REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (1/30)
by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
begun 7/6/95, completed 9/98

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Carter and Ten-
Thirteen Productions but I hope it's okay if I borrow them a
little. If you like this, CC, I'd be happy to write for you.
Just send me an e-mail.

Synopsis: Let us return to the days of yesteryear when Scully's
abduction, bounty hunters, clones and cancer are still far in
the future. It's the morning after the Jersey Devil case, Scully
is dismayed to be given a temporarily reassignment while her new
partner, Fox Mulder, does some work for VCS. Lots of FIRSTS in
this one for these two. PG13 for some violence and occasional
adult topics.

Author's Notes: This is part of Revelations. Of the 8 total
parts this was started 4th and finished 7th but,
chronologically, occurs first. At one time I had 5 parts in
progress at one time. Like the name of this series (which I
sweated bullets over back in June 1995 before the episode
'Revelations'), the shape of this story and its situations were
decided in July 95 way before Grotesque, Book I of Just the Two
of Us, and Book III of All Hallow's Eve, so if you see a few
similarities with some scenes - well, that's probably because
there are. In any case these situations are not the core part of
this story. The shape of the story was also decided before the
wonderful fanfic Oklahoma. My original inspiration for Mulder
profiling actually from the much older fanfic 'Machine of
Intentions'. In this story, however, I try to take a middle
ground. Though Mulder psychotic is interesting to read, I have
tried for something more realistic. (Okay, large amounts of
laughter here, I'm sure.) After all, they do have 7 more years
of X-files to get through.
       While all of REVELATIONS takes place in first season (still
my favorite with a few exceptions), DAWN begins *really* early,
late in the afternoon after the death of the Jersey Devil.
That's about episode 5. For that reason and because there are
still 900 pages of REVELATIONS to go, just the seeds of
relationship are being planted here. For culmination you have to
read the rest of the series. (Yes, part 3: The Vacation *is*
coming.) 
       NOTE 1: I'm also detracting a few times from CC's official
timeline (whatever that is). The 'Official' guide says Mulder
didn't get out of Quantico until '88 and started the X-files in
'91. I thought I heard at the beginning of the series the Mulder
was a ten year veteran of the FBI. I'm assuming about 6 here but
it's not really important. I have the Jersey Devil occurring six
weeks into their partnership. Also, I have the very last scene
from the episode happening the afternoon after the 'Devil's'
death and not a week later as CC has it. There's a scene I
really like which I'd have to delete if I changed the timing, so
I won't. I'm the author and I'll allowed to do that. <g> Yes, and 
though people have given me grief about it Mulder has a bedroom 
which he needs for Just the Two of Us. (Wait, I just heard that 
Mulder's apartment gets a bedroom in season 6! Just ahead of my 
time, I guess. <VBG>)
       NOTE 2: For those Revelations fans who thought Part I would
be about our heroes trip to the Everglades where they run into
the bugs and skunk from The Box, my apologies. This is something
entirely different. There is also not much connection between it
and the rest of the series other than it occurs in the same
universe. In Book I of Just the Two of Us Mulder has a nasty
flashback about something that happens here and there is one
other reference but it is so obscure I couldn't find it if I
tried, but it is something about being Scully's being carried in the
rain. There... I don't think I've given away too much. Enjoy and
thank you for your patience.

REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (1/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98 

Chapter 1

       As the two solemn men exchanged glances, Dana Scully felt
certain that she understood every word of their silent language.

       "Someone's made a mistake here," the senior agent shot to
his junior.

       "We acted on a computer flag, sir," the younger agent
seemed to say. Even his eyes were defensive. "Her field of
expertise, her transcripts and her sex fit the profile perfectly
for what we need. You know that the Fifth Floor is worried about
complaints of discrimination."

       "But she's a shrimp! Do you want her responsible for
protecting YOUR back."

       "She's a lab rat. She won't spend that much time in the
field, not until the fireworks are over anyway."

       "She still has to go through basic training. That should
give a few of the instructors apoplexy. And just look at her!
With a face like that how many terrorists do you think she's
going to be able to intimidate?"

       "So she's good looking. If the letters of recommendations
from her medical school are any indication, she's the consummate
professional."

       "And how many senior docs and professors did she have to
sleep with to get references like that? Well, let's get on with
it and hope we're wrong. Since we sought her out, we have no
choice but to accept her application if she decides to apply." 



Monday, October 11, 1993
4:30 pm

       An irritatingly familiar ringing overlapped the senior
agent's last speech, but it wasn't Dana's alarm clock from her
apartment nor her travel alarm. It was a telephone whose bell
stopped abruptly in the middle of its third ring. Forcing
herself fully awake, Dana found with dismay that she wasn't at
home. She had fallen asleep with her head on her *desk* and the
phone that had rung belonged to her partner, Fox Mulder. Mulder,
even now, was leaning his long body way back in his chair and,
feet braced against his desk, was talking softly into the
receiver. Even as he spoke his one eyebrow rose in apology that
the call had awakened her.

       Just as well, Dana thought. She needed to uncramp her
muscles and she hadn't really wanted to take in the rest of the
dream, anyway. She knew that little scene by heart. Every sly
glance, every unspoken inflection. Hadn't she relieved it on and
off for almost four years whenever things went bad? And she knew
why she dreamed it now. They'd messed up. A woman was dead. No,
*she'd* messed up. Mulder had believed that the 'devil' was a
living, breathing 'person' from the beginning.

       She had not believed him. Oh, she had known there would
turn out to be something 'out there' in the woods. There was
always at least a grain of truth in Mulder's theories. Dana had
just not expected to find what they did. Even now she wasn't
sure quite what they had found. Did it really matter in the end
where the woman came from? She had lived, she had died.

       Dana looked over at her partner; he was just replacing the
receiver. His face was dark, depressed, fatigued, unshaven, and
dirty. They had come directly to the office from New Jersey, not
interested in staying in that town a moment longer. Without
jurisdiction and considering the animosity between Mulder and
the police chief, Dana had been given no access to the body.
Another reason for coming home. Besides they had work to do.
There had been a death, jurisdiction or not, and so there were
papers to file and questions to answer, not only to the
authorities but to themselves.

       "Tell me that I don't look as bad as you do," she murmured,
groggily.

       Even though the slight smile that came to his lips never
reached his eyes, it was something. "You can never look as bad
as I do. Why don't you go home and get some real sleep."

       "No, I want to finish this. I will take a shower, however."
She stood up, stretching, her eyes going to the wall clock.
Three hours. She'd slept three hours with her head on her
keyboard. She probably had 'T', 'Y', 'U', 'I' imprinted on her
forehead. "Why don't you get cleaned up, too, Mulder. It'll make
you feel better."

       "I doubt that."

       "Take a turn on the cot then for a few hours." She cocked
her head towards the rear of their shadowed office.

       A curt shake of his dark head. No, she didn't think so.
That would be too much to expect. Unkinking muscles, Dana
retrieved her emergency travel bag and her clean, spare suit
from the utility closet in the far corner of the office and
trudged off to the gym.      



       It was in the whirlpool after ten minutes of floor
exercises that Dana's mind finally began to unwind and the
vision of that poor woman's body, naked and wildly beautiful
among the leaves, began to spin out. Had she messed up? Her
subconscious obviously thought so and, thus, The Dream. Why
couldn't the phone have rung five minutes sooner. How she hated
that dream.

       Sitting in the steaming, bubbling water, Dana retraced the
last few days. If she had believed Mulder sooner, stayed with
him in Atlantic City and foregone her godson's birthday party,
would the outcome had been any different? It would have kept
Mulder from a weekend in the drunk tank. But would that have
helped the woman? Mulder certainly had tried his best. There was
only so much one person can do when heads and hearts are closed.
The Atlantic City authorities had just wanted their town clean.
Okay, now it was clean. It was the police force that was dirty
now.

       Dana let her hand come down flat on the surface of the
forming water with a *SPLAT!* The effect was about the same as
kicking a trash can and you didn't have to order a new one. 

       Damnit, but she was a competent, respected professional.
She couldn't allow every job-related tragedy to depress her.
That kind of spiritual paralysis didn't do anybody any good.
Hadn't she learned that lesson the hard way years ago in medical
school? Guilt! ARG! She was probably catching it from you-know-
who. You just did better next time, you just tried to anticipate
the problems faster.

       Dana decided she'd been soaking long enough. Besides, the
thoughts coming to the surface weren't all that cheerful. Work
helped. In that she and Mulder were alike. She pulled herself up
the steps and out of the enticingly warm water to shiver her way
to the showers.
 
       But was this guilt she was feeling or inadequacy? Was her
problem related to the fact that Mulder had seen so much more
than she had? No, that road wasn't any more useful than the
guilt. There was no point in trying to keep score with Mulder as
to who could think up weird explanations first. That was
Mulder's specialty. She had her strengths, too. Partners needed
to complement each other and in that she had nothing to feel
insecure about. She'd gotten her M.D., hadn't she? And in
forensics, yet. That was still a tough field for women to break
into. It certainty wasn't one of the more accepted and 'gentler'
specialties which women physicians were supposed to go into like
obstetrics, pediatrics or family medicine. 

       Then there had been the traps she had had to negotiate to
get through the FBI academy. The instructors had been wickedly
demanding largely because of her size, as the two recruiters had
feared, but two years post graduation and her record was
exemplary. Her marksmanship was nearly the best in the national
office. Easily higher than Mulder's. Her technical skills in the
morgue and lab had won her numerous commendations. Her
relationship with her superiors was good. It didn't hurt that
she had never refused a assignment nor questioned an order other
than a truly asinine one.

       So why did she still feel - incomplete - not just about
this case but about her life? What more did the world want from
her? she demanded as she stood under the shower head and
scrubbed the taint of Atlantic City out of her scalp.

       As if in answer her mother's voice seemed to echo off the
tile walls. "Okay, Dana... So what now?" 
       
       Dana sighed. Oh, she remembered that conversation. It had
been held four months earlier. The well-beloved voice had kept
low so her father wouldn't hear. Dana could still Margaret
Scully as she walked towards her holding a copy of Dana's fourth
commendation and the bottle of wine. The little document
extolled Special Agent Scully for a streak of insight and some
precise forensics work that had led her coworkers to the door of
some of those terrorists the recruiters had thought she would
never be able to intimidate.

       "What do you mean?" Dana had asked back.

       "Where do you go from here? Dana, I know you. You're
constantly pushing yourself. Setting new goals. Okay, you've got
their attention. Now what?"

       Dana had smiled over the rim of her wine glass. "You always
know, don't you?" Unlike her father, her mother had always been
able to read her moods. Sometimes the woman knew her mind better
than Dana did herself. It was uncanny. Her Celtic background,
her mother joked.

       "You get this restless look in your eye. I've been noticing
it growing for weeks. Hmmm... but now I see that it's a little
settled down today. What have you done?"

       Dana put her glass down, becoming serious. "The work's
good, Mom, but I feel so cut off. I'm just a supporting player.
If I'm lucky, I'm driven out to a crime scene and can get down
on my hands and knees and gather evidence for myself, but
usually I only process other people's work. Often I don't know
how a case starts; most of the time I'm never told how it ends.
I think I could do better."

       "You want to see the whole picture." Margaret Scully should
have been smiling but she wasn't. She knew where this was
leading. "You're talking about going into the front lines, field
work. Dana, even I know that's dangerous. Isn't just being in
the FBI dangerous enough? Your father -"

       Dana's eyes shut involuntarily. "Dad needs to learn, this
is my life."

       Dad. Her Ahab. He had been against her career choice from
the beginning. A gallant product of his generation, Bill Scully
felt duty bound to protect his daughters even if neither of his
daughters wanted his protection.  Sister Melissa was off
somewhere with her crystals and organic food. Dana, the
ambitious one, craved the challenge of working within the
system. Both would have been more than content to just feel they
had their father's support and acceptance.

       "Your father thought your forensics work was bad enough,"
her mother saying. "Now this. He'll see all that education going
to waste."

       "I'll still spend plenty of time in the lab - they're too
short-handed in the sciences to let me out permanently - but
I'll be attached to a different department. And I'll get a real
partner - hopefully someone who is more open minded and has less
years than old Doc Alexander. Best of all, I'll get a chance to
work on my own cases once in a while. Beginning to end."

       "This partner..." Margaret began, her frown bringing out
the lines around her mouth. "You have no idea who you're going
to get. Maybe it'll be some hot shot who likes to go in guns
blazing."

       Dana could see reasons for her mother's worry. She had
concerns of her own, but she also felt a tingling sort of
expectant anticipation. The way Christmas used to be. Could that
big box in the corner be full of school clothes and books again?
Or did it conceal something wonderful? Something that could
change her life? Something - or someone - who could restore some
of the passion for life and knowledge she had somehow lost over
the years? "We'll just have to see, Mom."


       Dana turned of the shower and reached for her towel. Well,
the powers that be had complied with her request. What was the
old adage? 'Be careful what you wish for?' Six weeks before
she'd been given Fox Mulder for a partner. Fox Mulder. Mr.
Creepy. The agent who had been dubbed 'Spooky' even as far back
as his academy days. Brilliant, everyone agreed, but a few cards
short of a deck. When she had walked into the cluttered hole
some called an office, however, and come face to face with those
penetrating, mocking hazel orbs through the lenses of his wire-
rims, something had stirred inside her. 

       If this was Christmas morning, there were no school clothes
and books under that wrapping paper. Definitely not. At least
the scenery was going to be pleasant. Fox Mulder was far better
looking than his official picture which was so very grim and
nerdy. Physically, he also appeared at least a half a decade
younger then what she knew was his actual age. In other words,
not so far from her own age. Far too young to have been with the
Bureau for six years. He was well-tested. Too well tested some
said. Some said broken and not put back together quite right;
however, still a blazing, though unpredictable, talent.
  
       This was her new partner. She had been assigned to the X-
files. When she heard through the grape vine about what was in
the wind, she had to dig in some pretty obscure places just to
find out what the X-files were.

       To put it bluntly, what she had learned had dismayed her.
Within five minutes Fox Mulder had moved in her estimation from
shiningly eccentric to just plain weird. And what was it they
wanted her to do? Validate his work? How can you validate probes
into beasts and monsters, aliens from outer space and the
paranormal? Or were they really asking that she *invalidate* his
work. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a great career move
after all? 

       "Calm down, Dana," she told herself then, and was still
telling herself weeks later. "Concentrate on his technique and
learn something." She would if she could find a consistent one.
"It's not like this job has to be forever. Besides, it's only a
two-person department. If you can't distinguish yourself there,
then you're in the wrong profession." Over the previous two
years Mulder hadn't been able to keep a partner for longer than
six weeks. Some had barely lasted six days. If she could hold on
for six months she'd probably be on the bureau's short list and
could write her ticket anywhere.

       

       As the weeks went by, five cases were tackled and five
cases more or less successfully completed. Not nice and neat by
any means, but Dana knew that no other team could have done as
tenth as well. On the good days, if she ignored the very messy
loose ends, that fact gave her a quite satisfying sense of
accomplishment. Nor had she any reason to complain about her
desire to get out into the field. She had presented herself the
first day with every intention of laying down the law about not
being shuttled off to the lab, but she never had the chance, nor
had there been a need since. Before she could turn around she
was on a flight to distant Oregon. She had ruined three pairs of
shoes on that trip and one of her favorite suits. Working with
Fox Mulder was proving to as expensive as it was exciting. 

       As Dana began aggressively to work on her newly washed hair
with blow drier and curling iron, she realized that she wasn't
as sure about her future as she had thought a few weeks before.
She had expected Mulder to have sent her packing by now, either
that or had expected to find herself tearing at the walls in
frustration. Neither seemed to be happening. She was fairly
content with the work and though Mulder grumbled some, he was no
worse than other moody men Dana had worked with.  

       So was this going to work or not? Was she in for the long
term? How long was too long in a job like this. She felt on the
fence, a position she didn't like. She realized that she wanted
to make a commitment, either to this assignment or some other
and quickly. That was just the way she was. One hundred and ten
percent or try something else. Dana realized that she was
waiting for a sign, a revelation. From Mulder? From herself?

       Leaving the gym with hair still slightly damp, Dana headed
up to her desk by Pathology, her 'official' desk, to gather her
mail and phone messages. She and Mulder needed to have a talk
about the future of their partnership.

       But not today. A woman had died today. 

End of Chapter 1
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (2/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98 

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 2

Monday, 6 pm

       "I have to show Mulder these eventually," Dana said to
herself. "No time like the present, I guess."
       
       With a sigh of resignation, she thanked Dr. Alexander,
picked up her brief case containing the precious file, and
headed for the main Bureau building from the annex where the
morgue was located. The old pathologist had proved amazingly
useful. He didn't have to be. She had left his department. It
must be tough to lose one of your shining stars, but he had
never complained. In fact, Dana realized, he acted as if he had
expected it. Today, it turned out that he had an old friend, who
had an old friend, who had a daughter in the medical examiner's
office of the Atlantic City police department and so within
hours of the autopsy on Jane Doe being completed, Dana had the
results in her hands. The folder Dana carried contained other
lab results as well. Ones she had requested days before. Taken
together - well, she knew what Mulder would pick up on.

       Dana groaned.

       Mulder had been out when she had stopped by the office on
her way to the morgue to return her travel bag and retrieve her
brief case. Maybe he'd gone home to sleep. He certainly needed
it. Looking the way he did and being a member of law enforcement
community, his weekend in the Atlantic City drunk tank must have
required constant vigilance. Not a very restful situation. Dana
almost smiled. She was certain that he'd managed to make it
through with his virtue intact, however. She'd certainly have
been able to tell if he hadn't. Plain exhaustion, therefore,
should have induced him to go home. Dana hoped so. If he had,
she wouldn't have to show him the file she carried until
morning. 

       Taking a deep breath for luck, Dana breezed into the
office. She hoped to find it empty. 

       It wasn't.

       Mulder was standing by the file cabinet. He turned as she
entered. He looked surprising good. He'd obviously followed her
lead and taken a shower and shaved. He wore clean suit pants and
a crisp, white shirt and tie. He looked as fresh as if it were
first thing in the morning. 
        
       Until you looked at his eyes, that is. There was no flame
in them. On the table was the distinctive envelop from the FBI
photography lab. Mulder had borrowed a camera from Dana's old
University of Maryland instructor, Dr. Diamond, and shot a roll
of film before they left the scene. The film lab had worked
fast. So that was the reason for the dead eyes; Mulder had just
filed away the evidence of his failure.

       She handed him the file, no longer dreading his reaction.
Any reaction would be better than the zombie-like nothing she
was seeing. He took it without the alacrity she had expected. He
was that tired.

       Briefly, she sketched the most notable autopsy findings for
him. No use going into cause of death, but they had found human
bone in the digestive tract. "They did allow Dr. Diamond to
examine the body. He found no prehistoric bone structure or
physiology." No response from Mulder even though the findings
must have been a blow to his theory.
 
       "They have also released the report on the medical exam of
the male body." She told him.

       Mulder listened. A spark, just the tiniest spark, was
beginning to kindle. "There would have been offspring."

       Inwardly, Dana sighed. True to form, Mulder had picked up
on exactly what she had thought he would. "The medical exam of
the female's uterus showed that she may have given birth," she
admitted, reluctantly.

       "It all makes sense... " Mulder was up, reaching for his
suit coat as his mind began to spin out a new theory. "She was
just protecting her children, Scully. The male dies and the
females comes out of the woods in search of food." This wasn't
Mulder's old self, not completely. He was still moving too
slowly, but the tinder was catching. Dana had no doubt that very
soon that mind of his would be back to running at its normal
speed, which was way beyond that of all but a few other geniuses
which Dana had ever met. He amazed her almost as much as he
infuriated her. But how was he doing physically? He'd barely
slept in days. He'd almost had his lungs taken out by the
'devil' and then he'd refused her advice and bled his way
through the long chase in the woods. Would this be the day when,
with his mind clicking along, his body would run - figuratively
or literally - smack into a brick wall?

       "Mulder," Dana found herself blurting out, "will you do me
a favor? Will you just go out and have a beer, take the day off.
I'll cover for you. Take some time for yourself."

       But he was already airborne, the flame of the idea
bandaging this new pain. "Sorry, but I've got an appointment at
the Smithsonian with an ethnobiologist. I can't wait to tell him
about this."

       Just then the phone rang and Mulder took the call, then
casually handed the receiver over to her without comment. Dana
was startled to find that the caller was Rob, the pleasantly
boring estate planner she had been out to dinner with once. He
asked if she and her godson wanted to go to the circus with he
and his son. Dana froze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw
Mulder striding away from her without a backwards glance. 

       He couldn't have known who was on the phone but must have
guessed. There had been no recrimination from him that twice she
had left him to work alone in New Jersey while she pursued
*normal* activities, like helping out at her godson's birthday
party, and then when she went out on that date with Rob. Mulder
had asked once for her to cancel but there had been no pressure.
It was as if he had given his approval for her to go ahead and
take the time and have a real 'life'. Then why was Dana still
standing here hesitating while Rob was waiting for an answer? If
she truly wanted some chance at a normal life, the answer was
obvious. But all she saw was Mulder, alone, strolling
magnificently onward on his quest to find his zebras and
aardvarks among the plowhorses and stray dogs of the world. To
all appearances he seemed completely disinterested in whether
she was with him or not.

       Damn the man, anyway! 

       She caught up with him as he was filling out a requisition
for a car. For some silly reason, surprising him cheered her. Up
until that moment she wasn't certain that she'd made the right
decision. 

       "Where are you going?" he asked as she matched him stride
for stride towards the door to the garage.

       "With you to the Smithsonian." 

       You couldn't have told from his body, which didn't hesitate
for an instant, or from his prickling wit that followed, but
something flashed in his eyes at that moment, a warm, bright
light.
       
       "Don't you have a life?" he inquired. Dana didn't really
hear the rest of their banter. They were just playing off each
other as they liked to do. What she would always remember was
the way he looked down at her as she held the door. In that wry
smile of his was such hidden... pleasure. That was the only word
Dana could use to describe it. He would never have said so, but
it was obvious her decision to come along had pleased him. 

       
       The Bureau's car pool issued them yet another black Taurus
and Washington rush hour traffic was just as maddening as
expected. Mulder's appointment was at the Smithsonian's
sprawling storage and restoration facility in the Maryland
suburbs. If they had been headed for the Smithsonian's Museum of
Natural History, there would have been no need to requisition a
car. The long, gray Federal-style museum was literally across
Constitution Avenue from Chez Hoover.

       Dana recalled one incident later. As she was fastening her
seat belt and Mulder was driving up the ramp from the
underground garage, his head turned as he followed something
with his eyes for a few moments.

       "What is it?" she asked, turning around just in time to
catch a glimpse of the hand-painted sign.

       His eyes had turned forward, his brow furrowed in thought
again. "Some sick-o has put up a score board. 'Hunter - 6, VC -
0'. The Hunter must have laid another one at our door step while
we were gone."

       "That's the serial killer who's been abducting joggers and
dropping the bodies in the parks around D.C.? The VC boys had
better find him soon."

       Mulder nodded almost imperceivably. "They'd better."

       "Don't you ever miss working with Violent Crimes, Mulder?
All the publicity surrounding a really big case?"

       "No," he said immediately. "No, I don't miss VC and, no, I
certainly don't miss the publicity."

       Dana wanted to know more about his time profiling for the
Behavior Science Unit. He'd been brilliant. The stories she had
heard.... But his emphatic response left her no way to easily
assuage her curiosity. 

       His soft tones flowed into the pause, "So tell me about
your date and this - Rob. Having no life of my own, I've
forgotten what it's like."

       So she smiled as they merged into traffic and proceeded to
tell him what she could remember about estate planning, acting
as straight man for his barbed wit. Only later did she realize
that the true intention for his question had been to change the
subject.

* * * * * * * *
Tuesday, October 12, 1993 
1 a.m.

       "Wake up, Scully, we're here."

       "Huh?" Dana stretched like a cat and tried to recall where
'here' should be. New Jersey again? Kentucky? Maine? 

       "Party's over. I've pulled up next to your car," replied an
amused voice.

       This time Dana jumped into something like wakefulness. She
remembered now. She'd fallen asleep as Mulder drove back from
their meeting with Dr. Harold Everett, the Smithsonian
ethnobiologist.

        Mulder stood by the open passenger door and made of point
of waiting with exceptional patience while Dana looked for a
lost shoe she must have kicked off. "I didn't know you could be
such a lush, Scully."
       
       "My falling asleep? I'd hardly call two beers being a lush
and that was hours ago. It's just been a long... long day."

       That it had been. The reminder of the morning's tragedy
sobered both their moods.

       Having finally located all of her possessions, Dana
accepted, after some hesitation, Mulder's proffered hand to help
her get out of the passenger's seat. Dana was struck as she
always was by his manners. They were almost old-fashioned in
their deferential attitude towards women. So much so, in fact,
that she still had to take a firm grip on her radical feminist
side each time he escorted her to and from one meeting or
another. She was almost used to it now. It was just one more
part of all the incongruous pieces that made up Mulder.

       "I had a good time tonight," Dana started, then realized
that the words and the way they were standing alone in the dark,
made it seem like they'd been out on a date or something. The
problem was, Dana *had* had a good time. Hastily, she added,
"Where did you find Harold Everett? In a hobbit hole?

       Mulder smiled one of the most genuine smiles she'd yet
seen. Clearly, he had enjoyed himself as well. "Oxford actually,
many years ago. We were two displaced Americans. He's one of the
most well-read men I know."

       "He must be a hundred and ten. I guess he's had plenty of
time." Dana didn't add that in her estimation Mulder came a
close second and at a third the age.

       By this time Dana had managed to find her keys and had the
driver's side door of her own car open. She leaned against it
now, enjoying the cool darkness of the Washington air. "I have
to admit that I didn't expect a pizza party."

       Across from her Mulder leaned against the Taurus, hands in
pockets. "You didn't seem to mind."

       "Of course not. Did you think I would?"

       As a response, Mulder hesitated longer than she would have
expected. "When Harry started pulling out the beer, I was
concerned."

       "Did you think that I was as straight-laced as all that?"

       His feet shifted uneasily. "You take things pretty
seriously most of the time."

       Unexpectedly, Dana found that the comment hurt. In truth,
she was all too aware of the nicknames she'd gotten in college
and since. Most had to do with cold, stationary objects.

       "I hope I don't, not all the time," she found herself
saying, "but then you only know me from the office." She decided
to take the leap; it seemed as good a time as any for breaking
new ground. "So what kind of person are you when you're not at
work?"

       "Worse," he replied. Standing in the shadows as they were
and with his head down, Dana couldn't quite make out what kind
of smile he gave her. Wry, ironic or shy?

       Maybe, Dana warned herself, this was enough for one night.
"It's what, one-thirty? Someone should show up at the office for
work tomorrow." Before she could do more than throw her
briefcase onto the passenger's seat of her own car Mulder was
beside her holding out a large flat box. 

       "Here, take this. Harry gave me the leftovers. By the way
you were enjoying it, you should have it."

       "No, you take it. You probably don't cook -"

       "Who says I don't cook? I just don't feel like it often.
Besides, I have two boxes just like this one in my refrigerator
from my last two evenings at home. It's getting crowded." He
offered it again. "Go on. I could tell that you haven't had
pizza for months." 

       She shrugged, sheepishly. "Well, weeks anyway."

       Rather than argue till dawn she took it and with nothing
left to be said, she pulled out of the lot with a wave. His
dark, lean form stayed standing beside the car pool's Taurus,
until she was out of sight.

       Dana drove with a surprisingly light heart. She wasn't even
sleepy. Whiffs of the box's contents spiralled up towards her
from time to time during her drive home. It brought to her
memories of the evening the three had spent. Three friends, just
talking. The original discussion of the poor 'beast' and its
origins wandering off onto other subjects.

       "Another piece of pizza, Dr. Scully?" Harold Everett had
asked somewhere around midnight, his toupee slightly off center.

       "Thanks," she said taking it and sitting back on the top of
the professor's desk in his tiny cluttered office. "Call me
'Dana'." She remembered looking over at Mulder, who was rapidly
turning pages in a book he had restlessly picked out of the
anthropologist's bookshelf. "*He's* the only one since medical
school who calls me Scully."

       Mulder looked up a little blankly, most of his mind still
processing all those theories on the development of
socialization in primitive man he had just scanned. He pushed
his glasses back up on his nose. "'He?'" 
       
       "You, Mulder. You're the only one who calls me 'Scully'."

       "That's your name, isn't it? Careful, you're going to drip
sauce on your suit." He replaced the book. "Scully, why don't
you describe the beast woman's physiology to Dr. Everett. You
have a better grip on the vocabulary than I do. Did you see any
evidence that would support that her evolutionary development
was other than Homo Sapiens?"  

       The memory was a good one, an excellent one. In fact if
Dana had caught a look at her reflection in the rear view mirror
at that moment she would not had recognized herself. Her face
was lit with a good-natured smile. The unexpected meeting of the
minds had been more enjoyable than any but two or three dates
Dana had ever had in her whole life. The three of them had
traded ideas, thrown open countless books, unrolled diagrams,
flashed slides up on the scientist's wall and ate pizza until
well after midnight. Dana had had more fun and had her ideas and
her intellect challenged more thoroughly than she had in years. 

       And then there was Mulder. The extent of his encyclopedic
knowledge never ceased to amaze her. Gifted or not, he still had
to come across the information someplace. So here Dana was with
two brilliant men and both had listened to her, asked her
opinion, and took what she said seriously, like a colleague,
like a friend.

       Arriving at her apartment, Dana sat for a few minutes on
the top step of the small porch in front of her building and
watched the stars. As the cool breeze lifted her hair, an
astounding revelation came to her. After years of chasing the
diploma, then trying to fit herself into the FBI mold of a
forensic pathologist, she had finally found the easy acceptance
and intellectual equality she had longed for.

       She had found a place where she felt she belonged.

                                    * * * * * * * *

       Entering his small, utilitarian cave of an apartment,
Mulder for once wished that he owned more lamps. His mood was
that good. At first, he hadn't been so sure about Scully coming
with him to see Harry. He was still uneasy about her reactions
to his theories, but as he introduced the two he had felt an
unaccustomed surge of pride. "Harold Everett, this is my
partner, Dr. Dana Scully."

       'My partner.' He didn't use the term loosely. He felt safer
with her at his back. Not since Reggie could he say that about
any of the others that had been assigned to him. The better ones
had been so useless, he might as well as been alone. Those were
in the minority. Most had been detriments, down-right dangerous.
He would have been better off alone. But not Scully. She was
stubborn, she was opinionated, she was infuriating, but she was
also smart and fearless. She had the guts to stand up to him, to
challenge him, which he knew he needed. She'd even waded in to
debate with the old professor over the finer points of the
affect of modern civilization on Darwin's theory of Natural
Selection. Mulder knew few post-graduates who would have dared
try.

       Scully would do. She would do very well.

       Content, he tossed aside jacket and tie and he sank back
into the folds of his leather couch with a glass of ice water
and idly began channel switching. That was when he noticed that
the message light on his phone was blinking.

       The muscles in the back of his neck began to twitch. A hard
lump of foreboding formed in his stomach and settled in as if it
intended to stay.

End of Chapter 2
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (3/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 6/98 

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 3

Tuesday, 9 a.m.

       Dana should have been tired the next morning. She wasn't.
She didn't stab at her alarm clock too violently when it wailed
at her, didn't swear when she found a run in her stockings,
didn't grumble at Washington traffic. He foot was light on the
steps as she entered the building. Her smile and step were
confident as she negotiated the rabbit warren of cubicles on her
way to her desk near Pathology to get her mail.

       Dana realized with rather a shock that she was actually
looking forward to the day. This assignment with Fox Mulder was
definitely not turning out as she had expected. She was not just
an observer, she was rapidly becoming a part of the team, and in
many ways 'Spooky' Mulder was maybe not so spooky after all. He
just had his eyes open a little wider than most people.
Suddenly, Dana wanted to know more about the brain that was
behind those eyes.

       Her smile broadened. Some of the people she passed returned
her smile warmly. On others the grins were brittle, a little
cruel. None of that hurt today. She didn't even care that they
must be reading a kind of smug pride behind her smile. Let them
see. Even a week before their looks would have bothered her. Not
today. Today was the first day of a... different life. Yes,
different. Could one night of pizza and conversation make such
a change? She had wanted a sign. Something to get her off the
fence. Could she have found it in a greasy triangle of cheese
and tomato and bread and in a pair of approving hazel eyes?

       Anything was possible. She worked on the X-Files. Now she
just hoped that Fox Mulder would be ready to deal with Special
Agent Dana Scully in full sail.

       She was ten steps from the door to the stairwell that would
take her down to the basement when she was forced to dump a
little wind from those sails. George Dempshaw. Small tendrils of
anger drifted up entangling in her good mood. George Dempshaw
was an analyst who had asked her out once over a year ago. She
had refused him then, she would refuse him now six times over
now. He stepped casually into her path. The expression on his
face was somewhere between a sneer and a leer.

       "Dana, hear you got yourself a hot little assignment. You
and Spooky staking out aliens under the stars. Must be...
stimulating."

       "So nice to see you again, too, Agent Dempshaw," Dana said,
trying to force a neutral tone into her voice but certain it
still came out cold, "but if you'll excuse me I'm late for
work."

       "Right, I heard. In the basement. Now exactly what kind of
work does go on down there?"

       Dana's eyes narrowed. "We fight off the rats mostly... very
*big* ones."

       That broke the man's sneer. He laughed brightly, looking
again like the young man she had nearly dated. "Yeah, I've heard
that about the bowels. Guess it also keeps you off the tour
route. Wouldn't want to public to really see what their dollars
are paying for."

       Feeling the steam begin to rise, Dana pushed past the
laughing man to finally reach the stairwell. She let the door
shut firmly behind her with satisfaction. Dempshaw thought he
was going places. He'd better just get out of the way and watch
her dust. Professionally, Dana was already seeing results. Maybe
being linked with the X-files and Mulder wasn't going to be the
disaster she had feared. The man who had assigned her, Section
Chief Blevins, was satisfied with her reports. Also, she thought
smugly, he was more than a little dismayed. Instead of debunking
Mulder and his work, she had been - if not legitimizing it - at
least putting enough of a scientific slant on it that much of
what the new team uncovered could no longer be entirely
dismissed.

       He didn't think she would be able to do that. That was what
surprised them and that was simply delicious.

                                    * * * * * * * *

       Agent Fox Mulder sat at his desk trying to drink coffee
without his hands shaking. He should have gone to sleep like a
normal person the night before. He shouldn't have flipped on his
answering machine. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have heard the
message from Associate Director Walter Skinner asking Mulder to
call him back immediately. Anytime.
 
       Skinner? Why would Walter Skinner be calling him? Mulder
had worked directly under Skinner a time or two but only on a
case by case basis. His impression was of a competent, humorless
man, ex-military all the way. No nonsense went on on his watch.
Skinner had been a rookie Associate Director for the Violent
Crimes Section during two of the torturous years Mulder had
worked there. During the two years since Mulder had been allowed
to concentrate on the X-Files - which had been shelved under
Blevins because no one knew where else to put it - Mulder had
seen Skinner very seldom. There was one thing Mulder could say
about Skinner - to his knowledge the man had never jeered openly
at any of Mulder's wild theories. That put him in a rather small
and select group around the Bureau. 

       Now this resident of the fourth floor - not quite the fifth
floor but close enough - wanted lowly agent Fox Mulder to call
him back. 'Anytime?' Mulder grinned in wicked anticipation. To
be given 'carte blanche' to call an Associate Director at two in
the morning... that was an opportunity just too tempting to pass
up.

       "Should have waited until morning," Mulder moaned to
himself, rubbing his temples as if he could erase the tension
headache that was already building. The voice of the man on the
tape, however, had had that 'and I mean *now* tone' which Mulder
had heard before. "If I had waited until a - still irritating -
but more reasonable hour like five a.m., I could have gotten at
least a decent night's sleep." At least what passed as a decent
night's sleep for him, Mulder admitted.

       Surprisingly, Mulder was sleeping better than he would have
expected, certainly better than before a certain someone had
walked into his office. What he had forgotten was how different
it felt to have someone at his side who had half a brain and
some guts. What he had forgotten was how it felt not to be so
totally alone.

       At that moment, the door to the X-Files office opened and
that certain someone strolled in. Mulder had to shake himself.
The room, the air itself, suddenly had an energy missing before
her arrival. Mulder's brow furrowed slightly as he studied her.
Here was a puzzle. He lived for puzzles and here was definitely
one. What was different today about Dr. Scully? As usual her
short legs were pumping nearly fast enough to keep up with even
his long-legged pace. She was trim and professional and as
perfectly put together as always. Then the difference came to
him. Her smile. Inwardly he groaned. It was that perky Pollyanna
smile which was new. She glowed with a happiness he found
painful. It bounced off his bad mood like hundreds of little
sharp knives. 

       All right... 

       Mulder knew that his partner had passed up a second date
with that divorcee she'd met. Had she found a replacement
already? When had there been time? She couldn't have gotten home
from their meeting with Harry any earlier than he had which was
about two A.M. It was barely nine now. Had she met someone in
the elevator?

       Then a thought nudged unbidden into his mind. The nap on
the way home had done her good. She had been wide awake as they
stood talking by her car. There had been those pauses and she
had seemed reluctant to leave. Had she been expecting something
more? Something from him? Impossible. Still there had been
moments that had been uncomfortable, like a first date. Would
she had come if he had asked her out for coffee and dessert some
place? Should he have? Restless, maybe she hadn't gone directly
home but detoured by the divorcee's house after all. Maybe she
had even gotten some. A second internal groan. That was all he
needed - all those satiated vibes. Not today... bad any day, but
definitely not today. Mulder could only take just so much
happiness swirling around him and he had definitely just gone
over his limit in the first twenty seconds in her presence. 

       Now here she was placing her brief case on the evidence
table which she had carved out of the clutter of his office to
be *her* desk. She turned to him with her that smile still
intact. He winced. "Morning, Mulder. What's on the agenda?"

       Mulder considered. Dana Scully was standing in front of him
excited and clearly eager to get to work on whatever weird
science she thought he was going to introduce her to today. Yes,
he had made the right decision back there during his long early
morning negotiation session with Skinner. It might just be
possible that he could keep a partner longer than a few weeks,
but only if he was able to steer her away from certain cases,
certain cases like the one Skinner had just cohered him into
accepting. 

       "World to Mulder," she said, perkily, even as she briskly
waved her hand in front of his face to get his attention.
"What's on slate this morning? Back to trying to tie the
outbreaks necrolytic acne in Tennessee to shiploads of
irradiated vegetables?"

       Mulder blinked, coming with reluctance into the here and
now and not even picking up on the joke. "Nothing for us."

       No one would ever say that Dana Scully wasn't quick.
"Nothing for... us. Meaning nothing for the two of us? Meaning
nothing for me?" she asked with a sudden edge to her voice.
"You're working solo?" Mulder realized with consternation that
from her tone she seemed not only surprised and disappointed but
- hurt? Hurt? Disappointed? Maybe he should reconsider...? The
tension headache that had been building since two a.m. almost
immediately took a few additional turns until he felt slightly
nauseous on top of everything else that had gone disastrously
wrong with his life during the last seven hours.

       Should he - ? No, impossible. Nothing to be gained and
everything to lose by exposing her too soon.

       Mulder wrapped his long fingers more tightly around his
coffee mug, hoping that that way she couldn't see the return of
the old tremor in his hands. "Associate Director Skinner called
me last night. Like a third string running back for the
Redskins, I've been traded." His smile was thin, brittle and not
convincing. "I've been asked to profile the Hillendale Hunter
for Violent Crimes." He forced a smug expression. "They've been
through two profilists already and - nothing."

       Scully's eyes raised to his, narrowing. She was better than
he thought. She was suspicious. "I didn't think you did that
sort of thing anymore?"

       He shrugged, but his shoulder muscles were currently
bunched into huge, rigid knots and he knew the action looked
unnatural. "They've been known to come crawling to 'Spooky'
Mulder when they can't find the end of their tails. Besides,
before they let me leave the VCS mainstream, Blevins and I came
to a little 'understanding'. Every once in a while I have to pay
the rent on this place." His hand gestured, taking in the
cluttered office.
       
       "This is one of those times?" Dana asked, still stunned.

       "They've reached a dead end and the authorities REALLY
don't like upper middle class people being found butchered on
Congress's front yard."

       To prove his point, there were two new and impressively
tall piles of folders stacked on the corner of Mulder's desk.
Carefully, Dana pushed them to the side and sat down. She was
not particularly alarmed by his announcement. Not yet anyway. On
the contrary, she sensed a challenge. Mulder was one man she
could work with. She had managed to turn his course more than
once. Granted, she had never stopped the voyage but she had
altered the heading. Maybe that was why he had taken to running
out of her as he had at Ellens. Maybe he recognized that there
was a real possibility that he could cave in under her merciless
logic. She could be thankful for one thing. With his new
assignment still sitting in neat piles in front of him, he
wouldn't be going anywhere soon. For Mulder, a chain and a
padlock were far less of a deterrent to wandering than the job
and his duty.

       "Listen to me, Mulder. I want in on this. The local news
has been full of this case for weeks. Besides, I've been hearing
for years about how uncanny your VC profiles are."

       "'Uncanny'?" Mulder said with a kind of brittle humor.
"That's not exactly the word I've heard used to describe them."

       Dana closely studied this new partner of hers for the first
time that morning. There was something dark about him that
couldn't be explained by not enough sleep. He was... troubled.
Oh, no, another mood and just when she had thought she had seen
them all. Mulder could be irreverent, enthusiastic,
unpredictable, single-minded. To authority figures who got in
his way he could be assertive, cold, acerbic. She had also seen
the injured side, the side that had bled to see the pain in
Kevin Morris, who, Mulder theorized, had seen his sister
abducted.

       This, however, was a new side to Fox Mulder. Did it have to
do with the case? A notion stirred in Dana's brain. Mulder had
opted out of the VCS, the crown jewel in the FBI's crown, and
for what? Just for the X-Files?

       "Mulder, I've had the standard profiling course so I
understand the basics. I've also worked with profilists from
time to time in association with my forensics work. I'd
appreciate a chance to see the process from start to finish."

       No expression in those eyes now. Whatever darkness she had
briefly seen there was gone. His eyes were as blank as one way
mirrors. No windows onto the soul, not this morning.

       He was frowning. "This is not a classroom exercise. You
don't know what it takes."

       "Mulder, I want to see you work."

       "Profiling is something I do alone. Besides, I'm not
pleasant company after day three."

       "Mulder, I know about working under stress. I've felt it in
myself. Sometimes you feel that if anyone says just one wrong
word to you, you'll explode into a million pieces. Maybe I can
help."

       The blank eyes were seemingly not enough. A wall had sprung
up which was almost visual and its breath was icy.

       "Scully, just drop it." 

       The itch in Dana's head had become an alarm. Was this what
other agents called intuition? If so, it was a new experience
for her and it warned her to back away and not just with stop
signs - with sirens and klaxons and foghorns and all in
dissonant seconds and sevenths. Carefully, she slid off the edge
of his desk and returned to her own. She should do just what he
asked. She should drop it, give in and go, but that wasn't Dana
Scully's style. Attack was her style! How dare he decide just
like that when she wasn't wanted or needed on a case! 

       "Mulder, if we're going to continue to work together I need
to work with you under as many different circumstances as
possible so that we can get to know each other better. And I'm
talking about sharing both our strengths and our weaknesses."

       "I always got an 'F' in sharing," he told her dryly.
"Besides, didn't you know? I'm not allowed to have weaknesses.
Spooky isn't allowed to fail."  
       
       "Mulder, please. There's nothing I would like better than
to see you tear apart all of their theories and come up with
something out of nothing."

       "Not... this time." His voice had risen sharply, almost
angrily. If the investigation went on for too long, if it got
intense, theories weren't the only things which were going to
tear apart. "Besides, I think if you check your e-mail you'll
find Blevins has assigned you to teach some classes at Quantico
for the next week." His face was so distant, so cold. Nothing
like the Mulder Dana thought she knew.
 
       Glaring at him Dana stood up and furiously swung towards
the door as if she would leave him then and there but something
passed over his face when he thought she had turned too far to
see. Indecision. Reluctance. Loss. 

       It was enough to tempt Dana to give it one more try.
"Mulder, you need me."

       The vulnerability passed as if it had never been there at
all and the hard glint returned in force. "'I need you?' You've
been with the FBI for two years, most of the time standing in
front of a corpse or bent over a microscope. I've spent nearly
six years in the field."  His eyes were like green stones. "Pray
tell, how do I need you?"

       Dana couldn't speak to those eyes. Though cruelly put, all
he said was true. Mulder had breezed through college and his
Ph.D. program at Oxford. He was one of the youngest ever to
enter the FBI academy and far and away the youngest profilist to
be snatched up by the Violent Crimes Section after his
accelerated graduation. What help could she be? It wasn't as if
he needed her to guard his back. This time he was joining a
fully staffed case. Not a little 'life on a shoe string'
investigation like the X-Files. VC, especially if Skinner were
involved, could call down more fire power than a marine assault
unit if they choose, not that Mulder would need that. As the
profilist, Mulder would most likely be sequestered ninety
percent of the time in a room, shoulder high with affidavits,
autopsy findings, trace evidence analyses, lab reports, video
taped interviews and background checks on all the victims and
suspects. She thought she could help but probably no more
competently than a dozen others who had spent years working on
similar cases.

       Dana became aware that neither of them had spoken in some
time. When they needed to talk they talked, for hours, but they
were equally as comfortable with silence when either of them
needed it. Dana had spent so many contented hours working in
this room. Reading, studying, writing analyses and reports.
Mulder was a restless worker but she found somehow his pacing,
seed cracking, and paper crumbling almost soothing. When it
wasn't she could always go upstairs. Now, however, the quiet was
as safe and relaxing as a minefield. 

       He broke first. "Why were you assigned here?"

       Why was he asking her this? Why now? Though they had never
spoken of it directly, they both knew. "To assist you. To add
more structure to your investigations -"

       "Oh, is that all how he put it to you?" Mulder had risen
and was advancing on her. "Do you think, Dr. Scully, that I
enjoy reading your reports? That I enjoy seeing the 'spin' that
you put on my work?"

       Dana stood her ground. "No one has ever disputed your being
able to close a case. It's your explanations that are a little
hard for management to accept."

       "The work is the work. Well, I've have more than enough
eyes looking over my shoulder and jerking my chain lately, Agent
Scully, so please, take advantage of the opportunity and relax
your watch." 

       The clawing sarcasm was unlike him. Something snapped in
Dana's head. "Am I being dismissed, AGENT Mulder?" she inquired,
something like a growl in the back of her throat.

       As his partner's anger flared to meet his own, Mulder
realized that he had gone too far, way too far. And it wasn't as
if the anger had been against her at all but was just a symptom
of his helpless frustration. But Scully didn't know that. She
didn't know him well enough. She was not one of the macho,
thick-skinned, Clint Eastwood-wannabes that populated so much of
the VCS. He had insulted her, he had bungled everything but
good. This - whole scene - had been designed to give her an easy
way out, to allow her to walk away without guilt. In a twisted
way he had been trying to protect whatever good opinion she
might have of him. Destroying it had never been his intention. 

       "Scully, I didn't mean -"

       But Dana Scully was seeing red now and would not be
placated. "Maybe we'd better just stop this discussion before
more things are said which we don't mean."

       They glared at each other, the unspoken mired in the ether
between them like mud. She waited for an explanation, an
apology. He was forced to give her what she had asked for which
was silence because an explanation would have been worse.

       Damn literal males! Dana swore under her breath. "Very
well, Agent Mulder, but before you throw me out, let me at least
change your bandages."

       He stood for a moment, confused, unable to follow this
rapid turnaround in topic. Then the ache in his side came back
to him. His personal reminder of his beautiful but very dead
'devil'. Having Scully play doctor was the second to the last
thing he wanted right now, the last thing being that she would
stalk out as angry as she was.

       Frowning, he removed his suit coat and slowly began to
unbutton his shirt as she retrieved the medical kit she kept
under her desk. He had learned quickly that she loved to doctor
and having him to take care of made up for all the patient
contact she was missing being a forensic pathologist. As he
raised his T-shirt, she lifted the bandage. Mulder hissed as the
new scabs caught on the gauze. The deep gouges where the Jersey
Devil-woman had take a hunk out of his side less than twenty-
four hours before were still red and fresh-looking.

       "Mulder, are you keeping this dry?"

       "Would you rather I didn't take a shower?" he grumbled.

       "You could try taking a bath."

       "You haven't see the bottom of my bathtub, have you?"

       "I've not had the pleasure." Frowning, she opened her kit.
If their first few weeks together were any indication, she was
going to need to get a larger kit just to keep Mulder in gauze
and tape and antibiotics. "Okay, sit on the edge of your desk
and lean back so I can bandage this again." 

       She was not gentle because she didn't feel like being
gentle, but Mulder gritted his teeth and refused to utter a
sound.

       Once the last strip of paper tape was applied to his
smooth, pale skin Dana began repacking her kit. She was angry at
herself and him for this total ruination of a day which had
started out so splendidly. 

       Able to think of nothing else to delay the inevitable, she
asked, "Do you want me to come back?" The question cut into the
silence like a very sharp knife.

       Confused, Mulder looked up from where he was attempting to
retie his tie without a mirror. "What?"

       "Do you still want us to work together," she rephrased
irritably, "or are you going to ask for another partner?"

       "No!" That more vulnerable emotion that wasn't anger was
back, the one she had caught a glimpse of before only stronger
this time, nearly panic. "Of course I want us to continue to
work together."

       His obvious sincerity went very little towards soothing the
rejection Dana felt. "You just don't trust me to work with you
on this particular case," she summarized with a voice like
flint.

       Fox Mulder, who seldom found himself at a loss for words,
faltered. "Scully, trust has nothing to do with it," but she was
already out the door, in fact, had nearly run out and never
heard his attempt at an explanation. Nor did she ever know how
strongly a part of him wanted to stop her. That part, however,
got his feet only as far as the doorway where he stood listening
to the fading sound of her steps, the distant opening and
closing of the door at the top of the stairwell, and the silence
that followed. 

End of Chapter 3
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (4/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98 

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 4

Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.

       Dana held tight to her anger as she flew up the stairs. It
was either that or admit to the tears that were far too close to
the surface. 

       She would not, she would not, she would NOT! allow Fox to
Mulder make her cry. She was an FBI Special Agent, a forensic
pathologist, and a grown up! He was... he was just a man! A
brilliant, talented, troubled man. Sometimes gentle, sometimes
impossible. A man... and a friend. That's what hurt. She had
thought he was her friend or was on the way to being so. From
their very first case she had gotten the impression that he was
lonely - not in a pathetic sort of way but in a Mulder sort of
way. He seemed to truly appreciate the company, even the
arguments - most of them anyway. Could she have read him so
wrong?

       Furious, Dana totally ignored her desk near Pathology to
storm her way directly to the fourth floor like a small
hurricane. Strangely enough, she found Section Chief Blevins and
Associate Director Skinner together in Blevin's office. Dana
fixed her eyes unblinkingly on Skinner as she entered. He was
the one to blame, the one who had called Mulder in on the Hunter
case. She didn't know him well but had heard that he would
probably be bumped up to Assistant Director very shortly and,
therefore, not a man to irritate if you valued your career. On
the other hand, rumor had it that he respected agents with a
certain amount of fight in them. As he rose to offer her his
chair, he returned her accusing glance with a steady one from
which she could read nothing.

       Tearing her eyes away from Skinner, Dana turned to Blevins
who was, after all, both her and Mulder's direct report. So who
was the real villain here? He must have allowed this. The
sullen, graying Section Chief was coolly business-like. He had
noticed her wary perusal of Skinner. "Anything you want to say
can be said before Associate Director Skinner. I assume you've
come about your re-assignment?"

       Dana realized that that was all she really could complain
about. Not about Mulder's being reassigned, only herself. It
made her argument shakier. "I'd like to know why I'm being sent
down to Quantico, yes. Have I failed somehow?" Despite herself
she felt her lip curl derisively. "Did I write a report on a
case that was not sufficiently damning to Agent Mulder's work?"

       Blevins leaned back in his high backed leather chain and
steepled his fingers. "Agent Mulder is senior agent in your
office. Why don't you ask him?"

       "Agent Mulder is not exactly in the mood to be forthcoming
with information at the moment."

       "So it's that way already, is it?" Blevins asked. The man's
comment was presented as if he smelled something distasteful.
Dana's gut response was to jump to Mulder's defense. There was
no love lost between Blevins and Mulder, that had been clear at
the beginning, but before she had time to speak, Dana saw out of
the corner of her eye an expression on Skinner's face that was
almost sympathetic. By that time Blevins was speaking again,
"Under the circumstances, Agent Scully, I think you should know
it all. You're being given work at Quantico because they could
use the help - and because Agent Mulder requested it."

       From his position standing back lit near the window where
he thought he wouldn't be noticed, Skinner frowned. 

       Incredulous, Dana felt her legendary calm slipping. She
realized her mouth had fallen slightly open but no sound came
out at first. "He what?" She had assumed that her reassignment
had been order by Blevins after 'trading' Mulder to VC. She had
been furious with Mulder for agreeing, but had never thought for
a moment that it had been his idea.

       Sensing her consternation, Skinner stepped in. "I asked for
Agent Mulder's assistance. Your 'temporary' reassignment was a
prerequisite for his accepting this case. The Investigative
Support Unit needs him on this, Agent Scully, and relations are
strained enough between the ISU and Mulder that they don't beg
unless they're really desperate. You only need to listen to the
six o'clock news to know that the Maryland and Virginia police
are stymied over these incidents. The investigation is dead in
the water and bodies are still being found. They need Mulder
and, since I've been assigned the thankless task of managing
this fiasco, so do I."

       "But I'm his partner. He says he works alone when he
profiles. That I can understand, I can stay out of his way. But
certainly there must be something I can do to help. At least
I'll be available if he does need me." Wasn't that what partners
were supposed to be there for? 

       Skinner's impressively bare dome moved ever so slightly.
"You'll have to take my word on this, Agent Scully. I've worked
with Agent Mulder before under similar circumstances. If he
wants you at a distance, then it's for the best."

        Dana stood up, her eyes blazing at both men. She knew when
she had been dismissed - and for the second time that day. Very
well, she would leave, but sooner or later there was going to be
hell to pay.

       She had her hand on the knob of the office door, her back
as straight as if someone had put an actual iron spike up her
spine, when Skinner's distinctive voice called her back. "You
haven't said so in so many words, Agent Scully, but we are aware
of Agent Mulder's propensity for going off lone wolf. I won't
say don't worry, but we'll do everything in our power not to let
that happen."

       Dana turned back for just a moment. She raised her chin and
let it nod just the tiniest bit before sailing out, moving
quickly before her face betrayed her. As angry as she was, she
did not want Mulder hurt and, yes, she realized that that was
what had gnawed at her from the first - that she would not be
there to pull him back in, to protect him. Where had those
feelings come from and how had Skinner known before she had
known herself?
       

       Skinner's frown deepened as he looked at the door that had
closed behind the furious young woman. He had heard that Agent
Scully was a bit of an iceberg. One would never have gotten that
impression from this encounter, but then the woman had just
received what she could only perceive as a professional slap in
the face. In her place he would feel the same way. He had not
agreed with Mulder. Skinner had offered to bring the man's new
partner in on the case in any capacity Mulder wanted. He had
been shocked by the younger man's absolute refusal.

       Bad idea leaving your partner in the dark, out of the loop,
Skinner thought. It would probably mean a crisis of trust
somewhere down the road. Besides, one day 'it' might happen on
an X-Files case and then what would she do? Out there,
somewhere, all alone with him and without anyone for her to turn
to.


       With her steaming anger quickly turning glacial, Dana
snapped up an empty copier paper box and threw in a few personal
items from her desk near Pathology. Within ten minutes of her
meeting in Blevins' office, she had removed herself from Bureau
headquarters. Those she blew past in the hallways were left
wondering whether the female version of Jack Frost had just made
an early visit. She didn't return to the basement. All she
needed which she didn't have, she would buy, borrow or steal
from the academy.
 
                                    * * * * * * * *

       It was too quiet.

       Mulder paced before his desk, hands deep in his pocket. She
had been gone thirty minutes, long enough to realize she had
left her brief case behind. Scully didn't forget things like
that. She wasn't coming back.

       His cluttered cave of an office was as large as it had ever
been, which had never seemed large enough - until now. Slowly,
he closed his eyes. What he saw was not blessed darkness. A
huge, empty hole seemed to have opened up right in front of him.

       What a fool! He couldn't image how he could have conducted
a meeting worse. Another triumph to record in his scrapbook of
disastrous social faux pas. Great, just great. In Dana Scully he
had seen the best partner potential since Reggie Purdue and now
he'd gone and alienated her but good. Scully would probably
never talk to him again. 

       At that moment what Mulder wanted to do more than anything
was to take a few minutes and really wallow in how he had fucked
up his life once again, but knew he didn't have the time. He
would have to work out his problems with Ms. Scully later, if
there was a later. In that he found some hope. From their brief
but intense time together, he had found that, while Scully may
be stubborn and opinionated, she was also fearless and
definitely not a quitter. She would be back, just, he hoped, not
too soon. 

       You will be back, won't you Scully? 

       Please.

       Enough wallowing. He had work to do, unpleasant work. Too
many people were dying, and the animals in the viper's hole on
the second floor had come to him, offered him anything. That
scum he could have turned down, them and all the glorious
publicity he'd receive for helping them to catch one of the
really big ones - but not the victims. He couldn't turn his back
on the dead and those who would join their select company if
this killing machine wasn't stopped soon. The man was escalating
fast. 

       He felt the itch in his palms. It was still there. The
seduction of unwrapping the puzzle, laying out the pieces,
putting them all together. It *was* like an addiction... at the
beginning. Later, it was like being caught up in a drug that had
you by the heart and the head and the balls. At the end... like
going cold turkey. Tearing apart... Coming down. 

       Stop.

       Perhaps, Mulder speculated, perhaps the process wouldn't be
as devastating this time. He was older, more experienced and he
had healed, more or less. He had only to dig through all the
case data, follow leads, find a pattern, ask the questions: Why
this time? Why these people? Why this place? Why this manner of
death? He could do this kind of work standing on his head.
Always could. Piece of cake.

       <In case you haven't noticed,> his reasoning side reminded
him, <you're alone here now. Who do you think you're trying to
convince?>

       No one. No one here but us sword fodder - the foot soldiers
sent out onto the front lines to be ripped down first.
Sacrifices for the greater good. 

       The pile of file folders on his desk called to him. He
found them not so seductive after all. More like traps, like
sucking tar pits, like innocuous but deadly pools of quicksand.
Already he could feel the ghosts beginning to hover. The visions
and recollections of all those other horrible cases he thought
he had buried, the twisted emotions of all those other sick
minds. Why else did he force himself to keep so busy? If he
didn't stand still maybe the ghosts couldn't catch him. What was
he doing walking into that house of horrors all over again?
There should be someone guarding his back, and he knew just the
one. A flash of red hair and a little body, slender but as
strong as tempered steel. But she wasn't there. Wouldn't be
there. He'd sent her away - thrust her away - protection for the
future. 

       So there was no one, no one at all with him, only the men
from the team who would be coming in a few hours to pack up all
this and take him away to someplace quiet and secure - very
secure - where he couldn't be disturbed - or disturbing. They
all knew the drill. It was in his file. These men, however,
couldn't be counted on - not for backup, not for protection, and
certainly not for companionship. In the end they could end up
just as much his enemy as the monster he was trying to catch.
His isolation made him feel physically ill and frighteningly
naked.

       Mulder took his hands out of his pockets to see if they'd
stopped shaking. They hadn't. Again he became aware of how
silent the office was and how empty. 

       For an intelligent man, Spook, you can be incredibly stupid
sometimes.

                                    * * * * * * * *

       In her apartment that evening after spending the day at
Quantico in a haze of frustration, Dana threw herself down on
her couch, kicked off her shoes and settled herself in for a
good sulk.

       She'd show Skinner, Blevins, *and* Fox Mulder. She'd been
making her case in her head all day even as she'd listened to
the FBI Academy's Instructor General brief her on the class they
needed her to teach. Point one: Skinner had made it plain that
the current arrangement was temporary. Fine she'd play along. Be
the good soldier. It would earn her points and help her later
when she was ready to spring her next career move on them. Why
shouldn't she leap-frog it? The males at the Bureau and in most
businesses certainly did it often enough. Loyalty didn't seem to
matter for much. 

       Point two: Dana had worked with enough bureaucracies to
know that good intentions, even promises from soon-to-be
Assistant Directors, meant very little. She needed to look out
for herself. No one else would. For the 'good of the
organization' she and Mulder could be separated in a heart beat.
She'd be one step ahead of them. 

       Point three: She had already shown herself to be competent
and flexible. A good team player. Hadn't she been able to work
with Fox Mulder for six weeks? Mulder had a history of eating
potential partners for breakfast. Some of his previous victims
hadn't lasted six days. If she could tough it out for six
months, that would be some kind of record. If you could work
with Spooky Mulder, you could work with anyone. Hmmm, maybe this
was all just some kind of a test, like a right a passage.
Everyone had to put up with Fox Mulder for a long as they could
stand him.... or until Mister Popularity took it into his head
to rid himself of them. Like now.

       Point four: For the good of her future credibility, it was
best that she move along before she got herself into a case
which she couldn't explain away as a psychosomatic illness, a
genetic mutation, stress, or a dysfunctional childhood.

       There, short term goals all nice and neat. She'd get what
milage she could out of the position and then move on. She would
not allow herself to be treated this way!

       Energized by at least the temporary pacification of her
injured pride, Dana began one of her hurricane sweeps through
her apartment - straightening, sorting laundry, stacking paper
for the recycling bin - when the door bell rang. Bent over the
washer, her arms full of wet sheets which probably hadn't needed
washing anyway, she froze. Mulder? Was that possible? Had he
come to apologize? Eat a little humble pie and ask her to come
back? Would she?

       Stuffing the sheets in the dryer, Dana headed for the door.
She would. She'd make him sweat first and pay later big time,
but she'd go back. The case had very high visibility and what
she had told him about wanting to watch him work had been the
truth. It was a coldly logical response. She tried not to
acknowledge that there were other deeper, warmer, feminine
reasons. She had seen him hurt - physically, mentally,
spiritually and professionally. He was also not nearly as
unaware as most people thought he was of how his pursuit of the
X-Files was viewed by the rest of the Bureau. Damnit, but she
wanted to defend him and she wanted to shield him because she
knew no one else would.
 
       Setting her face to reveal neither pleasure nor anger -
both of which were mixed within her in confusing proportions -
Dana opened the door. A form was lounging against the opposite
wall. There was a smile.  Right leg was crossed over left. A
wine bottle was swinging. Not Mulder, not even close.

       Her sister Melissa.

       The slender woman of medium height - which meant a few
inches above Dana's - pushed herself languidly away from the
wall. "Well, do I get to come in or not?" Her voice was as
sleepy-mellow as her eyes.

       "Sorry." Dana held open the door. "I'm just so...
surprised."

       "I don't know why you should be. I always come unannounced.
It's my trademark. Got a cork screw and some glasses?"

       Dana went to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "I
thought you were off studying in Switzerland with some holy man
or other and that alcohol muddied the rhythms."

       "I was," Melissa said as she dropped down onto Dana's
couch, "but they're muddied anyway with the jet lag so why waste
a perfectly good muddle. What's worth doing is worth overdoing.
Besides, this is a good burgundy. Its tannins are good for the
heart."

       Dana came back with the glasses and the corkscrew. "You've
been to see Mom, I assume?"

       "Of course. Took two hours, but she filled me in on all the
family doings."

       "We haven't heard from you for three months." Dana's tone
wasn't accusing, just curious. Ever since college Melissa tended
to drop out for long periods to go off to study crystal reading,
aural projection, organic gardening and other related New Age
curricula. "Learn to levitate yet?"

       Melissa sadly shook her mound of dark red hair. "Lama Duvie
doesn't go in for the theatrics." They talked of family matters
and Mel's future plans as each finished their first glass of
wine. With her second glass cradled in her hands, Melissa leaned
back and scrutinized her sister with more pointed interest.
"Enough about me. What's Mom tell me about a new job for you at
the Bureau?"

       For a moment Dana was confused.  How had her mother learned
about her reassignment back to Quantico so quickly? She hadn't
told anyone except a few people at headquarters who needed to
know. Then she realized that Melissa's information was months
old. She was talking about Dana's leaving Pathology. 

       "I got restless at the lab. I asked for a new position,
that's all. I have a partner and he doesn't even need a cane to
get from one side of the room to the other." No use in getting
into the current day's complications.

       "Right. Mom told me his name. What was it again?" Melissa
asked, swirling her wine.

       "Fox Mulder," Dana repeated. How odd his first name still
felt on her lips.

       "He isn't from California by any chance, is he? What kind
of name is that for an FBI agent?"

       No one was more surprised than Dana herself as she felt a
flush of indignation. "The one his parents gave him which he
can't help and which he hates. At least I assume he does because
nobody, but nobody calls him Fox."

       "Hmmm. So what sort of cases does this Fox Mulder
specialize in?"

       Dana felt herself squirm just a little. "Serial killers,
rapists, terrorists. When he worked for Violent Crimes he was
their golden boy."

       "Past tense, I notice." Melissa's eyes glowed with
mischief. All the Scully children were quick. "So what's he been
doing lately?"

       Dana hesitated. She hated herself for doing it, but she
hesitated. "Like I told Mom - he concentrates on cases other
departments can't solve."

       Dark eyebrows raised inquiringly. "And...? Come on, Dana,
I know you. What kinds of cases other departments can't solve?"

       Dana sighed. Melissa, the New Age ditz, was going to love
this. "Unexplainable by normal means."

       Melissa stared, the thought sinking in. "You're talking
para-normal, aren't you?" When no denial followed, Melissa
laughed so abruptly that she had to cover her mouth with her
hand to keep from spraying burgundy all over Dana's couch.
"Dana, you have to be kidding. Dad must be catatonic. His pride
and joy chasing ghosts."

       Dana felt her back stiffen. "I was brought in," she said
distinctly, "to make certain that the more traditional
scientific explanations for these phenomena are not ignored.
We've only had a few cases together but we've seen some
incredible things."

       "But ones with rational explanations."

       "They all could be explained that way, yes."

       Melissa looked skeptical. "Really?"

       Mel had done it again. She always could jerk Dana's chain.
Of course, that was the way her reports had been written. 

       "Solid scientific explanations," Dana admitted, "or no
explanation at all owing to insufficient evidence."

       "Are you being honest to this man and to yourself or are
you just giving your superiors what they want to hear?"

       Dana blushed with pique. How could she answer that? Who was
she to say that such and such a phenomena had been caused by
ghosts? Was laying the blame on alien intervention any better?
Or government conspiracies? There she felt a twist of guilt. 
She had seen Mulder's vacant stare as they drove away from
Ellens. That had been real. Something *had* happened. He had
been hurt deeply and her government was to blame and yet other
than getting him what little medical attention he would accept,
she had written it off, dismissing the incident as too hot to
handle.

       In all seriousness, Melissa leaned forward. "Dana," she
said softly, "to accept such a position where you know you
cannot be totally objective, isn't like you. You usually throw
yourself whole-heartedly into your work."  

       <I was ready to,> Dana remembered with a pang. <Just this
morning. Ready to jump in with both feet, only Mulder ruined
it.> Her silence, she knew, was more damning than any
denunciation. 

       "Dana, don't do this to yourself. Do a good and true job or
get out. Your Fox Mulder won't appreciate it and certainly those
of us who believe in such 'other' possibilities don't need you
covering up what little true evidence there is." 

       Ouch! That had hurt. "Mel, do can you really think I would
falsify evidence?"

       "You don't have to. You just need to continue giving these
cases other explanations."

       "Mel, you have to believe me, I'm not part of anyone's
agenda. I want the truth as much as Mulder does, as much as you
and your friends do."

       "Really?" Mel wasn't being cruel, she was just probing,
Dana realized. Helping her straight-laced sister to understand
those nasty, confusing emotions the younger sibling was always
running away from.

       "If I didn't feel that I could at least try to be
objective, Mel, I'd walk away. I would. I can't help what's
inside, however. I can't help but look for explanations within
the realm of science first. That's why I was given the job. As
for Mulder, sure we argue, but he hasn't asked me to leave yet."
Dana found her hands shaking. "Mel, I'm going to tell you
something that I don't want you to tell anyone. Not anyone.
There's something in the work. Maybe it's seeing it through
Mulder's eyes. It's intriguing. Exciting. I've never felt this
way before. It's not only challenging intellectually, but
fascinating personally." Dana paused. She had knelt by Mulder's
side in that dark warehouse and, though bleeding and in pain
from having just been clawed by the 'beast woman', his voice had
been filled with a glorious awe - "She was beautiful, Scully!" -
 as if he had just beheld a rare flower or seen a shower of
shooting stars.

       Melissa had settled back in awe herself. "This guy I have
to meet. If he can have such an effect on my dwebby little
sister... Joan even says that you told her he was kind of cute."

       Dana's head came up with a start. "You certainly have been
busy."

       "Well, you're not the only one in this family who can
investigate. Mom says that you and our dear domestic cousin talk
so I just thought I'd get all the facts before I came over." In
their depths Melissa's eyes were glittering like a great cat who
is deceptively lethargic on the outside but all hunter on the
inside. "So, when do I meet him?"

       "You don't," Dana found herself saying, rather more sharply
than she expected. Her sister and her partner? Those two
together? It would be safer to stand on the San Andreas fault.
"What I mean is, he's on a case."

       "I don't see you working. When's he get off this case? I'll
be in town a few more days." She sipped from the glass again,
the wine reddening her lips. Dana felt a wild, foreign emotion
rising up through her chest. Why was she sweating? <Just the
wine,> she told herself. Melissa watched her sister's blush with
devilish interest.

       "He really is on a very critical case. I don't even get to
see him."

       "Undercover?" Mel asked becoming more serious again. This
was, after all, the work her sister did now.

       "Not like that, exactly," Dana explained. "You know,
thinking about it, you two won't have as much in common as you
might think. You see the New Age stuff as something very
spiritual, almost as a religion. Mulder sees it as all so very
natural. Things just are. More like - "

       "Science?" Melissa offered her barb quite decidedly
pointed. "Maybe you two are the ones who are closer than you
thought?"

       The realization that hit Dana was almost electric in
nature. Was is possible? Similar? Just a few weeks ago she'd
been thinking quite the opposite, of how she could make a name
for herself by taming Mulder's wild talent and bringing his
eccentric genius back to the fold. To make her point and move
on. To stay with the X-Files for long would be professional
suicide. Now, however, the morning's commitment she had made to
herself to jump into the work with gusto fell much more heavily
on her conscience.

       Mulder. It was all Mulder's fault. Dana stared into the
ruby red liquid swirling in her glass. She realized that she had
come to see the individual behind the man. Mulder was not her
private project to save any more than he was VC's legendary
profiler or the office loony. Mulder was a person, a very unique
person. She would never have thought so after her first case but
he was actually not so very hard to work with as long as you
didn't stand in his way. He was like some big, intelligent,
half-grown blood hound puppy whose head was so full of scent and
spirit, so full of will and energy, that he tripped over his own
feet in his enthusiasm. He *did* want to learn, he *did* want to
discover. He *was* more of a inventor than anything. 

       Dreaming dreams no one else dared to dream. 

       Inventing truths.

       Melissa went on to other topics but Dana barely heard. What
was she going to do now? She was still angry over the current
case but now she could at least frame it within the larger
picture. Only the picture, which had been a nice clean map whose
roads clearly marked out her past and her future, was suddenly
full of grays whose frontiers were defined in simple blotches of
color. Some were jarringly disturbing but others were quite
fascinatingly beautiful.

End of Chapter 4
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (5/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98 

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 5

Monday, October 18, 1993
                                           
       For three days, five since she'd seen Mulder if she counted
the weekend, Dana stuck to her temporary assignment. She taught
the classes, graded the tests, and counseled the young men and
women who were stumbling in the hallways and losing their
lunches in the morgue sinks after lab. Anger carried her through
the first two days. After that she realized that the work wasn't
really so bad. Teaching she had done before and the familiar
words and phrases were all there on the tip of her tongue. The
appreciation for her efforts and experience was there, too,
which went a long way towards soothing the sting. The lingering
confusion left over from her conversation with Melissa she put
away in a deep place. She had decided that she couldn't resolve
her feelings for why she was continuing to work with the X-Files
until she was actually doing it.

       One morning after she had given a lecture her students had
actually listened to, and after a lab during which none of her
students lost their breakfast, Dana slipped away for a well-
earned break in the small but tastefully furnished little office
that had been released for her use. Soon she was leaning back
with a cup of her favorite herb tea. She had just finished her
second piece of early Halloween candy when she realized that
someone had gone to a lot of trouble to see that she was happy
here. The work was good and there was neither too much of it nor
too little. The accommodations, considering that she was a
simple substitute instructor, could not be better. Much as she
would like to thank Mulder for her current situation, she very
much doubted he had been involved. Not only were the personal
touches just not Mulder's style, but there hadn't been time. He
had been as surprised by the case as she had been.

       Blevins? He would have been just as happy to send her down
to the secretarial pool for a week or, more likely, back to her
old position, following on the dottering heels of Dr. Alexander.

       Who was left? A.D. Skinner? The man did have depth. Dana
found herself wondering how the report structure might be
reorganized once Skinner moved up. He certainly seemed to be
taking an interest in Mulder - and, Dana realized - in her. It
was not unheard of for Assistant Directors to take small
departments directly under their wing, skipping the need for a
Section Chief for all but administrative matters.

       By afternoon the tea and candy and the comfortable chair
were forgotten. Rumors were flying that the Hunter had dumped
another body. Number seven. The news filled Dana with dismay. As
angry as she still was at Mulder, whom she had not tried to talk
to since that horrible morning and - even worse - who had not
tried to talk to her, Dana had wished for his success.
Unrealistically, she had expected him to pull up a profile with
the wave of his hand that would be so exact that within forty-
eight hours the perpetrator would be in custody. If Dana felt
badly about the continued deaths, how must Mulder feel? As she
wrote the outline for her lecture on the blackboard, Dana felt
an unreasoning urge to call him. She wanted to ask how the work
was doing, to ask if he was serious when he said he saw them
working together again in the future. They had functioned well
together, Dana thought. Mulder had freely said so himself. 

       Dana pushed the chalk so hard against the board that it
broke. 

       Damn, she shouldn't be the one to make the first move. He
was the one who started this.

       So why didn't the ingrate call!

                                      * * * * * *

Thursday, October 19, 1993
8 p.m.

       Day nine since the dreadful morning. Dana returned to her
apartment after a late night grading papers. She dragged. The
new routine had been like a vacation in the beginning. It had
quickly lost its appeal, however. Tonight she felt no spark in
the teaching or in her. Her apartment was neat, clean, orderly
and sterile. Dull. Her life was dull. She had worked late but
not nearly late enough. Not as late as she often worked with
Mulder when they found themselves inhaling Chinese food at ten
in the evening after both realized that they had forgotten to
eat since breakfast. Tonight Dana didn't even feel hungry though
she knew she had to eat.

       She was staring at the limited selection in her
refrigerator when she remembered the three pieces of leftover
pizza from Dr. Everett's impromptu party, which she'd frozen.
The smell as they thawed and warmed in her microwave brought
back pleasant memories. With a can of soda she managed to find
in the back of her refrigerator and the pizza, Dana settled back
to watch a video of a Hallmark Hall of Fame presentation which
she'd taped months before but never had time to view.

       Soda, pizza and decent mind candy... but Dana found it
impossible to concentrate. The soda was flat, the pizza soft and
slightly freezer-burned, and the people in the story had
problems that made hers seem depressingly trivial by comparison.
The soda went down the sink, the pizza in the trash and the tape
back on the pile with the others she'd never watched. Unable to
think of anything better to do, she stripped off her clothes and
crawled into bed.


       Somewhere too close to her ear and too early, a phone rang.
Dana moaned and groped for the receiver on the night stand, not
bothering to turn on the light or even to open her eyes for that
matter. She didn't need to see to know that it was still dark
and that she had had less than three hours of sleep. Her REM
cycle had a habit of letting her know when it had been rudely
interrupted. Waking was harder than she remembered. She really
must be out of practice. During med school she'd been able to 
wake in the middle of the night and actually be able to function
within seconds. If this was an automated phone solicitation,
someone was going to die.

       Fumbling with the receiver, Dana muttered something totally
unrecognizable.

