to do this, Scully. I can't go on with my life until I do this." His touch burned her skin, seared her to her core. He'd always been able to make her feel more than anyone else she'd ever known. But that included pain as well as pleasure, and right now, she ached. Her grief for Mulder's loss was almost as intense as her grief for her own sister's death. "What can I do to help you?" she whispered. He shook his head. "Nothing." He dropped his hand from her face and gently moved her hands from his arm. "If we're going to Connecticut tonight, I'd better clear some things out of my in-boxes." She stood, not hurt by his withdrawal. Of all the people in the world, she understood what he was feeling. She brushed her fingers through his hair in an unconscious echo of a night almost five years ago. "Why don't I meet you at your apartment around six?" He nodded, not meeting her gaze. Scully grabbed her purse and left the office without another word, recognizing that right now words were neither necessary nor desirable. She almost made it home before the tears fell. * * * * * Mulder packed a picture of Samantha as he always did whenever he was planning to be away from his apartment for any length of time. He didn't know what the photograph was supposed to signify to him--a reminder of his quest? He needed no physical reminder; he bore the demands and consequences of his search for Samantha and the truth like scars on his soul. Maybe he carried the photograph for the same reason he slept with the television on--it was a habit he was terrified to break for fear that his whole life would spin out of control if he didn't stick to the comforting familiarity of the routine. He heard Scully's footsteps approaching his door just as he was zipping his overnight bag. He'd know that sound anywhere, he thought, allowing a small smile to break through the relentless gloom that had hounded him since the call from his father's estate lawyer. After almost six years, Scully was as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror. He hadn't had this long-term a relationship in--hell, he'd NEVER had such a long-term relationship. That was why he had to do this, had to remove the last thing that stood between them. He anticipated her knock and opened the door. She looked up at him, a little twitch of her cinnamon eyebrows betraying her surprise. "Ready to go?" she asked. He slid his arm through the nylon handles of his overnight bag and nodded. "I told Mom to expect us around 11:00." The drive to Greenwich, Connecticut from Washington D.C. passed in almost complete silence. He was glad for it--and grateful that he had Scully, who knew what he needed without having to be told. Six years together had given them the familiarity of a married couple--without the sex, he amended with dark amusement. The amusement faded into something like regret. Soon, he thought. Someday soon he and Scully would deal with all the what-ifs they never seemed to face. But he couldn't think about the future until he'd first dealt with the past. They reached Greenwich by 10:45. Scully parked her car in front of Caroline Mulder's cottage-style house and turned to look at him. "I probably shouldn't stay and visit, Mulder. I have another hour or so of driving to do and it's late." He nodded, knowing she was right. But right now, the last thing in the world he wanted to do was go into that house alone to tell his mother that it was time to give up hope of Samantha ever coming back to them. Scully's gaze softened, tenderness suffusing her expression. She reached for his hand and squeezed gently. "I could come in a for a little while--" He shook his head, turning his hand so that his palm flattened against hers. He twined his fingers through hers, resisting the urge to lift her hand to his lips and taste the warm flesh of her palm. He settled for rubbing his thumb over hers. "No. You'd better go. Will you call and let me know you've arrived safely?" She nodded, her eyes large and luminous in the moonlight that flowed through the windshield, bathing her pale face with an ethereal blue light. Unbidden, he heard words from the distant past. I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you.... The urge to take her in his arms and never let go was as strong at that moment as it had ever been. Though he wasn't fool enough to discount his very real attraction to Dana Scully, he realized that what he was feeling wasn't about sex. It was about a bond more powerful and significant than he'd ever known. She was in his blood, in his brain, in the fibers that held him together. She made a soft sighing sound. "You'd better go." He didn't want to go. But he nodded and tore his gaze away from hers. He