Title: Cold Hands, Warm Heart 
Authors: I Want To Believe (a round robin) 
(Beduini, Char Chaffin, Lisa W, Leslie Sholly,  
Kimberly, Regina, Lara Means, SueBee, Marty,  
Laurie D. Haynes, Paige Caldwell) 
Archiving: VS8 gets it exclusively for two weeks,  
so after that, just ask us. Gossamer, Ephemeral,  
IWTB, Clinique, Xemplary and these authors' 
personal pages are fine. 
Email: iwtbxf@yahoo.com 
Rating: PG-13 
Category: X, A, MSR 
Note: Special thanks to Andrea for the idea and scientific 
info, to Dlynn for editing several chapters, and to the rest 
of the I Want To Believe List for putting up with our insanity. 
Summary: Someone is murdering people in Philadelphia and  
mutilating the bodies, which are left frozen solid at a popular  
tourist attraction -- only no one seems to have seen the killer.  
Mulder and Scully are called in to investigate the grisly case  
before time runs out. 
 
(Beduini) 
 
Prologue 
 
 
Hoover Building 
Washington, D.C. 
April 16, 2001 
7:05 a.m. 
 
The basement was cold. 
 
She understood why -- heat rises, and the basement 
being...well, the basement...the term central heating 
didn't apply.  Not that it seemed to matter to Mulder. He 
was always warm.  More than that, he generated heat. 
Sometimes she could feel the warmth coming off of his skin 
just by standing next to him. 
 
Shivering, she stepped out of the elevator and walked the 
short corridor toward Mulder's office.  She could see the 
lights were off, even though the door was partially open. 
It was early, but Mulder usually arrived early and always 
locked his door, so she had every reason to believe that he 
was already in.  Rapping lightly with her knuckles, she 
pushed the door open and stepped inside, her shoulders 
slumping and her face falling with disappointment as her 
hands dropped to her sides. 
 
"Slides?" she said, nearly whining. 
 
At the sound of her knock he'd looked up expectantly, a 
soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  Mulder 
stood near his desk, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled 
up to the elbow, despite the chilly temperature of his 
office.  The slide projector was pointed at the small 
screen on the near wall, and he held the remote in one 
hand, flashing quickly through the images to find the one 
he wanted. 
 
"Hey, Scully, pull up a chair," he greeted her, ignoring 
the whine in her voice as he reached over and pulled out 
the armchair opposite his desk, positioning it to face the 
screen. 
 
She shivered and sat down in the offered chair while he 
flashed through the remaining slides, shifting his weight 
impatiently on his feet.  He was excited about this case, 
that much was obvious.  When he found the image he wanted, 
he stopped.  Then, stepping forward, he placed his palms on 
the back of her chair and leaned toward her. 
 
She could feel the heat and electricity emanating from 
him, and it felt great in contrast to the chill of his tomb 
of an office.  She leaned back against the chair, hoping to 
receive a little more of his natural warmth through the 
thin wool of her gray suit jacket. Her hands were like ice, 
so she slid them between her thighs and the seat, feeling 
the cold seep through the wool and rayon lining of her suit 
pants. 
 
"Rick Ramee, age 35," Mulder started, his voice low and 
surprisingly close to her right ear, making her squirm 
slightly.  His breath was hot on her neck, but she ignored 
it as she looked at the image on the screen. Smiling back 
at her was a young Afro-American male wearing a business 
suit. 
 
Mulder continued, "Husband, father of two.  Resident of a 
small, up and coming middle class suburb of Philadelphia, 
reported missing by his wife after he didn't come home from 
work one night."  Still clutching the remote, Mulder 
forwarded to the next slide, revealing the body of Rick 
Ramee, bloodied, his face frozen in a death mask of horror. 
Ramee's arms lay crossed over his chest, and there were two 
bloody stumps where his hands should have been.  "Rick's 
body was found on display three days later, nearly frozen 
at the foot of the clock tower in the town square." 
 
"Sans hands," Scully commented. 
 
"Sans hands," Mulder confirmed.  "The clock, reputed to be 
one of the most reliable timepieces on this side of the 
Atlantic, had stopped at precisely 2:04 a.m.  Post mortem 
exams of Mr. Ramee estimate his time of death at around..." 
 
"2:04 a.m."  Scully supplied. 
 
Mulder grinned briefly at her quick response and flipped 
to the next slide.  A Caucasian woman's blurry image filled 
the screen. "Rhonda Lewis, housewife, age 42." He flipped 
to the next slide to reveal Rhonda Lewis in a similar death 
pose as Rick Ramee, her hands also severed.  "Same place, 
same scenario, two days later. This time, the clock stopped 
at 5:16 a.m." 
 
Scully drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Mulder 
imagined he could almost hear the gears turning inside her 
head as she processed the information.  She already knew 
where this was going, he was sure. 
 
"Any witnesses?" she asked. 
 
"Not a one." 
 
"Cause of death?" 
 
He paused briefly.  "You tell me." 
 
She turned her head to look at him.  "There hasn't been a 
full autopsy conducted yet?" 
 
He raised his eyebrows in a gesture he'd picked up from 
her, and she closed her eyes with a soft grunt, her 
shoulders slumping once again.  Two autopsies to look 
forward to and she hadn't even had her second cup of coffee 
yet. 
 
"There's more." Mulder flipped to the next slide. 
 
"Yippee." 
 
Mulder pressed his lips together at her lack of enthusiasm 
and continued.  "Tina Rodriguez, age 23, found early 
yesterday morning." The slide showed a young Hispanic 
woman, her body posed in the same position as the other 
two.  "4:32 a.m." 
 
Mulder straightened and put the remote down on top of his 
desk, robbing Scully of his comforting warmth. Walking over 
to the door, he flipped on the over head lights, then 
returned to the slide projector, switching it off. 
 
"The Philadelphia P.D. has agreed to let us work with 
them, given the...unusual...nature of the deaths." 
 
Scully stood and faced him, crossing her arms in front of 
her chest and tucking her hands between her body and her 
upper arms with a shiver.  "I'm sure you've already got a 
theory." 
 
He grinned.  "Oh, I have lots of theories."  He looked at 
her, noticing her discomfort.  "You cold?" 
 
She nodded and stepped forward, wrapping her icy hands 
around his bare forearm, causing him to yelp with surprise. 
 
"Jesus! At least give me a little warning if you're gonna 
do that." He took her hands between his larger, warmer 
palms and rubbed them vigorously, looking down at her with 
amused affection.  "Don't tell me you forgot your gloves 
again." 
 
"They're in the pockets of my overcoat," she replied with 
a soft hum.  She enjoyed the increase in tactility that had 
slowly infused their partnership, knowing that he was 
enjoying it just as much, if not more.  Who knew that 
kissing one's partner at the stroke of midnight before the 
new millennium would lead to so many more small, indulgent 
pleasures? 
 
"Am I to believe that the Philadelphia County Coroner has 
an autopsy bay waiting with my name on it?"  Scully looked 
up at him as he stopped rubbing her hands and held them, 
one of hers in each one of his, their fingers curling and 
linking together. 
 
"I told them you'd be there by ten.  I've already 
requisitioned the car, and the Philly P.D. has faxed over 
their reports from the crime scenes.  You can read them on 
the way." 
 
He gave her hands a gentle squeeze and released them, 
leaning over to grab his suit jacket off of the back of his 
desk chair.  Off his desk, he picked up a manila file with 
an "X" on the cover, handing it to her before walking over 
to the coat tree by the door.  Then, shrugging on his heavy 
wool overcoat, he said, "Get your coat and meet me 
downstairs in ten." 
 
He offered her a grin and stepped out the door, calling 
from the hallway, "Shut the door on your way out.  And 
don't forget your gloves!" 
 
************************ 
 
 
(by Char Chaffin) 
 
Hands... damn.  Why did it have to be hands?  Of all the 
pieces and parts of the human body, Scully had always 
admired the human hand.  Hands were the most tactile of the 
outer extremities, with more nerve endings and amazing 
musculature, given their relative size in comparison to 
other body parts.  Ladling out doses of tenderness and 
violence in equal measure, capable of both those extremes 
of physical retaliation within a split second of each 
other... the human hand was a beautiful thing.  She found 
herself examining her own hands as she slowly buttoned her 
overcoat, stepping to the mirror to adjust her scarf and 
digging through pockets to find her gloves.   
 
Scully had small, compact hands; the overall slender look 
of them was aided by the professional manicure she always 
kept up to date.  Clear polish on the nails, no rings. 
Simple and elegant, strong when needed and gentle by 
choice. If she had ever wished for more, she supposed it 
would have been a wish for longer fingers, so that her 
childhood piano lessons would not have been so agonizing. 
Standard octaves were hard to reach on a keyboard, with 
small fingers.  Scully shook her head; it was better not to 
waste time dwelling on her past when there was a present to 
worry about.  She tugged on gloves as she locked the office 
behind her, hoping Mulder had remembered to grab his keys. 
 
As she walked to the elevators, Scully thought about the 
slides she'd seen.  In her mind she pictured the first one, 
the Professional Suit with a wife and children. The look of 
abject horror on his face was as if the final visual 
filling his stricken gaze went beyond anything his 
imagination could have conjured.  Mentally, she ticked off 
the overall scene:  The crossed arms over the chest; a 
classic death-pose... or was it?  Whomever or whatever took 
Rick Ramee's hands - had they taken them while he was still 
alive?  Was his final rictus a direct result of seeing his 
own hands severed, or were those appendages a trophy of 
some sort, garnered from his body mere moment after his 
death?   
 
She leaned against the elevator wall as she pondered, 
still rubbing her own hands together to stave off the chill 
she felt beneath her wool gloves.  The possibility that she 
and Mulder were facing another fetishist was not lost on 
her; it was the first thing that had come to mind as Mulder 
had flipped through the slides.  Scully shuddered and found 
her mind wandering in directions best left un-wandered.   
 
Pfaster... they could be facing another nut-bird such as 
Donnie Pfaster; another fetishist could be walking the 
streets of DC on the lookout for what he or she would 
consider a nice pair of hands. 
 
She shuddered again as she stepped off the elevator and 
onto the floor, which housed the motor pool. She glanced 
around until she spotted Mulder leaning against a 
nondescript blue sedan.  Her gaze settled on him, noting 
the casual posture and thinking for at least the twentieth 
time that week how beautiful the man was - and how utterly 
unaware of his own appeal.  Today he wore her personal 
favorite, a charcoal gray suit which blended nicely with 
his moss-green dress shirt.  The color played up the green 
flecks in his eyes, and even his ridiculous, wildly zig- 
zagged tie couldn't detract from the overall elegance of 
her partner.   
 
She walked toward the car, dreading the upcoming autopsy 
even as she felt the familiar, albeit unwelcome, tingle 
which usually signaled her inner excitement at beginning 
another case.  And she decided she'd rather scrub public 
lavatories with her bare hands, rather than let him know 
that excitement. 
 
Mulder caught Scully's approach and grinned at her as she 
rounded the side of the car; his smile widened even more 
when she tossed him a withered, "What, no Ford, Mulder?" He 
chuckled and got in, buckling himself up and checking to 
see if she'd done the same, before throwing a retort right 
back at her. 
 
"Baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie, Scully... have some 
respect for this classy Chevy, okay?  It still has working 
headlights."  He flashed the brights three times before 
backing out of the slot and inching his way through the 
narrow rows of parked cars.   
 
Scully made herself comfortable and tried not to think of 
the 'thrill' of performing several autopsies in a row.  Her 
neck would be killing her when it was all over, and she'd 
reek of any number of funky excretions. She could hardly 
wait.  Mulder maneuvered the car through mid-morning 
traffic, avoiding spots of black ice on the street, the 
soft jazz station he'd chosen providing a soothing 
background for the easy silence between them.  It was 
nice... this silence was actually nice.  Too many times 
they'd driven along Constitution Avenue in tight, miserable 
silences, with a gulf of heated, unsaid words boiling in 
the air around their heads.   
 