       "Agent Scully?" a voice on the other end of the line asked.


       Dana was instantly awake. She didn't recognize the voice
immediately, but this was obviously work related. "Yes? This is
Agent Scully."

       "Walter Skinner."

       Most of the muscles in Dana's body went rigid. Skinner was
calling her at - Dana stared at the clock showing it was not yet
one a.m. Suddenly she felt deathly cold. Mulder? Why else would
they be calling her? Had something happened to Mulder? No,
couldn't be.  He was sitting in a nice, safe office writing a
profile, not out on a raid or a stakeout.

       Involuntarily huddling deeper under the covers as if that
could alleviate her chill, Dana managed to ask, "What can I do
for you, sir?"

       "There's been another incident. The body was found just a
couple of hours ago."

       Dana tried to swallow. 'A couple of hours'? No wonder she
hadn't heard. "The Hunter's M.O.?"

       "How did you guess."

       That makes eight, Dana thought. Just what they all needed
to improve the mood around the office. For they all felt it,
even at the Academy. The hottest cases always made good jumping
off points for almost any classroom work. The pressure Mulder
must be feeling Dana didn't even want to think about. 

       "I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

       "Not half as sorry as the unit is. We need an autopsy now.
I have Blevins's okay to ask for your assistance."

       'To ask for your assistance.' That was how he had put it.
So this was a request, not an order, and there was only one
reason why they should be so solicitous.

       "What about Mulder?"

       "We have no choice. Every other M.E. associated with this
case has been pulling double duty as it is." A pause. Skinner
did not sound happy. He clearly did not like having to bring her
in and countermand one of his own decisions. "Word has it that
you're very good."

       Word from whom? Dana wondered, and why the flattery? Did he
think she would refuse? Did they think that she would let the
fact that Mulder's considerable nose might get bent out of joint
deter her? Associate Director Skinner didn't know Dana Scully
very well, not yet anyway.

       "He'll find out," she warned.

       "Then he'll have to deal with that, won't he?"

       A few minutes later after they had discussed details, Dana
slipped out of bed into the cool room and rapidly began to
dress. There was no rush, the dead would wait, they always
waited, but this new victim bothered her - that and Mulder's
reaction to it. She couldn't get out of her mind the expression
in Mulder's eyes as he had risen from his brief examination of
the body of the beast woman as she lay in the blood-splattered
leaves. Something very much like betrayal. Mulder hated to lose.
This would be a similar blow. No, this one would be worse. He
had been given time to stop it and he had failed. This was the
second death that had occurred since Mulder had been pulled onto
the case so he had failed not just once but twice. If one
counted the poor 'devil', which Mulder would, that made three
deaths in just ten days laid out at his door. 

                                    * * * * * * * *

Quantico
Friday, October 20, 1993
3 a.m.

       Driving to Quantico at an hour of the morning before even
the earliest commuters had ventured out, gave Dana the oddest
feeling. It was like flying through a wilderness of shining
black asphalt and glaringly bright white arc lamps. No traffic
at all. The trip would almost have been enjoyable, except for
its purpose. The Army's morgue was not the place Dana would have
chosen to perform the autopsy, but the District officials had
begged. Anything to divert the hordes of reporters for at least
a little while.

       Everything was ready in the great, echoing room by the time
she arrived. As she reverently drew back the sheet from the
Hunter's latest victim, Dana was struck by how quiet it was.
Morgues were usually quiet places but not like this silence
which stretched for the entire building and most of the grounds.
The body was that of a well-built male with the salt and pepper
hair of late middle age. In life he must have been an handsome
man.

       Dana stood for a second in silent prayer as she always did
before she beginning her examination. Today, however, her
meditation had more form than substance. She found herself
listening for footsteps. No matter how hard she tried, however,
she couldn't coax any from the silence. Where was Mulder? She
expected him. He did a poor job of hiding how squeamish he could
get during her autopsies, but he could usually be found hovering
somewhere nearby.

       She had just started recording her external observations
when she heard the sound of the electronic tumblers in the outer
door lock, then the sound of two people approaching.

       "Dr. Scully? I have a visitor for you."

       Even though her stomach clenched with some apprehension
over how awkward it would be meeting again after this last tense
week, Dana's eyes lighted over the edge of her mask. "About
time, Mulder," she grumbled under her breath.

       But the man shown into the room by the security guard was
not Mulder. Dana's empty stomach unclenched so rapidly that she
felt slightly nauseous. She found herself staring at a broad-
shouldered, thick-set man of about her father's age with
thinning hair and a strong odor of cigars about his rumpled
suit. 

       "Sorry to be late. Car wouldn't start," the man apologized.
He held out a hand, realized she was gloved and pulled it back
with some embarrassment. "Bill Hennessy, but everyone calls me
Bull."

       Looking at the thickness of his neck, Dana could imagine
why. His nose was also quite distinctive. The man probably boxed
in his youth and lost often.

       "Dana Scully."

       "So The Skin informs me."

       "I take it you're on this case?" She inclined her head
towards the body.

       "If he's one of that bastard's new prizes, yeah, I am. From
the on-site examination we're almost sure he is."

       Dana found herself asking a little lamely. "Are you the
only one coming from the team?"

       "The only one who hasn't been up for the last three nights
running."

       Then Mulder wasn't coming. The sickness rolled around a
little more in Dana's stomach. Blanking her mind of everything
but the job, always relieved the sensation. So did adding a
little anger to the mix. How had she ever allowed what Fox
Mulder said or didn't say, or what Mulder did or didn't do, get
so under her skin?

       "Any background you want to give me before I get started?"
she asked her only companion for the night - her only companion
other than the poor corpse.

       "Not at this time," Bull rumbled matter-of-factly. An old
hand at this sort of thing, he had come supplied with an extra
large coffee and a bag of donuts from the '7-11', the all
pervasive local convenience store chain. He'd already slid a
spare chair over by the door. He'd be close enough to hear her
comments intended for the official recorder, but not too close.
He'd also be within easy reach of the wall phone.

       "You're not going to tell me anything?" Dana asked.
"Nothing about what I should be looking for? Nothing about the
other victims? All I know about this case is what I've read in
the papers."

       "Sorry, but that's the way they want it. A clean slate.
Just do the most thorough job you've ever done in your career.
We need a break. Bad."

       Dana turned back to the table and stared down at this
meaningless death. It was going to be a long night. A clean
slate? That had an empty sound. As empty as Mulder's not
bothering to take the time to come down to see her.

       No more thinking about Mulder, Dana decided. He was
probably off somewhere sulking because his divine wishes had
been overruled and she'd been brought in after all. Ungrateful,
stubborn man! With respect, Dana removed the sheet from the
victim which had covered him from midchest down. Dana had
already steeled herself for what she might find under the sheet.
The newspaper reports did not make for pleasant bedtime reading.
Even without them, she would have been warned by the sheer
powder-white of the victim's skin. There was a harsh violent
slice through the skin from just below the xiphoid process at
the end of the sternum to the crotch. At least her work would be
abbreviated. The abdominal cavity was completely empty. Not only
empty but nearly pristine. 

       Almost as an after thought, Dana noticed a pale bruise on
the side of the victim's chest wall, below and to the left of
the heart. She would look at that more closely later. Unbidden,
the memory of other injury on another man's ribcage came to
mind. It had been a ten days. She wondered who Mulder had gotten
to change his bandages?
       
                                      * * * * * *

       Dana finished recording her external examination. Out of
the corner of her eye she had been aware of Bull listening
intently. She caught the nods and the frowns and found herself
following up and double checking if a particular observation
seemed to bother or excite him. It was all she had to go by. 

       When she paused to retrieve her instruments, Bull reached
up for the phone. Dana took her time so she could overhear. The
call was not to Mulder but concerned him.

       "No, I haven't told Mulder yet.... " Bull's voice grumbled
defensively. "Well, he says he's going to finish the next go
round of the profile tonight and I didn't want to break his -
concentration.... Yeah, I know he'll be pissed if he doesn't get
all the information but this looks so cut and dried... Okay,
okay, already, I'll call him."

       So, Mulder didn't even know about this new victim yet, and
didn't know about her. Whether that was good or bad, Dana didn't
know, but under the circumstances she certainly couldn't blame
him anymore for his absence. Why did that sooth a multitude of
hurts? Of course, it also meant that the storm was yet to come.

       Bull punched in a new number, supposedly a call to Mulder.
Dana stood poised over the body, a scalpel in her hand. She
pretended to be distracted by something about the victim's head.

       The phone must have rung for a LONG time before Bull
muttered. "Come on, Spook,  you bastard, pick up the phone. I'm
not doing this for my.... Mulder? .... Yeah, Bull... look sorry
to disturb you but the Hunter's done another one... When? Found
11:45 this evening. Rock Creek Park near the zoo..." A long
pause, Bull sputtering towards the end trying to get a word in.
"Hey... Hey...  cool down, you shit, don't yell at me... I'm
only the messenger boy here... Yeah, well, I'm here with the
M.E. now. It's almost done. Yeah, it's our boy. I'm sure... Who?
I don't know, but she's young, she's short, she's cute and she
came highly regarded... Yeah, from the Skin himself... Is she
who? How should I remember? I'm awful with names." The big man
went flipping vainly though the little notebook he carried. "All
right, all right, already I'll ask." Putting his hand over the
mouth piece, Bull raised his voice, "He wants to know if you're
'Scully'."

       Dana nodded, smiling to herself as she shaved a part of the
skull. With a description like that no wonder Mulder had
guessed. Not that many young, short, female M.E.s on the East
Coast. The cute part she could have done without, though. She
certainly doubted that Mulder would have noticed anyway. He
barely noticed she was female, but he couldn't help but notice
she was short.

       "So you're going to take her word for the report...  you
don't want her at the briefing... I don't know if that's your
decision to make, Mulder. I think Benchley will want to drag her
in just like all the others..." A long pause. "Well, EXCUUUUSE
me for breathing, Mr. Oxford graduate Ph.D, but you set up the
procedures so we stick with them. She comes, *comprende*?"

       Bull swore as he hung up the phone. "Sorry for swearing but
our profilist is a little tense right now. He says he knows you.
Funny, he doesn't think it necessary that you come to the
briefing tomorrow, but our M.E.'s always do. In the past
Mulder's always insisted on it so he can grill you people with
a lot of creepy questions."

       Scully felt the anger beginning to rise again. Damn him
anyway for still trying to keep her out of this. "Mulder will
get over it," she said, with more ice than she intended.

       A baffled look came over Bull's face. "I'm glad you think
so. I don't like to be on the losing end of that temper unless
I need to be. Do you know what else is odd? Under most
circumstances old Spook would be down here in about fifteen
minutes to breathe down your neck. He didn't seem eager to do
that this time, did he? Not that Benchley would let him." Bull
pulled a sugar donut out his paper sack. "I think Benchley's got
our pet psycho on a chain until the profile's done."
        
       Dana felt a chill run down her back which had nothing to do
with the cold body laid out before her. 

                                    * * * * * * * *

       It was a special case and Dana took extra care. She needed
to be right on this, absolutely right. She'd show Mulder just
how much of a mistake it had been to ship her off to Quantico.
By the time the body was shelved and the report of the gross
anatomical findings had been drafted and filed, the first lab
results began to filter in. Tired as she was, Dana stayed. So
did Bull, though he'd found the doctor's lounge and was sawing
some significantly noisy Z's. Dana finally nudged the VCS
representative awake at ten-fifteen. Time to head back into the
city for their meeting with the rest of team at eleven. 

       When Bull's car failed to start again, Dana drove them
both. This suited Bull well because that meant he could read her
report as she drove which he should have done hours before.
There had been almost a guilty look in his eye when she'd nudged
him awake. Dana got the impression that no one on the team was
expected to have the time for sleep. 

       Under normal circumstances Dana couldn't say that she would
be looking forward to this briefing. A roomful of cranky,
testosterone-laden males all stressed-out from having played
King of the Hill all week without anyone coming out on top? "I
can hardly wait," Dana sighed inaudibly as she drove up
Interstate 395 towards downtown D.C.. Part of her, however, was
eager to strut her stuff. The examination of the body had
provided a lot of data but without the files on the other
victims they were just random facts about one particular death.
Once she had access to the background materials, however... Dana
began to see the intrigue surrounding the investigation of those
rare creatures, the serial killer.

       Sitting beside her, muttering, smiling, moaning, and
occasionally slapping his knee as he read her draft and the lab
findings, Bull was doing a good job of raising Dana's own
particular level of stress. The hardest part was wondering
whether what she had found was going to be of any use to a
certain someone.

Friday, 10:55 a.m. 
       
       Dana had not been in the downtown VCS annex often. Most of
the teams Dana had worked with in the past either accepted the
lab and M.E. reports without comment or, if they had questions,
met her at the morgue or called her on the phone with additional
questions. The rather well-worn and slovenly appearance to the
desks and the drab army-green of the general decor definitely
stamped this as a male-dominated sanctum. Dana knew women had
entered its ranks but it was assumed that those who did had
better be prepared to be treated just as crudely as any of the
'boys'. At least it was a first step. Dana knew all about hidden
hoops and glass ceilings. She had faced similar problems in
forensics. Enlightenment would come in time.

       As they neared the conference room, Bull's beeper chirped.
He glanced at the tiny digital readout and swore. "Damn, it's
Betty. She probably wants to make sure I haven't died." The big
man frowned at the closed double doors that marked what had been
their destination, then indicated a row of chairs along the
wall. "Guess we're back to back with another meeting for use of
the room. In that case, I really need to make a call home or the
next time I see Betty will be in divorce court. If the room
opens up while I'm gone, Dr. Scully, would you mind waiting? I
want to bring you in myself. Sometimes these sessions require a
delicate touch."

       Dana sat and Bull trudged off to find a phone. For Mulder's
sake she would play nice though she doubted that any meeting
between Mulder, and the kind of he-man VC team to which men like
Bull Hennessy belonged, could ever be considered 'delicate' any
more than a sledge hammer could be considered delicate.

       The minutes passed. Dana fidgeted. She leaned down once to
assure herself that her brief case containing her notes was
still beside her chair. Why was Bull taking so long? She was
eager to get moving. Maybe she was just eager to get this
strained first meeting with Mulder over with. Eleven days ago
today he had asked her - TOLD her - to accept a temporary
assignment. Eleven days ago today they had said some cruel
things to each other. Eleven days ago today she had walked out
without looking back. Well, she was back and like it or not
there was nothing Mulder could do about it.

       Unconsciously, Dana found herself trying to listen in on
the meeting which was going on in the conference room for which
she and Bull were waiting. There were several different voices -
 four at least, probably more - but all at the moment were low
and muffled. Suddenly the noise level rose significantly. Almost
immediately the doors burst open and six men emerged almost in
a herd. Most headed for the facilities. As it was nearly eleven,
which was when their briefing was scheduled, Dana assumed that
this was the previous meeting just getting out. None of the six,
however, had carried out brief cases, files or notes. Curious,
Dana rose. A glance inside showed a level of disarray only found
after a working meeting had been in session for hours and was
not finished yet. 

       Dana returned to her seat a little bewildered. Then she
realized that she had recognized one of the six who had
thundered past her. The broad-shouldered, greying black man was
Ralph Benchley, a veteran D.C. detective who had recently joined
the FBI and whom everyone called 'Captain'. Bull had mentioned
that he was the team leader on this investigation. She had only
seen the man before in the background at some of the evidence
gathering sessions she had participated in over the years. 

       Bull would be furious. It seemed that the festivities had
started much earlier than he'd been led to believe. Dana sat as
she had been told and listened, far easier now with the door
open and the members of the team scattered in the hallways and
still talking at the top of their lungs. Being a fly on the wall
was sometimes the best way to pick up information and she wanted
some idea of what she was getting into before she walked through
that door. She heard a lot of grumbling about getting up early.
It seemed that this was a night group who worked until nearly
dawn and then slept and they had not gotten nearly enough
downtime the night before.

       Dana couldn't help but be aware that one critical element
of the team was suspiciously missing. Though her glance had be
quick, her impression of the meeting room was of lots of
clutter, files and empty coffee cups but no people. Where was
Mulder?

End of Chapter 5
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN 6/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 6/98 

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 6

Friday, 11:05 a.m.

       'Captain' Ralph Benchley barreled down the hall trying not
to spill the two cups of steaming coffee he carried. As he
neared the conference room, he noticed a new addition. A
classically striking red head was perched on one of the chairs
outside. She glanced his way expectantly as he neared. Nice,
very nice, he thought. Perfect skin. The secretarial pool had
outdone itself this time. 

       "Sorry no one told you," he said before she could speak.
"The meeting was moved up. We're on break right now, but we'll
be recapping. Those are the notes we're most interested in
getting down anyway. Just stick to the facts and don't
elaborate. Oh, and if you feel sick, there's no need to ask
permission, just leave. If you've not been to one of these
sessions before, the details can get pretty gruesome, but you'll
get used to it."

       At that moment a new male voice began speaking nearby which
forced Benchley to turn away from the woman, leaving her with
her lovely mouth slightly agape. The newcomer, an tall man with
a bony face who looked even taller than he was because of his
incredible thinness, had coffee in one hand and a danish in the
other.

       The scarecrow gestured with his coffee cup towards the
room. "What's up with the Spook today anyway? He's raving even
worse than usual. He's pushing us through this like he needs to
get to a fire or something. I know he's leaving me in the dust."

       Benchley answered, unhappily, "Skinner called me this
morning and warned me that this might happen. This is why I'm
making him go over everything at least twice. If I get away
without claw marks on my throat, I'll feel myself fortunate. The
M.E. they had to pull in last night for the new case is Mulder's
new partner. He's only had her a few weeks."

       Scarecrow relaxed. "So that's it. Doesn't want her
subjected to the full effect? Hard enough to work with someone
day in and day out without their having that kind of ammunition.
Hey, I'll bet Blevins hooked him up with one of those ex-army
fems the military coerced us into hiring recently. I swear one
of them looks like my old drill sergeant in skirts. Now she'd
whip Mulder's ass into shape."

       "Well, we'll know pretty soon," Benchley said. "She's
coming in with Bull. I don't know where he's been. Either they
had trouble with the autopsy or Bull didn't get his wake up
call."        

       At that moment Bull flat-footed his way up the hall towards
the other two. Dana only caught a glimpse of the burly agent
because from where she sat she was almost completely hidden from
view by Benchley's impressive bulk.

       Bull pounced. "What is this I hear about you scum starting
at eight a.m.?"

       "Didn't you know? And here we thought you and the project's
new M.E. were out late putting the finishing on a great night,"
the scarecrow drawled. "Spook got it into his head to start
early and almost pulled each and every one of us out of the sack
by our ears. We'd be done now if this trace evidence were more
cut and dried. He didn't ask someone to page you?"

       "No, damn him! I should have guessed that he'd try
something like this. You know, he doesn't want her here. Still,
I've never known 'Willies' to out and out lie. Did he actually
tell you he had me paged?

       The two looked at each other sheepishly. The scarecrow
answered. "Ah, no, not that you mention it. He just sort of
inferred."

       "Yeah, he's good at that. He slipped his leash on me twice
during a case a couple of years ago with stories like that. I
thought I warned you people!"

       Benchley frowned. "Cool it, Bull. You're here now and I
assume she's here now. The fireworks will either start or they
won't. She is with you, isn't she, Bull?"

       Bull looked around confused. Where had the woman gone?

       "What's she look like?" the scarecrow asked with a leer,
peering expectantly over the other two and down the corridor.
"We've got bets on this one."

       Dana stood and, back straight and head held high, slipped
between the Bull's wide shoulders and the scarecrow's narrow
ones. "She looks like this," Dana informed them in a tone as
cold as ice.

       Though her head was barely even with Benchley's chin, Dana
still gave the man the impression that, without even trying, she
could stare him down to his knees. "Sorry to disappoint you, but
I'm not here to take down your notes. You'll have to take them
yourself." Holding herself in the same unyielding posture, Dana
strode towards the conference room door well ahead of the men,
leaving in her wake more than one dropped jaw. On the threshold
she turned back, her voice lowering to a threatening whisper,
"And don't any of you ever, EVER, call my partner anything other
than Agent Mulder in my presence or you will learn first hand
that my latest compulsories on the target range are higher than
or equal to every man's in this room."

       
       Of the six men whom Dana had seen leave the conference room
during the break, three had returned and three were sheepishly
slinking in behind her. As she swung her brief case up onto the
least cluttered spot at the table, Dana let her chill gaze sweep
the room. Too bad that her cool demeanor was surface only.
Underneath she was anything but cool. 

       The room was unnaturally gloomy. Three quarters of the
fluorescent tubes had been loosened and were dark behind their
water-stained diffusion panels. The effect significantly added
to the number and depth of the shadows. Was this Mulder's idea?
Atmosphere for getting into the rhythm of the case or just
providing lots of places to hide? Clearly none of the seven men
she had already seen - the six from the morning meeting plus
Bull - were Mulder.  'Places to hide...?' only with that thought
did Dana detect the dark, glowering presence leaning against the
far wall in the made-to-order shadows. *That* must be her
partner.

       Or... used to be her partner. Dana had no idea where she
stood now. She could only cling to the memory of what had seemed
like a mild panic registering on Mulder's face when she had
asked whether he ever wanted to work with her again. Later after
her anger had cooled somewhat, she had replayed that scene,
wishing fervently that she had Mulder's talent for perfect
recall. Her instincts told her now that he had been sincere and
she had begun to feel uncomfortable over words she had said in
anger. Over the days of silence, however, that thin faith had
begun to seem more and more insubstantial. And now to add to her
confusion this... these men... this table with its heaps of
files, dozens of empty coffee cups, soda cans, fast food
wrappers and empty donut boxes... this locker room smell of
stale male sweat and wool and tobacco... 

       Dana was mystified. Wrong, all wrong! This place was not
Mulder. This... melting pot of macho male steroids! It would
take more evidence than she had seen thus far to convince her
that he would prefer THIS to working with her for all their
scrapping and snapping at each other from time to time.

       Benchley sat down at the head of the table before an
impressive stack of files and a yellow legal pad covered with
notes. He nodded to Dana uncomfortably. "Dr. Scully, I
apologize. It's unfortunate that we didn't meet under better
circumstances." To the group he continued, "Gentlemen, at least
to those of you who are gentleman, this is Dr. Scully. She
performed the autopsy on our latest victim. Dr. Scully, as you
might have gathered, I'm Special Agent Ralph Benchley, but
people call me 'Captain'. Bull, you two met early this morning
as I understand it. To Bull's right," Benchley meant the
scarecrow man, "is Special Agent Thompson, you'll hear him
referred to as 'Crow'. Next to him around the room is Agent
Limelighter, Agent Hubert and our representatives from the D.C.
police department, Detective Sergeants Morrow and Engles. And
hiding down there in the dark is our profilist, Special Agent
Mulder, whom I believe you know. Spoo- er - Mulder, would you
PLEASE be so kind to join the group?" At the mention of Mulder's
name Benchley's tone had changed subtlety, taking on the
deprecating sing song cadence some people use when speaking to
young children.

       There was a significant pause before the darkest of the
shadows moved. The figure seemed to need to push off from the
wall to get started. At the foot of the table near that shadowed
end of the room was one empty chair before which was strewn the
most haphazard collection of crime photos, snapped pencils and
scribbled sheets of half-crumbled paper. The figure moved
stiffly, placing one palm on the table top for support before
dropping rather gracelessly into the chair. Dana raised her eyes
and tried not to stare, but even by concentrating she still
couldn't make out his expression. His head was bowed and the
shadows too concealing. Worse, to her knowledge he had failed to
look in her direction once since she had entered the room.  

       "Dr.Scully," Benchley began before Mulder was even
completely seated, "will you give us your report?"

       Almost with relief Dana turned to work, snapping open her
brief case to retrieve her notes and the lab reports. "Before we
start," Dana said, "I want to state for the record that I was
not given access to the reports on the previous victims -"

       One of the group made a sound that might have been words if
the person's throat had been working correctly. The sounds were
repeated, stronger this time. It was Mulder who had spoken but
not with any voice Dana had ever heard from him before. "At my
request."

       "May I asked why, Agent Mulder?" Dana inquired formally,
trying to keep the arctic chill out of her voice, but aware she
was not succeeding. 
       
       The voice went on in the same mechanical tone. "Two days
ago I asked Associate Director Skinner to find an M.E. for the
next victim who hadn't been involved in the case before. We
needed some new eyes on this case. There must be evidence the
other autopsies haven't revealed. I didn't expect another...
death... so soon. Nor did I expect you would become involved."
The lifeless voice had become tinged with irritation, but
whether towards her, or Skinner, or Fate, who knew.

       "There was no one else available," Dana countered, "and I
assure you, Agent Mulder, that I performed my duties to the best
of my ability. Need I remind you that to my knowledge you have
had no cause to fault those abilities until now?"

       The severity of her words seemed to stun him. For the first
time since he had come into the room the dark figure raised his
head though his face was still in shadow. "And I have no reason
to doubt them now, Agent Scully."  

       Dana tried not to stare, honestly tried not to, but
suddenly she had to know. Something was wrong here, very wrong.
The silence, the tension, the way Mulder moved, the sound of his
voice. 

       After looking from one partner to the other with some
irritation, Benchley finally broke the silence, but his words
had no calming effect. "If you two are finished, I suggest we
move on. Crow, why don't you recap for Dr. Scully. Then she'll
see what we're looking for."

       The scarecrow grunted unhappily as if he thought the
repetition a waste of time. "The basics you've read in the
'Washington Post' I'm sure. The first victim was found about six
months ago. A young father, Emilio Avante, early thirties,
dressed in an expensive jogging suit, went missing while on his
daily run in Greenbelt Park in Prince Georges County. Two days
later he was found in Montgomery County in Wheaton Park, beaten
to death. Odd sort of beating." At a flicker of the gaunt man's
eyes towards his superior,  Benchley handed Dana the relevant
file. "The wounds were rough and very irregular. Crushing
injuries mostly. Not made by any single instrument. Consensus is
he was most likely stoned and/or clubbed to death over an
extended period of time. Internal bleeding killed him
eventually, either that or the cerebral hemorrhage which
followed a skull fracture. The M.E. couldn't be certain.

       "The next victim we knew about was found almost four weeks
later. Another male, forty-five, slightly over weight. John
Forestman. Crushing injuries plus violently flayed with a whip
this time. Crude work. The whip may have been recently acquired
by our killer."

       "Or never tried on a moving target before," the young agent
Limelighter offered. "That was clear from the autopsies. During
their torture, the battered victims were allowed freedom of
motion. They can tell from..." the young agent's voice faded
out. "But then you probably know how they determine that."

       Crow tapped the table top with a long, thin finger. "I
think she does, Ronnie. To return to new developments, this time
the victim was thoroughly washed after death."

       Crow glanced at the Limelighter, relinquishing the floor.
"Which is how I got brought in," Limelighter explained. "I was
given a case a couple of weeks ago. A male in his early twenties
had been found in Great Falls Park also wearing the remnants of
an expensive jogging suit. Peter Grimson. Wrestler. A varsity
letter yet. This poor bastard had really been tortured. Even for
D.C., the variety and severity of his injuries is almost
unprecedented. To make matters even more gruesome, he had been
disemboweled and the abdominal and thoracic cavities thoroughly
cleaned out. So I was working up this case and there are no
leads. One day while a few of us were sitting around the office
shootin' the shit, Crow and I started comparing odd points of
each others' cases and - "

       "And we got suspicious," Crow interrupted. "Serial killers
just are not this clean, not as a rule. They like to leave a
terrifying signature. But what we did find was that we now had
three bodies, all abducted while wearing distinctive jogging
suits, all tortured to death in a very violent manner, all
murdered at some unknown location, all but the first washed of
all trace evidence, and all dumped miles from where they had
been abducted but in locations where they were obviously meant
to be found sooner or later."

       Bull was silently drumming his thick fingers, his
impatience probably due to their certainly having been over this
ground innumerable times before. "What they're saying Dr. Scully
is that we wanted very much to find a pattern in all this and it
- almost - fit, all except for the minor detail of the 'method
of execution' and that's a big 'except'. Death by beating is
nothing like a knife thrust straight down your sternum. As I'm
certain you know, serial killers - if they are found at all -
are usually found by looking at the details of their work."

       "I see your problem," Dana said thoughtfully. "There's no
clear pattern in the way the victims were killed - but
considering the other factors you took a leap of logic and put
them together anyway."  

       "Unfortunately, we were right," Bull said. "Twenty days
after the discovery of John Forestman, who we were now calling
the third victim, we found the fourth. A young woman this time.
More similar to John Forestman than the two previous. Some
crushing injuries plus the use of the whip. Washed. We thought
the perp had found his stride. 

       "When we found the fifth we were even more certain. An
older man, seventy-three, in excellent condition. Prodigious use
of the whip again and it was being wielded with increasing skill
as morbid as that may sound. But we weren't getting anywhere in
the case. Nada. The bodies were piling up and the press getting
hot."

       "That's when SOME of us..." Crow's eye stabbed towards Bull
"... started thinking that maybe we should get Spooky on the
team. At the time he was out of town." Benchley's disapproving
frown at the use of the derogatory label didn't get through to
Crow. Thompson was too wrapped up in his own synopsis. "We
concentrated on finding out which known violent criminals were
in the area or which might have transferred in recently from
outside." Crow shook his bony head. "Waste of time. Dead end."

       Limelighter came in again. "Fourteen days later the DC park
police found the sixth victim. That really shook us up.
Female... thirty... but her death was completely different.
Someone had just coolly hung her up by her arms and slit her
down the front. We're certain she was hung up because of the
abrasions on her wrists. Why go back to the work he had done on
number two? Even more - where was the torture ritual from all of
the other deaths? There was a lot of panic that day," the young
agent admitted.

       "I don't know about panic, but we certainly weren't any
closer to finding our guy," Crow admitted," and we were getting
murdered by Congress and the District mayor's office and the
press. Then we heard that Spoo-" Bull coughed loud and rudely.
Dana caught a quick exchange between the scarecrow and Bull.
"Anyway, the Captain here went to Skinner and asked him to snag
Mulder for us since he was back in town."

       "Help didn't come fast enough, though," Bull remarked
bitterly. "Five days later the Hunter gave us number seven.
Middle aged woman... forty five... overweight. In the worst
shape physically of any of the others before her abduction. Her
jogging suit still had some of its tags. She was murdered again
in the manner of the original pattern."
 
       "Not disemboweled then like the woman before?" Dana asked.

       "That's right. The whip again as well as a lot of blunt
trauma. Sticks and stones." Crow sighed and threw the notes he
had been looking at back onto the pile in front of him. "And
that's all there is, until our number Eight last night."

       There was a brief pause. A sort of raspy, wheezing sort of
sound came from the distant end of the table. "May we hear your
findings now, Dr. Scully?"

       Dana turned her head slowly. She felt like she was suddenly
on stage. She knew all eyes were on her, but at the moment hers
were only for the dark presence sitting alone, isolated, at the
end of the table. The pen nearly dropped from her suddenly numb
fingers. Mulder was looking right at her for the first time.
Even taking into account the distance and poor lighting, Mulder
had never appeared to her so totally wasted, not even after
Ellens. Only his eyes were alive in that gray face and their
light was more like that from dying coals than anything living.

       It made sense now. Mulder was ill. Didn't any of the others
see that? What was he doing here? He should be home in bed if
not in a hospital. But Dana knew that was impossible. The killer
had to be caught, that was the job. Besides, by the turning of
the cold knot in her stomach, Dana suspected that what was wrong
with Mulder went far deeper than lack of sleep, poor diet and
stress. She knew how obsessive he could be towards his beloved
X-Files. Whatever made her think that that self-destructive
character trait would not bleed over into other areas? Even to
cases he detested?

       "Dr. Scully?" This came from Bull, the request wrenching
her out of her escalating concern for Mulder. She looked towards
the old boxer. There was a kindliness in his eyes. Patience. He
knew what she was seeing when she looked at her partner and knew
she was finding it a shock. "I've scanned your draft and I think
these gentleman will all be *very* interested in your autopsy
results from last night."

       Wrenching her attention away from the figure at the end of
the table, Dana began her report, referring only occasionally to
her notes. "Much of this will be of no surprise to you. On the
other hand there are some new elements." She scanned the room
one more time before beginning. "The victim is a Causation male
in his early fifties, six foot three inches in height; weight,
two hundred twelve. The body was presented in a curled position,
head severely bent towards his chest. Assumption is that he was
placed in the trunk of a car before rigor mortis set in which
would have been within four to six hours after his murder." 

       Dana slowly drew in a breath. "The immediate cause of death
was exsanguination following a controlled incision beginning
under the left ribs and directed upwards to nick the descending
aorta. The force of the blood pressure would have caused him to
pump out a third of his blood volume, if not more, within the
first thirty seconds. Unconsciousness would have come even more
quickly."
 
       "Excuse me, Dr. Scully," Benchley interrupted obviously
confused, "but the police report describe victim Eight as
resembling victims Two and Six - slashed upwards from bowel to
sternum."

       "To them it appeared so. True, the victim was mutilated in
that way - the abdominal and thoracic cavities were cleaned of
organs - but only after death," Dana emphasized. "If a wound
such as you described were performed initially, the victim would
have died almost immediately and I would have found pooling of
the blood in the extremities because there would have been no
time for it to have pumped out before the heart stopped. I saw
none of that here."
 
       Dana looked from her notes to the team leader, Benchley,
but first she let her eyes slide towards Mulder to see if he was
listening. He was, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the
table. His hands were alternately clasped and twisted in front
of him. Whether he was leaning forward in order to use the table
for support so he wouldn't fall over, Dana couldn't say, but
there was a slight spark in the burnt out hollows of eyes which
hadn't been there before. Their eyes even met and in the contact
she found some hope. She saw there no anger or resentment for
her presence. Then she realized that there never had been. He
had only wanted her away from this hot, smelly room and from
whatever had eaten or was eating him alive. With that
realization every trace of her days-old resentment faded away as
if it had never been.

       Benchley looked glumly through the new report. "That's all
we need... another variation. Nothing like this was reported by
any of the other M.E.'s. This incision under the ribs - could
other examiners have missed it?"

       "Possible but not likely. The only reason this was missed
as long as it was was because of the severity of the major
trauma."

       "We'll need to check in any case. Thompson, get in touch
with the other M.E.'s and specifically ask if they saw anything
like this. Until we hear otherwise we'll assume this is new.
What about beatings, Dr. Scully, and other damage to the body?"
       
       "The wrists showed severe contusions, as if the hands were
tied or chained. The wrist bones were partially pulled out of
alignment. The shoulder, elbow and wrist joints all show stress
trauma. Like your other young woman, number Six, this man was
hung by his wrists while alive and it was while in this position
that he received the thrust to the heart, initially from a thin
sharp blade. He was disemboweled while in the same position."

       "Why the change in M.O.?" one of the District detectives
asked.

       "Why do these perps do anything they do?" Crow grumbled. "I
thought that was why we brought Mulder in."

       Doing her best to ignore Crow's slur, Dana sorted quickly
through the other case files. They were color coded in at least
a dozen ways for different traits. She summarized as she
scanned. "There are males and females in both categories.  And
it's not body type dependent either. Thin, bulky, tall and
short, athletic and not. It doesn't matter - " Dana paused. "The
women weren't molested?"

       That brought Bull to attention. "No."

       "Were the men?"

       There was a short uncomfortable silence. 

       "A fair question," Bull piped in in support. "No, Dr.
Scully. No, they weren't."

       More silence. Dana knew they were still waiting for the
rest of her findings but she had more questions of her own to
ask first. "And a shorter time after each eviscerated victim
than the next?"

       "Doesn't she catch on fast," Thompson murmured
sarcastically, again directing his comment towards Mulder before
turning back to the cool woman to his left. "Of course, what
that means is that he's probably going to strike again and
soon."

       Benchley was wiping his sweaty face with a huge
handkerchief. "Afraid so. We've got all the parks staked out but
we can't have a man on every footpath. Northwest Washington and
nearby Maryland and Virginia have hundreds of square miles of
green space. The public has also been warned that if they have
to run or bike, they should do so in pairs. Victim Six had been
running with a friend, but they separated just before she was
picked off. Victim Seven probably thought she was safe because
she was not the fine svelte image of a runner that the paper is
playing up. Unfortunately, the press is wrong in many respects -
 as usual." 

       "What we need is some idea of WHY he does the murders,"
Limelight said with the passion of the young. "This man's Mr.
Clean routine is giving us nothing to go on except that he may
not be happy about his crime. Otherwise, why all the water, the
washing? Do you have anything that can help understand all
this?" By the tone of his voice, Limelighter wasn't very
optimistic.

       "Not 'why'," Dana told them, opening her report folder.
"That's the specialty of your profilist." Her eyes lifted
towards the dark knot of limbs at the end of the table which was
Mulder. Unlike that of Crow and to some extent Limelighter, her
expression had been intended to radiate confidence. "I may,
however, be able to help with the 'where'." 

       Every man in the room straightened in this chair. Even
Mulder.

       "As I've stated, the time of death for Victim Eight was
less than twelve hours from the time he was found. Because rigor
mortis set in while he was curled forward, he was, in a way,
protecting his own worst injuries until his body was found. It's
fortunate that there has been no rain in the past twenty-four
hours. Because he was exsanguinated pretty thoroughly as he
died, bleeding after death was kept at a minimum. Then, as you
know, his internal cavities were washed completely. I believe I
can make a good case that the fluid that had not drained from
his abdominal cavity consists primarily of the water with which
he was washed. No results yet but I've sent a sample to the
lab."

       The senior agents passed glances of restrained excitement.
Limelighter spoke first. "The perp, of course, got the water
from where the murder was committed. He could have trucked it
in, but what would be the point of that? You think you can tell
District water from Maryland water from Northern Virginia
water?"

       Dana cocked her head at the question, internally elated at
the quiet stir her news had caused. Wait till she dropped the
next bomb. Mulder had even come out from behind the shadows long
enough to nod in her direction. "Maryland and Virginia suburb
water less so, but the District is currently under court order
to increase the level of chlorine because of an infestation of
Giardia."

       "I thought chlorine naturally escaped into the air upon
standing?" This question came from the other young agent,
Hubert.

       "So it does, but at a standard rate depending upon
temperature and other conditions. We can extrapolate with fair
certainty back to the original concentration. There are other
differences. Levels of lime and other minerals, for example,
that are different in the different reservoirs as well as
nanogram residues from the effects of specific water treatment
facilities."

       "We're still talking about a pretty large area though,"
Benchley reminded everyone.

       Dana raised an eyebrow and wondered if the man was peeved
because his own team of experts had failed to come up with even
this much. "True, but it's a start." Dana couldn't restrain
herself. She paused just a beat before adding," I did find one
other item..."

       Benchley's scribbling pen stopped as he glowered over at
her. "Are you playing with us, Agent Scully?"

       "Never, sir." 

       Far on the other side of the room, Dana saw a flash.
Mulder's teeth in the dim light. It was probably meant to be a
smile but came out more like a grimace. Dana found little
comfort in it but at least it was something.

Chapter 7

Friday 11:45 a.m.

       "Pray tell," Benchley asked impatiently, "what is this
other item?"

       "As I've said, Victim Eight was stabbed up into the aorta.
A quite deep incision. In fact it appears that he was stabbed
multiple times at the same point. As the tissues shrunk there
would not have been much bleeding so over time our killer was
forced to employ instruments of increasingly greater bore. Quite
a blunt instrument towards the end. The entry point, however,
was little more than a bruise by the time I saw it because the
elasticity of the skin closed over it after the thorax and
abdomen were slit." Dana squared her shoulders. "What I'm trying
to say is that the perp left us a gift. I found what appears to
be soil material in the chest wound which because of the
narrowness of the initial incision and its depth -"

       Bull grinned. This was what he had been waiting for.

       Benchley leaned back with a gallows smile. "Where it could
not be washed clean when our perp sluiced the abdominal cavity.
Sharp eyes, Dr. Scully."

       In her shameless soul Dana was crowing triumphantly. Damn
these condescending males! Then one voice reached her from the
other end of the room. It sounded something like 'Got 'em' but
with so many other congratulatory murmurs going on around her it
was difficult to tell. The words, however, didn't matter. It was
the nearly normal tones of Mulder's voice rising above the
others which were good to hear.

       "What's the findings then, don't keep us in suspense,"
Benchley demanded. 

       "Sorry, at the moment I can't tell you any more. The lab
anticipates preliminary results by morning.  Obviously, if it's
a soil sample, which is what it appears to be -"

       "I know, I know," Benchley said. "Between that and the
water analysis we may be able to get a fix on a location on
where the murders were committed. Hmmm, I think we'd better go
over the forensics reports on the other victims again under Dr.
Scully's exceptional eye. There may be something else which was
missed." Amidst audible grumblings from at least half the team's
members, Benchley proceeded to assign everyone a case to
reevaluate and then summarize for the group. Everyone but
Mulder, that is. Dana told herself that there were eight cases
and nine of them in the room and that as profilist Mulder needed
to be free to summarize them all, but still his exclusion made
her stomach squirm.

       "As I've been assigned my own case, I'm would like to spend
the next few minutes skimming the other forensic reports while
the rest of the team members prepare," Dana told Benchley. "It's
not that I don't trust everyone here to do an adequate job but
I am looking for something in particular."

        "We don't have time for dramatics here," Benchley said,
clearly perturbed. "Would you care to tell us what?"

       "Not at this time," Dana responded in her most
professional, noncommittal voice as she reached for the thick
stack of files Benchley pushed in her direction. Watching
Benchley and Crow Thompson squirm with irritation out of the
corner of her eye almost overshadowed Dana's concern for Mulder.
Almost. His sickly, shadow-wrapped figure, so close and yet so
incredibly far, troubled her. Under such circumstances, she felt
no surge of triumph.
 
       During the lull as they all read, the youngest of the
agents, Hubert, leaned closer to Limelighter to whisper, "Why is
he even here?" There was no doubt what *he* they were referring
to. "He doesn't even seem to have been listening since the
break." 

       "Don't be so sure. He takes it in through his pores, some
say. I've said things to him when I thought he was comatose
which he refers back to months later. It's creepy." When they
noticed Dana watching them through narrowed eyes over the top of
her file, they went back guiltily to theirs. She couldn't
entirely blame the two young agents. Mulder was not being the
ideal role model here. All the time Benchley had been handing
out assignments, Mulder had sat turned in his chair, his dark
gaze fixed out the tall, narrow window at the end of the room.
He sat there still, his hands making small, seemingly aimless
motions in the air.

       Dana forced her own eyes back to the file she was reading.
She had no doubt that Mulder was working, though the two young
agents couldn't know that. He could be reading the same file
they were only it was inside his head. His hands were moving,
but not as aimlessly as they appeared. He was placing peoples
and objects in space - how the victim may have been taken
unawares, how the murder was done and how the body was returned
in order to be found and to terrorize a city. At least that was
what Dana hoped was going on in that unique brain.

       As the minutes passed, Dana became aware of Benchley's eyes
on her each time she set down one file and picked up another.
With sarcasm which wasn't lost on the group, he finally asked,
"Find what you were looking for Dr. Scully?" Dana knew she'd
have to tread softly. Most of the earlier M.E.'s had been
Benchley's handpicked men.

       'Men' being the operative term, Dana thought.  

       "The Hunter's preferred M.O. involves violence. At a
distance and yet personal. He doesn't use a gun which would be
too quick, but he doesn't use his hands either. He uses tools...
objects.... stones, a whip... splinters were found in many of
the wounds and so wood of some kind. But then there's the
alternate M.O. Up close and very personal. A knife. The first
time it was mess. Entirely different the second and third
times." Dana held up a photo from her own case and one from each
of the others. "This was what I wanted to see. The care which
was taken with the work. After victim two it has been very
neatly done. No one does that well on the second and third try
unless 'A'- they're a very quick learner or 'B' - they take
pride in a skill at which they are already proficient. 'B' seems
the most likely."

       "Why such a mess with victim two?" Crow asked.

       "Loss of control," responded a voice from the shadows.
"Shock and outrage."

       Dana felt a little thrill. Something had changed in
Mulder's tone. It didn't sound like he was throwing theories out
into the dark. He spoke as if he knew - not everything, but
something. Not the end of the tangled ball of string but at
least a loop to start tugging on. A moment later he had lurched
to his feet and gone to the large, portable white board the
group had made notes on before Dana's arrival. Without
hesitation, it was wiped clean and Mulder began talking,
suddenly as frantically animated as he had been taciturn and
brooding before.  As he shot specific and pointed questions to
the other members of the team, it was immediately clear that he
had, indeed, been listening. He knew exactly which case Benchley
had assigned to each agent. Each team member had been given
special responsibility for a case before but on this particular
day Benchley had shifted the assignments. More fresh eyes.

       An hour passed and Dana found her spirits becoming more and
more confused. Each point in each case was picked up, turned
over, turned again. At times Benchley or Bull or Crow - rarely
the younger agents or the District detectives - would take the
floor from Mulder to throw on the large board one of their own
pet theories. That would go on for a while but Mulder always had
a come back. In wide arcs of cruelly razor-sharp and sometimes
erratic logic he would obliterate each of the other's theories
just as the sweeping strokes of the red marker decimated their
diagrams. Unfortunately, his frantic scribbling was barely
legible. 

       All of this reflected his speech. He talked so quickly that
most of his sentences were incomplete or garbled so that on the
average the team members probably understood one word in five.
His brain was just moving too fast for normal communications,
Dana suspected, and going off into too many directions at once.
She'd seen him before when shot through with a sudden
inspiration. She had seen how he had to make the physical and
mental effort to hold himself back, to slow his brain to a speed
that would be even passingly comprehensible to mere mortals.
This time, however, all controls seemed to have been taken off
line - or were burnt out. Physically, Mulder was a wreck. His
communication and interpersonal skills were crumbling; what else
was falling apart?

       At times as if a train of thought had played itself out, he
would throw himself into his isolated chair at the far end of
the table like a marionette whose strings had been shorn, his
voice fading into largely incoherent muttering as he folded into
his seat to stare at the photos again or at the wall or out the
window or into the empty air. At such times he might as well
have been alone in the room.

       Then came the embarrassed silence. Embarrassed for her,
Dana knew. Heat rising into her face, she would find the
contents of one of the folders interesting enough to bury
herself in until one of the others on the team picked up the
thread of some earlier discussion. Someone always did, but
within a few minutes Mulder would take over again.

       And the cycle would begin all over again.

       "Stop this!" Dana want to scream when he had crawled for
probably the sixth time from his chair to stand swaying before
the white board, his razor-sharp logic cutting up one of
Limelighter's ill-conceived theories this time. She glared at
Benchley. Stop this! This demeaning show... this torture, for it
was torture no matter how self-imposed. But Benchley and the
others just kept writing and nodding and rolling their eyes as
they pulled Mulder's pain-wrapped thoughts out of the air. Dana
sought Bull's support but the older man indicated with a
sympathetic shrug that he could do little though he made a few
half-hearted attempts to change the current topic whenever
Mulder became particularly manic. 

       At two p.m. they broke for food. It seemed an appropriate
stopping point. Tracing the grain on the table with his index
finger, Mulder had become more distracted and distant than
usual. Dana took a step in Mulder's direction, but before she
could go far Bull caught her. He wanted to go over in more
detail a point she had made in her report on victim Eight. That
was when she saw Crow saunter over to where Mulder sat as
unmoving as before the group had broken up, his hooded eyes
fixed on the table top and that tracing finger.

       "Mulder, time to mainline some caffeine," the tall, gaunt
man said more loudly than normal as if he were speaking to a
stubborn child or an idiot. "Hey, Spook, you want some coffee?
A sandwich?" When Mulder didn't respond, Crow reached out a hand
and touched the broad back. It had only been an attempt to get
the distracted man's attention. "Hey, Mul -"

       Dana abandoned all pretense of listening to Bull. Even
though Crow had barely brushed Mulder's sweat stained coat, the
dark head whipped around, the body crouching almost
imperceivably like something feral. Worse, Dana swore she saw a
lip curl and the flash of a canine tooth.

       "Whoo! Down, boy!" Crow said derisively as he backed away.
Muttering angrily, the tall man turned on his heel and caught up
with Limelighter and Hubert at the door. Dana closed her eyes as
if that could keep her from hearing the exchange that followed.
When she opened her eyes again she caught Mulder staring at her.
The bleak, sad expression lasted only a second before he turned
away, shoulders bowed.

       The team had begun to gather again before Dana was able
escape from Bull's questions so she barely had time to hit the
facilities and the vending machines. Returning, she placed
coffee, a box of juice and a roast beef sandwich in front of
Mulder's chair. While she was gone he had vanished. Her own tuna
salad tasted like dust in her mouth. The meeting had resumed in
earnest before Mulder returned. There was dampness around his
hair line as though he had splashed water on his face. The
coffee he drank without acknowledging where it had come from and
a few small sips of the juice. The sandwich he totally ignored. 

       After the short break, the session did not go on much
longer. Mulder was finding it increasingly difficult to push
himself out of his chair and fatigue was making tempers short
all around even in the discussions where Mulder wasn't involved.
Finally, after a long harangue on the religious implications of
stoning, Mulder collapsed into his chair, his head falling down
into his arms which were crossed on the table before him. That
seemed some kind of signal. Tired glances flew around the room
from male face to male face. No one looked in Dana's direction.

       Benchley stuffed the contents of a file back into its
folder and then reached for a candy bar wrapper, frowning when
he found it empty. His breath came out in a long weary sigh.
"Anything else, gentleman? Dr. Scully? We're about bushed here."

       Almost apologetically, Bull raised hand. "Sorry, one last
thing. I'd like to return to Dr. Scully's statement about the
killer's skill in the use of the knife.  Your assessment is that
he must have done this sort of thing before. If he's been
cutting people up for a while now, why don't we know about it?"

       "Not necessarily people," Dana said. "Any large animal.
From the numbers we must assume that the slasher-type murder is
not the M.O. he prefers. As Agent Mulder has said and I agree
with him, the first time our killer felt forced to use it, he
reacted sloppily out of surprise and rage. The next two times he
seemed to be much more in control and so the skill of long
practice came out."

       "But maybe not on humans," Bull surmised. His eyebrows
suddenly raised. "You said large animals. Deer?"
       
       Down at the end of the table, Mulder's chin was propped up
on his crossed arms but no hazel eyes moved with interest under
his glowering brows. There was only a darkness that reflected no
light.

       "Damn," Benchley breathed. "The Hillendale Hunter. The
press may have named him better than they knew. Hunter? Could
be. The east coast is swarming with deer. They even allow
hunting in the parks just to thin the herds and keep them out
the homeowners' petunias." Benchley almost glowed with new
purpose. "Crow, we checked all the gun shops before. Check again
but target those that specialize in hunting - *really*
specialize, bows and arrows, the works. The ones an experienced
sportsman would patronize."
        
       Crow grumbled as Benchley stared wearily at the now neat
stack of files on his right hand and the pile of trash on his
left. He'd clearly had had enough. "Team, it's been a long day
but profitable. I hope tomorrow's lab results on John Doe Eight
will give us even more. I'm certain we all want to thank Dr.
Scully for her invaluable assistance." Accusingly, his eyes
strayed towards the back of the room. "It's too bad Dr. Scully
wasn't in on this with us from the beginning. You should have
been, Dr. Scully. May have saved us a lot of time." During his
clean up of the table in his general vicinity, Benchley found at
the bottom of the pile a small stack of clean, collated and
stapled reports which no one had read. Casually - and probably
because he was tired - he tossed the entire pile down the length
of the table where they slid and scattered like unimportant
leaves in the wind. A few nudged up against Mulder's arm. Weary,
dead eyes blinked.

       "Sorry, that we didn't get to your profile, Mulder, but
you'll need to redo it again anyway in light of the new
evidence..." a shudder went through Mulder's body which even
Dana could see "... and try to keep in mind our little
contributions here today. We're not totally incompetent you
know." 

       No one but Dana noticed the blood drain from Mulder's
already grey face. She barely heard Benchley's next words and
she was certain Mulder hadn't.

       "Do you want me to arrange for you to have access to the
other victims, Dr. Scully?" Benchley was asking her.

       Dana nodded numbly, her concentration elsewhere. "If
possible." 

       "I'll need until late tomorrow to see what's still
available for you to examine," Benchley said.

       "That's just as well," Dana said absently. "The reports on
the water and the substance found in the wound won't be
available until morning anyway."

       "That's that then," Benchley concluded. His gaze went back
to Mulder. "By noon, Mulder. We'll need the new version by noon.
That should give you time to insert any of the new information
that comes in from the lab."  

       But Mulder hadn't moved. He was still staring blankly at
the rejected remains of hours of his blood and guts. His head
was raised only barely above his folded arms.

       With a grunt of exasperation as if this had all happened
too many times before, Crow looked towards the profilist.
"Mulder, did you hear what the Captain said? Hey, Earth to
Mulder!"

       Limelighter, who sat at right angles to Mulder, and who
looked badly in need of sleep himself, spoke up, "Hey, Spook,
wake up. Someone's talking to you!" At that the young agent
flicked one of the empty coffee cups with his big fingers. It
was just dumb luck - with emphasis on the dumb - that the little
piece of plastic took flight and hit Mulder on the side of his
head. That would have been bad enough but the cup had been not -
 quite - empty. The cold brown liquid sprayed the unkempt hair,
hair spiky for its need of a wash and furrowed with the
repetitive marks of long, nervous finger. A tiny stream of cold,
brown liquid drizzled down the broad forehead to catch briefly
on one dark eyebrow before dripping silently onto the table top.

       Embarrassment flooding like a sickness into her already
queasy stomach, Dana was forced to close her eyes once more. She
would have turned away, but that would have been worse.           
                 
 
       Maybe the team was not entirely immune to their own
cruelty. As a body - a very cowed body - they all suddenly
pushed back their chairs and rose to their feet. Suddenly the
room was alive with chatter about Redskin tickets and raking
leaves, about going out to grab a bite and how good a hot shower
was going to feel - and each man conspicuously averted his eyes
from the one member of their team remaining seated. 

       And so that was it? Dana thought wildly. They were all
going to just get up and leave him? So locker room politics had
decreed that Fox Mulder's behavior was just too weird to make
him an acceptable recipient of even the most common courtesy?
Not even a thank you. That's right; use his talent, abuse him,
treat him like some freakish 'wunderkin', begrudgingly take the
results of his sweat and blood and nerve and use it to solve
your cases. Did they think they could absolve themselves by
sprinkling a few accolades his way.  Not one, however, would
lift a finger to help him rise above the muck he had immersed
himself in for their sakes.

       Dana's desire to scream was cut off when she noticed that
none of the team had actually left. As if this was another
ritual they had been through before, they lingered around
Benchley who drew out a box of matches, counted out six, snapped
one short and held the half dozen out for the members to pick. 

       A groan rose from Bull and nervous laughter from the others
as the older man reluctantly held up the short match for all to
see. "He's all yours," one of them told him. 
       
       Dana launched herself to her feet, eyes blazing. How she
wanted to tell these cavemen exactly where they could go and
take their condescending he-man smiles, but that was not what
Mulder needed from her. He needed for her to be a bridge, not to
ostracize herself on the far shore with him.   

       Back straight, head high Dana marched past the crowd
without a look in their direction and headed down to the far end
of the room. Mulder had pushed his chair back. He was bent over.
Only his forehead rested on the top of his crossed arms now. He
made no move as she crouched beside him which, if she could see
his eyes, would be as close as she could come to eye level. It
was all she could do to restrain herself from putting her arm
around those bowed shoulders.

       "Mulder... Mulder, it's time to leave."

       Silence for a long moment as if the words had to take
physical form. She knew he heard her because his breathing
deepened. "Scully..." he began, his voice thick. "I didn't want
-" that was all he was willing or able to force out.

       Dana felt that urge to touch again, to hold, but between
them, here, such gestures were impossible. Certainly not while
these others were watching. "I understand now. You don't need to
hide this from me any more." 

       She couldn't see his face but his breath caught and only
after a pause began again though more ragged, as ragged as his
next words which even she could barely hear. "Go home, Scully."

       No, that she would not do. "Not without you." She gave him
time to let that piece of news make a kind of sense in his
fogged brain. "Do you think I would leave you to go home with
one of *them*? What kind of partner do you think that would make
me?"

       The head which she thought too weary for its owner to lift,
rose slowly. As it did, he brushed the side of his face against
a sleeve of his very rumpled suit. In fact, Dana could have
sworn the garment was the same one she had seen him wearing a
week before. Certainly looked like it - and rather smelled like
it. For the first she could see his whole face. Dead, exhausted,
blood-shot eyes stared out of craters. There were days of beard,
dark circles.  This was worse than he had looked when she had
picked him up at the gates of Ellens Air Force Base. 

       "Mulder, you look - well, let's just say I've seen you look
better."

       He tried, he really struggled to dig out a suitable
comeback, but none came to mind. "I should hope so," was all he
could manage.

       "Have you slept at all since I last saw you or taken in any
calories? Passing out in your clothes, by the way, and putting
non-dairy creamer in your coffee doesn't count."

       The part of him which was able to make sense of her
question, knew he was better off not answering. He stared dully
at the files and photos spread before him on the table. "I have
to do it all over..." he murmured almost too low for her to hear
in a voice bereft of emotion. 

       "No, you're don't. At least not tonight. They'll have to go
through me first and heaven help anyone who tries." Dana started
stacking the papers and files that remained scattered on
Mulder's end of the table. She dropped the loaded briefcase into
his lap. "He just killed, Mulder. Tomorrow will be soon enough.
No one will call you tonight, that I promise. Ready to go?"

       The exhausted man shrugged. There seemed to be no life in
him, no will, no intellect. He probably would have gone with
anyone. A breath of wind could have changed his course. "I guess
so," came the noncommittal reply. Dana wondered in that moment
if he even remembered where home was or how to get there. 

       "Seriously, have you eaten anything recently?"

       His gave her a thin, grim smile. "Eat? Why bother. It
wouldn't stay down."

       Dana shook her head. Obviously, he hadn't slept either. At
least the gallons of coffee he had drunk had kept him from
becoming completely dehydrated. She stood, reaching as she did
for one of his limp hands to pull him up. The men watching
silently from the doorway could not have been more surprised if
she had taken a lion by the paw. 

       "Are you going to stand up and walk out of here under your
own power or am I going to have to carry you?" Her tone had been
light but there was no humor in her eyes. 

       His head moved, not much, but enough to take in the sight
of her hand touching his. "I'd like to see you try."

       The edge of one perfect, red lip twitched. "Come on,
Mulder. Don't give these goons even more to talk about than they
have already."

       To that she got a sigh as a response, which seemed to come
from so deep in him it could have been a last breath. Palms flat
on the table top he pushed himself to his feet. He stood on his
own, though not too steadily, and he listed to the side on which
the briefcase hung. As he followed her towards the front of the
room, Mulder kept a hand out to support himself on the backs of
ready chairs as necessary. As they passed the members of the
team who had been standing silently all this time and watching
the little tableaux, Dana plucked the short straw from Bull's
startled hand and glared icily at Benchley.

       "No one calls him for at least eighteen hours. Do I make
myself clear?" Then, partially supporting him, certainly helping
him with his balance, Dana led her partner out, both of them
trying to make it appear that he was managing on his own but
neither succeeding. Dana forced a nonchalant attitude as if this
were the most normal thing in the world she could do. "Excuse
me," she said, coolly gracious. As she did so, the men in the
doorway moved numbly aside.

       Bull, Benchley and Crow watched silently until the tiny red
head and the tall, rumpled man had vanished into the elevator.

       Bull chuckled. "Wait till I tell the rest of the office
about this. Someone has finally tamed the Spook."

End of Chapter 7
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1998 21:21:42 EST
Subject: [EMXC Fwd] "Revelations 1: Dawn" 08/30 by Windsinger


REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (8/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 8/98

For Disclaimer see chapter 1
                               
Chapter 8

Friday, 4 p.m.
     
     "Come on, Mulder, let's go to the basement and get your
spare clothes, the ones you keep for emergency trips. Then we'll
go to my place for a shower and some food. How about that?" Dana
didn't know why she was babbling so. Mulder certainly wasn't
talking and whether or not he was listening was dubious. Since
they had left the meeting he seemed to be drifting deeper and
deeper into a kind of fog. 

     Instinctively, Dana headed for their wing of the building
and the basement, only when they got to the top of the stairwell
she realized that stairs were probably not a good idea in
Mulder's condition. Sitting him down on the top step, she left
him leaning against the wall for the thirty seconds it took her
to run down to their cave for the smaller of Mulder's two
overnight bags, a small navy blue duffle. Unceremoniously, she
dropped his briefcase on his desk. She had her own copies of the
case reports if absolutely necessary and maybe, if he didn't
have his notes, it would dissuade him from working. <Fat
chance,> she mused, as if the lack of notes of any kind could
keep Mulder from working.

     Dana drove, which was a first since they had been working
together, except when she had driven a frighteningly blank-eyed
Mulder away from Ellens Air Force Base.

     She actually had been wondering how to bring up the subject
of driving. Somehow it felt very un-liberated of her to allow
him to do the driving all the time even though he obviously
preferred it. It wasn't as if she didn't always put the time to
good use - catching up on much needed sleep or going over case
file. She wondered, however, if this would become the pattern,
that she would drive at those times he would be too hurt,
exhausted or distracted to be allowed behind the wheel. Like
after Ellens.

     "I hope you don't mind our going to my place. Your
apartment is too depressing. And until you learn to clean or get
a cleaning lady I'm not really inclined to spend too much time
there." No reaction except that his head fell back against the
headrest. He must have heard, however, because he made no
protest when she did not take the turn towards the Roosevelt
Bridge which would have taken him towards his Alexandria,
Virginia home but instead headed into Northwest Washington.

     Dana had seen his place exactly once when they stopped to
get something he had forgotten. It really wasn't that bad for a
bachelor's flat, but she enjoyed kidding him about it. Her
biggest complaint was that it was dark and cheerless. Like its
occupant. A fitting den for the Fox but not a great place to
recuperate from the stress of what the last few days must have
been like. Besides, the day was dark enough. The October clouds
hung heavy and gray making the time seem more like late evening
than afternoon. 
     
     Although there was much about the whole situation which
frightened her, Dana was determined to act as nearly normal as
possible. Mulder sat beside her mute and staring out the front
window. She did not have any real plan but knew her fear was not
OF him - that was something the other members of the team seemed
to project - but fear FOR him. Maybe it was the late night chat
they had had in her motel room during their first case. She had
gone to his door in just her robe and underwear and practically
disrobed before him. For his part, after what Dana realized now
was understandably stunned hesitation, Mulder had been the
perfect gentleman, belaying her fears without being
condescending. <Mosquito bites. I know, I got eaten alive myself
out there.> While she curled on the bed, he sat on the floor at
her side they had started talking. That was all, but Dana
discovered that night the private person that Mulder seldom
showed the world; a gentle soul, driven by an obsession which
would not let him go. 

     She needed to reach that solitary man again tonight.

     Food, Dana considered as she drove. Taking a mental
inventory of the unexciting contents of her refrigerator, she
frowned. Mulder was just not a yogurt and salad kind of guy, and
yet she'd be damned if she was going to feed him greasy
hamburgers or pizza. She pulled up outside a Chinese take out.

     "Mulder?" No response. She touched his leg and he jumped so
abruptly that he hit his knee on the dash. As he realized who
was sitting beside him, the startled confusion dimmed in his
eyes until his pale face no longer showed any expression at all
except exhaustion. 

     "I'll get us some Chinese," she told him hoping her
precise, slightly louder than normal words were getting through.
She blushed as she realized that her voice had assumed the same
condescending tone too many of the members of the team had used.
Mulder didn't seem to notice, however. "You can stay in the car,
I'll be back as soon as I can." 

     No protest, only a mute nod. 

     Dana had to fight to keep from running up the steps to the
little place. She ordered whatever they could put together in
five minutes. When she returned, Mulder's head was resting
against the passenger's side door. He was sound asleep. 

     He was still sleeping when they reached her apartment
building, so Dana took in the food, her brief case and his
overnight bag and then came back for him. He woke groggily and
staggered getting out of the car but the cool fall air seemed to
revive him. Watching him look with something like interest at
her building and then around at the interior of her apartment
convinced Dana she had done the right thing. Taking him back to
his own place would not have helped bring him out of the dream
he was in, but putting him into safe and only vaguely familiar
surroundings seemed to capture his attention. He had, after all,
been here only once before and that had been when Tooms had
tried to harvest her liver for a late night snack. At the time
he had been a little too busy to sightsee.

     "Do you want to eat before or after you take a shower?" she
asked, sounding as though taking a shower in her apartment was
something he did every day. 

     His voice was not strong and lacked its normal preciseness.
"Right now I'm not sure I could stand up long enough to take a
shower." Right now he didn't look like he should try. Probably,
he shouldn't even be trying to stand unsupported in the middle
of her living room. He swayed like a willow in the wind. "If
those are my only options, I guess I'll take food."

     He let her push him down in a chair at her table and put a
bowl of hot and sour soup in front of him. The strong, pungent
aroma brought some animation back to his eyes even before he
took his first spoonful. Watching the spoon shake as he fought
to get it near his mouth, it took all of Dana's control not to
go to his aid. Over the next few minutes as she got out the
entrees and set a place for herself, she was relieved to see the
tremor in his hand grow less. The tart and tangy taste was doing
more than waking up his taste buds. As the heat flowed into his
stomach, Dana could almost see his rigid muscles begin to melt. 

     Only when the bowel was empty did his head raise. He looked
around at her apartment with curiosity. "Nice place. I didn't
have a chance to tell you before. Very... neat. Very clean."

     "Unlike yours?" she asked with a small smile. 

     He started unhappily, as if he was afraid he had insulted
her. "What I mean is - I'm not surprised, knowing you. You're a
clean and neat sort of person. It's just that for the last few
days there hasn't been much in my life that's been anything like
this. I probably could say that about most of the last eight
years." He looked down with some surprise. He seemed to have
forgotten that he had finished his soup and that disturbed him.

     "Do you want more?" Dana asked.

     "N-No, thanks," he stammered. Instead, he piled chicken
with hot garlic sauce on his plate. Dana had bought several
entrees to give him a choice and wondered if he really liked
this one or just took what was closest at hand. He took a long,
long drink of the ice water she put in front of him while they
waited for the tea water to boil. His eyes remained fixed on his
plate though he probably didn't see it, part of him definitely
still out of it. Lamely he began, "I guess you noticed... doing
profiles upsets my delicate balance just a bit."

     "Just a bit," Dana agreed. "That's why you didn't want me
in on this? That's really it? You didn't want me to see how
wrapped up you can get?"

     A smile actually touched his pale lips. "'Wrapped up'?
Well, that's not exactly how it's been described in the reports
by the VC guys. I know they play poker to see who loses and has
to shepherd me around once I begin to - well, 'lose touch with
reality' is the popular jargon. Your everyday shrink would say
'dissociate'." 

     Dana found herself chewing so slowly, she realized she
wasn't hungry. Seeing him like this had taken her appetite away
but at least it didn't frighten her any longer. He was exhausted
nearly to death but sane. Working with Mulder had always been a
challenge. This was just a new twist. A twist and a half
actually. "Did you think I would run?"

     He raised his eyes. They were rimmed in red, but she was
relieved to see the pupils were no longer dilated and they
focused on her. "I hoped you wouldn't but I thought you might.
I've gotten used to working with you. I didn't want to have to
break in a new partner."

     Dana had to work to keep from smiling. Unconsciously, this
partner of hers, who generally found attending to the social
pleasantries a waste of time, had just given her a compliment,
and she felt extraordinarily pleased. She had come within the
last few weeks to realize that she honestly liked working on the
X-Files cases with him. What she had been afraid of was that he
wanted to be rid of her. "You've handed me rotting, mutant
corpses; shown me ambulatory, catatonic patients; exposed me to
federal coverup activities; introduced me to time loss
phenomena; and embarrassed me to death in front of my
colleagues. No, it's going to take more than you walking around
in a nightmare to scare me away."

     Her words seemed to have a deeper meaning to him than she
had intended. He had gone a little more pale and just when she
thought the food had begun to bring some color into his wan
cheeks. "Something wrong? Was this a bad idea and are you going
to be sick?"

     He pushed aside his plate, the serving he had taken barely
touched. "No, at least I don't think so. I will, however, stop
while I'm ahead." He looked down at his suit and seemed suddenly
to be aware of how he must look and smell. "Ugh! How can you
bear to be in the same room with me. Can you point me towards
the shower?" From somewhere he pulled some laughter into his
eyes. "Wait, I believe I remember from the last time I was
here."

     Walking more steadily than before, he made it to the
bathroom. A few seconds later Dana knocked. She couldn't
suppress a slightly dismayed gasp when he opened the door for
her to hand him clean towels. 

     He looked down at himself and then back at her. He was
stripped to the waist. "Something wrong?"

     There was very little wrong with Mulder half naked, but
Dana didn't dare tell him that. "Is that the same bandage I
taped on you in your office over a week ago?" It looked ragged
and worn and a little yellowish.

     His expressive face shifted imperceivably to a sulk. "I've
been a little busy."

     Dana reached forward. "Let me - "
          
     He recoiled. Not far, but it put her on notice. "I can do
it," he insisted. Probably more curtly than he intended, he shut
the door.

     Dana didn't move away immediately but continued to stand
stupidly before the closed door. She'd been taken aback by his
sudden show of temper. She sighed. Just like all the other
times, she could forgive him this, too. He had been through a
lot and things had gotten uncomfortably domestic between them
very quickly.

     From behind the door came a soft ripping sound as the tape
parted protestingly from his skin. At the same time she heard a
startled gasp and a muttered oath. 

     When she heard the water start, Dana headed for the
kitchen, smiling. Served him right. She would have been more
gentle.


     
     Mulder emerged barefoot and in sweats minutes later, hair
wet and tousled like that of a young boy. He'd even shaved which
reinforced the image. He obviously kept his overnight well
supplied. The difference between this sleek, though tired,
greyhound and the mongrel she had taken into her apartment,
brought home with a vengeance just how attractive Fox Mulder
could be. There were times when he was damned distracting. This
was one of those times. There was also times - most of the time
- when his challenges to her world view were distracting enough.


     He had just sat on the couch and laced his sports shoes
when Dana appeared at his side, economy sized first aid kit in
her hands. "Let me see what's left of the beast woman's tender
caresses."

     He glanced up with pique but stood obediently, though it
took three attempts to get his weary bones out of her soft
couch.

     Dana whistled low when she saw the four angry tape-sized
chunks of angry flesh. They were far worse than the original
claw marks which were well on their way to healing cleanly,
despite the neglect. "You ripped off some chunks of skin here
along with the tape."

     "I'm aware of that," he remarked sourly.

     She reached into her box of bandages, ointments,
injectables and pills. "Let me put something on that to take
away the sting. Then I'll leave you in peace."

     Warm and moist from the shower, his skin was soft under her
fingers as she smoothed on the first aid cream with its topical
anesthetic. 

     <Better watch that inappropriate thinking, Dana,> she
warned herself. Task complete, she watched with some regret as
he pulled down his sweat shirt. He was slumped on the couch when
she came back from putting away her supplies.

     "Do you want to watch a video or go home and get some
sleep? I can drive you." Dana had intentionally left his options
at the bare minimum. She wanted him to turn his brain off.
Further discussion on the case was clearly forbidden. Besides
conversation would probably be fairly one-sided tonight anyway.

     Mulder squinted at the clock on the VCR. For the first time
he seemed aware of the time which was not yet eight. "Movie's
fine. Anything you want."

     After turning on the Hallmark Hall of Fame presentation she
had barely begun the night before - only the night before? -
Dana sat down on the opposite end of the couch. Glancing over at
her guest after five minutes showed that his eyes were on the
screen but nobody - but nobody - was home. Ten minutes later his
head had slumped to the side at an awkward angle. Dana gave him
until the next scene change to be certain he was sound asleep
before retrieving a pillow and blanket from her bed and swinging
his long legs over onto the couch. He didn't quite fit but close
enough. Nothing moved except the gentle rise and fall of his
chest and a slight flaring of his nostrils. He was definitely
out. Taking off his shoes, marveling for the first time at how
big his feet were - but then all men's feet were big compared to
hers - Dana covered him with the blanket and then settled down
on the floor to finish watching the movie. 

     By morning Dana would not be able to remember the plot. Her
mind drifted. The blanket... the pillow... the shoes. Why did
she have a feeling that she was going to be performing this
little routine again in the future - and often. The stereotypic
female nurturing bit should bother her but, oddly, it didn't.
The sound of his breathing was comforting if only because she
knew that, if he was with her, he was safe.

     
  
     Dana sat upright in bed, her heart beating wildly. The old
sympathetic nervous system had kicked in. Now what had triggered
that? As her eyes strayed to the clock - two a.m. - she listened
into the dark for a repeat of whatever odd sound had awakened
her. She didn't have to wait long. A deep keening, punctuated
with small muffled cries seemed to fill her apartment. The
sounds weren't loud, but chilling enough. This must be how a
mother hears her child cry out in the night, Dana thought,
though as she leaped from the bed, she couldn't imagine any
child producing such fearful moans. 

     Sleep numb though she was, it took Dana longer than she
expected to remember her house guest. She had left Mulder asleep
on the couch when she went to bed at eleven. She had not had the
heart to wake him, especially since he hadn't so much as
twitched since nine. Besides, she was too tired to drive him
home. It had, after all, been a long twenty-four hours since a
certain Associate Director had broken her own sleep.

     From her bedroom doorway what Dana could see by the dim
light was a long, lean form tossing in a very uncoordinated
fashion on the couch. He had kicked off the blanket. Even as she
walked hesitantly towards him, wondering what WAS the best
course to take when confronted with a person in the grip of what
was obviously a humdinger of a nightmare, Mulder woke on his
own. Jerking upright, he swung his legs around until he was
sitting with his feet on the floor, his breath coming in quick,
ragged gasps. Dana crept nearer. She had left the light on above
the kitchen sink so he could tell where he was if he woke in the
night. By that light she could see the sweat glistening on his
face even as he shivered. He sat huddled over, clutching his
stomach. By the distracted look in his eyes, he was maybe not as
awake as Dana had first thought. She wanted to do something,
anything, to help but, not knowing what, she resorted to
retrieving the fallen blanket and draping it over his shoulders.


     At that moment a car drove down the normally quiet street
in front of Dana's apartment house. The woofers from its souped
up stereo system were booming. The noise was enough to bring
Mulder fully aware. He dropped his face into his long hands. As
he peered upward, his eyes opened. What he saw was a small,
slightly out of focus figure in blue quietly sitting in a chair
across from him. His hands balled into fists and locked. He even
found himself holding his breath. For just a moment it was as if
he were young again and Sam had come into his room. She had had
the irritating habit of creeping into his room to sit and watch
him sleep as if he were some bug she were studying.

     A familiar voice, a female voice which wasn't his mother's
and not Sam's, asked gently, "Do you know where you are?" 

     Clearly he didn't, a least not... immediately... but as he
blinked the vision cleared. Such a mass of tousled hair in that
particular shade of red had never belonged to Sam. He nodded
slowly and the figure relaxed a little. "By the time this night
is over," he began his voice unsteady, "I'm not going to have
any secrets left."

     Dana sat, maintaining a stillness as a sort of comfort. It
was the only thing she could think to do. Secrets....? It was
obvious from that remark that this nightmare cycle was not new.
She had suspected he did not sleep much. They always requested
side by side rooms whenever they were out of town and she had
become used to hearing the sound of his television until the
very early hours. Sometimes all night. Then he could be heard
moving around very early in the morning. Dana assumed that his
compulsive nature and probing intellect didn't require much
sleep. Now she knew it was something more. Did he leave the TV
on for company, like a nightlight against the terrors in his
dreams? After today, she had no doubt there were many.

     Belatedly, Dana remembered a comment he had made once. When
was that? Yes, the morning following the day she had retrieved
him from Ellens AFB. He had asked if she had heard any
disturbances in the night. They had changed their motel, but
still Dana worried. She had no desire to be visited by the NSA's
goon squad again. 

     "Did you hear anything last night?" he had asked.

     "Like what? Prowlers? Or do you think the No-Such-Agency
boys have tracked us down again?"

     "Not like that... Just sounds. Nothing woke you?"

     "Nothing. It's hard to wake me when I'm tired." Dana
recalled, changing her position then to see him in a better
light. "Mulder, you're looking a little green around the gills.
Are you certain that you don't want me to take you to a
hospital?"

     The look he gave her would have stopped an alien space
craft in mid-maneuver. "And tell them what? That our government
kidnapped me and extracted some of my memories like taking a pit
from a plum? Not likely."