didn't allow himself to look at her again until he was outside the car, overnight bag in hand. She had stepped out of the car and was looking at him over the sedan's roof. "Thanks for the ride." A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. "Any time. Say hi to your mom for me." "I will." He made himself turn away and walk down the cobblestone path to his mother's door. Behind him, he heard the car's engine growl and the soft hiss-pop of pebbles as she pulled out of the drive. He closed his eyes for a moment, disconcerted by the almost physical ache of separation. When had she become indispensable? He shook his head at the ridiculous question. When had she NOT been indispensable? His mother answered his soft knock, her world-weary face brightening at the sight of him. He smiled in return, giving her the hug he'd denied himself with Scully. "How're you feeling?" She took his hand and led him into the living room. "Better everyday, Fox." She sat in the arm chair across from where he sat on the sofa. "Ms. Scully couldn't come in?" So formal, he thought with an inner chuckle. Of course, considering he called her Scully himself-- "She had another hour's drive. She's visiting a friend in New Haven." That was really all he knew, he realized. She hadn't told him anything else about her trip--not the name of her friend or where she'd be staying. "She said to tell you hello." His mother nodded, and an uncomfortable silence fell over them for a moment. Mulder finally took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I talked to Trent Madison today." His mother's lips tightened into a thin line. "No, Fox--" "The property is going to become a drain on your assets, Mom--" "I'm not selling the house, Fox. Not when there's still a chance--" "There's not." She looked up at him, stricken. Tears stung his eyes and he drew a shuddery breath. "Mom, she's not coming back. It's been too long. Twenty-five years too long." "No." He closed his eyes, fighting for the strength to utter the next words. Tears squeezed between his clenched eyelids. "Mom, Samantha is dead. It's time we faced that. It's time to mourn her and then let her go." He forced his eyes open to look at her. "No!" She pushed herself to her feet, her movements a bit ungainly, the lingering after-effect of the massive stroke she'd suffered two years earlier. He rose to his feet, hands outstretched toward her, but she backed away. "No, Fox--she's all that's left for me now! I won't let YOU take her from me, too!" He flinched, reeling as if she'd struck him. Her eyes widened, her mouth curved into an "O" of horror, and a thick, terrible hush descended over them. His soft, hoarse voice broke the heavy silence. "I'm not him, Mom." Her face crumpled and she drew a swift, sobbing breath. She turned and stumbled toward the back of the house. He took a couple of faltering steps toward her as if to follow before he stopped and sagged against the wall, pressing his face against the cool plaster. He heard a door snap shut down the hall and the soft, muffled sounds of weeping. His back against the wall, he slid down to the floor in a crouch, his head lowered between his bent knees, and wept as well. * * * * * Benton Crane's Apartment New Haven, CT February 12, 1998 11:59 p.m. "And now she's missing." Dana Scully wrapped her hands around the mug of hot chocolate Benton had made for her while she was showering and changing for bed. Wrapped in her favorite terrycloth robe and sipping the hot, sweet milk, she felt ten years old again--which is how old she'd been when she first laid eyes on Benton Crane. He sat across the table from her, his impossibly handsome face etched with gentle concern. "And you're up here, less than a month since you almost died of a gunshot wound, just because this woman you've never even met has gone missing?" "I know, it sounds crazy, but--" "But she claims to be an abductee, and you need to know what happened to her," Benton finished for her. "Because of what happened to you three years ago." Scully looked down at the creamy brown cocoa in her cup. "What if they've taken her like they took me?" "They?" Benton's voice was deceptively neutral, but she could tell by the undertone that he wanted her to admit her fears to him. "Whoever took me did tests on me, Benton. I may never know the purpose or extent of those tests, but I have to try to find out. For myself and for Sarah." "And for Mulder." She bit her lip. "He told me today that he believes his sister is dead." Benton's eyebrows rose. "I'm surprised." "I don't think I can bear it, Benton." She stirred the cocoa with a red plastic coffee straw, watching the mini- marshmallows swirl and dance, leaving little white