DISCLAIMER:  Mulder, Scully and the X-Files belong to Chris
Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and FOX network.  I mean
no infringment.

This is a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees of Separation and
is consistent with that universe.  Rated PG-13 for language
and adult situations.

HUGE thank-yous go to the real Eve Wentworth and the real
Deena Cross, who helped me immensely with this section.  Eve
gave me details about Martha's Vineyard and Deena supplied
me with marvelous information about Charleston, South
Carolina.  The fictional Eve and Deena, plus Ray and Linda
Chandler, belong to me and should not be used without my
permission.


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#10:  "Reconstruction"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


Shakespeare's Pub
Washington D.C.
February 17, 1998
6:48 a.m.


The coffee at Shakespeare's Pub was hot and strong, the way
Walter Skinner liked it.  The waitress knew him by sight and
brought a steaming mug to his table without having to be
told.  

She was a pretty woman, tall and leggy, with straight
sandy-blond hair and beautiful green eyes.  In her mid-
twenties, he guessed, a student, judging from the stack of 
books he usually saw behind the counter when he went to 
pay.  Her nametag said, "Juliettt."  He was curious about 
the three t's, but didn't want to pry.  Intrusiveness was
his 
job, and he tended to leave it behind when he wasn't on 
the clock.

Juliettt pulled an order pad from the pocket of her green
apron.  "What will it be this morning, sir--bagel or
Danish?"  

Feeling daring, he ordered the Danish and settled back to
read the morning newspaper.

He was barely through the editorial section--dishearteningly
full of anti-Matheson rhetoric--when the approach of
footsteps interrupted his reading.  He looked up into the
face of a nondescript man in a dark suit and conservative
tie.  Skinner pegged him immediately as Secret Service.  He
folded his newspaper and lay it in front of him.  "Yes?"

The man gave a little nod toward the door. "We're going to
the White House, Mr. Skinner."


*  *  *  *  *


J. Edgar Hoover Building
7:00 a.m.


Mulder wanted to talk.  Scully could tell by the way he
continued to shift restlessly in his seat as he perused the
print-outs Pendrell had provided the day before.

She should probably just put him out of his misery.  Let him
speak his mind.  Tell her that she was abducted by little
green men, probed, prodded, and eventually robbed of her
memory.  She knew that was what he still believed, despite
her protestations to the contrary.

The fact that even her hypnosis-aided confabulations didn't
bear out any such conclusion was of no consequence to
Mulder.  He had always been one to come up with a theory
first and then seek the evidence to support it.  Such a
backward way of doing things, really.  Very unscientific.

Very Mulder.

She glanced across the room at him, wondering why she'd ever
become so attached to him in the first place.  He was
gloomy, acerbic, stubborn and quite often childish.  He had
no patience for the kind of painstaking detective work that
solved most mysteries.  He bridled under her slower, careful
approach to their cases, chafed at her insistence that a
theory is worthless without some sort of evidence to back it
up.  He sulked when she turned out to be right.

She should have gotten the hell out of this basement a long
time ago.  She was at a loss to explain why she had not.

Unless maybe it was the way his passions enveloped her,
swept her up in the whirlwind, gave her life color and music
and fragrance.  The way he listened to her, even when he
disagreed, because he respected her mind and her opinions. 
The way he made her laugh against her better judgment and
will.  The way he trusted only her.

The way his beard stubble had rasped against the bare skin
of her abdomen, the way his breath had stirred the fine
hairs of her belly and sent shudders of need below.

God, that had been an effort, resisting the urge to curl her
fingers in his hair and urge him lower....

"I've been thinking about my father's role in all of this."
Mulder's voice broke into her thoughts, shivering down her
spine like a flutter of kisses.  His eyes lifted to meet
hers.  He had slept very little again last night.  After
leaving her bedroom, he'd tried to sleep on the couch again.

But she'd stayed awake, listening to the soft sounds of his
restlessness, well into the early morning hours.  His face
showed the ravages of the past few days--he looked tired and
older than his 36 years. 

"Mulder, I don't think--"

"I have to know."

She fell silent, knowing that he wouldn't be able to have
any sort of peace until he'd established the full extent of
his father's part in her abduction.  Oddly, she felt no such
compunction for herself.  Even if William Mulder had been
instrumental in her kidnapping, it changed nothing in her
mind.  Her only concern in the matter was how such knowledge
would affect Mulder.  She'd give almost anything to spare
him more pain--and she could imagine few injuries as
grievous as losing utter faith in one's father.

"How are you going to do that?" she asked after another
moment of silence.  "It's been so long."

"Only four years, Scully."  A haunted look crossed his face.

"Sometimes it feels like only yesterday."

She blinked back the tears that surprised her. "I know."

He looked down at the papers in front of him, hiding his
eyes from her.  "I've got a flight to Boston booked for
later this afternoon."

"Boston?"

"I'm going to the Vineyard.  To see if I can establish my
father's whereabouts from August to November, 1994.  I
booked two seats."  He glanced up at her.

She felt a niggle of discomfort, considering her own news
for him.  "I'm afraid I've booked a flight for us myself,
Mulder.  To Charleston."

He arched his eyebrow. 

"We've been so busy looking at this case backwards, Mulder,
that we haven't even noticed that we've neglected the REAL
point of the search--finding Sarah Chandler. That's what our
302 authorizes.  We haven't even talked to her parents, and
that should have been one of the first visits on our list."

He nodded and reached for the phone.  "I'll cancel the
flight to Boston--"

"No."  She shook her head.  "You need to find out about your
father, Mulder.  I understand that.  I can handle the
interview with the Chandlers myself."

"I don't like the idea of your going there by yourself."

She pressed her lips together, feigning annoyance.  She
wasn't really upset by Mulder's blatant display of
overprotectiveness, but she wasn't above using it to her
advantage.  "Mulder, I'm quite capable of flying to
Charleston all by myself."

"How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"Two days, if that."

He nodded.  "About the same amount of time I'll be in West
Tisbury, I expect."

"This is a good approach, Mulder.  We'll attack the ends and
meet in the middle."

"We always do, Scully."  His mouth curved slightly as he met
her gaze.

Yes, she thought, we always do.


*  *  *  *  *

Oval Office
7:14 a.m.

"Fox has booked a flight to Boston.  Agent Scully has booked
a flight to Charleston.  Were you aware of this?"  President
Richard Matheson steepled his hands in front of him, leaning
across the massive desk that dominated the Oval Office.

Skinner didn't, but he wasn't surprised.  Very little about
his two most brilliant--and difficult--agents surprised him
these days.   "They've filed the proper paperwork, haven't
they?"

"Yes."  Matheson sat back.  "They are quite determined to
find this young woman they seek."

"Agents Mulder and Scully are quite determined about all the
cases they pursue."  Skinner squirmed inwardly.  He didn't
like playing politics.  He sure as hell didn't like kissing
up, even to a man he more or less respected.  And he didn't
like games.

Walter Skinner was not really such a complicated man.  In
his work, he was forced to deal with the conflicting
motivations and goals of those above and below him, but at
heart he was a simple man with simple tenets.  His
dedication to his work with the F.B.I. was not as cynical or
self-serving as his underlings or his superiors might have
imagined.  

