TITLE: The Dragon's Wing 
AUTHOR: TCS1121  
FEEDBACK: TCS1121@hotmail.com 
ARCHIVE: As You Wish 
HOMEPAGE: 
http://www.angelfire.com/scifi2/xfilesfanfic/ 
DISCLAIMER: 1013 and FOX own all the X-Files 
characters. 
No money changes hands. 
SPOILER WARNING: Je Souhaite  
RATING: R 
CLASSIFICATION: Casefile, MSR 
COMMENTS: Written for the IMadeThisProductions 
VS10 season.  
SPECIAL THANKS:  
To KEstabrook for special beta help, 
encouragement and friendship.  
To my Fabulous Monster for a wonderful, 
thoughtful, and thorough beta job.  
To Mimic. She probably doesn't remember, but 
she told me to write this. 
 
And to VS10 for asking me. 
 
 
SUMMARY: The secret behind a successful wish 
is to be very specific. —Fox Mulder 
 
 
Xxxxxx Teaser xxxxxX 
 
Yunnan Province 
Three Months Ago 
China 
 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
Xian Ang clung to the branch of a mountain 
pine six feet above the rushing 
water. His five year-old daughter, Shen Kuo, 
held tight to the wet branch above him.  
 
For two weeks, rain hammered the parched soil 
of Xian Ang's farm. The long 
drought caused the soil to pack hard, crack, 
and turn to dust. The clouds opened so 
fast that the water rolled on the top of the 
soil instead of soaking into it, and last 
night,his little house, unable to withstand 
the onslaught, washed away. Xian's farm was 
destroyed. His work animals drowned, and all 
his crops were swept away by the current.  
 
"Higher! Little Bird, hurry!" Xian shouted up 
to Shen Kuo. "The water rises!" 
 
Shen Kuo grabbed the slippery branch overhead. 
As she climbed up, the windwhipped her long, 
black hair in front of her face. One hand held 
onto the branch, andthe other hand batted the 
wet strands away from her eyes. A sudden gust 
of wind shoved the branch under her bare feet. 
Her arms shot out, her small fingers searching 
wildly for a twig or cone to hold her balance. 
The wind howled again, and then pushed her 
off. 
 
"Papa!" She screamed, slipping off the branch. 
She reached into the air for him, but flew out 
too far for Xian to catch. She disappeared 
into the raging waterbelow. 
 
"Shen Kuo! Shen Kuo!" he cried, his arm 
outstretched. His tears mixed with the rain as  
he quickly climbed down. Again and again, he 
plunged his arms into the deep water, trying 
to find her. 
 
The rolling waters had folded around his 
Little Bird, and carried her away.  
That must have been what it wanted, for as 
soon as Shen Kuo fell into the torrent, the 
rain stopped. 
 
And the waters calmed. 
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
Office of Shi Liang Wang, Esq.  
Two Months Ago 
San Francisco, California 
 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
Fox, 
 
Long time no see! How's life treating you? 
Still living the life of a well-paid G- 
Man? Your office is still in the basement, 
right? I'm writing because I received 
something which is more your style than 
mine. A distant cousin in China died recently. 
Xian Ang, my cousin, lost his farm and 
his family. The poor guy was so devastated 
after his daughter drowned, that he killed 
himself. The only possessions left of his 
estate were a letter, and the item I've 
enclosed. I know that you specialize in the 
bizarre and unusual, and the fact that 
you make a living at it still amazes me. But, 
I thought you might want to take a look 
into this, and see if this object really did 
have anything to do with his death. 
Xian wrote in his letter, that this item is a 
talisman, a charmed object—the actual  
translation of the Chinese word is somewhere 
between the two. He said that 
three wishes were bestowed upon this Dragon's 
Wing, and that he foolishly used one. That 
wish destroyed his life. 
You and I know that legends and superstitions 
run wild in old countries, 
but I've heard old Chinese sayings that make a 
lot of sense. If you do look into this, 
and find that the Dragon's Wing had anything 
to do with his death, let me know. After all, 
he was a relative of mine. 
Xian was a farmer, and his wish was for the 
drought to end, so his daughter would  
never experience hardship.  
Be careful Fox, there are still two wishes 
left!  
 
Your friend, 
 
Shi the Guy, Esq. 
 
Xxxxxx ACT ONE xxxxxX 
 
X-Files Office, Wednesday afternoon 
Basement of the Hoover Building  
Washington, DC 
 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
"Dr. Hiller has an irrefutable alibi for last 
Saturday night." 
 
"Yes, Scully, and the Tuesday night before 
that, and for the twenty-fifth of 
last month. C'mon, nobody has that many 
ironclad alibis. In fact, in my book, that 
makes him even more suspicious." 
 
"More suspicious than what?" Scully paced as 
she spoke. "Than not having an 
alibi? Mulder, Dr. Harlan Hiller could not 
have killed anyone last Saturday. Hundreds 
of people saw him at the dedication of the new 
Pediatric Neurology wing of Fairfax 
Mercy Hospital." 
 
Mulder sat at his desk with his hands clasped 
behind his head. Scully stalked 
back and forth, waving her hands. He liked how 
she flushed when she was agitated, but 
wasn't about to let her get the upper hand. He 
sat up, and tapped the desktop with 
his fingertip. 
 
"I have Mrs. Edith Fleischmann who saw Dr. 
Hiller inject something into Bertha  
Witherspoon's I.V. bag at the Chesapeake 
Nursing and Assisted Living Center in  
Baltimore. She died that same night." 
 
"Mulder, do I need to remind you that Edith 
Fleischmann is eighty-seven years 
old?" 
 
"And Sadie Littlejohn reported that Dr. Hiller 
examined her roommate, Lenore 
Morrison, last Tuesday night in their hospital 
room, right before Mrs. Morrison died."  
 
"Mulder." 
 
He pointed his finger at her. "Leo Formann 
identified his own killer on the 
night of the twenty-fifth. Right before he 
died, he stated that Dr. Harlan Hiller 
poisoned him. You say all these people are 
making false ID's, Scully? Why?" 
 
She sat on the edge of his desk, looked down, 
and said softly, "The more 
things change, the more they stay the same." 
 
Mulder scrunched his forehead, "What do you 
mean?"  
 
"You're a difficult man. You know that?" She 
sighed and looked up. "Passionate, stubborn, 
wonderful in bed, but difficult." 
 
He eyed her warily for a moment then said, 
"Well, that's a new approach to an 
old argument."  
 
She shook her head. "You said it once 
yourself. We go through this 
perfunctory song and dance. I think I'm right, 
you know you're right, and on and on it goes." 
 
Mulder got up. "Hey, I have an idea." He bent 
down, catching her eye. "Let's 
start over, and conduct an in-depth 
investigation on Doctor Hiller." 
 
"Isn't that what we're doing now?" she asked. 
 
"No, we're taking bits and pieces of what we 
think happened, and what we know  
happened. We're giving opinions, and making 
decisions based on what I believe 
versus what you believe." He leaned against 
the desk, next to her. "Remember what 
they taught us in FBI school? When a string of 
murders are committed, and the same 
person's name keeps coming up as a possible 
suspect, we do a complete investigation on 
him. What do you say?" 
 
"You're mocking me, aren't you?"  
 