trails like comets in a chocolate sky. "Mulder's whole life is wrapped up in his quest for his sister. If he loses that hope, what will he have left?" "You." She looked up at him. "What if I'm not enough?" Benton smiled at her, affection suffusing his boyish face. "Stupid question, Dana. You're more than enough for any man." She smiled. "You're prejudiced." "Yes, I am." He reached out and covered her hand with his. "But I'm also right. Look, I know you haven't told me half of everything you and Mulder have been through together, but what I've heard is enough to know that what you've got is rare and worth fighting for. Now, my opinion of your partner isn't exactly as high as yours, but I don't think he's a big enough fool that he doesn't know what a treasure you are." She squeezed his hand. "I knew there was a reason I came to see you." "That and the free room and board for the weekend?" He grinned at her. She grinned back. "And the hot chocolate." "So you're not going to tell Mulder about your investigation into Sarah's disappearance?" She shook her head. "Not with all that's going on. Sarah's somewhere around Samantha's age, give or take a year or two. I think it would just rip open all the old wounds he's trying to heal, and I can't do that to him." "I don't like the idea of your investigating alone, Dana. There's a reason cops have partners, you know." "It's not like I'm going to be hunting down a crazed killer, Benton. I'm just going to follow up behind the New Haven P.D., make sure they're not missing anything. It's perfectly safe." "Well, promise me that if it gets the slightest bit hairy out there, you'll call for back up, okay?" "Okay." She took another sip of the cocoa, letting the hot liquid warm her. She glanced at her wrist and realized that she'd left her watch in the bedroom. "What time is it?" "A little after midnight." She frowned. She hadn't called Mulder to tell him she was safe. She hated to call him this late, especially since he was at his mother's house, but she also knew him well enough to know he'd never get to sleep until she called. She stood, downing the last of the chocolate milk. "I'm going to call it a night, Benton. See you in the morning." He grabbed her hand as she passed, winking. "Say hi to Mulder for me." She chuckled, squeezed his hand, and headed for the spare bedroom. * * * * * Mulder lay on the sofa, staring at the exposed beams of the cottage ceiling, surrounded by the heavy blanket of silence that had fallen over the night. His mother had stopped crying fifteen minutes ago. He'd run out of tears not long after that. But the pain lingered, fresh and sharp and twisting in his heart. Am I my father's son? Am I any less obsessed, any less willing to sacrifice anything and everyone to my quest? Is there really any difference? Perpetuating lies or uncovering truths--the goals were different, but did that really matter if his methods were similarly ruthless and dangerous? His cell phone rang, shattering the silence like a klaxon. He answered it. "Mulder." "Hey, it's me." Her voice brought tears stinging to his eyes again. He cleared his throat. "Hey. You made it safe?" "Yeah." Her voice was dark with concern. "Mulder, are you okay?" He closed his eyes, tears squeezing from the corners. "I'm fine, Scully." Her soft sigh whispered into his ear. "No, you're not. What happened?" "I told my mother that I believe Samantha's dead." Scully was silent for a second, but he could feel her concern filling the quiet space between them. "She didn't take it well, " he added, grimly amused at the understatement. "What can I do? Do you want me to come get you?" God, yes, he thought, come get me and take me home with you. He chewed his lower lip and forced himself to answer. "No, I'm going to let Mom have time to process everything and then I'll talk to her again in the morning." "I'm going to be busy most of tomorrow, but I'll have my cell phone with me, so don't hesitate to call me if you need me. Nothing I'm doing here is so important that I can't drop it and be in Greenwich in an hour if you need me." He shook his head, tears filling his eyes again. God, I don't deserve her. "I'm a big boy, Scully--I can handle this." "I know you can." Her voice sounded a bit thick--was she crying? Crying for him? "I just don't want you to think you have to hide things from me, Mulder." "Isn't that my line?" he asked, forcing a watery chuckle. "You get all the best lines," she returned. "Listen, let me give you this address--it's where I'm staying if you can't get through to me on the phone." He listened to her recite an address on Ponce Street, not far from the Yale campus. "Got it. So, are you and your friend having a good time?" "Yeah, it's been nice catching up. We don't get to see enough of each other." He was glad. Working with him had cut Scully off from so many of her friends because of the strange hours and numerous out of town cases. He was glad she was getting a chance to catch up with one of her girlfriends, make a weekend out of it. It would be good for her. "Have fun, Scully, and don't think about me." "Sure, Mulder, I'll do just that." The gentle sarcasm in her voice brought a smile to his face. "Night." "Night." He switched off his phone and tucked it into his pocket again. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Scully and Samantha, wishing he didn't have to give up one to have the other. But he could thank his father for that. For that fateful, long-ago choice that was now forcing him to make a choice of his own. Was it this hard for you, Dad? Did it tear you into pieces? Why did you choose to sacrifice her? Why not me? Why? * * * * * New Haven Police Dept. February 13, 1998 10:14 a.m. Scully flipped through the file Det. Hanson of the New Haven Police Department had provided after a few moments of persuasion. He watched her from behind his desk in the communal detectives' office, his gray eyes wary. After eight years with the FBI--and six years with Mulder--Scully was used to being regarded with a combination of fascination and suspicion. Like always, she ignored it and concentrated on the case. "So the last person to see her, as far as we know, was her roommate Anne Milliken?" "Far as we know." Hanson leaned forward. "I'm still not a hundred percent sure we can really term this a missing person's case, Agent Scully. I mean, technically it is, of course, but this Chandler woman was a little flaky, you know?" Scully pressed her lips together, fighting annoyance--as much at herself as at Det. Hanson. If she were sitting on the other side of the desk, listening to Mulder talking about the Sarah Chandler case, wouldn't she be saying the same exact thing? The woman believes she was abducted by aliens, Mulder--who's to say she didn't just wander off somewhere in search of a cosmic experience? She didn't like herself very much right then. "Did Ms. Milliken have any idea where Sarah was going when she left the apartment the morning of the sixth?" Hanson frowned. "I'm sure that's in my field notes somewhere." Meaning that even if Ms. Milliken had given him a lead, he hadn't bothered to check it out. Her annoyance grew, directed more toward Hanson this time--she KNEW she wouldn't ignore a lead, no matter how fruitless she thought the search might prove to be. She flipped through the papers in the file until she came to Anne Milliken's statement. "Ms. Milliken stated that Sarah had made plans to meet someone for lunch. Did Ms. Milliken have any idea where Sarah might have gone for lunch?" "Doesn't it say so in the notes?" Scully glanced over the statement again. "No." "Then she must not have said." Or Hanson hadn't asked, Scully added silently. "May I have a copy of this file?" "Are you making an official inquiry?" "Do you have an objection?" She arched one brow at him. He shook his head. "No--if you want to chase this wild goose, be my guest." He nodded toward the anteroom. "Get Sgt. Talbott to make you copies." Scully took the file to the heavy-set uniformed sergeant who manned the inquiry desk, showed her credentials and sat in one of the two battered steel-and-vinyl chairs in the anteroom to wait. While Talbott was running the copies for her, she switched on her cell phone and dialled Mulder's number. After four rings, she got the standard message telling her he was away from his phone. She opened her notebook and found the number she'd jotted down while looking over Sarah Chandler's missing person report. She dialled the number, hoping Anne Milliken wasn't in class. A soft, musical contralto answered. "Hello?" "Anne Milliken, please." "This is Anne." "Ms. Milliken, my name is Dana Scully. I'm a special agent with the FBI--" "You're Sarah's e-mail friend, aren't you?" Anne's voice rose slightly with excitement. "Oh, God, Ms. Scully, did you know Sarah's missing?" "Yes, I do. I'm here in New Haven checking into things myself. Do you think we could talk?" "Of course. Maybe you'll take things more seriously than the cops are. I have a class in ten minutes, but I'll be through by 1:30 or so. Do you have my address? Or would you rather meet me somewhere else?" "I'll come there," Scully answered. She wanted to see where her friend had lived, how she'd lived, what she'd collected and cherished and obsessed over. She needed to reconstruct Sarah Chandler's life piece by piece. Then, maybe, she could figure out what had happened to her. End of #2