     But he had looked terrible and she realized now he must
have come to her room that early morning straight from a
nightmare, a bad one. Though they had returned to D.C. after
that, he had looked drawn and haunted for days afterward. 


     Present time, weeks later, Dana sat in the big chair across
from her couch, hands between her knees. She sat a little
hunched as though cold and studied this new version of Fox
Mulder, though she tried to keep the analyst's intentness out of
her gaze. 

     Uncomfortably aware of her scrutiny, Mulder wiped his
forehead on the cuff of his sleeve, then stood, pausing for a
moment to catch his balance. He was recovering quickly now. He
seemed surprised to find he wasn't wearing his shoes. Despite
the bad dream, this man looked much more like the Mulder Dana
knew than the one who had sat across from her at dinner and
nothing like the figure in the shadows she had seen at the
briefing. It was as if someone had pressed a reset switch.

     "Do you want to talk about it?" Dana asked carefully.
Suddenly aware she was dressed only in her pajamas, she pulled
an afghan from the back of the chair and wrapped it around her
shoulders like a shawl.

     Her guest eyed her attire and her attempt at modesty with
the slightest smile. 

     "I grew up in a house with two brothers, all right?" she
snapped, realizing how unsophisticated the pajamas must look.
"They're comfortable."

     "They're you," he said softly. "Practical, sensible."

     <Ouch.> Despite the fact that the circumstances which
brought him here had nothing to do with romance, this was still
the first man Dana had had in her apartment in a LONG time and
she wished she were dressed in something a little more feminine.
"I'm not sure I should take that as a compliment," she said with
some irritation. What woman liked hearing that she looked
practical and sensible in her nightclothes?

     "From a man who has 'Spooky' as a nickname that's a
compliment. Being unique is not all it's cracked up to be." 
     
     As if realizing what he had just said, a soft, nearly
soundless chuckle escaped from him as he pushed back the hair
from his eyes and stretched. "Oh, would the cigars-and-beer gang
in VC have a comeback for that one." He eyed his new partner
suspiciously as if waiting for her to come up with one as well.
When she kept silent a sort of peace seemed to settle on him,
remolding his pinched features in a way that reminded Dana like
a physical blow of how good looking Mulder could be when one
wasn't overwhelmed by how exasperating he could be the rest of
the time.

     "Thank you," he said as he began roaming restlessly about
around her living room, his now very awake eyes curiously
absorbing all the little personal touches.

     "I didn't do so much. Put some food in front of your nose
and let you sleep on a couch which is too short for you."

     "You did more than anyone else would have and you know it."
After popping a few elbow and shoulder joints, he lounged back
in the center of the couch, long arms spread out wide on either
side along the back. "Just between the two of us, what do you
think?"

     Dana pursed her lips and blew softly. That was a loaded
question. She took the safe route. "Of the case?"

     Oh, that smile, like the one from the first day they'd met.
The everyone-thinks-I'm-half-crazy-so-I'm-going-to-play-with-
your-head smile. "I don't think I'm ready just yet to hear your
opinion of my performance this afternoon, so, yes, let's stick
to the case. I want your honest opinion."

End of Chapter 8


Chapter 9

Saturday, October 20, 1993
2 a.m.

     It was like coming up through black water into the air.
Like fighting into the light from the darkness. Like finding a
welcoming smile which was only for you when there are been none
for a long, long time. 

     When Scully had marched into the conference room for the
first time, chin set stiff and defensive, Mulder had
involuntarily shrunk deeper into the shadows, wanting to be
smaller, smaller, smaller. Wanting to disappear. But he
couldn't. He had not been able to do that even when he was
fourteen and felt like an awkward giant with the bony clumsiness
that came with six new inches added in too short a time. Armor
then. Walls. Stone and mortar thick as a castle keep's. Shields
down, he had come to the table. Unreaching and unreachable. Only
at the end, when she crouched beside him so near that he could
feel the heat of her body, the smell of her shampoo, the
lightest breath of her cologne in the stale air, had his
defenses begun to crack. When she had taken his cold hand in her
warm one, however, that was when he came undone.

     In the hours that followed Mulder had gone through the
actions of a living man - walk, eat, shower, sleep. It had taken
him that long to assemble again the scattered garments of his
public face - the cocky attitude, the bone-dry wit, the ghostly
smile, the alert way he held his head, the assured saunter of
his long stride. A good disguise for the formless, rolling
darkness within. It was so good a disguise that from time to
time he almost believed it himself.

     The dream was behind him now; of the knife in the belly, of
the thin blade flashing up to his heart, of the serpent sting of
the whip. He stretched and brought out the smile. But Dana
Scully was not so easily won over. From across the room, she
studied him closely... and said nothing. For some unexplainable
reason, she would take him as he was. Her acceptance quieted the
boiling caldron at his breast. He felt - almost - whole. 

     Finally she spoke answering the question asked a long
thirty seconds or more before. "You want my opinion about the
case? Now? I wish there was more to go on. The evidence seems a
little sparse considering the number of victims."

     He didn't flinch. "More than I've seen on other cases.
Maybe too much. So much that the pattern is hard to find. Two
types of torture both of which lead to death - the beatings and
the evisceration. We have the colorful jogging suit connection
which the press just loves. The washing - which has done such a
good job of removing trace evidence - may or may not have been
done for that purpose. Our man is cold-blooded enough to have
done it for just that reason. With most serial killers, the
washing would have been a symbol that the killer wants to
distance himself from his crime, to cleanse himself of his
guilt. His victims are removed to be killed elsewhere but where
and why? For privacy? In response to some inner need? For
practicality? Does he need some tools, some space? I think this
is most likely. Is the one who kidnaps the same as the one who
kills? Of all this, which points to the critical behavioral
elements that will help us find this devil? What sets him off as
unique."

     "You're profiling," Dana frowned. "We shouldn't be
discussing this. My ban on your working on this case for
eighteen hours was for you as well as for them."
     
     "I've given you eight." 

     Her response was the same expression of extreme annoyance
she used on her godson when he tried to convince her that his
parents let him stay up to watch the late movie on a school
night.

     "I'm going to think about it anyway," he countered, leaning
forward. "Do you want to help me think this out - out in the
open - or do you want me to sink back into my own head? In that
case you might just have to get out the whip and chair again."

     "I don't think that's very funny."

     "Neither do I," and in truth he was grimly serious now.

     "It's blackmail."

     "Blackmail's illegal. I know these things. I'm a Federal
Officer."

     "Hasn't stopped you from breaking into high level security
facilities." 

     "True." Other than that confession, he sat quietly, waiting
for her. 

     Scully hesitated, considering. He knew she wouldn't dismiss
what he was offering out of hand. Her addiction to knowledge -
to grasp it and hold it in her hand - was different and yet as
strong as his own. 

     She sighed, surrendering to the work and to her own
curiosity. "Just tell me why," she asked. "Why is this case so
bad?" 

     Slightly baffled, he replied, "But it's not," then realized
within two seconds by the look of dismay on his partner's face,
that those were not the most reassuring words he could have
used. Now he would have to provide some kind of an explanation,
something he hadn't planned on doing, now or ever.
     
     "If the case is a really bad one, or if children are
involved, or the presentation of the bodies is really sick -
sexual perversions perpetrated after death, the bodies hacked to
pieces, burned, scarred with acid, covered with filth, partially
decomposed - or if the perp was into playing serious head games
with the investigation team - mine specifically which often
happens - then I wouldn't be sitting here now and calmly talking
to you. I'd be - " His voice trailed off. "I don't think I want
to go into that."

     Dana pulled the afghan closer as if the room were suddenly
very cold. It was the tone of his voice. So matter of fact about
something so... A dozen words, all more disturbing that the ones
before, seemed to come to her mind. Dana decided that 'alarming'
would have to do for now. 

     "But if the case isn't that bad... then why... " How could
she possibly come up with words to explain what she had
witnessed at the meeting the day before? "Then what was I seeing
yesterday at the briefing?"

     Mulder chewed nervously on his lower lip for a few seconds
as he choose his words. "I didn't say it wasn't bad, it was, but
our current devil is more violent than psychotic. That makes him
if anything harder to catch. Means he can more easily fit into
his local community when he's not indulging in his favorite
pastime. And I do take the threat seriously or I wouldn't have
agreed to do this. People are dying and will continue to die.
But it's not only the Hunter's victims which get to me. It's the
long dead. It's not just the pattern in the current case I see,
it's all the others. And some have been - " he paused his face
graying noticeably " - very bad. I also have to - turn myself
inside out to do this. That's the real 'Spooky' part.
'Submergence of the analyst's personality - it is the only
way'," he said, the last spoken in a really bad German accent.
It sounded like a quote from one of his professors or perhaps
one of the Bureau-assigned psychologists which they all saw
plenty of - Mulder more than most. Rest assured, there were
those around the Bureau who had already pointed that tidbit out
to Agent Scully. 

     Dana felt small, nasty, cold fingers touch every ridge on
his backbone on their way down. No wonder he had fled from the
Behavioral Science Unit and the VCS. Six years worth of sick
violence and all the ones before and since.

     "What you're saying is that you sacrifice yourself...
voluntarily. 'Here, I'm an empty vessel. Fill me up with all
your ugliness and I'll make sense of it all for you.'"

     Mulder frowned. "You make it sound crazy when you put it
that way."

     Scully drew the edges of the afghan closer as if she sensed
the dark and scary place where he'd spent most of the last five
days. "Mulder, what do I know? Psychology's not my field. But
this - technique - has to be self-destructive. If you feel
talking it out helps keep it manageable, then we'll try it your
way - for a little while. But if I see signs of stress then in
my medical opinion you'll just have to stop working on the case
for a few days."

     "And how would you propose that I do that?" he said nearly
smiling. "I work on the case when I'm in the shower. I work on
the case when I sleep - when I actually do sleep. I work on the
case when I go to the john."

     "Then you'd better look for a better distraction."

     Dana realized by the spark of humor in his eyes and the way
his mouth twitched that she'd gotten very close to walking into
someplace she hadn't intended. "For your MIND, Mulder."

     "What would you suggest? Chess? Miniature golf? You should
know by now that I have barely a passing acquaintance with
alcohol."
     
     Dana hesitated with her next suggestion. "There are - other
means."

     Anger leaped into Mulder's eyes which had been pleasantly
bantering through most the last few minutes. He had been so
pleased just to have someone sensible to TALK to. Was she
threatening to turn on him also? "I don't do drugs."

     "*Medication*," she said quite distinctly. 

     Scully sighed as if she'd expected the resistance which, of
course, she had. As his partner, she had access to his personnel
file. Even the official one, which had been edited skillfully in
his favor, was damning enough. 

     "Medication exists..." but the iron gates had already
dropped. There was no room for discussion here. She surrendered,
or at least hid her ammunition for a more critical time. This
emotional flip-flop from the day before disturbed her, but
improvement was improvement.
 
     "Just as long as you know that there's help available, if
you should ever need something."

     A stubbornly set jaw and a curt nod indicated that her
suggestion had been duly noted and rejected. "Are you interested
in discussing the *case* now?"

     Dana found she was. Hard to imagine, but it was the safer
subject. She began. "We discussed this topic at the meeting but
you were pretty quiet at the time. What's your explanation for
why the causes of death are so different? With victim Eight we
may be talking about three M.O.'s. Why not just one? You've
ruled out there being more than one killer."

     He visibly relaxed as the subject became less personal.
"That is a very intriguing question. I agree, the victims don't
seem to be different enough to explain it. There are male and
female,  large and small in both groups. Most were in pretty
good condition."

     "Is that significant? You don't have to be a pin-up girl or
appear in GQ to wear one of these outfits. The sights I've seen
on my way to work... Maybe wearing a jogging suit is not the
perpetrator's only selection criteria for his next victim."

     Mulder nodded slowly. "Maybe..." A long moment passed
before Mulder realized that he was being scrutinized closely
again. He had phased out; he'd let his disguise slip and dropped
briefly into his own little shop of horrors. But he was
functioning, at least for the time being. It was a self-
preservation skill he'd acquired after too many days on too many
cases where none of his colleagues would meet his eyes. He just
hoped his current tattered disguise of normalcy would hold
together long enough to let him slip her leash. In his mind he
groped for the end of the string that would lead him back to the
current discussion. 

     "Surprisingly," he began, forcing his voice into an
analytical calm as if he had never 'checked out', "more men were
eviscerated than women, but then it's a small sampling. What
troubles me most is the uniformity of the crimes in all aspects
*but* the dramatic climax we've all been concentrating on."

     "As was said at the meeting. I thought that's what made
serial killers 'serial'?"

     "True, but until they hit their stride and begin displaying
their formula, there's usually a period of experimentation. I
expected more variation in the early cases though there is some.
For example, he didn't wash the first one." 
     
     "So you think there were others? Earlier ones?"

     "Almost certainly. Maybe not murder but assaults. With all
the resources of the FBI, however, we haven't found any pattern
of previous arrests and complaints that matches."

     At that moment a soft beeping came from the bedroom. Mulder
raised his eyes questioningly.

     "My computer," Scully explained getting quickly to her
feet. As she trotted on bare feet into her bedroom she called
over her shoulder, "l left instructions for the lab to e-mail me
the results on the material in the chest wound as soon as they
came in."

     As she waited for the monitor screen to brighten, Dana was
keenly aware that Mulder had followed her into her bedroom. He
loomed over her shoulder as she sat at her desk in front of her
PC. Dana felt more than a little uncomfortable. A woman's
bedroom was a private place. To begin with there was the bed -
unmade, rumpled, vulnerable, suggestive - as well as the cast
off clothes she had lived and sweated in the day before. Mulder,
however, clearly had eyes only for the screen.

     "It is the lab," Dana whispered.

     "Give," Mulder urged, trying not to lean too close though
they were already almost touching, "I'm dying here."
          
     Dana read, changed the screen to scan chromatography bands,
then flipped the screen back to the report. As she worked, her
expression changed from questioning, to bafflement, to
triumphant understanding within seconds.

     "Shit," Dana breathed as the impact of what she was reading
became clear.

     "Agent Scully, what language." 

     "But I'm serious, Mulder. Manure!" Dana exclaimed. "And not
canine or porcine but bovine."

     She could feel the warmth of Mulder's breath on the back of
her neck as he leaned over her. She could almost feel his heart
pick up its beat as the case heated up; or was that hers? 

     "Cow dung, Mulder, and from the degree of breakdown of the
proteins at least six months old. Whatever this monster was
using as a prod to open the wound, he set the point down in a
section of old cow paddy first."

     Her partner's voice sounded brighter than she'd heard for
a while. "I don't see any cows in your back yard, Scully.
Obviously, we're not working with your boy next door."

     Dana's face suddenly lit. "Mulder, that may be it! The
reason your perp is so neat with a knife and knowledgeable about
anatomy... His skill may not come from dressing game or from
practicing on dozens of unknown victims, but from butchering his
own livestock!" 

     Mulder's palm came down sharply on the top of her desk. "We
knew the killings were done elsewhere, we just didn't realize
how far. Manure used for fertilizer is aged longer than six
months and I don't know of any cows within the beltway except
for the University of Maryland Agricultural Research Center and
that would be too obvious. Not a frustrated urban weekend hunter
then but a rural - farmer?"

     Dana's fingers were flying over the keys. "Luckily, there
was plain old dirt mixed in with the sample, too, but the system
needs another hour to come up with the probability distribution
on the soil composition for the mid-Atlantic Region. There's
also the water analysis coming. Those should help us narrow it
down." Dana sighed as she checked a zoning map of the greater
Washington area. "Oh, but there are still a lot of farms out
there."

     Above her Dana sensed the slight puff of air that served
Mulder as a chuckle. "I'll take what I can get. This is what I
needed. This is what *we* needed," he corrected, easily.
"Something new."

     At the 'we', Dana felt a surge of emotion she could not
describe. To hide the heat that was coloring her face, she
rapidly scanned through her other mail. Thankfully, it was a
significant list. "You still have to revise your profile," she
reminded him, apologetically as she worked.

     He shrugged. Not at all his reaction from the briefing.
"That doesn't matter. It will be closer this time because we
finally have something to work with."

     "Why would a rural avenger want to take out expensively
clad joggers?" Dana asked to no one in particular. "What's he
avenging? Is he anti-technology? That's old. That's sixties
stuff."

     Mulder began pacing back and forth behind the chair where
Dana worked. "It doesn't make it any less possible. Our man may
not be connected very snugly with the here and now," he said,
adding wryly, "unlike some of the rest of us."

     Dana turned in her seat to give her pacing partner one of
her looks. Besides, it was distracting just to know he was back
there. Too much like a panther gliding behind her chair. "I
think we should expand our 'Why'," she said. "This is more than
mere technology backlash, otherwise he'd be dropping rocks off
of overpasses onto cars or blowing up electrical substations." 

     There came another mechanical beep from the computer. Dana
swiveled towards the screen again and found another new message.
From the subject line, however, this one was for Mulder. Via her
address? 

     "Here's one for you," she said baffled, rising to let him
sit down. Mulder slid into place. "From Bull," he reported. "You
must have put the fear of the almighty into them. They obviously
wanted to get this to me but not badly enough to risk of wrath
of Agent Scully by phoning."

     Dana's head cocked to the side. "The problem is they know
you're here. I didn't tell anyone where I was taking you. There
will be talk."

     "People will invariably do that."

     Vexed, Scully's lip went out in a pout. She didn't like
this. "Why does the fact that it's my place make a difference?"

     Obviously, she hadn't been expecting an answer so Mulder
took his time responding. "It makes a difference because, in
case you haven't noticed, I'm male and you're female. We're both
single and we're both work-aholics. Believe me, it's been noted
that we keep long hours and keep them together."

     "It's unfair!" Dana snapped, then pushed down the emotion.
She knew as well as Mulder how futile it was to try to find
fairness in a business situation. "Okay, they don't like where
you are now. By the way, where did you sleep the last few
nights? Will people talk about that?"

     Mulder's eyes half closed. His face went a little blank as
if it really was an effort to think back that far. "I don't
really remember," he admitted.

     "I thought you remembered everything?" she asked, more
roughly than she had intended.

     "I don't remember because I don't," he hissed back. "It
wasn't -" he searched for the word " - important." Not as
important as the puzzle, was what he meant. "With whoever drew
the short straw, I suppose. Hotel rooms usually. Fewer
interruptions and room service is handy. Sometimes their place
if my keeper for the night is single but never if they have
kids."

     "Do people talk about that?" Dana asked. "I'd imagine that
would be even more tantalizing."

     "Not in the way you're inferring. Just the normal 'Spooky
has run after one-too-many little green men' stories."

     "Then why should they talk about us?"

     "Because they will." Mulder noticed how Scully's eyes
flickered over the unmade bed. "Does my being here bother you?"
he asked, unexpectedly. 

     Clearly, she didn't want to answer and her light skin was
flushed and slightly damp as if the room was too warm.

     "You're with Spooky Mulder now, Dr. Scully. This will be
fuel for the rumor mill for months. It could hurt your career.
If you can't risk that maybe it would be best if you walked
away. No one would fault you. Me, least of all."  His eyes were
suddenly so bleak that it hurt just to look at him. 

     Dana raised her chin, at that moment looking as invincible
as a person clad in sky blue pajamas and a flowered afghan can
look.

     "Do you want me to?"

     "No," came so quickly that he almost stumbled over the
simple word.

     "It could hurt your career as well as mine."

     He shook his head. "I can survive. Double standard. Besides
I've done much worse things than sleep with my partner. If I
had, and being male, that would be a sign to the gang that I was
almost normal."

     "Heaven forbid you would be thought that." She looked at
him hard and captured his eyes in hers so that he wouldn't fail
to hear the next part. "I don't intend to quit. I've made a
commitment. Besides, I don't scare that easily."

     He nearly grinned in his relief. "So I've noticed." 

     A moment stirred between them like the signing of a pact or
invisible hands clasped. The moment passed and yet lingered,
like the beginning threads of a bond were being woven between
them. 

     Mulder bent over the keyboard, his fingers moving quickly
to pull up the message Bull Hennessy had sent to his attention.
"Now that that's settled, let's see what's so new and important
that couldn't wait until morning." 

     Dana had nearly forgotten about the message. Almost
guiltily, she bent to try to read around Mulder's shoulders
though that wasn't easy as his shoulders were by far the widest
part of her partner.
      
     Mulder read the message silently though his lips moved. His
eyes widened. "They've identified your victim Eight. That was
quick. Twenty-six hours."

     "Not so surprising," Dana said. "He was a healthy, good
looking man. Someone would have missed him."

     "Colonel Matthew Borderbank, US Army, recently retired."

     Dana whistled. "That helps to explain his excellent
physical condition."
     
     "He was a chaplin. Episcopal."

     Dana straightened at the same time Mulder turned, first to
look into her face, then to rise. The whites were showing all
the way around the forest green, hazel centers of his eyes. The
energy surging through him was almost visible as he paced the
length of her bedroom. With his long legs he could do it in
three strides. Not like a panther now, more like a soldier.
Neither needed to talk for the moment. Dana sensed her own mind
begin shuffling what they knew with this new information. She
wondered whether, if she concentrated, she could see smoke
rising from Mulder's straining cranium.

     "Are you tired?" he asked abruptly.

     Dana started. That wasn't the first thing she expected him
to say. "If I was, I'm not now."

     "Then before we do anything about this, can we pull out the
rest of that Chinese. I'm starving."

End of Chapter 9


Chapter 10

Saturday, 3 a.m.

     Mulder helped by dumping the entrees into microwave safe
dishes faster than Dana could run them through the warming
cycles. Dana had thought that she had bought enough for the rest
of the week, but, by the way he kept pulling more and more of
the little cartons out of the refrigerator, she realized that
she had a hungry man on her hands.  Feast or famine with Mulder,
she decided. 

     Eventually having had enough of trying to keep the tassels
of the afghan out of the sauces, Dana headed for the bedroom to
change leaving Mulder in charge of moving the dishes through the
microwave. In less than two minutes she had torn off the unisex
pajamas and pulled on jeans and a sweater bulky enough that she
didn't need a bra. Not that it mattered. Mulder had shown about
as much interest in her sexuality as a lamppost. Returning, she
found that Mulder had had time to scrounge in the back of her
kitchen drawers and managed to unearth two pairs of chopsticks.
Having procured the pad of paper she kept by the phone, he was
seated behind a plate of chicken and cashews. Manipulating the
chopsticks with this left hand well enough to pick out the nuts
one by one, he held a pen in his right hand and was scribbling
intently.

     It was only when Dana neared the table that she realized
what he was doing. He'd set up eight columns on the paper so she
had a pretty good idea of the topic. Standing over his bowed
head, Dana cleared her throat loudly when he failed to
acknowledge her presence.

     Absently, he looked up, a strand of limp green onion
showing on one corner of his mouth.

     "You're working."

     "Of course. Everything has changed."

     "You're not supposed to be working - not without me to keep
you from doing *that* - remember?"

     He looked at her a little dimly, an 'Oh' shaping his lips,
then he tapped his temple with the end of his pencil. "I won't
do 'that', I promise."

     "How can you not do 'that'? I thought you needed to be
talking to me to keep from doing 'that'?"

     "Deep diving is only necessary when there's nothing new to
go on, when I have to keep going around and around looking back
over the same old material again and again. Give me new data, no
matter how small, and I can analyze like a normal person."

     That Dana doubted. Her hands went on her hips, a posture he
had learned to recognize. "Yes, and pigs can fly."

     His entire face was alive with something almost like
mischief. "Actually, there are reports of litters of Vietnamese
pot bellied pigs born with vestigial wings - "

     "Mulder!" 

     In truth it was hard to stay angry with him when he was
excited about something and Dana realized that, as always, she
had to fight hard not to become infected by that excitement.
This time was not as hard as others, however. There was a part
of her definitely frightened by how quickly his mood had changed
in so few hours.
     
     Turning serious, he gestured towards his notes. "I can talk
now that I have the rough ideas down. Besides, forcing myself to
verbalize does help."

     That placated Dana's worries enough to allow her to attack
her own plate of Kung Pao shrimp. 

     

     The bowls of largely eaten leftovers sat scattered about
the table and counters. The two partners sat across from each
other, plates pushed away, looking down upon cups of cooling tea
and pages of Mulder's penciled hieroglyphics.

     At one point while Scully was arguing, Mulder leaned back
and studied her intelligent face. She was *with* him. Away from
the ghosts and the mutants and the aliens which strained her
belief systems, they were in nearly perfect harmony. Nearly
perfect. After all, if there was no conflict, there would be no
new ideas. 

     "None of this is new," Mulder was saying, "but with the
knowledge of Victim eight's profession - Army chaplain - it
comes together so much more clearly."

     "Which is," Dana summarized, "that our Hunter prefers to
beat his victims to death. He considers this a worthy death
because these people have a certain amount of freedom to evade
him, to fight if only a extend their lives for a few minutes."

     Mulder nodded. "You can see that by the injuries. They come
from all directions. The wrists are chaffed and badly bruised as
though they were tied but clearly the victim was able to move,
spin, roll, fall while they were being tortured. No wonder our
Caligula used the distance weapons you mentioned - sticks,
stones, whips and chains."

     "Kinky," Dana replied, tired enough to forget that she was
not supposed to feed Mulder straight lines. "Part two of your
new and revised profile is that he has only scorn for those that
won't fight and so they are slaughtered, murdered like animals.
This fits in with what was discussed during the briefing
yesterday - that the length of time after an evisceration deaths
are less than that those after the beatings. That our killer
derives less satisfaction from the slaughter house method.
Knowing why his technique is so good helps make this fit."

     "And he was so cruel to Victim Two?" Mulder prompted.

     "Because he was surprised or angry," Dana responded. "Now
what about this new injury to number Eight? The thrust to the
heart."

     Mulder leaned back is his chair, a cold broccoli flower in
the points of his chopsticks. "Number Eight must clearly have
refused to play 'keep away'. Being military and yet a religious
man it could have gone either way. However, being a religious
man and accustomed to talking to troubled men, he probably tried
to reason with his murderer. He must have reached him to some
extent. In this game, though, partial success is not enough."

     "So you think our murderer listened?"

     "How else do you explain the change in method, the incision
under the ribs? The colonel's side was pierced with a lance as,
it is written in the New Testament, was done to Jesus during the
Crucifixion. If that's not a religious statement I don't know
what is."

     "So our murderer is a religious man."

     "Not radically so or we'd see more ritual. I could show you
cases -" Mulder began, then stopped. "But, no, I don't think so.
Anyway, in his past, probably his youth, our devil had some
religious instruction. Enough so that he respected our chaplain
and thus granted him something like Jesus's death as a
'reward'."

     "But he was slaughtered anyway."

     "So was Jesus in a way. 'Led like a lamb to the slaughter',
though I doubt that occurred to the perp. After the colonel was
dead, his body probably looked very unfinished compared to the
other victims. Our Hunter simply finished the job."

     Dana scanned what had become a very long eight-column list.
"You note that the profile isn't perfect. Peter Grimson, Victim
Two, was a strong young man, a wrestler, a competitor. If anyone
would have fought, he would have. But he was horribly beaten,
his excellent physical condition 'saving' him from being killed
quickly. In the end he was hung up and roughly cut from sternum
to groin. Our killer's first 'lamb'. Why?"

     Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Was it because he was the
first one to refuse? Did he fight at first and then change his
mind? Either would have ruined our killer's day.  It's hard to
tell which, he was beaten so badly. You say his beating was also
of a different type. Closer in. I need to know more. If our very
cool perp lost his temper, he may have slipped and left some
other clue. If you can, look over his autopsy report tomorrow
from that point of view."

     "Providing Blevins and Skinner reassign me again," Dana
said, pointedly reminding him of the circumstances that made
this necessary.

     Mulder shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Don't worry,
they will if they want me to stay on this. There's another
problem besides Peter Grimson. The woman, Number Seven. She was
somewhat older and from the statements of her family and co-
workers a mild-mannered person - yet she was beaten in the game
just a surely as the others."

     Dana's back stiffened. "And you think it's impossible that
a forty-eight year old woman who is five foot three and weighs
one hundred eighty pounds would not - 'give good sport' under
these circumstances? Everyone assumes that overweight people,
especially women, are lazy lumps. Not necessarily so. As a
child, I was a tub."

     Mulder's lip twitched as he allowed his eyes to size up the
woman sitting across the table from him. Even in her bulky sweat
shirt, Scully was the essence of petite. "I would like to have
seen that."

     Dana tried to give Mulder 'the look', but the expression
was becoming increasing difficult to assume as her eyes closed
more and more often. "I grew out of it," she defended. "There's
a story my family tells. My older brother got into a fight on
the playground and was knocked down. Got the breath knocked out
of him. They say it was a picture - ninety pounds of roly-poly
six-year-old, standing over him and bristling like a tiger."

     A sort of mist seemed to pass over Mulder's eyes as if the
scene of a young girl defending her older brother was one he had
taken part in before once long ago. He blinked the dampness
away. "Now that I would have liked to have seen!"

     "I don't remember it, but I suspect the story is true. What
I'm saying is that we can't assume a person's personality, their
inner strength or how they will react in a crisis from outward
appearance alone. Her friends and family may not have known her
as well as they thought. How do any of us know until we've been
put to the test?"

     Mulder considered. Scully's defense of her sex had hit
close to home. Certainly here was as good an example as any. A
tiny, little thing was Dana Scully but there was a lion
underneath - a tiger with a backbone of iron. A strong, scrappy
fighter, an intelligence like quicksilver and - and what?
Everything, a small voice inside him said. She was everything he
didn't even realize he could admire, not just in a good agent,
but in a good person. But she was also a woman and some ancient
code written in his DNA demanded that as a woman she should be -
 protected. So what ruled him when they worked together - his
head or his genes? Was she agent or woman? He had to know
because in the heat of battle there would be no time to think.
Hesitation could cost one or both of them their lives. 

     "Mulder... Mulder." This was her voice, calling him as it
had been for a while, a little worried and getting more so. "You
all right, there?"

     Mulder snapped to attention, fighting down a little panic.
With a shrug, he stood and stretched and started clearing the
table. "Just ran out of gas, I guess."

     As he worked, Mulder considered why it was important that
she not think he was dissociating again. She'd already seen his
little show so what did it matter? He was a perfect beast with
the VC team and didn't give a thought about it. So how come when
he heard she was coming had he suddenly felt dirty, unclean -
crazy? That was an easy one: For the same reason he had wanted
her off the case to begin with - because he had wanted her good
opinion. She was important. And when did that happen? Another
easy one: The morning after Ellens he had been awakened by the
opening of his motel room door. His mind still full of
terrifying shadows, he had seen Scully standing in that open
doorway. She was turned only slightly towards him, thinking him
still asleep. Most of her attention was on the parking lot which
she was scanning for trouble. She was carrying a sack of bagels
under her left arm and a huge cup of orange juice in her left
hand. In her right hand she held her weapon, lowered at her
side, but ready. 

     Who was protecting whom here?

     Dana started stacking their night's work as he filled the
sink and the trash. "I agree. Time to stop for the night or for
what's left of it. I know I need at least a little more sleep.
I have an early breakfast date tomorrow."

     Interest came into the hazel eyes, interest and, though he
tried to ignore it, a darker emotion. He had nearly forgotten
the good mood she had come in with just before he had delivered
the blow about the Hillendale Hunter case and their temporary
assignments. He would still like to know who had managed to
enliven the cool Dr. Scully so. "A date which you did accept
this time?"

     Jealous? Dana wondered in awe. No, couldn't be. Mulder was
just curious like some great, sleek cat. "No, just Saturday
brunch with my family. Dad's going out to sea tomorrow
afternoon. It's a family tradition before he goes." For a second
Dana almost thought to ask Mulder to join her. He had never met
her family; but, no, this was not a good time. Later would be
better - some time when Mulder wasn't nibbling on a case. He
must take a break sometime.

     "Sounds depressingly normal." Mulder looked towards the
stove clock. It read four a.m.. "I should go home."

     Dana let out an exaggerated sigh. "Why bother? The damage
to my reputation is done already. The couch is yours."

     "No, I've had more sleep than I usually have in two good
nights." 

     Dana wondered what defined a good night. 

     "When did I fall asleep?" he asked. "Eight P.M. and up at
2 a.m.? That's six hours."

     "Right and for days before this I doubt you had any. Then
there was the nightmare."

     Absently, Mulder picked up the top page from the pile of
notes and scanned it. "Oh, that wasn't a bad one." Inwardly, he
cringed. Another poorly executed attempt to put her mind at
ease. 

     Scully's arms were folded and there was an exasperated
tightness around her mouth. "Mulder, how do you manage when
you're alone?" 

     An uneasiness flickered in his eyes for just an instant
before he lowered his head to read the piece of paper that
trembled ever so slightly in his hands. "I manage. It's only
been just me for years and years. Even when I was with my
parents, once I lost Samantha -" He paused, unwilling to go into
that again. "Well, let's just say that I might as well have been
alone."

     Dana stared with soft eyes at the top of his bowed head.
"You can call me - anytime. If we're on a case, knock on my
door. If we're in town, give me a call."

     Slowly, almost shyly, he raised his head, the pretense of
reading forgotten. What a beautiful, melancholy face, Dana
thought. A face that wore sadness too easily, too often. 

     "Maybe I will," he said, "but only if you promise to let me
know when I start being a nuisance. Sometimes I get ideas about
a case in the middle of the night and it keeps me up. Now, if I
could bug just one other person..."

     "Call me."

     "You can't be serious."

     "I just said so, didn't I?" Adding in lighter tone, "Though
I'll probably live to regret it."

     Noting the little half smile on her lips, Mulder hesitantly
reached into the pocket of the much-abused suit jacket which he
had thrown over a chair. He took a key from the key ring and
extended it to her. "Take this. It's for my apartment." At her
expression of surprise he went on. "No hidden agendas. I just
don't want you worrying about me. You can get in anytime if you
feel the need." He smiled wryly. "Just knock first." 

     Dana took the key, a little embarrassed. About the
knocking, she assumed he meant he might be otherwise engaged.
Like maybe with a woman. He was definitely a beautiful man but
after you got to know him there was so much more - weird things,
scary things. She had no doubt there were women but she bet few
stayed long. That was a sad thought in more ways than one. Both
that he had women and that the ones he had didn't provide any
continuity to his life. It was also possible, Dana realized,
that he had added that part about knocking only because such
nocturnal activities were expected of an unmarried man as good
looking as he was.

     In the end it didn't matter. She felt better with the
solid, cool weight of the metal in her hand. After the Quantico
debacle, it showed that he trusted her with much more than just
the knowledge of his nightmares and his mental collection of
horror stories. She had accepted him - horrors and terrors and
all - and for the first time Dana realized how lonely he must
be. Was that why he immersed himself so totally in his work? So
that he'd be too busy to notice? Once again, that was not her
concern. The important thing to remember from all this was that
he had scared her at the briefing the day before, later on the
way home, and after that when she had tried to force food into
him. At least this proved that if he was put on a case like this
again, she wouldn't be sent off to Quantico for her own good and
she could get into his apartment to see if he was all right.

     "I don't accept this lightly. I'll call or knock first. I
promise."

     He sat down on the couch and began putting on his shoes.
She rose and headed for the bedroom. "I'll get my coat and drive
you -"

     "Don't bother," he said casually. "I'll walk."

     "Mulder, it's miles! It's the middle of the night."

     "It's nearly dawn and I could use some time to think.
Just," he emphasized, "to think."

     "What if the police pick you up as a suspicious person - a
vagrant or a burglar?"

     He shrugged. "The night shift gang knows me and," he lifted
his small overnight bag by its strap, "I've got my ID if it
comes to that. Happy?"

     "I must be crazy to let you out of here. What I ought to do
is tie you to a bed."

     "Promise?" he asked, his eyes glistening.

     For a half dozen long seconds, time stood still. Dana had
let another damned straight line slip in. 

     "That's not what I meant and you know it," she stammered.
She had only wanted to ensure that he got a good night's sleep.
Still, for just a moment looking at him tousled and rumpled and
with those bright, excited eyes in his tired face, she had a
wild desire to do just what she had threatened.

     "Out of here, Mulder," she said opening the door for him,
"and if you make the acquaintance of any police officers I don't
want to know about it until at least seven."  

     Despite her words, Dana hesitated, her instincts waving
little red flags. "Are you certain there's no chance that you'll
..."  He paused and looked back at her. "You know," she said
inclining her head.

     "Take another little trip down memory lane? I don't think
that's likely. As I said, it's my last resort for when there's
nothing new to go on. It's been bad the last couple of days ..."
his eyes studied the toes of his running shoes. He had been
jarred out of his dark, violent place by Bull's phone call. Not
only had he been unable to prevent another murder, but the one
person he had wanted isolated from all this was performing the
autopsy on his failure. The dark place had become a well -
hollow, frightening, eternal. 

     "Yesterday. At the meeting. I panicked. I knew you were
coming. I didn't know how you'd react."

     "Neither did I," she admitted gently.

     His hand reached out for the door frame, his body at right
angles to her now. "When you said those first words to me...
you..." His voice had become so low she could barely hear him.
"You were so bitter and there was this big... hole. I thought I
had lost you, and the idea of going back with Bull or Crow for
another night of going through all that again..."

     "I was angry. You didn't explain, but you hadn't lost me."
The sincerity in her voice touched him as few had.

     "Yeah, I've noticed, and not likely to." He opened the
door. A draft blew ghostlike by them. Scully visibly shivered .
"I'll see you in the morning," he said, his voice stronger and
more like his normal self. "We'll see about getting access to
the earlier victims."

     "I may not be able to get there until afternoon. I still
have a class to teach at ten and there's no substitute that I
know of. I was supposed to be the substitute."

     Dana was inordinately pleased by his expression of mild
distress as he realized that he wouldn't be seeing her as early
as he liked and that it was all his own doing.

     "I'll talk to Benchley. No, I'll talk to Skinner. Skinner's
really running this show and Skinner will listen. I'll get him
to go to Blevins. One way or the other I'll have you assigned to
the team no later than noon."

     Dana felt a small, self-satisfied smile touch her lips.
"Please do, but only if you think I can be of any help."

     "False modesty doesn't become you, Agent Scully. You
already have helped, as well you know. Besides, you make a much
better baby sitter than Bull. All he eats are ribs. I wonder if
the bones he throws me are symbolic?"

     He moved out into the hallway. Dana took the door and, much
as she didn't want to, began to close it. He didn't move towards
the courtyard very quickly either.
      
     "I apologize for underestimating you," he said, a lock of
hair splayed across his broad forehead. The words seemed to come
from the deep, deep part of him which Dana had only begun to
glimpse. "I promise. I never will again."

     "Never's a long time."

     "Then I'll have a long time to get it right."

End of chapter 10


Chapter 11

The streets of Northwest Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 4 a.m.

     The night had a definite chill. Wrong, the early morning
had a definite chill. There were puddles. The streets glistened
like shiny coal. The echoes of his running feet made a wet sound
against the walls of the buildings, against the pavement. Mulder
had slung the wide strap of his duffle bag across his chest and
pulled it tight. He could feel the bulk of his ruined suit snug
under his arm as he ran. He breathed deeply. The air was like
wine. Its moisture and coolness brought alive so much that had
dried and shriveled within him over the past week. 

     When had it rained? He couldn't remember it raining anytime
that past evening, nor anytime during the day or even during the
days before that. Not that he was paying all the much attention
to external stimuli until he found himself sitting at Scully's
table. He was awake now. There was taste and sight, sound and
feeling. The wet rain smell almost - almost - reminded him of
the air of home. No place on Martha's Vineyard was more than a
few miles from the sea. His feet flew. It was wonderful to let
his body work, to push the work away for a little while. Just
then, if someone had been listening, they would have heard a
temporary change in the rhythm of his stride. He shouldn't be
feeling this good. This was almost like a wrap-up high. But the
case wasn't solved, the perpetrator wasn't in hand, they didn't
even know where to start looking yet.

     Maybe it was because he could almost feel it, the answer.
The hinge piece of the puzzle, the one with the little blot of
earth and the little smudge of sky and the part of the barn and
the tree - the piece that made all the other pieces fall oh-so-
logically into place. It was, he was certain, just beyond his
reach. It would come to him in a blinding flash. Soon... soon...
And Scully... Scully would be there. Like Reggie so long ago...
someone he could call, sit beside, share a meal with. Someone
whose eyes would light up as the answers came tumbling out.
Someone who would commiserate if he was wrong or too late.
Someone who would be like iron to his fire and not give way, who
would be strong and stand fast. 

     Damn, but he was maniacally happy! Now he had only to prove
he could do it. To break this case wide open. For her. To
justify her trust in him.  

     Now the facts of the case were.... 

     Scully's frowning face swam up before his eyes. She
wouldn't approve. But he wasn't a child and it couldn't hurt to
call them up just for a few minutes.

     He could see them... those sheets of paper he had scribbled
on at her table just minutes before all spread out like a
fortune teller's cards. Lines and arrows, question marks and
names, dates and times, places and physical descriptions.

     Victim seven... the middle-aged, overweight woman. Was she
an unexpected lioness, as Scully suggested? Hard to support his
theory if she wasn't. That was easy to check, though. You can't
hide that sort of strength, that coolness in a crisis. Tomorrow.
He'd call up family and friends tomorrow. He knew what questions
to ask. 

     But Number Two, the young wrestler... why, oh why, had
Peter Grimson angered the Hunter so? Why had he become one of
the lambs? Mulder's feet faltered again. Not just one of the
lambs but the first lamb. The pattern for all those to come.
Mulder tucked that revelation away. It felt right, it felt true. 
 

     Mulder's running feet took him by a row of bins holding
newspapers. His eyes flickered over the headlines as he passed,
capturing the images to be digested later. He hadn't seen a
paper in days. An assassination attempt could have been made on
the president, as had happened with Reagan years before, and he
would never have known it. 

     Half a block past the bins, one of the smaller headlines
worked itself free of the pack in his mind. Jesse Helms was at
it again. More God and Country. That in itself wasn't important;
the important part was the impact of his religion. Odd for a
politician. Not for a chaplain like poor Col. Borderbond,
however. He had actually tried to touch the demon. Mulder was
almost certain that he had. There would have been ample time
because the retired officer's death had not been sudden. None of
the deaths had been sudden. That plea for reason spoken by a man
accustomed to talking young men down from peril - or into it -
would have been something to hear. Borderbond's own imminent
death would have made him even more eloquent, more impassioned.
But then for each of the victims there must have been a time of
trial. Plenty of time before each died for their faith to make
itself known. 

     So where did that leave the young wrestler? Nothing in the
background seemed to indicate that he was the prophesizing sort.
No religion was mentioned on his fact sheet. As his feet pounded
the pavement in their mesmerizing rhythm, Mulder's eyes glazed
over. He no longer saw the street or heard the soft dripping
from the eves. A snapshot of the boy's file came into his mind,
that and other visions. Early in the investigation he had gone
along on interviews with the family or friends of the victims.
Not to ask questions, just to listen, just to do his Spooky
thing and absorb. He called the sight of the boy's room back to
him now. The distraught mother's face. The shelf of wrestling
trophies. A team shirt pinned to the wall above them all.
'Sidwell.'

     The mother wept. Tears unceasing.
     
     Amidst that gentle crying another voice was speaking to
him. Petulant. Insistent. A distant voice. *Her* voice. This was
deeper than he'd promised he would go, but here was the answer
so close he could taste it.

     Just a little farther couldn't hurt. Just a little. A toe
in the water. The young wrestler couldn't have any devils in his
closet which would trigger the bad memories and Mulder just
needed one little piece of information.

     The blocks passed under his feet. A more upscale
neighborhood, old apartment houses, now condos. Churches.
Ancient. Stone. An old high rise. A newer one. An old office
building with a new front. He was running in a canyon now of
tall buildings as tall as Washington buildings were ever allowed
to get.

     The victim's mother was still weeping in his mind. Sight
was easy to recall, words were harder. Her voice was so broken,
Mulder had to concentrate to make out even a few of the words.

     "Peter was so... sweet. Why would anyone want to kill him?
Even when he wrestled there was no anger. The coach said that
was why he was so good... he never lost his temper. He always
thought of all the boys - even the ones on the opposing team -
as friends. All the other boys, they tended to growl, to build
themselves up before a  meet. Aloof at best. Peter would shake
the hands of his opponents. He even encouraged them, as if they
were friends."

     That last. Exceptional behavior for a boy his age. All good
investigators focused on such things. Words or behavior out of
place, out of meaning. The mother might have said that her son
was gregarious or well-liked. But that he thought of all his
opponents as 'friends'? A desperate loner might do that but
Peter had been popular. Captain of this and captain of that and
class president. Friendship was the sort of thing such boys took
for granted. Mulder switched back in his mind to the fine print.
List of affiliations and organizations for each victim. There
was nothing in common. But that t-shirt pinned to the wall in
Peter Grimson's room...

     "That was from his coach," his mother had mourned.
"Wrestling wasn't so popular at Sherwood so the couch came in
from another school. Often they held group practices." She had
indicated the t-shirt with a world-weary nod of her head. "Peter
was made an honorary member of Sidwell at mid term. He was so
proud."

     Sidwell. Mulder knew the name. A suburban private school.
A good school but not the kind the filthy rich flocked because
they were the only ones who could afford it. With a quickening
of his heart, Mulder remembered the school's full name. Sidwell
*Friends*... as in the Society of Friends, Quakers. 

     Even though no religious affiliation had been listed on
Peter's bio, the young man had obviously been influenced greatly
by his couch and his sometimes teammates, so much so that he
must have embraced at least to some extent the code of that
unique, non-violent society. 

     Peter thought of those teammates as well as his opponents
as friends. And so the honorary t-shirt. And so the calm
strength in which he faced his abductor and his refusal to
fight. And his death.

     Mulder's heart began to beat in time with the fall of his
steps. If he were a singing person at that moment - which he was
not - he would have sung. Just one note, one pure note. Not for
Peter's senseless death and that of all the others but for the
ones to come who might not die. The image of the weeping woman
in his mind vanished like mist and the Washington which Mulder
had come to know so well sprang up in brilliant pre-dawn relief
all around him. Before his eyes at the end of the street was the
ghostly gleam of the Lincoln Memorial. Home was only a few miles
away, across the river by the Memorial Bridge and then along the
Potomac River, past National Airport, to Alexandria. Home... To
his own place. There was no need to go deeper to where the
monsters lived.

     Oh, Spook, it was so good, so *good!*, when it all settled
into place. Assuming Scully's defense of Victim Seven was
correct - and as far as women were concerned Mulder was more
than willing to trust Scully's judgement over his - then the
lion and the lamb theory was sound. Lions deserved to go down
fighting, noble deaths in the killer's estimation. On the other
hand there were the lambs - lambs to the slaughter. Lambs did
not satisfy the Hunter. It seemed obvious now but with so much
not fitting at first, they had all looked for explanations more
exotic.

     So no killer in place yet, but so much more made sense. The
strong, healthy young Peter had inexplicably refused to fight.
The killer had lost his temper. The killer didn't like to lose
that kind of control and so now he gave himself time to know his
victims. If Mulder had needed proof before that the killer and
his prey were strangers, nameless prey just picked out of the
herd for who knew what reason, then Mulder would have been
certain of it now. The killer needed time to think, to know how
to do it, to work himself into it. Time also for the victims to
show fear and to make their peace with their respective deities.


     Mulder slowed. A singular murderer, this, who took that
kind of time. Certainly the way the killer personalized the
ritual for each victim was rare. Not the norm for serial killers
for whom the stage was everything and victim only a symbol.
Probably, therefore, someone very new at this business of
killing. Someone for whom his purpose was more important than
the passion. He would not allow himself to lose control,
otherwise his prey would die too quickly. As evidenced by the
poor young wrestler, however, he could burn with passion if
pushed to it, but normally it was not his way. On the whole,
this devil was entirely too cold. The cold ones made Mulder's
insides crawl. 
 
     All of which led Mulder back to the question he had raised
with Scully. Had there been other deaths before the first one
they knew about? Not many, Mulder thought. Violence perhaps as
far back as childhood, but murders? A picture of the man began
coming to Mulder's mind. No, not just a picture. He'd known
something of what the man must look like physically for some
time. Very strong, probably very tall from the evidence at the
sights where the bodies were found. But now Mulder knew more. A
good ol' boy, one who had learned his biblical forms in his
upright country church, but gone around the bend, gone bad. He'd
allowed his American pioneer independence and sense of outrage
to get way out of hand.

     Outrage against what? Just modern man? Just the people whom
he identified as 'Yuppies'? As Scully had asked, why not
doctors, computer operators, the machines of modern life? Why
just this class of people? Jogging suits... They had time for
recreational exercise. All the time in the world and yet they
were restlessly on the move, on the move out to the suburbs -
the growing suburbs which ate up the forests and the farm land.
The suburbs whose only crops were mile after mile of identical
houses sitting on the once fertile earth like huge, sterile
toadstools. 

     Mulder stumbled and nearly fell. Was THAT it? So easy. Take
away my hunting grounds, my livelihood, and I'll hunt you,
harvest you!  And what's more, I'll drop my spore in Congress'
back yard just to make the message perfectly clear.

     Only the Congress, and the police, even the FBI hadn't
gotten the message. Too much noise around these deaths. In a way
they had been closest at the beginning. It was the bizarre
deaths later which had thrown them off. They had been
concentrating on why he killed in a certain way and had stopped
asking the question of why he killed at all. Yuppies... who is
the natural prey of yuppies? The urban scavengers... and the
rural poor. The gun toting redneck may be a stereotype, but
there was usually some basis for fact in stereotypes if only in
the mind of the sociopath himself. 

     Could it be that simple? It could, though it wasn't really
simple at all. There was an awful lot of farmland still in
Virginia and Maryland and urban sprawl grew by the day. The
team, Mulder included, had been thinking something weird, really
sick, because of the stoning and now the suggestion of a Lamb of
God. Something religious. But the man may simply have a
religious background. He would fall back on these symbols, these
cultural icons of his youth, in times of stress but they weren't
his 'raison d'etre'.   

     Perhaps it didn't start out as a sport then, but rather as
a punishment, a parable, for bringing ugliness and sterility
upon the fertile land. The butchering of the second victim had
occurred because of the boy's unexpected reluctance to fight
back, shattering the killer's fantasy. Out of this episode had
been born the whole need for the separation of the lions and the
lambs. Revenge was primary, not anger. Yes, there must have been
something before, some event, something personal and close which
triggered all the rest. It would not have to be murder though
Mulder suspected that in time they would find one. The first
killing they knew about had been too thoroughly done and had
been accomplished with little rush or panic.

     Mulder paused in his stride to turn completely around.
Scully had to hear this. She, after all, was part of it. What he
had now really was only a refinement on the string they had
begun to unravel together. 

     There had been so few before who would have appreciated his
passion, his excitement. There'd been a friend in high school
for a few years. For a very, very short time at Oxford Phoebe
had led him to believe she actually cared for the successes and
failures of this awkward American. Only later had he come to
realize that what she really wanted was to fire a passion of a
different kind, and see how thoroughly she could burn him out
before she tossed him aside for fresh meat. Patterson, his
twisted mentor from Quantico, had never really cared about the
slender, new recruit. Not for Fox Mulder himself. Patterson had
only been intrigued by and jealous of Mulder's talent. Only in
Reggie had there been any real friendship though that had been
of the rough manly sort. With Scully it was - different.

     Scully... Dana... was all he had now and she had let him
see today that she could stay the course. He didn't know why. It
made no sense. Why line herself up on his side of the fence? Did
it really matter why? What mattered was that he had shown her in
the past fourteen hours the worst part of him - well, not the
worst but pretty bad - and she had not faltered. Just knowing
that meant more than he could ever express.

     So should he call? The poor woman had been up with him
enough tonight. Besides, she had family matters to attend to.
Family. A twinge went through him. His family was so distant
that they might as well be someone else's parents. There
certainly had been times when he wished they had been. Shaky as
it was, however, they were still the only foundation he had.

     So Dana's relationship with her family was better than
his... So good for her. It was a precious gift. For this she
deserved some privacy. He could wait, though it would be hard.
It would be a novelty to hear a voice on the end of the phone
the voice of someone who was genuinely happy to hear from him. 
    
                        * * * * * * * *

     "Oh, shit, Mulder! Now?"

     Danny's voice. Mulder's favorite computer gofer. 

     Mulder looked at his watch. It was just before five a.m. 

     "Could be worse."

     "Has been often enough. I take it you've had an
inspiration?"

     "Don't I always?"

     "Yeah, but why always in the middle of the night?" 

     "No one else is clogging up the psychic airwaves. Just
think, you'll miss the rush hour traffic."

     Once the analyst was more or less awake, the tone on the
other end of the line changed. Danny loved gadgets. He'd put his
phone on speaker mode and Mulder could hear the sounds of
dressing. He smiled. In  his own way Danny was a kindred spirit.
No puzzle was too 'out there' for him. His far-too-young face
actually brightened when Agent Mulder appeared at his cubicle
with one of his outlandish requests.

     "What's it this time? Crop circles, UFO sightings or
werewolf reports?"

     "Nothing so creative. A police report search."

     The scuffing sounds of dressing paused. "That's right,
you're working on the Hunter. I heard they'd reeled you in for
that one. Why didn't you say so? This is one search I can
actually log with a clear conscience."

     The phone came off the speaker for more personal
communication. "You doin' okay, Mulder?"

     Mulder's eyes rolled as he sagged against the phone shell.
Did everyone at the Bureau know about his little 'problem' with
profiling. Most likely.

     "Look, Danny, we just got a break on this. Can you help?"

     The speaker came back on. More sounds of dressing. "I'm
already helping. I'm up, aren't I? Be there is fifteen. You
bring the lox and bagels." 
         
                       * * * * * * * * 

     The cleanup didn't take long. Dana knew she could have left
it, but she didn't like waking up to a messy kitchen. Besides,
even as tired as she was, her brain was still turning over all
that had happened that day. Wiping her hands on the kitchen
towel, Dana stared at the clock. Four-thirty. She had originally
planned to be up at five-thirty. She could probably push it to
six. Hardly worth while going to bed. She did, only after lying
between the sheets for five minutes she realized she was too
cold to sleep, a sure sign her metabolism was off. Thanks a lot,
Mulder.

     Too much, too soon.  Maybe Mulder had been right not to
bring her in. What was he exactly? Now there was an X-File. What
had happened to him? Her emotions veered wildly from admiration
to pity. In more ways than one, this was how he had earned his
reputation, she realized, both the spookiness and the blinding
success. The two rose from the same source. No wonder he had
turned his back on the VCS. No one should have to endure what he
went through when he was handed something like this. No one. And
this case - by his own admission - was an easy one.

     Shivering, Dana rose. She needed more blankets. There were
some folded up on the high shelf in her closet but there was
another which was easier to retrieve. Arms wrapped around
herself, she trotted into the living room to pull from the back
of the couch the blanket she had given Mulder. As she clutched
it to her chest, she became aware of an scent. Not unpleasant,
just unexpected, and maybe not so unfamiliar as she had thought
at first. She knew it from his car, from the office after a
long, stressful day, from standing close to him in elevators,
from the one time she had stood in his apartment. And now here
it was in hers. He had finally invaded even here to her own
place. He had been here, eaten here, showered here, slept here.
It seemed long ago - if it had happened at all. Had it? If she
didn't believe her own memory, she could go look in the bathroom
wastebasket. There she was certain to find a crumpled, ragged
bandage - a thick pad of eight by eight gauze with yellowed
paper tape on its four corners to which was stuck bits of
smooth, pale skin.
     
     She didn't need to look. He had been here - and gone. Went
off alone.

     Guilt flowed over her. What had she been thinking? She
should never have let him go. Fourteen hours before he had
barely been able to walk from her car to her apartment door.
Should she jump into her car and go after him? No, that would be
foolish. She didn't know the route a man on foot would take.
<Dana, you're worrying unnecessarily.> He seemed comfortable
with the walk, needed it in his own way. Besides, he was a big
boy. Despite those youthful looks, he was an adult, and alone he
had survived far worse than a walk in D.C.. 

     Why was she so sure that he had always been alone? He'd
said so, but sometimes people exaggerate. Where was his mother
and father in this? She knew from his personnel file they were
both alive. On that first night of truth-telling, he'd told her
that the loss of his sister had torn the family apart. What then
had his teenage years been like? Always a difficult time for
adolescents, how much worse must they have been with the tragedy
of his sister's unexplained loss plaguing his footsteps. He
should have only needed to worry about what other boys worried
about - how to grow into unexpectedly long arms and legs,
whether the Red Sox would ever win the pennant, what would his
voice sound like when it finally settled down, what the 'first
time' would be like.

     He had borne all that in lonely isolation and later
survived years of VCS cases in very much the same way, if the
stories Dana had heard were correct. She had only heard him
speak of one person from that time, his first partner, Reggie.
Later, he had gone off to carve out his own one-agent department
down in the bowels of the Bureau. If that wasn't solitary
confinement, Dana didn't know what was. Alone not only in his
work, but also in his beliefs.

     Dana shook her head wearily. That he should so completely
submerge his own self, his own well-being, for a job - whether
X-Files or VCS - was both heroic and idiotic.

     Dana suddenly realized that she was standing in the center
of her cold bedroom clutching the blanket from the couch which,
once disturbed, was rapidly losing his scent. As she flipped in
out to lay it over the quilt already on her bed, she caught the
last few lingering molecules. 

     This time when she climbed in under the heavier mound she
felt warmer. She could sleep now. Mulder would be fine. She'd
see him soon and they'd work together for a long, long time.
Maybe he'd even sleep over again when the cases were bad and
leave a little more of himself each time. What an odd thought.
Strangely comforted, Dana turned on her side and slept a little.

                        * * * * * * * *

     On foot, even jogging, it took longer for Mulder to reach
the Bureau than Danny, who had a tiny studio on Capitol Hill and
a ten-speed. The bike was sitting in the back of the anteroom of
the data center, chained to half a ton of modular office
furniture.

     "Danny, you chain your bike *inside* the FBI?"

     "Itchy fingers and light morals are everywhere. You should
know that better than anyone."

     "True." Dropping his sweating body into a chair, Mulder
tossed a paper bag in the younger man's direction. "Donuts,
sorry." 

     Without pausing as he powered up two work stations, a modem
and a printer, Danny reached for the bag. "You travel in the
wrong neighborhoods. Your ancestors would be shocked."

     "Which ancestors?" Mulder asked suspiciously. "You been
perusing personnel files again?"

     "Like knows like," Danny said pulling out a powdered donut
with one hand while he tapped his rather prominent facial
feature with the other.

     Mulder smiled glumly. "At least mine's smaller than yours."

     "The Washington Monument is smaller than mine." The donut
had vanished in two bites. White powder dusted the analyst's
purple sweater. "Now what are we looking for?"

     "A violent assault, possibly a murder. Unsolved. Six to
eights months ago, maybe longer, in a transition area. Probably
Maryland."

     "Transition from slums to chic?"

     "Transition from farmland and/or woods to suburbia. It
should be hard to find or Benchley's group would have found it
long before this."

     "So you what me to dig?" the young man asked eagerly.

     Mulder smiled wolfishly. "Oh, yes."

End of chapter 11


Chapter 12

Saturday, 6 a.m.

     Morning came less than an hour after Dana fell back to
sleep. With effort she roused herself into the shower, into
clothes, out the door. She slid into the pew next to her parents
in their parish church only five minutes late. God had been
kind. No speeding tickets. 
     
     As she returned her parents' relieved and welcoming smiles,
Dana knew that despite the hectic schedule she had been right in
coming. When she told Mulder the night before that she was
meeting her parent for breakfast in advance of her father's
setting out to sea, she hadn't mentioned that breakfast was
preceded by an early morning Catholic Mass. Though she strove to
pay attention to the brief sermon her mind was asking its own
questions. 

     Why the omission? True, she didn't know Mulder's religious
beliefs. Was she afraid that he would get some pleasure over the
fact that she, the great skeptic, practiced a faith which openly
professed faith in the Resurrection, the Ascension, the
Assumption, the Transfiguration, and a host of saints performing
miracles, not to mention the Immaculate Conception? Did she keep
that knowledge from him because she didn't want him to gloat or
because she didn't know how she could maintain her cynicism over
his beliefs in the face of her own?

     As she rose to witness the transformation of bread and wine
into the body and blood of Christ, Dana pushed all thoughts of
Fox Mulder out of her mind. Those questions would be handled in
their own time when she wasn't so tired.

     After Mass, parents and daughter strolled together along
the shady blocks towards their favorite restaurant. 

     "You seem distracted," Captain Scully remarked, "and tired.
Man problems?"

     Scully felt her face warming as she shot her mother a
warning glance not to pursue *that* age-old subject.

     "Work," she corrected. "We have a new case." That was true
enough. The fact that Mulder was also a man had never escaped
her notice, however. And since when had Mulder's case become
theirs? Certainly since their late night talk over leftover
Chinese, even without Blevins' or Skinner's authorization.
Without hesitation, Mulder now considered them as partners in
this. Dana felt as certain of that as she was of the solid
weight of the key with which Mulder had entrusted her. He
wouldn't make a move without consulting her now. After all, they
were team again and not just in name only this time.

     Handing his menu back to the waitress Captain Scully began,
"This Fox Mulder you're working with... I know you've taken a
few out of town trips together." Bill Scully, a 'Right Stuff'
Navy man down to the tops of his polished white dress shoes, had
that hard look in his eyes again. If he couldn't bring up the
subject of her choice of career, he could still do his duty as
a father and worry about her virtue. "He hasn't tried to pull
anything has he?"

     "Not a thing, Dad. Mulder's a professional." And she hoped
her Mother wasn't reading minds today otherwise she'd know that
said 'professional' had spent the night on her daughter's couch.
The fact that Dana had seen him half naked more than once and he
had seen her in little more than her panties and bra didn't need
to be mentioned either.

     "Are you going out again with - hmmm, I don't remember his
name - that estate planner?" Margaret asked. "From your
description he sounded very nice."

     Way to go, Mom. It's very considerate of you to try to
change the subject, but not that way. 

     Dana regretted now telling her mother about the dinner she
was going to have with the handsome single father she had met at
her godson's birthday party. She hadn't known at the time that
Rob was every bit as boring as he was handsome. No, that was
unfair. The man was normal. Maybe Dana just didn't find normal
very interesting any more. 

     "I doubt we'll be going out again, Mom. We just didn't hit
it off."

     Dana tried not to hear her mother's sigh. They ate a minute
in silence. "We should meet him sometime soon," Margaret said as
she peppered her eggs.

     Dana knew she was going to get whiplash if the subject
changed one more time. "I take it you mean Mulder."

     "You don't call him Fox?"

     "No, never. And he calls me Scully."

     Her father snorted - Dana thought, approvingly - into his
coffee.
     
     The uncomfortable breakfast went on and on. Dana stared
down at her French Toast. The little triangles were sitting as
soggily on the plate as they sat in her stomach. She never could
eat on a sleepy stomach, besides, her mind was elsewhere
wondering if any progress had been made in reversing her job
assignment. 
     
     "Aren't you hungry, honey?"

     "Not this morning. Excuse me, I have to check on the
progress of our case. Then I really think I need to leave."

     With worried eyes, Margaret watched their daughter work her
way towards the front of the restaurant where there was a phone.
Even if she'd remembered in her haste that morning to bring her
cell phone from the car, she would have found an excuse to make
the call in private. 

     "It's so dangerous, Bill."

     "You can't baby her, Margaret. It's what she's chosen," her
husband said with military curtness.

     "But she could get hurt. I hope this new partner is good at
what he does. I hope he'll keep her safe."

     When her husband didn't respond Margaret looked at him
intently with all the experience of forty-one years of marriage.
"What is it, Bill? You've had him looked into, haven't you?" No
answer. "What did you find out? I won't let you on that ship
until you tell me."

     Another snort-like sound. "I know you won't." The captain's
eyes were disapproving. "It's just that his Mulder's reputation
is not what I would have expected."

     "How not?" Margaret asked, apprehension rising.

     "Oh, he's good at what he does. IQ off the scale. Extremely
dedicated. Very intense. Young, early thirties, good-looking,
but still no history of messing around with female employees."

     "But -" Margaret knew that there was a 'but' in there
somewhere.

     "But a little rash. A maverick. His cases are an odd lot.
Not main stream. He's allowed a lot of personal initiative."

     Margaret felt both better and worse. "They wouldn't let him
go off on his own if there wasn't some validity to what he's
doing. And you said he's good. Dana has never been rash. She's
very level-headed and no mindless follower. It's probably why
she was chosen to work with him. She'll bring him down to
earth."

     Bill sputtered a little over a piece of toast. Something
almost like a smile came into his eyes. "That she will if anyone
can." 
     
     At the pay phone beside the kitchen, Dana paused, the
quarter rolling in her palm. She wanted to call Mulder, but on
the minute chance that he might be sleeping, she knew she'd
better not. He desperately needed sleep more than he needed to
hear from her. Instead, she punched in for her voice mail. 

     "Agent Scully," she heard in Skinner's now-familiar tones,
"as of seven a.m. this morning you have been reassigned to work
with Benchley's team on the Hunter case - and with Agent Mulder,
of course. I hope this is good news to you. Don't worry about
your class at Quantico. A substitute has already been found."

     That was it. Short, to the point, and what she wanted to
hear. Yes! Mulder or Benchley or both had been true to their
word. With a spring to her step which had been missing since
Mulder had informed her of the Quantico assignment, Dana headed
back towards her parents' table.

     Nearly there, she saw out of the corner of her eye a small
boy of three break forcefully out of his mother's arms when the
woman tried to lift him into a booster chair. The child came
tumbling towards Dana, head down like a little billy goat.
Smiling at the sight, Dana stepped to the side. So did the
waitress who was moving on an intercept course from the kitchen
with a heavily loaded tray for a large party. Instead of apart,
the waitress and Dana stepped together. 

     Too late Dana felt a plate edge catch her shoulder.
Accompanied by a crash of dishes and gasps from the other
patrons nearby, Dana felt the dishes sliding down the front of
her new beige suit. Eggs benedict stained the linen and there
were trails of grease from the balls of softened butter that now
lay at her feet. A thick, dark fluid dripped from her shoulder.
From the smell - unmistakably maple syrup.

     All in all Dana was fortunate, the horrified waitress
recovered the balance of the remainder of the tray at almost the
same time that the mother of the small boy caught her child
roughly by the arm. Only three of the plates, those that had
hung over that edge of the tray, had spilled. Suddenly there
were people everywhere: three waitresses, an outraged patron
upon whose shoulder some of the hollandaise sauce had fallen,
the manager and Dana's mother. All fussing, all talking. What a
mess. 

     "Dana, did any get any in your hair?" This from Margaret
Scully.

     "I don't think so, Mom."

     "Is anyone hurt?"

     "Oh, ma'am, our deepest apologies."

     "What the hell am I going to do? Look at my coat! I'm
meeting a big client today. I'm going to sue!"

     "Does this mean that there's going to be a delay in getting
our food?"

     Assuring the restaurant staff that she wasn't hurt, Dana
let her mother move her away from the mess towards the ladies'
room. It was worse than Dana thought. She could go to work
smelling like a lot of things, and had, but not of semi-raw egg
and maple syrup. 
Application of water and the topical cleaning solution provided
by the restaurant were not going to do the trick.

     "Mom, it's no problem, really it isn't. I keep a spare suit
at the office - oh, no, I don't. I used that when we got back
from New Jersey and I haven't brought in a replacement yet." 

     "Then you'll have to go home and change."

     Dana felt a wave a disappointment. She didn't want to take
that kind of time. Her apartment was far out of the way,
especially with repairs being made to the Legion Bridge, which
was part of the Washington Beltway. Even on a Saturday morning
that would snarl traffic. Dana felt the old energy. She wanted
work and she wanted to see what Mulder was up to as soon as
possible. The fact that there had been no call from him began a
little worry in the back of her mind. Margaret Scully didn't
need to be a mind reader to read most of what was going on from
her daughter's unhappy expression.

     "I have an outfit in the car I picked up on sale for your
aunt Beth. You're about the same size and she doesn't need it
right away. You take it, change here, and drop your suit off at
one of those cleaners which have quick turn around. There must
be one near your office. Maybe you won't need to go home."

     Dana looked sideways at her mother through the mirror.
"Something you bought for Aunt Beth?" Aunt Beth was her father's
sometimes prissy younger sister. "Oh, I don't know, Mom."

     Margaret Scully chuckled softly as she opened her purse to
hunt for her car keys. "I know it won't be your color but it's
only temporary."
     
                        * * * * * * * * 
Saturday, 9 a.m.

     As she left the cleaners, Dana wondered if they gave
discounts to government employees. Within sight of The Hill,
probably not. Did they then make exceptions for alien-chasing
FBI agents? She would have to ask Mulder if he had cut a deal
someplace. When he chose, which wasn't often, Mulder could charm
the spots off a dalmatian. Since she had become Agent Mulder's
partner, her cleaning bill had gone up more than four hundred
percent. At least she should be able to take some of it off as
a business expense.

     Dana's next stop was to her desk near Pathology, where she
made a call downstairs as she quickly sorted her mail. As
expected, no Mulder. A call to his apartment. Still only his
mellow, expressionless electronic voice. On her voice mail there
was a call from Bull. His voice was full of gruff fatherly
concern. He was wondering how Mulder was.

     Good question. Dana's apprehension was escalating rapidly.
Stepping downstairs to Mulder's lair, she found the lights on
and a cup of cold coffee that hadn't been there the day before.
His suit was missing, the clean one she'd left behind when she'd
come for his overnight bag. Considering his condition the
afternoon before, she hadn't expected he would need a suit
anytime soon. The sweats he had slept in and worn when he had
left her apartment less than five hours before were there in a
heap near the utility closet as if he'd changed quickly.

     Damn him! He hadn't gone home at all! He'd come to work!
You stubborn, self-destructive, deceiving, idiot! Did she dare
call Benchley and admit that she didn't know where Mulder was?
Dana was all too aware that by taking Mulder home the way she
did, she had accepted some sort of responsibility for him. She
felt as awkward about that as if she'd agreed to pet sit and the
animal had escaped out a carelessly open window. 

     Her eyes scanned the familiar clutter. She was an FBI
agent, after all. Maybe he'd left a trail. If she could find
Mulder herself before Benchley and Skinner discovered he was
missing, that would be the best thing for Mulder... and for her.

     Stop and regroup, Dana. From the evidence of the missing
suit her wayward partner was thinking clearly enough to tidy
himself up. His desk looked, if anything, more organized than
normal. The cast-off clothes were sweaty but didn't show any
blood stains. This was ridiculous... Mulder had been sincere
about going back to his own place when he left hers. Something
must have happened to induce him to change his destination, a
something obviously having to do with the case. The man was
driven to the point of obsession. He must have had a hunch which
he needed the FBI's resources to track down.

     And what was Mulder's favorite FBI resource?

     Dana appeared at the Data Center door. There he was: Agent
'Danny' Daniels, his glasses which framed dark brown eyes
mirrored in the computer screen he was studying so intently.

     "Agent Scully, love your outfit," he commented without
looking up even while he typed madly. "You and Agent Mulder
taking casual dress at the work place a bit literally these
days?"

     Dana stared down. She had been so concerned with finding
Mulder that she'd forgotten to belt the trench coat tightly
again before coming up here. A satin hot pink warm up suit and
low heels was not exactly a fashion statement at the Bureau.
Then she realized from the analyst's comment that Danny must
have seen a certain mislaid agent in his own dressed-down state
before Mulder changed downstairs.

     "You've seen Agent Mulder today?" she asked eagerly.

     Danny yawned extravagantly. "Before the cock crowed. Needed
me to do a little spelunking for him.

     "So he's here..."

     "*Was* here. Been and gone." Danny looked at the bulky
chronometer on his wrist which seemed large enough to have its
own built-in computer screen. "How long ago, you're going to
ask? Two, two and a half hours."

     "Gone where?"
 
     Danny shrugged. "Off investigating one of the new leads,
from what I gather. None of them are so very far away."

     "What did you find for him?"

     "Just a few nibbles." Danny pulled his eyes from the screen
for the first time. He must have seen her outfit either by
reflection or peripheral vision. "I didn't think much of them,
but Mulder was impressed. The one he was most excited about was
buried good." Danny looked pleased with himself.

     "A suspect?" Dana hoped not. Going without back up into a
known hazardous situation could get him suspended. 

     So since when had that stopped him?

     "You mean dangerous shit? Not likely. No, old stuff. We
found two murders and a few assaults, some of which just might
be by your guy. Want a donut?" He held out a rumpled bag.

     Dana declined. She'd been up front and personal with enough
breakfast food for one morning. "No thanks, but I'd like a copy
of everything you found for Agent Mulder."

     Languidly, the young analyst leaned back in his chair to
snag an unlabeled manila envelope from the table behind him and
held it out. "He said you would," he informed her with a grin.

     Nearly blushing, Dana snatched the folder. "Mulder... one
of these days..." she hissed to herself. At least he hadn't gone
deep sea diving in old, nasty memories again. At the door she
turned back to Danny before he could return his attention to his
beloved electronic gadgets. "Danny, how did Agent Mulder seem to
you... health wise."

     No smile. Daniels clearly was aware that an agent would not
ask such a question about his or her partner without serious
cause. The young man's forehead wrinkled. "Tired. A little thin,
but then I'm not used to seeing him in sweats. Otherwise, he was
just Mulder on a scent. Excited."

     Clutching the folder to her chest, Dana allowed herself a
tiny smile. More good news. This day may not turn out so badly
after all, or at least it would be much improved as soon as she
could get Mulder within ear shot and rake his ass but good.

     
     Dana actually had most of the scanty printouts read before
she hit the basement. 'Nibbles' Danny had said. 'Nibbles' was
right. They were mostly vague police reports. Dana had seen more
paperwork on a shop-lifting charge than on one of the murders.
That was suspicious. Sitting at *her* chair in front of *her*
desk, Dana reread the folder again, more slowly this time. All
the occurrences were well outside the Beltway, far beyond the
Washington sprawl. Some of the towns she didn't even recognize.
One she assumed was near Annapolis because of the zip code; two
were on the Eastern shore of Maryland outside of Ocean City; one
of the murders - the one with very little information - had been
reported in northern Frederick county; two incidents - one of
them a murder - had occurred in or around Fredricksburg,
Virginia; one assault had taken place near Quantico of all
places. 

     As she read, Dana booted the old computer Mulder had dug up
for her. Her better one was upstairs at her other desk, so she
could hardly complain, but maybe she should just move down here
permanently. Even as she waited for the screen to come up Dana
nixed that idea. When Mulder was being particularly and
distractingly Mulder, she needed a sane place to hide and wait
for the real world to come back into focus.

     At the thought of focus, the crude screen graphics finally
emerged as if through a green phosphorescent fog. Dana had fired
up the ancient instrument with the intention of accessing the
regional atlas in the FBI's database. Instead her eyes caught
sight of the 'You have mail' message. 

     Who from? she wondered, afraid to hope. But there it was:
'FMulder' dated six a.m. That man was really trying her
patience. He wouldn't even let her stay good and mad at him for
longer than a few hours.

     "Scully: As promised I called Skinner and begged very
politely to have you assigned to this case. Never have I heard
anyone over the phone say 'I told you so' so clearly by just
breathing. That I woke him up out of a sound sleep may have
something to do with it, but I doubt it.

     "As you must have inferred by now: No, I did not go home
and rest, and I could not *not* think about work. Nobody's
perfect. I had a stray thought on my way home and threatened
Danny sufficiently so that he came down to pull some police
reports for me.
 
     "I'm concentrating on trying to find out what our man was
up before our Victim One. As we discussed, there must have been
a triggering incident and I'm sure we haven't seen it yet. The
ones we know about show too much ritual. The fact that the
trigger may not be a homicide will make it harder."

     Dana nodded over this. She agreed. Murderous rage that did
not result in the focus of that rage, might drive an unstable
person to keep seeking satisfaction for his failure elsewhere.
She read on.

     "The real news is, I finally figured out how our wrestler
fits in. He didn't fight back because he was a fledgling Quaker
or at least he had a lot of friends who were Quakers. 

     "Yes, I know I should have called you but you would have
been either asleep or spending time with your family and I
didn't want to disturb either one." 

     Dana grumbled. Hard to argue with gallantry, but if she had
him in front of her now she would anyway. 

     "Yes, I was a good boy and changed my clothes, brushed my
teeth, combed my hair (not that it ever helps for long), ate
three donuts, and didn't chew on the furniture. I even dozed for
twenty minutes while Danny worked.