"No, I'm not," he said seriously. "There are 
obviously things here that don't 
fit. Maybe he uses hallucinogens, maybe astral 
projection, or has an accomplice, or, hell, 
maybe an evil twin brother. Let's just back up 
a bit, and do some heavy digging on Dr. 
Hiller, so we can do the song and dance 
together." He caught her eye again, and nodded  
encouragingly. "The one thing you and I agree 
on, Scully is that we have an 
impossible scenario repeated three times." 
 
"Sometimes this job isn't fun." She got off 
the desk, and straightened her 
skirt. "Three elderly patients are dead, and 
the only suspect we have appears to be out of 
the running. Dr. Hiller's alibis look good, 
but I admit, we need to know why his name was 
mentioned each time someone died. And how 
three people claimed to have seen him prior to 
all three deaths. I know we can't ignore the 
witnesses. I just wish this job was 
easier sometimes." 
 
He looked at her and frowned. 
 
"Not easier all the time," she corrected. 
"Just easier sometimes." 
 
"You know what *I* wish, Scully..." Mulder's 
voice trailed off. He whirled 
around, and strode to his file cabinet. 
 
"Damn! I didn't mean to file this away; I just 
didn't want to lose it." He pulled the drawer 
open, and started flipping through the files 
muttering, "I forgot all about this." 
 
Scully followed him. 
 
"Is there something in there that's going to 
help us find a serial killer?"  
She looked into the file drawer. "Or is it an 
answer to a wish?" 
 
"Neither. It's something that wishes are made 
on. Aha!" He reached into the 
drawer, and carefully lifted out a folder. 
"It's a Dragon's Wing. You said you had a 
wish." He gently touched a small, flattened 
Ziploc bag stapled to the inside of the 
manila folder. The Ziploc bag contained a red 
and gold silk bag about four inches by four 
inches. It was cinched with a thin, gold, 
drawstring. 
 
"What's a Dragon's Wing?" she asked as Mulder 
handed her the letter from Shi 
Wang. 
 
"Read this. A friend of mine from my Oxford 
days sent it."  
 
Her eyes flickered as she read. "Have you 
opened the bag?"  
 
"No. Uh—not yet," he smiled shyly. "Want to 
see it?"  
 
She nodded, and reread the letter.  
 
Mulder sat, and removed the small red and gold 
bag from the baggie. Scully came 
up behind him, reached over to put the letter 
down, and placed her warm hand on 
the back of his neck. He slipped two fingers 
into the small silk bag, and gently removed 
the Dragon's Wing. It looked like a mummified 
piece of a bat's wing, except that it had 
leather-like scales and pinfeathers. It was 
about the size of a silver dollar, and 
scorched black around its ragged edges. 
 
"It's not very impressive, is it?" Mulder 
said, disappointed, and slid it back 
into the bag. 
 
"Surely there must be an old saying about 
dangerous things coming in small 
packages," she said, massaging the nape of his 
neck. 
 
He leaned back, and tilted his chin up, 
resting his head between her breasts. 
"Well, you're pretty dangerous..." 
 
He pushed away from his desk, startling her 
backwards a step. He stood and 
circled around to pin her against his desk.  
 
"Mulder, stop it," she whispered just as the 
phone rang. 
 
"I'm not the only one who's difficult." He 
sighed as he picked up the phone.  
"Mulder."  
 
He listened for a minute, then rolled his 
eyes. "Yep. Right." Another pause, 
then, "Right. Okay. Got'cha." He gently placed 
the handset back into its cradle, 
went down to the floor on one knee, and yanked 
the cord out of the wall. Pieces of the 
faceplate flew as the phone line whipped 
through the air.  
 
"Problem?" Scully asked casually. 
 
"Nope." He looked at her. "Scully, you're 
right." He wrapped the broken cord 
around the phone. "Sometimes this job isn't 
fun." 
 
"What was that about?" She picked up a piece 
of faceplate, and put it on the 
desk beside the dead telephone. 
 
He stared at the mess on his desk. "You know, 
Scully, there's something inherently wrong 
about cameras attached to traffic lights." 
 
"They tracked you down, eh?" She folded her 
arms, and hiked her hip onto the 
desk. 
 
"Yeah, but it took some doing on their part. 
The traffic cameras just take 
pictures of the rear license plates. I wish I 
could hire the guy at the car rental agency to 
work for the FBI, and I wish..." Mulder looked 
at the little silk bag and paused. "I wish..." 
 
"What?" she asked. 
 
"According to Shi, we have two wishes left in 
this bag." He picked up the bag, 
and swung it around his index finger by the 
thin gold cord.  
 
"Mulder, your track record on wishes isn't 
very good. Maybe we should just 
leave those wishes right where they are." 
 
"What do you mean?" he asked, surprised. "How 
many times have you had three wishes granted 
by a genie?" 
 
Scully shrugged. 
 
"Well, I have more experience than you, and I 
now know the correct way to phrase a  
wish." 
 
"We don't even know if this really is a 
charmed object," she countered. "The 
way I read Shi Wang's letter, it wasn't clear 
whether his cousin's wish was granted, or 
whether it was a set of tragic coincidences." 
 
"But, I know the trick, Scully," he said, 
nodding at the Dragon's Wing. "The 
secret behind a successful wish is to be very 
specific." 
 
She shook her head. "I don't know about you, 
but except for a restful weekend 
with my favorite partner," she elbowed him 
gently, "I have nothing to wish for." 
 
He turned, and studied her face for a moment. 
"Then that's what I'll wish for." 
He grinned. "For the both of us." 
 
"Mulder, we're working on a case. We can't 
take time out of our investigation." 
 
"You sound as if you believe that a little 
piece of skin could grant my wish," 
Mulder teased. "Look, I met Shi L. Wang, Esq. 
at Oxford. This was the guy who 
short-sheeted my bed, put salt in the sugar 
bowl, and did unmentionable things with my 
toothbrush. We still keep in touch, and I 
really like him, but I can only trust him as 
far as I can throw him in a truck." 
 
"'Throw him in a truck?'" She snorted, and 
said, "I just don't think we should 
be playing with this now. We're too busy."  
 
"All the more reason to try it now. You know 
that we're busy checking into Dr. 
Hiller, so if we suddenly find ourselves in a 
Mediterranean Spa, we'll have proof that the 
Dragon's Wing works."  
 
He touched the little bag on the desk in front 
of him. "Besides, if Shi isn't 
pulling my leg, and this really is a charmed 
object." He opened the bag, and gently finger 
tweezed out the contents. "This is right up 
our X-Files alley." 
 
She looked at the pitiful, charred piece of 
flesh between his fingers and said, 
"A weekend at a spa does sound nice." 
 
He lowered his voice and said, "I'll rub warm 
mud all over you, if you rub scented oil all  
over me." 
 
"Or vice versa," she purred. 
 
He smiled broadly. "You're on!"  
 
Putting his hand to his forehead, reminiscent 
of Johnny Carson's Karnack the  
Magnificent, he said, "Just give me a minute 
to phrase this correctly." 
 
He peeked up at Scully, who began tapping her 
fingers against the edge of the 
desk. 
 
"Okay, okay, I think I have it," he said, 
clearing his desk. 
 
Gently holding the fragile wing in front of 
his lips, he took a breath.  
 
"Here is my wish." The wing was so light it 
fluttered as he spoke. 
 
"I wish for Dana Scully and I to be alone 
together with no interruptions.  
Allowed to do whatever things we want to do, 
in total privacy." He looked at her with an 
evil grin, "And for Scully to be putty in my 
hands."  
 