Thankfully, those days seemed to be over; they had found a 
new understanding these past few months and had grown so 
much closer. Out of the corner of her eye, Scully glanced 
at her partner; Mulder's entire concentration was centered 
on driving safely over the slick roads. Both his hands 
gripped the steering wheel, at the proper ten to two 
o'clock positioning - 
 
Hands....   
 
She stared at his hands. They were strong and tanned, with 
elegantly-shaped fingers and neatly-trimmed nails. She'd 
felt those hands cup themselves around her face, so 
gently... had seen them pound a perpetrator to the floor 
when he tried to escape arrest.  Extremes, again... 
Mulder's hands were the perfect example.  
 
And Scully loved his hands. 
 
"What is it, Scully?  What are you thinking; what's going 
on behind those baby blues, hmmm?"  Mulder's voice, low and 
commanding over the soft jazz, broke her out of her almost- 
hypnotized state, and she jumped a little, before returning 
his quizzical look with blushing pink cheeks.  
 
She opened her mouth to prevaricate and instead found her 
fingers reaching out to trace the light dusting of hair 
along the back of his right hand as it rested on the wheel. 
Mulder raised a curious eyebrow, but lifted the hand and 
twined their fingers together. Scully felt the warmth of it 
engulfing her cold fingers, felt that same heat move all 
the way up her arm. She shook her head as she replied.  
 
"Hands, Mulder ... I was thinking about hands.  I was 
thinking, 'Why hands?'  What would make somebody take 
somebody else's hands -- although, maybe the answer is as 
plain as the hand in front of my face."  Mulder stopped at 
a red light and took the opportunity to study the pensive, 
slightly worried look on her face.  He thought a moment, 
then spoke softly. 
 
"Are we talking fetish here, Scully?  I thought of that, 
too.  In what context I'm still not sure ... but if that's 
what you can't help but wonder, then I'm right there with 
you, Partner.  I'm not saying there isn't something 
distinctly x-Filish here, you understand.  But maybe the 
place we find ourselves beginning the search --once the 
autopsy is over -- has less to do with ritual and more to 
do with a fetishist."  He stroked a thumb over her 
knuckles, noting the worry crinkle still in place between 
her eyes.  He tugged on her fingers a little, making her 
meet his eyes again. 
 
"What else, Scully?  That little frown tells me there's 
more."  Scully nodded and her sigh was heavy in the small 
confines of the car. 
 
"I just ... well, I love your hands, Mulder.  Your hands 
are a comfort to me, sometimes. I just ..." She trailed 
off, feeling suddenly very silly and irrational.   
 
Mulder smiled at her sweetly and let go of her hand, just 
long enough to send all five of his fingers in a gentle 
sweep over her cheek and down her jaw line to her 
collarbone, where he caressed her soft skin reassuringly, 
before he attempted to set her worries to rest. 
 
"Scully... nobody's going to get my hands.  I promise you - 
- no one's going to hurt me." 
 
 
************** 
 
(by Lisa W) 
 
ACT I 
 
 
Philadelphia City Hall  
5:12 p.m., April 16 
 
If Mulder didn't hurry, she was going to hurt him --badly.   
 
It was amazing how fast an affectionate mood could vanish 
when left standing in the cold.  Scully shivered as a 
frigid wind swept through the courtyard below the clock 
tower. When she glanced at her watch, she wasn't surprised 
to see the minute hand start yet another revolution around 
the dial.  Where was he?  It was dark, and the last of city 
hall's bureaucrats had huddled in their coats and dashed to 
the parking lot. One by one she had watched them go as they 
impatiently pushed aside anyone who stood in their path. 
They were ready to go home after a long day at work. She 
couldn't blame them. Her day had been long as well, but it 
wasn't over.  It wouldn't be over until Mulder showed 
up...so where was he? 
 
Almost immediately after they had arrived at the morgue, 
Mulder had begun looking uncomfortable. His discomfort 
wasn't because autopsies made him nervous.  It was due to 
the fact that when surrounded by the tools of science, he 
had nothing particularly useful to do and so began acting 
like a chain smoker who had lost his cigarettes. He didn't 
know what to do with his hands.  
 
Mulder not knowing what to do with his hands often lead to 
his sticking them in places they did not belong. If 
something perplexed or intrigued him, he appeared compelled 
to reach out and touch it.  Scully liked to think that was 
one reason he so frequently touched her.   
 
Before she could snap on a pair of latex gloves, Mulder 
had managed to poke his fingers into at least three medical 
instruments he shouldn't have touched. He must have felt 
her glaring at him because he gave a shrug and a smile 
that, while not quite apologetic, had managed to mollify 
her until he turned to leave. Scully had asked where he was 
going, but Mulder had only waved his hand in her general 
direction and said, "Research."   
 
Eight hours later Mulder had called asking her to meet him 
at the City Hall clock tower.  Scully glanced at her 
watch...again.  If Mulder didn't arrive in the next ten 
minutes she would...Well, Scully wasn't sure exactly what 
she would do, but she would be extremely grouchy while 
doing it.  She was good at being grouchy.   
 
An icy wind whipped her trench coat around her, forcing 
Scully to shove her hands into her pockets and stamp her 
feet to ward off the cold.  Maybe she'd cut Mulder's 
deadline to five minutes. 
 
"What's the verdict?"  Mulder asked. 
 
She turned to face him.  "Half an hour ago the clock tower 
was an attractive historic site.  Now it's a very tall 
stack of stone." 
 
"I meant the autopsy." 
 
"Autopsies.  There were three of them, Mulder. Three." 
 
He looked up at the clock tower, an elaborately ornamented 
limestone structure which dominated the somewhat plain 
Neoclassical building below it. "Looks like you finished up 
in record time."  
 
"The cause of death wasn't much of a mystery." 
 
He glanced in her direction. "Exsanguination," Scully 
explained.  "They bled to death."   
 
When his gaze lingered on her, Scully felt her irritation 
fall away only to be replaced by a vague sense of horror at 
the details her autopsies had revealed.  "Given the amount 
of adrenaline in their systems I would say they were alive 
when their hands were severed.  In fact, they were probably 
conscious."   
 
Mulder grimaced.  "So we're not talking about a death 
fetishist." 
 
"Not as far as the death aspect is concerned.  The hands 
were taken first. Death was just the natural result." 
 
"So the obsession is with the hands." 
 
"And the horror." Scully walked around Mulder, her heels 
clicking against the cobblestone paving of the courtyard 
which stood in the center of the municipal complex. "There 
must be some sort of punishment or revenge motivation to 
this.  The killer made the victims suffer." 
 
Mulder grimaced.  "A sadist."   A shadow seemed to fall 
across his already dark gaze as an element of sadness 
entered his expression.  It never failed to amaze Scully 
that as much as Mulder had seen, as many horrors he had 
witnessed, Mulder never became inured to them. He had never 
allowed himself to become cold or cynical. He still cared.  
 
"Scully, you're shivering," he observed. "Maybe we should 
go inside." 
 
As they crossed the courtyard, Scully was all too aware of 
his hand resting on the small of her back.  His palm 
pressing against her as his fingertips curled into the 
slight indentation on her spine was a familiar and welcome 
gesture. She liked it.  She enjoyed the way his warmth 
seeped into her, taking the edge off the cold.  
 
Pushing aside the yellow tape blocking the clock tower's 
entrance, Mulder opened the door.  Scully eyed the tape 
with an arched brow.   
 
"Construction tape," Mulder explained.  "There's 
renovation work being done on the tower, and the Philly 
P.D. decided to leave it rather than replace it with police 
tape." 
 
"Did they also leave the door open?" 
 
"No."  Mulder smiled. "This afternoon I discovered the 
night guard -- a very interesting man by the name Bill 
Hodges -- is quite the b-ball fan." 
 
"So the two of you struck up an immediate friendship?" 
Scully asked with a touch of disbelief. 
 
"He agreed to leave the door unlocked for a few extra 
hours." 
 
"Was he as generous with the killer?" 
 
"It's a construction site, Scully.  Security has a way of 
becoming lax with workmen coming and going at all hours." 
 
Accepting this explanation, Scully entered the cavernous 
stairwell.  There was something almost Baroque about the 
staircase despite the fact the brochure described the clock 
tower's architecture being in the French Empire 
style...which only served to remind Scully that while 
waiting for Mulder, she had time to read the brochure five 
times. 
 
"Mulder, where were you all afternoon?"  she asked. 
 
"I spoke with Rick Ramee's wife.  Standard questions. Did 
he have any enemies?  Had anything strange happened lately?" 
 
"What did she say?" 
 
"Nothing that would lead anyone to believe someone wanted 
him dead.  The same goes for Rhonda Lewis." 
 
"What about Tina Rodriguez?"  
 
He shook his head.  "Up until three weeks ago she lived 
with her boyfriend in Houston.  When I spoke to him, he was 
in the process of making plans to fly back to Texas. As far 
as I can tell there's no connection between the three 
victims." 
 
"Except their deaths." 
 
He paused in the open center of the stairwell and looked 
at the richly detailed, deeply coffered ceiling seven 
stories above before his gaze traveled down to inspect the 
black and white tiled floor.   "This is where the bodies 
were found."  
 
Scully frowned.  "I thought you said the victims were 
frozen." 
 
"They were." 
 
"In a room with central heating?" 
 
Mulder knelt to examine the floor.  His hand splayed out 
against the tile as his fingers slowly traced the grooves 
between the checkerboard pattern.  "How porous is marble?" 
 
"Too porous not to have evidence of three bloody murders." 
 
"So they were killed elsewhere and brought here." 
 
"After they were quick frozen."  At Mulder's questioning 
look, she elaborated. "Rick Ramee's time of death was 
estimated at roughly 2 a.m., and according to the police 
report, his body was found just after three.  Given the way 
he died, Ramee had to have been frozen after his death. 
 
"That makes sense.  He couldn't exactly bleed to death if 
his blood was ice." 
 
Scully nodded.  "And with his body mass being as large as 
it was the freezing process should have taken several 
hours." 
 
Mulder stood. "So he was quick frozen and transported 
here.  Why?" 
 
"Why cut off his hands?  There are more efficient ways to 
cause someone to bleed to death." 
 
"This wasn't about blood."  Mulder's quietly thoughtful 
voice signaled he was trying to understand the mind of a 
killer.  He crossed the room and began climbing the stairs. 
"Why hands, Scully? Why a clock tower?"  
 
She had the feeling that he was only thinking out loud. 
"Hands of time?" she conjectured. 
 
He looked doubtful.  "A serial killer into puns?" 
 
"You have another theory?" 
 
"Not yet, though I think you were onto something when you 
said the killings were about punishment. Not only did the 
victims die in horror, but the killer also preserved their 
expressions in ice so that anyone seeing their bodies would 
know the horror as well." 
 
Scully frowned as she gazed upward.  "Mulder, does this 
look familiar to you?"  
 
He followed her line of sight.  "Columns, arches, stairs -- 
what's not familiar?"  
 
She shook her head as she tried to wrestle her thoughts 
into some sort of order.  "I...A few weeks ago I went to 
the Kreeger Museum for the Escher exhibit.  There was an 
etching there that sort of reminds me of this stairwell 
with the way steps and arches turn back on themselves until 
you're dizzy." 
 
"Relativity," he announced.  
 
She raised an eyebrow.  
 
He explained, "I aced art history in college.  There was 
this brunette art student who ... never mind.  It's not 
important.  You're right, though."  He tilted his head to 
the side.  "If you look at this at the right angle it might 
remind you of that etching."  He paused. "Relativity is 
also Einstein's theory about time." 
 
She eyed him cautiously. "To be exact, General Relativity 
explains the way time, space, and gravity are connected." 
 