Rising in the ranks was a means to an end to Skinner, not
the end itself.  His ambition sought power not for himself
but for the ideals he held sacred.  
     
Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.
     
The course his life had taken over the past six years
surprised him with its sheer complexity.  He'd toed a
precarious line between autocracy and anarchy, trying to
hold the ripping seams of justice together.  Neither his
shadowy puppetmasters nor his resentful charges understood
why he did what he did, but Skinner didn't have the luxury
of caring what people thought of him.  He did his job, the
best he knew how, and sought to be true to his simple
tenets.  And true to those whose lives he sometimes
literally held in his hands.
     
Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were two of those lives, and he
valued them perhaps above all others.

"It is a dangerous time for Fox and his partner to be
rocking the boat," Matheson commented.

Skinner remained silent, waiting for the president to
continue.

"The upcoming Congressional elections may well decide the
fate of my administration, Mr. Skinner.  My supporters are
losing ground in the polls.  Should a scandal arise, I'm not
certain my administration will achieve the goals we set out
in the beginning.  And I don't like breaking my promises."

"Why are you telling me this?"  Skinner simply didn't have
the patience to play nice.  It was probably imprudent,
speaking this way to the President of the United States, but
he didn't exactly have much to lose these days.

"I'm telling you this because you have the power to guide
them in the way they should go."

"And what way is that?"

"Their success in this endeavor is imperative.  I want full
bureau support behind whatever they choose to do.  I've
informed Tom Shea of my wishes."

This is different, Skinner thought.  He hid a slight smile. 
Usually, his orders were quite the opposite.  He wondered
what Shea had had to say.  The FBI Director wasn't the
biggest fan of the X-Files Division. "I'll provide whatever
resources they require."

"Good, good."  Matheson rose with a dismissive gesture. 
"Glad to hear it."

Skinner stood as well, his brow creasing with curiosity. 
That was it?  The president had gone through this cloak and
dagger charade merely to inform Skinner that Mulder and
Scully were to be allowed to do their job?

There had to be more to this meeting.  "Sir, may I ask why
you brought me here?  Your wishes could have been conveyed
by Director Shea just as easily."

Matheson's expression gave away nothing.  "I simply wanted
to meet you, Mr. Skinner.  May I call you Walter?"

Skinner couldn't exactly refuse.  "Certainly."

"Walter, I've heard a great deal about your work.  I've
heard about the...difficulties...you've experienced since
the X-Files project was put under your supervision." 
Matheson smiled.  "Fox and Dana both speak quite highly of
you."

Skinner hid his pleasure, but he was flattered.  Knowing his
wary young agents as well as he did, he realized that their
respect was given sparingly.

"The next few months are crucial to our work, Walter.  To
the things I believe we all want to accomplish."  Matheson
walked toward the exit, clearly expecting Skinner to follow.
"The wrong move could be very costly.  For all of us."

Skinner felt tempted to ask the president to come to the
point.  

"Remember, Walter--you have a stake in this as well.  A far
higher stake than you might assume."  Matheson opened the
door and gestured for Skinner to leave.

That's it?  A few cryptic remarks?  Some veiled promises--or
were those threats?

No, Skinner decided as he followed a Secret Service agent
through the corridors of the White House, he didn't like
politics at all.

The Secret Service agent let him out at the curb near
Shakespeare's Pub.  Skinner glanced at his watch.  7:30 a.m.
He wasn't officially due at the office until 8:00, and
besides, he supposed a clandestine meeting with the
president would be considered "on the job" activity. 

And he never had gotten to have that Danish.

Juliettt looked up when he entered, a smile of surprise
crossing her pretty face.  She crossed to the coffee maker
immediately.  "Mr. Skinner, back for that Danish after all?"

"Can't stay away, Juliettt."  He sat at the bar instead of
his usual table, glancing at the stack of books near the
cash register.  ELIZABETHAN LITERARY SUBVERSION was the
title of the book on top.  "English major?"

Juliettt turned to smile at him.  "Working on my
dissertation at Georgetown."

He nodded.  "I got my PhD from Duke."  He gestured toward
the books.  "Renaissance Literature?  My concentration was
American poets."

She chuckled.  "Isn't that an oxymoron?"  She winked.  "Just
kidding.  I'm rather fond of Emily Dickinson myself."  She
poured him a fresh cup of coffee and placed it on the
counter next to his cream cheese Danish.  "'After great
pain, a formal feeling comes...'."

"I'm a Frost man myself."  He smiled at the young woman,
wondering what his life would be like if he'd taken that
Princeton professorship he'd turned down to enter the FBI.
God knew his job at the Bureau was thankless at best, and
nowadays he went home to an empty house.  He could do that
anywhere, performing any job.  

His only regret would be abandoning Mulder and Scully. 
Sometimes he thought they were the sole reason he hadn't
resigned right after Sharon's death.  He realized that he
was one of the few defenses the pair had against the forces
gathered against them.  

And Walter Skinner was very good at being a fortress.


*  *  *  *  *

West Tisbury, MA
Martha's Vineyard
Feb. 17, 1998
9:48 p.m.


West Tisbury was what the locals called "up island,"
Vineyardese for the less touristy parts of the island that 
had as much to do with local character as geography.  
Unlike the crowded, pretty resort towns along the coast, 
West Tis was a rural place, home to people who valued
their privacy.   
  
Mulder's father's house was hidden away from the road by 
tall boxwood hedges that loomed like giants in the darkness. 

Since his father's death, the house had been leased to 
non-residents during the season as additional income for 
his mother.  Off season, the house stood empty.  But Mulder 
had a key. 

After he went to the main breaker to switch on the power,
Mulder turned on as many lights as possible, driving away
the inky darkness that covered him like a prickly blanket. 
The house was icy cold and smelled musty.  Unused.  The
tourist season ended around Labor Day, and no doubt the
house had lain untouched since then.  A fine layer of dust
covered every surface.  Mulder briefly considered finding a
cloth and doing a quick once over, but he decided against
it.  He was beat.

He did wipe off the tan leather couch before he stretched
out across it.  The living room was three walls of windows;
outside the night was inpenetrable. The windows rattled in 
their casements from the winter wind.  He sank lower into
the
cushions and stared up at the ceiling, wishing he'd taken a
room at a hotel in Edgartown.  Anyplace but this house.  

He could feel his father.  Feel the liquor-drenched sweat of
cowardice.  He smelled the sour odor of fear and deceit.

Are you here, Dad?  Come out and speak to me.  

Murder most foul....

The shrill burr of his cellular phone jarred him.  Scully,
of course.  "Mulder."

"Hey, it's me."

Her voice sounded so far away.  She must be in Charleston
now.  "How's South Carolina?"

"Remarkably warm for February."

"Trade ya."

"Cold up there?"

"Yeah."  The house was heated by steam radiators; a soft
hissing sound heralded the advent of heat, accompanied by
the occasional nervewracking clang.   Already he was
feeling a little less shivery.  "You sound tired."

"I am.  So do you."

"I am, too."

"Where are you staying--what hotel?"