"Mulder!"  
 
"The end," he said quickly. 
 
"Putty in your hands?" 
 
"As added proof that the Dragon's Wing works." 
He said innocently. 
 
She stood, took a deep breath, and headed for 
the door. "Well, I don't feel very putty-ish  
right now." 
 
"Give it time!" he called after her. 'And a 
few bottles of wine,' he thought. 
 
Mulder opened the bag to replace the Dragon's 
Wing. His eyes widened. A piece 
of flesh had broken off, fluttered to his 
desk, and crumbled.  
 
The remaining wing was now half the original 
size.  
 
Xxxxxx ACT TWO xxxxxX 
 
X-Files Office, Thursday, noon 
Basement of the Hoover Building  
Washington, DC 
 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
"When I was in FBI school, they said that an 
'investigation' was a detailed 
inquiry or systematic examination of the case 
at hand." Scully placed her palms on his 
desk, bent down, and said, "I have an 
appointment with Dr. Hiller in an hour at 
Union Memorial Hospital in Baltimore to 
fulfill the 'inquiry' part of the 
investigation." 
 
"Are you sure you're not feeling even a little 
pliable right now?" Mulder asked, as he  
riffled through invoices with photographs of 
his rear bumper attached. "Don't 
you have the slightest urge to fan me or feed 
me grapes?" 
 
"I thought I was pretty pliable last night," 
she said, pulling a chair close to 
his desk. 
 
He looked at her and smiled. "Why, yes. Yes 
you were. And more descriptive 
than usual." He lowered his voice. "I like it 
when you talk to me like that."  
 
She leaned in, and whispered, "Why don't you 
come to Baltimore to interview 
Dr. Hiller with me? I'm leaving now." 
 
Mulder chuckled, and tore a check from his 
checkbook. "I thought he worked at 
Fairfax Mercy Hospital in DC."  
 
"No, not any more. He still has personal and 
professional acquaintances there, 
though." She leaned back. "Now, he's on staff 
at Union Memorial, a good hospital in a 
nice part of Baltimore. He's a doctor of 
internal medicine, and specializes in 
geriatrics." 
 
"Geriatrics is old people, right?" Mulder 
asked, licking an envelope. 
 
Scully sighed. "Geriatrics is the branch of 
medicine that deals with diagnosing, and  
treating diseases and problems of the 
elderly." 
 
"Like I said, 'old people.' Hey, don't get me 
wrong, Scully. I like old people. I hope to  
be one someday." He stopped and stared at her, 
then said, "You and I will make 
a cute old couple some day, don't you think?"  
 
Her face and neck flushed. She stood, cleared 
her throat, and said, "I'm leaving."  
 
"Okay, okay I'm coming. But Scully...?" 
 
"Yeah?" 
 
He held up a stack of envelopes. "How 'bout 
you drive?" 
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxX 
 
Union Memorial Hospital 
1:15 PM, Thursday afternoon 
Baltimore, Maryland 
 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
Mulder lowered his head, and tucked his hands 
deep into the pockets of his long, black  
coat. It was windy and unseasonably chilly. 
The dark, heavy clouds blotted 
the sun, and rumbled in the distance. Scully 
combed her fingers through her windblown hair 
as they walked up to the information desk of 
Union Memorial Hospital. 
 
"Good afternoon. I'm Agent Scully, and this is 
Agent Mulder. We have an appointment  
with Dr. Harlan Hiller." Scully showed her 
badge, and received a Visitor's 
pass in return.  
 
"He's expecting you." The elderly receptionist 
smiled politely as she handed 
Mulder his pass. "I have a note from Dr. 
Hiller asking me to page him when you arrived.  
You can go straight up, and he'll meet you 
there."  
 
They followed her directions to Dr. Hiller's 
office, and before Mulder knocked 
on the door, Scully said, "The doctor's being 
very cooperative." 
 
"Maybe his evil twin isn't so cooperative," he 
retorted, as he knocked. 
 
The door swung open and Mulder was met by the 
bright, brown eyes of Dr. Harlan  
Hiller. Laugh lines and crows feet creased 
high into his cheeks. He beamed a 
wide gap-toothed smile highlighted by large, 
white teeth.  
 
"Come in! Welcome!" He stepped aside. "I 
believe you are the first FBI agents I've ever  
met."  
 
Dr. Hiller was three inches taller and, maybe, 
five pounds heavier than Scully. 
His black hair was cropped so close, that his 
scalp shone through. 'Dr. Hiller' was 
embroidered above the left breast pocket of 
his lab coat, and the white material 
accentuated his black skin.  
 
"Dr. Hiller, I'm Agent Scully, and this is 
Agent Mulder. Thank you for meeting 
with us today." She offered her hand, and he 
shook it vigorously.  
 
"Not a problem—not a problem." Dr. Hiller took 
Mulder's hand, and shook it 
just as enthusiastically. "So nice to meet 
you, agents. Please, we can all sit over 
here." He gestured to his desk.  
 
Mulder pulled an office chair over to the desk 
while Scully moved a chair to his right.  
Dr. Hiller took his own chair from behind his 
desk, and moved it to the side, so he could  
face the agents directly. He obviously did not 
need the security a large desk 
provided.  
 
"Now, how can I help you?" Dr. Hiller sat with 
his hands on his thighs, and leaned  
forward. His eyes were still bright, but he 
spoke seriously. "Because I really hope I 
can." 
 
"We're investigating the deaths of three of 
your patients," Scully began. 
 
"Yes, I know. If I'm not mistaken, the 
deceased are Bertha Witherspoon, Lenore  
Morrison, and Leo Formann." 
 
"That's correct." 
 
"Agent Scully, you probably know that Mrs. 
Morrison and Mr. Formann were my  
patients when I was on staff at Fairfax Mercy. 
However, after I left, Dr.Robert Spellman  
took over most of my caseload." He looked up 
shyly. "I—uh—I've already been questioned 
about this."  
 
The questioning during a murder investigation, 
made most people indignant, 
whether they were guilty or not, but Doctor 
Hiller's apologetic tone surprised Mulder.  
Perhaps the doctor didn't realize how close he 
was to becoming a murder suspect. 
 
"I know you've been interviewed, Doctor, and 
thank you for indulging us," 
Mulder said. "But there's one aspect in all 
these deaths that is puzzling. You were seen 
attending to these patients right before they 
died." 
 
"Is that what the witnesses said? That I was 
seen treating all these patients 
before they passed?" Hiller asked, amazed. 
 
"Leo Formann identified you himself, right 
before he died," Mulder said.  
 
"But I only saw one of them." Hiller's eyes 
darted from Mulder to Scully. 
 
"Which one?" she asked, looking over to 
Mulder. 
 
"Why, Bertha Witherspoon, of course. She was 
admitted to Union Memorial two 
months ago, right around the time I joined the 
staff. When she was discharged to the 
Chesapeake Nursing and Assisted Living Center, 
she asked if I would continue to treat her. 
I arranged it myself."  
 
The doctor had a whiff of an accent. Mulder 
couldn't tell if it was West Indian, South  
African, or The Bronx.  
 
"Dr. Hiller," Scully asked, "What were you 
doing for Mrs. Witherspoon?" 
 