     "Yes, I know that Skinner and Benchley and you will have me
put in the stocks for going out alone this morning, but try to
look at it from my point of view. Other than my solitary run
last night, I've been surrounded by people looking over my
shoulder and trying to read my every twitch for more than a
week. For an hermit like me that's nearly torture. I just need
a little down time. By hunting up one of these old sites, I'll
also be doing some useful work on the case. I promise I'll just
look at one and be back before noon, then we'll start this case
fresh between us.

     "At the moment I'm comparing the police reports Danny's
given me with recent land sales which were forced due to road
construction preliminary to the erection of new bedroom
communities. It must be in a currently rural community within a
fairly easy drive to D.C.

      "See you at twelve. I'll spring for lunch.... Mulder."
     

     Dana leaned back in her chair, rolling a pencil around in
her hand. He was a piece of work, Mulder was. The problem was
she could understand how he felt. She also knew how
unprofessional it was for him to always be acting out those
impulses. Dana looked around the shadowed office. What did she
expect? Mulder didn't acquire these luxurious accommodations by
obeying the rules. She was relieved, touched almost, that he had
left her such an extensive accounting of what was going on in
his mind. It still hurt, however, that he hadn't waited. 
     
     Dana checked the motor pool log but already knew what she
would find. A vehicle, another black Taurus, had been checked
out under Mulder's distinctive scrawl. Skinner or Benchley could
have left instructions that Agent Mulder was not to be given one
- considering the shape Mulder was in the day before that would
have been understandable - but there are just some things that
aren't done to senior agents. It would have been considered a
professional insult.

     Dana considered. Danny could give her no clue as to which
of the sites he had found Mulder might be headed for. In fact,
at the time Mulder had written his e-mail, he hadn't known
himself. He mentioned that he was cross referencing Danny's
sites with current and proposed land usage, forced land sales,
road construction and housing permits. From there the logic was
simple. He had to obtain that information from somewhere. It
took Dana five minutes to get into the transaction logs in the
FBI public documents database and find out that user FMULDER had
searched for just such information. Dana put in a request to
rerun the transaction log for that period of time. 

     Smiling, Dana took a sip of a fresh cup of coffee, coffee
brewed to *her* taste this morning. In thirty minutes she would
have everything Mulder had. In that thirty minutes what should
she do? Her suit wouldn't be ready yet. She could drive home.
The trip wouldn't take nearly as long as it would have from
Baltimore. Or she could go... Where had Mulder been working when
he'd sent her the e-mail? The surprising amount of information
he had provided, both about the case and about what was going on
in his own head, indicated that he had felt at ease, relaxed,
safe. There she might find more clues.

     There was only one place.
                               
                        * * * * * * * *

     Almost guiltily, Dana turned the key in the door of
Apartment 42. She had to keep telling herself that she had every
right to do this. He had given her the key, after all, for just
such a reason as this - when she was worried about him. 

     But he had not intended this. She doubted he had given her
access so she could go snooping to try to uncover his
whereabouts. 

     The small place was surprisingly bright, even though it
faced north and never received any direct sunlight. Dana turned
around and around. Such a dismal place. So lifeless. He gave it
life, but it was so small, so restrictive for such a large and
restless man. Like a cage.

     Dana roused herself with a shiver. Remember why you're
here. 

     Her attention was caught by the sight of his colorful fish
swimmingly happily about in their surprisingly clean aquarium.
Dana corrected her earlier opinion. The place wasn't quite
lifeless after all. Dana noticed a tiny 'sticky' note affixed to
the lower right hand corner of the tank. On it were written a
series of dates and times, all but the last scratched out.
Feeding dates? Dana was puzzled. She came here because she had
reasoned that Mulder would need to feed his fish. She had the
impression that he hadn't been home for a few days, but Mulder's
memory was excellent. She couldn't see that he would need such
a device to remember when he'd fed his aquatic pets. Maybe
Mulder had an arrangement that, when the newspapers outside his
door got ankle deep, a neighbor brought in the papers and fed
the fish. An unconventional yet effective arrangement for a man
whose schedule was as erratic as Mulder's. The note must be a
sort of log to let each party know when the poor things had last
been attended to. 

     In passing Dana peeked into the tiny bedroom, which was
barely large enough for the double bed and a bureau. The bed did
not look like it had been slept in in weeks. It was piled high
with clothes - both clean and dirty - books, papers, bills,
receipts, magazines, all a jumble. The collection looked like it
had just been dumped; not, therefore, a place for any critical
or useful work. Where did he sleep then? Coming back into the
living room which, by comparison, was fairly neat, Dana noticed
a bed pillow and a carefully folded blanket on the end of the
couch.

     At least he slept sometimes.  

     On the table by the window where she should have gone
first, Dana found what she was looking for. A large interoffice
envelope, like the kind the Bureau used, lay open and empty and
tossed to the side. Scattered over the table were road maps and
topographical maps for the mid-Atlantic region. There were fresh
reproductions of articles from the Washington Post and some of
the other local papers. Dana suspected that when she got back to
the Bureau she would find printouts identical to these from her
request to repeat Mulder's query. Hmmm... not quite identical.
From this group there should be one missing or maybe two which
Mulder would have with him and Dana had no doubt that the
missing ones would point to where Mulder had gone.

     Set Theory 101. Would it be as simple as that to find him?

     After packing the materials back into their envelope, Dana
paused in the doorway to look back. She had been here only once
before but she could imagine him just waking up in the morning
or bent over that table late at night working. The tousled,
tired, little boy look came back to her. The expressive hands on
the chop sticks, the long limbs sprawled on her couch. His
distant smile.

     She felt a little ache someplace inside, a nice ache
though. She missed him. The envelop crackled in her arms as she
held it tight. How she liked being right. He had come here, he
had worked, he had left her tantalizing clues. A surge of energy
tingled at her nerve endings. It would be almost fun to track
him down if for no other reason that to show him she could do
it. Give her half an hour to get back to the office to pick up
her own output from the research department and compare it to
what she was bringing from here and she'd be on the road by ten-
thirty. Well before certain highly placed members of the team
started asking serious questions.

     She hoped.

Chapter 13

Saturday, 11:30 a.m.

     Associate Director Skinner came into the canteen, his eyes
raking the crowd. Frustrated over not being able to find his
intended victim, he singled out an alternate, Bull, who was
slouched over his mid-morning coffee and danish. 

     "Bull," he began but only when he come close enough so only
his old friend could hear, "Where the devil is Mulder?"

     A grin, almost a smirk, appeared on the veteran officer's
lips. "Didn't you hear? My first guess would be Agent Scully's
apartment."

     Skinner frowned. "Come off it. You know better than to make
those kinds of insinuations."

     "No insinuations, only your dirty mind, Walter. After our
meeting Saturday, Ms. Icehouse herself took our mad dog in hand
and he followed her home just as sweet as you please."

     Skinner sat down at 70's-vintage formica-topped table. "I
got that from Benchley after the meeting."

     "So you know we have our 'orders' to give him some space."

     "That also was in Benchley's report. I have no problem with
that.  What I need to know is how Mulder was yesterday. We've
known each other a long time, Bull, and I trust your instincts.
How bad was it?"
     
     The big man sobered and shook his head sadly. "Like death
only slightly warmed over. Almost as bad as the other times but
nowhere near as bad as the worst. Sometimes teetering on the
edge and sometimes the sanest person in the room. That was
unkind what I said. He needed a friend. She's good for him,
Walter. We should have brought her in earlier."

     "That's been taken care of. He called me sometime before
five a.m. and requested her back."
     
     Bulls came up with a genuine smile. "Better late than
never."

     "Right, only now I can't raise either one of them and
neither can Benchley. What I need to know is where he is now." 

     "And like I said, with her, I assume."

     "Yeah, but did any of you Keystone Cops think to read her
the riot act about letting him off on his own?"

     A sheepish expression does not come off well on a man of
Bull's size and experience. 

     "Thought not," Skinner grumbled. "You know Mulder's not
allowed out alone on these cases even to go to the bathroom."

     Bull swallowed visibly. "Give me ten seconds to wolf this
down and I'll see what I can find out."

     The two old friends went searching. Still no Mulder in the
basement, which Skinner had already checked, and no answer at
either his apartment or Scully's. No messages either. 

                        * * * * * * * *
      
Catoctin Mountain Park, Fredrick, Maryland
Friday, 11 a.m.

     "Sergeant Gaines?"
 
     A young Ranger raised his blond head from the drawer of the
filing cabinet to squint into the light from the open office
door. In the center of the glare stood the dark form of a man. 

     "I'm Cliff Gaines," the young man acknowledged. "Can I help
you?"

     The visitor held out something. Official identification.
Gaines didn't even need to see the picture on the ID or read the
words to know that. There was a way law enforcement stiffs of
all branches had of holding such things.

     "Fox Mulder, FBI."

     Gaines's blue eyes widened. "FBI? That's a switch. The
president's deer being poached or something?"

     The FBI agent seemed momentarily taken aback by the
ranger's words, his casual attitude, or both.

     Gaines closed the file drawer he'd been searching. "You're
not here on Camp business?"

     The agent moved out of the glare from the doorway as
knowledge brightened his rather handsome face. There was
something else there too - interest - as if a problem had subtly
changed in his mind. "That's right. Camp David's on the grounds.
They don't show it on any of the maps so it didn't immediately
come to mind. No, I'm not here about that at all. The CIA and
the DOD consider that their personal jurisdiction."

       "Then I can't imagine what you want me for. We don't do
much out here but watch the leaves fall, attempt to keep the
druggy teens out of the park after sunset, and stay out of the
way of the FEDs."

      A comfortable smile softened the agent's somber
expression. "Oh, for the simple life. They sent me from
Frederick. They said you could show me where Hamilton Rivera was
found."

     There was a blank look on the young ranger's face for a
moment. "Rivera? How soon we forget. First murder we've had here
in twenty years. What's it been, six months?"

     "Nine."

     Gaines pulled his earth-brown Forest Service hat over his
long blond hair and swung its matching jacket over his
shoulders. "Let's go. I'll give you the tour."



     Mulder leaned back in the seat of the pickup, contentedly
unkinking his back. Trucks, wonderful trucks. Trucks where you
could sit straight and stretch your legs like a real person
instead of a pretzel. What luxury! Gaines drove the old log road
as if it were a steeplechase course. Having heard his
passenger's covetous sigh, he grinned broadly. "Oh, you like
young Bess, do you?" He patted the gleaming dashboard. "She's a
beaut, isn't she? They had old Bessy for fifteen years and she
looked every day of it. There were coat hangers holding her tail
pipe on, bailing wire kept her hood closed. Four hundred
thousand miles. Somebody complained that old Bess was an
embarrassment to the country when the president brought
dignitaries up here to visit. They wanted to give me a used one
from the Camp pool but I said, 'no way'. Well, they finally
broke down and bought this baby. Not even a week old." 

     This Mulder could believe. He could smell that factory
freshness. In his whole life he had never owned a new car. He
couldn't blame the young forest ranger for his secret bliss.
"This ride is going to put a strain on my budget," he murmured. 

     Gaines laughed. "Yeah, well, the bug is hard to throw off
once you're bit. Nothing in the world like new wheels - except
maybe -" Gaines had noticed the absence of a wedding ring on
Mulder's finger and the agent's good looks "- except maybe a
friend coming for a sleep over, if you know what I mean."

     Mulder stared off into the sunlit woods, his bright mood
dimmed. Actually, it had been so long he'd nearly forgotten.
Almost with relief he turned his attention to the terrain
outside. Lots of trees. It was a National Forest after all, and
at this elevation the fall foliage was further along than inside
the beltway. 'Past Peak' was the term used. It was also much
hillier than around the District but then it was Catoctin
'Mountain' Park.
  
     Gaines handed over a Park Service map. "What do you know
about this little piece of history?"

     "Only that Camp David's here."

     "Then I'll give the one minute synopsis. You can have the
longer version later if you want. Catoctin Recreational
Demonstration Area was a WPA and CCC project after the
Depression. It was built as a recreational area for federal
employees - and, of course, it also gave the unemployed
something to do. There were several camps constructed. One was
Camp David, now the president's retreat and the only one with
restricted access. Others were Owens Creek, Misty Mount, and
Poplar Grove among others. Being conveniently located to both
Baltimore and Washington, we're really bulging with tourists
during the summer and the good fall-foliage viewing weekends."

     "It doesn't seem to be either of those now," Mulder noted. 

     "Good guess, but kind of hard to mess that up with the
trees looking as they do. You're right, our peak tourist time
has come and gone. Now, like Rip Van Winkle, we can fade back
into obscurity."

     "Clinton come here much?"

     "Not so far. He tends to go down to Little Rock a lot but
they bring certain dignitaries up here if they want seclusion."

     The young ranger drove. They didn't see a formal turn off
for some minutes, nor a campground, nor a trail crossing marker.

     "Here we are," Gaines said, slowing to a stop and pulling
up on the hand brake with one smooth motion." The northwest
boundary of the park is only a few hundred yards away so this
almost wasn't mine to have to worry about. This is where we
found him."

     Mulder climbed down from the cab and crouched down to study
a depression the ranger indicated in front of a dead sycamore.
After a few moments he stood to take a three hundred and sixty
degree turn. Trees, trees and more trees. Something wasn't
falling into place here. "How far are we from Camp David?"

     Gaines shrugged. "Mile and a half as the crow flies. If the
president's not in residence, your killer could have dropped
this on Clinton's front lawn and no one would have noticed, if
that's the direction you're thinking is going, that is."

     "It was," Mulder agreed. The furrow in his brow was deeper
than when he had come. "Pretty far from the campgrounds and
picnic areas, too. Who found him?"

     "Local woman, Helen Myers. She and her friends come up here
to gather wildflowers. Thought it was a deer at first by the
size and the number of crows and four-footed scavengers they
disrupted."

     An eyebrow above a greener than normal hazel eye went up.
"I thought it was a crime to pick flowers in a National Forest."

     The gregarious young ranger flushed ever so slightly.
"Well, more or less. As you've noticed, this is far from the
high use areas and the women who I know do it put in their time
maintaining the beds in the common spaces. I'm also confident
that they would never overpick. The Blue-Hair Brigade treat the
land as tenderly as their own children."

     "What do they use the flowers for?" the agent asked
absently as he circled the area, senses on high.

     "Oh," Gaines said with a shrug, "press them between glass,
immerse them in epoxy, dry them, make potpourri. Even tea for
all I know. You know, Agent Mulder, I doubt that you'll find
very much after all this time."

     Mulder stood, the intensity of his concentration
dissolving. He had been crouching, getting the victim's view
from multiple angles. "I didn't expect to, but you can never
tell. I learned one thing. I'd forgotten about Camp David."

     "Whether that's good or bad depends on whether you're a
Republican or a Democrat, I guess."

     Despite himself, Mulder felt a smile tugging at the corners
of his mouth. "What it means," he began, returning to the case,
"is that it's not likely to be the work of the man we're looking
for." Mulder pressed his foot as deeply as he could into the
forest loam. "The police report said that Rivera's killing was
done elsewhere. Our man does the same thing. It might be helpful
to know why your killer picked this place to dump the body. Ours
would have picked someplace more public."

     "Sorry to disappoint you."

     "One of our theories is that our killer is trying to get
the attention of the government. You'd think he'd drop the body
on Camp David's doorstep, but then, I suppose, that would be
suspiciously close to home or Camp David itself is too
isolated." Mulder shrugged his suit coat back onto this
shoulders almost with a sigh. "It was a wild hunch. They don't
all pan out. What was he wearing?"

     "How should I know - Oh, you mean Rivera? Suit. Tie.
Overcoat. Big coat. He was a big man. Took six of us just to get
him on the truck."

     Mulder frowned. Not dressed for athletics then and so, once
again, not what he expected. "Did you know him? The police
report said he was a developer."

     "Oh, yeah, I knew him," Cliff snarled. "He'd been hanging
around for months."

     "I gather from the tone of your voice that he wasn't well
liked."

     "We've seen too much of the land south and east torn up. No
one was happy." 

     "Did he have any actual enemies?"

     "The man was a festering sore. About a third of the county
hated his guts. Besides the ones who just didn't like his
attitude, all those who want to stop the development around here
would have lined up to take a swing at him."

     "And they are?"
     
     "The usual suspects. Environmentalists, the animal rights
faction, the old ones who don't like change and the young who
moved out here to get away from the crowds and don't want to
share their new found peace and quiet."

     "Was there any group or individual particularly upset?"
     
     Gaines chewed on a blade of fall grass and considered. "We
held quite a few town meetings. They were popular. More action
than Monday night football. But someone in particular? I'd say
Judd Pervis. Judd has a wicked tongue."

     Mulder fished in his pocket for a notebook and a pencil. He
didn't usually need to write things down but the warm sun was
making him sleepy. "Any idea where I can find this Judd Pervis?"
His question was without enthusiasm.
 
     "Oh, Judd's gone. Sold his acres, bought himself a
Winnebago and moved to Florida."

     Mulder closed the notebook without having written anything.
The Hunter's work really didn't seem like that of a man who
spent six months out of the year living out of a Winnebago in
Florida. "Held out for a higher price, did he?"

     Gaines smiled broadly. "That he did."

     Mulder started at a slow pace towards the shiny red truck,
the embodiment of every man's primitive desire for sleek,
unending power. "Anyone else?"

     Gaines looked pensive as he headed for the driver's side.
"I'll have to think about it."

     They drove for about ten minutes. Mulder had asked for a
longer tour. Gaines suddenly raised a hand as if he'd thought of
something. "You know, passing that little fire break road back
there a hundred yards or so got me thinking." Mulder turned
around but could see nothing but the sparse gray trees and the
gray ribbon of the narrow park road behind them.

     "Thinking of what?"

     "Old Amos came to some of those town meetings."

     "Who?"

     "An old hermit. His family has had a plot of ground here
for generations. Literally a plot. In fact, to save themselves
of relocating the family cemetery, the state let the family stay
on a few acres when they took over the original land. Yeah, the
Amos place is why the park boundaries are sort of cut in at this
point though the land officially belongs to the state."

     "Is it adjacent to the land being sold to Rivera?"

     "More than adjacent. Part of. We just drove over a lot of
what the Feds were willing to sell. We're as far west as you can
get. They could never get away with letting go of any on the
eastern side."

     "Plus," Mulder surmised, "they could get the developer to
do their dirty work for them and not only go through the expense
of moving the graves but move the family as well."

     "Not much family left, just one son that I know of, and I
guess he's not so old, but yeah, that's how I figure it. But
even he's gone now. Guess he realized he couldn't stop progress,
took his piece of the pie and cleared out. I went up to the old
homestead a few days ago and it looked even more deserted than
the last time I saw it." 

     "What brought you up there? Suspicious?"

     Gaines drove the winding road with casual care. "No reason.
Making the rounds. Pretty old house in its rustic way,
especially in the fall."  Mulder noticed the young ranger
chewing on his lip uneasily. "There is one other thing about
Rivera, but you probably know more than I do about that."

     "I know practically nothing about Rivera. The police report
is two and a half paragraphs and mostly a description of how the
body was found. Why should I know more."

     "The CIA knows more."

     Mulder's eyebrows raised every so slightly. "You may be
surprised to find out that the Bureau and the boys from across
the river don't talk much."

     Cliff grinned, relaxing a little. "Why should you guys be
any different from the rest of the government. Is that what
you're trying to tell me."

     "Exactly, so why don't you let me in on the CIA's little
secret."

     Cliff sobered. "I wasn't supposed to have heard. I was just
channel surfing on the CB the evening of the investigation and
I picked up part of a conversation between two of the agents.
They must have thought they were on a secure bandwidth."

     Mulder straightened, interested. Seeing he had the agent's
attention, Cliff went on. "It seems that Hamilton Rivera was not
only a scum developer but it sounded to me like he was also an
informant and the overwhelming theory was that he was 'dropped'
by one of those he informed on. I'm pretty certain the CIA knew
who that was."

     Mulder whistled soundlessly. "That would tend to explain
the lack of paperwork."

     Cliff glared at the highway. "Makes my blood boil that they
were willing to sell off our forest to be cut up by the likes of
him."

     "You think it was a payoff."

     "Doesn't it sound like it to you?"

     Mulder's chin sunk to his chest as he slumped in his seat.
It certainly did. 

     This news was like coffin nails. All possible connections
to the Hillendale Hunter were going through his fingers like
smoke. He would check Rivera's informant status with the
Bureau's CIA liaison but it all made sense. It explained the
man's death by simple gunshot wound and the lack of torture. The
CIA probably put the case under wraps immediately, not only to
protect whatever investigation was going on but also to hide
their use of public land as their own private bank. Then, of
course, an unsolved murder so near Camp David would, all by
itself, certainly put a damper on the high level international
negotiations that often went on here. Another good reason to
keep it quiet.

     Mulder had come here because many of the elements that
distinguished the Hunter's crimes fit with this location
including Scully's water and soil reports, but then, there were
two other sites on Danny's list of which he could say much the
same. Also, assuming this was the Hillendale Hunter's home base,
why hadn't he made use of Camp David to call attention to his
grievance? Why drive all the way to Washington D.C., an hour and
a half away? 

     Head aching, Mulder rubbed the bridge of his nose. Noticing
that his visitor had ceased to look at the landscape, Gaines
headed back towards the Ranger Station by the Visitor's Center.
"Want to tell me what you're looking for? Maybe something else
will come to mind."

     Mulder realized that he didn't know what he was looking for
any more. His tired mind seemed to be going in circles. The only
reason he'd come up here was to get some information which might
support a theory that the Hunter was tormented over having let
Rivera die too easily, thus the continuing and escalating
violence. It was also the only theory Mulder had come up with so
far which would have included Rivera as one of the Hunter's
victims. Despite the CIA connection, Mulder realized he still
couldn't prove or disprove that theory on what he'd learned so
far. He would need to dig some more. It would make him even more
late getting back that he would be already. Scully would be
fuming. 

     Uncharacteristically, Mulder realized that he missed her
presence as a sounding board and wished she were here. Well,
Gaines seemed like a bright guy. He'd just have to do for the
time being.

     "What I need more than anything right now is a sandwich and
a warm spot in the sun."

     Gaines deftly negotiated a hairpin curve and gestured
towards the robin's-egg blue sky. "The sun's free for the taking
and the sandwich I can help you with."

End of Chapter 13


Chapter 14

Fredrick County, MD. 
Friday, Noon

     Two hours after finding Mulder's e-mail, Dana was flying up
Interstate 270 towards Fredrick, Maryland screaming at the top
of her lungs. "You idiot! You blind, stupid fool! Does Trouble
only need to get a whiff of you to come running. Can't you ever
go smell the flowers some place safe!" 

     Calm down, calm down, she told herself though it didn't
help. She could feel her blood pressure climbing. It was not as
if it were Mulder's fault, not this time. 
     
     Dana had come back from Mulder's apartment and settled down
to compare what she had found on his table at home with the
copies of his query output from the morning. As expected, she
quickly found the missing newspaper article, the one Mulder must
have with him. The story, more of an editorial, was in a small
Fredrick paper. It concerned rural development, the encroachment
upon the pastoral landscape by acres and acres of three hundred
thousand dollar, nearly-identical brick-front colonials. These
monsters were about all anyone in the DC area was buying or
building any more.

     Though not happy, Dana was much relieved. Frederick County
was just north of Montgomery County, which was just north of the
District, which meant so was Mulder. Not so far away, therefore,
and not a bad part of the country. Dana could think of much,
much worse places in the Washington-Baltimore area for Mulder to
have gone. The bad news was that Mulder had still taken off
without informing her and without back up. The only ray of
sunshine in that was, insofar as Mulder had worked without a
partner for so long, this little omission might be overlooked by
Benchley if not by her. And certainly no one could fault his
intentions. Mulder was simply following a good, solid lead.
There hadn't been the slightest hint from him that any of the
tortured deaths were related to alien experimentation. To Dana's
relief, he clearly had not weirded out in front of Danny,
either. He'd even taken the time to make himself presentable.
After yesterday in Mulder-land, this was close to normality
personified.

     Dana's bright mood faded when she took the time to really
think about the scantiness of the photocopied report she held in
her hand. A murder in Frederick County, a stone's throw from
Camp David, with so little documentation? Of course, there was
no mention of Camp David in the report, but Dana knew where it
was. On a family getaway when she was, maybe, twelve, her father
had proudly pointed out to her and her siblings the unmarked
side road and explained its significance. Just inside the east
entrance to the park, it was guarded with unprepossessing but
heavy gates. Needing more information on the old murder, Dana
had dug a little deeper into the report's origin and found the
name of the principle investigator. Jackson Hanner. 

     Jackson Hanner was a name that Dana knew but Mulder clearly
had not. Jackson had been in Dana's graduating class at the
Academy, and his expertise and his passion even then had been
the Mafia. The man had a personal gripe. A great-grandfather had
been executed by the mob years before. As far as Dana knew,
Jackson had not changed his chosen field of expertise. So why
was his name attached to this particular murder investigation?

     A call to Jackson confirmed Dana's worst fears. 

     "Jackson? It's Dana Scully."

     "Dana Scully? Talk about a blast from the past. We may not
run around in the same circles any more but I hear about you.
You're practically a legend in forensics."

     "Enough already, Jack. You're not trying to gain points in
order to get me to accept you as my date for the senior prom. 
You still going head to head with our Italian friends?"

     "Up to my concrete overshoes, why?"

     "There's a case, a murder, Hamilton Rivera with your name
on it as Agent-in-Charge."
     
     Silence at the end of the line. "I don't recall -"

     "Frederick Country, Catoctin Mountain Park, *Camp David*?"
Dana prodded.

     "Oh, yeah, that one. Nothing much to it," the man on the
phone said matter-of-factly. A little too matter-of-factly.

     Dana said the next through gritted teeth. "That's just my
problem. There's very little information here. What gives? Why
were you involved?"

     Hesitation. "Dana, this is ongoing. I'm not really at
liberty to say."

     "Jack, I need to know! We both have the same boss, so
give." 
     
     "Not in this case, we don't. It was taken from me."

     "By who?"

     "Dana, you said it yourself. Camp David... The Spooks..."

     For a moment Dana thought he meant Mulder somehow until she
caught the plural and even then some of Mulder's ghosts came to
mind before the government's more etherial intelligence
operatives.

     "The CIA? Jack you track down the Mafia. Mafia, crime, FBI?
Remember?" 

     "All right. Rivera was one of my sneaks... but he was also
one of theirs. The man picked up pocket change wherever he
could."

     Now things were beginning to make sense, some horrible
sense. "Okay, not unheard of. So the CIA's interests take
precedence and they told you to lie low with your investigation
until, or if, they give you the go ahead. Do I have that right."

     "Just about. Dana, what's wrong. Is this bad for you? Why
all the questions?"

     "How deep was Rivera?"

     "Not deep, Dana. I don't even think he was doing much for
the Agency. Just a lot of promises. Rivera was minnow mob, Dana.
That's my opinion. And since he wasn't killed during the
execution of any crime and no cop that we know of killed him,
chances are the larger mob fish did. Even if the CIA guys hadn't
asked me to lie low, Rivera would be at the bottom of my list.
He's just not that important. If the mob wants him wiped for
keeping back more than his share or dropping hints where he
shouldn't, that's the way it goes. So how's this a problem for
you?"

     Dana felt her blood pressure begin climbing. "Jack, the
report wasn't tagged 'hands off'!"

     "Overlooked, I guess. I give those sorts of things to the
office staff - " 
     
     "Shit, Jack! My new partner's picked this thing up and he's
out in Frederick turning over rocks. If he turns over one with
the Mafia's name on it and gets his fool head blown off, I'm
holding you and your little secretarial pool personally
responsible!" 

     With that she had slammed down the phone and all the
screaming hadn't made her feel one bit better. Mulder was still
out there, not knowing that what he was really dealing with was
a guy who was part mobster and could be part spy. At the moment,
whether Rivera had anything to do with the current case was
irrelevant.

     Tread softly, Mulder, Dana prayed. The problem was, Mulder
didn't know how to tread softly, even when he knew he should and
this time he didn't. And where there was smoke - well, Dana was
almost sure that there she'd find her wayward partner.

     "One of these days, Mulder...." One of these days what? she
wondered. One of these days he was going to walk into something
she wasn't going to be able to get him out of.



     Frustrated, Dana found herself shadowing Mulder's trail the
rest of that morning and into the early afternoon. She requested
the same land surveys, looked at the same issues of the
Frederick Flyer at the county library, even talked to the same
sergeant at the police station who had handled the local part of
Rivera's murder investigation. 

     "I'll tell you what I told Agent - what was it? - Mulder,"
the big man behind the desk told her. "The body was found in the
park and so it was Federal business. Isn't that something you
should know?"

     <But the FBI wasn't called in,> Dana said to herself then
made a hasty correction. But they were. Jack Hanner was called
in. The crew from 'The Camp' took it over only later.

     "The Bureau's a big place," Dana apologized. "I would just
like to know what you told Agent Mulder."

     "Well, he was interested in everything I had on the case
that hadn't been sent to Washington which wasn't much. The he
asked to see where the body was found. I sent him along to the
Ranger's station in the park."

     Thirty minutes later Dana was driving the Park's winding
roads, one hand on the steering wheel, the other trying to
manipulate the map she was given at the entrance. Almost there.
It was a golden, sun-washed fall afternoon. What Dana was hoping
for was that she'd see the FBI car Mulder had requisitioned
parked in front of the Ranger Station, or find him on his hands
and knees going over the old crime scene. And what if she did?
Should she upbraid him for taking off here with only an e-mail
to let her know what he was up to? In his defense he was a
senior agent, after all, and when you investigate you don't
necessarily know where that investigation will lead. Besides, he
was assigned to this case. No, the real problem was that he had
turned off his cell phone, giving her no way to get in touch
with him, no way to draw him back. Dana allowed herself an
aggrieved smile. As if telling Fox Mulder anything could change
him.

     What pained her was knowing how furious Benchley and
Skinner and the rest of the team were going to be - at Mulder
for going off and at her for letting him.

      Less than five minutes later Dana was trotting up the
worn, plank steps of the Ranger Station. She knocked briefly on
the door before going in.

     Ranger Cliff Gaines was a pleasant young man who reminded
Dana of many of the aimless young men Dana had known in college,
only this one had clearly found a home and a career along the
way and the life pleased him. His cabin office behind the park's
Visitor's Center had a bachelor's rustic charm. His surprise
over being visited by more than one FBI agent in a day was
genuine.  

     "Agent Mulder? Sure, I saw him today. I showed him where
Rivera's body was found, but, as you can see, he's gone now."

     Dana took a long, deep breath.  "How long ago did Agent
Mulder leave?"

     "About an hour."
 
     "Did he say where he was going?"

     "No..." There was a rising inflection to his voice as if he
knew there was more. The young ranger had excellent instincts.
She had told him she was Mulder's partner. It had immediately
occurred to him that she should not have to ask where her
partner was.

     Dana realized at that point that she didn't know how to go
on from here. The questions she wanted to ask felt odd on her
tongue. Like drawing Danny out to ask how Mulder had seemed,
what she wanted to ask Gaines felt too personal, nearly a
betrayal on her part, but her choices were limited. The plan she
had put into action before she left that morning might appease
Skinner and Benchley but not for long. They would begin burning
up the phone lines any time now and she needed to have some news
for them. To say she knew where Mulder was would be helpful but
it would be better from them both to have him in hand.

     "Agent Scully?" Gaines asked. "Can I help you?"

     Dana realized that the young Ranger had been trying to get
her attention for some time. His instincts *were* good. He was
certain now that there was something wrong.

     "What did you talk about? Not just about the case but
everything. Mulder can pick up on the tiniest clue."

     The young man's brow creased. "We talked about the Park,
it's history." Dana nodded. "We talked about trucks."

     <Trucks?>

     "We talked about land usage..."

     The young man went on for a while about Rivera's activities
and the legions of locals who disliked him. 
     
     "Is there a problem?" he asked.

     Dana quickly shook her head. "Not what you think. Just a
precaution. Agent Mulder hasn't reported in in a while and he's
been under a lot of - stress."

       The set of the ranger's shoulders which had tightened at
the possibility of trouble, visibly relaxed. Gaines rubbed what
Dana thought was a nicely masculine jaw. "I know what you mean.
If ever I saw a man who needed to talk to a few trees...."
Gaines gestured toward a bag on his desk which had 'Tippy's
Tacos' printed on it. "After I showed him where Rivera was
found, we went and got some lunch. He ate a burrito here, we
talked a little about the Washington Redskins and then he took
the leftovers and drove off."

     "Did he seem disturbed by what he'd learned," Dana asked,
"or in a hurry."

     "No. Fact is, he seemed to find very little of real
interest here. Wait, I remember now. He said something about
wanting some sun more than once. I think more than anything he
went in search of a few rays."

     Head spinning, Dana stared out the office window. The
parking lot in front of the Visitor's Center was awash in golden
sunshine.

     Mulder went off to catch a few rays? Mulder, who seemed to
spend his every waking moment reading in dank basements, locked
in darkened rooms, lost in the fog, or chasing who-knows-what
under dripping branches of old growth forests? Would the man
never cease to amaze her?

     The problem with the ranger's information, however, was
that Mulder could get sun anywhere on a day like this. "Any
particular idea of where he might have gone, someplace you might
have mentioned?" she asked without hope.

     Gaines thought; it seemed almost painful. Finally he spoke
but with hesitation as if this were the only thing he could
think of. "I talked about the old Amos place, that it was a
pretty place in a rustic sort of way, and hinted that I go there
sometimes."

     "Amos place?"

     "A local who didn't care for Rivera or what his kind wanted
to do to the county. His family has had land enfolded by the
park for generations but they were allowed to stay on until
recently. The last member of the family cleared out weeks ago,
however."

     Dana considered. Mulder checking out a place only because
it was pretty? Mulder as a Romantic in the sense of the
romantics of the Romantic Age? The bucolic beauties of the
pastoral countryside and all that? Not what Dana would have
expected, but then there were depths and depths to Mulder she
was just beginning to suspect, and she knew his emotions were
strong. It make him a good investigator and, to his despair,
almost the perfect profiler. No, she couldn't see Mulder taking
in the sites just for pleasure; but she could see him perhaps
mixing business with pleasure. His psyche could be
subconsciously seeking some much-needed downtime. 

     Dana leaned over the Ranger's desk where there was
displayed a detailed map of the park under glass. "Show me
where."
     
     They were still looking over the map when the phone on the
Ranger's desk rang. He listened for a moment then put his caller
on hold. "Sorry, seems we have fender bender in the park.
Anything else you need from me? I have to deal with this."

     Dan shook her head, thanked the young man for his time and
left him to managing his traffic accident. At least she had a
possible direction.


     As Dana headed back to her car she had to force herself to
stop, to smell the leaves and the pine, to see the rustic
Visitor's Center and the forest and hills beyond, to feel the
sun on her face, to hear the breeze in the trees.  She found
herself understanding why Mulder wanted to linger. It was so -
peaceful. No traffic. No click...click ... click of the keyboard
or ringing of phones. No whir of blowers in the air vents.
Instead, cool air rustled her hair. 

     So Mulder had been fine up until an hour ago. Dana felt her
muscles relax. How much trouble could he get into in an hour? If
she had driven all the way out here to find him asleep in the
bracken with taco sauce on his shirt, well... well, she might
just have to kiss him which was the only thing she could think
of which might get his attention more completely than trying to
wring his neck. 

     Dana yawned. It had been a short night - no, two short
nights. Maybe she'd just join him for a nap in the fall sun. Not
such an unpleasant prospect. But before naps of any kind, she
had to find him and then she had to call Benchley and Skinner.

                        * * * * * * * *

     Following Ranger Gaines's directions, Dana found the car
Mulder had requisitioned from the Bureau carpool. It was hard to
miss - it looked exactly like the one she was driving. Parking
beside it, she stepped out onto gravel then felt the hood. Cool
to the touch. Mulder had parked in the shade, trying to keep the
vehicle out of sight, but still he had to have been gone some
time. She debated taking no action at all and just waiting. He
had to come back sometime. She was concerned that if she went
looking she might miss him coming back from wherever he'd gone.
With a wicked grin Dana reparked her car, blocking his. Mulder
could be as distracted by nature now as he wanted, but he
wouldn't get away from her this time. By the make, color and
license plate prefix, Dana knew that he would be able to make a
pretty good guess as to who had tracked him down.
 
     Where both agents had parked was at the end of an abandoned
gravel road which was largely weeded over. No, not a road. This
had once been a private drive. Through the heavy woods that had
grown up to clog what had once been a yard, Dana could just make
out the grayish gable of a house.
     
     Pushing aside drooping branches, Dana got her first clear
view. So this was the old Amos homestead Gaines had mentioned.
It was romantic in a down-on-its-heels sort of way, Dana
thought, but more likely haunted than a country retreat for a
serial killer. Hmmm... Maybe that explained Mulder's lingering
here so long. Just the suggestion of spiritual apparitions would
capture Mulder's attention far more completely than the place's
picturesque qualities.

     The Amos house was a frame structure. Most of its paint was
long gone, though from the remaining flakes, it used to be
white. It sat weatherworn amidst the overgrowth, easily more
than a hundred years old. Some of the wooden front steps were
broken and the roof over the porch sagged dangerously. Dana
spent the next half hour investigating the house, cellar and
outbuildings. It was good practice if nothing else, and she
honestly liked old places. It infused her with a sense of the
past, of history. The cellar under the house had an earth floor.
There was a pantry off the kitchen, though its battered shelves
were empty of everything but the dust and cobwebs. Dana could
almost imagine row upon row of 'Ball' jars filled with beans and
sweet and sour pickles, tomatoes and peaches. The whole place
exuded a sad air of misuse and neglect. The house was scantily
furnished with bits and pieces long past their useful life span.
There were some iron beds with ancient mattresses showing
decades of use, the imprint of the bodies of their owners still
apparent. Some were already nests for squirrels and mice. There
were working fireplaces and a relic of a small coal-burning
stove. Old newspapers and plastic bags had been stuffed into
cracks in the walls and under doors to keep out drafts. These
were nineteen fifties era kitchen appliances which were more
rust than enamel. Amazingly enough, they looked like they had
worked until recently.

     Dana had seen people live in worse places, but still this
was pretty bad. The clothes that were left were little more than
rags. Everything else was junk. Bleak and barren as it was, the
house still had the appearance of a place that could have been
inhabited only a few weeks before.

     A smallish barn showed signs of having once been home for
a few cows. A small warning bell went off in Dana's head, which
she hastened to suppress. The majority of people who lived on
farms probably had at least one cow. On one wall above the feed
bins had been hung a dusty courtesy calendar from a hardware
store. 'September' featured the picture of a grasshopper-green
combine sitting amidst a field of yellow wheat. The calendar was
out of date by more than two years.

     The only high point to Dana's investigation was the
discovery of a smokehouse which had that rich, oily, smoky scent
that indicated that it had been used for its intended purpose
frequently. How long ago Dana couldn't guess, for smoke is
tenacious stuff. The hooks for the meat were still there, as
well as the fire pit and smoke hole.

     As she went from room to room and outbuilding to
outbuilding, Dana's senses were on alert for any sound. She
heard only the soothing chirping of birds and the occasional
honk from a flock of Canadian geese heading south. A tiny dust
devil rustled the dried, Fall leaves. No sound of Mulder
returning. As she stood in the center of the yard, the sunny,
golden air blew gently around her feet. The breeze was warm and
moist, almost balmy. Indian summer.

     Barely suppressing a yawn, Dana leaned against a pile of
firewood over which weeds were slowly advancing. Mulder had been
here and had seen much that she had. A man's large foot prints -
 dress shoes, neither boots nor athletic shoes - were visible on
more than one dusty floorboard.  Had Mulder become as spell-
bound by the day as she found herself becoming? Had he then gone
off some place close by to catch his forty winks in the sun?
Mulder certainly deserved the peace but she resented his taking
such actions without giving her some advanced warning. She had
noticed his cellular on the passenger seat of his car. The
incoming calls switch had been set to the 'off' position.

     A lot of good an eternally silent cellular was - unless you
didn't want to be reached. At almost a saunter, Dana toured the
perimeter of what had once been the yard, her low heels sinking
into the soft loam of decades of fallen leaves. 

     That was when Dana found the path. The branches of rows of
close-set pines hung so low that she nearly missed it. The path,
beginning under the trees, was so narrow for the first fifty
yards that it could have been an animal trail. Gradually, it
widened. The path may once have been eight feet wide or more,
though over time the forest had encroached till it was hardly
wide enough in spots now for two people to walk abreast.

     As she followed the new track, Dana sensed a familiarity.
Having visited her grandfather's farm as a child, it seemed to
be a wagon road. Most likely, it led to an outlying field. At
the end Dana expected to find a barn for storing fodder, the old
straw now molding into dust, and a shed for animals long gone.
Oh, yes, and Mulder, sitting and communing with the bees and the
theories in his head and chewing on a piece of straw. She
expected nothing more.

End of chapter 14

     
Chapter 15
Amos homestead
1 p.m.

     Perched on the very top of the woodpile, Mulder let the sun
soak into his pale skin as he studied the various buildings that
made up the Amos homestead. It was the same woodpile Dana would
pause beside forty-five minutes later, but he had no way of
knowing that. At an unusually leisurely pace, he chewed on the
Burrito Grande which had been leftover from lunch and drank most
of a can of Coke. His investigation of the Amos farm had been
singularly uninteresting except for this vague tingle of
foreboding across the back of his neck. Lots of vegetation,
years of neglect, acres of rust and peeling paint. No sign of a
crime. This was not the place where the Hunter executed his
victims. It was just as well that it wasn't because, despite
what Scully probably believed, he did not enjoy walking into hot
spots with his back unprotected. Not that he would mind finding
the Hunter's lair. He would call in the location, wait for
backup - lots of backup - and then this case would be over. His
dues would be paid - at least they would be until another horror
held up its bloody hands and VC found their heads up their asses
again. 

     Enough. Mulder sighed wearily. Let the future take care of
itself. The present was bad enough. His mind was tired of
dwelling upon these particular deaths. The ghosts of the eight
victims were restless.

     Abruptly, Mulder wadded up the waxed paper wrapping from
the Burrito and only barely resisted the impulse to slam dunk
the wad through the remains of an ancient basketball hoop. The
ring of metal swung creaking on loose nails and rotted wood from
a shell of a building that had once served as a garage. The
shadow of the hoop fell at only a slight angle across the gray
wall. As the Mid-Atlantic states were still under Daylight
Savings Time, that made it about noon, and he had promised in
his e-mail to be back by noon. Maybe he could plead that he had
meant 'noon-ish'. 

     With irritation he stuffed the ball of trash into his
jacket pocket and started walking again. It was a purposeful
walk and not nearly as 'twitchy' as he had been when he started
that morning. This little jaunt had largely been an excuse to
get away from prying eyes. The fact that his normal level of
restlessness had returned was a sign that a good measure of his
mental equilibrium had returned. All was not well, however. Now
his conscience was bothering him. He should not have run out on
his partner, e-mail or not. He had taken advantage of her not
knowing him very well yet. Dana certainly didn't know how he
could be on a case like this - despondent and craving solitude
one minute, demandingly imperial towards the rest of the team
the next. If it were found out that she'd lost him, she'd get
into all sorts of trouble with Benchley. He didn't want that. He
had given her enough of a scare over Ellens. 

     Absently he rubbed a spot high on his forehead over his
right eye. He'd been doing that a lot since Ellens. It was like
there was an itch deep under the skull he couldn't reach to
scratch. Distantly, he wondered if Dana had been right. She had
wanted him admitted for a neurology evaluation which, of course,
he had refused. He'd stumbled into something he shouldn't. If
what they had done to him could be detected by as simple a thing
as an MRI, then his life wouldn't be worth much. Next time they
wouldn't stop at a little mental housecleaning.

     As he prowled the grounds, making a final sweep of the
perimeter, he realized he'd thought of Scully as 'Dana' twice
during the last few minutes. Not a good idea. He must be tired.
He couldn't let that sort of thing become a habit. That would
ruin everything. This was his first chance in a long, long time
of finding a partner who would not only last, but who could make
a real contribution to his work, even if where they started from
and usually ended differed wildly. At least during a significant
amount of the time in between they were on the hunt together.
The last thing either of them needed was for him to start
thinking of turning that little bundle of guts and brains into
something more than his partner. Their lives were complicated
enough. Besides, she wasn't his type - not the tall, leggy,
dark-haired seductress he thought of as his type. Not that that
kind of thinking had won him any kind of stable relationship. A
night, maybe two. On rare occasions, a week of nights. When they
started asking what kinds of cases he worked on, or started
reading the titles on the scores of abduction theory books he
kept in his bookshelf in his apartment, then he knew he might as
well throw the sheets in the wash and head back to his couch.
Though only a double, Mulder found his bed just too big and
lonely for one. 

     So disillusioned had he become by the dating scene over the
last year, that Mulder had largely given up. The few Washington
women he had met who were interested in a long term relationship
liked their potential candidates tall, lean, handsome,
financially sound, professionally successful and proficient in
their sexuality. On a scale from one to ten he'd rank about a
five. At a stretch, maybe a six. Above all, they didn't like the
secure, career-centered view of their world challenged. Oh, yes,
and the man had to be available to call and flatter at frequent
and regular intervals. Mulder's attention span just didn't run
that way and certainly his long hours on the job, and unexpected
days of silence as he was off chasing phantoms, had led to more
than one door being slammed in his face upon his return.

     Receptive to just about anything which would divert of mind
from these dismal musings, Mulder's attention was caught by what
looked like a narrow trail that led under a row of old scrubby
pines. Absently, he pushed that persistent lock of hair out of
his eyes. Eager to complete his overview of the place, he had
passed up investigating this before. Now he stooped under the
lowest branch and began striding down the narrow track that ran
through an area of high brush.
 
     His mind hadn't entirely finished its gloomy review of his
personal life, however. To hell with so many of the women he had
met and their preconceived ideas!  Shaking his read, he rubbed
his tired eyes. He was being unfair and knew it. While he was at
it, he'd better damn himself as well. Once the afterglow from
the sex faded, he usually felt like shit. Either he had his
companions or they had used him. Usually both. That made him
feel like some young stallion who - though paraded out with
flags flying - in the end never quite passes muster. 

     There must be something in the genes, in his temperament.
Something that could never be satisfied.

     The brush rose thicker and higher than his head for a
moment, which narrowed the path further. He thought he'd come to
the end when suddenly the track widened to the width of nearly
five feet. He was only a stone's throw from the cleared space
where he'd parked his car, though approached from a different
direction. The track turned and went on. He'd wander this way
for just a few more minutes and settle the burrito, which was
sitting a little bit too much like a lead brick in his stomach
and then he'd start back. 

     This would mean that he'd be even later now. Scully would
be furious. Scully would be furious anyway. It was refreshing
really. No games with her. A man knew where he stood. That
wasn't true with most people, especially women in Mulder's
surprisingly limited experience. Maybe he should think about
reconsidering what he really found attractive in a woman. He
wasn't stupid. He knew that body type only triggered the initial
attraction. Long term, boredom usually set in. Now a woman like
Dana Scully - outspoken, tough, with spirit and brains - she'd
be a challenge but then maybe he wouldn't tire of her so
quickly. As important, maybe she'd have the depth to look beyond
his face and his ass and see the ache inside. 

     His mind worked to come up with women he had known like
that. The image of Phoebe came to his mind first. No, there was
something missing from the profile. Add to the mix an innate
measure of kindness and fairness. With that addition the devil
Phoebe vanished from consideration without a trace. What others?
An army widow who had nearly adopted him when he was new and
alone at Oxford. A few female professors and instructors though
there had never been anything romantic between them. A couple of
exceptional VC agents - now there was some scary, aggressive
women - but they had not been interested in a relationship with
anyone as fucked up as Spooky Mulder. Finally there was Scully.

     So she was petite and he'd always been attracted to tall
women. Though the memories came back bathed in mist, he could
still recall the way she held the gun on, of all people, a
military security officer at front of the gates of Ellen's Air
Force Base. He hadn't recognized her at first, but then he
didn't recognize his own face in the mirror for the next forty-
eight hours either. More clearly he could saw her fighting
Tooms, looking like she had lasted five rounds with the guy but
willing to take on another five. Whatever was necessary for the
job, she would do. And yet her hands, her voice, had been so
concerned and so gentle as she examined the beast woman's wound
across his ribs in the rotting basement of the abandoned
warehouse. From the night before, he saw again the intense, yet
vulnerable form, huddled under a blanket as she waited for him
to struggle up from the nightmare.

     Was it possible? A red-headed powerhouse like her and
Spooky Mulder? He wondered if she would consider...? No. Not,
now. Not anytime soon. Don't blow this. Still, someday, maybe.

     The path had widened to an old dirt and gravel road. He
continued walking, keeping to the shadows out of habit. He
didn't know what he hoped to find here or how long it would
take. All he was certain of was that it was well past time that
he was gone. If he had his cellular, he'd call her now, but it
was in a car. A flash of acute embarrassment started a flush of
warmth across his face. He'd left the instrument behind
intentionally and he knew it. Like skipping town, a little act
of defiance. How juvenile. In the line of work he'd chosen, how
irresponsible. No, idiotic described it better. 

     He would turn back; there was nothing here. First, however,
he stepped out of the shade, lifted his face to the sun and
breathed in the rich, cool air so full of the smells of fallen
leaves and pine and earth.

     Was he finally ready? It was true - he did feel calmer -
centered and balanced. He could face them all now. Even his soul
seemed lighter, which was pretty amazing considering what a
weary weight it usually was. The twist of tension that had risen
too many notches over his baseline during the last week - which
even in normal times was pretty damn high - had relaxed. Maybe
with Scully's help and her willing ear he could get through the
rest of this case without going 'Spooky' again. That would be a
feat. That would be very good.

     It was in turning that he saw a block of whitened concrete
just beyond the edge of the road. It was nearly hidden by the
lowering branches of a dogwood. It caught his eye for, other
than the road itself and a few ancient fence posts, it was the
first man-made object he had seen since leaving the Amos farm.
He drifted without concern to the opposite side of the track. He
felt no need for stealth particularly. Since parking, he had
heard not a single unexpected sound, nor seen anything
suspicious. Nearer now, the shape clearly extended further into
the shadows under the trees than he had thought at first. It was
about three feet high and four long but only about a foot wide.
At one time it might have been used as a trough for watering
livestock. Even now it held what seemed to be six to eight
inches of greenish, golden rain water. The pigment came from the
fallen leaves that had sunk beneath its surface. The slight
growth of algae stain on the inner sides just above the water
line was most likely left over from warmer summer days. 

     As he studied the sheen of water within, Mulder was
conscious that his hand was still greasy from the rumpled
burrito wrapper which he'd stashed in his pocket. He'd wash off
his hands then start back to take his medicine from Skinner and
Benchley - and Scully. It didn't phase him what the others
thought, only Scully. He hoped she would understand his
disappearing act. He had just needed ... some peace.

     The water was cold as one would expect from late October
with its cool nights and, as is the nature of grease, it
wouldn't simply rinse away. He needed something to wipe his hand
on and the last thing he wanted to use was his suit. He was
fairly certain it was his last clean one and he'd need at least
something presentable to wear when he went to stand before
Benchley and Skinner. 
     
     That was when Mulder noticed a stiff, dirty rag, the size
of a large wash cloth, lying across the edge of the trough. Torn
and full of holes, its colors faded where the dirt was less, it
gave the impression of having been laying just so for years. At
least one edge was fairly clean. Without thinking, he picked it
up and dipped the cleanest end in the water. As he pulled it out
of the trough, however, it dripped.  Nothing unusual about that
except that the drop as it fell onto the sun-bleached concrete
made a wet spot that wasn't brown like mud, but rather red. More
like... blood.

     Every muscle in Mulder's body went rigid and that nasty
warning tingle in the back of his neck spread until if felt as
if half his back were being attacked by a swarm of tiny bees.
The distant possibility that this place might be tied up with
the Hunter case had with that one drop become a horrible
probability. The sensation was almost physical as the hooks of
his training fell into place. Without conscious thought his hand
reached to his hip for his weapon. In a matter of seconds his
brain had performed its analysis and even composed the report -
yes, the cloth had been dry, but dried blood that had been out
in the elements under the sun for very long would never have
liquified so easily. This cloth could have laid here two or
three days at the most. 

     Colonel Matthew Borderbank, Victim Eight, retired army
chaplain, had lost the argument for his life two days before.

     Shit...shit...shit...shit...

     For ghosts, aliens, governments conspiracies, mutants, even
beast women Mulder would walk in alone without a qualm, but now?
His body screamed at him to leave...NOW!... to let somebody know
where he was. For he was very acutely aware at that moment that
no one did. He had not even told Ranger Gaines where he was
going. His life could be in danger here; but, more importantly,
innocent people who had no idea how to protect themselves would
die in the weeks to come if he failed to get this information
back. Above all, he had to be careful about how he went about
retracing his steps. To be caught now, even to be seen could
jeapordize everything. It was critical that he not raise the
suspicions of anyone here - if there was anyone here - otherwise
when he did return with backup the suspect would be gone and
would not be as easy to catch again.

     As the adrenaline pumped through his veins, Mulder felt his
senses expand. It was a rush he liked. At times like this he
felt that if he tried hard enough he could even hear water
evaporating. Agents were trained to be that confident. You had
to be or you couldn't act. In this case, the correct action
meant none at all. He simply crouched slightly and, like his
feral namesake, stretched out his senses into the world. 

     Wind. Leaves rustling, a few insects. The smell of leaves
and stagnant water and earth.  A few birds flew overhead. The
sun was just as warm as before but no longer friendly. Now it
was an ominous spotlight, of no use other than to draw attention
to him standing exposed on the road like he was. That had to
change. Carefully, he stepped under the dogwood so he was behind
the trough. After long minutes he heard a new noise - a hollow
almost drumlike sound. Was that a branch falling? A woodpecker?
Or was that a foot scraping along a wooden step?

     Mulder swiveled his head towards the sound. That was the
only part of his body that moved. As the breeze stirred the
branches of tree and brush and their remaining leaves, he
blinked. Had he seen...? Damn... He waited. The wind took its
time but finally the dense growth in front of his eyes was
pushed aside again, this time with a stronger breath of wind. He
only had a view for a second but it was enough for the image to
emblazon itself on his mind. 

     There was *another* house here. Another farm. This one
smaller and far, far older. The house, a cabin really, was tiny,
having no more than one or two rooms. He could make out the
square forms of the logs that formed its walls and the pale
caulking between. It was that old. In addition to the house and
at least three crumbling outbuildings which were little more
than rotten lumber, there was a larger building which had been
a barn once but was largely in ruins now. Unpainted for perhaps
as long as a century - if they had ever been painted - the
buildings melded into the forest like something grown rather
than anything made by human hands. In the open space between
cabin and barn was a great, solitary oak. A matriarch of trees.
Its wide-spread, ancient branches stretched nearly from the
cabin on one side to the remains of the barn on the other. 

     The picture burned one impression more than any other into
Mulder's mind - how different this yard was from that of the
newer farm which was so overgrown. Here, the ground was well
trodden and seemed to have been cleared. There weren't even any
downed branches which always happens with trees as old as the
grandmother oak. In other words, despite its age and the
deplorable condition of its buildings, this ancient homestead
gave every impression of having been inhabited more recently
than the more modern one closer to the main road. 

     The question was how recently.

     The wind blew again, pushing the branches aside only from
a slightly different direction this time. An old rocking chair
sat outside the front door of the cabin almost under the
branches of the mammoth tree. There was nothing especially
unusual about that except that it was rocking slightly as if
someone had been sitting there and only seconds before gotten up
and walked away.

                        * * * * * * * *

     What had started out as a narrow path meandering off
between a thick planting of pines yielded more than Dana could
have hoped as the path widened. The rains had come the night
before heavy enough so that prints showed clearly on the
softened ground. 

     But she wasn't studying the prints of deer or dog. Only
humans wear shoes.

     Dana noted how the tracks kept to the side of the road
which would have been shaded even a hour before. All headed away
from the Amos farm, which meant that whoever took this path had
not returned. Their maker had not worn boots or athletic shoes,
either, but a man's dress shoes, shoes like the ones Dana had
taken off Mulder's feet as he slept on her couch the evening
before. To Dana's eyes they were slender for their length, like
their owner. Had to be Mulder. 

     So Mulder had come this way, moving carefully. Leave it to
Mulder to find a reason to be paranoid out here in the middle of
sleepy nowhere.

     Dana picked up her pace, keeping her eyes on the tracks to
make certain they didn't veer off into the woods. Sweating, Dana
shed her trench coat, folding it over her arm. The section of
road where Mulder had walked in shade was now in full sun. She
moved as closely as she could to what shade remained but where
she could still keep her eyes on the tracks.
     
     Dana felt exposed and ridiculous wearing the shiny,
polyester outfit and not only because pink was not her color. It
certainly would never be the first choice of investigating
agents who were attempting in any way to be inconspicuous. Oh,
would her partner have something sarcastic to say about this. At
least there was no one out here to see except for Mulder and
maybe a few out-of-season hunters.  A rustle in at the side of
the road startled Dana to attention but it was only some animal.
She caught a flash of its pelt as it vanished under the trees.
At the thought of hunters - the day-glow vest and beer variety -
 Dana reconsidered her ambivalence towards her attire. Since
white-tailed deer don't wear pink any more than they wear day-
glow orange, her Aunt Bess' diverted gift might just keep her
from getting shot by some weekend Daniel Boone.

     The lack of sleep and the warm sun gave Dana almost a buzz,
and she found her thoughts wandering again to the evening
before. It had been so long since she had had one of Mulder's
species at her place - his species being young, single, good
looking and not any kind of a relation. Even more, he had eaten
there, showered there, slept on her couch and left his scent.
They had talked more than they had since the first night after
they had begun working together. Mosquito bites! Unexpectedly,
a little shiver ran down Dana's spine very close to where his
long, cool fingers had touched those welts so many weeks before.
Being cold had nothing to do with what she was feeling, but she
moved out into the sun again anyway.

     Time to turn her mind back to business. It was a safer
topic in any event. Dana checked her watch. She had been walking
for more than fifteen minutes. She should have come upon
something by now. In this area of the country the farms were
just not that large. At that moment Dana also realized that
Mulder's footprints had disappeared. A worm of fear wriggled in
her belly. She turned around, intending to retrace her path
until she picked up his again. She never had the opportunity.

                       ** * * * * * * *

     For ten minutes Mulder had stood unmoving behind the
concrete trough. In that time he'd seen nothing suspicious
except that the ancient rocking chair moved a little more in the
wind. The rocker bothered him. Did the rocker move the first
time because a person had just been sitting there or because an
extra strong breeze had touched it? Other than that, what did he
really have to report?  He could not be certain that the cloth -
 which he had wrapped between the relatively clean outside
layers of the burrito wrapper - was stained with blood. The
color could be from an unexpected deposit of red clay, or even
redwood stain, though the rag hadn't smelled like either.
Whatever it was, the lab people could determine if it were blood
or not quickly, but first he had to get it back to the office. 
All he had was a suspicion based on the juxtaposition of he and
Scully's new profile and opportunity. In this case the
opportunity was the land usage battle taking place on the
western boundary of Catoctin Park. That wasn't much. Considering
his behavior over the last few days, he needed more, a lot more.
Everyone on the team knew that on the bad days there was always
uncertainty about how much of what he saw and how many of the
people he talked to actually existed outside of his own head. 

     He also wanted to be right for Scully. Just having him for
a partner was embarrassment enough. Now she was going to be in
trouble for letting him out of her sight. It had been unfair of
him not to let her in on the rules related to the safeguarding
of Agent Mulder on a VC case. He had to prove to her and to
Skinner and to Benchley, even to Blevins, that her trust in him
had been well founded.  There was no doubt in Mulder's mind that
there would be occasions enough in the future to embarrass her
all over again. That made it all the more important that on this
occasion, when it was within his power, he owed it to her to get
it right.

     For the next twenty minutes he slowly circled the old
homestead, being careful to move when the wind blew so that the
natural sounds of bird and leaf would help cover his unnatural
ones. He saw no people, found no cars except for the rusted
remains of two buried deep in a thick patch of Virginia Creeper.
He saw no other roads though trails went off from time to time
like spokes from a wheel. Some - all - could be deer trails for
all he knew. He had, after all, lived most of his life on
Martha's Vineyard. Not many occasions to practice up on his
mountain man skills on a small island like that. Again and
again, the openness of the yard troubled him, though he found no
safe vantage point to see it well. A place of this age, which
had obviously been abandoned for some decades by the family for
the newer farm, should be at least as choked with vegetation as
the homestead off the main road.

      What he did see was a milk cow tethered to a bit of meadow
behind the remains of the barn. The significant of the cow and,
hence, fresh manure were not lost on Mulder. A well-tended
cemetery lay a few dozen yards inside the woods. Near what would
have been the barn's front door if it had had one, the hide of
a deer had been stretched out on a frame. From the leaves that
had blown up against the legs of the frame, Mulder guessed that
the deer had been killed weeks before, not days, but that really
said nothing about whether the hunter was here now. The obvious
skill of the individual who had dressed the kill provided more
than enough fuel for a renewed bout of violent itching between
his shoulder blades.

     Mulder should have been reassured that there was no working
vehicle and that the narrow, abandoned road he had walked down
showed no sign of having been driven on recently. The Hillendale
Hunter clearly had a car so maybe this wasn't his 'killing
place' after all. 

     But Mulder knew it wasn't as simple as that. He had not had
the time to follow more than a couple of the trails that he'd
seen near the cabin. Any of the ones he hadn't tried could lead
to a road coming towards the old homestead from an different
direction. 

     Slowly, Mulder turned full circle. Trouble could come from
too many possible directions. Give him a good residential house
to stalk any day - front door, back door. Simple. But this....
The itch had become a numbness. It were as if he were being
watched. The uneasy feeling was part of the instinct all good
law enforcement officers had. Correction: All *living* law
enforcement officers had. Mulder no longer worried about needing
sufficient evidence to convince the team. Neither Skinner nor
Benchley would totally disregard such a feeling even from him.
Besides, he had seen all he could safely. 

     Almost with relief, Mulder stepped as quietly as he could
from log to stone, evading the piles of fresh fallen leaves. The
important part was that he was moving away from cabin and ruined
barn, away from cow and deerskin, leaving behind grandmother oak
and the rocker that rocked alone in the wind. Once away he could
make plans. First, intersect the dirt road. Once safely outside
the range where anyone at the old farm could hear, he would make
like the high school track star he once had been and head for
his car. Call Scully. Apologize like hell and ask her to send
the Fredrick cops or whoever she could find quickly. Call Ranger
Gaines, let him know what was going on and, hopefully, get him
down here to assist in containing the scene until Scully's help
came. Two men weren't much of a stakeout when the suspect could
walk out of in any direction but two were twice as many as what
Mulder had right now.

      It was when he could finally see the road again just
beyond the next thin line of dogwood, scrub oak and
rhododendrons, that he heard the sound. Sliding behind a tree,
Mulder froze, holding his breath. Footsteps, undeniable this
time, were coming towards him up the dirt trail from the newer
farm. He crept forward keeping the bushes between him and the
road. His weapon, safety on, was out and lay alongside his leg.
The footsteps were very close now. Soft ones. A flash of color
assailed his eyes looking totally out of place in this autumn
world of greens and browns and golds. A column of brilliant,
unnatural pink. Pink? Quietly, he took the safety off and
crouched low, poised to go in fighting if he had to. 

     Searching for something at its feet, the owner of the
footsteps came into view. The figure stopped near the concrete
trough as if that something had been found. For a moment all
Mulder could do was stare.
            
End of Chapter 15

  
Chapter 16
Amos homestead
2 p.m. 
                               
     Scully was concentrating so completely on retracing her own
tracks in order to find Mulder's and then so pleased when she
found them that she nearly missed his first low call. His voice
was so soft and yet so intent that her name came out more like
a hiss. The second time she heard it clearly. Abruptly, she
turned her head, her mouth opening automatically when she saw
him rise into view from behind a thin screen of brush. 

     "Mul -" 

     The expression on his face silenced her. Stern warning over
all, a demand for caution. Maybe even a little fear. Not what
she had expected. Just to be certain the first finger of his
left hand was raised in front of his lips urging her to silence.
Urgently, he gestured her to a shadowed area under a low
overhanging tree a few steps away. Dana had known Mulder long
enough at this point that she didn't need to see his own weapon
come up beside his head to begin reaching for her own.

     She was too late. A figure appeared suddenly from behind
Mulder. Lean, brown and sturdy as a tree, the man was tall and
looked infinitely taller because of the club that was already
moving in a blindingly fast arc even before Dana could call out.
     
     "Mulder!" Her eyes were warning enough. Her partner lunged
but, unfortunately, he dipped and spun on the side that his
phantom attacker thought he would. The blunt end of the ax
handle was a blur, coming far too fast. Pain and light exploded
on the left side of Mulder's head. There was only that. No time,
no sense of self or space or earth or sky. He had no memory of
falling, only that suddenly there was world shattering pain,
dust in his mouth and something thick and warm and salty was
running down his face and over his hands. Somewhere in the dirt
and gravel he fought for consciousness. Scully... Scully...
Through rapidly darkening sight he saw that she had her weapon
in her hand but a big man, a very big man, still held the
swinging club. As the darkness closed in, Mulder could only
listen desperately for the sound of the shot from her gun. None
came. Instead her single shriek of agony followed him down into
the night.

                        * * * * * * * *
     
     Dana's long hours of training clicked in even before Mulder
was struck. Without needing to think, she brought up her weapon
and crouched to steady her stance. "Hold! Federal Agent!" she
heard her voice cry, depressingly weak in the wilderness. The
figure before her, however, was still in motion. The three foot
club of solid oak had been slowed only the tiniest bit by the
solid but glancing blow to the skin and bone and hair of
Mulder's skull. Now it came on as the weilder followed through.

     Dana realized too late that he had also adjusted its
trajectory. She realized too late that she should have fired
instantly, but then the focus of her career had been in trying
to understand death and thus prevent it. Besides, a tiny part of
her brain had refused to believe that he would not yield. After
all she had a gun and he did not.

     A split second later, the heavy Glock was ripped from her
hand taking a chunk of skin and maybe breaking a bone or two in
the process. 

     Involuntarily, Dana screamed clutching her arm. Even
through the red haze of pain, however, she was aware of Mulder
at her feet. He was lying face down in the blood splattered
dust, frighteningly still. Dana had no time for more than that
one glance. In the next instant she was aware of long, brown,
sinew-corded arms reaching for her like thick snakes. But fast
as he was, she was faster. Her heel drove into his instep. He
grunted but other than that hardly seemed to notice. The stout
work boots provided too much protection. Dana spun, a knee
seeking his groin, fingers his eyes, teeth his hand, his arm,
the image of Mulder down at her feet propelling her to a fury
she had never known in training. But for all that her attacker
was too strong - as unyielding as the trunk of a tree which his
weathered skin resembled. Only the most dedicated of her
instructors had ever approached being as hard as this. He
snarled, barked something unintelligible, and let out a whoosh
of air as her elbow with her entire weight behind it went in
under his ribs. The blow didn't stop his huge, callused hand
from catching her painfully by throat, however. Dana struggled,
wriggled, spat like a wild cat. He lifted her. There was no
weight on her feet any more. He held her at arm's length where
she could not reach him. Not that it mattered any more. She
couldn't breathe. Her strength was rapidly leaving her limbs as
the bright flashes before her eyes became dark blotches that
grew and grew and grew until they blotted out the sky. 

                         * * * * * * *

     The pain of being hauled up from the ground by the unkind
jerk of the man's strong arm brought Dana back to unwelcome
awareness. The strength of that arm she knew only too well. Her
own felt like a huge dead thing hanging from her shoulder only
nothing dead ever felt such agony. Desperately, she wondered,
what he was doing. But he was only turning her roughly over so
he could reach her pockets and her holster. Having found what he
wanted, he dropped her without a thought.

     The light, only gray at its best, darkened again and went
out.


     The sun was still shining when consciousness returned for
the second time but the awakening was not any more pleasant than
the first. Dana was in motion. Her body had been flung over a
hard shoulder. By the roughness of the fabric of man's clothing
and the smell of very old sweat, this was definitely not Mulder.

     Mulder... Mulder... How much time had passed? 

     Dana tried to force her eyes open, to focus, to search the
ground where she had last seen him lying, but she had been
carried away from where they had fought. As she struggled,
twisting to see, a huge calloused hand came up to wrap itself
around her mouth and nose. There was no fighting the strength of
the man who held her and there was no sign of Mulder. Could that
be a good sign? Had he regained consciousness and crawled away
to safety while Dana was having her life's breath choked out of
her. Not likely. Dana had seen the way his head had snapped back
with the blow. She had felt a drop of his spurting blood fall on
her cheek.

     Such contrary images pulsed through her - on and off, on
and off - with the plodding swing of the man's gait. Try as she
might, Dana couldn't stay conscious any more than that. The
man's large, hard hand was cutting off too much of her air.

     Dana was only vaguely aware when they stopped. She blinked,
trying to shake her head enough to clear her eyes. They were
near the tumbled remains of a old wooden structure of some kind.
She was flung to the ground. Immediately there was the sound of
wood on wood. In front of her was...  The word never had time to
come to her mind for at that moment the man heaved at the pair
of shutters at this feet. They fell back with a deep, solid thud
on the ground on either side of a black, black square. Knowing
what was coming didn't make it easier. Dana felt herself lifted
roughly and flung down into the hole. On the way into the damp,
earthy darkness, she met half a dozen stairs or more. She didn't
know exactly how many because as she hit each one, the velvet
explosions became darker and darker until by the final one she
no longer felt the pain at all.

                        * * * * * * * *

     Dana woke and despite the pain hoped she'd stay conscious
this time. She hadn't been able to hold a coherent thought for
she didn't know how long. Her back and ribs and hips hurt from
every place that had impacted with the rotting cellar steps.
Despite the absolute blackness, she knew that she was being
confined in a storm cellar. The term had eventually come to her.
Maybe she had even dreamed for a short time of Dorothy vainly
trying to open the wide shutters of the storm cellar in her
Auntie Em's yard even as the wind howled and the tornado roared
across the fields.

     There was nothing like that screaming tempest here. All was
silence. Absolute. Dana was almost afraid to breathe, afraid to
make any noise, afraid to see if she could. Tentatively, she
tried a soft, shallow breath. It caught so in her abused throat
so that she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. She
was fairly confident that nothing was broken, but she'd have one
hell of a crop of bruises on her right side... as well as on her
hip, her shoulder, and around her throat. Her left arm cradled
her right and added to the list a sprained forearm where the ax
handle had landed forcing her weapon to fly from her senseless
fingers. Her head didn't feel right either. Dizzy. Not
surprising, considering the pain, the shock and the near
asphyxiation. Making a clinical note of every ache and pain, she
slowly rolled onto her knees. Except for her right arm the
bruises would slow her down but they wouldn't stop her. Not if
given half a chance. 

     At this point, however, half a chance was being optimistic.

     The smell of urine and other waste hit her senses but was
not as strong as the scent of earth and decay. Mushrooms, she
thought, trying to concentrate and identify of what the earthy
smell reminded her. Mushrooms. The floor under her good hand was
soft, rich loam. Everything else about her prison she would have
to guess at. It was darker than dark. Eyes opened or closed made
no difference. There was just the chill, damp air, the smells,
the earthen floor and the ten splintery steps - she had counted
them by now - which she had gotten to know so intimately.

     Slowly it was coming back. The mistreated tissues around
her throat reminded her of a man's iron fingers which had closed
and closed until she had passed out in their grip on the road.
Later, when the man had taken hold of her to throw her over his
shoulder, he had touched her injured arm, which had propelled
her into wavering sort of semi-consciousness, and in that state
he had carried her and thrown her down here. Dana shut her eyes.
It helped to put the pieces together but at least two
significant blocks of time were lost, though neither could have
been for very long. She wasn't that cold yet and her injuries
had just started to stiffen. During that lost time what else had
happened? Had the man....? No, he'd only pawed her for what
she'd carried.

     The image of Mulder, his head jerking back from the impact
of the blow, the droplets of his blood splattering across the
blue sky, flooded back in rush of horrible memory. The last
glimpse she had had of him, he had not been moving.
       
     Mulder... where was he now? Was he even alive? Their
attacker had wielded his club with all of the force of his tall,
sinewy frame.

     "Mulder..." she whispered into the formless quiet. Her
voice was harsh, strained, not sounding like her own. That was
from her bruised larynx. Even so, she got the impression that
the cellar wasn't extensive, no larger than a very small bedroom
or large closet. Her own words were all that came back to her.
No answering voice, no Mulder, though with no light in this
black place he could be next to her at this very moment and she
wouldn't know it. During either of the blank periods, their
attacker could have brought Mulder here just as he had carried
her. The man was certainly strong enough. 

     Something like bile rose in the back of Dana's throat. She
was being selfish. She should be wishing Mulder free and on his
way to finding help. Instead, she was hoping to find him here
with her. Perhaps it was just because if he were here, she'd
know that he wasn't lying dead in the road, his head pillowed by
the gravel and the dust and his own blood. 

     Dana began a slow search in the dark, her knees pressing
into the soft earth because she did not yet trust herself to be
able to stand without fainting. Besides, the impression of
weight, of tons of damp, solid earth all around her was so
strong and so close that Dana doubted that the ceiling would be
high enough even for her. Wrapping her injured arm across her
stomach and bringing one knee forward and then the other,
therefore, she reached out with her left hand. Walls she soon
found, dirt like the floor. Her shoulder identified some
ancient, rotten wooden shelves. Roots and stones dug into her
knees. 

     Then her right thigh brushed against something soft. She
groped in the blackness. Cloth, suit quality. A man's trousers,
a body, unmoving and cold but not as cold as she had feared.

     "Mulder..." No response. She touched the leg again, then
moved up his thigh. She read his body like a blind person. He
was twisted, partially on his back, partially on his side, arms
limply around his head as if he had tried to protect his injured
skull as he was dropped. Her hand came away sticky with the
blood that still oozed from the wound on his head. As she felt
the rise and fall of his chest, however, she sighed with relief. 
His breathing was shallow and a little irregular but under her
hand at that moment it felt wonderful.

                        * * * * * * * *

Friday, 4 p.m.

     Skinner leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil eraser
on the top of his desk. The remains of a hasty lunch were spread
across the desk top. Four in the afternoon was a hell of a time
to finally get lunch. As he expected from his staff assistant's
announcement, Bull blustered into the room with his normal
solidly-spread stride. Crow followed with his customary slouch,
his long face unsmiling.

     Skinner slid the remains of his vending machine meal into
the trash. "Well? Where are they?" 

     "I left a status for you at two on your e-mail," Bull
reported a little defensively.

     "I've been in a budget meeting since then. I haven't had
time to log on." Irritably, Skinner flicked on the power to his
computer. The thing would take five minutes to boot up, or
seemed like it. When could they get some equipment around here
which was less than five years out of date?

     "This is going to take forever, just tell me."

     "I asked around. They've been a busy pair. Mulder was seen
here, alone, about five a.m. wearing sweats. He takes out a car
at nine looking on top of the world - you know, looking the way
that makes the support staff go all atwitter. No guy," Bull said
as an aside, looking up from his scribbled notes, "has the right
to look so good in a suit after what he went through last week.
Dr. Scully comes in right after he left wearing her trench coat,
but she's got some fancy exercise outfit on underneath. Not her
style. She's up to something, but whatever it is my blood runs
cold just thinking about it. She's up and down for the next hour
bugging the analysts and the reference staff. She even got
authorization to tap into Mulder's query logs down in the
reference section. Then she grabs a car, she's gone for less
than an hour, comes back, bugs the reference section some more
and finally tears out of here for good, looking all the while
like she could bite someone's head off and I can guess whose."

     Fighting down emotions of both relief and irritation,
Skinner continued to divide his glare between the two agents and
the nearly blank monitor on his desk. A blinking light was all
he was getting. "As we expected then, Mulder's bolted and she's
on his trail. That was five hours ago and neither of them have
bothered to leave their cell phone on! Where the hell are they?"

     A little guiltily, Bull pulled a yellow 'sticky' note out
from between the pages of the notebook he carried and extended
it to Skinner. "I did find this on my desk about two hours ago.
It's from Agent Scully. Written just before she took the car out
for the second time. She just says for us not to worry, that one
way or the other you and Benchley would know everything she did
by three p.m. but she asks me not to let on about her little
problem with Spooky until then. I figured I'd let them fight it
out. Partners need to squabble now and again, especially new
ones, and I figure she has more of a right than most."

     Skinner read the hastily written note over for the third
time. "She says that we'd know *at* three if not before. It's
four now."
 