"I'm at my dad's place.  It stays empty during the off
season.  I didn't see a point in checking into a hotel."

She was silent for a long moment.

"I'm okay, Scully."

"I was just thinking that a hotel might have made it easier
for you--"

"I'd planned to give the place a once over any way--see if
there are any nooks or crannies that might have been missed
when we cleaned the place out after Dad's death."

"You're not planning to stay up tonight doing that, are
you?"  Her voice took on a stern edge.

"No, Mom--I'm all settled down for bed."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"What are you wearing?"

"Ooo, Scully."  He grinned at the phone.  "I'll tell you if
you'll tell me."

She made a sound that might have been a stifled chuckle. 
"Black pajamas and gray sweat socks.  Your turn."

He looked down at his jeans and green sweater.  "Bikini
briefs," he lied.  "Leopard print.  Thong style."

"Bull.  You're still in the same jeans and green sweater you
were wearing when we said goodbye at the airport.  You
haven't even kicked off your shoes."

He looked down at his thick leather hiking boots.  The woman

was amazing.  "But I'm in a thong in spirit."

"Now THAT I'll buy," she agreed.

"Are you in a red satin bustier in spirit?" he asked.

"God, Mulder, you are INCORRIGIBLE."

And you're an angel, Dana Scully, he thought.  She was
playing along with him to help him keep his mind off the
fact that he was in his father's house, the same house where
he'd cradled his father's dead body after his murder.  The
same house where he'd discovered the first of many lies his
father had lived.  "Where are you staying, Scully?"

"Holiday Inn Express on Savannah Highway."  She gave him the
room number.  "I'm going to try to get an early start in the
morning--I called the Chandlers as soon as I got in and
arranged to meet them here at the motel around 9 a.m. 
They've agreed to show me where Sarah was found when she 
was a child--see if maybe we can round up some information 
about who found her, how she was processed by social 
workers--you know, typical legwork."

"I'm going to be doing something similar--"  A knock on the
front door startled him.  "Someone's at the door."

"Mulder--"  Scully's voice was wary.  "Are you expecting
someone?"

"Didn't order pizza, if that's what you mean...."  Mulder
crossed to the front door.  The porch light wasn't on, and
the glass in the door was opaque, obscuring his view of 
whoever stood on the other side.  He could barely make
out a dark shape.  Small--Scully-sized, he thought.

Still, he checked to make sure his Sig was in the holster 
still clipped at his hip before he opened the door.

A short, fair-skinned woman around his own age stood
on the porch, her eyes wide with surprise. "Oh my God. 
Fox William Mulder, what the hell are YOU doing here?"

"Mulder?"  Scully's voice was tight in his ear.

"Just the welcome wagon, Scully," he murmured into
the receiver.  "I'll have to get back to you."  He hung
up the phone and fumbled it into the pocket of his
jeans.  He took a small step back.  "Eve?"

"Fox, sweetie, didn't think I'd ever see YOU show your
face around this godforsaken place again!"  Eve Wentworth 
shook her head in disbelief, looking him up and down.  
"Still can't dress worth a damn, and would you LOOK 
at that hair!"

He grinned and caught her arm, pulling her inside.  "Nobody
but you ever complained."

"Nobody complained to your FACE, you mean."  She laughed,
her hazel-gray eyes sparkling.  "God, it's great to see you,
Mulder!"

"You, too, Wentworth!"  He waved her toward the couch.  "But
what the hell are you doing here?"

She sat down on the sofa.  "I live next door." 

He arched his eyebrow.  "You mean you leave the island, make
it big as a writer, make enough money to live ANYWHERE in
the WORLD, and you come back to West Tis?"

"What can I say?"  She shrugged, a bemused smile on her
face.  Age had been kind to her--she'd been a gawky teenager
when he'd known her, not really pretty but witty as hell and
one of the smartest people he knew.  Now in her
mid-thirties, she was striking, elegant-looking in a quirky 
way.   Her  reddish-gold hair had been wavy when they were 
kids; she wore it straight and shoulder length--kind of like

Scully's, he thought.  She was about Scully's height, about
her 
size and weight.  If he squinted and turned his head just
right--

"What ARE you doing?"

He blinked, realizing that he had, indeed, been squinting. 
"Sorry--been a long day."

"What brings you to the Vineyard?"

"A little detective work."

"Oh?"  Her eyebrows rose in interest.  "Official FBI
business?"

He'd forgotten how it was to be from a small town where
everybody knew everything there was to know about everyone. 
Of course, that should make his job here that much easier.
"Kind of official.  I'm actually trying to track my father's
movements during three months a few years ago."

"Maybe I can help," Eve suggested.  "I've been back here
since 1992."

"Living next door?"

"Yeah.  I kept in touch with your dad, too.  Made sure he
was doing okay...."  Her voice trailed off, and she looked
away from him.

"Made sure he hadn't drunk until he'd passed out, you mean?"

She met his gaze, her expression sad.  "It was getting
pretty bad toward the end.  I was gone a lot the Spring of
1995, so I wasn't here when he was killed.  I got the story,
though."  She put her hand on his arm.  "I heard it was a 
bad time for you."

Me and Scully both, he thought.  He patted her hand.  "You
wouldn't know about his goings and comings August through
November of 1994, would you?"

Her eyes widened slightly.  "As a matter of fact, I do.  I
was working on RAINY NIGHT IN SOHO at the time--under a
wicked deadline, and had to turn down your dad when he asked
me if I could keep an eye on the house for him."

Mulder's stomach tightened.  "So he was gone at that time?"

"Yeah.  He got my friend Laurie to watch the place for him. 
He was gone almost 'til Thanksgiving."

Mulder clenched his hands in his lap, his head suddenly
aching.  "Damn it."

"What's the matter?"

He shook his head, knowing he could never explain the
situation to this woman.  How could he say, "I just found
out my father helped perpetrate heinous tortures and tests
on the most important person in my life"?

"You want me to go?" Eve asked.

He shook his head, realizing that he didn't.  He didn't want
to be alone right now.  And with Scully so far away--

"Well, you got any decent coffee in this place?"  Eve didn't
wait for an answer; she rose and headed for the kitchen.  He
heard her rummaging around, then heard her utter a soft,
satisfied noise. 

He pushed up from the sofa and went into the kitchen,
watching her wash out the coffee maker and put on a pot to
brew.  "I didn't bother with decaf," she murmured.  "I'm a
life-long insomniac, and I KNOW you are, too."

He smiled.  "It's really good to see you again, Eve.  I'd
forgotten how much fun you were."

"Yeah, you forgot about that the second you hit Oxford and
hooked up with that chippy--what was her name?" 

He chuckled.  Chippy--Phoebe would LOVE to hear herself
called that.  Hell, it was probably one of her favorite
little sex games, knowing her.

"Penelope or something?" Eve rested her elbows on the
counter and leaned back, grinning at him. 

"Phoebe."

"Yeah.  The bitch."

Mulder chuckled.  "You didn't exactly pine away the years
for me, either, Eve."

She shrugged.  "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. 
So, I assume you eventually came to your senses about
Phoebe."  She looked at his hand.  "No wedding ring--"

"No wife."

"Married to the job?"

"I guess."