"Her potassium level was down, so I ordered 
some to be injected into her IV.  
It's a common procedure. The nursing staff was 
busy helping a patient two doors down, 
so I added the medication to her IV bag 
instead of waiting for one of them. I noted 
it in the chart so that the dosage wouldn't be 
repeated."  
 
"How did you feel when Mrs. Witherspoon died?" 
Scully asked. Mulder shot her 
a look, but she was focused on Hiller. 
 
The doctor leaned back, and folded his arms. 
His calm, lilting voice answered, 
"Agent Scully, death isn't something I feel 
bad or good about. The truth is: if you 
live, you die. However, because of my work, I 
feel I'm on intimate terms with Death, and I 
don't fear it. I believe that we are powerless 
when our time truly comes. Bertha's time had 
truly come." 
 
"Why did you become a physician if you feel 
that Medical Science is powerless 
to help?" Scully bristled. 
 
"I didn't say we couldn't help. But, when God 
has made His decision, all we 
can do is ease the suffering, and help quiet 
the fear. We can make the transition from 
this life to the next easier for our loved 
ones. Older folk know this, and most of the 
time, all they want is a hand to hold when 
they say good-bye."  
 
Dr. Hiller leaned forward, and smiled. "That's 
why I study gerontology. This population  
has no romantic notions about immortality. 
Death is expected, and I'm happy to 
help when their time comes." 
 
"How do you help them?" Mulder stared into Dr. 
Hiller's eyes. 
 
"With comfort measures only. Let nature take 
its course, and see that there's 
no unnecessary medical interference." Hiller 
didn't blink. 
 
"How do you define 'unnecessary,' Dr Hiller?" 
Mulder asked pointedly. 
 
"I don't define 'unnecessary,' Agent Mulder." 
He smiled, sat back, and crossed 
his legs. "My patients do." 
 
Xxxxxxxxx 
 
"We didn't ask him about Leo Formann and 
Lenore Morrison," Scully complained. 
 
"Yes we did, and he said he was only there for 
Bertha Witherspoon, but he didn't say he  
killed her." He turned and pointed at her. "I 
think you owe Edith Fleischmann 
an apology, by the way." 
 
"Bertha's roommate, I know." She sighed. "I 
have to check into the Doctor's 
alibi again, for that night." 
 
"Yeah, I seem to remember something about it 
being irrefutable?" 
 
"It must have been a mix-up on the time." She 
waved her hand dismissively.  
"What made you run out of there so fast?" 
 
"I didn't run out of there." Mulder put his 
arm around her shoulders, and 
hurried her along. "Dr. Hiller wasn't going to 
confess to euthanasia. So, now we have 
some digging to do." 
 
"Digging?" 
 
"You heard him, Scully. He likes to help old 
people out with their suffering.  
Be there for  
them at the end." 
 
"I wish you'd stop calling our aged 
population, 'old people.'" She walked 
quickly and deliberately; her lips pressed 
together. She stopped suddenly. "While I agree 
that there's a time to let people die with 
dignity, his cavalier attitude toward his 
patients was  
unnerving." 
 
"Pissed you off, didn't he."  
 
"Yeah, but I didn't want to get into a 
discussion with him about morality and 
the Hippocratic Oath. I was already close to 
becoming righteously indignant." She 
smiled depreciatingly. "Besides, it wouldn't 
have helped."  
 
"Well, while you were making appointments as 
your part of the inquiry, I was 
gathering information." He took her elbow, and 
guided her across the street to their 
car. "It seems that the good doctor pays 
monthly rent on several storage facilities in 
the Baltimore area. Maybe he moved here for a 
reason." He opened the driver's side door for 
her.  
 
"Why? To be closer to his junk? Mulder, people 
rent those so they don't have 
to throw away Aunt Colleen's quilt, Aunt 
Mitzi's bear rug, or Aunt Maureen's rocking 
chair." She slammed the door, and put the key 
in the ignition. 
 
He scooted into the passenger's seat. "You 
have a lot of aunts." 
 
"Yes, I do. That's how I know what storage 
units are for, because I rent one." 
 
"I didn't know that. Is it heated? Maybe we 
could set up a warm mud bath in 
it for the week-end." He patted his shirt 
pocket; "I even brought the Dragon's Wing, in 
case we wanted to use that last wish." 
 
"You brought it with you?" 
 
He nodded, and patted his pocket again. 
 
Scully shook her head and continued, "Well, 
mine isn't climate controlled, but some units  
are." 
 
"I don't know about you, but I think that even 
for a doctor, seven large garage 
units are excessive." He reached under the 
seat, and pulled out a street map.  
 
She paused, "Yeah, that is excessive."  
 
"I've got a list of them." He opened a small 
notebook, and thumbed through the 
pages. 
 
The sky darkened. Lightning flashed and 
thunder cracked, but no rain fell.  
 
"That was right on cue," Scully said, looking 
out the window. "Sounds like 
it's time to go. Where's the first unit?" 
 
"A little south of the main city, in 
Brooklyn." He opened the map, and ran his 
finger down through the streets. 
 
"It seems that a lot of big cities have 
Brooklyns." She backed the Taurus away 
from the curb.  
 
"Let's see what Dr. Hiller has in this one." 
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxX 
 
U Store It, Public Storage, Thursday, 3:00 PM 
East Patapsco Avenue, Brooklyn 
Baltimore City, Maryland 
 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
"I'm sure that in FBI school, they said 
something about obtaining search 
warrants, and avoiding breaking and entering," 
Scully said, glancing around the "U Store It" 
public storage on East Patapsco Avenue.  
 
"Really? I must have been absent that day." 
Mulder fiddled with a ring of lock picks. 
 
"Were you absent the day they showed you how 
to use those, too?"  
 
Mulder looked closely at the picks. Even 
though it was only three o'clock in 
the afternoon, the purple-black clouds 
darkened the sky so completely that the 
streetlights kicked on.  
 
The "U Store It" was a self-serve facility 
made up of several long lines of 
large garage-door units. No security guard was 
on duty when they'd driven through the front 
gates, so they hadn't had to show their badges 
or answer any questions. The building 
they wanted was well hidden from the street, 
so Scully had quickly driven around to the 
back, and parked in front of Unit #527.  
 
Mulder finally held up his chosen pick.  
 
"If you women would start using bobby pins 
again, it would make breaking and 
entering a lot less complicated." Mulder slid 
the pick into the padlock and jiggled it 
gently. The tumblers clicked, and the lock 
popped open. He removed the lock, and opened 
the hasp that secured the door. Holding the 
lock high in the air, he raised his other 
arm, and took a bow.  
 
Scully looked at the padlock skeptically, and 
said, "Either Dr. Hiller isn't too concerned  
about what's in here, or you're one hell of a 
cat burglar." 
 
He flipped the shackle around his finger and 
smiled. "It's always good to have 
other employment options available."  
 
Mulder put the lock down, grasped the garage-
door handle, and tugged. 
 
"Jesus, what's this door made of? Lead? Gimme 
a hand here, Scully."  
 
Scully wedged her fingers between his, and, at 
his nod, they both pulled. The 
door opened up a foot. They readjusted their 
stances and heaved again. It took two 
more strong pulls and a push, to completely 
raise the heavy metal door.  
 
Thunder clapped in the background as they 
stood in the open doorway of the 
storage unit. A musty, mildew odor wafted out. 
Mulder snaked his hand inside, and patted the 
wall until he found a light switch. Dim light 
from a single bulb illuminated the 
dust lying on the paint tarps covering Dr. 
Hiller's personal possessions. 
 
