From: xlisajacobs@hotmail.com   
      
    Chapter 7   
      
      
   Jennifer Stradford was sitting in the backseat of the   
   car. Johnson had wrapped a blanket around her, though   
   it was quite warm outside. She knew her eyes looked   
   swollen and puffy. Thoughts kept racing through her   
   head, too fast to catch. But on the background there   
   was one thought: why? All the time, through the   
   million other thoughts racing, why, why, why? And what   
   if. What If. What if...   
      
   ~   
      
   Never, there have been so many seconds in a minute   
   and never they have passed so quickly. The whole world   
   has suddenly become a paradox. I feel drowned in the   
   ambiguous feelings that floods me. My heart and watch   
   are ticking in a competition to fill the silence, but   
   they are mere whispers in the unending universe. The   
   infinity of the inevitable scares me. I'm filled with   
   either dread of what's to come or longing for it to   
   happen just so that it's over. I don't know which one   
   is eating my stomach and mind, but the interim is the   
   worst. The only feeling I am sure of is helplessness,   
   and it's the one feeling I can't deal with. Flashes of   
   Fitzgerald's body trade places with her floating body,   
   but the feeling is the same. I'm frozen, unable to   
   move, useless, worthless. We did, and are still doing,   
   everything we can, but my heart is not in it. I know   
   the search is futile. The familiar twitch hasn't come,   
   nor the realization that there's something I know that   
   will help solve the case. Although hating that   
   knowledge I'm also grateful for it and I feel dirty   
   because of it. If there's not something I know I've   
   missed, there's nothing that can let guilt enter my   
   mind. Ambiguous. Guilt is what I'm living of, what I'm   
   dying from. A paradox. She and I are all a paradox,   
   for I live for the truth, but I live a lie of constant   
   and conscious deceit and she declines the abstractness   
   of my thinking yet lives because of believing in an   
   abstract deity. She came for a lie and I want to   
   believe.   
   I stand and wait, wait till that knowledge that I   
   don't have, does come to me, I stand and I wait and in   
   the mean time, the hands of my watch make their   
   rounds, like they have gone crazy, and they have.   
   I know something is terribly wrong. The death of   
   agent Fitzgerald is disturbing, very disturbing   
   indeed, but it can't be all. Every time I see her, my   
   heart clenches and I can't stop wishing for this case   
   to finish. Everything started out so well, but I can't   
   help feeling it has all gone terribly wrong. I have   
   failed, I know I have. Even if I succeed in the end I   
   will have failed in some ways, at least in preventing   
   someone else to die. I'm not very upset about his   
   death, and I feel ashamed about it, but the thought of   
   relief, that it wasn't another agent, that it wasn't   
   Scully is so overwhelming there isn't room for sorrow   
   or mourning, just for this feeling of dread and   
   horror.   
   I'm moving now, joining Scully who's already   
   investigating the scene of the crime. Her steps are   
   determined, she strides forth as though she is   
   convinced of the success of the case, even though I've   
   failed. She's so much stronger than me. But, hardly   
   noticeable to anyone but me, I see that her firm   
   stride wavers as well, that she too has trouble moving   
   forward. I walk up beside her, the increased speed of   
   my pace costing me much more energy than it should.   
   She slows down a bit, allowing me to catch up with her   
   and this small gesture, warms my heart and the dread   
   disappears for a small second.   
   She looks at me with that thoughtful look of her,   
   that makes me feel like she can see right through me,   
   and I think she does, because, right then, when the   
   feeling of dread starts beating the feel of warmth   
   again, she takes my hand and says, softly, only for us   
   to hear.   
   "We haven't failed, Mulder. Can't you feel it, there   
   is still hope."   
   Even though I know she is just saying this to make me   
   feel better, and maybe to make herself believe it as   
   well, the warmth comes back and it takes back a bit of   
   my heart that has grown stone cold during this case. I   
   now feel more strength to see it through to a good, as   
   far as it can still be, end.   
      
   ~   
      
   When we arrived and passed all the obligatory red   
   tape and identifying of ourselves, we saw him. He was   
   lying there on the ground, boxes full of Chinese food   
   next to him. I knew right then and there this was an   
   image I would never be able to get out of my head. And   
   I wasn't sure I wanted it to.   
   Colton thankfully hadn't arrived yet, but Johnson had   
   and he walked up to us, filling us in. He too had   
   looked struck. He had told us that the cook of the   
   Chinese takeout, where Fitzgerald had gotten the food,   
   had found him when he was taking out the garbage. When   
   the police had arrived at the scene they searched his   
   pockets and had found out he was FBI, they had   
   immediately called Johnson, who in turn had called us.   
   He had arrived only 10 minutes earlier. And he had   
   found a note.   
   Sorry, it had said.   
   I find it hard to get into my routine. A colleague, a   
   co-worker, it doesn't get much closer. But I know my   
   job and I owe it to him. While I start investigating   
   the crime scene, knowing that nothing will be found,   
   Mulder is just standing there, thinking, and I wonder   
   about what.   
      
   The food has cooled down. In this weather that would   
   probably take about an hour, so he's at least an hour   
   dead. But I could've felt that from the body. He is   
   just lying there next to a container with a garbage   
   bag standing beside it. I look at my watch. It's 9:12   
   pm. He left the station around 5:15. That's about 4   
   hours. I know we need to do better than that. I walk   
   down the alley and see his car parked at the other   
   side. A shortcut. I look around and realize there's no   
   way forensics is going to find anything useful here.   
   The alley is dirty. Overfilled garbage cans are   
   everywhere. Rotting food that has fallen beside them   
   is lying there mixing with the smell of urine. It's   
   wistful. What a rotten place to die.   
   Mulder walks up beside me and I suddenly realize he   
   too finds this really difficult. He looks so sad, so   
   lost, so guilty. I want to say something that will   
   make him feel better. Will make me feel better.   
   "We haven't failed, Mulder. Can't you feel it, there   
   is still hope."   
      
   ~   
      
   I talked to Jonhson, asking if the guy who'd found   
   Fitzgerald has been interrogated. He said it had been   
   done only shortly and I'm free to go ahead and do it.   
   I walk to the Chinese restaurant. Closed, it says on   
   the door. Inside, the cook in sitting on a chair. The   
   girl behind the counter is standing in front of it.   
   She has a hand on his shoulder and she seems to be at   
   a loss of what to do or say.   
   "Could you excuse us for a minute," I ask her. She   
   walks away, seemingly relieved.   
   "Mr....ehm."   
   "Lee Chen."   
   "Lee, I'm special agent Mulder from the FBI. I'd like   
   to ask you some questions about tonight."   
   "Hmm," he grunts in slight approval.   
   "Could you tell me how you found him?"   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)