"What about this partner of yours I've heard about.  Debbie
or something?"

He smiled slightly.  "Dana Scully."

Eve's sandy blond eyebrows rose.   "So THAT'S how things
are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You and your partner--you've got something going, right?"

He cocked his head.  "We're friends."

She nodded slowly.  "Right."

"Good friends."

"Very good friends."  She chuckled softly.  "Can't fool me,
Fox Mulder.  Remember, I'm the girl with the Amazing
Powers of Discernment."

He laughed at the old joke.  She always HAD been the 
first to notice a budding romance---sometimes even before
the participants did.  She was one of the most observant
people he knew--and she had a memory that rivalled his
own.  

His smile faded.  Which is why she'd remembered that
his father had spent August through November of 1994
away from the Vineyard.


*  *  *  *  *


Holiday Inn Express
Charleston, SC
Feb. 17, 1998
8:30 a.m.


Dana Scully finished applying her lipstick with one hand
while hitting the speed dial on her cellular phone with the
other.  After four rings, she was about to hang up when she
heard a click.

"Hello?"

The sound of a woman's voice startled her into temporary
silence.  Her throat seemed to close.

"Hello?" the voice--low, cultured, with just a hint of a New
England accent--repeated.

Must be the welcome wagon, Scully thought blackly.  "I'm
looking for Fox Mulder."

"He's in the shower--hey, is this Scully?"

Scully pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it
as if it had come alive.  In the shower.  Mulder was in the
shower and the woman was answering---

Wait. They TALKED about me?

"Hello?"

She put the phone back to her ear.  "Yes, this is Dana
Scully.  And you are?"

"Eve Wentworth.  An old friend of Fox's from WAY back."  She
chuckled softly.

Scully frowned at the phone.  "Will you tell him I called?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." 

"Wait--aren't you gonna ask me?"

Scully arched her eyebrows.  "Excuse me?"

"Well, if I were talking to the first girl my partner ever
kissed, I know I'D have some questions."

Scully dropped onto the bed, a little thrown by the turn of
the conversation. "What kind of questions?"

"Well, surely you've wondered if he knows how to put that
gorgeous pouty lower lip to full use--"

"Eve!"  Mulder's voice rose in the background.  There was a
soft scuffling sound, Mulder's low laughter mingling with
the woman's throaty chuckle, then Mulder's voice was strong
in Scully's ear.  "Whatever she told you, I deny it."

"And here I was worrying about your spending the night alone
in your dad's house."  She kept her voice light and teasing,
although her stomach was beginning to ache.

"Eve was kind enough to keep the ghosts at bay.  She's an
old friend--we went all the way through school together
until my parents' divorce, and then we saw each other
summers and holidays."

"Old girlfriend?"

"Yeah.  One of the less painful ones."  Wry humor tinged his
voice.  "She lives next door to Dad's house here in West
Tis."

"Isn't that nice?"  Scully closed her eyes, immediately
ashamed of the catty bite of her voice.  Damn it, she was
NOT going through this again.  Jealousy was an ugly emotion,
and she'd succumbed to it because of Mulder too damned many
times.  "I'm glad you didn't have to be alone," she added,
much more pleased with the even, sympathetic tone of the
latter statement.

Mulder was silent for a second. Probably too stunned to
reply, she thought with a self-deprecating grin.

"So, how are you?  Getting ready to meet Sarah Chandler's
parents?" Mulder asked finally.

"Yes.  They'll be here around 9:00 to pick me up.  What
about you?  What's on your agenda--how do you propose to
find out where your father was four years ago?"

He didn't answer.

"Mulder?"

"Been there, done that."  His voice was tight. 

"How?"

"Eve told me."

"Eve?"

"She was living here in 1994.  She said that Dad asked her
to keep an eye on the house--that he was gone from August to
almost Thanksgiving."

Scully frowned.  That was mighty convenient, she thought--
Eve Wentworth just happens to show up on Mulder's doorstep
and just happens to know the whereabouts of his father for a
three month period four years ago?

"Are you sure you can trust her, Mulder?"

"Of course."  He sounded offended.

Scully closed her eyes.  Great--now he WILL think I'm a
jealous shrew.  But she plunged ahead anyway.  "Don't you
think it's a little strange that your old friend shows up
with exactly the piece of information you were looking for?"

"Coincidence."

"Hell of a coincidence, I'd say."

Mulder's voice lowered.  "I'll check it out, okay?"

She sighed.  "Okay.  So when are you going back to
Washington?"

"I'm going to see if I can get a flight out tonight.  How
about you?"

"Same, if I'm lucky.  It'll depend on what the Chandlers can
tell me."

"Scully, be careful, okay?"

The concern in his voice caught her by surprise.  "I'll be
fine."

"I just worry when I'm not with you."

"I'm packing a Sig, Mulder.  I think I can handle myself."

"I know."  His voice softened even more.  "But it just
doesn't feel right when we're not even in the same city."

"Sweet talker," she teased, covering the slight hitch in her
voice.  Damn it, the big dumb jerk was going to make her
cry.  "I miss you, too."

"I miss you MORE," he crooned just as a knock sounded on her
hotel room door.

She chuckled aloud.  "There's someone knocking at my door,
Mulder--probably the Chandlers.  I'll call you later, okay? 
And you watch out for yourself, too--if Eve offers you an
apple, run!"

"Like the wind," he promised.  "See ya."

She hung up the phone and blinked rapidly, surprised by how
much she really did miss him.  

A knock sounded on her door again.  She put her cell phone
in her pocket and crossed to answer it. 

A middle-aged couple stood in the doorway, earnest faces a
little tense with apprehension.  They seemed somewhat
relieved when they took in Scully's neat, professional
appearance.  "Agent Scully?" the man asked.

"Yes."  Scully extended her hand.  "You must be Mr. and Mrs.
Chandler."


*  *  *  *  *


West Tisbury
Martha's Vineyard
9:05 a.m.


Mulder shut off his phone and tucked it in his pocket.  He
turned to find Eve Wentworth staring at him.  "What?"

"Is that how you always talk to your partner?"

"Not always."

"She sounded jealous on the phone.  I confess, I might
not have helped matters."

Scully HAD sounded a bit miffed, he had to admit.  Then 
again, she was territorial by nature.  She hadn't cared much

for Krycek, either, and there'd been nothing sexual about 
that relationship.  It had been enough that Krycek was 
usurping her place as his partner.

He wasn't quite as sure he could dismiss her reactions to
Dr. Berenbaum or Det. White as easily--

"So," Eve interrupted his thoughts, "you were telling me
about the visit you and your mom made to Chilmark Friday."

Had it been just Friday?  So much had happened in the
interim, it seemed like years ago.  "Mom couldn't handle it.

She couldn't stand being in that house--in that room--"

"Understandable."

"It was horrible.  The room--the room is like a crypt. 
Nothing has been touched for years.  It's frozen in time." 
He shook his head.  "I used to have this fantasy about
bringing Samantha home to that house--"  He sighed. "But 
it's never going to happen.  I know that now."

"I never thought I'd see the day you gave up on her, Fox.  I
never did."  Eve's eyes were bright with tears she fought to
keep from shedding.  Like Scully, he thought.  

