TITLE: "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" AUTHOR: Jean Helms (JeanLHelms@yahoo.com) WARNING: Explicit sexual violence/rape of a character. Character death, although if you're like me, you won't weep for this one. ORIGINAL POST: 12/12/1999 ARCHIVE ENTRY: "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" CLASSIFICATION: SRA, MSR. RATING: Mostly PG, but overall NC-17 for language, chapters dealing with explicit and implied sexual violence and for explicit consensual sex. SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully, off the X Files for now, investigate a possible bioweapons facility. What they find there puts their partnership, their investigative skills, their love and even their sanity to a test neither could ever have imagined. ARCHIVE: Visit it here FEEDBACK: Yes, please. SPOILERS: U.S. sixth season; to be safe, let's say up to but not including Two Fathers/One Son. DISCLAIMER: "The X Files" and the characters therein are created by Chris Carter and are his property or the property of 1013 Productions, Fox Television or 20th Century Fox. Also, the murders investigated by Fox Mulder in this novel are based on the writings of John Douglas, father of criminal personality profiling. The facts of the cases and John Douglas' investigations are adapted and used without permission -- but with the utmost admiration. No copyright infringement is intended, and this work is being distributed free, without any remuneration whatsoever to its author. See further acknowledgments and disclaimers at the end. DEDICATION: To Lee, my faithful beta reader and friend, for all her help, suggestions and most of all, for her unending enthusiasm and encouragement, and to my husband, David, and to my children, Mary, Emily and Karen, for their patience, love and support over the many months that it took me to write this. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" by Jean Helms ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" -- Dylan Thomas Chapter 1 FBI Headquarters Monday, Dec. 21 8:11 a.m. Now and then, the guiding principles of the universe seem to turn inside out and the impossible happens: Effect precedes cause, parallel lines intersect, energy is created or destroyed. What was happening this morning was less cataclysmic, but no less impossible: Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, M.D., couldn't get her mind on her work. Even as she walked into the lobby of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, home of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, work was the furthest thing from her mind. She was on autopilot as she held out her credentials and walked through the agents' security checkpoint. It was December, less than a week until Christmas. The weather was lousy: slushy, muddy snow everywhere, gray and cold. She hadn't finished her shopping. She could have been forgiven for thinking about any of those things. But she wasn't thinking about anything so mundane. She stepped onto the elevator and pushed the button for her floor, ignoring the condescending smirks of her fellow agents. She was used to that. The other G-men might as well have been on another planet for all the notice she gave them. The elevator headed up. That was a change; a big one. For the previous five years she had shared the only operations office in the basement with her partner of six years, Special Agent Fox Mulder; or, as he called himself at their first meeting, the FBI's Most Unwanted. Now, she did grunt work in the bullpen, upstairs, as though she were a newbie fresh out of Quantico. She wasn't concerned about that right now, either. She had other things on her mind. Pizza. Specifically, the pizza she and Mulder had shared two nights earlier as they wrapped up their latest case over mushrooms and pepperoni, sitting side by side in a dismal little hotel room in Podunk, Nebraska. Okay, so it wasn't called Podunk, she thought. What the hell was it called? The towns were all beginning to run together in her mind. Small, superstition- ridden, gloomy, under-educated, depressing -- that was all most of them were. And all populated with the crummy hotels that were all they could afford on the Bureau's measly travel allowances. Useless towns, suspicious of science and almost every other form of learning. Mulder was the only Rhodes scholar most of those towns would ever see, and he was at the heart of the pizza problem. It shouldn't have happened: They shouldn't even have been in a hotel room together, but neither of them paid much attention to the rule against it. The rule was intended to prevent problems with sexual harassment, and that was never going to be a problem between them. They were entirely comfortable together, and had been since their first field operation together. That was six years ago; Mulder was conducting an investigation into the mysterious deaths of several of the town's young people, all of whom were found with two strange bumps on their lower backs. When they got to their hotel, there was no power; a thunderstorm had knocked out electricity all over town. She was dead tired, rain-soaked and already half- crazed by the realization that she had let a man she hadn't even known the day before talk her into conducting an exhumation and autopsy on a body that wasn't even recognizably human. She was in her underwear, readying her bath by candlelight, when she noticed the bumps on her own back. Suddenly, she was terrified. Frightened out of her wits, if the truth be told. The worst part was knowing that she was afraid of ridiculous things, illogical things that she didn't believe in. Didn't _want_ to believe in, she amended. In a blind panic, she had run to Mulder's room and, without thinking, dropped her bathrobe and insisted that he examine her back. The doctor in her hadn't seen anything wrong with that. The doctor, however, realized too late that this wasn't a medical setting. This was a hotel room, and he was a male agent, and she was in her underwear. Scully saw her reputation crumbling right before her eyes. She could not imagine her new partner not taking advantage of this, spreading all around the Bureau the story of how she came to his room and threw off her clothes less than one day after they became partners. All the struggle for respect and equality was going to end right here. She was about to become a standing joke. Only it hadn't happened that way at all. Mulder hadn't mocked her or made crude remarks. He simply examined the marks and reassured her that they were only mosquito bites. He won her heart that night. Pulling the robe back up, she had impulsively thrown herself into his arms. He held her just long enough to comfort her, letting go as soon as she began to pull back. He met her anxious look with eyes that were calm, kind, understanding. Hazel eyes. Warm, deep, their colors shifting with the light. The eyes of a friend. Sighing, she relaxed. She was safe with this man. She could stay. They spent the rest of that night talking. She lay on one of the beds. He covered her with a blanket, and sat near her on the floor, and they began what had become a six-years-long process of opening their deepest hearts to each other. They were friends. After that, there was no reason to flee to the political rectitude of the restaurant or the bar. Mulder was perfectly capable of amusing himself at her expense ("Scully, what are you wearing?" "Oooh, if you were that stoned, what?" "I think it's remotely plausible someone might think you're hot."), but he was also perfectly capable of treating her as a partner and fellow agent. And he did. That was rare in the Bureau's old-boy bastions of power. That was why, that night in Podunk, they felt no qualms about sitting on one of the beds, their bodies comfortably touching as they talked, munching pizza. The pizza was hot, for once, and gooey, and so good that Scully, Miss "Green salad with lemon and a cup of yogurt with a little bee pollen" Scully, had greedily downed about half of it, much to her partner's amusement. She wound up with a big blob of tomato sauce on her face, although she didn't realize it until she saw those hazel eyes focus on her left cheek. Without a word, he had picked up a napkin and gently wiped the sauce away, like a father wiping a baby's face. He had done that before, but that had been in a restaurant; this time they were alone, sitting on a bed in a hotel room, and the touch of the rough white paper felt disturbingly intimate, affectionate, possessive. She pushed him away, took the napkin in her own hand and walked to the mirror. In its reflection, she saw his eyes, saw the hurt in them, although he tried to hide it. He wouldn't try it again anytime soon. Now, as she rode the elevator, Scully turned the incident over and over in her mind. Why did she push him away, she wondered. Why did it hurt him so much that she had? And why was she suddenly afraid to walk into the office and face him? Her intellectual mind told her there was no reason to worry. All that had happened was that she had re-set the professional boundaries between them. That had to be done from time to time in a male-female partnership. He would understand and respect it. But in her innermost thoughts, Dana Scully knew her intellect was serving up a big, hot plate of bullshit. Because the truth was that she wanted him. Badly. And there was not a single doubt in her mind that he would be good in bed. She knew, instinctively, that Mulder as lover would be much like Mulder as partner: respectful, careful, passionate, intuitive, athletic, even creative. And tender, the way he was when he wiped her face. The thought made her a little dizzy, and she put a gloved hand against the elevator rail for support. She wanted to know him that way. It had been a long time since she'd last been with a man, so long that she could scarcely remember how it felt, not that there was much to remember, for her at least. Her ex-lover had even given her a nickname, one that she later learned had spread all around the Bureau: The Ice Queen. But if there were any man on earth who could melt that ice, it would have to be her partner. And Mulder was a man, all right; by any objective standard, Fox Mulder was a damned attractive man, tall, lean and muscular, with a mouth that begged to be tasted and those eyes ... She could have had him then, in that little hotel room, but it had not happened. Dana Scully, The Ice Queen, had not allowed it. That was that. Mulder had said something about getting an early start in the morning, gone back to his own room and closed the connecting door behind him. Still, he did not lock it; that was something. Had she wanted to, Scully could have opened that door and gone to him. Hours later, when she heard the all-too- familiar sounds of Mulder's awakening from yet another nightmare, she nearly did go. It would have been so easy. But she did not move. She lay awake, listening to the sounds on the other side of the door: the water he poured for himself, the pseudo-excitement of the infomercial audience, the click-click-click of his laptop as he once again resigned himself to the lonely world of his perpetual sleeplessness. She hurt for him then, but she did not go to him. She, who could stare down the barrel of a gun without flinching, turned utter coward and left him to fight his demons alone. That had been cruel, and she knew it. He had come to depend on her friendship in those grim times, but she had denied it to him that night. Be honest, Dana, she thought as the elevator slowly rose. It wasn't friendship you were denying him. It was love. The love between them had never been expressed, seldom even hinted at. They tiptoed around it, but it was like tiptoeing around an elephant: too big to ignore, too big to do anything about. Almost too big, she amended. He had almost kissed her once, although he probably thought she didn't remember it. No sooner had his lips brushed against hers than that damn bee had stung her, sending her into a nightmare world of ice from which she had barely emerged alive. That she had lived was entirely due to him. He had risked his life to save her, crossing the icy wastes of the Antarctic to rescue her from her captivity. Sex couldn't even come close to showing her his love the way that journey had done. Still, she wanted it. She wanted him. She wondered if she ever would, ever could, be truly naked before Mulder. Physical nudity wasn't the issue; it wasn't even close. Circumstances had forced her and her partner to deal with one another's unclothed bodies more than once, and they had done so with professional detachment: rendering first aid, calling the ambulance, finding clothes or a blanket for a cover. She didn't fear his touch, either; scarcely a day went by that he did not touch her, sometimes several times, placing a guiding hand on her back, or holding her carefully by the upper arms to get her attention. More intimate touches were rare, but not unheard of: an embrace, a fleeting hand clasp, a kiss on her hand, or on her face. His touch bore overtones of danger, hints of the sensuality that she knew burned within him, of the passion for all things alive and living that impelled him onward in his quest. To have that passion turned toward her -- to draw him to her, to become the focus of his relentless energy -- she could imagine no pleasure greater, no fulfillment more certain than that. No, the barrier had nothing to do with any physical fear. The hands-off policy was her armor against the utter and shameful nudity of her inner self before him. So long as he thought of her as a partner, a co-worker, completely separate from himself, she was safe; he was too well-bred to push his inquiries further than she was pleased to allow. So for six years, she had doled out intimacy between them like a man rationing his water supply in the desert. She could never risk letting him take as much of her as she wanted; if she did, she was certain, he would swallow her whole. She would have nothing left in that safe space inside her, no part of her soul that was not open to his review, and that was dangerous. Too dangerous even to consider. ~~~~~ The "bullpen" 8:15 a.m. Mulder, as usual, was already at work when Scully came in, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk. No wonder he's early; he was probably here yesterday, and I don't believe he went home last night, either, Scully thought, as she tucked her lustful thoughts away into the lock-box part of her brain. Not that Mulder was a sight to inspire lust right now, at least not to anyone else. He was wearing the same blue shirt and god-awful maroon-and-green tie he'd worn the day before, but the shirt was wrinkled, the tie was loosely knotted around his neck and the eyes behind the wire-rimmed reading glasses were red and tired. "Hey, Scully, take a look at this," he said, greeting her as usual without preamble. "We may have a real, honest-to-God FBI case." "Good morning to you, too, Mulder," Scully said, taking off her coat and hanging it carefully on a coat hook. "What have you got?" Tossing a file folder onto Scully's desk, in the cubicle behind his, Mulder grinned. "A factory outside Mobile, Alabama. Lots of mysterious shipments in and out, lots of men in black hanging around, scaring the workers. A source who says what's being grown down there could be a biological weapon, and that we ought to pay Mobile a visit -- I hear the winters are mild and wonderful down on the Gulf Coast." "Who's the source?" Scully asked, sitting down at her always tidy desk and picking up the folder. "One that I think we can trust," Mulder said, his tone daring her to argue. Scully wasn't in the mood for that game. "You always trust your sources," she said calmly, ignoring Mulder's wounded-puppy expression. "That's why they're still your sources. That doesn't suggest to me that they should automatically become mine as well." Opening the folder, she scanned quickly over the file, down to the bottom line on the 302: Originating agent: SA Mulder. Haven't seen that for a while, she thought. Closing the folder, Scully looked up at Mulder. "Assuming your source is to be trusted -- and right now, it's only an assumption -- why would they send us? And why Mobile? I've been to Mobile, years ago, when my father was on TDY at NAS Pensacola." "What's a TDY?" Mulder asked. "Sounds like a frozen yogurt cone" "Temporary duty, Mulder," she said, rolling her eyes. "And don't change the subject. Mobile is not a big town. What possible reason could they have for locating a highly secret factory there? Why not somewhere bigger, where they could go unnoticed?" "That's just it," Mulder said, the wounded look gone. Scully wouldn't have asked for all those details unless she was in, and she was in on this one -- he could tell. "When you look at all the facts, Mobile is perfect," Mulder went on, warming to his subject. "Think about it, Scully: It's not actually a town, it's a city, about a quarter million residents, so it's big enough to get lost in but not big enough to be obvious. And as you yourself noted, it's not the first place you'd suspect." "I think what I was implying was that it was the last place you'd suspect," Scully replied. "I.e., that you're off base." "But it's got advantages," Mulder answered, undaunted. "It's a fair-sized commercial seaport and it's also at the junction of two interstate highways, one of which is the infamous I-10 drug pipeline. Add to that the fact that the smokestack-chasing city fathers have filled the surrounding area with big, smelly chemical plants, and you've got Black Ops Pharmaceuticals, hidden in plain sight." "Mulder, be careful," Scully said, dryly. "You're giving me facts and logic, and I'm not sure your brain can take it." Mulder smiled, acknowledging both the joke and the truth behind it, but Scully could sense the tension building inside him. He's chomping at the bit, Scully thought. Why? Who was his source? X was dead; so was Deep Throat. Marita Covarrubias from the United Nations? Probably. His old girlfriend, Special Agent Diana Fowley? It had better not be, she thought grimly. The real reason, she thought, is that he thinks somewhere down in all this, there is an X File. Mulder hadn't reconciled himself to being taken off the X Files, and she was morally certain he never would. In the end, it didn't matter who the source was or whether Mulder was trying to sneak in an investigation of paranormal phenomena under the guise of fighting domestic terrorism. She could never really trust any of Mulder's informants, anyway, but she could trust the bond between herself and her partner, if it was undamaged. Belay that relationship stuff, she ordered herself in her father's voice, focusing her eyes on the file again. Think about the problem at hand, which is another trip to Nowhere, and the probabilities of being killed because we found something real versus the chance of being misled by another carefully constructed lie. Either way she calculated the probabilities, they came out the same way: You lose. When she looked up, Mulder was regarding her with what she always thought of as his profiler's expression. He always knew when something was wrong, although just how he knew was still a complete mystery to her. "You don't have to go along on this one if you don't feel it's right, Scully," he said, and the seriousness she heard in his voice reassured her. "But I could really use your expertise on this. This is a disease-causing organism, and diseases are your field, not mine." "Thank you, but medicine has less to do with it than Christmas, which is coming soon and for which I am not ready," Scully replied, not entirely truthfully but unwilling to expose her real thoughts. "Or had you forgotten?" "Well, now that you mention it, I believe I did see a Christmas decoration or two around the District," Mulder said. "But you know I don't pay much attention to holidays, not even my own. I couldn't begin to tell you when the first night of Hanukah is this year." "Well, I do pay attention to holidays, Mulder, and especially to Christmas. My brothers are coming home, and I'm supposed to be off starting the day after tomorrow. I want to spend some time with Mom and I also need to finish my shopping." Well, that part was true, at least, she thought. "Go, then, if you need to go," Mulder responded, his face carefully neutral. The last thing he wanted was to get into a discussion about Scully's brother Bill. The big Navy commander blamed Mulder for most of his family's troubles over the past few years and Mulder couldn't blame him. Scully's abduction, her cancer, her infertility, the death of her sister, Melissa -- none of these would have happened had Dana Scully not joined the X Files. The profiler in him couldn't resist thinking that underlying that big-brother concern was more than a hint of jealousy and male territoriality, the alpha male fighting off rivals for the females, the hero protecting the virgin from seduction. Bill Scully was not a complicated man. Unfortunately -- or maybe fortunately -- he has no reason to worry, Mulder thought. Wonder what he'd do if he did? Now it was Scully's turn to study her partner's face. I am going to regret this, she thought. "I still have a few days," she said, resigning herself. "If you need my help ..." "Always," Mulder responded automatically, drawing a slight smile from his partner. He's forgiven me, she thought. He never even held it against me. He just wants me with him. He needs me with him. No more to be said, is there, Dana Katherine? she thought. Scully stood, picking up her coffee cup. "So when do we leave?" she asked. A hint of triumph crept into Mulder's broad smile as he put his feet on the floor and stood. "Soon as you finish your coffee. Of which, by the way, there is none. You'll have to make it." Scully set the cup back down. "I'll get some at the airport," she said, sighing. "You're going to drink airport coffee? You really have lost the will to live," Mulder said, lifting her coat from the rack and holding it for her. Scully slipped into the coat and turned to face him. "What I have lost is any hope that I will ever again spend more than one night in my own bed before leaving again." "Where's your sense of adventure, Scully?" Mulder teased, as he took his service weapon from the desk and holstered it, then shrugged on his suit coat. Such a simple act, Scully thought. Pick up the coat, right arm goes through, left hand reaches back to grab the collar and swing it over the left shoulder. Left arm through. Straighten the lapels. Check the pocket, make sure the credentials are there. Nothing to it. He does it every day, several times a day; he doesn't even have to think about it. But every single time, I watch him. And I do think about it, about how he moves, how he looks ... Does he know what it does to me? He couldn't, she thought. It's too silly even to contemplate. I've seen him naked and I'm getting turned on watching him dress? Ridiculous. She willed her face to show nothing as she picked up her briefcase and walked to the door. Mulder held it open, guiding her through with his usual brief touch on the small of her back. ~~~~~ En route to Mobile, Ala. 1:15 p.m. Flying into Mobile was every bit as bad as Scully thought it would be. The first leg of the trip, from Washington to Atlanta, wasn't bad; at least, not by the standards of the everyday business traveler. Scully was not an everyday traveler. Scully hated flying. Being seated next to 6-foot-2-inch Mulder made it just that much worse. He had no trouble at all getting comfortable on a plane: he either plopped his long legs in her space, or he took up the armrest between them. Either way, he quickly nodded off, leaving her to deal with a chancy stomach and white knuckles on her own. Scully never harbored darker thoughts about her partner than she did onboard an airplane. The second leg, flying from Atlanta to Mobile on a tiny, cramped, noisy commuter plane, was infinitely worse. By the end of the 50-minute flight, Scully's too-upright posture was beginning to tell on her. Walking off this airplane was going to be an effort; her legs were asleep, and the butt of her gun was digging painfully into her back. She couldn't take it out and risk causing panic among the other passengers, and she didn't have room to turn so that she wasn't lying against it. She hadn't drawn a deep breath since Atlanta. Mulder, of course, was sound asleep, his head slumped against her shoulder, breathing deeply. Even the thud of the landing didn't wake him. She indulged herself in a momentary thought of what a sharp rap of her knuckles could do to that peaceful expression, and almost immediately felt guilty. He sleeps on planes, she thought, because he can't sleep anywhere else. Give him a break. Gently, she shook him awake. "Mulder, we've landed," she said quietly. Mulder opened his eyes, blinking. "Landed where?" he asked, puzzled. Scully smiled in spite of herself, and in a moment, Mulder returned the smile, sheepishly. "I know where we are, Scully," he said. "I was just testing you." "As they say in Russia, Mulder, bullshitsky." ~~~~~ Mobile, Alabama 1:32 p.m. A few minutes later, the agents had rented a car and were on their way, each in the accustomed role: Mulder drove, Scully looked at the map. He never willingly gave up the wheel unless he was falling asleep. "Theodore Industrial Park is home to several plants, some of which are chemical. It's south of the city," she told him. "On the other hand, there are several chemical plants in the north part of the county as well. Did your source give you any idea where we should try first?" "First stop is the Mobile field office," Mulder said. "We're going to need some contacts with local agents and probably with Customs, too, and that's the best place I know of to find them." "If there is a bioweapons facility here, it's not likely Customs will know about it," Scully said. "Given the current state of affairs at Customs, I'm not sure I want them to know our business anyway." "Me, either," Mulder agreed. "Customs is in a shambles. I'm just going to ask about some things they might have seen or intercepted, things that wouldn't make sense to them but would to us." "Such as?" "Such as barrels full of black oil, unlabeled containers of corn, bees -- that kind of thing," he said, teasingly. "After all, Scully, what greater bioweapon could there be than an alien virus?" "Mulder, this is not an X File, this is a conventional investigation into a possible biological weapon of terror," Scully said, letting her head fall against the headrest and closing her eyes. "And if I'm wrong, and there are bees, you're on your own." Mulder looked at her carefully. "I'm not letting a bee get within 100 feet of you, Scully," he said, in a tone that was just a little too serious. Scully opened her eyes and turned to look at him. "I know you won't," she said. "And you know I'm not serious about leaving you on your own." "I am," he said. "Dead serious. The first bee that shows up I'm sending you back to D.C. Once is enough for that shit." Mulder, if you only knew, she thought. Did you notice, when you came for me, that my eyes were open? Did you know that I was awake and praying that I would die quickly? No, you don't -- because I've never told you, and I never will. Never. "You're right, Mulder," Scully said, looking out the window, away from him. "No more bees. Once is more than enough." ~~~~~ Steve Penn, special agent in charge of the Mobile field office, proved to be a gold mine of information about Customs and DEA contacts as well as officers of the Alabama State Docks. With his help, it only took one afternoon and part of an evening to learn that a cargo container of bacteriological medium had recently moved through the docks headed by rail for the small town of McIntosh, outside Mobile, home to several chemical plants. The only question was which one. The docks workers couldn't help them with that. "Once it leaves here, I don't worry about it," as one longshoreman put it. "There aren't that many plants up there, Scully," Mulder said as they walked toward the car. "All we have to do is go find the one that doesn't want us there, and we've got it." "And then what, Mulder?" Scully replied. "Once we do that, they know we're here, and the whole thing is packed up and out of town six hours before we can get a warrant." "Who said anything about a warrant?" Mulder said as he unlocked the car door on her side before walking around to the driver's side. "I just want to go look around. We don't need a warrant for that." Scully got in the car and buckled her seat belt. "I doubt sincerely that all you're planning to do is look around. I also doubt that the local judges will take kindly to a couple of federal agents from out of town committing an act of breaking and entering." He wasn't listening. As usual. Six years of trying, and she still couldn't change Mulder's infuriating tendency to ignore the rules. That was something she herself could not do. Too many years as a Navy brat, moving from one naval station to another, had taught her the virtues of being self-contained and going by the book. ~~~~~ "You idiot," the sixth-grader had sneered. "That can's for paper. You put your lunch in there." Dana cringed. The other kids in St. Benedict's lunchroom had laughed. She could hear them talking about her as she shamefacedly retrieved half a peanut butter sandwich from the pail. It was February, and it was her first day at St. Benedict's. It was her seventh school in six years. Her father was in the Navy, and she was always the new kid in school. And she hated it. When you were always the new kid in school, you learned quickly to keep quiet, keep to yourself, and do nothing until you were sure you understood the rules. She knew that. But she still made mistakes, sitting on the wrong swings at recess, getting up from her desk when the first bell rang, unaware that the first bell was for bus-riders, not students whose parents picked them up. Like yours. And when you made a mistake, no one around you would ever let you forget it. Dana wasn't stupid; she knew how the pecking order worked. The bottom-rung kid in the school, the one who had been low man on the totem pole before her arrival, would almost always zero in on her and get a few cheap laughs out of her ignorance. She understood the principle: If you can't climb in the hierarchy, you can at least try to put someone else on the rung below you. No one was an easier target than the new kid. The only escape from this, Dana discovered, was knowledge, observation, evidence, perfect obedience to the rules. She watched, and waited, and watched some more; she didn't move until she was certain, beyond all doubt, that she'd figured it out. One student tossing a half-eaten roll into the pail wasn't enough; they all had to do it, or she couldn't be sure. Evidence. Observable, measurable, repeatable events that, together, constituted sure evidence. Find the evidence, follow the rules, do what's expected of you -- that, she soon learned, was the only way to be safe. ~~~~~ She tried again. "They still fly the Confederate flag around here, Mulder. Federal authority is not popular, to say the least. We've got to play by the rules or we risk getting into trouble that no one will help us out of." "I don't think the citizens of Alabama are ready to secede from the Union over two FBI agents conducting a questionable search of a chemical plant, Scully," Mulder said, steering the car down Water Street toward I-10. "They may not have forgotten the Civil War, but they're a law-and-order bunch around here." "All the more reason to go by the book and seek a warrant," Scully said. "The federal courthouse isn't far from the field office. It wouldn't take 15 minutes to present this to a magistrate and get a warrant." "I tell you what, Scully," Mulder said. "You go ask the judge for a warrant. Wake him up, interrupt his dinner, or his Monopoly game, and tell him we suspect someone is growing killer germs in a factory in McIntosh, only we don't know which factory and we haven't seen the germs, but we know it's just got to be there. If -- I repeat, if -- you get a warrant, then I will execute it as lawfully as possible. But if we do, I promise you, all we're going to find when we get there is an empty warehouse or a fully operational plant manufacturing environmentally friendly baby food. How many times do they have to disappear the evidence before you understand?" "I understand, Mulder," she shot back, angry. "I'm the one who buried a casket full of sand after they disappeared my daughter's body." "Scully, I didn't mean it like that," Mulder said. He started to apologize, but Scully stopped him. "I don't think I want to discuss this any more tonight, Mulder," she said, icily. "We can decide this in the morning after we're rested and we've had a chance to think it over." "I don't need to think it over, Scully," Mulder said. "I'm going out there tonight." "No." "What do you mean, no?" "I mean no. I mean that if you go, I'll have to back you up, and I would not be adequate backup because I'm tired, and I'm angry, and it would be dangerous right now. Let's just go get some sleep." "You do not have to go," Mulder said, and Scully could hear the controlled anger in his voice. "I am not asking you to go. But I'm not asking for your permission, either. I don't need it." "No, you don't," Scully said, equally angry but outwardly cool. "I have not forgotten who's the senior agent here. But I would have hoped that after six years as my partner you would begin to trust my judgment, just a little. Or is that asking too much?" Mulder said nothing for a long time. Scully looked out the side window, watching the drizzly rain drip down the glass. When she looked ahead again, she saw that they were on an elevated bridge, crossing Mobile Bay. "This isn't the road to McIntosh," she said. "No, it's the road to Daphne, which is where our hotel is," Mulder said. "I figured maybe we would get some sleep, tackle this in the morning. What do you say?" Scully looked at him for a moment. The tentative look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. "I think that's an excellent idea," she said, her tone just warm enough to tell him she was over being angry. No real warmth, not when they were en route to a hotel. That would be against the rules. ~~~~~ Daphne, Alabama 8:43 p.m. The hotel, for once, was not half bad, and best of all it looked westward over Mobile Bay. Scully was delighted to see the battleship USS Alabama in the distance, cast into sharp silhouette by the floodlights behind her. Years ago, her father had brought her here to see the once-mighty ship while he was temporarily stationed at Naval Air Station Pensacola. Her grandfather, his father, had served on a ship just like this during World War II, he told her. She had been so happy as he showed her around, feeling his pride in her and the pride of being a Scully, part of a Navy family, heiress to an ancient and noble tradition of service. For her, everything about that day was perfect. Now, here she was, carrying the badge of the federal agency her father hated worse than any other, resting, relaxing, getting in shape to conduct an illegal search, violate the law, spy on what American citizens were doing, and all in the name of a greater good. Stop it right there, she thought. You do what you have to do, day by day. Tomorrow will take care of itself. She looked at her watch; it was late, but not too late; Scully began to think there might actually be a real dinner in store tonight. This place had actual restaurants nearby, places where the food came on china plates instead of in cardboard boxes. No such luck. Mulder, as usual, had gone to his room, turned on the TV and begun channel-surfing. From the sound of things, he had found an all-sports channel and she knew that meant he was in for the night. Ruefully, Scully put aside thoughts of a social evening; she put on her pajamas and bathrobe and morosely scanned the hotel's plastic-laminated list of nearby take-out chains. Then she heard the faint sound of Mulder's cell phone ringing. He answered it, and immediately muted the TV. "Are you sure?" she heard him say. Then, "We'll be right there." A moment later, he rapped twice on the connecting door. She opened it. "Scully, get dressed, we have to go out again." "Not a chance, unless you have some truly compelling reason," Scully said, folding her arms over her chest. "I haven't eaten, you haven't slept, and we agreed we would talk about this in the morning." "Scully, I wouldn't ask you this if it wasn't important." "It's always important, Mulder," she said, unmoved. "Can you at least tell me who called you and motivated you to drag me out again into this ' mild and wonderful' Gulf Coast winter, which has proven to be cold and rainy and disgusting and doesn't even offer the esthetic benefits of snow?" "I never claimed to be a meteorologist, Scully," Mulder said. "But there's not much time, and I don't want to talk about it here. The walls in this hotel are too thin. I promise, I'll tell you on the way. Just get dressed, okay?" With a sigh, Scully turned away. Will I ever learn to turn him down? she thought. "Give me 10 minutes, Mulder," she said. "And close the door on your way out." "That's my G-woman," Mulder said. Halfway through the door, he stopped. "Hey, Scully?" he said. "Yes?" "Got a flak jacket?" "Do I need one? Mulder nodded. "Yeah. And bring an extra magazine." He closed the door. Scully stared at the door. She could not remember Mulder's ever making such a request before, and it worried her. If he thought there was danger, there was. It was that simple. She hadn't always trusted his instincts; when she met him, she subscribed to the popular opinion that Spooky Mulder was at least a little bit nuts. But then, he had been a behavioral profiler; the whole science of profiling, such as it was, was based on in-depth interviews with known serial killers, picking their brains for the reasons behind what they did. That took its toll on the interviewer; most of the original FBI profilers left the field in less than 10 years and wrote books, gave lectures, or went into private detective work. Anything, in other words, but what they had been doing. So when Mulder first began to talk to her of alien abductions and government plots, it should have been easy for Scully to dismiss his theories as the products of a slightly deranged mind. But slowly, over the next six years, Scully learned the truth, and it was worse than anything she could have imagined. The truth was that Mulder wasn't crazy. When she met him, although she did not then know it, Mulder was nearly at the breaking point his tormentors had so carefully led him to. Debunking him was the last step, leaving him with nothing to show for all the years of work, discounting all that he had learned about the conspiracy of which his own father was a part. Her assignment to the X Files was part of that plan, but it turned out to be a mistake, a big one, from the conspirators' point of view. Instead of completing his destruction, she became his salvation, gave him back his sanity, won his trust, and gave him the will to go on. Somehow, simply because she was at his side, it had happened. When these powerful men had taken a more direct approach -- convincing the attorney general herself to take Mulder off the X Files, then burning the files for good measure -- still, she had stayed with him. It was where she belonged. Just how that had happened, she did not know. But they were partners, they had been through hell together, and she knew, now, that his instincts were sound. ~~~~~ She dressed quickly in an undershirt and jeans, pulling a T-shirt over the Kevlar vest to conceal it. She unholstered her service weapon, slid a round into the chamber and checked the clip. Fully loaded. She reloaded the weapon, slipped it back into its holster and slid another 10-round magazine into her jeans pocket, along with her FBI creds and a pair of handcuffs. God help her if 21 rounds weren't enough. She threw on a windbreaker, effectively concealing the weapon, and shoved two cotton swabs and two small stoppered test tubes into one pocket, two pairs of latex exam gloves in the other, then left the hotel room, locking the door behind her. ~~~~~ North Mobile County, Alabama 9:47 p.m. "All right, Mulder, I'm here. I'm armed to the teeth. Now talk," Scully said as Mulder drove through the cold drizzle. "That phone call was from Marita Covarrubias," Mulder began. From the corner of his eye, he saw his partner's jaw muscles clench. Jealousy or professional disdain? He couldn't be sure. He hurried on. "Covarrubias said the rail activity in McIntosh has jumped about tenfold in the past 24 hours. Her sources say it looks as though the old Monsanto plant is being emptied out at a rapid rate." "So I take it we are en route to the Monsanto plant?" Scully said. "On the word of the Uniblonder?" "I just want to check it out," Mulder said. "I don't actually trust her any more than you do. What I do trust is that if she sticks to her usual pattern, there will be something there, something significant. I just want to know what that something is. It wouldn't surprise me if Old Smokey greeted us at the front door. I'm not letting down my guard, Scully, believe me." "Aren't you? Aren't you proving, just by going here, that you've let your guard down? If you really don't trust her, why are we here in the first place?" For a moment, Mulder didn't answer. In the darkness, Scully couldn't see his face well enough to tell whether his silence came from anger, doubt or just reflection, and that worried her. They needed to be together if they were heading into danger; anger could kill them both. Scully was opening her mouth to apologize when, finally, Mulder spoke. "It's not anything I can quantify, Dana," he said. As always, his use of her first name got him her full attention. He seldom did it, and then usually only when they were alone, as a prelude to something very important or deeply personal. "It's based on some interior mental process that even I don't know how to describe," he went on. "But I believe that going to this factory is the right thing to do. I believe there's something there that we need to know, whether it's that they're growing smallpox, breeding gray aliens or something even worse." The frightening thing, Scully thought, was that he probably did know. He knew a lot. There was a slightly uncomfortable silence in the car until Mulder spoke again. Not taking his eyes off the highway, he said, softly, "I wish you could trust me." "Mulder, I do trust you," Scully said, quietly. "I trust you with my life. But something is wrong here. I'm not a believer in intuition, or whatever you want to call it, but I cannot escape the feeling that something about this is more dangerous than you think." "I don't think so," Mulder said. "You wouldn't believe how dangerous I think this is." ~~~~~ It was past 10 p.m. by the time they reached the abandoned Monsanto factory, hidden down a narrow road inside the tall Alabama pines. Mulder killed the engine and headlights as they neared, letting the car roll down a sloping gravel drive toward the rail entrance to the grounds. Scully felt her stomach tighten as they walked as silently as possible toward the factory's rail car unloading point. Mulder's premonitions of danger were getting to her, and she was having some of her own. It was dark; too dark even for an abandoned facility. There should have been some lights on, if only to keep away vandals. Mulder scrambled up the four-foot concrete loading dock on his own, then took Scully's hands and helped her up after him. Slowly, silently, he dusted his hands on his T-shirt and took his weapon from its holster. Holding it up, his finger lightly resting on the trigger guard, he walked into the silent building. Scully drew her weapon and followed, staying slightly behind and to his left, covering his unarmed side. Their footsteps echoed loudly, the sound indicating a large, empty area. Scully could see nothing. There were no lights, not even moonlight through the windows. She strained her ears, but heard nothing but a slight scratching noise. Mice, she thought, or insects. There was a sour smell -- spoiled grain, or maybe sulfur -- hanging heavily in the air. Whatever it was, it was making her sick. "What the hell is that stench?" Mulder whispered in her ear. "I don't know," she whispered back. "I've smelled it somewhere before, though." "Could it be bacteria growing?" "Certainly, but what kind? It's cold in here, too cold ..." She edged forward, then laid her hand on his arm, pointing him toward what looked like a refrigerated compartment about 15 feet in front of them. "In there," she whispered. The chilly air was humid and still as they inched forward, and Scully felt the trickle of cold sweat running down her back and into the valley between her breasts, soaking into the band of her bra. It wasn't a good feeling. The gun felt heavy in her hand. "Mulder," she whispered, her voice sounding loud and harsh in the silence. "We need some light." Mulder nodded, switched on a penlight, aimed it toward the door handle. He tested it; it wasn't locked, and he pulled the latch back, opened the door. The smell hit both agents at the same time -- a foul smell of corruption, like the smell of a corpse. Scully was repelled, but she at least was used to it; Mulder was nearly overcome. "Oh, God," he said, very low. "Breathe through your mouth," Scully advised, still in a whisper. "Shine the light ahead." When he did, she saw that they were in a room about 100 by 20 feet. The room was lined with shelves, each holding beakers full of cloudy, foul-smelling liquid. The air was warm, almost hot; around 37 degrees Celsius, she thought. Body temperature. The ideal growing temperature for disease-causing organisms. "Looks like your informant was right, Mulder," she said, very quietly. "This room appears to be a giant incubator for some kind of bacterial culture. We can't stay here; it could be an airborne pathogen. Don't touch anything." Scully holstered her gun and quickly pulled on the gloves. She picked up a beaker and held it in the beam of Mulder's flashlight to examine it. "What is it?" Mulder whispered. She shook her head. "Can't tell without a culture." She reached into her pocket for the test tubes, unstoppered them and dipped first one swab and then the other into the nasty liquid. Setting the beaker back on the shelf, she dropped the swabs into the tubes, replaced the stoppers and put the tubes back in her pocket. "We need to get these to a lab quick before whatever's growing in here dies," she whispered. As quietly as she could, she pulled off her gloves, turning them inside out, and stuffed them back in her pocket. Mulder nodded. "I just want to look around the rest of the factory for a minute," he said, aiming the flashlight back toward the door. "Let's make it quick," Scully said, drawing her weapon again. "I don't want to carry these samples around any longer than I have to." Just as they reached the door, Mulder snapped off the light, putting his hand on his partner's arm so she would stop. She felt his warm breath close to her ear. "There's someone here," he whispered. "About 10 yards ahead, to the right." "I don't see anything." "Listen." Scully listened. She heard the scratching noise again, and the sound of rain dripping from the eaves. She was half turned toward Mulder, readying to whisper in his ear again, when she saw a muzzle flash in the darkness just ahead of her. There was a deafening noise, and she felt the sledgehammer impact of the bullet in her chest. Her gun flew from her hand and clattered across the concrete floor as she collapsed, doubled over in pain and shock, unable to speak. "Federal agent! I'm armed! Drop your weapon!!" she heard Mulder call, heard him hit the dirt. "Drop it now!" "Fuck you," a growling voice replied. Scully heard a clicking noise. Revolver, she thought, distantly. Watch out, Mulder, he's gonna fire. Still breathless, her stomach heaving, she felt around for her gun, knowing she couldn't fire now but still needing to have it ready should the chance come. But Mulder had heard the sound, too, and it was all he needed. Aiming toward the source of the sound, he fired. Once. Twice. There was a ghastly cry, and a sound of something heavy falling, then nothing. "Scully!" Mulder called, and although she heard the near-panic in his voice, she couldn't answer. "Scully, you all right? Answer me, Scully!" She tried to make some sound, find some way to reassure him, but could only manage a whimper. But he heard it. He was moving toward her, staying down but edging nearer. He was almost there. She heard the sick sound of something heavy slamming into bone. Mulder groaned in pain, and collapsed on the floor beside her. He didn't move. A bright light shone directly into Scully's eyes, blinding her. "You two just never learn, do you?" said the voice behind the flashlight. I know that voice, she thought, her thoughts becoming fuzzier as the pain intensified. Who is it? Given time, she was sure she would figure it out. She lay still, thinking, until a booted foot landed forcefully in her abdomen, then drew back, crashing into her head. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You looked at me with eyes grown bright with pain, Like some trapped thing's. And then you moved your head Slowly from side to side, as though the strain Ached in your throat with anger and with dread. And then you turned and left me, and I stood With a queer sense of deadness over me, And only wondered dully that you could Fasten your trench-coat up so carefully Till you were gone. Then all the air was quick With my last words, that seemed to leap and quiver. And in my heart I heard the little click Of a door that closes -- quietly, forever. "Parting After a Quarrel" -- Eunice Tietjens Chapter 2 Ahab was there. He was there to take her with him, and to do that, he had to put her in a coffin, using his cold, dead hands. But Mulder wouldn't let him. He was screaming at her father, over and over. "Don't do that to her, you son of a bitch!" He sounded as though he had been crying. It's all right, Mulder, it's my father. I have to go. She couldn't speak, couldn't make him understand how important it was for Ahab to do this. Mulder, she wanted to tell him, Ahab is here to take me. He has to dress me first, and he is dead, and that is why his hands are so cold. He never touched me like this when I was alive, but now that we are both dead, it's necessary if I am to go with him. "She could go any time now," Ahab was saying. "All I have to do is press a button. That's my little gift to her." Is it a Christmas present? What is it? "You like it, don't you? Oh, yes, she likes it." What is it, Ahab? Can I take it with me when I go? "No, no, no!" Someone was screaming at her. Who was it? "I'll do whatever you want. Just don't ... don't ... please ..." "I'm sorry, Dana," Mulder was saying, as she struggled to stand. She had to get up; she had to walk with her father. "I'm so sorry," Mulder said again. "I tried to stop him. I tried." "It's all right, Mulder," she said, at last able to speak. "It's all right now. You don't have to stop him, he's my father. I'm going with him. He knows what's best for me." "No, Dana, don't go," he was pleading. "Stay here with me a little longer, okay? Just a little longer." She tried to answer him again, but it was too loud. Someone was screaming in the background, and Ahab was buzzing, loudly, probably because he was so cold. She tried to explain it to Mulder, but he faded away, and there was nothing left but the cold, and the screams ... and then it was dark again, and the pain was gone, and she was flying, flying upward, on her way to meet Ahab again. ~~~~~ Am I awake? Where am I? My hands hurt. And my head. Where's Mulder? I feel sick. Scully drifted away again, only dimly aware that she was very, very cold. ~~~~~ The pain in her abdomen woke her. She felt it, felt herself shivering in the cold. She tried to move her arms, but then she remembered: They had always restrained her for this part, so that she wouldn't move as the needles bored into her. It hurt so much when the machines inflated her abdomen, but they did it to make it easier to take what they wanted. That was all they cared about; immobilizing her. They were completely indifferent to her helpless cries of pain. But it's dark, she thought. What happened to the light? Where is Penny, where are the men? She tried to move her hands again, and pain shot through her arms like an arrow, bringing her fully awake. She wasn't spread-eagled on an examining table; she was face-down in the cold, hard-packed Alabama clay, and her hands were cuffed behind her back. The cuffs were painfully tight, cutting off the blood flow to her hands. Her feet were tied tightly at the ankles. There was a foul taste in her mouth, and her hair was matted and stuck to one side of her face. Blood, she thought. Something else, too. The wind whistled in the distance, and she shivered again. She was really cold, colder than she'd ever thought anyone could be in the Deep South. Someone had removed her shoes and most of her clothes, leaving her in nothing but a thin cotton T-shirt and panties. She couldn't move. Not at all. It was her worst terror, and it was happening again. She was exposed, she was helpless, and worst of all, she knew that someone had done something to her -- some unspeakably intimate act -- and that she had no memory of it at all. Again. She took in a shuddering breath, trying not to cry, but her struggle set off a spasm of pain in her abdomen, and she cried out involuntarily. "Scully?" she heard Mulder's voice behind her. "Mulder, where are you?" It was a frightened voice, a little girl's voice. "Get me out of here, please get me out of here!" "Hang on, Scully, you're okay," he said. "I'm right behind you." "Are you hurt?" "Not bad," he said. "Just can't move." "I can't, either," she said, struggling to control her voice. Panic wouldn't help. "Mulder, where are we?" "I don't know. A basement or something." She heard the whispery sound of his clothing as he dragged himself over to where she lay. On his stomach, she thought. He's crawling on his stomach. "You're hurt," she heard Mulder say. How could he tell? "Open your eyes, Scully," he said. With difficulty, she forced her eyes open, felt the dried blood flaking away from her swollen eyelids. Must've kicked me right in the face. Bastard. It took a moment to get both eyes looking in the same direction; there was barely enough light to focus on anything. When her vision cleared, she saw Mulder lying next to her, his bloodied face just inches from hers. There was a large abrasion on his forehead, and a reddened area on his cheek that told of a huge bruise forming. His shirt and vest were gone, too, but he had his jeans on; still, he was shivering. "You look awful," she whispered, and saw the worry lines on his brow ease a little. "Back at ya, Red," he said, then inched forward just enough to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. "You didn't move for a long time. I thought you were dead until I heard you vomiting." "Did I?" Scully swallowed hard, feeling the metallic taste in her mouth again. "Yeah," Mulder said. "Blood, mostly. I thought you'd been shot." Scully shook her head. "The vest stopped it, but there may be some internal hemorrhage. I can't tell where." Speaking made her throat feel clogged, and she coughed, and again cried out with the pain. She saw the fear in Mulder's eyes, but she couldn't speak, couldn't reassure him as the coughing spasm took her. When it stopped, she opened her eyes and saw the tiny flecks of her blood dotting her partner's face. He hadn't moved away from her. You'd never pass a course in infection control that way, Mulder, she thought, but she was grateful for his dogged loyalty. Aloud, she said only, "I'm fine, Mulder. But I need to get to a hospital." Mulder nodded. "I know. It sounded like a big round." "Felt like it, too." It was a weak attempt at humor, but Mulder smiled anyway. "You ought to know, Scully. Can you move your hands at all?" She shook her head. "No. The cuffs are too tight. You?" "Not an inch," he replied. "I couldn't reach the keys even if I still have them, which I doubt. There's no room here to stand up, either." "Our weapons?" "Gone. Phones, too. And, most likely, your samples." Scully looked above them, and saw that the ceiling of their prison was only three or four feet above them. "This is a crawl space, Mulder," she said. "They don't have basements around here; the whole city is built on a swamp. We're under a house or something." "What difference does that make?" "It means that if we can crawl, we may be able to get out from under here." "I don't think we can, Scully." "We've got to," she said, and her voice shook, just a little. "We can't stay here. What if they come back?" "Scully, you can't even move." "No, but you can," she said. She was about to say more when another coughing spasm took her, shook her painfully. She coughed and coughed until finally her stomach rebelled and she vomited yet more blood onto the dirt beneath her, then collapsed, tears running from her eyes. Whether she was crying from pain, from fear or from embarrassment, she could not tell. Still, Mulder did not back away, just shifted his position a little. He stayed close to her, waiting until her breathing returned to normal before speaking again. "Scully, I'm not going to leave you here," he said. "You're right; the people who put us here may come back. The ones who are still alive, anyway." "Unless they've left us here to die," she said, shakily, and again that shock of helpless fear raced through her. She forced herself to concentrate. They had to get out of here; she had to stay in control. "Mulder, I have a feeling I know one of the men who attacked us. I knew his voice from somewhere." Mulder laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You know him, all right," he said, bitterly. "It was Alex Krycek." "What would Krycek be doing here?" Scully asked. "That," Mulder said grimly, "is a question I very much want to ask him. But the first order of business is getting out of here and getting you to a hospital." "Then you've got to go without me, Mulder," Scully said in a whisper. "Go get some help." "No," Mulder said. "We go together or not at all. I'm not leaving you here." "I can't move," she said, the panic rising in her voice again. "Don't you understand? I can't move at all!" "Can you roll over on your side?" he asked, quietly. "You need to get your weight off your stomach. If you can, then you can push yourself along with your feet." "I -- maybe," she said. "I'll try." "Okay," he said, "but take it slow. Don't aggravate your injuries." "I'll try," she said. It took her a moment to gather her courage, to force her bruised muscles to flex and pull her up. She gasped as her weight settled on her shoulder and lightning bolts of pain shot through her swollen hands. Her shoulder was a mass of agony, as though someone was trying to wrench her arm right out of its socket. Stifling a cry, she forced herself to keep going until she finally achieved a shaky balance on her side. She lay still, her eyes clenched shut, trying to breathe normally. "All right, Mulder," she said at last, in a trembling voice. "I'm on my side. Now what?" "Now you use your feet to push forward," Mulder said. "Can you do that?" "I think so," she said. She dug her bare toes as deeply as she could into the dirt and pushed. Her foot slid on the hard-pack, the rough surface taking some of her skin with it. Her breath hissed into her lungs, but she dug in and tried again. And moved forward, about six inches. She let out a shuddering sigh. She could move again. But it hurt. It hurt a lot. She was struggling against the pain for each breath, and finally she began to cough again, spasms of pain shooting through her with each harsh breath. "Scully?" Mulder said behind her. "Scully, you all right?" "I can't do this," she whispered, her voice catching on the last word. "I'm right behind you, Scully," Mulder said. "Hang on, we're going to make it." She felt Mulder behind her, felt his breath against her neck and she reached for his hand, blindly, without thinking. Her swollen fingers brushed across his chest, and she felt the dirt and blood that covered him. Dirty wounds, she thought, her fear rising again. He needs medical help as badly as I do. And I can't let them find me here, take me away again and make me forget. They did four years ago, and they did it again today. Who knows whose hands have touched me, and where, or what they've put in my body this time? She could feel her self-control flying further away with each passing moment, leaving her mentally blinded and careening wildly toward the insanity of utter panic. With an effort, she forced herself to speak. "Mulder," she whispered, "stay close to me, please?" "I'm right here, Scully," Mulder said. "I won't leave you. Let's keep moving." ~~~~~ Scully lost all track of time as the nightmare lengthened and deepened. She kept pushing forward, scrabbling for purchase, until her feet were scraped raw and bleeding. She couldn't control her breathing, or the coughing, couldn't get control of the pain or of her emotions. Whatever had been bleeding into her stomach was still bleeding, and she could feel her flesh growing colder, her pulse faster and yet weaker than before. Shock, she thought. I really may not make it. Lying still began to seem far more attractive than this painful shoving along on her almost-bloodless hands. The world seemed very far away. There was a pounding noise in her ears. "Scully?" Mulder called, just behind her. She wanted to answer him, but it was so difficult. Her mouth wouldn't move. "Scully?" he said again, this time right into her ear. "We have to keep going. You hear that thunder? It's going to rain again, and I don't think we want to be down here when it does." "Can't ..." she said. "Mulder, I can't." Her voice was weak. Could he even hear her? "You can, Scully," he said. "You've got to." He was nearly exhausted; she could hear it in his voice. What if he collapsed? Or what if they kept going, only to be stopped when they reached the outside world, to be taken for more tests, more experiments, more memory obliteration? She would rather die down here than face the vanished months again, the knowledge that she had been probed like a lab rat, touched in the most intimate places, and discarded, tossed aside like garbage to die when they were finished with her. And then, to face the horror of remembering again. Death would be a blessing compared to that; yet she knew she didn't want to die, either. She shuddered, fighting to keep from weeping, but it was no use. She felt the tears rolling down her face, tracking through the thick, gritty dirt that covered her. She had never felt so helpless, so out of control, in her life. "Scully," she heard him whisper behind her. "Scully, don't. You can't give up now. We're at the bottom of a slope, we'll be under water if we don't move." "I can't," she said, her voice breaking. "I can't move anymore. Please don't make me. Please." Then she felt Mulder's body against hers, felt his lips press gently against the back of her neck. He was warm, his muscles hard and lean, and she pushed back against him, wanting what little comfort he could give her now. "Stay with me, Scully," he said, softly. "We're headed out. We're going to make it." With a grunt, Mulder pressed his feet against the hard-packed dirt, pushing himself against her. They barely moved. Pushing again, harder, Mulder managed to gain a little ground, edging forward toward the growing dawnlight just 20 feet or so ahead of them. "We're going to get out of here, Scully," Mulder repeated, but she could no longer answer. Dazed and hurt and sick as she was, she couldn't even summon up the strength to encourage him. His strength would have to save them both. But it was raining now, raining hard, too fast for the packed clay beneath them to absorb, and Mulder's feet began to slip as he pushed forward, and he toppled over. Scully, leaning against him, lost her unsteady balance and fell, face down, into a small, water-filled depression. She lifted her head, coughing and choking, remembering the horror she'd seen frozen on the faces of countless drowning victims. There wasn't much water here, but there was enough; she knew it. She knew she had to keep her face out of the water, but it was getting harder and harder to move at all. In a minute, she thought, barely coherent, I will put my face down in the mud and die. The mud will fill my nose and my throat, and they will find me with that same look of terror on my face. The outside world seemed tantalizingly close. She tried to move forward a little more, but the effort was too much. She could feel Mulder behind her, pushing her forward so slowly, using the last of his strength. Then even the feel of him was gone. The buzzing noise grew louder, and her vision blurred and grayed. As her eyes closed, and she sank into the grayness that surrounded her, her face slowly came to rest in the cold, red Alabama mud. ~~~~~ St. Catherine's Hospital Scully awoke amid the familiar sounds and smells of a hospital emergency department. A man in dark blue scrubs bent over her. "You're in a hospital, ma'am," he said. "I'm a doctor. You've been hurt, and you're going to need surgery. Is there someone we can call for you?" Scully tried to speak but found she couldn't. Nothing would come out. She struggled harder; the doctor leaned closer to her, listening intently, then he looked up, startled. "What did she say?" asked the nurse standing next to him. "She said, ' Call the FBI, and tell Ahab I'm okay,' " the doctor said, staring down at his patient. "She's delirious," the nurse said. "She was talking out of her head all the way here, they said; kept talking about Moby Dick." "I guess so," the doctor said with a shrug. "Let's get her prepped." ~~~~~ St. Catherine's Hospital 3:51 a.m. Scully awoke again in what she recognized as a post-surgical recovery room. She was groggy, and her throat hurt, but she could think at least somewhat more clearly now. I've had inhalation anesthesia, she thought. Her wrists were bandaged, and she could feel the pull of an adhesive dressing on her face. The hands looked okay, though, bruised but not seriously damaged; she could flex her fingers, albeit painfully. Running her hands down her body, she found a short length of tubing emerging from just below her tightly wrapped ribcage. A surgical drain. Must've had some serious repair work done. Laparascopic surgery; small incision, too small for a laparotomy. What happened to me? She looked at her hands. The nails were torn and broken, and stained with red clay. And then she remembered. "Where's Mulder?" she said, her voice croaking, as she tried desperately to sit up. A paper-capped nurse came over to her. "You need to lie still, ma'am," she said. "Can you tell me your name?" "Scully, Dana Scully," Scully said. "Where's my partner?" The nurse didn't answer; she was putting a stethoscope to Scully's arm, around which a blood-pressure cuff was already wrapped. Scully felt the cuff inflate, tightening, making the pain in that hand spike higher. Scully bit her lip, knowing the woman needed to hear. The minute she felt the cuff deflate, she spoke again. "Tell me what happened," she said. "Tell me where my partner is." "You had surgery, Miss Scully," the nurse said. "You're in a hospital. You were bleeding inside and they had to operate to stop it." "Bleeding where?" "In your lungs, a little, and in your duodenum. That's the little tube at the end of your stomach ..." "I know where it is," Scully interrupted, feeling her self-control slipping away. "I'm a medical doctor. Please, just tell me if my partner's okay. Didn't they bring him here?" "Is he on the staff here?" the nurse asked. Scully shook her head. It hurt. "He's not a doctor. He's a federal agent, FBI, Agent Mulder, Fox Mulder. He was injured along with me, probable closed-head trauma with multiple septic abrasions. He should be here." "One hundred over 50," the nurse said, more to herself than to Scully, as she wrote on a chart. "You're still a little shocky, but I think it's okay." She picked up a syringe and injected the contents into Scully's IV line. "What is that?" Scully asked. "Something for pain," the nurse said. "Your doctor ordered it." "I don't want it," Scully said, frantically, but the drug was already speeding its way to her brain. She could feel herself fuzzing out of consciousness. She had to fight to get one more sentence out. "Nurse," she whispered, "Please listen to me. I need someone to call the FBI and tell them I'm here, and find if my partner's okay. I have to know ..." "I'm sure someone has called already," the nurse said. "You sleep now." The nurse's words were coming from a great distance, and Scully couldn't make sense of them. She tried to speak again and found she couldn't. She had only one coherent thought left as the narcotic took her down into drugged sleep. She had to get to Mulder. ~~~~~ When Scully awoke, she was in a private hospital room, with no memory of how she got there. She was still being monitored; she could hear the slow, steady beeping of an ECG, and the cuff was still around her upper arm. God, what was IN that hypo? she wondered. I've got to get that nurse's name. She had no business giving me pain meds when I was that shocky ... I must have been out forever. How long? She looked around. There was a clock on the wall. It was almost 4 p.m. How long had she been here? Mulder. Oh, God, where is he? Her heart was racing; she could hear the beeping speed up as the machine measured her rapid pulse, but she couldn't be bothered with that now. She wrapped her hands around the side rail, wincing as the injured muscles flexed and tightened, and pulled herself a few inches closer to the night stand. She stretched as far as she could, a whimper escaping her as the strain on her injured abdomen increased. She stopped for a moment, her breathing shallow and rapid, waiting for the pain to subside. Finally, she managed to get close enough to the side table to get one hand on the telephone. Picking it up, she fell back against the bed, suppressing a grimace as the pain shot through her again. What was the local field office number? She couldn't remember. Skinner's office? Nothing was coming to her. Drugs, or panic, had driven every phone number she ever knew from her, except Mulder's cell phone, and that was gone. Then she remembered the emergency number, the toll-free number that would connect her directly to FBI headquarters, to an operator assigned to find help for agents in the field who were in trouble. She dialed it quickly. The phone rang only once before it was answered. When you called this number, you never had to wait very long. "FBI," the voice said. "Assistant Director Walter Skinner, please," Scully said. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully, badge number ..." She thought for a minute ... "Badge number JTT0331613." "Hold, please," the voice said. A few moments later, Skinner's secretary came on the line. "Assistant Director Skinner's office," she said. "Kimberly, it's Dana Scully," Scully said. "I need to speak to the assistant director right away." "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, he's not in," Kimberly said in her usual friendly tone. "May I have him return your call?" "Kimberly, I don't even know where I am," Scully said, helplessly. "I'm in a hospital, probably in Mobile, Alabama. Mulder is also injured. He may be here somewhere, but I don't know, and no one will tell me." "Hold while I start the trace," Kimberly said, all business now. There was a clicking noise; a few minutes later, Kimberly was back on the line. "You're at St. Catherine's Hospital, in Mobile as you suspected," she said. "You should be safe there. I'll call the Mobile field office; they can start looking for Agent Mulder. The assistant director will also call shortly." "Thank you, Kimberly," Scully said, and hung up. She was beginning to shiver; she pulled the thin hospital blanket closer around her with her left hand. In her right, she clutched the phone, her finger on the switch hook. She was still shaking when the phone rang. It was SAC Penn, sounding genuinely concerned when she told him how they had been attacked. He was even more concerned when he realized that Mulder, although presumably in better shape than Scully, hadn't called first. Penn ended the call quickly, promising to call back as soon as he knew something. Only a moment later, Penn called back. Mulder had been found; he was also in the hospital, in better shape than she was, but he had a concussion, several deep scrapes and scratches, and like her, was suffering from exposure. Still, he hadn't needed surgery. Scully let out a long, shuddering breath. "Thank God," she said, weakly. "I don't know yet how you got there, and no one in the hospital seems to know either," Penn said. "I'll try to find out. Meanwhile, sit tight. I'll have a couple of agents over there in no time." "Which room is Mulder in?" Scully asked. "He's on the same floor you are," Penn said. "But don't try to go down there yet. Just stay where you are." "Sir, I have to see him," Scully said, in a near whisper. "I just want to know if he's all right." "I understand, Agent Scully, but you wait until my agents get there. That's for your protection as well as his. Are you armed?" "No, sir. Whoever jumped us got our weapons." "Damn, I'm not sure I'd've told me that, Agent Scully," Penn said, laughing. "That kind of thing gets known around the Bureau, they start calling you names." Scully smiled faintly. "Don't want that to happen, do we?" she said. "Hell, no," Penn said. "Those nicknames'll stick. You try to rest now. Your partner's okay. There'll be an agent outside your door when you wake up. I'll call Skinner and brief him." Penn hung up the phone. Scully lay back against the crisp white sheets, and drifted into an exhausted, restless sleep. ~~~~~ It was night when Scully woke again, her interior radar warning her that someone was in her room. She tried to sit up, but found she couldn't -- she was too weak, and in too much pain. "Shhh," she heard a voice say. "Don't try to move yet." "Mulder?" she said, weakly. Relief flooded through her. It was him, at last. He was sitting in the chair next to her bed, dressed in sweatpants, T-shirt and a hospital robe, leaning toward her. His wrists were heavily bandaged, and his face was bruised and covered with abrasions. He'd never looked so good to her in his life. She reached out her hand, and he took it, holding it gently in his two larger hands. "How you doing, G-woman?" Mulder said. "They said you were nearly dead when they got you here." "Hardly that, but I won't be eating for a while," Scully said, wincing as she heard the roughness in her voice. Coughing and vomiting will do that to you, she thought. So will intubation. So will screaming in pain and terror, she thought, and then frowned. I wasn't screaming, she thought. Where did that thought come from? Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, Scully could see that Mulder was pale, and there were lines of pain in his face, but to her physician's eyes, he looked good. He would recover -- again. The tight knot in her guts relaxed a little. "Mulder, where have you been?" she asked. "I was so worried about you." "Out like a light," he said, his smile small and self-deprecating. "I collapsed. Didn't wake up until about half an hour ago." "What day is it?" Scully asked. "It's Tuesday," Mulder said, still with that trace of a smile. "You haven't lost any time. Don't worry about that." "Thank God," Scully said, and Mulder thought her expression eased a little. "How did we get here?" "Don't you remember?" She shook her head. "None of it?" "I remember being shot," she said, slowly. "I woke up under that house, or whatever it was. I remember we almost drowned." She shuddered. "We almost died down there." "Very nearly," Mulder said, and his voice was grim. "Fortunately for us, there was a gentleman out in the woods near where we were. Apparently he was doing some slightly illegal hunting with his dog, who smelled us, evidently, and here we are. That dog saved your life, Scully." "You saved my life, Mulder," she whispered. "We would have drowned if you hadn't gotten us to higher ground." He grimaced. "Not much credit due there, Scully; you wouldn't have been down there if it hadn't been for me." "Don't start ... " she began, but the words stuck in her throat and she coughed again. It hurt; but it was better. She cleared her throat and started over. "Mulder, how did Krycek know we were going to be in that factory?" "Who the hell knows?" Mulder said, with a shrug. "Maybe he didn't; maybe getting a chance to kill us was just a lucky chance occurrence for him. Or maybe Smoking Man told him. Maybe it was the tooth fairy. He was there, that's all I know." "It had to be Covarrubias," Scully said. "She sent us there." "Maybe, but I doubt it," Mulder said, shaking his head. "Marita Covarrubias was found dead in her bathtub this morning. Apparently she committed suicide." "Suicide? How?" Scully asked, genuinely shocked. "Opened the radial artery," Mulder said, "and with surgical precision, I might add. No hesitation cuts." He didn't have to tell Scully what that meant -- Covarrubias' death was anything but suicide. "She was dead within minutes," Mulder continued. "Very convenient for all involved." "Except us." "Yeah, except us. And maybe a few other people, but I don't know who yet. She placed a call to our hotel room last night, not long after we left. Maybe she was trying to warn us." "How did you find that out?" "Skinner called just a little while ago, he's the reason I woke up," Mulder said. "He asked about you." "Nice of him," Scully said. "What have they found out?" "The local agents said there was no one in that factory, alive or dead, when they got there. No blood stains, either, except one that appears to be yours. They found a spent shell, which is probably from my weapon, and sent it to firearms identification, but I'm not likely to face a shooting board when there's no evidence to indicate that I shot anyone." "You did shoot someone," Scully said. "I heard it." Mulder nodded. "I heard it, too. And let's face it, I know what it sounds like. But there's no trace, so far as anyone can determine. Too bad you can't examine the scene. You'd find something." "Maybe not," Scully said. "But we can work on that later." She was getting tired, but Mulder still hadn't told her all she wanted to know. He was keeping something back; she knew that look in his eyes. "Mulder, did something else happen?" she asked. He shook his head, dropping his gaze at the same time. "No, nothing," he said. "Not that I can remember." "Why do I not believe you?" Scully said, holding his hand a little tighter. "I don't know," Mulder said, looking up. He shook his head again, reaching for the Mulder smile and almost succeeding. "If there was anything else, we both missed it. I wasn't thinking too clearly at the time." "Neither was I," Scully said, squeezing his hand. Let it go, she thought. "Mulder, we both got a boot in the face. That kind of trauma can cause changes in level of consciousness, disordered thinking." "I know plenty of people who would tell you my thinking's disordered already," Mulder said. "Well, at least try to think clearly for a minute," she said, smiling faintly, then turning serious again. "Mulder, why would Krycek be involved in a domestic terror operation?" "I don't know, Scully," Mulder said. "But the answer is here, somewhere. In the factory, or at the port of Mobile, but somewhere in this part of the world. I just have to find it." "We'll find it, Mulder," Scully promised him. "Just as soon as I can leave here. And maybe we'll find Alex Krycek as well." "Oh, I'll find Ratboy, all right," Mulder said, the cold look back in his eyes. "However long it takes, that two-faced son of a bitch is mine. But you won't be with me. I'm taking you to Baltimore, to your mother's house. You've got some serious recuperating to do." "You can't go without me," she began, but Mulder reached through the metal bed rails and put a finger over her lips, stopping her in mid-sentence. "I can, and I will, if it kills me," he said. "You could have died down there, and it would have been my fault. You told me earlier that you were in no shape to go, and I ignored you, once again chasing my own hollow, personal cause. I'm not going to do that to you again." Scully suddenly felt cold, felt as though her heart would stop beating. She took his hand from her face, held it tightly. "Mulder, that sounds ... almost final," she said, trying to be matter-of-fact. "You're frightening me." "Maybe it should be final," he said, quietly. "The X Files are gone. My career is shot, but there's no reason yours should be. And there's absolutely nothing here worth dying for." "Mulder, you can't be serious," she began, but he interrupted her. "I've never been more serious," he said, and now he was looking at her, willing her to know the truth of what he was saying. "How many times do you have to be hurt before I learn my lesson? And it was all for nothing; as usual, we came away with nothing at all. It's insane for you to risk your life on these wild-goose chases of mine, and I'm not going to let you. Not again. This is the last one." "Do I have anything to say about this?" she said, tears coming into her eyes. "It's my job, too." "Yeah, it's your job, too," he said. "I'm not telling you to quit the FBI, Scully. I'm just saying that this is the time to make your move, get back to real FBI work, stop risking your life for nothing. You could go back to Quantico." "Thanks for the recommendation," she said, and there was a flash of anger in her eyes. "And just where will you be?" "I don't know," Mulder said. "And maybe we should just leave it at that. Wherever I go, it won't be BSU and it won't be anywhere near the Hoover Building." "No," she said. "Yes," he said, and the finality in that one syllable nearly undid her. "Mulder, don't," she said. She brought his hand back to her face, held his rough, warm palm against the uninjured cheek. She needed to make him focus on her; she needed his touch to take away the terror he was causing her. "Don't even suggest it, Mulder," she whispered, leaning into his hand. "I'd be dead now if you hadn't been there." "You'd be out shopping for Christmas presents if you hadn't gone there in the first place," Mulder said, but his eyes were softer, and his thumb was gently stroking her face. "I was doing my job," she said, and she could feel the tears coming up in her eyes. "I was where I was supposed to be -- with you." That almost got through to him; she could tell. The struggle inside him was intense, but he continued to caress her cheek. "Look, we won't talk about it now," he said, finally. "You get better, I'll take you to Baltimore, and then we can talk about what we're going to do." But he hadn't relented, not really; she could feel it as clearly as she could feel his hand. His mind was made up; it was in his voice, and his eyes, and in the way he was touching her. It was the way he had touched her a year earlier, when she lay near death from cancer. It was goodbye. "Don't leave me," she whispered, her voice breaking. She knew she was too emotional, but that didn't seem to matter right now. "Say you won't. Please, Mulder." Mulder grimaced, each nearly inaudible word hitting him like a blow. He was breathing too slowly, and his eyes were closed. He took one more deep breath, then looked at her, and as she saw his face, she knew. "I won't leave you here, Dana," he said, softly, still stroking her face. "I wish I could promise you more, but I can't. But I will not leave here without you. I'll stay until you're well enough, and then I'll take you home. All right?" The hesitation was gone; he was sure of himself now. It wasn't all she wanted, but it was all she was going to get. She looked up at him, letting her eyes speak for her, willing him to understand what she couldn't say aloud. I love you, her eyes said. I know. I've always known. It hurts. And I'm afraid. Make it better. Please. I will. You know I will. Rising from the chair, Mulder bent toward her; gently, so gently she almost couldn't feel it, he kissed away her tears, brushed the damp red hair away from her wounded face. "Sleep now," he said, and kissed her forehead, let his lips linger for a moment. She reached for him, put a hand on the back of his neck, and held his face to hers. He felt her warm, uneven breath in his ear. He kissed her cheek, then straightened, stood over her. "I'll see you in the morning," he said. "First thing." He started to walk away, but she wouldn't let go of his hand. He let her stop him, bent forward and brought her fingers to his lips for a last kiss, then slowly took his hand away. She felt his fingers slide out of her grasp, and he was gone. Scully turned on her side, away from the door, and pressed her face into the pillow. She was going to cry -- hard -- and she didn't want the agent outside her door to hear. No one in the Bureau would ever hear that from her. Except Mulder. And he was leaving her. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Should I grow bold, Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him -- What to atone Is enough for my sinning! This were the cost to me, This were my winning- That he were lost to me. Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me, Hurt beyond cure -- Calm and demure Then must I hold me, In myself fold me, Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me- How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me. Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me! "A Woman's Thought" -- Richard Watson Gilder Chapter 3 Maggie Scully's Home Thursday, Christmas Eve 3:32 p.m. Scully had barely spoken on the plane, just sat looking out the window. The silence had started in the hospital. Mulder had been discharged the next morning, and right away had gone to work with the local agents, trying to track down Krycek, find some hint of where they'd been after the attack. They found more blood spatters inside the abandoned plant, which testing indicated were his and Scully's. They also found Scully's weapon, scratched up but still fully loaded, hidden between two wooden pallets. Other than that, they found nothing: No footprints, fingerprints, tire tracks or anything else, except for those that could be traced to the agents themselves. To all appearances, no one else had ever been there. The incubator was empty and cold, and smelled of gasoline. The reek of whatever bacteria had been growing there was gone, along with Scully's samples. The agents swabbed the shelves, door and floor, but the lab could grow nothing from the samples except ordinary dust-borne bacteria. Krycek, and the body of whoever had been with him, had vanished. The investigation was at a halt, and nothing that Mulder or any of the Mobile agents could do would budge it. When he came to see Scully that night, to deliver the bad news, to talk over the case, she had been distant; not cruel, just not really there, not communicating except on the most superficial level. She answered him when he spoke, but otherwise gave no indication that it mattered to her at all. He tried not to think about what that meant. If asked about her health, he got her signature kiss-off answer: "I'm fine, Mulder." She accepted his visits, his concern, even his touch, but never seemed to seek or to return any of it. He had checked her out of the hospital this morning, to the accompaniment of no more conversation than it took for her to tell him where her toothbrush was and how long it would be until the orderly wheeled her down to the discharge ramp. In the airport, she hadn't even protested at being placed in a wheelchair. She just sat in it, letting him push her, but giving him no sign that he was anything more to her than another orderly. For the first time, Mulder thought, he was getting a good look at what had earned her the name of Ice Queen, then was almost immediately ashamed of the thought. Maybe she was remembering ... No. She would have said something if she had. Her silence, he decided, was self-defense, a pre-emptive strike to end things on her own terms. It was the only way she had left to protect herself. From him. That hurt. He couldn't blame her, though. Still, he kept trying to break through. He still needed her, maybe more now than ever. That, he thought, was just borderline crazy, needing her to give him strength right now, because they both knew what he was summoning the strength to do: to leave her. She sure as hell wasn't going to help him with that. All through the airport, during the flights, the inevitable Atlanta layover, he pelted her with questions, asking if she wanted a soft drink, offering to get her a book to read, anything just to keep the silence at bay. Nothing. Nada. Nichts. No response at all, except that steady, disengaged, infuriating reply: "I'm fine, Mulder." Now, as Mulder pulled into the gravel driveway of her mother's home, she still wasn't looking at him. When her eyes chanced to meet his, they skittered away, focusing elsewhere, as now they were focused on the wintry Baltimore landscape. These were their last moments together, and she was far away, living somewhere in her mind, and not really with him at all. He wanted to memorize every line of her face, every movement she made, the scent of her hair, the graceful way she walked, the deep blue of her eyes, made even more painfully beautiful by contrast with her wounds, healing but still ugly, and the fading bruises on her cheek. She gave him nothing. It was killing him. Better me than her, he thought, as he cut the ignition and got out of the car. He walked around to open her door, but she was ahead of him. She was halfway out before he could reach her. "C'mon, Scully, let me help you," he said, too low to be heard by anyone but her. "You just got out of the hospital." "I'm fine, Mulder,' she responded automatically. "Would you please get my bags?" Mulder was opening his mouth to protest when he heard the front door open. It was Margaret Scully, her face haggard with worry. She stopped for a moment on the front step -- sampling the atmosphere, he thought -- before rushing down to embrace her only living daughter. "Oh, Dana, I'm so glad you're all right," Maggie murmured, holding her daughter close. "We were all so worried when we heard." Mulder heard the hitching sob in Scully's breathing as she relaxed in her mother's embrace. "Mom, I'm so sorry," she was saying. "I'm sorry I worried you." "No, baby, don't cry, it's all right," Maggie cooed, rocking Dana in her arms. "You look fine, really, it's just that you're just so thin, and pale. Come inside and rest." Mulder turned away, feeling uncomfortable as always in the face of Maggie's maternal love. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he'd never seen it, never had to witness the proof of how his own mother's love fell so far short of the warm, selfless affection that Maggie Scully lavished on her children. He opened the trunk and took out Scully's two suitcases, carried them to the step and placed them carefully just inside the open front door. Inside stood a brightly decorated Christmas tree strung with what looked like hundreds of twinkling lights. On the topmost branch was a golden-haired angel, holding a lighted cross. The cross cast its dim outline toward the door where Mulder stood. He couldn't imagine what it meant to the Scully family, but to him, at this moment, it meant only one thing: You don't belong here. "Come on," Maggie was saying, her arm around her daughter's shoulders, leading her to the door. "It's freezing out here; you must be chilled to the bone." "I'm just tired, that's all, Mom," Scully said. "It was a long flight, and we had a long layover in Atlanta. Holiday traffic. Are Bill and Charlie here?" "Tara and Matthew are upstairs napping, and Bill is on his way to join them. He'll be here any minute. Charlie is stuck in Denver, and may not get here until midnight. But everyone's so eager to see you," Maggie said as they reached the step. Not until then did she seem to notice Mulder, standing there, hands hanging at his sides, torn with indecision. "Hello, Fox," she said, but perhaps not as warmly as she had in the past. He didn't blame her. He'd nearly lost her a daughter several times now. Hell, what was he thinking? He did lose her a daughter, just not this one. "Hello, Mrs. Scully," he said. For the life of him, he couldn't think of one more word to say. There was something he should say; something conventional. What was it? Then he remembered. "Merry Christmas," he said, the words feeling even more strange than usual. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Fox," Mrs. Scully said, then laughed, slightly embarrassed. "I mean, happy Hanukah, of course. Would you like to come in for a while? There's some hot mulled cider on the stove, and I was just taking some gingerbread cookies from the oven." Mulder looked at his partner, unable to decipher the look in the ice-blue eyes. He decided to take Male Option #1: Get while the getting is good. "Thanks, Mrs. Scully, but I'm afraid I have to get back to D.C.," he said carefully. "You're not going home for the holidays?" "No. Hanukah's not a big going-home kind of holiday, and Mom never celebrated it anyway," he said, trying to sound as though he were being facetious. "Too Jewish, I guess." Good, Mulder, he thought, wincing at his own flippancy. Let's rip that wound open while we're at it. I'm sure the Scullys would love to hear all about how your mother treats her ancestors' religion as though it were some embarrassingly demented relative who lives in the attic. "Anyway," he said hurriedly, just to break the uneasy silence, "I need to get some work done; Skinner will be wanting a report on all this." "Not on Christmas," Mrs. Scully said. "I'm sure he won't be working now." Mulder shrugged. One more excuse, Mulder, he told himself. Come on, you can do it. Say something believable, just don't say anything stupid, and then get out of here. Now. Say something, damn it. He couldn't think of a thing. He just stood there. Why won't he stay? Maggie thought. I've never seen him so ill at ease with Dana before. Is it Christmas? Surely he's used to that. But he really doesn't want to stay, even though Dana wants him here; I know she does, I can see it. Why can't he? Aloud, she said, "Just for a few minutes, Fox, just long enough to get the chill off. We won't keep you long, I promise." Mulder looked at his partner again, then dropped his eyes. He gave in. "Thank you, Mrs. Scully," he said. "I'd like that." Was it his imagination, or did some of the tension leave Scully's body? He couldn't tell; her mother ushered her inside too quickly, and he couldn't see her face. "Sit here, Dana, and I'll bring you both something to drink," Mrs. Scully said, taking her daughter's coat and gloves and guiding her to a sofa. "Fox, can I take your coat?" "No, thank you," he said. "I really can't stay long." "Well," Mrs. Scully said, then paused. "Is cider all right with everyone?" "Actually, Mom, I think I'd like some coffee, if there is any," Scully said. "There is, but it's old," Mrs. Scully said. "I'll make some; it won't take a minute. Fox, make yourself at home. I'll be right back." Scully watched her mother disappear into the kitchen. Mulder sat at the opposite end of the sofa, every muscle tensed, keeping his distance. Scully kept her eyes focused carefully on the kitchen door. At last, she turned to face him. Oh, God, Scully, he thought, please don't do this. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall, wanting to get it over with and get out of here, away from the pain, away from the guilt, away from the boundless, unquenchable need for her that threatened to rip away his reason and his self-control. But there was -- this -- to get through first. He supposed he owed her this chance to wound him, to get in her last licks before it all ended, so she could hate him and finally, let him go. And then she spoke. "Mulder," she said, in a shaky voice, "please tell me you're not really going to leave me." Direct hit, Mulder thought. And I was right -- it hurts. He laced his fingers together and studied them for a moment. "I have to, Scully," he said, finally. "I told you, I'm not going to risk your life again. This isn't the X Files; that's over. This is just day-to-day FBI bullshit, and there's no excuse for my dragging you into a dangerous situation like that. Not now, not when there's so little to be gained from it." "And who are you to decide what's best for me?" Scully said, angrily. Anger. He hadn't expected that, not so quickly, but it had to be. And she was angry; there was fire in those fathomless blue eyes, but there was also love, and deep hurt, and -- something else, something powerful yet altogether elusive. "If you weren't working with me ..." Mulder began, but Scully interrupted him. "I've been working with you for six years, and I'm still here," she said, the tears overflowing now. "I don't care whether it's the X Files or the manure detail; it's my job, it's what I do, and I still love doing it, I still love working with you, and ..." She put her hands over her face and fell silent. He could sense the struggle within her: She was fighting for the strength to get the next words out. He almost hoped she would fail, be unable to say it, because it was going to hurt; it was going to do worse than hurt, it was going to damn near kill him. But it would also be the last blow, and he knew that if he could find the strength to lie to her, to reject her love, it could all end. He could leave, and she would not want him to return. It had to be this way. It had to. Say it, Scully, he thought. Say it, get it over with, and complete my damnation. As though he had spoken aloud, she dropped her hands into her lap, and looked at him. "And I love you," she whispered. Then she waited, her chin and mouth still quivering, the tears ready to come back. This was the moment he'd been preparing for. He thought he knew what to do, what to say to her: a cruel joke or a cold rejection, a flippant dismissal, something that would anger her enough to send him away forever. But now that the words were finally spoken, he found he couldn't do it. No matter how much he needed to, he couldn't let her down again. Not now, not when it was goodbye. "You know how I feel about you, Scully," he said. A shadow of the Mulder smile showed fleetingly on his lips, and was as quickly gone. "No, actually, I don't," Scully said, and her voice, although faint, was steady. "You're leaving me, Mulder. If you love me, how can you leave me?" "I have to leave," he said. He looked down at the floor, shaking his head in frustration. "Scully, I -- I don't know how to explain it to you any better than I already have. You know I would kill anyone who even tried to hurt you." He twisted around to face her again. "Shit, Scully, I did kill someone for hurting you, just last week," he said. "And we both know it wasn't the first time. But it's not enough, Scully. It comes too late, after they've hurt you. It comes after they take you away, take away your chance to have children. Maybe I'm a coward, but I can't go through that again: seeing you, lying there hurt, bleeding, maybe dead, or grieving your heart out over Emily. I can't kill enough people to keep those things from happening." His voice was shaking with helpless fury; he heard it, and stopped, took a deep breath to steady himself. He was getting too close to the real truth here, and that couldn't happen. He began again, forcing himself to speak more calmly. "Scully, I -- care about you. I care a lot," he said, looking down again, and then back at her. His eyes bore down on hers. "But if you really love me, if you really mean that, then please just let me go. I can't deal with any more of this." For a brief moment, he thought she might give in, might let him go without any more of a scene -- and for Dana Scully, this was already one hell of a scene. But he saw the look in her eyes, and knew she wasn't feeling that benevolent. "All right, Mulder," she said, so calmly that it was almost frightening. She looked up at him. "Will you at least kiss me goodbye?" Just kill me, Scully, it would hurt less, he thought, but he leaned over to kiss her unbruised cheek. With a raised hand, she stopped him. "No," she whispered. "No, Mulder, not like that. I want a real kiss; the kind of kiss you give a lover, not a friend. You owe me that much." "Scully ..." he said, then stopped. He knew that look; she wasn't going to be argued with. A lover's kiss was a non-negotiable demand. Get over it, Mulder, he ordered himself. Just do it, and get out of here. Jesus, it's just a kiss. He knew he was lying. The Dallas bombing was nothing compared to the wall that was about to fall here. But he could keep it chaste, he thought, bending toward her again, could make it a quick, brotherly peck on the lips ... ... and then her mouth was on his, and her lips were warm and soft and welcoming and salty with her tears, and in that instant, Fox Mulder knew that he was done for. All his good intentions vanished like smoke as he slid his hands into her hair, crushing her mouth against his, kissing her hard, kissing her desperately. She wrapped her still-bruised arms around his neck, and he felt her mouth opening under his, letting him in, taking him in. Scully, Scully, he thought wildly, what are you doing to me? He plunged his tongue into her mouth, drew her breath into his lungs, inhaled her sweet, spicy scent, tasted the secret depths he had dreamed of for so long. She moaned softly under his mouth, turning to let him in more fully, and he put his arms around her in a fierce embrace, his hands moving restlessly up and down her back. She felt him growing hard against her, and felt the answering wetness between her own legs, a flash of heat suffusing her entire body. She breathed in sharply, stunned to realize what she had done to this man with just one kiss, and what he was doing to her in return. Her soft gasp startled him, and he broke the kiss, afraid that she was angry, that he'd let it go too far. Jesus, all she'd asked for was a kiss; what she was getting was the unmistakable pressure of the biggest hard-on he'd had since junior high, right up against her leg. He laid one hand lightly on her cheek, searching her eyes for the disgust, the revulsion, he was sure must be there. It wasn't. What was there was that elusive something he'd seen before, blazing from her eyes, as welcome and as dangerous as a flame in the night. Desire. She wanted him, wanted this, wanted ... everything. Am I really seeing this, Scully? he asked her with his eyes. Can you possibly want this from me? and she nodded, yes. Yes. He bent toward her again, kissing her more roughly now, feeling in her every movement her invitation to him to go further, to take her fear away, to make her ready for him, and then to do more, and more ... ~~~~~ Ten seconds ago, she thought, I thought I would be happy with just one kiss. But I can't. It's not enough. I want him. I want his hands on me. I want him in me. I want all of him. She knew his touch so well, knew the feeling of his arms around her, but nothing that had passed between them before had ever awakened her senses so strongly. Her body was demanding more; not just his loving embrace, but the almost painful ecstasy of drawing him into her, of allowing her softness to yield to his strength, to envelop him completely. Her breasts felt swollen and aching, the soft flesh of her sex was swollen and aching, and she pressed herself closer to him, needing to feel him, wanting him to feel her. She tasted his mouth, his lips, drawing him ever deeper, and it was dizzying, it was wonderful, but it was not enough, not nearly enough. Touch me, she thought, oh, please, please touch me, I can't stand it if you don't, but she knew he would not, not here in her mother's house, maybe, not unless ... Scarcely daring to breathe, Scully took his hand in hers, guided it to her breast and held it there, pressed his palm into her flesh, feeling the welcome warmth of his hand even through her clothing. She felt the tension in his muscles, felt him tremble with the force of his need as he caressed her, gently at first and then more firmly, running his thumb over her hardened nipple. The sensation shot through her, hot, wet and delectable, and her rational self exploded, melted away to nothing under his hand. Yes, she thought, the words jumbling together in her brain, yes, now, Mulder, now, want you, I want you, want you to ... let's go somewhere ... I have to be with you, I have to be naked in your arms. All at once, he jerked away, as though her flesh had burned him. He sat up, leaning away from her, pulling his overcoat around him. She was confused, her mind still spinning. She reached for him again, but he shook his head slightly; he wouldn't come to her. Then she noticed the icy draft from the front door and turned to see what was wrong. No wonder Mulder was covering up. There, filling the doorway with his massive frame, stood her elder brother, Bill, Lieutenant Commander William Scully Jr., in full Navy regalia, his face a mask of rage and disgust. ~~~~~ "What the fuck is going on here?" Bill Scully demanded in his quarter-deck voice. "I should think that was obvious," Mulder said, rising from the couch. Scully reached for Mulder's hand, touching him now not for pleasure, not even for reassurance, but because it was their way, it was her way, of bringing Mulder back to himself, grounding him in reality, when he was on the edge of violence. But Mulder had never let Bill Scully push him into losing control, and he wasn't going start now. He didn't move, either toward Bill or away; he simply stood there, closing his fingers around Scully's hand, although he knew the sight of his hand in hers would enrage the big sailor even more. Not that he gave a damn what Bill Scully thought of him, but the man was Scully's brother. He was right. Bill's eyes narrowed even further, and he took a menacing step toward Mulder. "Bill, don't," Scully said, and although Mulder could hear the warning in her voice, her brother apparently did not. Mulder still did not move. "I don't know where the hell you get off coming to this house, let alone pawing at my sister right in front of God and everyone else," Bill said, and he was practically snarling now. "You've done enough to her, and to the rest of us. Why don't you just get the hell out of here and leave her alone?" "That was exactly what I was doing," Mulder said. His voice was too controlled, too level, considering the extreme insult, and Scully's apprehension grew. Bill was underestimating Mulder, and that was a mistake. Any other man would have been in grave danger; she knew what that tone meant. Scully tightened her grip on his hand. She felt a reassuring squeeze back, and knew she had assessed the situation correctly. Mulder was angry, all right, and ready to defend himself if he had to. But for her sake, he wouldn't let it go that far. Deliberately, Mulder turned his back on Bill Scully. Still holding his partner's hand, he spoke softly, too low for Bill to hear. "I think it would be best if I left now," he said, and she felt the tears start again. "Please give my apologies to your mother. You rest, and get better, and get back to Quantico." "Don't go, Mulder, please don't go," she said, and she was really crying now. He shook his head, gently, took her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss on her fingers. "See ya, Scully," he said, trying to keep his tone light. Carefully releasing her hand, he walked to the door, sidestepping Bill, who made no attempt to get out of his way. Mulder didn't even seem to notice. A single sob broke from her throat, loud as a gunshot in the silence, and just as piercing. Mulder froze in the half-open doorway, one hand on the knob. He bent his head, as though he were studying his shoes; he seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Scully held her breath, hoping, praying. Finally, Mulder turned to face her, all the violence gone from his eyes. "I love you, Dana," he said, quietly. "I've always loved you. And I always will." She opened her mouth to answer him, but he turned away; without another word, he left, closing the heavy front door behind him. Scully heard his footsteps as he walked to his car, heard the sound of the ignition, heard the crunch of ice beneath the tires as he drove away. She dropped her face into her hands and wept, her face contorted in harsh, wracking sobs that were terrible to hear. ~~~~~ Maggie Scully's home Christmas Day Christmas was a disaster. Between Bill's smoldering anger and Dana's complete withdrawal, there was little room for the rest of the Scullys to navigate between them. Bill was past speaking, and Dana was nowhere near it. He glared; she kept her eyes cast down. It was like trying to have a Christmas dance in a minefield, as Charlie put it. Nobody dared to move. If Bill's wife, Tara, knew what had happened, she wasn't saying anything. Charlie, the younger brother, didn't know, and didn't want to know; he made that clear. Maggie knew. She just didn't know what to do about it. It had all seemed to be going so well on Christmas Eve. Fox had allowed her to persuade him to stay for a while, and that was good, because that was so obviously what Dana wanted. He must have wanted it, too, despite his protests, because he stayed. Pleased to have persuaded him, Maggie had gone to the kitchen to make coffee. The last of the coffee was dripping into the pot, and she had put the cups, cream and sugar on a tray with cider and cookies, and was heading back into the living room when she heard Dana speaking very low. Her daughter was telling Fox Mulder that she loved him, that she didn't want him to leave. Quickly, Maggie stepped back, hoping they hadn't heard her come in. Dana was such a private person, so self-contained; she would hate to know that anyone had heard what she was saying. For herself, Maggie couldn't decide whether she was more surprised at what Dana was saying or at the fact that she apparently hadn't said it before. Not wanting to interrupt, she waited a few minutes until she was sure they had finished speaking, then peered around the kitchen doorway. There was Dana, in Fox's arms, and he was looking at her with such tenderness, touching her face with such reverence, that it almost broke Maggie's heart. He does love her, Maggie thought. You can see it. Dana's face was flushed, her eyes were bright, and she was breathing rapidly, looking at Fox with eyes full of love and sorrow, moving toward him, her lips coming closer and closer to his. It was obvious this was not a good time to serve cider. Maggie looked away, quickly, while there was still a little space between them, but the soft sounds and the rustle of clothing from the other room left little to her imagination. She wondered what she ought to do. Every instinct told her to stay where she was and give them a little privacy, but from the sound of things, if she didn't interrupt them, she could be in here all night. Then she heard shouting -- was it Bill Jr.? -- followed by Fox's dangerously soft reply, and a door closing, and then Dana weeping, sobbing in a way she had never done before. Setting down the tray, Maggie walked into the living room. There stood Bill, looking at his sister contemptuously. Dana was still sobbing loudly into her hands, not looking up even when her mother sat next to her, but she nestled against Maggie and her weeping began to subside, just a little. "Bill, what on earth is going on here?" Maggie demanded. "I came in and I found Mr. Mulder," he said, practically spitting the name, "with his hands all over Dana. I don't know what's wrong with either of you. I can't believe you let him in this house after all he's done to her." Dana looked up at that, and her eyes were blazing, but she said nothing, although her hands clenched briefly into fists. Maggie wrapped her arm around the too-thin shoulders in a protective embrace, trying to calm her daughter. "Bill, I have no idea what you saw, or what you think you saw, but Fox is Dana's friend and he was here because I asked him to come inside," Maggie said. "What the hell did you do that for, Mom?" "Because he brought Dana home, and because your sister wanted him here," Maggie replied. "Because it's Christmas, and I wanted to make him feel welcome." "Since when is he welcome in this house?" "I don't think she, or I, have to answer to you for that," Maggie said, coldly. Blessed St. Bridget, she thought, does Bill have to be so dense? "Well, he's some kind of goddamn friend," Bill said. He stalked toward the staircase, practically slamming his uniform hat onto a coat hook. He spun around, hands on hips, facing his mother. "I'll say this for him; he's always around when my sisters are in trouble. Hell, maybe that's because he's the cause of all the trouble." "How can you say that, Bill? He saved Dana's life!" "Like hell. Did you really think that science-fiction voodoo crap he was ladling out, sticking a fucking computer chip in her neck, had anything to do with Dana's cancer going away?" "I don't know, and neither do you," his mother replied. "But she did get better. You saw that yourself." "That didn't have a damn thing to do with him. He's nothing but trouble. He got Melissa killed, and he's come damn close to getting Dana killed. What do you want, Mom -- another grave to cry over? Just keep ol' Fox Mulder coming around, and you'll have one, because one day he will get her killed." "That," Dana said, "is enough." Bill and Maggie stared at her. They had almost forgotten she was there. "Whatever is between me and Mulder is personal," she said, her voice steady although her eyes were red and swollen from crying. "I am not going to discuss it, and I do not want it discussed." "You don't need to discuss it," Bill said. "It was pretty plain when I walked in here. I've got to admit, Dana, I never thought you were the kind of woman who would throw her life away for a good romp in the sack. Is that what they teach women at the FBI academy?" Maggie gasped, her hands flying to her face, too horrified to speak. Dana's reaction was quicker, and more decisive. She was on her feet in a flash, and slapped her brother across the face. Hard. The blow rocked Bill back on his feet, and he staggered, lost his footing. He put out a hand, grabbing at the banister, but one foot landed on a throw rug; he slipped and went down hard, landing solidly on his butt. Well, she is a trained agent, of course she can knock a man down, that's logical, Maggie thought, but another part of her brain was already shrieking with panic. How was she going to fix this mess? She saw Bill getting back to his feet, fire in his eyes; he wasn't going to be caught off guard again, she thought, and he was never one to let an insult go. Dana was breathing rapidly, her eyes narrowed, her face a deadly white, and she was still poised to spring at the brother who outweighed her by a hundred pounds and towered over her by more than a foot. And then Maggie's eyes fixed on her daughter's back, on the outline of the holster, the grip, the barrel, scarcely concealed by Dana's thin sweater. Dana is an agent, she thought, horrified. Dana carries a gun. Oh, dear God, don't let this go too far. But Maggie's fears were unfounded; Dana was angry, angrier than her mother had ever imagined she could be, but she had control of herself. When she spoke, her voice was clear, distinct and as cold as death. "I've told you before, Bill, and by God I meant it," she said, looking up at him, unafraid. "What I do with my life, and with my body, is my decision. Stay out of it." Then she had turned away, and walked up the stairs without help, although it was perfectly clear to Maggie that Dana was weak and in pain. She had not come down again that night, and she and Bill hadn't spoken a word to each other since. Bill had nursed his anger all through midnight mass. Neither Maggie, his mother, nor Tara, his wife, could get a word out of him. He refused to stay afterward to greet Father McCue. Charlie had arrived, laden with packages, shortly after they returned from church and was startled out of his wits when his mother, his strong, wonderful mother, greeted him with a hug and a sudden shower of tears. He patted her on the back, looking around at the grim faces. "Have I landed in the Christmas Twilight Zone?" he asked. No one answered him. Dana came down the next morning, and opened her gifts with the others, but it was like having Christmas with a ghost. She thanked everyone, but the words were perfunctory and without feeling. As soon as the last gift was opened, she said she was tired and went back to her room. She didn't come down for Christmas dinner, either. Maggie, Charlie and Tara tried to get a conversation going, but Bill's presence, and Dana's absence, soon defeated them and the meal was eaten in silence, accompanied only by the clinking of silverware and china and the babbling of 1-year-old Matthew. No one wanted seconds. There was no other word for it. It was a disaster. ~~~~~ Maggie Scully's home 3 a.m. Dana lay awake. She had dozed, fitfully, after her mother had practically forced a pain pill on her, but she awoke as it began to wear off and she hadn't been even close to sleeping since. She was past crying. There was no point in it, anyway; it wouldn't bring him back, wouldn't undo what had happened, wouldn't give her back what she had lost. Why does this have to happen, why can't the men I love be friends, or at least be polite? Mulder's always been polite to Bill, and Bill is never like this about anyone else. He's my big brother, and I love him, and I hit him, I hit him so hard that if I'd had him in custody when I did it, I'd be up on charges. I'm sorry, Mom, Bill, I'm so sorry, I love you both. I love Mulder, too. And I want him. I have a right to want him, don't I? I know you think Mulder is the kind of man you warned me against. He may be. He looks at me that way. He touches me that way. And you know what, Bill? I want him to be. Give me half a chance, and he will be. And I think you know that; it's the real reason you hate him so much. I know the rules Mom taught us: Kiss, hug, touch only above the waist and save the rest for marriage. I think it's wonderful that you lived up to that. But that's not how it's been for me. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I know you're all so disappointed in me. But I'm not sorry, not really. I trust him with my life, Bill, even if you don't. I gave my life into his hands a long time ago, and he's never failed me. Six years, Bill, and he's treated me the whole time as though I were something sacred; he's never once touched me like that, the way a man touches a woman -- not until yesterday. I've made so many mistakes. But which ones were mistakes? I was wrong. I just don't know what else I could have done. The time for warnings is over, Bill. It was over a long time ago. You've got to let me go. I'm sorry I hit you. I would give almost anything if that hadn't happened. But I couldn't take any more. No more. No one will listen to me. Not Bill, not Mulder. Why don't I have a say in this? Do a profile on me, Mulder. Get into my head, figure out what I want to do next. And after you do that, tell me, please? I'm still a federal agent. He's not going anywhere I can't find him. When I get back to the office, I can track him down, make him listen to me. Except that I can't. I just can't. It would trap him, give him no room to escape. Emotional rape. It can't be like that. I can't do that to him. I have to let him go. And then Dana Scully found out that she wasn't really past crying, after all. ~~~~~ Maggie Scully wasn't sleeping much, either. She couldn't understand what had happened, how Bill Jr. or Dana had allowed the breach to form between them, or how they could let it go on like this. It's Christmas, she thought, tears coming into her eyes when she remembered all those long-ago Christmases when Bill was just a boy, and Dana was a sweet, red- headed angel. Melissa was with them then, and Bill Sr. Involuntarily, Maggie looked over at the empty space in the big bed beside her. He's been gone six years, she thought, and that is still his side of the bed. It was his side of the bed when he was at sea. It will always be his side. Sometimes it's as though he's just on another long sea voyage, and I'm waiting for the day I go down to the dock and welcome him home. I wish that were true; I wish he were here to tell me what to do. "You know what to do, Maggie. You always knew." Maggie jumped as the loud bass voice rang out. Was it in her head, or was there really someone in her room? No. There was no one there. I couldn't have heard that, she thought. That sounded like Bill. I really must be upset; I'm hearing things. Or am I? Do I know what to do? ~~~~~ "Dana?" It was her mother's voice. Mom. "Dana, are you awake? I thought I heard ..." "I'm awake," Dana said, sitting up. "Come on in." Maggie opened the door, walked to Dana's bed, sat on the edge and took her daughter's hand. She could see Dana's face clearly in the faint moonlight slanting through the blinds. "You've been crying," she said, brushing Dana's hair back from her face. Dana nodded. She seemed about to speak, but her lips were trembling. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, willing herself back under control. My poor baby, Maggie thought, feeling the tears coming up in her own eyes. Why does she struggle so hard against normal, human feelings? What did I do that made her feel that it wasn't all right to cry? "Dana," Maggie said, just above a whisper. "Dana, it's all right, baby, it's all right." Dana's face crumpled, and she surrendered to her mother's loving arms. "Oh, Mom, I don't know what to do. I'm sorry I hit Bill, I'm so, so, sorry. I'm sorry I ruined Christmas for everybody. I don't know what's wrong with me, I just keep messing things up for everyone." "Shhh, Dana, hush," Maggie said, patting Dana's back the way she had so many years ago when Dana was a child. "Bill knows you didn't mean it." "Oh, but I did mean it, Mom," Dana said, sitting back and wiping her tears with her hands. "I was angry, and I wanted to hurt him, so I did. I never used to be like that." "You're not like that now," Maggie said, stroking Dana's hair again. "I am," Dana said. "I'm worse. I hope you never see what I really am now." "I do see you, Dana," Maggie said, a little hurt. "You're my daughter." "No," Dana said, shaking her head. "You don't want to see. No one wants to." I don't know what she's going to say, Maggie thought, suddenly uneasy, but I think she may be right. I don't think I do want to know. But whatever it is, it's not what Bill Jr. thinks. I am not going to like this. But if she wants to tell me, I'll listen. I will. "Dana, what is it that you think is so bad that you can't tell me?" Seconds ticked away on Dana's alarm clock. Maggie waited. Dana looked at the window. No one spoke. "Dana?" More silence. "Mom," Dana said at last, then paused again. "I -- Mom, this is not something I talk about." "To me, or to anyone?" "To anyone," Dana said, shaking her head emphatically. "Not really even to Mulder. I've always been -- so cold to him, so heartless sometimes." "Oh, Dana, you're not heartless," Maggie said, encouragingly. "That's just the way you are. Even when you were a little girl ... Missy used to talk for hours. You? You were always somewhere inside yourself, and you almost never let anyone in." Dana nodded slowly. "I know that. And I do try. But I can't, sometimes, no matter how much I want to." She looked away again, fixing her eyes on the closet door. "I've kept so much inside. I haven't said half of what I wanted to say. Dad's gone, and Missy's gone, and now Mulder's gone, too, in a different way. I left so much unsaid with all of them, and knowing that, I still can't say what I want to say." "You're afraid, Dana," Maggie said, gently. "It's all right to be afraid sometimes. But for reasons I don't understand, this is killing you." Dana was silent again. "Dana, what went wrong yesterday?" Maggie asked. "Not with Bill. I can guess that for myself. What went wrong with Fox?" "He left," Dana said. "I know that. Why did he leave?" "No, I mean he left, forever," Dana said, the words coming with difficulty. "He left me. He's going to ask for a transfer." Maggie's eyes widened in surprise. "Is it because of Bill?" "No," Dana said. "He told me while we were in the hospital. He said he couldn't stand to see me get hurt again. I suppose if you wanted to, you could blame Mulder's decision on Bill. God knows he's tried hard enough to make it happen." "So what Bill did yesterday ..." Maggie said, her voice trailing off. Dana looked uncomfortable. "Bill saw -- he came in while I was -- while we were kissing goodbye. Mulder was ... he was ... touching me." Oh, Dana, sweet Dana, Maggie thought, repressing a smile. You're a grown woman, a physician, an FBI agent, and you squirm like that over telling me something so innocent? "So that's what Bill saw," Maggie said. "You, being touched -- I can guess where, not that it matters -- by the man you love." Dana barely nodded. She still looked uncomfortable. "Don't tell me you're feeling guilty about that," Maggie said. "Not guilty, exactly," Dana said, searching for the words. "Maybe a little. Mostly just -- invaded, I suppose. Bill could have ... looked the other way. He should have." Dana bit her lower lip. "Maybe if Bill hadn't interrupted, I could have changed Mulder's mind. I really think he was hoping I would." "It's not as easy as you think to change a man's mind, not when he believes he's right, Dana," her mother said, gently. "If he's an honorable man, and I think Fox is, he'll stay his course even if it means acting contrary to the desires of his own heart. It's just the way men are, good men, anyway, and you can't defeat that, no matter how hard you try." "I could have," Dana said, stubbornly. "I just needed a little more time." "You've had six years, Dana," Maggie observed, not unkindly. "Why did you wait so long?" Dana sighed, acknowledging the truth in her mother's question. "The Bureau," she said. "My reputation, his; our work. Our partnership. And the danger. People use me to hurt him. If we'd become --" Dana hesitated over the word. "If we were -- lovers -- they would use that to hurt him, too." "Dana, I don't understand what you're saying," Maggie said, troubled. "Who is using you? And what for?" Dana looked at her mother, and smiled, but the smile never reached the pain in her eyes. "I told you," she said. "You don't want to hear it." "I want to understand. And right now, I don't," Maggie said. "I don't understand how loving each other can be so frightening to you both." "I don't know how to tell you," Dana said. "I'm not sure I understand it myself. I know he's dangerous, that loving him is dangerous, and worse, I know that I've become dangerous, too. I don't even know myself anymore; I look in the mirror sometimes and wonder who that is looking back at me. How can it be me? I'm a doctor; what kind of doctor kills people?" She's killed people? Maggie thought, horrified. She couldn't even bear to hurt a snake. How could she? Then she saw the guarded look in Dana's eyes. "I'm sorry," Dana said. "I shouldn't have said that." "No," Maggie said, shaking her head. "It's just -- you've never talked about that part of your job, Dana." Dana shook her head. "No. And I didn't mean to do it now. But it happens." There was another long pause before Dana spoke again. "You want to know why I waited, and I can't tell you. I had a lot of reasons. He had his, too. I guess ... at first, it seemed inappropriate, and later, there was too much pain between us. Too much horror. Too many things to regret." Dana twisted a corner of the sheet in her hands. "Sometimes, I just don't like myself anymore, and I used to feel so proud of being a doctor, of being a federal agent. It was fun, like being able to dress up in your evening clothes when I was little. Remember, right after I graduated from Quantico, when you and I flew to San Diego to visit Bill?" Maggie nodded. "You set off the metal detectors at the airport, and people came running. But when you showed them your badge, they let us go through." "That was the time," Dana said. "You were so proud of me, so impressed that I could carry a gun onto an airplane, and in a way, I was, too. But that was playing FBI, Mom. Real FBI is when you find out why they let you carry that gun." Where is this going, Dana? Maggie wondered, then felt a sudden flush of shame. The old adage was true, she thought: Be careful what you pray for; you might get it. Well, she'd prayed for Dana to open up to her. Now, she wasn't sure she could bear to hear it. "If you knew the whole truth ... but I don't want you to know," Dana said, as though she'd read her mother's thoughts. She shook her head emphatically. "I don't want anyone to know. What I do now ... it's as though I'm part of a wall between hell and humanity. Talking about it is the same as tearing that wall down." Dana looked toward the window. Faint streaks of dawnlight were showing through the slats now. "I'm tired, Mom," she said. "And there's no one out there I can trust, except Mulder." Dana turned then, and looked directly at her mother. The blue eyes were clear and steady. "I don't know why, but I keep thinking about what would happen if I were killed in the line of duty. I know you would all mourn for me. But you would be angry, too, and you would never forgive me. You would never understand why I let it happen." "And you think Fox would?" "Mulder -- Mulder would zip up the body bag himself, stand there over my bleeding corpse and tell me that it was all worth it, that I didn't live and die for nothing. And he would mean it." "Do you think he could accept your death so easily, Dana?" Maggie said, a little wounded at the turn of her daughter's thoughts, but determined to see it through. "Because I don't." "That's not what I meant," Dana said. "I mean that he would know, he would understand, why I let it happen. He wouldn't be angry at me. He would take his anger out on the person who killed me; if it took him 50 years, he would find that person and shoot them down in cold blood. Then, I think, he would go home, hang up his coat, sit down on his couch and eat a bullet out of his own gun." She closed her eyes again, covered her face with his hands. "Is that why he left me? Because I can't keep the demons away anymore? Am I bringing them out?" Maggie felt herself becoming numb. Dana was right, she thought. I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to see Dana this way. I never wanted her to be like this. And this is just the part she's willing to tell? If that's true, then I never, ever want to know that other part. But I have to hear it, Dana, I have to let you talk. Maybe it will make it hurt less that I've failed you so badly, that I really don't understand how to help you. And worse, that you know it, too. Then she heard Dana laugh, and the sound chilled her. "Did I ever tell you that I shot Mulder?" she heard Dana asking. "You shot him?" Oh, this really is more than I can bear, Maggie thought. "Why, Dana?" "To keep him from committing murder," Dana said, simply. "He was going to shoot a suspect in the head; the man he thought had killed his father." "I can't believe that of him, Dana," Maggie said, shaking her head. "It just doesn't sound like the Fox Mulder I've come to know." Dana shrugged. "He wasn't entirely himself that night, certainly, but he's perfectly capable of killing; I've seen him do it. More than once." "Oh, my God, Dana, why are you telling me this?" Maggie burst out in anguish. Dana thought for a minute, then looked at her mother. "I don't want to hurt you, Mom. I just need you to understand. Shooting people, even killing them, risking that they'll do the same to me -- it's part of my world now. So much a part that I shot Mulder because it was the only way I had to protect him, not let him go too far. He would do the same for me." I don't understand you, Dana, Maggie thought. I don't understand this at all. I don't know you when you're like this. Dana looked up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes and sighed. "If I hadn't fired when I did, if I had let Mulder kill that man, I would be just as bad as the people I'm trying to stop. But I can't help wondering if you don't already see me that way." "No, Dana," Maggie said. "Never think that. You did what you thought was right, even it meant killing Fox." "I was never going to kill him," Dana said. "And he knew I wouldn't kill him. I just don't think he ever considered that I might shoot him anyway." "And he forgave you?" Maggie said. "He thanked me for taking care of him," Dana said. "He trusts ... he used to trust me to stop him before his -- his anger, his rage -- got out of hand. He understood what I did." "I'm glad someone does," Maggie said, realizing her mistake as soon as the words left her mouth. "No, Dana, I don't mean that, really ..." She broke off in mid-apology, startled and frightened by the cold smile on her daughter's lips. "Mom," Dana said, "it's all right. It's like I said: How can you understand me when I don't understand myself?" "But you say Fox does." "As well as anyone can. Yes." "Do you really love him, Dana?" "More than anything, Mom," Dana whispered. "More than you can imagine." "Oh, I don't know," Maggie said, lightly. "I can imagine quite a lot. I wasn't always ancient." That got a little bit of a real smile. Good, Maggie thought. "I'm sorry, Mom," Dana said. "Even at my age, it's not easy to think of you as a woman and not just my mother." "It's not easy for me to think of my little girl having to -- do what you've done, be hurt the way you have been," Maggie said, gently touching Dana's hand as it lay on the bedspread. "I honestly don't know what to think about all this. I haven't seen that side of Fox, but it's not easy to accept that you're in love with a man who's as violent as you've just described. It frightens me." "He could never harm me," Dana said, almost fiercely. "I may be the one person on earth he could never hurt." "Dana, I can't feel certain of that. I wish I could. But I love you, and I will try to trust that you know what you're doing." "That's not enough," Dana said. "I have no reason to fear Mulder. I don't want you to fear him, either. There is no question in my mind that he would die before he would hurt me." "I don't know what else I can tell you," Maggie said, lifting her hands in resignation. "From what I know, violent men are violent all the time, and never more so than at home." "Mom, you don't understand," Dana said, quietly. "You haven't heard what I've been telling you. If you're going to be afraid of Mulder, you should be equally afraid of me. We're not that different." "Dana, don't say that," Maggie said. "It's true. I know what his mother thinks of me. She doesn't say it, but I can see. She thinks I'm violent, that I drive her son to violence. That I can't protect him, that I'm bad for him and dangerous to her family. And maybe she's right. I did shoot him, after all." "But you're not like that, Dana!" Maggie protested indignantly. "Anyone can see ..." "Anyone?" Dana said. "Not Mrs. Mulder. She's afraid, for her son and for herself. But she gives him nothing, not really; he can't go to her the way I can come to you. She tries not to let it show, but I know that she's ashamed of him, and she despises me for staying with him. I don't want you to feel that way about me, or him." "I don't," Maggie said, earnestly, urgently, praying that this was the key to let her love reach Dana through this terrifying mood she was in. "I am proud of you. So was your father. He was proud of your commitment, proud that you put yourself in harm's way for a greater cause, and proud that you acquitted yourself bravely under fire. He could never say it. But it was there." "I hope so, Mom," Dana said softly. Her face crumpled; she fought against the tears, but they came anyway, and Maggie put her arms around her, gently. "I'm not brave, Mom," Dana whispered against her mother's shoulder. "I wish I could be. If I seem brave, part of that is Mulder. How do I make Bill understand that?" "Maybe you don't," her mother said. "You can't always get people to change, to be the way you think they should be, no matter how much you love them. But what you can do, and I think you have already done, is let Bill know that he doesn't have to like your choices, but he does have to respect them. That includes medicine, and the FBI, and, I suppose, it includes Fox Mulder." "Always," Dana whispered, wiping fresh tears from her eyes. "I love my brother. I don't want to hurt him. But I love my job, and my partner, even more. And I wanted Mulder to hold me, to kiss me -- and to touch me. I wanted it so badly. Am I so wrong to want that?" "No," Maggie said. "That's as it should be, if you truly love him, although I still believe that anything more intimate than touching belongs in marriage. But don't be too hard on Bill, Dana; big brothers don't like to think of their sisters as sexual beings, whether they're married or not." Dana didn't answer, but she pulled away from her mother, and Maggie saw her face harden. Maggie sighed. "Dana, I don't want you and Bill to part enemies. He's got to fly back to San Diego in one week, and then they ship out again for three months. That can be a long time. Try to talk to him before that. Tell him how you feel. Maybe you can work things out between you." "I don't think so," Dana said. Maggie thought for a minute. "May I talk to him, tell him some of what you've told me?" "Yes, if you want to," Dana said. "But I don't think he's ready to hear it." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "The greatest gift that Oxford gives her sons is, I truly believe, a genial irreverence toward learning, and from that irreverence love may spring." "Shakespeare over the Port" -- Robertson Davies Chapter 4 FBI Field Office Birmingham, Alabama Tuesday, Dec. 29 11:15 a.m. What the hell have I got myself into, Mulder wondered as he sat waiting outside the office of SAC Daniel Prescott. Eleven years in the Bureau, and he'd never once been assigned to a field office before, which was where most agents started out. He wasn't even entirely clear about what field offices did; they were just there when he got to town, ready to lend manpower, telephones, laboratories. What the agents there did the rest of the time, when they weren't helping him, he couldn't imagine. Wiretaps? Fertilizer detail? Security clearances for the National Guard? Probably all of the above, he thought, grimly. Get hold of yourself, Mulder. It's not the first time you've trashed your FBI career. But leaving BSU for the X Files had only meant moving from Quantico to the Hoover building. This wasn't the Hoover building; it wasn't even Salt Lake City, Utah. This field office, whatever its mission, was so far below the sightlines of the brass in DC that a field agent assigned here could easily spend the rest of his career in obscurity. That was what you told Skinner you wanted, kid, he thought, twiddling his thumbs as he often did while waiting to see higher-ups. You told him to send you away from the X Files, away from Behavioral Sciences, away from the District altogether. And you got it. Big piles of manure, he thought, and the thought almost made him smile. That was Scully's remark when the X Files were first assigned to other agents and the two of them were earning Uncle Sam's money by checking out large purchases of fertilizer, the kind used to build the Oklahoma City bomb. Big piles of manure await you in the cotton fields of Alabama. It didn't matter. Birmingham had an allure that few other field offices could offer him. Birmingham was only about a five-hour drive from Mobile. Four, if you had a badge and weren't shy about showing it. Mulder wasn't. He wondered how much Skinner really knew about his and Scully's capture in Mobile, about his reasons for requesting a transfer. Skinner had a knack for decoding what was, and wasn't, in Mulder's field reports. Even though AD Kersh was Mulder's official superior, he had a notion that Skinner was keeping up with his career. That was why he'd bypassed Kersh and come to Skinner with this request. Kersh would have been all too happy to assign him to the field office in North Dakota for the winter, hoping to make him quit, but if Skinner sent Mulder elsewhere, Kersh wouldn't care. Skinner had to know what was up. So was the transfer to Birmingham encouragement to continue searching in Mobile? Not likely, Mulder thought. If Skinner wanted me in Mobile, he could have put me there. Of course, if he'd wanted me to stay away from Mobile, he could have sent me to Cincinnati, or Boise. Birmingham, he decided, was Skinner's way of leaving the decision up to him. Searching for Krycek would be extra-curricular activity. Skinner didn't want to know about it, not officially, anyway, and maybe not at all. This assignment represented opportunity for Mulder, deniability for Skinner. Mulder did smile at that. Pure Bureau politics, played as well as it could ever be played. Skinner was good at it. That's why he was an assistant director. He never said too much. Even when Mulder was leaving Skinner's office for the last time, just yesterday morning, Skinner still hadn't said too much. He'd read the field report, listened to Mulder's request, asked a few questions. After a long silence, Skinner had scribbled a few words on the form used for transfers, signed the papers and shot them across the top of his polished desk for Mulder to pick up. "Birmingham Field Office, Northern District of Alabama," he said. "Report at the earliest opportunity, and not more than 48 hours from now." Mulder had stood, feeling a heaviness in his soul he hadn't expected. He had known that leaving Scully would be bad; in reality, it was worse than bad, it had left him bleeding, flopping around like a fish that had been gutted and left to die slowly. But he'd expected that. He hadn't expected this feeling of regret at saying goodbye to the granite-jawed ex-Marine who'd chewed off so many pieces of Mulder's ass over the years. "Something wrong, Agent Mulder?" Skinner had asked, leaning back in his chair, his expression as tight and unreadable as ever. Mulder had shaken his head. "No, sir," he said. "I appreciate your taking care of this for me." "If you want to send your career down the crapper, that's your business, Agent Mulder," Skinner had said. "I'm not in charge of keeping you from being stupid, just keeping your stupidity from screwing up the Bureau's mission and my career." Mulder had only nodded. There really wasn't anything else to say. He walked toward the door to the outer office. "Agent Mulder," Skinner said, abruptly. Mulder turned. "Sir?" Skinner stood. He took one step toward Mulder, then extended his hand. Mulder took it. "I hate to lose you," Skinner said. "Good luck in Alabama." "Thank you, sir," Mulder said. Skinner released his firm grip on Mulder's hand. "Now get the hell out of here," he said, sitting down and picking up a file. Mulder did. He had left Skinner's office and gone straight to the bullpen, forcing himself not to look at anything belonging to Scully as he packed up his few things in a cardboard file box. There wasn't much he wanted. Mulder was halfway out the door when his conscience (his heart, he thought, and immediately quelled the word) got the better of him. Setting down the box, he walked over to her desk, took a pen from the top drawer and scribbled a message on a pink Post-it note. He pulled the note from the pad and stuck it under her coffee cup, where he knew she would see it. And if anyone else saw it, it wouldn't matter. Not now. Retrieving the box, Mulder had walked out of the bullpen. He made eye contact with no one as he walked out of the Hoover building. He walked to his car, got in, and drove straight to Birmingham without stopping for more than a few minutes, keeping himself awake with coffee, cold air and Pink Floyd played at ear-splitting volume. As he sat in the Birmingham office, Mulder reflected that it might have made a better impression if he'd at least taken a nap before coming here. He was so sleep-deprived he was nearly hallucinating, but all he had done was find a motel, shower, shave and change before reporting here for his first day. "Agent Mulder?" The drawling male voice shook him from his reverie. He looked up. There was a balding, middle-aged man with eyes the color of cooked liver and leathery skin that had been out in the sun too long, but there was a muscular physique stashed under his plain white shirt and he exuded authority. He's a lot like Skinner, Mulder thought, rising. And he's different. "Daniel Prescott, special agent in charge," the man said, extending his hand. His handshake was quick and almost painfully hearty. Dominance behavior, Mulder thought, and put the thought away. What did you expect? "Fox Mulder, sir," Mulder replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you." "Uh-huh," Prescott said, but his expression clearly communicated another word: Bullshit. "Come on in, Mulder, have a sit-down," Prescott said, leading the way. Small office, Mulder thought. Get used to it. He sat opposite Prescott's desk in a leather side chair that had seen better days. "You've had quite a career, Agent Mulder," Prescott was saying as he flipped through Mulder's personnel file. "What'd you do to get sent to the minors?" "Sir, I'm not sure Birmingham is the minors," Mulder began, but Prescott's grin stopped him. "Oh, it's the minors, all right," Prescott said. He's enjoying this, Mulder thought. But there's nothing sadistic about him. "BFO is so minor-league they won't even let us be bat boys for the big guys. But don't worry about that. We'll find plenty here to keep you busy." "I wasn't told what my duties would be, sir," Mulder said, the profiler part of his brain already sketching out his first impressions of Prescott. Smarter than he looks or even wants to look, Mulder thought. Plenty of pavement under his feet. And he likes being here. I didn't know it was even possible to enjoy this kind of exile. It was a puzzle. Mulder was good at those. And he welcomed the challenge; it would keep his mind off ... Other things. "Well, Mulder, you have landed yourself in the state that calls itself the Heart of Dixie, the state with one of the lowest high-school graduation rates in the nation," Prescott said. "You being a BSU veteran, I'm sure you know that an uneducated population goes along with a fair amount of violent crime. Now, the ABI does a good bit of work here, but they mostly work for the governor. There's a pretty good state forensics lab, but they're backlogged from here to Christmas, and it won't be getting better as long as the property taxes stay as low as they are. You hear me?" "Yes, sir," Mulder said. Violent crime, he thought, with an inward groan. Isn't that just great. Right back where I started from. Prescott must have read Mulder's mind. "You got nothing to worry about, Mulder," Prescott said. "With your background, I'd be a damn fool not to use you when we have violent crimes to investigate. But there's not near enough of that to keep you busy full time. We're still part of the Centabom team. Eric Rudolph bombed an abortion clinic right here in Birmingham, and it ain't that far to Centennial Park in Atlanta, either. We also got bank robberies, security clearances, wiretaps, and even that damn fertilizer you hate so much." Mulder did smile at that. "Is that in my folder?" "Plain as day," Prescott said. "You spent exactly one day tracking down an ammonium nitrate purchase and then you were off on some high-speed chase across the desert Southwest. Never did hear a good explanation for that one." Mulder said nothing. Prescott eyed him sharply. Spooky Mulder, he thought. Eleven thousand agents in the Bureau and Spooky gets assigned to me. Unbe-fucking-lievable. Not that he minded; quite the opposite. Sure, he'd heard all the weird stuff, and he'd read the man's file, which was even weirder. He wasn't worried; Prescott was born and raised in the South, and he'd met people with a hell of a lot more blind faith in UFOs and government conspiracies than Mulder ever dreamed of. There were people back home who swore on their mothers' graves that they'd been taken up in spaceships and raped by aliens. Several times. Anyway, if Mulder was nutty, he still had a solve-rate on his cases that would pop your eyes right out of your head, good enough to make any SAC with half a brain glad to get him. In BSU, and on several special assignments since, Mulder had shown he was still capable of real police work. Terrorists, serial killers, even a hostage situation, for which he hadn't even been trained -- Mulder had walked in and done the job expertly, like he'd never left BSU. But the man just wasn't saying enough for Prescott to get a handle on who or what he really was, or why he had voluntarily left Washington, where the top rungs on the career ladder inevitably led. Leaving voluntarily was career suicide, especially for a maverick like this guy. Still, he would be a hell of an asset to the BFO, could be an asset, Prescott amended, if he'll get his ass in line. And I'm just the man to do it, Oxford boy. "Mulder, let's you and me talk plain for a minute," Prescott said, swiveling back in his chair, one hand cocked on his hip. "Whatever you think about Alabama is probably wrong. This isn't 1960, and nobody's going to shoot you and bury you in a ditch. But there's a power structure in place here, and it won't be too accommodating if you come in here acting like Mr. Big City Federal Agent. They won't care if you do have a degree from Oxford; they won't trust you." Prescott's eyes were as hard as agate, and Mulder could feel them bearing down on him, challenging him, showing him the whip hand. But Mulder wasn't ready to yield -- yet. "Sir, I don't really care whether anyone trusts me or not," Mulder said. "I have no intention of trusting them, anyway; I stopped trusting people a long time ago." Mulder sat back in his chair, just a little. "At this point, I am constrained to point out, sir, I have no reason to trust you, either." (You still trust someone, said the soft voice in his head, but he forced himself to ignore it. Later, he told himself. Play with that pain later, when you're alone.) "I don't give a shit whether you trust me or not, Mulder," Prescott said, easily. "Just so long as you don't forget who's giving the orders. I know your record, and I can tell you right now, you need an attitude adjustment. The rules are different here, some of them, but this is still the Bureau. Don't forget it; and don't go off on some wild goddamn goose chase without telling me about it. That dog won't hunt." "Sir, I've solved a number of ..." Mulder began, but Prescott cut him off. "I know about the work you did on the X Files, chasing your little green men," Prescott said, holding up a hand for silence as Mulder once again started to speak. "I think it's horseshit, but from what I hear you did a workmanlike job on ' em, and managed to work a few real cases along the way. Word is you're a good agent, or you used to be." "I still am, sir," Mulder said evenly, but his eyes were narrowed in a way that Scully would have understood if she had been there. Prescott indulged himself in another smile, pleased that he hadn't been able to get under Mulder's skin. That was a good sign. Still, he had to give it one more try; Mulder wasn't quite ready to knuckle under to Prescott's authority yet, and that was a situation Prescott wasn't about to tolerate. "Mulder, stop the bullshit, all right? You may be a good cop, but you're also a loose cannon. You've been in trouble most of your career, even got referred to the director for dismissal and demotion, and the only reason you're here instead of frisking teeny-boppin' shoplifters at the local Wal Mart is that you've apparently got friends in high places who didn't let that happen." "I never asked anyone to save my career," Mulder said. "To this day, I don't know who countermanded OPR's ruling. Happened way too far above my pay grade." It was way above your pay grade, too, you son of a bitch, Mulder thought. Let's see how you respond to that one. Prescott leaned forward, and his gaze was level, but Mulder sensed the threat behind the eyes. "Agent Mulder," Prescott said, "I don't give a fuck who it was, because it doesn't matter. You ain't Rod Serling or Efrem Fucking Zimbalist Jr. anymore. You ain't at Hoover with six thousand other agents; you're just one of 71 agents in Birmingham, Alabama, in my goddamn FBI. People who screw up in my FBI don't go back to BSU, Agent Mulder, and they don't go back to the fucking X Files, either. They go out of the Bureau right on their lily-white asses, but they leave their balls hanging on my wall as a souvenir. Think you can deal with that?" "If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be here," Mulder said, still keeping his voice even. "Is that all, sir?" "Go," Prescott said, waving a hand toward the door. "You've got some paperwork to do, and then I'll get Cheryl in admin to give you some pointers about finding a place to live. Be here at 8:15 tomorrow." Mulder nodded and rose. Standing before Prescott's desk, he said, "Sir, I've got 11 years in the Bureau, not all of which was spent chasing little green men. Believe it or not, I'm a damn good investigator when you get to know me." "Oh, I'm sure of that, Agent Mulder," Prescott said, drawing out the words. "Cause if I didn't believe it, you can bet your sweet ass you wouldn't be here." Mulder nodded again, then looked at Prescott, his expression sharp, analyzing. "Marine?" he asked. "Vietnam, perhaps?" Prescott shook his head. Profilers, he thought. Jesus H. Christ. "Navy SEAL," Prescott said. "Classified. Way above your pay grade." Mulder raised an eyebrow, nodding almost imperceptibly, and left, closing the door behind him. Prescott leaned back again, satisfied. Keeping Mulder in line was going to be a challenge, and Dan Prescott hadn't had a challenge this good in a long damn time. Roll over and bare your throat, boy, then run along and do your job, and maybe I will let you keep your balls a while longer. ~~~~~ Maggie Scully's house Two days later 12:30 p.m. "Mom, if we don't leave soon, I'm going to miss my flight!" Bill yelled up the stairs. He was dressed in class A uniform, his cover on, bags in hand, ready to leave, and his mother was still upstairs getting dressed. "Just one more minute, Bill, I promise," Maggie called down. "Go put your things in the car, I'll be right there." "Mom, I can't miss this plane. They've canceled my leave. That means trouble, and it means I have to be there yesterday!" "I know that, Bill," Maggie called back, unperturbed. "I'll be right there!" Exasperated, Bill walked to the door, grappling with the knob with three fingers as he held the carry-on handle with the other two. With some difficulty, he worked the knob open and walked to the car, slowly, so as not to slip on the thick sheet of ice that covered the step. Throwing the bags in the back seat, he climbed into the passenger side, reached over and put the keys in the ignition and started the engine, letting it warm up. Then he sat back to wait for his mother. He almost regretted having sent Tara and the baby to her mother's house, but she'd been upset, and she would be happier with her own family. But she also wouldn't have made him late for his flight, he thought, his irritation rising. God, Mom, come on! He had hoped that Dana would go with them to the airport, but he knew that was asking a bit much. They had both lost their tempers, but that had happened before and they'd always been able to make it up again quickly. This time was different. Dad always used to say, look in the dictionary under temper, and there's a picture of the Irish Scully family right next to it. Dad knew what he was talking about, all right. ~~~~~ Last night, just about a week after the apocalyptic scene between Bill and his sister, Maggie had asked him to take a walk with her. Right away, his radar went up. It was snowing outside, and colder than hell, and Maggie hated to be cold. She wasn't leaving her fireside just to get some exercise. Just around the block, she had said, airily. She just wanted a breath of outside air. Bill had groaned as he put on his cold-weather gear, knowing this was going to be one of those goddamn female "oh we've just got to talk this out" things. Why the hell couldn't everyone just let it alone, let Dana calm down and him calm down and everyone just forget it ever happened? That's what Dad would have done. Bill and his mother hadn't gone half a block from home when she hit him with the dreaded phrase. "Bill," Maggie had said, "We really need to talk." "Oh, fucking Christ," he had muttered. That got him a sharp look from his mother. "Sorry, Mom. Sailor talk." "Well, save the sailor talk for the sea," Maggie had said. "Bill, you must know how worried I am about the trouble between you and Dana. This can't go on." "Nothing's going on. We're not arguing anymore. She just needs time to calm down." "Bill, you're not arguing because you're not talking to each other at all. She's not calming down, she's retreating. What happened was much worse than anything I've seen happen between you two before. You've never shouted at Dana that way, and I've never seen her hit anyone before." Bill snorted. "She's got a strong right. If her left's any good, we ought to put her in the ring." He sounded almost proud; proud, but not happy at all. "She and I talked the other night ..." Maggie began, but Bill interrupted her. "So that's what this is. You're carrying messages from Dana? I thought she'd've had the guts to talk to me herself." "It's not a matter of courage, Bill," Maggie had said. "Dana is one of the bravest people I've ever known. She's been under fire, and she's faced it and she's still here. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" "That's what they pay her for," Bill said, gruffly. "What do you want me to do, applaud?" "No," Maggie said, sharply. "I want you to say that you admire her for what she does. That it matters to you that she puts herself in harm's way, takes the risks she takes to keep things safe for those of us on the home front." "Chasing aliens is not my idea of keeping the world safe for democracy. It's my idea of crazy, and Dana is crazy for following that Mulder idiot around." Maggie put a hand on Bill's coat sleeve, stopping him. She stepped just in front of him, looking up at the big, tall sailor and, not for the first time, marveled that she could have borne him in her own small body, so many years ago. "Bill, I don't know everything about Dana's work. She keeps a lot from us; that's how she wants it. But the other night, she told me a lot of things she'd never said before. And it frightened me -- it frightened me a lot. It just isn't like Dana to talk so openly." Maggie stopped for a moment. Talking about her fears for Dana was only going to make things worse. She changed course. "Dana is -- an enigma. She always has been. But now more than ever, because although she wants us to know her and to appreciate what she is, wants us to be proud of her, she keeps so much hidden," Maggie said. "She tries to protect us from seeing her as someone who's -- hardened herself to human agony, someone who hurts and kills." "She's not like that, or she never was before," Bill said. Maggie didn't have to ask what he meant by ' before.' "She's alive, and in a very dangerous profession," Maggie said. "I suppose she's adapted to it. She's learned to defend herself. She has changed, Bill, and in a way I'm sorry for that. But where it really matters, she's still our Dana." "Mom, Dana's job is one thing. Her partner is another, and he's nearly cost her her life. Melissa was killed by people who wanted something Mulder stole, from what I understand. DOD property," he said, using military shorthand for the Department of Defense. "This is the man you want her working with? She was in the FBI for two years before she met him, teaching at the Academy, perfectly safe, and still doing her bit for God and country." Bill's teeth were gritted and the cords of his neck stood out. "What was wrong with that job, Mom? Why am I the only member of the family who thinks this bastard Mulder is bad news, for Dana and for the rest of us?" He was angry, although under the anger Maggie could hear his genuine concern for Dana, his endless grief over Melissa -- he had arrived home on emergency leave two days after she had died -- and, most of all, his guilt. Maggie was well-acquainted with career Navy guilt. It was endemic in the blue- water crowd. They stayed away for months at a time, building their careers, loving their jobs, then arrived home to wallow in guilt over all the things they hadn't been there to do, the things that had gone wrong in their absence. Since his father's death, Bill Jr. seemed to have assigned himself responsibility for the entire family, and that meant he had more than enough Navy guilt to go around. The solution, of course, was to get out of the Navy, stay home and take care of things. None of the Scully men would ever entertain that thought. And Bill couldn't see the connection? Maggie shook her head. "Let's keep walking; we're getting snowed under," she said, taking his arm again. They walked another half block before Maggie spoke again. "Bill, do you know what the suicide rate is among law enforcement officers?" "No," he said, only half listening. "Well, it's atrocious," Maggie said. "I looked it up yesterday, because I'm finding that I have a lot to learn about police work. According to what I read, police officers, and that includes FBI, are far more likely to kill themselves than most people are." "And?" Bill shot back. "You're telling me Dana's going to kill herself?" "No, I am not," Maggie said, getting a little riled. "I am telling you that the experts say people like Dana, and Fox, are in constant danger of falling apart, of not being able to take it one more day. That's why it means so much to Dana to have a partner. And that's why they -- either one of them -- would die, or would kill, to protect the other." Bill still wasn't speaking, but at least he was listening now. By the tilt of his head, Maggie could tell that he was beginning to catch on. "I don't understand what Dana does," Maggie continued. "I don't understand how she can bring herself to examine a child who's been tortured to death by some psychotic killer. I don't understand how she can be shot, burned or beaten and still get up, ready to go out and do it again the next day. But it is affecting her. When we talked, she kept talking about death, and about killing. No matter what I said, she kept coming back to that." Bill shuddered at that, but Maggie wasn't stopping now. Like many women, she had to speak her thoughts in order to know them; she was clarifying things as much for herself as for Bill. "Bill, I actually told Dana the other night that I don't understand her, and I feel terrible for that, but it's the truth, and she seemed to accept it. In case you hadn't noticed, Dana values the truth," Maggie said, and he could see the pride in her eyes. "I know she does," he grunted. "I never doubted that." "Then try to understand that Dana needs your support now," Maggie said. "She deserves it. She does what she does because she believes that it's right, and necessary. That's not so different from you. You're in the Navy because the Navy is part of what keeps us all safe from enemies abroad. Dana helps protect your home and your family while you're gone. Both of you are prepared to use force, to kill if need be. Both of you know that your jobs could cost you everything you have. But you both go on, in spite of what it costs you or the people you love." "What have I cost you, Mom? Melissa didn't die because of me," Bill said, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk. "I'm glad you realize that," his mother said. "I wasn't sure you did." That hit home. She could see it. He had been blaming himself. Navy guilt, she thought again. "Bill, do you want to know what your job really costs the people you love?" Maggie asked. "Because I can tell you: Plenty. I know what Tara's life is like. I've lived it; being at home with a small child, waiting for my husband to come home from the sea, hoping he'll get home before the child is old enough to be frightened of him, hoping and praying that nothing happens to keep him from ever coming home again. No, Bill; you and Dana are not that different." "Mom," Bill started in, but again his mother shushed him. They were almost home, and she needed to finish. "Bill, when you're at sea, you have your shipmates, and your mission, and your traditions, to sustain you. Dana's job puts her outside the FBI mainstream; all she has to keep her going is her partner, and her belief in the rightness of what he's doing. I know you don't like him, and I know why. I have reservations about him myself. But I believe Fox would give up anything, including his own life, to keep her safe. Would you expect that much from your shipmates?" "That's what Mulder is to her? Her ... shipmate?" Bill said. It was a question, not a challenge. For once in his life, he was actually listening to her, and she repaid him by giving him an honest answer, one it had taken her all this talking to find. "He's her partner. Her lifeline," Maggie said. "She needs him. She relies on him. And quite apart from that, she loves him, Bill, deeply and sincerely. But what I think is far more important to Dana, what really sustains her, is knowing that he needs her just as much. And right now, they're separated; he's being reassigned." "For what? He let a little green alien get away?" "No, he's doing it for Dana," Maggie said, ignoring the jibe. "Apparently, he feels he's been putting her in danger, and he asked for another assignment." "I can't say that bothers me," Bill grunted. "I know," Maggie said. "But it bothers Dana. It's killing her." "Not literally," Bill said, looking at his mother in amazement. "Dana wouldn't do that." "I don't know," Maggie said, slowly. "I hope not. All I know is that I'm afraid for her, Bill, in a way I've never been before." ~~~~~ Now, as Bill sat in the slowly warming car, he wished he had more time, time to assimilate that conversation and try to reach some kind of detente with his sister. But that was the Navy for you; time ran out when it ran out, and you went when you were called. And when you were called like he'd been called this morning, it meant there was trouble, serious trouble, somewhere in the world. He'd read that morning's Washington Post from front to back looking for a clue, but he couldn't find one. Whatever the trouble was, it would be classified, probably, until they put to sea. Maybe he would write to her, he thought, but he knew in his heart that he wouldn't. He was a lousy correspondent. Bill was deep in his thoughts when he heard the driver's side door open and saw a black-coated figure step in. "Took you long enough," he growled. "No way in hell we're going to make it now." "Oh, we'll make it," said a cool, even voice. Bill looked up, startled. It was Dana, still pale and thin, with the last traces of bruising still on her face. "Dana, get back inside. You're not well enough to drive," he snapped. "Still trying to run my life, Bill?" Was she still angry? He couldn't tell. "I'm just saying that ..." "Saying that you can run my life better than I can," Dana said, buckling her seat belt. "Bill, what do I have to do? Slug you again?" Bill grinned, a big Scully grin that stretched from ear to ear. After a minute, he got a small smile in return, but neither of them spoke. Dana, Dana, he thought. That Mulder guy isn't half good enough for you. But I swear to Christ, I'll try to keep my mouth shut. He cast about for something to say. "Shove off," he said, finally, and saw her eyes flash again. He held up his hands in a mock-defensive posture. "Don't hit me again, please. I'm going to have enough trouble as it is explaining to the crew how my kid sister beat me up." "I can do it again, too," Dana said, putting the car in reverse and turning around to back out of the driveway. "Don't forget it. Now, buckle up. You're in for an interesting ride." ~~~~~ En route to Baltimore-Washington International Airport 12:47 p.m. It was a hell of a ride. Dana, apparently oblivious to the remnants of snow and ice left by the plows, had floored the accelerator as soon as they got to the highway, sending her mother's big Buick almost flying down the road. Bill, who thought he'd seen everything that could ever frighten him, found himself clinging to the seat cushions for dear life. But Dana seemed to know her stuff, he had to admit. She expertly steered the car around obstacles, kept it under control on the tightest curves, and never once let the speedometer drop below 70. They would make it on time, or they would die in the attempt, Bill thought. "Dana, you got to slow down," he pleaded. "It's icy as hell out here." She shook her head. "I can drive in worse conditions than this. It's part of my training." "Who taught you, Mario Andretti?" he grumbled. She still didn't smile. "No," she said. "The United States Secret Service, who, I must point out, are no fonder of the FBI than the Navy is." "I can see why," Bill grumbled, still hanging on tightly. He turned his head to the side to loosen a crick in his neck -- too tense, way too tense, he thought -- and that was how he saw, at the same time his sister did, the flashing lights of a Maryland highway patrol car. "Great," Bill said. "Now we really won't make it." Dana looked at him calmly. "Just let me handle it, Bill. Keep your hands on your lap and don't move until I say it's okay. I am deadly serious about this." Pulling over to the side of the road, she stopped the car and rolled down her window. She quickly put her hands back on the wheel as the patrolman approached. "Afternoon, ma'am," the officer said. "Going a little fast there, wouldn't you say?" "Officer, I'm armed," Dana said, not moving her hands. "I'm a federal agent. I'm going to reach into my coat pocket now for my identification." "All right," the cop said, now on the alert. "Move very slowly, please." He moved his hand to the butt of his own gun, watching carefully as Dana handed him the leather case that held her badge and ID. "Where's the weapon, Agent Scully?" the cop asked, looking first at the badge, then at Bill, who, as ordered, didn't move. Bill understood now; this was actually dangerous. If the cop didn't believe Dana was who she said she was, if he thought she was going for her gun, he would fire. "It's behind my back," she was saying, holding perfectly still. "Is your companion armed?" "No." "Would you step out of the car, please, keeping your hands in view? You put your hands on the dashboard and stay put, sir," he said, looking at Bill, who did as he was told. Scully got out, turning her back to the officer, her hands on the roof of the car. The cop pulled back her coat and took the weapon. "Thank you, Agent Scully. You can get back in the car now. I need to call in this badge number." "Of course," Scully said. "Be just a minute," he said, walking back to his car. It was less than a minute. "Thank you, Agent Scully," the officer said, handing back her weapon. "You go on your way. Please try to be a little more careful, though; the road is very slippery today." "Thank you, officer," Scully said, reholstering the weapon and refastening her seat belt. "I'll do that." The cop tipped his hat, and walked back to the patrol car, got in and drove away. Bill watched in amazement. "What was that?" he asked. "He didn't even ask for your driver's license!" Dana shrugged. "That's because I tinned him," she said. "But traffic cops get nervous about guns, so he ran my badge and my weapon anyway." Bill started laughing. He couldn't help it. His baby sister, sitting there so coolly, fixing her way out of a traffic ticket. "You tinned him? What the hell does that mean?" he asked, still laughing. "You put him in a can?" "Nope," Dana said. "Flashed my creds. Roast-beefed him. Showed him the tin. Whatever you want to call it; it just means I showed him my badge." "Well, you've never showed it to me," Bill said. "How about it -- can I see it?" Dana's eyes widened. "Sure," she said. She handed him the leather case casually, as though it were an everyday thing, but Bill knew that somehow, through some almost unheard-of stroke of luck, he'd said the right thing to his sister, maybe for the first time in years. Bill flipped open the case, examined the eagle-topped brass badge, the identification card with "FBI" emblazoned in big letters, the long, complicated badge number, and below it, his sister's photograph, her name and her signature. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully. That's my Dana. My little sister. He looked at it for a long time. Dana watched him, but didn't move. "Shit," Bill said, finally. "I gotta get me one of these." He was two for two; once again, it had been the right thing to say. He could see it in his sister's face, in her quiet pride as she took her creds back and carefully tucked them into her coat pocket. Dana put the car back in gear and steered it back onto the slippery highway. "Maybe you should," she said, the light fading from her eyes as she floored the gas pedal once more. "It can be fun to play FBI." ~~~~~ Baltimore-Washington International Airport 1:32 p.m. They made it to the terminal with less than five minutes to spare before Bill's flight was scheduled to take off. Dana pulled to a screeching stop in front of the Delta Airlines terminal and got out. "I'll go on," Bill said. "I've got to run if I'm going to make this plane." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, grabbed his bags from the back seat and headed for the door, where he was met by two low-grade seamen. "Commander Scully, sir," the seamen said in unison, saluting. Bill shifted the bags to his left hand and returned the salute. "Are you gentlemen looking for me?" he asked. "Sir, we were sent to escort you to your flight," one seaman answered. "They're holding it at the gate for you." "On whose orders?" "Sir, I believe it was orders of COMSURFLANT," the other seaman said. "May I take your bags, sir?" Bill nodded, and the seaman took the bags and hurried toward the gate. Bill turned to see Dana standing beside him. Her face was thoughtful. "They held the flight?" she asked, raising one eyebrow. "Yeah," Bill said. "Apparently the Navy's serious about me getting aboard ASAP." Dana didn't respond, but the worry lines stood out on her forehead. The other sailor cleared his throat, drawing Bill's attention. "Yes?" he snapped. "Sir, I'm sorry, sir," the sailor said. "I was instructed to get you aboard the aircraft at the earliest opportunity." "I'm on my way," Bill responded. "Are you on this flight as well?" "No, sir," the seaman said. "Then go park my sister's car in the short-term lot and meet her at my departure gate with the keys." "Aye, aye, sir," the young man responded. He extended his hand toward Dana, who -- with a quizzical look at her brother -- dropped the keys into his hand. "Ma'am, I'll see you at Delta gate 5," the seaman said, then saluted Bill once more. "Sir." Bill returned the salute. "Don't keep her waiting." Stepping toward the terminal, he held the door open for his sister, and, taking off his cover, began walking briskly toward his gate. "Valet service," Dana said. "Not too shabby." Bill grunted. "Keeps ' em out of trouble." They reached the security point. Dana hesitated. "I could just wait for him here," she said. "What's the problem?" Bill asked. "Gun," she said, simply. "Can't you get through? You're FBI, for Christ's sake." "It just draws a lot of attention," she said, then shrugged. "I guess I can stand it one more time." She walked around the metal detector, stopping before a uniformed guard who rose as she approached, signaling her to stop. "Why don't you tin him?" Bill suggested, his eyes twinkling. Scully glared back at him, but he could tell she wasn't angry. "You should be happy, Bill," she said, showing her credentials to the security guard and lifting her coat to show her weapon. "I don't do this for just anyone." "Will you be boarding the plane, Agent Scully?" the guard was asking. She shook her head. "Any other weapons?" "No." Bill, meanwhile, had walked through the checkpoint and was waiting for her on the other side when the guard cleared her to go through. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked. "No," Scully said, "but only because I'm not boarding the plane. It gets more difficult then. They have to notify the airline, give them my seat number, and so forth. You can miss your plane, unless you're Navy brass or something." "Ha, ha," Bill said, sarcastically, and she favored him with a faint kid- sister smile as they walked together toward the gate where airline personnel waited impatiently. The sailor who'd taken Bill's luggage approached him. "Sir, your claim checks," he said. "You are cleared to board, sir." Bill only grunted in reply. The seaman stepped back, turned on his heels and walked to the gate's outer perimeter. "Bill, I think he's afraid of you," Dana said, a smile just beginning at the corner of her mouth. "I think they all are. Holding planes, checking your luggage, parking your car? You must be a holy terror." "It's not me, Dana," Bill said, sounding vaguely annoyed. "It's the rank." "The rank, huh?" Dana brushed her fingertips across the rows of gold braid on her brother's sleeve, then rested her hand lightly on the rough blue wool. "Shit," she said, looking up at him. "I gotta get me one of these." Bill looked at her for a moment, then swept her up into a big bear hug, ignoring the glaring flight crew. "I love you, baby sis," he said. "I'll never love that partner of yours, but I love you." "Love you, too," Dana whispered, squeezing him back. "You'll be in my prayers." "And you'll be in mine," he said, very low. Then he let go. For a moment, he looked at her, then flipped his cover back on his head, turned and walked toward the door to the waiting aircraft. He stopped there, looked back at her. "Dana -- did Mom ask you to drive me here?" and she saw the doubt back in his eyes. She shook her head emphatically. "My idea," she said. Bill nodded, gave her a wink, then turned and walked up the boarding ramp, his bearing strong and perfect. He didn't look back again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There are a hundred places where I fear To go, -- so with his memory they brim. And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his boot or shone his face I say, "There is no memory of him here!" And so stand stricken, so remembering him. "Time Does Not Bring Relief" -- Edna St. Vincent Millay Chapter 5 J. Edgar Hoover Building Monday, Jan. 2 8:15 a.m. Scully couldn't remember a time when she had dreaded coming to work this much. It was all so strange, because at first it was all so familiar. She had returned to her Georgetown apartment last night, emptied her bulging mailbox, checked her answering machine -- two messages, one from Byers at the Lone Gunmen office expressing sympathy for her injuries and asking her to call, the other a wrong number. Just two messages in two weeks, she thought. I really am cut off from the entire world. I can remember when I would have had that many in two hours. That was before, when there were people in my life other than Fox Mulder, she thought. Now, there's no one. My other friends got tired of the canceled social engagements, of never being able to reach me on the phone, of my cell phone constantly going off on the rare occasions I did manage some kind of social life. And eventually, they drifted off, and the only phone messages I had were from him, or from my family. Now he's gone. She unpacked, looked in the refrigerator and found nothing she felt safe eating, and called out for pizza, grimacing when she realized that her next impulse was to call Mulder and ask him to join her. She thought about returning Byers' call, but she wasn't ready to talk about it yet, not even to the three strange bachelors who were Mulder's only real friends. They would find out most of it anyway, without her help. When the pizza arrived, she turned on the television, searching for something safe to watch, something that wouldn't remind her of any of the things she'd lost. She settled on an infomercial for the "Hair Club for Men." It seemed safe enough; Mulder still had his hair, so it couldn't remind her of him ... although his hairline was maybe not where it had been when they became partners. But he's 37 years old, she thought, 38 on October 13, and that happens to men his age. But his hair is still thick, and it's so soft, and dark ... okay, maybe a few strands of gray, but he's earned those ... it's silky, though, and it feels so good under my fingers ... I remember how it felt when I would hold him and rest my hand on the back of his neck, where the hair is shorter ... I know he liked that ... The memories hit her like a body blow. She bolted upright, shivering. It was no use. She was alone, really alone for the first time in years. The memories were going to come. There was no Mom, no Bill, no precious nephew to distract her, no work to do yet -- nothing but this enormous, almost incomprehensible loss of her partner, her best friend -- her lover. Yes, that, too, even though they had never made love. She could admit it now. Of course you can, Dana, she realized. You can always admit it when it's too late, can't you? One day, maybe you'll tell someone you love them while they're still with you. The sudden insight stung, but she couldn't deny it. Mulder's walking out? Tell him you love him, offer him your body. Bill's headed to sea, into some kind of trouble? Give him a big hug. Dad's dead? Go find a psycho killer who claims he can channel the answer to a question you never got around to asking while Dad was alive. You wait long enough, and you can let down your guard because those people aren't around later to demand any more. You feel so smug because you let your feelings out and they can't use it to get inside your shell. You have your cake and you eat it, too. You're a coward, she told herself, and for once the word rang true. No. I am not. I will not be a coward. She looked at her gun and FBI credentials, lying on the coffee table across from her. That doesn't prove you're not a coward, she told herself. The gun, the badge -- they give you an image to hide behind. Take them away -- like someone did in Mobile -- and you're nothing, nothing at all. Not without someone to protect you. She shuddered again as the image came back to her, of her face contorted in terror, purpled from the struggle to breathe as the thick mud filled her eyes and her nose and her lungs ... it would have happened, too, if he hadn't saved her. But Mulder was gone now, and she was still on the job. Could she ever go out in the field again, even with a new partner? Would she ever feel safe? No. No one else would ever put his whole life on the line for her the way he had. No one. "Mulder, I don't know if I can do this without you," she had whispered in the darkness, as though he could hear. "I don't even know if I want to try ... " She curled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, hugging herself tightly as the tears began to fall, until she finally fell asleep. Around 3 a.m., she heard her phone ringing and woke up, leapt off the sofa and grabbed the receiver, certain it was Mulder calling her. This was exactly the time of night he was likely to call. She pressed the receiver to her ear, eagerly, but all she heard was a dial tone. He hadn't called her; she had only dreamed it. It wasn't him. And it never would be him; not ever again. ~~~~~ Now, she walked down the familiar corridors of the Hoover building and entered the bullpen, mentally cataloging all the things that were the same, the things that were different. There weren't enough of the latter, she thought; there should have been some external rearrangement that would mark the utter disarrangement of her life. Things should not look the same. But they did. The bulletin boards, the floors, the walls, the telephones, her desk ... but it was different. There was a note on the bottom of her coffee cup. Scully picked up the cup and pulled off the sticky note. It was in Mulder's handwriting. She had known it would be. Dana-- Forgive me for taking this path without you; it's not what I would have chosen to do. But I need to know you're out there if I am ever to see through this. I do love you, G-woman. Always. Fox Oh, Mulder, she thought, tears blinding her; how did you ever remember what I wrote in that journal? And why did you sign this with the name you would never let me use? I knew all along that you'd lied when you said no one called you Fox. I didn't care about the name; just the lie. Why try to undo that now? But the answer was already clear to her: He'd used his first name for the same reason he'd left the note on her desk, out in the open. The time for pretending was over; he loved her, and he didn't care who knew it. Somehow, that only made it hurt more. Scully stood there for a moment, leaning on her desktop for support, waiting until she thought she could appear calm. When she felt certain that her face wouldn't betray her, she picked up the note from her desk, slipped it into her coat pocket, and walked away from the bullpen, and away from the part of her life that had been there, forever. ~~~~~ Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner's office 8:26 a.m. "Come in, Agent Scully," Skinner said, opening the door to his outer office. Scully walked in, and sat in her usual place across from Skinner's desk. "Sir, I appreciate your agreeing to see me," she began. "There are ... a few things I wanted to discuss with you before I get back to work." "What did you want to talk about, Agent Scully?" Skinner said, settling himself in his chair. "My assignment," Scully said. "I was originally assigned to the X Files to assist Agent Mulder's investigations. We have, as you know, continued to work together since our reassignment. Since he is no longer assigned here, I was hoping I could return to Quantico, go back to doing what I was originally trained to do." "I'm not aware that a forensic instructor is needed at Quantico right now, Agent Scully," Skinner said. "I can't see any benefit to the Bureau in moving you anywhere else." Scully breathed deeply, looking down at her hands. "Sir," she said, not looking at him, "I went into the bullpen without complaining because Agent Mulder was there, and he was my partner, and he wanted to keep working with me. But that's not the work I was trained for; there is very little need for a pathologist in the bullpen." Skinner frowned, tapping a pencil on his desk. "Agent Scully, I am aware that you and Agent Mulder had developed a very close working relationship, but I expect you to be able to do your job in any capacity to which you are assigned. Whether Agent Mulder is available to work with you is not a consideration. Is that clear?" "Perfectly, sir," Scully said, her face and voice composed. "However," Skinner went on, "I agree with your assessment. I can see no reason to keep you in the bullpen any longer." He swiveled forward, picked up a paper that lay on his desk blotter. "As it happens, Agent Scully, there is an opening at Quantico for someone with your qualifications. It is not the Academy," he said, quickly. "The opening is in NCAVC, a forensic science specialist in VICAP." "VICAP?" Scully said. The Violent Crimes Apprehension Program was the brainchild of a Los Angeles homicide detective who'd spent an entire year searching the country for a crime similar to the one he was investigating. The detective, Pierce Brooks, had come up with the idea of a nationwide, computerized network to collate and provide leads on thousands of unsolved crimes. The VICAP squad, despite chronic, serious underfunding, had proven to be a devastating tool against serial killers, second only to the Criminal Personality Profiling Program. Both were part of NCAVC, the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, itself a spin-off from Behavioral Sciences. It was a plum assignment, in some ways, popular with local law enforcement and well liked by the public. Inside the Bureau, however, the "psyche squad" was often looked upon as only slightly less strange than the X Files. Knowing that was more than enough to make Scully hesitate. "Sir, I've never worked in that area before. I know nothing about ... " Skinner interrupted her. "Agent Scully, in the past six years, you have been involved in a number of investigations into violent crimes of an unusual nature. You have instructed trainees in the theory and method of evidence collection and analysis. I believe you are uniquely qualified to fill this position." Scully let out her breath, slowly. She started to speak, but instead she closed her mouth, turning eyes full of doubt toward the assistant director. "If that assignment doesn't interest you, there's always HCPU," Skinner said. "They're short a doctor." The Health Care Programs Unit? He had to be kidding. Spend her days giving immunizations and cholesterol checks to the rest of the Bureau, bandaging their paper cuts? "Sir, unless I'm mistaken, HCPU physician is not a special agent's slot," she said, carefully. "Are you suggesting that I ought to turn in my badge?" "No, I am not. But I am gathering a distinct impression that you may not want to be an agent right now. Perhaps you don't feel up to it." "I'm fine, sir," she said. "But I am not really interested in practicing medicine right now, in or out of the Bureau. I'm an agent, and I intend to go on being one. I assume that's still an option." "That's entirely up to you at this point, Agent Scully," Skinner said, and she felt his concern for her, genuine concern. "But you have been through quite an ordeal recently, and ended a partnership that was possibly the closest I have witnessed in all my years in the Bureau. I'm not unhappy with your performance, and I understand your reasons for wanting a transfer, but you don't have to decide right now. The VICAP slot will still be open in a day or two." Scully shook her head. "Thank you, sir, but I don't need to think it over. I would take it as an honor if you were to assign me to NCAVC. I'm ready to report at any time." Skinner rocked back in his chair again, regarding her for a long moment. "Very well, Agent Scully," he said. "Retrieve your personal belongings from your current office and report to Supervisory Special Agent Michael Rolfe at VICAP this afternoon." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Scully said, rising from her chair. "May I go now?" "Just one more thing," Skinner said. "Sir?" Skinner hesitated; Scully knew why. He had that look on his face that said he wanted to ask about something that was, technically, none of his business. She braced herself. "Agent Scully," he said, slowly, as though choosing his words with great care, "when you asked to see me this morning, I was prepared for you to ask me where Agent Mulder is now assigned. You didn't." "No, sir," Scully said. Be calm, she told herself. "May I ask why not?" She started to speak, but felt the thickness in her throat again, and stopped, closing her eyes and fighting for control. Breathe, Dana, she thought. You will not cry in the assistant director's office. When she opened her eyes, Skinner was still looking at her, waiting for her reply, and she blessed him for not pressing her, for giving her the time she needed. "He asked me not to, sir," she said, with an effort. "And you've always kept your word to him." It wasn't a question. Scully nodded, unable to trust her voice. Skinner didn't prolong her agony. "That'll be all, Agent Scully," he said. "Close the door on your way out." ~~~~~ National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime Marine Barracks, Quantico, Virginia 1:10 p.m. SSA Rolfe wasn't in when Scully reported to the VICAP office, and according to his assistant, SSA Andrew Kennedy, a middle-aged black man, Rolfe wasn't expected back until 2 p.m. "Take a walk around, soak up the ambiance," Kennedy said. "Been a while since you were here?" "Not that long, sir," Scully said. "I was an instructor here in forensic science for several years." "Mmm," Kennedy said. He seemed impressed. "What've you been up to since then?" "AD Skinner's staff," she said quickly, and immediately felt guilty. It wasn't that she was ashamed of the X Files, or of Mulder, she told herself. She just didn't feel like getting into it all right now, that was all. Her new colleagues would figure it out soon enough. Kennedy, however, either didn't make the connection or chose to ignore it. "Skinner's a good man," he said. "Come back in an hour, the boss will want to talk to you." "Yes, sir," Scully said, and made a quick exit from the office. For the next 45 minutes, Scully wandered around Quantico, watching from a distance as the trainees went through their paces in Hogan's Alley, the mock-up town where training simulations were staged. She remembered one particularly devilish situation her instructors had concocted there for her Academy class, with one of the instructors playing the part of a bank robber who'd taken civilian hostages. The instructors' eyes had gleamed devilishly as trainee after trainee flunked the exercise, either getting themselves or the make-believe hostages "killed," and Scully had waited in terror for her own turn to come, praying she wouldn't make any of the same errors -- or worse ones. And then it was her turn. She had gone into the building, head high as though she were perfectly confident. Coolly, efficiently, she had taken all the proper steps, precisely as they were laid down in the textbooks, and she'd resolved the situation exactly as she was supposed to, without a single misstep. She had the highest marks in the class that day. Of course, no one remembered that. No one told tales of Dana Scully's brilliant solution to the Hogan's Alley hostage situation, whereas Mulder's response to the same situation had become an Academy legend. She'd heard the story herself, near the end of her training. "Spooky" Mulder, they told her, had begun talking to the instructor/hostage taker in a perfectly normal voice, asking the prescribed questions, making all the right statements to establish rapport with the man. Little by little, however, Mulder's questions had departed from the script; instead of delving deeper into the fictional biography the "hostage-taker" was feeding him, he was getting into the real man's real personal life, digging further into the instructor's deepest secrets with each question. In a very short time, the questions became so personal and embarrassing -- and dead-on accurate -- that the instructor apparently forgot he was supposed to be play-acting; with a cry of rage, he had leapt from his chair and gone for Mulder's throat. That was the moment Mulder had been waiting for; in a flash, they said, the instructor was face-down on the floor, disarmed and hand-cuffed. That was the first time anyone in the Bureau had witnessed Mulder's uncanny intuition. Supposedly, it was that incident that had earned him the nickname "Spooky." During her years as Mulder's partner, Scully had heard a dozen different versions of that story, and several others, all purporting to be the true origin of the nickname. Even she didn't know which one was the truth, and she'd asked him, not long after she was assigned to the X Files. "Just pray you never find out, Scully," he'd said, waggling his eyebrows wickedly. She had laughed at that, and Mulder had clapped a hand on her shoulder, enjoying the joke as much as she did. Looking back now, she could see it as an early sign of how she was warming to her partner, learning to enjoy his company in a way she had never expected to. A shout from Hogan's Alley snapped her thoughts back to the present, and she realized she'd been doing it again. She'd been here less than one hour, and all she'd done was to think about Mulder. Good, Dana, she thought. You're really getting on with your life now. Very good. But that was the problem; it really was good to think about him like that, to remember the laughter, the warmth of their friendship. The closeness they developed later, after she was abducted, was wonderful in its own way, but somewhere along the line, they all but forgot how to laugh together. Was it easier to work with him before, when we didn't care so much? she thought, puzzled. I think maybe it was, but I just can't remember. Maybe not. How odd -- you'd think I would remember that forever. She looked at her watch. It was time. Time to go back and meet SSA Rolfe. ~~~~~ Office of Supervisory Special Agent Michael Rolfe 2:03 p.m. Michael Rolfe, Scully quickly discovered, was a hunk, but a very married hunk, judging by the ring on his left hand. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, not tall but very muscular. Neat, dark blue suit, white shirt, navy blue tie with a gold stripe. He looked to be about 40, although that was young to be in charge of a unit like this one. He sat straight up in his chair, without slouching. The classic career agent, she thought. He even dresses the part. Steady, conforming, by the book. But I think that old female put-down applies here: He's good-looking, sure, but he knows it, too. "Well, Agent Scully," Rolfe said, pulling off his reading glasses. "You have the academic credentials for this job, unquestionably. In fact, I'd have to say you're overqualified; a forensic scientist can do this job. It doesn't take a forensic pathologist." "I'm not board-certified in pathology, sir," she said. "I can do autopsies as part of a Bureau investigation, and I have done quite a few, but I don't think that makes me overqualified, not based on what AD Skinner told me." "Yes, I noticed you worked under Skinner for several years, but your file says the assignment was classified," Rolfe said, regarding her with some interest. "What kind of work did you do -- without getting into too many details?" "Classified?" she said, her eyes opening wide in surprise. "I was never told to consider that assignment classified, sir." And then she realized her mistake. Skinner had put that in her file to give her a chance to start over, without the shadow of the X Files on her career. Stupid, she scolded herself. That was stupid. But it's too late now. "If it's not a classified investigation, Agent Scully, then I'd like to know what it was," Rolfe said. "I need to know more about your experience. Where were you working?" Scully was silent for a moment. "Agent Scully?" Rolfe said, more sharply. "I was assigned to the X Files for most of the past five years," she said, slowly. "I worked with ..." "Fox Mulder," Rolfe said, slowly, his lips curling in disgust. "You investigated paranormal phenomena for five years?" "Yes, sir," she said, slowly. She had caught the disdain in Rolfe's voice. "I can't say I'm entirely pleased to hear that." "Why not, sir?" Scully asked. "The question is somewhat disingenuous, isn't it, Agent Scully?" Rolfe said, with a raised eyebrow. "I personally consider the X Files to be the biggest waste of Bureau time and resources ever conceived. I'm sure I don't have to mention that I'm not the only one who feels that way." Rolfe leaned back in his chair, pulling at his lower lip, thinking. Then he turned back toward Scully. "Agent Scully," he said, slowly, "You should be a fine addition to VICAP. You have the credentials, and your time here at Quantico speaks well of you, but your -- shall we say, on the job training? -- in criminal investigation came at the hands of one of the Bureau's least reputable agents." "Sir, Agent Mulder ... " "I don't think there's anything you can tell me about Spooky Mulder, Agent Scully," Rolfe said, and his eyes were cold. "I worked with him for three years." "In Behavioral Sciences?" Scully asked. Rolfe nodded. "Sir, I know that Agent Mulder was assigned to Behavioral Sciences for several years, working in the criminal personality profiling section, but I understood that he was highly regarded there." "He was indeed," Rolfe said, and there was no mistaking his distaste. "Mulder had a talent for profiling, a real talent. There's no question that he's intelligent and insightful. But he was always a wild card, completely unpredictable, prone to working by hunch. That his hunches were sometimes correct is immaterial to me; I prefer to do things by the book." Rolfe leaned forward, his eyes boring into Scully's. "Let me be very clear about this, Agent Scully," he said. "I am not anxious to have the reputation of VICAP tarnished by taking on Mrs. Spooky as a forensic analyst." That struck a nerve. Rolfe could tell by the sudden tension in Scully's jaw. But she made no reply. "Agent Scully," Rolfe went on, "AD Skinner has assigned you here, and that means you'll be here, for a while, anyway, whether I want you or not. If you can show me that you haven't forgotten how to run a legitimate investigation, then fine; we'll get along. But let me make you a promise: The first time you do anything, take one step, make one suggestion that I even suspect is not thoroughly grounded in the highest principles of forensic science, criminal justice, law and Bureau regulations, you will be looking for another assignment. I'll go over Skinner's head if that's what it takes. Am I leaving anything out?" "No, sir," Scully said, in a tone that as calm as she could make it. "You have made yourself entirely clear." She said nothing else, but kept her gaze level and aimed right at Rolfe. "Do you have anything else you wish to say to me?" Rolfe said, lifting an eyebrow. "Only to ask when and where I should report, sir," she said, rising from the chair. "Report to SSA Kennedy at 0815 tomorrow," Rolfe said. "Consider yourself on probation, Agent Scully; Kennedy will be instructed to keep close tabs on you and to report directly to me." "Yes, sir," Scully said, forcing herself not to drop her gaze. "May I go now?" "Go. And be prepared for life to become very, very difficult for a while, Agent Scully," Rolfe said. "You have a lot to unlearn." If Rolfe expected his parting shot to rouse Scully's temper, he was mistaken. Her expression did not change by a micrometer, unless perhaps the blue eyes grew even colder and more distant. "Sir," she said, and walked out of the office. Rolfe watched her go, then smiled to himself. Not bad looking, he thought. I heard Spooky had gotten himself a real babe for a partner; they said she was putting out for him. Hard to believe, of either of them. But then, if you're the one in charge, he thought, there are always ways to make that happen. Lots of ways. ~~~~~ Montevallo, Alabama Two weeks later 3:46 p.m. "This is a hell of a mess," the young agent said, looking around at the bloody crime scene. "I've seen worse," Mulder said, absently, as he bent to examine a blood spatter. He was standing in the living room formerly shared by Crystal Shaw, 25, and Bryce, her husband of eight months. Mrs. Shaw was dead, beaten to death two days earlier with a baseball bat. Her husband told police that he'd come home and found her lying face-up on the living room floor, her dress around her waist and her panties around her knees. The place had been ransacked. The bat was Shaw's. The Montevallo police had found it in the kitchen sink; it had apparently been washed. The scene bore some resemblance to a rape-murder two days earlier in Mississippi -- not much, but enough for an overwhelmed small-town police force to invoke the FBI's jurisdiction over interstate crime and call for help. Prescott had sent Mulder, along with Agent Dan Michaels, a new agent fresh out of Quantico. Birmingham Field Office was Michaels' first assignment, and this was his first violent crime scene. Right now, Mulder thought, the kid was looking a little green around the gills, and the body wasn't even here. "You okay, Michaels?" Mulder asked. "Yeah," Michaels said, defensively. "It's just a little warm in here." "Yeah, I noticed that," Mulder said. It was 34 degrees outside, and a stiff north wind was blowing, but he let it go. He'd been a newbie himself, once. A long time ago. "So what do you think we've got here?" Mulder asked, straightening up. "Why do you think he did it?" "Why?" Michaels asked. "There's no burden on the government to prove motive. What does it matter why?" "If you don't have a suspect, it matters a lot," Mulder said. "If it's a bank robbery, for example, it's obvious. You're looking for someone who needs money, a lot of it, and fast." "That makes sense," Michaels agreed. "But here," Mulder said, "you've got breaking and entering, rape, theft and homicide -- four separate events, with different motivations for each. If you can't figure out what the killer came here to do, you'll never really see him well enough to find him. So tell me what you see." "Well," Michaels said, clearing his throat, "the scene indicates to me that the intended crime was burglary, and the murder was to facilitate the robbery. The rape was just a crime of opportunity. The husband reported that some of his wife's jewelry was taken, and the doer wasn't armed, because he wouldn't have used the bat if he had been." "That would appear to be the case," Mulder said. "Still, this room is a bit tidy for that scenario." "What do you mean, tidy? It's a mess," Michaels said, looking around. "Jesus, the lady's brains are all over the wall." "No, I would describe it as disarray," Mulder said, following Michaels' gaze. "If they'd fought much at all, this would have been much worse. And that stuff on the wall is mostly blood, actually, although you might find some tissue if you looked hard enough. But there's nothing here to indicate much of a struggle. That's corroborated by the ME, who found no defense wounds on the body." "The defense wounds would have been inflicted immediately before death," Michaels said, confidently. "They wouldn't show if the heart stopped before bruises could develop." "I'm not sure the ME would agree with you, Michaels, but that's not my field," Mulder said. Don't think about whose field it is, Mulder. Do not go there now. Just do your job. "Did you read the autopsy report?" he asked, a shade too quickly, to stop his thoughts from going any further. "I -- I, uh, scanned it," Michaels said. "Multiple blunt-force injuries to the head and face." "Uh-huh," Mulder said. "But if you'd read further, you would have seen that the victim had a high level of alcohol in her blood, and that there were no traces of semen on her body or her clothing." "Rapists don't always ejaculate," Michaels said. "You were listening in class, Michaels," Mulder said, approvingly. "No, they don't. In fact, there's a certain subset of serial rapists who almost never do. But in this case, I think the absence of semen indicates something else. Something's not right." He went still, almost immobile, staring at the blood spatters on the floor. "Give me a few minutes, Michaels," he said. He began to wander around the house, looking into drawers, into closets, stopping to study the photographs of the slain woman's body. "Agent Mulder?" Michaels said, after about 15 minutes of this. Mulder looked right through him, and didn't answer, didn't even seem to see him. Michaels was unnerved. He didn't try it again. After about 30 minutes of uneasy silence, Mulder stopped pacing and stared right at Michaels. "I'll be a son of a bitch," he said, quietly. "What?" Michaels asked. "What does that mean?" "It means that the killer's been right under our noses for two days," Mulder said. "This crime scene is nothing more than a stage set, created by someone who wanted us to believe this woman was robbed and raped. But she wasn't; this is a murder, nothing more." "How do you know that?" Michaels asked, perplexed. "What about the jewelry that's missing, and the lady's clothes?" "Try putting yourself into the crime as it's happening, Michaels," Mulder said. "Imagine that I'm the killer; I'm with the victim, sitting in this room drinking with her, and we get into an argument. We've had this argument before, and I think I'm going to explode if she doesn't just drop it. She's always nagging me about it, and I just can't take it one more minute. I'm going to shut this bitch up." Mulder's eyes held a dumb kind of animal cunning and rage as he spoke the killer's thoughts. He's actually getting into this guy's head, Michaels thought, nervously. I hope he can get back out before we have to get in the car. "I go to the closet, maybe looking for a gun," Mulder went on, his voice getting lower. "It's gone; maybe she got rid of it, or hid it because I've threatened her with it before, and that just makes me angrier. So I grab the closest weapon, which turns out to be the bat. I go back in the living room and I start smashing her face with it, trying to shut her up. I bash her head in, keep hitting her until she collapses." Mulder's voice dropped to a whisper. He looked horrified. "And then I realize what I've done," he said. "I know they'll suspect me, so I go wash the bat, trying to get my fingerprints off it. Then I go back and pull down her underpants, lift her dress, ransack the drawers, maybe throw some valuables down the toilet, to make it look like burglary." "Oh, my God," Michaels interrupted, jolting Mulder back to reality. "Agent Mulder, that means the husband did it. If that's how it happened, it couldn't be anyone else." "No, it couldn't," Mulder said, almost off-handedly. "Not in a million years could it be anyone else." "What do we do now?" Michaels asked. "That's the easy part," Mulder said. "Make the arrest and question him. And Michaels, when you do, tell him that you know he washed his hands." "Why?" "Just do it, Michaels," Mulder said, rubbing his temples. His head was beginning to hurt. It always did, afterward. By tonight, he'd be pounding his head on the walls. "Get one of the cops to go with you," he said. "I'm going back to the office. Call me if you need help with the interrogation. I don't think you will, though." Two hours later, Mulder was sitting at his desk, writing his report, when the phone rang. It was Michaels. "Agent Mulder, the guy confessed," he said, excitedly. "He broke down right after I told him about the hand-washing. It was incredible! How did you know that would work?" "Innocence can be defined in literary terms as having no blood on one's hands," Mulder said. "Go home and think about it." He hung up the phone. Bloody hands, he thought. Her blood is on my hands. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "The lightning flashes through my skull; mine eyeballs ache and ache; my whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground." "Moby-Dick" -- Herman Melville Chapter 6 VICAP Two weeks later 7:18 p.m. "Well, if it ain't Mrs. Spooky, working late again. Gonna stay ' til the witching hour and ride your broomstick home, Scully? Or are you gonna catch a ride on a UFO from the little green men?" Scully looked up from her VICAP surveys. It was Lon Glassman, a middle-aged agent of no distinction, a profiler wanna-be and the most obnoxious person she'd ever had to work with, bar none. Glassman was beefy-looking and crude, ugly, to be perfectly plain about it. But it was the ugliness inside him that made her feel unclean just being around him, and his sweaty hands had a way of bumping into her "accidentally" that made her positively ill. Not to mention his almost constant twitting about the X Files, and Mulder. "What is it, Glassman?" she asked, tiredly. "Oh, just wanted to pass the time," Glassman said, settling himself on the edge of her desk. "What're you trying to do, make supervisory special spook?" "Glassman, if you don't have anything you need to talk to me about, then just go away, all right?" she said, annoyed. "I have work to do." "Man, try to be friendly with you," Glassman said, shaking his head. "Funny thing is, first time I heard about you, I heard you were real friendly, you and Spooky." "I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Scully said. "Please leave. I don't feel like chatting." In truth, Scully couldn't remember the last time she had felt anything -- except numb, disconnected, completely out of touch with herself and everyone around her. Except for the times when she felt herself descending into pure, unadulterated terror, a terror she could neither comprehend nor explain because, compared to the X Files, VICAP was a cakewalk. Her job consisted primarily of studying the surveys submitted to VICAP by local law enforcement, comparing the forensic analyses done in each jurisdiction, trying to determine whether the RFLP analysis of DNA from blood done in one area had yielded a solid link to the PCR analysis of DNA from semen in another. She read over endless autopsy reports, studied the photographs taken during autopsy, seeking the commonalties, detecting the flaws, comparing patterns of destruction from across the nation. It was tedious, difficult work, and seldom paid off in an arrest. But doing her job was getting to be harder with each passing day. Not that she cared much. Lately, she found, she didn't care much about any of it. She was wound up inside about as tightly as she'd ever been; not her usual self-contained reserve, but a high-strung nervousness that left her feeling more unguarded and unsafe than ever before. She found herself flinching at every noise, irritated beyond bearing when a telephone rang. The sound of someone snapping gum or tapping a pencil would make her furious. But she was still Dana Scully, and she was still alone, so she bottled it all up, kept it inside. The pressure from Rolfe was constant. His disdain for her seemed to have grown into full-fledged hatred, and he made her working life a constant struggle. Nothing she did was ever good enough, not even in those rare times when could substantiate a link between far-flung crimes, or the even more rare times when her work led to an arrest. Contrary to Rolfe's predictions, she managed to hold on at VICAP, but it was a costly victory, earned at the price of constant vigilance. Rolfe's eagle-eyed suspicion of her didn't help. Each report, each analysis, had to be done perfectly; not just well, but so perfectly that no one could ever find fault with it, because otherwise Rolfe would. She was beginning to hate this, wanting desperately to find some way out of the job she used to love, yet unable to let go in the least. She double- and triple-checked her work, then lay awake wondering what she'd missed. This was the job she'd hurt her family for, the job that had made her so proud once. Now it was all reduced to a day-in, day-out struggle not to fail, not to give in, not to let anyone see her cry. She was all but sleepless, living on junk food and coffee, her emotions on a roller-coaster ride between tension and anger. Her physical wounds healed, but to those who knew her, Scully looked weaker and more wounded than she had the day she left Mobile. Night after night, as she struggled over her work, she tried to imagine how Mulder would have handled it. She wished she could call him, if only to get his expert opinion on an investigation. She had always known that he was good at this, but now, after working with the agents who did what he used to do, she saw, more clearly than ever, just how good he really was. There simply wasn't anyone better. But she had promised him, and she would not break that promise, not even for purely professional reasons. And it would never be purely professional between them again, if it ever had been. And, she thought, I still have some pride. I will not beg him to work with me again. So she struggled on alone. There were a few small triumphs, which she learned to store up as part of her defense against the antipathy of Rolfe and the rest of the VICAP team. For one thing, SSA Kennedy genuinely seemed to like her, or at least treated her no differently than he did the other agents. But he was black, and she was female, in a Bureau in which 85 percent of the 11,000 or so agents were white males. They both had to work twice as hard to be thought half as good. They were survivors in the same lifeboat, she thought, inmates in the same asylum. And Kennedy was the only one. The rest of the VICAP team clearly resented her presence, and went out of their way to make life miserable. It was wearing on her. Her attempts to fight back had gotten her nowhere. She was pretty sure the VICAP agents wouldn't let her get killed if they could help it -- that would be going way too far -- but anything short of that, and she wouldn't rely on them for backup of any kind. Fortunately for her, she could handle anything they'd thrown at her so far, even the most gruesome crime scenes, the most horribly mutilated bodies, with perfect composure. She took a grim satisfaction in that, and she knew some of her supposed colleagues were disappointed. Especially Glassman. The first week she was there, he'd dumped dozens of photographs on her desk, scene photographs from a mutilation slaying, and she'd flipped through them with practiced aplomb. She knew he'd hoped to see her fall apart, shriek, vomit, faint or cry. Not her. The photographs horrified her, but she'd handled worse things in her time without showing anything on the outside. VICAP cases, as bad as they were, didn't begin to compare to what she'd already seen. You go autopsy a man ravaged by a prehistoric, extraterrestrial virus, she thought. Go down in the sewers with Flukeman. Eat a liverwurst sandwich with Eugene Tooms. Pick up a maggot-ridden, headless body from a Florida prison in high summer. Watch the damned F. emasculata boils on a dead man's face erupt and spew a contagion that could kill you in a matter of hours. Then you come back and tell me these corpses are the worst thing you've ever seen. But Glassman was still needling her, trying to get under her skin for reasons she couldn't fathom. She wasn't sure she really cared to know. She just wanted him to leave her alone, him and everyone else, and they wouldn't. Like now, when he was sitting on her desk, inching closer to her. "Hey, Scully," he said, with a knowing smile, "tell me something. Is it true old Spooky wets the bed?" "I wouldn't know, Glassman," she said, wearily. "Will you please get off my desk? I have work to do." "How come you two broke up?" he went on, ignoring her request. "Lover's quarrel?" "I am not going to discuss this with you," she said, feeling the fury rising within her. "Whatever my reasons were for requesting a transfer, they are none of your business." "I heard you two screwed up a bioweapons investigation and they sent him out to the field," Glassman said. "Any truth to that?" "I don't know where Mulder is, and I don't care," Scully said, affecting a nonchalance she didn't feel. "Glassman, leave me alone. I'm serious." "So am I," he said. "Come on, Scully, loosen up. For Christ's sake, I was just teasing. Come on, why don't you and I go get a beer and get to know each other better?" "I don't want to know you any better, and I don't consider this teasing," she said, through clenched teeth. "I consider it offensive. Glassman, I'm telling you for the last time: Get off my desk." "Fine," he said, getting up. "You know, there's only two kinds of women in the Bureau, Scully; the kind that like men and the kind that don't. Might want to think about that next time you ice up on somebody who's trying to be a friend." "Thank you so much for your concern," she said, coldly. Glassman snorted and walked away, leaving her alone in the office with her paperwork. She looked down at the surveys, but they no longer conveyed anything to her mind. So Glassman wanted to know about the Mobile investigation? That was just too bad; Scully never talked about that last case, never even thought about it if she could help it. But that was getting more difficult with each passing day. Sometimes -- more and more often, actually -- she couldn't help thinking about it. The least little whiff of rain-dampened earth, and she was right back there, face down in the wet clay, feeling again the constricting pain in her hands and feet, the painful, bloody coughing, the exhaustion. The memories intruded on her thoughts with the force of reality; sometimes, it was as though she had left her body and was looking down at herself still lying there, bound, helpless, hurt and waiting to bleed to death or drown in the mud. Sometimes the thoughts would come while she was driving, and she would lose her way, ending up in neighborhoods where even armed police officers were afraid to go alone. At times, she would have to pull over, stop the car because she was too shaken to drive any further. A few times, while she was at work, some aspect of a case had triggered the memories so vividly that she had flinched visibly; once, without thinking, she had called out, "No!" Every agent in the room had turned to stare at her, and she could almost hear their thoughts: Mrs. Spooky, they seemed to be saying. Talking to herself. What do you expect? I can't help it, she wanted to tell them. I don't know how to make the memories stop coming. I don't know how to stop dreaming about it. The dreams came almost every night now; she couldn't sleep even when she had the time, which was seldom. Her neighbors were beginning to approach her, gently, because her nighttime cries of terror were keeping the whole building awake. She always apologized, but there was nothing she could do about it except try not to sleep. The way things were going, that just might be a possibility. More and more, she lay awake, thrashing around, tired but afraid to sleep, and then she would hear footsteps, or voices, familiar but threatening voices, and she would lie there frozen with terror, like a child waiting for the monster to creep out from under the bed. But there was nothing there but her, and the silence. Just to make sure, she had begun to search her apartment every night; for the past three nights, the terror had grown so huge that she had searched with her gun in hand, her finger -- against all safety rules -- resting on the trigger, ready to fire. She didn't even know who, or what, what she was looking for. Last night, when she heard the footsteps, she had gotten out of bed, grabbed her gun, taken up a shooter's stance and demanded that whoever it was present himself. But again, there was no one. Just her, screaming at the unseen invader. Her elderly next-door neighbors had looked at her very strangely this morning. Yesterday, when she went out for a quick, solitary lunch, she had left the restaurant in a fury when the hostess couldn't seat her at a table where she could sit with her back to the wall, where she could see all the entrances and exits. Funny, she thought, absently, I used to think that was overdone when other officers or agents did it. But now I know; it just makes sense to be ready for an attack. If you're not ready, you could be killed. If you've ever been taken against your will, violated, nearly killed, you have a right to be a bit more vigilant than normal, she told herself. It's simply common sense: If they did it before, they can do it again. And there's no one to watch my back now but me. Suddenly she realized that the VICAP office was silent; everyone had gone but her, and except for the light over her desk, it was dark. She'd been sitting here for an hour, brooding over the changes in her life, trying to reassure herself that it was all logical, that it made sense in an objective way. But she wasn't getting any work done; better just to go home. She shoved the surveys into a file folder, carelessly, and locked them away in a drawer. Before walking out to her car, she checked to make sure her weapon was loaded and ready to fire. So what if she was in the middle of Marine Barracks, Quantico, home to some of the best-trained Marines and federal agents in the world? You never knew who might be waiting. ~~~~~ Birmingham-Southern College Office of the Bursar Two weeks later 4:32 p.m. God, what was I thinking? Mulder thought as he climbed a steep hill up to the administration building. I should have asked for Oklahoma; at least there aren't any mountains there. Looking around, he found a sign indicating that this was the Bursar's office. This was it. Scanning the hall, he saw a cashier's window; the nameplate was engraved with the name of the woman he was looking for. He walked over to the window, reaching into his pocket for his badge as he approached. "May I help you?" asked the woman behind the window. "Yes, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI," Mulder said, showing his credentials. "Are you Betty Howard?" "Yes," the woman said. She sounded nervous. They all did. Mulder restrained a groan. Just once, he'd like to talk to someone who thought talking to the FBI would be fun. No one did; he didn't suppose he could blame them. "Mrs. Howard," he began. "That's Miss Howard," Miss Howard said. "Have I done something wrong?" "Not that I'm aware of," Mulder said. "I came to ask you about a neighbor of yours, Robert Gentry. He gave your name as a reference." "A reference for what?" "Mr. Gentry, as you probably know, is a member of the Army Reserve," Mulder said. "He has applied for top secret security clearance. I'm just here to verify some things on his application." "Well, I don't know what I can tell you," Miss Howard said. She looked across at the other windows. "Do we have to talk here?" "We don't have to, but I would really like to," Mulder said. "I just walked all the way up the side of a mountain to get here, and frankly, Miss Howard, I'm tired." He gave her his most charming Mulder smile. It worked. Miss Howard smiled back. "That's why they call it the Hilltop," she said. "Try walking up to the dormitory quad sometime." "No, thanks," Mulder said. "This climb was enough. I'm guessing that the upperclassmen here have well developed calf muscles, though." "It's a BSC trademark," Miss Howard said, nodding. She was at ease now, as Mulder had meant for her to be. It was easy; so easy that it irritated him. His interrogation skills weren't getting much of a workout on this job. Everything was strictly soft-pitch, underhand throws. No challenge at all. He forced his mind back to the task at hand. Taking a pen from his pocket, he began filling out the clearance form on Gentry. "So, Miss Howard," he said. "How long have you lived next door to Mr. Gentry?" "About two years," she said. "That's when I moved here from Montgomery." "And during that time, have you known him to be in any kind of legal trouble?" "What kind of legal trouble?" "Have you seen police cars at his home, for example, or have you heard him or anyone who lives with him talk about his being jailed, arrested, charged with a crime or questioned by a grand jury?" "No, nothing like that," she said. She was getting nervous again. Time for another dose of Fox Mulder, Good Cop. "That's fine, Miss Howard," he said, flashing the smile again. "That checks with what he put on his application. As I said, we're just trying to verify the information we already have." She relaxed a little, but not enough. Try another technique, he thought. "Miss Howard, is there something you don't want to tell me?" he asked. Her eyes flew open at that, but she shook her head. "No, of course not," she said. "I guess it's just that I've never been questioned by the FBI before." "It won't be much longer, Miss Howard, I promise," Mulder said. "Now, have you ever seen Gentry use illegal drugs, seen him with illegal drugs in his possession, or known him to abuse alcohol or prescription drugs?" "He doesn't have any wild parties, or anything. The only drugs I've ever seen him with were antibiotics." Mulder nodded, about to go on to the next question, when Miss Howard started speaking again. "You know, Mr. -- I'm sorry, I forgot your name? Miller?" "Mulder," he said. "Agent Mulder. Was there something else?" "Oh, nothing serious," she said. "I just remember thinking that he must not be in very good health." "Why do you say that?" Mulder asked, his glance suddenly keen. "Well, one night he was coming home with a bag from Bruno's pharmacy, and he dropped it," she said. "I was just getting home myself, and I tried to help him pick up his things. He had four, maybe five bottles of some kind of antibiotic." Antibiotic? So the man was an antibiotic addict; so what? So what she had just told him had started his scalp tingling, a sure sign that something important had just happened. His next question surprised even him. "Miss Howard, do you remember what kind of antibiotic it was?" "No, I don't," she replied. "Is that important?" "I don't know," Mulder said, thoughtfully. "Probably not. But just in case, do you remember anything about it?" "Well, I remember that there were two kinds," she said. "Silo-something, and one that, um, sounded like ' vibrate.'" Play, Magic Fingers, he thought. "Thanks. Probably doesn't mean anything," he said. He went on with the rest of the interview, but the thought of a bag full of vibrating silos continued to nudge its way into his brain, and he was only half listening to the remaining answers. He finished up quickly, gave her his business card and asked her to call if she thought of anything else he ought to know. Walking back down the steep hill to his car, Mulder tried to formulate some reason for his response. He couldn't, and that troubled him. If his interrogation skills were getting rusty, his deductive skills were almost rusted through. Nothing seemed to come together the way it should, not that there was that much to deduce. But this thing, now, this Gentry. Why were all his antennae up, signaling danger? What was the point of a bag full of antibiotics? He felt the edges of his thought skirt around the one issue he didn't want to face, couldn't stand to face: The reason he couldn't figure it out was that Scully wasn't here. Scully would know what the antibiotics might mean. If she didn't know, she would know where to find out. Either way, she would explain it to him, then she would force him to refine his thoughts by challenging his every assumption until he finally knew where he was going. Scully. Did I ever tell you that you were the best thing that ever happened to me? Wonder if you'd help me on this if I called you? Forget that, asshole, he told himself. You walked out on her. She's not likely to welcome you back, as a partner or as anything else. Get on with your life, and figure out for yourself what the damn antibiotics mean. Go to the University of Alabama at Birmingham, find somebody on the medical school staff and get them to tell you. Yeah, like they'd know the law-enforcement implications of a bag full of some kind of penicillin. You're the agent, and you don't know what it means; how would anyone else know? Just forget it. Get on with your life. He checked his watch. Almost quitting time. Drop by the office, leave the papers, then go home and see if the Knicks are on TV. Get up tomorrow and drive to Mobile, continue your "unofficial" and completely useless investigation. Next week, do it all over again. I am beginning to hate this job, he thought. ~~~~~ Dana Scully's apartment Two days later 1:51 a.m. I wasn't going to do this tonight, she thought. I was going to get over him. Scully was readying herself to face the night, the worst time, the very worst time, when she was alone, unable to sleep, with nothing to come between her and her terrors. Nothing, that is, except the fading memory of a time when she was unafraid: the time before she'd ever been roped and helpless in Alabama, the time when she faced danger with Mulder at her side. She meant to stop thinking about him. She knew she needed to get over him and get back to her old self, regain her confidence and self-respect. Thoughts of Mulder did nothing to help her recover from the trauma; in fact, they made it worse somehow. Day after day, she ordered herself sternly to forget about him. She forced herself to think about all the times he'd disappointed her, all the times he'd let other people, other causes, come between them. Diana. Bambi. Angela White. Phoebe. Think about it, Dana, she commanded; you were nothing more to him than they were. But she knew that wasn't true, and in the end, she could no more get over him than she could change the color of her eyes. Now, as she had every night since she returned to Quantico, she began what had come to be a ritual of remembering; whether she was trying to comfort or punish herself, she did not know. She knew only that she must do this each night before she could sleep at all. First, she took out the note he had written her. She had handled it so many times that the paper was growing soft and the ink was running. She knew it by heart, but she read it over and over, trying to figure out what the words had meant to him when he wrote them. Did he pause, seeking just the right words? Was this the only draft? Was there more he might have said if he hadn't planned to leave it out where anyone might see it? When she first found the note, she could hear each word in her head as though he were speaking it. Now, his voice was gone, unless it came to her in dreams. Some of those dreams were lovely, dreams in which she would realize that it had all been a mistake, that he hadn't left her and they were still together on the X Files. Other dreams were more erotic, dreams in which his kiss was only the beginning and she was no longer the Ice Queen, but was passionate, bold, demanding, responsive to his every touch. She would awaken from those dreams, and reality would slowly come to her, and she would cry, her loss fresh as it had been the first day. What was worse than awakening from dreams was that Mulder was beginning to appear in her nightmares. He was never part of the terror, never one of those who sought after her to kill her or to take her away again. His role was simply to leave her in some way: to die or be taken himself, or to walk away hand in hand with Diana Fowley or Phoebe Green or some other woman in whose arms she'd seen him before. She put the note carefully back in the drawer, beginning the second part of the ritual as she took out her only photograph of them together. A Washington Post photographer had taken it, had caught her and Mulder outdoors at a crime scene. It wasn't anything complicated; Mulder was looking at a newspaper she held in her hands. Yet when she saw the photograph in the newspaper, she was startled. The photographer had unknowingly revealed to her what was so clear to everyone else: Mulder loved her. He wasn't showing overt affection, or flirting, or anything like that. He was simply doing his job, as always. The revelation came from the way he stood next to her -- towered over her, really, by more than a foot. He was bending his head toward hers, simultaneously protecting her and listening to her intently, standing so close that his coat sleeve brushed hers. She was so small next to him, but so confident, so unafraid. He was unaware of the photographer or of anything else but her. She had seen the photograph in the newspaper the next day, with a caption referring to them as "a team of FBI agents." On a rare impulse, she had called the newspaper and asked for a print. The photographer had graciously sent two, and she had given one to Mulder. He liked it, too. He had taped it to the side of a file cabinet near his desk. His copy was destroyed in the fire. Must have been an omen, she thought, dully. She put the photograph back and slid the drawer shut quickly so that she wouldn't inadvertently see the photograph of Emily. She couldn't even think about looking at that now. She was running out of ideas. Two nights ago, she had signed on to a Usenet group that she knew he used to participate in, a discussion group on behavioral psychology. He was almost certainly posting elsewhere, but she didn't want to explore that side of him just now, so she'd stuck with a group that catered to his professional interests. She had scanned down two or three messages, looking for one that might be his. Then the thought struck her: What if someone were monitoring her Internet usage? She signed off, quickly. Best not to take any chances, she thought. The Lone Gunmen had taught her that. Sighing, she got up. Might as well try to sleep, she thought, drawing her weapon. Cautiously, she walked through the door to her bedroom, her eyes darting this way and that, searching for invaders. Almost silently, she knelt beside the bed, then quickly pointed the gun underneath as she threw back the bedspread. No one there. Good. She laid the weapon on the night stand next to the bed. Funny how much she depended on it these days. Sometimes, at work, she found her thoughts returning, over and over, to the SIG Sauer holstered at her back. She could feel its coolness, its weight, even when it wasn't in her hand. It seemed beautiful to her, beautiful and deadly. It seemed to be beckoning to her, asking her to hold it, to test out the feeling of pointing the barrel toward herself. It almost taunted her with thoughts of the explosive relief that it could offer, of the bullet tearing through her brain, erasing all the pain, letting her feel again for one ecstatic, final moment of life. Not that she would ever do anything like that. She just ... thought about it. ~~~~~ Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner's office Thursday, Feb. 25 9:52 a.m. "Sir," Kimberly said, sticking her head in the office door, "Security says there's a Margaret Scully downstairs asking to speak to you." "Margaret Scully?" Skinner said. "Dana Scully's mother?" "Yes, sir, I believe that's her," Kimberly said. Skinner frowned, swiveling back in his chair. "Has anything happened to Agent Scully?" "No, sir, not that I know of," Kimberly said. "I think we'd have heard." "All right, Kimberly, tell them to send her up," Skinner said. About 10 minutes later, the office door opened again. "Mrs. Scully, sir," Kimberly said. "Thank you, Kimberly," Skinner said, rising to take Maggie's hand. "Close the door please. Mrs. Scully, this is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?" "Mr. Skinner, I apologize for bothering you at work," Maggie said. "I know you're a very busy man. But you were so kind when Melissa was in the hospital, and I thought ... that I could talk to you." "Is there a problem with your daughter?" Skinner said, in a voice so gentle none of his agents would have recognized it as his, as he led her to a chair. He perched on the edge of the desk, arms folded over his chest, watching her intently. "I -- I think so," Maggie said, nervously twisting the strap of her purse in her hands. "The last time I saw her was on Tuesday -- that was her birthday. She looked terrible; too thin, pale, and frightened. I've never known Dana to be afraid like this." "Nor have I," Skinner said. "Is this a physical problem?" Maggie shook her head. "That was the first thing I asked her," she said. "It's not the cancer, thank God. That's still in remission." "That is good news," Skinner said. "Then what is the problem?" "Several things," Maggie said. "She was a lot more traumatized by what happened to her in Alabama than I think any of us knew. For some reason, she hasn't been able to bounce back from it the way she has so many times before." Maggie looked up at Skinner, and there were tears in her eyes. "Mr. Skinner, she seems so hopeless, so tired and yet sometimes so angry. She talks very little now, but when she does, she talks about death, about dying, about people who have been killed or who have killed others. And I know she's not sleeping well; she's having nightmares. I've heard her wake up screaming." "And you think this means ... " "I think Dana -- wants to die," Maggie said, looking down at her purse again, twisting the strap. "By that do you mean you believe she may take her own life?" Maggie nodded, mutely, struggling to compose herself. "She's not herself. I could always reach her before, but not now. We had a long talk right after it happened -- a very strange and frightening talk, but I had hoped it was a sign that she was opening up, coping with things." She shook her head, and swallowed hard a few times before she spoke again. "I was wrong, Mr. Skinner," she said. "It was a sign of just how traumatized she really is. She wasn't herself, not at all, and I couldn't see it. But she says no one really understands her." She looked up again. "You've helped us before, Mr. Skinner," she went on, her voice breaking. "I'm hoping you can help now." "I will if I can, Mrs. Scully," Skinner said. "The Bureau has a top-notch employee assistance program, and the counselors are first rate. Would you like me to order Dana into the program for treatment?" "No," Maggie said. "I mean, yes, that would probably help her, in time, but I'm not sure how much time we have, Mr. Skinner." "Then what do you suggest, Mrs. Scully?" "There's only one person who can help her now," Maggie said quietly. "She trusts him; she'll talk to him. And he'll help her. I know he will." She looked up at Skinner, and there were tears in her eyes. "Please, Mr. Skinner," she said in a trembling voice. "Please, before it's too late: Tell me where Fox Mulder is." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My whole soul waiting silently, All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye: I will possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. "Fatima" -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson Chapter 7 Fox Mulder's apartment Monday, March 1 6:33 p.m. Mulder was in the shower when he heard the telephone ringing. For a moment, he considered letting it ring, but he knew he couldn't. No one called him anymore unless it was about work. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Mulder walked to the bedroom and picked up the receiver. "Mulder," he said. "Mulder, it's Prescott. What're you up to?" "Nothing, sir," he lied, pulling the towel off to dry his hair. "What can I do for you?" "I was wondering if you'd be willing to head down to south Alabama, help out the Daphne Police Department with a little problem. Seems they have what looks suspiciously like a serial killer." Oh, God, not that, Mulder groaned inwardly. Anything but that. Then the bell went off. Daphne. He remembered being there. It was his last night with Scully. It was the night that finally convinced him to stop dragging her into his nightmares. It was the night that Krycek -- but he couldn't think about that, wouldn't think about it. He forced his mind back to what Prescott had said. "Isn't Daphne in Mobile's area?" he asked, more casually than he felt. "Aw, you don't miss much, do you, Mulder? You oughta become a cop," Prescott said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's in Mobile's area. But Mobile doesn't have anyone with your background in criminal profiling, and I told them you'd be happy to volunteer." "I appreciate that, sir," Mulder said, dryly. He was getting used to Prescott's sometimes violent sense of humor, but he still wasn't really used to having a boss who joked with him, period. Skinner wouldn't have made a joke if you put a gun to his head. Come to think of it, he had pointed a gun at Skinner's head once, and sure enough, the man hadn't found any humor in it at all. "Is this in our jurisdiction?" Mulder asked. "According to VICAP, probably not," Prescott said. "But somebody up there -- who's apparently in the minority -- thinks there's a link to a homicide in Florida. You check out what they've got and make the final call on whether to federalize this investigation." "What's the situation?" "Six stiffs, all male, all died from multiple gunshot wounds, .38 caliber slugs, at the hands of an unknown subject. You know, what you psyche squad types call an UNSUB." "Gang killings," Mulder said immediately. "Classic MO. Sir, they don't need a profiler for this. A trainee could tell you anything you wanted to know about this UNSUB." "Maybe, maybe not," Prescott said. "There's more to it. The slugs were all .38, but from different weapons. A few other differences, too." "Sir, with all due respect, why now?" Mulder asked. "A profile at this point might do more harm than good, if the investigation is still fresh; it could point the investigators in the wrong direction. This sounds like something VICAP should continue to handle in consultation with the locals." "VICAP is there, Mulder," Prescott said. "They've got two men on it already." They'd sent agents? Mulder thought. That was peculiar. VICAP agents typically stayed at Quantico, collating and analyzing information; they didn't normally travel around. "Sir, I have a sneaking suspicion I'm being sent in to pacify someone at the higher levels," Mulder said. "Oh, I don't know," Prescott said, in his slowest, most exaggerated drawl. Mulder had caught on. He always did. Damn, it was fun watching him. "Maybe it's just me playing a hunch." "I don't see what possible good it could do for me to go." "Well, you're probably right, Mulder," Prescott said. "Why don't you call Walter Skinner and tell him that?" There was a long silence from the other end of the line. "Skinner wants me on this?" Mulder was asking. "You're just like a bag of cat food: so good, they ask for you by name," Prescott said. "Tell you what -- if you leave now, you can be in Daphne before bedtime. You're meeting the VICAP team at the Pembroke Inn. They've already made your reservations. Write if you get work, Oxford boy." Prescott hung up. Mulder stared at the receiver for a long time. Skinner, he thought. Why does Skinner want me on this? Then he began to feel the short hairs on his neck rising up, making him shiver. Something's wrong, he thought, and immediately rejected the idea. Don't go getting spooky, Mulder, he thought. There is nothing here for you to react to. You have no information, you do not have a hunch about it, and you do not know that anything is wrong. Your spider sense is not tingling. You're naked and you're still wet from the shower. It's just cold in here. He walked to the thermostat, reached for the dial to turn up the temperature. It was already set on 78 degrees. "Oh, shit," he said aloud. ~~~~~ The Pembroke Inn Daphne, Alabama 11:06 p.m. "May I help you?" the night clerk asked. "Yeah," Mulder said, holding up his ID. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. I understand there are two other federal agents here already, and I'm supposed to meet them. Can you tell me which room they're in?