"The clock stopped at the time of each death." 
 
"Mulder..." 
 
He glanced at her and smiled.  
 
She crossed her arms.  "You've made some quantum leap of 
logic, haven't you?" 
 
"Why do people say that like it's a bad thing?  Quantum 
deals with infinitely small changes." 
 
"Quantum mechanics has to do with sub-atomic particles. 
Quantum leap means a sudden, significant change."  She 
stopped abruptly.  "Why are we talking about this? This has 
nothing -- I repeat, nothing -- to do with the theory of 
relativity.  I simply pointed out that this stairwell has a 
few elements similar to a drawing I saw a few weeks ago." 
 
"Mmm-hmm." 
 
She continued following him up the stairs.  "Mulder, 
clocks stop for many reasons." 
 
"I know that." 
 
"They measure time.  They aren't time itself." 
 
"I know that, too."   
 
A cold draft swept over her, and Scully pulled her coat 
more tightly around herself. As Mulder waited for her to 
catch up to him, she could see him mentally rubbing his 
hands together.  
 
"Tell me, Scully, how did our murderer have time to freeze 
a corpse solid, transport it to a public place, and arrange 
it in a ritualistic pose without being seen and without 
leaving any tangible evidence?" 
 
"He was very efficient." 
 
"Or he had all the time in the world." 
 
She shook her head.  "Look, I may not know how he did it, 
but I do know he did not stop time.  Time cannot be 
stopped." 
 
Mulder pushed open the doors to the observation deck.  A 
frigid blast of wind hit her as she followed him outside. 
"What you're proposing is impossible," Scully insisted. 
 
"I haven't proposed anything." 
 
"Good.  Then let me explain there is no possible way, 
either normal or paranormal, to stop time.  If time stops, 
the universe ceases to exist.  It's that simple." 
 
"If you say so." 
 
"And it's not that 'faster than the eye can see' thing 
either. I still haven't wrapped my mind around the concept 
of rebellious teens existing like subliminal messages."   
 
Scully thought she heard Mulder chuckle as he placed his 
hands on the observation deck's handrail.  Looking down 
from their perch she noted that frosty fog obscured the 
courtyard from view and that her breath made wispy ghosts 
in the night air.   
 
"Not to stop you when you're on a roll.  But, Scully, I 
actually agree with you.  I don't think there is anything 
paranormal about these killings." 
 
She blinked.  "No mutant capable of controlling time? No 
monsters?" 
 
"Oh, there's a monster involved."  His troubled gaze met 
hers. "But the worst monsters always seem to be human."   
 
Mulder opened the door leading to the inner workings of 
the clock, and Scully silently followed him into the 
darkness. 
 
************ 
 
(by Leslie Sholly) 
 
Mulder poked around in the machinery inside the clock for 
several minutes, while Scully's hands grew icy and her nose 
began to run.  Finally, she could stand the wait no longer. 
"Mulder!  If there was anything here to find, don't you 
think the Philly P.D. would have found it by now? *I'm* 
going to be quick frozen shortly if I don't get inside 
where it's warm." 
 
"Sorry, Scully," her partner said contritely. "How about I 
take you out for a sandwich and some coffee?  That'll warm 
you up." 
 
Scully realized she was not just exhausted and cold, but 
hungry as well.  And though she secretly wished Mulder 
would choose something other than food to warm her up, she 
wasn't going to refuse his offer.  "'Kay," she agreed. 
 
Shivering, Scully followed Mulder back into the stairwell 
and began to descend the staircase. Mulder, who had not 
spent the past nine hours on his feet, practically skipped 
down the stairs.  In her hurry to keep up, Scully slipped. 
For a sudden, sickening moment, she teetered on the edge of 
the step, knowing with certainty that she was about to 
plunge down the steep flight to the bottom. But at her gasp 
of alarm, Mulder turned around, leaped up the steps that 
separated them, and caught her before she could fall.   
 
"Those shoes are going to be the death of you one day," he 
said disapprovingly.  "What price vanity?"  But he 
tightened his grip on her, pulling her close into an 
embrace.  Scully, who had been shaking both from cold and 
adrenalin, relaxed into his arms, suddenly warmer than she 
had been all day.  She relished the feeling of his left 
hand holding her firmly while his right softly stroked her 
hair.   
 
Hands again. 
 
She sighed. 
 
"You okay, Scully?"    
 
"I'm fine, Mulder.  Really.  Thanks for catching me." 
 
"Any time."   
 
Holding hands, they descended the rest of the way. 
 
************* 
 
6:25 p.m.  
Sam's Diner  
Philadelphia 
 
The coffee at the diner Mulder had chosen wasn't 
Starbucks, but it was hot and fresh and warmed Scully 
delightfully.  As the caffeine began to kick in, she began 
to feel more like herself.  "You can talk about the case 
now, Mulder," she said. 
 
"What?"  Mulder looked innocent. 
 
"I know you've been waiting for me to warm up and wake up, 
and I appreciate it.  I feel much better now, so let me 
hear some more wild theories."  She softened her words with 
a smile. 
 
"Well, what's your explanation for the stopped clock, then?" 
 
"I would guess it's part of the killer's ritual.  He stops 
the clock himself after he arranges the body." 
 
"And exactly how does he avoid detection while 
transporting a frozen body and arranging it in a public 
place?" 
 
"All the murders have taken place in the middle of the 
night, Mulder.  He's careful, and he's lucky." 
 
"You're forgetting that the clock reflects the time of 
death, not the time he plants the bodies.  The last victim 
died at or around 5:16 a.m.  He had to quick freeze her, 
transport and arrange the body, do his trick with the 
clock, and escape pretty quickly to avoid sunrise, when 
he'd no longer be able to count on darkness for cover." 
 
"Look, Mulder, I don't know *how* he does it. And the fact 
is, we don't really need to know *how*. Wouldn't it make 
more sense to think about *why*? Won't thinking about his 
motivation tell you more about who the murderer might be, 
and how we can find him and stop him before he does this 
again?" 
 
"You're right, Scully," Mulder admitted, taking a sip of 
his coffee.  "I reserve the right to consider extreme 
possibilities, of course, but if we go back to the boring 
but useful questions of motive and opportunity, we may be 
able to get more of a picture of the guy who's doing this. 
So what do we know about this guy?" 
 
"He's able to carry frozen bodies, and he was able to 
subdue his victims through physical force, so we can guess 
he's a fairly strong man." 
 
Mulder nodded approvingly. 
 
"He's someone who has access to quick freezing equipment -- 
that should be something we can check out." 
 
"Good point.  We should also consider the last known 
whereabouts of the victims.  That might help us pinpoint 
his location further.  Presumably since we haven't found 
any connection among the victims, we can conjecture that he 
picked them because they were readily available to him." 
 
"Do you think we should assume so quickly that this is 
random, Mulder?  Maybe we just haven't thought of the right 
connection yet.  Could there have been something... 
special... about their hands?" Scully's thoughts were 
turning again, much against her will, to Donnie Pfaster and 
his fascination with fingers in need of a nice manicure. 
 
"I don't know, Scully.  That's a question we can ask the 
families -- maybe see if they have any pictures that might 
shed some light on that issue."  Mulder rose from the 
table.  "It's getting late, Scully, and we don't even have 
a motel yet.  I want to get us checked in somewhere and 
then see what I can do about coming up with a profile of 
the UNSUB. We'll get an early start tomorrow." 
 
 ************* 
 
ACT II  
 
Motel 8  
Philadelphia  
6:30 a.m., April 17 
 
 
Mulder let Scully choose the motel, so it was clean and 
the bed wasn't lumpy.  After a relaxing warm bath, Scully 
fell asleep easily, worn out from long hours of slicing and 
dicing.   But even in sleep she was unable to stop thinking 
about the case.  Her dreams were full of clock faces and 
hands.   
 
Toward daybreak her dreams turned to Mulder -- not an 
infrequent occurrence by any means. She dreamed of Mulder's 
hands, always his hands, strong yet gentle as they stroked 
her hair.  Lightly, they caressed her jaw line, touched her 
lips intimately, before beginning to move lower . . . 
Scully moaned happily in her sleep, her dream-body on fire 
from Mulder's touch. 
 
But suddenly, she felt the hands no longer.  She was 
Aching, untouched, bereft.  Now Mulder was speaking, saying 
in a plaintive, childlike way, "I don't know where they 
went, Scully.  I don't know what happened to them." Then he 
held up his arms to show her bleeding stumps.  "Can you get 
them back for me, Scully?" he asked. 
 
"They're in my freezer, girly-girl," Donnie Pfaster 
announced.  "Come on over and let me do your nails and I'll 
let you have them." 
 
The dream was so terrible that it woke Scully up. She sat 
bolt upright in bed, breathing deeply and trying to still 
the insistent pounding of her heart. "Only a dream, only a 
dream," she repeated over and over. 
 
She was still saying this when she heard a gentle tapping 
at the door that connected her room to Mulder's.  "Scully?" 
he called. 
 
"What's wrong, Mulder?" 
 
He opened the door and stuck his head in. "We've got to 
go, Scully.  I've just received a call from the P.D. 
There's been another killing." 
 
Scully took a deep breath to calm herself, as she tried to 
shake off the horror of her dream. "Same M.O.?"  she asked 
in disbelief.  "Aren't they watching that clock tower?" 
 
"There's been a guard on duty since 8 p.m.," Mulder told 
her.  "He didn't see a thing until he discovered the body 
this morning." 
 
"Who is the victim?"  Scully asked. 
 
"She didn't have I.D. like the others.  They haven't been 
able to identify her yet -- the body was only discovered 
half an hour ago." 
 
Something in Mulder's voice made Scully turn icy cold 
inside.  "What aren't you telling me, Mulder?"  she asked 
him. 
 
"She... the victim was a little girl."  
 
**************** (by Kimberly) 
 
2:35 p.m., April 17  
 
A little girl.  
 
Scully had grown accustomed to the many different masks 
that death wore. She had to be, death was her livelihood. 
What she couldn't get used to -- what she couldn't shake -- 
was the chill that ran down her spine each time she saw a 
small figure under the white autopsy sheet.  
 
It was worse than death.  It was innocence lost. Just as 
the others, the victim had bled to death. Although the labs 
weren't back yet, Scully hoped that the child, at least, 
wasn't conscious for the ordeal that resulted in her death.  
 
Scully tried to work out the kinks in her neck as she 
scrubbed her hands at the steel basin, cleaning away 
phantom blood from under her fingernails.  
 
Lost in thought, she didn't hear Mulder approach from 
behind.  
 
"Scully?"  
 
"I'm almost done, Mulder," she said softly.  
 
He was tempted to ask if she was all right, but he already 
knew the answer to that question. It was most assuredly not 
"fine."  Even from his vantage point he could see her hands 
moving fast and furious over each other, with the hard 
bristled brush in between.  
 
"Scully, if you keep that up, you'll rub your hands raw."  
 
His solicitous tone only garnished a frustrated shake of 
her head, but she dropped the brush and rinsed her hands. 
Scully dried off her hands.  "Do you have a name yet?"  
 
"No.  From what they can piece together, she was 
homeless."  Again, his tone was soft, knowing the victim's 
profile simply added insult to injury.  
 
Her eyes fell closed for a moment.  She let out a heavy 
sigh.  "Homeless?"  
 
Mulder nodded and chewed the inside of his lip for a 
moment.  "From what I understand the homeless population is 
fairly moderate.  The boys in blue didn't appear too 
shocked at the idea, just a little unsettled that no one 
reported her missing."  
 
"But, Mulder, she can't be more than eight years old; 
there has to be someone out there looking for her." 
Scully's voice took on the quiet rage that was bubbling up 
inside of her.  "Any belongings?"  
 
"Yeah, but I haven't had a chance to go through them yet." 
 
"Give me five minutes to change, and I'll meet you 
upstairs."  She turned away, and her tender hands quickly 
grabbed her bag.  
 