"I can't live my life trying to change the past, Eve.  I'd
like to have a future, and that's not going to happen if my
whole life revolves around finding someone who probably died
twenty-five years ago.  What good is putting my life on hold
to find a bundle of bones at the bottom of an unmarked
grave?"  The image his words brought to mind ripped his
heart, and he looked away, his eyes burning.

"No good at all, I suppose."  Her voice was soft,
comforting.  "I'm just wondering what changed your mind
after all this time."

The image of Scully bleeding to death on the floor of a
convenience store filled his mind.  In that moment, he
smelled the sharp tang of blood, the fear in his own sweat. 
He heard the sirens and the babble of onlookers.  "Almost a
month ago, Scully was shot and nearly killed, and I realized
that I had been given not only a second chance but a third
as well."  He could tell by the small frown on Eve's face
that she didn't understand.  "I've almost lost her twice.
The first time, I took her for granted.  This time, I
won't."

"So you are in love with her."

"I don't know."

She smiled.  "Men are always the last to know."

"I don't know if it's a good idea, Eve--Scully's the best
thing in my life.  Hell, she IS my life--Scully and my work.
And they're inextricably intertwined."

"Then how could it not be a good idea?"

"What if I ruin everything by trying to take things between
us to a new level?"

"Do you really have a choice?" she countered.

He stared at her, considering the question.  Was it even
possible to step back now?  Was it within his power?

He honestly didn't know.


*  *  *  *  *


Borden Street
Charleston, SC
February 18, 1998
9:37 a.m.


Though Charleston, South Carolina, boasted a large Naval
reservation, it was one of the few places Dana Scully and
her family had never lived during her father's career. 
Driving through the heart of Old Charleston, directed by
Sarah Chandler's parents, Ray and Linda, Scully found the
city utterly charming--from the palms and palmetto trees
lining the streets to the ubiquitous two- and three-
story Victorian houses that stood as stately reminders of
the city's rich culture and history.  

Borden Street, however, had little in common with the
Charleston tourists got to see.  It lay in the heart of a
run-down section of northeast Charleston.  Warehouses lined
the narrow road, peeling paint and broken windows marring
their facades. Litter spotted the gutters and sidewalks like
leprous patches.  Scully got a creepy feeling just driving
through, a weird sense of deja vu. 
 
"There."  Ray Chandler pointed.

Scully followed his gesture.  A narrow alley split the
street between two abandoned warehouses.  Scully pulled the
rental car up to the curb and parked.

"She was found right down there."  Chandler led Scully and
his wife into the alley on foot.  The asphalt was damp and
uneven, slick in patches.  Scully had to be very careful of
her footing.

"Right there," Linda Chandler said, pointing at a doorway
near the end of the alley.  Scully moved slightly ahead of
them, curiosity overcoming wariness.

She looked up at the door.  It sagged a bit, paint peeling
in scabrous chunks.  A faint gray logo was barely readable
on the warped wood, a large P with the words "Phipp's
Manufacturing" in peeling type below.

A sudden image darted through Scully's mind.  A large gray
"P" with a dusty pink triangular slash through it.  She
blinked, surprised.

What the hell was that?

"Is something wrong?" Linda Chandler asked.

Scully put her hand to her head, willing away the sudden
dizziness that spun her world.  "No, nothing...."

The image pushed its way back into her mind.  A fat gray
"P."  A bold pink slash.  Words--too small.  Too small to
read on the vial....

Her stomach clenched.  On the vial.

The vial Dr. Ishimaru had held in one gloved hand.  The vial
he'd used to fill the syringe he'd jabbed into her hip.

Oh, God.

She remembered it.  For real, this time--not as a hypnosis-
induced confabulation but an honest to God memory.

Heedless of the Chandlers, she took a couple of steps away
and pulled her notebook from her jacket pocket.  Hastily she
sketched the "P" and the slash as accurately as the swift
flash of memory allowed.

"Is something wrong, Agent Scully?" Ray Chandler asked.

Scully shook her head.  "No.  Everything's fine."

Maybe better than fine.

Maybe they finally had a real lead.  


*  *  *  *  *

Gay Head
Martha's Vineyard
Feb. 18, 1998
11:59 a.m.


Mulder couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd
been to this part of the island.  Gay Head was vividly-
colored clay cliffs, stony beaches and ancient memories. 
Called Aquinnah by the Wampanoag Indians who owned much of
the land in the southwest part of the island, Gay Head
wasn't for the faint of heart.  Boulders, brambles and
treacherous footing were only a few of the obstacles he and
Eve Wentworth had faced in their fool-hardy plunge into the
distant past.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Eve panted,
stopping near the edge of the high water line.  "I haven't
been out here since that night after graduation...."  Her
voice trailed off and she darted a glance at him.

He looked down at his shoes, noting that they were crusted
with sand from their descent down the 60 foot incline to the
beach.  "Yeah, me either."

"Ancient history," she murmured.

He looked out across the shimmer of silvery-green water,
wondering whether his life would have been better if he'd
stayed in the States and attended Princeton the way his
mother had wanted him to.  Oxford had been his father's
idea.  Mulder had concurred simply to get the hell away from
his bitter, angry parents and their escalating animosity.  

He hadn't really been tempted to stay.  His relationship
with Eve had been over before that last fateful blow up on
the beach the night of graduation.  Even then, he'd had
nothing to give another person.  Nothing to offer.

"How much does Scully know about Samantha?" 

"Everything."  Much more than even Eve knew.  He hadn't told
Eve about his recovered memories of the night his sister had
disappeared.  She might have heard about it through the
Vineyard grapevine, of course--he hadn't exactly been
discreet with his theories over the past few years.  But he
hadn't sat by her bed last night and spilled his guts, the
way he had with Scully a short two days after he met her.

"You've been together six years?"

He nodded, a smile on his lips.  Eve spoke as if he and
Scully were married.  "March 6 will be our sixth
anniversary--as partners."

Eve chuckled.  "She must be a hell of a woman to put up with
you that long."

"I don't know why she does."

"Ah, probably just thinks you're pretty to look at, Fox. 
Decorativeness can go a long way, you know."                
                                       
He made a face at her.  "You know, Evie, you've been pretty
quiet about your own state of affairs--is there a
significant other for you, or are you a slave to your art?"

"I'm a slave to my art."  Her lips curved.  "And I have a
significant other."

Mulder sat on a large boulder and patted the expanse of rock
beside him.  "Do tell."

"Not much to tell--his name is David.  He's an English
professor at Harvard, dabbles in the ART, is madly in
love with me and wants me to marry him."

Mulder arched his eyebrows.  "And your answer would be?"

Eve cocked her head, a wry expression on her face.  "My
answer would be yes, except I don't know if I'm marriage
material, you know?  I LIKE being alone.  I like not having
to answer to another person.  I like not having to worry
about whether my insomnia is keeping someone else awake."

"Do you love him?"

Her eyes met Mulder's, naked with emotion.  "God, yes.  But
is that enough?"

Mulder didn't have an answer.  

