XxXxX

Chapter Ten

XxXxX

The front windows of Jeff's second story apartment glowed 
with flickering orange light as the first pumper truck 
shrieked to a stop next to our car.  Men in black coats with 
yellow reflective tape poured out of the fire truck, boots 
slapping against the pavement as they unfurled the hoses and 
began snaking them toward the house. "Looks like Jeff was 
right," Mulder said to me, his breath crystallizing in the 
frozen air.  "He was next."

"Anyone still inside?"  One of the firefighters paused, axe 
in hand, and I again scanned the clusters of onlookers for 
Jeff Purcell.  He had not been among the people who had 
stumbled from the old house a few minutes earlier, coughing 
and clutching their nightclothes.

"Could be Jeff Purcell," Mulder answered, pointing at the 
portion of the house lit in flames.  "That's his apartment, 
there."

"We might have a man inside!" the fireman hollered.  "Get the 
ladder!"

Kazdin arrived with the second truck, his cruiser sending 
spinning light through the craggy tree branches overhead.  
"Holy Jesus," he said as he joined us at the curb.  "Is 
Purcell in there?"

"Don't know yet," Mulder replied.  "But I'd be surprised if 
he was.  Scully and I have been sitting out here for three 
hours, and we didn't see any sign of activity in the house."

"No one in or out?" Kazdin asked.

"Someone could have entered through the rear," I conceded.  
"But no lights were turned on."

The firefighters attacked with fat plumes of water,  which 
slapped against the building like a summer rainstorm.  Stray 
drops pelted my face as the smoke choked air from the sky.  
The  wood warped and crackled; the flames bowed.  I imagined 
Jeff Purcell inside, black and rigid as his bones flaked away 
into ash.

"What the hell is this?" Andy Purcell demanded as he came 
puffing up the hill.  "I was on my way home when I heard on 
the radio that this place was on fire.  What's going on?  
Where the hell is Jeff?"

"We've been unable to determine that," Mulder said.  "But it 
doesn't seem like your brother was inside."

Kazdin peered past his boss down the road to Purcell's car.  
"You come from the stationhouse, Andy?"

"Yeah, there should be two black and whites rolling up any 
second now."  He glared at me and Mulder.  "You were here 
when this started and you didn't see anything?  What the hell 
are you good for, then?"

He stalked off muttering insults that would have spun J. 
Edgar Hoover in his grave, and a few seconds later we heard 
him trying to force his way into the smoldering apartment.  
As two of the firefighters held him off, a third stuck his 
head out of one of the windows and signaled the "all clear."  
Kazdin turned to us with a faintly horrified expression on 
his face.

"I wonder what happened to Jeff," he said, hesitating for a 
moment.  Then he shook his head. "You know, it's funny, but I 
could have sworn..."

We didn't get to find out what he thought because at that 
moment Lee-Lee came running up the street, screaming, "Jeff!  
Oh, my God, Jeff!"

"Easy, easy."  Mulder caught her by the shoulders as she 
tried to rush past.  


"I told you he was next!  I told you!"  

"It's all right," Mulder said, holding her tighter.  "Jeff 
wasn't in the house.  It's okay."

She sniffled, her face chalk white under the street light's 
glare.  "He's all right?"

"He wasn't in his apartment," Mulder repeated.  "But we're 
still having trouble finding him.  Do you know where he is?"

She shook her head in slow-motion, going limp in Mulder's 
grasp.  "No.  I haven't seen Jeff in two days."

She was swaying as though her knees might buckle at any 
moment, so Mulder walked her over to the curbside grass and 
sat down with her at the edge.  Kazdin wandered away toward 
the house, but I chose to sit at her other side, my coat 
tucked between me and the cold, wet ground.  Lee-Lee 
shuddered inside her sweater.

"You've got to find him," she whispered through thin, white 
fingers.  "Please, you've got to find him.  I don't think 
Andy is even looking."

"We'll find him," Mulder said, but she did not look 
convinced.  "You said this morning that Jeff thought this 
might happen, that he suspected he would be the next target."

She nodded.  "Yeah, that's what he told me a few days ago.  I 
think that must be why he left town."

"Lee-Lee," I said, trying for a reasonable tone, "you also 
said that you thought your mother's ghost was settings these 
fires.  Even if there were evidence to support that claim, 
it's hard to understand why Jeff would be a target."