"Mulder, look." Scully pointed down. A jumble 
of footprints were scattered over the dusty 
floor. 
 
Mulder edged in front of her and walked in. 
"Funny. The tarp coverings aren't 
disturbed, but it looks like someone's been in 
here recently."  
 
"The footprints look like they're a few weeks 
old, but it's hard to tell," Scully said, 
stepping into the storage room behind him. 
 
"This room looks like it goes way back there." 
Mulder pulled a small flashlight from his  
pocket, and clicked it on. The storage room 
was crowded to the ceiling with tarp-covered 
items.  
 
"It looks like all his stuff is covered up, 
like he's getting ready to paint 
the place." He turned to her. "Why would he 
want to paint in here?"  
 
The small beam showed footprints continuing 
into the darkness. He swung the beam of  
light around on the floor, then on the tarp in 
front of him. He leaned over, 
and with his left hand, gripped the heavy 
fabric and lifted. 
 
Fat raindrops smacked against the tin roof, 
filling the room with a loud, wet 
staccato.  
 
"Mulder, what is it?" Scully stepped in 
further to avoid the spray of the 
pelting rain, while keeping surveillance on 
the parking lot. 
 
"What do you make of these?" Mulder pulled the 
tarp back revealing rows of neatly  
stacked black boxes. He pulled another cloth 
away, uncovering more stacks of identical  
black boxes. "There are hundreds of them in 
here."  
 
He lifted one. The box was seamless heavy 
plastic with no obvious opening. It 
was rectangular, shorter and wider than a 
large shoebox. He turned it over in his 
hands, and was surprised at how heavy it was. 
He figured it weighed around five or six 
pounds. There was a small metal plate stuck to 
the short side of the box. It read: 
 
MTB—3/10-5/97 
 
Mulder picked up another box and read the 
plate: PNS—12/18-2/00. He walked 
back, and handed it to Scully. 
 
"What is this?" he asked. 
 
"Mulder," she said slowly, "You said that Dr. 
Hiller pays rent on seven units like this  
one?" 
 
"Yeah." 
 
"Well, we've just broken into his own private 
columbarium. These boxes are used in a  
morgue or at a cemetery to hold cremains: the 
remains of cremated individuals."  
 
"Holy shit," Mulder whispered. "You mean, each 
of these boxes was once a— a  
person?" 
 
"That's right. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." 
Scully said grimly. 
 
"There's so many of them." Mulder tried to 
swallow, but his tongue was too dry. A  
moment ago, the boxes were oddities. Now they 
were someone's dearly departed.  
Someone's friend or father. Someone's sister. 
 
"Now we know what Dr. Hiller has in this unit, 
and in maybe six more storage units as  
well. The plaques probably are initials and 
dates. See, on this one, 12/18-2/00?" Scully  
turned the box where he could see. "It could 
mean December, 1918, to February, 2000.  
This person with the initials 'PNS' was just 
over 81 years old when he or she died."  
 
Mulder looked around at the tall mounds, and 
started tearing down the tarps. He was  
mindful not to jostle the boxes too much. 
 
"You're right." She stared wide-eyed at the 
dozens of stacks of black boxes 
he'd uncovered. "There are hundreds of them." 
 
Mulder peered into the blackness of the 
storage unit. "I'm going further back 
into the room, I think there's something else 
in here." He aimed his flashlight, and 
took a step. He heard Scully say, "I'm going 
out to the car; my phone doesn't work in here.  
We need to find a way to break in legally..." 
She ducked her head out into the rain. 
 
Lightning struck and thunder crashed in a 
deafening roar. The storage room lit 
up with a brilliant flash just as the heavy 
metal door slipped its moor. The force of the 
slamming door flung Scully back into the room.  
 
The light faded out as Mulder heard her head 
smack the concrete floor. 
 
"Scully!" 
 
His little beam wavered as it found her. Her 
eyes were closed, and blood ran 
down her face, pooling on the floor.  
 
"God, Scully, please..." he whispered 
fiercely, "Talk to me. C'mon, talk to 
me." He knelt next to her on the hard floor, 
and felt her pulse. Her heartbeat was strong, 
but she was breathing in short, shallow gasps. 
"Don't do this, Scully. Come on, please 
open your eyes."  
 
The thunder stilled, and the rain dissipated; 
the room was deathly quiet. Mulder charged  
over to the door, and strained to lift it. It 
wouldn't budge.  
 
Pounding his fists against the door, he 
shouted, "Help, somebody!" He yelled 
louder. "We need help in here! Help!"  
 
His voice echoed among the ashes of the dead. 
Lowering himself to the floor, he gently 
shifted Scully into his lap. She lay still and 
silent, her warm blood soaking into his shirt. 
 
"Scully, please wake up...please, Scully..." 
He rocked her gently, softly repeating her  
name. Her arm flopped, and her head lolled as 
he swayed. No one had seen them enter,  
and they were far back from the street. They 
were isolated, totally alone together.  
 
And Scully was putty in his hands.  
 
 
Xxxxxx ACT THREE xxxxxX 
 
"U Store It"—Unit #527 
East Patapsco Avenue 
Brooklyn section of Baltimore 
Late Thursday afternoon 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
"...and then he told me to get my skinny ass 
off the court or he'd call my mother. What  
did he think I was? A kid? He didn't scare me, 
though, Scully, I mean, I was 
almost eighteen..." Mulder's voice drifted off 
as he planted a kiss on the top of her 
head. "C'mon, Scully," he whispered into her 
hair, rocking her gently. "You say we 
never talk enough. I'm all ears now."  
 
The ceiling light bulb fluttered on, 
suggesting that the transformer, blown out 
by the lightning, was back in business. Mulder 
looked around. He had stacked the 
black boxes carefully, so he could lean 
against them as Scully reclined in his lap. He 
looked at his watch, and ran his hand through 
his hair before hugging her to his chest. It 
had been the longest half-hour of his life. 
However, her head had stopped bleeding, and 
her breathing was deep and steady.  
 
"Why won't you wake up? What can I do?" He 
squeezed his eyes shut. "You have 
to tell me, Scully." He resumed his gentle 
rocking. 
 
"Have to...keep going..." Scully mumbled.  
 
Mulder held his breath. "Scully?" 
 
"I said...keep going." She took a slow breath. 
"I like to hear..." She stirred in 
his arms, and opened her eyes. "... about your 
skinny seventeen year-old ass." She smiled 
weakly. 
 
"Oh, God, Scully. Scully..." Letting out his 
breath, he gently kissed her 
cheeks. He looked at her face, and smiled in 
relief. "I said I was almost eighteen." 
 
"Almost eighteen is seventeen." She sat up 
slowly, and held her head. "Oh my God."  
 
"Take it easy. Slow and easy." He rubbed his 
hands softly up and down her arms.  
 
"Look at your shirt," she said, patting the 
bloodstains. "It's a mess." She 
tilted her head back against his chest, and 
closed her eyes. 
 
"You have to stay awake, Scully." He moved her 
out of his lap, leaned her against the  
boxes, and stood up. "You bumped your head 
pretty hard." He offered her his 
hand. "Try and stand up, okay?"  
 
She sighed, and held out her hands. He took 
them, and helped her to her feet. 
 
She wobbled, and he held her arms to steady 
her. "How bad does it look?" she asked. 
 