"I don't want to wake up one day realizing that David's love
for me has turned into contempt.  I saw that happen with my
parents, Fox.  I saw them go from love to indifference to
acrimony, and I won't do that to myself.  Not for all the
world."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Mulder murmured.  The
words from his own mouth surprised him.  He wasn't used to
arguing the idea of true, abiding love.  In fact, until this
moment, he had never really thought he believed in such a
thing.

Eve's sandy eyebrows rose with skepticism.  "And you would
know about this subject because...?"

"Because I know a really wonderful woman who spent forty
years loving and being loved by the same man, right up until
the day he died.  To this day, she loves him still.  It's
the most amazing thing I've ever seen, and I guess maybe
it's given me hope."  He couldn't help but smile--God, he
sounded like a damned Hallmark card.

Eve chewed her lower lip and looked down at her folded 
hands.  She was dressed almost completely in black,
just as she had been the night before--apparently a holdover
from her moody-artiste adolescence.  Black leather gloves
and boots, a long black V-necked sweater, black leggings--
her tweed wool overcoat, brick red lipstick,  and the narrow

silver hoops in her earlobes were the only hint of color.  
The 
more things change, he thought, the more they stay the 
same.  

"Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with 
your Scully?"  She looked up at him.

"Because I'm talking about her parents," he admitted.  "I
never got to know her dad, but her mom and I became good
friends when--"  His voice suddenly failed him.

"When she was gone?"

He nodded.  He cleared his throat.  "Scully knows how to
love, Eve.  She honest to God knows how to love.  She had
good teachers."

"Scares the shit out of you, doesn't it?"

He nodded again.

"You want it, but you're afraid of it."

He nodded a third time.

Eve sighed and looked out across the water, her chameleon
eyes absorbing the gray-green color, making it their own. 
"What are we going to do with each other, Fox?"  She
chuckled and cut her eyes at him.  "We could just run away
together, you and me.  Two chickenshits too afraid of love
to ever be happy.  We could spend the rest of our lives
making each other as miserable as we think we deserve to be.
Whaddaya say?"

He looked at her.  Really looked at her.  Saw the fear
hiding behind the joke.  Slowly he shook his head.  "No.  I
think you're going home right now, call your David, and tell
him yes, you want to marry him."

Her lip trembled.  He could see the frantic hope surging
through her at the thought.  He couldn't help but smile,
especially when she said, "I AM between novels.  And the 
break before Spring Term for David is only a few weeks 
away--maybe we could elope?"  She chuckled.  "Maybe I
can live my lifelong dream of being married by an Elvis 
impersonator in Vegas."

He laughed.  "Sounds like a plan."

"And what's your plan?"

He looked down at his feet, half buried in gritty sand. 
"I'm going to go home to Scully."

"And?" Eve prodded.

"And I'm going to see if friends really make the best
lovers."

Eve's face lit up with a smile.  "Would you look at us?  So
decisive."

He chuckled.  "Well, at least for now.  We'll see how we do
when you get back to West Tis and I get back to D.C."

"No, you've inspired me, Fox.  I can do this."

And so can I, he thought.  Warmth spread through him despite
the bitter cold wind swirling in from the sea.

I can do this.


*  *  *  *  *


South Carolina Dept. of Human Resources
Charleston Office
1:35 p.m.


Deena Cross looked over Scully's credentials thoroughly.  "I
should be able to pull the physical record in a few minutes,
Agent Scully.  Can you wait here for a moment?"  The petite,
dark-haired caseworker smiled at Mr. and Mrs. Chandler as
she went through a connecting door.

Scully glanced at the Chandlers, noting their complete ease.
"I assume you've been here before more than once."

"We've been foster parents for the state for almost thirty
years."  Ray smiled fondly at his wife.  "We've taken care
of twenty-one children over the years."

"Is Sarah the only child you've ever adopted?"

Ray nodded.  "We tried adopting a couple of others but
nothing came of it.  Sarah was a special case."

Scully reached into her briefcase and pulled out the photo
she'd gotten from the New Haven Police Department.  "I
understand this isn't a very accurate photo of Sarah?"

"It was the latest one we had."  Ray's eyes darkened. 
"Linda and I haven't seen her in over a year."

Scully arched her eyebrows.  "I didn't know."

"When Sarah started looking for her real family...."  Ray's
voice faltered, and he looked down at his work-worn hands.

The Chandlers had been hurt? Scully guessed.  Insulted? 
Worried?

"We fought her, I'll admit it.  Linda and I couldn't see how
a child could come to be naked and comatose on a South
Carolina street if her parents had loved and cared for her. 
We were afraid Sarah was setting herself up to be hurt
badly.  And then she got hooked up with that bunch of
crazies up at Harvard, trying to convince her she'd been
abducted by aliens, for God's sake."  He shook his head. 
"Sarah's not a stupid girl--she's the brightest child I've
ever known my whole life.  But she so desperately wants to
know where she came from, I'm afraid she'd consider almost
any possibility."

Sounds a lot like Mulder, Scully thought.  Considering
extreme possibilities to find his lost family.

"What about younger pictures?"  Scully was curious about
Sarah Chandler, the little girl with no past.  She didn't
know how much had been done to find her real family 22 years
ago, but there were so many databanks these days to help
locate and identify missing children, maybe if she got one
of Sarah's childhood pictures and turned the job over to
Pendrell and his staff--

"We have albums full, believe me."  Linda Chandler said with
a faint smile.  "I have one of my favorites in my wallet. 
It was her sophomore photo from UNC-Chapel Hill, where she
did her undergraduate work."  Linda reached into her purse,
pulled out her wallet and passed it to her husband, who was
sitting nearer Scully.

Ray opened his wife's wallet to the photo sleeves, flipped
to the first photo and handed the wallet to Scully.

Scully looked at the photo of a girl of twenty, smiling into
the camera.  She was beautiful, though not in any
conventional way.  Her face was all angles and planes, her
nose prominent but in a way that didn't detract from her
beauty.  She had the kind of arresting attractiveness that
Mulder had--piece by piece the features didn't seem to fit
together, but put them together...

She almost chuckled.  Sarah Chandler even had a pouty lower
lip like Mulder's.

"She was happy then.  That's before she started having
episodes," Ray said.

"Episodes?"

"She called them flashbacks," Linda said.  "Like memories."

Scully nodded.  "I've discussed this with Sarah myself over
e-mail.  She didn't have any concrete, specific memories of
her missing time, did she?  

"No.  Just flashes of things--objects, sounds.  Nothing we
could point to and say, 'Ah, there's a clue.'"  Ray shook
his head.  "She got so frustrated trying to remember on her
own.  While she was at the University of Oregon working on
her Master's Degree, she heard about a psychology study at
Harvard that dealt in hypnotic regression therapy.  She quit
school in the middle of the semester, lost all her credits,
and flew to Boston to meet some psychologist there.  A Dr.
Chamberlain, I think her name was."

Linda nodded.  "Dr. Chamberlain convinced Sarah that her
memory loss might be due to an alien abduction experience."

Scully pressed her lips together in annoyance.  Great, she
thought, another Harvard psychologist adding to the
paranoia.  Just what the world needs.

"You obviously don't share our daughter's opinion on the
subject?"