The clock ticked loudly in the quiet room as Scully 
quickly stripped away the blood-sodden scrubs. Mulder 
glanced at his watch as soon as he heard the soft snick of 
heels on linoleum.  Like clockwork, Scully rounded the 
corner with 45 seconds to spare.  
 
As soon as she reached his side, he placed his hand in 
between her shoulder blades, guiding her into the small 
room that the local police department offered.  
 
Scully surveyed the pitiful pile on the center of the 
table. It consisted of one battered Barbie backpack, a pair 
of mismatched mittens, and a small wool blanket.  
 
"This is it?" she asked incredulously.  
 
"We should be damn lucky we even got this.  They found it 
in a trash can two blocks from the tower."  
 
She nodded in agreement and gingerly approached the 
backpack.  "I take it these came up clean?"  
 
"As a whistle.  Dusted and the only thing they found was a 
partial from what looked like the child, but they couldn't 
come up with a match."  
 
Scully yanked the zipper open, pulling it down to obscure 
Barbie's plastic smile.  The first thing she noted was the 
omission of the one thing she expected --clothing.  Instead 
it held a box of colored pencils, worn to the nub, and a 
battered sketch pad.  She flipped the cover back, hoping 
that the child would have written her name there, something 
she had always done.   
 
Unfortunately, the book was blank.  However, the image on 
the opposite page stilled her finger tips altogether.  
 
"Scully, what is it?"  
 
Scully said nothing as she turned the book around to show 
him the page.  
 
Although the vibrancy of the colors were lost on him, he 
was nonetheless amazed.  It was a perfect rendition of the 
clock tower, except the trees were in bloom, and not barren 
with the current winter frost.  
 
He flipped through the pages to find portraits as well as 
impressive landscapes staring back at him.  They were 
exquisite renderings -- for anyone of any age.  
 
"This is..." Mulder's voice trailed off.  
 
"Unbelievable."  
 
Scully was awestruck at the thought of such talent coming 
out of such tiny hands -- the victim's hands. Mentally she 
flipped through the profiles of the previous victims in her 
head, coming up blank.  
 
"Mulder, the other victims.  Did they have any 
'abilities'?"  
 
"Could you be more specific, Scully?"  
 
She cocked her head to the side in thought.  "I mean, when 
you interviewed the families, did they mention any hobbies? 
Any special talents?"  
 
Mulder paused.  "I remember reading that before she called 
the police, Rick Ramee's wife had called a local jazz club 
where he played the saxophone on occasion."  
 
"The others?"  
 
"Nothing I can remember -- but I think it's time we find 
out."  
 
************** 
 
3:15 p.m. April 17  
 
(by Regina) 
 
The car eased over to the side of the street and stopped 
in front of a small brick building. Pulling the key out of 
the ignition, Mulder slowly gave into the inevitable pull 
of gravity. His head clunked against the steering wheel -- 
hard. He accepted the pain as a welcome diversion.  
 
A few more thumps later and feeling completely self- 
satisfied, he stepped onto the wind-blown street. A beat-up 
hatchback passed dangerously close to the open car door, 
whipping Mulder's coat into a frenzy. The angry motorist 
beeped, gestured and shouted mutely inside his closed car.  
 
"Have a nice day!" Mulder called out with false gaiety as 
he made his way to the entrance of the darkened 
establishment. Pulling his coat straight, he checked his 
watch -- 4 p.m. The bar would scarcely be populated, if he 
was lucky. If he was unlucky, it would be closed.  
 
It looked like his luck wasn't going to change -- he 
pushed at the door, fruitlessly. Heaving his weight against 
the heavy, wooden barrier, he nearly tumbled into the dark 
hallway when a strong hand opened it from the inside. 
Narrowly missing the man who opened the door, Mulder 
careened into the dimly lit bar.  
 
"Can I 'elp ya?" A thick Irish brogue filtered through the 
darkness.  
 
Maybe his luck was changing. Mulder caught his balance and 
reached for his ID. The barman tensed when the agent 
reached into his inner pocket.  
 
"I'm just getting my ID." Mulder produced it with a 
practiced flourish. "We're here investigating a series of 
homicides."  
 
The stout gentleman relaxed and moved over to the bar, 
satisfied that the tall stranger wasn't a threat. Picking 
up a worn towel, he started to wipe at the long bar's 
sparkling surface.  
 
"You're here about Ricky, aren't ya?" Chucking the towel 
over his shoulder, he gave an exasperated sigh.  
 
"Mr. Ramee, yes." Mulder eased his tall frame onto a 
wobbly stool. "What can you tell me about him?"  
 
The man ambled behind the bar, picking up items and wiping 
them down. Hefting a large bottle of Jack Daniel's, he 
looked over at the agent. "I've already talked to the 
police. Am I under suspicion, or something?"  
 
Mulder shook his head vigorously. "Not that I know of, 
sir. I just want to exhaust all possible avenues of 
investigation."  
 
"S'alright." He clunked the bottle down on the bar in 
front of Mulder and leaned in. "I'll let you in on a lil' 
secret."  
 
His body pulled in by the promise of covert information, 
Mulder hunkered down next to the man. "Go ahead."  
 
"Let me tell ya," he said, softly. "Rick was the best sax 
player this side of the Atlantic. The man should have been 
a pro. But he wanted a family life. You know when you're a 
musician and you're on the road, things happen." The man 
shook his salt-and-pepper head. "Things happen in your own 
backyard, as this proves."  
 
"So he had a talent?" Mulder asked, his voice even.  
 
"That boy had more than talent," the barman replied. He 
took a deep breath. "That man had a gift. His hands could 
move mountains with melody." Leaning his chin in his 
crooked hand, he met Mulder's gaze. "My people, the Irish, 
we believe that people with the special gift of music are 
touched. Touched by the merciful hand of God." 
 
************ 
 
4:35 p.m., April 17 
 
Scully stood on the corner as the wind moved around her, 
teasing her coat open and chilling her skirted legs. She 
spotted Mulder's car in the far lane of traffic and waved 
him over. Cutting off a small car, he darted over to the 
curb and stopped short as the slighted driver honked and 
gestured futilely. She grabbed the handle and wrenched the 
door open.  
 
Plopping down inside, she looked at Mulder with a bemused 
grin. "Mulder, you're not supposed to inspire road rage on 
the job."  
 
Easing the car back into traffic, Mulder craned his head 
out of the partially opened window. "Did you see that car, 
Scully?"  
 
She clicked her seatbelt into place. "No, why?"  
 
"It's probably nothing," he replied. "I just seem to be 
attracting a lot of enraged drivers."  
 
Scully cocked her head to the side. "What are you talking 
about?"  
 
"Nothing." His voice was distracted. "How was the Lewis 
interview?"  
 
"Oh, you'll love this." She flipped open her notepad. 
"Rhonda Lewis was an accomplished architect. She won an 
award for her redesign of one of the city's major 
attractions. Unfortunately, she was killed before the 
renovations could begin."  
 
"Which attraction?" Mulder's voice took on a piqued 
curiosity. A yellow light flashed and he smoothly braked 
the car.  
 
Scully snapped her book shut. "The clock tower."  
 
 
(by Lara Means) 
 
Mulder pulled a questionable and probably illegal u-turn, 
earning them more honked horns, shaken fists and rude 
gestures. Scully's fingers held the dashboard in a death- 
grip until they were headed in the opposite direction, then 
she tossed a look at her partner. 
 
His answering glance was all innocence. "What?" 
 
Scully just shook her head with a sigh. "I assume we're 
going back to the clock tower." 
 
"Is there a manager or curator or somebody in charge there 
we haven't talked to?" 
 
She dug through the pockets of her overcoat to find the 
copy of the brochure she'd grabbed during their last visit 
yesterday. "Um... the only contact listed is Claire 
Bellingham, Public Relations." 
 
Mulder grimaced. "I hate PR people. They only tell you 
what they want you to know." 
 
"Come on, Mulder," Scully teased, "you know you can charm 
information out of anybody." She reached out her hand to 
him, turning her palm up. "Just be sure to save some of 
that charm for me." 
 
He smiled and took her hand, jumping slightly at the 
contact. "Your hands are like ice, Scully." 
 
"Sorry. The gloves aren't helping much." 
 
"Maybe I'll get you a new pair for your birthday."  
 
She quirked an eyebrow at him. "You're remembering my 
birthday next year?" 
 
"I remember your birthday every year." 
 
"We've been working together for more than seven years, 
Mulder, and I can only recall two birthday presents -- one 
of which was quite late." 
 
"It's the thought that counts, Scully." Mulder gave her a 
sly grin. "Didn't you enjoy my last present? I know I did." 
 
Scully smiled, remembering the feel of her partner's arms 
wrapped around her that clear, late spring night. His warm 
breath on her neck, his soft lips at her ear. The gentle 
pressure of his hand at her hip as he pulled her body to 
his. She knew he'd enjoyed her present -- she could feel it 
in his burgeoning arousal pressed against her backside. 
 
She glanced at their hands, still joined on the seat 
between them, and gave his a squeeze. "Yes, Mulder. I 
enjoyed your gift very much." 
 
************ 
 
4:57 p.m.  
Clock Tower Administrative Offices 
 
They arrived at the clock tower shortly before five to 
find the door to the administrative offices locked. A sign 
there proclaimed office hours from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. 
They resigned themselves to coming back tomorrow, but 
Mulder wanted to have another look around the clock's inner 
workings. 
 
"How do you propose we get in there, Mulder?" Her partner 
did an elaborate show of hands, like a magician doing a 
trick, and produced a key. Scully smiled in spite of 
herself. "Is this how you got that from your b-ball buddy, 
Mr. Hodges? Sleight of hand?" 
 
"While the hand *is* quicker than the eye, Scully, no." He 
shot her a big grin and a little wink. "I charmed it out of 
him." 
 
Scully hid her own grin behind a shake of her head as 
Mulder explained, "There are two guards on duty, they can 
see us on the security monitors, and they know who we are. 
Bill said it'd just be easier to give us a key." Although 
it was getting dark and the temperature was dropping, 
Scully acquiesced, and they made their way up the stairs. 
 
As Mulder examined the gears and pulleys, Scully kept her 
hands shoved into her pockets and shifted from foot to foot 
in an effort to keep warm. The wind whipped around her 
legs, and she found herself desperately wishing she'd worn 
slacks. 
 
"Mulder, I've been thinking about the victims." 
 
"What about them?" echoed his voice from somewhere within 
the metal. 
 
"The bodies were all frozen after death, then placed 
inside the clock tower building and discovered within an 
hour or two after that." 
 
"Right..." 
 
Scully exhaled, saw her breath vaporize in front of her 
face, then licked her chapped lips. "I may have made a 
mistake in estimating time of death. 
 
Mulder's head emerged from slightly below her, and he 
climbed the short ladder up to the landing where she stood. 
"Scully, you don't make mistakes. Not about this stuff."  
 
"Nevertheless..." she mumbled, feeling as if she'd let him 
down. He joined her and she stared at his shoes as she 
spoke. "I think I may have been unduly influenced by the 
preliminary reports. By what they *said* was the time of 
death, based on when the clock was stopped." 
 
She felt Mulder's fingers under her chin as he tilted her 
face up to meet his. "Why are you doubting yourself now?" 
 
"Forensic Pathology 101 -- a body cools at approximately 
one and a half degrees per hour, *if* the external 
conditions are stable. A body decomposes more rapidly in 
warm temperatures, less rapidly when it's cold. That's why 
they're kept refrigerated in the morgue, to forestall 
decomposition." 
 
"So it's been cold. That would throw off time of death by, 
what, a few hours?" 
 