     "Sounds like an e-mail with a delayed posting to me.
Nothing else can be that accurate. Probably in with your
messages." Anxious, Bull peered over at the nearly blank screen.
"Can you bring it up?"

     "What do you think I've been trying to do?" Skinner
growled, giving the monitor a glancing blow in irritation. In
retaliation it just continued to blink mindlessly at him.
Abruptly, he punched a button on his intercom. "Denise?" he
called into the speaker. "I need you to bring my e-mail up on
your machine now! And get someone from I.S. to come up here and
haul away this antique!"

     A second later, Denise opened the door to reveal her trim
middle-aged figure. Her face looked older than her years, the
way it tended to look when she had bad news. "Director Skinner,
it's not your machine. They just announced... the whole system
is down. A virus, a brand new one and this one is bad. They
don't know when they're going to get it back on line." With an
apologetic shrug she slid backwards shutting the door as she
went out.

     With a "Damn," Skinner shot out of his chair and began to
pace with agitation. Bull was finding nothing to smile about
either. 

     "Where does that leave us with Mulder and Scully?" he
asked.

     "We've got worse problems than those two. We've got a
couple of dozen other agents and a few hundred cases we can't
track at the moment. Mulder and Scully are trained agent's.
They'll just have to take care of themselves for a while. Either
that or call in."
               
     Bull frowned unhappily. "Walt, Mulder's not just rambling.
He's clearly on a trail. The analyst Mulder worked with was
Daniels. Danny gave me a list of the possibilities he dug out
for Mulder. They're all over the map. He gave Scully the same
list. It was after receiving the information from Daniels that
she dug into Mulder's research logs, so it's a bet she now knows
what he did. Could they really be on to something?"

     "It's Mulder, what do you think? Either they're a bit busy
and can't call or they assume that this e-mail - the one we
can't access - will tell us all we need to know. In any case, we
need this system up. Bull, make yourself free and set up a
command center to manually track and prioritize all incoming
calls. We need a triage. With these computers down the volume is
going to go through the roof and I'm going to need someone who
can think the way I do to keep on top of things. Agent
Thompson," Skinner said, looking for the first time directly at
Crow, "I can only spare one man on the Hunter case for the next
few hours, maybe even for the next day if it takes that long to
clear up this mess and you're it. I want you to begin looking at
the information Daniels gave Mulder and Scully and see what
Reference can help you without the aid of their electronic toys.
Mulder found something useful in there and I want to know what
it was."

     "You want me to try to think like 'Spooky'?" Crow grumbled
under his breath as he took a folder from Bull. "Lots 'o luck."

     Skinner didn't appear to have heard. Fingers massaging the
bridge of his nose, he seemed to already have moved his
attention to other matters. Assuming the audience was completed,
Bull slowly followed Crow to the door. With his hand on the knob
to close it, he paused to turn back towards his old friend.

     "Walt, what if they've actually found the Hunter? From what
I learned about Agent Scully night before last, she wouldn't
have just left an e-mail. She would have followed up with a call
long before this. The Hunter's a mean customer. I have a really
bad feeling about this."

     Skinner looked up, eyes blazing. "And you think I don't?
I'm furious at Mulder - not only for getting himself into this
situation, but Scully, too. But let's worry about disciplinary
actions later. Under current circumstances, with hundreds of
Bureau agents and cases at risk, I can't justify pulling
resources to look for one rogue agent who has a history of going
off half-cocked, no matter how brilliant he is. Mulder's history
indicates that he's even scrappier in a fight when he's crazed.
He'll be hard to bring down. I'm betting on that to keep him in
one piece."

     "And what about Scully?"

     "From what I'm told about what happened at the meeting
yesterday, she's not about to allow herself to be intimidated by
either Mulder or our perp. Though why she'd be dressing the way
she was when she was last seen, I don't want to think about." He
held up Scully's note to Bull. "Clearly Agent Scully had a good
idea of where Mulder went. She's just going to have to handle
this for the time being. We'll make the most efficient use of
our resources by going to the aid of those agents whom we know
we can help while we wait either for a phone call or for the
system to be rebuilt. I'll prioritize the retrieval of Mulder
and Scully's accounts as high as I can but the tech crew have
their orders just the same as we do."

     Bull nodded in understanding. "Just as long as I'm not the
only one worrying here."

     Skinner sighed. "With Agent Mulder involved, there's always
reason to worry."

     
     Crow was waiting for Bull outside Skinner's office. The
senior agent's shorter legs were moving so quickly that Crow
didn't need to slow his longer ones down much so the older man
could keep up. "You're really wound up about those two, aren't
you, Bull?"

     "Crow, the best I can hope for right now is that she's
caught up with him and is boiling his ass for running out on
her."

     "Maybe they'll shack up someplace and make up," Crow
commented with a smirk.

     Bull skidded to a stop, whipping around to glare.
"Thompson, doesn't the profession have enough problems without
our being dragged through the mud by hogs like you? I won't even
credit that remark with a response."

     "Okay, okay. You think it's more likely that she's just
shot him?"

     Bull paused in his search through his pockets for cigars to
chew on. It was going to be a long night. "Now that I could
believe. If it comes to that, I doubt we'll have much trouble
getting a ruling of justifiable homicide."

                        * * * * * * * *

In the storm cellar
Sometime....

     Pain. Mulder knew pain. His wasn't an easy life, never had
been. He knew how to sink below the pain and let it go away for
a while. He also knew how to rise above it,  though that was
infinitely harder. This time he rose, frantic for the light. It
was a long way, and dark, as though through deep waters. There
was a need for him to do so, though for the moment he couldn't
recall why. 

     Only that he was not safe and someone in his care was not
safe, and he needed to know what had happened while he was in
dread sleep's arms. 

     Up and up he rose but where he should have met with azure,
then midnight blue, then shadowy gray and finally pearl there
was nothing. Only more black. Oh, the dark seemed more tangible
than before, not so distant, almost something he could feel, but
still a nothingness, a void he could taste and feel, smothering
him. His fingers came up clawing at the blackness. A voice
murmured nearby, sounding muddy. Someone touched him. He
flinched away violently. In his experience, hands, like hearts,
were seldom gentle. He heard his own voice cry out. The movement
of jaw and throat opened up the worst of the pain in his head,
threatening to send him back down again into the deeper dark.

     "Mulder... relax," came the voice again. It was the one
he'd been hearing, urging him back to consciousness, but he had
not understood the words before. "It's only me, Mulder... It's
only me..." 

     Who? It was a woman's voice, but no one immediately came to
his aching mind. Not his mother. She'd never been there for him.
His clearest memories were of her standing grim and close-
mouthed while her husband handed out his own brand of
discipline. They fought only late at night. Never in front of
the 'children'. Later, never in front of the 'boy'. Getting the
divorce was the only time he could remember her taking his part,
that and insisting that he apply to schools outside of the
country. "You need to get away," she had said her expression
only slightly less remote than usual. 

     "Mulder... come on. Wake up." 

     He had drifted again. Into the shallows this time, sideways
into memory. The vision of his mother faded. At least memories
and nightmare images had substance, you could see them, unlike
this formless consciousness.

     "Do you hear me? Wake up for me, Mulder." This anxious tone
struck a chord. He had heard it before, reaching to him through
a web of confusion. "Get in the car, Mulder.... Mulder, get in
the car...." Car? That was before. His head had hurt then, too,
but different. An inside pain. His eyes had burned. He'd been
sick to his stomach and was unsteady on his feet, so much so
that he could barely shuffle one foot in front of another. He
could barely remember who he was and not a bit of where he was
or should be. But there was someone. Someone who had come for
him, only him. He had not been abandoned in that tiny cell,
friendless, confused and sick while the doctors and the men in
uniform stood over him and asked him questions...asked him
questions... The same ones, again and again and again. But he
could not answer, he couldn't, because he didn't know the
answers.

     When he drifted up to the dark surface again, someone was
touching him with cold hands. He tried to jerk away like the
last time but the hands were on either side of his face, firm
but gentle, holding him still. The hands hurt but only because
his head did. 

     "Mulder... Mulder come back. You're not in that place.
You're here with me." The woman's face was so close to his he
could feel her breath against her skin and even that caused
pain.

     He moved his jaw. Tried to get the air to flow. There was
dirt in his mouth. Scully? Her image came back to him. Small and
serious, stubborn and strong.  The top of her red head didn't
even come to his chin. Then there was that expression she had
when she looked at him, as if she was exasperated by the antics
of an unruly child. He realized he hadn't spoken. "S-Scully?"

     "That's right!" she responded with obvious relief. "I
thought I'd lost you there a couple of times."

     Scully. They were together in the dark and it was cold. He,
at least, was parched dry and had a concussion or worse and yet
he wasn't in a hospital. Mulder did not like how all this was
adding up. 

     He started to sit up. Maybe that would get him out of this
darkness. 

     "No..." warned a soft sound nearby. "Don't move or you'll
regret it."

     He moved... and he did regret it. Pain exploded in his
head, his stomach convulsed violently. Instinctively he turned,
retching, again and again and again as if his body would turn
itself inside out, but there was nothing in him but enough pain
to send him back again into the lonely place.

End of Chapter 16

 
Chapter 17

The storm cellar
Evening

     The next time Mulder rose through the dark into the nearer
dark her voice was there just as before guiding him. It all felt
more solid this time, but still blacker than the deepest night
he had ever known.

     "Are you going to try sitting up again?" she asked with a
warning tone.

     "Not t-today," came his voice, raspy and not strong. He
felt a hand on his arm but didn't flinch from it this time. It
made a connection. He needed to know she was real, that she was
more than a voice.

     "How do you feel?"

     Afraid, very afraid. "I'm blind."

     "Though I can't be certain, I'd say that was unlikely
unless we both are. It's dark in here."

     "How dark? It must be *really* dark."

     "It *is* really dark."

     "Where are we?"

     "We're shut up in something like a root cellar or storm
cellar dug out from under what's left of an old building. Though
I don't remember everything, I do remember hearing our host
shoveling a quantity of dirt over the cellar shutters and then
drop about a dozen rocks on top of that for good measure. Nice
big rocks."

     Mulder groaned unhappily. 

     "Is it the rocks you're groaning about or the dark? You're
not afraid of the dark I hope," Dana said beginning to worry. 

     "I used to be."

     "Wonderful, Mulder. You chase ghosts and goblins around in
graveyards and sewers and condemned warehouses and you're afraid
of the dark."

     "Only complete dark, there's usually some light. My night
vision is pretty good. But this...."

     Dana knew. This was blackness, complete and entire.

     "Close your eyes," she suggested. "It's easier."

     "Suspension of belief?"

     "Something like that.  At least I can pretend then that
when I open them I'll be able to see something."

     He tried to wet his mouth. There was nothing. He'd talk
anyway. It felt less lonely that way and Scully clearly thought
so too. Still, it was hard. "I'd settle for something to drink
at the moment. I don't suppose there's any water."

     Silence.
     
     He felt a sigh pour out of him. "I didn't think so." Very
slowly, he began to move his legs and arms. They worked, though
they were very stiff and there were a few more bruises than he
remembered. Just the head to really worry about, then.
"Concussion?"

     "I think that's all there is. That and a good scalp wound.
He could have cracked your skull."

     Only then did Mulder remember with a stab of guilt her
abrupt cry of pain as he lay face down in the road trying not to
succumb to that far away place. "You?" he asked.

     "Lower right arm and some bruises."

     "Is it broken?"

     "I don't think so. Badly sprained though." A pause and when
she spoke again her voice was not quite as steady. "Mulder, is
this the man I think it is?" 

     "Two like him crossing our path during the same
investigation? I don't believe in that level of coincidence.
It's either him or the locals take a really dim view of
trespassers." He felt her shift and move closer so that her knee
brushed his. He sensed she had crossed her arms as if she were
cold, which it was, and she wouldn't be in this hole now if she
hadn't come chasing after him.  "You followed my trail to Ranger
Rick's didn't you, and he told you where you might find me?"

     "He gave me some ideas, but very few details. What do you
know?"

     "Our host's name's Amos. These farms have belonged to his
family for generations. They were assumed by the State some
years ago but the family was allowed to stay on. Until a few
weeks ago there was only one member left on the new homestead,
a 'hermit' the townspeople all called just 'Amos'."

     "Until a few weeks ago..."

     "Everyone assumed that he finally responded to the pressure
from the State to vacate and took off." 

     "I think we can guess where. He only moved from the new
house to the old one." 

     Mulder felt her move a little, changing her position. She
must be feeling the damp cold cramping her legs. It was coming
up through the ground. He could feel is absorbing into his very
bones. "Sorry," he said, sensing she'd know what he was
apologizing for.

     "Why didn't you call?" she asked, her voice more curt than
before. "Why did you come walking out here by yourself? This
ranks right up there with your more lame-brain stunts." The way
she said it, she obviously felt that there were a considerable
number in that category. From her point of view she had a point.


     "If I'd known I was actually going to find something like
this, I would have brought a SWAT team," he snapped back, a
little more harshly than he'd intended. The shrillness had a lot
to do with the pain that shot through his skull when he raised
his voice. "I may be impetuous but I'm not suicidal."  Right
now, if he could see her, she would be giving him one of her
looks, the one she reserved when his dry wit was drier than
normal. "I was on my way out to call when you showed up."

     They sat in silence longer than Mulder liked, especially
since she wasn't touching him any more. His head throbbed less
when he had some assurance that she was there. 

     The exchange had had bitter undertones on both sides. If
she hadn't come, he could have gotten back, made the call and
they'd have Amos now, not the other way around. No, if he were
honest with himself, he knew that that wasn't quite true. Amos
had been right there behind him. As Mulder scouted the old
homestead, Amos had been hunting *him*. "I wasn't certain there
was even anyone there. I certainly didn't know he knew *I* was."

     "He obviously did," his partner responded more than a
little surly.

     "I already admitted to that, didn't I?" The memory of her
suddenly emerging in the middle of the road came to him. "And
whatever induced you to wear that... that... "  'Hideous pink
thing' was how he finished the question but only to himself. As
he'd said, suicidal he was not.
 
     "Talk about waving a red flag in front of a bull."

     It was Dana's turn to sigh. Most of the impractical and
unprofessional satiny fabric was still smooth against her hand.
Down in this hole, she wondered how long it would stay that way.
Not that it mattered. At the moment she just wished it was
warmer. "How did I happen to be wearing this? That's a LONG
story."

     "I think we have the time."

     "It's not that good of a story."
     
     "At the moment I think I'd listen to Hansel and Gretal.
Tell me how you found me then."

     "By following the crumbs you left." So she told him
everything. The debacle of her family breakfast. Danny. The
literature search. The leavings in his apartment.

     "My - " He moved too quickly for the condition of his head.
He'd forgotten about the key. That she should actually go there
so soon, however, felt too personal. Dana was telling him now
about her call to Jackson Hanner and Rivera's connection to the
mob and, less clearly, to the CIA. Her story finished, Dana sat
and waited. She could almost hear him thinking.

     "I knew all that."

     Dana sat straighter. "How?" Jackson had only talked to her.

     "Gaines told me. He didn't tell you?"

     In the dark Dana shook her head wearily. "No, he didn't. I
guess I was more interested in finding you that pumping Mr.
Ranger for details about Rivera."

     Despite the cold and his killer of a throbbing headache,
Mulder felt a welcome wave of warmth cross his chest. "Nice of
you to be so worried about me."

     "You weren't worried about you?"

     "Not about the Mafia. Not yet. I'd only scratched the
surface this morning. Unlikely for them to have their feelers
out this early for such a - what did your friend Jackson call
Rivera? - such a small fish. So the CIA has taken over and told
the FBI to lie low. Why am I not surprised. It's no wonder that
the report is so limited. Because of the Agency, everyone's
terrified of the case. Meanwhile, the Agency is nonchalant
because they figure Rivera was taken out by one of their own for
squawking."
     
     "Is there a possibility that Amos was hired to take Rivera
out?"

     Mulder began to shake his head but only gasped. The
movement on the hard ground escalated the pain sharply and the
left over smell from his being sick made his stomach lurch.
Understanding, Dana slid over and awkwardly with her one good
arm raised his head very gently off the ground and took it in
her lap, being extra careful of the bloody wound on the left
side.

     "Any better?"

     Mulder had to wait until his world settled back into place.
Even being moved that short distance had been worse than the
worst of the carnival rides he'd ever attempted but this was at
least a more comfortable position than before, both warmer and
less lonely. "Better," he finally got out. "Thanks. We didn't
need these injuries."

     "We'll manage. We have to." With fingers as soft as
butterfly wings Dana's slender fingers tried to tease the blood-
caked hair out of his eyes. As gentle as she was trying to be,
her ministrations still hurt like hell. 

     To cover the hiss and involuntary twist of his body, Mulder
forged on, "I don't think Amos is a hired killer. I think he's
just Amos. But then... I could be wrong."

     "Is he also the Hunter?"

     Baritone sigh in the dark. "Oh, yes. And that. My guess is
Amos is the kind who kills in anger, not for pay. Rivera was
arrogant slime and responsible for Amos' land being taken away.
What I don't understand is Amos's fixation on people who wear
spiffy jogging suits. Rivera was wearing a business suit when he
was murdered."

     Without water, Dana was getting nowhere with the blood-
soaked hair. Wasn't Mulder a piece of work? Even with the danger
they were in and as injured as he was, he was obsessed to know. 

     "Don't think so hard. Take a break. I called Rivera's
sister this morning after I talked to Jackson. I happened to ask
if he jogged. She said no but that he liked to dress as if he
did. Seems he had a whole collection of expensive exercise
clothes which he wore just because they were comfortable. He'd
even wear them to business meetings sometimes, or so she heard.
The morning he disappeared, however, he was on his way to
Fredrick. He had an appointment with the county lawyers to seal
the deal about the land. He would have worn a suit for that."

     Everything snapped into place with a brilliant clarity. It
was an effort to remain lying down. Scully must have sensed the
tightening of his muscles and laid a little warning pressure on
his chest reminding him not to move. 

     "If he wore sports attire at the office in town, he
probably wore it constantly out here in the country. Gaines said
he went to all the town meetings. Like a politician, he let
himself be seen a lot. Wanted them to think of him as just one
of them, not a threat to their way of life."

     "But he didn't fool them."

     "Of course not, just insulted them. After a while that got
to Amos. The sight of him in that outfit became a symbol."

     "Of such things are obsessions born," Dana agreed sagely.
She felt his head move in her lap, a careful nod.

     "That and a tendency towards social maladjustment," he
added.

     That got them both thinking about the acts the Hunter had
performed upon his other victims. It occurred to both partners
that none of the Eight had been missing for long. The man didn't
keep prisoners. He got down to business. Mulder shivered, and
not all of it was because he was cold and getting colder.

     "Any idea what time it is?" he asked after a few depressing
thoughts. "He took my watch, not that I'd be able to see it."

     "He took mine, too, and everything we had. ID, keys,
weapons. I sense it's dark though. Outside I mean. Night."

     "He won't do anything until morning then. He needs to see,
to watch." Mulder didn't feel that he had to go into detail
about what Amos needed to see. "If this cellar is as sealed as
you say, we aren't getting any fresh air, are we?"

     Dana shook her head, then remembered that he wouldn't be
able see her gesture. "I doubt it. The air is thin already. Not
enough is getting in to matter anyway."

     The follow up question was obvious but Mulder asked it
anyway. "Are we going to make it through the night?"

     "I haven't had time to finish estimating the size of this
place."

     "I can tell by the way our voices sound. It's small."

     "None of his victims ever died of asphyxiation," Dana
offered hopefully.

     "Then we'd better take turns breathing or hope that this
guy passed first grade arithmetic because there was always one
prisoner before and we are two."

     With that cheerful observation they stopped talking. Dana
had sensed Mulder fading off a little anyway. Forcing
conversation further would tax his strength which he'd need
later. Unfortunately, sleep for any extended period of time in
his condition was not a great idea. Since she'd put his head in
her lap, she'd felt the shivers running up and down his body.
They'd been occasional at first, building now as his blood sugar
dipped. He needed warmth, water, food, and rest. Unfortunately,
rest was all she could give him and a little warmth though
Mulder had never been anything but ultra-proper so it might take
a bit of subterfuge to get him to accept even that from her.

     "I'm cold," she said.

     Dana sensed hesitation in him as he searched for the
underlying meaning to her words. He decided to play the game.
"Are you suggesting that we share body heat?" His voice wavered
involuntarily as a shiver ran through him. "What's it say about
that in the FBI handbook?"

     "That when it comes to survival, just about anything is
fair game. There's that story you hear around Quantico about the
four agents caught in a surveillance van during a blizzard in
Minnesota...." She felt him flinch.

     "... and one died of hypothermia. It has to be apocryphal.
Besides, I'm not considering eating you. I'm not that hungry,
not yet. Now drink your blood, maybe." He licked dry lips, or
tried to. 

     Dana sat still. She had offered. The next step was his.
That was when she sensed him move and long fingers, none too
steady, touched her hand. "Well, if we're suggesting that we
snuggle, then you won't get any complaints from me. Just keep
your cold feet to yourself."

     Dana did, carefully sliding down, until they were side by
side, her arms around him. She placed his head on her arm to
keep it off the damp earth. Hers was on his shoulder. He was
very cold but then so was she. At least the ground was fairly
dry, and, being underground, the cellar would lose heat slowly
so it shouldn't get much colder as the night went on.
Unfortunately, the same insulating properties would not give
them much relief with the rising of the sun either.

                        * * * * * * * *

     Dana woke - she didn't know how much later - after
schizophrenic, endlessly repetitive dreams of sleeping in a
man's arms, which was good, but being dreadfully cold, which
wasn't and all the fraternal body contact in the world wasn't
going to keep either of them warm. She was aware that she was
awake because of Mulder's frighteningly ragged breathing.
Considering the ache in her own chest, there was no way of
telling if his labored respirations was due to the thinning air
or to the shock from his injury. 

     Both afraid and angry, Dana slid out of her unconscious
partner's fierce embrace and crawled to the stairs. Even that
slight exertion left her gasping and light-headed. They would
not survive very many more hours if they didn't get more air and
the only way was through the shutters. To do that she needed a
tool but pull as she might, the structure of the stairs was
stubbornly solid. Her hands began frantically to search about
the floor, the walls. Finally, she came upon a length of two-by-
four which, decades before, someone had nailed up to make a
crude railing. Throwing her whole weight behind a desperate
jerk, she ripped the wood from its rotted brackets. With a
strength which she didn't know was in her, she began beating on
the underside of the wooden shutters that held them in. 

     As she began, she heard Mulder's groan from behind her as
his wounded brain protested to the sudden noise. She didn't
stop; however, she didn't dare. She hit the shutters again and
again and again. They barely budged. Cold sweat trickled down
her face. Her labored heart, working on too little oxygen, felt
twice its size but she kept on.

     Finally, someone pounded from above on the thick boards. A
voice, muffled but still booming, sounded throughout their
chamber. "Keep quiet down there!" grumbled a man's deep, faint
voice.

     "Air!" Dana screamed or tried to as she collapsed on the
steps. After all this she feared that she lacked the breath to
make herself understood. "Damn you, we need air!"

     The pounding stopped. There was a period of silence that
seemed to stretch for so long that Dana felt that her plea had
been futile. Then came a scraping, a scuffing from above and
then unexpectedly a loud splintering CRACK! as something heavy
but sharp drove itself through the wood then pulled back out
with deafening ripping sound. Silence. 

     Having pulled back at first, Dana now scrambled on all
fours back up the steps and sought for the break in the wood she
knew must be there now. She found it without difficulty by the
coolness of the fresh air on her skin, by the scent of it in her
head. She lay on her back on the steps, her face uplifted,
drinking in the life-giving sweetness. The hole itself, which
had probably been made with a pick, was barely the size of a
china teacup, but it was the best they were going to get.
 
     When her heart finally stopped pounding in her chest like
a sledge hammer, Dana's first thought was of Mulder. Fumbling
down the steps, bent over under the low ceiling, her body
stiffened by her bruises, she became acutely aware of just how
thin the air was down here. After that first groan when she had
started in with the two-by-four on the shutters, Mulder had made
no other sounds. She found him limp and barely breathing.

     Terrified, she slapped his face, at first very gently and
then over and over, stronger and stronger as she called to him,
daring him to wake up. Tears came to her eyes when she heard his
first whimper of pain. Though he was barely semi-conscious, she
began trying to lift him. His long frame was heavier than she
had expected. There was some solid, lean muscle here. 

     "Mulder, you have to help me. You have to move. There's air
at the top of the stairs."

     With difficulty she got him up the stairs. She kept one
hand on his shoulders, forcing him to lean forward so that he
wouldn't end up with a lump on the top of his head to match the
one on the side. Clumsily, both managed to find positions, half
sitting, half lying on the splintery steps. Heads together,
their noses nearly touched the rough wood of the shutters near
the air hole. The fresh air was as cool and luscious as Dana
remembered. Once revived, Mulder even tried to enlarge the hole
with his long fingers but only managed to bring down a tiny
shower of loose dirt. Afraid to take the risk of blocking it
entirely, he didn't try again.
     
     They lay for a long time and just listened to each other
breathe, neither anxious to sleep again. As the ache in his
lungs faded, so that the throb in the head again took
precedence, Mulder wheezed, "How angry were Benchley and Skinner
when you left to come after me? They must have been real angry
for them not to see their way to send anyone with you."
     
     Dana came out of a light doze that was more like a trance,
wondering where he was going with this. "Trying to figure out
when the cavalry is likely to show up?" 

     "I know I'm considered a lone wolf," came his voice,
clearly in pain, "but I wouldn't mind if J. Edgar himself showed
up right now."

     Dana swallowed, or tried to. "I didn't tell them. Bet
they're just a bit upset now though." She sensed his
incredulity. She couldn't understand herself why she, Dana
Scully, who always followed every rule, would do such a thing.
It wasn't like her. "I used the delay feature to send them an e-
mail which would be delivered at 3pm if I wasn't back. It told
them all I knew at the time."
     
     Even though she couldn't see, probably *because* she
couldn't, Mulder allowed himself a slight smile. "Were you going
to try to sneak me back in?" His voice was light but not strong.

     "You make me sound like a coed trying to sneak a man into
her sorority house."

     "Were you?"

     "I was going to try," she admitted, reluctantly.

     "Thanks, but you didn't need to do that. I've been
suspended plenty of times before this. I was planning on
papering my bathroom with my 'Notices of Disciplinary Action."

     Even without a clock, time seemed to drag by, second by
slow second. Finally Dana whispered, "Clearly, I wasn't back by
three. Once they read the e-mail they would have started looking
for us. They'll find the cars at least."

     "They'll need to find the main Amos place first and you
can't see either it or the cars from the main road," Mulder
reminded her gloomily. "Before that they have to get that far."

     "You doubt they'll figure it out? We complain about
management but they did have our jobs once upon a time. We're
going to need to hope that they're at least as smart as we are."

     "It's been at least twelve hours. They're already slower,"
Mulder grumbled.

     To that Dana could add nothing. Both knew that though
rescue would be nice, it was not something they could depend on.
They may only have each other for that.
     
     There was still too little air for extended speech.  Moving
only to shift cramped limbs, they stayed where they were until
long past the time when a dusty gleam of grey light showed
through the single ragged hole in the door of their prison.  

                         * * * * * * *


FBI Headquarters
Saturday 7:30 am.

     Red-eyed, Crow Thompson dropped into a seat in the canteen
next to his cigar-chewing partner. The abandoned table next to
them was filled with containers of half-eaten Chinese food,
opened cans of Jolt cola and pizza boxes.

     "Looks like the cybergeeks left in a mighty hurry," he
observed, snagging a slice of pizza on his way down.

     Bull ran a hand over his thinning hair, yawning. "They had
a burst of inspiration. Let's hope it helps. What have you been
doing?"

     Crow took a huge bite. "What I was told to do. Trying to
think like Spooky. I took Daniels' report and went down to
Mulder's lair in the basement to try to soak up his aura. Gave
me the willies. It's creepy down there at night. Heck, it's
creepy down there in the daytime. Finally, I went to the second
floor library to look at some maps. Fell asleep. Sorry."

     Bull's large head bobbed. "S'okay. I'm told they're
beginning to recover some of the newer files. Within a few hours
we may have Agent Scully's e-mail. That should help."

     "I thought the system came up hours ago."

     "It did, only not everything. They had to bring in new
hardware, turn back the system clock and recover from the
Thursday night backup."

     "Even I know that means that all the work done since
midnight Thursday is lost."

     "Temporarily. They've still working on the infected system.
They won't just abandon that. It's amazing how much critical
information goes through this place every day. They gave me an
update, about ten percent of which I understood. They have a fix
but there's something about this virus. The patch only works on
certain files. The virus was designed to mutate as it cascaded
through the system. It's going to be a slow process, account by
account and machine by machine. It's a question of priorities."

     Crow reached out with a long arm and hook his hand around
another piece of pizza. "So when is this e-mail of Agent
Scully's libel to be disinfected." 

     "Since it was time stamped? One of the last. Not that
they'd move fast anyway. There are plenty of cases in more
critical stages. Besides, Mulder's record for taking off works
against him. Skinner's just about stood on his head to move the
priority up on this case, but Mulder has just pissed off too
many people."

     Crow munched thoughtfully as he examined his weary partner.
"You're worried, big time."

     "Even Mulder is seldom this far out of line, and the fact
that Agent Scully hasn't called - that's mega-significant in my
book. You have any luck at all?"

     "I've followed up about six leads. No luck so far. I've got
ten police reports all over the area. No response yet on the
references either Mulder or Scully asked for." Crow unwound his
spindly frame. "Guess it's time to get back to work."

     He was two steps towards the door before Bull called after
him. "Do your best, son. That's all I ask."

     Frowning, Crow walked on. Did the man think he wouldn't?
His real irritation was with Mulder though. If he hadn't gone
off like he had, Crow could have spent the night in his own bed,
not hunched over a desk sleeping in two-day-old clothes. 

     If Spookie had gotten himself into a fix, it was only what
he deserved. 

Chapter 18

The Old Amos Homestead
Sunday, noon

     An indeterminate time later, the two partners were awakened
from their cold, nightmarish sleep by noises from above where
they laid. Inches above. The dirt and rock over the cellar door
was being removed. A shovel scraped against the wooden shutters.
In a very short time, the doors were flung open and brilliantly
painful light from a nearly noon-high sun blazed down upon them,
dilating their eyes, blinding them. Far fresher and warmer air
than what they had known for more than eighteen hours touched
their faces.

     "Out of there!" a gruff voice ordered. 

     Moving, Dana found that at sometime during the early
morning, one or the other had again snuggled up against the
other for warmth. Probably both. If so, it was a meager warmth
on those narrow stairs. The chill and dampness had stiffened
every joint. Dana felt about a hundred years old and her
sprained arm felt like a burning brand was hanging from her
shoulder. Mulder groaned and rolled over from his back to his
stomach so he could get his knees under him in an attempt to
stand. 

     "Come on, come on!" came the impatient bass voice from
above. "You won't like it much if I have to come down there and
drag you out."

     "He's hurt -" Dana began, stooping to assist Mulder, who
was finding it difficult to get his legs to support his weight.
Before she could provide any real help, Dana sensed a lightning
fast arm come snaking towards her out of the painful light. She
was grabbed roughly by the back of her shirt and hurled bodily
onto the dirt of the yard. 

     Alarmed, furious, Mulder forced numb legs to stumble up the
wooden steps. In punishment for his tardiness or clumsiness or
both, a brown fist came out of the brilliant light and cuffed
him on the jaw which caused his wounded skull to throw out a
rather major explosion. Before his world could even begin to
spin, however, something hard and long slammed him viscously
across the back of his shoulders. The ax handle again. Mulder
fell painfully, hitting his chin on the dirt and gravel, his
hands and arms barely moving fast enough to break his fall.
Squinting in the painful sunshine he caught a glimpse of Scully.
She was lying sprawled and angry in the dust. To his slitted
eyes she was paler and more rumpled and dirty than he had ever
seen her. Before he could see more, a heavily booted foot
smashed down on the middle of his back. Any reserve air that
might have been in his lungs went out in a rush even as the
edges of this vision began to darken.

     "You! Woman!" barked a voice which to Mulder was harsh and
yet strangely distant. "Tie his hands behind his back - I know
you know how - then get him up."

     Though eager to go to her partner, Dana grumbled and forced
herself only slowly to her feet. Amos thrust a length of hemp
rope at her. "I suggest you do it right the first time," he
hissed, "because if he gets loose I start cutting fingers. His."

     Reluctantly, Dana took the rope in her good hand. "He has
a head injury. I don't think he's up to standing, but I might be
able to get him to sit up."

     Warily, Amos removed his foot from the center of Mulder's
back and retreated a few paces which allowed Dana to kneel down
by her partner's side. 

     Mulder looked like death, though Dana knew that the blood
dried in his hair, tracking down his face and neck, and staining
his once white shirt looked bad but was not the worst. So soon
after the total absence of light in the cellar, his eyes were
barely slitted. What she could see of them tracked unsteadily.
Under the best of circumstances, it would take days for someone
to recover from a blow like the one Amos had given him the
afternoon before. 

     "How are you doing?" she whispered.

     He did not move, but continued to lie on his stomach with
his cheek against the sun-baked ground taking in long, slow,
lung-filling breaths. "At least the sun's warm," he said,
weakly. "Now I know how a lizard feels. This may be the only
thing that'll go right today."

     "Can you sit?" 

     He nodded slowly and managed to move reluctant limbs. In
submission, he put his hands behind his back for her. 

     "I'm sorry," she said as she began to work with the rough
rope on his wrists.

     "Didn't you mention wanting to do this the other night at
your apartment?"

     "You're pond scum, Mulder," she whispered back without
heat. "Though I may think about using it in the future to keep
you from running out on me."

     Dana's movements were slow but she did as thorough job as
the 'Practical Life' Skills class at Quantico had taught her and
as competent a job as she could with the limited mobility and
strength in her right arm.  At least she could see that Mulder
wouldn't lose circulation in his hands, but then neither would
he be able to get loose on his own anytime soon. She dare not
allow that. The vision of this mountain man, or whatever he was,
maiming Mulder's gentle, expressive hands made a hard, hot lump
in her empty stomach.

     Holding the ax handle confidently between his two hands,
the tall frowning man, stepped forward to inspect her work. "Now
your own legs." 

     Mulder forced his eyes open far enough to see Scully
sitting very close to him, securing her own feet together with
another length of the hemp rope. 

     Bending down to check Dana's knots, Amos grunted in
satisfaction. Then he crouched down beside them, out of their
reach but not out of the reach of the ax handle he rested across
his knees.

     For the first time Mulder's eyes had adjusted enough to the
light so that he could study this man. So this was the
Hillendale Hunter who had eluded a few dozen of law
enforcement's finest for so many weeks. As Dana had already
noted, Amos was a tall, spare, hard-muscled man. Beneath
stringy, unkept hair which was as much gray as brown, his face
was long and deeply weathered from years exposed to the sun and
wind. There was no humor or cruelty in the face, just a stormy
get-down-to-business and leave-me-alone attitude. He was dressed
in worn, brown work pants and heavily scuffed boots. He wore as
a jacket a heavy, faded flannel shirt that had once been another
shade of brown but had long since become stained with grass and
dirt and other dark substances which Mulder could take a good
guess about. His movements were limber, strong and quick. The
ease with which he had thrown Scully, the way he could swing
that club of his - this man would not be easy to take. 

     Mulder closed his eyes briefly against the blinding
headache. None of this was good news. A frail, half-insane,
little psychopath could have been tricked and physically
overwhelmed, but then what was he expecting? Nothing about this
case so far could be classified as easy.

     "I don't think we've been introduced," Mulder began. 

     Like everything else about the man, Amos's eyes were brown,
a kind of sullen amber like dead autumn leaves. Something like
interest brightened them. There was intelligence here of an
earthy type. Ignoring for the moment his defense of his land,
the way he had tracked Mulder before Scully came and the way he
had taken his eight previous victims, indicated he was more
hunter than farmer. Now he studied Mulder the way a hunter sizes
up a ten point buck he has injured but not killed, trying to
determine which way his prey will leap. He seemed to be taken
more than a little off-balance by his prisoner's words. That was
understandable, Mulder thought. His other guests must have spent
their time alternately cowering and begging for their lives.

     "If you've read our ID you know I'm Special Agent Fox
Mulder, FBI." Mulder nodded towards Scully who had just finished
tying her feet and sat quietly but expectantly, listening to the
exchange. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully."

     "I can read!" growled a deep voice. "I'm not stupid."

     "I never thought you were," Mulder told the man in all
sincerity. "You do have a problem, though."

     "I think you're the one who has the problem, Fed."

     Carefully, Mulder shrugged his shoulders, which were
already beginning to ache. He'd been tied with his hands behind
his back before. He was not looking forward to the new level of
pain which his unhappy body was soon going to be registering.
"We know what you've been doing, Mr. Amos. We even know why."

     "You think you do?" the man snarled.

     "As long as you're not taking money from the Bureau's
clandestine cohorts or have any Italians in your background, I
do."

     A boot came out catching Mulder in the ribs. Dana didn't
even need to see the whitening of Mulder's already pale face.
She winced at the very sound.

     "I don't need smart!" Amos grunted.
     
     It took Mulder more than a few *long* moments to draw
breath through the pain enough to talk. 

     Right. Not the time to display his dazzling wit.

     "They're taking your land," Mulder managed, slow and
sensibly. He looked around, getting a feeling for the place, its
incredible age and layers of living which were even greater than
at the newer farm. "For centuries your people have lived here,
not just in the house but close to the land. For generations.
They grew, they prospered. They built the new farm. They're even
buried here."

     Amos' expression was unchanged. "Buried?" he began after a
moment. "A dozen. Too many and yet not enough. The wars took the
men. The women? They just faded away."

     "Your people then, your history, and now the government who
made the wars wants to take it away."

     Mulder had said something he shouldn't have. Something
smoldering in the brown man flared and he lunged forward towards
the speaker. Instinctively, Mulder hardened his limbs to take
another blow. It came. Only as the pain in his kidney ebbed,
could he make out Amos talking.

     "They've gone back on their word, again and again. Still I
was willing to leave them alone if they left me alone." From
where he crouched menacingly in front of Mulder, Amos swiveled
his big head towards where Scully sat on the ground with her
bound feet. "Which they did until your kind showed up. Why
couldn't you just stay where you belonged."

     "Amos, listen," Mulder said a little too quickly, frantic
to pull the killer's attention away from yet another perfectly
dressed victim. "We understand that you're trying to send a
message. You want them to know you're angry..."

     That flare again, the anger closer to the surface this
time. The tanned hand closed over the ax handle. The right
shoulder, the elbow, began to move.

     <'Death, where is thy sting',> cut through even Mulder's
agonizing headache.

     "Let us help," Dana cried urgently, rolling to her knees,
as if preparing to launch herself at that arm if her words
didn't distract the hermit. 

     But she did distract him. He faced her and as he did the
arm relaxed. A bitter smile twisted the man's thin lips. "You
two really are stupid! Don't you understand? I don't need your
help. I don't want your help." Amos rose with one smooth motion
and with two long steps was standing in front of where she
knelt. 
     Dana suddenly found her face within inches of the man's
crotch. A shiver of disgust and a panic tore through her body.
The ever present ax handle transferred from right hand to left
and he abruptly took her chin in his right hand and raised it
roughly, forcing her to sit back on her heels. What he did then
was finger the front of her now-less-than-pink jogging suit.
"What did you bring this one for? Bait? And you think I'm
stupid."

     "No!" Mulder cried hurriedly, finding his unsteady feet,
knowing how useless an attack could be but unable to be still
and see this strong woman, his partner, forced into such a
degrading position. "It's not what you think. Our coming here
was a guess. We didn't expect to find anything. No one else even
knows we're here!"

     "Did I say you could move!" 

     With the ax handle in the left hand, Mulder got only a slap
this time, but it was strong enough to send him back to the
ground, stars dancing in the unexpected blackness of noon.

     Speak, before he could get back to Scully. Anything... 

     "Amos, listen," Mulder forced out, hoping his voice
projected through the gray fog around his brain.

     "Why should I?"

     "Because, you're being too subtle. We're the only ones who
know who you are and what you want. Killing us won't help,
otherwise no one will understand your message any more after our
deaths than before -"

     Again a booted foot came out of nowhere, this time landing
against Mulder's ribs, throwing him onto his side with an cry.

     "I'll ask when I want your advice!"  

     At the last second Mulder had tightened his stomach muscles
and curled defensively. Once again he lost what little breath he
had but at least nothing had broken. Not yet, anyway. Watching,
Dana winched. The blow had landed exactly where the Jersey devil
woman had dug gouges in Mulder's side with her claw-like nails.
The skin and the ribs underneath would still be tender.

     "I said... they don't understand," Mulder repeated with
effort since drawing a breath at the moment was hard. "Our
deaths would just be more meaningless -"

     Amos stepped forward at that moment to stand so close that
Mulder could smell the decades of dust and earth and the faint
scent of manure on the man's work pants. Mulder was forced to
look up and up into Amos's face. It was a position of
helplessness Mulder didn't like any more than the one Scully had
been subjected to moments before.  

     "Then I'll need to be real clear this time."

     "Keep me," Mulder told him. "Let her go. She can tell your
story."

     "And what will they do? Publish it in Reader's Digest?"
With that Amos reached down and pulled up on Mulder's left arm,
dragging him to his feet. Dana closed her eyes as the spasm of
pain made Mulder's skin go white under the dirt and blood. He
was pushed forward towards the great oak that dominated the
yard. 

     "Far enough!" Amos snapped and Mulder stopped his stumbling
passage. He was upright, but even with his stance wide, he
swayed. From the ground, Amos pulled up a thick, heavy chain.
This he threaded through the circle made by Mulder's bound
hands. Almost casually then, he delivered a blow to Mulder's
skull near the worst clump of clotted blood. Mulder dropped to
his knees with a whimper, fresh blood flowing out from under the
broken scab. Ignoring his victim, Amos walked a few steps away
before bending to pick up the other end of the chain. Dana saw
him pull something from his pocket. Afterwards came the
unmistakable sound of a lock snapping into place. Amos picked up
the chain and tested it. It was clear to both Dana's eyes and
Mulder's pain-washed ones that the chain made a big loop passing
around both the trunk of the huge tree and Mulder's hands.
Mulder was effectively tethered. He had no more than thirty feet
of play on the chain at its farthest distance from the oak. 

     The cleared yard which formed a huge circle under the
branches of the ancient tree made sense now. So did the scoring
marks around the tree's trunk. Others had been similarly chained
and like any animal had tested the limits of its prison,
damaging the bark of the tree with the chain even as the
prisoner trampled the ground in that wide circle. At intervals
outside the thirty foot radius were sizable piles of stones,
most fist-sized but some the size a strong man could hurl twenty
feet or more. The pictures of the other victims, the ones who
had been beaten, whipped, run to ground and finally stoned to
death came unbidden to Dana's mind as she was certain they did
to her partner.

     After snapping the lock, Amos didn't give his male prisoner
another look but in long business-like strides went to where the
woman sat on the ground. He loosened the rope that bound her
legs, then hauled her to her feet. Within seconds he had tied
one end painfully tight around her waist. He then ordered her to
slip her hands under the coil of rope in front of her. It was a
snug fit. She could pull out her hands when needed, but not
quickly. 

     "House," he ordered giving her a shove. 

     Despite Amos's impatient roughness, Dana hesitated long
enough to catch Mulder's eyes or what she could see of them
through the new  spurt of streaming blood. They were red-rimmed
and blazing with anger with also with an intense determination.
He wasn't even close to giving up. He nodded to her. 'Go on,' he
seemed to say. 'Go with him.' Any opportunity to acquire a
little more information about this man and this place where they
were held was worth some risk. None of Amos's victims, neither
male nor female, had been sexually assaulted. He hadn't made any
advances to his new prisoners, either, and he had certainly had
the opportunity. 

     It was small comfort, but all they had.

                        * * * * * * * *

Ranger Station, Catoctin Mountain Park
Saturday, Noon

     Bull heaved his heavy body out of the driver's side of the
car to face the Catoctin Mountain Ranger Station. He had just
come from spending fourteen desperate hours manually tracking a
few hundred investigations in progress while he waited for the
computer system to come back on line.

     The e-mail from Agent Scully had finally appeared in
Skinner's on line in-box at nine a.m. What followed were frantic
calls to anyone in the Fredrick County government who might have
talked to either one of the missing agents. Not easy to do on a
Saturday morning. After about fifty calls here he was, a
mistreated human machine sputtering on caffeine and adrenalin.

     God, it had taken too damn long to get this far. Twenty-
four damn hours.

     Beside him in the car, Skinner placed the cellular he'd
been on almost the entire morning in his pocket and opened the
passenger door. Crow Thompson unwound from the back seat. 

     As he straightened and faced the log building, slumbering
in the brilliant Indian summer sun, Skinner was frowning. His
face was as drawn as Bull's from his sleepless night, dealing
with problem after problem. Only a few had turned out to be
actual emergencies, but until you waded in you never knew. In
his muscles he felt the jittery effect of too much caffeine.

     Maybe he should have stayed in Washington. Even though
Benchley was off attending to his own crises, Bull would have
pursued whatever leads needed pursuing. Skinner had as much
confidence in his old friend as anyone; however, he felt
personally responsible for this particular screw up. After all,
he'd been the one who had pulled Mulder in on this case and held
the younger agent's butt to the fire despite Mulder's quite
understandable reluctance. By allowing Mulder initially to
reassign Scully, he'd precipitated the rift in their working
relationship. Then, though he'd argued to accelerate the
recovery of Scully's e-mail, his position and responsibility to
the greater good had allowed him to push only so far.

     Through the long night he had prayed more than he would
ever admit that Mulder would be able to land on his feet as he
always had before. As hour after hour passed with no word,
however, Skinner's guts had twisted themselves tighter and
tighter. He had miscalculated. He should have listened to that
'uneasy' feeling. He had virtually cut the cord with two of his
agents and they had not come back on their own. After all this
time, clearly, they were not able to come back on their own. Not
good, not good at all.

     Skinner went up the steps to the Ranger Station first. The
station's main room looked small filled with the three of them.
An older ranger, thin hair mostly gray, was sitting behind the
desk. As they came in, he jumped to his feet. As he glanced at
Skinner's badge, no surprise showed on his face.

     "You were called, Ranger - "

     "Kessel. John Kessel. From the courthouse, yes."

     "Then you know we're looking for information on the
whereabouts of two of our field agents, Special Agents Fox
Mulder and Dana Scully. At different times yesterday between
late morning and early afternoon they were both referred here by
the Fredrick police."

     The old ranger's mouth worked uneasily. "I know, I know. I
was told. Unfortunately, I can't help you much. I wasn't on duty
yesterday. I'm the evening and weekend shift. Who you want to
talk to is Cliff Gaines."

     "Where can we find him?" Bull asked. 

     The elderly ranger shrugged helplessly. "It's his day off."

     "Can't you reach him?" Bull demanded.

     "I've tried." The near distress on the ranger's face
indicated that he clearly had.

     Skinner felt the tension in the back of his neck go up a
notch. "Do you have anything? At the very least I need to know
if this Ranger Gaines did, indeed, meet with my agents
yesterday, and what they talked about. Agent Mulder would have
been asking about where a murder victim was discovered about
nine months ago. A Hamilton Rivera. Would there be any records
of such a request?"

     The ranger reached for a legal-sized bound book. "That I
did find. Cliff put it down in the log." John Kessel flipped
pages rapidly quickly finding what he was looking for. Clearly
the park was no Yellowstone. The current year's logbook, thin to
begin with, was only half full and it was nearly November. "See,
here it is. Mulder, FBI, came to see him about ten. Cliff did
take him out to the west meadow where Rivera's body was found."

     "No details?" 

     Kessel shook his head. "Cliff only logged the time when he
went out and came back. He was gone about an hour and a half. He
logged back in at noon."

     "No entry for an Agent Scully? It would have been a few
hours later."

     Kessel consulted the book again. "There's only an entry
about a traffic accident happening at 1:30. That kept him busy
for most of the afternoon."

     "You say you can't reach Ranger Gaines?"

     "When I heard you were coming I tried but he wasn't home.
I'll try again." Kessel reached for the phone and called a
number. He left a voice message. After consulting a Rolodex he
tried three others. Twice he spoke to people, the third time he
left another message. 

     "Sorry, he's not in and people who might know haven't the
faintest idea of where to find him."

     "Doesn't the man wear a pager?" Bull asked with irritation.

     The ranger gestured with his arms clearly referring to the
hills. "Not when he's not on call. Reception's spotty in any
case. Besides, there's not much need. We're a sleepy little
place. The military types at Camp David take care of their own
problems, though they do inform us if there's trouble."

     "And they haven't called?"

     "Not a word and Cliff would have left any message like in
the log."

     While his superiors talked Crow had been wandering about
the small room, his eyes sharp. From a quarter full trash can he
pulled out two crumpled white bags and unfolded them. Tippy's
Tacos. He held them up. "Either of these yours?" he asked
Kessel.

     The ranger shook his head. "That's Cliff's kind of poison,
not mine."

     "How often is this trash emptied?" Crow asked. "Could both
of these be from lunch yesterday?"



     Leaning on the hood of the car outside of Tippy's Taco's
bright exterior, Bull pulled out a cigar and his lighter. A
sidelong glance from Skinner at his side forced him to put the
lighter away. "My ulcer's beginning to act up again, Walt.
That's always a bad sign. In my experience human beings are
pretty good at keeping themselves out of trouble. Our jobs would
be a lot worse if they weren't. Tragedies are most likely to
happen when too many improbable things happen at once. Now this
case - Mulder's craziness, Scully's protectiveness, both of them
being so secret, that damned computer system, now this ranger's
day off - this situation is beginning to really stink."

     Skinner shifted his shoulders and for one of the few times
in nearly twenty years wished that he hadn't given up smoking
after 'Nam. "I know what you mean. My radar's been on full alert
for hours." 

     Crow came out of the restaurant a smug look on his long
face and a bag of carry-out of his own in his hand. 

     "So?" Bull asked. 

     "Counter staff remembers Gaines was in for lunch yesterday,
just after noon. They remember because he's a regular and one of
the few bachelors under thirty in town."

     "So?"

     "He had a companion. Man in a suit which is unusual all by
itself."

     "This man have a description?"

     Crow smirked. "Mulder, without a doubt. The counter staff
remembers *very* well, right down to that little beauty mark -"

     Bull let a smile widen across his face for the first time
in two days. "Bless that bastard's pretty face. No woman with
them though?"

     "Not that she noticed and I take it from the way miss-
lonely-hearts eyed these guys that she would have if Scully had
been there. Besides, they only bought food for two."

     Arms folded, Bull leaned back against the car and chewed
thoughtfully on his cigar. "Looks like Scully hadn't caught up
with him yet, and he still didn't know she was coming."

     "How can you be so sure?" Crow asked.

     "He didn't buy her lunch."

End of Chapter 18

Chapter 19

The Old Amos Homestead
Sunday, 12:30 p.m.

     The cabin was not in good shape. Plastic sheeting had been
nailed on the outside of the roof because clearly there was
little roof left. Once shoved inside, Dana could still see trees
through the breaks in the walls. In the center of its single
room there was a wooden table. Against the wall in the back, a
cot. A pump on the counter aimed into the ancient enamel sink. 
There was only one tiny window so most of the light came in
through the breaks in the roof. Amos tied one end of the rope
which encircled Dana's waist to a pipe close to the sink and
pointed out a greasy bar of soap and a pile of weeks-old dirty
dishes. "Wash 'em," he ordered and began building a fire in a
tiny iron stove. Fire going, he filled a rusty kettle with the
brownish water from the pump and put it on the stove to heat. 

     Warily, Dana pulled her left hand out from under the tight
hemp 'belt', losing some skin along the way. Tears burned her
eyes before she could extract the injured right one. Silently,
she began the task assigned her. It would take some time; but
then, time they needed. The cold well water made her fingers
numb, and the caked on food refused to budge without
considerable effort, and then only incompletely. Warily, she
cupped her hands under the water, her parched mouth reminding
her that it had been more than twenty-four hours since either
she or Mulder had had anything to eat or drink. Ignored by the
hermit, Dana drank her fill.   

     Taking a large wooden bowl Dana had just 'cleaned', Amos
dumped in three packets of plain instant oatmeal from a small
collection of supplies he kept on a rickety shelf near the
stove. Then he filled two old Mason jars with the cloudy water
from the pump. While she worked, Dana watched, her eyes eager
for any opportunity to catch him off guard, but once inside the
close confines of the cabin he had traded his ax handle for a
long knife, the only one she could see in the 'kitchen'. On a
cracked china plate he put a package of saltines and then pulled
out a long cylinder of hard salami. While he cut rounds of the
sausage in sure easy strokes, Dana studied the tiny room in more
detail. There wasn't much to see. A pile of old magazines, a few
tattered books, some raggedly clothes hung on nails. Two framed
photographs hung above the cot.

     Before Dana could focus on the pictures, there came a knock
- wood on wood. Dana jumped. Mulder? As Amos turned, frowning,
to face the back wall of the shack, Dana realized how unlikely
it was that Mulder could extract himself so quickly. The knock
came again, a series of them this time. They were firm and
impatiently insistent as if someone was tapping on the back wall
with a stout stick. Snarling, Amos loosened the leash end of
Dana's rope. His yellow-toothed mouth close to her ear, he
whispered, "Not a sound or you'll wish you hadn't," then pushed
her a few feet in front of him, finally forcing her down with a
shove onto the iron cot. Dana didn't struggle. This was not the
time. He was too aware; the shack, the cabin, too small. With
deft skill he tied a filthy rag across her mouth and secured her
wrists and ankles to the four corners of the cot. Dana felt no
particular fear. This was no prelude to a sexual assault. He was
clearly annoyed by the interruption and wanted to keep her
presence secret. Any enemy of his was potentially Dana's friend
but, unfortunately, Amos knew his knots too well. All Dana could
do was listen and perhaps learn something.

     While he worked, the knocks came again, louder, and his
frown deepened. "Hold your horses!" he finally called over his
shoulder with irritation. The knocking ceased. Within seconds he
was gone, shutting the door solidly behind him.

     As she strained unsuccessfully against her bonds, Dana's
eyes drifted upwards. She could see the two framed pictures
easier now. One was at least a half century old. It was of two
unsmiling older people in their Sunday best surrounded by six
small children - three boys and three girls. The other was
newer. It was of the man from the earlier picture, older but
still well-built and gruffly-smiling this time. With him were
two tall, young men, all three in crisp army fatigues. Not the
Army surplus kind, but real ones. Beside them unsmiling was a
teenager in jeans. Though slightly built and already tall, the
bony look about the teen's face promised more growth to come.
The three young men had to be the brothers from the first
picture. The youngest in the family photograph looked the most
like Amos and there was a resemblance to the mother and father
in the hermit's face as well.

     There was no more time for study. Dana realized she was
hearing voices. Several voices. Clearly more than two. They
drifted through the cracks in the wall close to Dana's ear. Most
were women's voices but one was Amos's rumbling bass. The tones
rose in anger all on top of each other and then hushed suddenly
so that Dana had to strain to hear.

     "... got to stop..." This came from a woman with a slightly
country or Appalachian accent. She was crying softly. 

     "Where'd this one come from? He's not like the others."
Came a second woman's voice, this last one sharp and demanding.
The crying could still be heard so there were at least two
visitors and they'd seen Mulder who, as dirty and bloody as he
was, was clearly not dressed for jogging.

     "Now just you..." Amos was protesting. 

     The rest of the words came and went but Dana recreated the
scene from the few words she caught and the sounds. Maybe he had
been fingering Mulder's ID in his pocket because there was a
slight scuffle and the next clear words Dana heard were, "FBI!
This can't be. Do you hear me? Get rid of him! You think you can
play with his kind?"

     "When I'm ready," Amos growled. "Besides, Mary, what a
messenger he'll make..."

     "No. He won't be any such thing. Sadie, go on and start
back to the car. I'll catch up with ya." The weeping had long
since faded before the brusque woman spoke again. "I've got to
take her home or I'd stay and take care of this myself. Eugene, 
you can't treat this one like the others. Do you really want to
carry the sorry carcass of an FBI agent all the way back to
D.C.? It's too dangerous. Kill him quick and bury him here, bury
him deep so the dogs can't find him." There came a noise Dana
couldn't identify. Had the woman, Mary, grabbed Amos's arm? 

     "Do you hear me? And after this no more, no more! Or I stop
covering for you."

     "Have I ever asked ya to?" he snapped.

     "Do I have a choice? We're all the family either one of us
has left. Now, I'm coming back after I take Sadie home and when
I do I want to see it done, and it better be taken care of or so
help me I'll kill him myself and you can join him."
     
     That rather said it all. Dana found her fists clenched,
cold sweat on her body. She didn't want to be 'taken care of'
like some detail. She didn't want Mulder to be 'taken care of'.
But did it really matter what happened to them after they were
dead? Yes, it did. What if their bodies were never found? Her
mother would never know... 

     No! That wasn't how she should be thinking.

     Dana's eyes burned again into the family picture above her
head. The eldest child was a girl. She had dark, piercing,
manipulative eyes. She could imagine an older version of such a
child speaking to her youngest brother in that 'take charge' way
the woman outside had. After 'Mary', came the two older boys,
then two timid girls clinging to their mother's skirts, one of
which was Sadie, and then Benjamin Amos. 

     Dana's attention went back to the oldest girl's stern mouth
and then to the face of the resentful teen in the picture with
the three smiling infantrymen. She tore her eyes away as Amos
stomped back into the room. He was upset, his movements harder
and more abrupt. Without looking her way, he poured a quantity
of the now steaming water over the instant oatmeal and threw in
a spoon. After retying the rope tightly to Dana's waist, he
thrust the bowl into her arms. "Let's go."

     Dana knew she was supposed to stir the mixture, but before
she could Amos loaded her up with both mason jars of water to
hold. Dana carefully carried it all out of the cabin, watching
her feet particularly on the broken porch steps. Amos's sharp
temper was one reason, but she had a more personal one. She had
a feeling she knew who at least some of the water was for, and
she didn't want to risk spilling even a drop. More may not be
provided.

     As she emerged from the cabin, Mulder was standing on the
opposite side of the tree from where she'd left him. Hearing
their footsteps on the hollow planking his head reared back like
that of a startled animal, his matted hair falling across his
forehead. Like any caged beast, he'd been testing the strength
and limits of his prison. Amos didn't seem to care much one way
or the other what his prisoner had been up to. He took back one
of the mason jars and placed it and the plate of crackers and
sausage near a rocker which sat comfortably beyond the trampled
circle of ground under the tree. He then led Dana forward and
tied the leash end of her rope to Mulder's chain.

     "Feed and water 'im," he ordered curtly, "and get 'im ready
to run. Now don't act dumb. You wouldn't have found me if you
didn't know what I do here."

     "Mr. Amos," Dana began, "we can talk about this. We want to
help -"

     His favorite club in his hand again, he swung on her but
didn't connect. He had just wanted to see her reaction. Dana had
merely tensed her body for the blow and turned slightly to
protect the food and water with her body.
     
     "You want to help? Then die. That's what they need to see.
They don't care about anything else and little enough 'bout
that. Just remember - the better shape your boyfriend is in, the
longer he'll last."

     "He's not my boyfriend, Mr. Amos. You know who we are. You
know what we do. He's my partner and if there's been injustice
done -"

     A slap caught Dana on the mouth. It stung but it was no
where near as hard as it could have been. Only a very little of
the water from the bowel wet the ground.

     "You city people think we're all stupid. We're not. Not
where it counts. Now get him ready."

     "And what about me?"

     A pause. "You? I'll have to think about that. Never had a
second one to think about before." His expression was thoughtful
as if he did indeed see possibilities here. "Just remember, I've
got my eye on you and, if I so much as see you touch either his
bonds or your own, he'll lose some of those fingers yet."

     At that Amos turned his back on them and walked without
fear to his rocking chair forty feet or more away. There he
picked up his plate and began to eat. All the while, he watched
with predator's eyes.

     Dana found her legs quivering. She didn't need weakness,
not now. Her wounded arm ached. She'd had to cradle the bowel in
the crook of that arm. A shadow fell across her. She looked up,
startled. Mulder. His eyes were soft and questioned her about
the slap and what had happened in the cabin. She raised the jar
for him to drink. He eyed its murky depths suspiciously at first
but after uselessly licking his dusty lips with a dry tongue, he
drank. He winced at the thick, iron taste but at least it was
wet. 

     "Sit," she said. 

     With effort since his hands were still tied behind his
back, he got down on his knees then pulled his legs around and
sat. Slowly beginning to mix the oatmeal, Dana sat in front of
him. It should have been stirred earlier. What she had now was
largely a solid lump swimming in a thin, warm sea. She chopped
at it awkwardly with her left hand and with effort more went
into solution. All the while she was aware of Mulder sitting
before her silently watching. 
 
     "Eat," she said, raising a spoonful of the glop.

     "You're beginning to sound like him."

     "Can you think of anything more useful to say at the
moment?"

     For the first time his attention moved from his partner's
face to the brownish, gray mass in the bowl. "Ugh. I hate
oatmeal. I've always hated oatmeal."

     "Eat it," she commanded, thrusting the spoonful closer to
his mouth. Grimacing he took a small bite, gagging. With a
little more water it went down.

     She held out another spoonful, right handed. Her hand was
really shaking now. Too much adrenalin. She switched the spoon
to her left hand. She knew he didn't want it but she would see
that he ate. He needed the strength. Anything to use up some
time and give them an edge. Anything to keep from dying too
soon. Maybe Skinner and Bull would still come. "More," she said.


     "Hold on, my stomach is deciding whether it's desperate
enough to allow it to stay down."

     Forcing patience, she waited. "So the fact that Rivera had
connections with CIA and the Mafia was pure coincidence?"

     Mulder managed to swallow somehow. "Looks like it. Just
your run-of-the-mill serial killer. I *hate* coincidences." He
ran a dry tongue over his lips. His voice was oddly quieter and
his eyes were on the spoon now, not on her. "Did he touch you?" 

     "Not in the way you think."

     His eyes closed slowly and just as slowly opened again. "If
you have a chance, go," he whispered. 

     "No!" she replied and stuffed the spoon in his mouth. His
eyes went wide, but he forced the lump down. 

     "You have to," he snapped, his voice even lower. "You're
the only one who can."

     "Is that what you were doing, being so smart? So he'd kill
you? Does it come as a surprise to you that I might not want to
get away over your dead body?"

     His expression was almost sheepish. "I only wanted to
distract him."

     Dana looked down at the bowl. She was hungry but the sight
of it was enough to turn even her stomach and, considering her
profession, that took a lot. "That'll only anger him and then
how long will you last?"

     Another spoonful came up. He stared at her over the sticky
mess. "If we let this man go on, others will die after us.
People who don't know how to defend themselves. Then what use
are we? Scully, don't give up. Don't ever. I've been up against
serial killers before and survived."

     "It only takes one time when you don't. Besides, there's
more. Amos is not alone."

     His head came up a little, alarmed, "Tell me." 

     And she did. She told him about the visit from the two
sisters. "They saw you."

     "And they assume he'll best me? I guess I didn't impress
them with my manly physique."

     Another spoonful. "The oldest wants you dead and buried.
Quick."

     "Aren't you the bearer of glad tidings."

     "Mary is coming back this evening to make sure."

     "Should we worry?"

     Dana thought about that as she chipped off another lump and
tired to pulverize it against the side of the bowl. Mulder
clearly had the same plan she had. A very simple plan at the
moment. Stall. Mary Amos's appearance wasn't helping. "I
wouldn't want to meet her in a dark alley."

     "Doris Claibourne stuff?"

     "From her voice and the eyes in a forty year old
photograph? Yes. She's been covering for him, but not for much
longer."

     Mulder's eyes rolled around the scene, taking in the
ground, the tree, the ominous piles of stones and cut wood. "Why
is he still planning to go through with this then?"

     "I get the impression Amos doesn't listen to his womenfolk.
He's not going to rush his agenda."

     A slow nod of understanding from Mulder and then he
actually leaned towards her, actively taking the spoonful as if
wanting her to know that he would do his part whatever that
might require. Their eyes lingered on each other's faces as if
trying to memorize the planes and shadows, as if attempting to
read the thoughts behind. Dana felt warmth spreading up from her
neck and even Mulder's pale face seemed to have more color.

     "That staying down?" she asked, not ready to put into words
what was really on her mind.

     His smile was weak and not steady. "It's either that or my
stomach will start digesting itself. My VCS ulcer does flare up
now and again. This is preferable but only barely." 

     "Since when have you had an ulcer? With your dietary
choices -"

     "How can someone with my life not have an ulcer. I just
don't talk about it and it's not bad." 

     He took another bite and another swallow of water. As awful
as the stuff was, his head had begun to clear just a little. He
gestured with his head towards a solitary post sunk solidly into
the ground by the cabin. "Is that what I think it is? I didn't
get a good look." 

     "I have." Dana didn't even glance towards the object under
discussion. She knew what he was referring to. A shudder passed
through her.

     "So is that where..." He didn't need to finish. Another
brand of death than that predicated by sticks and stones visited
this place.  

     "I'd say, yes," Dana confirmed. "The ground... it looks
bad." Her voice had not been as steady as she would have
preferred. 

     "Not what I wanted to hear."

     "Before," she asked, "why did you tell him that no one knew
we were here? I could have kicked you myself."

     He winced, not entirely for her benefit. "At the time I
hoped it would give us time if he didn't think he had to hurry."

     Dana's face lightened in understanding. "Time for Skinner
and the troops to get here... I just hope you're right. I saw
something in the cabin that we might also be able to use though
I don't know how just now. There's two old photographs. The
oldest one is probably Amos' family when he was about three or
four. Six children, three boys and three girls. Amos is the
youngest. The second isn't so old. Looks like a father and three
sons. The father and two oldest were wearing Vietnam era
uniforms, I'm sure of it. The youngest looks like Amos at maybe
fifteen. Could it mean something?"

     "Maybe." Mulder paused in his chewing of the sticky mess to
look around the thirty foot circle of hard earth and roots where
other men and women before him had fought for their lives and
died. "I'd promise to think on it to but I have a feeling I'll
be a little distracted."

     He took another bite and she was glad he didn't try to look
at her face just then. "Dana, I want to apologize."

     "For?" she asked, her voice as unsteady as her right arm.
"Which of the dozen or so things that come readily to mind are
you apologizing for?"

     He gave her one of those little half smiles of his which
looked grim indeed on his blood and dirt encrusted face. "At the
moment I'm admitting to impure thoughts. That first case, when
you came to my room to have me look at your mosquito bites... I
thought at first that you were coming on to me. So much skin....
it was one of the nicest things that had happened to me in a
long time." Then his voice changed, his caustic wit creeping in
again. "At the same time I was also disappointed in you. I
thought you had more class."

     "Sorry you were proved wrong?" she asked.

     "Not at all, though you are a vision in your underwear."

     She stared at him then realized that the humor helped. It
was his way of breaking the tension. "You know, you're not half
bad yourself in a preppie sort of way," she admitted, stuffing
in an extra large bite. "Though when we first met what I most
thought was that you were an egotistical bastard."

     His eyes widened even as he cheeks bulged a little from the
latest lump of oatmeal. "Sorry," he said after he'd gotten down
a least half of the mess. "Guess I did have a kind of chip on my
shoulder."

     "A two-by-four, Mulder. Serious lumber."

     Almost meekly he took another bite, his eyes downcast. Dana
bit her lip. Had she hurt his feelings? No, it was something
more. Much more serious than that. 
          
     "Mulder..." Dana started. 

     "Don't," he told her, his voice very soft.

     "No, I have to say this. It isn't fair. If we had worked
together for a year or two or three and gotten in and out of a
dozen scrapes more impossible that this, I'd probably feel
immortal. I'd feel that *you* were immortal. Then there would be
no need for good-byes. Two months, however, is not long enough.
We should have been given more time."

     "We'll have more time," he promised. "I don't intend to
die. I have too much to do." 
     
     At that moment both sensed a movement. Amos had risen from
his chair. His plate of crackers and salami was empty. Dana
dropped the bowl and raised the Mason jar of water to Mulder's
lips. He drank to wash down the last of the gut-twisting stuff
in his mouth, but over the rim his attention was all on Amos.
The lean man picked up a long rawhide whip that had been curled
around the back of the rocking chair. He didn't uncoil it but he
did come towards them. Dana found Mulder's eyes. They were
beautiful eyes, fearful but also full strength, and most
importantly she saw no despair in their depths. 

     As he saw none in hers.

     No good-byes. So be it.

     They were on their feet by the time Amos sauntered up.
"Hope you're done," he drawled. "I've been thinking, you'll
probably want to impress your girlfriend. Wouldn't want to
disappoint her. In that case this might take a while so we'd
best get started."

     "She not my girlfriend," Mulder answered back putting a
little snarl at the end. "She's a federal agent as I am. And you
have no idea how much trouble you're going to be in if you
continue on with what you're planning."

     "Who's to say that doesn't work to my advantage. Besides,
whoever she is, she's got guts, I'll give her that. Not really
the type I usually post." He studied her, seemed to sense her
edging protectively in front of Mulder. "We'll see. First things
first."

     He began by untying Dana's rope from the chain. As he did
so, he left his back exposed. Mulder sensed it was a trap but
had to try. Leaning back slightly, he came in swiftly from the
side ready to sweep and kick but Amos was ready. The loop of
slack chain in the woodsman's hand came up like a snake,
flipping wickedly into Mulder's face almost across the eyes.
Mulder staggered back. Amos took hold of the chain with both
hands and gave one violent pull. The jerk on Mulder's bound
hands sent him spinning and with nothing to break his fall, he
went down face first.

     Make a deep sound like a distant earthquake that may have
been the hermit's equivalent of a chuckle, Amos completed
untying Dana's rope.

     Dana forced her eyes away from Mulder's slowly moving body
and walked towards Amos, the bowl in her hands. Now was the time
to run if ever she was going to. If she failed, she knew Amos's
punishment would be swift and harsh, but that was not what made
her hesitate. It was what would happen to Mulder if she managed
to escape. To do nothing, however, was not only against all her
training but also against her own code of honor. Besides, Mulder
had given his blessing - actually, his orders - and told her to
run. If for no other reason, she had to try. She refused to
think about what she would find when she came back with help.

     She could hear Amos's big boots behind her. She had seen
him take the end of her leash in his big hands. Dana turned the
bowl in one hand, the empty jar of water in the other. "Mr.
Amos, I -" she began. 

     Dana never intended to get further. She aimed the bowl at
Amos's face at least as well as she could with her sprained
right arm. More, by turning she brought the rope up beside her.
She twisted, lunged, whirled, her whole body intent on pulling
the rope from his hand. It came free. That was all she needed.
Even with her training there was no point in her trying to
attack Amos directly. She had felt his strength and seen his
speed. Instead she ran full out towards the nearest section of
woods

     Less than a dozen steps from safety, Dana suddenly felt as
if she had run into a brick wall. She felt as if she'd been cut
in half, every ounce of air ripped from her body. She found
herself on her back, Amos standing over her, solemnly smiling.
The very end of her leash was looped around his left wrist. 

     He had given her only enough slack to allow her to believe
for a few seconds that she had broken free.

     "You and I," he said with malevolence. "We'll have a time."

     "Let Mulder go," Dana wheezed. "At least take me first.
He's injured. I'll run for you."

     "You'll run anyway. You proved that by trying what you did,
just as I knew you would. You have neither disappointed me.
Let's try it my way first. You just have a good time - and
watch."

                        * * * * * * * *

Somewhere outside Catoctin Mountain Park
Sunday, 1 p.m.

     The stream bubbled brightly over smooth stones. Cliff
Gaines shook his head sadly and cast again into the center of
the pool. There were less and less fish in these steams every
year. He'd have to order an analysis on the lake in the park to
see if it needed to be restocked. The budget might allow him to
order some decent eating fish this time. The lack of anything
much more interesting than carp was why Cliff was fishing here
rather than in the lake. You could get a trout from this steam
if you were lucky. Cliff liked fish, but only ones he caught
himself. He had the fire all built, just waiting to be lit.
There was another reason why he fished here. At the lake he was
sure to be seen and recognized by the regulars who'd want to
stop and say hello. Then they'd start talking about the park and
the poor fishing and how they saw more tent bugs in the meadow
near Picnic Area Two and how ugly they were and why couldn't the
state spend a little more money to eradicate them.

     So Cliff fished here. He didn't want to talk about work. He
didn't want to be found. He had a quart of two percent low fat
chocolate milk - yeah, sure, low fat - a package of Hostess
cupcakes, a bag of Crunchy Cheetos, a knife, a stick and a
strong desire to be alone. The knife was to clean the fish he
planned to catch, the stick was to roast it and the desire to be
alone was because he wanted to think about his life. 

     Since the fish weren't biting at the moment and he'd
already eaten his junk food, Cliff was thinking. His life seemed
to be going in circles. Getting nowhere. It had been bothering
him all summer, so he'd planned this getaway for as soon after
the leaf-watching crowd had returned to Washington and Baltimore
as possible. He had made absolutely certain he couldn't be
found. Being a local boy and not only unmarried but unattached,
his old aunts and female cousins were always dropping by when he
was off duty with twenty-some-year-old daughter of a friend in
tow. 
      
     Cliff was not bad looking, and knew it, but his girlfriends
had all had such plans and dreams for their lives, while he had
none. That had made him feel so awkward that eventually he'd
stopped dating altogether. Oh, he went out occasionally with a
couple of women whom he'd known since high school but only those
who were comfortable with the fact that he wanted to remain just
friends. Cliff did want a future, a family, someone to come home
to at night or who would come home to him. Only how? He felt
out-of-step in this world. Should he hook up with some woman who
was kind and loving and beautiful and who had the spark of
daring and fight in her and let her go climb the corporate
ladder? He'd have to let her career decide the structure for
their lives. Cliff had enough friends whose marriages had
crumbled because the career of one or the other required change
while the other didn't want change. One member of the pair had
to be willing and able to compromise. He was floating through
life already. Didn't it make sense that he be that one?

     The sensible Nineties-kind-of-guy inside him said
'Certainly'. To the romantic, dominant knight who also dwelled
therin, it felt wrong. What was a man to do?

     Maybe it was his job that needed changing? Catoctin
Mountain Park was a backwater as far as the Federal park system
went. It was quiet to the point of catatonia. Dull, dull, dull.
Maybe he should put in for a transfer. The park service
patrolled the monuments on the Mall in D.C. Now there was
excitement. 

     Yeah and traffic and noise and crowds and crime and
demonstrations and a cost of living that wouldn't stretch to
cover a park service salary. 

     Still...

     Look at those two FBI agents whom he'd met the day before.
There was danger. There were sparks. Sparks of all kinds. The
man, Mulder, had been investigating a murder no one else seemed
interested in. But there was something in his eyes and manner
that indicated that what he was after was something bigger, much
bigger than just the killer of some unwanted land developer. The
woman agent, Scully, had been investigating Mulder, or looking
for him. She had been worried. Was she afraid he would stumble
into something he wouldn't be able to handle alone? And why
didn't he call his partner? If Cliff had a partner or friend who
cared about him the way she worried about Mulder, he'd keep in
touch. 

     Those two bothered Cliff like one of those nasty little
horse flies that seldom land but might. More than anything,
though, what struck him was how their work, despite the danger,
obviously drew them together. At least it had with the woman.

     Cliff reeled in and cast again. Perhaps he should try to
find a woman in his own profession? Perhaps he should ask for a
transfer to a bigger park, a much bigger park. One with a
greater chance of encountering some rangers of the opposite sex.
They were becoming more common all the time.

     Maybe.

     At that moment his line tightened. A flash of silver danced
in the sunlight above the stream. A big one. Lunch.

End of Chapter 19

Chapter 20

The Old Amos Homestead
Sunday, 2 p.m.

     Vindicated, Amos dragged Scully back from her brief escape
and secured her raised arms to the stout T-shaped post which the
two partners had already grimly discussed over Mulder's bowl of
oatmeal. Scully's expression as she gingerly placed her feet on
the ground at the base of the post told a watching Mulder all he
needed to know. Up close and personal, the traces of the horrors
that had been committed there must have been worse than even the
pathologist in this woman could accept lightly. Amos didn't
clean up after his hobbies very well.

     Moving with his heavy gait, Amos retrieved his whip and
returned to stand before his bear in the pit. With his tanned
skin, brown hair and worn dusty clothes, he almost blended into
the dirt. Only his eyes distinguished him from any aging farmer.
They glowed with a copper light, a light which grew brighter and
brighter as the madness absorbed him. All of his victims could
have attested to the phenomena... if they still lived, that is.
His current victims looked into those eyes and saw it too.