"I think that there are far more plausible reasons why your
daughter ended up in a coma on Borden Street, Mrs. Chandler.
And that's what I think we should focus on."  Scully looked
up as Deena Cross reentered the room, carrying a manila
folder.  

"This is what we have, Agent Scully.  The photographs of
Sarah Chandler, then known as Jane Doe #4, taken right after
she was taken to the county hospital.  A record of what
steps were taken to find her natural parents and the
procedures undertaken by the county to place her into foster
care with the Chandlers.  The final disposition--which in
this case was adoption by the custodial foster parents." 
Deena gave Scully the folder and returned to her desk.

"She came out of her coma two days after she was found, but
she didn't have any memory of her earlier life," Ray
murmured as Scully opened the folder.  "She was weak and
dehydrated."

"How long was she in the hospital?"  Scully glanced over the
official forms, searching for familiar names or words. 
Nothing.

"Two weeks," Linda answered.  "She was placed in our home
the day she was released."

Scully glaced over the medical record enclosed, noting the
dehydration mentioned.  She stopped at the results of a
blood chemistry test.  The white blood cell count was
extremely high with an attendant decrease in the leucocyte
population--  She flipped the page.  Yep.  A release of
glucocorticoids. 

Symptoms of prolonged weightlessness.

"Did you find something, Agent Scully?" Linda asked.

Just more grist for Mulder's mill, she thought.  She shook
her head slightly and flipped to the photograph clipped to
the back of the folder. 

And froze.

Her heart lurched, began to race.

It wasn't possible.

It wasn't.

"Agent Scully?"  Ray Chandler's voice made her nerves
jangle.  She looked up, startled.  "Is something wrong,
Agent Scully?"

She turned the folder so Chandler could see the eight by ten
photo attached to the file.  "This is Sarah?"  Her voice
sounded strangled to her own ears.

"Yes, taken right after she awoke from her coma.  She was
twelve or so--maybe a little younger, maybe a little older. 
The doctors were never sure.  We just made her birthday May
14th, the day she was found, and we assumed from her size
that she was somewhere around twelve at the time."

More like eleven, Scully thought.  Eleven and a half.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ray said. 

I have, Scully thought, staring at the photograph in front
of her.

I've seen the ghost of Samantha Mulder.

Scully stared at the photograph clipped to the back of Sarah
Chandler's file, certain that she had to be mistaken. 
Coincidence.  That was all.  Similar features, similar hair,
similar hazel-green eyes that looked just like--

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat. 

Oh, God.

"Agent Scully, are you all right?"  Ray Chandler put his
hand on her arm, making her jump.

"I'm--"  She swallowed as her voice failed.  "I'm sorry--I
just--"  

"Can I get you some water?"  Deena Cross stood, her pretty,
delicate features creased with worry. 

Scully found her voice.  "No, I'm all right.  I'm just--
surprised."  She lifted her chin and reached for her purse,
remembering something that might help clarify things for
everyone.  A couple of years back, she and Mulder had
exchanged pictures of their sisters.  A symbolic act of
common commitment to their goal of seeking the truth, she
supposed--an act they didn't talk about or analyze because
that wasn't how they did things.  She carried the photo of
Samantha in her wallet, tucked between a photo of her mother
and of her sister.  

She opened her wallet to the photograph and withdrew it from
the plastic sleeve.  She held the small picture of Samantha
Mulder next to the eight-by-ten of young Sarah Chandler.

The girls looked virtually identical.

"Where did you get that picture of Sarah?"  Ray Chandler
bent closer, his brow furrowed.

Scully held up the small photo to give him a better look. 
"You're telling me this is your daughter?"

"Yes, but--"  His eyes widened.  "She looks so young...."

"The girl in this photograph was eight years old."  Scully
marveled at the steady tone of her voice, because her
insides were rattling.  "She was abducted from her home in
Chilmark, Massachusetts, on November 27, 1973.  Her name is
Samantha Mulder."

"Oh, dear Jesus."  Ray Chandler took the photograph from
Scully's hand and held it closer to his face, his green eyes
focusing on the small image of Samantha Mulder perched on a
jungle gym, grinning at the camera.  "Linda--"  He thrust
the photograph toward his wife.

Linda Chandler took the picture.  Her eyes widened.

Scully drew a shuddery sigh.  "Is that Sarah?"

Mrs. Chandler looked up at Scully, tears pooling on her
lower lids.  "Yes.  I believe it is."

Scully looked down at the folder on her lap, at the
painfully thin, sad-eyed eleven-year-old staring back at her
from the old photo.  She didn't know what to feel.  She
didn't know if she WANTED to feel anything.  Because in a
few short hours, she was going to have to fly back to
Washington and tell Mulder what she'd found here.  She had
to be pulled together and strong when she told Mulder,
because she had a feeling he was going to fly apart. 

"You're telling us that you know who Sarah really is?"  Ray
asked.  "You have her picture--is she a relative?"

Scully shook her head.  "I work with her brother.  He's my
partner.  He's spent the last twenty-five years looking for
his sister.  For the last ten years or so, it's been his
driving quest in life."  

His obsession, don't you mean, Scully?

His madness?

Isn't that what you've thought all these years?  That he was
tilting at windmills? 

...stop running after your sister, Mulder....

...he's really got you going, Mulder....

...Mulder, are you sure it's her?

...you're identifying with her as a victim--like your
sister....

...sometimes I don't understand what drives you, Mulder....

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by one utterly unexpected
emotion.

Guilt.

*  *  *  *  *  

Logan Airport
Boston, MA
2:44 p.m.


Mulder hitched the strap of his carry-on bag over his
shoulder and turned to smile at Eve Wentworth.  "Okay--no
backing out, remember?"

She nodded, a faint smile curving her lips.  "You either. 
In fact, call her right now before I leave.  See when her
plane is coming in.  Surprise her with a gourmet dinner at
your place--"

Mulder chuckled.  "I can manage soup, Eve--and my place
isn't exactly a swinging bachelor pad."

"If she loves you, it won't matter if it's saltines and a
sofa bed."

He gave her a playful cuff on the arm.  "What a romantic."

"You're stalling, Fox.  Call her now, before they announce
your flight.  If I've gotta do this, so have you.  No
backing
out, buster."

He sighed and pulled his cellular phone from his pocket.

Scully answered on the third ring, her voice tense.

"Hi, it's me," he murmured into the phone, his palms
suddenly clammy.  His pulse thudded wildly in his throat.

"Mulder, I can't talk right now."  

Yup, definitely tense, he thought.  "Something wrong?"

"No--not exactly."  She lowered her voice.  "I'm just in the
middle of something."

"I was just going to tell you I'm at Logan, about to catch a
flight to D.C.  Any idea when you'll be back home?"

"My flight leaves at 5:00," she answered tersely.

"Want me to pick you up at the airport?"

"No," she answered quickly.  Too quickly.

"Scully, are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I may have some news."

"Bad news?"

"I can't explain it right now, Mulder.  I'll meet you at
your place as soon as I get back to town.  I'll explain
everything then."

"Scully--"

Click. 

She had hung up.

He closed the phone and stuck it back into his pocket. 
"Something's wrong."