Scully shook her head. "The indoor air temperatures 
recorded when the bodies were discovered tend to support 
the original estimates, but..." She took a deep breath and 
steeled herself, then looked up into his eyes. "Mulder, 
these bodies were frozen post-mortem, then placed inside a 
heated building, where they would partially thaw before 
being discovered. Since we don't know the bodies' 
temperatures when they were placed here, an accurate 
estimate of time of death is almost impossible under these 
conditions. You said the first victim, Ramee, was found 
three days after his wife reported him missing -- he 
could've been killed that first night and kept frozen until 
the murderer placed the body here." 
 
Mulder nodded slightly and moved away from her, chewing 
absently on his lower lip as he frequently did when the 
wheels were turning. He reminded her of the inner workings 
of this clock in that way - the gears of his mind working 
to puzzle out a solution. He turned back to his partner, 
thoughtful, then spoke. 
 
"And just because the clock was stopped at 2:04, that 
doesn't mean the body was dumped then, does it?" Mulder 
looked into the clock works and glanced at what appeared to 
be a control panel on the far side of the tower. "It's the 
middle of the night, right? The body could've been dumped 
any time after the building was locked up, the clock 
stopped, and the hands reset to 2:04." 
 
Scully gave her partner a tiny smile. She loved watching 
his mind at work. "That sounds plausible." He returned the 
smile as hers faded. "Does this mean we're back to square 
one?" 
 
Mulder shook his head, returning to stand in front of her, 
close to her. "I think it means we're on the right track." 
A gust of wind blasted through the tower, and Scully 
shivered -- although her reaction wasn't entirely caused by 
the wind. "Still cold?" he asked, and she nodded. He gave 
her a seductive little grin and opened his overcoat. "Let's 
see what we can do about that." 
 
She slipped her arms around him, giggling silently at his 
gasp when her hands touched his back. "Definitely gloves 
for your birthday," he murmured as she snuggled against his 
chest. Mulder wrapped both his arms and his coat around 
her, shielding her small body from the cold. 
 
They stood there together, dimly registering the setting 
sun and the passage of time. Scully listened to his heart 
beating, strong and steady. She ran her hands up and down 
his back, enjoying the feel of his smooth, toned muscles. 
Mulder's arms tightened around her, and one hand snaked up 
to bury itself in her windblown hair. She tilted her head 
back to look at him, and he smiled.  
 
"Better?" 
 
"Much," she whispered, returning his smile. He stared into 
her eyes for a long moment, then watched as they drifted 
shut when he leaned in close. Another shiver ran through 
her as his lips touched just the corner of her mouth... 
 
But they both froze at the sound of a shotgun being pumped 
behind them. 
ACT III 
 
(by SueBee) 
 
Scully barely had time to register the sensation of 
Mulder's lips brushing against her mouth, when she heard 
the pumping click of the shotgun. 
 
They both froze, their faces barely an inch apart. In a 
matter of seconds, clear gazes locked, decisions were made, 
and promises were put on hold. 
 
The comforting warmth that had infused them and enveloped 
them, vanished in the icy wind when they drew apart. 
Slowly, they turned toward the intrusive sound. 
 
A large, hulking man stood before them.  Scully had 
guessed he was at least three inches taller than Mulder, 
and layers of winter clothing did nothing to hide his 
muscularity. A dark, cotton knit mask covered his face. The 
hood allowed for some anonymity, but something in his eyes 
appeared strangely familiar. 
 
He pointed the shotgun at them and volleyed his aim back 
and forth between Mulder and Scully.  The beginning of a 
smile quirked his lips as he drawled, "It looks like I get 
to kill two love birds with one stone." 
 
Scully chanced a sideways look at Mulder.  If her partner 
was anxious, he was hiding it very well. 
 
Mulder raised his hands, palm up. 
 
"Hey, we knew the clock tower was closed, but if we'd 
known security was this tight in Philly, we would have been 
happy to come back tomorrow." 
 
Scully stared at the genuine beauty of Mulder's elegant 
fingers when they extended in a placating gesture. Her 
viewpoint then shifted to the gunman's hands.  They were 
encased in black leather, but she could make out the 
partial flattening of one of his gloves. It was what she 
had feared.  Someone imperfect was seeking and slicing away 
perfection in others. He was missing three fingers from his 
right hand. 
 
At that moment Scully felt oddly territorial and fiercely 
protective.  She wanted Mulder to put his hands away. 
Almost as an offering, Scully raised her own hands to get 
the assailant's attention. 
 
"Look, sir, this is just a misunderstanding.  We're Agents 
Mulder and Scully from the FBI. If you'll just let me pull 
out my ID..." 
 
She went for her identification before the gunman stopped 
her. 
 
"I know who you are, Dr. Scully.  I hear you solve the 
unsolvable, all with a few instruments and those delicate 
little hands of yours." 
 
Scully felt the chill begin in her fingertips and race 
down her hands.  The sensation locked itself in a frozen 
knot in her stomach. 
 
Mulder looked carefully at Scully and back to the gunman, 
whose eyes had shifted no higher than her raised hands.  In 
an effort to get the man to stop staring at her, Mulder 
stated, "Well, we're at a disadvantage here. You know us, 
but I don't believe we've had the pleasure of an 
introduction." 
 
The knot in Scully's stomach took another twist when she 
heard, "Excuse my manners.  You can just call me 'Father 
Time.'" 
 
(by Marty) 
 
Apparently satisfied with the impression he'd made with 
his introduction, time stood still as Mulder and Scully 
stood before the intruder contemplating their next move. 
Mulder watched the man's eyes for any hint that he'd make a 
move toward him or Scully. When he did, Mulder was going to 
lunge for the man's mid-section and knock the shotgun from 
his grasp. It was risky, but he knew Scully would take the 
opportunity to pull her gun to subdue their suspect and 
take him into custody.  
 
They didn't get the chance. The man looked from Scully's 
hands to Mulder's eyes, gesturing with the barrel of the 
shotgun for the handsome agent to step back against the 
inside wall and away from his female counterpart. A 
commotion of voices and footsteps grew loud as two unarmed 
security guards burst up out of the stairwell and onto the 
landing. 
 
Father Time whirled to face the intrusion and fired, 
sending a close range blast of buckshot into the chest and 
stomach of one of the guards, and sending the shooter 
reeling from the backfire against the public barrier just 
next to the clock's rim. 
 
Mulder lunged at him, but missed grabbing his legs as the 
burly man jumped the railing and hefted himself up through 
the open colonnade and onto the face of the building. 
Mulder scrambled to his feet in pursuit and climbed through 
the opening onto the narrow stone ledge, heedless of the 
fact that one misstep would drop him over 100 feet to the 
ground below.  
 
Scully rushed to the colonnade, wedging herself between 
the railing and the base of the columns enabling her to 
grab her partner by the shoulders while he steadied himself 
and turned to face her. 
 
Their rapid breathing vaporized between them and mingled 
as they stood so close, face to face. Scully didn't want to 
let go, but she did, because they both knew the job came 
first. "He's headed for the roof. Take care of the guard. 
I'll be back," Mulder assured his partner and he let go. 
 
"I'll call for backup." Scully's voice was all business, 
but her eyes couldn't hide her worry. As she pulled her 
cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911, she watched 
Mulder begin to inch his way across the ledge and across 
the face of the clock. The hooded man was nowhere in sight. 
Mulder followed, quickly fading into the darkness. 
 
The second security guard came up behind the agent just as 
she finished the call. "Bill's dead! He's got a hole clear 
through him. We rushed up right when we saw you two on the 
security cameras, and now Bill's dead!" 
 
"There's an ambulance on the way. I'm sorry about your 
friend. Did you see the gunman come up the stairs, also?" 
 
"Naw, we only saw you two and came running, but the 
cameras probably caught the killer. He'll be on the tape. 
He must have gone up the stairs when we were leaving the 
office." The guard was still obviously shaken, but Scully 
had more to do than settle his jitters. Confirming that 
there was nothing she could do for the man on the floor, 
Scully told the guard to wait with the body for the 
paramedics and rushed back to the ledge to check on Mulder.  
 
"MULDER!" 
 
She grabbed the columns on either side of her and used 
them as leverage to hop almost high enough to go out the 
opening. Another try would do it. 
 
"Scully!" She whirled around to find an exhausted Mulder, 
dropping back into the tower from another opening on the 
far side of the clock.  
 
"Where'd he go?" Her voice was high and thin when she ran 
over to her partner and steadied him by the arm as he 
caught his breath.  
 
Mulder threw his arm around her for support, weighing down 
her little frame. "I don't know," he panted. "I only saw 
one way to get up to the roof, but I never saw him. There 
must have been another way."  
 
"Maybe one of the back-up units will see something on the 
street." She grabbed Mulder's hands and noted the cuts and 
abrasions he got while climbing along the outside of the 
tower. "We've got to get these looked at. The paramedics 
are on the way. Mulder, your hands are frozen!"  
 
The worry in her voice was obvious only to him, and as he 
turned to stand on his own, he couldn't help smirking at 
her even though he was tired and winded. "Cold hands, warm 
heart, Scully." 
 
He knew she knew he had caught her like a deer caught in 
the headlights. She gazed up at him -- to his warm hazel 
eyes and beautiful full lips, feeling the urge to touch 
them, but instead dropped his hands, thankfully turning her 
attention to the paramedics coming up the stairs. This was 
not the time or the place to be having this conversation. 
 
Following the paramedics down the stairs with the dead 
security guard, both agents worried about the threat Father 
Time had made against them. Mulder was sure the killer was 
going to focus his next threat on Scully. Scully was sure 
the man would come after Mulder. The drive back to their 
motel that night was uncomfortably silent. 
 
*********** 
 
(by Laurie Haynes) 
 
Somewhere in suburban Philadelphia 
 
Father Time slammed the door of his house behind him. He 
was breathing heavily from his narrow escape. He pulled off 
his gloves and rubbed the three stumps that were all that 
were left of the fingers of his right hand. 
 
He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured a shot of 
bourbon which he drained in a gulp that burned all the way 
down. He poured another and went to sit down in his living 
room, surrounded by his beloved clocks that he had 
collected over the years. It was approaching the top of the 
hour and he loved to hear them chime or cuckoo the time. 
 
The top of the hour came and every clock in the house that 
was made to do so, announced the time. Father Time took a 
sip of his whiskey and tears ran down his face. He picked 
up his favorite, a small grandfather clock and stroked it 
stiffly with his intact left hand. 
 
"You're not sounding so good, Little Grandfather. I'm so 
sorry I can't tune you like I should." 
 
The oilfield accident that had taken his right hand's 
three fingers when a liquid nitrogen valve burst open and 
spewed into his gloves, had also caused nerve damage to the 
left hand. No longer did he have the fine motor skills 
necessary for working on his beautiful clocks. 
 
It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Those people bragged 
about their gifts when they used to come to him to fix 
their clocks or to buy antique clocks he had restored. 
After his accident, he couldn't bear the looks of pity and 
the whispering behind his back. 
 
And his former friends in the Philadelphia Clock Society 
were the worst of all. They had banned him from helping the 
engineers restore the clock in the tower. And after he had 
helped raise the funds -- and contributed no small amount 
from his own paychecks -- to fix it. Oh, sure, they claimed 
it was just that they didn't want him to get hurt around 
that machinery, but he knew the truth. They didn't want a 
cripple around their precious clock. Just because he didn't 
have the motor skills anymore to work on it didn't mean he 
didn't know that clock like his own home. 
 
Everywhere he went, it was the same thing -- people would 
stare at his maimed hand. 
 
He recalled the day his girlfriend Sherri had told him she 
was leaving. It had been a rough day of physical therapy 
and he had come home to find her packing her clothes. 
 
"Where are you going?" 
 
"Away. I'm sorry, but I can't handle this anymore. And all 
your creditors have been calling wanting money." 
 
He reached out and touched her arm to plead his case. 
 
She shied back and shivered. "Don't touch me! It creeps me 
out when you do that!" 
 