"Here, feel." He guided her fingertips to the 
jagged cut at her hairline. 
 
She winced as she probed. "It's not bad, just 
a couple of stitches, maybe. The door must  
have hit me before I fell. Heads and scalps 
always bleed a lot." She gingerly 
touched the bump on the back of her head, and 
looked at him blearily. She sat back down on 
a stack of boxes and said, "It's not as bad as 
it looks." 
 
"Are you going to be all right?" he asked 
worriedly. 
 
She gave a wan smile. "After four or five 
Tylenol, I will." 
 
"You scared me." He leaned over and looked 
into her eyes. 
 
"I'm sorry." Her bloodshot eyes were alert, 
and both pupils matched in size.  
Mulder knew that with a head injury, matching 
pupils was a good thing. 
 
"Don't do it again." His breathing evened out 
as his heart finally started beating 
correctly. 
 
Mulder straightened up, stretched his arms 
high over his head, and turned to 
the door. Reaching down and curling his 
fingers around the handle, he yanked up hard.  
The door was welded to the ground. He backed 
up and kicked it.  
 
"Mulder." 
 
He kicked it again. And again and again, 
growling at it with each impact. 
 
"Mulder!" Scully stood unsteadily. "It's okay, 
we'll figure something out." 
 
"Goddamit! I couldn't get it open. You were 
lying on the floor, bleeding to 
death for all I knew, and I couldn't get 
the..." He kicked again. "...fucking door 
open!" 
 
Thunder rumbled on the other side. 
 
"Someone will see our car," she said using 
Mulder's arm for balance. "Storage 
lots have security guards that make rounds. 
It's too bad that we'll be caught warrant-
less, but, eventually we will be found." She 
staggered over to the tumble of boxes. 
Rubbing her temples, she sat down next to JVS 
5/09—4/99.  
 
"Hey, Mulder." She hefted the box and rubbed 
the date with her thumb. "Read 
off some of the dates on those boxes." 
 
"Why?" He sent one last half-hearted kick into 
the door. 
 
"Just the first dates. Like on this one where 
it says 5/09." 
 
Mulder sighed and looked at her. She sat 
staring at the black box, fingering the 
engraved numbers. Blood smeared down the right 
side of her face and neck, caking in her 
hair. A large purple bruise extended from her 
hairline to her eye, and accompanied the 
angry gash in her scalp. Her favorite cream-
colored silk blouse was ruined. If she wanted 
him to, he would read dates to her all night 
long.  
 
He looked for the numbers. 
 
"Let's see—okay." He scanned the row in front 
of him and read aloud. "10/12, 3/21, uh  
let me wipe this off, 4/19..." 
 
"Okay, that's enough." She pointed at the 
boxes. "Mulder, did you notice...?" 
 
"Yeah, they're all old people. I mean, like, 
really old people." 
 
She sighed and shook her head. "Mulder, they 
were people who lived long lives. 
Dr. Hiller was a geriatric specialist. I 
wonder if these were some of his patients 
who didn't  
want his 'unnecessary medical interference'." 
 
"If they were, he certainly has quite a 
collection of them. Maybe they still 
owed him money, and he wasn't going to let 
them go until they paid in full. Wait!" He 
fumbled for his flashlight. "I thought there 
was something else back there." 
 
Loud splashes of rain pelted down, and thunder 
echoed loudly in the little room. 
 
Mulder picked his way through the mausoleum 
until he got to the back. He 
turned and saw Scully watching him in the dim 
light. 'Yep, she's gonna have a real 
shiner,' he thought as he pulled down the last 
tarp. 
 
A large, black granite slab leaned against the 
back wall. He ran his hand across the dusty,  
cold stone, feeling its smooth, polished 
surface.  
 
"What is it?" she asked. 
 
"It's a big, flat rock." He ran the flashlight 
beam across the front and sides. "It looks 
like a big grave marker, but it doesn't have 
anything engraved on it." He looked at 
the stacks of ashes and said, "Of course, I 
may not have thought of a grave marker under 
other circumstances." 
 
"So what are we looking at here, Mulder?" She 
squinted up at him as he approached. "A  
doctor who either kills his patients, or let's 
them die. Then, has them cremated, and hides  
them here. What for? And where were these 
people's relatives," she gestured 
to the stacks around them, "when he did this?" 
 
"Maybe they didn't have relatives. Maybe he 
was taking care of them." He sat 
on the floor cross-legged at her feet, gently 
moved a box out of his way, and stared 
up at her.  
 
"Maybe." She looked down at him. He reached up 
to brush her hair off her bruised cheek. "I'm 
going to have a black eye, aren't I?" 
 
"Yeah, I was just thinking that." He smiled 
sympathetically. "I guess you can read my  
mind, huh?" He cleared his throat, and took a 
deep breath. "I owe you an apology." 
 
"For what? Noticing my black eye?" She smiled, 
and ran her fingers through his hair. 
 
"No. For the wish. I really thought I had the 
technique down. But I blew it." 
 
Still stroking his hair, she asked softly, 
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
 
"I wanted us to be alone together." He quoted, 
"'Alone together with no interruptions.  
Allowed to do whatever things we want to do, 
in total privacy.' And I wanted 
you to be putty in my hands." He drew a shaky 
breath. "For the last half-hour, you were 
absolutely at my mercy." 
 
"Mulder, you're not blaming all this on that?" 
She tapped his shirt pocket holding the  
Dragon's Wing. 
 
"The wish came true, Scully. I'm just glad 
you're still alive." He took her 
hand, kissed it, and held it to his chest. 
"What?" 
 
She was smiling at him, her eyes glittering in 
the soft light. "What?" he repeated grinning. 
 
"I can't..." Her expression grew thoughtful. 
"I can't explain how you make me feel when  
you talk about reading minds and making 
wishes." She leaned down and smiled 
softly. "You remind me that there's still 
wonder and magic in the world. Every day you 
show me there's at least one person who hasn't 
become too jaded to see the mysteries around  
us. No matter how long I live, as long as I'm 
with you, I'll never grow old."  
 
He blinked several times. "And you make me 
believe in miracles."  
 
Scully's smile widened, so Mulder caught some 
of her teeth when he leaned in and kissed  
her. 
 
"You know, Mulder, you only make confessions 
like this when the witnesses are 
unable to testify." She handed him CAO—10/21-
6/97.  
 
He studied the black boxes stacked to the 
ceiling, and for the first time, he 
shuddered. "Hey, Scully?" 
 
"Hmm?" 
 
"You wouldn't do this, would you?" He shook 
the box. 
 
"Cremating is an efficient, and cost effective 
method of interment. The Catholic Church  
no longer forbids it, and some of the urns 
I've seen are very pretty." She ruffled his 
hair, and patted his head. 
 
"No. I mean, to me. You wouldn't let this 
happen to me, would you?" He gripped her  
hand. Suddenly, her answer was profoundly 
important. 
 
"No," she whispered. "I would never let that 
happen." 
 
"You promise?" He stared at her intently. 
 
"Yes. I promise." 
 
He nodded, and her eyes misted over.  
 
The thunder clapped, then crashed. Scully 
covered her ears, and Mulder jumped to his  
feet. 
 
"Damn! That was close. It shook the whole 
room!" He took a few steps over to the  
door. "When are the security people going to 
notice we've broken in?" 
 
Banging his fists on the door, he yelled, 
"Hello! Hello! We're stealing stuff 
in here. Come arrest us!" 
 