Lee-Lee was silent.  She sucked her hands inside her sweater, 
chewing on the knit cuff.  "I...I don't know, either," she 
said finally.

"I think you do," Mulder replied, and she shook her head.

"No.  No, I don't remember."

I met Mulder's eyes as I realized she had just confirmed his 
statement; he didn't seem surprised. "Remember what?" I 
asked.

She fidgeted on the stone curb.  "The murder.  I remember Mom 
and Abe arguing.  Sometimes in my dreams I hear a gunshot.  
But mostly I just remember being outside afterward and seeing 
Abe on the ground."

"What else do you see in your dreams?"  Mulder asked, edging 
closer to her.

"Not much.  Abe and my mother, yelling when I was in my room.  
I hear sirens and see the blood on the driveway.  And 
footsteps.  There are footsteps in the sky that aren't really 
there."  She ducked her head.  "I know that sounds stupid, 
but that's the only way I can explain it."

"You were outside after the murder," I said.  "Did you see 
anything then?  Was Jeff there?"

"I saw Abe," she whispered.  "He was dead.  That's all I 
remember.  I was pretty out of it at the time."  She folded 
her limbs inward like a card table, her chin buried in her 
knees.  

"Could Andy or Jeff have seen the murder?" I asked after a 
moment.

She unscrunched herself long enough to consider the question.  
"I don't know..." she replied slowly.  "We were all in our 
rooms at the time.  Andy and I were next door to each other 
on the second floor, in the front.  I doubt he could have 
seen anything, since I couldn't.  But Jeff...he had the attic 
apartment because he was the oldest.  He could have seen the 
driveway, I guess."  She looked from me to Mulder, her eyes 
huge and dark.  "Do you think that's it?  That's why he's 
next?"

But before we could answer, Kazdin reappeared, looking grim.  
"I think you should come see this."

We followed him up to the house, where firefighters and 
uniformed cops were milling around in equal measure.  Even in 
the dim light I could see the black scorch marks on the side 
of the old white house.  Jeff Purcell's neighbors in the 
building stood around in their nightclothes, looking dismayed 
as they took in the damage to their home.  

"We got it early enough this time that the roof didn't cave 
in," Kazdin said as we squished our way through the water-
logged glass.  "I'm afraid I owe you folks an apology for 
ever dragging you into this mess."

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked at the front door.

Kazdin gestured up the staircase.  "Come see for yourself."

Upstairs, Jeff Pucell's apartment reeked of charred wood and 
melted plastic.  The floorboards were soaked beneath our 
feet, and the walls glistened under the sweep of our 
flashlights.  Drops from the ceiling rained on my neck, and I 
shivered.  "The fire started in here," Kazdin said, leading 
us to the bedroom.  "Careful where you walk.  See these black 
marks on the wall?"

We inspected the V-shaped pattern branded on the far wall of 
Jeff's bedroom.  "It seems to come to a point here at the 
bottom," Mulder observed, stooping to run his hands over the 
peeling, blistering paint.

"Yeah, there's one here, and another over on that wall 
there," Kazdin answered as he shifted his flashlight beam to 
indicate the other scorch marks.  "The fire started at those 
two points worked its way out.  The blisters and scoring on 
the wall there is called 'alligatoring,' and it usually means 
there was an accelerant used to give the fire some gas, so to 
speak.  Whoever set this thing wanted it to burn hard and 
fast."

"You're saying it was man-made," I said.  Mulder stood up and 
wiped his hands on his overcoat.  I waited for him to object, 
to put some paranormal spin on this latest evidence, but he 
merely walked over and peered out the side windows.  A man 
who no longer believed in impossible things.

"'Fraid so," Kazin replied, sounding rueful.  "I've never 
heard of witches using chemicals to start a fire.  Plus, 
there's this."  He walked us around to the back, where we 
navigated through puddles on the linoleum to see that someone 
had jimmied Purcell's kitchen door open.  "They must have 
climbed up the fire escape," Kazdin said.  "Can't imagine a 
witch doing that, either."

"Well someone wanted us to imagine it," Mulder said.

"Yeah, well the question is who," Kazdin groused, toeing a 
nearby puddle.

"No," Mulder replied.  "The first question is why."