"Sherri, babe, don't be this way. I'm still the same man." 
 
She shook her head. "I want a whole man, not a cripple, 
and I want a man who makes good money -- like you used to." 
 
Father Time brushed away his tears with the sleeve of his 
shirt as he returned to the present. He'd show her. He'd 
show them all. He'd already taken care of the three adults 
who had been his customers. And the little girl -- she'd 
made him furious the way she would make a face every time 
she saw his hand.  
 
He got up to get another glass of whiskey from the 
kitchen. Opening his freezer, he pulled out eight plastic 
bags. He pulled the severed hands out and began stroking 
them with his right hand. With his left, he unzipped his 
pants and reached inside to take hold of himself. 
 
Father Time moaned in delight as waves of pleasure moved 
through him. When he was through, he cleaned himself up and 
put the hands back in the freezer. 
 
Eight hands. He needed four more, one for each numeral on 
the clock. He was saving Sherri for last, so he had to 
decide who would be next. 
 
He remembered the redheaded FBI agent and her partner. 
From reading about them in the paper, he knew she was a 
doctor. She had the hands for it -- small, beautiful and 
nimble. Of course, he'd have to take out her partner, too, 
but that would be a real pleasure. He went to his closet 
and pulled out his Army surplus rifle with the infrared 
scope. He'd had a gunsmith mount the scope, and told the 
smith he wanted to use it for hunting deer. The rifle was 
just one part of his small arsenal. He began to clean it 
and adjust the sights. 
 
********************** 
 
(by Marty) 
 
Motel 8  
9:15 a.m., April 18 
 
The next morning, Mulder knocked on Scully's motel room 
door, ready to go back to the clock tower and search in 
daylight. The agents were meeting the clock tower's 
security chief and Detective Michaels, from the Philly 
P.D., to go over the events surrounding Father Time's 
attack. When Scully answered her door, she had her cell 
phone pressed to her ear.  
 
"Okay, well, thanks, if you locate Mr. Malloy, would you 
please have him call me right away at the number I gave 
you?" She nodded. "Okay, um, thanks again." Scully ended 
the call. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she repeated her 
telephone conversation to Mulder. 
 
"I'm trying to reach Steve Malloy, Tina Rodriguez' 
boyfriend. He was supposed to be returning to Houston with 
her body for her funeral; but according to his father, he 
hasn't left Philadelphia yet. I'm hoping he might tell us 
what might have been special about Tina's hands." 
 
Mulder matched her enthusiasm for the puzzle with his own. 
"Father Time is stalking these victims, Scully, because 
they all exhibit a particular gift that they can do with 
their hands -- Rick Ramee, because he played a mean 
saxophone; Rhonda Lewis, because she was a talented 
architect; and the little homeless girl, because she drew 
beautiful pictures. I'm sure Tina's boyfriend will confirm 
she was gifted also." 
 
"But why them, Mulder? As far as we've been able to tell, 
these people had no connection to one another at all." The 
furrow in Scully's brow deepened as she struggled to make a 
connection. 
 
"Maybe the connection is with Father Time. Maybe they each 
had something he lost, or something he wanted." Mulder 
paced the room, unconsciously touching Scully's belongings, 
one by one, until he returned to face her in the center of 
the room. 
 
"Did you notice his hands?" Mulder nodded he did and 
waited listened for more. "It would seem fairly obvious 
that a man missing three fingers might have a fixation for 
the hands of other people -- in this case, seemingly gifted 
people." 
 
"Yeah, but it begs the question, Scully. What is he doing 
with the hands he takes?" The agents paused while a dozen 
morbid thoughts raced through their minds. 
 
"I don't know, but I've got a bad feeling we're going to 
find out soon enough." Scully shrugged on her suit jacket 
while Mulder handed her her coat. 
 
"And it should be easy enough to find a man missing three 
fingers from his right hand in this town. C'mon, are you 
ready? We've got to get back to the clock tower." Mulder 
was already half way down the hall before Scully grabbed 
her phone and her keys and locked the door behind her. 
 
************* 
 
The news media were already circling for their story when 
Mulder and Scully drove up to the building at 9:30 am. 
Mulder side-stepped a cameraman and reporter who tried to 
block their way, while managing to flash his badge and lift 
the police tape for Scully and him to pass under at the 
same time. They met the head of security and the police 
detective in the security office for a short debriefing. 
The video tape from last night had turned up nothing. The 
gunman wasn't on the tape entering the door to the building 
or on the stairs leading to the clock tower landing. He 
didn't appear on the tape until he was suddenly on the 
observation deck holding a shotgun on Mulder and Scully. It 
was as though he appeared out of thin air. When they 
finished the meeting, the agents continued on alone up to 
the clock tower observation deck. 
 
There were no obvious clues. Other than the blood stains 
left by the dead security guard, and some scattered 
buckshot and powder residue near the body's outline, there 
appeared to be nothing else other than the usual dirt and 
debris that typically collects on porches or balconies, 
including some leaves and needles swept in by the wind from 
the surrounding trees. Scully took out her flashlight and 
walked into the darker recesses of the area, back to the 
other side of the clock from where the guard was shot.  
 
Mulder was anxious to get back out onto the ledge to see 
if he could find the path the killer took when he 
disappeared, but he was hesitant to leave Scully alone on 
the observation deck. Not when he knew that Father Time 
could appear out of nowhere. 
 
In the darkest corner, Scully waved her flashlight over 
the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Finally, something 
caught her eye, or rather the lack of something. The floor 
along the back wall was surprisingly free of dust and 
debris. Everywhere else Scully had searched, the floor was 
stained with the residual effects of weather and the wear 
and tear caused by tourists trampling over the area in high 
volume. In this one area, however, it appeared to be 
freshly cleaned.  
 
Scully pensively paced along the wall, noting the size and 
shape of the area that interested her. "Mulder, look at 
this..." As Mulder approached, she swept the area with the 
beam of her flashlight and pointed to the floor. 
 
"What do you see?" 
 
"It's more like what I don't see." She indicated an arc 
emanating from one side of the wall, extending toward the 
center of the room, culminating on the other side of the 
wall. "It's like someone wiped away the dirt from this 
center point here, with a large implement," indicating the 
exact center. "Yet there aren't any marks on the floor that 
would indicate that. It's too clean." 
 
"Well, can you figure out what might have caused it?" 
Mulder had all the faith in the world that she would. Once 
she latched onto a puzzle, it was very rare that she didn't 
solve it. 
 
Taking a small knife from her coat, Scully stooped to 
scrape any material that might be on the floor into an 
evidence bag. Mulder, recognizing that she was fully 
concentrated on her task, returned to the colonnade and the 
clock, looking for any clue that might indicate how the 
gunman had gotten away.  
 
Grasping one column, half determined to jump back out onto 
the ledge, Mulder stilled when he heard the faintest sound, 
a drip...hiss, very close by. He waited for the next, but 
was more than surprised when a drop hit the cuff of his 
shirt sleeve. He jerked his arm back in reflex and looked 
at what had hit him. Then he touched it.  
 
The pure revulsion he felt resonated in his voice with a 
loud "Yeeeuch!" 
 
"What did you find?" Scully approached her partner with a 
wary eye, wanting to know if he had found anything 
pertinent to the case, yet eager to keep her distance if it 
was unpleasant. 
 
"Pigeon shit." 
 
Scully was more than amused by the disgusted look on 
Mulder's face, but chose to not to make matters worse by 
laughing while he attempted to fling the drippy white goo 
from his hand. "You really have to start taking my advice 
and stop putting your fingers into everything you find, 
Mulder. One of these days it's going to be something you 
can't shake off." Years of experience with this man had 
taught Scully to be prepared. She reached into her pocket 
and produced a foil wrapped moist towelette left over from 
the previous night's Chinese dinner. 
 
Quietly grateful that his partner was so good at second 
guessing him, he accepted the offer and took the package 
from her fingers. He looked down at her bemused face, 
regarding her with affection while he cleaned his shirt 
sleeve. 
 
At that moment, the perpetrator -- the offending pigeon, 
and a few of his closest family members, flew out from the 
clock works over Mulder's head. The agents ducked, fearing 
that the first splat wouldn't be the last. When the 
feathers cleared, they stood back up and realized where the 
gunman might have gone -- into the clock. 
 
Mulder craned his neck around the clock's rim, shining his 
flashlight upwards to see from where the birds had come. 
"There's stuff up there, Scully." Mulder stretched through 
the colonnade to see more, but he couldn't quite make 
anything out. But there was definitely more up there than 
just birds. 
 
Scully grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back 
inside. "What do you think you're doing? You aren't going 
to go back out there without some equipment. You won't do 
yourself or this investigation any good if you get yourself 
killed."  
 
"I've got to find a way up there," Mulder indicated the 
higher reaches of the clock works. "Didn't Detective 
Michaels tell us that there was an assistant engineer on 
the tower renovation project who worked with Rhonda Lewis 
before her murder?" 
 
"What are you going to do?" Scully clearly understood that 
Mulder had a plan. 
 
"I'm going to ask him to get me up there. I want to find 
out what's behind this clock." 
 
*********** 
 
About an hour later, Jack Adams, now the senior engineer 
and architect on the clock tower restoration project, met 
Mulder and Scully on the observation deck with a small, 
portable scaffold. The two men were able to maneuver the 
contraption next to the clock works at a height even with 
the actual clock stem and climbed up to peer into the works 
with a flashlight. The engineer stayed on the ground, 
seemingly to chat up the pretty red haired agent. 
 
"Rhonda was really gifted when it came to renovating and 
preserving these old historical monuments, Miss Scully. Did 
you know this tower dates from just after the Revolutionary 
War? In fact, this clock was a gift from the people of 
France to commemorate their independence from the French 
king in 1789. It was one of the clocks from the Bastille. 
You know, the place where they locked away all those 
prisoners."  
 
The man rambled on while Scully watched Mulder poke deeper 
into the recesses of the clock. "That's an interesting 
highlight in history, Mr. Adams, but ..." Intently, Scully 
shone her flashlight under Mulder's shoulder to help light 
the area. 
 
"Oh yeah, you hear all sorts of these stories when you 
work in these old buildings. Well, I could tell you 
stories..." 
 
"I'm sure you could, Mr. Adams, but...what is it, Mulder?" 
Scully stepped forward trying to get a better look. 
 
Mulder didn't respond, but it was clear that he was 
amazed. It wasn't easy to amaze Mulder, but there it was -- 
the glint from a sharp angular blade, hidden behind the 
gears and obviously not part of the clock. It was part of a 
small guillotine jammed behind the clock gears and out of 
the way of the moving parts. He reached in to tug at the 
device, but it was wedged in tight. 
 
"Hey, Jack, can you give me a hand here?" Mulder reached 
down to help Jack Adams scale the scaffold and steadied him 
as he climbed higher up to get a different angle of 
approach. When Adams stuck his upper torso down into the 
clock works to grab at the guillotine, he saw something 
else. 
 
"Mr. Mulder!" Mulder turned to look up at the engineer 
just in time to see him pull a thick steel-mesh hose with a 
heavy nozzle from atop the highest gear. Following the hose 
with the beam from his flashlight, Mulder discovered that 
the hose was connected to a very large silver cannister, 
marked "Liquid Nitrogen," which was also mounted high in 
the clock behind the gears. 
 
He turned his head to see Scully, who was anxious to learn 
what he saw. He smiled thinly and shook his head in 
astonishment. The puzzle pieces were falling into place. As 
one more piece aligned itself in Mulder's mind, he met 
Scully's eyes and said, "There's liquid nitrogen up here, 
Scully. Father Time has been bringing his victims right 
here, to this tower, amputating their hands, allowing them 
to bleed to death and flash freezing them here so he could 
display them down in the foyer days later." He thought for 
a moment. "But why isn't there any blood evidence? The 
victims bled to death. Even if he was Mr. Clean, there 
should be trace evidence from the victims." 
 