"Well, at least we're warm and dry," she 
shrugged. 
 
"Stop being optimistic. I'm getting hungry." 
He thought about kicking the 
door again, but stopped. "You know, Scully? It 
*is* warm in here." 
 
"I know. I'm glad." 
 
"I thought that this wasn't a climate-
controlled unit," he said, searching the 
walls for a thermostat. 
 
"It's not." 
 
"Then it should be getting cooler in here, 
with evening approaching and the 
rain cooling everything off." He paced back 
and forth in front of the closed door. 
 
She considered a minute. "Maybe it is heated, 
because it's definitely nice and 
warm in here." 
 
"What's on the other side of the wall behind 
the big, flat rock?" he asked. 
 
"There's another garage unit like this one. 
Two strips of units back to back, I think.  
Why?" 
 
Mulder walked back to the granite slab and 
touched the wall behind it.  
 
"Scully, the wall is hot." He pointed his 
flashlight at the ceiling. Smoke curled in the  
rafters. 
 
"Oh shit." He rushed back to her. "We gotta 
get out of here. Now!" 
 
Scully stood slowly, and carefully moved to 
the door. "Come on, Mulder. We 
opened it once, we can open it again." 
 
"Scully, you shouldn't..." He knew that the 
door was glued to the floor, but he 
said, "Okay, let's do it." 
 
They both squatted and grabbed the rung. 
 
"Ready?" He waited for her nod. "Okay, on 
three. One, two, three!" They 
heaved up hard on the handle. 
 
The temperature rose several degrees, and 
smoke filled the room. The door 
remained locked down tight. 
 
Scully slumped to the floor, held her head, 
and moaned softly. "Let's...let's try it 
again." 
 
Trying to keep the panic from his voice he 
said, "It's not going to open." He 
joined her on the floor, where there was less 
smoke.  
 
"We have to find a way out," she said looking 
through the haze. 
 
Mulder smiled sadly. "I'm open to any and all 
suggestions." 
 
Scully paused, narrowed her eyes, and said, "I 
just made you a promise, and I'm not backing 
out on it." 
 
She reached for him, and he opened his arms to 
her. But instead of embracing him, she  
opened his shirt pocket, and removed the red 
and gold silk bag. 
 
"Now, Scully? Miracles and wishes?" She backed 
up; her silhouette was all he could see  
through the thick, gray smoke.  
 
The red bag fell to the floor, and he squinted 
up at her. Scully held something between  
her fingers. 
 
Looking directly at the Dragon's Wing, she 
gasped, "Get us out of here before 
we cook."  
 
"Scully," he coughed. "You have to be...more 
specific than that." He coughed 
again, and waved his hand in a futile attempt 
to clear the smoke away from his face.  
 
The searing heat would soon melt them away, 
and his final wish was to be in her 
arms when it did. He inched toward her 
inadvertently bracing his hand against the 
hot metal wall. He cried out, and pulled his 
scorched hand back. His palm and fingers 
bubbled with second-degree burns.  
 
"Well, I'm cooking now!" He held up his hand, 
for her to see. 
 
The door popped open, and rose two feet, three 
feet, all the way up until it clicked 
completely open. 
 
Mulder grabbed Scully off the floor, and 
bolted out, into the rain. Both drew 
in huge lungfuls of air as they got into their 
car. Sirens wailed in the distance.  
Thick, foul-smelling smoke poured out of Unit 
# 527. The unit behind it was in full flame, 
and the surrounding structures groaned, 
buckling from the heat. 
 
Seconds later, flames roared out of the open 
door, and the unit crashed in a 
heap of fire and black smoke. The blaze 
consumed the remaining units, and one by one, 
they folded in on themselves; leaving twisted 
hunks of misshapen metal. The resulting 
bonfire shot streams of orange flames high 
into the air. The inferno ate its way through 
old furniture, portraits of dead relatives, 
and hundreds and hundreds of boxes of old 
people's ashes, crackling and popping as it 
fed. 
 
The heat quickly encroached on their car. 
Mulder backed up, one handed, and 
drove around to the front. 
 
Fire trucks screamed, and barreled through the 
gates; tires skidding as they 
sped around back, but the lightning had done 
its damage. The entire strip was 
unrecognizable, fully ablaze, and engulfed in 
thick, sooty smoke. 
 
Mulder turned to his partner who stared 
through the windshield, transfixed. 
 
"Ashes to ashes," she said without moving.  
 
"Dust to dust," he agreed. 
 
Xxxxxx EPILOGUE xxxxxX 
 
Apartment 42, Friday evening 
Hegel Place  
Alexandria, Virginia 
 
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~ 
 
 
"Here, look at me again." 
 
Scully shifted in Mulder's arms, opened her 
eyes, and tried to look annoyed. 
 
"I was dozing." She stretched her arms over 
her head. "It's been over twenty-four hours;  
you can stop checking now." 
 
"I promised the ER doctor that I'd look into 
your eyes every two hours." He carefully  
shifted his right leg, and brushed her bruised 
face with his good hand. "I keep 
my promises, too, you know."  
 
Even though it was well past the seven hours 
the doctor had suggested, Mulder 
was still pleased that her pupils matched.  
 
After the collapse of storage units, Mulder 
had rushed them to Harbor Hospital 
a few blocks away from the U Store It. 
Grabbing Scully by her shirtsleeve, he had 
dragged his bruised and wheezing partner into 
the emergency room. The nurse had taken one 
look at this limping man, covered in 
bloodstains, filling out the admission forms 
with his left hand cradled protectively 
against his chest, and booked him a room, too. 
 
Scully had misdiagnosed herself, but not by 
much. She sustained a mild concussion, and  
required five small stitches at the hairline. 
Even though she suffered through 
a couple of coughing fits, the heat and smoke 
had not damaged her lungs. Her forehead, 
right eye, and right cheek down to her chin 
were a striking shade of purple. Her left eye 
was lavender, with the promise of a deeper 
shade to follow.  
 
The ER doctor wanted to admit her overnight 
for observation, but Mulder had 
promised to keep a close eye on her. And he 
knew that she wanted to keep her good eye 
on him, too. Mulder's left palm, fingers, and 
thumb received first and second degree 
burns. He had braced his hand against the hot 
metal wall, and pushed his weight into it, 
before recoiling. It hurt like a son-of-bitch. 
But the surprise came when the nurse removed 
his socks and shoes. His enthusiastic door 
kicking had broken two toes on his right foot.  
The doctor splinted them together, and sent 
Mulder home in a walking boot. Broken toes  
hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, too. 
 
They were still sooty when they left the 
hospital, so, by unspoken agreement, 
they went to Mulder's apartment to recuperate. 
An hour after that, he sat clean and 
sweet-smelling, with his injured foot propped 
on the coffee table and his left hand elevated 
on the arm of his sofa. His right hand held 
the remote, and his arm was draped around 
Scully's shoulder as she snored softly, and 
drooled on his chest. He clicked on ESPN, 
certain that he was the happiest man alive. 
 
A day later, he checked her pupils again. An 
old black-and-white movie was playing in the 
background.  
 
"You hungry, Scully?" 
 
"No, I'm not, but do you want me to make you 
something?" She was trying to 
wake up without moving her sore head. 
 
"Nope." He clicked the remote, and the screen 
went black. 
 