     Warily, Mulder waited, neither advancing in defiance nor
retreating. Back straight, head erect, he stood with knees
slightly flexed, ready to move. No defiance. No emotion. Bullies
got their 'kicks' from seeing the fear and pain they could
inflict on others. Mulder would give this particular monster as
little of that as possible, but he harbored no illusions. He was
no superman. His body was flesh and blood. He bled. He hurt. He
could be afraid.

     He was afraid now.

     Amos's muscular arm reached back. The whip flew forward
like a thick brown snake striking the branch of the oak just
above Mulder's head. Mulder didn't move. He could read in Amos's
eyes that the hermit was just warming to his game. Outside of
his insanity, Amos was coldly deliberate man, not an emotional
one. To be capable of such horrors, he would need to raise his
emotional state to a place beyond reason. Once worked up to it,
however, the torture, the terror, the helplessness of his
victims must release the murderous rage.

     Three more times the whip cracked like a gunshot, closer
each time. Mulder's ears rang with a single, continuous whining.
Only part of that was from the headache. He kept his feet
planted solidly on the earth. Once he started to run he knew
there would be no stopping. Once he fell and could not rise,
that, Mulder was certain, would be the end.

     The whip came back again but this time touched Mulder's
thigh with a burning kiss. The pain was like an electric shock,
spreading down to his calf and up into his belly to his head to
start his skull pounding afresh. 

     "Ready now?" Amos asked almost respectfully.

     "I'd rather talk," Mulder said. "This won't solve your
problem."

     "So far I haven't heard you say much I'm very interested in
listening to."

     There was no time to compose another reply. The next time
the whip began to come forward Mulder was in motion. Not to play
the game had never been an option, only delaying it as long as
possible. To refuse to play would only switch their places -
Dana to run on the chain, Mulder's body to be sliced open at the
slaughtering post. 

     At least when Scully had tied his wrist together she had
left it so his hands could still grasp. He took the chain in his
hands now. Better when he came unexpectedly to the end of his
tether that he take the shock in his hands and not on his
swollen wrists and aching shoulders.

     The tree became Mulder's shield, that had been obvious from
the first. Dangerous though. The roots pushed themselves up out
of the ground at varying distances from the trunk. They were
good at catching dragging feet. Still, dodging close behind the
ancient oak was his only defense when the whip reached out or a
chunk of firewood came hurtling towards him or a rock sailed
through the air. 

     Amos enjoyed his game and he was patient. He probably got
great satisfaction in seeing how long and how closely he could
stalk a deer before he killed it. Frequently, he glanced over
his shoulder at Scully. He changed his position frequently as if
wanting to make certain she could see it all. 

     Mulder's aching lungs and throbbing head soon became aware
of just how slowly Amos had begun his attack. Gradually, the
pace increased. Worse, Amos was very quickly learning how to
anticipate Mulder's evasion tactics. The whip cut through to
skin more often and burned deeper. The roots and thrown logs
tripped his feet, the stones found their target. He would fall
to bruised and soon bleeding knees and under a rain of stones
stagger to his feet again. 

     Once, during a lull while Amos was walking without haste
towards a fresh pile of stones, Mulder had leaned, wheezing,
against the trunk of the tree, thigh muscles quivering weakly.
His cheek stung where the whip's point had brushed it in
passing, his battered ribs protested at every breath. For the
first time he became aware of Dana's desperate eyes on him. She
was still tied to the post and working uselessly at her bonds.
Before their eyes could pass any message, however, a fist-sized
stone flew towards him with the speed of a well-pitched
hardball.  His body was too slow responding. It hit low on his
ribcage, a spot it had found before.

     After that the game became a blur. Attack and defense,
action and reaction. An animal will instinctively seek to avoid
pain. That was impossible. It was all pain and hopeless struggle
played out in an increasingly darkening fog. Too weary to
respond as quickly as he needed, the whip caught one final time
and wrapped itself around his lower leg. Mulder felt that leg
jerked out from under him. It was not, however, the ground that
rushed up towards his face but the much-scored trunk of the
centuries-old tree. How convenient it would have been if the
huge tree had teleported out of the way of his hurtling body,
but that didn't happen.

                       * * * * * * * * 

     Mulder came awake to pain. So what else was new. His cheek
was lying on rough, dry ground. His head pounded, but then he
couldn't seem to remember when it hadn't. His shoulders and
hands were throbbing numb wheels of fire in his mind despite the
care Scully had taken in binding his wrists. His sides and hips
which he had allowed to take the majority of the hits were a
mass of bruises from knee to shoulder. His chest hurt in a dozen
places. Amos threw a well-aimed stone. Their theory of how four
of the eight victims received their injuries had been confirmed. 
Knees... he didn't even want to think about his knees, couldn't
even begin to think of how many times he had fallen on them.

     Every other time he had gotten back on his feet somehow but
not this last time. Then the darkness had come, a hard, lonely
darkness from which Mulder had not believed he would ever
emerge. But he had. Why was he still alive? Clearly he'd been
unconscious, however briefly. According to Mulder's own, most
recent profile, Amos finished off his victims when they no
longer provided any sport. 

     Even Amos must find comatose pretty uninteresting. 

     Mulder forced open his gritty, burning eyes . There was a
patch of blue sky off to his right though he laid under the dark
presence of the oak whose many bare, interlacing branches made
nearly as deep a shadow as would have been found in summer. It
was still afternoon. How many hours had passed since that first
crack of the whip? 

     Mulder made an attempt to lift his head from the dirt.
Something like a cross between a moan and a sob came from
someplace very close. Could that piteous sound be coming from
him? There were hands then on the back of his head. Gentle
hands. Scully's again. He didn't even need to see her. He knew
her touch by this time.

     She was here and he wasn't running, dodging, whirling,
retreating... falling. 
     
     Carefully, Dana rolled him to a sitting position. Leaning
him against her shoulder, she brought the mason jar of water to
his lips. The first bit he didn't swallow but let trickle down
his chin washing away the worst of the dirt and blood from his
lips and mouth. She could feel exhaustion shaking his body. How
much longer could he go on? Where in the hell was Skinner!

     "That's right, knock yourself out, Mulder," Dana said in a
none-too-steady voice. She dribbled a little of the water over
his face. His skin was so hot from his heated blood and bruised
skin that he shivered.

     "How'm I doing?" he croaked.

     "An eight-point-two from the East German judge," she told
him softly. "No, I take that back. At least a nine. Amos is
enjoying himself way too much."

     "Is that why he didn't replay the final meeting between
Paul of Tarsus and Saint Stephen and finish me off?" He asked,
stopping often to take in little gulps of air. Breathing didn't
seem very automatic. "What's he want? An encore?"

     "I have no idea," Dana said shaking her weary, tousled
head. "Maybe not finishing the dirty deed is his way of pissing
off his sister."

     "Three cheers for sibling rivalry."

     "I can't say I'm complaining either. Despite what you told
him about no one knowing where we are, he must be aware that
someone will come looking for use eventually."

     "Eventually." 

     "Skinner's good. So's Benchley. So's Bull. They'll come."

     "I certainly hope so. I'd even let them pick for short
straws as often as they want." Mulder allowed his tired head lay
back against her shoulder and closed his eyes. It felt good to
stop running, even better to be held. He spoke slowly so each
word would come out clear. "Maybe he's had enough. Maybe he's
waiting for the big guns as much as we are. Maybe he's been
waiting for this showdown all along but just didn't know it."

     "I've considered that. Doesn't mean he'll let the two of us
walk away."

     "He might if he realizes that what he's wanted all along is
witnesses. He was very careful about wanting to make sure you
watched." 
     
     A cool hand brushed back his hair. Even the roots hurt but
he didn't mind. 

     "I did," she said, almost apologetically. "I watched."

     "I know." He tried to shift position. He didn't get very
far and it didn't help anyway. "It was easier having you there."
He realized with a chill that he was having trouble making out
her face. So much was very gray. "At the end, though, close your
eyes."

     "No," she said, angrily. "If it comes to that, I want to be
able to take the witness stand and tell the world exactly what
he did."

     He winced. "Gee, Scully, I'm touched." 

     As rapidly as it had risen, her anger faded. "But I won't
have to, will I? You said you weren't ready to go."

     He tried to smile, but it hurt too much. "I may have
miscalculated." At that some dust seem to get lodged in his
throat and he began to cough. 

     Hell but that hurt! Dana brought the jar of water up to his
lips again. "Don't talk any more," she said. "Rest."

     "Not yet," he wheezed. "I'll be doing plenty of that soon
enough." She drizzled a little more of the water over his too-
warm face. He welcomed the feel of the cloth of her shirt
against his bruised cheek. It felt so solid, so real. Even the
throbbing of his head and the aches and pains everywhere else
shouted out that he was alive. He didn't want to die. He allowed
his tired body to sag into hers. "Talk to me."

     "About what?" 

     Mulder let out a ragged breath. "Anything." 

     Frantically, Dana struggled to find something to take both
their minds off what was to come. Without moving anything but
her eyes she found herself studying Amos. He was sitting in his
rocker drinking from his own mason jar, rocking too fast. His
eyes were lit in a way they hadn't been before and didn't like.

     "This is an awfully violent reaction to the loss of land,"
she began.

     "Seconds from witnessing my violent death and she thinks
about the case..." he  murmured. "A woman after my own heart." 

     Going on as if she hadn't heard him, Dana considered,
"There must be something more to drive him to such anger.
Something more personal. Family."

     "He has those sisters, at least you assume they're his
sisters." Mulder's red-rimmed, hazel eyes opened but didn't even
try to focus. He was playing back a shadowy image. "Before you
came, I took a look around. There's a cemetery. The graves are
all at least seventy years old. All but two. Grace Amos died at
age thirteen, thirty years ago. The third sister? James Peter
Amos - from the dates he could have been Amos's father - died a
year from the end of the Vietnam war."

     "Then I'm even more confused. Mary Amos said: 'We're all
the family either one of us has.' If the land is such a sacred
place to these people, then where are the others?" 

     Mulder raised his head slightly. Some of the pain lines had
smoothed away. Give him a puzzle and he could forget just about
anything, even being well on the way to being stoned to death.
When he spoke his voice was hushed, almost in awe. It was the
way it sounded when the pieces started falling together. "What
if his brothers died in the war like his father? As the third
son and too young to go to war, he was left behind to take care
of things." 

     "That's a huge loss for such a young person and a pretty
good reason for hating Washington right there."

     "But where are the graves of his brothers?" Mulder asked. 

     "Arlington?"

     "If the land here is so important to the family and the
father was brought here for burial, why leave the sons in
Arlington, a stone's throw from the hated government?"

     Mulder felt his partner's body beneath him stiffen as her
mind began following the same path his had begun. "Remember what
Amos said about the government - that they only cared about the
dead and not very much about them. Maybe his brothers never came
back - and yet aren't dead? Wounded and lying in some VA
hospital some place?"

     More than anything at that moment Mulder wanted the use of
his hands. Just to touch this woman - this person - whose need
to know, to understand, was as much part of the core of her
being as it was to his. But his hand were still tied agonizingly
behind his back and all he could do was butt his head against
her good arm like some great useless house cat or fawning dog.
"Wounded? Possible... Let me think. The stress on young Amos had
to have been deep and continuous over a long period of time...
M.I.A.'s? Scully, there are still more than two thousand
M.I.A.'s still listed from Vietnam. That can be worse. Not quite
dead.  Living ghosts. At Oxford we studied the relatives of
M.I.A.'s. They carry a terrible burden."

     "But both missing?" Dana wondered.

     "More likely than two brothers with injuries so severe that
they require permanent hospitalization. Maybe they were in the
same division, walked down the same road, or were traveling on
the same plane when the world came somehow to an end for them.
If I'd had a brother in that terrible place I'd take every
opportunity to be close to him."
      
     "To watch his back..." Dana murmured understanding. The way
she had watched Mulder's. The way he watched hers. By nightfall
would they be watching out for each other even in the grave?
Cold comfort. 

     Mulder was still talking, his excitement obvious in his
eyes even though his voice was so weak. "The breaking point,
Scully, the trigger to this violence. The very government that
has taken his family now wants to take all he has left of them,
that which he's been holding all these years as a duty - the
land." Energy spent, his head listed tiredly to one side. 

     "So he attacks affluent city people," Dana continued for
him. "The kind who would come out here to buy the houses
developers like Rivera are selling. His rage is really against
those who are enjoying their prosperity on what he sees are the
bones of his family."
      
     "So he dances on their bones - and mine." As he spoke,
Mulder felt a shudder pass through the small body who held him.
"I should have put it together sooner," he moaned. "My
apologies. My thought processes are a little muddled at the
moment."

     Gently, Dana pushed the dusty hair from his forehead. "No
apology needed. Your muddled processes are better than the whole
VCS section's on a good day. With what we suspect, maybe we'd
have better success talking to him now," she suggested.

     At that moment a darker shadow than the one cast by the
ancient oak's branches fell across them. While they had been
speaking, Amos had risen. He was in stalking mode, slightly
crouched. He stood before them, the ever present ax handle in
both his hands. He was not the same cold, closed man whom Dana
had seen in the cabin. He was heading towards a boil and behind
his eyes burned both anger and loathing as he watched the two
huddled together.

     "I think he's way past talking to, Mulder."

     Amos's deep voice rumbled from above them. "Ready, Agent
Mulllderrr?" The gravel tones lingered over the last word. "Ever
thought about your name, Mulllderr. Ever think about your body
lying in the dark, cool ground - worms, moss, mold - moldering."

     "Hilarious," Mulder replied a slight snarl in his voice.
     
     The tip of the oak shaft slapped against Amos's left
callused palm. "Time's up!"

     Without taking his eyes from the hermit's face - it was
critical that he personalize this encounter to ensure that Amos
think of him as a person he was killing, not just a symbol -
Mulder leaned away from Dana's support and rolled until he
nearly had his damaged knees under him. By the time he tried to
stand, Dana was at his side, helping when it became obvious he
hadn't the balance or strength to manage alone. Even taken slow,
standing was a bad idea. The pain exploded everywhere but mostly
in his head. The cabin, the antique gold of the sunlit woods,
Amos's gnarled figure, the beaten ground, the azure blue sky -
all began to tilt, to go round and round and round. As all the
strength drained from his legs, Mulder sank once again onto his
bruised and bleeding knees.

     Amos's face curled into a mask of distaste. "I expected
better from the almighty F.B.I."

     Through a blur Mulder glared back, fighting for restraint
but still defiant. He didn't need Amos angrier, but if his body
was going to give out at least his spirit would hold firm until
the end. "I didn't show up here in the best of shape. I've been
a little busy."

     "Trying to catch a killer?" Amos snarled. 

     "Caught one."

     "Don't you think it's was rather the other way around?"
Those mad amber eyes gleamed. The excitement of the chase had
given him more energy. Certainly he was more animated now than
Mulder had seen him. Too much so. The edge seemed very close and
when he slid over that edge Mulder suspected that that was when
violence became all.

     "Come on, Mulllllder. I could almost learn to like you. I
would like you better if you could see your way to running a
little bit more for me."

     Challenge in his eyes, Mulder tried once more to rise but
his balance and his legs were having none of it. Dana supported
him around the waist. "Can you stand?" she whispered.

     "I doubt it."

     "Dizzy?"

     He nodded very curtly as if he moved his head too far to
one side it might fall off. "Maybe if I'd been wearing a helmet
when I hit that tree..." Slowly, he sank back into a sitting
position. Clearly, he wouldn't be playing Amos's game any time
soon.

     Instinctively, Dana interposed herself between her partner
and Amos. "Don't you see he can't right now? Give him time."

     "He's had time. More than enough. More than I gave any of
the others. The game's up." Amos's eyes strayed to the nearest
pile of stones. He seemed to focus on the largest. He had taken
only a single step towards the pile before Dana launched herself
at him. She had no plan and no real hope. She'd felt his raw
strength before. She might as well have thrown herself against
the grandmother oak itself.

     Effortlessly, he held her off, his huge hand closing over
the front of her once-pink jogging suit. She heard the fabric
begin to tear. It didn't matter, she'd stopped him. But that had
been way too easy. He'd been ready for her. He'd expected her to
try something like that. He was playing but it was cruel play.
What other reason did he have for letting her free to attend to
Mulder in the first place? Why else was Mulder still alive?

     Amos had two players now. The game had acquired a new
dimension. A desperate, crazy hope stirred deep down. Maybe Amos
was actually seeing a disadvantage to killing now. That would
ruin the game. Maybe this would give them the time they needed
for Skinner to come. On the other hand, it also meant that the
torture would go on and on and on. Endlessly.

     Until the novelty wore off. Until the mindless, murderous
rage dominated once again.

     Looking across a space of inches into those coin-bright
eyes, her body dangling from that iron hand, Dana could see only
that rage.

     "What are you doing, woman?" Sinister did not begin to
describe the cold, slimy tone of his voice.

     Dana fixed her eyes on his. Mulder was not the only one who
could be obstinate. "Whatever I need to."

     His stern face looked down at her, then at Mulder who,
alarmed, was struggling to his feet - tied hands, bleeding head,
bleeding body and all. Somehow he managed, but his stance was
unnatural as he were suspended in air by will alone.

     "You two 'do' it?" Amos demanded.

     Confusion was Dana's first reaction before she understood
what the man meant. "I told you before, no. But Agent Mulder is
a good friend and a good man. I don't want him to die."

     Amos took a finger and traced her body from throat, down
between her breasts, then to her waist. It was not a sexual
gesture but followed the line a knife might take to rip her open
as he had done to those who would not play his game. "I could
arrange it, so you wouldn't have to watch. If that's what you
want."

     Hopelessly, Dana struggled in the madman's grip. Was this
all she could do? Impossibly, the only answer she could come up
with was 'Yes'. Was Mulder going to die because, physically, she
was no match for Amos? The nightmare of the imagined argument
between the two recruiters came back to her and someplace deep,
hysterical laughter bubbled. 

     This could not be all she could do. What if she did nothing
now and Skinner and Benchley and Bull came storming in in ten
minutes to find only a crumpled mass of blood and bone, Mulder's
bright spirit gone. Could she face them and the rest of her life
and say that she had done everything? *Everything*?
     
     With every alarm in her spirit shrieking, Dana forced her
eyes to lower, her hand to reach out and touch Amos's rock-hard
upper arm. "You're angry. Give Mulder more time. Think. He's
given you a good run today. He will again but he needs to rest.
Once you've killed him, he's useless to you." She kept her eyes
lowered. The words she forced out next felt like grave dust in
her mouth. "There are ways to pass the time while he recovers."

     Amos stared at her as if he had never seen her or a
creature like her before.

     Meanwhile, Mulder had lurched forward as far as he chain
allowed. He hadn't heard or seen all but enough. Those
murderer's hands on Scully? No, not while he lived if he could
help it. "Dana, no..." He called, his voice oceans deep with
grief. "No... not that...not for me."

     In Amos's grip, Dana whirled, angry, to glare at Mulder. 
Would he really rather die that have her offer this for him?
Agreed, to willingly allow Amos to touch her body would be vile,
dirty, probably violent but would give them time they -
especially Mulder - desperately needed. If there was a chance
for them both to live through this... Did Mulder think she was
some medieval virgin who had something she needed to protect? 

     But it didn't matter what she thought or Mulder did. Amos's
hand came out of nowhere, grabbing her shoulder, spinning her
towards him, delivering a back handed slap across her left cheek
that sent her flying to crumple in the weeds and the gravel. "Is
this why you came here dressed like that? Trying to trap me?"

     Sprawled in the dirt, hand on her cheek Dana glared back.
"Do you think... No! These clothes... I know you won't believe
it but it was an accident. I was having breakfast with my family
and a waitress spilled...." An idea, a new hope, blossomed full-
blown into her mind. "Amos, listen to me. It's true. I *was*
having breakfast with my family, saying goodbye to my father.
He's a Captain in the Navy. His ship went to sea yesterday."
Only *yesterday*? "Every time he goes my mother and brother and
sister and I - we worry." 

     Her ramblings didn't seem to be getting through. Initially
confused, Amos was losing patience shifting the weight of the ax
handle from clenched fist to clenched fist. Dana began speaking
faster, enunciating her words sharply if that alone could help
them penetrate the place in Amos which had existed before the
hate. "I saw the picture in the cabin over your bed. Your
father? Your brothers? They were in the military, too, weren't
they -"

     Suddenly, Amos swooped and in a rage again seized the front
of Dana's shirt and shook her. "Don't you dare speak of them.
Not here! Not now! Not ever!" His voice dropped to a harsh,
terrible whisper. "My father may be over there in the cemetery
but my brothers are coming. They are! Tony and Joe. They said
they would. And I've been waiting..." his voice trailed off.

     Dana was still on the ground, half raised because Amos held
her. Her cheek still burned from the full force of his hand.
"We'll help you find them."

     Scornfully, he threw her back in the dust then threw his
arm back, palm open, as if he would strike her again. "You?
You're worse than useless. I don't need you." He turned his head
to see Mulder in his ripped and bloody official suit. By
including Mulder, Amos clearly meant that 'you' did not mean
Dana personally or even Mulder but the FBI, the government.
Mulder stood barely breathing, helpless and desperate to see how
this would play out. Amos spun back upon Dana, looming over her,
hand now closed into a fist. "Where were you five years ago, ten
years, twenty... Then they could have used your help. Now you're
too late."

     Amos's face suddenly underwent a transformation. The hate
was still there but something else. "Is that why you're here?"
he asked his voice frighteningly low. "Are they finally coming?
Are you here to catch them, to take them back? I won't let you."

     Though barely able to understand what he was talking about,
Dana shook her head violently. His paranoia was fluctuating so
rapidly it was impossible to keep up with it. "Amos, no. We only
want to help."

     He laughed bitterly. "Just what they all said, but the
truth is, they killed her. Did you know that? All their visits
and their letters and trickling out the information. You want to
know what torture is? Useless hope like that... week after week,
month after month, year after year..." Bending low, he smiled
grotesquely "No, you're here to distract me so your friends can
come. The other ones. The ones you wait for to help you take
them back."

     He straightened up and spun away from her raising his voice
to the trees, his only audience. "You! You can come out now!
Come on!" he cajoled, making come-hither motions with the thick,
strong hand that didn't hold the ax. "I know you're there. Or
were you just waiting until your whore had me down. Well, now I
know your tricks." He glared at Mulder, his voice still ringing
through the clear afternoon air. "This your pimp, woman? You
don't want him dead, but I think I do. You ever held a life in
your hands? One minute it's there. The next minute... not.
That's a miracle, too." Amos began to advance on Mulder,
swinging the handle, back and forth, back and forth in long
whooshing stokes. "Time's up!" Amos called but it was to the
woods he directed his challenge, to the enemy he expected to be
hiding there.

     Standing on unsteady legs, Mulder tried to wet his lips but
his tongue was too dry. Certainly his belly was cold. His eyes
flickered from the advancing madman to the tree line, searching
as Amos did, half expecting to see - something. "Now might be a
good time," he murmured under his breath. "Skinner? Bull?
Benchley?" Hell, Mulder prayed, he'd be happy to see that
irritating Crow Thompson, even his nemesis Patterson. Anyone...?

No one.

End of Chapter 20

Chapter 21

The Old Amos Homestead
Sunday 4:30 p.m.

     "If you don't come out," Amos called, voice raised as he
followed the tracks of Mulder's eyes towards the woods, "you're
going to loose yourself one useless pimp." He stared at Dana
speaking the next to her. "And just to prove to you what kind of
man I am, I'm not going to do in your 'partner' like the others.
This time I'll use my bare hands all the way, just to be fair."

     "You call that fair?" Dana demanded, even though shouting
made her head, which still rang from Amos's full force slap,
buzz the louder. "You call yourself a man when your opponent is
not only unarmed but tied *and* injured?" 
     
     "Ever gone up against the government?" Amos asked, turning
back to Mulder and his voice dropping low and growling so the
words were nearly incomprehensible. "Picture one puny man
against their rules and their laws and their treaties and their
damned foreign relations! What's fair then? What's the damn
difference?"

     It was clear that if the hermit was not over the edge into
his own private abyss yet, he was sliding irretrievably towards
it and in his rage he'd take this government pretty boy down
with him. 

     Mulder's face washed pale. He read the frantic hunger in
this man who was fast, strong, and without conscience. A human
predator who had put both men and women on the chain before and
just as mindlessly beaten them to death. At this moment Mulder
was under no preconceptions, he was just as defenseless as they
had been and within minutes he would probably be just as dead. 

     But not yet. 

     Adrenalin kicking in one last time, Mulder spun and ran for
the oak. With its six foot girth it was the only shield he had.
It was also the only plan he had, the only one which had worked
before - to keep the tree between himself and Amos for as long
as he could and keep slack on his tether. A taut leash only
limited his options. Besides, Amos seemed to have momentarily
forgotten Scully. She was free.

     Run for the road, Scully, run for help. He must keep Amos's
attention.

     He had it. After all the man's talk of bare hands, however,
Amos's first act was unexpected. He swept up the trailing chain,
put all his weight behind it and jerked it tight. Far past
tight.

     Dana was rising to her feet when she heard the cry, a cry
partially of unexpected agony as pain shot through the already
traumatized joints and sinews in Mulder's arms and shoulders. A
cry also of despair as he felt himself caught, a cry such as she
hoped never to hear from any human throat again much less from
a friend and colleague. The wrenching pull threw him backwards,
off balance, where a root of the traitorous oak tripped his
heels. Dana watched horrified, no time to move, as Mulder spun
and crashed to the ground, taking enough of the force on the
injured side of his head to make Dana's stomach lurch. This time
there was no cry at all, only the heavy thud as his body came to
earth. 

     As taken off guard as Mulder had been, Amos was not. He
continued to close on his fallen opponent with no doubt as to
his intent. It was as if he could already feel that life flying
up between his fingers again like all the other times.

     Before Amos could act, however, a small flame-haired demon
sprang. Not for single second had Dana considered running. Teeth
bared, hands curved like talons Dana threw herself against his
side just as he pulled back his leg and tensed his body to
deliver a bone breaking kick to the crumpled body at his feet.
Amos straightened. He was so deep in his madness that she had
surprised him this time. 

     Dana hadn't gone for a rock of her own or to the wood pile
for a stout stick. For one he had given her no time, only
seconds. For another, she had tested her strength against him
before and lost every time. No, she had seen something better.
When he had stood over her, shaking her, fist clutched around
the fabric of her shirt, Dana had for an instant caught a
glimpse of something familiar tucked in the waistband of his
trousers, an object which had been hidden before under the heavy
flannel shirt he wore as a jacket. 

     Gray metal. The familiar curve of the grip. Come, to mama,
old friend. 

     Amos carried her gun, either hers or Mulder's. The way Amos
held the ax handle, the presence of the skinned deer, was
evidence enough that a handgun was not the hermit's chosen
weapon. Dana had learned that there are, in general, long gun
people and handgun people. Amos was a long gun person, probably
kept a shotgun or a rifle or both under his mattress. He seemed
to have entirely forgotten about the handguns he had taken from
his uninvited guests. But Dana hadn't and she knew neither had
Mulder. When given the time she had seen her partner's searching
eyes. Neither had known where either weapon was, however, until
Dana lay in the dirt, her jaw aching.

     It was with this objective in mind that Dana attacked,
throwing herself against Amos's hard body. She felt him stagger,
not much but enough to require him to abort the kick planned
against Mulder's head and put his leg down for balance. His arm
of iron went around her, pressing her to him but not as a man
holds a woman. More like how a man holds a snake by the neck so
it can't bite him. But he had not bothered to pin her injured
right arm which she had been clearly favoring. Though it burned
like fire, Dana reached out with that arm now and scratched
frantically for the cold metal at his waist. As her numb fingers
fumbled, Dana prayed that her arm would have the strength and
control she needed.

     "What *do* you want woman," Amos growled inches from her
face. With disdain he threw her from him but Dana didn't mind,
she had what she wanted. She was curling her fingers around the
cool metal even as she spoke what she hoped would be her last
words to the monster, Eugene Amos. 

     "I want the same thing Agent Mulder wants," she responded
with a voice as cold and emotionless as raw December rain. "An
end to the killing."

     There would be an end to the killing. Just not immediately.
There must be two more deaths first.



     Even as she flew through the air, Dana clicked the safety
off, aimed and fired with the smooth, automatic motions that
come with long practice. The explosion was sweet, but the slight
convulsive quiver from her injured arm threw off her aim, so
that the bullet hit her target in the lower lung rather than the
center of his chest. On landing Dana rolled coming belly up in
the dirt, both hands wrapped around the Glock. Mulder's. She
could instinctively tell it was his. She could still feel the
oil from its last cleaning. Men! But she and the weapon had done
well enough. Amos was still standing though how didn't know
how. A dark stain was blossoming on his shirt. Those brass-
colored eyes of his stared at her unbelieving until he toppled
like a tree cut at the knees.

     A second after she was certain that her own heart still
beat, Dana was up and running, stooping first to check Amos who
was down and out but alive and then flying to throw herself by
Mulder's side. He had been semi-conscious since Amos's last
trick with the chain, but she had caught a glimpse of the whites
of his eyes as the gun went off. He hadn't missed it. Somehow to
Dana that was important.

     Though he may have been partially conscious once, his
forehead was in the dust now. "Wait till I tell the guys on the
shooting range," he murmured his words so slurred he was barely
intelligible. Then he went still, groaning only at her touch.
There was fresh blood on the ground by his head. Dana stared at
the wound and winced. How may times could he survive reinjuring
the same area again and again?  She hoped his skull was as thick
as his stubborn streak.

     "What should I do first?" she asked more to herself than to
him.

     Amazingly, dust-caked lips moved. She bent down to hear the
whispered words. "H-Hands..."
     
     Dana swallowed, or tried to. That should have been obvious
- the appendages were grayish blue - but her mind was turning
over only with effort. It was, she knew, an infuriating after-
effect from the shock of all that had happened in the last few
minutes. For the same reason her fingers were trembling and she
found she couldn't manage the blood-slippery knot.

     Amos must have a knife. A pocket knife at least. 

     Back to Amos's fallen body she scrambled and began
frantically to search through his pockets. 

     "C-Careful," came a voice from behind her, floating paper-
thin upon the air. Without context the slurred word made no
sense. Dana didn't find a knife, but she did find a ring of
keys. Some were quite small and might be for the padlock on the
chain. At least it was a start. On her knees she raised up over
the killer's body, holding the keys aloft with some triumph.
"Mulder, I found -"

     A second gunshot pierced the rural silence. Aglow with
shock and disbelief, Dana's face never looked more beautiful.
Even as she desperately tossed the keys in the general direction
of where Mulder lay, Dana stared down. Amos's head had raised
maybe an inch and one copper eye was open. The gun in his large
hand looked like a toy as it fell weakly from his grip. Her gun.
With ice cold calm Dana forced all thoughts of the hole in her
side from her mind - all thoughts of the blood seeping around
the fingers of her left hand, all sensation of pain, all horror
at her stupidity and failure. Instead, she calmly reached down
to pick up Mulder's weapon from where she had laid in on the
ground beside her. Deliberately, she set the point against
Amos's grinning skull and with no feeling at all squeezed the
trigger. 

     "No! No! NO!" tumbled in anguish across the yard as Dana
felt herself falling across Amos's most assuredly dead body. It
was like a scene from a movie. The movement of the trees, the
sky, the ground rotating slowly over and under her. Slow,
slower, came the desperate cries echoing in her head.  As the
world wound down, the summer sunshine dwindled to a single point
of light and then went out.

                        * * * * * * * *

Saturday
4 pm 

     Cliff Gaines sat on a comfortable rock and watched the
biggest and best of the eating fish he'd caught fry with a
satisfying hiss in the pan he'd brought. The cornmeal and herb
coating had been his father's favorite and over the years since
his father's death had become Cliff's. As he ate and drank his
third beer of the afternoon, he found his thoughts going back to
the two FBI agents he had met. He was weary of the topic of his
own future anyway. Better to think of that of others. Being not
his responsibility and there being really nothing he could do to
influence the outcome either way, it was a safer subject. Maybe
this lack of responsibility was what made the afternoon soaps so
appealing.
  
     He wondered how he could go about learning if Agent Scully
had found her missing Agent Mulder and where. At the old Amos
place? He never had told either one that there were two
homesteads, though the older one was just a ruin. Neither had he
told them to be careful. There were a lot of woodchuck holes out
that way. That and coral snake nests. Neither had looked like
experienced woodsmen. Woodspeople? Woodsfolk? 

     I'm stuck in the fifties, Cliff thought wearily. 

     Taking a read of the sky, Cliff decided it was time to pack
up. The front he'd been hearing about on the radio was closing
in which would make for an early night. It would be a wet one,
too, and cold.  He'd best throw a few extra logs into the house
while they were still dry.

     As he ground the ignition of his old sedan, the one that
had once belonged to his mother, Cliff swore and wished he had
taken young Bess but by rights the red truck belonged to the
senior Ranger on duty. Maybe he should at least get this old
hodgepodge of mismatched parts painted. That would help. He
might need something presentable someday if he ever found a
woman he wanted to impress. 

     The engine finally started but before he could put the
ancient vehicle in gear Cliff felt an involuntarily quiver run
up and down his body. Odd. It seemed linked to the tickle in the
back of his brain that wouldn't go away. Those two agents.
Automatically, he turned toward the Amos homestead instead of
his own. If he hurried, there'd be just time before dark for a
quick look around. As he drove, he picked up the microphone of
the old CB radio he kept on the floor of the passenger's seat.
Out of habit he called in just to see if anything exciting had
happened since he'd been gone.

                        * * * * * * * * 
5pm

     Skinner paced the main room of the Catoctin Mountain
Visitor's Center. Most of the time his eyes were fixed on the
large map which one of the park volunteers had taped to a
portable black board pulled from a classroom. The Catoctin
Mountain National Park was the last place any trace had been
found of the two missing agents so it was as good a place to set
up a command center as any. Ranger Kessel had marked the map off
into grids according to the trail access points and started his
men on a careful search beginning in the woods where Rivera's
body had been found. Without more to go on the search would take
time. Skinner was still reluctant to draw in too many resources
until he had more concrete evidence that there was some real
trouble here. Even a few extra people would make a difference
but this was a sensitive situation. With Camp David so close the
CIA would just love getting wind of the FBI having trouble
keeping track of their own. Skinner didn't like playing politics
but there were times when it was necessary. There were managers
enough in the Washington office who had found themselves
transferred into the field for less.

     At the long folding table that served as a desk, the senior
ranger took a call. 

     Skinner felt his skin begin to crawl as he listed to the
conversation. 

     "When? Sent them where?" Kessel asked urgently in the
phone. He listened a little more, raising his eyes to catch
Skinner's. That was when Skinner knew for certain that they had
something to go on at last. 

     Kessel replaced the receiver. "Cliff - Ranger Gaines - just
radioed down to the main house. Seems he's been fishin'. He
thinks Agent Mulder may have gone over to the old Amos farm. At
least that's where he sent Agent Scully. Cliff's en route right
now. He'll probably be the first one on the scene."

     Skinner was in motion pointing to the sectioned off map and
demanding with a jabbed finger to know where to find the place.

     "Report's are it's deserted," the senior ranger said as he
came around the table to point it out.

     Skinner stood, jaw out, arms folded, and every line of his
body tense. "Why do I have a feeling that that may not be quite
true." 

                        * * * * * * * *

     Weakly, Mulder laid his cheek against the branch and shut
his eyes. Looking down didn't help the vertigo from the
headache. He had not been acrophobic before but he might be
after this. He also didn't want to look at Scully's motionless
body one more time but from up here it was hard not to. He
certainly had see it often enough in the last hours. He had
shouted himself hoarse ever since the second and third gunshots
had echoed across the yard. Ever since he had seen her fall. The
first shot had been for Amos, the second for her, the third for
Amos. Certainly that third shot was the last that cold monster
would ever feel. 

     For longer than he would ever admit, Mulder had thrown
himself against the chain like some maddened beast. There had
been not one reasoning thought in his head, only blind, insane
anguish and despair. 

     No, Scully! Not this way. Not now.

     His voice gave out first, then his body. Exhausted, he
pitched forward onto his battered knees. Gagging through a long
stomach-twisting series of dry heaves, he finally spiraled down
into his own private hurricane of guilt and grief. There he knew
he'd find it, a place of quiet, an eye surrounded by storms. He
knew he should fight the descent but with the sickness and
weakness it was hard. Since the age of twelve how well he had
come to know this place of refuge. During the VCS years, it had
almost been a second home. Just a little mud hole where he could
wallow in depression. Just a little Universe of his own creation
where he could indulge his feelings of utter worthlessness. His
what-was-I-put-on-this-earth-for self-pity. His parents had not
believed in therapy for their traumatized son - New England,
middle class Puritanism, he had assumed - but the guidance
counselors had slid a few books his way so that even before
Oxford he'd learned what it meant to go down that road. It had
made his selection of psychology for graduate studies all the
more poignant. Doctor heal thyself?  Switch to the right brain
instead, all artificial aloofness. Emotionally dissociate from
the crisis of the moment. 
     
     He needed that little trick now to force the mental pain
away. Scully needed him to think. He didn't even know if she
lived. Almost worse, was she slowly dying at this moment, alone
and uncared for because he couldn't get to her?  He forced his
eyes open. Twenty feet away Amos was splayed out on his stomach
and Dana's hair, fanned over his flannel jacket, was shining
red-gold in a few stray rays of the setting sun. So close and
yet so horribly far. 

     What to do? Oh come, cold logic. How he hated it though. It
left him feeling so dead inside. 

     Cold and dead, however, was what he needed now, but his
little mental trick wasn't working. There were too many traps.
The dizzying heights and the blackest depths both were from the
profiling years as he'd been dragged about on a leash by
Patterson. 

     No, don't go that way, never go that way. 

     His teenage years and early twenties then. But they were a
formless, meaningless fog interrupted only by study, social
blundering and more work. Oh, yes, and one woman's oh-so-sharp
claws. The years after Patterson then. Chasing after the phantom
X-files had been paradise compared to the pit, but so lonely. No
joy but the satisfaction he looked for in the work itself and
the hope for a trail to Samantha. Among the sucking mass of
hoaxes, shams, and lies, however, all he managed to find were a
few seductive hints.

     Scully had changed all that. His talisman. From her very
first case... what wonders.... A shaft of light in his eye of
the hurricane. But outside still spun the storms of all his
faults - he couldn't find the killers fast enough... his
colleagues jeered behind his back... his parents' bitter
battles.... a mother so cold... a father Fox could never
please... a boy never like the other children... Sam lost....
Now there was a new gash in his ravaged psyche. Scully herself.
Wasn't he senior agent? It was his responsibility to keep her
safe and he had blown it. Like before. Like always. She was too
young, too brilliant to deserve this - to be cut down so
unaware, at the moment of a triumph such as few in their
profession ever achieved. Just like all the other blunders in
his life, this, too, was his fault.

     Stop! Stop! *Stop*! This wasn't helping. Mulder knew the
pattern. He didn't have time for his sins to flash before his
eyes all over again. If Scully lived - and the blossoming blood
had appeared low enough on her torso that she could - then she
needed help and he might as well be on the moon for all the good
he was doing her. Mulder pressed his lips together in a tight
line, thrust out his jaw and - concentrating past the nightmare
demons, the blinding headache, the dizziness, the sickness in
his stomach - willed it all away. Slow deep breaths. More.
Slower. As the galloping beat of his heart quieted, the storms
began to dim, evaporating stubbornly like ground mist under a
pale sun.

     Options. He'd already tried breaking Amos's chain. Not a
chance. It was old and rusty but thick. The rough rope that
bound his wrists? Where was the conveniently broken bottle, the
torn bit of stray metal like in the old movies? With a lurch he
found he feet again and took another survey of his prison. The
sharpest edge he could find was on a rock speckled with his
blood. But that would take hours. It would help if he could
thread his hips and legs through the circle of his arms to
brings his bound hands forward, but he'd never even attempted
such a movement before. Oh, he'd seen it done - but only in the
movies. Gymnastics was not part of Quantico's curricula.    

     He started by kicking off his shoes. For once he was
grateful for the length of his arms, which made buying clothes
such a trial. He didn't fool himself though. His shoulders and
arms where nearly paralyzed from the pain and lack of
circulation. Getting his bound hands under his butt he had to
agonizingly rotate every joint from shoulder to wrist. In the
course of that little exercise he allowed himself the prodigious
use of every swear word he's ever learned on both sides of the
Atlantic. He got a new cut on his lip as an eye tooth came down
unexpected on tender flesh. He felt the scabs on his wrists
break open and the sticky, warmth of his blood drip down his
hands. The lubrication was surprisingly useful. 

     Gritting his teeth, Mulder gave a final jerk. With a
tearing burn across both traumatized shoulders, he lost his
balance. Helplessly, he rolled onto his side like an overturned
beetle, but at least his wrists were blessedly under his thighs, 
The tears from the effort and the pain made muddy tracks down
his dusty cheeks but he barely noticed. 'Halfway there' was
uppermost on his mind as he clung to consciousness. As
circulation poured into blood starved muscles, however, he
temporarily lost that battle. 

     His head was pounding as usual as he came around from the
gray-out. His arms still quivered weakly but at least his hands
felt slightly less like useless, bloated sausages. Time for part
two. Too many minutes had passed since the last Glock's thunder
had echoed across the farmyard. Minutes or hours?
 
     While long arms could be useful, Mulder found that long
legs were not, at least not for what he needed to do now. The
long steadying breath he took did little to clear his mind.
Bruises upon bruises upon bruises made expansion of one's
ribcage difficult. By the time he had forced first one foot over
his bound wrists and then the other, he had blacked out again
from ligaments in shoulders, elbows and wrists stretched nearly
to breaking as he forced his body into shapes it had never been
trained to assume. For exercise he swam and ran and played
basketball. He had only watched The Magician as a child, he had
never had aspirations of becoming a contortionist.

     Success, unfortunately, allowed no rest. Head still
swimming, he immediately knelt over his hands and began chewing
on Dana's knots. She had done better than she knew. From time to
time during the games with Amos, his wrists had bled. Not a lot
but enough for the rope to swell. It was slippery now because he
had bled again during his Houdini trick. After fifteen minutes,
jaw aching, lips bleeding from the rough hemp he threw back his
head and let out an inarticulate howl which any animal in the
woods with its leg caught in a trap's iron jaws would have
understood. So this was how the fox or the wolf came to such a
frenzy that they could gnaw off their own limbs. The thought
slammed against Mulder's mind a few times but he knew his teeth
weren't sharp enough.

     Desolate, Mulder laid his exhausted head down on his arms
feeling the rough, cool metal of the hated chain under his jaw. 
This was taking far too long. There had to be another way.

     Something nagged at him. Something about the chain. With
effort his stilled his heart, closed his tired eyes, hauled up
the memory and with hesitation began to replay those last fatal
seconds. It wasn't as if he wanted to see again how her slender,
battered body jerked as the bullet struck. Nor that he wanted to
see the surprise and sadness wash over her lovely face just
before she fell. 

     Then he noticed something new about the vision, something
he had not noticed before. There had been... another movement.
Not subtle at the time but forgotten because of what came after.
What? He ran back the scene in his mind, a grimace passing over
his face as Amos's bullet found her side. There again was
Scully's feral smile of pride as, injured as she was, she lifted
her weapon and with deliberation separated mad Amos from his
world. None of images were what he wanted. He went back further.
He had been barely conscious. The sound of the bullets had
brought him round. The second time he saw it. At the moment of
impact her arm had been raised. Something had been in her hand
which even as she recoiled from the hit she had thrown. What?

     Mulder forced his eyes open. The lowering sun was only a
painful glare. There was no beauty in it, though it was reality
and always a surprise after these intense playbacks. Certainly,
the colors were always brighter than in the dream. One of the
colors this time was a long, dark smudge just beyond the
lowering sun. A bank of storm clouds were churning in from the
west but this barely registered. Instead he got up onto bruised
knees and then onto his feet, leaving his hands to dangle weakly
before him, weighed down by the thick chain. There had been a
flash of metal in her hand, a look of triumph in her face.
Whatever it was, her first thought upon feeling the hot metal
slam into her was to throw the object toward him though there
had been no strength in her throw, only will. Keys? Keys to the
padlock on his chain? If only. If so, he was glad that he hadn't
tried to use a rock to pound the lock to pump before this. That
may have only broken the mechanism. Keys were better, but where
had they fallen? Unconsciously, his mind calculated the
trajectory and that was where he looked.

     Glinting in the last of the sun he would see that day, a
tiny jumble of bright metal lay in the dirt ten feet further
away than he could possibly reach. Now if he had a long
branch...but he didn't. Amos had removed from his killing ground
anything his victims could potentially use for defense and that
included branches that must fall from the grandmother oak during
passing storms.

     The oak.... Slowly, Mulder stared upwards at the thousands
of long, bare branches interweaving above his head.

Chapter 22

The Old Amos Homestead
Sunday, 5:30 p.m.

     A few minutes later Mulder found himself ten feet up in the
branches of the great tree and trying not to look at the bloody
tableaux below.

     Mulder had Butch Flannagen to thank that he'd been able to
make it so far even with his battered and numb hands. The year
after Sam's disappearance, Fox had been a sickly, traumatized
boy. Besides hiding in his books, the only skills he had become
expert in were sinking baskets alone on his driveway, and
swinging into the comparative safety of the branches of whatever
tree was ready at hand whenever Butch Flannagan was out hunting
for his favorite victim.

     More than twenty years later, Mulder was relieved to find
that he hadn't lost the knack. Though there was no spring left
in his legs, he managed to build a step from the rocks and logs
Amos had once hurled in his direction. After that his childhood
talent came back and despite his aching shoulder and ribs, he
managed to swing his legs up, flip so he was belly down on the
limb and inch his way along until he could find a branch long
enough for his needs but thin enough or rotten enough to break.
 
     In his haste Mulder fell rather than climbed down from the
limb he straddled, but at least twenty feet of branch and its
few remaining leaves came with him. 



     Less than a minute after falling from the tree , Mulder was
able to leave the chain and lock behind on the bare, blood-
splattered ground.

     "Scully..."

     She lay face down across Amos. Mulder didn't give the man
a second of his time other than to certify that there were no
lethal surprises left in the gaunt figure. There weren't. Scully
had made quite certain of that. Mulder touched the side of her
neck with his bound hands. Her skin was cool and soft but his
numb fingers were useless for detecting a pulse. Groaning in
frustration he laid his cheek down against her neck. Only after
slowing his own rapid heart, could he feel the throb of hers -
weak but blessedly clear. All gentleness, he raised her head. At
that moment he needed to see her face more than anything. It was
pale and streaked with dirt and sweat, and spattered with the
gore from that last killing shot, but otherwise she was a still
version of the Scully he had come to know so well.

     Carefully, he turned her over, an awkward operation with
his wrists still tied but he needed to look at the wound. The
pressure of her body against Amos's had been sufficient for a
time to stop the bleeding. As he moved her, a fresh flow of
blood darkened the area below and to the right of her rib cage.
Desperately, he stared around for something to hold against the
bleeding hole. There weren't many options. He couldn't get his
own shirt off. The t-shirt from Amos's body smelled badly of
sweat but at least was cleaner than the outer flannel shirt that
was covered with who-knew-what bodily fluids. Mulder's empty
stomach rolled at the thought of using anything of Amos's but
there was nothing else. Scully wore little enough and, even if
she weren't in shock, she would need to keep every layer of
clothing she had. Over the past few minutes the wind had risen,
the temperature dropping precipitously. The sun must have set as
he had worked to free himself - the clouds made that difficult
to tell.  Cringing, he pressed the damp shirt against the wound
on her side. 

     Willing the bleeding to stop, Mulder crouched beside her
for he knew not how long. Time seemed fluid. At one point it was
as if he had run gasping before the viper-like attacks from
Amos's whip only moments before. At other times it seemed like
he had been kneeling just so by his partner's side for years. As
he kept pressure on the wound below her left ribs with his knee,
he rifled Amos's pockets for a knife to cut the rope from his
wrists. No knife.

     His frantic search did come across their service revolvers,
however. One was near Amos's hand and the other lay under Dana's
limp body. 

     Oh, Dana! If he'd had one hours ago, he could have shot the
damn chain! With a scream of anguish cut short by a sob, he
hurled first one and then the other against the grandmother oak.
They each hit the trunk with a half-metallic, half-dead sound.

     Still shaking from that tiny, hollow victory, Mulder bent
down and again attacked the horrible knot with his teeth. He
braced his head against the pad of Amos' shirt which was still
pressed against Scully's wound. Exhausted and relieved to feel
the reassuring though faint beat of her heart against his body,
he worked with less panic and more skill. This time he was
successful with the knot though before he was through with the
rough hemp, he tasted more of his own blood. 

     As the bindings came completely free, his first action was
to stretch - a slow, careful, joint popping stretch. The second
was to examine Scully all over again with what knowledge he'd
retained from the Bureau's required courses in emergency first
aid. He was relieved to find nothing worse than before, though
nothing better either. Despite the danger of giving water to a
victim with abdominal injuries, Mulder knew he had to chance at
least a little. She had lost so much blood, so much. When Scully
brought the bowl of oatmeal mess and water before, she'd come
from the cabin. 

     Mulder very quickly learned that running was beyond him.
Standing nearly was. Each jarring step sent sharp knives of
agony thrusting into his knees and skull. His bruised ribs hurt
so he could barely draw breath. A fast walk was all he could
manage and that not up to his usual grace. The pump in the cabin
was a welcome sight and there were more mason jars. Stumbling
back, he dribbled a little in her mouth and bathed her face with
more, using a scrap of curtain which had hung beside the cabin's
single window. 

     Miraculously, Scully moved. It was just a little at first -
 a slight movement of a hand, a twitching of her torso followed
immediately by a grimace. She emerged into wakefulness like a
flower unfolds - by such slow steps that at any given moment
nothing seemed to be happening.

     For the longest time she lay limp, eyes small glittering
slits under her lashes. The only way he knew she was still
conscious was because she smiled, though it was a rather pitiful
one.

     Her voice when it came was barely audible. "You look
awful," she whispered. 

     Not the first words he'd expected to hear. "You look
better? I fell out of a tree - among other things." He showed
her his hands, not to get her sympathy but to show her that his
wrists were free though reddened with abrasions and dried blood.
The fingers themselves were still enlarged and discolored to a
kind of bluish gray. "You didn't have to tie those knots quite
so tight."

     "Have to get an escape artist..." she began, then paused to
take a careful breath, "... to teach us some trick ones."

     "For when we have to tie each other up? I'll put that in
the suggestion box at Quantico." Mulder frowned. "If you don't
mind, I'll sign your name. I don't dare use mine. My reputation
is bad enough." Sobering, he reached for her hand. "I'm no
doctor. I practically flunked basic field medicine. How is it?
Bad?"

     Dana tried moving again. Only a few muscles actually did.
That grimace passed over her face again. "You ever been shot,
Mulder?" Half way through his name her voice faded.

     He squeezed her hand to bring her back. "Never had the
pleasure."

     "Don't..." she breathed.

     He took both her shoulders very gently in his hands.
"Scully, don't go. Not now. I have to know. Is it safe for me to
move you?"

     "M-Move?" she asked vacantly. "H-Hospital."

     "I know," he agreed patiently. "But bring the EMTs to you
or you to the EMTs?" How lame that sounded - he should know -
but there was something wrong with his brain. Like an old car,
it was just turning over so slowly. It was the headache. It had
never really gone. He had just had no time for it when getting
to Scully was all that mattered. Since the adrenaline rush of
being free had faded, however, and since he'd tried running for
water, it had returned with a terrible vengeance. 

     What had he been thinking again? How to get the help Scully
needed. The events of the last day or two had gotten cloudy, but
he did remember that he had driven himself here. Scully had
followed him so she must have driven as well and had probably
parked where she'd found his car. Two cars then, two sets of
keys. Doubled his chances. Only there had been no keys on Amos
when he had searched for the knife. They were probably in the
cabin then. Mulder stood but, feeling the world begin to spin
abruptly, sat down again. While he fought down a wave of nausea,
a doubt began to worm its way through the headache. Even if he
could make it down that long road to the new homestead, would
either of their vehicles still be there? They had been
imprisoned in the cellar a long time. Amos hardly seemed to be
living in this century much less this decade, but he must have
watched enough TV in his life to know he should hide
incriminating evidence like two FBI-issue vehicles rusting on
his doorstep. If that were the case, both sets of keys along
with the cars that went with them were probably in the bottom of
the lake Mulder had seen on the map of the park in Ranger
Gaines's office. He had to try though and even if they weren't
there, the main road was.

     To the cabin first though. Unfortunately, that meant
standing upright again. Mulder struggled to his knees, wincing
as the stones cut into the raw and bruised flesh. The wind took
that moment to surge past. He stared up at the sky squinting.
The wind was wet, colder than the air, and heavy with imminent
rain. Even semi-conscious Scully must have felt it. She reached
out with her left hand and found his arm. 

     No sound came out at all this time, only her lips moved,
but he knew what she was trying to say. "Don't go."

     He laid her hand gently back against the pad of Amos's
undershirt. "I'll just be a moment," he assured her, but Scully
had faded out again and he doubted she had heard. 

     Hurry.... Stand... Well, upright if not quite standing.
Hard to tell because up did not seem quite vertical. Now, just
try to put one foot in front of the other. 

     It had been a horrible twenty-eight hours or so, and the
week before not one he wanted to repeat. The distance to the
cabin wasn't far but the few steps he managed across level
ground felt like he was scaling a mountain. His shaking, leaden
legs moved as if he had to forge his way through mud or deep
snow. 

     Suddenly, he was so tired and his head - at that moment he
wished he could give it to someone else, anyone else. It had
never been as bad as this before. Its base drum beating made it
nearly impossible to think. It was as if all the storms in his
soul had decided to battle it out up there. As a thunderhead
erupted behind his left temple, his knees sagged. Wearily, he
closed his burning eyes. How nice it would be to sit, to rest.
No... Forcing his eyes open, he blinked. Why was it suddenly so
dark? It was as if someone had turned off the lights. The thick
black clouds in the real sky had closed in making an
unexpectedly early sunset but it was far more than that. Turning
- the tree and the yard, Scully's body and Amos's - everything
seemed so far away and distorted as if viewed from a long way
off or from the wrong end of a telescope. Ahead the cabin was a
vague box-like shape in his much reduced field of vision. As he
mounted the uneven steps, the wind picked up dramatically. The
scent of the rain filled his sinuses. 

     That was when it happened. Something in his head, pressure
that had been building and building over the past hours, broke
like a dam that had been held back far too long. His mouth
opened in a silent scream. Blinded by the pain and knowing he
was falling, he lunged for where the post that crudely held up
the sagging roof of the cabin's porch must be. His fingers
scrapped painfully at its splintered surface but did not hold.
The next he knew he was clawing uselessly at the weathered
floorboards. A sound came from his throat then he didn't
recognize and couldn't stop. Clutching his head, he rolled over
onto his back. As the waves of pain began ever so slowly to
subside, Mulder found himself staring uncomprehending at the
rafters of the porch above his head. Beyond in the shadowy
forest, the branches of the trees had begun to lash like
dragons' claws beneath the dirt-purple sky. 

     Within seconds the tendrils of wind found their way under
the creaking roof. How cold it was, how wet, its scent as
familiar as its touch on his skin. A Northeaster was rising, its
winds driven damp with the sea. The roaring of the trees in the
forest as they thrashed in the building storm was suddenly
indistinguishable from the endless crash of breakers against
rocky shores of his New England home.

                       * * * * * * * * 

     Cliff Gaines careened into the Ranger substation. Within
twenty seconds he had flown out of his own old sedan, leaped
into Young Bess and was back on the road. It wasn't her gleaming
red paint and miles of chrome he'd wanted, however, or even her
roaring engine, but her more dependable radio.
     
     Within a minute the steering wheel was already slick with
his sweat as he thought about the few tense words he'd exchanged
with Ranger Kessel. "Damn! Damn! Damn! DAMN!" He swore, bringing
the heel of his hand down painfully on the wheel with each
violent oath. Finally something had happened in his life,
something important, and where had he been? Off fishing.
Literally. And he had known, had KNOWN, that were was something
wrong. He had felt uneasy all day and done nothing. What a fool
he'd been. Sad-eyed Agent Mulder was still missing and it was
anyone's guess if his restrained, but worried, partner had found
him.

     And where were they? No one on earth had a clue except for
the absent Cliff Gaines. Well, he was back now. Unfortunately,
he could only guess. The Amos homestead? That at least was the
direction where he thought Mulder might have headed and where
he'd sent Agent Scully. It was also where Bess was turned.
Instincts would have to do. 

     Cliff took the turning, twisting roads as fast as he ever
had - which wasn't seventy or even sixty, except at a stretch -
but reckless enough. If he came upon a deer taking her evening
stroll, it would be all over for at least one of them. Kessel
had instructed him to head for the entrance and wait for the
next wave of Feds, but Cliff knew there was no way he could just
sit. He'd park Bess by the drive he had pointed out to Mulder
the day before and leave his lights on. That much he would do.
Wait around till the others got there? Not a chance. Night was
falling too quickly and the edge of the cold front that had been
predicted all day was nearly upon them. Kessel had been
entertaining this new group of FBI at the Visitor's Center. It
would take time to give them the route. Cliff would easily be
there first and someone had to take advantage of what little
natural light there was left.

     He just prayed they wouldn't be too late. Too late for what
he wasn't sure. Deep down he wasn't certain he wanted to know. 
     


     "There it is!" Skinner gestured to Crow, who was driving.
Head lights glowed stationary in the gloomy twilight. A big red
pickup with U.S. Forest Service emblazoned on the side was
parked on the side of the unlined, paved road. Just in front of
the lights was a narrow, weed-choked gravel lane that didn't
look as if it were used much. 

     "Go on in," Walter Skinner told the driver, "but keep it
slow." While his eyes remained fixed on the vista illuminated by
the burning headlights, Skinner picked up the portable
floodlight from the seat beside him with his left hand. With his
right he pulled out his gun, though he left the safety on. From
the back seat, he sensed Bull doing the same. Crow drove
carefully, his scrawny scarecrow's body leaning partially over
the steering wheel. As the car rounded a curve in the drive, all
three saw at the same time the two sets of red reflectors and
two government license plates.

     Skinner was out of the car before it stopped rolling,
running his hand over the hoods of the two cars and the
windshields. He found what he had expected to find. He was still
wiping the cool dust from his fingers as a young, blond-haired
man, carrying a flashlight and dressed in jeans and a Forest
Service jacket, trotted breathlessly up to him.

     Skinner lowered his own light. "You're Gaines?"

     Cliff nodded, his expression somber. "Had to come on in.
Hope that was all right. It was getting dark so quickly -" 

     "What's done is done," Skinner scowled.

     "I was careful not to disturb anything -"

     Coming up close behind Skinner, Bull demanded, "Was there
anything to disturb?" If anything happened to either of those
young agents, he'd turn in his badge. He had sworn to himself
that morning that he would. What a botched up job. Practically
blackmailing Mulder into taking the case, and all the mess with
Dr. Scully. 

     "I found footprints," Cliff reported, "just footprints."

     Skinner felt the knot in his stomach uncoil just a little.
At least there was nothing blatantly disturbing... not yet. 

     Yeah, sure. Just two long-abandoned cars and two missing
agents. "Show us."

     Cliff did. Being careful to stay off the obvious paths, he
showed them vaguely marked and scuffed ground near the house. In
the front hall he was able to show Skinner's group the
footprints clearly by the light of his flash. 
     
     "Two sets," Crow said hunkering down. "A man's and a
woman's."

     Skinner crouched as well. "The woman's overlay the man's."

     "There are some other examples," Cliff said, "but it's
always that way which makes sense. Agent Mulder would have come
here first and Agent Scully later."

     Skinner paused to take a conscious breath. He had hoped
for, but not really expected, some ready answers. On the other
hand, finding a trail of footprints alone was better than
finding the feet that came with them if those feet were still
and cold. No, this may take a while. He longed to call in
additional men but in the dark he feared more agents would just
stumble over any evidence there may be. There'd be time to
assemble and bring in a unit at first light if they didn't find
anything more here tonight. That was when they'd have to start
beating the woods. He'd requested a canine unit but it wouldn't
be able to arrive until dawn at the earliest. A big drug bust
was going down. Staring at the boiling storm clouds which
blacked out the sky and the sunset, Skinner shook his head. The
delay wouldn't matter. Within the hour there would be rain and
lots of it.

     "Where do you want me to look now?" Crow asked Bull. He'd
just come from the barn where he'd been sent. More footprints
was all he'd found.

     Before Bull could respond to his partner's question, he
noticed that the young ranger was staring off towards the west
where the last of the twilight was fading. Without a word of
explanation, Cliff started walking across the yard. At the end
of six strides he was trotting then running. After a silent
exchange, the three FBI agents followed, flood lights blazing.

     Cliff vanished through a barely discernable break in a row
of old pines. In truth, he had to search carefully for the
particular break he had in mind. The others were close behind. 

     "What is it?" Skinner asked.

     Cliff had pulled back the scrub bushes and long grass. His
light was directed on a dirt path no more than six inches wide.

     "They were here," he said and then went on to explain.
"There are actually two farms on the property." He gestured over
his shoulder from where they had come. "You've seen the new one.
Down here about a five-eighths of a mile is the old one. I
didn't tell either of the agents about the second farm because
we just never talked about the homestead in that kind of detail,
but clearly they found the path on their own."

     "His and hers without a doubt," Bull confirmed looking
carefully at the prints. "His first like before." 

     Head down, Skinner walked forward a dozen yards to where
the path began to widen. When he returned, his expression was
grim. "Two sets go out, gentleman, but none come back."

     Three FBI-issued weapons, that had been stowed safely in
holsters when the farm had appeared, were drawn out again
without a word needing to be spoken.

End of Chapter 22


REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (23/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, revised 9/98

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 23
Place... indeterminate
Time... indeterminate

     Mulder stood swaying in the doorway of the shack some
fisherman had built decades before. To his eyes, looking down
through years of memory, the door was bleached to pearly gray by
the sun and the salt. What was he doing here? He should be home.
It was nearly dark. He was supposed to be looking for something.
No, someone. Someone who shouldn't be playing here, but more
often than not this is where he found her. With irritation, he
wondered if she even cared about how much trouble he got into
when she disappeared like this.
  
     She wasn't here this time, however. The shack was so small
that even in this brown twilight he could tell in one glance.
There was no half circle scattering of Barbie dolls and all
their accouterments. If there were, she'd be in the center of it
all, seated like a queen reigning over her imaginary kingdom.

     Frantic, he turned. Now what? Where - ? He almost fell
going down the two steps from the porch. His body hurt all over
and why did it feel so big, so slow? On plodding feet he
stumbled into the yard. To the right, to the left, nothing. Only
the whipping branches of the dark trees against the blacker
forest. And the sky... A storm, a really big one. Night was
nearly upon them and a storm was on the way and she wasn't home.
Now he was going to catch it.

     The wind tossed his hair. Even the roots hurt. He shook his
head and the earth, the trees, the air itself went into motion,
spinning slowly round and round. <Come on out you scrawny,
devious, little...> Didn't she know a storm was coming? If Mom
worried, if the little demon got wet, he'd be the one punished,
not her. What if he couldn't find her at all and Dad had to
come.... Something flapping in the breeze caught his eye. A
sheet of weatherworn plastic protected a woodpile by the cabin
door. If it started to rain before they got home, he'd need
something like that. Even as he pulled the sheet free and folded
it, his eyes frantically scanned the yard. He understood the
darkness, but why was everything so fuzzy. If he could only
focus... 
 
     There. On the ground over by that big tree. Something.
Something that made him very afraid. He crept forward the first
few feet then ran falling to his knees beside the smaller of the
two still forms. Such terrible pain shot up his thighs from his
knees that he nearly fainted. He tried to remember how had he
hurt himself so badly, but was quickly distracted by the figure
in front of him. He'd found her! But why was she lying so quiet?
The little sprite was never quiet, certainly never like this.
Almost fearfully, he touched her face, her shoulders. He stared
down uncomprehending at the blood. There was so much blood.
Someone had placed a crude bandage on her. The scrap of cloth
which had once been white was held in place by a blood-stained
cord. She moaned softly as he touched her hand.

     "Find the... keys?" Her voice was so weak that he didn't
understand the words at first and then when he did the meaning
was just as incomprehensible. Seamlessly, one time slid over the
other. She was Sam but she was also another. The name didn't
matter, she was his to take care of - his - and he would see she
got home.

     With difficulty he rose with her in his arms. She was *so*
heavy. His body ached so. Was he sick? And his head hurt like he
could ever remember it hurting before. Why? Had he fallen? It
didn't matter. He could do it, he could carry her. It wasn't
that far. It never occurred to him not to try, just as it never
occurred to him that he might actually sit down and rest his
aching body and head for a few minutes. He would leave and *now*
and he would carry her and would not fail because... that was
the way it was. No excuse was ever good enough.

     "What took you so long?" Dad would say in that disapproving
way he had. "Why didn't you bring her home sooner, boy?"

     She had fallen asleep, her head hanging so limp and
helpless across his arm. She was more ill than he by far. When
he got home Mom would call the doctor. Everything would be all
right then.

     Halfway across the yard; however, he began to worry
seriously. His knees felt like water. The muscles in this legs
shook and he was having trouble walking in a straight line. His
vision wasn't clearing either. He must be sicker than he
thought. Maybe he shouldn't be carrying her when he felt like
this. It could be dangerous. If he dropped her, she might begin
to bleed again. She had bled already far too much. Maybe he
should leave her in the fisherman's shack after all? As he
looked up, the wind whipped his hair across his forehead.
Shadowed by the heavy branches that whipped threateningly above
it, the small, pale structure huddled like a sort of sad, gray
mushroom. It was dubious shelter, but at least it was shelter.
He'd seen a cot inside. Maybe she should rest while he went for
help.

     No. The wrongness of that thought began small and then
built and built until the panic surged through him. No! That
felt more wrong than anything. It scared him even more than
facing his father without her. Not in a thousand years would he
leave her in this place of death with all its ghosts. And there
were ghosts, ghosts and worse than ghosts. There had been that
other bloody figure lying in the dirt that instinct had told not
even to look at. But it was there, nevertheless. There like the
ghosts. This was not a good place. He had to go and go quickly.
He had let his guard down once before and he would pay for what
had happened for the rest of his life. Never again. 

     Jaw set, Fox straightened his back, feeling the
unaccustomed protest of deeply bruised muscle and bone. It
didn't matter how much it hurt, he would not leave her. Only
which way was home? So hard to think. Wait... home was *that*
way. Of course, it was. He knew every stone and every tree. Take
the path that ran behind the wreck of the old fisherman's
shelter, cut through the little bit of pine forest, skirt the
marsh pond and then turn right for a quarter of a mile.

     Another step. Another. Only about a thousand more to go. In
the last few minutes the darkness had drawn closer, wrapping him
in night. The wind did not moan now, it howled. He stood
blinking, confused. Something wasn't right. Before him in the
wind an empty rocking chair sat slowly rocking. 

     There was a sudden coldness in his stomach. Mom! Dad!
Please, anyone... Why was everything so strange? The forest was
too close, too dense, too dark. The ground under his feet felt
too solid. It should be mostly sand. The shack, when he was able
to focus on it, didn't look right. Too - brown. The remembered
horrors of the present were nudging at this brain. The right
memories nearly slipped back into place then. If they had,
Mulder would have taken his partner into the cabin, laid her to
rest on Amos's cot, ransacked the place until he found the keys,
and then sprinted for the cars, nearly bursting his heart in the
effort.

     He never had the chance, however. Instead, Fox saw a yellow
light swinging slowly back and forth, back and forth against the
rapidly falling night. In the dust-laden air the borders of its
golden beam stood out sharply. It was an old oil lantern. Only
the old lanterns, which swung by its handle as its owner walked
along, looked like that. Old Tom, the fisherman who hung out
around the shack, used a lamp like that. The neighborhood boys
joked that he still used whale oil. Fox nearly collapsed with
relief. Old Tom could go for help or he could stay with Sam and
Fox could go. It didn't matter. Either way here was the answer
to Fox's prayer. He wasn't alone in this any more. Before the
boy could find the strength to speak, however, the lantern
settled to the ground, no longer swinging. Fox couldn't make out
the figure's face, the light didn't reach that far, but the
yellow glow illuminated long, straight legs which were,
confusingly, not at all like Old Tom's short-limbed, wide
seaman's stance. The figure carried a long, stick-like object.
It raised one end to its shadowed head and the other pointed at
Fox.

     No longer at all certain about the lantern-bearer, Fox
gripped the figure in his arms more firmly and took a step
backwards. Uncomprehendingly, the stick-like object was pointed
directly at his chest. Fear rippled through him, rooting his
feet to the ground. 

     Fox would have continued standing there, too paralyzed to
prevent the lump of fiery metal from leaping into his heart, if
a single, harsh cry had not cut the new night air.

     He couldn't place the cry. Night bird? Voice? Whatever it
was, it had pierced through the rush of the wind and the sea.
The lantern-bearer's rifle lowered cautiously even as four cones
of glaring blue-white light exploded from the forest. The eerie,
brilliant beams seemed to come from four suns. From each of
their ordinates rose voices, echoing and bouncing against the
wall of the woods. The guttural syllables were like carrion
birds soaring like the sweeping lights and screaming on the
wind. 

     Terrified, Fox's attention bounded from sun to sun to sun
and back to the figure with the lamp. The soaring lights hadn't
found either of them yet, but one of the beams had backlit the
figure, transforming it into something tall and thin, ghostly
and utterly alien. Fox stared, the most terrible of all his
fears finally uprooting his feet, allowing him to manage a step
backwards and then another. He knew... he knew... he knew...
this being. 

     No! Not again. Not again. Not ever. 

     Then the illuminating light swept away, and with it the
image vanished as quickly as it had appeared. But old fisherman
or stalker of his nightmare, the boy had seen enough. Like a
deer caught in the crossroad between the headlights of too many
cars, Fox's body first jerked violently right and then left and
then right again. This time his legs responded more quickly to
his fear. He found he could move, he could run. He fled
backwards towards the blackest of the shadows by the western
wall of the cabin. His heart had expanded to fill his whole body
with its terrified beating. 

     So what if the lights hadn't found him yet - that was
little comfort. The unnaturally tall, spider-thin one had and
the rest would follow. If he was slow one heart beat, one
breath, one of the probing beams could touch him and, overtaking
him, they would find... her.

     *No!* he screamed, but if he made any sound at all, it came
from a throat too closed with fear to allow the word to go far.
Even as that nearly silent cry filled his aching head, one of
the voices rose above the others and all four of the dancing
beams settled on one point in the center of the yard. Panic -
raw, old, and familiar from far too many nightmares - plunged
deep. This all had happened before. The lights and the tall,
thin being had come and stolen his life, his sanity, his future,
his world.

     But not yet. For the moment Fox was in darkness - cringing
like a mouse or mole behind the woodpile - but at least safe.
Unable to be seen, he was also unable to see and thus did not
know that the yellow glow of the lantern had vanished. Blinded
as the beam had swept away, he had not seen the lantern's owner
stoop over the chimney to furtively hide its light until its
flame could be extinguished. Then the figure had melted into the
black dense shadows of the trees. 

     Now was also Fox's time to withdraw while the lights were
all focused on  that horrible second form, lying stiff and
silent out there in the center of the yard - the one Fox had
refused to see. As he gathered his nearly paralyzed legs to bear
him, he convulsively clutched more tightly the burden he
carried. In protest she whimpered softly.
 
     "Please, please, please be quiet," Fox warned, his voice
not nearly so loud as the wind and the sea. "They won't take
you. Not again. Not this time. Never," he swore. Then he took a
step backwards, then several more, terrified to expose his
unprotected back to the lights that might at any moment rise and
begin searching again. He whirled and not stumbling for once
fled on quiet feet towards the trees and the more distant hills,
leaving for those who had come searching only the ghosts to
find.

                        * * * * * * * *

     As the four men moved as swiftly as they dared down the old
road, Cliff Gaines described the layout of the older farm to the
three agents. Cautious man that he was, Skinner's preference was
to stake out the place and wait for the back up he had called
for and, preferably, for daylight. Until more was known he had
to assume that they were dealing with a known serial killer and
two hostages. It was critical that they take this slow. Under no
circumstances should their suspect become suspicious. Under
cover of the coming storm it would be a relatively easy matter
for a suspect who knew the area to get by four men. 

     Skinner found himself quickly reevaluating, however, when
Crow's sharp eyes spied the signs of a scuffle on the dirt road.
They were difficult signs to read in the deepening twilight. In
one place a spot of some dark substance had soaked into the
earth and dried. The spot was undisturbed so it could not have
been there long but was thoroughly dry. Blood - they all knew
the texture - and it had to have been there at least a day but
not much longer. In light of this new information Skinner had to
assume that at least one of his agents was injured. Waiting was
no longer an option. Too much time had passed already. 

     Rapidly they made their plans then, surrounding the farm
yard as well as a party of four can, they turned on their floods
at Skinner's shout of command. Guns drawn, they moved steadily
towards the old homestead through the last band of trees,
panning the space with their lights and shouting rapidly back
and forth to one another in an attempt to look and sound like
three times their number.

     Skinner hadn't even reached the edge of the clearing before
Bull gave the cry "We have a body!" His old friend's flash had
found what was undoubtably a downed man lying in the yard
between a small frame shack and the ruins of a sizable barn. The
three remaining lights found it quickly. They swept away from
time to time but always came back to the man-sized form which
they quickly discovered had lost most of its face from a gunshot
delivered at close quarters. From the edge of the cleared space
and in the dark that was all they could tell at first. A tall,
lean male, stripped to the waist and very definitely dead. A
cold lump settled into Skinner's stomach. If that was Fox Mulder
out there.... what a loss that would be, not only for the
Bureau, but also for the tormented genius himself. In a
strangely personal way it would also be a loss for Skinner, an
odd reaction for the Associate Director considering how few
times he had had the opportunity to work with Patterson's
prodigy. He had been looking forwarding to taming some of that
energy and spirit. Now there may be no more time.
  
     As if sensing his friend's mood, Bull let Skinner be the
first to approach the body. A rapid examination of clothes,
weathered skin, and pale, graying hair showed that this clearly
was not Fox Mulder.

     After a cursory examination of the body's pockets for any
kind of identification, the agents left the body as they had
found it and rapidly began expanding their search of the
grounds. They moved cautiously, expecting shots from any
direction, for clearly shots had been fired. After all, there
was no way of knowing if the man they had found was executed
killer or victim. Even if he were *a* killer he may not be the
*only* one killer. Within thirty seconds they had completed
their first examination of the grounds, the barn, the cabin.
They found no one living and no other bodies. They did find the
disgusting offal at the base of the butchering post, however,
and, from their knowledge of how the other victims had died,
deduced the use of the chain and the trodden arena under the
tree readily enough.

     Cliff had held a minimal perimeter guard when the others
came forward. He was standing over the body when the agents
returned to compare notes.

     "It's Amos," Cliff confirmed, staring down. He stomach was
not happy. He'd seen death before but only when it was
accidental - the rare fatal car crash and that one climber who'd
lost her footing. 

     "And most likely our Hunter," Skinner deduced, gingerly
lifting the jacket they had found crumpled on the ground near
the body. It had to be Amos's. From its size, the blood and the
location of the bullet hole that matched the wound located low
over one lung, it had to be. Skinner pointed at the spray of
older stains on the garment. "I'd be willing to bet that these
are blood, too, but not Amos's." 

     "Sir..." It was Crow's voice.

     The A.D.'s eyes followed the direction of younger agent's
bobbing flash. Crow was picking up more dark patches in the area
under the tree. Add to that the mess by the post and there was
easily enough evidence in the yard to place this as the scene of
most, if not all, of the Hunter's murders.

     "But where's Mulder and Scully?" Bull asked, mystified, as
he returned from a second stomach-churning look at the gory
post.

     "And why undress the man after he was shot?" Crow asked
with curiosity. 

     Skinner shook his head. Mulder was involved so this just
couldn't be easy, could it? "We have questions. We need answers.
That's what we're here for, gentleman, and in case you haven't
noticed, we have rain coming. A lot of this evidence is going to
be lost if we don't get it down right the first time so I'd say
we best get moving. Bull, take the barn. Crow, I've heard about
your work. The body and this area is yours. Tell us what you
can. I'll take the house. Ranger Gaines, run down, get the
equipment from the trunk of our car and bring up your truck if
you can get it in." Before the eager young ranger could run off,
he warned, "But keep your ears open. I don't want any surprises.
You say Amos was a recluse and that fits with killers of his
type but you never know. We may have lost two - " he was going
to stay 'men' but that didn't seem right "- agents. I don't want
the forest service on my back for a missing ranger. Stay on the
radio and walk our other men in when they come. Look for
anything suspicious that's missing that should be here or that's
here that shouldn't." Involuntarily, all four men looked towards
the body. 