"Not necessarily." Scully shone her flashlight back into 
the corners of the observation deck as she returned to the 
clean spot on the floor, thinking aloud. "One of the 
properties of liquid nitrogen is that it doesn't like to 
stick to other elements. Instead, it pushes them away. That 
would account for why the floor over here is so much 
cleaner than the rest. If the killer was spraying the area - 
- the victims -- with liquid nitrogen, it would freeze the 
human tissue, the blood, everything and blow the small 
particles away. There's enough wind up here to remove the 
evidence in a few minute's time. We might find some traces 
on the ground surrounding the building, though." She was 
puzzled as she turned to face Mulder again. "But it would 
take a lot of liquid nitrogen and prolonged exposure to 
freeze a human body. A lot of it." 
 
"It's a pretty big canister, Scully." He felt he might 
know the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it. 
 
"No, there has to be another source somewhere, otherwise 
how would he replenish his supply for each victim? We've 
got to find the source. When we do, we might find the 
killer." The partners resolved on their next course of 
action without speaking. Thanking Jack Adams for his 
assistance, they made ready to leave the premises when 
Scully's cell phone chirped out a call. 
 
It was Tina Rodriguez' boyfriend calling. "Thank you for 
returning my call, Mr. Malloy. I was hoping you could 
answer one more question we have concerning Miss Rodriguez. 
Uh huh... Did Tina have any hobbies or special skills where 
she might be considered talented? Uh huh... That helps us 
very much, sir. Yes. Thank you for your time." She stopped 
their progress down the stairs by touching Mulder's arm and 
stopping herself as she ended the call. 
 
"I just found out what the third victim did that might 
make her interesting to our killer, Mulder," Scully said, 
using a voice that sounded ever so proud that she made 
another connection. Mulder's face softened when he heard 
that coy competitive lilt to her voice, secretly loving it 
when she showed him hers after he showed her his. 
 
"What's that, Scully?" 
 
"Tina was a concert pianist. Her boyfriend just told me 
she was hired by the Philadelphia Symphony to be their new 
soloist. He says she was quite gifted." Scully turned and 
continued on down the stairs with Mulder in tow. 
 
Mulder followed his partner, considering the evidence. 
"Gifted...It seems like this is one attribute you don't 
want to have in this case, Scully, to be gifted." 
 
***************** 
 
Clock Tower  
4:30 p.m., April 18 
 
(by Laurie Haynes) 
 
Scully stood beside Mulder as the forensic techs 
meticulously went over the gear room, searching for any 
evidence that might help catch the killer. 
 
Mulder rubbed his chin in thought. "Well, there's not any 
kind of container here big enough to hold a person, so he 
must have killed them elsewhere, frozen them in the 
nitrogen and then brought them to the tower, where he 
sprayed them again right before taking them to the foot of 
the tower. That explains why we found no blood at the 
scene."  
 
"But if the guillotine is the murder weapon, there should 
be blood here." 
 
"Good point. Any thoughts on that?" 
 
"Maybe it isn't the murder weapon after all. Maybe it's a 
decoy to keep us from looking for another murder site." 
 
"Could be," Mulder agreed. "You know, I've seen big tanker 
trucks carrying liquid nitrogen. Surely, something that big 
would be easy to spot." 
 
"Well, if you have an LN generator, you don't need a big 
tanker. A generator could easily fit in a room." 
 
"OK, then," said Mulder. "We check out companies who have 
sold such generators -- or places that have them to produce 
their own LN. One thing, though." 
 
"What's that?" 
 
"How is he getting the bodies here without being detected? 
The police have been watching the clock tower, but the 
killer still gets by them." 
 
Scully drew her coat closer around her and shivered.  
 
Mulder put his arm around her and drew her to him. "C'mon. 
Let's leave the techs to it and go to the motel and get 
something hot to drink." 
 
"You buying? I'm freezing," 
 
Mulder chuckled lasciviously. "I'll warm you up. First, 
you can change into something more comfortable..." 
 
Scully laughed and punched him on the arm. But she didn't 
draw away. 
 
They walked like that to their car, never realizing that a 
pair of eyes, out in the night, followed them. 
 
 
****************** 
 
Motel 8  
6 p.m. April 18 
 
Both agents hit the showers after returning to the motel. 
Scully luxuriated in the hot streaming water, shampooing 
her hair and ridding herself of the memory of the odor of 
the victims she had autopsied. 
 
But nothing could wash away the memory in her head of the 
little girl with the severed hands.  
 
As Mulder showered, he turned the case over in his head. 
Since the hands were severed and not left with the body, it 
seemed likely that Father Time was a fetishist. From his 
nickname and the site of the crime, it could easily be 
inferred the man also had a thing for clocks. A clockmaker? 
Or repairman? Mulder decided to have the police check the 
local jewelers.  
 
He sighed. In a city the size of Philadelphia, that would 
take a while. He shut off the water and grabbed a towel, 
drying himself, then wrapping it around his waist. Walking 
out of the bathroom, he sat on the bed and picked up the 
phone. Mulder first called the Philadelphia police 
detective assigned to the case to ask him to check out area 
jewelers and suppliers of liquid nitrogen and LN 
generators. Though they hadn't seen Father Time's face, his 
size and the lack of fingers were identifying marks in 
themselves. 
 
Mulder hung up, then dialed Scully's room."Dinner's on me. 
What do you want?" 
 
"I'm tired of pizza. Is there a deli nearby that delivers? 
I'd love a corned beef sandwich and a cup of soup." 
 
"Sounds good to me. Lemme call them. When you're dressed, 
come on over and we'll talk about the case. I've got some 
ideas I want to run by you." 
 
Mulder looked in the Yellow Pages and found a deli that 
was open late and also delivered. He ordered a Philly steak 
sandwich for himself, the corned beef for Scully and two 
cups of the soup of the day. 
 
Within 15 minutes, he heard a knock at the door and Scully 
saying, "It's me, Mulder." 
 
He opened the door and invited her in. She was dressed in 
flannel pajamas and a heavy terrycloth robe. Mulder himself 
had donned a clean sweatshirt and sweat pants. 
 
"Food should be here pretty soon. I made coffee, want some?" 
 
"Please." 
 
He poured two cups he'd made with the small coffee maker 
provided by the motel. He handed one to Scully and she 
wrapped both her hands around it. 
 
"...so obviously, this guy gets off on clocks," Mulder 
concluded and told her about asking local police to check 
out jewelers and liquid nitrogen suppliers. 
 
"Not to mention, this specific clock," Scully added. 
 
"Right," agreed Mulder. "What's the deal with that?" 
 
"We should probably check out any organizations connected 
with the clock tower." 
 
Mulder nodded. "It seems pretty obvious, from the taking 
of the hands, that Mr. Time is a fetishist. It's likely he 
gets a sexual thrill from the killings and/or the removal 
of the hands." 
 
"Did you notice his fingers were missing on his right hand?" 
 
"Yep. Got an APB out for a big guy with three fingers 
missing. But it's a large city." 
 
She sat down on the bed opposite the one he had been lying 
on. 
 
"Then there's the angle of him going after gifted people," 
she said. "But how does he know they're gifted unless he 
somehow knows them? There's got to be something else in 
common." 
 
"Yeah, we'll have to go around to each of the victims' 
homes and try to identify anything in common." 
 
A knock came on the door. 
 
"Must be our food," Mulder said, grabbing up his wallet 
from the bedside table where it sat beside his holstered 
gun. 
 
He first peeked through the curtains to make sure it was 
the delivery boy, then opened the door. 
 
"That'll be $18.52," said the boy. 
 
"For sandwiches and soup?" 
 
The boy rolled his eyes. "Plus the delivery fee." 
 
"Just pay him, Mulder, and shut that door! You're letting 
all the cold air in." 
 
"OK, OK," he replied and gave the kid a $20 bill. "Keep 
the change." 
 
The delivery boy pocketed the money and moved away from 
the door to return to his car, parked over to the right of 
the room. 
 
Mulder fumbled with the bags, trying to shut the door. 
 
As he did, he heard a loud crack of gunfire and almost 
immediately felt something strike him in the shoulder -- 
hard -- throwing him to the floor and leaving him 
breathless. 
 
"Mulder!" Scully cried and instinctively grabbed his gun 
as she dove for the floor. There was a screech of tires and 
somebody peeled out of the parking lot -- whether it was 
the delivery boy or the shooter, she didn't know just then. 
 
She crawled over to Mulder and slammed the door shut. With 
her free hand, she felt for a pulse and found it -- 
thready, but there. 
 
Scully grabbed a towel Mulder had thrown on the bed. 
Wadding it up, she pressed it against the bullet wound in 
his shoulder. Reaching her hand under him, she felt for an 
exit wound and found it.  
 
Mulder groaned as she applied pressure. 
 
Someone began pounding on the door. "Hey, you guys all 
right in there?" 
 
It was the delivery boy. 
 
She opened the door, grabbed him and pulled him down. 
 
"The shooter could still be out there." 
 
The boy's eyes widened and his face paled. "I didn't think 
about that. I figured that was him that took off out of 
here." 
 
"Probably, but we don't know for sure. Look, I'm an FBI 
agent and this is my partner. He's been shot. I want you to 
call 911 and tell them 'officer down' and give them our 
location. I've got to take care of Mulder." 
 
The boy did as instructed. 
 
"Hang on, Mulder," Scully whispered to him.  
 
"Followed...us," Mulder muttered. 
 
"No shit, Sherlock. Now be quiet. An ambulance is on the 
way and you're going to be fine." 
 
Truth was, she was very concerned about the amount of 
blood he was losing and only hoped an artery hadn't been 
hit. 
 
"'K, Scully. Scully?" 
 
"Yes?" 
 
"You ... all right?" 
 
"Fine, Mulder, I wasn't the one that was shot." 
 
"Careful." 
 
She heard the sirens as the ambulance and the police 
pulled up outside the motel room. 
 
Within minutes, the EMTs had Mulder strapped to a 
stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face and an IV 
running to replace fluid volume. They started to roll him 
out to the ambulance. 
 
Mulder clumsily reached up and moved the oxygen mask. 
"Scully!" 
 
She was beside him in a moment. "I'm right here, Mulder, 
I'm going with you." 
 
He reached out his hand to her and she took it in her own. 
His skin was clammy and cold, not at all like the warmth he 
normally radiated. 
 
 
(by Paige Caldwell) 
 
"Sorry, Miss," one of the EMTs apologized as he detained 
her from climbing into the back of the ambulance.  "There's 
no room for passengers." 
 
"I'm not a passenger," Scully replied in a determined 
voice. "I'm a doctor.  His doctor." 
 
"Do you always make house calls in your pajamas?" the EMT 
asked, giving her a dubious look. 
 
"Depends on the patient," she responded evenly.  "Look, 
I'm packing more than just latex in my robe pocket.  I'm a 
federal agent and this man is my partner.  If you won't let 
me treat him, then at least let me protect him." 
 
"I don't know," the EMT paused. "It's against protocol." 
 
"Against protocol?  That will suit him just fine," she 
commented, turning her attention to her partner who was now 
writhing on the gurney.  He was frantically tearing at the 
straps, grappling with the other EMT who was trying to 
restrain him. 
 
"Mulder, what is it?" she tried to reach his outstretched 
hand, not understanding why he was so agitated. 
 
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flash of light 
even before she heard the explosion of gunfire.  The blast 
shattered the windshield of the police car, the bullet 
puncturing the larynx of the officer inside.  He had been 
on the radio, calling for back-up while the EMTs moved 
Mulder towards the ambulance.   None of them had seen the 
killer return.  No one, except Mulder, who was strapped on 
a gurney gasping for breath. 
 
"Scully," he wheezed.  "Get down..." 
 