XxXxX


Later, as Cathleen fed us warm butter pecan cookies and 
ginger tea in her kitchen, she had the same question.  "Why 
would anyone want to frame a dead woman for murder?"

"It's not about the dead, it's about the living," Mulder 
answered before stuffing an entire cookie into his mouth.  
"Someone wants Lee-Lee and her brothers to think that 
Katherine Centara is back for blood."

"So then maybe the purpose of burning Jeff Purcell's 
apartment this evening was to cement his belief that he would 
be the next victim," I suggested.

Mulder looked thoughtful.  "Convince him or us," he agreed.  
"One thing is for sure -- tonight's fire was very different 
from the previous ones.   Jeff's role in this whole situation 
is still unclear; he didn't even testify at Katherine's 
trial.  I think it's revealing that he wasn't in the 
apartment tonight."

"You think he left town because he was scared?" Cathleen 
asked, sipping her tea. 

"Could be," Mulder answered in a neutral tone, but I 
understood the real possibility in his words.  Arsonists, we 
both knew, often gave themselves away by removing the 
valuables from the property they were about to burn.   
Photos, heirlooms and loved ones had a suspicious way of 
escaping the flames.  Jeff's escape seemed particularly 
suspicious.

"The person setting the fire tonight would have known Jeff 
was not at home," I explained.  "Therefore, murder can't have 
been the motive."

"Right," Mulder said.  "Either the person knew ahead of time 
that Jeff wasn't home..." 

"...or it was Jeff himself," Cathleen breathed in sudden 
understanding.  "My God."

I set down my empty cup.  "Lee-Lee's right -- either way, 
we've got to find him fast."

"First thing in the morning," Mulder agreed.  "Which is in 
about six hours, so I think I'm going to head upstairs now."  
He thanked Cathleen for the tea and stood to leave, looking 
faintly concerned when I did not move to follow.

"I'll be up in a minute," I told him, feeling every one of my 
leftover aches and pains.  I was exhausted, but Cathleen 
looked equally tired, and I didn't want to burden her more 
than we already had.  I offered to help clear away the 
dishes.    

After we had rinsed and dried, Cathleen leaned against the 
counter.  "It's just so hard to even contemplate," she said.  
"Jeff was the golden boy at our school, you know?  Smart, 
handsome, star football player and Harvard-bound brain.  All 
the girls I knew wanted him desperately."

This description did not fit the angry, desperate man I had 
seen in Carson Purcell's office, and I wondered briefly what 
had happened to Todd Pierce, the boy wonder from my high 
school years.  How sad it would be to have your life peak at 
age eighteen.

"We don't know yet that he's guilty of anything," I reminded 
Cathleen.  

She looked away, tossing the dishrag down on the countertop.  
"Well, if he is guilty, I hope you catch him and put him away 
for what he did to those poor people.  Regina had two kids, 
you know."

"We'll do our best," I promised, but she still looked sad.  I 
took a step closer, hesitating a moment.  "Did they ever 
catch the person who hit you?" I asked softly.

"What?"  She jerked her head to look at me.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried..."

"No," she said, her voice less sharp.  "I just...there is no 
someone.  I'm the someone."

"Oh."  It was a stupid, awkward thing to say, but I couldn't 
manage anything else.  

"I was at a wedding," she explained.  "There was champagne, 
lots of it, but I thought I was still okay to drive.  It was 
dark...I didn't know the road.  The usual story."

"I'm sorry." 

"No," she said with sudden fierceness.  "Don't be sorry for 
me.  I nearly took out a car full of teenagers.  It was just 
sheer dumb luck that I hit the tree instead."  She pushed 
away from the counter and walked to the window.  I could hear 
the rain had started again.  "You know the amazing part?" she 
continued after a moment.

I watched the stiff set of her back, the slight tremble in 
her arms.  "No, what?"

"The judge let me off," she said.  "Can you believe that?  I 
nearly kill four people, and he doesn't even give me a slap 
on the wrist."

"Maybe he thought you'd been punished enough," I murmured, 
and she turned around.

"You mean this?" she asked, holding her crutches out in front 
of her.  "This is nothing.  You should have seen my mother's 
disappointment.  You should have seen the look on John's face 
when he came to the hospital."

I remembered him, white-faced and chain-smoking outside of 
the hospital the other evening.  "I don't about that," I told 
her after a moment.  "All I know is how he looks at you now."