"What then?" She yawned, closed her eyes and 
snuggled down into him. 
 
"While you were dozing, I made a bunch phone 
calls to the office, and—to a few 
other places. Pulled a few strings." He patted 
her hair and leaned over to put the 
remote on the coffee table. 
 
"Hmm? And?" 
 
"Well, it might interest you to know that 
after we spoke with Dr. Hiller 
yesterday, he left the country." 
 
She opened her eyes and sat up. "What?" 
 
"Yep, he was informed of a family emergency, 
and immediately booked a flight to 
his native country. He flew out late last 
night." 
 
"You are kidding me, right?" She turned so she 
could look him in the eye. 
 
"I'm not. Due to the lack of solid damning 
evidence tying him to the deaths of 
his former patients, and because of the good 
domestic relations enjoyed between the United 
States and his country, no warrant will be 
issued to extradite Dr. Hiller from 
Toronto, Canada." 
 
"What...what about the ashes? What about the 
other storage units?" Her voice raised an  
octave. 
 
"Yes, about those. Dr. Hiller was very 
forthcoming, after we tracked him down 
this morning. He had no knowledge whatsoever 
about any ashes, and denied that he 
currently rented the now defunct Unit #527 at 
the U Store It."  
 
As he spoke, Mulder tried one-handed, to curl 
a few strands of her hair around 
his little finger. "The storage company can't 
find Dr. Hiller's original rental agreement. I 
had a faxed copy, dated two years ago, but the 
doctor said he no longer rented it."  
 
"So who did rent it?" 
 
"I guess we're not sure. Maybe after the smoke 
clears, I'll ask the U Store It 
guys to check again. They probably won't be 
too interested in looking into it, 
though."  
 
She stared at him, and very slowly shook her 
head. "And the other six units?" 
 
"Furniture, Scully, but not quite what you 
thought. Dr. Hiller gave us 
permission to look inside his storage rooms. 
Each of them held different styles of 
furniture. He explained that he liked to 
redecorate—got tired of the same scheme—so 
every few months he'd hire a moving company to 
switch out his furniture. One unit had an Art 
Nouveau motif, one had Japanese and Asian 
overtones, and another had an Ultra-
Contemporary Swedish élan, etcetera. By the 
way, his house on Gibson Island is currently 
decorated in Modern Victorian." 
 
"Unbelievable." 
 
"Want one more unbelievable thing for today?" 
he asked softly. 
 
"There's *more*? Boy, Mulder, I go to sleep 
for a few hours and you wrap it all up?" 
 
"Quite an institution, that FBI school, huh?" 
He carefully moved his sore hand 
onto a pillow in his lap, so he could turn 
toward her. "One more thing, if you want 
to hear it." 
 
"Okay," she sighed. "I want to hear it." 
 
"Remember Leo Formann, the man who claimed 
that Dr. Hiller poisoned him, and 
Sadie Littlejohn, the elderly patient who 
identified Dr. Hiller as 'examining' her 
roommate, Lenore Morrison before Mrs. Morrison 
died?" 
 
"Yes, of course." 
 
"Mr. Formann is dead, he was eighty-one. And 
now, so is Mrs. Littlejohn. She 
passed away unexpectedly this morning. There's 
nobody left to identify Dr. Hiller."  
He paused to swallow before continuing. "Mrs. 
Littlejohn lived to be eighty-five years 
old, and had no relatives listed, and no one 
entrusted to..." A lump unexpectedly formed in 
his throat, and he looked away.  
 
"Mulder," she said softly, "if you want, I'll 
call the hospital and make sure that her body  
is claimed for burial." 
 
He nodded silently. Even though he didn't know 
Mrs. Littlejohn, he didn't want 
her to end up as unclaimed ashes in a black 
box. 
 
"I—uh—I have an impossible thing, too," she 
said.  
 
He cleared his throat, swiped at his nose, and 
said, "Shoot." It was hard to 
tell with all the bruising, but Mulder thought 
she was blushing. 
 
"If anyone asks me how we got out of that 
storage garage, my official answer, 
and the one I may actually believe, is that 
the heat loosened the joints, and caused 
the metal door to expand and break free of the 
door frame. It popped out of the door jamb, 
thus allowing the door to open." 
 
"Except that the hot doorframe would have 
expanded along with the hot door, 
squeezing the door more firmly closed," Mulder 
said, picking a piece of imaginary lint 
off her  
sleeve. 
 
"Different metals expand at different rates." 
 
"Touché!" He raised his good hand. "Or, as the 
kids say, 'true dat.'" He curled his hand  
around her waist. He wasn't buying it for a 
minute, and doubted that she was either. 
 
"That's the explanation I would give if just 
'anyone' asked me," she hedged.  
"But if you asked me what I really thought..." 
 
He cut her off. "Okay, so, how did we escape 
that pressure cooker?" He nodded 
once. "There, I just asked you." 
 
She squirmed, and was definitely flushed pink 
under the purple. He waited for her to answer. 
 
"I was pretty desperate. I mean we were both 
pretty desperate..." 
 
"I noticed that."  
 
Scully worked her lips and attempted to form 
the words. Mulder remained 
politely silent, watching her struggle. She 
clamped her mouth shut, tilted her chin 
defiantly, and glared at him.  
 
"Sorry, Scully. How 'bout I make it easy for 
you? I mean, when it comes to 
wishes. I'm your boy." He kissed the top of 
her head. "Besides, it won't sound so crazy 
to you if I say it." 
 
"No, I'll tell it." She sighed in resignation. 
"I took that piece of paper-thin dragon tissue  
out of your pocket, held it up, and made a 
wish. After you shouted that you were  
'cooking,' the Dragon's Wing dissolved in my 
hand, and the door opened. Now the  
Dragon's Wing was very fragile, and the heat 
was pretty intense..." 
 
"But since this is 'me' you're telling..." he 
poked her with his fingers. 
 
"I didn't believe it would work, but you did. 
Don't you see, Mulder? Faith is 
believing." She paused for words. "Faith is 
when you believe in something with all your 
heart, without needing logical proof or 
material evidence." 
 
Scully lowered her voice, but she didn't turn 
away. Her eyes were shining when 
she said, "Something did save us, yesterday. 
It was your belief in wonder, wishes, and 
the power of charmed objects. I never would 
have wished on a piece of dead flesh without 
you believing it would work."  
 
He smiled crookedly. "Ahh, it probably 
wouldn't have worked for me anyway."  
He pushed stray red strands away from her 
eyes. "I would have been too specific." 
 
 
With one arm, he hugged her warmly, and 
scooted as close to her as he could, 
thoroughly convinced now that he was the 
happiest man alive. 
 
She snuggled back into him, and handed him the 
remote. He aimed the clicker, but didn't press 
the button.  
 
Lowering his hand, he cocked his head to the 
side then dipped it to catch her 
eye. "Hey, Scully, something you said made me 
realize that my fondest wish has been 
granted. Something I've wanted my whole life." 
 
Her brows knitted together. "What's that?" 
 
He lowered his voice. "I have always wanted," 
he leaned down, and kissed her 
tenderly, "to believe." 
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxX 
 
END 
 
This was a tip o' the pen to W. W. Jacobs 
short story, "The Monkey's Paw." One 
place to read it online is here:  
http://www.gate.net/~madonia/monkeypa.htm 
 
After 100 years, it's still a spooky story! 
 
TCS 
~~*~~*~~*~~