Dropping to her knees, Scully pressed up against the 
bumper of the vehicle and reached inside her pocket for her 
gun.   Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the parking lot 
for the sniper. She couldn't see him.  The only person in 
her line of vision was the EMT, who suddenly held up his 
hands. 
 
"Don't shoot me..." he cried. 
 
Behind the door of the ambulance was the Father Time, his 
gun leveled to blow a hole through the EMT's chest. Through 
the broken window, he spied Scully and waved her out with a 
jerk of his rifle.  When she hesitated, her hand still 
clenched around the cold metal of her gun, the killer 
snapped. 
 
"Time's up, Dr. Scully.  Just lift those pretty, little 
hands where I can see `em, nice and slow." 
 
Scully glanced at the EMT who resembled a deer caught in 
headlights.  He was petrified, unmoving, incapable of 
dodging a bullet at close range.  Forcing herself to stay 
calm, she relaxed her grip on her gun and lifted her hand 
from her pocket. 
 
"You're in complete control," she told the killer, 
carefully reciting the FBI's script for hostage 
negotiation.  Now was the time for protocol, for complete 
adherence to the Bureau's modes and practices. 
 
"Damn straight, I am," Father Time retorted, "I choose the 
moment rather than let it choose me." 
 
"You can also choose between life and death," Scully 
responded in a modulated tone.  "One man is already dead. 
Now, you can choose life.  The man inside the ambulance is 
in need of medical attention. Please let me help him." 
 
"Can you help this?" Father Time demanded, wriggling his 
stumps of withered flesh before her eyes.  "Dr. Scully, 
have you been touched by the hand of God? 
 
Scully cringed away from the man's sordid breath, his 
words summoning a face from her past.  She no longer saw 
Father Time, but Donnie Pfaster.  No wonder her hands were 
so cold.  From the onset of this investigation, she had 
felt the chill of her past. It wasn't just a foreshadowing 
of another monster or a similar pattern of atrocities.  It 
was the memory of her hands, frozen around her gun.  It was 
time standing still while her finger pulled the trigger, 
again and again... 
 
"Hand of God?" she said in a quivering voice.  "No, not 
this time." 
 
"Ten hands, Dr. Scully.  I only need two more to complete 
the numbers of the clock." 
 
"Ten?" she gasped. 
 
"I've already made a little house call of my own, doctor. 
You may have stolen my guillotine, but Sherri managed to 
lend me a hand, anyway." 
 
Stunned, she listened to the killer continue. 
 
"I only need two more to complete the numbers of the 
clock. With each pair, I've collected talent and dexterity. 
With Sherri's hands, I've severed my past.  With your 
hands, I'll be able to graft my future." 
 
"I wouldn't count on it..." she commented, averting her 
head from his whiskey-laden breath. 
 
Father Time snickered, his gaze fixed on her trembling 
hands.  Scully felt a cold sweat break across her skin, far 
more chilling than the frosty, night air.  The expression 
on his face suggested more than just the threat of a sudden 
gun blast.  He was visually measuring the span of her 
fingers as if each severed digit promised him hours of 
pleasure. 
 
"Yeah, you'll do just fine," the killer murmured, licking 
his lips with sadistic delight.  Gun still pointed at the 
EMT, he reached out and yanked Scully towards him.  When 
she opened her mouth to speak, he clamped his disfigured 
hand over her mouth. 
 
Scully fought for breath, trying not to gag at the putrid 
smell of rifle grease mixed with semen.  Bile was 
regurgitating from her empty stomach, clogging her throat 
and suffocating her reason.  Over the stubs of gnarled 
flesh, her eyes strained towards the ambulance.  She could 
see Mulder tearing out the IV line, his breath clouding the 
oxygen mask with frantic white bursts. 
 
Scully knew that Mulder would fight past shock and pain to 
help her.  His heart, in danger of arrhythmia, was trying 
to jump-start his body into action.  She needed to stop his 
alarm before it stopped him.  The warmth of his love would 
not be spent in the few seconds of a desperate act. 
 
She wouldn't allow Father Time to choose Mulder's moment, 
any more than she would let Pfaster's memory defeat her. 
 
Instantly, her mind shifted gears.  It was time to wind 
down the fetishist with the fine motor skills of his 
perversion. Parting her lips, she used the tip of her 
tongue to trace a circular pattern into his palm.  She knew 
that the clockwise motion would stimulate more than just 
his curiosity. 
 
Just as she knew that her hands were cold for a reason. 
 
When Father Time groaned with delight, Scully made her 
move. She quickly slid her fingers into the pocket of her 
robe.  The chill of her skin reacted instantly with the 
cold metal of her gun, freezing intent and aim in one 
deadly movement.  With one turn of her wrist, she shoved 
her gun into the killer's abdomen. 
 
Without a blink of an eye, she fired. 
 
At point-blank range, the impact of the bullet threw 
Father Time backwards and propelled Scully forwards.  Like 
broken hands of a clock, each of them spun out of control 
before toppling to the pavement.  Landing on her back, she 
turned to find the killer lying on what remained of his 
stomach.  Twisting his head around, his steely eyes met 
hers'. 
 
"Time's up," she whispered, stretching her arm out to 
knock the rifle from his reach. 
 
Father Time choked out a bloody laugh.  Even in the last 
minutes of life, he still thought he could choose the hour 
of his death.  Dipping his knuckle in his own blood, he 
traced the outline of a clock.  Placing his hands inside of 
it, he murmured his last words. 
 
"Only time will tell..." 
 
In the distance, Scully swore she heard the chiming of the 
tower clock before it halted abruptly.  Glancing down at 
her wrist watch, she realized that it, too, had stopped. 
 
 
************ 
 
9:15 a.m., April 20 
 
 
Two days later, Scully arrived at the hospital to find 
Mulder's nurse grumbling outside of his room. 
 
"How's the patient this morning?" she asked cautiously, 
noting how the nurse's hands were tightly clenched around 
his chart. 
 
"Same as usual," the nurse responded.  "A pain in my ass." 
 
"Yeah," Scully nodded sympathetically.  "Mind if I take a 
peek at his chart?  I know it's against protocol, but..." 
 
"Honey, for all I care you can take the chart, read the 
chart and smack Mr. Mulder upside the head with the chart," 
the nurse exclaimed.  "I'm washing my hands of him." 
 
"They were too cold, anyway!" Mulder yelled from inside 
the room. 
 
"See what I mean?" the nurse cried.  "All I was trying to 
do was give him a sponge bath." 
 
"Allow me..." Scully took the chart and waved it in the 
air. "Maybe, I can lend you a hand and we're not talking 
about a sponge bath." 
 
Pushing open the door, Scully walked briskly into his room. 
 
"What are you doing out of bed, Mulder?" 
 
"Looking for my clothes," he answered, paddling barefoot 
over to the closet.  "I'm being discharged this morning." 
 
"Says who?" she ridiculed. 
 
"Says my personal physician," Mulder responded, shooting 
her a hopeful look.  "C'mon, Scully.  Time to put your 
'John Hancock' on my discharge papers." 
 
"No," she said firmly.  "Only your surgeon will choose 
that hour." 
 
"But, I'm freezing in this joint," he whined, tugging his 
suit jacket from the hanger.  "Why is it that hospitals are 
so damn cold?" 
 
"Lots and lots of reasons," Scully teased, readjusting the 
tone of her voice to placate his petulant mood.  Taking the 
jacket from his hands, she folded it carefully over her arm 
and continued,  "Cold temperatures prevent germs." 
 
"Yeah, what else?" he retorted, grimacing with pain as he 
reached up to yank his slacks from the shelf. 
 
"Well, it's rumored that some patients make their nurses a 
little hot under the collar," she said, confiscating them. 
"Perhaps, Risk Management keeps the hospital cold for the 
protection of the patients." 
 
"Anything else?" he asked stubbornly, trying not to groan 
as he bent over to retrieve his shoes. 
 
"Maybe, the cold will keep said patients in bed," chuckled 
Scully, arching her head to one side.  "Rather than walking 
around with their hospital gowns open in the back." 
 
Mulder twisted around and frowned. 
 
"You could have mentioned this sooner, Scully." 
 
"And miss out on the view?" she snorted, grabbing his shoes. 
 
"Care to help me out, Scully?" he countered.  "I can't 
reach the laces." 
 
"My hands are full," she replied, giving him a smug grin. 
 
"But, I thought you came here to tie up loose ends, 
Scully," Mulder baited.  "Or, was I just imagining our 
earlier telephone conversation." 
 
"Only time will tell," Scully said in a tantalizing voice. 
Dropping both clothes and shoes on the chair, she ordered, 
"Turn around, Mulder." 
 
"Don't hurt me," he cried in a fake whimper.  "And, please 
tell me that your hands aren't still cold." 
 
"Does this feel cold?" she purred, slowly gliding her 
hands up his back. 
 
"No," Mulder gasped. "It feels... you feel... warm ... 
wonderful...." 
 
Scully laughed softly to herself.  Slowly, she traced the 
downward curve of his spine, pausing at each vertebrae to 
apply pressure to conceal her true intent.  With each sweep 
of her fingers, she was hooking the ties of his hospital 
gown. 
 
"All done," she announced, giving his ass a playful smack. 
 
"What?" Mulder glanced around to find his hospital gown 
completely tied.  "How did you do that?" 
 
Scully wiggled her fingers in front of his eyes. 
 
"Gifted, remember?" she joked.  "Now, be a good boy and 
get back into bed." 
 
"Will you tuck me in?" 
 
"You never give up, do you, Mulder?" 
 
"Not when it comes to you," he said, climbing back into 
the hospital bed.  As she drew the blanket up to his chest, 
Mulder caught her hand and whispered, "I'd do anything for 
you, Scully." 
 
"I know, Mulder," she answered solemnly, sitting down on 
the edge of his bed.  "Which is why I had to stop Father 
Time, myself." 
 
"You took an incredible chance, Scully.  One second off 
and you could have been killed." 
 
Scully turned her head and glanced out the window 
thoughtfully. 
 
"Maybe, time was finally on my side, Mulder," she murmured. 
 
After an uncomfortable silence, Mulder asked, 
 
"So what happened at the coroner's office?  Were they able 
to explained how Father Time arrived 'sans hands'?" 
 
"No, but they did find them," she advised in a cryptic tone. 
 
"Inside the clock tower?" he prompted gently. 
 
Scully faced her partner and nodded. 
 
"I don't know if it was some type of malicious joke," she 
said.  "Father Time gunned down a security guard and a 
police officer. Maybe the 'boys in blue' decided to make a 
memorial of their own." 
 
"Maybe..." 
 
"Mulder," Scully's voice dropped an octave to sound out a 
low warning. 
 
"Don't you find it odd that your watch stopped at exact 
moment of Father Time's death?" said Mulder. 
 
"It must have been damaged when I fell," she argued. 
 
"What about the tower clock, Scully?" he asked. "Was that 
damaged, too?" 
 
"You're not going to imply that Father Time had a 
paranormal connection with the clock, are you?" 
 
"Maybe time was his accomplice," he suggested.  "How else 
would he be able to sneak the victim's bodies by the guards 
at the tower?" 
 
"I don't know," Scully murmured.  "I'm not sure I want to 
know." 
 
For a minute, Mulder said nothing.  He gazed down at her 
hand, instantly noting how her fingers were trembling. 
 
"I say we don't give this creep another minute of our 
time," he concluded, massaging her palm with his thumb. 
 
Scully closed her eyes and sighed. 
 
"Thank you," she whispered. 
 
"I know that Pfaster did a number on your head," Mulder 
relayed, reaching up to softly stroke her hair.  "Don't let 
Mr. Freeze do the same thing." 
 
"I won't, Mulder," she nodded.  "This time, I know my 
heart was in the right place.  It was with you." 
 
"Cold hands, warm heart, Scully?" 
 
"And, even warmer lips," she murmured, leaning over to 
kiss him. 
 
 
The End