"Something serious?" Eve asked.

He shook his head more in confusion than in denial.  "I
don't know."

"Do you think I upset her this morning on the phone?  I did
mess with her--"

"No, Scully's not that fragile."  Whatever was going on with
Scully was bigger than an episode of territorialism.  She'd
been trying to hide it, but he could tell by the sound of
her voice that something had shaken her to the core.

What had she discovered in South Carolina?  Bad news about
Sarah Chandler?  Or something about her own abduction?

A disembodied voice announced his flight to D.C.  He pushed
aside his worries and turned to Eve, who was looking up at
him with tear-bright eyes.   

"Why is it that I'm always watching your fine ass walking
away, Fox?  Bad karma?"

He chuckled and opened his arms for a swift hug.  "Some
folks might say that fortune is smiling on you."

Eve pressed her nose against his sternum, her arms tight
around his waist.  "Don't forget to share those books with
your Scully, Fox--the couple that reads together stays
together."

"And you don't forget that you promised to send me your
Vegas honeymoon photos."  He gently extricated himself from
her grasp.  "Gotta go, Evie.  Now--go make your David a very
happy man."

"And you go show your Scully that 'The Lip' is functional as
well as pretty."  Eve gave him a little shove toward the
boarding gate.

He chuckled all the way onto the plane.  But once he had
settled into his seat, his high spirits drifted away, and he
once again remembered the tension in Scully's voice.  "I may
have some news," she'd said.

But she hadn't said it was good.


*  *  *  *  *


Fox Mulder's Apartment
Washington, DC
8:05 p.m.


When Scully's flight from Charleston arrived in D.C., rain
was falling in dense, cold sheets.  She was able to catch a
cab from National Airport with little damage done, but when
the cab let her out at the curb in front of Mulder's
apartment building, not even her determined sprint could
spare her from a cold drenching.  She stopped for a moment
on the stoop beneath the front awning and shook icy water
from her hair before entering.

Her briefcase was safely tucked under her arm beneath her
overcoat, protected from the rain.  Her overnight bag fared
a little worse.  She dropped the rain-spattered bag on the
floor of the elevator that took her to the fourth floor and
Mulder's apartment.

What was she going to say?  "Mulder, I've found out where
your sister has spent the last twenty-one years.  Problem
is, she's gone again"--?  

She paused in front of his door, letting her breathing calm
and her heart rate slow.  But before she could compose
herself, the door opened, and Mulder stood before her, his
hazel eyes dark with concern.

"Forgot your umbrella?"  He drew her inside quickly, tugging
her overnight bag from her shoulder. She pulled her
briefcase from under her wet coat and shrugged the damp
garment off, putting it in Mulder's outstretched hand.

"Who knew it would rain?"  She tried to keep her voice
light.  She wondered if she was succeeding.

The worried expression on Mulder's face indicated that she
was not.   "We need to get you dried off and warmed up.  Why
don't you find some dry clothes and change?  There's a pair
of clean sweats in my closet--you can roll up the cuffs."

She knew she was only prolonging the agony, but she did as
he suggested, changing from her damp suit into a warm, dry
heather gray sweatsuit she found hanging in the closet just
off the bathroom.  While she towel-dried her soaked hair,
she silently rehearsed what she was going to say.  Mulder, I
discovered the most amazing thing--Sarah Chandler isn't just
a missing person.  She's--

"Scully?"

Mulder's voice, practically in her ear, made her jump.  She
looked up at him, her eyes wide.

He put his hand on her shoulder.  His touch burned through
the fleece-lined sweatsuit.  "Sorry--didn't mean to startle
you."

"I didn't hear you."  She tried to look away from him but
couldn't.  Where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom,
his face was cast in half-shadow, emphasizing the angles and
planes of his unique face.  He was so beautiful, she
thought.  So damned beautiful sometimes it hurt to look at
him.  Especially when he smiled. 

But he didn't smile enough.  Probably hadn't smiled enough
in twenty five years.

The news she had to tell him was double-edged.  On one hand,
she was about to validate the last ten years of his life. 
His sister HAD been alive.  It hadn't been an exercise in
futility or madness.  

Yet on the other hand, Scully couldn't produce Samantha
Mulder.  She couldn't place the woman's hand in the hand of
her brother and say, "Look, Mulder.  Here she is.  I found
her for you."

Because she didn't know where the hell Samantha was.  Or if
she was even alive anymore.

"You said you may have some news," Mulder said.  His hand
remained on her shoulder, his thumb stroking lightly over
her collarbone beneath the sweatsuit.

"I already have Pendrell working on something."  She gently
moved away from his touch, ducking beneath his arm into the
hallway.  Leading him back into the living room, she told
him about her flash of memory in the alley in north
Charleston.  "It was a thick, bold sanserif P with a
triangular pink slash across the top half of the letter.  I
remembered seeing it on a vial--some drug Ishimaru used on
me."

Mulder's face darkened slightly.  "You remembered that?"

She nodded, sitting on the sofa.  She made room for him,
patting the leather cushion beside her.  "Sit down, Mulder,
there's more."

He eyed her warily as she bent and picked up the briefcase
she'd set down next to the couch.  She'd gotten Deena Cross
to give her a copy of Sarah Chandler's records as well as a
photocopy of the photograph clipped to the back of the file.
The Chandlers had been even more generous, providing her
with a photo album of Sarah's childhood pictures.  Scully
had looked through all the photos during her flight back to
DC.  Whatever doubts she'd had about Sarah's true identity
were very nearly gone.  There was no way two girls could
look that much alike.  Especially considering that Samantha
Mulder had disappeared when she was eight years old--and
Sarah Chandler had mysteriously appeared three and a half
years later with no memory of her previous life.

But there was one final test.

One final judge.

"Mulder, I went to the Charleston DHR with Sarah Chandler's
parents to look into Sarah's past.  I wanted to know
everything there was to know about her case--any clues as to
her previous life, anything that might help us understand
why Carter Christopher and his consortium would be
interested enough to kidnap her.  The social worker in
charge of the records was kind enough to make me a copy of
her file."  She handed him the folder.  She told him how
Sarah had been found, naked and comatose, on Borden Street. 
"Her blood chemistry test indicates symptoms of prolonged
weightlessness," she admitted.

Mulder glanced at her.  "Really."

She swallowed with difficulty.  "Look at the photograph in
the back."

Mulder's eyes narrowed slightly at the choked sound of her
voice.  Pressing his lips together, he bent his head and
flipped to the photocopied picture in the back of the file.

Scully watched his face carefully.  Waiting.

At first there was no reaction.  Not a blink.  Nothing. 
Then his Adam's apple bobbed a couple of times.  The muscle
in his jaw twitched.  His body went rigid.  He went utterly
still.

Suddenly his breath exploded from his lungs and his
shoulders heaved.  He jerked his head around, meeting
Scully's gaze.  His lips moved wordlessly.  She saw the
brightness of tears in his eyes.

And all doubt was gone.

Tears filled her own eyes.  "It's her, isn't it, Mulder? 
It's Samantha."

He stared at her for a long moment.  Then his voice emerged
from somewhere deep inside him.

"Yes."



End of #10