     "Present company excepted, of course," Bull mused.

     It took only minutes for Skinner to finish his preliminary
search of the cabin - there was only so much to search - but
what he had found had saddened him in a way that few crime
scenes could do any more. Under the thin, hard mattress he found
two sets of car keys and the wallets containing Mulder and
Scully's IDs. All were now in evidence bags in his pocket. A
thick, bloody thumbprint was smeared across Mulder's photo.

     Skinner played his floodlight over the barn. Part of it was
standing, had probably been standing for a century, but didn't
look like it would be five minutes from now, especially if the
wind picked up any more. The storm had already risen to the
point that the three agents found to hard to communicate with
one another across any distance.

     "Walter," called Bull's voice, muffled, from the far side
of the barn. "Come here. You'll want to see this."

     Curious, Skinner followed the sound of his old friend's
voice. From the tone, Bull had found neither Mulder nor Scully
but he had found something. Rounding the corner of the ancient
structure, Skinner saw at first just an over-grown flagstone
path. Then he spied the storm cellar. Its heavy wooden shutters
were flung open and Bull's light streamed from below. Skinner
descended the steps with care watching his head. The all-too-
familiar smell of old urine, sweat, vomit and human waste was
strong here but not overpowering, yet it was still enough to
make an old agent's skin crawl. The cellar had clearly served as
a prison from time to time, but not constantly.  The air was
very stale, the ceiling too low for even a man of average height
to stand. The walls were old stone, the floor dirt. With the two
big men inside it was very cramped quarters. 

     The beam of Bull's flash illuminated an area of the floor.
Neither man spoke. There was no need. Pressed within the soft,
ancient loom were the marks where two bodies, one long, the
other much less so, had clearly huddled together for warmth.

End of Chapter 23


==============================================
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (24/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, revised 9/98

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 24
Place... indeterminate
Time... indeterminate

     The woods were close, dark and, as they say, deep, but an
ally from the paralyzing terror of the lights and the danger
that hid behind them. At least he couldn't hear their voices any
more, not over the roar of the surf that oddly never got any
nearer nor ever any farther away, nor over the base drum beating
of his heart.

     Running was impossible but he walked quickly as quickly as
many could jog. As the lights were left behind, the panic was
replaced with an unyielding purpose. For once in his life he
must move quietly, must not be clumsy, not tonight. If he fell
he might injure the precious burden he carried and the sound
might draw them to him. He must be extra careful then because he
was so awkward, at least that's what the doctors always said.
And Dad, of course. Afraid he would stumble over something and
fall, Dad had never even let him carry Sam piggyback when she
was three. How much heavier she was now. Feeling that weight
sliding in his arms, Fox paused to readjust his grip. His breath
was coming too hard and too loud. How like the panting of some
big, stupid dog. He tried to make his breathing less obvious,
but his lungs didn't seem to be working right. His ribs hurt for
some reason, the ache like a tight belt that allowed him only
shallow breaths. And he was so tired and she so heavy! When had
she grown? He looked down at himself. His feet seemed a million
miles away. Of course, he'd grown, too. He felt like a stranger
in this body, certainly a stranger in this place. Nothing made
sense and how his head hurt. 

     Home. Please, Mom. For once be home.

     He had gone he knew not how far or in what direction when
the threatened rain began. Were those flashes of brightness
really lightning or did those flares exist only within his mind?
There was no thunder, just more of the constant roaring in his
ears, louder even than the banshee cry of the wind in the trees.

     The rain came down cold. Regretfully, he stopped but only
long enough to wriggle out of his suit coat and place it around
his charge's limp shoulders.  - Why was he wearing a suit?
Awkwardly, he wrapped her in the plastic he had collected from
the woodpile. All but her face, of course. You never put plastic
over your face, Mom said so. His task completed as well as he
could, it was time to go. He dared not take any longer rest than
that but, oh, he was so tired. With considerably more effort
than before, he got to his feet. He was soon dragging his feet
again through the trees, only this time there was only a thin
shirt between the cold rain and the bare skin of his back. Home
had never seemed so far away before. After a time there was just
the walking. Every other goal had slogged off in the rain with
the mud and the dried blood from his aching body.

                        * * * * * * * *

     The sound was that which heavy rain drops make as they fall
on the tight skin of an umbrella. The odd part was that the
umbrella seemed to be within a centimeter of her upturned face.
Then the wind must have shifted direction for all at once a
dozen branches released their captured loads of droplets in a
spray. Dana felt a few icy drops fall unto her cheek. How cold
it was. There was a general chill over all her limbs and a
clammy wetness. Early winter rain, that was the sense of it. She
ought to get somewhere warm but her body felt so leaden,
weighted like stone. It took all her concentration just to make
the very beginnings of an attempt to sit up. When she did, fire
shot through her body beginning from somewhere just below her
ribs spreading outward and upward and .... It really didn't
matter. Trying to make sense of it all was just too hard.

     Then she remembered. Oh, how she remembered. Even stronger
than the memory of the bullet she'd taken was that of the hatred
on Amos's face just before she squeezed the trigger. Since then
all was a blur. There had been something almost like a
conversation with Mulder. He had gotten free - of that she was
certain. It was only by clutching at this unhoped for gift that
she was able to drift off, content that all would soon be well. 

     The minutes, maybe hours, that followed had been filled
with pain, cold, a sense of rough movement and fevered dreams.
In her dreams she was being carried along in the strong arms of
her rescuer like some Romance heroine. What she hoped to find at
the end of their journey, however, was not an ancestral manor
house but a warm, well-equipped hospital. That would be fine
with Dana. He was taking her to a hospital, wasn't he?
Flickering lights came and went through her eyelids - the
headlights from Skinner's car? - and there was a rumble as if
the earth itself were snoring but that, of course, was from the
weight of the approaching ambulance. Or was it? Considering her
profession, Dana had a fondness for hospitals, but not when she
was the patient. Tonight didn't count, however. 

     Tonight, give me strong drugs, then cut me open and do with
me what you will. Only fix me up and let me sleep. 

     Sleep at least. Warm and safe.

     It was the cessation of movement that brought Dana awake to
harsh reality, that and the occasional plop or sprinkle of rain
which was definitely falling from branches overhead. 

     No hospital. 

     The pale, flickering light was not from imminent help but
from far off lightning. Even now she could hear the answering
thunder resonating from the hillside to her right to the one on
her left. There was a significant amount of hill around her. She
could sense tons of ancient earth beside and nearly above her.
The only part of the dream which remained was that she was still
in a strong man's arms.

     Who....? Where....? Consciousness returned in full. Dana
forced her eyes to focus. They wouldn't. There was a specter-
like gleam just to her right which she couldn't identify.
Several of the dim flashes from the distant lightning had to
pass before she could identify her looming ghost. Mulder's once
white shirt. She was in his arms, or rather balanced in his lap,
for at the moment he wasn't moving. He was sitting slumped on
the ground, huddled over her.

     There must be a tree above them, for from time to time the
branches gave up their captured rainwater in drops or a fine
shower. He was protecting her from this as he had taken the bulk
of the storm. His shirt was plastered to his body, sopping wet.
His hair lay against his skull, too, like a dark cap. She could
hear the drip, drip, dripping of the water off the branches of
the tree. She sensed it landing on his shoulders, running cold
down his neck. That which plopped on his head dripped off the
end of his hair or ran down his pale face. Those were the drops
she heard plopping onto the plastic close to her face. A large
drop missed the plastic sheeting to land on the corner of her
mouth. The taste was slightly salty. Not all of this was rain
water. That was when Dana became aware of the difference between
the heat of his body and the coolness of the air.  He was
feverish surely. The salt she had tasted had come from his own
sweat. Or his blood.
 
     The arms which held her quivered. He was shivering. That
may have been what had awaken her, that and the dripping. Mulder
was wet, exhausted, and beyond cold in addition to being
feverish and - intuition told her - very possibly lost. As far
as Dana could tell there was nothing near them which wasn't tree
and bush, earth and water and sky. No houses, no roads, no cars,
no anxious FBI, no ambulance, no hospital. Just forest and hills
and forest and rain and more forest.

      How had they ever gotten here? "Mulder?" The word came out
more like the croak of a frog than a voice and too weak. At that
moment lightning flashed and the earth groaned. It was stray
bolt, much closer this time. If Mulder had been dozing, he
wasn't any longer. He woke instantly, incompletely but
instantly, his head rearing up, drops spraying from his dripping
hair. Another wave of light washed over him only this time it
was too far away to split the air with more than a half-hearted
rumble. Still there was sufficient light to illuminate his face.


     The face that floated above Dana's looked nothing like that
of the partner she expected. All the dirt and dried blood she
had looked at for so many hours had washed away. That may not
necessarily have been a good thing. At least his wounds had
given him some color. What was left looked like a corpse, a
drenched corpse. His startled, unfocused eyes gleamed not out of
hallows but caverns. His cheeks were stretched over a skull with
too little flesh on it. By contrast his lips were slightly
swollen and his jaw was thrust forward in the way she had
learned by now meant he was in some extreme mental or physical
pain but too stubborn to admit it. Mulder would whine about the
little stuff all the way to the emergency room, the way all men
do, but the major hurts he hid completely. This was big time. 

     "Mulder..."

     She got his attention this time. He looked down and his
arms came around her a little tighter. Momentarily, the shivers
ceased. He opened his mouth. Nothing would come out at first. He
struggled and managed better the next time though it was far
from his normal voice. "I'm sorry, I'll get you home. I promise.
I just needed to sit down, just for a minute."

     Immediately, Dana felt uneasy. Even though he hadn't used
her name, she sensed that the Mulder she knew was not sitting in
front of her. The voice was all wrong. Almost teary in its
weariness. This was someone else, years younger and miles away.
How they had come to be here - wherever *here* was - Dana had no
idea, though she was beginning to suspect the *how*. The
literature was full of such cases, stress and injury can turn
the mind and certainly Mulder had been heading full steam in
that direction; the strain from that hellish week of profiling
from which he'd had scant time to recover, the repeated trauma
to his poor head, dehydration, starvation, near asphyxiation,
and too many hours of fear and torture and helplessness. And
then there had been plenty of fertile ground in which such
twisted seeds could so easily take root and grow. Twenty years
of guilt for being unable to do just what he was attempting to
do tonight. 

     Saving Samantha. 

     That he had flashbacks was no surprise to Dana. His mind
worked that way naturally, its own universe of startlingly vivid
memories. It's a wonder he had even one foot in reality half the
time. Tonight that foot had slipped. 

     Dana moaned. Did it really matter how they got here? Here
wasn't close to a hospital, shelter, home or even a roadside.
They were nowhere.

     Dana shifted just to see if she could and darkness crept
around her eyes, riding the crest of the pain. She had no
choice. No matter what world or decade he was currently living
in, Mulder must move because she could not.

     "Fox," she said gently, the name sounding odd and foreign
on her tongue. He had talked of 'home'. If somehow he associated
her with his sister Samantha, very well. He could think she was
Dr. Sulk or Jack the Ripper for all Dana cared as long as he
found her a hospital. 

     "Mulder... you need to find us some help. Both of us. Now
that you've rested, can you go on?"

     How she hated herself for having to ask. The tracks of the
rain down his face were like tears. Exhaustion and worse,
certainly hypothermia, were written on every line of his body.
To stay here, however, with the rain turning slowly to ice,
would only make things worse for him. She knew already that he
had given her all he had, his coat and from somewhere had found
a sheet of plastic to keep off the worst of the rain and hold in
as much of her body heat as possible. He even shielded her with
his own unprotected body. Much longer and he would be the first
to die out here and, if he died, so would she, only her time
would come later and alone.

     His head drooped. "I don't... know if I can. I'm so tired."

     "I know. But we have to get moving again." She fixed him
with her eyes, holding him so completely that when the lightning
flashed again and even when the hills groaned soon after, he
didn't even flinch. "Fox, they'll be looking for us."

     "No!" The word came out so suddenly that she was the
startled one. 

     "So you're running away from something even more than
towards anything," she mused more to herself than to him. The
kind of fear would certainly be the death of them both. Though
she never choose to remember later how she managed it, Dana
extracted an arm from her cocoon of fabric and plastic and after
two failed attempts was just able to place her hand on his cold
cheek. Yes, necessity could triumph over physical limitations
but the cost had been high. How much of her remaining strength
had she expended just for this?

     "Mulder... Listen to me. It's Scully. Amos is dead.
Remember Amos?" No use playing to wherever he was. She needed to
bring him back. "He's dead, Mulder. Really dead. It's our
friends who are looking for us, no one else. Only our friends."
Dana prayed this was true. Mulder probably had more enemies than
he could count. "It's Skinner, Mulder. And Bull Hennessy. 
They're going to be really pissed if they don't find us pretty
soon."
     
     A bruised, scratched hand reached up, took hers, and stared
at it. By the light of distant lightning, emotions flickered
across his pale face. It was almost as if she could see the
layers of confusion peeling off one by one like an onion. Not
the revelation of a moment, more like the striping away of veils
or the dissipation of fog under a newly born sun. 

     Slowly his brow creased into those all too familiar furrows
and his lips came together, thinning with the effort of his
concentration. It was as if she was watching someone playing
solitaire - slowly placing each card in its proper place. He sat
very still but he was, in truth, not still. Inside there was a
lot going on. He allowed the whole hand to play out before
speaking again and it was the man she had come to know so well
who spoke next. 

     "I'm -"  She saw him silently apply at least a dozen names
to himself, all uncomplimentary. He settled on " - an idiot." 

     How she wished she had the strength to smile. "Far from
that, Mulder."

     "Mad then."

     Though the last thing she would have wanted was to add to
his burdens, Dana sagged into the feverish warm of his arms. She
had remained conscious longer than she would have thought
possible, certainly longer than her body wanted to. "At least
you're a conscientious madman... you were only trying to rescue
me." Dreamily, she murmured, "My hero."

     He would was not about ready to allow her to let him off so
easily. "Hero... Right. Rescuing you from nightmares and
phantoms. Mine. I could have killed you. I am killing you."

      "Then move those lazy bones of yours and make it up to me.
Sam is not the only one who wants to go home."

     His face went ashen at her words, which, as pale as he was,
she did not think possible. It was as if she could actually see
the wounds her thoughtless words had caused.

     "Mulder, I'm sorry... I didn't mean..."

     Taking her hand in his trembling cold one, he clumsily
tucked her arm back under the coat and layers of plastic
sheeting. "But you're right," he said, his voice as nearly
expressionless as she had ever heard it. "Of course, Sam want to
go home and so do you, and there's where you'd both be now if it
weren't for me."

     Before she could protest, she felt him secure his hold on
her and then gather his body to lurch to his feet. That he was
in considerable pain, he could not hide. What she found
astonishing was that he could move at all considering what he
had been through. His rising wasn't smooth and Dana felt a
moment of anxiety that he would fall. Anxiety, but no fear. If
she had to depend on anyone else, she would have been afraid,
but this was Fox Mulder, who was not like anyone else.

     On his feet now, she sensed him staring out into the
darkness, first right, then left. He cleared his throat as if he
find the words hard to get out." I don't know....."

     Dana's sigh was audible. So she had been right from the
beginning she thought wearily. Lost. 'Unique' just scratched the
surface when it came to describing Mulder. "Just pick a
direction, Mulder. Camp David is around here somewhere. With our
luck you'll stumble into a secure area and trigger about a
zillion alarms."

     Mulder shook his head wearily, as he settled her once more
against his shoulder. "And to think that at first I had my
doubts about your having a sense of humor." He listened. No
comeback. "Scully?" with more urgency. There would be no answer.
She had faded away in his arms.

     Guilt with its paralyzing depression and fear with its need
to act vied with one another for a few stressful seconds. The
fear for her life won out easily. He had let her down enough.
Not again. First, as Scully had said, pick a direction. He could
not just go blundering about in the dark. There had to be some
way to make a logical choice. The storm came up on them from the
west. Instinctively, he would have kept the wind and rain at his
back as he fled, therefore, his flight had probably been east.
To return to the farm and the cars, therefore, he should head
west again. Not a pleasant prospect. He legs shook with
weakness. They talk about the strength of the insane. It must
have been that for him to carry her so far. How far he had no
recollection, but a good distance to get this wet and cold. He
could use a little of that insanity now. Now that he had his
right mind back - such as it was - how long would his body hold
out?

     Clasping her protectively to him, he bent his head into the
light rain and took his first steps west and back towards Amos's
farm.

     At that moment a voice spoke out of the darkness. "I
wouldn't go that way if I were you." The tone was rough and
commanding. Not in any way a request. 

End of Chapter 24


==============================================
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (25/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, revised 9/98

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 25
The Old Amos Homestead
Sunday 6:30 p.m.

     The lab people arrived sooner than anyone could have
expected. A different race began in earnest now. Pictures of
Amos's body had to be taken and all the trace evidence collected
before the storm hit in ernest. Cliff Gaines proved to have
natural knack for lighting, a critical skill to have on the team
that's trying to capture a crime scene at night under less than
ideal conditions. Bull oversaw the collection of the evidence,
but Crow had the best eyes for detecting the bits of blood on
the stone and wood within the killing ground of which there were
far too many examples. There were flecks on the tip of the
rawhide whip, too. More than one agent was seen standing in the
shadows rubbing his or her arms. The chill they were feeling
wasn't from the coming storm. They all lived with the fear of
this kind of thing happening on the job. They all prayed that it
wasn't true, that what they were seeing didn't point to the
obvious conclusion - that they had come too late.

     The storm finally struck with sheets of rains and booming
rolls of thunder just as Amos in his black body bag was slid out
from Bess's flatbed and into the waiting ambulance. The evidence
van had already left with the third set of samples and
fingerprints to be analyzed. Skinner, Bull, Crow and Cliff stood
in the pouring rain and watched the red and white lights of the
ambulance disappear around a bend in the road. The dead can be
made to reveal many of its secrets, but probably not the answer
to the one question uppermost in each of the men's minds. When
Cliff invited the team back to the Ranger station for hot coffee
and food, there was no discussion, only a weary shifting of
stooped shoulders. 

     Only after they were all seated around a folding table with
coffee, canned chili and bread did Cliff sheepishly pull out a
small bottle of Glenlivet. Without a word he placed the whiskey
before Skinner. For a long moment the Associate Director eyed it
as he listened to the beating of the rain and howling of the
wind. Finally, he picked the bottle up and dashed a finger's
worth into his coffee. That was all the encouragement the others
needed. Following Skinner's example, no one took much, not only
because of the Associate Director's presence, but because they
all knew that there was still a lot of work to do before
morning. 

     They ate without enjoyment, the food merely fuel. As the
spoons went up and down, the pages from the newest set of lab
results were passed around. The first set had been distributed
out at the site, but in their haste to beat the storm none had
made any attempt to pull the pieces together into any coherent
whole. Their attention had been focused on preserving the pieces
themselves. Now as they waited for the raging storm to blow
itself out, the analysis could begin. 

     As always, like trying to untie a knotted ball of string,
where you started had a lot to do with how long the process
would eventually take.

     Skinner sat with the mug of revitalized coffee between his
hands. His eyes ached. Like during so many of those times in
'Nam, he needed the warmth to infuse his tired body. The problem
was it wasn't helping as much as it used to. He must be getting
old.
 
     "All right, gentleman. Let's put the next few hours to good
use. What do we have? When first light comes we have to have a
plan."

     Bull ran a hand over his heavy features, frowning at the
beard-stubble he found. "I don't know about you guys, but I need
a bio-break first. Too much coffee."

     Skinner sighed and rose with effort. "Fair enough." He
looked at Crow. "You start when we come back. I want to know
about the body."

     Bull watched his old friend turn, notice the front door and
open it. Skinner paused in the doorway and watched morosely as
the cold rain poured mercilessly down onto the already sodden
ground. Finally he stepped out onto the Station's front porch,
shutting the door behind him.

     Bull stared at that closed door until Crow stood. By then
Cliff had taken an armload of dirty dishes to the kitchenette in
a back room so the two were alone.

     "You okay with this, Crow?"

     The younger agent gave his partner a quizzical look. "What
do you mean by that?"

     Casually, Bull hunted in his pocked for a cigar. "Just that
I know that there's no love lost between you and Mulder."

     "Do you think that I'd do less than my best on this?" Crow
snapped back.

     Bull found his cigar and stuffed it in his mouth but didn't
light it. "What, you think I don't know where most of the
playground-nasty rumors come from that rotate around the office?
That's why I have to ask. When we were just out to do a little
hand-slapping for Mulder's running off on Scully like he did, I
had no doubt that you'd have your nose to the ground. Catching
Mulder up would make your day. But we're into a whole different
thing now."

     Crow clamped his narrow jaw shut and, eyes black, turned on
his heel. Bull grabbed one of Crow's skinny arms in one beefy
hand. "Hey, partner... Yeah, I know that was way out of line,
but I'm too tired to mince words. Besides with you I shouldn't
have to waste my time with the niceties. I just want to know
what is it about Mulder that gets up your ass?"

     The black fire in the tall man's eyes dimmed. The reply
came out churlish but without all of the edge Bull would have
expected. "I'll do my best, Bull. You know I always do. I don't
want the man dead."

     "Then what do you want?"

     Crow breathed like a man with a mighty weight on his chest
just aching to be off. "He gets to me that's all. I guess I just
want the arrogant bastard to be a little less perfect for once.
Damn it, Bull, we started the academy at the same time. Not only
did he get recruited to work on actual cases a full six months
ahead of the rest of us, but it was with the damn VCS! On top of
that he's got those looks and he's got the talent. Now he even
has Agent Scully."

     Bull raised a hand. "Now wait a minute... There's no
indication -"

     "So what if they don't do it? It just means he's a bigger
damn fool that I ever thought he was." Crow tried to force a
smile. "At the very least she's a damn sight better to look at
after a twenty-two hour day than you."

     That got no response from Crow's cigar-chewing partner, who
hadn't gotten all he wanted yet.

     "Bull, look at it our way..."

     "Our?"

     "Me and the others groveling down here in the dirt. While
were still in our first year he had every SAC and ASAC in the
country sucking up to try to get him on their team so they could
improve their percentage. That gave him power, independence.
And, of course, everyone just smiled paternally when Spook
'forgot' to follow procedure. Guess rules aren't for the
blessed. He had friends in high places. He even had Patterson
fawning all over him, like he was some kind of golden child the
big man had found under a mushroom."

     Bull's face showed no expression. "You call that fawning?
Mulder would rather have slept with a rattler."

     "But see where it got him."

     "Yeah, in hell."

     It was Crow's turn to be stone-faced. 

     Bull took a suck on his cigar and read that monolith.
"Wait... Crow... You envy Mulder his gift? That's insane. You
think you could handle it better?" Crow was still silent.  

     Bull shook his head. "Oh, son... Pray to whatever god you
believe in that you won't ever have to find out. You're a fool,
did you know that? You've seen the man. You've cleaned up after
him. How could any man in his right mind want to be cursed with
that." 

     At that Bull turned abruptly and headed in the direction of
the lobby in search of the facilities.

     Frowning, Crow flopped back into his chair, his abnormally
thin arms and legs going every which way as was normal.

     Crow was furious at Bull. Hadn't he done his share out
there? How dare Bull suggest. Examining his actions, Crow was
relieved to see that despite the raw emotion that surged up in
him like the worst heartburn whenever he thought about Mulder,
he had done his share, more than his share. He'd done some of
his best work ever. Who had found the blood in the road? Who had
Skinner trusted to examine the body?

     But Bull had a point. Why was he so hard on Mulder? Crow
had to admit that he did pass on or engineer more brutal gossip
than the rest of the section combined. Like the comment he had
just made about Scully, he didn't even have to think about it
any more. It just slid out. It was as if Mulder was his private
whipping boy. As if it were a game and no one got hurt. Until he
tried to answer Bull's questions, however, he had never bothered
to ask why. Envy pure and simple as he had described? Yeah. Envy
that was eating him alive from the inside like a worm. Damn it.
By leaving VCS to trail after ghosts and goblins the bastard had
contemptuously thrown away the power and prestige that many -
not only Crow - would sell their soul for. So the man was mad.
Bull seemed to think that was punishment enough. To Crow that
somehow that made it worse. All that ability wasted on an idiot
savant.

     Furious, Crow picked up a report he'd already read ten
times and tried to read it again. The words didn't make sense.
He'd let the game go too far. All he could feel was his green
worm. But he was only hurting Mulder, so what?

     Crow looked up and found he image reflected in one of the
room's windows. He didn't like what he saw. Not on the outside
and not on the inside. Was it Mulder's fault that he wasn't born
with legs and arms like sticks and a face like a horse? Could
Mulder help it that even unwashed, half-starved and sleepless he
could turn the head of every woman in the room? You could just
see the ripple. Never did Mulder look like some animated
scarecrow with a thyroid problem. But even more, Thompson's
insides curled up just thinking about how the crazy loon could
read a crime scene. 

     What an odd thought. Crow realized at that moment that if
there was one way in which he could be like Mulder, that was
what he would want.

     For half an hour Crow had studied Amos's body. The way it
lay, the dust, the articles which had been found near the tree:
Two guns, an old jar partially filled with what was probably
just rusty water, a scrape of wet and blood-stained cloth, the
heavy flannel shirt with the bullet hole, a whip, an ax handle.
By their make the guns were almost certainly Mulder and
Scully's. Check of the serial numbers would confirm that. The
shirt, by its size and position of the bullet hole, had been
Amos's. The ax handle showed a lot of use, though little of it
would have been approved by its manufacturer. As Crow stood
above the body, the storm front was moving in fast. Rapidly, he
had formed a theory, but almost as quickly rejected it as a new
lab report came in whose results blew the old one out of the
water. Even now, with all the information he had, Crow had no
clear idea of what he was looking at, and the worst part about
it was that even without lab results Mulder would have come up
with a scenario within five minutes and it would have been
right. Evidence - fingerprints, blood types - those would all be
necessary for the court but never made Mulder's theories any
more or less true.

     "What do you have, Agent Thompson?" Skinner asked with
restrained impatience.

     Crow had been so absorbed in poring over the lab results
that he hadn't even noticed that Skinner and Bull and the ranger
were back, and all of them looking his way with solemn
expectancy.

     Crow had barely opened his mouth before the FAX machine in
the office beeped. Bull went for it. As it churned out the
lines, the senior agent read and in his surprise his eyes went
wide. He handed the page to Crow almost apologetically. The
younger agent read it and mentally threw his most current
hypothesis right out the window into the rain. 

     Skinner waited, his fingertips going slightly white over
his replenished coffee mug. "Agent Thompson, do you need more
time to assimilate this new information? We have to start
somewhere."

     Crow fumbled slightly with the paper. "Let's fly with it.
Just as long as you realize that I'll be thinking a lot of this
through as I go along."

     "As we all do," Bull assured him.

     Crow took a deep breath. "Let's take this in chronological
order. The blood in the road. That's where they might have been
taken by surprise. That was very dry. From yesterday the lab
says. Mulder's almost certainly. He's a group AB and neither
Amos nor Scully nor any of the other victims is AB."

     "Amos is...?" Skinner asked.

     "Type A," Crow said looking at the lab sheet. "From her
medical records Dr. Scully is type O."

     Skinner nodded and leaned back in his chair. "We lucked out
this time then. We can track them."

     "Mostly," Crow agreed. "As we've all concluded - the
Hunter's eight victims were also probably murdered there so
they're all mixed together, but the freshest samples we can
assume for the moment are theirs."
     
     Crow nodded towards Bull. "Lab results confirm that at
least Mulder was kept in the storm cellar for some hours.
Probably overnight. Mulder's a secretor as is seventy-five
percent of the population which means he secrets type 'A' and
'B' proteins in his  body fluids besides having it in his blood.
It was his vomit in the cellar and there are traces of his
blood. A head wound from the indentation of his body. From -
indications - which Bull found, I think we can safely assume
that Agent Scully was held down there, too."

     Crow picked up the most recent report, his face showing the
depth of its effect on him. When you went out in the field, you
became a target. All agents knew that. But this... "Like so many
of the victims, evidence shows that Mulder was tied to that big
oak and given about thirty feet chain to 'play' with. His blood
type was found -" Crow's eyes went down the list and down the
list some more, " - far too often. The ax handle, some of the
links of the chain, a four feet of hemp rope, some logs, the
whip, too many stones - " Crow bent his scrawny body over the
paper. "And the tree! His blood was on the damn tree!"

     Skinner help up his hand. "I get the idea. He was worked
over but good. What about that mess around Amos's body?

     Crow consulted the report again. "Mulder's fingerprints are
the clearest set taken from the mason jar which we found near
the body. There are others on that jar though and we're waiting
on those." The next was hard. "As you know, there was a lot of
blood. A pool and hole in a flannel shirt match Amos's chest
wound. There was another pool mixed in with a fair amount of
brains and bone under what was left of his head, but there was
more. A lot more. And it was type O."

     "Agent Scully's," Skinner said his face grim.

     "Yeah, unfortunately." Crow paused to let the acid that had
risen in his throat settle. What he would give to call back the
barb he had thrown out minutes before. Swallowing, he went on.
"You want to know about the weapons? Mulder's prints were found
on both but the placement is not right for him to have fired
either, though the lab can't be absolutely certain of that.
Amos's prints were on Scully's weapon but they are smudged. It
was fired once. Mulder's weapon was shot twice but only Dana's
prints are clearly on the trigger."

     Bull looked up from where he was scribbling on a pad of
paper before him. "That's a jumble."
     
     Crow looked at the pattern of the prints on the FAXed
diagram. "From this, I'm willing to bet that it was Scully who
delivered that final shot to Amos. I can only guess about the
first."

     Skinner's brow furrowed as he glanced at the photo of Amos
from the waist up.  "Pretty brutal of Agent Scully since the man
was down already. I wouldn't have expected it of her." 

     "Sometimes you don't have a choice," Bull defended.
 
     "But who shot Agent Scully?" Cliff asked, overwhelmed by
the tragedy he was hearing described. "You say Mulder's prints
were on both guns. Mulder? I can't believe it."

     "Things happen in the heat of battle," Bull explained
almost soothingly to the young ranger. "Always have. Accidents.
Terrible accidents even when everyone has their wits about
them."

      Skinner's face was bleak. 

     Crow closed his eyes. As early as an hour before, he
reaction would have been to keep silent and let them think along
this line for a bit. The possibilities.... Mr. Perfect no longer
so perfect. Of course, Spooky in his right mind would never
shoot his partner on purpose, but how often lately had Spooky
been in his right mind? Everyone had seen him at the meeting
only a three days before. Now there was clear evidence he had
been tortured. Even normal people can snap under conditions like
that. Yes, say nothing and let the doubts begin and become
entrenched....
     
     But Crow couldn't. Not any more. The game was no longer a
game.

     "Let me restate what was mentioned already. The pattern of
the prints indicates only that Mulder held the weapons, not
necessarily that he fired them."

     A slight brightening - relief - flickered on the faces of
the other two agents.

     "So what are we left with?" Cliff asked, bewildered. "That
Agent Scully shot Amos in the gut and then later shot him in the
head? Then who shot Agent Scully and when? And don't try to give
me any more shit but its maybe being *friendly fire* incident.
Are there any more prints?" Cliff demanded of Crow. "Any signs
of anyone else begin involved?"

     Crow exchanged a concerned glance with his partner. "Sorry,
nothing. There's no indication of a fourth party."

     Bull scratched his chin. "I agree, but let's consider some
possibilities for a moment. Mulder's injured - tortured would be
a better description," he summarized, "and Scully has taken out
Amos. It's time to get the both of them the hell back to
civilization, but before they can leave the area, our mysterious
fourth party arrives and gets Scully in their sights. Remember,
we don't have a bullet to analyze. We only know that Scully bled
and that there is a shot unaccounted for."

     All around, skeptical eyes were turned on Bull. "Well, how
else would you explain why they didn't collect either their
weapons, their IDs or their car keys? None of these were
difficult to find in the cabin."

     "So, you think that their leaving may not have been
voluntary," Crow mused.

     Skinner fingered his pen his eyes slightly out of focus as
he run possible scenarios through his head. "I've thought that
too. Ranger Gaines, anyone hang around with Amos?"

     Cliff started as three pairs of blood-shot eyes fixed on
him. "I don't know all that much about Amos. He was a fixture in
the community only in so far that he came in regular to get his
mail and buy supplies. He was always alone and hardly said a
word to anyone. Oh, he could be guaranteed to scare the kids."

     "What did he live on?" Skinner asked. 

     Cliff shrugged. "Who knows. Rumor has it he got monthly
checks in the mail, but it wasn't welfare. Everyone in town
knows who gets welfare."

     That made the three tired agents all sit up a little
straighter. "Maybe some other kind of government program," Crow
mused. "Could he have had a relative in the military and he's
living on survivor benefits? Was he discharged from the service
for some medical issue? Was he receiving disability?"

     "And maybe not the government," Bull offered. "Maybe a
relative's been supporting him for years? Someone who might even
be willing to cover for him when he got in over his head with
the FBI."

     "The checks we can find out about," Skinner said. "He has
to cash them someplace. As far as an accomplice, a friend or
relative capable of abducting two wounded federal agents - that
would explain why they didn't retrieve their things. In that
case, the last set of lab results had better come up with at
least one print that doesn't belong to one of the three."
Skinner cocked his head as if aware of the pounding on the roof
again. "And I wish this damn rain would stop so we can think and
the dogs can work."

      Everyone made some gesture in agreement. 

     "No disrespect intended -" Crow began. Then stopped. Just
as he had forced himself to speak before to clear quickly any
thought that Mulder might have shot his partner, now he wished
he could keep silent. Would Bull think he was just fueling
rumors again? No, this came from years of Spooky watching. Crow
looked down at the long list of potentially deadly objects which
had been stained with Mulder's blood and found no malice in his
motives. Not this time. Not ever again. 

     "Think of something, Crow?" Bull asked, a little warily.

     "Just this. That most of us who have worked with them agree
that of the two, Agent Scully is the more level headed, and we
can guess by the amount of blood loss how badly she was
wounded." 

     "Mulder was worked over, too," Bull said.

     "True, so we're talking about two agents not at their best.
Let's go back to your *possibilities*, Bull. What if there was
no fourth person, no accomplice? Serial killers usually work
alone and we have no evidence that this is not the case here.
Therefore, I'm going to assume that Amos shot Scully, which had
to have been before he took the second bullet."

     "Yeah, well, with his brains spread over about ten square
yards, I'd say so," Bull murmured. 

     Crow glared. "It's also clear that she lay bleeding across
Amos's body for a good long time after he was shot and didn't
move around much. So if Scully's unconscious and we're assuming
for the moment no fourth person, how could she have left the
area?"

     "Mulder," Bull answered in a breath and Crow was gratified
to see that Bull recognized how seriously his partner was taking
this.

     "And Mulder's been traumatized. We know he has a head
injury. Hell, we found hairs from his head together with his
blood on the goddamn tree. Under the best of circumstances, what
with going off chasing after aliens and monsters now, not to
mention the weirdness which pop up when he profiles - "

     Skinner twirled his pen restlessly as he stared at the
table. "I think I know where you're headed. You think that
Mulder could have left the area voluntarily, that he took Agent
Scully with him, but that he was not thinking clearly at the
time."

     Bull took the thoroughly-chewed cigar out of his mouth. "I
hate to say it, but I've worked with Mulder more than once and
he has been known to lose touch from time to time. Crow's theory
would explain why the weapons were left as well as the things
from the cabin."

     Skinner nodded. "Observation noted. In fact, in many ways
I hope you're right, but you'll understand if we have to act as
if we assume the worst." 

     At that moment a burst of wind shook the small structure.
Windows rattled, ceiling beams strained. The howl of the storm
was enough to make hairs on the back of your neck stand up and
pay attention. Within seconds what had been a steady rain became
a deluge.

     Cliff Gaines leaned forward across the table as it all came
together in his mind. "You mean it's possible that they could
just be wandering around out there by themselves... in this?"

     Skinner raised his eyes towards the ceiling where the rain
could be heard pelting in fury on the roof. The temperature had
dropped precipitously in the last hour. Was that sleet he was
hearing? Cliff leaped to his feet with more energy than the
others could have mustered. 

     "Where are you going?" Skinner snapped, authoritatively. 

     Talking rapidly as he struggled into his wet coat, Cliff
replied hastily, "We have an emergency preparedness group.
Couple of kids are lost up here every year. We're all set - maps
with search grids laid out, teams, communications and evacuation
equipment. If we start now, we can have everyone in place and be
ready to start at dawn."

     Skinner held up his hand. "Your help is appreciated, but
the we can't allow any civilians into that area, not until all
of the lab work comes back. If there's even one fingerprint we
can't account for, it's a 'no go' except for law enforcement
personnel and whatever help we can get from the military. We
can't risk civilians. We've already asked you to close the
park." There was disbelief in Cliff's face. "Ranger Gaines,
Agents Mulder and Scully understood the risks when they took the
job. There's an FBI group already on their way as well as four
K-9 teams. We'll find them."

     Cliff gestured towards the ceiling and the sound of the
rain which had only slightly lessened in intensity. "K-9 teams?
After this? Scent's better when the ground's wet but not if its
been washed away entirely. After tonight, there won't be any
trail to follow."

     Skinner's expression could have been carved in stone. "If
there's any kind of a trail left, we'll do our best. We also
can't rule out there being an accomplice. Someone who came in
after Amos was shot and who was not very happy to find their
friend dead and two federal agents incapacitated. For that
reason one of the dogs I've sent for is a body dog." Gaines went
pale. "I see you know why they're called that. Even after a
downpour like this, a shallow grave or two won't be hard to
find. The dead don't get up and move around much."

Chapter 25

.

==============================================
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (26/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 26
Somewhere in the Forest
Sunday 9 p.m.

     All Dana wanted was to sleep, to put herself in Mulder's
hands and sleep. 'This is crazy,' she thought. In Mulder's
hands, the way he was? Yes. For what she had told him had been
the truth. She trusted him. He would do his best or die trying.
There was that steel in him, that soul of gold and light. Forget
the craziness, the weird causes, the bad jokes and worst taste
in videos, deep down he was closest thing to a knight in shining
armor than she had ever known in her life. 

     Correct that. Don Quixote. Didn't matter, he would be true.

     Which was why she was alarmed when she was jostled awake as
he clumsily laid her on the wet, chill ground. Pain the size of
a sun still encompassed almost her whole world, but there was a
dark spot on the surface of that pain here and there where the
world got through. She was about to inquire in words of four
letters why they had stopped when she realized that outside of
her burning, swollen pain there were voices talking. Voices -
not Mulder's alone - and they weren't speaking to her. 

     "... so you returned after all," Mulder was saying.

     "Ya 'pected me? Should 'a walked faster then," a woman's
answered, in a rough voice. 

     Shivering, Dana realized that the voice was one she
recognized. With an effort, she forced her eyes open. That she
could open them only slightly was just as well; less likelihood
that anyone would notice. 

     Her head was in Mulder's lap - that she knew without sight
- and by the light of a flashlight, Dana could tell well that
Mulder was sitting on the ground under a heavily boughed tree.
Before him, leaning against a rock, was a tall, spare middle-
aged woman covered entirely in a man's heavy army surplus rain
slicker. She held the flashlight - and a rifle. It was a steady,
shining tube in her hands. There was no doubt in Dana's mind
that this woman knew how to use the weapon, and use it as well
as her brother; for this must be Mary Amos. There was the same
country twang to her speech that Amos had had. It rang of the
farm and the low eastern mountains. As for the woman herself,
she looked enough like dead Amos even with the poncho hood up to
be related.

     But what were she and Mulder talking about? Their voices
were coming and going and making no sense. It was so hard to pay
attention. Involuntarily, Dana's heavy lids had slid shut. Her
own death was so imminent that it was hard to put this current
danger in perspective. Dana pulled her eyes open again and was
just in time to see the woman reach into her pocket and pull out
of her pocket a small, brown plastic bottle of pills. Without
allowing the barrel of the rifle to waver an inch, Mary Amos
tossed them to Mulder. Dana felt his body adjust its balance so
he could catch them.

     "Take four," the woman commanded, leveling the gun at
Mulder's head.

     Mulder didn't move a centimeter in response.

     The gun slid down until Dana knew it was pointed at her own
head where it lay in Mulder's lap.

     This time, Mulder moved to comply. Dana felt his arms move
as his cold, swollen hands struggled with the child-safe cap.
Finally, she heard them spill out into his hand.

     "Valium," he announced.

     "I'm impressed," the woman drawled.

     "I've had occasions to see them before," Mulder admitted.

     <Has he ever,> Dana thought. She had tried to get him to
take some in Iowa after he'd chased the wolves away from the
shallow grave and dug up what he had feared was Ruby Morris'
body with his bare hands. He'd refused. She had managed to get
some into him on the ride home from New Jersey, because he'd
been so furious with the Atlantic City police that his eruptions
of anger had threatened Dana's driving. And there had been times
before she had been assigned to the department, Dana was certain
of that. Lots of times.
     
     "Are these yours, Mary?" he asked. "You don't mind me
calling you 'Mary', do you?"

     "Now how did you know that? Not that it will matter for
long."

     "Then they are yours," Mulder repeated, his voice
hypnotically calm. Dana was impressed. At its best, that voice
would convince the lion to lay down with the lamb and the lamb
would be none the worse for the experience, but where he'd found
the strength and patience after all he'd been through Dana had
no idea.

     "So what if they are mine?" Mary Amos snapped. "Doctor gave
'em to me when my old man died, as if I cared. So I didn't need
'em. I brought them today for Amos in case he got difficult. I'm
always cleanin' up after that fool." The woman gave a kind of
impatient snort. "Guess I won't have to worry about that ny
more, now do I? But, come on. 'Nough chatter. I ain't got all
the time in the world. I said take four and I meant it. I mean
to have this finished by sunup."

     When Mulder hesitated, Dana sensed the subtle movement in
the woman's hand as she took a closer aim at Dana's head and
tighten her finger on the trigger. 
 
     "Look, I don't want to shoot you, but I figure I don't have
much to lose." The rifle bore came closer still, so close that
that distinctive scent from a recent firing was obvious. Had
Mary had to test the weapon to make certain it still worked? 

     "You don't want to see that pretty face all blown to bits
like Amos's was, do you?" 

     Mulder's body shifted. Dana felt the tossing motion his arm
made as he popped the first capsule. He gagged a little as it
went down. He was, after all, forced to take them dry. Dana's
eyes closed. 'No, Mulder, don't. No, no...' But she couldn't
speak. Neither of them knew she was conscious. What she could do
she didn't know, but it may be the only edge they had. If Mulder
was doped up, however, they hadn't a prayer. Mulder wasn't
especially sensitive to the stuff, but in his current condition
four of the standard dose would drop him in his tracks.

     The first tossing action was followed by three more. He
threw the bottle back. Mary grunted in satisfaction.

     <Damn!> was Dana's only coherent thought. She could imagine
his steely gaze never leaving Mary Amos's face as he searched
for a weakness, an out. But the four were down. That was that.
Their time on this earth had just gotten very short.
 
     "Now we wait," the woman said. "Ten, fifteen minutes should
do it."

     "Why? Under the circumstances do you really think that
they're likely to put me sleep?"
     
     <No, Mulder,> came Dana's thought. <Under the present
circumstances they are going make you comatose, but do your
best.>

     Mary Amos was also answering. "I'm not interested in your
being asleep. No pain that way and you're too much trouble to
carry, but they'll slow your reaction time. Make you easier to
handle. I'm not as young as I used to be."

     Mulder didn't make a sound but his expression must have
changed. 

     "Keep your dirty thoughts to yourself. This ain't the city.
None of that. You're just going to carry your pretty friend a
little while longer and do one or two last things for me." That
seemed all she was willing to say. Time stretched on. How long
before they saw daylight again? If they did see daylight
again... 

     <Keep her talking, Mulder. Keep yourself talking.>

     As if he had heard the silent plea, Mulder began, "You
followed us from the farm."

     "Real intellectual giant, aren't you, FBI? Come on, you saw
me. Of course, I followed. You should have stayed put."

     Dana felt Mulder stop breathing. "In the light," came the
words as if against his will. "That was you with in the light."

     The surprise in his voice flamed the woman's interest.
"What did you think you saw?" she asked with a touch of disdain.

     "Nothing. Something." There was agony and self-loathing in
his tone. "A nightmare from my childhood."

     "Yeah, I'm your nightmare all right," Mary responded almost
with a chuckle.

     "How long were you there? What did you see?" Pause. "Why
not tell me? You plan to kill us anyway."

     "I saw enough. Saw enough to get out of there quick. If
they hadn't been busy ogling what was left of Eugene, they would
have found me for sure."

     "They... The lights... Oh, God..." came out under Mulder's
breathe like chipped glass.

     Dana didn't need to hear another tortured syllable. Mary's
image in the light - light from their would-be rescuers? - had
startled a delirious Fox into flight. If he hadn't run, it could
have all been over. They could be safe now.

     "Moron!" Mary was saying. Dana even saw the head under the
hood shaking with denial. "He was so excited. He thought by
doing in the FBI that his damned 'message' would finally get
through. Stupid."

     Mulder had started breathing again but his breathe was
unsteady. "You knew about the killings?"

     "Couldn't help not knowing. He bragged about them, at least
to me. I was the only one he did talk to."

     "You tried to stop him."

     "Did my best - didn't I? - but no one ever could tell
Eugene a thing. I thought I was making some progress, but then
you came along. If only he had stopped before anyone found out,
we could have gone back to the way we were, but he's been
getting stranger and stranger over the last ten years, but
especially since Mother died."

     "Which was when? When they gave up on the MIAs?  When they
closed the books on ever finding your father and brothers?"

     "You know an awful lot," Diary said, eyes narrowing,
suspicion coloring her heavy voice.

     "It's my job to find out things."

     "Was your job. You won't be doing it much longer. Why did
you have to go lookin' him up?"

     "People just can't go around killing people."

     "Yeah, so why'd you have to go off and kill Eugene? He
didn't know any better, not really. Why didn't you just haul him
off to one of those hospitals?" 

     "You could have turned him in. You could have seen that he
got the help he needed." 

     Dana wished she could see Mulder's face but all she could
see was the underside of his jaw and the curve of one cheek.
Still she could almost sense him thinking, snatching the ideas
out of the air and putting the bits and pieces together. 
     
     "The two of you have been living on the survivor benefits,
haven't you?"

     "Raise a family on that chicken shit even out in good ol'
rural America? My George, he took a dislike to work years ago,
lazy bastard. Thank idiots and small children though, Eugene
lived cheap and didn't need all of his."

     Inexplicably, Mulder shifted, even that little movement
sending a stab of pain up Dana's side. The worse pain, however,
was the thought that the tranquilizers might be beginning to
have some effect.

     "But that still wasn't enough, was it?" Mulder continued.
"When your mother died you didn't tell anyone because that meant
you could keep her check, too. That's why you didn't turn
brother in, because if you did the police might start looking
more closely at the whole family."

     The last words came out slow as Mulder shook his head as if
to clear it. Dana tensed. <Mulder, no...> It would all be over
soon now. No future for them. No more comfortable days at the
office going over paperwork like old friends. No more
*uncomfortable* days standing in the rain arguing over the
impossible either.  

     Mary must have read the signs, too. She took a firmer grip
on her rifle, readying herself, watching like a hungry cat as
her victim fidgeted more and more, unsuccessfully fighting the
drug reaching numbing fingers into his brain. "It was Mom's
fault, ya know, that Eugene's the way he is. Always living in
the past. Never facing up to the truth and gettin' on with her
life. Know why Eugene moved out of the big house down to the
cabin?" she asked. "He was afraid of Mother's ghost. Didn't like
the idea of putting her in the ground in that trunk without a
minister havin' blessed her, without a decent coffin or even a
headstone. He surrounded himself with ghosts then, didn't he.
And now he's one himself. You ready to join the party?"

     The rifle barrel advanced, then lowered, so Mary could poke
Mulder's drooping forehead with the cold metal bore. 

     "Better get up now and bring your friend."

     Mulder wiped a hand across his face which was damp from the
drizzle. "They'll hear the shots," he protested, that voice he
had, slurring. "Aren't you a little worried about that?"

     "On a night like this? Ain't no one within three miles a'
here. Plus I know these woods bett'r than anyone 'xcept maybe
Eugene. Not that that matters because I don't intend to shoot.
I got other ideas. I will, though, if yer not cooperative. See,
there's this ravine only about 200 yards in that direction." She
inclined her head further east. "I thought for a while you two
were going to go over the edge all by yourself and save me the
trouble, but ya decided to have a little snuggle and a chat
instead. Guess, then, that I'll just have to provide a little
incentive. Later I'll climb down and make sure the job is done.
I'd prefer that this looked like an accident, but I can always
bash in a skull or two if the fall doesn't that for me."

     Mulder must have read in the woman's eyes just how serious
she was, because after a long moment of hesitation, Dana felt
herself being lifted once again. His movements were even more
awkward than the last time. Once standing, he swayed. 

     "Don't do this," he said, unevenly. "You haven't killed
anyone yet. Even if they investigate, you're unlikely to get a
prison sentence."

     "You killed Eugene. Isn't that reason enough? He wasn't
much of a man but the only one the government left my mother and
sister and me. At least he was one of our own. You didn't even
know his Christian name until I said it, now did ya? They may
catch me for the check, but they won't be able to pin me for you
two. All the while I'm talking to the lawyers and sitting in
that courtroom I'll know I got mine." She jerked the rifle off
to her right. "Enough talkin'. That way." 

     The rain picked up again as Mulder stumbled out from under
the miserably inadequate shelter of the tree. The swaying was
making Dana dizzy. At one moment she thought he would drop her,
but didn't.

     As Mary Amos had described, the distance to the cliff edge
was not far. Dana heard the woman's steps behind them as Mulder
made his wavering way through the barren brush. As they arrived,
the light from the small flash light, which didn't impede Mary's
steady hold on her long weapon, marked the edge and then
darkness beyond. The dim light wasn't powerful enough to show
the bottom. 

     Stumbling ever so little, Mulder put down his charge. Not
having the use of her arms which were trapped papoose-like
within his coat and the enshrouding plastic, Dana curled her
body into his. She had no particular plan. She just needed to
let him know she was conscious, for what good that would do. A
furtive look down showed that he understood. In that brief
glimpse, he looked so ill that Dana's hopes, which were faint
already, dimmed.

     Watching him stoop to lay down his burden, Mary snapped
angrily, "What in hell do you think yer doing? Toss her in."

     Still in his crouch, Mulder glared up. "That, you can't
make me do." But there was more going on than defiance. Near to
where she now lay on the sodden ground, Dana sensed him shift
his shoes, working his way through the mud to whatever solid
ground there was. He had something in mind. How could she have
doubted him?

     The rifle pointed from Mulder to the black hole filled with
nothing but night, and then moved back. "True, I can't make you,
though I would have thought that you'd want to go over clasped
together. So touching. Jump over yerself then and once I don't
need the rifle I'll take care of yer friend. Don't make no
difference to me."

     Mulder's shoulders sagged, but his momentary surrender was
all a part of the act. Keeping his body between the vindictive
woman and his own plans, he reached past Dana to a stout stick
which lay in the mud.

     Dana sensed that if she was going to be able to provide any
kind of a diversion, now was the time. Much as it hurt, and it
hurt plenty, she took a quick lungful of air and let out as loud
a moan as she could. The sound was awful enough to frighten Dana
herself. Most importantly, Mary took her eyes off Mulder for
that second to glance at the younger woman. This was all the
distraction Mulder needed. Now he came up, all lethargy gone. He
rose on the balls of his feet with a sinuous twist and with the
speed and agility of a dancer. So there had been a plan all
along. In a mirror image of Amos's technique, he leaned back and
putting all his remaining strength in the violently arcing
swing, let his baton fly. 

     Unfortunately, the solid length of thick branch didn't
strike Mary's arm. That would have been poetic justice after
what Amos had done to Scully. Mulder's aim wasn't as good. The
stick did, however, manage to impact with the rifle barrel with
unexpected force. As much of a surprise to Mulder as to Mary,
the weapon was not only jarred loose from the woman's hands
without her being able to get off a shot, but sailed end over
end out over the black hole of the ravine.

     With a shriek, Mary instinctively lunged for the weapon, an
expensive possession for this poor woman. Afraid she would reach
it and come back on the attack, Mulder used the momentum of his
swing to take a shoulder roll away from the edge. But Mary never
got a solid grip on the weapon again. Her long body stretched
out, she only managed to touch the swinging stock with her
failing hands. That was when the rain-drenched earth at the rim
of the drop gave way beneath her feet. For a moment before she
followed her weapon into the void, her hood fell back. Limp,
grey hair streamed out. Her eyes bulged with surprise and a
horrible anger. Eerily, her expression was so intense and so
much like Amos's that Mulder lost his tenuous balance at the end
of his shoulder roll and sat back abruptly in the mud. By the
time he had, the space Mary Amos had once occupied was empty.
With held breaths, both Dana and Mulder counted the distant
thuds of her body as it hit. One, two, three, four. Nothing
more. That would be enough. It had indeed been a long way down. 


     "Scully..."

     Dana felt a warm breeze as her breath hit the plastic near
her face and reflected back. She was breathing again. She
couldn't remember when she had stopped but clearly she had. "I'm
here," she wheezed.

     "You were wonderful," he told her. Inexplicably, he then
began to frantically grope under layers of plastic and suit coat
and pink outfit.  

     Dana forced something like a smile. "I wasn't that good,
Mulder."

     Her partner looked up with startled eyes and Dana was
certain that, if he had had enough blood left in him and the
strength, he would have blushed.

     "I just needed to see if you were bleeding again."

     "Too... bad..." her voice said, fading as she submitted to
his clumsy examination. "Flashlight?" she asked. It was so dark
again.

     "Over the cliff."

     "Sorry."

     "Rifle too. That's really unfortunate. A few well-timed
shots would have attracted someone's attention. Right now, I
wouldn't even mind a visit from the paranoid military types from
Camp David."

     Dana moaned, as he wrapped her against the chill once more.
By the time he had encircled her in his arms, he still hadn't
said one way or the other about how bad it will. Dana hadn't
expected him to. No news had to be better than the truth.

     Clenching her teeth against the movement as he got to his
feet, Dana murmured, "You're pretty aware... for a man who's
brain cells are swimming in valium. How do you do that?"

     She saw a hint of a weary smile. "And give away all my
secrets?"

     Lying back limply in his arms, she sighed. "You palmed
them."

     "I've picked up a trick or two," he said simply. "I hate
the way that stuff makes me feel. I've probably been prescribed
more over the years than the rest of the Washington bureau put
together. But even in a good light and when the nurses are
suspicious, only about a tenth of what is prescribed ever gets
down."

     She snuggled her head a little against his arm. "I'm going
to remember that, you know."

     Gently, he re-adjusted the plastic around her so it would
protect more of her face against the uncertain weather. "I hope
you do," he breathed and Dana suspected that the words had not
been meant for her to hear. 

     
     "Now where, Hiawatha?" Scully asked gently.

     Mulder had been standing for at least thirty seconds,
unable to come up with a plan. He turned right, then left, each
time straining to see into the darkness and listening. Dark it
certainly was but his night vision was pretty good. What was
surprising was... the quiet. Temporarily, the rain and the wind
had died nearly to a whisper and the forest was wrapped in an
almost spiritual silence. In the city or anywhere near where
people lived, there was always some undercurrent in the
background. Traffic. The steady hum of generators. Dogs. With
the rain just past and still hours before dawn there weren't
even any bird or insects out that he could hear. No tree frogs
either. Just a branch settling somewhere far away and the
occasional drip of rain water from sodden pine boughs. When they
had been prisoners in the cellar, the silence had been a thick,
oppressive quiet like that of a tomb. He remembered the rush of
the blood in his ears, the labored throb of his heart, and the
sound of their breathing as it came back to them from the walls.
Here, however, there was just so much space... limitless,
inexhaustible space, as if the universe itself came down to make
contact with the earth at this one special place. How nice it
would be if a couple of friendly aliens would take a pass by,
pick them up and let them off closer to home. Mulder sighed and
shook his head to dispel dreamy visions. Now was not the time.
What he really needed was to find a trail along the ravine
somewhere in all this dark.

     "Do you have any idea where we are?" Scully asked. She must
have been wondering at his long silence.

     He sighed, sorrowfully. "East of the sun and west of the
moon. Other than that, no."

     "You'll find a way," she breathed.

     The breeze stirred and the chill went right through to his
bones. What had he done to earn this kind of trust? Despite not
having consumed the drugs, his arms arched and his legs felt as
insubstantial as water. Then there was the ever-present twenty-
one gun salute going off in his head. Didn't she know that he
was only human? 

     "I wish I had your faith," he said.

     "If Eugene Amos couldn't kill us and Mary Amos couldn't
kill us, then we weren't meant to die here." With that Scully
let her head drop down softly against his cold, wet shirt.
Mulder assumed that she had entered some place without pain. The
peace she seemed to find there glowed in her face like that on
the face of a child.

     Mercilessly, the skies opened up and again it began to
rain. 

                        * * * * * * * *

St. Agnes Church Hall
Monday 4 a.m.

     The broad shape that filled the doorway of the St. Agnes
Church hall could only be one person. Cliff put down the still
uneaten donut one of the gray-haired volunteers had pushed into
his hand, and wound his way through the little groups of
gathering search teams to receive the bad news. He had no doubt
from Associate Director Skinner's expression that the news would
be bad.

     "We found a print," the FBI Associate Director informed the
young ranger. "Two, actually. Same person but not belonging to
Mulder, Scully, Amos or any of the victims. Sorry, no civilian
search parties."

     This would not stand out as one of the stellar moments of
Skinner's long career. The evidence was overwhelming that Amos
was the sole killer, so extra print or no extra print, the
danger to the teams would be small; however, but Skinner could
not escape the man that life and the military had made him.
There were rules about these things. Hell, he had helped write
some of those rules. If you don't have a plan and stick with it,
people die. Experience had carved that truth deep. Why did he
feel so rotten then? He was only doing his job by not allowing
these people to put their lives at risk. Why then had it felt
like there was a lead softball in his stomach ever since the
report with the unknown prints had come in? The answer was easy.
He was abandoning two of the FBI's brightest and most promising
agents to - to what he didn't know.

     Ranger Gaines was still reacting to the announcement. He
opened his mouth to protest but shut it at the glimpse of the
pain behind the Associate Director's stony exterior which only
exhaustion allowed to show. 

     "We've got multiple murder sites, Ranger Gaines," Skinner
explained patiently. "And, yes, I remember the assumptions we
made at our meeting a few hours ago, but what it comes down to
is that there is no way to be absolutely certain that Mr. Amos
killed anyone at all. With his fingerprints all over the place -
 on the gun, on Mulder and Scully's effects, and the handle of
the whip - we know he was involved at least in their abduction
and torture," Skinner signed, "but now there's some question
about his having worked alone."

     Cliff's mouth opened but the older man continued, "I
haven't forgotten that two of my agents are missing. But I also
haven't forgotten that we don't know why. I have more of my own
people coming as well as the dogs we talked about. The military
is doing their share, too. A group from Camp David will be
starting out within the hour which is another reason why we
can't have your people wandering about. We appreciate your
efforts, but this time you'll have to let us take it from here."

     Cliff just stood and glowered, totally ignoring another of
the little old women who had come to stand at his elbow with
another cup of hot coffee for him. He just wished he could come
up with a better argument for going in than the image of Fox
Mulder that was running around in his head. For Mulder was a man
not much older than himself; a man who'd just been doing his
job. Cliff remembered the lean man bending over the place where
Rivera's body had been found more than half a year before and
the intensity of his eyes. Then there was the tired, burdened
man who clearly found relief and a moment a peace on the porch
of the ranger's station with a can of soda and a sack of fast
food. And Agent Scully - that sad worry in her eyes. How had
they come to this? If Cliff hadn't sent them...

     Skinner didn't have those particular memories but he had
his own. Pressuring a reluctant Mulder to take this case during
that middle-of-the-night call being uppermost in his mind.
Gesturing with his hand at the crowd of nearly a hundred souls,
even though it was barely five in the morning, Skinner asked
gravely, "Do you want me to tell your people?"  

     Cliff straightened and absently pulled down the jacket of
his uniform. All those hours at the farm and after with the
agents at the station, he had been dressed in the jeans and
plaid shirt he had worn to go fishing about a million years
before. Somehow he had managed to find time to change. Maybe he
ought to let this big honcho FBI boss break the news and hurt
these people's pride. Let him look into all those eager,
selfless, giving faces - but, no, Skinner was only doing what
the job required that he do. It did not escape Cliff's notice
that coming all the way into town from the Park to deliver the
bad news in person was not one of the those things a man in
Skinner's position was required to do. He could have called. He
could have sent a subordinate. He could have but he didn't, and
that meant something.

     Cliff squared his tired shoulders. "No, I'll do it."  Which
he preceded to do. Seeing the disappointment and, yes,
resentment in all those eyes, Skinner introduced himself,
thanked the people graciously for their efforts and reemphasized
the danger. Cliff then asked his townspeople to keep an eye out
for suspicious people but to do nothing but direct their reports
to the local police. At that Cliff nodded to the county sheriff,
a tall, thick-set, gray-haired man standing by the door and
keeping a low profile. Cliff's step-father had always been good
about that, letting Cliff run his own show.

     During the short question and answer session that followed,
several voices asked Cliff - not completely seriously - if, as
private citizens, they could just take a turn around the park.

     "The park's closed," Cliff informed them. "They even
cancelled a working vacation by some of the White House cabinet
members." That didn't mean as much to this group as it might.
Those got cancelled if the president sneezed the wrong way.

     There wasn't much left to ask. There was still enough night
left for many to get some more sleep. In family groups they
wandered home.
     
     Most of the church parking lot emptied quickly. Leaning
against Bess, Cliff watched as Skinner's car drove off. There
were lonely puddles everywhere. The last line of showers had
passed half an hour before. Already the sky had turned to chilly
velvet and was studded with brilliant stars. A man walked out of
the glare of the single flood light by the hall door. Cliff knew
him by his shape and the flash of his badge.

     "Tough night, son?" the sheriff asked.

     Cliff shivered and stuffed his hands deeper into his
pockets of his uniform jacket and nodded. "Back they go, home to
their spouses and their nice warm beds and hot chocolate. None
of that for those two agents out there on a night like this."

     "You aren't going to be sensible and go home yourself, I
take it."

     Cliff shook his head. Tired as he was he wouldn't be able
to sleep. 

     "Come on then," his step-father said. "I'll help you load
up the truck with blankets and food, and I have thermoses we can
fill with some of those gallons of coffee the ladies' auxiliary
made. Maybe you can make yourself useful and take them around to
the troops that are here."

     Brightening, Cliff slapped the older man briskly on the
palm and the two headed back towards the hall. That was right.
Ranger Cliff Gaines was official. The park was his
responsibility. No one could make him go home, not when he was
just distributing a little caffeine and trying to keep an eye on
things.
   
Chapter 27

At the edge of the woods
Monday sometime before dawn

     The drenching rain ceased abruptly. That was what woke
Dana. No, that wasn't quite right. It hadn't stopped, it was
just unable to reach them. Instead it drummed on a tin roof far
above her head. The sound was muffled, yet echoing. She felt
Mulder stoop awkwardly to put her down. Protesting, she moaned.
Not that cold, wet ground, not again. It sucked the life from
her. Then she realized that he laid her down on something which,
though not immediately warm, was not hard. Instead it was rather
springy in a lumpy, prickly sort of way and not wet but dry.
Something like a thick bed of pine needles. No, not that. Straw.
She heard the distinctive rustle as he pushed armloads of the
stuff around her.

     Dana must have faded away for some time then because she
was next aware of a body - Mulder's - dropping down beside her,
heavy with utter exhaustion. But why was he lying so far away? 

     The rain had softened. Just a drizzle now. By the depth of
the dark when she cracked her eyes, it was still night. She
almost slept then, back into the darker dark where her body
really wanted to be, when something deep down and elemental
warned her to fight that particular seduction. She should not
sleep, she should be very afraid of sleep. The warmth she was
beginning to feel, like a fire behind her eyes, was a clear sign
that the fever had finally begun to rise in earnest. The cold of
their night journey, that had worked at her even as she lay
cocooned in Mulder's jacket and the plastic sheeting, had masked
the fever before. She knew that the bullet could not have hit
any vital organ or she'd be dead. Left unattended much longer,
however, and it wouldn't matter how non-critical the initial
injury had been. How would a certain person who had a propensity
for taking the guilt of the world on his shoulders feel when he
learned that she could have lived if help had been found sooner?

     Dana wished that her head was pillowed on the shoulder of
that certain person now, as it had been when they had lain
together in the cellar. She worried over the memory of his last
desperate stagger across the fields in the icy rain to reach
this place. The sound of his breathing then had cut through her,
just as surely as it must have cut him. How she longed to be
reassured by the beat of his heart and not only for the comfort
of his physical presence. But she could not touch him, for even
though they were only separated by inches, the distance was far
too far for her to reach now. To keep her company in the dark,
she had only the sound of his chattering teeth and the rustle of
the straw around them as he shivered.

     At least this wasn't the cellar. There was no sense of
being buried alive in an airless grave. Here there was a sense
of peace and unlimited, though chilly, air. As for whether Dana
shivered, she didn't know. Her own body felt so far away. Such
a limp, dead thing. If she was past shivering, then there wasn't
much time left.

     Mentally, Dana lay back against the straw. The sound of the
rain was like a lullaby. It should be a good time to pass into
the quiet, away from the lump of fiery iron that had taken up
residence in her side. That was what it felt like, a hard,
blistering mass that had turned her left side into burning stone
hours before. Slowly, the leaden feeling had crept over the rest
of her. Now she barely sense even her right hand any more, the
one she had raised hours before to touch Mulder's battered
cheek. She wished again that he weren't so far away. To be alone
was so hard. Especially now. Now when she might be dying, when
he might be dying. 

     Dana tried to remember how to move her mouth and speak, and
with an effort that was pure will, managed to get to lips
together, to force a little extra air out of her lungs and past
her larynx. The 'Mmm' came out as only the slightest vibration.
A tear rolled down her cheek that felt surprisingly cool. How
empty her brave words to Mulder back when they stood at the
ravine. 

     They weren't meant to die now? 

     How could she not? 

     Death was so very close.

     <Mulder...>

     It was only a cry in her mind and thus useless; however,
the straw beside her shifted. Long fingers of cold, cold hand
sought awkwardly for hers and found them. Somehow Dana managed
to return the slightest pressure. It wasn't much, but he must
have felt it. She heard a sound, almost a sob, and with great
tenderness he drew her into the circle of his arms like a child.
Dana didn't mind that he was cold, that his clothes were wet,
that his body trembled with uncontrolled weariness. She didn't
even mind that to be moved into his arms hurt so badly that if
she had had the strength she would have screamed. All that
mattered was that she could feel the frantic beat of his heart
and that being together was better than being alone.

                        * * * * * * * *

     Even in the sleep he had anticipated so, Mulder was still
trapped in the forest, still moving. With every step his arms
felt heavier and heavier. His lower back and shoulders burned as
if the hands of a sadistic giant had taken hold of the muscles
there and was squeezing... squeezing. Tired as his arms were,
however, they were empty. He had lost something along the way
and - as often happens in dreams - he couldn't remember what.
For hours, forever, the rain had beat down burrowing like shafts
of ice right down into the very core of his being. His only
relief were pauses here and there under spruce and pine, but
even there protection was sporadic. When the contrary gusts
stirred the massive branches, thick drops and steams of icy
water would rain down on his head and nearly naked shoulders.
And always there was the lost to find, and he would force his
failing body back out into the woods.

     The problem with the woods was that the snake dwelt there.
The snake lurked in the forest waiting for prey that moved.

     When he stopped to catch his breath, that was when the
snake attacked. It lashed out of a red haze, black and long. Its
bite was viciously sharp and cut deep. He wanted to cry out,
couldn't cry out. Must not let the snake know how much it hurt,
must not let her know. He twisted, trying to anticipate its
head. Sometimes he could, but then it would only strike from
another direction, driving him stumbling through the bitter
darkness and the sting of the winter rain. His escape was always
short-lived, however. There was no losing the snake for long. 

     The pattern repeated itself: Searching for the lost. Rain
pounding on his head, driving him mad. The overwhelming need to
stop, to rest. Cowering for a breath or two. The rise of the
wind, the answering streams of icy cold. Out into the woods
again - where the snake lay in wait. Sometimes there was even
more than one serpent - brother snake and sister snake.

     Over time he found he was moving slower and slower. It was
getting harder to think, harder to move leaden legs. The snake's
single poisonous fang had sunk deep into thigh and arm, shoulder
and ribs, and a dozen other places. Fire burned up his veins and
as it gorged on his strength, it pulled him down.

     He would have been able to wake himself from the dream
sooner if his exhaustion had not been so complete. What called
him out, however was a touch far softer than the snake would
have given him and the memory that she had called him once, that
she had been able to call him, and he had gone to her. It was
enough to move him once more from the dark and cold of his dream
to the dark and cold of the waking world. He sat up too quickly.
All he could do at first was sit and clutch at his head while
from his throat came a low, nearly inaudible moan. With all his
other aches and pains he had almost forgotten about his head. He
shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, daring only to look from
time to time to see if the black shadows were still spinning.
Recovery took longer than it should have. Exhaustion still had
its arms wrapped so tightly around him that he could only have
slept an hour or two at most. He had no desire to return,
however. The dream hadn't made that brief period of rest very
restful. The taste of the dream still lingered in his mouth,
bitter enough to drive out any thought of sleep. It was not as
if he were missing anything. He had a feeling he would be seeing
that particular nightmare again - and again and again and again
for a very long time.

     Involuntarily, his eyes slid shut at the thought.  

     "Hi." 

     At the faint whispered greeting he cracked one eye open.
This time he found that the shadowed, though clean, right angles
of the barn's cattle stanchions and feed troughs were staying
still. Scully was beside him, her body warm against his. Her
face was more palely luminous than he would have expected from
this continual darkness, as if all the ambient light in the room
had gathered there. He touched her cheek with the back of his
hand. In his estimation her temperature was significantly warmer
than his. This meant little, however, since he had no idea where
his sat in terms of normal.  Her voice was ghost light.
Certainly that thin glow in her eyes seemed more of spirit than
life. 

     With obvious effort she managed a few more words. "Sorry
to... wake you."
 
     "No problem. I wanted to wake up anyway. I hate snakes...
and that was the good part." Too true. The emptiness of his
arms, the sense of loss and failure, and the futile,
interminable search had been worse. 

     "Amos's whip?" came the breathy voice again from where she
lay motionless in the straw.

     "Mostly." He rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes, or
tried to. He'd not gotten enough, not nearly enough.

     The direction of her gaze shifted across the interior of
the shelter he had found for them or at least across that which
she could see without moving. "N-Nice place."

     "I can't take any credit. It found me." That wasn't quite
true. After the altercation with Mary Amos, Mulder had found a
cliff path, which followed the rim of the meandering ravine but
he'd lost it somewhere in the dark in an area of dense
undergrowth. Some nightmare time later his feet stumbled as they
found that the terrain had suddenly changed. The ever-present
trees had suddenly vanished. He had come upon a field, wide open
and rutted with the stubble of newly harvested feed corn. The
blessed openness, the signs of human impact on this virginal
landscape would have been relief enough. Against the horizon a
few hundred yards across the field, however, stood out the
sharp, black silhouette of a building against the skyline. Here
was something built by the hands of Man and, therefore, maybe
man himself or herself. The disappointment he had felt to find
it was only a barn had nearly broken him, but by then he had
already staggered half way across the field through the heavy
rain. His shivering had stopped by the time he reached it. Even
his deadened mind he knew how dangerous that was. If he
succumbed to hypothermia now, they would both die.

     Sliding open the heavy wooden door took almost all his
remaining strength. They don't use wood that thick any more, his
tired brain realized. Nor do they build barns with massive walls
of field stone. Not anytime within the last half century at
least. This was an ancient structure, but in good repair and
blessedly dry inside. After having laid his burden down as
carefully as he dared, and covering all but her face with
armloads of old straw, he had staggered back again into the
night. Limbs nearly frozen into immobility, he frantically
circled the structure looking for the farmhouse. There must be
one.... but nothing. He was nearly weeping when he again reached
the door he had slid aside with such effort. There was not even
any animal smell inside except that which was decades old. This
didn't seem to be a working farm then. Just an artifact left
behind when the government took over the land for the park. Just
a structure which was too solid and too much a part of the
country's rural heritage to be torn down.

     That was when his knees had given way and he had collapsed
into a nest of the straw himself to pass out, to be called to
her side, and to sleep again and dream horrible dreams.



     "At least it's dry and out of the wind," he offered,
dismally. 

     Dana actually smiled. Not much of one but a little. "Not... 
complaining. Not as good as a hospital for either of us,
though." This last she managed to get out on one breath.

     "Two out of three isn't so bad."

     The gaze she returned was warm and nearly fond. "Not bad at
all but...." How could she tell him that his best wasn't going
to be good enough? Fear alone had given Dana the strength to even
attempt just to say his name. Fear of dying. If the dark angel
herself were standing behind her, she could not have done more.
That feeling that her body was being transformed into throbbing
red-hot iron had grown over the last hour or so. It felt as if
it were swollen to three times its size. There was no sensation
but this from mid breast down, and no strength above. This was
the end. There could be no more blundering in the dark. "I'm
sorry.... I need..."

     He was sitting cross legged in front of her, arms lying
limply across his knees, one hand stretched out to touch her
fingers. "I know... I'm leaving. Right now. I..."  his lips
quivered just a little. Odd that she could see him so well.
Maybe it was all a reflection from the remnants of his once
white shirt. "Scully, I'm so sorry. I can't carry you - not any
more - or neither of us will make it."

     She let out a sigh. Eerie how in sync they could be
sometimes. She hoped that could continue for a long time. She
hoped they would have the opportunity. "That's all right. Best
that you don't try then..." She didn't need to explain further.
The expression on his face reflected, all too clearly, the agony
he felt at not being able to make it all better or even just to
give her some hope. It hurt just to look at him.

     With both hesitation and haste, if that can be imagined,
Dana watched as he got to his poor injured knees. Reaching out
with long, dry fingers, he touched her cheek. "It will be better
for you here," he assured. His voice was a little shaky but
unmistakably his. "It's out of the weather and the place must be
a century old. It's got to be a local landmark. They'll be able
to get back to you quickly." He was searching her face. Dana
knew that he'd find no fear. She hoped that he'd see resignation
there. Both knew that it had to be this way now.

     "I'll be fine," she whispered. Then with a little catch in
her voice. "Hurry back."

     "No one had better try to stop me."

     Another twitch of that small hand and her lips moved as if
she would speak again. When they came, the words were so low he
had to bend down and put his ear close to her face to hear. "If
something should happen while you're gone..." she began, the
longest sentence she'd attempted so far.

     "Scully, no. Don't waste your strength. Nothing will
happen."

     "Of course not," she assured him for he seemed the one most
in need of that assurance, but she was all too aware of her body
thickening, swelling, burning. In time it would become just so
heavy that her soul would have no choice but to fly free. Then
the pain would be over and all choices of this world gone.

     Then she became aware that Mulder was leaning over her, his
face so dark and troubled. As if he sensed her soul's loosening
and would stay its flight, he had laid his hand lightly on her
chest. Wavering above her, how bright and determined his eyes
were. How like stars swimming in deep pools. How pale his face
despite the darkness of his two days of beard.

     It was like a promise, that touch. Tethering her to him. It
was a promise she needed at that moment.

     "Go on... Go now. I'll wait, I promise."

     His mouth opened as if to protest that, of course, she
wasn't that close to dying, but then he must have decided that
he was the one not facing reality. Clumsily, he pulled himself
up to a standing position. He rubbed his red eyes. Maybe it was
the straw dust. Maybe something else. More importantly, he was
clearly still dizzy.

     "Isn't it lighter?" she asked suddenly with a voice
strained to cover the distance. 

     His head turned from side to side. "Still looks dark to
me," he murmured.

     Dana's eyes tracked back and forth across her own field of
vision. It wasn't far, since she could no longer turn her head,
be enough. "Certain?" she asked as close to playful as she could
manage. After that last touch - the blessed coolness of which
she could still feel on her cheek - she realized that she wasn't
as close to going into that final light as she'd thought. Maybe
another kind of light, but not that one. 