Her lips twitched as if she were holding back tears, her eyes 
on the carved oak table that gleamed in the center of the 
room.  "He made that for me," she murmured.  "I used to bring 
him coffee while he worked and tease him about how long it 
was taking.  He said I wouldn't laugh when it was done, 
because he was making it strong enough to last forever."

"An admirable goal," I said.

"Yes," she sighed, "but an impossible one."

I had no more words of comfort.  My head throbbed and my 
fingertips felt ready to fall off from fatigue, so I said 
goodnight, leaving her alone with her reflection in the table 
of impossibility.

XxXxX

On my way back from the bathroom, I saw that Mulder had left 
his bedroom door partway open in invitation.  Soft light 
spilled into the hallway, grazing my toes as I stood deciding 
what to do.  I peeked in and saw him sitting up in bed, hair 
mussed and glasses on as he pored over a file.  My decision 
was made.

"Hey," I said, pushing the door wide as I entered.  He smiled 
and put aside the folder.

"Hey, how's your head doing?"

I sat on the bed.  "It's fine.  What were you reading?"

"More notes on Abe's murder.  I'd like to check out the old 
Purcell family home tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"Yeah.  Pull up a pillow."

I pulled my feet up and eased back against the fluffy down, 
conscious of the lump on the back of my head.  The sheets 
fluttered over my legs as Mulder shared his covers.  I 
couldn't see him, and it took me a minute to realize that 
this was because my eyes were closed.  I blinked.  "You want 
to see the house?"

"Yes, to get the layout of where everyone was at the time of 
the shooting.  But we can talk about that in the morning."

"Hmmm...okay."  He disappeared again, but this time it was 
because he shut off the bedside lamp.  As he twisted to get 
comfortable, I thought about what Cathleen had told me and 
how easily I had made the wrong assumption about her 
accident.  I had a nagging feeling that I had made the same 
mistake with Lee-Lee and her family, that there were truths I 
couldn't see because I'd been too busy inventing them myself.

Abe's death.  The trial.  The fires and the lies.  Lee-Lee's 
mysterious dreams, and now Jeff's disappearance.   "There has 
to be one true thing," I murmured to Mulder as he gathered me 
close.  "A place to start."  I tucked my nose in his warm 
shoulder, already half asleep.

I felt his hands on my back, his lips in my hair; I heard him 
whisper, "This is."

XxXxX 

In the morning, I decided to make a list of the things I 
could be sure were true about the case while Mulder visited 
the old Purcell house and tried to track down the photos of 
Lee-Lee that he'd had enlarged.  My list was pathetic in its 
brevity: 

1. Abraham Centara was shot to death in the driveway of the 
Purcell family home the night of November 11, 1981.

2. Present at scene were Katherine and Lee-Lee Centara, Jeff 
and Andy Purcell.

3. Katherine confessed to the shooting.

I stared at number three for a long minute; here was my first 
major assumption, that Katherine had shot Abe.  But there was 
nothing more than her word on that, since no parafin tests 
had been run on her hands.  I considered the possibility that 
she had lied in her confession.  To protect Lee-Lee or her 
stepsons?  Lee-Lee seemed the more likely bet.

Around noon, my phone rang and it was Mulder on the other 
end.  "Scully, I'm on my way over to get you," he said.  "I 
think I've solved the invisible footsteps problem, and I know 
who killed Abe Centara."

"What?" I said, my notes sliding from my lap.  "Who?"

"Five minutes, okay?  I'm at Cedar and Main right now.  I've 
got the enlarged photos but I want you to seem them for 
yourself."

"Mulder."

"Five minutes," he repeated, clicking off.

I snapped the phone shut and swallowed a curse.  After all 
these years, Mulder still took a perverse delight in making 
me guess.  And, as always, I played along.

So five minutes later, I was waiting on the front porch for 
Mulder, ready to go three rounds.  Thirty minutes later, I 
realized with a sinking feeling that our game had a new, 
unwelcome player.

Mulder never arrived.

XxXxX

End Chapter Ten.  Continued in Chapter Eleven.

Bountiful, non-slashy kisses to Alicia for terrific beta!

All types of feedback are welcome at syn_tax@yahoo.com

Sorry for the delay; this getting settled thing is taking 
longer than anticipated.

Thanks for the letter, Nancy.  You made my week. :-)