     Blinking to focus, Mulder strained to see in the darkness.
Scully was right. There was some gray mixed in with the black.
He wanted to see more, to be certain, but there was no open
windows on this floor. 
     
     A glance in Scully's direction showed that there was
actually one of those tiny smiles on her pale lips. "Go," that
smile urged him.

     Tilting his head back to see what she was seeing, he moved
too abruptly and the all too familiar dizziness returned with a
vengeance. Recovering, he found his groping hand had touched the
rough wood of a ladder rung, a ladder which was fixed to one of
the barn's massive supports. More slowly this time, his eyes
tracked upwards following the rungs. They led to a square of
quite definite gray in the ceiling. Damping as best as he could
a surge of excitement, Mulder called up the size of the building
from his trip around it the night before and compared that to
the height of the ceiling. A loft! There was certainly another
story, and from the brightness of the access hole, it had at
least one open window. He debated the time and energy it would
take to climb up and get his bearings. He decided it was worth
it. From there he could choose a direction, see a road, perhaps
even see a house. There had been none visible the night before,
not even lights.

     He climbed the stout ladder slowly. The building may be
ancient and abandoned but the ladder was solid as iron. They
built to last back then. The only shaking came from his own
limbs. Amazingly, he could climb without much problem. It
actually felt good to use different muscle groups after all the
walking and carrying, falling down and crawling back to his feet
again that he had done over the last thirty-six hours.
     
     For once Mulder found no surprises as he pushed his body
through the square opening in the floor of the upper story. As
expected, he found a hay loft though it contained only a few old
bales of straw. More importantly, there were six windows - five
small, dusty squares, two each on the north and south walls, the
fifth on the west, and a wide rectangular opening on the east
wall through which the pearly gray of the pre-dawn sky glowed.

     The night before, the ancient barn had given the impression
of a stone fortress rising full grown out of the acres of its
surrounding fields. As Mulder looked out of each window in turn,
he became increasingly disappointed to find how right he had
been.  For at least a quarter of a mile in every direction, he
saw no other buildings. There was only more stripped autumn
fields such as he had traversed the night before with such
effort. Groaning softly, Mulder fell back slightly against the
rough window frame of the large east window. Looking down, he
had plainly seen the foundations of what long ago had been the
farmhouse. It had been gone for decades. Perhaps it had burned
down and its owners had decided to move the residence closer to
neighbors. More than likely, Mulder had been correct the night
before and the structure lay inside the park now. In any case,
no poles strung with wire marched up the dirt drive. No
electricity then and no telephone.

     Turning heavily from the window, despair sapping what
little energy the arrival of dawn had brought him, Mulder saw
what he thought was a smudge on the sky. Automatically, he
blinked to clear his vision. The spot was still there. He turned
his head. The distortion remained at the same place above the
horizon. It was actually a column of wavering air as if that
tiny section of the atmosphere was being seen through a lens.
Following the distortion down, he saw it. A neat, white house. 
Even as he watched, the sky brightened enough for him to make
out the scene more clearly. At this distance the tiny building
was barely visible even from his lofty perch because of the
trees which marked the extent of the cultivated fields. With
effort he could make out red shutters against clean, white
paint; the straight line of a good, solid roof above a front
porch; and beds and beds of fall flowers. No abandoned relic
this. To the left of the small house flashed the mirror-like
brightness of chrome. A car. Transportation certainly more
dependable than his poor, dead legs. The distortion in the sky
must be due to furnace exhaust, like the affect of superheated
air above blacktop in summer. In this case the warm air was
vented above the roof line and the chill air of the morning
provided enough of a contrast. After the last two days, it all
looked so incredibly normal that he wondered almost with panic
if he was on the verge of having another hallucination. 

     At that moment a breath of fresh breeze came in through the
window and chilled the still damp clothes on his body. He
shivered. No, this was definitely real. He knew the difference.
There *was* a house out there, the distance nothing compared to
what he had traveled the night before. A furnace was pumping out
blessed warm air, and a car was parked in the driveway. He
imagined the owners at home, safe in their beds and blessedly
ignorant of the visitors they would soon be having. He hoped
they were the friendly sort. No ID, wet, bloody, bruised,
ragged, injured, staving - he and Scully were enough of a horror
show to make anyone call for the police. If they did, all the
better. In any case there would soon be warmth, help, a phone,
and a hospital for Scully.

     Mulder nearly broke his neck hurtling down the ladder to
inform the woman who waited below that he soon would have her
home. Not to her home or to his, not likely to the home of
anyone they knew, but someone's.

End of Chapter 27


==============================================
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (28/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 28
Somewhere at the edge of the woods
Monday 8 a.m.

     Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch. 

     Mabel Alexander pulled the spare pillow over his head to
try to block out the noise. She couldn't immediately place its
source and didn't care. The night before had been full of
sounds. Fall with its cold rains and winds had descended with a
vengeance. There had even been thunder and lightning. Then came
the phone call from Jean, chairwoman of the Altar Society at the
ungodly hour of three a.m. The rush down to the church hall and
back scant hours later had certainly made for a bit of
excitement for her poor old bones. All she knew about the
present sound was that it was irritatingly repetitive and she
just wanted it to go away so she could go back to sleep. After
a few more minutes of pretending that she actually could, Mabel
tossed the pillow to the floor and opened one eye. Habitually an
early riser, the red glow of the numerals from the digital clock
was usually the only light to meet her eyes. This time the room
was full of morning. Well, she did have an excuse. She had been
up and out and down to the church and back between three and
five. No wonder she had slept in. Being eighty-five with all its
nighttime arthritic pains, it was hard for her to remember the
last time she'd slept so late. It was a good feeling.  Slothful.
Well, give the kinks in her back time to work themselves out and
she'd go down to the church and help clean up the mess they'd
left of the kitchen when they'd all been told to go home.
     
     With irritation Mabel was aware of pressure in her bladder.
No rest even for the just. Now it really was time to get up. She
let her feet dangle off the side of the bed as Dr. Brown had
told her to do to let her blood pressure equilibrate before
trying to stand. That was when she became of the noise again. It
had been the one which had awakened her to begin with - the
repetitive scratching. Now it made sense. A branch had come down
in the storm and was lying against the side of the house, making
the scraping sound as it swung back and forth in the wind. She
had a direction now. Towards the front of the house. It must be
some sizable branch for her to hear it through her closed
bedroom door. She'd closed the door intentionally because the
rising sun at this time of year blasted right through her front
window, down the short hall and through her bedroom door. Oh, it
was a glorious golden sight but, as she hadn't gotten back to
bed until nearly five-thirty, she'd intentionally closed her
door in order to thwart her celestial visitor.

     Grumbling a little because she'd just had the siding
painted, Mabel pushed aside the powder-blue electric blanket her
grandchildren had given her and went searching with her feet for
her slippers. If the branch wasn't too large, maybe she could
pull it down the rest of the way. Feet stuffed into her ancient
mules, she shuffled across her bedroom floor, down the hall and
stood for a moment in her living room listening. Front door.
Front door? Must have been some wind to throw a branch of this
size up onto her porch. Automatically, she gave the security
hole a cursory glance. Another gift from her grandchildren. 
Couldn't see anything out of the ordinary though everything
looked out of the ordinary through that thing.  Flipping the
dead bolt, she opened the door.

     When a heavy, dark shape fell in at her feet, something
almost like a scream threatened to crawl out of the old woman's
throat. The shape was that of a man, a lean, dirty, long-limbed
man. Mabel's first thought was that it was some hiker who'd
curled in her doorway to escape the worst of the wind and rain.
The storm, however, had passed hours before. The Mabel saw the
mark on her door and the stick hanging loosely in one cold-
stiffened hand. From the look of the marks he had been
scratching at her door for some time. Mabel almost snapped at
him for the damage he'd done. In fact she had the door in her
hands and was attempting to close it, when she saw the form
curled limply in the man's lap with its head on his chest. It
was a young girl, either that or a small woman. Mabel's maternal
instincts kicked into high gear. That was the only thing which
prevented her from closing the door then and there and calling
the police.
 
     The man's head came up in jerks. Not in any threatening
way, but as if it took all the strength he had to raise his
pleading, red-rimmed eyes. Mabel had not lived for nearly eighty
years without recognizing a cry for help when she heard one, or
in this case saw one. She stood her ground, though she kept the
door within inches of being closed completely. She had assumed
at first that her visitor was a hiker from the Park because
those were the only strangers she saw on a regular basis. That
was before she saw the blood on the front of what must once have
been a white shirt. The shirt, filthy pants, and mud-caked shoes
was all he wore. Even dirty, Mabel was able to tell that these
weren't hiking clothes. In fact, the man appeared to be wearing
what had once been a suit. In any case, his clothes were
completely inadequate for this weather, especially if he had
been out in the storm and that certainly seemed possible.  Mabel
shivered in her quilted robe from the pure sharpness of the
morning air.

     The young man - for he was young, Mabel could see now
through the dirt and days of beard - must have seen her
hesitation. A little hope overlaid the desperation that had
glowed out of those hazel eyes when the door started closing.
The emotion went straight to the old woman's heart.

     He moistened dry lips or at least attempted to. "Hos-
pital," he said with a controlled enunciation. Mabel got the
impression that he would have shouted the word if he had had the
strength. His arms tightened gently around the woman in his lap.
"For her." At that he glanced down at his clothes and winced
realizing how disreputable he must appear.

     Mabel hesitated from confusion and surprise. Despite the
fact that the young man had been trying to get the attention of
whoever was in the house for some time, he hadn't tried to break
in. Well, he probably couldn't have found the strength. Even
now, however, the cold, pre-winter wind must be cutting through
his thin shirt and yet he had made no move to touch or force the
door, even though he certainly must feel the warm air blowing
seductively through the crack in the door from the living room.

     "Please call," he said, in voice so faint Mabel could
barely hear the words.

     That certainly was the least she could do. "What's wrong?
Is she sick? Were you in an accident?" The young man closed his
exhausted eyes with a sigh. "They'll want to know," Mabel asked
not unkindly.

     "Gun-shot," he told her, almost with a sob, "wasn't me."  

     Mabel held up her old lined hand. "I never thought for a
moment it was. Hunting accident?"

     A grim smile touched his pale lips. "Not exactly," he
murmured as with unsteady hands he folded back a section of the
weathered blue plastic the young woman was wrapped in and then
a garment which Mabel recognized only slowly as being the man's
suit coat. She was repelled at the sight of the crude bandage
overlaying the woman's torn garment underneath.

     "Of course, I'll call," she assured him. "Be right back."
At that she firmly closed the door, automatically throwing the
dead bolt, and shuffled back to her bedroom, cursing with every
step the slowness of her old bones. The blue princess phone on
her nightstand wasn't the only phone in the house but at least
while she was on the line she could be jerking the still-warm
electric blanket off the bed.

     The '911' operator was not anyone Mabel knew - too many new
people these days. She gave the requested information - young
adult female, unconscious, gunshot wound on her left side and
Mabel's address.
     
     "Victim's name?" the operator asked in that flat tone of
voice people have when they're working from a form and have
asked the same question a hundred times.

     "I hardly had time to ask," Mabel snapped. "This is an
emergency."

     "Are you a relative?"

     'She probably thinks I'm some lonely old biddie,' Mabel
mumbled to herself. "No, I'm not a relative. Her friend just
carried her in from the woods. Probably from the Park. Now will
you hurry!" Certainly he must be a friend. Desperation was
etched in every line of the young man's not-so-young face, but
he didn't wear a wedding ring, so they probably weren't married.
Mabel had two nieces to marry off and automatically took notice
of such things. Married men of his generation generally did wear
a ring. 

     The operator had been quietly filling out her paperwork for
too long. "Well, are you sending someone or not? I don't care
who. I just know this poor girl can't wait!"

     After getting an assurance that an EMT unit was on its way,
Mabel headed back to the living room. Faster than Mabel thought
she could move any more, she had made it. This time she opened
the door all the way. She handed the man down the blanket.
"Ambulance is coming," she assured him.

     For a moment he just stared as if not quite certain what to
do with the yards of clean, warm blue. Finally he took it, only
his awkward attempts to wrap the woman were so pitiful that
Mabel stooped down on creaking knees to help. That brought her
down to the man's level. He had such stricken eyes, like those
of a child that had been kicked too many times. The woman was
beautiful in her paleness. Beneath the dirt her skin was like
alabaster. 

     "Could she come inside," he asked, hopefully. "She's so
cold. I'll stay..."

     Mabel shook her head with irritation as she pushed herself
to her feet. "This is ridiculous. You'd best both come on in. I
couldn't carry her anyway. The question is - can you?"

     Even with Mabel's help, it seemed to take all the strength
the man had left to slide his back up the door frame in order to
get to his feet. Carrying the young woman's dead weight went
above and beyond what he should have attempted, but he managed
if only on guts alone. My, but he was tall, Mabel thought as she
found herself supporting the man to drag himself across her
threshold. There was no doubt in the old woman's mind that this
was no scheme or trick. The stranger was utterly exhausted, his
shivering visible. Knowing that he'd never make it to the
bedroom, Mabel had him place the young woman on her living room
couch. When he backed away, there was fresh blood on his shirt.
The blood had to have been fresh or she never could have
distinguished it from the mud, a large part of which was also
fresh. He must have carried her through the woods and then
across the fields, falling more than once.

     "Are you hurt, too?" she asked, alarmed.

     He shook his head. Even that small gesture was enough to
upset his balance. After tucking the electric blanket around the
young woman who had yet to even stir, Mabel took the man by the
arm and led him a few feet away from the couch towards the
stove. It was a vintage oil burning furnace. Through a small
window of thick glass, one could even see the flames licking
around the burner. 

     "This is the warmest place in the house," she told him. "Be
careful now and sit down." It was shocking how little strength
it took to get him seated. Like a broken toy, he folded rather
than sat. Rapidly, Mabel fetched more blankets from the bottom
of her bed - two for him and another for the woman. Tossing the
two in his direction, Mabel leaned over the young woman. Mabel
was no nurse but she had raised four children, and she could
feel the heat rise off the young woman's skin as she tucked the
new blanket around her. Here was a bad fever. At least there was
a pulse, though it was hard to find. The only other care Mabel
felt she could safely provide was to moisten the young woman's
lips parched with some water. The poor thing looked bad. At
Mabel's touch, the head of tangled and damp red hair moved for
the first time with an uncomfortable back and forth motion. Her
lips moved every so slightly.

     "Muther?" she seemed to say.

     Mabel had to concentrate for a moment to make any sense out
of the slurred word. "Mother? Not me, dear. I'm not your mother.
Just a friend. You'll have help soon."

     The head moved more definitively though the eyes remained
closed. "N-No.... Muther!"

     Mabel shrugged and soothed the hot, dry brow looking over
at the man for help, but he was curled, knees up, blankets to
his chest, his back against the metal shell of the refrigerator-
sized furnace. Eyes fluttering as he struggled to stay awake, he
was now shivering violently. Clearly, he hadn't heard the
exchange between the women. When the young woman faded back into
unconsciousness, Mabel hustled to her little kitchen and threw
some water into the microwave. Within minutes she had a mug of
instant hot cocoa laden with plenty of extra sugar. She was
careful not to make it too hot. The man took it in both
trembling hands and had drunk it all the way down before she
returned with a second cup. 

     After the second cup time he managed shaky "Thank you."

     Absently, Mabel picked a two inch piece of straw out of the
collar of his shirt as she help wrap the blankets around his
shoulders. "Where have you two been, dear?" she asked.

     He seemed to think she meant that literally. "The b-barn
for a w-while." His teeth were chattering so badly now that his
body had some fuel to work with that he was barely intelligible.
"F-Further here than I thought. M-Messed up."

     He seemed so distressed that Mabel found herself patting
his arm. "Nothing to concern yourself about now. You're safe.
Help should be here in - oh - five minutes."

     Gratefully, he nodded but was still huddled within his
blankets, the third cup of cocoa mostly being used now to warm
his red, chapped hands. He tried to form words again, something
about "P-Police?"
     
     A little thread of worry began in knot around Mabel's old
heart. "Are you worried that I called the police?" she asked
hesitantly.  

     He shook his head in a kind an furious negative, frustrated
that he hadn't made himself understood. "N-No. P-Please call."

     "You *want* me to call the police?" Mabel asked relieved.
She got an affirmative shake this time. "Your families..." She
realized. "Of course, you want them to know where you are."

     His bruised and swollen mouth twitched into something that
might have been a sickly smile. "Not my... f-family." He looked
down at his clothes again, sighed and sagged against the
furnace, his eyes threatening to close. "S-Sorry, n-no ID," he
said. "T-Tell them... call Effbie Aye. I'm M-Mulder."

     Confused, Mabel frowned. "Sorry, dear, I didn't get that."

     "EF.... BE.... EYE," he repeated much more slowly but out
of context the sounds made no sense to Mabel. "We're F... B...
I..." 

     The old woman gasped, using a swear word she would have
washed her children's mouth out for when they were young. She
should have known. She should have guessed from the beginning,
but the very sight of their bloody and muddy bodies on her porch
had swept every other thought from her head. Busy in the church
kitchen the night before, she had not seen the photos Ranger
Gaines had been passing around. Never in a hundred years would
she have taken these two good-looking young people as law
enforcement of any kind.

     "FBI?" she asked. "YOU'RE the two FBI agents the whole
county's been looking for?" The young man groaned and buried his
face in his hands so quickly that Mabel had to grab the
partially full cup out of his grip. "They called at 3 a.m. this
morning for the disaster preparedness teams to get ready for a
dawn start. I went down to the church to help make coffee and
sandwiches. What they say about an army traveling on its stomach
is so right. All I knew were that two FBI agents had gotten
themselves lost in the woods." Mabel shrugged. "At least for us,
they called off the search though. Said it was too dangerous."

     Reddened hazel eyes peered out at her from under mud-matted
dark hair. "Who s-said? R-Remember?"

     Another shrug. "I don't remember his name. Big, bald man.
Ex-military. I can always tell. My husband was in the army for
thirty years."

     Another heart-felt groan issued from her visitor just as
the phone rang. Almost giddy, Mabel padded over to it. 

     "Hey, Aunt Mabel," came a familiar voice.

     "Oh, hi, Roy," she managed more normally than she would
have thought possible. Mabel knew where this was going. Roy was
her nephew and the county sheriff.

     "Fire Department says you got a gun shot victim over at
your place?" he voice sounded almost incredulous.

     "Oh, I do. They going to be here soon? The woman's bad."

     "Any minute. Look do you have any idea who this woman is?
The dispatcher also said something about a friend carrying the
woman in?"

     "You sitting down, Roy?"

     "Pretty far down, I'm still in bed, Mabel."

     "I've got your FBI agents in my living room."

     She was certain then that he dropped the phone. "Cliff's
FBI? Jez...." There was a pause while he fumbled for something.
"Agents Mulder and Scully?" he asked as if reading something.
     
     'Mulder'? Yes, that was what the man had said and now that
Mabel thought about it and what the woman had muttered, too. Not
'Mother' but 'Mulder'. The injured woman had been asking for her
friend, her colleague. Mabel's good mood dimmed. She hadn't
understood and the woman didn't know her friend was there and he
didn't know she'd asked for him. 

     "Yes, Roy. I'm certain. I would have known ten minutes ago
if someone had told me last night that one of your missing
people was a man and the other a woman. This was not what I
expected."

     "Ouch! I guess that's what we get for keeping you ladies
slavin' over a hot stove. You need any more help out there?"

     "No. Just get that ambulance here and call and let the FBI
know that I have their people."

     Mabel put the receiver down. How she wanted to tell the
young man that the first word the injured woman had spoken had
been his name. He'd fallen sideways onto his side, however,
curled around the furnace as close as he could get, wrapped in
her old quilts like that broken toy discarded by its owner.

                        * * * * * * * *

     Cliff rubbed his tired eyes. He'd been going in circles for
hours around and around the park, checking in every shadow. Of
course, now that it was one of those sparkling after storm days,
there were few shadows left. He squinted at his watch. Nine-
thirty. He should sleep before he ran off the road and totaled
Bess. First, he wanted to check in with Skinner to see how many
people he had working on the search now.

     Before he could turn the truck around, Bess's radio
squelched. He leaped for the receiver, swearing as he realized
that sometime during the night the switch for the police ban had
been turned off. This was the park ban.

     "Ranger Gaines here," Cliff acknowledged.

     "How you doin', son?"  

     "Dad, you calling to give me hell for still bein' up."

     "Oh, no, not that. Something a little better. I take it you
remember your way to your Great-Aunt Mabel's place?" 

     
                        * * * * * * * *

     A phone rang across the room. Skinner raised his head from
the pillow of this arms that crossed on the table top where
they'd eaten their canned chili hours before. He'd been dozing.
With one of the Appalachian foothills shadowing the Ranger
station from the early sun, he'd been able to catch a few hours.
It had been a hell of a storm. In the gray dawn, the K-9 teams
had wagged their heads almost in unison at the wetness of it
all. It was going to be a long day. That was the problem with
city-bred dogs. His head sank down again. When the phone rang
for the second time, he looked around. He had expected Bull or
Crow to get it, but it looked like everyone was out and about
and doing their job but the A.D. Sleepily, Skinner lumbered over
to take the call. Cliff Gaines was whooping and hollering so
over the line that Skinner never did get the complete message
but he caught enough to make him smile.

                        * * * * * * * *

     As her nephew Roy had predicted, one of the county's
familiar ambulances, red and white lights strobing, came sliding
to a halt on the sodden wet leaves in front of Mabel's house
five minutes after his call. Two men and a woman sprang out
throwing drug boxes, radio and other equipment onto the bed of
the gurney as they ran. Just like the TV show, Mabel thought as
she watched from her porch. The only difference was that the
volunteer fireman sliding the IV expertly into the young woman's
arm a few minutes later was a neighbor's son.
     
     Seconds before the intravenous line was started, the EMT's
had swiftly unwrapped the plastic and the man's suit coat from
the woman to reveal the remnants of what had once been a pink
jogging outfit. Just a glimpse at the mottled dark stains, some
old and dry, some too fresh, made Mabel's stomach flip. The
makeshift pressure bandage which had been made from a man's T-
shirt, was soaked through. As he cut the rope which had held the
red pad in place, Ted, the senior EMT, let a despairing oath
fall from between his clenched teeth.

     "What a mess!" 
     
     Linda Perron, Ted's partner, had gone to examine Mulder
when she first came in. As she did so, she questioned Mabel
briefly about what the old woman had observed.

     "Please, don't wake him," Mabel said instinctively. "He was
so tired."

     Linda smiled gently at the old woman's concern even as she
took a quick set of vitals. "So he walked in on his own two feet
- sort of. Could speak in coherent sentences - sort of. Downed
three cups of hot chocolate and fell asleep on your floor?"

     "More or less," Mabel said. "Though the walking and talking
part was rather less than more."

     Linda grinned. "I wouldn't be surprised from what I've
heard. Believe me, I won't wake him unless I need to. Sleep is
probably the best thing for him at the moment. Besides, it keeps
him from hovering and we have work to do." At that Linda rose
smoothly and went rapidly to assist Ted who had just finished
taking the gunshot victim's vitals.

     "Without a closer examination," Linda reported, "I'd say
our male victim's slightly hypothermic and suffering from
exposure and exhaustion. There's clearly a lot more. I see a lot
of bruising on his face and his wrists are swollen and
discolored. There are welts here and there and his knees look
like he crawled through glass on them. All things considered,
his vitals are pretty strong."

     "Wish I could say the same here," Ted said as he worked,
feverishly rebandaging the gunshot wounds. "There were two
wounds after all. The bullet entered from the front. Exit wound
is on the side."

     "Temperature's over a hundred and three," Linda reported
reaching for the radio box. "Not as bad as I would have
expected. When did they say they think this poor woman was
shot?"

     "Yesterday afternoon or evening," reported the third member
of the team, the driver, who'd gotten an earful over the radio
on the way over. What with dragging a hundred people out of bed
for search parties that had never materialized, there was a lot
of speculative talk about the two missing agents and that crazy
hermit Amos but not a lot of dependable information. "Word is,
her name's Scully," the driver continued as he readied the
gurney for a quick transfer. "His is Mulder," he added, nodding
towards the blanket covered lump on the floor near the furnace,
who hadn't moved since the invasion.

     Linda reported vitals over the radio to the hospital while
Ted finished his bandaging. The thick, white pads looked
incongruous next to the remnants of the woman's dirty, torn
outfit but even as he watched their bright newness darken with
fresh bleeding. 

     "No doubt about it, they match your descriptions," Linda
was saying to someone at the hospital. She expected that the old
woman would be glad to have confirmation of exactly who she had
invited into her house. "Ted, Dr. Richards says that the FBI has
already FAXed their medical histories. You can give Agent Scully
the two hundred milligrams of cephlathin, hydrate with Ringer's,
stabilize and transport."

     Ted already had the drug box open. "She's about as stable
as she's going to get, which is none too stable. I hope
Randolf's there and ready to go when we sail in. This is his
sort of thing."

     Linda spoke over the radio a bit more, her brow furrowing.
"Randolf's stuck at home. He wasn't due to be on today and his
car's on the fritz." 

     Moving smoothly from long practice, Ted injected the bolus
of broad spectrum antibiotic. It would do for a start until the
docs knew exactly what they were dealing with. That there was
infection no one doubted. His expression was shadowed. "I know
where Randolf lives. Less than a couple of minutes off our
route. We'll swing by and pick him up. He might even be useful
to have in the cab."

     "It could get that bad?"

     Ted frowned but in such a way so that only his partner
could see.

     Biting her lip, Linda glanced towards the ambulance. "It's
starting to get pretty crowded. I could stay here."

     "No, I want you with me in case she gets shocky. Randolf
may not be a stellar performer under 'primitive' conditions and
I don't dare lose this one. You said - what did you say his name
was? Mulder? You said he's stable. Can he wait till we can call
him another ride?"

     Helping with the IV while Ted and the driver lifted the
woman from the couch to the gurney, Linda looked towards the
lump which was Mulder and then at Mabel. "I don't see a problem
since he's already getting what he needs most, which is sleep.
We'll have to ask Mrs. Alexander." Linda raised her voice. "What
do you say, Mrs. Alexander? He looks pretty dangerous. Think you
can handle a zoned out FBI agent for about fifteen minutes until
we can get another truck here?"

     "I believe I can manage, dear," Mabel assured them with the
kind of twinkle in her eye that one would have expected from a
much younger woman.
  
     "You know, Mabel," Ted suggested with a wink, as he
maneuvered his end of the gurney towards the front door which
Mabel held open, "I could help you move him to your bed. You
could keep him warm until the second unit arrives."

     Mabel knuckled the paramedic playfully on the arm. "Don't
tempt me, Ted, or I'll tell your Mom. Besides, he's warmer by
the stove then next to these old bones. They just better be
quick."

     "Why?" Ted asked back with a grin. "Afraid you'll want to
keep him?"

     Gazing from the sleeping man to the young woman's pale face
as the gurney slid through the door, Mabel remembered how
tenderly the young man had cared for his friend. "It's not that.
I just don't think it's a good idea to break up a matched set."

End of Chapter 28

==============================================
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (29/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98 

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 29
Outside Mabel Alexander's House
8:45 am 

     From her porch, Mabel watched as Ted and the driver quickly
loaded the gurney into the back of the ambulance while Linda
lifted up the equipment boxes she had carried out. At that
moment a shiny red pickup with the Forest Service emblem on its
side came screeching down Mabel's rutted lane, sending up
rooster tails of muddy spray from the puddles left after the
previous night's rain. Cliff Gaines practically leaped from the
cab. Wide-eyed, he started into the back of the ambulance just
as Ted was closing the doors.

     "Damn," he whispered. His staring eyes were all for the
sight of Dana Scully on the gurney. It was hard to imagine that
this pale, quiet face belonged to the professional young woman
he had seen only two days before. The stark line of the oxygen
cannula snaking around her ears and past her nose made Cliff's
stomach churn. 

     Ted couldn't help but notice his interest. "Hey, that's
right! Cliff, you've seen Agent Scully before. This woman fits
the description, but it would help if we had a positive ID." 

     "That's her, no doubt. How is she?"

     Ted frowned. "She's held on this long. With a little luck,
she'll make it."

     "Then you take good care of her."

     "Like she was family." With that Ted leaned out to grasp
the handles of the two big doors even as Cliff's eyes continued
to search the back. 

     "Where's the other one?" Cliff yelled, confused, a little
fear momentarily shooting up his spine. "Mulder."

     Ted jerked his head towards the house. "We have to pick up
one of our surgeons on the way. There's another ambulance due in
about twenty minutes. It has to come from Fredrick." 

     "I could -" Cliff began but Ted had already slammed closed
the rear doors and never heard him. At the same moment, the
driver floored the accelerator as hard as he dared and still
maneuver carefully around the deepest of the ruts in the drive.
Cliff watched as the vehicle reached the end of the drive. The
siren came to life as the vehicle turned and picked up speed on
the paved road. 

     Cliff's "I could -" still hung in the air. He had been
about to offer to pick up the doctor so Mulder could be
transported at the same time as Scully. From the serious
expression on Ted's face, however, Cliff realized the EMT was
reluctant to take the time to give directions and load another
victim. Turning towards the house to speak to Mabel Alexander -
who was not only a relative but one of the Park's cadre of
horticulture fanatics - Cliff stopped at the bottom step and
stared in astonishment.

     A ragged and dirty figure was standing on the porch. Blue-
white hands dug into the porch railing for support. A blanket
hung off one shoulder. Cliff knew that this had to be Mulder
even though he was even more unrecognizable than Agent Scully.
He looked like he'd just spent the last two days crawling
through hell. On his face it was hard to tell what was dirt,
what were bruises and what was two days of beard stubble.
Mostly, however, the difference was in the eyes. They burned
just as the literary cliche says - like live coals - but then
maybe it only seemed that way because the rest of him was burnt
out to the last cinder. He was staring at the cloud of settling
dust at the end of the drive. There was no anger in the searing
gaze, however, only an expression of desperate loss.

     Cliff came up beside him. "That was the ambulance which
just left. It was important that they take her quickly. Another
one is coming for you but it will be a few minutes."

     Mulder just shook his head wearily from side to side in
denial. The movement seemed to involve shoulders and torso, too,
and upset his balance to the point that he had to reach out for
the railing again. The blanket slipped off his right shoulder to
puddle at his feet just as Mabel appeared from the living room.
Without taking her eyes from the figure at the railing, she
handed Cliff what looked like the ragged remains of a suit coat
which must be Mulder's. It was still slightly damp from old rain
and new mud. As she resettled the fallen blanket over the
agent's bowed shoulders, she caught Cliff's eye and then gazed
meaningfully at his truck.

     "Why don't you take him, Cliff? I'll call in and let them
know we don't need the ambulance."

     That seemed to be the right thing to say. Mulder shook
himself rather like a large dog. When he turned to look at the
young ranger, the fire in his eyes had cooled, replaced by
recognition and purpose and exhaustion, but underneath it all
was the man Cliff had briefly known. "Please. She is my
responsibility."

     Cliff wasn't so sure about that. Two days before when Agent
Scully had come seeking her partner it had certainly seemed the
other way around.

     The breeze stirred. It was a much cooler day than the one
before and Mulder shivered. Having nothing else, Cliff helped
Mulder to get his trembling arms into the mud-stiffened sleeves of
his suit coat and then preceded him down the porch steps. Cliff
wanted to be in front in case Mulder fell, but the agent managed on
his own, though he may not have without gravity to help. 

     Cliff threw open the passenger door. Maybe the color of the
paint triggered the memory. Maybe it was smell. Mulder
hesitated.

     "Well, go on already, get in," Cliff urged as he stood by
the door.

     One eyebrow raised slightly, Mulder asked, wryly. "Sure you
won't mind. I'll get your seats all dirty."  


     Mabel stood on her porch and watched the red pickup pull
away. She'd have a cleaning bill for her blankets and would need
to spend a few extra minutes attending to her couch and her
floor but, all in all, the morning's excitement had been well
worth such little inconveniences. Wouldn't her friends be
envious. Time to go down to the Hall, but first she would have
a cup of tea. 

                         * * * * * * * *

Fredrick Country Hospital
Monday 2 p.m.

     Margaret Scully pushed aside the swinging door to Ward
Three, her eyes frantically searching for room 324, her
daughter's room.

     <Oh, Blessed Mary, Shot!> She knew this would happen
eventually though she had tried to convince herself that it
would not. Not to her little girl. 

     Who did she think she was kidding? Dana worked for the FBI,
and she went out into the field. She had been given a gun and
taught to use it and that hadn't been for show. How could
Margaret have imagined, even for a moment, that Dana would be
satisfied with even a high profile job back in a nice safe
office or laboratory. Margaret's shoes made an irritatingly loud
clicking sound as she counted down the numbers on the doors. And
who was this Fox Mulder Dana had been assigned to work with?
Dana said he was brilliant. If he was so smart, then why hadn't
he kept Dana safe? Okay, he took on cases no one else was able
to solve. So why were Dana's answers always so vague when
Margaret asked what kind of cases? Well, they'd solved this
unsolvable case it seemed, but at what price? Almost her
daughter's life.

     Finally! 324... Tentatively pushing the door open, Margaret
stood in shocked stillness. This had to be the wrong room.

     Between the door and the bed where a form lay covered in a 
hospital white sheet and a blanket of pale blue, a man sat
slumped in the one big arm chair all hospital rooms seem to be
equipped with. A very ragged, dirty man. He was obviously
sleeping, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his mouth
open slightly, his head thrown back. The only thing missing was
the snore. Above the hospital smell there was the scent of wet
dirt, sweat and mildew. At some point, someone had laid a
hospital blanket over him but that had slipped to one side. He
looked like a vagrant. He wore several days' growth of beard and
his eyes were so sunken and dark Margaret had no trouble
believing that the man spent most of his days on drugs or
sitting on a park bench drinking from a pint out of a brown
paper bag. 

     A glance past him to the bed showed a head of red hair. A
green cannula fed oxygen into a pert little nose. Dana's. 

     Maternal fury burst up through Margaret like a volcano
exploding. This was a private room!  What kind of place was this
where strangers could walk in and make themselves at home!
Turning swiftly on her heel, she almost bumped into a nurse
coming towards her. 

     "Mrs. Scully? I was told you'd be coming."
     
     "Who is that man in there with my daughter?" Margaret
nearly shouted. All too aware of where she was, her voice
dropped immediately to an angry stage whisper. "I want him out
of there. Do you just let anyone wander in, sit down, and take
a nap?"

     The nurse's confusion was obvious. "Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry.
Isn't he family? I'm told he came in right after she did." The
nurse rapidly scanned her chart. "Oh, no, I see. Agent Scully
came in accompanied by her partner, an Agent Mulder. We've tried
to get him to go home, take a shower, get something to eat, but
he won't budge. Finally, we just gave him a blanket and a tray.
You've never met?"

     Margaret stared back at the figure. *That* was Fox Mulder,
the FBI agent whom Dana had recently been assigned to assist?
*That* was what her little girl ran around all over the country
with? This couldn't be the highly educated, very dedicated
professional she had been led to believe. This was a mother's
worse nightmare. She had been warned that he was fairly young
but Margaret had expected some bespectacled, assistant
professor-type. Not this... 

     Margaret forced a deep, long breath. Maybe under all that
dirt he was all that. She had been given little enough
information about how this terrible thing had happened. She owed
the man the benefit of the doubt, at least for now. But if he
had anything to do with her Dana's being shot...
     
     The nurse couldn't help but be aware of the older woman's
distress and worriedly twisted the end of her stethoscope in her
hand. "I'm so sorry, if there's a problem, I can have security
remove him." 

     Still stunned, Margaret shook her head. "No, he's all right
where he is for the moment." Besides, she doubted security would
have much effect. He was an experienced FBI agent after all and
seemed determined to stay. He had stood by her little girl,
Margaret would give him that. "How is my daughter?"

     The nurse brightened. This kind of news she could handle.
"Came through the surgery very well. The bullet missed an
amazing number of vital organs though there is a rich capillary
bed down there so she lost a lot of blood. All in all, however,
she was very lucky. Considering how long it took her to get
here, it could have been much worse. She woke up in recovery for
a few minutes but was asleep again before they brought her up.
She's been quiet and cooperative. It's *him* we thought we were
going to have to sedate," the nurse said pointing to the man
slumped in the chair. "While she was in surgery, I'm told that
he paced the halls outside Recovery like some caged animal.
After they brought her up, he stood by her bed for, oh, at least
twenty minutes just staring, just watching her breathe, I think.
Finally I put a chair under him because I was afraid he would
fall down. He passed out about forty minutes ago and I haven't
seen him move since."

     "Has she been conscious since recovery?"
     
     "No, but I expect her to come out of it soon. Her last dose
of pain medication should be wearing off. I have more when she
asks for it. As I said, she was very lucky. The bullet went
through clean, but it was a horrible night. I take it she was
wounded far from help."

     'Far from help.' Immediately Margaret deduced the reason
for Fox Mulder's wretched condition. It had rained cold and hard
most of the night. Someone named Skinner had called to break the
news - an Associate Director no less. His tired voice had been
sympathetic, but his message had been smoothly lacking in
details. Margaret had been a military wife long enough to know
when not to ask for more than the powers that be were willing to
volunteer.

     Margaret followed the nurse to the bedside, making a wide
detour around the long legs of the man that were thrust out into
the room's small space. The nurse took vitals and seemed
content. "I take it you'll be here a while. I'll have them bring
in another chair. Let me know if you need anything." 

     Leaning against the wall, Margaret studied Dana's white
face. She seemed surprisingly peaceful. Curiosity drew her
attention back to the unexpected visitor. Yes, in better light
there certainly was a fairly young man under all that dirt and
beard and shadow. Or were those bruises and dried blood? He was
long and lean and maybe not bad looking but that was hard to
tell. His hands twitched as he slept. Dreams. He seemed a little
ill, maybe feverish, but mostly he just looked tired. At one
point his head rolled against the high back of the chair and he
winced quite noticeably. The little gasp came out from between
clenched teeth, but he didn't wake. At this new angle, an injury
which was more than an abrasion peeked out from under the mat of
thick hair. Margaret began to wonder if he'd seen a doctor.
Surprised to find her reaction to this man so quickly switching
from disgust to concern, Margaret was considering asking the
nurse to come in and take a look at him when Dana began to stir,
making soft, careful little-cat stretching motions. 

     Margaret put a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Dana,
honey... Dana, it's Mom." More little moans as if the young
woman felt the pain as something unexpected, somehow forgotten.
"It's Mom, dear."

     Slowly, Dana opened her blue eyes to gaze up into her
mother's startlingly familiar face.

     "How are you doing, sweetie?"

     "Mom... " Dana's voice was rough but the single word was
clear. Her eyes moved unsteadily, trying to see the room.
"Where...?"

     "You're in the hospital in Fredrick. Always told you this
job wouldn't be good for you." Despite her words Margaret wasn't
angry, only relieved.

     "Oh... shhhhiiiit..." Dana moaned as she tried to move to
relieve a cramped back muscle. So this is what it felt like to
be shot. Not fun. No getting up and running about for quite a
while. Not at all as easy as it looked on TV.

     "Mulder?" she asked, suddenly. "Mom, where's Mulder?"

     Her mother's gazed indicated the other side of the room.
Dana turned her head with effort though it was mostly her eyes
which moved. And then she smiled. At that moment Margaret saw on
her daughter's face a tenderness, beauty, and strength such as
she had seldom seen. Oh, maybe when this daughter looked at a
sunset or a beautiful child, but none of her dates had ever
evoked that particular expression. This man clearly had
become someone very special in her daughter's life. Cautiously,
Margaret stored the observation to consider at a more convenient
time.

     "Is that a Mulder?" Margaret asked, wryly.

     "Yep," Dana replied, softly, "that's a Mulder." Then Dana's
brow furrowed. "Mom, he doesn't look very good." The sight of
his poor mottled face brought it all back, the days of petty
resentment for his pushing her off the case, the shock at
finally seeing him again at the team briefing, the evening at
her apartment, tracking Mulder through Maryland, their capture
by Amos, their night in the cellar, Mulder on the chain, the
whip and stones flying towards him and as often as not finding
their mark, the shot, Mulder's carrying her through the forest,
rain pouring onto her face, the warmth of his body, the security
of his arms even as he stumbled with exhaustion through the long
night. 

     Dana turned back to her mother. "Mom, he carried me. For
miles and miles. All night through the rain, in the cold. He
gave me his own coat. He kept me dry but he... Mom, it was
pouring and so cold."  Where the blanket had slipped and the
ragged suit coat lay open, Margaret could see a shirt, that
might once have been white but now was dirty beyond belief and
covered with blood, her daughter's blood she assumed.

     Dana seemed to sink deeper into the pillows. She was going
to fade off again soon. "Mom, do me a favor?" Her voice was
faint. "Sometimes - usually -" she corrected, "Mulder doesn't
know what's good for him. Look after him for me."

     <I'd be willing to bet that you'd like to be doing that
yourself, wouldn't you?> Margaret thought to herself, then said,
"He's been waiting so long, dear, and not very patiently, I'm
told. Can you stay awake a little longer and talk to him? I
think it would ease his mind."

     "Oh, don't wake him..."

     "Dear, he won't mind, believe me, and then I'll try to get
him a decent place to sleep." 

     Margaret dropped down by the man's side and gently touched
his shoulder. "Mr. Mulder? Agent Mulder?" 

     He started so dramatically that Margaret was almost thrown
onto the floor. He was without a doubt awake, though not
altogether aware. His eyes roamed in startled bewilderment
though they blinked as if the light hurt his eyes. Margaret
remembered the nurse's description. At the moment, Fox Mulder
did seem rather untamed. Wild, wary, almost frightened. Crouched
beside him, Margaret caught herself looking into a pair of
beautiful, though currently blood-shot, hazel eyes. It was
unfair. Some men have such beautiful eyes. 
     
     "Agent Mulder, I'm Margaret Scully, Dana's mother. If
you're quick you might catch Dana awake for a few minutes."

     At least, Margaret hoped her daughter hadn't fallen asleep
already, but she needn't have worried. Dana's weary but shining
eyes never lost sight of him as he turned in his seat. "Hi,
Mulder."
 
     As he pushed himself upright, the young man didn't smile.
In fact, he looked sadder than ever. Margaret took a step back
as he nodded uncomfortably in her direction in a sort of
abbreviated greeting before reaching out one chapped, bruised
hand to grip the bed rail and draw himself up. As if aching in
every muscle, he bent close to the figure in the bed, adjusting
his voice so only Dana could hear. Quietly, Margaret slipped out
into the hallway to leave them alone.


     "Scully... Scully, I'm sorry..." A flicker of his eyes
towards where Margaret had been standing indicated that he'd
deduced the relationship. "Your family shouldn't have to see you
like this."

     "Shhhh, Mulder," she admonished, in a voice barely above a
whisper. "None of that. There's plenty of guilt to go around.
Next time you tell me what you're planning... and I'll try not
to improvise." Her eyes felt so heavy. On their own they closed
involuntarily. She forced them open. "Sorry, I'm kind of tired.
I think I'm going to go back to sleep now."

     His free hand reached out and, ever so gently, he touched
a curl of her hair. "Don't fight it."

     She caught his eyes. They had an amazing ability to keep
her centered and, in this case, awake. "You haven't let them
look at you, have you? How'd you manage that?" she asked, her
soft voice a little slurred.

     A little shrug but even that triggered a wince. "You came
by ambulance. I came in Ranger Gaines's red pickup. I just
walked in the visitor's entrance. They were so busy with you
everyone ignored me."

     "Not anymore..." interrupted a voice. Blue and hazel eyes
turned towards the speaker as one. Margaret Scully stood in the
doorway to the corridor with the nurse she had talked to before
at her side. Looming over both women was a tall, blond Swede who
must take part in lumberjacking competitions in his spare time.

     Instinctively, Mulder's eyes tracked from one side of the
tiny room to the other. Definitely trapped. He considered
escaping through the window but what with Dana's room being on
the fifth floor, that wasn't the best idea he'd had lately.

     "Re-enforcements," Dana sighed, happily. Arguing with
Mulder could be so tiring sometimes. "Go on, Mulder. Once they
take a look at the body damage you have hidden under all that
dirt, I'm certain they'll give you a nice soft bed just like
mine."

     "And CAT scans and needles and foul potions and skimpy
hospital gowns," he glowered. "I can hardly wait."

     "All of the above, but you'll recover faster that way.
After all, one of us has get back to work relatively quickly. We
have to keep all those envious agents away from our cases."

     "Little chance of that," he grumbled. "It's our office
space they want. What if I just go on home instead."

     "Really? How's the head? Last night you couldn't find home.
Any home."

     Another wince and it wasn't from anything physical this
time. "It's better," he replied, sourly.

      "Better than what? Think of it this way, I'd sleep better
and recover faster if I knew that you were being look over by an
impartial observer." Yawning, Dana wished she were able to enjoy
their chat a little longer but even the intensity of Mulder's
eyes worked for only so long. Involuntarily, her nose wrinkled.
"And a shower, Mulder. Definitely... a shower."

     He looked at her dumbly as if that was not something he had
expected her to say. The poor sot, Dana marveled, was so wasted
he probably wasn't even aware that, in addition to several
shades of blood, some his but mostly hers, he was wearing
copious quantities of mother earth and days-old sweat.

     "It's your unique bouquet, Mulder. Don't bother coming back
for another visit until you get rid of it."

     His only reply was a deepening of the lines on his brow and
a slightly sulky pout.

     Dana turn ever so slightly in the bed, or tried to, so she
could see the nurse better. She shifted uncomfortably. The woman
came to her bedside raising the prepared hypodermic like an
offering. Right... Dana thought. Strong drugs would probably be
a good thing right now. Out of the corner of her eye she saw
Mulder's expression at that moment. It lasted only for a
heartbeat, but during that short time he, too, seemed in pain.
Then she realized with an unaccustomed warming that his reaction
probably wasn't for himself, but for her. He tried for male
stoicism, but he really wasn't very good about hiding his
feelings, especially at times when he wasn't at his best. Like
now.

     Fighting the quickly numbing effect of the drug, Dana
motioned to the nurse carefully with her uninjured arm. "As
Agent Mulder's doctor," she whispered, "I prescribe a shower, a
change of clothes and an MRI... And I think the medical staff
would prefer it occur in that order. His head has impacted with
hard objects a few too many times in the last couple of days."

     The nurse raised an eye brow at her patient - the one
standing up, not the one sliding into the painless fog. "I'll
warn the ER we're bringing him down, Agent Scully, and you can
review the results when you join us next. Meanwhile, Agent
Mulder, Mr. Haas will show you where the orderlies locker room
is where you can wash. And, Heinrich, get Agent Mulder some
scrubs. I don't think our new patient need have his dignity
tried today."

     Mulder was not happy. He was perfectly aware that Scully
was not on staff and couldn't be directly responsible for his
care, but if she wanted him poked and prodded then so be it, if
only in gratitude for her life. Besides, the idea of a shower
and an opportunity to get out of the clothes he'd been living in
and almost dying in for far too long had its appeal. Of course,
he'd never let any of these people know that, certainly not
Scully. That would ruin the game. And the prospect of a real
bed? 

     His eyes went to where Dana laid, asleep now. She had been
unable to stay awake long enough to see how the battle of wills
came out and that said of lot about her condition. What a little
dent she made! She looked so lost in all that white. If only it
could be like it had been in the cellar and in the barn and she
didn't have to be alone in that bed and he alone in his.

     <I'm more out of it than I thought,> he mused, then with
chin up he wrapped the last shreds of his injured pride around
himself like armor and followed the orderly.

      Margaret watched him move unsteadily down the hallway.
Once, he turned completely around to look back at Dana's room
before Heinrich carefully directed him to keep heading in the
right direction. In response, those wide shoulders set
themselves in stubborn yet passive resistance. Smiling, Margaret
recognized that posture. Her daughter could assume that same
rigidity. Their working relationship must be something to see.
Fireworks. 


     In the orderly's locker room, Heinrich turned on the shower
and left to get some scrubs after instructing his charge to
undress and get in. The instructions seemed warranted. Heinrich
had seen post-surgical patients more aware than this guy. When
he did come back, having been delayed by a nurses' request to
help move a patient, the big orderly found muddy shoes, suit,
shirt, and socks on the floor in front of the shower. Inside,
however, he found nothing until he looked down through the
steam. The dark-hair man was sitting on the floor giving the
clear impression that he'd slid down the smooth tile wall. He
snored softly as the soothing, warm water sprayed down on his
bowed head.

End of Chapter 29



==============================================
REVELATIONS 1: DAWN (30/30)
by Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
Begun 7/95, completed 9/98 

For Disclaimer see chapter 1

Chapter 30
Fredrick County Hospital
Tuesday, 9 a.m.

     "How are you feeling?"

     Dana looked up from her bland breakfast to return her
mother's greeting with a warm smile. Awkwardly, she waved her
mother in with her right arm and its light cast. She had nearly
forgotten the sprain. Under normal conditions, it wouldn't need
a cast, but the injury had to be supported, because she would
need her arms more than usual over the next few weeks to move
around in bed.  

     "Hard to eat with this. Food's not very good anyway."

     They talked for a while about the sorts of things people
talk about in hospitals - How Dana's night had been, what the
doctors said during morning rounds, her schedule for the day,
more about how bad the food was.

     "That Director Skinner called again," Margaret commented.
"He wanted to know if I had any questions about your health
insurance coverage or anything." Her gray eyes directed
themselves searchingly into Dana's. "The questions I have I'm
sure he wouldn't answer. Will you?"

     If she had had the mobility, Dana would have squirmed. "I'd
rather not. Not now anyway. Things happened, Mom. Some not very
nice things."

     "Could any of these 'things'," Margaret nodded towards
Dana's bandaged side, "have been prevented?"

     "Don't blame the FBI, Mom, or Mulder. Mistakes were made on
all sides. Mostly we just had a lot of bad luck. But we got out
of it not too badly and there's one less killer out there in the
dark." Maybe two. Dana's memories of their encounter with Mary
Amos were hazy at best. She'd told Skinner what she knew when he
had visited the evening before. He would have to go to Mulder
for the rest. On the subject of Mulder, Dana raised her eyes
each time a shadow approached her room but no lean, familiar
form came to darken her doorway. Her disappointment must have
been more than a little obvious.

     "Looking for someone," Margaret asked, innocently.

     For some unknown reason, Dana felt a blush threatening to
rise. "I just thought Mulder would come. I know he had the
'dreaded' examination yesterday afternoon and the CAT scan. I
know the results were significant enough to admit him for two or
three days at least."

     "Then shouldn't he still be in bed?"

     "We're talking Mulder here, Mom. He's pretty good about not
being where he's supposed to be. Besides, I haven't heard a
thing this morning and that's suspicious." For some reason Dana
found her mother's smug expression more than a little
irritating. "But you know something, don't you?"

     In response, Margaret allowed herself a conspiratorial
smile. "Not much. I know that after they took a look at his body
without his clothes and the dirt, letting him go home was out of
the question. I know that in addition to the brain scans they
ran every test they could think of and all that came out beyond
the cuts and deep bruises and exhaustion and exposure was that
he had a recovering concussion and the makings of really bad
cold. I know that they threw some Tylenol 3 and antibiotics in
him and tucked him into bed with an IV. I know that after the
first few hours of fidgeting, he had a quiet night. Of course,
the nurses had to convince him that unless he took one round of
the sedatives voluntarily, that they'd make them mandatory for
a full twenty-four hours." 

     Dana's wide eyes narrowed suspiciously. "'That's a lot of
'Not Much'. How did you come by all this 'knowing'. You're not
family."

     "I have my ways," Margaret smiled, disarmingly. Dana knew
all too well that her mother was the sort of person other people
just felt comfortable talking to. "Besides," Margaret gave a sad
maternal shrug, "the nurses tell me he hasn't had any visitors
other than Skinner and some park ranger and no phone calls so
someone had to take an interest."

     Dana frowned. "I take it that you're referring to the lack
of familial concern."

     Margaret fingered the petals from the roses Dana's brother
Bill had sent. There were others in vases, baskets and planters.
An amazing number in such a short time. Mulder had none. "I take
it that he does have a family someplace?"

     Mulder's words as he sat on the floor of her motel room on
that first night of their partnership came back. His sister's
loss had torn the family apart.

     "He has parents. Divorced. I take it he doesn't talk to his
father much and his mother seems distracted, cold." 
     
     "I get the picture." Margaret looked up into her daughter's
eyes. She didn't like the sadness she saw there. Now was not a
time for sadness, not if she was going to recover quickly. She
reached for Dana's hairbrush on the nightstand and began to
brush the fine red hair with gentle strokes. "You've probably
noticed," Margaret said casually, "but he washes up really
nice."

     Margaret had positioned herself to catch her daughter's
reflection in the mirror. The light came back to those blue
eyes. "You've actually seen him since yesterday then?" Dana
asked.

     A secret smile. "Of course. This morning. He brought my
baby girl back to me, didn't he? And in 'absentia parentis' I
have some responsibilities. I saw him just as he finished
dressing, as a matter of fact. He's a quiet one, isn't he?"

     "Only to people he doesn't know and when he's not on a
case. He's just not into small talk about himself. On a case,
however, there are times when I'd do just about anything to get
him to shut up. In this case, since you're my mother, he's
completely cowed. And you say he was dressing? You can't mean
that they're letting him out today?"

     "Of course not, but I think he was hoping."

     Dana felt a pang of disappointment. She knew Mulder hated
hospitals, but would he really have taken the first possible
opportunity and just slipped away? Wouldn't he have stopped by
even to say good-bye?

     "Did he... happen... to mention whether he plans to come
down sometime?" she asked, hoping the question wasn't too
obvious. 

     Margaret paused in her hair brushing as again she studied
her daughter's expression in the mirror across the room. "I
think he doesn't know if he should, dear. He's afraid that
you'll be having a lot of family in."

     This made sense to Dana. Together less than six weeks and
she was fairly certainly that Fox Mulder looked forward to happy
family gatherings as much as to trips to the hospital.

     "However," Margaret continued, "I told him that no one
would be coming today until after lunch."

     "And how could you be so certain of that?"

     "I told them not to. I can tell when a man has something
weighing heavily on mind."

     "Mulder has this thing about guilt, Mom. Do you remember
the soul in the underworld who is doomed for all eternity to
roll a huge stone up a hill only to have it roll back down for
him to do it all over again? That's Mulder. But he did say that
he was going to come, right?"

     "Oh, yes, and right about - " A gentle knock and a shadow
appeared in the doorway "- now."

     It was not Mulder's jaunty, self-assured persona that stood
in the doorway, but a much more subdued version, uncomfortably
shifting in the seat of a standard-issue hospital wheel chair.
Dana nearly failed to recognize him for he looked far younger
than the dogged fighter from the day before and the day before
that. As he rolled smoothly forward into the room, she could see
that, not only was he clean and shaved, but his hair had been
trimmed and combed and he was wearing a set of rather
distinctive black velour sweats with silver piping. He had
clearly lost weight, but the effect was most likely enhanced by
the elegant rainbow of old bruises on his face. 

     A 'melancholy Dane' came to mind as Dana appreciated the
affect. "Nice threads," she remarked.

     A shrug. "Skinner took my old ones for evidence. Yours too,
you'll find." Hesitantly, his gaze went to Margaret. "These were
from your mother. Thank you, Mrs. Scully."

     "Oh, my pleasure, and call me Margaret. They look good on
you. Better than those uncomfortable paper-thin scrubs."

     Dana's eyes strayed to the door expecting to see the nurse
or volunteer or orderly who had brought him. No one. "How did
you get them to let you our of your room?" she asked,
suspiciously.

       He squirmed a little more in his seat. "I didn't...
exactly. Nurse Do-it-my-way-or-else said that if she caught me
standing again without an attendant that they'd get out the
restraints. Well, I'm not standing."

     "But then how did you get the wheels? They keep pretty
close tabs on those things."

     Involuntarily, Mulder's eyes drifted in Margaret's
direction. Dana's mouth dropped open. "Mom!"

     In response, the older woman's chin lifted in a way that
Mulder must have found very familiar. "He's an adult. I thought
he should be allowed to make his own choices. You medical people
treat patients like children. Besides, I thought he managed
pretty well two night ago when he certainly felt a lot worse. By
the way, you will come for Thanksgiving, won't you, Fox?"

     Dana saw the familiar pair of hazel eyes go wide as if from
whiplash. "Mom," she said, throwing her mother in a harsh
whisper, "you're scaring him." Dropping her voice even lower,
she added, "And you called him 'Fox'."

     "So?" Margaret said as softly, returning the hair brush to
the nightstand.

     "He hates 'Fox'. Nobody calls him that."

     "I do, it gets his attention."

     <I'll bet it does,> Dana thought with dismay.

     Margaret reached for the controls and began lowering Dana's
bed to its lowest position. "Very well, as far as Thanksgiving
goes, you can tell me later. As for now, you know, Fox, that you
shouldn't stay long. Both of you need your rest. I'll wheel you
back to your room and take the heat for your escape, but first
I think I need to take a trip down to the cafeteria. Do you want
anything? I seem to have missed breakfast this morning."

     Mulder didn't, but Dana knew her mother could come back
with an extra meal's worth just in case. That left the partners
alone. It seemed like months since it had been just the two of
them and in a place that was both safe and warm.

     Sitting in his wheelchair, clearly trying to come up with
some place to start, Mulder was nearly on Dana's level because
Margaret had set the bed so low. To Dana's eyes he looked long
and lean in the black and good enough to eat despite the odd
purples, greens and yellows of his bruises. Considering the
bland diet she had been given so far, he'd better not come any
closer. His sober expression only barely distracted Dana from
forbidden thoughts. Whatever had made her mind turn in that
direction again? Must be the drugs. The problem was that the
last time her thoughts had taken a similar turn had been in the
middle of the night only three days before, the evening after
she had virtually kidnapped him from the team briefing so that
he could get some much needed 'TLC'. She hadn't been on drugs
then.

     "How - " Both began at the same time.

     "Gentleman first this time," Dana said. "How are you
doing?"

     A shrug. "Me? No problem." To demonstrate he began to
stand, but half way up his face drained to a pasty gray.
Abruptly, he sat back down. "I just moved too quickly, that's
all," he replied, defensively, to her smug I-told-you-so
expression. "And you?"

     "Fine."

     "No, won't do." His expression was suddenly serious as only
Mulder could be.  "How bad was it really? I know they weren't
always straight with me."

     Not a time for one word answers then. Not when he looked at
her like that. "I was lucky. The bullet went through, but you
knew that. Incredibly, it only damaged the peritoneal capillary
bed which is bad enough. That's very extensive." He glared at
her at little harder. "It also nicked the small bowel," she
admitted, reluctantly.

     "And you call that lucky? I'm not ignorant that about
abdominal infections. My little 'detour' could have killed you."

     "But it didn't," Dana said putting as much emphasis into
the words as she could. "You dealt with sister Mary, you got us
out of the woods, you kept us both alive."

     Restlessly, but more slowly this time, he eased himself
over to sit on the side of her bed. "If I hadn't... in the first
place..."

     Dana made a grab for his hand but the arm she raised was
the sprained one. The other one had an IV. "Mulder, we've been
through this. You had a fever, you were in shock, delirious -"

     "Delirious people don't walk for hours in a thunder storm,
in Virginia, carrying a thirty year old woman, and thinking
they're in Martha's Vineyard and trying to find a way to take
their little sister home."

     It was Dana's turn to shrug. "So your hallucinations are a
little more detailed than most people's. Most people don't have
a brain like yours, Mulder, and shock - especially when mental
and physical stresses collide - can do strange things to
anybody. It's not that unusual for victims of traffic accidents
to be found wandering blocks away."

     "I don't have the luxury of not being perfect. I was senior
agent, I was responsible -"

     "You're not responsible for *me*!" the red-head retorted,
color brightening her cheeks. They glared at each other for an
uncomfortable time in stony silence.

     Seeing Mulder was going to be stubborn, Dana began. "Maybe
we should start again, only be honest with me this time. You
never really answered my question. How *are* you doing?"

     His lips came together thin, or as thin as they could with
the swelling. Finally, his hand went to the spot on his head
where Amos's oak shaft had hit and later the bark of the
grandmother oak herself. "Much better, honest, even after a day
of hospital food and sugar water in my veins."

     Dana noted the shadows swirling in his eyes and the deeper
lines in his forehead. "Still some headaches though, yes? And
dizzy sometimes?" 

     He nodded, reluctantly. "No dizzier than usual, I guess."
His eyes half closed in pain as if he was having one of those
headaches now. After a moment his voice hardened. "Scully, your
trust is unfounded. I could take another walk down memory lane
anytime. Next time you may not be so lucky." His next words
started out so softly that she could barely hear them. "You can
ask for a transfer if you want. I'll give you an excellent
recommendation, though after this case you probably won't need
one."

     Dana felt her body go cold and still. How could he possibly
think that she wanted to leave now? Did he know her so little?
But the FBI? Yeah, Dana could just imagine what her reputation
was going to be like now. And for what? For killing a man. 

     "Are they going to make a big deal about my shooting Amos?"
Dana asked. "Maybe I did, but I just as surely shot myself in
the process." She had finally managed to snag his arm and bent
him down now so his face was so close to hers that she didn't
need to speak much above a whisper. "Mulder, listen. I was
stupid. I really was. I didn't properly assess the suspect's
condition after he went down. I didn't check him for other
weapons. And don't forget that I blundered down that road and
blew your cover. If it weren't for me, we never would have been
taken at all." A stitch in her side forced Dana to lie back and
catch her breath. The pain had cut through the drugs but good.
When the world quit graying out she found that Mulder had inched
significantly closer. His body was taut. When she could speak
again her voice was not so loud but just as passionate. "And who
says I want a transfer? You may see yourself as screwing up, but
so did I. Except for the fact that you should have told me where
you were going to start with, you couldn't have helped what
happened. I could have."

     Shoulder hunched, Mulder turned his face towards the
window. "That's rather the point, isn't it?" He asked, his voice
mocking. "You can learn. You're not likely to ever let anything
like that happen again if you can help it. I'll never know if
I'm going to -"  He let that trail off.

     Unable to move more than inches, Dana could only
concentrate on projecting her disapproval. What she wanted was
to be able to get her hands around his neck and shake him.
"Don't confuse what happens to you when you profile, Mulder, and
what happened at Amos's. When you profile I assume it's a
conscious, though reluctant, decision to immerse yourself in a
process to get the job done. A job that's critically important.
When you were at Amos's, you had a concussion, you'd been
tortured, and suddenly you had a bleeding woman dumped into your
lap to be responsible for..."

     At her last words he turned back to her and Dana's voice
faded out as she realized what she had said. "We're rather back
where we started from, aren't we?" she noted, forcing a
lightness into her voice.

     A smile actually tugged at his swollen lips, just a little
one. "We can go around and around like this for hours, if you
like." 

     Dana shook her head. "I'm too tired for that. Besides,
we're never going to agree on this, are we?"

     "Since when have we agreed on anything?"
 
     Dana considered that. "We don't disagree on everything."

     "Name one thing we have agreed on," he challanged, clearly
finding the humor in the situation now.

     To her distress Dana found that she had to think rather
longer and harder than she'd expected to. Finally, she blurted
out, "You didn't tell Mom that I was the one who shot Amos.
Which is just what I would have done. Thank you for that."

     His face looked stricken. "That's *all* you could think
of?"

     Helplessly, Dana grimaced.

     "That wasn't ever really very hard," he said. "I didn't
think you'd want your mother to know about - certain parts of
your job. I felt that was best coming from you." He frowned. "If
you do decide to tell her, include the part about my detour. If
you don't, I could come out sounding like a hero."

     "But you are. You tracked down Amos when no one else
could."

     "But you're the one who took him down."

     "Then we're both heroes... and even heroes need someone to
watch their back or they won't be heroes very long. Who would
you trust to do that?"

     More silence. The question hung in the air, quivering. Dana
hadn't expected an answer at all, it didn't really require one,
but then she heard his voice, directed down at the floor and
soft, but she caught the words anyway.

     "I know who I would choose to watch mine." He raised his
head to look back into face her. "Who would you choose?"

     Dana found it difficult to swallow. He hadn't actually said
who - but then why was it suddenly so dry in here? "Since Elliot
Ness is unavailable, I guess I elect to maintain the current
arrangement... unless I'm not the one you want. Unless you want
me to ask for that transfer."

     His eyes widened; his lips parted; his paleness, if that
were possible, deepened. "Of course I don't." Except for his
bruises and his lips, which were still abraised and puffy from
his labor at the knots of his wrist bonds, Dana felt a wave of
deja vu. Back in his office almost two weeks before, she had
asked very much the same question and gotten almost the
identical answer. At the time she had been too angry to see its
effect on him. What she saw was something almost like panic,
which he was covering only slightly better now than before. 

     "If you're waiting for me to extol your virtues in order to
convince you to stay - I'm not very good at that," he admitted,
with his usual attempt to cover uncomfortable subjects with his
dry humor. "In fact if I tried, you'd probably find yourself
favorably compared to a cross between a boy scout and a German
shepherd - neither of which I think you'd like very much." His
voice deepened, no jokes this time. "So do I want you to ask for
a transfer? No. No, I don't."
     
     Dana felt a flash of unusual warmth. She wondered if her
fever was spiking again. No, not that. He actually wanted her at
his back, by his side.

     As if his words were not enough, Dana saw his hand move
unconsciously towards hers, but stopped before making contact.
Maybe the IV put him off. No, that wasn't it. She realized
suddenly that she was a loss, too. An emptiness, a need to
touch and be touched, but knew as well as he that... they
shouldn't. Was that the strain that had made them snap at each
other during this whole meeting? There had been so much physical
contact between them over the last two days, it would take time
to be comfortable again with the way it had to be. 

     Because she had not moved her hand to meet his, he took
that as a sign to straighten his spine. It pulled him away from
her without his really seeming to move. It served just as
clearly to reestablish that proper professional distance.
Physically, he now seemed a million miles away, but then Dana
looked into his eyes. They were the same as they had been the
day before in this room, the night before in the barn, the day
before that at Amos's when they had sat in the dust and she had
fed him cold, lumpy oatmeal. The first strands of the link had
been woven back in her apartment with the passing of the key.
Sometime in the cellar, in the dust, in the woods, or in the
barn - or maybe because of all of them - the connection had been
strengthened and now no distance could break. Each crisis since
then had only tested and reforged the link, making it stronger.
It was very like the touch of his hand only in many ways better
because it was there always. 

     They sat is silence once again, only this time the quiet
was no longer complicated or dangerous. Oh, it was still
intense, but it was a different kind of intensity. His eyes and
hers.

     
     A knock - not loud but solid - broke the precious spell.
Two heads turned; both a little rushed; both a little guiltily. 

     Associate Director Skinner stood in the doorway. Odd, Dana
thought, how Benchley, the original team leader, had faded from
the picture. Skinner certainly seemed to be the one running the
show now. Unusual hands-on attention from management at his
level. 

     "Agent Scully," he nodded as he entered, "relieved to see
you looking so well this morning." Dana knew she'd talked to the
man the night before but her memories of her 'debriefing' were
a little fuzzy. 

     Disapproval returning to his face, the former marine fixed
his sharp eyes on Mulder. "Agent Mulder, you have half the ward
in a panic wondering where you are"

     "I see that you managed to find me soon enough, sir."

     A twist of those broad shoulders. "Tricks of the trade. I'm
pleased to see that you're much improved also. Unfortunately,
I've come to tell you that they're ready for you."

     Mulder's face shadowed and there was a moment of obvious
hesitation before he began unwinding from his perch on the side
of Dana's bed. His body language indicated that whatever Skinner
had in mind, it was not Mulder's choice. The creases of care and
pain which had smoothed away as their eyes met deepened again
across his forehead.
     
     Dana's eyes flashed from Mulder to Skinner then back to her
partner. "Where are you going?" she asked with concern.

     Carefully, Mulder lowered himself back into the wheelchair.
"Local law enforcement has sent a contingent to see if I can
help them pinpoint where Mary Amos went over the cliff," he
explained, his tone flat.

     "Is that going to be so hard? You have an eidetic memory."

     "Not when it comes to finding one particular spot when you
don't know where you were to begin with. I thought that would be
obvious by now. There's wasn't exactly a McDonald's on the
corner to use as a landmark."

     Skinner cut in. "From the description you gave us before
the sedatives took effect last evening, Ranger Gaines is fairly
certain that he knows the approximate area but we still need
your help. The terrain's very rough. They've brought some
topographical maps and someone went out with a video camera
yesterday so they also want you to look at some footage." Hands
in pockets Skinner glanced briefly at the floor as if deciding
something. "By the way, it was... unfortunate... that our paths
didn't cross that night. By comparing your report of events and
the progress of the storm with the time of our arrival, you two
could not have been gone long."

     Since Skinner didn't phrase his request for information in
the form of a question, Mulder wasn't about to divulge a thing.
It was Dana who felt that some response was needed. "Yes -
unfortunate. If we had known help was coming we would have -
waited. But then we didn't want to hang around and run into Mary
Amos either. Guess we did anyway."  Dana refused to look at
Mulder directly but from the corner of her eye noted how, as she
talked, his expression changed from suspicious to a deep
thoughtfulness. So he had assumed she was going to turn him in
and tell Skinner the real reason for their little extended walk
in the woods from which they could both have so easily died.

     What good would it serve? Dana reasoned. If the lapse of
place and time had happened to anyone else under the same
circumstances they would have received sympathy, understanding,
and medical attention. It would be considered an acute episode.
Because this was Fox Mulder, however, the story would only mean
more fuel for the Spooky jokes and raise anew the questions
about his competence and stability. Dammit, he had risked his
life, had nearly given it. He didn't need the whispers and the
Monday morning quarter-backing. Officially, someone would have
to be told, but who? Blevins, who was still their direct report?
Not if Dana could help it. Skinner? She barely knew him. He was
stern but fairness and objectivity were the traits Dana was
looking for. Maybe... Besides, something about the way he kept
appearing the last few days seemed portentous.

     Even now Skinner's patience was commendable as he waited,
seemingly oblivious to the messages the two agents were silently
communicating to one another. He wasn't unaware, however.
Certainly not of Mulder's mild relief over what Agent Scully had
said... or not said. Good for her. Mulder needed a real partner
and not just one in name only. It looked like he'd finally got
one. Someone who would work straight and strong in the harness
next to him to keep his incalculable strength and intellect in
line. Watching these two settle down as a team would certainly
make the future interesting. At present, however, Skinner
wondered if he should let it be known all that he already
suspected about the cause of their little sojourn.

     "You didn't take your car keys, ID's, or weapons," he
mentioned almost casually. "There was a lot of sleep lost over
that." And indeed his eyes were wreathed in gray shadows. "The
FBI, National Forest Service and the DoD spent a not
inconsiderable amount of time and manpower looking for you two
and then you went and saved yourselves. I trust you were not
just going out of your way to make us all look bad?"

     Mulder's mouth twisted the way it tended to do when he was
considering something deeply. "My fault, sir. I wasn't thinking
as clearly as I could have."

     <Your fault that you forgot your ID and your weapons or
your fault that you took an injured woman into the woods not
entirely in your right mind?> To which was Mulder admitting?
Skinner considered the younger man who was attempting a position
something vaguely approaching parade rest which wasn't easy when
sitting down. The deeply sunken eyes were over-bright. If
Skinner was not mistaken, there were some new lines on that
unique and bruised face and the old ones were more pronounced.
For once Mulder looked nearly his actual age. But Skinner should
not have been surprised. He had read Mulder's chart and knew
there was more damage hidden under that concealing, black
outfit. Bruises and welts by the dozens, abrasions and gashed
knees. The MRI was conclusive for multiple concussions but
borderline for skull fracture. The doctor's exam notes combined
with the trace evidence found at the farm made for fascinating
reading. "You had a busy day, Agent Mulder. Considering the
extent of both of your injuries, a little confusion is...
understandable."

     Mulder kept his own counsel, his expression unreadable
though he must have found Skinner's support nearly as surprising
as he had Scully's.

     "By the way," Skinner added, "some more information came
out on Rivera's organized crime connections. As Agent Scully
confirmed, he was just a minnow. Now our sources find that he
was not only a small fish, but an irritating one. Irritating
even to the members of his own family. They are so happy that
someone knocked him off that word on the streets is that they're
even willing to reward the man who took out Rivera's executioner
for services rendered. Anyone interested in collecting?"

     Mulder's interest perked. "All yours, Scully, if you want
to claim it, though I don't know how you'd declare it on your
taxes."

     Skinner's expression was reflective. "On the subject of
paperwork... *Two* dead suspects, Agent Mulder? A messy though
acceptable end to an extremely difficult case. I'm afraid the
paperwork will be extensive. Internal Affairs -"

(sorry.. too big. Continued part 30b)



Date: Sat, 5 Dec 1998 18:31:54 EST
Subject: [EMXC Fwd] "Revelations 1: Dawn" 30b/30 by Windsinger


(Revelations 1: Dawn by Windsinger)

     "- has already called," Mulder sighed.

     Skinner nodded. No excuses. He approved. "Yes, I suppose
you do know the drill. I'm certain you'll help Agent Scully
through it. Other than that, for the next couple of weeks...
rest. That's my recommendation to Blevins, which will go along
with a couple of commendations. As far as the more distant
future goes, I don't suppose I could talk you two into rejoining
Violent Crimes? Come back to the mainstream?"

     Dana exchanged a quick glance with Mulder. Both had the
same idea. "Maybe when hell freezes over... sir," Dana responded
for both of them.

     Skinner nearly smiled - nearly - as he gestured for Mulder
to begin heading for the door. "Very well. Before Agent Mulder
and I leave you to your rest, Agent Scully, is there anything I
can do for you?"

     Dana didn't even have to think about that one. "Just don't
exhaust him with all your questions," she said looking over at
Mulder whose eyes were dropping a little and who was genuinely
leaning against the chair back for support now. "He belongs in
bed nearly as much as I do."
 
     Skinner eyed Mulder up and down and was ready to agree.
Maybe now that this maverick had had a chance to clear the air
with his partner, he'd stay put for a while. "I'll see that he
gets his nap, Agent Scully. Anything else?"

     Mulder's voice surprised them both. "Perhaps the next time
we put in a '302' for a investigative trip to someplace warm -"

     "- like Florida -" Dana hinted broadly.

     "- we would appreciate your support in getting Section
Chief Blevins to approve it."

     Arm outstretched to indicate the hallway, Skinner replied
almost casually, "I don't know if appealing to Blevins will do
any good." The two younger agents were both tired enough that
the disappointment on their faces was almost painful to see.
Skinner elaborated. "I don't know if that will do any good
because I don't know how much longer Blevins will be your direct
report."

     That left a wake of confusion. <Keep 'em guessing,> Skinner
thought, noting the raised eyebrows the two exchanged.



     As Mulder proceeded Skinner out of the room, Dana laid back
against the pillows to watch. Mulder's shoulders were bowed even
more than usual and there was no snap to the wrist actions that
sent his wheelchair forward. He looked more like a guilty child
on his way to the principle's office than the conquering hero.
Tired, Dana closed her eyes. For Mulder, the news of the
imminent loss of Blevins probably translated into no X-Files,
but Dana had been watching Skinner and listening with her inner
ear. Skinner clearly approved of them. Would wonders never
cease. She'd been so wrong... So wrong to tell Melissa that this
was just a stepping stone to a new and better position. She had
accepted this assignment expecting to be little more than an
archivist and a spy. Well, no more could she think of her
relationship with Fox Mulder as just another assignment as
temporary as most in the FBI were.  She wasn't sure what it was,
but not that.

     At that moment Dana became aware of a sense of being
watched and opened her eyes. Skinner was still paused in the
doorway. 

     "I promise I'll take care of him," he reassured her. 

     "We both will," she said.

     Skinner cocked an eyebrow in her direction. "You'll take
care of each other. Of that I have no doubt."  At that he turned
to catch up with Mulder, who didn't even seem to have noticed
that he wasn't being followed. Unobserved, Skinner allowed
himself a slight smile. What he had seen the last few days
agreed with everything he had heard before about these two. He
would have to talk to the Senior Director. They were currently
negotiating the scope of his upcoming Assistant Directorship. He
had been debating whether to include the X-files in that scope.
Odd stuff but under his watchful eye, and with a tight rein,
Agent Mulder and his new partner could do very well. 

     Very well indeed.
     
End of Chapter 30 and The End - Now that the introduction is
over, on to the main part of Revelations which continues with
'The Box': A little trip to the Everglades... and a little trip
in a very small box...