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Mulder. They left word that another agent would be here," the woman said, tapping on a keyboard. "Let's see -- they're in 204 and 206. But they're not here. They said to tell you to meet them at the police department." "Where might that be?" "On Highway 98. You're on it; I mean, that's where we are, the hotel. Just head south, it'll be on your left." "Thank you," Mulder said. "Is there a reservation in my name?" "Umm," the woman said, her keyboard clicking again. "You're supposed to share room 204 with a Mr. Glassman. Is that correct?" "It is if Mr. Glassman's in the FBI," he said. "May I have the keys?" "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Mr. Glassman already has the keys to both rooms. Enjoy your stay." Fat chance of that, he thought. ~~~~~ Daphne Municipal Building 11:26 p.m. Mulder walked down the darkened hallways, squinting at the numbers on the doors. The young cop who'd let him in said the FBI was using room 12 for the operation. Then he heard the voices, loud voices, and decided to follow those. The noise was coming from room 12. Someone was in there, talking far too loudly. Probably one of our VICAP hotshots, Mulder thought. Kill me now, someone, please. He opened the door. A middle-aged man, his red hair faded nearly to white, was standing in one corner of the room, hands on hips, wearing what might possibly be the snottiest expression Mulder had ever seen. VICAP. Mulder had never seen the man before, but he could tell. The guy almost smelled like an agent. And he was blustering around like a typical prima donna. VICAP. Gotta be. And they wonder why I quit working serial killers. "Nah, she doesn't do firearms ID," the agent was saying, winking at the cop. "She's a girl of more -- special talents. Hey, am I right?" Whoever he was talking to was standing behind a blackboard, not responding. Mulder could see her legs, which were covered with sensible black trousers, and her feet, which were encased in high-heeled boots. Something in him stirred at the sight. Did he know her? A Daphne officer, looking desperately trapped, sat between the two. He looked up at Mulder's entrance. "Can I help you, sir?" he said. "Yeah," Mulder said. "I'm Fox Mulder, FBI." "Oh, Jesus," the red-faced agent groaned. "They said they were sending some guy from Birmingham FO, and they sent me Spooky Mulder?" He clearly had more to say, but he wouldn't get the chance. There was a clattering sound behind the blackboard. Mulder's eyes automatically swiveled toward the noise. He was struck absolutely dumb by what he saw. A tiny, beautiful woman. Red hair. The face of an angel. But she was so pale, so thin, with none of the animation that used to brighten her eyes. It couldn't be her. But it was. "Mulder?" she said, unbelievingly, coming toward him. "Mulder, is that you?" "Scully," he said. And then he just stood there. He couldn't think of another thing to say. ~~~~~ One minute earlier, Scully had been on the verge of throwing her badge at Glassman and walking out. Glassman, for God's sake. Rolfe knew how she disliked him; she'd spoken to her superior about Glassman's attitude toward her more than once. It had gotten her nowhere. For him to have assigned her to this case, to work with Glassman, was as clear a sign as she could imagine that Rolfe was trying to make her quit. And maybe, just maybe, he was doing her a back-handed favor. Maybe, she thought, it really is time to quit. Never, ever, in her wildest dreams had she imagined putting up with anything like this, and here she was, letting it go without a protest, even though her hands itched to get hold of Glassman and strangle the life right out of him. When she heard Mulder's voice, she was certain at first that she had imagined it. She was already exhausted, upset beyond belief by her long struggle and powerless against Glassman's insults. She'd been hearing things for weeks -- it made sense that her mind would conjure up images of the man who used to protect her from all of that. No. It wasn't him. She was just hearing things again. But her body knew better, even if her mind couldn't accept it. The metal test tube rack had slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, crashing to the floor, the empty test tubes shattering all around her. She didn't even notice the mess as she whirled around, almost stumbling over her own feet as she made her way toward that longed-for voice. And he was real, after all. He was standing in the doorway, staring at her in astonishment, as though she had come back from the grave. "Mulder?" she said. "Mulder, is that you?" "Scully," he said, still with that dazed stare. For a moment, neither moved. Scully was painfully aware of Glassman and the cop, who were watching this with intense interest. She couldn't throw herself into Mulder's arms and cry with relief -- or slap his face and scream at him, she wasn't sure which -- no matter how badly she wanted to. But then he smiled, the slightly crooked smile he kept for her alone. She almost forgot herself then, almost ran to him, but he stepped forward, extending his hand. "It's good to see you, Scully," he said. She took it, clasped it only fractionally longer than was appropriate for friends. "It's been a little while, Mulder," she said, trying to keep her voice matter-of-fact. "I didn't know you were assigned to this project." "Neither did I, until about five hours ago," he said, dropping her hand. "I'm, uh, at the Birmingham Field Office now." "So I heard, just now," she said, arching an eyebrow. "I had wondered." Mulder cleared his throat, looked around the room. "How's your family?" "Mom's fine," she said. "Bill ... Bill is at sea. I don't know where. It's over my pay grade. Everyone else is fine." A pause. "How's your mother?" "We haven't spoken," he said, shortly. There was a brief silence during which neither seemed to know what to say. Mulder recovered first. "Scully?" he said. "Want to introduce me to your colleagues?" "Yes, of course," Scully said, coolly. "This is Officer Willie Mack of the Daphne police, our liaison." "Meetcha," Mack said, shaking Mulder's hand. "I've heard about you." "Good things, I hope," Mulder said. Mack just grinned. "Yeah," Mulder said. "I didn't think so." "And this -- gentleman," Scully continued, "is Special Agent Lon Glassman of VICAP." Glassman kept his hands in his pockets. "The pleasure's all mine, it seems," Mulder said, cocking an eyebrow at Glassman. "Well," Mack said, loudly, standing up. "I don't guess y'all need me right now, so I think I'll go grab me a cup of coffee. Be down the hall if you need me, ma'am," he said in Scully's direction. "Thank you, Officer Mack," she said, politely. "You've been a great help already." He nodded, and walked out. "So," Mulder said. "Exactly where is this case?" "This case," Glassman said, "is nowhere. This is not a serial killer. It's not an interstate spree. It's a series of unrelated killings, and we are without jurisdiction. We're out of here in the morning, or as soon as Scully finishes playing with her little test tubes." Scully felt a flush of shame, and looked away, miserably. "Playing with her test tubes?" Mulder said, in disbelief. "I'm not sure I heard you correctly. Agent Scully is a fully qualified forensic pathologist, and I've never known her to be anything less than meticulous about her work." "Yeah, I'm sure you know all about her work, Mulder," Glassman said, with a wink. "But there's no reason for any more forensics on these. The locals can handle it." "I believe that's my call, not yours," Mulder said. "So I'm sure you don't mind if I find out what the current forensic evidence is before I make it." "Knock yourself out," Glassman said, sitting in the room's only comfortable chair. "I got nowhere to go." "Scully?" Mulder said. "What've we got here?" The look on Glassman's face made it clear he didn't like being ignored in favor of Scully, but Mulder couldn't have cared less. If he knew Scully, she'd have the details laid out for him clean. She would give him what he needed to know, and she'd always had an excellent sense of what that might be. Anyway, he wanted to hear her voice again. "Let me get my notes," she said, and disappeared briefly behind the divider. She came back with a tidy stack of index cards, with notes written neatly in her careful, rounded Catholic-school-trained penmanship. "I'll tell you what I can, but you're on your own after that," she said, sorting through the cards. "You'll have to decide for yourself what it means." "This from the woman who rewrote Einstein as an undergrad," he said, in the old, familiar teasing tone. That almost always got him a smile, but not tonight. Just a raised eyebrow. Bad sign. Shit, not just a bad sign; a message, one that he could read like print on a page. Don't come any closer to me, she was saying. I will not let you in. "Go on, Scully," he said, more quietly. "Tell me what you know." "It's little enough," she said, coolly. "But it's all we have right now." Quickly, she sketched it out for him: Six men, all dead of multiple gunshot wounds, .38 caliber ammunition, several different weapons. The first two were Fred Williams, a convenience store worker, and his nephew, DeAndrew Williams, both black males. They were found in the store where the uncle worked. "The nephew had been shot three times," Scully said. "It appears he was trying to back out of the store. The uncle was hit twice, in the chest and in the face. A customer found him behind the counter." "Anything stolen?" Mulder asked. Scully shook her head. "Not that anyone could detect." "Signs of sexual assault?" "No semen on either body, no signs of sexual trauma." Mulder nodded. "Okay, what next?" "The next one came two days later," Scully said. "Wilhelm Nivek, white male, age 18, cashier at an Exxon station about half a block from where the Williamses were killed." Nivek, she told him, had been shot five times: four times in the chest, once in the neck -- a post-mortem wound, because it didn't bleed. A woman who worked at the ice cream parlor next door had seen a young black man running from the store at about 9 p.m., right about the time Nivek was killed. She had given police a description, Scully said. "Yeah, lotta help that was," Glassman said, laughing. "You got any idea how many people around here fit that description?" "It's better than nothing," Scully said, defensively. "Anyway, there was another description similar to that the next day." "Which was . . ?" Mulder asked, ignoring Glassman's interruption. "At another convenience store near I-10," Scully said. "Harold Donaldson, black male, age 26. Shot in the head and neck, again with .38 slugs. Donaldson was found alive, but he died without regaining consciousness." This time, she told him, about $200 was missing from the cash register. The gun that killed Donaldson was the same one that killed the Williamses. "Sounds like a link to me, Glassman," Mulder said. "And the last two?" "Three days ago," Scully said. "An electronics store in Pensacola, not too far across the Florida state line: the assistant manager, Buck Richards, black male, age 21, and a customer, Jonathan Stouffer, white male, age 35, who lived in Mobile." "How do these victims tie in with the others, Scully?" Mulder asked. "Our jurisdiction could hinge on it." "I know that," she said, and he could hear the anxiety in her voice. Why was she nervous? This was Investigation 101, nothing that difficult, he thought. Scully could do this stuff in her sleep. "There are several links," she said, slowly, looking off into the distance as though reading from a page only she could see. "Starting with the MO: multiple gunshot wounds to the head and chest, .38 slugs, no signs of struggle by the victims." "That's true, Scully, but it may be a bit tenuous for us to hang our jurisdiction on," Mulder said, a little more quietly. "Anything else? What about the weapon?" "No match on the weapon to any of the previous killings," Scully said. She folded her arms across her chest, and her brow furrowed; she tapped her foot arrhythmically on the tiled floor. "There was some money missing, but no one was sure how much," she went on. She bit her lip, looked at Mulder as though she had something to say, but she said nothing. "That's all?" he said. "No," she said, shaking her head impatiently. "There was another reason, I know there was; if you'll quit badgering me for a minute, maybe I can remember." She's really upset, Mulder realized with a shock. But why? This was how they worked, refining their theory of a case through give and take, questioning one another's ideas until they reached some agreement on where they were going. She'd never minded it before, even when the discussions got intense; in fact, she seemed to relish the verbal jousting. Better back off, he thought. You can't be the one to push her over the edge, and she's damn close to it, too. "Scully," Mulder said, carefully. "I'm not doubting your conclusions, but I still don't see the connection, except for the ammunition, and that's not what I'd call compelling evidence." "You don't see it because it's not there," Glassman snorted. "It is there," she snapped, her face flushed with -- was it anger or shame? Mulder couldn't tell. Then she looked up at him, relieved. "Witnesses. There were three witness descriptions of possible suspects; one of those witnesses described a black male very much like the one described at the second crime scene." She seemed almost happy for a moment, but that didn't last long. "That's bullshit, Scully," Glassman said, and Scully turned away again. "You're making connections where there aren't any. I say we pull out of here and leave it to the local yokels." "For what reason?" Mulder asked. "I'll grant you, there are some inconsistencies ... " "My problem is it doesn't add up," Glassman interrupted him. "Different weapons, victims of different races, different ages ... they're robberies." "Then why didn't he take anything valuable?" Scully broke in, and she was genuinely agitated now; Mulder could see it. She was shaking, and her face had gone even whiter than before. "Why kill two men in a store full of computers and stereo equipment and leave with just the cash in the till?" "Big fucking deal," Glassman said. "So he's nuts. That doesn't make it our case. And forget the witnesses; if you gave me a nickel for every spade you find around here that fits that description, I could retire." "That's enough, Glassman, leave her alone," Mulder said, coldly, pronouncing each word slowly. "She's right. More than likely, there's a single killer in all these; from the MO, it's a spree killer, not a serial killer in the classic sense. He'll keep killing until we catch him." "I'm not sure anyone asked you, Mulder," Glassman said. "I sure as shit didn't." "Someone did ask me, Glassman," Mulder said, evenly. "Assistant Director Walter Skinner asked me, through the Birmingham SAC. Last time I checked, Skinner still had general supervision of VICAP. So let's just learn to live together, shall we?" "Not for one minute longer than I have to, Spooky," Glassman said, derisively, kicking back in his chair again. "If I'd had any say in the matter, none of us would be here, and you sure as shit wouldn't." "Well, fortunately for any further potential victims, you don't have any say," Mulder replied, but his eyes had gone the gray of cold steel. "I do. And I'm not in the mood to argue any further, so let's just get out of here and get to our hotel." Scully lifted her eyebrows. "I'm ready. I was ready two hours ago, but Agent Glassman insisted on coming here first." "The rooms aren't ready," Glassman said. "We're putting in some time until they are, if that's any concern of yours." Not ready? Mulder thought. Then he remembered the clerk's words: They're in 204 and 206. Glassman has the keys -- to both rooms. Both rooms. He has your key, Scully? How could you give him your keys? How could you even want him around you, let alone in your room? Not with this creep ... you couldn't. The very idea made him sick. Of course it did. It would make her sick, too. No matter how much she'd changed, that wasn't a possibility. What kind of game are you playing, you mother-fucker? he thought, casting a furious glance at Glassman. I think I'll take you apart right now; it'll be a nice little warm-up to the real fun and games of catching this killer. "Actually, they are ready," Mulder said, his tone carefully casual. "Glassman, you and I are in 204, and Agent Scully is in the adjoining room, 206. To which you already have the keys, I understand." "That's wrong," Scully said, her face going even paler. "We're supposed to be on different floors. And what are you doing with my room keys?" "They didn't have anything else, Scully," Glassman said, patronizingly. "You just don't always get to choose. And I've got your keys because I checked us in." "I thought you said the rooms weren't ready," Mulder said, allowing just a trace of challenge to creep into his words. "Which is it, Glassman?" "I don't answer to you, Mulder," Glassman said. "I'm not taking any shit from a field-office agent." "Would you be interested in taking some shit from higher up?" Mulder said, stepping toward him. "I could arrange that." "Jesus, Glassman, Mulder, don't do this," Scully interrupted, putting her hands on either side of her head, as though it pained her. "Not now. I'm tired." She turned her head away, her shoulders drooping. She sounded tired, Mulder thought -- and, somehow, ashamed. "I haven't done a damn thing, Scully," Glassman said. "Not one goddamn thing. Quit being such a fainting flower." "That has nothing to do with it, and you know it," she said, furiously. "You and I have been through this before ... " Then she broke off and shook her head "Forget it. Just give me the damn keys and leave me alone. I'm going back to the hotel." She looked at Mulder. "You do whatever you like." Was it anger, or was it fear that was leaching the color from her skin? And at him, or at Glassman? Either way, Mulder thought, she's not letting it go anywhere, and it's poisoning her. It's killing her. Like hell it is. Not while I'm here. No way. No fucking way. "Scully," he said, quietly. She knew that tone; she'd spent six years learning to respond when she heard it. Startled, she looked up, quickly. "If you want, I'll help you find another room," Mulder said, keeping his voice steady. "Do you want to do that?" Numbly, she shook her head, and Mulder turned away in frustration, his breath almost hissing into his lungs. Don't be angry at her, he thought. She's the victim. Again ... He took a breath. Just help her, he told himself. You can help her. You've got to; for whatever reason, she can't help herself. He turned to see her regarding him with that same nervous, shamed look. He breathed deeply, calming himself as best he could. It wasn't easy. "It's your call, Scully," he said. "But if you change your mind ... " "I know," she said, quickly. "But I'm fine. It was a mistake, Mulder; just let it go." "Let's just make sure it's not repeated," he said, casting a look over his shoulder at Glassman. Glassman said nothing. He's too goddamn confident, Mulder thought. I would so enjoy putting a bullet right into the center of that smirk, he thought. No. Be professional. Be cool. You can deal with this turd. "Agent Glassman," Mulder said, turning around. "Yes?" the man said, apparently unconcerned. "Glassman, you and I seem to have a problem," Mulder said, with the kind of contempt he seldom brought to bear outside interrogation rooms. "Personally, I don't give a shit whether you talk to me or not, but I don't get that choice, and neither do you. We've all got a job to do here, so we need to reach an understanding very quickly. That's quickly as in now. Tonight." "What kind of understanding would that be, Spooky?" Glassman said, folding his arms across his chest, still smirking. Mulder's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "The name is Mulder," he said, softly, but the threat was unmistakable. "Or Agent Mulder, whichever you prefer. The understanding is that from now on, you are going to treat Agent Scully politely, professionally, and with the respect due to her expertise and experience. If you have a problem understanding that, we can go elsewhere to discuss it." "I don't take orders from you," Glassman said, belligerently, getting to his feet. "Oh, I think I could convince you to," Mulder answered, even more quietly. Glassman said nothing. "So I take it there are no questions?" Mulder asked. "Fuck you," Glassman said, turning his back. That was enough of an answer for Mulder. He glanced at Scully. The shame was still there, but for a moment, she looked almost -- grateful. You're safe, Scully, he thought. Nothing is going to happen to you. Not while I'm alive. She caught the look, but her eyes held no response. "Let's just quit for now and come back to this tomorrow," she said. "I've got to get some sleep. Alone," she added, meaningfully. "That won't be a problem," Mulder said, smoothly. "Agent Glassman is in the next room with me. Oddly enough, the room was available when I arrived." "I don't think I want to bunk with you, Mulder," Glassman said, contemptuously. "I don't like the idea much myself, Glassman," Mulder said. "But I don't think you have a choice unless you've got some dispensation that entitles you to a private room when traveling with another agent of the same sex. Last time I checked, the rule for that situation was two to a room." "I may puke," Glassman said. "I may join you," Mulder responded. Then he turned his back on Glassman, as though he were of no account at all. "Scully, do you have a way back to the hotel?" "I rode with Glassman," she said. "Would you rather go with me?" he asked, cautiously. "I'm leaving now." She hesitated, but so briefly that no one but Mulder would ever have noticed. But she nodded. "Sure," she said. "Give me just a second to put some things away." She stepped behind the blackboard, opened a steel toolbox and padlocked the collected evidence inside. "Glassman, I believe you have the keys to Agent Scully's room," Mulder said, nonchalantly, as Scully vanished behind the divider. "May I have them, please?" "I don't see that she needs more than one," Glassman said, taking the plastic cards from his back pocket. "And I don't see that you need any," Mulder said. "Give them here. Now." Glassman slammed the cards down on the table. "Hope you get lucky, Mulder," he said, clearly not meaning it. "If I don't, we'll at least have something in common, Glassman," Mulder said, too low for Scully to hear, as he picked up the keys. No matter what was wrong with her, it'd be a cold day in hell before she let him get away with that kind of old-boy bullshit. More loudly, he added, "Remember: You're in room 204, not 206. Don't open the wrong door. I'll see you there." He turned around, saw Scully walking toward the door with the evidence box in her hand. "Let's go," she said. "I just have to give this to Officer Mack on the way out." "All right, we'll find him," Mulder said. He seemed calm, but Scully knew he wasn't as calm as he was trying to appear. Was it the confrontation with Glassman or the prospect of being alone with her? Either way, this is going to be a long case, she thought. A long, unpleasant case, punctuated with emotional complications. I should have left the Bureau before I ever saw you again, Mulder, she thought, as she glanced toward him. He was watching her. How annoying. "Ready, Scully?" he asked, looking into her eyes. She read the message there: You're safe now, Scully. I took care of it. She nodded, unwilling to frame a reply. I remember now, she thought. That was how we communicated. The eyes. It was all in the eyes. In that case, she thought, I'm not sure I really want to look at him again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart There's nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart Once upon a time there was light in my life, but now there's only love in the dark Nothing I can say, a total eclipse of the heart." "Total Eclipse of the Heart" Chapter 8 Daphne, Alabama 11:56 p.m. They didn't speak on the way to Mulder's car. He let her in, got in himself and started the engine, but didn't put the car in gear yet, just sat there with his hands on the wheel. He wants to talk, Scully thought. And of course, we will have to talk. But what do I want to say to him? She turned to look at him, saw the hesitancy in his eyes, the tentative smile on his lips. I know that look, she thought. He's waiting for me to show him that it's all right with us, and it's not. God damn him -- sometimes I wish I'd never met him. But God help me, I'm glad he's here. Mulder, you bastard, I don't know what the hell you want me to say to you. Then she saw the surprise in his glance, and realized with a start that she'd spoken the last sentence aloud. "You don't have to say anything, Scully," he said, the smile gone in a flash. "I got the message." "Did you?" she said, as calmly as she could, trying to mask the tumult she felt inside. "That you're not exactly overcome with joy to see me?" he said, grimly. "Yeah. I think you made that quite clear." He put the car in gear, drove out of the parking lot toward the highway. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "Mulder, I don't know how I feel about seeing you again," she said, finally, in a flat tone. "I wish I did." "How can you not know?" he said. "How is it possible that you don't know what you mean to me?" "I'm sorry, did I hurt your feelings?" she said, coldly. "How awful for you. It's painful, finding out someone you cared for doesn't return your feelings. I know -- it happened to me right around Christmas." He winced at that; when he spoke again, his voice was lower, and much less animated. "Scully, you know why I left," he said. "I told you. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you. You have to believe that." "I really don't care to talk about it," she said, turning her head, looking out the window. "I have other things to think about, things that have nothing to do with you." "If you don't want to talk about personal matters, that's fine," He kept his eyes on the highway. "Right now, I don't think I do, either. But we've got a job to do, together, apparently, and we can't do that if we're taking shots at each other. This investigation is not going to happen if we're not talking." "Okay, Mulder," she said, but her self-control, once again, was failing her. She wheeled around. "Let's talk. Let's talk about a lot of things, such as how you got to decide to end our partnership, all by yourself, without any input from me." Tears were forming in her eyes; angrily, she dashed them away. "Mulder, I begged you to stay; God, it kills me to think how badly I abased myself, and there was never any hope that you would listen to me, or to what I wanted. I don't know how you could do that to me." "I just wanted to be sure you were safe, and well," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road as though another glance from her might strike him dead. "I didn't want to humiliate you, and I sure as hell didn't want to be without you. I don't now." "Oh, really," she said, in disgust so strong that Mulder didn't have to look to know how the anger was flashing from her eyes. "Well, look at me, Mulder. Do I look like I'm well?" He didn't answer; he didn't move. "Mulder, damn you, look at me," she said, in a low voice. "That's the least you can do right now." He took a quick look over at her, and his head sagged for just a second before he forced his glance back to the road ahead. "You look unhappy," he said, finally. "But I'm not egotistical enough to think that's all because of me." "No, not all of it," she shot back, "but enough to make me very unsure about wanting to work with you again." That hurt him. She could see it. Part of her wanted to comfort him, take the hurt away, but the other part of her -- the part that was running things -- thought he hadn't had nearly enough yet. "Would you like to know what I've been doing, Mulder?" she asked, her eyes glittering. "I'm working in VICAP. Of course, everyone there calls me Mrs. Spooky, even my supervisor, SSA Rolfe, who despises me because he despised you first. I have no social life; my friends all vanished ages ago, because there was never room in my life for you and them, too, and I chose you. In short, Agent Mulder, you've taken away everything I ever had and I have never been so unhappy in my life." She practically spat the last words at him. "Did Mike Rolfe really call you that?" Mulder asked, incredulously. For a moment the only sound was Scully's fingernails tapping on the stiff vinyl of the armrest. "It's always got to be about you, doesn't it, Mulder?" she said, coldly. "Forget everything else I said. The only thing you seem to care about is whether anyone's calling me Mrs. Spooky, because that reflects badly on you, doesn't it? Well, what anyone thinks about you is the least of my worries." "Well, you seemed to take it as a pretty big insult," he began, but she interrupted him. "Look," she said. "The question is not what anyone calls me. It's whether I even have a career left. But if it's okay with you, I would rather not talk about it right now." "No, it's not okay," he said, impatiently. "You've made it very clear that you wish I'd never showed up, and if that's the way it is, then that's the way it is. But unless you're planning to turn in your badge right now, we have to work this case together, like it or not." "I don't like it," she snapped. "If you'd wanted me to work with you, if you'd asked me to, that would have been different, but you didn't. This wasn't your idea, Mulder; you were shocked out of your mind to see me. Tell me something: If you had known I was on this case, would you have accepted the assignment?" "Don't ask me that," he said, irritably. "It's an unanswerable question." "Is it?" she said. "Would you like to hear another unanswerable question? How is it that you were so concerned for my welfare that you just had to go away to protect me, yet you never once even called or e-mailed or wrote to me even to ask if I was still alive? I mean, not even on my birthday. I waited by the phone all day long, thinking that maybe that day, at least, you'd call me. I almost missed my own birthday dinner at my mom's, because I was so sure you were going to call. But you didn't." He said nothing. "You didn't even remember it, did you?" she said, bitterly. "You were -- busy with something else, I suppose." He couldn't answer. She was right -- he had forgotten her birthday, or had deliberately put it out of his mind. But admitting it to her wouldn't help things one bit. And even if he had remembered, he wouldn't have called. She knew that already. "Mulder, say something," she said, hating the anger in her voice but feeling it rise anyway. "Tell me you didn't know how miserable I've been ever since the day you told me you were going." "I didn't." "You're a liar." That got to him. "I'm what?" he said. "I'm not sure I heard you right." "A liar," she said, and her eyes were colder than he could ever have imagined they could be. "You heard me, all right. You know me better than anyone on earth. And you know that since you've been gone I have been absolutely, positively, fucking miserable!" She was shouting obscenities at him. My God, he thought, bewildered, how did this get so bad? "Mulder, even tonight, with Glassman, everything I said, everything I tried to contribute to this case, meant nothing," she said, her voice shaking with fury. "No one listens to me. No one respects anything I have to say, because they know I used to look for little green men and Mexican goat-suckers, and I don't have the Oxford education and the Y chromosome required to overcome that disability. So you show up, and you tell Glassman I'm right, and that's supposed to make everything okay? No. I don't want that kind of help, from you or from anyone. I don't want to be Mrs. Spooky. I want to be something more than just a meaningless joke." Absolute quiet. "Don't you have anything to say to me?" she said, practically hissing, but tears were welling up in her eyes. "Anything at all?" "I'm not a liar, Scully," he said, and she saw that his eyes, for the first time that night, were flat and joyless. "You're not?" "No. What I am is a coward." "Or maybe just a fucking lunatic," she snapped. "Maybe you're just going mental on me, Mulder." The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she realized what she'd done. She knew how the conspirators' carefully constructed lies and deceptions had tormented him to the point that he sometimes doubted his own sanity; she knew because he'd told her, he'd trusted her with that secret knowledge. And now she was mocking him for it, using her access to his most private self to hurt him. No matter what he'd said or done, that was still way below the belt, and she knew it. And so did he. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, with a sharp glance at her. "Nothing," she said, shaking her head in frustration. "It means nothing. I'm sorry I said it. Forget it, okay?" "Like hell," he said, and now his voice was shaking. "That's a goddamn low blow, Scully. If you're angry, fine, but for Christ's sake, stop mindfucking me, all right?" The tires were squealing; he was turning into the hotel parking lot, driving too fast, slamming his foot on the brake pedal with such force that she could smell the burning rubber from the tires. She remembered this; it was the way he drove when he was furiously angry. And when Mulder got this angry, this hurt, he didn't stay around to finish it; he just took off. The thought made her go cold with fear and apprehension. He was pulling up under the canopy now, stopping the car. He said nothing, but the message was plain: Here's where you get out. "Don't," she said, and her voice trembled. "Don't, Mulder." "Don't what?" he said, still angry. "Don't talk to you? Don't take you to your hotel? Don't leave, so you can take a few more cheap shots at me? You've been screaming at me for the last 15 minutes, and as best I can recall, I haven't said one goddamn thing to provoke it. So just what exactly is it you don't want me to do, Scully?" "Don't just stop here and drop me off," she said, and she was shaking so badly now that he could barely understand her. "Park the car, Mulder. Please. Don't leave me here." For a moment she thought he would refuse, would order her out of the car and drive away, but he didn't. Without a word, he restarted the engine and drove the 20 feet or so to a parking place on the side of the hotel and stopped. "All right, I'm parked," he said, twisting his head around to face her. "Now what?" She drew in her breath slowly, let it out. She waited until she was sure she could speak without bursting into tears. "I'm -- Mulder, I have to apologize," she said, just above a whisper. "I shouldn't have said what I did. I never meant to ... to lose my temper. I realize that we have to be professional about this." He watched her cautiously, but the anger was fading from his eyes, his profiling expression taking over. He was reading her, getting into her head, something she was reasonably sure he'd never done before, not seriously; not with her. She didn't think she liked it, though. Not one bit. "I don't think," he said, slowly, "that there will be a problem about working together, if that's what you want. I still trust your judgment, Scully." "That's kind of you," Scully said, but she couldn't make it sound as cool and aloof as she wanted; any minute now she was going to start crying. Damn it, Dana, she thought. Get control of yourself. This is not the face you want to show him right now. Be strong, for God's sake. She turned her face from him. "Mulder, you can rely on me to do whatever needs to be done here, because I am quite anxious to wrap it up as fast as possible. I thought all I had to do was to verify the evidence that would let us assert jurisdiction on this case and get back to Quantico as soon as possible." "Then why are you still here?" he asked, speaking more quietly now. "I thought you already decided this was federal jurisdiction." "I'm only here because I have to be," she said. "Those were my new orders, as of this evening: stay here and assist the profiler -- you -- by analyzing the available physical evidence." "I can't think of anyone I'd rather have doing that," Mulder said, and his voice was still level. "But is that the only reason you're staying?" "What other reason could I have?" she asked, and was infuriated to hear her voice breaking. "I was ordered to be here, so I'm here." "But ... ?" "But nothing. It's my job." She swallowed hard, tried to slow her breathing, but her self-control was eroding rapidly. She blinked hard, hoping he wouldn't see the tears that were starting to spill down her cheeks. "Mulder, I'll try to work with you," she said, in a choked voice. "I will. But I honestly can't bring myself to care whether we succeed here or not." Mulder saw the tears, but resisted the impulse to wipe them away. Once, she wouldn't have been ashamed to cry in front of him, or even in his arms, but that time was gone forever, he thought. If he couldn't change that, he could at least try to pretend he hadn't noticed. He stayed where he was and kept silent. "Mulder, I'm sorry," she said, struggling to keep her voice even, and failing utterly. "But I think you can see that I'm really not the partner you need right now." "I don't believe that, Scully," he said. "You have every right to be angry at me, but I'll never believe that we can't work together." "No," she said. She kept her eyes fixed on the darkness outside. "I can't," she said, crying openly now. "I just can't. I'm not who I was, Mulder. I don't have the emotional balance to do what you need. I hate the very thought of being in the field right now." "It's nobody's idea of fun," he said. "Especially not this kind of case." "I used to be able to do it," she said, still crying, shrinking away from him. "I used to be able to do a lot of things. Now, I'm being completely unprofessional." "You've never been unprofessional in your entire life," he said. "And I can tell that things have been bad for you lately." "Not bad enough for me to scream at you that way," she said, a little more calmly, but her voice was still thick and she was sniffling between words like a frightened little girl. "It's a natural reaction," he said. She tensed again, but relaxed slightly when she realized that Mulder wasn't in profiler mode right now. He was just trying to be conciliatory. "Maybe it's just a catharsis," he continued. "Like a parent who's worried sick, crying because their child is out late. When the kid gets home, the parents stop being worried and start getting angry." "Is that what you think happened to me?" "That, or something like it." "And why exactly would that be?" she asked, nettled again for reasons she couldn't understand. "You think I was worried sick about you and now I'm angry?" But Mulder wasn't taking the bait. "I don't know," he said, thoughtfully. "I don't know what's happened, or why you're working VICAP with that little toad, but I do know that I have never seen you so frightened and defeated. I never would have believed it could happen." She had almost smiled at the "little toad" remark, but the smile had faded fast at the word "defeated." I am not defeated, she thought. Am I? "Yes," he said, gently, and she knew he had read her again. "Scully, I don't know what's wrong, although I can guess at some of it. Later, if you feel okay about it, maybe you'll tell me. But right now, you're beaten. You won't even fight back. You're terrified of something, Dana, and I think, somehow, that it's my fault." Dana, she thought dully. He called me Dana. That means I need to pay attention. Doesn't it? She shook her head. "It's not your fault," she said, tonelessly. "Glassman is a toad, and I hate VICAP, but I'm there because I asked to be." She looked at him again. "Whatever is wrong in my life is my fault, Mulder, not yours." "I wish I thought so," he said, with a wistful smile. "But this isn't the time to delve into the power of the forces arrayed against you. You're tired, and you need to sleep." I'm not tired, Mulder, she thought. I'm exhausted. A little room service, a hot shower, change into my pajamas, try to sleep ... and pray I don't scream loudly enough for anyone to hear tonight when the dreams start. She shuddered at the thought. "Scully?" he said, "Do you want to go in?" She nodded. "Let's go." They got out of the car, and Mulder walked around to the back, popped the trunk and reached in for his luggage. And then she remembered. "Oh, damn," she said, putting one hand to her forehead. "What is it?" Mulder asked. "My luggage." She dropped her hand to her side, disgusted. "It's in the rental car, and Glassman's driving it. I don't have anything to sleep in." "Don't worry about it," he said, shrugging. "I'll get your stuff from Glassman when he gets here." She shook her head. "He stays out until the wee small hours when he's in the field. Anyway, he'd want to bring it to me, and I don't want him in my room. Let's not fight that fight tonight," she said, as Mulder started to speak. "Tomorrow is soon enough for that. But I would appreciate it if you have an extra shirt you could lend me." He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Yeah, I think I can do that," he said. "Hang on a second." He reached into his overnight bag, took out a New York Knicks T-shirt that she remembered well. "This ought to work," he said, holding it out to her. "Or do the Knicks offend your sensibilities, Agent Scully?" She shook her head, took the shirt. "Not as long as the Spurs can still open a really fine can of kick-ass on them, Agent Mulder," she said. He stared at her for a minute, looking wounded. "God, Scully," he murmured. "That really was cruel. You shouldn't mock the afflicted." And to her surprise, she laughed. How long had it been since they had laughed together? And how long since she'd seen that soft smile on his face, the smile that said he was pleased to have made her happy? It seemed like forever. "Come on," he said, and for the first time that night she heard a trace of affection in his voice. "I'll walk you to your room." She looked toward the lobby entrance and shook her head. "Let's go in the back way, all right?" "Sure," he said. He knew what was up. She didn't want to walk through the lobby looking the way she did, her eyes red, all the makeup washed from her face. That he actually liked her without makeup, liked the sprinkling of freckles on her nose and her cheeks, he prudently kept to himself. They walked around to the poolside entrance to the hotel. She kept her face averted from him as they rode up in the elevator, silently, but the silence wasn't as painful now as it had been earlier. If they weren't back to being friends yet, he thought, they were well on the way to being partners again. Temporarily, he reminded himself. That hadn't changed, couldn't change as long as the danger to her continued. They found Scully's room and Mulder set his bag down, took the keycards from his pocket, unlocked and opened the door and handed her both keys. "Thanks," she said, still not looking at him. "Sure," he said, quietly, picking up the bag again. "See you in the morning." He turned to open his own door, and Scully watched him covertly, remembering all the times they'd gone through this same routine when they were partners, when they parted for the evening. Well -- that was stretching it, because they seldom stayed apart for long. Most of the time, they'd wind up in one room or the other, talking things over, sometimes briefly, sometimes far into the night. It had been so easy to be with him like that, even when the discussions sometimes got heated, because underlying it all had been his reliance on her, his trust, and, in time, a tender affection that they both treasured and refused to acknowledge. That affection was still there now, no matter what else had happened, no matter how harshly she'd treated him tonight. It was in his eyes, and in his voice; it was even in the way he opened her door. No. She couldn't let him go yet, not without smoothing things over. She tossed the T-shirt onto the nearest bed and turned back toward him. "Mulder?" she said, as calmly as she could, hoping to return the ordinariness to this once-familiar moment. He turned to face her; their eyes met and locked, and Scully felt her breath catch in her lungs. All his loneliness, his longing for her, his unwavering love, was there in the depths of his eyes, as plainly as though he had spoken them ... ... and Scully, who only meant to say something simple, something that would let him know they were still friends, found herself flying into his arms, reaching for him with a desperation she hadn't known was in her. She heard the distant sound as his luggage hit the floor and his arms went around her. He rested his head on her shoulder, bending low, and she sighed softly, his name a bare whisper on her lips. He held her tightly, his arms pulling her close, but he was trembling against her and not, she knew, from passion. She remembered this feel of his body against hers, knew it from long ago: He needed comfort, and he needed it desperately. She laid her hand gently on the back of his neck, enfolding him in her embrace, smoothing his hair. She felt his lips against her throat, his mouth searching her flesh, softly, hesitantly, for the absolution that she had refused to grant him -- until now. So gentle, so innocent was this touch, but it shattered her; she was undone by the knowledge of her own heartlessness, of how badly her anger had hurt him, how much her forgiveness meant to him, how great was the power he had given her over him. Moved beyond all reason, she kissed his cheek, tenderly, and he turned toward her, his mouth seeking hers. Their lips met, softly at first, then harder, more deeply, opening to each other with a passion that left her breathless. She felt giddy, drunk on the naked hunger in his kiss. She had been alone, emotionally isolated for so long ... what he was awakening in her now was nothing less than overwhelming. Trembling, she pulled back, nestling her head almost shyly into the curve of his shoulder. Once again, he understood even those things that she couldn't say. He was holding her more lightly now, smoothing her hair, dropping gentle kisses on her forehead. She relaxed into his embrace, feeling some of the weighty burden of her long solitude lift from her heart. "I lied, Mulder," she whispered. "You did?" he said, and his voice was unsteady. "About what?" "When I said I wasn't sure whether I was glad to see you or not," she said. She slid her arms under his coat, wrapped them around his waist and held him to her tightly. "I am glad. I really am glad you're here." "Are you?" "Yes," she whispered. "I missed you so much. Sometimes I thought I could die from missing you." "I've missed you, too," he said. "More than you'll ever know." He kissed her again, softly, and let her go. "We'd better call it a night, Scully," he said, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. "That Neanderthal partner of yours could be here any second and I have a feeling he'd kill to be able to spread this story around." "I know he would," she said with a nervous laugh as she turned away. "He's quite interested in our history." "And not, I take it, in the history of paranormal phenomena?" he said, shaking his head in mock dismay. "You should just tell him the truth and disappoint the hell out of him." "Maybe," she said, softly. She reached for the doorknob, then stopped. "Mulder?" she said, not looking at him. "Yeah?" "He's not my partner," she said, quietly, looking back over her shoulder at him. "He's not?" Mulder said, softly. "No," Scully said. She turned around to face him. "You're my partner, Mulder. My only real partner, anyway." And there it was. Without knowing it, she had put the decision before him: to let her back into his life with all the risks attendant on that, or to shut her out, send her away, for her own safety. But there was a look in her eyes that hadn't been there when he arrived. It was a look of peace, but a fragile peace, easily lost, a peace that, he thought, might well leave her when he did. Her strength was nearly gone, and he still didn't entirely know why. But she needed him. He knew that. There really wasn't anything else to say. He would just have to deal with the consequences later. "You're the only partner I ever want, too, Scully," he said, reaching for her again to smooth the soft red hair. "There's never going to be anyone better than you ... or that I want to be with more." She sighed, and came back to his arms, nestling against him. "I'm glad," she whispered. For a long time, they stood that way, until Mulder reluctantly broke the spell. "Scully," he said, holding her closely, "I could happily stay here and hold you all night, but you really need to sleep. I can still tell when you're tired, you know." "I know," she said. "But not yet. Too much is happening. It all still seems so unreal. I want to stay with you a little longer." "It's almost midnight," he reminded her. "And you won't even think about sleeping for at least two hours, unless you've changed more than I think you have," she said, looking up at him. "Come on in my room for a few minutes." "Scully, I don't know ..." he began, but she stopped him. "Just for a few minutes," she said. "I ought to get to spend at least as much time being nice to you as I did yelling at you." That made him laugh. "All right," he said, still smiling, "but don't make me regret this." "Not a chance," she said, smiling back. Mulder opened the door and held it for her, followed her inside, setting his bag down just inside the door. The air in the room was close, and he took off his jacket, loosened his tie, then sat in one of the room's two chairs. Scully sat on the edge of one of the beds. "So tell me what you've been doing since I saw you last," she said. "Chasing down Eric Rudolph, with no success whatsoever," he said. "One of the clinics he bombed was in Birmingham, if you remember." "I remember," she said. "I also remember that the Centabom task force hasn't exactly covered itself with glory searching for him." "That hurts," he said, but he was smiling. "Look how long the Unabom team took to find their guy, and then when they did it was because his brother turned him in. Anyway, we know who we're looking for; we just don't know where." "He'll turn up eventually," she said, shrugging. "At least he hasn't bombed anyone lately. So what else occupies your time?" "Doing background checks, searching through huge piles of manure ... " "Yeah, but with that much manure, there's gotta be a pony in there somewhere," she said, smiling. It was an old joke between them, and he laughed, remembering. "Not in these piles, there's not," he said, shaking his head, but still smiling. "There's nothing much more than a bunch of dirt-poor Alabama farmers trying to hang on in a rapidly urbanizing rural environment." "So they're growing cotton with ammonium nitrate?" she said. "Or are they really building bombs?" "Rudolph is building bombs." He put his hands behind his head, leaned back comfortably. "Nobody else is that I know of." "Odd, that you'd wind up on the Centabom team and I'd wind up on VICAP," she said, kicking her shoes off and tucking her legs under her. "How exactly did that happen, Scully?" he asked. "I'm curious." "I knew that before I met you," she said, smiling, then grew serious. "I asked Skinner to move me. I went back to the bullpen for exactly five minutes, just long enough to look under my coffee cup ... " "Ahh." "Indeed." Her voice grew softer. "I liked the note. It was ... a great comfort to me, sometimes." "Just sometimes?" he said, playfully. "I thought I'd done better than that." She shook her head. "There were times when ... nothing worked." She stretched out on the bed, propping her head up on one arm. "I did all right most of the time, though." "But not all the time," he said, the smile fading. "No." "I'm sorry," he said, quietly. "You said that already." "I still mean it." "I know you do," she said. "But let's not dwell on unpleasant subjects." "Okay," he said. He thought for a moment. "Where's your brother?" "Bill? I told you -- I don't know." "Classified operation?" "Probably," she said, trying to appear unconcerned. "They canceled his leave right after Christmas. He shipped out the same day. We haven't heard much from him since. I don't know where he is, except that his orders apparently came from COMSURFLANT." "I was never real good at Navy acronyms," he said, leaning forward again. "Who or what is COMSURFLANT?" "Commander of the Surface Fleet in the Atlantic," she said. "Presumably, Bill's on a ship patrolling somewhere in the Atlantic." "Was there some crisis?" Mulder asked. "None that I'm aware of," Scully said. "Mulder, you're not asking me what you really want to know about Bill, are you?" "Am I that transparent?" he said, smiling faintly. "To me, you are," she said. She sat up, swinging her legs off the end of the bed. "Bill and I got into a huge argument after you left. He said some things about you, and about me, that I didn't care for, and I ... hit him." "You hit your brother?" Mulder said, incredulously. "Scully, that makes me feel like shit." "It wasn't your fault," she said, but the animation that had been in her voice was leaving. "Whatever happened between my brother and me is between us, Mulder. It doesn't have anything to do with you." "That wasn't what I heard when I was at your mother's house." "It's true, though," she said. "Bill's too much of a Navy man, too much of a big brother. He's always been that way. He can't help wanting to interfere in my life and fix things to suit him." "Well," Mulder said, lacing his hands together in his lap. "I fixed one of them for him. I got your sorry-assed partner out of your life." "Yes, you did," she said, a little coolly, he thought, and he winced. Good going, Mulder, you just reopened the argument. Smart boy. Real smart. Scully saw his expression change. "Relax, Mulder, I'm not going to lecture you -- now," she said, but there was none of the humor with which she would once have said it. "I'm doing all right running my life by myself now, not that either of you gave me much choice." "No, I don't suppose we did," he said, quietly. "But if you're happy ... " "I'm fine," she said, then her mouth snapped shut. She wasn't going to say any more. "I think you were right, Mulder," she went on. "We need to avoid unpleasant topics for a while." "So what does that leave us to talk about?" She shrugged. "The UNSUB?" "I don't consider that pleasant at all," he said, grimly. "What's the problem?" she asked. "This killer is brutal, but not particularly gruesome. We've both seen worse." "The problem is that I have to profile him," Mulder said. "Now. That's why I'm here." "Now?" "Now. For reasons I cannot fathom, AD Skinner has sent me here because someone here wants a profile of this UNSUB prepared and given to the local police right away." "That doesn't make sense," Scully said, frowning. "Normally, if you were in BSU, you'd go to Quantico and do your profile there, keep it on file until all the other leads had failed." "Indeed." "So why is Skinner involved?" she asked, puzzled. "I don't know, Scully, but it's not a good sign," he said. He leaned forward. "There's got to be some heavy political pull going on for this case to get two VICAP agents and a has-been behavioral profiler assigned to it this quickly." "Has-been, my foot," she said, trying to smile. "You're the best, Mulder. I always knew you were good, but I didn't know how good until I got to VICAP. I've gotten to know some good profilers, but you're better. You really are." "Scully, you're making me blush," he said, as though he were joking, but she really was making him uncomfortable. It wasn't like her to be so open with praise, for him or for anyone else. "But I mean it." She smiled again, then rose, walked over to him and sat on the arm of the chair. Mulder put his arm around her waist, tentatively at first, then more tightly as he felt sure that she welcomed his touch. She bent over him, kissing him tenderly, but she was still shaky, he thought, still probably needing to connect emotionally more than physically. He let her set the pace, kept the kiss gentle, until he was certain she wanted more. Slowly, she slid down until she was sitting in his lap. She felt his arms going around her, calming her, encircling her with his strength, and she broke the kiss, closed her eyes and lay against him as quietly as a child. She breathed deeply, reveling in the scent that had once been so much a part of her world she hadn't been conscious of it, the familiar scent that was Mulder's alone: a heady mixture of crisp aftershave, the light, slightly sweet smell of starched linen, the faintest trace of gun oil and leather and under it all the deep, primal essence of the human male. The warmth of his arms, his scent, the steady beating of his heart all combined to soothe Scully's ragged nerves, and she stretched and sighed and nuzzled against him like a satisfied cat. "I told you," she murmured, "you're the only one I want to work with. That's not entirely for personal reasons, either." "Then I'm glad I'm here, even if some political prick did swing it," he said, in a low voice, holding her tighter. "But, Dana ... " He hesitated. He hadn't meant to ask, certainly not now, but the question had haunted him since their parting in December. "But, Dana, what?" she asked in a soft voice. "Well -- is any of it personal?" "Just exactly what do you mean, Agent Mulder?" she said, gravely, but there was a hint of a twinkle in her eye. "I mean ... shit." He shook his head in annoyance, then took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I just wanted to know ... if you still love me." There was a brief silence, and he thought his heart would stop; then he felt her lips press against his throat in a warm, lingering kiss. "I still love you, Fox," she whispered in his ear. "I'll always love you." Hearing his first name from her startled him, and he glanced at her quickly to see whether she was teasing him, but she wasn't; she was just lying there, with a soft smile on her lips that he hadn't seen before. I could get used to hearing my name in that voice, he thought. I really could. He turned his head to hers, and she met him in a soft kiss that swiftly became intense. His hands began to move over her back and shoulders, and she shifted slightly, giving him more room, letting him in. She felt his tongue glide slowly just between her lips -- no further -- then withdraw. He's tasting me, she thought. The idea made her shiver deliciously. I'd like to taste him, too. Slowly, she unbuttoned his collar, slid the knot on his tie even further down and pressed her lips against the pulse that beat so strongly at the base of his throat. She nibbled at it gently, then moved upward, her tongue darting out, taking in the faintly salty taste of his skin, suckling at his ear lobe. She heard him draw in his breath, felt his muscles tensing. This was arousing him -- and her -- more than she would have believed possible. He was breathing deeply, his hands moving slowly up and down her body, but just short of the places she really wanted him to touch. "Scully," he said, tightly. "If you want to stop, we'd better stop now." "I don't want to stop," she whispered, her lips against his ear. "I want you to touch me. Please, Mulder ... please touch me." His response was instantaneous; she heard his breathing quicken, felt his grip on her tighten, felt his erection pressing firmly against her leg. He kissed her again, harder than before, drawing her deeper into him, then released her, only to trail hot, wet kisses down her throat, making her shiver with anticipation. Slowly, sensuously, he pulled her blouse loose from the waistband of her trousers and slid one hand under the silky fabric, over the soft lace of her bra, finding and releasing the clasp in one expert motion. No fumbling around, she thought distantly as his hand closed over her breast, his fingers brushing over her nipple and the soft pink skin that surrounded it. Oh, God, Mulder, you are good at this. He was using his free hand to undo the rest of the buttons, part the front of her blouse, leaving her uncovered to his touch. She watched, mesmerized, as he lowered his head to her, took her into his mouth. The universe whirled and tilted around her as she felt the unearthly pleasure of his lips and tongue on her breast, the rhythmic pull on her nipple, his teeth gently touching her, intensifying the sweetness, not hurting her at all. She closed her eyes, threw back her head and gave herself over to the sensations. Her hands slid into his hair, holding him closer to her, and she arched her back, pressing against him, as the pleasure he was giving her grew almost past bearing. Her fingers moved slowly over his face, memorizing again its familiar contours, so beloved and so desperately longed for during the lonely winter. I do love you, she thought, and I'm so, so sorry that I forgot that. She heard a low moaning sound, and realized it was coming from her own throat. She was calling his name, breathing wordless sounds that she could never remember making before, and he was responding, suckling more urgently, his hand moving over her other breast. His touch was perfect, it was absolutely sensual and she was drowning, losing herself in the warm, moist tugging sensations of his mouth ... And then -- with no warning at all -- it became horrible. She couldn't see him anymore, couldn't even feel him. Everything was darkness, and she felt the cold hands on her body again, grasping at her, pawing at her, and she began to struggle, trying desperately to free herself from the faceless man of her nightmares. His hands were dead, and he was dead and she was dying and everything was sour, damp earth, and cold water, and darkness, and death. "Let me go!" she cried, pushing at him violently with her hands, struggling to get free. She felt the hands fall from her body as she stumbled blindly to her feet and looked down ... And there was Mulder again, staring at her in shock, his face frozen in a mixture of guilt and confusion that she could never in her worst nightmares have imagined causing him in this moment. "I'm sorry," he said, utterly bewildered by the sudden turn of events. "I ... shouldn't have done that." He stood up, quickly, grabbing his coat, and started toward the door. Scully stood there, shivering, watching him go. "Mulder," she called, sick with shame. "I didn't mean that ... Mulder, please don't leave me." "Scully, I ... " he began, turning around, but she cut him off. "Mulder, it wasn't you," she said, desperately. "You didn't do anything wrong. I asked you to, remember? I wanted it every bit as much as you did." "Apparently not," he said. He still wouldn't look at her. She wanted to cry, do something to show him how sorry she was, but all she could do was stand there. "Yes, I did," she said. She was shivering furiously now, whether from shock or from the air moving over her naked, wet skin, she couldn't tell. She pulled the blouse closed, holding it with one hand. "I told you I wanted you, and I did. I do. I don't know what happened. I just -- started remembering things." Mulder's face went nearly white, but in his eyes, past all the shock and hurt, she saw a dawning comprehension. "Remembering what?" he asked, in a tight voice. "Being under that house, tied up, bleeding, drowning in the mud," she said, slowly. What was that look on his face? "Are you sure that's all you remember?" "Yes. Mulder, you're frightening me," she said. "What else is there to remember?" "Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing, really." "That's not true," she said. She took a step toward him. "I know you too well to believe that." "No," he said, turning away again. "Really, there's nothing. I just ... well, I sure as hell wasn't expecting things to go like this." "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I really am. I don't know why that happens. But it does." He turned around again at that, looked at her so intently that she knew, was absolutely certain, that there was something else he could have said. But he didn't. "Mulder, please talk to me," she said. "Please." "I'm sorry," he said, at last. "I don't think I should stay. I think I just ... went too far, or too fast, or something." "No, you didn't," she said, softly, and she walked over to him, laid her hand gently on his arm. "I wanted it -- I want you -- more than I've ever wanted anything in my life." "Then maybe tonight is just not the right time," he said, slowly. "Why not?" she asked, desperately. "Why won't you stay?" "Because you're tired, and so am I, and we're both overwrought," he said, quietly. "I want to be with you, but I don't want it to be like this. You're afraid. You're more than afraid, you're terrified. That means we have to stop, Dana." He was right, and she knew it, but there was an undercurrent, an almost electric thrill running through her veins, a powerful sensation of being alive, ready to act, ready to feel ... she hadn't felt anything even close to that in ages. But that energy, that sense of life, came with a price; already, she could sense it. Something huge and evil was feeding off that reborn awareness, growing into a thing of dread that could swallow her alive if it wished. I used to feel so safe in your arms, she thought, and she shivered again. What's gone wrong? And just what is it that you won't say to me? That will have to wait. Right now, I have to try to repair the damage. Again. "Not tonight, then," she conceded, her head bent in shame. "But don't leave me like this, Mulder, please." "I don't know what else to do," he said, quietly. "You could ... ," she began, then shook her head. "I just need you to hold me for a minute." She raised her eyes to his again. "Do you think you could do that?" He looked at her intently, searching for something else behind her words, but apparently not finding it. "Yeah," he said, finally. "I think I need that, too." She put one hand on his chest, leaned her head against him, and he gently put one arm around her. "Mulder?" she whispered. "What?" he said, very low. "Do you ... still love me?" He didn't answer right away, and Scully felt a jab of fear, fear that he might say no, or worse, try to let her down easy. But then he sighed, and kissed her forehead gently. "I still love you," he said, holding her closer. "That's not going to change, no matter what. Something's wrong, but it's not that. Not ever." Sighing, she relaxed against him. They stood that way for moment longer, then she moved away, slowly, regretfully. "I'll see you in the morning," she said, softly, not looking at him. "I'll bring your luggage when Glassman gets in," he said. "You can leave the connecting door unlocked. He won't be coming through it." "But you won't either, will you?" she said, sadly, looking up. "No," he said, but he touched her face as he said it. His smile was genuine, but sad, so sad. It hurt her to see it. "Not tonight. Go to sleep, Dana. I'll see you in the morning." He bent over, kissed her quickly, then he picked up his luggage and was gone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things To yield with a grace to reason And bow and accept at the end Of a love or a season. "Reluctance" -- Robert Frost Chapter 9 Daphne Municipal Building Tuesday, March 2 8:14 a.m. "What the hell is all this?" Glassman said, staring around their temporary office at the gory 8x10 blowups of crime scene photographs, autopsy photos and photos of the slugs removed from the bodies. Every available vertical surface was plastered with them. In the midst of all that was Mulder, sitting in a swivel chair, feet up on the folding table that, it seemed, would serve as his desk. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and he had his glasses on, looking over Scully's notes. He seemed completely unaware of Glassman's presence. "He doesn't hear you," Scully said from behind the blackboard divider. "What do you mean, he doesn't hear me?" "Glassman," she said, "you've worked with profilers for years. You know how this goes. He's not listening." She walked into the center of the room, lifting safety goggles from her eyes with a latex-gloved hand. "Mulder," she said, not too loudly, but he jumped anyway. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to startle you. Mulder, Agent Glassman's here." "Mmm?" Mulder's gaze seemed to indicate that he wasn't sure who Scully was talking about. "Oh. Glassman. Hope I didn't wake you this morning." "At 4 a.m.? Fuck, yes, you woke me," Glassman said, irritably. "Do you always get up that early?" "Most of the time," Mulder said, absently, looking back at the note cards. "Sorry about the going through your pockets thing, but I needed your keys. Had to get Scully's stuff out of your car." "Ask me next time," Glassman grumbled. "And ask me before you hang that crap all over the walls next time, too." "If there is a next time, I'll be sure to do that," Mulder said. "Scully, these witness descriptions of a black male. Did anyone get an ID?" "Not that I know of," she said, looking over his shoulder. "Why? Do you think that's your UNSUB?" "I don't know yet," he replied. "It may just be a loose end, but I don't like loose ends. Is Officer Mack our liaison?" "Yeah," she said, pulling the gloves off, dropping them into a red plastic biohazard container. "I'll get him." "Get me a doughnut, too, if there's any left." "I'm not your waiter, Mulder," she said, airily, walking from the room. Bitch, Glassman thought. Although he had to admit, she was looking pretty fuckable this morning. Same dumpy suit as always, hair pulled back severely like she did when she was doing lab work, but she had a little more wiggle in her walk today. He grinned. Had to get her stuff, huh? You got some of that last night, didn't you, Mulder? Then he realized Mulder was watching him ogle Scully's rear. "Something wrong, Glassman?" he asked, mildly. "Or are you about ready to start filling out the VICAP surveys on these cases?" "Since when is that my job, Mulder?" Glassman said, irritated. "It takes for- fucking-ever to fill those damn things out." "Then you'd better get started, hadn't you," Mulder said, turning back to the note cards just as Scully returned with Mack in tow. She had a paper napkin in her hand, and there were two doughnuts on it. "Last ones," she said. "Get 'em while they're hot." Mulder smiled, took one doughnut. "Thanks, Scully," he said. Scully perched herself on the table, facing Mulder, sitting so close that her leg brushed against his. She picked up the remaining doughnut and took a bite. Only then did she look in Glassman's direction. "Oh, sorry, Glassman," she said, casually, brushing the crumbled sugar glaze from her lips. "Hope you had breakfast already." "Yeah, that's pretty fucking funny, Scully," Glassman snarled. "Would've been nice if whoever brought the doughnuts had brought a few more for the rest of us." "Sorry," Mulder said, abstractedly. "There were plenty a couple of hours ago." "You brought 'em?" "Of course," Mulder said. "Unwritten rule: The Feds have to bring the doughnuts. Right, Mack?" Mack grinned. "Right. We figure since y'all make so much money --" Mulder snorted at that, but didn't interrupt "-- the least y'all can do is bring a couple dozen Krispy Kremes in the mornin'." "I learned about this hallowed tradition while I was in BSU," Mulder said, as he finished his doughnut and resumed shuffling through the photos. "We had this cooperative group that designed neighborhood watch plans for the folks in Baltimore. Had to bring doughnuts for half the Baltimore PD. Hey, Scully, your mom lives in Baltimore; have you ever seen those guys eat?" "Never had the pleasure," she said. "But I can imagine the doughnuts constituted a considerable expense." Glassman snorted, seating himself at the table as far from Mulder as he could, but with a good line of sight to Scully's backside, and began reading the morning newspaper. "Now, come on," Mack was saying. "Everybody knows how much money the Fibbies got. You got all those nice toys to play with, stuff that gives me a real hard- on. Sorry, ma'am," he said turning to Scully. "It's all right, Mack," she said, amused. "I've been on the job for a few years now. I've heard it." "Shouldn't talk that way in front of a lady," he said, shaking his head. "My mama taught me better. But anyway, we 'preciate the doughnuts. And I just love to play with the toys, 'specially the soft music." That got Mulder's attention, and he shot Mack a keen glance. "Not bad," he said, impressed. "What's soft music?" Scully asked, intrigued. "I haven't heard that expression before." "The term refers to your favorite long gun, and mine, the standard Bureau issue H&K MP-5," Mulder said. "When it's got a silencer attached, it's called soft music -- but only by SWAT officers. I believe Officer Mack here may have had some additional training." "Oh, you know, a little bit here and there," Mack said. "But our team doesn't have any weapons anywhere near that good. Those things cost about five grand apiece. Hell, I bet you got two of 'em in your trunk, Agent Mulder." Mulder smiled, shook his head. "Just one," he said. "See?" Mack grinned. "That's why the Fibbies gotta bring the doughnuts." "I'm not sure I see your logic," Scully said, but she was smiling. Then she looked at her watch and sighed. "Time to get back to work. I need to extract a little more blood from these clothes before I can send the samples to Quantico for DNA analysis. But, Mulder, I'll be here if you need me." "I know you will," he said, with a note in his voice meant for her alone. "I wouldn't have it any other way." She smiled, quickly, fighting the impulse to kiss him, then walked behind the divider. All three men watched her go. So that's how it is, Mack thought. No wonder she was looking like a deer caught in the headlights when he walked in here last night. But I'd bet next month's pay they haven't done it yet. And I bet a year's pay they do before too much longer. "Mulder," he said aloud, shaking his head in admiration, "you are one lucky son of a bitch." Mulder laughed. "If you're talking about my partner, I'd have to agree with you," he said, and there was no mistaking his genuine respect for her. "She's the best there is. Otherwise, I'd have to disagree." He sat up, putting his feet on the floor, and leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Mack, we've got witnesses describing a black male at the crime scenes," he said. "Any ID on him?" Mack shook his head. "Not yet. We got two composites, but they don't look much like each other. Is he our suspect?" "I don't know," Mulder said. "Could be. But if we don't know who he is, we're not much further ahead. It just gives me a starting point." Mulder turned the chair around, slowly, looking over the gruesome photographs. "There's the art right there, Mack," he said, thoughtfully. "All we have to do now is find the artist." ~~~~~ Scully was in a good mood, and for a reason Glassman would never have considered, let alone believed: She was back at work, using her medical skills, concentrating on the job in a way she hadn't been able to do since December. And Mulder, she knew, was part of that. He made her feel like part of a team again, like a real doctor; like a real cop. She had spent most of the night awake, replaying everything from the minute she heard his voice until he had told her good night, and she still couldn't understand what had happened. Her terror of him, her rejection of his touch, the touch she had wanted so badly for so long, confused and frightened her. She'd always had problems responding sexually -- that was part of what she and Jack had broken up over -- but this was different. This wasn't just the Ice Queen, this was panic, sheer, unmitigated fright, and it had been directed at him, for no good reason that she could think of. She'd never had to fear him, not even when he had pointed a loaded gun at her head. What she had told her mother was still true: He could never hurt her. There was no reason for her to have behaved the way she did. But he had forgiven her, even seemed to understand why she had done it. They had met for breakfast just after dawn, without even having to discuss it. It was just what they had always done in the field. There were a few awkward moments, but nothing they couldn't overcome. Long before they were through eating, they were talking as easily as though nothing had ever gone wrong between them. Maybe it's because we're working together again. Or maybe it's because, after so many years, we've finally stopped pretending about what we feel for each other, and what we want. I think it's all of those things. But she couldn't escape the uneasy feeling that came from knowing that something had gone very badly wrong between them, and as much as she wanted to know what it was, she wanted even more not to. It seemed crazy, but there must be a logical explanation, she thought, and she would find it. She was working on it, just as painstakingly as she was working on extracting a killer's DNA from the late Wilhelm Nivek's shirt. The bloodstain was small, but the medical examiner had found possible defensive wounds on Nivek's body, and the blood spot's location on the sleeve gave her hope that it might be the shooter's blood. It was a long shot, but long shots were about all they had right now. Even a trace of identifiable DNA, matched to a suspect, could change a case from circumstantial to airtight. She poured a diluting solution over the torn, bloody shirt, laid it on a special blotting paper, taking care not to introduce any foreign substances that might confound the DNA tests. Even a few skin cells could wreak havoc. A few traces of Dana Scully's DNA, commingled with the shooter's and the victim's, could yield impossibly mixed results, turning the whole case into another O.J. Simpson trial. There could be no question of discarding such a botched test; by law, the defendant could learn the results. More important, if the results favored the defense's case, it was incumbent on the prosecutor to reveal them even if no one asked. She had to be careful, and no one could be more careful than Dana Scully when she made up her mind to be. She set a timer, monitoring precisely the length of time the solution would stay on the shirt. While she waited, she picked up the photographs of Nivek, the 18-year-old white victim. With a magnifying glass, she examined the shots meticulously, searching for anything she might have missed before. When she got to a close-up of Nivek's hand, she stopped. On the palmar surface of Nivek's fingers, she saw a series of small black lesions, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't using a magnifier. That's not a defensive wound, she thought. Can't be pigmentation, doesn't look like ecchymosis and it's not dependent livor, either. I ought to know what this is. But I'm not sure I've seen it before. The timer dinged, and Scully let the problem drop, going back to work on her DNA extraction. The mysterious markings continued to worry her, though. It can't have anything to do with the cause of death, she thought. It's like Mulder said, just a loose end. I don't like loose ends in a case any better than he does. I don't like them in my life, either. Scully sealed the DNA samples in the proper evidence envelopes, signed the flaps, logged in the sample numbers on her paperwork and put the whole bunch into an outer envelope addressed to the FBI lab at Quantico. It would go by mail, which would protect the chain of custody required to introduce the samples into evidence, should they turn anything up. Putting the envelope in her briefcase, Scully sat down again, began re-reading Nivek's autopsy report. The local medical examiner noted the lesions, venturing an opinion that they might be bruising caused by defensive actions. Whatever these were, they weren't defense wounds. Who did this autopsy, anyway? Scully searched through the remaining autopsy pictures, looking for another shot of Nivek's hands, and soon found one. The marks showed clearly. Scooping up the pictures, she walked out of her lab, taking her briefcase. Glassman was nowhere to be seen. Mulder was alone in the cramped office, leaning back, feet up, studying photographs with the detached expression she had come to know so well. "Mulder," she said, softly, crouching next to him, touching his arm lightly. "Mulder, I need to talk to you." "Hey, Scully," he said, still looking dazed. "What time is it?" "It's still early. I've finished the extraction and I've got to mail these samples to Quantico," she said. "I also need to find a medical library, do some research. Can I take your car?" "Sure," he said, reaching into his pocket, handing her the keys. "You got something?" "I don't know," she said. "I honestly don't know." ~~~~~ Mulder barely heard the door close as Scully left. His own thoughts were as seductive and entrapping as thick molasses to an insect, and he was both unwilling and unable to escape from them for long. Glassman was an ass, but he was right about one thing: The case didn't add up. There were multiple weapons. The victims were both black and white, a wide variety of ages, and almost nothing taken in crimes that looked like nothing else but armed robberies. This UNSUB. Who was he and why was he doing it? The longer Mulder looked at the police reports, the crime scene photographs, and the autopsy protocols, the less this looked like a string of armed robberies gone bad and more like out-and-out spree murders, joy killings. The style of killing was consistent: complete overkill. The victims hadn't put up much resistance, indicating fear or just a killer who moved too fast to allow them to resist. Only one victim appeared to have been making a serious attempt to escape; the rest were shot where they stood, presumably. If all this UNSUB wanted was money, he'd done far more than he had to to get it. One gunshot -- hell, the threat of a gunshot -- was usually enough for that. These victims had been shot repeatedly, viciously; in a couple of cases, he'd kept shooting even after they were dead. There was no sexual component to the murders, either, no evidence the UNSUB knew any of the victims, so revenge didn't seem likely, either. Other than the uncle and nephew in the first shooting, the victims didn't seem to have anything in common with each other beyond working in some retail business or another, and that pointed to opportunity, not motive. All right, Mulder, he thought. You've analyzed what should be the motive based on the crime scenario and that doesn't make sense. You've gone through all the other "logical" ones and you can't make one of them fit reasonably. This guy either has another motive that you don't see yet, or he's just plain whacko. Either way, asshole, unless you can tap into his thinking, you're stuck. ~~~~~ St. Catherine's Hospital Biomedical library 11:26 a.m. Getting into the library was easy, as Scully had known it would be. Her credentials opened the door for her, and within a few minutes of arriving she was seated in a study carrel, leafing through a textbook on skin diseases. The book held hundreds of color photographs, most of which she skimmed past, knowing they weren't what she was seeking. About 45 minutes into her search, she found it. A photograph showing virtually identical lesions on the hands of a New Zealand sheep rancher. "Oh, my God," Scully whispered, staring at the photograph in horror. The photograph illustrated the results of an infectious agent, active in the cutaneous form. The text noted that there were enteric and pneumonic forms as well. The pneumonic form, it said, was known as woolsorter's disease and was especially deadly, one of the deadliest diseases known to humankind. Anyone who worked in medicine was familiar with this virulent microbe. And virtually anyone who worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation knew its potential for use as a biological weapon of terror. There was no mistaking the lesions, and no mistaking the implications. Wilhelm Nivek had lived in Mobile and worked in a convenience store, a far distance from New Zealand, and unconnected with ranching of sheep, cattle or any natural carrier. Yet to all appearances, his fingers were infected with Bacillus anthracis. Anthrax. ~~~~~ Baldwin County Courthouse Office of the District Attorney 4:24 p.m. "Well, I don't know what I thought you FBI agents were planning to do here, but I sure wasn't expecting this." Scully smiled weakly. Barstow Miller, the district attorney, wasn't a bad guy, but it was difficult to get him to stick to the subject, which in this case was not the FBI itself but what this particular FBI agent needed from him. "Mr. Miller, I really need your help on this," Scully said, in her coolest, most professional tone. "I need an exhumation order for Wilhelm Nivek's body, and the sooner the better." "You really think he's got anthrax?" Miller asked. "We never had that around here before, but I guess we could -- there's plenty of cattle around." "I won't know until I examine the body," Scully said. "The medical examiner's report didn't really address the skin lesions directly, and I need to get a culture. But Nivek wasn't in the cattle business, and if he was infected with anthrax, you may have a worse problem than just a murder spree." "Just a murder spree," Miller said, sounding faintly amused. "We had one homicide in Daphne in the past three years, and now we've got four in just a couple of weeks. That's what you call just a spree." "I'm sorry," she said, still cool. "I'm not downplaying the importance of the investigation at all." "It's just that you work for the government and you've seen a lot worse, is that it?" "No, sir," Scully said. "I have seen worse, but this case is bad enough for anyone. But working for the government can make a person pay attention when anthrax bacillus shows up in a place where it shouldn't be. It shouldn't be on Nivek's fingers." Miller thought for a minute, drumming his fingers on the desk. "All right, Agent Scully," he said. "I'll have one of my people draw up the order, and I'll see if I can find a judge who'll sign it. We'll get the body over to Forensic Sciences in Mobile, let you get a look at it there." "That would be ideal, sir." That was a relief. She had dreaded the thought of performing an autopsy in a hospital or, worse, a funeral home. They weren't equipped for it, and skilled assistants were non-existent outside a real forensics lab. "If it is anthrax," Miller continued, "I'd appreciate it if you would keep it to yourself until we see how far it's spread, if it has. Deal?" Scully nodded. "That was my intention, sir. Thank you." ~~~~~ Daphne Municipal Building 6:49 p.m. The temporary FBI office was dark when Scully arrived. The light shining in from the hallway made the crime scene photographs look even more terrifyingly real. It gave her the shivers, and she wasn't a woman who shivered easily at the sight of death. "Mulder?" she called out. "Mulder, are you here?" No answer. Where had he gone? He couldn't have gone very far; she still had his car. Maybe he got a ride back to the hotel with Glassman. Scully closed the door and walked down the hallway to the squad room. Mack was there, seated at a work table next to Glassman. The table was littered with half-completed VICAP forms. Glassman looked jovial. Mack looked trapped. "Gentlemen," Scully said. "Have either of you seen Agent Mulder lately?" "Gone with the wind," Glassman said, waving a hand in the air. "I asked him how things were going. He gave me a few choice words, and flew out of here like the hounds of hell were after him." "Where did he go?" she asked. "Beats hell out of me," Glassman said. "Why? You two have a date?" That didn't even rate a reply. "Mack, do you know where he went?" she asked. "Not for sure, ma'am, no," Mack said. "How long ago did he leave?" "Oh, I'd say, 'bout 45 minutes ago. Not much longer than that." "Mack, did he say anything at all about where he might be going?" Scully asked. Mack thought for a moment. "Well, this morning me and him got to talking about places we used to hang when we were kids," he said, reflectively. "I told him I used to go down by Mullet Point and watch the sunset. Good place to do some fishing, or thinking if that's what you like. Little late for that now, though. Gettin' dark out there." "Where is Mullet Point?" "You can't miss it," Mack said, and Scully groaned. "No, really, you can't. Get back on the highway, heading south, and when the road goes off to the left, like? You just keep going straight. You'll get there. It's on the water. Got a big ol' sign says Mullet Point." "How far is it?" "Ten, twelve miles," Mack said. "You'll catch him on the road, if he's not running. Does he like to run?" Scully looked out at the gathering night. He was out there, somewhere, alone with his demons. In the dark ... "Agent Scully," Glassman said. She looked at him. "Officer Mack asked you a question. You're spooking out on me again. Don't do that." "I just -- I wondered if Agent Mulder runs much," Mack said, embarrassed at having caused trouble. She looked out the window again, her eyes focused on nothing. She kept her composure, hiding, with an effort, the indecision she felt. Should she go to him? Leave him alone? Then she turned her attention back to the lighted room. "Yes, he runs," she said, distantly. "Are you going to go get him?" Mack asked. She shook her head. "Even if I found him now, I couldn't bring him back," she said. "Not yet." ~~~~~ Mullet Point, Alabama 9:53 p.m. Mack was right, he thought. It's a good place to think. Now if I just had something good to think about. From here, the city lights across Mobile Bay were pinpoints, smaller than the stars overhead. There was no sound from the road behind him, no sound at all except the brackish water lapping against the jetty, the high-pitched song of crickets, and, from time to time, the cry of a seagull. His coat and tie were draped over a bench in the nearby picnic area; his shoes and socks were on the jetty next to him, his shirt collar unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up past the elbow. He sat, knees bent, his arms wrapped around his legs, resting his head on his knees, looking out over the water, looking at nothing. He didn't know how long he'd been here. He couldn't even remember clearly how he decided to come. All he knew is that he was here, he'd come here on foot, and that he'd run full tilt all the way. He was soaked with sweat that refused to dry in the humid air, and the constant drone of mosquitoes told him he'd be a mass of bites before long. He didn't care. The picture was beginning to emerge. Soon, he would write it all down, express all his subjective assessments rationally, give the locals somewhere to start in their search. And tell them to stay off the air while they were at it. No radio calls, no cellular phones. It was enough to turn you off police work when you saw how many brutal killers were closet police buffs. Made you wonder what was inside yourself, what drew you to this profession. Or what kept the killers out. If anything did. Aren't you a killer, too, Mulder? Didn't you blow a man's face off with a shotgun after you'd already killed him? Didn't you kill John Lee Roche at least partly out of vengeance for his having escaped from you, making you look foolish? Didn't you actually enjoy putting a bullet into Robert Modell's head? And didn't you keep pulling the trigger long after the gun was empty? You're damn right, you did. You didn't need to run 12 miles and offer up your blood to the mosquitoes to know that. And those aren't the only ones you've killed, either. Is any of this getting you anywhere? Yes. Oh, hell, yes. It made him sick to realize it, but he knew he'd just unlocked one of the doors to the UNSUB's mind. The UNSUB liked killing, enjoyed the release it gave him, and he was feeling the need to kill again. Soon. But where? Who? Why, in a town this small, wasn't someone coming forward, telling them to check out some weird neighbor who had a lot of guns? The UNSUB was around here, that was clear; what wasn't clear was where he was, or why no one seemed to have made the connection between him -- whoever he was -- and the killings that had effectively quintupled Daphne's annual murder rate already. You'd better figure it out, Mulder, he thought grimly; you better find him, and pretty fucking fast. If you don't, someone else's blood will be on your hands. ~~~~~ Pembroke Inn 2:43 a.m. Scully flopped restlessly onto her side. She had gone to sleep around midnight, but awakened an hour later and hadn't been able to sleep since. It wasn't just not knowing where Mulder was, although that was tormenting her. Less than a day had gone by before he'd ditched her, again, and this time she had the additional worry that he might be avoiding any ... extracurricular evening activities was one way to put it. That was bad enough; what was worse was knowing that when he did return, she would have to tell him what she'd found, and for once in her medical career, she just wasn't sure. The problem now was the anthrax, or, more precisely, the threat of an anthrax epidemic. It's not going to be an epidemic, she scolded herself. One case of cutaneous anthrax does not an epidemic make. Then where did he get it, Dr. Genius Scully? He's not a shepherd, or a cattle rancher, or a veterinarian. He worked in a convenience store. How do you get anthrax working in a convenience store? Maybe it's not even anthrax, she thought, but she recognized that as wishful thinking. Why can't I make sense of this? You've got to get it right, Dana, she thought. You cannot afford a single mistake on this. What if I've already made the mistake? What if I've alarmed the district attorney for nothing? How do I know what anthrax lesions look like? I've never seen anthrax. Who has? Or what if I get everyone all stirred up and it turns out these marks are just photographic artifacts? I should have asked someone else to double-check the pictures. I should have called CDC, sent the pictures to them. I shouldn't have gone to the DA without talking to Mulder, or even -- God help me -- Glassman. Why did I do that? Oh, God, if they dig that body up and nothing's wrong I am going to look so stupid, and Glassman will never let me live it down. I wish I could talk to Mulder about it. But where is he? Is he still working at this hour? Of course he is. How many cases did we work, slumped over cups of too-strong coffee in some dismal small-town diner at an hour when the paper boys weren't even up yet? Too many to count. There were times I thought I might break his neck if he woke me once more. I wish he would call. I wish I knew he was all right. I wish I could talk to him about this. I wish I hadn't gone to the district attorney until I'd had a chance to talk to Mulder. I wish someone else was responsible for this. I can't do it. I can't. Mulder could do it. He'd know what to do. I have got to get some sleep, Scully thought, as she tossed around restlessly. Then she heard an unfamiliar sound from the hallway, and sat upright, frozen in terror, reaching under the pillow for her weapon. It was just the ice machine. She'd heard similar sounds hundreds of times in hundreds of hotels. This wasn't new. But her heart was still pounding. She put the gun back under the pillow, but she left her fingers closed around the grip, her index finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. Holding it, she felt calmer. Not that she needed her gun, of course. She just wanted to know it was there. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What do you seek so pensive and silent? What do you need camerado? Dear son do you think it is love? -- Walt Whitman Chapter 10 Pembroke Inn Wednesday, March 3 4:15 a.m. The knock was soft, but it was enough to wake Scully from her troubled sleep. She grabbed her weapon, switched on the lamp and stumbled bleary-eyed to the door, looking through the peephole. It was Mulder, and he looked like hell; tie off, shirt untucked, red-eyed and badly in need of a shave and some sleep. She slid the chain back, opened the door. "Did I wake you?" he asked, still standing in the doorway. "I'm not sure," she said, her brain still foggy. "Maybe. Come on in." He walked past her, straight to her bed, dropping his coat on the floor. He flopped down exhausted, his long legs dangling off the edge of the bed. She closed and locked the door, put her gun on the dresser and then just stood there, desperately unsure of what to do next. "Mulder," she began, tentatively, but he interrupted her. "I don't know what he looks like, Scully," he mumbled, not opening his eyes. "I can't see him at all yet. I don't even know what kind of car he drives. I don't know where he is or where he's going to strike next. I just know that he will." "Do you know when?" she asked, coming to sit beside him. She folded her hands, laid them on her lap, on the smooth blue satin of her pajamas. "Soon," he said, still not moving. "He's feeling afraid again, and angry, and he's learned to like the feeling of causing death. I know that much. He needs it, like a drug. He'll get his fix soon. But I don't know what else to do to stop him." "Have you told Mack?" "No," he said. "Not yet." He opened his eyes, turned his gaze toward her. "When I was walking back, I thought about stopping at the PD to try writing all this down. Sometimes that helps. Then I remembered that you were looking into something, too, and I thought maybe you'd tried to find me to tell me about it. So I took a chance and came by, even though I figured you might be angry at being ditched. I guess I could try to blame it on my troubles with this UNSUB ... " "And you'd be right," she said, interrupting him. "I know better than to distract you at a time like this. But I did want to talk to you. Something's happening on my end, and I wanted you to help me figure it out." "What was it?" She shook her head. "I'm not sure. But it may be the answer to what happened to us in December." He sat up. "You're kidding." "No," she said. "I wish I were. One of the victims has what appear to be anthrax lesions on his fingers." "Christ," he said, his eyes widening. "Which one?" "Nivek," she said. "I'll be able to tell you for sure after we run a cell culture." "Is there a chance it's not anthrax?" "Yes. No. I mean, yes, of course, there's always a chance," she said, rising. She began pacing around the room nervously, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. "I could always be wrong, you know; I haven't actually seen his fingers yet, and we'll have to culture whatever we find. But it looks like anthrax in the autopsy photographs. And we were chasing a bioweapon when we were here before." "So you think this is domestic terrorism, or what?" "I think it's anthrax," she said, fighting back her irritation. "Right now, that's all I think. And I could easily be wrong. I've never seen anthrax. I don't know a doctor who has. And I have no idea whether it's related to domestic terror ops or not. All I know is Wilhelm Nivek had lesions on his fingers that look like anthrax, and he shouldn't have because he's not a rancher or a textile worker. Okay?" "Okay," he said, sounding a bit annoyed. "Jeez, Scully, I'm not questioning your medical judgment. I'm just asking what you know. How did you find these lesions?" "Autopsy photos," she said. "Only I have reason to doubt now that the original autopsy was very thorough." "The original meaning ... " Mulder was looking a little queasy. "Meaning I'm going to do another one, yes," Scully said, looking at him. For some reason Mulder's apprehension was ripping through her already shredded nerves like a rusty blade. She was in no mood to deal with his squeamishness right now. He needed to get a grip on himself. "You know, that's what I do, Mulder," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I talked to the district attorney today. I'm going to dig Nivek up and do another autopsy and he's going to stink and be moldy and slimy and probably full of noxious gas that'll make me absolutely sick to my stomach when I cut him open. You want to watch? Or would that upset you too much?" "All right, Scully, back off," he said, and she could see she'd gotten under his skin. "We're in this together. Let's see it through and then we'll work on dissecting our nightmares." She shook her head, lifting her hands in frustration. "Then just lay off me, all right? You're not the only one who has to do things that give you nightmares. I hate exhumations. No matter how many I do, I'll never really get used to them." "That's understandable," he said, mildly enough, but he was wearing that damn profiler's face again, and Scully had already decided how she felt about that. She hated it. "Just forget it, Mulder," she said, off-handedly. "Whatever I find, it won't help you with profiling your UNSUB, and that's got to be the priority, especially if you know he's about to do it again." "Very soon," he said. "Unless I find him first. But I'm not sure I can; not this time." Mulder had spoken calmly, but she heard the fear beneath his words. She'd been dealing with that same fear herself all day. It was the fear of making a mistake in judgment, a slip-up in action, that would lead to the death of another innocent victim. "Mulder, I'm sorry," she said, sitting down on the bed again. "I really am. I'm just wound up a little too tightly right now." "You've got a right to be," he said, but he was watching her even more carefully now. "This is pretty serious stuff." "You'll find him, Mulder. You will," she said, meaning it. "But we've got to find out where the anthrax comes into this, too. It's at least as dangerous as he is." "Scully," he said, then hesitated. "I don't know if I can help you with that, at least not as much as you need. Glassman's supposed to be helping you with evidentiary analysis." "He hasn't even finished reading the case histories," she said, bitterly. "He's no help at all. I know him. Everything he knows about profiling he learned by watching 'Silence of the Lambs,' but he loves to spout off to local law enforcement as though he were the Second Coming of John Douglas. You threw a monkey wrench in his plans when you showed up." "So what you're saying is that he's not willing to do his part because he thinks it's not glamorous enough?" "That's exactly what I'm saying," she said, flatly. "When it comes to doing the scutwork, filling out the forms, making the phone calls, he's useless. I won't get any meaningful help from him, and I can't do this all by myself." "Scully, I don't know what to tell you," he said. "I know you need help, but I can't do Glassman's job and my own. I can't do evidentiary analysis and profiling at the same time. One is a scientific process and the other is almost entirely intuitive." "I am sorry, Mulder," she said. "I don't know an answer to this either. I could ask my supervisor to take Glassman off the case, but Rolfe's never lifted a finger to help me, and I don't expect him to now." "I know Mike Rolfe," Mulder said. "He's an asshole. But even if he would help, you don't really want to talk to him, do you?" She was quiet for a moment. "No," she said. "I don't. I can't talk to him, I can't trust him. He'll use it against me, put it on my evaluation as proof that I can't do my job. And I can't, not without help. Not this. Mulder, I'm sorry, but you're all I've got." "Then I'll try to be enough," he said. "But we're both taking risks here." "That's why we get the big bucks," she said, trying to smile. "And why we have to bring the doughnuts," he said, smiling back. He took her hand. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out." "In the morning," she said. "But right now, you need to rest." She moved over to him, touched her lips to his, gently, then more deeply, sliding her tongue over his lower lip. But for the first time, although he accepted the kiss, he didn't return it; he even seemed to shrink away from her, and that frightened her. She pulled back, eyeing him anxiously. "Mulder, what's wrong?" she whispered. "Scully, I can't," he said, softly, his fingertips just brushing her cheek. "Not now." "You've got to," she said. "You're almost too tired to talk now." "I'm dead on my feet," he said. "But I'm not talking about sleeping. Much as I'd like to lie here and let you work your magic on me, I can't. Not tonight." "That's what you said last night," she said, confused. "Now you're saying no again. So why are you even here?" The question seemed to hurt him, but for once, she couldn't read him well enough to know why. He looked away. "I just wanted to talk to you," he said, in the voice of a man whose strength is utterly spent. Slowly, he got up. With his back to her, he picked up his coat and slung it over one shoulder, holding it with his left hand while his right hand automatically reached for the butt of his gun, making sure it was secure in its holster. Scully was staring at him, open-mouthed. His exhaustion, the sound of his voice, his words had hit her like a knife in the throat, stabbing her with guilt and shame so strong she couldn't speak, could scarcely even breathe. She felt the sudden flash of cold sweat on her skin. He wanted to talk to me, and I wouldn't let him. That has never happened between us before, not when there was business to take care of. His hand was on the doorknob. In another second, he would be gone again. She couldn't let that happen. Standing up, she walked over to where he stood and put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him, turning him around. "Don't leave," she whispered. "Scully, I've got to ... " She stopped him, touched his lips with her fingers. "You make me ashamed of myself," she said. "I should have known. You came here for the same reason you always used to when we were working together; because you wanted to talk things over." "But you were right," he said, not unkindly. "I was the one who said I couldn't do two jobs at once, and then with my next breath I'm trying to make you help me with mine. I really shouldn't have come. I'm just selfish; I don't like working without you." "You just came here looking for your partner," she said, miserably. "And I found Dana the wild woman," he said, with a touch of his old humor, and she had to smile. "But maybe I was looking for her for the past six years, too. Did you ever think about that?" "Sometimes, maybe," she said, cautiously. "Yes." That brought back a ghost of the Mulder smile. "Maybe one day, we'll both be looking for the same thing at the same time," he said. "We always were before," she said. "The truth. That hasn't changed." "No. It hasn't." "Mulder," she began, then took a step closer to him. "I'm sorry that I let you down." "You've never let me down," he said, taking her hand. "Ever." She shook her head. "I did this time. I'm letting my feelings get in the way of what we have to do here." "Yeah, maybe," he said. "But maybe, right now, you can't help it. I still don't know what's wrong; I only know that something is, and that a good part of the time you're acting like someone other than the Dana Scully I used to work with." She couldn't look at him. "But that's not the whole reason, and I know it," he said, gently, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand. "We've missed each other. We want to reconnect. That's not wrong; it feels good, being loved like that by you. I never had that before. Not in my entire life." She felt the tears starting again. I never used to cry, she thought. Never. Now I cry all the time. "But there is a problem between us," he went on, quietly. "I don't know exactly what it is, but what's worse is that I can't even afford to stop long enough to figure it out, much as I want to." "Do you?" she said, looking up at him. "Do you really want to fix what's wrong with me?" "With us," he corrected her, gently. "And yes, I do. I want to be able to talk to you, I want to be able to touch you, and I sure as hell don't want you to be frightened of me. I can't imagine anything worse than that -- unless it's that I let someone die, and die badly, because I didn't do the job I came here to do. It's going to happen, soon, if I can't get into our UNSUB's head pretty damn fast. I can't let that happen, Scully." "I understand. Really, I do," she said, and looked down at their still-joined hands. "But Mulder, you can't blame yourself if he kills again; the profilers back at BSU spend most of their time tossing ideas around, helping each other do what you're trying to do all alone." "I am not alone," he said, firmly. "I have you. I don't need anyone else." That touched her, and she found she couldn't trust her voice. Her chin quivered, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She looked so downhearted that finally he couldn't bear it, and he put his arms around her, held her close. "I love you so much," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I wouldn't change that even if I could. But I want us to still be able to work together. I want to be your partner, Mulder." "You are, Scully," he said, rocking her gently. "You are. Always." ~~~~~ Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences Mobile Laboratory 10:19 a.m. This, Scully thought as she stripped off her surgical gloves, is almost as bad as it gets. Two hours of laboring over the decayed remains of Wilhelm Nivek, of delving into tissues hardened by embalming fluid, of breathing in the smell that even a heavy coating of menthol ointment couldn't hide, and now the lab technician was waiting for her with a face that fairly shrieked of bad news. Just a few hours earlier, she'd taken skin from Nivek's fingers, following up with sections of lung, oral and intestinal tissue, and handed them to this same technician for testing. She dropped her gown and cap into the laundry bin, washed her hands and sat down to hear the bad news. "You got good samples, Dr. Scully, four distinct colonies, from the fingers," the lab tech told her. "The immunofluorescence tests were conclusive; they all came up B. anthracis. This is the real McCoy, all right." "What about the lungs?" she asked. "Clear, from what I can tell," the tech said, and Scully let out a sigh of relief. "Do you know of any deaths, human deaths, attributed to B. anthracis in this area?" she asked. The man shook his head. "Believe me, Dr. Scully, if there had been one, I'd know. I was in Desert Storm; I look out for stuff like this." Scully nodded, her lips pursed slightly, examining the report again as though she could make it say something different. Then she looked at the technician again. "Who is the county health officer?" she asked. "Dr. Anthony Meister," the tech said. "They'll be closed by now." "Do you have his home telephone number?" she asked. "I've got to talk to him about this." "Hang on, I'll get it for you." The technician left, came back a minute later with a telephone number written on a scrap of paper. "Here you go." "Thank you." Scully took out her cell phone and dialed the number. "Hello," came the voice on the other end. "May I speak to Dr. Meister, please?" "Speaking." "Dr. Meister, this is Dana Scully, Dr. Dana Scully," she said. "I'm with the FBI. We're here investigating a possible serial killing in Daphne." "Yes, I read about that in the newspaper," Meister said. "What can I do for you, doctor?" "Dr. Meister, I found suspicious lesions in autopsy photographs of one of the victims. He was exhumed yesterday, and I did the post-mortem myself. Forensic Sciences did the bacteriologicals. They found cutaneous infection with Bacillus anthracis." There was a short silence. "That's bad news, Dr. Scully," Meister said. "We haven't had a human case of anthrax before. Was this man from Daphne?" "No, sir," Scully said. "He worked there, in a convenience store, but he lived in Mobile. I don't have his home of record with me, but I can get it for you. Dr. Meister, I don't know everything about this man, but I don't see any indication of a natural transmission mode for B. anthracis." "I'll get my people on that, Dr. Scully," Meister said. "In the meantime, I would appreciate any information you can give me on this." "Yes, sir, I'll have the Daphne police get that to you right away," Scully said. "And I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you find out. We still don't have a clear picture of this killer, and having more information about the victim could only help. Especially in this case." "You'll know what I know as soon as I know it," Meister promised. "How do I reach you?" Scully gave him the phone numbers for the Daphne PD, her hotel room and her cell phone. "Sir, will you notify CDC?" "Just as soon as I hang up," he said. "In the meantime, Dr. Scully, although human-to-human transmission is rare, I would advise you and anyone who came in contact with that body to be vaccinated if they haven't been already." "I have been, sir," she said. "It's a routine precaution for us; the Bureau deals with anthrax threats, as you know." "I still think you should start on some kind of antibiotic prophylaxis, for all the good it might do. I don't suppose you can write a scrip in Alabama." "No, sir," she said. "I don't write prescriptions anywhere. I'm a forensic pathologist. By the time people get to me, it's too late for medication." That got a chuckle. "You did say you did autopsies, didn't you?" he said. "I'll call in a scrip to the DrugRite pharmacy in Daphne. It's just up the highway from where you're staying. Anyone else?" "The lab tech here, and the medical examiner who did the first autopsy," she said. "There's no medical examiner in Baldwin County, Dr. Scully," he said. "Just an elected coroner, and he got the job because he runs a funeral home. That probably explains why your anthrax lesions got missed the first time." "It would," she said, shortly. Like most professional medical examiners, Scully had little use for the elected coroner system. This case was exactly why. Coroners made mistakes, sometimes serious ones, that a forensic pathologist would never make. What other mistakes were made on these autopsies? Hope I don't have to exhume all of them. "I'll get Billy on the phone and tell him he screwed up again," Meister said, referring to the coroner. "If you think of anyone else, let me know. Get started on that Ciloxin. Five hundred milligrams BID, probably for 10 days." "I'm allergic to Ciloxin, sir," she said. "Better make it Vibramycin." "You're the doctor," Meister said. "Keep me posted." "I will, sir," she said, and thumbed the off switch, punched in the two-number code for Mulder's cell phone. It rang 10 times before she gave up. ~~~~~ DrugRite Pharmacy 11:25 a.m. "May I help you?" the pharmacy attendant asked. "Yes, I'm here to pick up a prescription for Scully, Dana Scully," Scully said. The woman turned away, started shuffling through a stack of white paper bags, all stapled at the top. "Here it is," she said. "Doxycycline. Do you need to talk to the pharmacist?" "No," Scully said. "That won't be necessary." She handed the woman her credit card. "You know, it's funny, you coming in here for this," the woman said, ringing up the sale. "This is the second bottle of this stuff I've dispensed today, and we almost never sell this much of it." "The second one today?" Scully repeated, slowly. She took her card back, signed the sales slip. "How many do you usually have?" "Oh, you know, they come in here all the time," the woman said. "But usually they just want one or two pills. It's for ... " "Gonorrhea," Scully interrupted. "I know. But that's a one-pill treatment. You said you've had other people coming in to get bottles of it? Who was the prescribing physician?" "I'm ... I probably wasn't supposed to say what I just did," the woman said, and she was clearly getting nervous. She knew Scully wasn't just chatting her up anymore; she was interrogating her. Once again, I am screwing things up, Scully thought. I need to be calm, like I used to be, be a nice, friendly cop. But no, I just lit right into her, and now she's on her guard. I won't get anything more from her. But I've got to try. Scully reached into her coat pocket, took out her credentials. "I'm with the FBI," she said. "We're investigating a case that could be linked to this antibiotic use. Now, if you know anything that can help me, I would appreciate your telling me." "We can't help you," came a male voice from behind the counter. It was the pharmacist. "If you are from the FBI, then you know that patient records are confidential, so unless you have a subpoena ... " "No, I don't," Scully said. "Although I can easily get a search warrant. But I'm not asking you to tell me who got these drugs. All I'm asking whether you've filled an unusual number of prescriptions for doxycycline or ciprofloxacin." The man thought for a minute. "I don't see the harm in that," he said. "Yes, we have, in both. I had mentioned it to the store manager. But that's all I can tell you unless you come back with some blue-backed paper." "I can promise you that I will," Scully said. She stuffed the bag into her pocket and left. ~~~~~ Daphne Municipal Building 2:04 p.m. "Hey, Agent Mulder," Mack called out. "You see this thing in the paper?" "What thing, Mack?" Mulder responded, not really listening. "This thing about this profiler being in Mobile," Mack said. "You know him?" Mulder looked up, sharply. "What profiler?" Mack folded the newspaper section, handed it to him. "Right there at the top of the page," he said. "Fourth paragraph." The story was headlined "Rape Prevention Week set." "Law-enforcement training will be held at noon today at the Downtown Motor Inn, 301 Government St. Jackson Resnik, a former FBI profiler, will discuss the different types of rapists and how police investigators can better identify them." "Jack Resnik's in town?" Mulder said, genuinely surprised. "You do know him?" "Yeah, he was one of the best," Mulder said, handing the newspaper back. "He quit a few years ago. Burned out. It happens a lot." "Don't I know it," Mack said. "Maybe you oughta run over and say hi." "Maybe I ought to go say a lot more than that," Mulder said slowly. He rose, picked up his coat. "Call me on my cell phone if anything happens. I'm going to go see how Jack's book sales are going." ~~~~~ Downtown Motor Inn 2:43 p.m. The room was full of cops, some looking bored, some intensely interested, most of them somewhere in between. Mulder slipped in through a side door, sat down as unobtrusively as possible. Resnik was at the podium, apparently near the end of his presentation. He was taking questions from the floor. "I don't see what criminal profiling can do for investigations that good, hard police work won't do," a local detective was saying. "You're right, detective," Resnik said. "Profiling cannot and should not take the place of investigative work. The cases solved are not done by profiling or profilers ... they are solved by investigators who are working exhaustively using all resources available to them. A good profile is one of those resources. Yes, in the back there," he said, indicating another questioner. "Mr. Resnik, you talked about the agitation phase in serial violence," the cop asked. "Are there any signs to look for in an individual that would indicate he was in this phase?" "Well, generalized agitation, if that's not begging the question," Resnik said, and some of the cops laughed. Resnik was handling the crowd with his usual aplomb, Mulder thought, shifting restlessly in his chair. He hoped this wouldn't go on for too long. " ... the main difference being that the agitation in spree crimes comes afterward," Resnik was saying. "Yes, on the front row, the plainclothes officer ... " Then he saw Mulder, and stopped, mid-sentence. Mulder felt himself being sized up, shrewdly. And saw that Resnik had reached the right conclusion. "Let's make this the last question," Resnik said. The question, fortunately, was the rough equivalent of a hanging curve ball, and Resnik knocked it out of the park, Mulder thought, but then Resnik always was good at this stuff. The talk wrapped up, and Mulder rose and moved to the back of the room. He caught a few inquisitive, wary glances from the local officers who, like cops everywhere, assessed all new arrivals in their world with one question: What kind of threat does this person pose to me? He didn't bother trying to make contact or reassure them. To cops, other cops smell of the job, even when they're not on duty. He knew they would size him up as a fellow officer in no time flat, and they would also know he wanted to be left alone. When the crowd thinned, Mulder made his way forward to the podium, where Resnik was talking to a plainclothes officer. He stopped as Mulder approached. "There's the guy you ought to ask about profiling," Resnik said, extending his hand. "Hello, Mulder. Long time, etc." "Jack," Mulder said, shaking his hand. "You got a few minutes?" Resnik nodded his head, slowly. "Let's go get some coffee," he said. "You're buying." ~~~~~ Downtown Motor Inn restaurant 3:12 p.m. "All right, you've had your coffee, we've yakked about old times, and you gave me the scoop on how you put Bill Patterson away for life, which is still almost impossible to believe," Resnik said. "Now tell me why you're here." "Working a spree killer," Mulder said, toying with his empty coffee cup. "I'm pretty sure it's a spree, anyway; no sexual assaults, no real ritual to the killings, just several slugs from a .38 in what otherwise look like opportunistic crimes." "And this is here in Mobile?" "Across Mobile Bay, little town called Daphne," Mulder said. "I'm close, Jack. I'm so close I can smell this guy. But I can't make the picture come clear. And he's not through yet." "Tell me what you know," Resnik said, pushing back in his chair. Mulder quickly outlined the facts that Scully had given him that first night, along with a few others he had picked up while studying the files. "This killer is almost certainly whacko -- paranoid, delusional but still functional at some level," he said. "For one thing, he seems to have a lot of guns." Resnik nodded. "I'd be willing to bet there are more he hasn't used yet." "Yeah, that was my thought, too," Mulder said, still looking into the empty cup. "When you're paranoid, you can never have too many guns." "Or killer dogs." "Yeah. Rottweilers are popular around here." "Does he have a car?" "No question," Mulder said, looking up for the first time. "He had to get from Daphne to Florida, and on his own timetable, so he had to be able to drive." "So he's got a driver's license and a job," Resnik said. "Maybe not," Mulder said, slowly, thinking hard. "That's what it would mean in any other state in the Union. This is Alabama; you get caught driving without a license, you don't go to jail, you just get a ticket." "Jesus," Resnik said. "I've never heard of anything like that." "Me either. The cops don't like it, but they can't do anything about it. They tell me that on an average night, half the drivers they pull over don't hold a valid license." "Bad shit," Resnik said. "So he doesn't have to have a license. He still needs a car." "Not much of one," Mulder said. "There's no vehicle inspection law and no mandatory insurance in this state, either. He could be driving a car that would be junked or impounded anywhere else." Resnik nodded slowly. "That complicates things, but the guy still needs a job to have any kind of car at all, even a clunker." "But it could easily be a menial job, part time at minimum wage," Mulder said. "A gas station, convenience store, maybe. That's where he tends to seek his victims." Resnik nodded his agreement. "Okay. So he's got a lousy, good-for-nothing job and a junk-heap car. What's he look like? Black or white?" Mulder put down the cup, laced his fingers together. "I don't know. Not clearly. I think he's black, but I'm not sure. His victims are of both races." "The first one was ... ?" "Black," Mulder said. "Okay," Resnik said. "Let's try this on: If I'm the killer, and I'm comfortable taking a black man as my first victim, then I'm probably a black man, too, which means I'm probably the guy your witnesses described. And I live fairly close to the crime scene, or I wouldn't go out there in broad daylight to commit my first murder. I would have had some excuse to be in that area." "Either you live there or you work there," Mulder corrected him. "You agree this UNSUB is about 25 years old?" "Absolutely," Resnik said. "He's paranoid, and he's just come on the scene. The data on that are unequivocal. What do you see regarding his build?" "Short," Mulder said. "He feels small, so he gets a gun to protect himself, and then his paranoia takes over and he buys more." "Does that match your witness descriptions?" "One of them," Mulder said with a grimace. "Not the others. They could all be mistaken, too; this is the South, where almost half the population is black. Could have been anyone." "What about the timing?" Resnik asked. "That's another place where I can't put it together, Jack," Mulder said. "I expected the UNSUB to feel more comfortable at night and in the darkness. Yet the first crime -- the one we both presume happened close to his home -- was committed in the afternoon. The next two were done late at night or in the early morning hours. It took until the fourth crime for him to be bold enough to go out again in broad daylight." "Maybe the first one was a crime of opportunity," Resnik said. "He wanted to do more, but he was worried about being caught, so he started going out at night. He's worked out his plan pretty well." "There's something else here, something I'm not seeing," Mulder said. He sat back, shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Let's get back to what you are seeing," Resnik said. "He's got a car. Probably dark in color." "Yeah, assuming he's going to stick with night killings," Mulder said. "Otherwise, I don't know. But he probably dresses in dark colors all the time." "Sure. Doesn't want to draw attention," Resnik said. "But he's strange enough, probably, that people notice him anyway." Mulder shook his head, sat forward again. "Not really," he said. "The people he works with no doubt find him strange, but I don't see this UNSUB as the town nutcase. Daphne's a small town; someone would have told us, or the locals, to check out Old Weird Willie, if there were one in town. He's probably passing unnoticed most of the time." "Which also means if he's been arrested ... " "It wasn't for anything big." "Just big enough to keep him from getting a badge," Resnik said, with an ironical lift of his eyebrows. "Don't get me started," Mulder said, with a short laugh. "But yeah, I've got this one figured as a police buff, scanner in the house, big dogs, the whole ball of wax." "So you think he's been arrested for ... ?" "Assault, at most," Mulder said. "DWI. Petty theft. Maybe done some time in a mental institution, local jail. No prison." Resnik thought for a minute. "Look for someone who's assaulted a police officer, probably in the past two years," he said, reflectively. "Why?" "Your UNSUB sounds to me like someone who resists authority," Resnik said. "He overreacts, overcompensates for everything." Mulder nodded, slowly. "Yeah," he said, studying his hands. "I think you could categorize pumping bullets into everyone he sees at each of his holdups as overcompensating. There's just one problem, Jack." "What's that?" Mulder looked up. "Why does he drive all the way to Florida, when his other victims have been so close to his home? Is he spreading out, or is that one really unrelated? The Florida killing throws a monkey wrench into the whole profile." He sat back again, looking out the window. "There's still something here that doesn't fit," he said. "And we're running out of time." Resnik looked at him for a moment, almost pityingly. "You know what you've got to do then," he said, flatly. "Yeah," Mulder said. "I know." Resnik stood, offered Mulder his hand, gripped his old friend's hand firmly. "Good luck, buddy," he said. "By the end of this one, I think you'll know why I finally got the hell out of the Bureau." "By the end of this one," Mulder said, slowly, "I may follow you." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. -- Walt Whitman Chapter 11 Daphne Municipal Building 8:09 p.m. The police building was nearly deserted when Scully returned. She soon found out why: Most of the available officers, along with a few borrowed from neighboring jurisdictions, were out looking for someone who fit Mulder's preliminary profile. That was the kind of news she would just as soon not bring him. It was a profiler's worst nightmare: Officers going out confidently to find a suspect who fit the profile, when the profile itself was all too apt to be wrong, or at least incomplete. A cop might walk right past the killer without a second glance if the profile didn't seem to point that way. And they wondered why profilers don't last long, she thought, shaking her head as she entered Room 12, where -- sure enough -- she found Mack reading over Mulder's reports. "Is Agent Mulder here?" she asked. "No, ma'am," Mack said. "You all right, Agent Scully?" She shook her head. "I'm fine. I just need to talk to Agent Mulder." "I'm guessing he's probably in the same place he was last night," Mack said, slowly. "But you said it wasn't a good idea to bother him, and I kinda think you were right, if you don't mind my saying so. He looked kinda out of it, if you know what I mean." "How long ago did you see him?" Scully asked, casually. She'd heard the warning, all right, but Mack just didn't realize that it didn't apply to her. So, of course, she ignored it. "Not more'n an hour ago," Mack said. Scully nodded. "All right. I'm going to go talk to him for a few minutes, and then we may need to confer about what I've found today." "Agent Scully," Mack said, then hesitated. "Ma'am, I don't mean to interfere, and it ain't up to me to tell the Feds how to run an investigation like this one, and it sure ain't up to me to tell you how to deal with your partner." He got up, stood before her. "But ma'am, I gotta tell you, men ain't like women. Women always want to talk things out. Men generally just want to be left alone. And I think Agent Mulder wants us to let him alone until he's finished doing what he has to do." "Officer Mack, I appreciate your advice," she said. "Really, I do. But this isn't just a matter of wanting to talk to Mulder. I have to talk to Mulder." "Miss Scully, sorry, Agent Scully," Mack said. "Your partner was right. I did have SWAT training. At Quantico. And while I was there, I got to know some of the folks you work with now. One thing they always told me about profilers is they sometimes turn into the people they're chasing. I would hate like hell for anything bad to happen to you, or to Agent Mulder. If he's like they said he'd be, he's dangerous right now." "Not to me," she said, with complete assurance. "Never to me. He may be a little annoyed at first, but he won't hurt me." "No, ma'am, he won't," Mack said, shaking his head once in agreement. "But that don't mean you won't wind up gettin' hurt anyway." ~~~~~ Mullet Point, Alabama 9:59 p.m. He could find this killer. He knew it. But to do that, he would have to turn inward, using the evidence, making himself face his own pain, his own rage, to find this killer's reasons, think his thoughts, feel his motives. It was a disgusting process. But he would do it. He had to. He could feel it all beginning: the fury, the stupid cunning, the paranoid fantasies. He could feel the weight of the gun in his hand, the cold metal, the resistance of the trigger against his finger, the final, orgasmic release of firing, the deafening, explosive sound, the gun kicking back in his hand, the smoke and the smell of cordite everywhere, and the blood, and the dying ... He knew it all entirely too well. But the final key wasn't there, the connection that would let him identify with the UNSUB so well that he would finally be able to see him clearly, to predict his next move, to hunt him down. Why? Why is he so angry? Why does he need to kill, why does he enjoy the kill so much? Okay, it's showtime. Ask yourself the same questions: Why do you like it, Mulder? You do, don't you? You know all you need to know about how this UNSUB feels, you lousy bastard. You just don't know how he thinks yet. Why the fuck can't I figure out this guy's motives? He buried his face in his hands. Mulder didn't even hear the car pull up in the parking lot behind him; the soft female voice barely registered. She was telling someone to wait for her in the parking area across the highway. The car's headlights were bright, and they were distracting him, but they were soon cut off. If he stayed still, whoever it was might not even notice he was here; if they did, they'd leave him alone. People tended to do that when they saw the gun. He heard the footsteps behind him, coming closer, stopping about 10 feet away, and he jumped to his feet, hand on his weapon. "Mulder?" came the soft voice. "Mulder, it's me." He let out an angry sigh, sank back down and resumed his earlier position, hiding his eyes. "Don't sneak up on me like that, Scully," he said. "I almost shot you. Go back to the hotel." "No." She came forward, slowly, until she was standing beside him. "I'll go back, Mulder, but not until I've told you what I found out today, and not until I know you're all right." "Is that what you came here for?" he asked, raising his head and turning to look at her. "Because if you did, the answer is yes, I'm fine, but I'm working and you really ought to leave now." He could feel her hesitate, and for a brief instant thought she might actually leave. For an even briefer instant, he wanted to clutch at her, make her stay, in spite of the danger to her. "Mulder," she said. "You need to hear this. I'll only be a minute, I promise, and then if you still want me to, I'll leave. Just a few minutes, I promise." He didn't answer. Sighing heavily, Scully sat down next to him, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Mulder," she whispered. "Please talk to me." "I can't," he said, hoarsely, shrugging her hand away. "Not now." "Mulder, please," she said, letting her hand fall into her lap. "You haven't slept for days. I know what this does to you." "Then you know why you need to leave," he said, irritably. "It's only going to get worse. I do not want to hurt you, Scully. Let me do what I have to do." There was a long silence, broken only by the sounds of the crickets and the waves. "Mulder," she began, but he cut her off. "Scully, I'm asking you, I'm begging you, please, just go away," Mulder said. "Just for now. Not forever. I can't do this with you around." No, you can't, she thought, nettled, but I'll be damned if I'm backing off now. Just once, Mulder, I want to be the one who says whether you stay or you go -- or I do. "Mulder, I don't give a damn whether you want me here or not," she said, sharply. "Nivek had anthrax. That's pretty well confirmed. And that's not all." He looked up at her, startled. "Shit." "Indeed," she said, arching one eyebrow. "And it is incredibly deadly, as you know. I've been vaccinated, and I took all the proper precautions during the PM, but the Mobile health officer ordered me to take prophylactic antibiotics anyway -- and no jokes, please." He gave a short laugh. "I wasn't even thinking of any. That should tell you where I am right now. Please, go ahead." "All right," she said. "I went to the pharmacy near our hotel and got the scrip. The clerk there told me they'd filled another scrip for the same drug today. I tried to find out more, but she clammed up, and the pharmacist told me to come back with a subpoena. I told them I was going for a search warrant." "Which you can do easily enough," he said. "You don't need me to do that. You just need a judge." "Oh, and haven't we had _this_ discussion before," she said, curtly, then stopped as she saw the insult hit home, saw Mulder wince as he accepted the blame she was assigning him. Sure, hit him again, Dana. You call yourself a fighter? He's still conscious; you can hurt him worse than that, she thought, angrily. For God's sake, can't I go just one night without hurting him? She laid one hand on his shoulder, forced herself to speak more softly. "Mulder, I'm sorry," she said. He reached up and covered her hand with his own. "It's all right," he said, but with little inflection. "I had it coming." "No, you didn't," she said, and sighed. "That was uncalled for. I didn't come here to argue, just to tell you that there's still very much of a mystery about this case. But this one is at least as dangerous as your UNSUB." "That's an understatement," he said. "It's much more dangerous. But Nivek, infected or no, should be a victim chosen nearly at random. I don't see how his having anthrax feeds into this at all." "Mulder, I don't know," she said. She let her shoulders relax, sighed, and looked out over the dark waters of the bay. "Maybe it doesn't. But I know if I were the one trying to piece this case together, I'd want to know it. I thought you might, too." "I do," he said, and she felt his fingers lace through hers. "But it makes it hard to think the way I need to think when I keep breaking my concentration to talk to you. I know why you need to talk to me; I just don't know how to do that and do what I need to do, too." Scully said nothing, but her fingers curled tightly around his, the pressure telling him how desperately she had wanted the contact. "Scully," he said, quietly. "If I could find this guy just by simple deduction -- what kind of car he drives, how old he is -- I'd do it. I'd give anything to be able to do it that way. But it's not going to work this time, and I'm going to have to be alone with him, in my own head. You know that." "I know it," she said, faintly. "I just don't know how else to do what I have to do, either. I'm trying to do this on my own, but I don't trust my judgment. I haven't dealt with this before; I have next to no experience with domestic terror. All I know how to do is autopsies, X Files and forensic analysis." He hesitated, and Scully saw again that look he'd had before, the look that meant he wanted to say more. Only this time, it seemed, he would say it -- or some of it. "Are you sure that's why you're having a hard time with this?" he said, slowly, as though the words were being pulled out of him one by one. "There could be another reason." "Of course I'm sure," she said, impatiently, pulling her hand away. "What other reason could there be?" "I thought you might tell me," Mulder said, mildly. "Drop it, Mulder," she said, shortly. "I'm not here for psychological treatment. I'm here to talk to you about the case, which you clearly don't have time to talk about, so it's hard to imagine you have time for some amateur attempt at psychoanalysis." There was a long silence. She thought she might have angered him again -- God knows, she'd lobbed enough insults at him lately -- but Mulder reached for her hand again, brought it to his lips for a soft, sweet kiss, then held it gently between his own hands. "There's no good solution to this problem, is there?" he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "No," she said, and realized when she spoke that, once again, she was near tears. She kept her hold on his hand. "No, there's not." For a long while they sat together, not talking, looking out over the water. A huge pelican flew overhead, his broad wingspan outlined by the moonlight; she could hear the crickets chirping away in the nearby woods. The moon moved further over the bay, casting its pale light deeper into the surrounding woods. As she drank in the scene, Scully felt some of the tension leave her. Without thinking, she spoke. "I love the water," she said, in a faraway voice. "It reminds me so much of my childhood." "Where in your childhood?" Mulder asked, in a nearly normal tone. She shrugged. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Every naval base we ever lived on. But you grew up on an island, Mulder; you must know what it's like." "It's different for me," he said. "My father wasn't at sea. The water was just someplace to go swimming or sailing. No mystery in the deep." "There's more than enough mystery on dry land," she said, in a soft whisper, then turned to look at him. "I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'm going to leave you alone now. Officer Mack said he would take me to get the warrant. I'll let you know what we find." She got up, squeezed his hand again, but he rose and took her in his arms, kissed her softly, briefly. She smiled, and laid her head fleetingly against him, then stepped back. "I'll see you in the morning," she said. He nodded, and she left him there, walked back to the car. Mulder stood there, watching, until the headlights faded and all was dark around him again. The thing you thought you had buried alive will someday be awakened, he thought. It will rise from the grave and come after you, like the monsters in your childhood nightmares. He knew all too well now what was awakening inside her; if, he thought grimly, it was ever asleep. She was almost there now, half-remembering, half- forgetting, desperately pulling him closer, furiously pushing him away. And he knew this could go on no longer. He couldn't allow it. No, not if it meant the goddamned UNSUB shot up a shopping mall and killed half the population of Alabama by this time tomorrow. His shoulders slumped. Whoever you are out there, he thought, I'm sorry; but you sure as shit may get killed in the next day or so, and it will be my fault because I didn't find this guy. Someone out there is counting on me, and someone is about to be severely -- maybe fatally -- disappointed. And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But my attention is about to turn elsewhere. I'm a lousy excuse for an agent. I'm a lousy excuse for a human being. But the truth is that I would rather let you die than to fail her again. ~~~~~ The Pembroke Inn Thursday, March 4 1:02 a.m. It took about two hours, an ugly scene with a pissed-off judge and an even uglier scene with the pharmacist, who clearly didn't like it when Scully showed up with a search warrant just as he was closing the doors. But now, she was seated at a table in her hotel room and the records were right there in front of her. And it was worth it. As far as Scully was concerned, there could no longer be any question about their relevance to this case. Three people, including Scully herself, had obtained prescriptions for the anti-anthrax drugs in the past two weeks from the Daphne drug store. One of those was Jonathan Stouffer. Victim number six, the man shot to death in a Florida electronics store. The prescription had been filled on the morning of the day Stouffer was shot. The other was Mark Long, according to the files, and he lived in Daphne. She had already started running the various computer checks on him. Stouffer's body had not been examined internally; the autopsy report noted the family's religious objections. Still, the Escambia County, Fla., medical examiner had done a thorough job on the external examination and there was no report of anthrax lesions anywhere on Stouffer's skin. Scully propped her elbows on the table, pressing her fingers hard against her throbbing temples. Mulder needed to know this, she thought, but she didn't know where Mulder was. He wasn't answering his cell phone, and she wasn't about to knock on his door and risk Glassman's answering. Mack had driven her past Mullet Point after she got the documents, but Mulder wasn't there, either. That was about as far as she was prepared to go in looking for him, given his current state of mind. And hers. But she needed to tell him. Not being able to talk to him, not having him around, was making her irritable and anxious. Leave it until morning, she thought. You've got to sleep sometime. Wearily, she got up, stripping off her somber work clothes as she walked toward the bathroom. She turned on the shower full blast, as hot as she could stand, then got in and stood there, letting the water run over her head and down her body until she felt lightheaded. Only then did she shampoo her hair and wash herself, then stood there again under the water so long that she began to feel guilty about wasting it. She turned off the water and stepped out, dried off and wrapped herself in her soft cotton bathrobe. She started to put on her usual blue satin pajamas, but changed her mind; she was still steamy from the shower, and the humidity was high outside. Instead, she put on one of her own cotton T-shirts and a pair of lightweight cotton shorts. The heat had driven her headache away, as she knew it would, but she took an aspirin anyway, reasoning that it couldn't hurt and might help prevent another one. Oh, there's a professional attitude, Dana, she thought. Taking medicine you don't need. You are losing it. She climbed into bed, put on her reading glasses, tucked her gun under the pillows on the other side of the bed and began looking over the pharmacy reports again. Two men, both killed by an apparently random killer. One victim had anthrax, the other had been taking medicine to prevent anthrax infection. One in Alabama, the other across the state line in Florida. Where was the connection? Did they know each other? Did someone else, a third party -- besides the killer, she thought -- know them both? That the anthrax spelled danger, she did not doubt. Mulder was right; Mobile was a fine place to ship things into and out of and then on to the rest of the nation. It was a logical place for a terrorist staging point; less guarded than some ports, more accessible than others, its only military presence a Coast Guard search and rescue outfit. The Navy and the Air Force had pulled out a long time ago. All right. Let's accept that there's terrorist activity going on, and that Mobile plays a part in it. What possible part could a paranoid killer play in it, other than to strike unpredictably like lightning? A loud knock on the door shocked her from her musings, and she gasped. She took her gun from under the pillow, kept it in her hand as she approached the door. "Who's there?" she said, in her command voice. "Scully, it's me," came Mulder's voice. "Can I come in, please?" "Mulder?" She looked through the peephole. It was him. "Just a minute, Mulder." She opened the door. "Come on in," she said. "I thought you wanted me to leave you alone. To what do I owe the pleasure?" "Knock it off, Scully," Mulder said, tiredly. "We've got some things to discuss. Did you get your search warrant?" "Yes," she said, a bit defensively, he thought. "And I found something. Victim number six, Jonathan Stouffer, was taking doxycycline in the same dose that I am, a dose consistent with what would be prescribed in an attempt to prevent anthrax, post-exposure." Mulder let out a long, low whistle. "Maybe that's the connection," he said. "Good work, Scully." "What's the connection?" she demanded, puzzled. "I can't see any connection at all." "The reason I can't find a connection between the victims is that there isn't one, not from the UNSUB's own point of view," Mulder said. "Whoever he may be, our killer has been led to see two seemingly unrelated people as a danger to himself -- two people who may both have been exposed to anthrax." He stopped, looking at Scully as though seeing her for the first time. "Do you always answer the door with a loaded gun in your hand?" "Not always," she said, defensively. She put the gun down on the bedside table but without uncocking it, Mulder noticed. Yeah, he thought. I was right: I do know what's wrong with you. Turning his back to her, he picked up the weapon and thumbed the uncocking lever as quietly as he could, then slid open the drawer and put the gun inside. Oh, God, Scully, why did I ever leave you to face this alone? Take it slowly, Mulder. Don't rush her. This is going to be rough enough without that. "May I sit down?" he said, gesturing toward a chair. "Please," Scully said. She sat on the bed. "Are you suggesting that the UNSUB has been used as some sort of psychopathic hit man?" "He's not psychopathic, he's psychotic, and that is exactly what I'm suggesting," Mulder said, as he flopped down in the chair. He rubbed his eyes, combed his hair back with both hands, before continuing. "There's really no other explanation for the Florida victims, Scully," he said, slowly, leaning toward her. "They just don't fit: They weren't in a convenience store or gas station, and they were, let us not forget, in Florida. That's not our UNSUB's preferred type of victim, and it doesn't make much sense, even allowing for the fact that spree killers aren't as choosy about who they kill as serial killers are." "And that tells you what?" "That either this is pure coincidence -- which I don't believe, and I don't think you do either -- or someone intended that he should kill them and make it look like part of his spree, or they are in fact not part of the spree. But all the evidence says they are." "And what about the anthrax?" He shrugged, not dismissively, but in a way that indicated he was still unsure. "All I know is that the anthrax is the link. What the link means, I'm not sure. Maybe one or both of these victims was involved in terrorist activity, although in Mr. Nivek's case I think that's unlikely. But it's always possible he had knowledge of things he shouldn't." "Mulder," she said, getting up, "Glassman already thinks we're nuts for pursuing this the way we are." She walked over to the table, sat in the chair opposite his. "He's going to have apoplexy if we give him this theory now. I wouldn't be surprised if he ordered me back to Quantico right away." "I'm not going to let him do that," Mulder said, simply. "You've got to be here. This just went beyond a spree killing, all the way to a bacteriological hazard." "Anti-terrorism is not VICAP's primary objective, as you well know," Scully said, peevishly. "If this is a terrorist threat, we should call for help from someone trained in anti-terrorism, or if you think the threat is imminent, call CIRG." CIRG stood for Critical Incident Response Group, the striking arm of the FBI's criminal investigations. CIRG encompassed almost everything VICAP did, along with SWAT teams and hostage-negotiation and rescue teams scattered around the country for rapid response. CIRG agents could be almost anywhere in the nation within hours. "We're nowhere near that point," Mulder said. "At this point, we can't prove anything beyond a spree killer in Daphne and one man with anthrax. I'm not downplaying the seriousness of it, but the form of anthrax that this man had is just not the form you would expect to see in a terrorist attack." Scully was silent. "Scully?" "No," she said, shortly. "It's not. I would expect to see anthrax in the lungs." "Which Mr. Stouffer may have had," Mulder said. "Without an internal exam, you couldn't say, could you?" She shook her head. "So do we exhume Mr. Stouffer, too?" She grimaced. "I'd rather not. But the reason there was no internal exam in the first place was that the family's religion forbids it, according to the ME. I have no idea what religion that might be, but I doubt they're going to acquiesce easily in an exhumation for the purpose of autopsy at this point, and frankly, the longer we delay, the less I want to do it." "But you will do it, if that's what it takes," he said, and his voice was gentler than it had been. "And I know I make jokes about it, but I admire you for that, Scully. Honestly. I couldn't do it, myself." That brought a lump to her throat again, and she turned her head away, her tongue darting out nervously to wet her lips. Mulder saw it. "I'm sorry," he said, rising. "I'm upsetting you again." "No," she said, quickly. "I'm upset. I won't deny it. But it's just -- you know, exhumations. I hate them. I can talk about the case. Really." "Can you?" "Yes, I can," she said, a trace of irritation in her voice. "I am perfectly fine. Just a little tired." He walked over to her, slowly, sat down on the bed next to her, and took her hand in both of his. "What is it you're tired of, Dana?" he said, very quietly. "Of being like this," she whispered, without thinking; Mulder's gentle, unexpected question had caught her off-guard. "Of being like what?" "You mean you haven't noticed?" she asked, her voice beginning to quiver. "Maybe. But I want to know what you think it is." "It's -- it's nothing, Mulder. I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all." Her guard was back up. "Drop the Spooky psychologist routine, okay?" she said, coldly. "I'm fine." He watched her for a minute, then stood up. He unholstered his gun, walked to the dresser and laid it down, then returned to sit next to her, once more taking her hand in his. "I think, Scully," he said, slowly, "that you and I are overdue for some truth- telling. I'm as close to this UNSUB as I'm ever going to be, but it's not close enough. I can't get any deeper, and part of the reason for that is that you keep pulling me back." "How am I pulling you back?" she asked in annoyance, tossing her head back. "You keep saying that I'm doing that. How am I doing that?" "By needing me," he said, simply. "Partly by doing what you've always done so well, calming me, helping me be rational again, because that's how you need me to be right now so I can help you with your part of this investigation. But that's the problem: To get inside this guy's head, I can't be calm and rational. I have to think the way he does, and he doesn't have anyone like you in his life." "Someone who messes up his mind?" she said, and he heard the catch in her voice. "I didn't say that," he said. "If my mind is messed up, it's my own fault. I've worked exactly one homicide since December; it was a domestic, and about the most amateurish attempt at a cover-up I've ever seen and it still took me two hours to figure it out. But I'm the big BSU profiler, and no one in Birmingham ever challenges anything I suggest, no matter how crazy it is, so I don't have to think very hard these days. I've gotten soft, mentally." "I'm sorry, I can't agree with you," she said, quietly. "I don't think it's as bad as you're painting it. You're just rusty. You'll get back on track." He shook his head. "No. That's not it. I've been through this before. I know what's wrong with me, but I don't think you know what's wrong with you. You're trying to keep me from seeing how unhappy you are, but it's not working." "I'm not unhappy," she said, but she looked away from him as she said it. "You said you were," he said. "The first night I was here, you told me you'd never been so miserable in your life." "I didn't really mean it; I was just tired, and I was angry at you," she said. You never were a very good liar, Mulder thought, almost smiling. He shook his head, forced himself back to his reason for being here. It's time to start telling the truth, Scully, he thought, pityingly. But stay with me, baby, please -- it'll hurt, but we'll get through it, I promise you. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Scully," he said, forcing himself to be matter-of-fact, "if you're so okay, why did you scream and push me away the other night?" She whirled around to face him, and she was furious. "For Christ's sake, Mulder," she snapped. "Are you going to keep bringing that up for the rest of my life?" "No," he said, still outwardly calm. "I'll stop when you're finally able to face what caused it." "Nothing caused it," she said, angrily. "I remember bad things sometimes. They upset me." "Yes, they do. And that's a new thing for you, Scully," he said. "You never used to be like that." "And what about what you never used to do before?" she said, pulling her hand away. "I mean, let's not forget Donnie Pfaster. That case was hard on me, and I was behaving unprofessionally, and I knew it, but you were kind, and understanding, and I felt safe with you. Now you just badger me all the time about nothing at all." Her voice choked, and he reached for her to comfort her, but she jumped up and flung herself into a chair near the window. She wouldn't look at him. Mulder looked down at his hands. "I know I've been distant," he said. "Hell, I've been zooming up and down faster than an Internet stock, trying to get into this guy's head and getting close, but never really there; just close enough to get a good look at the worst parts of myself." He looked up at her. "It's unpleasant -- it's worse than unpleasant, it's repulsive -- for you and for me. But it doesn't mean you're not safe with me, Scully. Does it?" It hurt to hear the sadness in his voice, the note of fear for what she might say next. "No," she said, and tears were welling up in her eyes. "I shouldn't have said that. I've never felt anything but completely safe with you. But things are all wrong this time; we haven't been able to connect well on any level since we've been here. Not as friends, not as lovers, and not even as partners. Every day since we started this case, it's been one step forward, two steps back. And I can't stand it anymore." With that, she broke down completely, sobbing into her hands. For a moment, Mulder didn't move, but then he got up, sat on the arm of her chair and took her into his arms. She stiffened, resisting his embrace, but he didn't let go, and finally she gave in, pressed her face against his chest and cried hard, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Shhh," he murmured. "It's okay. It's all right." After a while, she quieted, but didn't move, just sat there holding him for dear life. He stroked her hair, gently, lovingly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's all right," he said. "That's what I'm here for." "No, it's not," she said, almost angrily. "You're here to find a killer, and instead you're having to protect me, to shore me up emotionally instead of doing your job." "That's not true," he said, still stroking her. "I would never have found out what you have about the anthrax. And let's not forget that blood spot, which may yet lead us to our UNSUB." "It doesn't matter," she said, pulling away from him, wiping her eyes. He let her go, but stayed where he was. "I'm working this case harder than I've worked in a long time, but none of it makes any sense to me. I can't understand it, I can't even begin to understand it." "But you're still trying," he said, encouragingly. "You haven't given up." "Only because it's your case and you care about it. Most of the time, I just don't care about work, I don't care about medicine, I don't even really care about the poor victims that we're supposedly doing it all for. I still care about you," she said, looking up at him so he would see the truth in her eyes. "But I've hurt you, and used you, and taken you away from your work. It might be better for you if I didn't care." "No, Scully," he said. He moved closer to her again, and traced his finger briefly along the line of her jaw. "Never think that. Whatever may have gone wrong between us is far more my fault than yours." "You always blame yourself," she said, but she leaned her face into his hand. "This time, you're wrong." "Come here," he said, almost in a whisper, and pulled her back against his chest, wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She gave a long, shuddering sigh and relaxed against him. "I need you on this case, Scully," he said, holding her closely. "There's still so much we need to learn, things that I can't search for if I'm going to get this profile done. You're the only one who can do that. What you said last night was true; I need my partner, more now than ever." "I'm here, Mulder," she said, with a sound that made him think she might be crying again. "You're here," he said, stroking her back. "And I'm here. But what's wrong between us now means that we're not here. Not together, not as a team. You tell me what you're doing, and it goes right over my head, and vice versa. We're not connecting on this investigation. And I need that. But more than that, I need you. Not just as a partner, but as my friend. As the woman I love," he added, in a low voice. "I need you badly enough to risk hurting you." "I don't know what you mean," she said, but the way she was fidgeting in his arms told Mulder a different story, and his heart went out to her. He knew what she was feeling, all right; but having to admit it was going to half kill her. She had always been so strong, so self-reliant. "Scully, you've got to talk about it," he said. "I know it's upsetting, but you have to. It's a basic principle of psychology: If you can't talk about something without experiencing unduly negative emotions, then you haven't processed the incident." "That's a little too much psychologist crap, Mulder," she said, irritably. "Sorry," he said, almost sheepishly. "Bad habit of mine." He grew serious again. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're unhappy, and you're afraid, and there's a reason for it that you know, but you can't deal with. But you have to face it someday, Scully. We both do. I left you to face it alone. The real truth behind all this is something that neither of us wants to face." "There's nothing to face," she said, jerking herself away from him. "You know better than that," he said, letting his hands drop to his sides. "You remember it, Scully, even if you try not to. I'm the king of repressed memories, and I can promise you, they don't stay repressed forever. They tend to burst out at inopportune times like those damn aliens in the Sigourney Weaver movies." "Are you saying that you know of something that I need to remember?" she asked, her voice dropping to a shaky whisper. "I know," he said, gently. "But you're the one who has to remember it. And you do remember, even though I know you don't want to." "I can't remember ... " she began, and then froze. The bandages on his wrists. The cold hands. (However long it takes, that two-faced son of a bitch is mine.) That's far enough, her brain shrieked, and the memories stopped coming, but Scully shuddered. She could almost feel what lurked behind the door she had almost opened ... "No," she said, abruptly. "I can't. I won't. Please don't make me." "I'm not going to make you do anything," he whispered, sliding his hand into her hair. "If you're not ready, then we'll drop it. But one day, you're going to remember it all, whether you want to or not, and there may not be anyone there with you when you do." "There's nothing else I need to remember," she said, testily. She stood up and folded her arms across her chest, her fingers digging into her upper arms. "You don't get it, Mulder. What I need to do is forget; I remember too much already." "You don't remember enough, Scully," he said. "Not consciously, anyway." "No," she said, vehemently. "I had some dreams, bad dreams, and a hallucination, while I was injured. It wasn't real." She turned her back to him. "Mulder, I don't want to talk about this anymore," she whispered. "Let's just get some sleep." "Scully," he said, rising and taking a step toward her. "I know it's bad, but you can't ignore it. It's only going to get worse if you do, and it's bad enough already -- you're intensely depressed, and sometimes, you're almost out of control." "There is nothing to remember, nothing except my nightmares," she said, firmly. She turned around, looked up at him. "Nightmares aren't memories. People dream about all kinds of things that aren't real." "No, but the emotions you experience in nightmares can be very real," he said. "But I'm not going to push you any further. You get some sleep; I'll be next door if you need me." "I don't need anything," she said, her voice choking as she fought back the tears. Of anger? Sadness? He couldn't tell. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm fine, Mulder," she said, turning away. "I'm just tired, I'm just really, really tired, okay? I'll see you in the morning." "All right," he said. He paused, and bent toward her for a kiss, but she shrank away from him, closing her eyes, and he stopped. He bowed his head in resignation and turned away. "Good night, Scully," he said. She heard the door closing softly. When she looked up, he was gone. She was alone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Four years ago, while working on an assignment outside the FBI mainstream, I was paired with Special Agent Dana Scully, who I believed was sent to spy on me; to debunk my investigations into the paranormal. That Agent Scully did not follow these orders is a testament to her integrity as an investigator, a scientist, and a human being. She has paid dearly for this integrity." -- Fox Mulder "Redux II" -- Chris Carter Chapter 12 Scully walked down the darkened hallway of the hotel, holding her gun tightly in her hand. At each corner, she stopped, pointed the gun down the corridor and followed it only when she was certain there was no one out there. She stopped outside Mulder's room. The door was closed, but it opened easily at her touch. It was dark in there, and she could just barely make out Mulder's outline as he slept, restlessly, in one of the two beds. But he wasn't tossing and turning in his sleep, she noticed. He was tied up, handcuffed and bound, and he was struggling to break free. Sweat was building up on his face, running down in rivulets, mixing with the tears that fell from his eyes. He was trying to talk to her, but there was no sound, and she knew that if he couldn't talk, couldn't tell her what was happening, he would die. It was a medical fact, although she couldn't remember now where she'd learned it. It was dark and damp in the room and Glassman was there, too, but not helping her or Mulder. He was laughing, standing over the bed and laughing, and when she turned to him to plead for his help, he swatted the gun from her hand, sent it clattering to the floor. "I told you," he said, but in a voice that belonged to someone else. "I told you what I would do if you came here again." And his face disappeared and he was the man, the faceless man, coming at her, and she couldn't move, suddenly she was face down, bound and tied like Mulder, but he was gone and the bed was gone and she was face down in the mud, she couldn't breathe, and she was burning inside, pain like a thousand fiery knives was lancing through her, they were burning her while she was still alive, and she tried to scream but when she opened her throat the mud began to rush in and slide down her throat, into her lungs and she was dying and begging and she was screaming and screaming begging him to stop please stop please please please ... .. "Scully," someone said. "Baby, wake up, you're having a nightmare." She heard a loud scream, and she sat bolt upright and lunged toward the night stand, searching frantically for her weapon. It wasn't there. And then she felt a hand, gently pulling her back down to the bed, and she knew who had moved her weapon out of reach. Mulder. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand on her shoulder. He was dressed in his T-shirt and sweatpants, the clothes he usually slept in; she could see him clearly in the dim light that came through the opened connecting door. "Shhh," he was saying, softly. "Scully, it's all right, you're awake now. It's over." "Over?" she repeated, still confused. "What's over?" "The nightmare," he said, gently. "You were having a nightmare. But you're awake now. It wasn't real." A nightmare. God. Another one. She was perspiring, but she was cold, and shaking all over. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. Was it? "Was I screaming?" she whispered, still unable to believe she was alive. It was hard to talk, anyway; she was breathing far too fast, gasping almost, and her heart was pounding. "Yeah, you could say that," he said, with a wry smile, as he wiped away the tears she hadn't known were there. "But don't worry; Glassman didn't hear it. He's not home yet." She covered her face with her hands, shuddering. "It was so real," she whispered. "It's always so real." "I know," he said, stroking her hair. "They do seem real, don't they? It's just about the worst part of all this." "I'm so tired, Mulder," she whispered, looking up at him. "I can't sleep at all anymore. I'm afraid to go back to sleep." "Does that happen a lot?" he asked, quietly. "All the time." She shook her head. "Every night. Sometimes two or three times." "Are you taking anything to help you sleep?" "No. I don't want to get started with that." "It might be a good idea, for a while, anyway." "You don't," she said, looking at him. "You've had nightmares as long as I've known you, and I've never known you to take soporifics." "Sleeping pills, right, Dr. Scully?" he said, smiling a little. "No. I don't. Not as a rule, anyway. But that doesn't mean you can't." "Yes, it does," she said. "I won't. It's too dangerous." "So is going without sleep," he said. "It can seriously affect your judgment. You know that." "I know," she said. She turned her head listlessly to one side. "I just ... can't. I can't start with pills. I might never stop." "Well ... you're the doctor," he said, but he wasn't teasing. His voice was gentle, soothing. "Will it help if I stay here with you for a few minutes?" She thought for a minute. "Yes." "You want to talk?" "No," she said, shaking her head. "I want to sleep. I'm tired of not sleeping." "So what do you want me to do?" he said. "I can't sing, so no lullabyes." "Just stay here, just until I'm asleep," she said. "If I'm not asleep in 15 minutes, you can leave." "I'll stay as long as you want me to," he said, quietly. "Try to sleep now." She shook her head. "Lie down with me." She heard his intake of breath, felt the indecision rolling off him in waves. "Scully, I don't know ... " he began. "Please?" she broke in. "I know I said horrible things to you earlier, and I don't deserve to be forgiven, but I ... I really do feel safe when you hold me." "You didn't say anything horrible," he said, gently. "You were upset, that's all." "I'm still upset," she said. "And I need you to hold me for a minute. Please?" "You really don't make this easy, do you?" he said, shaking his head, but he was smiling just a little as he said it. "No," she said, managing a small smile in return. "I don't want it to be easy." "You're succeeding," he said, but the smile faded, just a little. "All right. I will. But just for a few minutes." He got up, closed the connecting door and then climbed on the bed and lay down beside her. She slid back toward him, nestling her body against his, spoon fashion, and after a moment he put an arm over her, held her snugly against him. "Must've been a bad one," he said, just above a whisper. "Was it the same one?" "No," she said. She knew what he meant. "It was a little different this time. Basically the same, though. Some things are always the same. The mud ... the handcuffs ... some other things." "That's what mine are usually like," he said, his hand gently stroking up and down her arm. "Always the same thing, over and over." "Samantha?" she whispered. "And a few other things," he said. "It gets old, doesn't it? Reliving the same bad things, night after night?" "Very old," she whispered. She could feel the fear draining from her, ebbing away with each word he said and each caress. "You feel so good," she said, pressing closer to him. "So do you," he said, moving his arm under hers, letting it rest on her waist. "Go to sleep. You're safe. Nothing's going to happen to you tonight." "Mulder?" "Hmm?" "I love you." He held her tighter, kissed the warm place just behind her ear. "I love you, too," he said. "Now go to sleep." ~~~~~ 5:24 a.m. He was gone when she woke up. But there was a note on the pillow, the pillow that still smelled of him. ****** Scully -- don't be mad, you were sleeping so soundly I just couldn't bear to wake you. Meet me for breakfast if you wake up in time. I have another idea of what we should do today. I'll tell you about it when I see you. P.S. I love you ~~~~~ Daphne Municipal Building Thursday, March 4 6:35 a.m. "Don't you people ever go home?" Mack said as he stuck his head in the door. "What do you mean?" Mulder said, absently. "This is our home away from home." He was in his usual position, tilted back in the chair, feet up, studying a file. "I don't want to visit your house, then, if this feels like home," Mack said, plopping in the chair next to Mulder. "We heard from the CDC this morning." At that, Scully came out into the room. "What did they say?" she said, pulling off the latex exam gloves. "They said they're coming down here, today," Mack said. "They'll be here this afternoon. You were right, Agent Scully. This one's got them spooked." "Happens to me all the time," Mulder said, still not paying much attention. "Here it is, Scully. Stouffer lived in west Mobile. That's the pricey part of the city, apparently." He stood up, picked up his jacket. "I'll give you a ride." "Mulder, you don't have to go," she said. "I'm just going to seek the family's permission for an exhumation and autopsy." "I do, too, have to go," he said. "I have to find out why this victim is different from all the other victims." ~~~~~ Stouffer residence Mobile, Alabama 7:07 a.m. "That's odd," Scully said as Mulder pulled up near the Stouffers' expensive- looking suburban home. "What's odd?" he asked, as he stopped the car and cut the ignition. "Just look," she said. "It's seven o'clock in the morning and there must be a dozen cars in front of this house. The funeral was days ago." Mulder gnawed his lip for a moment. "I think I might know why," he said, reflectively. "Why?" "You'll know when we get inside," he said. "You've seen it before." "Now you're scaring me," she said, dubiously. "Is this some sort of cult thing?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Depends on who you ask, I guess," he said. "I've heard that accusation, anyway. Come on." They walked to the front door, which was slightly ajar. Mulder stood there for a moment, looking at the door frame, at a small cylindrical object nailed diagonally to the wood. He nodded. "I thought so," he said. Then, to Scully's surprise, Mulder just pushed the door open and walked in without knocking. "Mulder, have you lost your mind?" she whispered. "We haven't been invited in." "We won't be, either," he said. "Don't worry, they expect it. See?" He pointed to a large hallway mirror. The glass was completely covered with what looked like soap. "Am I supposed to know what that means?" Scully said. "Would it be easier if they draped the mirrors instead of soaping them?" he asked, with a hint of mischief. "Come on, Scully -- think back." She thought for a minute. Covered mirrors in the house, people gathered around after a death ... Then she remembered. The Luria case. "They're sitting shiva," she said, slowly. "They're here mourning for their departed relative. So they're Jewish?" "Unless the Jehovah's Witnesses have taken up shiva as a means of discouraging visitors," he said. "But judging by the mezuzah on the door, yes, they're Jews, and at least somewhat observant." "That would explain why they didn't want an autopsy," she said. "I just hadn't thought about finding a Jewish family in the South." "Oh, we're everywhere, Scully," he said, still with that mischievous twinkle. "Just remember -- it's considered rude to greet anyone during shiva, and Orthodox Jewish men don't usually shake hands with women anyway." "Because we might be unclean?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. "That time of the month?" "Yes," he said. "That's exactly why." He raised his hands, grinning, in a mock defensive posture. "Don't get mad at me, Scully, I didn't make the rules." "I'll try to keep that in mind," she said, dryly. He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged, the smile fading. "Sounds like everyone's gathered out back." They walked down a hallway toward the sound of voices. Entering a large den, they found about 20 people, mostly women, sitting on low stools around the room. A bearded man wearing a yarmulke walked over to them. "This has been such a tragedy," the man said. "The family will be grateful for your support." "I wish we were here to offer support," Mulder said. "I'm Fox Mulder. My partner and I are federal agents, investigating Mr. Stouffer's death. We didn't realize the family was still sitting shiva; I'm sorry we have to interrupt." "Oh, yes, Mr. Mulder," the man said. "I've heard about you. The FBI profiler. I'm Rabbi Yaakov Golden. And your partner is ... ?" "Dana Scully," Scully said, keeping her hands at her side. "We're sorry to intrude, Rabbi, but there is a matter of some importance we need to discuss with the family. Mr. Stouffer may have been exposed to a dangerous disease before his death, and the family may need to take precautions." "Mr. Stouffer's brother is here," Golden said. "I'm sure he'd be willing to talk to you as soon as the morning prayers are over. Mr. Stouffer's young son David is here, so we are only waiting to have a minyan." "How many do you have?" Mulder asked. Scully looked at him in surprise. The rabbi might as well have been speaking Greek as far as she was concerned, yet Mulder, the agnostic, seemed to know exactly what the man was saying. "Nine," the rabbi said. "It's difficult to get a minyan on these weekday mornings. We're a small community, and everyone has to work." "Is there someone on the way?" The rabbi nodded. "But the time for the prayers will be over soon; I'm afraid David may not be able to say Kaddish today. It wouldn't be his fault, of course, but he feels very strongly that he owes this duty to his father." Mulder nodded, biting his lip. He looked at Scully uncertainly, then down at the ground, finally meeting the rabbi's glance again. "Rabbi," he said, "I will be your tenth man if you like, but I haven't put a kipoh on my head since I was eight, and I'm not going to start again now. Do you think the rest of the men can tolerate that?" "You're a Jew, Mr. Mulder?" the rabbi asked. Mulder nodded. "Then of course you should pray with us; it's a mitzvah for you. What is your name in Israel?" "D'vid ben Avram," he said, uncomfortably, pronouncing it duh'VEED ben uvRAHM. "But please don't call me to the Torah, Rabbi. I can't read Hebrew." "Very well," Golden said. "I'll tell the others that we can begin." "Scully, would you mind waiting here for just a few minutes?" Mulder asked in a low tone as the rabbi walked away. "Men don't pray with women in these circles, and I ... " "You go do what you need to do," she said, touching his arm gently. "There's a little boy over there who I think is going to be very grateful to you." Mulder smiled, clasped her hand for a second, and went to join Golden and a group of skull-capped men who stood waiting across the room with a boy who looked about 12. There was a moment of quiet conversation, then the men -- with Mulder bringing up the rear -- went into another room. After a few minutes, during which no one present seemed inclined to talk to her (she wondered whether the cross around her neck had something to do with that, then scolded herself for being paranoid), Scully tiptoed to the door and stood to one side, listening. There was a murmur of what she assumed must be Hebrew, everyone praying simultaneously but not in unison. She risked a glance around the door, and saw Mulder standing silently at the back of the room, his hands clasped before him, looking distinctly uneasy. Then the voices suddenly joined together. "Yis'ga'dal, v'yis'kadash, sh'may ra'bbo, b'olmo dee'vro chir'usay v'yamlich malchu'say, b'chayaychon v'yomay'chon uv'chayay d'chol baisYisroel, ba'agolo u'viz'man koriv; v'imru Omein." Scully had heard this before; she hadn't recognized it then, but Mulder had told her later what it was: the Kaddish, the prayer of sanctification, the prayer for the dead. She peeked around the doorway again. The men were bent over their prayer books. The boy, wrapped in a prayer shawl like the others, was swaying like a reed in the wind, tears dropping from his eyes as he prayed. Everyone prayed together, standing, swaying gently, except Mulder. He wasn't moving; his eyes were screwed shut, and his head was slightly bowed. True to his word, he was bareheaded and wore no shawl. Mulder wasn't praying. Of course not. Mulder didn't pray, no matter what, not even for her when she lay near death from cancer. If he had ever prayed for Samantha's return, he had given it up a long, long time ago. He had never prayed this prayer for his father; of that, she was certain. He just didn't believe in it. But he was there anyway, lending his presence, making it possible for a little boy to pray in memory of his murdered father. As she herself had learned to pray so many years ago ... She could see herself as though it were yesterday, just about this child's age, saying a prayer as each tiny white bead of her rosary slipped through her fingers, praying for the souls in Purgatory and for her grandmother: the Our Father, then the ten Hail Marys, which her mother had called the Pater Noster and the Ave, and then the Gloria. Maggie had learned to pray the Rosary in Latin, which was falling out of use when Dana was born. Sometimes, though, she would hear Maggie praying in the old Latin words under her breath. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus ... She hadn't understood the words of the Ave then any better than she understood the Kaddish now, but she believed in them both. Whatever it meant, whatever language, it all came back to faith: Faith in God, faith in medicine, faith in science, and when all those had abandoned her, faith ... in Mulder's faith. She remembered the prayer with which her mother always ended the Rosary. The Memorare. The very word meant remember; the prayer begged the Mother of God to remember that she was humanity's mother, too. Prayer ... remembrance ... there was a connection here, beyond just this one prayer, something that was somehow ... terrifying. Some phrase, some poem, a song, maybe ... something with frightening meaning for her. What was it? It was getting harder and harder to think. Mulder said she would remember. He wanted her to remember, and all she could remember now was those long-ago prayers. If you say a prayer silently, in your mind, she thought, a little hysterically, are you remembering a prayer or are you remembering to pray? Pray. Remember. Those words do go together, I know it, she thought. I really will lose my mind if this keeps going through my head all day, I will. But how do the words fit? It means something, I know it does. But what? Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Then the Memorare. Pray. Then remember. Pray. Remember ... pray you, love, remember. That was it. It was from Hamlet. Ophelia, the mad Ophelia, said that in the hour of her death -- her suicide, actually. Ophelia died because Hamlet couldn't stop her, or wouldn't stop her -- he was too obsessed with his quest, with doing the bidding of the unseen ghosts of the past, avenging his father's murder, his mother's infidelity. Hamlet was unwilling or unable to see that Ophelia was dying of her own grief. And everyone thought Hamlet was mad, when it was really Ophelia whose reason had been rocked and finally destroyed by the horrors surrounding them all. "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember." And then into the water to drown. The parallels were entirely too close for comfort, she thought. But Mulder was no Hamlet. He would have laid the quest aside to save her life; he had almost done it, last year when she was dying. And then he had come to her hospital bed, in the simple, unshakable belief that she would keep him on the right path if she had to spend her last breaths to do it. When the priest came in, Mulder had quietly left her, accepting with a smile her promise to pray for him. But he had no faith in God. No faith in prayer. No faith in anything but the truth, and in her. What did it mean to him that she would pray for him? "Oseh sholom bimromov, hu ya'aseh sholom olaynu," came the voices from the other room. That was a word she recognized. Shalom. They were praying for peace. And he had brought her peace last night, peace of heart and soul and mind, had given it freely despite how badly she had hurt him. No, Mulder had no faith in the beautiful prayer rising to Heaven all around him, but he had faith in her. He trusted that she would make this journey, using all her strength to reach for a truth so dark she had determined never to remember it or speak of it. Oh, but it was there ... it was, and he knew it. And so did she. Pray you, love, remember, he was saying. And in remembering, bring peace to us both. "Vimru, Omein." The Kaddish was over. Quickly, with little motion so no one would see, she made the sign of the cross. Then she walked away in thoughtful silence. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ But all remembered beauty is no more Than a vague prelude to the thought of you-- You are the rarest soul I ever knew, Lover of beauty, knightliest and best, My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore, And when I think of you I am at rest. "To E." -- Sara Teasdale Chapter 13 Stouffer residence 8:15 a.m. "Mr. Mulder, I don't know what else I can tell you," Morris Stouffer was saying. "I don't object to an autopsy, if it could save someone else. There is no commandment that may not be suspended to save a human life, as I'm sure you know; however, I will have to ask the rabbi first." The agents and the dead man's brother were sitting in the living room, which was deserted now that the morning prayers had been said and most of the visitors had gone on to work. "Still, it's hard for me to believe Jon had this disease. He never worked with animals that I know of, never had anything on his hands such as you've described," Stouffer was saying. "He was an architect." "Why did he go all the way to Pensacola to shop for electronics equipment?" Mulder asked. Stouffer shrugged. "It was his hobby. Maybe he wanted something that he couldn't find in Mobile. I don't know." "Did your brother have friends in Pensacola?" Scully asked. "Not that I'm aware of," Stouffer said. "He wasn't much of a joiner, outside the Reserves." "Reserves?" Mulder's ears perked up. "Which branch of the Reserves?" "Army," Stouffer said. "A medical unit here in Mobile. I know what you're thinking: Why does a hospital unit need an architect on staff?" "To design hospitals?" Mulder asked, with just the barest touch of humor. "No," Stouffer said, shaking his head. "He worked there as a clerk, keeping personnel records. He was in that unit because they drilled on weeknights, never on Shabbat like most of them. He loved his country; it was worth it to him to take a job so far below his education so that he could keep the commandments and serve his country." "Mr. Stouffer, do you know whether your brother's Reserve unit was ever in the Middle East or the Persian Gulf?" Scully asked. "Why do you ask?" "Because if he were, he might have been exposed to the -- bacteria -- we're investigating while he was there," she said. Stouffer shook his head. "No. The unit hadn't been activated since Vietnam. He was a single father, a widower; it meant a lot to him to be near his son." "What happened to his wife?" Mulder asked. "She died four years ago, killed by a drunken driver," Stouffer said stolidly. "Who will care for the boy now?" Scully asked, softly. "He's coming to live with my family," Stouffer said. "It'll be a big adjustment for all of us, but we'll work it out." He stood up. "If that's all, Agent Mulder, I should go be with my nephew now." "I think that's enough," Mulder said. "Scully?" She shook her head. Mulder reached into his coat pocket, took out a card and a pen. "Here's the number where you can reach us for the next few days," he said, writing. "If you think of anything else, please call. If we're no longer in town, you can reach me at the Birmingham field office. The number's on the card." "I don't know what else there might be, Mr. Mulder," Stouffer said, standing. "But I'll call if I think of anything." The agents stood as well. Stouffer regarded Mulder carefully. "Mr. Mulder, I know you're not a keeper of the commandments," he said. "But I'm sure you know that one does not normally thank those who perform a mitzvah. Still, I feel I must thank you on my nephew's behalf for participating in the minyan this morning. That was, as they say, above and beyond the call of duty." "Please don't mention it," Mulder said, uncomfortably. "I was glad to be of help." "You were a great help," Stouffer said, leading them to a side room where a small group of mourners still sat together. "I promise to call if I think of anything." "Thank you," Mulder said, looking around the room, questioningly: Why am I here? Scully could hear the question as clearly as though he had spoken it. "My grandmother is here," Stouffer said, indicating a elderly woman in the corner. "She wanted to speak to you." Mulder nodded, and walked over to the woman, stood there silently. Scully watched him, puzzled. After a minute, the woman looked up at Mulder. "You were a comfort to my great- grandson," she said, in heavily accented English. "It will be a greater comfort when you find and punish the man who killed his father." "I will find him," Mulder said. "I promise you that I will, if it is at all in my power to do so." She reached up frail hands to him, taking his hands and holding them in a firm grip. Her sleeves slid down her arms as she stretched her arms upward. "You must," she said, looking at him trustingly. "I have so little family left." Tears were rolling down her face, but Mulder wasn't looking there. He was looking at her arm, at a number tattooed there in faded blue ink. Most Holocaust survivors kept those tell-tale blue numbers covered if they could; he knew she was letting him see the tattoo for a reason. You are one of us, she was saying. This loss, all our losses, are yours as much as ours. Gently, he squeezed her hands before letting go, then carefully tugged her sleeve back into place. There was a short silence as Mulder seemed to struggle for something to say. "Hamakom y'nachem etchem b'toch ah'ar availai tziyon v'yerushalayim," he said at last, haltingly. Mrs. Stouffer nodded her thanks. "Aliyah v'sholom, D'vid ben Avram," she said. ~~~~~ Mulder was quiet as he drove back toward Mobile. Scully kept silent out of respect for what clearly had been an emotionally wrenching experience for him. They were halfway across Mobile Bay before he spoke again. "That's the first time I ever took part in a minyan," he said. "It was different." "You said you didn't have a religious upbringing," she said, praying she could keep the conversation on neutral ground. "I was surprised that you even knew what to do." "I didn't, really. I had very little exposure to it; my grandparents took me to shul sometimes, when I was a child," he said. "That stopped when my grandfather died, when I was about eight. My father didn't mind my having a religious education, even a bar mitzvah, but my mother hated the very idea. There's a synagogue on the Vineyard, down-Island in the Haven, and I've never even set foot in it." "So that was it for religious education?" "No. Mom sent me to an Episcopal prep school when I was 12." He laughed. "I probably know the catechism better than you do." "You probably do," she said. "I can't remember any of it, except the part about what a sacrament is." "The outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace," Mulder said, easily. "See? I do know it. Do you want me to name all seven of them?" "No, thanks," she said, dryly. "I'm impressed, Mulder -- or whatever name it is you're using today. What was that they were calling you, anyway? I've never heard you called by that name before." "Given to me on my day of greatest loss," he said, with a wry smile. "You know, when I was eight days old." "Your circumcision," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "I got it, Mulder. Go on." "Oh, come on, Scully, don't be a prude," he said, still teasingly. "You've probably done one or two yourself." "That's entirely beside the point," she said, primly. "Now -- go on. Why do you have another name?" "Because Fox is a Mulder family name, but the Mulders aren't Jewish," he said. "My father's father was a Gentile -- and my mother's parents were horrified when they heard what my name was going to be. They said Fox was no kind of name for a Jewish boy, and William was even worse. Too Christian. No offense intended, Scully," he added quickly. "None taken," she said. "So your grandparents lost the fight over your name?" "Over my legal name, they did," he said. "But my parents caved in to the pressure to some extent; they had a bris and named me D'vid. My father's Hebrew name was Avram, Abraham. So, D'vid ben Avram; David, son of Abraham." "Does the name mean anything? Besides the obvious, I mean?" "Um, yeah, actually, it does," Mulder said, just a little too casually. "D'vid means beloved; Avram means father of the people." The beloved son of Abraham. Scully remembered the story: God rewarded Abraham for his willingness to lay his only legitimate son on the altar as a sacrifice. But could Isaac ever forgive his father? The Kaddish is a duty he owes to his father, she thought. A duty that, in Mulder's case, was left undone. Quickly, she brought her thoughts back to the present. "So you have the name, but it's not a legal name?" she said, as off-handedly as she could. "It has no implications outside a religious context?" "That's the idea," he said, glancing at her with curiosity. "That's like my confirmation name," she said, without thinking, just to keep the conversation going. "I got that name when I was 12, from the bishop." She realized her mistake as soon as she saw the gleam of curiosity in Mulder's eyes. "And what name is that?" he asked, a little too casually. "No way, Mulder," she said, shaking her head. "I'd rather die than tell you." "Aw, c'mon Scully," he said. "I showed you mine. Now you show me yours. Or I could just call your mother ... I'll bet she has a lot of things stored up to tell me ... " "Scholastica," she said, quickly, interrupting him. "I beg your pardon?" "It's Scholastica," she said, resigned. "For St. Scholastica of the Benedictine order, who, needless to say, was a renowned scholar. My father chose it. My full Christian name is Dana Katherine Scholastica. Don't even dream of calling me that." "I won't," he said. "As long as you don't call me D'vid." "I don't even call you Fox," she said, arching an eyebrow. (Sometimes you do, he thought, but he didn't interrupt her.) "So why would I call you David? But you've got a deal. No Scholastica, no David. My lips are sealed. But I have one more question." "Don't you always?" he said, smiling. "What now?" "What did you say to Mrs. Stouffer?" she asked. "You said you didn't know any Hebrew, but that certainly sounded like it." "Yeah, well, you know, a phrase or two," he said, suddenly uneasy. "That's a traditional greeting to mourners, a consolation prayer." "What does it mean?" "It means, 'May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem,' " he said. "It's an old prayer." "Older than any of the prayers I know, I imagine," she said. "It's beautiful." He just shrugged. "I guess." "And what did she say to you?" "She said 'go in peace,' " Mulder said, quietly. "Tell me how you say that," she said. "I'd like to learn it." He shook his head. "Some other time, Scully, okay? Right now, I need to think for a while." "All right," she said. "Some other time." They finished the drive in silence. ~~~~~ They spent the rest of the day separately, Mulder delving once more into his photographs and case histories, making telephone calls, trying to put together a picture of the killer that would stick. Scully, having obtained permission from the Stouffer family, had spent much of the day in the Mobile County courthouse, getting an exhumation order for Stouffer. The exhumation would take place that night, shortly before morning so there would be few if any spectators, and she would be allowed to perform the autopsy with a Mobile County ME by her side. That didn't bother her. All the MEs here were fully qualified pathologists, and they would be all right whether she did the autopsy herself with their help or they insisted on performing it themselves. Either way, she would find out what she needed to know: Whether the deadly anthrax bacillus had taken up residence in the body of Jonathan Stouffer shortly before he was murdered. By 8 p.m., Scully had reached her limit. It was time to stop. There was work still to be done -- there always was -- and she could so easily have let it take over and keep her from doing what she needed to do. And if she did, and if Mulder found this killer tonight, or tomorrow morning, he would be gone and she would be back in her apartment by tomorrow night, holding her gun in her hand and wondering whether to put it in her mouth or against her temple. No. The beast was still there, inside her, but there was a way out, and that way was at this moment sitting alone in a cinder-block room, staring at photographs of utter brutality. But for her, she knew, he would stop. She took out her cell phone, hit the newly reprogrammed speed dial for Mulder's phone. After eight rings, she was about to hang up, when he finally answered. "Mulder," he said. "Mulder, it's me," she said. "I'm on my way back there, and I was wondering if you could do me a favor." "Sure, if I can," he said. "What's up?" "Would you let me buy you dinner?" There was a long pause. "Yeah, I guess so," he said, cautiously. "I was going to work a little longer ... " "You were going to work a lot longer," she corrected. "But it would mean a lot to me if you would join me." She heard him exhale, slowly. "Okay," he said, finally. "You've got my car, so I guess ... I'll see you here in a few minutes." "I'll be there." She hung up. ~~~~~ The Pembroke Inn Friday, March 5 12:07 a.m. Dinner had gone extremely well, which pleasantly surprised them both. They had eaten at a seafood restaurant behind the hotel, one which advertised -- and provided -- fresh shrimp, crabs and oysters from the Gulf of Mexico. They had even indulged in a bottle of wine, which was rare for them, but somehow, for tonight, anyway, seemed entirely appropriate. At one point, Mulder had gone silent, staring down at his plate so intently that Scully asked him what was wrong. "I was just thinking," he said. "If I'd had a religious upbringing, I'd never have eaten seafood. Not kosher. You know, I could have starved to death that way, living on the Vineyard." "Become a Catholic," she advised. "Lobster is kosher for Lent." And they had laughed. They had laughed a lot, and Scully had felt her heart grow light for the first time in ... years, really. The cloud that hung over her, the thing that Mulder wanted her to remember, could not touch her now, not in this moment. The simple joy of his presence filled her, body and soul, and there was no room for the terrors of the night. But then dinner was over, and Mulder had walked her back to her room, had come inside without any protest. He knew something was up with her. He always knew. He was sitting in the chair, looking out over the bay. She sat down on the arm of the chair next to him, and once again, he slipped his arm around her waist. "You do love the water, don't you," she said, quietly. "Not the way you do," he said, still looking out. "It just seems to be part of the background, as though every place in the world ought to be on the water." He looked up at her, smiling softly. "Sometimes, when you and I were in the field, really far inland, Nebraska or someplace like that, I'd find myself driving along, thinking that we must be getting near the water, that we ought to see it soon." "That's from living on an island that's less than 50 miles long," she said. "Less than 25," he corrected her. "And not five miles wide at the widest. Small place. But a great place to grow up ... " His voice trailed off. She knew why. "Samantha grew up somewhere, Mulder," she said, stroking his hair softly. "She's out there. Maybe you really did see her." "I don't know," he said, with the deep pain in his eyes that she'd come to know so well. "I may never know. As little work as I've done to try to find her lately, I don't deserve to know." "Yes, you do," she said. She bent over and kissed him softly. "And you will know, one day. It won't always be this way." "I keep wanting to believe that," he said, holding her a little closer. For a long time they sat that way, looking out over the water in silence, but comfortable with each other again in a way they hadn't been since December. At last, Mulder turned around to face her. "All right, Scully, give over," he said, but his voice was gentle. "You asked me to dinner for a reason, and I think I'm here for a reason, too." "Of course," she said, ruffling his hair. "You're here because I want you here." "Thanks, but I was aiming toward something more goal-oriented," he said, hugging her waist. "Come on, you know I'll beat it out of you if I have to." "I wouldn't try it if I were you, Mulder," she said, teasingly. "I could kick your ass if I had to. I might even shoot you again." "Oooh, you're scary, Agent Scully," he said, then he grew serious again. "I mean it, Scully; spill it. No more bullshit. You're holding back something." He paused to give her time to answer, but she didn't. "Scully," he said, more quietly. "Is it what we talked about last night?" She nodded. "You want to talk about it some more?" "No." She was silent again. "I mean, yes, I ... I think I need to. But I'm afraid, Mulder." "I know." He stroked her back, slowly, reassuringly. "And you know you don't have to talk about it if you're really not ready to. As you've pointed out before, I'm your partner, not your psychologist." "But I need to," she said, looking down at him. "I know that. I know there's something there, and I'm beginning to think I know what it is." She shivered. "If I'm right ... well, this is going to be one of the worst nights of my life." "It could be," he said, gently. "Which is why I'm telling you -- you don't have to do it." "Yes, I do," she said. She lowered herself slowly onto his lap. "I need you to do two things for me, Mulder." "Okay," he said. "What's first?" "Kiss me hard," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I can do that," he said, in a low voice. He put one arm around her shoulders, left the other around her waist, and pulled her body closer to his, his lips meeting hers in a bruising kiss. She opened her mouth to him, felt his tongue sweep into her mouth, tasting every inch of her. It was intense, inviting, and for a moment she let herself think about how wonderful it would be just to let this go on, let his desire and hers build until they lost all caution and fell onto the bed together ... But that wouldn't do, and she knew it. Nothing had really changed, not yet; if she let this go on, it might end just as badly as it had two nights ago, and that would just about destroy her. Reluctantly, she broke the kiss, leaned her forehead against his, giving them both time for their breathing to slow again. "What's the second thing?" he murmured, pressing his lips into her hair. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply to calm herself. "Before I tell you, I want you to know ... " she began, then fear choked off the words. He didn't say anything, just held her, letting her get to the words in her own way. But she couldn't talk; after all this preparing and soul-searching, she couldn't open her mouth, couldn't force the words out. Without warning, she burst into tears, burying her face against his shoulder, crying in loud sobs, her hands clutching at his shirt so tightly that the seams began to give way. He held her close and waited for the storm to subside. "I'm sorry," she said, when she finally calmed down a little, but her breath was still catching in her throat. "I want to talk to you. I meant to, that's why I asked you to dinner." "I'm not going anywhere," he said, quietly. "Take your time. I understand." "No one understands," Scully whispered. "That's not true," he said. "Yes, it is," she said. "No one. Not even my mom." "Tell me what's been happening," he said. "See if I don't understand. All right?" "But I don't really know what's been happening," she said, sniffling. "I just keep remembering that night when we were here last, being hurt and thinking I was going to die. Night after night, I dream about it. I can even smell the dirt under that house. I wake up screaming, and my hands hurt. I want so much to sleep a single night without remembering." "I'm sure you do," he said, holding her tighter. "It's bad, not being able to sleep." She pressed her face closer to him. "Mulder," she said, in a shamed whisper, "I am afraid. I'm afraid every minute of every day. I wake up nights, thinking I hear someone breaking in. I've started sleeping with my gun. I won't go anywhere that I might have to take it off; no jails, no courtrooms if I can help it. I'm afraid to be without it. And I'm even more afraid ... " She stopped there, cutting off her words in mid-breath. "Afraid to have it around?" Mulder asked, very gently. "Afraid you might use it?" She nodded. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Scully, look at me," he said. He put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. "I know what you're going through. I've been there, holding my gun, trying to gather the courage to shove it in my mouth and pull the trigger. That's a bad place to be, the worst there is, and you don't get to that place overnight." "You've never been like this," she said, shaking her head. "Never. You've always been able to hold it together, keep going. Not like this." "I wish that were true," he said, and he smiled, a smile at once so loving and so sad that it tore at Scully's heart, although she couldn't understand why. "What do you mean?" she said, softly. "I told you, I've been there," he said, quietly. "I've been right where you are. I can tell you exactly what you're going through; the nightmares, the emotional numbness, feeling inadequate at work, second-guessing yourself, obsessing over mistakes, jumping at the least little thing ... shall I go on?" "No," she said, and he could hear the tears that threatened to break through. "No, Mulder, that's enough." He held her tighter for a moment. "I won't say anything more if you don't want me to," he said. "But sometimes it helps just knowing what it is, that you're not the only one, and that you can do something about it. There is a name for it, you know." "I think I know what it is," she whispered. "Or what you think it is, anyway." "And you're going to tell me that's a medical diagnosis that I'm not qualified to make," he said, gently teasing. "I know how this goes." "You're not a doctor," she said, looking at him, trying to smile. "I can't let you step on my turf." "Then why don't you tell me what you think it is," he said, his fingers gently brushing through her hair. "That way, it'll be official." She shook her head. "I can't. I don't want to be diagnosed with ... a mental illness. Not even by myself." "I would be more inclined to call it an extreme emotional reaction," Mulder said, softly. "You're not congenitally mentally ill, Dana; you're just reacting to built-up stresses that you don't know how to deal with." "And memories that I don't want to remember," she said, with a shiver. "Yeah. But you do remember, don't you." It wasn't a question. She nodded. "I do. And I know what it is that's wrong with me." "Tell me what you think it is," he said, holding her a little tighter to give her courage. There was a long silence; Mulder felt her hands clutching at him again, and the warm wetness where her tears were soaking into his shirt. He wanted to say something to encourage her, but he couldn't think of a damn thing right now, so he just held her close. Then he heard Scully say something, but so softly he couldn't understand her. "What did you just say, Scully?" he asked. "I said it's post-traumatic stress disorder," she said, barely above a whisper. She looked up at him and he saw that she was crying again. "That's it, isn't it?" "Yes, I believe it is," he said, gently. "You seem to have all the major symptoms: nightmares, flashbacks, avoidance behaviors -- and rage. But it's nothing to be ashamed of, Scully; PTSD is an occupational hazard in law enforcement." "Mulder, I know that," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I mean, intellectually, I know it. But ... " "I know it, too," he said, very low. "And not just intellectually. But I think maybe you knew that already." She said nothing. "Scully," he was saying, quietly. "You must have known." "Not for certain," she whispered. "Maybe you just didn't want to know, about yourself or me," he said, but there was no accusation in his voice, only compassion. "I can't blame you, not if you feel the way you do about it." "No, that's not it," she said, urgently. "Please believe me. I did see it. I'm not a psychiatrist, Mulder, but we spent so much time together that it wasn't difficult to see that something was wrong." "And you weren't sure you wanted to deal with it," he said. "As I said, I don't blame you." "No, Mulder," she said, shaking her head, firmly. "That wasn't the real reason. You were always so strong, always there for me, always able to keep going even when you were bleeding out inside, that I decided I was wrong, that I had misunderstood." "Anyone can keep going for a while, Scully," he said. "But there's more to recovery than just getting through the day." "Such as ... " "Making it go away. But you need to understand where it all comes from before you can do that," Mulder said, brushing the hair back from her tear-stained face. "It took me a long time to do that. I'm still working on it." "But you knew where it came from," she said. "Samantha." "Not entirely," he said. His voice was even, but she heard a note of tension there, of shame, that she hadn't heard from him before. "Is there something else, Mulder?" she asked. He nodded. "There is." "But you can't say it?" He laughed, humorlessly. "I don't know. I've never tried." "You've never told anyone? Not even me?" He shook his head. "No one." She thought for a moment, remembering all she knew of Mulder, of what had driven him through the years. The loss of Samantha that was so wide, so huge and all-consuming that it seemed to blind him to everything else ... No. That wasn't right. He wanted the truth, about all of it, not just about Samantha. He wanted it badly enough to let a quack doctor drill holes in his skull and administer dangerous drugs in an untested, unproven memory-recall therapy. It had worked, to some extent, awakening in him memories that brought him no comfort but only tormented him. After the "therapy," he had gone to his mother, begging her to tell him what was true and what was not. Had she really wanted them to take him, not Samantha? Had she deceived his father with ... the Smoking Man? The next time Scully had seen him, he had been half mad, with a gun in his hand and a bruise on his face in the shape of his mother's hand. And as she remembered, she knew what it was he hadn't told her. "She abused you," she whispered. "Your mother." That hit him hard, even though she knew he was expecting it. His eyes slammed shut, and he flinched, as if from a blow, turning his face away. Slowly, gingerly, she sat up and put her arms around him, and felt his arms enfolding her as they sought comfort and gave it at the same time. "I've never told anyone," he said, finally, with a shaky laugh. "I'm still not sure I can. Talk about not processing the incident ... " "Then I was right, wasn't I," she said, one hand stroking his back carefully, lovingly. "You were a battered child." He nodded -- barely. "How did you know?" he said, and she could hear the guilt, the shame in his voice; the sound of the abuse victim who can never really believe the mistreatment wasn't somehow deserved. Mrs. Mulder, she thought, I would gladly kill you right now, if it weren't for the hope he has that you will love him someday. "It doesn't show," she said. "I don't think anyone would guess unless they knew you as well as I do." "No one does," he said, holding her tighter. "You're my one in five billion, Scully." "So you told me," she said, and reached up to brush back the hair that straggled over his eyes. "And I do believe you. But I've known for a long time that you were suffering; I just didn't know all the reasons why." "Just as I know that you're suffering, and I'm not entirely sure why," he said. "Scully, I don't want these things to come between us any longer. I can't work that way. I don't even think I can live that way." "I don't want anything to come between us, Mulder," she said. "But if this is too hard for you ... " He shook his head. "No harder than it is for you." He held her just a little more tightly for a moment, then sighed. "Maybe it's time. And maybe, if I can do this, you can, too." ~~~~~ He told it haltingly, each word clearly costing him a great deal of pain. But he held onto her as he told it, steadying himself, and her, with his strong arms. ~~~~~ The most important thing, he said, is that it didn't begin on the day Samantha disappeared. For years, there had been arguments, explosively emotional scenes, between his father, and his mother, and a man he did not know, but who always smelled of cigarette smoke. He had vague memories of that man, of being screamed at, ushered away, of seeing his father strike his mother, of himself and Samantha creeping away to hide behind closed doors, sharing their terror, whispering comfort to one another. The day Samantha was taken -- November 27, 1973, the date was forever burned in his memory -- was the day it began to be unspeakable. He had been there when she was taken, but had frozen, unable to act. He had tried to reach for his father's revolver, but had knocked it to the floor, scattering the ammunition everywhere. He froze. He could not help her. She was gone. Fox Mulder lost more than his sister that day. He lost the only person who had ever understood him, or looked up to him, or shared life with him at all. Worse, he lost his childhood and his parents' love -- his mother's, most of all, because somehow, she blamed him. Sometimes in silence, sometimes aloud, but always, with every glance, in every line of her body, she communicated to him his failure. You let them take Samantha. You were supposed to protect her. You let them take her. Nothing he did was ever good enough for his mother after that. Whatever he did wrong, Samantha would have done right. She would never have been so ungrateful, so lazy, so stupid and clumsy as he was. His grades dropped from their usual honor-roll heights to the "gentleman's C" level, and he began to misbehave in the classroom, becoming the Chilmark Elementary class clown. That brought a sharp rebuke from his mother. "Samantha never made less than an A in her life, and young as she was, she knew how to behave," his mother told him, coldly. "If I had to lose one of my children, it's a shame it had to be the one who never disappointed me." That hurt, but Fox didn't argue. His mother was right: It was his fault. He had turned away, overcome with shame, and gone to his room, where he spent the next three hours crouched in the corner of his closet, crying, trying not to make a sound that anyone would hear. His father did nothing, only shrank further into his liquor bottles, hiding himself from his son's agony, his wife's coldness and blame. The Mulder family lived in near-silence; days, even weeks went by when neither father nor mother would speak to the boy, would not answer if he spoke. Once, driven to desperation by his mother's silence, Fox had fallen to his knees and begged her, sobbing aloud, to say something, anything. She had looked at him with pure contempt. "Sissy," she said, and walked away. That was all. Killing him outright would have been merciful by comparison. When his grades dropped all the way to D's, the words had become blows, but the boy had almost welcomed the physical abuse as a relief from the even more killing pain of being ignored and unloved. He had been alone, unable to trust, unable to beat back the demons that possessed him, with nowhere to turn, trusting no one, engulfed by rage, deprived of sleep by ceaseless nightmares. He wanted to hit her back, punish her for making him cry like a baby, and then hated himself for even thinking about hitting his own mother. But there was no one he could tell. His father left, and the physical punishment abated a little; the belt was hung up in the closet, a constant threat but seldom used. He still had to fear the stinging slaps in the face that could come with little warning, little to tell him how he had offended, and as always, the endless coldness and silent blame. She never allowed him to speak of his father, or his sister. Some things, she told him, are best forgotten. He took his mother's advice; he forgot, as best he could, all the events that had destroyed his family and taken away his boyhood. The following September, a month before his 13th birthday, she sent him away to St. Albans Academy on the mainland. It was escape; it was also exile, and utter rejection. Desperate to win her approval, he straightened out in school, pushed himself to achieve more and more, in class, on the playing field. Earning any grade less than an A+ would make him nearly suicidal. He waited for the day she would see what he had done, would realize that he really did deserve to live -- even if his sister hadn't. It meant nothing. The perfect report cards, the athletic trophies, even the eventual Rhodes scholarship, were dismissed as "no more than you should have done." He was not allowed even to mention his accomplishments to anyone; that, she told him, was "bragging on yourself," and was unbecoming. In time, Fox Mulder grew to manhood, but inside the boy he had been remained, a permanent prisoner of his mother's silence. Later, in therapy, he would begin to remember all that had happened the day Samantha was taken. Finding her became his life's goal, and he pursued it relentlessly, with nothing to guide him but his fragmentary memories. He told Samantha's story to many people, believers and skeptics alike. But the story of his life without her, he told to no one. ~~~~~ "Not until now, anyway," he said, when he was finished. Scully said nothing. What did you expect? he asked himself. Applause? Then he felt her slender arms tighten around him and, to his astonishment, she began to weep. She cried until it seemed there could be no more tears in her, and yet there were, and it went on, seemingly forever. She was shaking, shivering, and he rose, led her to the bed, covered her with the blanket as he had on that long-ago night, but this time he lay down beside her. He held her gently, close enough to comfort her, loosely enough so she would not feel trapped. At last she subsided, and she lay with her head against his chest, listening to his heart beating, letting the rhythm soothe her, carry her down and away from the world into a place where there was nothing that lived or moved except him, and her, and they were enough. It could have been hours, or just minutes, before she stirred again. Laying her hands gently on his upper arms, she leaned over and kissed him, a chaste kiss of love, of gratitude, not of passion. He returned it the same way, with little pressure, only holding his lips to hers for her comfort, and his. After a long moment, they broke the kiss, and he rested his forehead against hers. "I am so sorry that happened to you," she whispered. "I can't believe you've kept it in all this time." "Keeping it in probably wasn't a good idea," he acknowledged. "But it's not an easy thing to admit." "You never told anyone before?" He shook his head. "No. Not even my therapist." "How could you not tell him?" she asked. "How could he not see that something was wrong?" "He wasn't interested in anything beyond Samantha's abduction," he said. "Once he had that from me, he didn't look any further. And I didn't volunteer." "But he did diagnose PTSD," she said. "Yes. Not a tough call, considering," he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "No," she said. "Not tough at all." She swallowed hard. "For you ... or for me." "It's better now, although it's never really gone," he said. "But, Scully, you haven't even started to deal with it yet. You're in the worst part of it now." "Hold me for a minute," she whispered, and he tightened his arms around her, felt her face nuzzling against his neck. For reasons he thought he would never understand, that was where she touched him when she wanted comfort. Not that he minded -- it felt good, erotic and almost paternal at the same time. She was tense, though, her nerves stretched thin, and for a moment he wanted to stop her, tell her he'd been wrong, that there was nothing to remember, nothing lurking out there ready to rip her mind from her ... but it would be a lie, and she would know it. He couldn't do that to her. He would keep faith with her, no matter what. They would both suffer for it, but he wouldn't betray her trust, not again. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he jumped when she finally spoke again. "Mulder," she whispered, "I know what it cost you to tell me what you just told me, and I know you did it to help me find the courage to face my own nightmares. And I'm more grateful than I can say." She fell silent, but he sensed she wasn't done yet. In a moment, she spoke again, whispering so softly he could barely hear her. "Now," she said, "for the second thing I said I needed you to do for me. I need you to help me remember what Alex Krycek did to me." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ WARNING: This part may be upsetting, due to implied sexual violence. Use discretion. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God. -- Aeschylus Chapter 14 And from now on, Mulder thought, quite calmly, we live with our eyes open, in a world of Before It Happened and After It Happened. And I have lived with this for so long, with the death of love and the loss of everything I dreamed of so long ago, all tangled up with the loss of a little girl, a little girl who disappeared so finally and forever. There was no horror in the realization; just the deadly, dreary feeling of failure that he'd lived with for so long. At least it's familiar, he thought, I can deal with that, but then the full force of what she had said smashed into his brain, stripping away the protective anesthesia around his emotions, and he knew he had never felt pain like this before, not ever. His arms clenched around her, and she clutched back at him just as fiercely, knowing that he needed just one more minute with her in a world where this awful truth was still unremembered, did not exist, where nothing and no one had ever violated either of them. She let go of him first, but left her arms loosely around him. After a long moment, he released his tight hold on her, forcing himself to breathe slowly until he could look her in the eye again. He took one last deep breath and then took her face gently in his hands. "How do you want to do this?" he whispered, gathering his courage. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?" Scully bit her lip, her nervous gaze darting around quick as a bird's. "No," she said. "Although that would be the easier way, I suppose, if you really do remember it all." "I can't be certain, but I think I do," he said, closing his eyes. "I just didn't think you did, not until the last few days, anyway." "I don't remember it all," she said, and she shuddered. "Some of it. None of it very clearly. But I need to -- I need to remember it all for myself. I need you to help me figure out what part of it is real, and what part isn't." "All right," he said, nodding. He kissed her gently. "Let's get up, though," he said, smoothing his hand over her face. "This bed may not be the best place to do this." "It's where I want to be," she said, putting her hand over his. "I like lying with you like this, Mulder. I want you to hold me." "There's nothing I'd rather do," he said, "but if you really remember ..." "I do," she broke in. "And it doesn't matter. None of that matters." She paused, seeing the doubt in his eyes. "Trust me," she said, more quietly. "Please." He still hesitated, gnawing at his lower lip, but finally he nodded, reluctantly, and drew her closer again, tucking her head under his chin. "I'm playing this by ear, Scully," he said, apologetically. "It's ... new." "For both of us," she said, with an uncertain laugh. "I don't even know where to start." He thought for a moment. "Tell me what you remember ... " He faltered, and she held him tighter, trying to give him support. "Go on," she whispered. He nodded, drawing a ragged breath. "Tell me what you remember about Krycek -- after he shot you." "When I woke up?" she said, shivering despite the warmth of his embrace. "Is that what you mean?" "That's what I mean," Mulder said. "Where were you when you came to?" She thought hard. Concentrate, she told herself, pressing her body closer to his. Think. You can think. You can do this. There was a gunshot, and you dropped your gun, and then Mulder fired ... someone kicked me ... what was next? What ... where was I next? "In a bedroom," she said, startled. "We were ... on a bed. Both of us. And he was there." Mulder nodded. "Yeah," he said, very softly. "You do remember. We were lying there, both of us, and he was there ..." "I can't remember how we got there," Scully said, shaking her head, her brow furrowed in annoyance. "I don't remember ... someone carried us, or we were on gurneys ... I think there was a dark passageway." She looked up at Mulder. "Was there?" "I don't know," he said. "That sounds right, but I don't remember that part. What I do remember is waking up and seeing Krycek ..." "Standing over me," Scully said, and a shiver ran down her spine. "I know. But I don't know what he did before that. He did something, because when I woke up, I knew ... but I began to forget what, almost immediately. I know ... I know I was cold, and sick at my stomach." "I don't know what happened, either," Mulder said, quietly. "I'm sorry, Scully. I have a distinct feeling that we were awake before that, but beyond that, there's no way to be certain." "What you're saying," she said, in a dull tone, "is that we've both lost time. Again." "Some time," Mulder said, brushing the hair back from her face. "Not a lot." "Mulder, I don't mean to be harsh," Scully said, a bit curtly, "and if I am, please forgive me, but when you've had weeks of your life taken from you, it's difficult, not to say impossible, to be calm about it when it happens again." "You're right," he said, very quietly. "I keep leaving that out of the equation. This is not new for you, is it?" "No," she said, and felt the tears threatening to return. "It's not. And it's driving me crazy." She laughed, humorlessly. "Literally, I suppose. But I know - - I don't know how I know, but I know -- that there was something, something important, that happened before the time that we can remember." Suddenly she jerked, as though an electric shock had gone through her. "Oh, God," she said, miserably. "I was naked. Krycek -- someone -- took my clothes off." Mulder said nothing; he looked down, unwilling to meet her gaze. "Mulder, please," she said, beginning to cry again. "I know this is hard for you. But if you remember this the same way I do, I need you to tell me." "That's what I remember," he said, almost inaudibly. Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers again. "I remember seeing Krycek bending over you, and you were naked, and screaming ..." Screaming. Was I screaming? she thought, reaching up one hand to wipe the tears from her eyes. I don't remember that part. But I don't doubt it, either. She reached back into her mind, into the dim mists that surrounded that time, and listened -- listened for the voices that had woven in and out of her nightmares after that horrible night. Ahab's voice. Someone else's -- almost certainly Krycek's. Her own. And Mulder's. Several times. "You were screaming, too," she said, softly. "I know you were. You were saying something about, 'leave her alone.'" Mulder bit his lip and nodded, slowly. "I was. I just don't know what he was doing, exactly, not when we woke up, anyway. After that ... it's still not too clear." "But you have a pretty good idea," Scully said, fresh tears beginning to fall. "You remember enough ..." "I remember ..." Mulder said, then turned his head away. He bit his lip, hard, then shook his head violently. "God damn that bastard!" "Mulder ..." Scully began, then pressed her forehead against his chest, clutching his upper arms. "I remember his hands. I remember him touching me ... and there was someone else, some other hands. Was there more than one?" "I don't know," Mulder said. "I don't know. I don't think so. Just ... Krycek." For several minutes -- Scully couldn't tell how long -- they lay there, shaking, clinging to each other, the word Mulder couldn't say, that she couldn't say, hanging in the air between them like a cloud of poison gas. She couldn't say it. But she had to, or she thought she might never breathe again. "Help me, Mulder," Scully whispered, pressing closer to him. "You've got to help me." "What do you want me to do?" he whispered back. "I'll do whatever I can, but ..." She started to answer, but the words caught in her throat and shivered again, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea as she remembered. Krycek's hands ... herself, lying helpless and exposed ... Mulder, fighting to free himself, his wrists bleeding as he strained against the handcuffs. Someone else was there, someone ... someone not nearly so frightening, but someone who couldn't help. Was it Mulder? Was that what she was remembering? "Scully?" Mulder said, seeing the struggle she was going through. "Scully, tell me what you want." She gripped his arms even harder, so hard that Mulder was reasonably sure he would have the marks of her fingernails on his biceps for days to come ... but he almost welcomed the pain. It was easier to bear than the pain that was coming next. At last, Scully raised her eyes to his, and her face, although pale and tear- stained, was resolute. She had found her courage, the courage that had kept her alive this far, the courage that would always sustain them both. Of that, he was certain. But first, there was this to go through. "Say it," she was whispering. "Mulder, I need you to say it, because I can't." "To say what I think happened?" Mulder said, feeling a lump in his throat so huge he could scarcely get the words out. "Is that what you want?" "Tell me ... tell me what Krycek did." She closed her eyes on the last word, and lay there quietly; waiting, almost patiently, for the next horrible pain. You cannot spare her this pain, Mulder told himself. But you can try to match her courage. "He raped you," Mulder said, flatly. "He did it because you refused to tell him how we found that factory. So I told him -- and then he did it anyway." A low, keening moan broke from her throat, and she collapsed against Mulder, pressing her face hard against his chest as her moaning turned to wordless shrieks that went on, and on, until her throat felt as though it were on fire, and she simply could not scream anymore. Only then did she burst into tears. And through it all, he held her, unmoving, letting his body muffle the screams that he knew, even in her despair, she would not want anyone else to hear. When the sobs turned to weeping, then to sniffling, he tightened his arms around her. She reached up one hand to touch his face, and found it wet with his tears. "I remember now," she whispered. "I remember what he did. He said ... he said he would kill you if I so much as made a sound, that you would die if I didn't cooperate. He made me choose between being raped and losing you forever." "He made you choose," Mulder said, nodding, his voice rough. "But he also made me watch." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ None will part us, none undo The knot that makes one flesh of two, Sick with hatred, sick with pain, Strangling -- When shall we be slain? When shall I be dead and rid Of the wrong my father did? How long, how long, till spade and hearse Puts to sleep my mother's curse? "The Welsh Marches" -- A.E. Housman Chapter 15 Hours had passed. Endless tears, shed by both of them. Long silences, gathering the courage to remember more. And then it was all out, and there was nothing left to hide from, ever again. "I'm so sorry, Mulder," she whispered. "So, so sorry." "You don't have a damn thing to be sorry about," he said, tightly, then stopped, swallowing hard. "I would give anything in the world to turn the clock back, not to make you go to that goddamned factory, or if I had to go, to fire at the first thing I heard moving." "It would have turned out to be a dog, or a child," Scully said, wiping away first his tears and then hers. "You did what you were supposed to do." "No, I didn't," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't protect my partner from harm. But Scully, if I could have, I would have killed him right then and there. He knew how badly hurt you were, he already had the information he wanted and he did that to you anyway." "He did it to you, too," she whispered. "Don't tell me you weren't traumatized by it, because I know better." She raised her eyes to his again. "Mulder, is that why you left me? To get away from the memories?" "No," he shook his head again, more emphatically. "Never that. I didn't leave you voluntarily, believe me. There was a reason, although you apparently don't remember it." She froze. "There's more?" "Just one more thing. Should I tell you?" "Will I figure it out if you don't?" "Maybe," he said. "Probably." He smiled, just a little. "You're a pretty good agent, after all." "Well, I'm no Fox Mulder," she said, but her mind was already searching for the missing truth. She thought hard, putting together as best she could everything that had happened, what she could remember, what she couldn't. Something else, she thought, something significant that he thinks I need to know ... <"She could go any time now," Ahab had said in her dream. "All I have to do is press a button. That's my little gift to her."> But that wasn't Ahab. It was Krycek. Then she looked into his eyes, and she knew. "He told you to leave me," she said. "He threatened to hurt me if you didn't." "To kill you," he said, and she could see the shame in his eyes, and the guilt. "To take you away, then and there, or else turn off the chip in your neck and leave you there, either to die of your injuries or to let the cancer come back and leave you with no way to stop it." She shuddered, remembering the pain in the eyes of all her loved ones as they gathered to watch her die, of the wrenching pain it had put Mulder through. She had grown reconciled to her own death, had even longed for it sometimes lately. It was their pain she could not face a second time. "And so you agreed, but as usual, he double-crossed you; knocked us both out and dumped us under that house to die," she said. "Is that what happened?" "Yes," he said, simply. "That was it. But you're still here, no thanks to me." "It's all thanks to you," she said, puzzled. "I don't know how you can think otherwise. I would have drowned down there if not for you. I never blamed you for any of it. I don't now." "Then why were you having flashbacks the other night when we were making love?" he said, almost angrily. "Why would you think it was Krycek touching you instead of me, unless it's because you think I'm responsible for letting it happen?" Making love? she thought. "Was that what we were doing?" she asked, almost curiously. "What?" "Making love?" And then he smiled, a sad, quiet smile. "I thought so," he said, touching her cheek softly. "Weren't we?" "I don't know," she said, reflecting. "I hadn't thought about it that way. But I like the idea." "Of making love?" "Of making love with Fox Mulder," she said, softly. That touched him; she could tell by the half-smile that crossed his face. "I like the idea of making love with Dana Scully," he said, tenderly, and kissed her. "I like the reality even better. But if I had known more about how badly all this had affected you, I never would have begun it. He said you wouldn't remember. I should have known he couldn't tell the truth about that or anything else." "That had nothing to do with you," she said, nestling against him again. "He just knew where to hit us both, and it worked. Right at what we each fear most. And I think you know what that is for me." "Losing control," he said, without hesitation. "With 'not being taken seriously' a close second." "And knowing I've been invaded and violated, but not remembering how, or by whom," she said, quietly. "But Krycek isn't as good at erasing memories as some we've encountered. Or maybe," she said, slowly, "maybe he is, and he wasn't trying to erase my memories completely." "You think Krycek knew what he was doing?" "That depends on what he was trying to accomplish," she said, thoughtfully. "I think if he had wanted me to forget, I would have forgotten. He has access to the technology. And if he really wanted to traumatize us both, he wouldn't have altered our memories at all. So maybe what he wanted to do was ... what do you psychology majors call it?" "We call it driving someone stark fucking apeshit," Mulder said, but with little humor. "So if your theory's correct, what was my part in all this? What does he gain from making me angry enough to kill him?" "Maybe ... " She hesitated. "Maybe it's just his idea of fun. Or maybe he set us up, and Marita was part of it." "No," Mulder said, emphatically, shaking his head. "He went to too much trouble to find out who'd tipped us. Marita is dead because I rolled over on her." "You did it for me," Scully said, softly. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I know you liked her." "She trusted me," Mulder said, bitterly. "She shouldn't have." "No one could blame you for telling Krycek what he wanted to know," Scully said. "But whether it was a setup or Krycek was really after that information, it works to his advantage." "How do you figure that?" "Because either way, you leave me, you don't come back, and you don't go looking for whatever was in that factory, either. He showed you what he could do to me, so you'd believe him when he said he would do it again." Mulder went still, so still that she was afraid. "If that's so, then he got what he wanted," Mulder said, in his controlled voice of anger. "I played right into his hands. I'm not doubting what you say, Scully, but why go after us so directly? And why now? The X Files are gone. We're no threat to them." "Maybe they wanted to be sure the files wouldn't be reopened," she said. "I played into his hands, too. I left. No one's working on putting the files back together, no one's investigating those kinds of cases now. Maybe there's something out there that you and I would understand if we saw it, and they want to make certain that we don't." "If that's true, then we will find out," Mulder said, firmly. "But we can deal with that later. Right now, I'm a lot more worried about you." "About me?" "About you, about me, about us. I want my partner back," he said, vehemently. "I screwed up, badly, leaving you the way I did, but I wanted him to leave you alone. It was stupid; I used to know better ways to deal with threats than running away." "You're not superhuman, even if you are brilliant," she said, softly. "If I couldn't deal with it, that's my fault, not yours. You said it yourself: Plenty of law enforcement officers have to deal with PTSD." "Scully, at the risk of sounding egotistical, you've dealt with worse situations, and you came through them," Mulder said. "I can't ignore the fact that this time, when you were left to deal with it alone, it got to you." "Maybe it was just the straw that broke the camel's back," she said, stroking his hair soothingly. "PTSD can come from cumulative stress, can't it?" "Of course it can," he said, but he was calmer; her touch was working. "It doesn't have to be just one event." "Well, then, maybe it would have happened even if you'd been there," she said. "Not that I couldn't have used your advice. You've been dealing with this a lot longer than I have. Apparently, you know how." "I'm just used to it," he said, with a shrug. "On the other hand, I did give a textbook demonstration of avoidance behavior, didn't I? If I knew how to help you now I would, but I don't. I'm not really qualified ... " Then he stopped himself, and looked at her thoughtfully. "Maybe that's not true. Maybe what we need to put things back on track is just to be together. Apparently, that's what they were most afraid of." "There is an emerging body of research that supports the idea of healing relationships," she said, nodding. "I've seen some of the reports." "Yes, Dr. Scully, there is," he said, smiling. "Trust you to come up with a scientific angle on love." "Mulder," she said, rolling her eyes. "You know what I mean. I'm not being entirely scientific." She ran her fingers through his hair again, lovingly. "But that's not an option, is it? We're only together as long as it takes to work this case. You're still not willing to risk Krycek's doing something to threaten my life." He didn't answer. He didn't have to. "So how much longer do we have?" "Not long, I'm afraid," he said. "If I can get into this UNSUB's head for just a day, or even a few hours, I'm pretty sure I'll have him figured out by this time tomorrow, or the next day." "I knew you would," she said, simply. "You're the best there is at this." He smiled, warmed by her trust in him, but the smile faded quickly. "I didn't want to leave you," he said. "You have to believe that." "I do," she said. "And now that I know, I can begin to make sense of things, and maybe figure out a way to put Alex Krycek out of our lives forever." "We will," he said. "But first we've got to solve this case, and it may get bad before we do. You may not want to be around me. But it's for a reason. I have to know that you understand that." "I do understand," she said. "We've been through this before. I'll still love you, even if you can't be close to me for a while." "I still want to kill him," Mulder said, quietly. She knew who he meant. It wasn't the UNSUB. And coming from Mulder, it was no idle threat. He meant it. He would do it. "I know you do," she said. "And if it's justifiable at the time, I'm not likely to stop you." He smiled, ruefully. "You mean you won't shoot me this time?" "Mulder," she said, reproachfully, "won't you ever forgive me for that?" "There was never anything to forgive," he said, softly, then he bent to kiss her again, letting the kiss go on for a while before pulling away. "That feels nice," she said as his lips left hers. Then she laughed. "I am a jerk. We're both too traumatized to make love, and all I can think of is how much I want you." "I want you, too," he said, tracing her lips with one finger. "I want you as much as I ever did. More." "But you can't. I don't mean physically can't," she said, as he started to interrupt. "I mean emotionally can't, professionally can't. You can't be too close to me right now; you said it yourself." "I can't not be close to you, Scully," he said, seriously. "You're a part of me; you have been for a long time." "I want to be," she said, in a breathy whisper. "I want to be with you, always, in every way there is. Mulder, when you were gone, it was as though part of me was dead. Now that you're here, I feel alive again." "You've always been alive," he said, his voice suddenly husky, slipping his hand into her hair, pulling her closer. "There is more life in you than in any woman I've ever known." Their lips met, and this time there was no gentleness to it; this was a fierce kiss, a possessive kiss of pure passion, a kiss meant to awaken her senses to him, to make her his, and she melted into it, put her hands on his shoulders, pushed him back onto the pillows so that he was on his back and she was lying on his chest, her mouth still on his. She felt his hands sliding under the thin T-shirt to wrap around her, his palms pleasantly rough on the warm skin of her back, and she felt again the aching, swollen feeling in her breasts, wanting his touch. It would be so easy, she thought, dreamily, to turn to one side or the other and then his hand would slip over my breast, be right where I want it, where he can erase Alex Krycek's touch from me forever, the touch that was forced on me against my will. (Like you're thinking of forcing your touch on him, Dana?) The thought horrified her, but she knew at once that it was true. The classic pattern of the victim perpetrating the act on someone else as means of regaining control. I will not do that to him. Or to myself. It can't be like this. Quickly, she lifted her head, breaking the kiss, but leaving their bodies still pressed closely together. She put her hands on the mattress, rested her weight on them; just enough to give him room to move if he chose. "Dana," he said, and the rawness in his voice thrilled her. "Are you stopping because you want to, or because you think I want to?" "You," she said, her breathing still languorous and deep. "You think I'm not ready for this?" She had to laugh. "To all appearances, you're more than ready," she said, sliding down just a little, feeling his hardness beneath her. He groaned, deep in his throat. "Physically, anyway," she amended. "Do that again and you're likely to find out just how ready I am," he said, tightly. "So am I," she whispered, suddenly serious again. "I wish you could feel it as easily as I can feel you. But I don't want to push you into something you don't want." "Keeping in mind the great divide between what I want and what I think is wise," he said, still stroking the naked skin of her back. "I can feel you shaking, Scully. You're still frightened." "I won't be forever," she said, softly. "And I know, I know for certain, that I'm less traumatized than most women would be simply because I don't really remember it." "Maybe that's a blessing," Mulder said, and she looked at him quickly, certain he was being flippant -- Fox Mulder wasn't a man who believed in blessings -- but he was serious. "Scully, forget what I want for a minute," he went on. "What do you want to do? In all seriousness; I want to know." "Can I have anything I want?" she asked, tracing the outline of his mouth with one finger. He nodded. "Anything that's in my power to give you." She thought for a minute. "Will you sleep with me?" "I thought you said we couldn't do that," he said, smiling just a little. "No, I mean it literally; I want you to sleep with me," she said, solemnly. "Would you like that?" he said, gently. "Yes," she said. "I need it. I need you. And I do want us to be lovers, but if that's not a good idea yet, then I'll settle for being able to fall asleep in your arms." "It sounds good to me, too," he said, and kissed her again. "Will you?" she asked, softly. "Will you stay with me all night?" "Seriously?" he said, a bit surprised. "What about Glassman?" "He can find someone else to sleep with," she said, firmly. That made him laugh. "Please, anyone but me," he said, still laughing. "Or you. But all right. You've twisted my arm. I'll stay." Suddenly, he turned serious again. "God knows, I don't want to leave," he whispered, and kissed her. "You need something to sleep in," she said, letting her hands slide to his shoulders, resting them there. "Go ahead and shower, if you want to; I'll go get it." "What about ... " he began, but she interrupted him. "He won't be in this early," she said. "He'll have found a bar and he'll be there until at least 3 a.m." She kissed him again, then stood, taking both his hands in hers, helped him to sit. "Okay?" she said. "Okay," he said. "I'm too tired to argue with you." He was tired; she could hear it in his voice, and the sound made her a little sad. That's how he sounded when he was a little boy getting ready for his nap, she thought, only the voice wasn't as deep back then. How could his mother, how could any woman, hear that voice and not respond with love? And he needed it so desperately sometimes, that caring love, more perhaps than he needed friendship or erotic love. And she needed to give it. She helped him stand. Slowly, taking care to be completely matter-of-fact, she unbuttoned his shirt, slid it off his shoulders, and held it up, looking at the ripped seams. "Sorry," she whispered, a bit sheepishly. "If I knew how to sew, I'd fix it." "Remind me never to let you perform surgery on me," he said. That made her laugh, and that pleased him. He put his arms around her, hugged her tight. "Anyway," he said, "it was lost in a good cause." Letting go, he unsnapped his side holster and put it on the night stand next to hers, hoping she wouldn't notice that her own holster was empty. But somehow, he knew the need for such precautions was over. There was still a lot of pain and hard work ahead of her, but Scully was going to survive. He could feel it in every movement of her body. And so was he. "Come on, now," she was saying, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You're tired to death." "Aren't you tired, Scully?" he asked, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear. "I haven't slept much lately," she said, softly, laying one hand on his upper arm, feeling the thick muscle through the soft cotton of his T-shirt. Slowly, carefully, she lifted the T-shirt over his head. She had to stand on her toes to do it. "Is this okay with you?" she said, unbuckling his belt, sliding it off. "Do you mind?" "No," he said. "I don't feel like much of a prize right now anyway. Are you sure this is what you want? Completely platonic?" "Yes," she whispered, slipping one hand behind his neck, pulling him down to her for a soft, lingering kiss. "Then you'd better let me finish this," he said, holding her gently by her upper arms, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "All right," she said, and laughed. She laid her head against his bare chest for just a moment, then straightened up. "Hit the shower, Mulder," she said. "You can use my razor, if you like. I won't be a minute." The shower felt good, especially after sitting in the humid air for so long. When he got out, he saw that Scully had indeed found his usual sleeping clothes -- sweat pants and T-shirt -- and had put them next to the sink. He dried off quickly, put the clothes on, and stepped out into the room. The lights were out, but he could see in the light from the street lamps that Scully was already in bed, waiting for him. Slowly, as slowly and reverently as a pilgrim approaching a shrine on his knees, Mulder slid beneath the cool sheets and lay down with her, not too close but close enough to touch, and she pulled the covers around them both. He brushed the hair back from her face; it was damp, and smelled of lavender, like her skin. "You were taking a chance going to my room," he said, still stroking her hair. "What if Glassman had come in?" "I told you," she said, laying her hand on his arm. "He almost never comes in before 3 a.m." "Almost never is not the same as never," he said, beginning to move just a little closer. "As in, 'I almost never sleep with Fox Mulder'?" she said, softly. "Yeah," he said, almost whispering. "Something like that." He put his arms around her, pulled her close, kissed her tenderly. She gave a long, contented sigh, and laid her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, letting it mesmerize her. "Am I asking too much of you?" she whispered. "You mean being in bed together but no sex?" he said, sleepily. "Mm-hmm," she said. "I don't want to be a tease. Not with you. You mean too much to me." "You are most definitely not a tease," he said, rolling onto his side, stroking her back. "And no, it's not too much. I like it." "Me, too," she said, stretching upward to meet his lips with hers. He held her closer, and they kissed, and kissed again, over and over, exploring each other's lips and mouth, their hands moving over one another in a leisurely fashion. She felt him growing hard against her, but tonight it felt good, reassuring more than dangerous. There would be a time for that. She knew that now. And she would be ready. "I love you," she whispered, and pulled him back for one more lingering kiss. When she looked at him again, he was smiling, the slow, full-mouthed smile she loved but saw too seldom. "That's nice, the way you say that," he said, playing with one of the soft curls around her face. "I like it." "But is it really enough?" she said, worry coming back to her eyes. "It's everything," he said. "Everything that matters, anyway." He kissed her again. "I love you, Dana. But you're right. We should go to sleep." "Will you hold me until I'm asleep?" she whispered. "I'll hold you forever if I get the chance," he said. "Go to sleep, Scully." He lay back slowly against the pillows, bringing her with him. She nestled under his arm, laid her head on his chest and fell asleep to the rhythm of his strong heartbeat. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "The profoundest of all sensualities is the sense of truth and the next deepest sensual experience is the sense of justice." -- D.H.Lawrence Chapter 16 Daphne Municipal Building Friday, March 5 9:57 a.m. "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully!" Mack was running, literally running toward Mulder's car as the agents pulled into the parking lot. "This can't be good," Mulder said under his breath, rolling down the window. Mack leaned in, wide-eyed and breathless. "There's been another one." "Another what?" Scully asked, leaning slightly toward him. "Another murder," Mack said. "He's hit again." Mulder went ashen. "It's too soon," he said, dazed. "It's way too soon." "Apparently not, Agent Mulder," Mack said, leaning his arms on the open window. "We got a man dead from two .38 caliber gunshot wounds. If you gimme a ride, I'll show you where it is." Mulder didn't say anything. Scully watched him carefully for a second. "Get in, Officer Mack," she said. "Let's go see what we've got before we draw any conclusions." As Mack moved to open the back door, Scully took Mulder's hand quickly. "It may not be what it sounds like, Mulder," she said, too quietly for Mack to hear. "Let me take a look at the body before you start beating yourself up." Mulder only nodded, but his expression was grim. ~~~~~ 439 Twin Beech Road 10:37 a.m. "We responded this morning to the residence after receiving a report of shots fired inside the house," Mack said as Mulder and Scully followed him through the front door. "This door wasn't locked when we got here. We found this guy," indicating the body of an elderly man, "lying on the floor. There was a .38 next to him; we've already sent that to DFS' firearms guy." Scully pulled latex gloves from her pocket and put them on, bent over the body. "There are gunshot wounds of the head and chest," she said. "Contact range. Was there a note?" "You thinking this was suicide?" Mack said. "No offense, Agent Scully, but this guy's been shot twice. There wasn't no notes and there ain't gonna be no notes, neither." Scully looked around. "What are those?" she asked Mulder, who was looking over some papers stacked neatly atop a desk. "His will, for one thing," he said, turning the papers over with gloved hands. "His life insurance policies, the deed to the house and a few other things of that nature." "That would fit with a suicide," Scully said, kneeling beside the body. Mulder put down the papers and walked over to her. "You sure you're not just trying to save my ass, Scully?" he said, kneeling beside her and speaking very low. "Mulder, not even for you would I deliberately mislead anyone about a cause and manner of death," Scully said, absently, studying the body. "Besides, you're the profiler. Does this case fit your UNSUB's MO?" "No," he said. "It's nowhere near it. But it is a .38." "It is," she said. "But this one is contact range, and the UNSUB hasn't gone in for that. He hasn't hit any residences, either." "There's a first time for everything, particularly for someone who knows the FBI is after him," Mulder said, glumly. "He could have gone for residential break-ins to avoid the more public areas he's been hitting." "Could have, but didn't, at least not here," Scully said. She took a small pair of forceps from her pocket and lifted some of the torn skin away from the victim's skull. "There is clear evidence of contact in the head wound: abrasion ring, gray-black discoloration, and stellate lacerations in the subcutaneous tissues. Charring on the skull, too." "And the chest?" Mulder asked. "I'd need the gun to be sure, but there is a definite barrel impression on the skin," she said, lifting the shirt away. "A second contact wound, then. There's some powder tattooing as well." "How is that consistent with suicide?" "Happens all the time," she said, turning to look at him. "You've been shot; you know a bullet is not necessarily instantly incapacitating. If someone wants to kill himself and the first bullet doesn't do it -- in this case, I feel certain that was the chest wound -- they'll quite often fire a second round." She turned back to the body. "Mack, have they got all the photographs they need?" "Yes, ma'am," Mack said. "Coroner's already left, too. We're just waiting for somebody to come get him." She nodded. "In that case, I'm going to turn him over. Help me lift him just a little," she said to Mulder, who put his hands under the corpse's shoulder and hip and rolled it, with difficulty, toward Mack, who held it steady while Scully pulled up the blood-soaked shirt. "Got anything?" Mack said. "Yep," Scully said. "Exit wound. The projectile traveled front to back, which is also consistent with suicide. Put him back down." She stood up. "Better bag his hands; I think we've got soot there." "Agent Scully," Mack said, laying the corpse back in position. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand how this guy can have shot himself twice like that." "It's unusual, but it happens," Scully said, stripping off the blood-stained gloves. "About three percent of suicides involve multiple gunshot wounds." She searched for a biohazard container, found it, and dropped the gloves in. "Officer Mack, I'm not licensed in Alabama, and I can't rule this a suicide. But I would, if I could. Let me strongly suggest that you send this body to a medical examiner in Mobile. Forget the coroner." She felt, more than heard, Mulder's sigh of relief, turned to see him rubbing his forehead the way he did when he was trying to think. "Come on, Mulder," she said, in her most matter-of-fact voice. "Let's go back to the car. This case is outside our jurisdiction." "Yeah, okay," he said. They got to the car and Mulder slid in behind the steering wheel. For a minute he simply sat there, hands on the wheel. "Mulder, you've still got some time," she said, laying her fingers gently on his arm. "You didn't make a mistake." "I don't have much time, Scully," he said, and his eyes were grim. "I've got to get inside this bastard's head fast. This was just a wake-up call." He turned to look at her then. "I've got to be alone for a few hours. I don't want you anywhere around. You know why, don't you?" "Yes," she said, gently. "I know. I understand. And I will give you all the time you need. But come back to me when you can. I'll be waiting for you." "Scully," he began, then gave up, helpless as always before the love in her eyes. "I will. And soon. I know almost everything I need to know. Almost ... " His voice trailed off. "You do what you have to, and I'll do what I have to," she said. "What I need to do now is get back to police HQ and meet with the CDC folks about the anthrax. And," looking at her watch," I also need to take another Vibramycin if I don't want to come down with it myself." Mulder looked up sharply. "Vibramycin? Is that what you're taking?" His tone surprised her. "Yes," she said. "I thought I told you that." "You said doxy-something," he said, intently. "It's called Vibramycin? Is there another anthrax drug that sounds something like silo?" "Ciloxan," she said, automatically. "It's the drug of choice, but I'm allergic to it. Why, Mulder? Do those names mean something to you?" "They do now," he said, starting the car, steering back toward the highway. "There was an Army Reservist in Birmingham, Robert Gentry, that I was checking for clearance. One of his neighbors said she'd seen him with a bag full of drugs, antibiotics, and the names sounded something like vibrating silos." "Oh, my God," Scully said, comprehending. "Army Reserves. Stouffer was in the Reserves." "He was," Mulder said, his jaw set. "In a medical unit." "What was your subject in Birmingham assigned to?" "The 87th Maneuver Area Command," Mulder said. "They set up war games for everyone else to play. They plan how troops will be deployed and what they'll do when they get there." "Putting them in a perfect position to disperse a chemical or biological agent," Scully said, her eyes wide with horror. "Mulder, are you suggesting Stouffer had something to do with that and he was killed because of it?" "I think it's a possibility, yes," he said, looking straight ahead as he drove. "What if Gentry's unit is involved in the sanctioned or unsanctioned use of anthrax as a biological weapon? It stands to reason if the military would prefer to use its own medical personnel to treat anyone who was accidentally infected. Maybe Stouffer wasn't supposed to know about it, but he found out, and being the grandson of a Holocaust survivor, felt he had to do something to stop it." "And where does Nivek fit?" she asked. "At this point, he's patient zero." "I don't know, but I'm going to find out," he said. "We haven't really looked into his background before. But if he turns out to be a reservist, then we'll know." "But how does that get him killed by someone you have already surmised is psychotic?" Scully asked. "How do you get a serial killer to kill on command?" "You don't," Mulder said. "But our UNSUB is a spree killer, not a serial killer, remember? He doesn't have strong preferences about his victims. It would be a fairly simple matter, I think, to put ideas in his head about who or what might be a danger to him. Someone planted the idea that Stouffer or Nivek was out to get him, showed the UNSUB where to find him, and let nature take its course." Scully was silent for a moment, thinking it over. "You're right, Mulder," she said, slowly. "It's a plausible scenario. Do we call your SAC with this?" He shook his head. "This isn't his case. It's Skinner's. And until I know whether anyone in D.C. is involved with this, it's back to me and thee, Scully." "All right," she said, a soft smile at the corners of her mouth. "But does this information help you get closer to your UNSUB?" "Yes, it does," he said, turning to give her a quick smile. "It means I can finish my profiling without having to worry about the Florida killings. They're by the same killer, but now I know for certain that they don't have to fit the profile of anything else he does. That should make this fairly quick -- although still not pretty," he warned. "I know," she said, her voice soft again. "But it's like I said; I'll be here when you come back. And when you do come back, I think we have some unfinished business." He gave her a keen glance. "Could I hazard a guess as to what that might be?" She shook her head. "Not until you're done with your profile. I don't want to distract you again." "Distract me when it's over, then," he said, with a touch of his usual warm humor. "I can't think of a better way to come back up from something like this." "It's a deal," she said as Mulder drove into the police department parking lot. He stopped the car but didn't take off his seat belt. "You're not coming in?" He shook his head. "I've got to be alone now," he said. "You go on and do your autopsy, then talk to the guys from CDC. Tell them about the reservist in Birmingham if you like, but let's keep the rest of our suspicions to ourselves for now." "CDC is notorious for focusing on microbes and vectors rather than conspiracies," she said, dryly. She got out of the car, walked around to the driver's side. Mulder lowered the window, and she leaned in slightly. "What do I tell Glassman?" "Assuming you see him, tell him nothing," Mulder said. "At least not about anthrax. He won't give a shit where I am." "No, he won't," she said. "But I will." Quickly, too quickly for anyone watching to follow, she smoothed the hair behind his ears. "I'll see you." "See ya," he said, with a soft smile. Then he rolled up the window and drove away. Scully stood in the blistering heat for a long time after he was gone, watching the place where he had been. ~~~~~ Daphne Municipal Building 1:35 p.m. The CDC hadn't been the least bit interested in Mulder's reservist, which didn't surprise Scully at all. "All military personnel are vaccinated against anthrax, Dr. Scully," the CDC field researcher reminded her. "There's little chance of anyone in the Reserves being infected with it. He probably just had a bad case of the clap." "Stouffer's dosage was several times what would be required to treat a sexually transmitted disease," she reminded them. "You did the autopsy, Dr. Scully," the researcher said. "Your Mr. Stouffer didn't have anthrax." "But maybe he had reason to believe that he did," she said, but she knew she was getting nowhere. They would focus the rest of the investigation on transmission paths, on Nivek's possible contacts with livestock, and that was pretty much that. "After all, Agent Scully," one of them said, not unreasonably, "if someone had sent anthrax to this area, it's likely they'd have run across you guys by now. FBI has jurisdiction over anthrax threats." She didn't get even that far with MILPERCEN, the Military Personnel Center. Nivek not only wasn't a reservist, there was nothing to indicate he'd ever put on a uniform of any kind. The connection that once seemed so tenuous now seemed nonexistent. She was stuck. She could only hope that Mulder would get further today than she had, because if his instincts were correct, this UNSUB was about to kill again. And when it came to pathological killers, Mulder's instincts were never wrong. ~~~~~ Mullet Point park 4:55 p.m. All crimes have a motive. All crimes make sense according to some logic, though that logic may be internal, bearing no relationship to any objective reality. So said John Douglas, the FBI agent who invented profiling, and the first to insist on the necessity of understanding that internal, unconnected logic. To understand meant to detach oneself from the logic of the exterior world and operate on the internal logic of a madman. Mulder was very nearly there, tapping into the dark side of his own soul, dropping deeper and deeper into the paranoid rage of the UNSUB. Everything he knew, everything he had deduced or Resnik had suggested, was fuel for this dark journey. He forced himself to accept the killer's irrational thoughts as his own, recreating the monster in his own soul, its food the pain of his own existence. He had been at it ever since he left Scully. The UNSUB, he knew, wouldn't be likely to trust anyone, so why did his thoughts keep turning back to the killer's race? Aside from the obvious identifying factor, why did it matter? It's axiomatic in profiling that a killer feels safest killing members of his own race; this one didn't seem to care, or did he? Could someone have gotten to him, persuaded him to travel miles from his usual haunt to kill a white man, a customer in a Pensacola electronics store? Could he have believed that Nivek was a threat to him, enough of a threat for him to step outside what should have been his MO? Who would have been able to get that close to him? He wasn't likely to trust anyone that much. Trust no one. That was easy enough for Mulder to relate to. There was no one he truly trusted, except Scully. But this kind of paranoia, the kind that led to murder -- this was different. There was no way this killer had randomly selected Nivek or the two Pensacola victims. Someone had to be guiding the UNSUB to people involved with the manufacture of anthrax weapons. I've got to understand how he does it, this person who's using the UNSUB to do his dirty work. But how? How do I relate to the fears and mistrust of a black man living in the Deep South when I'm a white man born to privilege, if not money, born to polite society, educated in the best schools? Where's the key to understanding him? (I have so little family left. So many have died.) No. That line of thinking just wouldn't work. It was impossible for him to divide his world into Jew and Gentile, impossible even to understand his own soul that way. His upbringing had been too determinedly non-Jewish, whatever his ancestry. He was more comfortable in a church than in a synagogue. The old woman saw him as one of her own people, but he could never see himself that way. Could he? No. None of that means anything to me, he thought. I have virtually nothing in common with the Stouffers or any other practicing Jew. They make themselves outsiders, and I don't want to be an outsider. I'm not like that. Yeah, and the old woman's family probably didn't think they were, either. They thought they were German citizens. Maybe they even thought being a Jew was just a religious distinction, no different than being a Lutheran or a Baptist. When did they find out the truth? Probably about the time someone stuck a gold Star of David on their clothes, smashed their shop windows, screamed "tod der Juden!" in the night. They certainly knew when the cattle cars started to pull up at the station. You could find out that way, too, and you know it. When you read about a swastika painted on a synagogue, you're afraid. When you saw the numbers on her arm, you were afraid. Always, you ask yourself the same question: Could it happen here? Damn right, it could. It could happen anywhere. You know that because you are part of them, part of her, part of every Jew who's ever lived or died. You know that somewhere out there, there's someone who wants you dead for no other reason than just that accident of birth. You didn't choose it, but they don't care. They don't even care if you hate it more than they do. That's what the UNSUB knows, and you know, too: When they come for you in the night, it doesn't matter who your friends are or what you believe. It doesn't make any difference whether it's a cross-burning or a pogrom. It can be the Nazis, or it can be the Klan. They can call you nigger or they can call you kike, it just doesn't matter; either way, you're just as dead. And the people who did it, the people who came for you in the night, don't know or care that you ever had any other name. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "What we do in analyzing a murder ... is very similar to what a good actor does in preparing for a role. We both come to a scene -- in the actor's case a scene in a play or movie script, in ours, a murder scene -- we look at what's there on the surface -- written dialogue between the characters or evidence of a violent crime -- and we try to figure out what that tells us. In other words, what really happened between the principal characters in this scene?" "MindHunter: Inside the FBI's Elite Serial Crime Unit" -- John Douglas and Mark Olshaker Chapter 17 The Pembroke Inn Saturday, March 6 2:12 a.m. Someone was pounding on her door. Scully jumped up from the chair where she'd fallen asleep, still dressed, looking over the autopsy reports. Mulder. Had to be. Who else would knock at this hour? She stumbled to the door, threw it open without even looking through the peephole. It wasn't Mulder. It was Glassman. "Still awake, Scully?" Glassman said. "Where's Spooky?" "He's not here," she said, distractedly. "What are you doing here?" "Looking for Mulder, of course," he said, walking past her, looking around the room, leaving a trail of gin fumes behind him. "Don't stand on ceremony, Glassman," she said, irritated. "Just make yourself comfortable, why don't you? Why do you want Mulder at this hour?" "Because I don't know where he is, and I want to find out," he said. "Do you have a problem with that?" "As a matter of fact, I do," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "He doesn't answer to you, Glassman. He's working for AD Skinner, and it's none of your business where he is." "Oh, really? Suppose I need to talk to him?" Glassman said, plopping down in the chair Scully had just vacated. "I believe," she said, slowly, but with growing menace, "that you have his cell phone number. Feel free to go back to your room and call him. But I wouldn't make that call if I were you." "And why's that, Miss Scully?" Glassman said, propping his feet on the table. "Is he busy with his spooky stuff? You afraid I'll scare him?" "Get out of here, Glassman," Scully said, her lips tight with annoyance. "Go back to your bar or wherever you've been hanging out while Mulder and I have been handling this investigation." "That's not very friendly," Glassman said, with what he must have imagined was a smile. "You ought to be more friendly, Dana. I could do a lot for you if we were friends." "That's Agent Scully to you," she said. "Get out. I mean it." "You're afraid Mulder's going to walk in here, aren't you, Dana?" Glassman said, and laughed. "Oh, yeah, I know all about that little slumber party you two had last night. And if you want me to keep quiet about that, then we need to talk." Scully stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowed, thinking what to do. She knew Mulder's sleeping over with her would catch Glassman's attention, even if the case didn't. She just hadn't expected to have to deal with it so soon. "Glassman," she said, slowly. "This is the last time I'm going to tell you to get out of my hotel room. Go. Now." "Or what?" Glassman said. "Mess with me and I'll blow the whistle on you and your spooky friend so fast you won't even be able to get a job sweeping out VICAP offices. Make nice, Dana." To hell with this, she thought, and reached behind her back, too fast for Glassman to react in his drunken state. She drew her weapon and aimed it squarely at his crotch, her finger on the trigger. "I said get out," she said. "And by God, I mean it." "For Chrissakes, Scully, put that thing down," he shrieked. "You could hurt somebody!" "You're damn right I could," she said. "Don't think I won't shoot you, either, because I will. I've shot better men than you. Now stand up slowly, keep your hands in front of you and get the hell out of my room." He did. "You're going to regret this, Scully," he warned, backing toward the open door. "Rolfe doesn't put up with female agents who sleep around." "Unless it's with him, you mean," she said. "Go. And shut the door behind you." Not until Glassman was gone and the door shut and bolted behind him did Scully lower the weapon and return it to its holster. There would be consequences from this, she knew. But she didn't especially care; working for Rolfe wasn't high on her list of things to do right now, anyway. There was only one thing really bothering her. Where was Mulder? ~~~~~ oh god mom not again please i'm sorry i'm so sorry mom it hurts it hurts but it stops hurting when the gun goes off, oh, my, yes, it stops when you make them hurt oh, and it felt like cleansing for about two minutes when modell, when roche lay bleeding on the floor, it felt like purgation to hear the gun go off ... but it never lasts for long, it never does, and then you have to kill again and you kill again ... and then again ... Mulder shuddered, and buried his face in his hands. ~~~~~ 4:37 a.m. The picture was complete. They hadn't found the UNSUB yet for one simple reason: He was gone. But not where Fox Mulder couldn't find him. He sat up, opened his laptop and began to write. The only sound was the uneven clicking of the keys. Slowly, methodically, Mulder typed the profile into the FBI's remote access database. He called up the composite drawings, and without hesitation, selected one and attached it to the file, along with certain items from witness descriptions. He hit the send button, uploading the info to the FBI mainframe. The composite, and his profile, would be available in a matter of seconds to almost every law-enforcement office in the United States. Working through the Daphne PD's night sergeant, he had already put out an APB for this UNSUB. A federal warrant for interstate flight to avoid prosecution for murder would be ready the minute someone came up with a name, courtesy of the Mobile Field Office. It wouldn't be long. Mulder had never been more sure of anything in his life. In a short while, they would begin calling every trailer rental, every storage facility between New Orleans and Pensacola. They would fax copies of the composite to every news outlet. They would visit fleabag hotels, looking for a clerk who might have seen him. Someone would recognize him. That was a certainty. Mulder knew now, beyond a doubt, how this guy thought, how he moved, what he did. It was just a matter of getting to the places he'd been and showing his picture and describing how he would have behaved. They would get him, and with even half a break, it would be before he could kill again. So of course, it was all worth it, wasn't it? The case was essentially over, the problem solved. Now there was nothing for him to do but wait. And he would wait here, hunched over his laptop. Alone. He would break his promise to Scully. He would not go to her, although not because he didn't want to. Throughout the night, he had stretched the lifeline between them to its full length, putting himself as far as he could into the mind of the outsider. And he was still there, outside it all, isolated from everyone, afraid to reach out to her, afraid she would reject him. That those were the UNSUB's thoughts didn't matter. They were still with him, as strongly as though they were his own, and they would not go away quickly. But they would go away, in time. The lifeline would hold. He still loved her. He still trusted her. He still needed her. But he couldn't be with her. Not now. No. As much as he wanted the comfort of her love, the warmth of her arms, there was no way he wanted her anywhere near him tonight. ~~~~~ Profile of Unknown Subject in FBI Case No. 3098592-A SA Fox W. Mulder, behavioral profiler MODUS OPERANDI: See attached case summary by SA Dana Scully, M.D. PSYCHOLOGICAL: The UNSUB most likely suffers from delusional paranoia but is still functional at a marginal level and capable of social interaction, based on the following findings: A) The use of multiple firearms, all of which fire a .38-caliber slug, is typical of the paranoid killer. B) The "overkill" nature of the killings, based on multiple GSWs to each VI, indicating a type of disorganized spree killing, typical of the paranoid and angry subject. C) The escalating nature of the violence, indicating a psychological profile which may tend, if not arrested, toward an MO more typical of the true serial killer. Given the violence expressed in the slayings, the UNSUB probably has a personal history of having been battered as a child. He will have some racial prejudice against whites (see below for UNSUB's probable appearance) but will strike primarily members of his own race based on the internalized self-loathing which is the primary motivation for his crimes. He is unlikely to belong to any organized hate groups because of his inability to relate well socially at any level. His functionality is attested to by his ability to travel in the commission of his crimes, which indicates access to a motor vehicle. The state of traffic laws in Alabama makes it possible that the UNSUB owns a car in poor condition and has no insurance or driving license, which decreases the amount of money required for the operation of a car. He is either homeless or lives with relatives, although he is probably not welcome to stay long with any of them because of his paranoia and violent tendencies. His comfort level is highest in the commercial area of U.S. Highway 98 near Interstate 10 in Daphne, therefore he probably lives nearby. This UNSUB probably owns a police scanner and follows police activity closely, both for information on the investigation into his own crimes and because he is in some sense a "police buff" with a desire for the authority he and power he perceives are inherent in carrying a badge and a gun. It would probably be productive to investigate local electronics firms and gun dealers and show them the composite drawing. EMPLOYMENT: The UNSUB's tendency to hit convenience stores and gas stations indicates he probably works as a cashier in such businesses or has in the past, possibly having been dismissed for pilfering. He will be considered strange or odd but usually will not be considered overtly threatening by people with whom he works. VEHICLE: The UNSUB's predilection for night crimes indicates a car dark in color, almost certainly old and in poor condition. He may be hauling a trailer behind in which he keeps most of his possessions. APPEARANCE: Based on witness descriptions and the MO of the UNSUB, I conclude that he is a black male, age 25-35, short in stature, probably with some facial hair but no other significant skin markings or scars visible. He prefers dark clothing, especially at night. CRIMINAL HISTORY: I would expect our UNSUB to have a history of minor crimes and probably one violent felony, probably assaultive against an authority figure of some kind. He is unlikely to have been incarcerated for any long stretch, but has almost certainly been jailed and possibly institutionalized in the past. SPECIAL NOTE: There is a strong possibility that the killings in Florida were motivated in part by outside influences. The crimes are not as closely within our UNSUB's MO as would be typical, raising the possibility that the UNSUB was deliberately influenced to seek out and kill these victims. I would suggest deep background investigations into these victims with an eye toward any associations with the military or with animal husbandry, based on the findings by SA Scully that indicate anthrax exposure or use of medications indicated for anthrax prophylaxis by two VIs in this case. Respectfully submitted, SA Fox W. Mulder JTT047101111 ~~~~~ Daphne Municipal Building Saturday, March 6 7:33 a.m. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder opened his eyes, unsure for a moment where he was. He was stiff, sore all over, and his head felt like the Jolly Green Giant had used it for a fast, hard game of racquetball. As both the ball and the racquet. "Agent Mulder, sorry to wake you, but your partner's been calling here looking for you." It was Mack. He was standing outside the doorway, peering inside. Now Mulder knew where he was. He had fallen asleep, head on the rickety folding table, had slept what little remained of the night right there in police HQ. He sat up, stretched, blinking his eyes sleepily. "What does she want?" he asked. "I think she needs a ride to work," Mack said. "You want me to go get her?" "No," Mulder said, standing, picking up his suit coat. "I gotta go get a shower anyway. I'll get her. You got any aspirin?" "Got some Goody's," Mack said. "I'll get you one." "Thanks. Did you see the APB?" "First thing this morning," Mack said. "Got some officers out checking motels and U-Haul places right now. You want to ride with me?" Mulder shook his head. "I've got some things to check out. But thanks for the offer. You got my cell phone number?" "Right here," Mack said. "I'll holler when we find him." "Make it quick, Mack," Mulder said, seriously. "If you don't, it'll be tonight, or maybe tomorrow night, but it'll be soon." "You sure about that, Agent Mulder?" Mack said, skeptically. "I'm sure," Mulder said, flatly, rubbing his temples. Jeez, this headache was a real bastard. "Tonight or tomorrow. With a gun he hasn't used yet." Mack looked at him for a minute. "That's kind of spooky." Mulder laughed humorlessly. "Yes, it is. Get me that aspirin, or whatever it is; I've got a crook to catch." ~~~~~ The Pembroke Inn Room 204 8:40 a.m. Two sharp raps of the knuckles. That meant FBI. Scully looked through the peephole, then opened the door wide. Mulder stood there, looking hung over although he'd clearly showered and shaved this morning. "I guess I'm late," he said. "You're more than late," she said. "You disappeared. I was worried." "I, uh -- I decided I'd better not come by last night," he said. "I turned off my phone. I didn't think it was a good idea to call." She eyed him carefully. "That bad?" she said, more calmly than she felt. "Pretty damn bad," he acknowledged, with a grimace. "Woke up with my usual post-profile headache, which Officer Mack treated with some vaguely poisonous Southern concoction known as a headache powder. Tasted like shit." "What did you find out?" "Let's don't talk about it now, okay?" Mulder said, still rubbing his temples. "I've still got the headache and I'm not anxious to revisit this guy's brain so soon. There's one hell of a bad guy out there, Scully, and now I have a pretty fair idea of where he is." ~~~~~ The Green Top Inn 9:23 a.m. "This looks more like the kind of hotel we used to stay in," Scully murmured as she and Mulder approached the desk clerk at the third hotel they'd visited that morning. The clerk was a middle-aged woman whose impossibly jet black hair showed about two inches of gray roots. Her smile revealed more than a few missing teeth. "This one's straight from Central Casting," Mulder said. "Stupid Southern redneck, type two. If she has a corncob pipe, I'm leaving." "Help you?" the clerk asked. "We're with the FBI," Scully said, flipping her credentials case open and suppressing a smile as Mulder flashed her a what-did-I-tell-you expression. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, this is my partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder. We'd like to ask you a few questions." "What about?" the woman said, suddenly suspicious. "We'd like to know if you've seen this man," Mulder said, taking a copy of the composite from his inner coat pocket and unfolding it on the desk. "Has anyone checked in here recently who looks like this?" "Yep, sure did," the woman said. "Big ugly thing. Came in yesterday, big you- haul-em behind his car. I had a hard time gettin' the plate number. Made him pay up ahead of time." "What name is he registered under?" The woman scratched her abdomen with one hand, hit a few keys on an ancient computer with the other. "Stuart Rayford Lee," she said. "Room 104." "Do you know if he's in his room now?" Scully asked. "I don't know where he is or where he ain't," the woman said. "I mind my own beeswax." "Mulder, if we're going to have to go in, we're going to need a warrant and backup," Scully said, turning to her partner. He nodded, took out his cell phone and punched in Mack's number. "Mack," he said. "Mulder. We've got a possible make. Do you have a judge ready to go?" There was a pause. "Good. Get over here with it quick. And we need some backup." A pause. "The Green Top Inn. What's your ETA?" He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "He says he'll be here in twenty minutes, he's at the courthouse now," he told Scully, then turned toward the clerk. "Any of these rooms have back doors, any other exits?" "Nope," the woman said. "One room, one door." "Two ought to do it," Mulder said into the phone. "But put on your long johns. This guy's got plenty of weapons available to him." He hit the off button, flipped the phone closed. "Let's cover the door until Mack gets here," he told Scully. "All right, but from a distance," Scully said. "If he makes us, there's going to be trouble." "I'm not arguing," Mulder said. "I just don't want him to run when he sees marked cruisers pulling into the parking lot. You wearing a vest?" Scully nodded, looking out the grimy window. "I don't leave home without it anymore," she said. "That bush over there," indicating a tall red-topped shrub. "That's our cover." "All right," Mulder said. "I think we will need that key after all, Mrs. ---" "Weaver," the woman said. "Ruby Jolene Weaver." "May I have your address, Mrs. Weaver?" Mulder said, taking out a small notebook. "Barnett's Crossroads, down the Greeno Road," she said. "Everybody there knows me. Just ask for Ruby Jolene." "Mrs. Weaver, I suggest you stay in the back office, away from the windows, until you hear from us again," Mulder said. "This man is wanted for several crimes, and I wouldn't want you to be injured." "What did he do?" she asked, with dull interest. "You can read about it in the newspaper," Scully said, taking Mulder's arm and ushering him out the door. "Jesus, and I thought Forrest Gump was a fictional character." "Actually, I think Gump was smarter than that," Mulder said, shaking his head, then he turned serious. "Scully, if you're not ready to deal with this, it's all right. This could get hot in a hurry, if he's really here, and if you don't want to be around when the shooting starts, it's okay." "No," she said. "I'm all right. I can't hide for the rest of my life." She looked up at him, and he thought the blue in her eyes had never been so clear, or so beautiful before. Or so steady. "I'm not afraid, Mulder," she said. "Really." Is she that sure of herself already? he wondered. That would be about the fastest recovery in the history of PTSD. Or -- what seemed to him less likely -- is she that sure of me? But maybe, just maybe, she is. Maybe this is what happens when you open up to her, hold her in the night, let all the walls fall down between you ... or, he amended, all but one. And that one, he thought, is going to fall soon if she has anything to say about it. But for now, she was still looking him, and for the life of him, he couldn't think of an appropriate response. And she seemed to know it. She squeezed his hand briefly, then let him go. "Come on, partner," she said. "Let's get into position." Casually, they walked away from the building, as though heading toward the garish yellow restaurant next door. When they reached the shrub, they quickly stepped behind it, Scully crouching down, Mulder aligning himself behind the thick trunk. Mulder tapped Scully on the shoulder, gesturing toward a dark blue, half- rusted Chevy parked behind the restaurant. There was a U-Haul trailer attached to the back. She looked up, caught his eye again, and knew. He was here. The agents drew their weapons and waited, keeping the UNSUB's door in view. Mack was quicker than he'd promised. In less than twenty minutes, his blue-and- white pulled up and stopped next to the slight rise between the buildings. Mack got out, accompanied by a second uniformed officer. They saw Mulder, who held up a hand for silence. Mack nodded, and made a similar gesture to the other officer. Keeping the bush between himself and the motel, Mack and the other cop quickly climbed up the rise to join the agents. "Room 104," Mulder mouthed the words as he held up one finger, then a closed fist, then four fingers, spelling out what he couldn't say aloud. He pointed to the door. Mack nodded his understanding. Slowly, so as not to attract notice from anyone watching, Mulder gestured toward the door. As one, the four moved out of cover and quickly strode toward the door. Scully looked up, caught Mulder's eye, and took up a position on the right side of the door, between the doorknob and the window. Mulder gestured toward Scully, and Mack crouched beneath the window, weapon drawn. Mulder and Mack's partner stayed to the left side. Mulder slipped the key card into the door as silently as he could, then pulled it smoothly back. The green light came on. Key accepted. Quickly, Mulder held up his left hand. He raised three fingers. Two. One. He pointed toward the door. Go. Scully jerked the door handle down, then crouched, whipping her gun ahead of her into the room as Mulder shoved the door open, his body turned sideways out of the line of fire. And there he was, the UNSUB, now known as Stuart Rayford Lee, holding a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver, aiming it right at them. "Federal agents," Mulder shouted. "Drop your weapon!" "Fuck you!" Lee shouted, aiming at Mulder. His finger twitched on the trigger. Scully fired, catching Lee in the upper right chest, the report nearly deafening her. The gun slammed back against her hands, the recoil sending the barrel upward as her elbows absorbed the force, forcing her to take her finger off the trigger, her aim now seriously off. She was exposed now, and she had missed. Lee wasn't dead; he wasn't even incapacitated yet, and he was still armed. Lee's eyes were wide, and his whole body seemed to twitch from the shock of the 9mm round. He stared at the red stain that was slowly spreading across his shirt, then raised the gun to fire again, aiming for Scully's head. A second shot rang out, this one from Mulder's weapon. The round took Lee square in the center of his chest, sending blood spatters flying across the room. The weapon fell from Lee's fingers; his eyes rolled back, and his body collapsed slowly to the floor. The whole thing took less than 10 seconds. And now it was over. Quickly, Scully rose from her crouch, kicked the weapon away from Lee and bent to feel his pulse, shoving her own gun back in its holster. Then she straightened. "He's still alive," she said, not looking up as she began applying pressure to the center wound. "Mack, let's get some paramedics. Mulder, get me the plastic wrappers from those drinking glasses." Mack grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, 212, we got one down, two GSWs, request paramedics and ALS, might better make that HealthFlight," he said. "Copy?" The radio shorthand meant a person with two gunshot wounds who needed advanced life support or even a helicopter ambulance in order to survive. "Copy, 212," came the crackling voice of the dispatcher. "Advise your 20 still Green Top Inn?" "That's 10-4," Mack said. "We have a doctor on the scene but need immediate transport, over." "We copy on transport, 212," the dispatcher replied. Mulder, meanwhile, had brought the plastic. Scully ripped the wrappers in two and applied them to the bullet entry and exit wounds, pressing hard. "Take the other one," she told him. "Push hard. We have to keep the lungs inflated." "Is he going to make it, Scully?" he asked, quietly. She shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "It's going to be close, if he does." She looked up at him. "You were right, Mulder," she said. "You had this guy pegged. Paranoid and well-armed. Paranoid enough to try to shoot it out with four armed officers." "Yeah, good for me," he said, glumly. "Nothing like getting so far into the UNSUB's head that you wind up killing somebody, is there?" "What you did saved my life, Mulder," she said, and her tone made him look up, look into her eyes. "It was a clean shoot. It had nothing to do with your state of mind. He had a loaded gun aimed at my head, and he was preparing to fire. You did the right thing." "I don't doubt that," he said, pressing down on the wound. "I just wish I didn't find it quite so satisfying." ~~~~~ 11:54 a.m. Two hours later, Lee was still alive, undergoing emergency surgery in the same hospital where Scully had undergone surgery in December -- an irony which did not escape her or Mulder. Daphne police had swept Lee's room, finding, among other things, cigarettes which had been sold at the store where Donaldson was killed. Lee's true name, according to the identification, was Malcolm Ronald Lee. He was 29 years old, 5 feet, 6 inches tall. Inside his trailer, detectives found two half-starved Dobermans, a police radio scanner, a .38 caliber RG 31 revolver, a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Model 60 Chief's Special identical to the one he had been carrying, and enough ammunition to re-fight the Battle of the Bulge, along with a collection of worn and shabby household goods. "It was just like you said," Mack said to Mulder as they stood in the tiny lobby. "I ain't never seen nothin' like it before. Spooky." "That's my name," Mulder said, absently, as he handed his gun to an investigator from Forensic Sciences. "Be careful with that," he said. "I'm getting tired of losing my gun." "I'll treat it like it was my own," the man said, grinning. "Man, I love these things. SIG Sauer. Great weapon." "Yeah, it seems to have worked all right this time," Mulder said, grimly. "Just make sure I get it back, okay? You got Scully's weapon?" "Yep," the investigator said. "I'll have 'em test-fired and back to you by tomorrow night, unless your higher-ups don't want me to." "There is always that possibility," Mulder said. "Call my cell phone number if you need me. I don't know for sure where I'll be tomorrow." "I'll do it," the man said, walking away. "What did you get on NCIC?" Mulder asked, turning back toward Mack. "He's got a record, just like you said," Mack said. "Convictions for misdemeanor assault on an off-duty sheriff's deputy, shoplifting, arrested but no conviction for armed robbery of a gas station in Spanish Fort, just up the road from here." "No felonies?" Mulder said. "That surprises me." "He would've had, but he got popped for armed robbery when he was 15," Mack said. "Back then, it took an act of Congress to try a 15-year-old as an adult, so he did six months at Mount Meigs -- that's a juvenile facility -- and he was back out." "Figures," Mulder said, morosely. His eyes brightened slightly as Scully walked in. "They want us back at the station, Mulder," she said. "The district attorney wants to talk to us, and the FBI shooting team is on its way, and they want to talk to us, too." "Can we at least get some lunch first?" he said, plaintively. "I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday." "Yeah, and that was only a cream cheese bagel," she said, laying a hand gently on his forearm, smiling as she waited for him to get the joke. He did; and he smiled, just a little. "Don't remind me of that case," he said. "I was almost prosecuted for murder that time, remember? Anyway, I don't like bagels." "You won't be prosecuted this time, Agent Mulder," Mack said. "Me and Otis both saw that guy draw down on you after you identified yourself." "Yeah, I did," Mulder said. "You know, just once I'd like for one of these guys to come up with some response other than 'fuck you' when I do that." "I think they teach 'em that in perp school," Mack said, grinning. "Anyway, Agent Mulder, we already gave our statements. If it hadn't been for you, this guy would still be running around killing people. There ain't no way nobody's coming down on you for that." "Thanks, Mack," Mulder said. "That helps." He looked at Scully. "Come on, Scully, let's at least grab a burger on the way. With onions. Lots of raw onions." "You hate raw onions," Scully said, dubiously. "Yeah, but why make it easy for them?" he said. "Come on." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ WARNING: This chapter gets an NC-17 for explicit (MSR) sex. Noromos, youngsters and those of delicate sensibilities, bail now or else forever after hold your peace. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You say you love me: have you thought How much those little words contain? Alas, a world of happiness, And worlds of pain! You know, or should, your nature now, Its needs and passions. Can I be What you desire me? Do you find Your all in me? "A Woman's Poem" -- Richard Henry Stoddard Chapter 18 Daphne Municipal Building 7:31 p.m. At last, they were done. After hours of being grilled by Daphne police, district attorney's investigators and an FBI shooting team from New Orleans, hours more writing reports, filling out forms, dotting the last i and crossing the last t, Mulder and Scully were alone in the little room that had served as their headquarters. For a long time, neither spoke; they simply worked side by side in companionable silence by the dim light of one small desk lamp. Scully moved quietly around the room, packing away files and equipment. Mulder was taking the crime scene photographs down from the walls. Neither wanted to be the first to state what was so painfully obvious to them both: The case was over. It was time to go home. At last, however, the little room was stripped bare, the paperwork completed and organized, the photographs neatly tucked away in accordion files, and there was nothing left to do but to look at each other and wait for someone to say goodbye. But no one did. Instead, Scully stepped forward, hesitantly at first, then more confidently as she saw the welcome in her lover's eyes, stepped into the circle of his arms and laid her head against his broad chest. For a long time, he cradled her there, resting his chin on top of her head, rocking her ever so slightly, feeling the warmth of her arms around his waist. Finally, Mulder spoke. "Scully, I'm not leaving until tomorrow at least," he said. "Mack's asked me to stay around, help finish things up." "So you have the rest of the night off?" Scully asked, in a tone he couldn't quite place. "I guess so," he said. "You want to get some dinner somewhere?" She shook her head, her hair making a soft rustling sound against his shirt. "No," she said. "I'm not hungry. Are you?" "Not especially," he said, still holding her close. "Then ... " she said, but she stopped. "What?" "We can't go to my room," she said. "I would have told you sooner, but things happened so fast. Glassman came to my room last night, looking for you. I made him leave." Mulder loosened his grip, looked down at her, puzzled. "Made him leave, how?" he said, warily. She sighed. "I drew my weapon and aimed it right at his balls and told him to leave," she said. "He left." "Yeah, I guess he did," Mulder said, in amazement. "I sure would have." She laughed, softly, but her eyes were sad. "I'm in real trouble now," she said. "It won't be hard for Rolfe to make his case against me this time." "So you're out of VICAP," he said. "So what? You're too good to spend your time doing what amounts to document analysis, anyway. And Rolfe is a low-life. You're well rid of him." "And what if I wind up in Salt Lake City this time for good?" she said. "What do I do then?" "Oh, it's not so bad out in the boonies," he said, soothingly. "I'm almost used to it." "Mulder, I didn't mean ... " she began, guiltily, realizing what she'd said, but he wouldn't let her finish. "Yes, you did, but it's all right," he said, stroking her hair. "Field office work is largely scut work, and everybody in the whole damn Bureau knows it. I don't blame you for not being interested. Bad as this case was, I've got to admit, it was a more engaging challenge than I've had in a long time. It's going to be hard to go back to doing background checks again." "Then come back to Washington," she said. "Or to Quantico." "How? I'm the one who asked for a transfer, remember? The X Files are dead in the water. That's not your fault," he said, quickly, sensing an apology was on its way. "I left first." "So are you saying you burned all your bridges?" "Not all of them," he said, smiling. "I sublet my apartment to Frohike, so I still have a place to live, theoretically. But what possible reason could I give anyone in the Bureau for requesting a transfer back two months after I left at my own request, when the project I used to work on no longer exists? Anyway," he added, seriously, "Krycek is still out there. You may not be safe yet." "I'd rather be unsafe with you than safe without you," she said. "But you know we still have the anthrax to figure out." "Do we?" His tone made her look up again. "What do you mean?" she asked. "We haven't solved that yet." "No, but it may not be ours to solve," he said, gently, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "We're officially not partners anymore, Scully, no matter how much we may want to be, and neither of us is on the anti-terrorism detail. The most likely thing is that after we clear the shooting board, we'll be ordered to turn over our evidence to CIRG or some other AT detail." She was silent. "Scully?" he said. "You're right again, Mulder," she said, with a catch in her voice. "I've been playing at being your partner, playing at being a real agent. It's over now. Time to get back to the real world." "It's not over, and you weren't playing," he said. "This case may have ended, but as far as I'm concerned, you're still my partner and you always will be, whether it's official or not. One day, we'll get Ratboy and then we can be assigned together again -- if you want us to be, that is," he amended. "You know I do," she whispered, snuggling back into his arms again. "More than almost anything I can think of." "Almost anything?" he teased, stroking her back. "Yes," she said, her soft voice muffled in his body. "There is something else I want even more." He drew in his breath, slowly, then let it out again. "I'm almost afraid to ask ... " he said. "Don't be," she said, moving her body slowly, sensually against his. "I know a lot of things have happened between us lately, but please believe me, I want this. Can't you tell that I love it when you touch me?" "I can tell," he said, quietly, and kissed her forehead. "But I also know you're still very afraid, and I don't want you to be afraid of me." Scully shook her head. "I am afraid," she said, softly, holding him a little tighter. "But not of you -- never of you." She looked up at him. "I don't want to be afraid anymore, Mulder," she said. "If I do become frightened, you'll know, won't you?" He nodded. "I'll know," he said. "But I'm not sure I'll know what to do." "Do what you did before," she said, reaching up one hand to touch his face. "Just help me remember. Help me remember that I'm with you now, and then I won't be afraid anymore." "Scully, I ..." he began, but she interrupted him. "Shhh," she said. "There's nothing left to talk about." She was right. There was no more time for games, no more time for waiting. The truth, for once, was right there in front of him, moving in his arms, sending him a wordless message that he could not misunderstand or ignore. I want you. "Tonight?" he said, quietly. "Are you really sure, Scully?" "Tonight," she said. "There won't be another night for a long time, maybe forever. Who knows in this job?" She pressed her lips against the base of his throat. "I want you to make love to me," she whispered. "Now. Tonight." Making love to her, sinking into the softness deep inside her, losing himself in her small, wonderful body forever, seeing her beautiful face alight with passion, hearing her soft cries as she came ... all those things, together, constituted the only idea of heaven he'd ever had. But there were still so many risks ... He bent his head over hers and caught the acrid smell of gunpowder in her hair, the too-familiar scent reminding him again of how close they had come, how fragile were the ties that bound them to this earth and to each other. Screw the risks. Screw everything, screw the whole fucking planet. She's right. The time is now. And I want her like I've never wanted anything in my life. "All right," he said, and was instantly humbled by the joy that lit up her eyes when he said it. How can it matter so much to you? he thought. "We'll go stay somewhere Glassman can't find us." "Where?" she asked, her breathing already deeper, more rapid than usual. "Where do we go?" He shrugged. It felt strange to be having this conversation, strange but exhilarating. "Mobile, I guess," he said. "The beach would be more romantic, but it's about an hour away and I'm not even sure we could find a decent place to stay this time of year." "Mobile," she said, with a determined tilt to her chin. "Definitely. By the waterfront. I like to see the ships." "Oh, come on, the beach is better," he said, a teasing smile on his lips. "No, it's not," she said. "The waterfront is." He laughed, softly, deep in his throat. "Navy brat," he said, and pressed a kiss on her forehead. "Island boy," she said, smiling, and pulled his face down to hers, capturing his mouth with her own, kissing him deeply, passionately, letting her tongue drift over his full lower lip. A hesitant tap on the door made them jump back, guiltily, Mulder turning his back to the door as Mack walked in. "Oh, hey, didn't know you folks was still here," Mack said. "Thought I'd clean up a bit. Y'all are ahead of me." "We were just leaving," Scully said, trying to appear calm and failing completely. "Uh-huh," Mack said, taking in her flustered appearance and rapid breathing. "I can see that. I just got off the phone with St. Catherine's. Lee's out of surgery. It's kinda touchy, but looks like he might make it. You nicked one of them big arteries, Agent Mulder, but your partner bailed your ass out." "Not for the first time, I promise you," Mulder said, not looking at him. "Uh-huh," Mack said again, not fooled. He knew what Mulder was trying to hide, and he couldn't blame him. Scully could give a wooden Indian a hard-on. "Well, bring Agent Scully by in the morning so we can say 'bye, now, okay?" he said. "Yeah, Mack, I'll do that," Mulder said, over his shoulder. "Thanks for everything." "Ah, no trouble," Mack said, a humorous glint in his eye. "See you 'round. Don't forget the doughnuts tomorrow morning. Didn't get none this mornin'." "I won't forget," Mulder said, still not turning around. "See you then." Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Mack left, shutting the door behind him. For a moment the agents just looked at one another, and then Scully fell back into Mulder's arms, laughing. "Didn't get none this mornin'," she said, doing a fair impression of Mack's slow drawl. "I don't suppose we have to wonder whether he noticed anything," she went on in her own voice. "Not for a New York minute, as they say around here," Mulder said, wrapping his arms around her. "Come on, let's get out of here before we get caught again." ~~~~~ The Quincy Hotel 8:26 p.m. Checking into a nice hotel without luggage proved to be more of a problem than Mulder had remembered. Bureau travel allowances didn't cover anything this expensive, and most of the hotels he stayed in didn't give a damn what you brought with you as long as you paid in advance. This wasn't one of those places. It took not only his credit card but a flash of FBI credentials before the night manager was finally persuaded to give him a room, and he had to go back to the car to get those. With no gun and no holster to conceal (except for the .22 snugged in his leg holster, which officially didn't exist), he had left his suit coat in the car. He finished signing the registration form, taking a perverse pleasure in putting both their names without any bullshit about "Mr. and Mrs.," took the room keys and turned back to the lobby where Scully was waiting for him, listening to the faint music from the piano bar. For a long time he stood just watching her move, wondering how any woman as lovely, as brave and altogether admirable as Dana Scully could have chosen to be with him. Him, of all people. After all this time, it still made no sense to him, and especially not now. I want you to make love to me. She really said that. And meant it. I don't know why you want me, he thought. But I will try, I swear I will try, to do right by you tonight, not to hurt you or disappoint you. Then he saw her looking at him quizzically, a faint arch in her right eyebrow. "Problems?" she asked as he approached her. He shook his head. "Nothing worth reporting," he said, taking her hand. "You sure you don't want to have dinner? It's getting late; the kitchen'll be closing before long." "Which is why I don't want to have dinner," she said, softly. "It is late; and I don't want to lose one more minute." He bit his lower lip, nodding, not trusting his voice. "Come on," she said, pulling gently at his hand. "Let's go upstairs and be alone together." ~~~~~ Scully walked slowly over to the window of their room, looking out at the lights on the waterfront, and the more distant lights of the Eastern Shore that they had just left. Mulder locked the door behind him, then knelt and removed his leg holster, set it on the dresser as he watched her drinking in the view, her hands resting gently on the windowsill. She seemed far away. Was she having second thoughts? But then she turned to face him with what he would always think of as her "enigmatic Dr. Scully" smile. "Come here," she said, holding out her arms to him. Mulder didn't need a second invitation. He crossed the room in three swift strides of his long legs, pulling her into his arms, his mouth slanting across hers. He felt her cool hands caressing his heated face, sliding lower to touch the rapid pulse in his throat, felt her soft tongue probing at his mouth, seeking entrance. A groan arose deep in his throat, and he tightened his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, carried her to the foot of the bed where he let them both fall together, their arms still around each other, their mouths locked in a fierce kiss. He heard the soft thump, thump as Scully kicked off her shoes, and he pushed his own shoes off, wanting to get undressed fast but not wanting to stop long enough to do it. The eternal paradox of the first sexual encounter, he supposed. No wonder they usually skipped the undressing scenes in the movies; it was a pretty awkward procedure, when you came right down to it. But it seemed he would have some help with that, after all. Scully's hands were at his tie, loosening the knot, sliding it free of his collar. She dropped it on the floor, then went back to undo the buttons on his blood-spattered shirt, helped him struggle out of it, then pulled the white T-shirt free of his pants and slid her hands up under it to touch his bare chest. The contact made him shiver with pleasure, and he moved his hands down to the gentle curve of her bottom, pulling her closer to him, letting her feel how hard she was making him. He felt her gasp, and she twined her hands in his hair, around his neck, pulling him deeper and deeper into their still-unbroken kiss. She let go of him then, broke the kiss for the first time, and sat up, bringing him with her. So now it was his turn. As slowly as he could manage, he unbuttoned her suit jacket, slipped it off her shoulders and helped her take it off first one arm and then the other. He pulled the silky blouse loose from the waistband of her dark, conservative skirt and slipped his hands beneath, laying his palms flat against the smooth, naked skin of her back. She grasped the hem of her blouse with both hands and pulled it over her head, then turned to Mulder, pulling the T-shirt off him, dropping it carelessly to the floor. Scully watched as Mulder's eyes traced slowly, boldly down her body, from her flushed face, down her throat, to the soft beige satin bra, the creamy flesh above it rising and falling rapidly with her excited breathing. He'd seen it all before, of course, under other circumstances, but not like this ... not when she was finally about to be his in the flesh, as she had been for so long in her soul. This, they both knew, was different. His glance trailed slowly back to her eyes, and he smiled, a slow smile of appreciative pleasure, and something else, something almost sad ... Domina, non sum dignus, she thought. My lady, I am not worthy. You're worthy of much better, if you only knew it, she thought, but I'm afraid I'm all you've got. All these years I was afraid that you wanted to own my very soul, and all you really wanted was a friend and a partner, someone to believe in you, to give you a little love, a little comfort, and a safe place to lay your head. And all these years, I held back. I had a whole list of good reasons, I remember that. It's just that I look at you now and I can't remember what those reasons were. "Dana?" he said, snapping her out of her reverie. "Is something wrong?" She shook her head, smiling a little to banish the fear in his eyes. "No," she said. "I was just thinking." "About what?" She leaned forward, kissed him gently. "About how I want so badly to please you tonight," she said, softly. "How I want so much to make you happy, to make this everything you've ever dreamed it could be." "Then you can stop right now, because you've already succeeded," he said in a low voice. He traced the line of her jaw with one finger, kept going, slowly, down her throat, to the base of her neck, and down, further, leaving a feather- light touch on the warm swell of flesh just above her bra. She leaned back and smiled, then shyly reached her hands behind her back, groping for the bra clasp, but stopped as Mulder shook his head. "Let me," he said, in that same low tone. He moved behind her, laying his hands gently on her shoulders, massaging softly until he felt her relax, heard her soft hum of pleasure. He stroked his hands gently down her arms, pressing hot kisses into the smooth slope of her shoulder, then moved his hands slowly upward to cup her breasts. The touch made her shiver, and she sighed softly as his hands gently lifted and caressed the sensitive flesh through the slippery-soft fabric. It was exquisite, the way he handled her, the way his thumbs pressed ever so gently into her softness as they rubbed back and forth over the nipples, which were now firmly erect and incredibly over-sensitive. It was too much; it wasn't enough. "Take it off me," she moaned, urgently. "I want to feel your hands on me." "All right," he said in a throaty whisper, bringing his hands back behind her to unclasp the bra, pushing the straps off her shoulders in one smooth motion, then sliding his hands back over the soft, warm flesh. She threw the bra aside, then raised her arms, looping them around his neck, giving him more room to explore, leaving herself totally vulnerable and unguarded to his touch. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured into her ear as his hands reclaimed her breasts, holding their soft weight, pulling gently at her nipples, making her squirm and sigh and arch her back against him. "You're more beautiful than anything I ever dreamed of." "Just ... don't stop," she pleaded, breathily. "Promise me ... " "I won't," he said, nibbling at her earlobe. "Not unless you want me to. I promise." She turned slowly, pressing her breasts against his naked chest, and it felt good, so good, being so close to him, skin against skin, nothing keeping them apart. Her arms tightened around his neck as his mouth recaptured hers, sending a bolt of electric hot lust shooting down her body, the fire between her legs burning even hotter than before. His hands slid from her shoulder blades down her back, up again, back down, stopping at the waistband of her skirt. He wants me naked for him, she thought, the realization sending her fever spiraling even higher. He's making me naked for him. She felt him unbuttoning the skirt, sliding the zipper down, easing the fabric over her hips, and she let go of his mouth, raised herself to her knees to make it easier for him, and gasped as she felt his lips close over her nipple, suckling at it slowly, flicking at the sensitive tip with his tongue as his hands continued to undress her. She wanted to help him, wanted it to happen faster, but she felt her hands clenching in his hair, fear unaccountably tensing her muscles ... and she remembered. This was what had made it all go so wrong before. God, please, don't let it happen, she thought, please don't let it end now ... He must have sensed her fear, because he let go of her nipple, raised his mouth to hers, taking her face gently in his hands. He kissed her, deeply but gently, his thumbs stroking her cheeks tenderly. "Relax. It's all right," he murmured, his lips just a fraction of an inch away from hers. "Everything is all right." "Are you sure?" she whispered, hating the quivering sound she heard in her voice but helpless to stop it. "Aren't you afraid I'll ... flip out on you again?" "You won't," he said, then kissed her, softly. "You know I would never do anything that I thought would hurt you. You have to trust me. Please trust me, Dana." "I do," she breathed. "I do trust you. I trust you with my life ... " She got no further as his mouth descended on hers again, consuming her, drawing the breath from her lungs as though he would draw all of her into him. He held her firmly against his mouth until he felt her slender arms go around him again, felt her relax again into his embrace, then he dropped his hands to her waist again, hooking his thumbs into the elastic of her pantyhose, pulling them down to her thighs. She let go of him then, lay back on the bed, her feet dangling off the edge, one hand flung over her head, the other stroking his arm to encourage him as he slid the hose further down, kneeling at the foot of the bed to pull them off her feet. She reached for him then, but he shook his head again. "Not yet," he said, and dropped a soft kiss on her inner thigh, just above the knee. "Give me a minute." Slowly, maddeningly, he began working his way up, kissing the soft ivory skin, flicking his tongue out, sometimes sucking, sometimes nibbling gently, and there was no more doubt in her mind where he was going with this. God, what was it going to be like? No one had done this to her before, although God knows she had wanted it. Jack had told her quite plainly that he found it repellent; neither of her two previous lovers had made any attempt to satisfy her this way, either, and she had been too young and shy to ask. He was kneeling between her legs now; he was almost there. She was squirming beneath him, almost feverish with anticipation as she felt his warm breath through the soaking wet fabric of her panties. She cast an almost timid glance toward him, and was rewarded with another smile as he rolled to one side, slipped his hands inside the elastic of her panties, drew them slowly down, down, past her knees, her calves, down to her feet and then off and I'm naked now, she thought, the realization making her squirm again with desire. I'm naked and he's not and why does it make me so hot to know that? because I am under his control now and I love it I would never have believed I would but I do love it and I know what's coming and oh god ... She cried out as she felt his mouth closing over her most sensitive spot, his fingers gently parting her to give him better access and oh my god what was he doing down there ... The soft suckling, the flicking of his tongue, the gently probing fingers that slipped inside her incredible wetness, his nose bumping against her in a maddeningly delightful way -- it was just too good, too much, and she felt herself spiraling toward her climax. And then she felt her body beginning to shut down, felt the fear gripping her again, the terror of her long nightmares lurking just below conscious thought ... and her mind began to pull her away, protecting her from the terror and the exposure of her most private self to another, protecting her from this complete loss of control. She could have cried with disappointment. It shouldn't be like this, not with him, she thought. What is wrong with me? Then she felt his hands stroking her legs gently, calming her, and she realized that he knew something was wrong, that he could feel her tensing beneath him and he was responding to it, he wasn't going to leave her alone and unsatisfied ... This is Mulder, she thought, and I am safe with him, I can let go, I can do what he wants me to do because it's all right it's him and I'm safe, I'm safe, and then all at once she was coming, coming hard, her head thrashing helplessly on the bed, her hips jerking against him, her hands catching his head, pulling him closer so he wouldn't stop until she was through coming and coming and coming ... She cried out, wordlessly, as she reached the pinnacle, every inch of her contracting and pulsing in the same strong rhythm, over and over. Suddenly, it was too much, and she let go of his hair, felt him pull back immediately, and she knew that he understood, knew that she was too sensitive now and that she would need him to stop so she could recover a little. There's something to be said for a man who's been with women before, she thought distantly. I'll have to remember that next time Bill starts acting so damn superior because he waited for marriage and I didn't ... She heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasping of his zipper, and then he was lying beside her, gloriously naked and erect, taking her into his arms, carefully moving her upward on the bed to rest on the pillows, then just holding her gently, stroking her softly as she began to come back to reality. "Mulder," she whispered, still disoriented. "Oh, my God ... " "Shhh," he said, kissing her lips gently, brushing the hair back from her damp forehead. "Rest for a while." He kissed her again, more deeply, and she tasted her own salty wetness on his lips and in his mouth. He likes this, she thought. He likes having the taste of me in his mouth and he wants me to taste it too, to know where he's been, what he's been doing to me. Could anything be more intimate than this, sharing this flavor that we made between us? The thought inflamed her all over again. She had given him all of herself. But she hadn't had all of him. Not yet. "I don't need to rest," she said, reaching down, closing her hand slowly over his hardness. He gasped, sharply, closing his eyes as she moved her hand gently over the velvet-soft skin, back and forth, letting her fingertips brush over the firm ridges at the tip. "I don't want to rest," she said, her other hand at the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep, wet kiss. "I want you inside me," she whispered against his mouth. "Now." She saw the fire blaze up in his eyes, felt his mouth on hers again as he pulled her closer, pushing against her soft, wet folds, seeking entry, and she opened herself to him, used her hand to guide him, lifting her knees on either side of him as he rolled her onto her back, settled himself between her thighs. ~~~~~~ God, she's so small, he thought, feeling her beneath him. Every part of her is perfect but so tiny, all curves and softness and warm wetness. I have never been with a woman so small and so perfect before, never. How can she be so small and so soft, how can she take me inside her, how can I do this with her and not hurt her? Then she thrust her hips up toward him and suddenly he was inside her, all the way inside her, and he heard her sharp gasp, her startled cry as the long- unused flesh yielded slowly to the invasion. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, " he said. He saw tears in her eyes and started to pull back, mentally cursing himself. You did it anyway, Mulder, you hurt her, you stupid, clumsy prick, but then she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him back in. "You didn't hurt me," she whispered. "You didn't." And then, to his everlasting consternation, she buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder, and he felt the wetness of her tears as they flowed over his skin. "Then why are you crying?" he asked, now completely confused. "What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong," she whispered into his ear, her arms firm around his neck, her legs tightening around him, pulling him even closer. "Nothing at all. It's just -- I've wanted this so badly, and you feel so wonderful ... " "Dana," he said, and then suddenly he couldn't think of another word to say. Her inner muscles were clenching, relaxing, slowly, rippling up and down his hard length in what he could only think of as a caress ... the most intimate caress imaginable between two people. She raised her tear-streaked face to his, touched her lips to his, gently. "I love you so much," she whispered, and then she was rocking her hips slowly beneath him, her legs pulling him firmly against her body. "And I'm sorry I frightened you. Let me make it up to you." With a low groan, he pushed in deeper, slowly thrusting upward into her wetness, feeling her muscles clutch at him more firmly now, pulling him in deeper and deeper, her legs tightening their grip on his, pulling at him rhythmically. "Oh, yes, like that," she murmured into his ear. "Just exactly like that. I want all of you, give me all of you." Oh, he wanted to do that, all right, no question about it. She was so wet, so hot and slick and so unbelievably soft, moving restlessly beneath him, meeting each thrust with one of her own, her lips and teeth grazing over the skin of his throat, her soft sighs and whimpers in his ear driving him nearly mad with desire. The hot, wet tug of her flesh on his was overwhelming, and he felt himself heading for the edge, too fast, way too fast, and he needed to stop her, make her understand that if she didn't stop thrusting back at him, stop making those sounds, it was going to be over too quickly, but he couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except thrust into her harder and harder and faster ... Then he heard her whispering softly in his ear. "It's all right," she was saying. "It's all right, Fox, I love you, let it happen, just let it happen, it's all right ... " And that was all it took, and he buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder and spilled over into her, his hips driving him convulsively into her, so deeply he thought she must feel him in her throat, and he was shooting into her, the muscles in his belly propelling his hot seed deep inside her, jet after scalding jet until he was utterly spent and he collapsed, exhausted, into her loving arms. ~~~~~ For a long time they lay together quietly, scarcely moving, as she cradled him, reveling in the feel of his weight on her, of the connection he still made between them, the oh-so-rare feeling of his muscles completely relaxed beneath her hands as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He will never be more mine than he is in this moment, she thought. I could hold him like this forever and never ask for anything more from life. Too soon, it was over. He raised himself up, shifted to one side, taking his weight off her. She felt him slip out of her, and already she felt empty without him. But then he lifted his head and smiled at her with such joy, such heart-breaking happiness, that she knew he was still hers, would always be hers now, whether they were joined physically or not. She kissed him, gently, the kiss slower, at once more sensual and more loving than any they had exchanged before. A nice side benefit of making love, she thought, as he laid his head on her breast, put his arms around her and sighed contentedly. New kinds of kisses, new touches, the kind you can't have when you're both so frantic with wanting. "That was wonderful," she said in a sleepy, satisfied tone as she ran her fingers through his tousled hair. He raised his head, looked up at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Better than you expected or better than you hoped?" She laughed. "I can't believe you remember that." "I remember everything," he said drowsily, settling back down against her. "Everything about you and me, anyway. Not everything about everything. But you didn't answer my question." "Better than anything," she said, seriously. "Better than anyone on earth could ever have hoped for, better than anyone in the whole universe has any right to expect." He sighed, relieved, and stretched upward to her, kissed her softly. "I was afraid you'd be disappointed." "How could I be?" "Well," he said, a little embarrassed, "we, uh, sort of set a new world land speed record." "Well, yes, we did," she said, with an amused smile. "We both did. What did you think would happen after almost seven years of foreplay?" "You have a point there," he conceded. "Anyway," she said, her fingers trailing lazily through his hair again, "the night is still young." "And so are you," he said. "Not you?" She felt his shoulders move in what might have been a shrug. "I'm staring 40 right in the eyes, so it kind of depends on what you think of as young." "Do you feel young?" The question surprised him. He'd expected her to argue the point, remind him that he had two years left before 40. "Yeah," he said, thoughtfully. "Right now, I feel about 10 years younger than I did this time last night." "That's good enough," she said, resting her hand on his face. "What about you?" "Do I feel young, or do I feel younger than I did?" "Either. Both." "Yes. To both. And I feel strong, and beautiful, and confident, and I wasn't feeling any of those things until I saw you again," she said, placing a delicate kiss on his forehead. "You are all of those things, and more," he said, stretching up again to kiss her deeply, his hand at the nape of her neck. "Don't ever forget it," he said, as he pulled away. "I'll try," she whispered, and gave him another soft kiss. "This may be a bad time to ask," he began as she pulled back. "Oh, no," she said, warily. "What?" "Sorry," he said, smiling up at her. "Kissing you reminded me of your brother." "What a sexy thought," she said, giving him a look of mock disgust. "What about him?" "You know what I mean," he said, propping himself up on one elbow, laying the other hand on her breast. Another new kind of touch, she thought, contentedly. Odd, how having sex can transform the feel of his hand on my breast from wildly erotic to profoundly intimate, can reshape its meaning until it becomes a bonding touch like holding hands, only far more private, far more special. "I just never got around to asking whether you'd parted on good terms," he was saying. "I guess I couldn't help thinking that ... what happened that day ... was part of the trauma." "It may have been," she said, softly. "I think, perhaps, it was. I never felt so at odds with my family before that day; it was as though I just had to push them away, when I needed them most. But the trouble between me and Bill had been building for a long time, Mulder. You can't blame yourself for it." "I can if I want to," he said, as though he were teasing, but she could see the truth behind the jest. He did blame himself. "We didn't part enemies, Mulder," she said, trying to reassure him. "I drove him to the airport, and we kind of -- made things up on the way." "Ah," he said, with a sheepish smile. "I'm glad. I was afraid I'd ruined things." "No," she said, brushing the hair back from his face. "You didn't. My brother has some -- issues -- where you and I are concerned, but I think he realizes it, at least." "He's just being a big brother," he said. "Protecting his little sister." "Brothers do worry about their sisters, don't they," she said, softly, still stroking his hair. He gave a short laugh, but it sounded sad. "I haven't spent much time looking for her lately, have I? Ever since that night in December, all I've done is check out weekend warriors and look for Krycek." "Have you been back to the factory?" "Several times." He shook his head. "The Mobile Field Office has, too. They even staked it out, twice. Nada. Empty." "Maybe it's not empty now." "Or maybe it is but there's something else going on, something that only you and I would know the significance of," he said, thoughtfully. "Oh?" "Think about it, Scully," he said, and she noted the shift back to her last name. Yes, we are conducting business naked together in a bed, she thought, amused. Only Mulder could discuss conspiracy theories with me while playing with my breast. His eyes were narrowed in the way they did when he was thinking hard. "We've been looking in the wrong place," he said, slowly. "We ought to be looking somewhere else, somewhere that we'd have thought of if we'd been together." "I can't imagine where that might be," she said. "If we were both working in D.C., we wouldn't know about the connection between the anthrax and the Reserves. And if you hadn't been assigned to this case," she added, more quietly, "I might not have made it through alive." "No," he said, his hand closing softly on her breast. "You wouldn't have done it. You would have put yourself back together somehow." "Not without you," she said. "Until a few days ago, I wouldn't have bet on my living out another year. Seriously. But as they say in pop psychology, I'm not well yet, but I sure am better." "And all it took was three days partnered with me again?" He smiled, and leaned over to kiss her. "I should have gotten my doctorate and gone into clinical practice." "I'm not sure I want you practicing these methods on anyone else," she said, and that made him laugh. "All right, Dr. Scully," he said, still chuckling. "I'm your private amateur therapist. But just wait until you get my bill." "Wait until you get mine for all the times I've had to patch you up, Mulder," she said, threateningly, and he laughed again. "I can't afford it," he said. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to live in Birmingham?" "Less than it costs to live in Georgetown, I'm sure," she said. "Or on Martha's Vineyard." "Tell me about it," he groaned. "If I had back every penny I've paid in property taxes on my father's house, I could retire from federal service." "Do you ever think about selling it?" "No." He shook his head. "It's ... comforting, in a way, to know it's there. When they finally take my badge away, I'll at least have somewhere to live. I suppose I should consider myself lucky it's not costing me much more than property taxes." "Lucky is not a word I would ever associate with you," she said, gently. "No one who's sacrificed as much as you have could be called lucky." "Why not? I got lucky with you, didn't I?" he teased, then grew serious again. "We've both lost a lot, Dana. More than I care to recall during a moment as special as this one," and he kissed her again. "But I know what you gave up to be with me. I can't forget it, not even now." "Why not now?" she said, softly. "Never mind," he said. "Forget it. Bad topic. I just can't escape the thought that you'd have been happier without me. I don't suppose I feel responsible for your father's death ... " "If you could find a way, you would," she said, stroking his hair again. He smiled. "Probably. But I do feel responsible for your sister, and for the trouble between you and your brother and ... other things." "My infertility, you mean?" she said, very quietly. "I know you're thinking about it. So am I. We jumped into bed together without saying one word about contraception, because we both knew it wasn't necessary. Am I right?" He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, pain registering deep in the shadows of his eyes. "Yeah," he said, reaching for her face. "That's it. And I hate it, Dana. Now more than ever." She shook her head. "That wasn't your fault. Duane Barry is the one who's responsible, or Cancerman. Or Krycek." "You never would have run across any of them if you hadn't been assigned to the X Files," he pointed out. "You can't absolve me of this, much as I wish you could. That whole life you could have had, with a husband and children, with your sister, teaching at Quantico, no cancer -- you lost all that because you stayed with me." "I stayed with you because that's where I wanted to be," she said, sliding lower, pressing herself against him. "From the first time we worked together in Podunk, Oregon, I never wanted to work with anyone else ever again or do anything else ever again." "It was Bellefleur, Oregon, and I seem to remember a flirtation with BSU over the Eugene Tooms case," he said, but he put his arm around her waist as he spoke, and his voice was growing husky again. "BSU was just a fling," she said, wiggling slightly against his body, gratified to feel how quickly he was growing hard again. "It was purely physical. That wench meant nothing to me, really." "Ah," he said. "So I'm your one and only?" "Well," she said, tracing the long muscles of his back with her fingernails, "you and Flukeman. He did have a certain septic allure." "Forget him," he said. "It could never work. He's a hermaphrodite; he doesn't need anyone else, he sleeps by himself." "Which is what you and I will be doing at this time tomorrow," she said, suddenly serious. "So let's don't waste any more of our last night together on blaming ourselves for things that can't be changed. Let's spend it making some new memories to hold us until we can be together again. All right?" "All right," he said, very low, as he pulled her down into his embrace again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You in the moonlight With your sleepy eyes Could you ever love a man like me? And you were right When I walked into your house I knew I'd never want to leave Sometimes I'm a strong man Sometimes cold and scared And sometimes I cry But that time I saw you I knew with you to light my nights Somehow I'd get by "Leather and Lace" -- Stevie Nicks Chapter 19 Mobile Regional Airport Sunday, March 7 9:46 a.m. Scully was quiet on the long drive to the airport. But this time, it was different, somehow, Mulder thought. It wasn't the dead quiet of their journey to Baltimore, the withdrawn quiet that had made each moment so painful. It was more like the quiet in the afterglow of making love. Which, of course, was exactly what it was. They had awakened in each other's arms that morning and made love again in a slow, leisurely fashion, taking the time to explore each other in the daylight that edged around the curtains, using gentle caresses, speaking softly, reaching their mutual climax gradually with her seated on his lap, looking at him, letting him look at her. Three times in one night, and they already had the skill of longtime lovers with one another. What might happen, where might it go, if they had a few more days together, or a week? Or a lifetime? He shook his head. Too soon to talk about that, he thought. Krycek is still loose, and until he's put away for good she's still in danger. Even then, I don't know how we'd manage it anyway. Marry her and you lose her as a partner forever; that's where the Bureau draws the line. No more X Files, no more bullpen, no more nothing: She's in one office, and you're in another, and that's that. But, oh dear God, look at what you'd gain ... One day at a time, Mulder, he told himself. One step at a time. Your first task is to get her to the airport, and then you can start to figure a way out of this unbearable separation that you created yourself. After they'd left Mobile, they'd gone back to Daphne to pack and check out. Glassman had already left, no doubt, Scully said dryly, so he could talk to Rolfe before she did. Mulder noted, with bitter amusement, that Glassman was the only agent quoted in the Mobile Register's story about the shooting. Figured. Not that Mulder was anxious to talk to the press; what little anonymity he had left was precious to him, and he didn't ever want to become known as the agent to call for a quote. They made one last stop by the Daphne Police Department to let Scully say good- bye to Mack and give him his chocolate-frosted Krispy Kreme doughnuts. "I hate we had to meet over something this bad," Mack told them. "But I tell you what, I'd be happy to have either one of you on my back any damn day of the week. You ever need help, you know who to call." Scully, to Mulder's surprise, had planted a smacking kiss on the officer's cheek, bringing a bright scarlet flush to his boyish face. Then came the silent drive to the airport. When they got there, the lines were short, and Scully wasn't armed, so she got through the ticketing line quickly. Still, he knew she would be nervous without a weapon. That feeling was endemic among cops, PTSD or no. Mulder, for once, decided to wait at the gate with her. He had always been more apt to drop her in front of the terminal and head off, reasoning that if she missed her flight, she would call him. But this time he had stayed with her, had gone through the whole attention- getting security routine that he hated even worse than she did, in order to do nothing more than sit next to her in silence, holding her hand, while they waited for her flight to be called. Which, all too soon, it was. She rose, taking her carry-on bag in hand, and turned to face him. "Mulder," she began, then faltered, tears coming into her eyes. "Shhh," he said, and for the first time in years, took her into his arms in a public place, stroking her back softly. They stood there for a long time, oblivious to the stares from the other passengers, until finally there was no more time. "Delta Airlines Flight 1103 to Atlanta and Washington, D.C., is now in final boarding at Gate 1," came the amplified voice of the attendants. "All passengers for Delta Flight 1103 should board now. This is the final call for Delta Airlines Flight 1103." "I've got to go," she said, stepping back, wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'll miss my plane." "All right," he said, and bent to kiss her, not quickly, but softly, thoroughly, lingering as long as he could, until he heard the flight attendant's impatient cough, and knew he had to let her go. Scully stepped back, smiling sadly, and turned to join the dwindling passenger line, then just as quickly turned back toward him. "Mulder?" she said. "Yeah?" "Can I have your phone number?" A dazed smile spread over his face. "Oh, yeah," he said. "You bet." He pulled a business card from his pocket and scribbled the number on the back, handed it to her. When she reached out her hand to take it, he planted a quick kiss on her fingers. "See ya, Scully," he said, still smiling. "I love you," she said, and almost immediately she blushed. She didn't mean to say it out loud, not in front of people, he thought. But she was smiling, just a little, enough to let him know that there would be no more pretending, no more hiding from themselves or from anyone else, ever again. Sort of gives a new meaning to "the truth is out there," he thought. "I love you, too, Dana," he said, quietly. "Always." She smiled again, then turned and walked up the gangway. She was the last passenger to board; the door closed after her, and she was gone. For a long time, Mulder stood looking at the doorway she had left through, wondering how the hell he was going to survive until he saw her again. ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office Monday, March 8 3:25 p.m. "Ah, the prodigal son returneth," Prescott said as Mulder walked through the SAC's office door. "The prodigal son is a Christian parable, sir, and I'm not a Christian," Mulder said, sitting in the chair opposite the desk. "Doesn't apply, anyway. I'm not here to tell you that I wasted my substance on riotous living." "So I hear," Prescott said, settling back in his chair with a grin. "Got a shooting board coming up, don't you, Oxford boy?" "And a Baldwin County grand jury, more than likely," Mulder said. "I'm not especially worried. It was a clean shoot, sir." "Hell, Mulder, I knew that before I heard anything about it," Prescott said. "So you got your man?" "We got him," Mulder said, nodding. "He's not going anywhere for a while." "Who's we?" "Sir?" Mulder said, taken aback. "Who's we? You said we got him. Who's the other half of that we?" "Special Agent Dana Scully of VICAP," Mulder said, after a pause, thinking how good and how painful at the same time it was to say her name aloud. "Scully, huh? Wasn't she your partner in D.C.?" Prescott asked, just a bit too casually, Mulder thought, instantly suspicious. "Yes, sir, she was, but I think perhaps you knew that already," Mulder said. "What's up, sir? Why do I feel as though I'm being set up?" Prescott shook his head. "You're not, not by me, anyway," he said, and for once, he wasn't smiling. "Hell, yeah, I knew who you were partnered with before you came here. It's in your file, and anyway, people tend to pay attention to you. But I didn't find out she was down there working this case until the day after you left for Mobile." "Who told you?" "Skinner," Prescott said, ignoring Mulder's abruptness and lack of protocol. He swung his legs off the desk and sat up straight. "No matter what I said to you on the phone, Mulder, I had questions of my own about why you'd been sent down there. I called Skinner to get the straight skivvy." "Which was?" Mulder asked, slowly. "That he wanted you on it because, first of all, he knew you could solve it, and second, because he'd already sent Agent Scully down there. He said he thought you two needed to work together again for a while." Prescott laid his hands on the desk, interlacing his fingers. "My understanding was he's worried about her, thought you might be able to give her a boost, help her build some confidence again. Which by all accounts, you did." Mulder was silent. "Anything you want to tell me, Mulder?" Prescott asked, with a trace of sympathy. Mulder shook his head. "No, sir," he said. "If you don't mind." "None of my business anyway," Prescott said, leaning back again. "Except," Mulder said, "that I think that there's still a problem in Mobile that needs FBI attention." "Right, anthrax," Prescott said. "That's worrisome. What do you make of it?" "Honestly, sir, I don't know what to make of it," Mulder said. "There's no question it was anthrax, or that there's some connection with the Army Reserve. For two of the victims to have some connection to this is statistically improbable, not to say impossible, if Lee is genuinely a random spree killer." "Are you saying he's not?" Mulder shook his head again. "He is. Unquestionably. But perhaps a malleable one, a killer who can be led -- by the right person -- to attack one specific victim. In that sense, he's like a peregrine falcon, a hunting bird with killer instincts, but tamed to the fist so he attacks -- for the most part -- where he's told." Prescott eyed Mulder carefully for a minute, then picked up a pencil and began tapping it on the leather edge of his desk blotter. "Have you ever seen or heard of a killer of the type you're describing?" he asked, finally. "No, sir, I haven't," Mulder said. "The typical killer for hire, particularly the professional hitman, seldom exhibits the rage-motivated killing of a spree killer, and certainly not the carelessness. Cosa Nostra types don't rise this far above ground, ever, and when wise guys go into overkill, there's a reason: Someone's being warned. But a spree killer typically isn't amenable to suggestion, assuming anyone is foolhardy enough to approach him." "Is there any reason to think this scenario is impossible?" "There's nothing in the literature that suggests to me that such a killer could not exist. I think it's entirely possible, and that someone needs to stay on top of this anthrax problem." "That's in Mobile's area, Mulder," Prescott said. "They're already on it, and so is CDC. But as far as I'm concerned, Lee is still your case. Work on it when you can, find out what you can, but don't make it your top priority. The subject's in the hospital, in federal custody, and like you said, he's not going anywhere. Got me?" "Yes, sir," Mulder said. "Is that all?" "I got word the lab boys in Mobile are finished with your weapon," Prescott said. "They're sending it up tomorrow by courier. In the meantime, you got backup?" "Not officially," Mulder said, smoothly, and Prescott grinned, nodding his understanding. He didn't care; he carried an unauthorized weapon himself. "Good enough," Prescott said. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off? Go home, get a nap. You don't look like you slept much lately." Mulder looked sharply at Prescott, but saw no sign the man was being facetious. "I'm a little tired," he said, and that was the truth, he thought. For all kinds of reasons, some of which definitely had to do with a night spent making love with Dana Scully in a king-sized hotel bed in Mobile, Alabama. And even more to do with knowing how long it might be before she would be in his arms again ... if ever. "I think I will head for home," he said, dragging his thoughts reluctantly back to the present, rising from his chair. "Thank you, sir." "Nothing to it," Prescott said, waving the pencil dismissively. "Get your ass outta here, Oxford boy." ~~~~~ Fox Mulder's apartment 8:17 p.m. One more damn night alone with the TV, Mulder thought. I am definitely home again. He'd unpacked, as he usually did, by throwing everything washable into the laundry hamper, tossing his suits in a pile on the floor to take to the cleaners and dumping everything else pell-mell on the bathroom counter. He'd showered, scooped the dead fish from the aquarium, called out for pizza and channel-surfed until he found a baseball game, Chicago Cubs at the Atlanta Braves -- neither a team he cared much about. It was all background, anyway; his mind was skipping restlessly back and forth between the still-unsolved aspects of the case he'd just left and the memories of two nights spent in the arms of the only real angel he could ever imagine existed. I forgot what it was like to be this alone, he thought. Somehow, this noble sacrifice just doesn't suit me as well as it did a week ago. I wish I had a real case to work on again, I wish I had her in my arms, I wish I hadn't waited seven years to make love to her ... I wish I knew a way to get back to her, and back to D.C. Rain delay. How long had he been sitting here staring at these guys sitting in the dugout, looking at the rain? Jeez, Mulder, he thought. You're going to be a basket case before long. And then the phone rang, and his first thought was that it was Prescott, calling him to say he had to get back to work after all, and he almost let it ring until he remembered ... ... he'd given her his phone number. Quickly, almost tripping over the coffee table, he sprang for the phone, knocked it off the side table as he grabbed the receiver. "Hello?" he said, his heart pounding in his throat. "Mulder, it's me." Yes, it is, he thought, a huge grin spreading across his face. Odd, how that little phrase works. You never really think about it, but there's only one person in anyone's life for whom a simple "it's me" suffices as a greeting. The one in five billion. The one and only one. "Hey, Scully, what's up?" he said, settling back on the couch. ~~~~~ <"Nothing. I just got home from my mom's. I took a comp day. I just ... wanted to hear your voice."> A pause. "That may just be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." <"Stick around, Mulder. I plan to do much better."> "You do, huh? Care to give me a preview of coming attractions?" <"No. Not yet. Maybe after I finish unpacking and get settled back in, I will. I'm really tired."> "Maybe you haven't been getting enough sleep." <"That's funny, Mulder. Very funny. I didn't notice you slept much the other night."> "Not much. More than I wanted to, though." <"Really?"> "Really. Being awake was ... much better." <"It was for me, too."> A pause. "God, Scully, I miss you so much already." <"I miss you, too. Terribly. But it means a lot to be able to call you and talk to you."> "Shit. See, I told you: I was a jerk to leave you the way I did, not even letting you call me once in a while." <"No, you did what you felt you had to do. But that's over now, isn't it?"> "I don't think so. I'm still here and you're still there ... " <"But now I know where you are ... and I have your phone number."> "Does it mean that much to you?" <"More than I can ever tell you."> "Which just proves what a jerk I've been." <"I thought you told me all my crazy behavior was the result of PTSD."> "I did. It was. And you're not crazy." <"So why are you being so hard on yourself for the same thing?"> A laugh. "Habit. It's what I do, remember?" <"I remember. I remember everything."> "Everything about everything?" <"No." A laugh. "Just everything about you and me."> "So ... what do you remember best?" <(softly) "Ever, or about the other night?"> "Either. Both." <"Hmm. What I remember best about the other night is ... holding you afterward."> "Ahh. So what I do best is ... go to sleep?" <"No, smart-aleck, that is not what I said. Do you want me to finish telling you this or not?"> "I'm sorry. Go on. I'll behave." <"That will be the day."> "So why do you remember that better than ... any of my more active efforts to make you happy?" <"Because at that point, you already had ... made me happy. Very, very happy. But you looked so peaceful, and I don't think I've ever seen you look like that before."> "Probably not. Peaceful is a good description. Or happy. I could go on ... " <"I think I know. I was there, remember? But it was all so new to me, you know, the -- afterglow."> "Well, we never made love before." <"Oh, don't be dense, Mulder. I mean no one else ever ... you know, made that happen for me."> "Oh." A pause. "That genuinely surprises me." <"Why?"> "Because in case you hadn't noticed it, Dr. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, you're a very beautiful, very passionate lady, and not at all ignorant of what you want or how you like to be touched." <"No. Just too shy to communicate it, I guess."> "Not to me, you weren't." <"No, not to you. Although somehow, you just seemed to know what would ... please me."> "I know you." <"You pay attention to me. And maybe that's enough. Or maybe ... "> "Maybe ... ?" <"Maybe I never trusted anyone else enough to let go, let them get that close to me."> (softly) "Maybe not." <"I do trust you, you know. Without reservation, no matter what stupid things I said the other night."> "The only stupid thing you said the other night was that you wanted to be with me." <"That was not stupid. I belong with you. Always."> "I want you with me -- always. But you know that." <"I suspected it, yes."> A long pause. "So -- what about the ever part?" <"Hmmm?"> "What do you remember best about us ever?" <"Your hands. When you pulled me out of the ice."> "My hands?" <"Yes. I really thought it was just another dream until you touched me."> "A Freudian would have a field day with the juxtaposition of these two memories, Scully." <"Lucky for me you're not a Freudian."> "No, I think Freud was full of shit. But I still want to hear more about these dreams." <"I was awake the whole time, so I guess you'd call it hallucinating more than dreaming."> "Jeez, Scully, you never told me about that. That's awful." <"It was."> "So what were you dreaming about? If you don't mind telling me, that is." <"You. That you would find me. That you would get me out of there. I dreamed it over and over. So when I really saw you, I thought it was still a dream."> "Until I touched you ... " <"Until you touched me. Then I knew it was you and that you really had come for me and that I was safe. And your hands felt so warm ... I was so cold."> "You were frozen. Literally." <"But you wrapped me up and you got me out of there."> "I can't even remember how we got back to civilization." <"We found a snow cat that still had gas in it. Remember?"> "Oh, yeah. Now I do." <"You had a head injury. No wonder you don't remember."> "I remember that finding you there still alive was possibly the greatest moment of my life." <"Aha. So it's your best-ever memory, too?"> "I guess it is." A pause. "I think I must have forgotten it for a while, though." <"Why do you say that?"> "Because if I'd remembered it better, I don't think I would ever have left you." <"Well -- look at what you went through to get me back."> "That was nothing, Scully. Nothing at all." <"Bullshit."> A laugh. "Okay, so it's bullshit. You always were my bullshit detector." <"Sometimes. I think I give you a lot of false positives, though."> "Detecting bullshit where none exists?" <"Yes."> "No. You just -- keep me honest." <"So you said once."> "It's still true." A pause. "My SAC wants us to keep working on Lee, see what connection he has to the anthrax business." <"I didn't think we'd be on that case."> "We're not. Not the anthrax per se. But we are on Lee, because Prescott apparently sees the possibility, at least, that Lee was being used to eliminate people who were involved with anthrax." <"So where do we start?"> "With the forensics you gathered, I think. Let's just see what turns up there. In a few days, if Lee is well enough for questioning, I'll talk to him." <"Will he talk to us? I mean, we shot him."> "Yeah, we did. But we've got to try. He's our best lead right now, Scully." <"All right. I'll call you when I get the forensics in. But Mulder, I'm still going to be in some trouble with Rolfe. I'll probably be ordered to report to him first thing tomorrow. It may be a while before I can call."> "I know. But I don't think you really need to worry about that." <"Why not?"> "Who was Rolfe reporting you to?" <"Skinner."> "Skinner's the one who sent you to Alabama." A pause. <"I didn't know that."> "He did. And he sent me, too, according to my SAC, because he thought we needed to work together again for a while." <"Did he really do that?"> "That's what Prescott said Skinner told him, and I believe him." <"You mean Skinner ... "> "Arranged for us to be together, yes." <"I may have to kiss him the next time I see him."> A laugh. "Okay. Just save some kisses for me, all right?" <(softly) "All of them, Mulder. Every one of them. Until I see you again."> "Which reminds me -- did I imagine it, or did you call me something else the other night?" <"By your first name, you mean? Yes."> "And what brought that on?" <"Don't you know?"> "No. I know you've done it a couple of times when you didn't seem to be completely aware of it." <"I think that's true, because I called you Fox the other night, at a ... particularly intimate moment ... and I realized then that I had done it before. Do you mind?"> "No. No, not at all. I like the way you say it." <"So it's all right?"> "It's more than all right, Dana. Really." <"I'm glad. But I don't think I'll do it very often."> "No?" <"No. I just ... needed to know that you would let me."> "I guess I understand that ... well, no, I don't." <"Just take it on faith, then."> "So speaks the scientist." <"You have a lot of faith, Mulder."> "No, I don't. Not an iota." <"Yes, you do. You do. Your faith has saved me more than once."> "I ... shit, I don't know, maybe someday I'll believe that." <"Don't you want to believe?"> "Yes ... I guess so." <"Then believe, lover. Believe me, if you can't believe anyone else."> Long pause. "I believe _in_ you. Will that do?" <"For now. I love you, Mulder."> "I love you, too, Scully." <"I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"> "All right. Tomorrow. Sweet dreams, G-woman." <"You, too. Bye."> "Bye." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would. "Love Is Not All" -- Edna St. Vincent Millay Chapter 20 VICAP offices Marine Barracks, Quantico Tuesday, March 9 7:46 a.m. "Scully! Back from the wars, I see," SSA Kennedy called out from his office as Scully came in. "It was more of a war than I'd anticipated, sir," she said, smiling, as she walked toward her desk, but Kennedy stopped her. "Agent Scully, before you sit down, there's something we need to discuss," he said. "Can you step in here for a moment?" "Yes, sir," she said, automatically, but with an inward groan. Here it comes, she thought. She crossed the few steps to Kennedy's office and walked in. "Shut the door, Agent Scully, then have a seat," Kennedy said, and she did. This was definitely not good, she thought, crossing her legs and tugging her skirt modestly downward. "Is there a problem, sir?" she asked, with more outward cool than she'd been able to manage for some time. "Agent Scully, I would like to begin by congratulating you for your part in apprehending a dangerous criminal," Kennedy said. "Your work in that regard was exemplary, from what I have heard." "Thank you, sir." "However, I have had another, less complimentary report about you that, frankly, I find a bit difficult to believe," Kennedy said. "Do you have any idea what that report might be?" "Some idea, sir, but I'd rather not guess," Scully replied, still cool. "If I told you it was filed by Agent Glassman ... " "I would know what it was about," she said, interrupting Kennedy. "I'm sorry, sir. I had been expecting this." "Agent Glassman has accused you of a number of transgressions, Agent Scully, the worst of which is assault with your service weapon." "That is ... essentially true, sir, although I consider it self-defense." "Why don't you give me your version of the facts, then?" She did, not omitting Glassman's booking adjoining rooms against her wishes or that he had shown up only at the beginning and end of the case. "I had to interrupt Agent Mulder's profiling work several times, sir, in order to discuss with him matters that I believe Agent Glassman should have been handling. It slowed the case down, which could have proven disastrous had Agent Mulder not found the UNSUB when he did." "You are aware that Agent Glassman has said much the same thing about you? That you contributed little to this case?" "I believe, sir, that the Daphne Police Department officer who was assigned as our liaison can refute that accusation," she said. "He already has," Kennedy said. "I called him yesterday, and I am satisfied that Agent Glassman's accusation on that count is baseless. But there is the matter of your drawing a weapon on him." "As I said, sir, that was self-defense. Agent Glassman, I thought, had already made inappropriate advances and he refused to leave my hotel room when I asked him." "So you pulled a gun on him?" "I'm a federal agent, sir," she said, calmly. "I wanted to solve the problem quickly." Kennedy suppressed a smile. "I can understand that, Agent Scully. But Agent Glassman said he was in your room only because he was looking for Agent Mulder, and you refused to tell him where Mulder might be." "Because I didn't know, sir," she said. "Honestly. Whatever Agent Glassman might think, I was not keeping Agent Mulder hidden in a closet somewhere." Kennedy was silent for a moment. "Agent Scully, between you, me and the gatepost, I believe you. I know Glassman, and I don't doubt for a moment that he got drunk and came to your room looking for some fun or, failing that, some dirt on you and Agent Mulder, because I've heard the gossip about that, too. And I don't care. But I don't think I have to tell you that SSA Rolfe isn't going to agree with me." "I have no illusions on that score, sir," Scully said. "Go finish your reports," Kennedy said. "The SSA will call you when he's ready to speak to you." "Yes, sir," Scully said, rising. "I'll be at my desk, sir, if you need me." Kennedy waved a hand at her, and she left, stopping just outside the door to take a deep breath. You knew this was coming, Dana, she thought. Just try to get what you need on forensics before you're suspended. Quickly, she walked to her desk and signed on. There was a whole list of e- mails waiting for her, many of which were chain letters from people she scarcely knew. She half suspected them of wanting to impress their other victims by including an address with the fbi.gov domain extension. There it was, though; a message from the lab. She clicked it open. The results from the blood spot she'd found were ready. And they matched blood already in the database. No details. Just a casual note to "come by the lab" for more information. But she was supposed to wait here for Rolfe. She looked up; Kennedy was on the phone, his back to the door, so telling him was out, and leaving a message for Rolfe that she wasn't available was only going to make him angrier. The Dana Scully of one week ago, even a few days ago, would have sat down and resigned herself to waiting nervously for Rolfe's call. That Dana Scully didn't work here anymore. She shut down her terminal and walked out the door, headed down to the lab. ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 9:21 a.m. If that damn phone rings one more time this morning, Mulder thought, I'm gonna take out my gun and ... With an exasperated sigh, he grabbed the receiver. "Mulder," he said, gruffly. "Mulder, it's me," Scully said. "Am I calling at a bad time?" "No, sorry, I didn't mean to be abrupt," he said. "Everybody in north Alabama has called me at least once this morning. What's up, Scully?" "I have the RFLP analysis on that bloodstain from Daphne," she said. "Judging by your voice, I'd guess it wasn't Lee's blood?" "I wish it had been." There was a long pause. "The blood came back a perfect match for that of a former FBI agent, one Alex Krycek." "Krycek?" Mulder said, amazed. "Are they sure, Scully?" "They're sure. The blood matched on all six genetic markers and had the same ABO grouping as Krycek. Somehow, his blood is on the clothing of one of Lee's victims. I have no plausible scenario for this other than that, obviously, he was there." "I can't think of a better reason for his blood to be there," Mulder said. "Scully, any idea how long Nivek had been dead when he was found?" "It's hard to say. He was found in a part of the store that was heated, over- heated, really," she said. "Decomposition was rapid, under the circumstances." "Any skin scrapings or defensive wounds?" "I didn't find any skin under his nails, but that doesn't mean anything. He'd already been embalmed when I got to him. Defensive wounds were conspicuously absent. Did we ever establish who last saw him alive and when that was?" "No, but Mack may have. I'll call him as soon as we get off the phone." "Do it now, Mulder, I don't really have anything else yet." "Except to tell me whether you're really in trouble." She hesitated. "A little. Nothing I can't handle." "You sure?" "Yes." She sounded so confident, so definite, that Mulder had to smile. "All right. I need a copy of the DNA report; can you e-mail it to me?" "I'll do it right away. Any word on when Lee will be available for questioning?" "No. He's still in ICU, but he's stable, so they tell me," Mulder said. "That's better than I expected," Scully said. "I gotta go, Mulder; the SSA's going to be here any minute." "Break a leg." "Thanks." She hung up. Mulder tilted his chair back, crossing his long legs on top of the desk. Krycek, he thought. Which side of the street are you playing this time, Ratboy? If I ever get you in my sights, you'd better pray Dana Scully takes pity on you and saves your sorry ass again. Otherwise, this time, I promise you, you will not walk away. I will kill you, Krycek. Some day. ~~~~~ Office of the SSA VICAP 10:42 a.m. "Come in, Agent Scully," Rolfe said. "Shut the door." Scully crossed the room with as much grace as she could muster, and sat in the chair opposite Rolfe's desk. "You wanted to discuss Agent Glassman's report with me, sir?" she said. "I wanted to discuss with you why I shouldn't refer this matter to a grand jury and have you indicted for assault," Rolfe said, tersely. "I haven't heard any explanation yet that tells me I should not." "I find that difficult to understand, sir," Scully said. "I discussed this matter with SSA Kennedy ... " "He's not in charge here, Agent Scully," Rolfe said. "I am. And this, frankly, is the final straw. You're a four-bagger, Agent Scully. Give me your badge and go home." "No, sir," she said. "I will not surrender my badge unless I am ordered to do so by AD Skinner, to whom I intend to appeal this decision." "You tell Skinner whatever you like," Rolfe said. "He's not going to support you on this." "I understood that it was AD Skinner who sent me to Daphne to investigate the killings there," Scully said, her eyes boring holes in Rolfe's hide. "I don't know where you heard that, but it's crap," Rolfe said. "You went there because some Alabama politico wanted a team sent, and I sent you because the case didn't rate any better. And please don't bore me with tales of domestic terrorism. You haven't proven a goddamn thing about that." "That investigation is ongoing, sir," Scully said. "Not by you, it's not," Rolfe said, through clenched teeth. "Call Skinner if you like, but do it from home. He can take your badge just as easily as I can. I'll have your transfer papers delivered to your home. I personally don't care to see you again." "Sir," Scully said, rising, "that feeling is entirely mutual." ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 11:36 a.m. "Daphne Police Department," said the voice on the phone. "Officer Willie Mack, please. This is Fox Mulder, FBI." "Hold the line, please." A few minutes later, Mack came on the line. "Mack." "Mack, Fox Mulder. Listen, did you ever get any information about Nivek's last contact prior to death?" "I didn't question anybody on that, Agent Mulder. Baldwin County CID did. I'll tell you what I did find out, though." "What's that?" "You remember how you were askin' me about military service among any of the victims?" "Yeah," Mulder said, his senses on alert. "What did you find?" "That young Mr. Nivek was in Army JROTC in Mobile. His squad spent two weeks at an ROTC camp in Anniston. He got back less than a week before he died." "Anniston?" "Yes, sir," Mack said. "Fort McClellan. I was gonna call you with this, but you beat me to it." "Shit," Mulder said. "And Shinola," Mack said, agreeably. "I'll send you everything I got on Nivek. How you want me to send it?" "Fax it. It's a secure line. You still got my card?" "Got it right here. If you don't have it in an hour or so, holler back at me." "Thanks, Mack." Mulder hung up the phone. Nivek, Stouffer and Gentry were now all connected to the U.S. Army in some way. And that didn't even begin to explore the backgrounds of the other people in south Alabama who were taking drugs to prevent anthrax infection. And Fort McClellan -- that was perhaps the worst news of all. Fort McClellan, only a short drive from Birmingham, was in the process of closing down. One part of the post was still operational, though; the depot where the Army kept its huge and deadly store of chemical weapons, along with some of the hardware required to disperse them. And, until recently, the school where it trained people in how to use them. It was all beginning to fit entirely too well. ~~~~~ Office of AD Walter Skinner 2:24 p.m. "Sir, Agent Scully is here asking to see you," Kimberly said over the office intercom. "She doesn't have an appointment, but she said it was an urgent matter." "Send her in, Kimberly," Skinner said. He looked up as the door opened and Scully walked in, looking twice as beautiful as he remembered. Keep those thoughts under wraps, Skinner, he ordered himself. "Sit down, Agent Scully," Skinner said. "What was it you wanted to see me about?" "Sir, I'm sorry to bother you with this, but I had told SSA Rolfe that I was coming to see you, and he indicated his permission, although not his approval," she said, settling herself into the once-familiar side chair. "He's displeased with me, to say the least, because of an incident in Daphne between me and Agent Lon Glassman of VICAP." "And how does this affect me, Agent Scully?" Skinner said. "I am, sir, as SSA Rolfe put it, a four-bagger at this point," Scully said. "He ordered me to surrender my badge and go home to await reassignment." "And you chose to disregard that order?" "Not to disregard it, sir, no," Scully said. Stay calm, she told herself. This is just Skinner being Skinner. "I told SSA Rolfe that I would prefer not to surrender my badge to him. I will, of course, surrender it to you if you tell me to do so." "I am seldom likely to overrule a supervisor when it comes to discipline in his or her own ranks, Agent Scully," Skinner said, tilting back in his chair. "Unless you can show me some extraordinary circumstance which justifies your ignoring the chain of command, I am simply going to order you to return to Quantico and surrender your badge." Scully was silent for a moment, looking at the floor. How many times were we on the hot seat, right here, she thought? How many times did Mulder take a stand and not back down, and how many times was he proven correct? For just an instant, she let herself remember him, the feel of him next to her, his voice as he told her the horror story that was his childhood. He has so much courage, she thought. I hope I still have some of the courage that he lent me ... "Sir, permission to speak freely?" she said, looking up. Skinner looked at her keenly for a moment, then nodded. "Go ahead." "Sir, SSA Rolfe told me at the outset that I would be a short-timer at VICAP," Scully said. "He said that he resented my being assigned there. Nevertheless, I believe that I did my job to the best of my ability, although I was somewhat hampered by -- emotional difficulties." "I was aware that you were under some stress, Agent Scully," Skinner said, unemotionally. "I received some reports to that effect." "Yes, sir," she said. "I understand that to be the reason you sent me to Daphne -- because you were also sending Agent Mulder, and you thought he might ... be able to lift my depression somewhat?" Skinner straightened in the chair. "I don't know where you heard that, Agent Scully, but it's ludicrous. I do not interfere in the internal workings of VICAP, and I do not assign agents on the basis of their personal relationships." "No, sir, of course you don't," she said. "Nevertheless, Agent Mulder was there, and I was there, and we were both given to understand that you had personally ordered our participation." "Get to the point, Agent Scully," Skinner said, gruffly. "I have other appointments today." "Yes, sir," she said, still unruffled. "My point, sir, is that Agent Mulder and I, working together, were able to solve this case quickly, without additional loss of life, and that we did so despite a serious lack of cooperation from Agent Glassman, whose primary purpose in being there seemed to be to surprise me by booking a hotel room adjoining mine, although I had specifically told him I did not want even to be on the same floor as he." "Are you suggesting that Agent Glassman ... " "Was setting me up? Yes, sir, I am," Scully said. "Agent Mulder prevented it from going any further. Two nights later, Agent Glassman showed up at my hotel room, with alcohol on his breath, and suggested to me that I might be able to prevent problems with SSA Rolfe by being friendlier to Agent Glassman." "And you interpreted that as a demand for sexual favors?" "Yes, sir." Skinner eyed her closely. "That is a serious accusation, Agent Scully." "I am aware of that, sir." "What happened afterward?" "After repeated requests to Agent Glassman that he leave my room, I drew my weapon and ordered him to do so. SSA Rolfe has described this to me as a criminal assault, which, sir, I do not believe is a fair assessment." "Based on what you've told me, Agent Scully, no, it is not," Skinner said. "However, I cannot make a fair judgment about this after having heard only one side of the story." "I understand completely, sir," Scully said. "All I am asking is that I be allowed to keep my badge, to have my weapon returned, and to keep working on criminal analysis at VICAP until the matter is resolved. I believe that the report filed by Agent Glassman was intended as retribution for denying him sexual favors." "Is it your intention to file a formal charge of sexual harassment against Agent Glassman?" "Yes, sir, it is." "Do you have any supporting evidence beyond what you've just told me?" "There should be a record at the hotel indicating that Agent Glassman reversed the room request I had made, and there is a local officer who witnessed some -- interactions -- between me and Agent Glassman," she said. "Agent Mulder also witnessed some of what I have told you. However, sir, I must tell you that Agent Glassman will probably testify that Agent Mulder and I spent a night together in my room while we were there." "That would be none of my business were it not that it might tend to undermine your position with regard to Agent Glassman, Agent Scully," Skinner said, a little uncomfortably. "That depends on your point of view, sir," she said, calmly. "I have no desire to go into the details now, other than to say that Agent Mulder was there at my invitation, that we spent several hours talking about the very problems that had been brought to your attention, and that he was very helpful to me." "And that's all you're prepared to say?" "For now, sir," she said. "Except that I would like to continue monitoring the investigation into the potential threat from anthrax that was uncovered during the course of this investigation, and that Agent Mulder has also taken an interest in that aspect of the investigation. We -- continue to have similar professional interests, sir, so unless ordered otherwise, I intend to cooperate with Agent Mulder's investigation from my vantage point at VICAP." Skinner frowned, looking at his desk top. "All right, Agent Scully, I'll take the matter under advisement," he said, finally. "Until such time as formal charges are filed and investigated, you will continue working at VICAP under the direction of SSA Kennedy. I will inform SSA Kennedy that his orders regarding you are subject to my direct review while this matter is pending." "Thank you, sir." "In the meantime, you have my permission to coordinate any findings that come through VICAP on the potential anthrax threat with Agent Mulder, subject to his SAC's approval. That'll be all." "Yes, sir," Scully said, rising from the chair. She walked toward the door, then turned to look back at Skinner. "Sir?" she said. "Yes, Agent Scully?" he said. "I know ... you said you had nothing to do with assigning Agent Mulder and me to this case," she said, slowly. "But if you had, I would want to say thank you, and to tell you ..." She hesitated. "To tell me what, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked, looking up. "That love does heal, sir," she said. She walked out, closing the door behind her. ~~~~~ Dana Scully's apartment 6:45 p.m. "Hello?" <"Hi, it's me."> "Mulder. Thank God." <"Why, who did you think it would be?"> "I thought it would be you. I was just exceptionally grateful to be right." <"What happened today?"> "What didn't? I got a good lead on a bad guy, I got threatened with a four- bagger by my SSA, Skinner stepped in and gave me a temporary reprieve ... " <"You talked to Skinner about it?"> "Went straight to his office after talking to Rolfe, who was threatening to refer me to a grand jury. He still may, I suppose, although I think he'll have to clear it with Skinner first." <"Yeah, I would think so. And OPR, too. What did that son of a bitch say to you?"> "Stay calm, Mulder. It wasn't that bad." <"Did he at least advise you of your rights before he asked you about this?"> "No. I'm not in custody, Mulder. But he wants my badge. I told him I'd give it to Skinner, but not to him. So I went to see Skinner, and I told him I'm filing sexual harassment charges against Glassman." <"Good for you."> "Maybe not so good for you." <"Why?"> "Well, you might be a witness ... " <"That's not a problem."> "It is, if it means that Glassman will tell all he knows about us." <"He doesn't know anything, except that I didn't always come home at night."> "I think he knows more. But I don't really care if he knows we're lovers. I care whether your name gets dragged through the mud." <"Scully, my name has been mud in the Bureau for years. I quit caring about that a long time ago. But what about your name?"> "If anyone asks me about you, I'll tell them the truth." <"And the truth is ... ?"> "Out there." <"Very funny."> "Yes, I can tell you're laughing yourself sick. But really, I don't want you to worry. I'll survive." <"Will you?"> "Yes." A pause. <"I'm sorry, Scully."> "I'm not. Not about being with you. And not really about anything else, either. Skinner gave me permission to keep working with you on the anthrax." <"Ah. Well, I have permission from my SAC to work the murders, but not the anthrax."> "They're the same case." <"I know."> "I want to work with you." <"Even if Krycek is still out there loose, threatening your life?"> "Even so. Anyway, the X Files are still closed. Maybe that was all he wanted." <"Knowing him, I doubt it."> "Forget him for now. Did you come up with anything new on the anthrax?" <"Mack did. I called him this morning. Wilhelm Nivek was in high school ROTC and spent two weeks at Fort McClellan, in Anniston, right before he died."> "The chemical weapons dump?' <"The same."> "So he's connected to the Army, too." <"Not just with the Army; with chemical warfare."> "Which is a short step to biological warfare." <"Exactly, Scully. It's a tenuous connection, but a connection nevertheless. But, of course, I'm not supposed to be investigating that."> "So what do we do?" <"What we've always done."> "Whatever we damn well please?" <"Right." A chuckle. "I do love you, G-woman."> "I love you, too. And I love the thought that we'll be working together, even at a distance." <"Hey, Scully?"> "Hmm?" <"What will you say if anyone asks you about me?"> (softly) "I'll tell them absolutely, positively, unequivocally, that I am madly, passionately, head over heels in love with Fox Mulder. Is that all right with you?" <"Yeah. Better than all right."> "And what would you say, if you were asked, Agent Mulder?" <"Probably something extremely smart-assed that would get me in a world of trouble with you."> "You know, you probably would." <"And then I'd go home and think of what I would have said if I weren't such a jerk."> "You are not a jerk. And you've had time to think; so what would you say?" <"I would say ... that I'm very much in love with you and I have been for years."> "Oh. For years? Really?" <"Yeah. Why does that surprise you?"> "I don't know." A pause. "How long?" <"Have I been in love with you?"> "Yes." <"I don't know for sure. I didn't know I was until you disappeared."> "When I was abducted?" <"Yes."> "That far back?" <"Yes."> "Oh." <"Care to have the question turned back on yourself, Agent Scully?"> "But I don't know, either." <"Best estimate?"> "When I woke up from my coma knowing that you'd been by my side, willing me to come back to you." <"That would be about the same time, then."> "I think so." <"And what does that say about us, that we were in love for six years and never admitted it until last December?"> "That we were both very afraid of losing what we had if we became lovers and it didn't work out." <"Is it working out?"> "Oh, yes. Yes, it is. I just wish I knew when we were going to be together again." <"I don't know. I wish I did."> "What's the first thing you want to do?" <"What, when I see you again?"> "Mm-hmm." <"You have got to be kidding."> (laugh) "We were together for more than six years without making love, and now that's all you can think of to do with me?" <"No. It's just the best thing I can think of."> "Me, too." A pause. "Maybe I should plan something ... nice ... to wear." <"Oh, God."> "Any ideas?" <"Lots. But I don't know if you want to hear them."> "Maybe I do. Or maybe I'll just use my imagination. You know, I still have your shirt. In fact, I'm wearing it." <"You are?"> "Yes." <(pause) "Um ... Dana?"> "Yes?" <"What, uh ... what else are you wearing?"> (slowly) "Nothing." <"Oh, Jesus."> "Mulder, you _never_ say that." <"I'm saying it now."> "Do you like to think about this kind of thing, or should I not talk to you this way?" <"Talk to me. Please. I mean, I don't think of you as a 1-900 number, or anything like that ... "> "I know you don't. I'm not that immature, Mulder." <"But ... I mean, it's good to think about you. Anytime. Any way at all."> "But especially like I am now, half naked and missing you desperately?" (silence) "Mulder?" <"I'm here."> "I was wondering." <"But I may have to go soon."> "Ah. Well, think of me ... " <"God. Like I could think of anything else."> "That's nice to hear." <"Dana?"> "Hmm?" <"Will you ... uh, think about me, too?"> (pause) "Yes. I promise." <"Oh, Jesus."> "You're saying that a lot." <"I think I'm having a religious experience."> (laugh) "I think maybe it's time to get off the phone." <"Yeah. Maybe so."> "I love you, Mulder." <"I love you, too."> "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?" <"Okay. Sweet dreams, G-woman."> "You, too." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence." "The Goncourt Journals" -- Edmond and Jules de Goncourt Chapter 21 VICAP Marine Barracks, Quantico Wednesday, March 10 11:12 a.m. If someone in this office doesn't talk to me soon, Scully thought, I am going to scream. She was hunched over her terminal, working the endless routine analyses of violent crimes for which VICAP was created. She was getting a lot of work done, certainly, but only because she was almost totally ostracized by the rest of the squad. Scully had filed formal charges against Lon Glassman that morning, alleging sexual harassment. Word got around quickly; by midmorning, she was in near total isolation, a complete pariah. Even SSA Kennedy seemed to avoid talking to her. Rolfe wasn't talking, either, but that was a relief more than anything. Glassman wasn't talking to her, but he was still talking about her. And, of course, about Mulder. The silence was useful in terms of getting her work done, but she resented the hell out of the old-boy network's take on her complaint. That it was unsubstantiated seemed to be an article of faith, as was the idea that she was acting out of a desire for revenge on Glassman for some perceived slight. The end result was that no one in the office would say one word to her, the grapevine having solemnly assured them that she might retaliate against them with similar results. If they only knew how much I put up with before I filed that complaint, she thought. I don't really care anymore, not about Glassman; I could take him in a halfway fair fight. But I am going to keep my badge, she promised herself grimly. No one's getting that away from me. Yes, she was making use of the quiet time; she'd made a major discovery that morning. Unfortunately, it had proved so far to be a dead end. She reached for her phone to call the Birmingham Field Office, but just then an e-mail notice popped up on her computer screen, and she clicked on to it. ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: our favorite no-longer-UN SUB Scully -- They tell me Lee's been moved to a regular hospital room; he's still in federal custody. He's got a fucking lawyer and he's Mirandized but he still wants to talk, mirabile dictu, so I'm heading down to Mobile to talk to him. Should be there tonight and most of tomorrow. Anything further on the other drug user in Daphne? ------------------ She smiled. Only Mulder, she thought, could mix obscenity and classical Latin so smoothly in a single sentence. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Big news. Mark Long of Daphne is in the Navy. We need to talk about that in some more secure fashion later. Still seeking more. I've asked for Stouffer's 201 file, but so far no soap. Is it time for us to talk to some higher-ups at DOD? ------------------ In a few minutes, the reply came back. TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Holy shit. No, let me talk to Lee first. Then we'll see what's up. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: You're the boss, boss. Do you have backup? Lee is a dangerous character, as I'm sure I don't have to tell you. ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: And don't forget it. Scully, he's in the hospital. He's severely incapacitated. But I'm going to see if Mack can go with me. If not, I'll get someone from the Mobile Field Office. Don't worry, I'm not going to get myself shot. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Only on the job, however. Do we know yet why Stouffer hadn't been vaccinated against anthrax? ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: We'll see about that. No, but he was the company clerk. It would have been easy for him to fake his medical records if he was afraid of the vaccine. Some people are, you know. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: We certainly will. Which is ridiculous. There's absolutely no danger from the anthrax vaccine. Tell Mack I said hello, and remember, he likes chocolate doughnuts best. ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Let's finish this later. I remember. I remember everything about our case in Daphne. Take care of yourself, G-woman. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Please. I remember everything about it, too. Call me when you can. ------------------ ~~~~~ St. Catherine's Hospital 4:33 p.m. This guy is going to be a tough nut to crack, Mulder thought as he stared at the hospital bed where Lee lay, handcuffed, watched over by two federal marshals. Mulder had picked Mack up in Daphne that morning, deflecting the young officer's questions about Scully as deftly as he could, and failing miserably. Mack's good-old-boy grin just got wider with each casual reply. When they got down to business, though, Mack's grin disappeared. "The trail just dried up on us, Agent Mulder," Mack said. "We checked every drug store in Baldwin County and some in Mobile, and nobody else had any records of giving out those drugs Agent Scully told us about." "That doesn't surprise me," Mulder had told him, but he didn't elaborate. Mack, as good a cop as he was, would have a hard time comprehending the evidence-hiding abilities displayed by the people who -- Mulder strongly suspected -- were behind this whole operation. Now they were waiting, silently, for Lee's lawyer to show up for what Mulder was reasonably sure would be a short, unproductive interview. The lawyer had agreed to allow Mulder's questions about a third party, reasoning that the fact the questions were even being asked could only help his case. Mulder couldn't argue with that, which was why he had elected not to tell the district attorney about this particular trip, or to tell Scully that he hadn't told the DA, either. They'd find out about it sooner or later. He could get out of any trouble he was in with Scully easily enough, and with the DA, for that matter, since he had already assessed the situation and decided that Lee would almost certainly plead insanity, and would succeed. Anyway, Mulder always operated on the theory that forgiveness is easier to come by than permission. The door creaked open then, and a man in a dark blue suit entered. "Agent Mulder?" the man said, extending his hand. "Dennis Chambeau. I'm Mr. Lee's attorney." "Fox Mulder, FBI," Mulder said, shaking Chambeau's hand. "I ain't shakin' your hand," Lee growled from the bed. "I didn't ask you to," Mulder said, slightly amused. "Let's sit down, Mr. Chambeau." Mulder turned on a tape recorder, briefly identified everyone who was in the room. "Mr. Lee, have you been advised of your constitutional rights?" Mulder asked. "Yeah," Lee said, "over and over." "Mr. Chambeau, do you want me to go over the Miranda warning again?" Mulder said, turning to the lawyer. "No, Mr. Mulder, I'll stipulate for the record that my client was properly advised of his rights and that he's giving this statement on my advice," the lawyer said. Mulder grimaced, inwardly. He hated lawyer talk; like almost every law enforcement officer alive, he'd come out on the short side of it once too often to suit him. "Mr. Lee, I understand your lawyer has told you what we want to talk to you about today," Mulder said. "If you have any questions about that before we get started, please tell me and I'll try to answer them for you." "Fuck you," Lee said. Mulder shot a glance at Mack, who looked away quickly to hide his grin. "Mr. Lee, there's no need to be abusive," Chambeau told his client. "I'm used to it," Mulder said. "In fact, I'm beginning to think that's my name. Mr. Lee, I have reason to believe that you've been in contact with someone who suggested to you that two of the people who were killed were out to harm you in some way, that you were in danger from them. Do you know what I'm talking about?" "I don't know nothin' about anybody gettin' killed," Lee said. "I got nothin' to tell you about that, pig." "Maybe you can tell me whether you've ever seen this man before," Mulder said, taking a photograph from his coat pocket. He held it out where Lee could see it. Lee stared at the photo, but said nothing. "Do you know this man, Mr. Lee?" Mulder said. "Have you ever talked to him?" "I seen him once," Lee said. "Don't know him." "Where was that?" "In the store where I used to work," Lee said. "He come in, bought some beer or somethin'. Left out of there. That was it." "How is it that you remember him?" "He called me by my name." With an effort, Mulder kept his features calm. "What did he say to you, Mr. Lee?" "He said he wanted his change," Lee said, his lip curled. "Is that all he said?" "What the fuck he's sposed to say?" "I'm just asking you whether this man said anything to you other than that he wanted his change," Mulder said. "What else did he say to you?" "He said nothin', he just left out of there," Lee said. "Did he give you anything, suggest anything to you?" "He give me a battery," Lee said. "A battery," Mulder said. As calmly as he could, he went on. "What kind of battery, Mr. Lee?" "A radio battery," Lee said. "My radio wasn't workin', he give me a battery for it." "What else did he give you?" "Nuthin'. He give me nuthin'," Lee said. "I told you, we ain't said much." "When was this?" "I don' remember. Maybe a couple weeks 'fore I got shot." "Did you listen to your radio a lot?" Mulder asked. "Bout all the time, I reckon," Lee said. "And you used the battery this man had given you?" "Yeah, till it run out." "When was that?" "Bout the time you and that bitch shot me, mother-fucker," Lee said. "You had the radio with you then?" Mulder said, not rising to the bait. "In my room," Lee said. "You gone give it back?" "I'll ask the questions, Mr. Lee," Mulder said. "The radio was in your room when you were arrested?" "When I was shot, asshole. You fuckin' shot me." "Yes, I remember," Mulder said, dryly. "Have you have had any further contact with this man?" "I ain't never see him since then," Lee said. "Do you have any idea how some of his blood might have wound up on the clothing of Wilhelm Nivek, one of the people you're charged with murdering?" "I don't know nothin' about any of that." "You don't?" "I'm not going to allow Mr. Lee to answer any further questions related to the res gestae of these deaths, Mr. Mulder," Chambeau said. "All right, sir," Mulder said. "I have only a few more questions, then. Mr. Lee, did you tell this man your radio wasn't working?" "I don't remember." "Is it possible that he told you?" "Could be," Lee said, turning his head away. "Like I told you, pig, I don't remember." "Do you know the name of the man in this photograph?" "Nah," Lee said. "I don't know him from Adam's off ox. I told you, he just come by, bought somethin' and give me a battery." "Why would he give you a battery?" "Come again?" "Why would this man you say you've never seen before give you a battery?" Mulder said, his eyes boring into Lee. "You were working right there in a store that sold batteries, weren't you? Why would a perfect stranger come into the store, call you by name, notice that your radio wasn't working and offer you a battery? Does that make sense to you?" "I don't know," Lee said. "I don't give a shit, neither." "Thank you, Mr. Lee, I think that'll be all," Mulder said, not looking up from his note-taking. "Yeah, that'll be all, Mr. federal fucking got a big gun agent," Lee said as Mulder got to his feet. "You and that bitch best hope I don't get out of here." "Mr. Lee," Chambeau began, "I'm going to have to advise you not to say anything else." "No, that's all right, counselor," Mulder said. "We'll consider this off the record for now." He stood, letting his full 6-foot-2 height loom over the shorter man. "But let me tell you something, Mr. Lee," he said. "You are not getting out of here to go anywhere except to jail. What happens to you after that is up to the jury." He leaned forward, putting himself in Lee's face. "But whatever happens, you would be well advised to steer clear of me and my partner. Do I make myself clear?" "Fuck you," Lee said. "The all-purpose answer," Mulder said, turning his back on the prisoner. "I don't think I have anything else to say. Mr. Chambeau, thank you for your time. Officer Mack?" Mack nodded, and the two men left Lee's hospital room. As they reached the elevator, Mack spoke for the first time. "Agent Mulder, I'm curious," Mack said. "Who was the guy in that picture?" "An old enemy," Mulder said, slowly. "Former FBI agent, actually, but a real snake in the grass. Scully and I call him Ratboy." ~~~~~ Fox Mulder's apartment 10:45 p.m. <"Hello?"> "Hey, Scully, it's me." <"Hi. Where are you?"> "Back home. I got here just a few minutes ago." <"I was afraid you weren't going to call. It's almost midnight."> "Not here, it's not. But I literally just walked through the door. Forgive me?" <"Oh, come on." (pause) "How did it go with Lee?"> "You won't believe this. He ID'd a picture of Alex Krycek." <"He what?"> "You heard me. Said Ratboy had been in the store where Lee used to work, had made some kind of purchase and -- get this, Scully -- had given Lee a battery for his radio." <"When was this?"> "He said it was a couple of weeks before he was shot. He kept alluding to that." <"I shouldn't wonder. We almost killed him."> "I almost killed him. You shot him in the shoulder." <"I don't know if you're trying to keep me from feeling guilty or rubbing it in that I missed."> "Neither. Really. If you hadn't been there, he'd be dead." <"Thus complimenting both your marksmanship and my medical skills. Nicely done. What do you suppose it means that Krycek visited him and gave him a battery?"> "Maybe it wasn't a battery." <"A transmitter?"> "That would be my guess." <"Where's the radio now?"> "Good question. I don't know. Lee said it would be with his things, but it wasn't with any of the evidence that was impounded." <"Someone didn't think it was important?"> "Or it's been disappeared." <(pause) "That's entirely possible. So, a so-so trip, all in all."> "Not as good as the last one, wild woman." <"Behave."> "I don't want to. But it wasn't a total waste, certainly. We've at least tied Krycek to Lee." <"For all the good that will do us. Lee is crazy; no one's going to believe his testimony."> "I don't expect Alex Krycek will ever be prosecuted for any of the things he's done, Scully, so I don't really care whether Lee is prepared to take the stand or whether he'll even be ruled competent to do so. What I do care about is that now we've got a definite tie between Krycek, anthrax and murders." <"Mulder, our objective here has got to be collecting evidence that will result in Krycek's being prosecuted. That's what we do, remember?"> "When we can." <"Why do I think you're still planning to close this case with a 9mm round?"> "I have no idea." <"Mulder ... "> "Let's change the subject, shall we?" <"Let's not."> "Come on, Scully, let's don't fight." <"I don't want to fight. But I also don't want you going Dirty Harry on me."> "Oh, yeah, I can just hear myself now. 'Come on, Ratboy: Make my day.' " <(giggle) "Mulder, that may just be the worst Clint Eastwood impression I've ever heard."> "Oh, yeah? You think you can do better?" <"I'm not foolish enough to try."> "No, just foolish enough to get mixed up with me." <"Ah, well ... I was just following orders."> "At what point?" <"I beg your pardon?"> "When were you following orders?" <"When I was assigned to the X Files, of course. When else?"> "Well, I don't know, I thought maybe ... you know, a certain hotel room in a certain south Alabama city ... " <"Mulder, you're horrible."> "That's not what you said then." <"Stop that right now, or I'm going to hang up on you."> "Okay, okay. I'll be good, I promise." <"That will be a first."> "You wound me." <"At least I'm not using my gun this time."> "Oooh, Agent Scully, I love it when you talk tough." <"You are incorrigible, aren't you?"> "Yes." (pause) "I hated being in Daphne without you." <"I hate being anywhere without you."> "Yeah, but the last time I was in Daphne, we were together. Lots of memories around that little town." <"Not all of them good, though."> "No, not all of them. But you're in all of them." <"I wish I were with you for real, and not just in your memories."> "So do I. You don't know how much." <"Maybe I do." (pause) "Are you about ready to lift the travel restrictions, Mulder?"> "You mean do I think it's safe for us to see each other yet? No. Not really. But I miss you so much I could almost not care." <"Really?"> "I said almost, Scully." <(sigh) "It's killing me."> "At least Krycek's not killing you." <"To hell with Krycek. I miss you, Mulder. I miss seeing you, I miss talking to you, I miss working with you, I miss touching you and I miss making love with you most of all."> "I miss you, too, Scully. All the time." <"Maybe you'll be back in the District soon."> "I don't see that happening." <"Not even for a short time?"> "Not anytime soon."(silence)"Scully, are you crying?" <"Yes."> "Don't." <"I can't help it. I miss you. I want to be with you."> "Scully ... look, I just don't want anything bad to happen to you." <"Something bad is happening to me now. I'm missing you so much I could die."> "Don't. Don't even say that." <"Just try to figure out a way that I can see you, please? Even if it's just one day ... or one night."> "All right. I'll try. I promise. Don't cry anymore, okay?" <"When?"> "I don't know. Soon." (pause) "I want to be with you, too, you know." <"Yes. I know."> (pause) "I didn't mean to upset you." <"You didn't."> "Yeah, right." <"No, really. You didn't. I just started thinking about ... you and me, together, and how long it's going to be until I can be with you, and I started crying."> "I don't understand the distinction, but I'll take your word for it." <"That's the smartest thing you've said all night."> (laugh) "Okay, okay. I'm learning my place in this relationship." <"You know what I meant."> "I guess." (pause) "We'd better get some sleep." <"You do sound tired."> "I am. Are you sure you're okay?" <"I'm fine, Mulder." (pause) "No, really, I'm okay. I'd rather be crying on the phone with you than laughing with anyone else, anyway."> "I'll try to believe that. I'll call you at work tomorrow, okay?" <"Okay."> "Hey, Scully?" <"Yes?"> "Keep thinking about us, okay?" <(softly) "I will. I promise."> "I love you. I really do." <"I know. I love you, too."> "Sweet dreams, G-woman." <"You, too."> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest: Lives in one hour more than in years do some Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. Life's but a means unto an end; that end, Beginning, mean, and end to all things -- God. The dead have all the glory of the world. "We Live in Deeds" -- Philip James Bailey Chapter 22 Birmingham Field Office 4:42 p.m. The office was emptying out for the day, but Mulder was just getting started. His routine duties were done. Now he could focus his energies on tracking the connection between the United States military and one of the deadliest bacteria known to humankind. Krycek wasn't even on his radar tonight. That the little prick would emerge at some point, he already knew. Until then, there was little point in trying to track him; experience had taught him that. He could only prepare himself, make as certain as possible that when the sewers opened up and Krycek stepped out, Fox Mulder would be there to greet him. In the meantime, the most likely avenue seemed to be locating Mark Long and finding out why he was taking the anti-anthrax drugs. When the last of the support staff left, Mulder moved to Agent Michaels' desk and picked up the phone, punched in the 10-digit long distance number. It rang three times before it was answered. "Hello," came a slow, suspicious male voice. "Langly, turn off the tape," he said, leaning back in Michaels' chair. "Okay, it's off," Langly said, after a pause. "Turn it off, Langly," Mulder repeated, wearily. "I mean it." "Mulder, it's off, no fake," Langly said. "Scout's honor." "Turn off the goddamn tape now, Langly, or I'll get an NSA wiretap on you so fast it'll make you nostalgic for the days when all you had to worry about was the missing frames from the Zapruder film." This time, there was a distinct electronic click. "All right. It's off," Langly said, in a wounded tone. "Don't go bitchcakes on me, dude. I just want you to know that I'm not concerned about the mystical juju of the National Security Agency. I could debug anything they could put on this system faster than you could say Millennium Falcon." "You can't even get the IRS to quit auditing you," Mulder said. "Listen, I need a favor. I've got to get some information on a few military personnel and I can't afford to have anyone at the Pentagon know what I'm doing. Think you boys can oblige?" "Could be brutal," Langly said. "DOD uses extreme high-budget encryption, mongo hacker detection, very sensitive stuff." "If anyone can do it, Langly, you can," Mulder said. "And I need it yesterday. Can you e-mail it?" "Why don't you just put it on a billboard in the middle of Times Square?" came a different male voice. "I know 6-year-olds who've hacked your mail, Mulder." "Frohike, I'm not talking to you," Mulder said. "And if you've been hacking the FBI's system, you've got worse problems than facing my wrath. There's also Agent Scully's not-inconsiderable Irish temper to contend with if she finds out you're reading her messages to me." "Ah, so you're back on speaking terms with the delectable Dr. Scully," Frohike said. "How is my little sweetmeat?" "Still pining away for you but still too smart to let you get anywhere near her," Mulder said. "Listen, I don't want to stay on this line any longer than I have to. I need information on Mark Long of Daphne, Alabama, U.S. Navy and Robert Gentry of Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. Army Reserve. Gentry's with the 87th MAC; I don't know where Long is. Get me what I need, boys, and I'll see if Scully will send you an autographed picture, Frohike." "Scrumptious," Frohike said, cheerfully. Mulder hung up the phone, smiling and shaking his head. Some things just don't change, he thought. Thank goodness. ~~~~~ An hour later, Mulder had copies of the personnel files of Mark Anthony Long, United States Navy; Langly was promising more on Gentry within the hour. Long, the record said, was 28 years old, white male, and his home of record was 12546 Highway 98, Daphne, Alabama. He was also a SEAL. Impressive -- and scary, if he really was involved with the anthrax threat. He was on an extended sea tour with the USS Nassau. Destination: NA Classified. Oh, boy. Mulder felt his spider sense tingling like crazy. The Gunmen had thoughtfully provided the data about the Nassau, too. He scanned down, and thought his heart would stop. LHA 4 USS NASSAU CURRENT LOCATION: RESTRICTED DATA COMMANDING OFFICER: LCDR SCULLY, WILLIAM F.,JR., USN "I'll be a sorry son of a bitch," Mulder whispered, staring at the computer screen. He checked his watch. Almost 7 p.m. Washington time, but if he knew Scully, she'd still be at work. He picked up the phone and dialed her number from memory. It rang five times; he was just about to give up when she answered. "VICAP, Agent Scully." "Scully, it's me. I think I found something." "You're lucky you caught me, Mulder. I was just on my way out. What have you got?" "Do you know anything at all about where your brother is or what his mission might be?" There was a long silence. "Mulder, what does my brother have to do with this? And I presume you mean Bill, since you've never met Charlie." "I don't know, Scully. All I know is I ran a few checks on Mark Long of Daphne, US Navy, and I came up with a sailor who just happens to be aboard your brother's ship." Silence again. "Do you know for certain that this is our Mark Long?" she asked. "I think so," he said. "The address fits. And he's a SEAL, Scully, aboard USS Nassau, commanded by one William Scully, and which is on a long sea voyage which is completely classified." "Bill's on the Nassau?" She sounded shocked. "Is that not where he was before?" Mulder asked, surprised. "No. Nassau, if I'm not mistaken, is an amphibious assault ship. The kind of ship you'd use to land troops by helicopter, for example. It's part of the Second Fleet. Bill was on Arleigh Burke before, a destroyer, Third Fleet." "You sound worried," Mulder said, his tone softer. "A little," Scully admitted, then she let out a nervous laugh. "I guess I've been working with you too long. I'm seeing conspiracies here." "Such as?" "Such as wondering why my brother, of all the sailors in the Navy, would be moved from one fleet to another, from a destroyer to a frigate, about a week after his sister comes across a potential biological weapon that's linked to the U.S. military," she said. "Am I crazy, Mulder?" "If you are, I am, too," he said. "Because not only does your brother have command of that ship, but one of the people we're tracking was apparently aboard when it sailed." "Jesus, Mulder," Scully said. She really sounded worried now. "Is there anything else that connects Long to Bill?" "Nothing, so far. But you haven't answered my question." "Well, the answer is no, Mulder, I don't know. And I don't think Bill would tell me even if I knew how to contact him." "I don't want you to ask him," Mulder said. "You'd both be breaking the law if he told you." "Good, because I think he might report me if I asked." "His own sister?" "He's Navy all the way," she said, shortly. "But how would Mark Long have gotten drugs from a pharmacy in his hometown when he's been at sea since December?" "Maybe someone bought them for him." "That's a little farfetched, Mulder. You're violating Occam's Razor, multiplying logical entities without sufficient cause." "It's what I do," he said, and could almost hear her smile through the receiver. "Yes, you do," she said. "And I would object more strenuously if you weren't right so often. Look, I'll see what I can find out." "Thanks. Listen, I gotta go. I need to try to track down a picture of this guy and whatever else I can find." "I hope you have better luck getting military records than I've had." "Isn't there somebody at VICAP who's got connections with DOD?" Scully laughed, but it was a short, bitter laugh. "I'm sure there is," she said. "But no one who's interested in helping me. Word has gotten around." "Your complaint against Glassman?" "My complaint against Glassman." "What, they think you made it up?" "I don't know what they think, Mulder," she said. "I just know I'm nobody's favorite agent around here. Not that I ever was." "Well, maybe it's time to leave." "Maybe. But there doesn't seem to be much of anywhere to go. Look, let's don't talk about this in the office. The walls have ears." "Yeah, I know. I'll call you tonight." "Okay." He put the receiver back on the hook. Scully was right. It had to be a coincidence. No. It would be too fantastic a coincidence even for him. Nivek and Stouffer, Lee and Krycek, now Bill Scully and Mark Long. He and Scully are sent to investigate a bioweapon, attacked, separated, and one week later Bill Scully ships out; among the crew is a man who appears to be connected to the same bioweapon. To make that even remotely plausible it would have to be a huge, well-planned conspiracy, laid out and put in motion before he and Scully even set foot on Alabama soil. The idea of that was, of course, absolutely preposterous. Yet every fiber of his being told him that he'd just found the key to unlock this whole bizarre case. He hadn't had this sense of certainty in a long time, but he remembered it well from his days with the X Files: It was the way he felt when, against all the odds, against all logic and common sense, he was right. ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 9:32 p.m. "Hey, Mulder, you Oxford-educated moron, what're you doing sleeping at your desk?" Prescott yelled, startling Mulder from sleep. Great, Mulder thought, as he slowly got up from his desk. Just what I needed -- the SAC checking on my late-night investigations. "Sorry, sir," he said, reaching for his coat. "I was just finishing up a few things. I guess I was more tired than I thought." "Sit down, Mulder," Prescott said, perching on the edge of Mulder's desk. "Let's don't stand on ceremony. I think you and I have a few things to discuss." Suppressing a groan, Mulder sat back in his chair, and looked up at Prescott expectantly. "Mulder, you and I haven't had much chance to talk about your caseload lately," Prescott said. "But I'm under the distinct impression you may have disregarded my instructions to you." "I don't know what you mean, sir," Mulder said smoothly. It was the same tone he'd always used to mollify Skinner; it usually served him well. Not this time. "Mulder, Mrs. Prescott didn't raise any stupid sons," Prescott said, comfortably. "Why don't you just drop the bullshit and tell me what you know about anthrax?" For just a moment, Mulder contemplated another evasive maneuver, but one look at the SAC gave him second thoughts -- and third, and fourth, and ... "I don't know much more than I did," Mulder said, rubbing his forehead wearily. "I wish I could say I did." He looked up at Prescott. "You told me to let Mobile handle the anthrax, sir, but I can't ignore the fact that two of Lee's victims are connected to the first human anthrax case this country's seen in years." "I never really thought you would, Mulder," Prescott said with a shrug. "Just wanted it on the record." Mulder eyed the older man shrewdly. "You knew all along that I was going to work on it," he said, slowly. "You never meant for me not to." "Yeah, I knew," Prescott said, and for a moment Mulder almost thought the SAC was going to wink at him, but he didn't. "What I knew and you didn't, Mulder, was that there's someone in D.C. who's been asking questions about your activities. I don't know who," he said, as Mulder's eyes flew wide open and he seemed about to interrupt. "All I know is that I got a letter from the boys at Hoover asking me to detail your caseload. It came down from Kersh's office, and I'm guessing he's not in the running for president of the Mulder Fan Club." "To say the least," Mulder said, with a humorless smile. "What did you tell them, sir?" "That you were doing background checks and finishing up with the Lee case," Prescott said. "Which is true only so far as it goes, isn't it, Mulder?" Mulder sighed, and turned away, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not sure how much you want me to tell you, sir," he said, slowly. "Bullshit, Mulder," Prescott said, amiably. He folded his arms across his chest. "You're not sure how much you want to tell me. And I can appreciate that. It's like you said the first time you walked in here -- you don't trust nobody. Course, that was bullshit, too." "No, sir, it's not," Mulder said, firmly, looking the SAC in the eye again. "On a gut level, I feel inclined to trust you, but experience tells me to play my cards close to the vest." "Unless, of course, the player on the other side is a certain red-headed special agent," Prescott said. He waited, giving Mulder time to answer, but Mulder said nothing, so Prescott continued. "That's the truth, isn't it, Mulder -- this lone wolf thing you do, trust nobody, tell nobody what's up your sleeve -- that doesn't apply to your partner." Mulder said nothing. "Mulder," Prescott said, shaking his head. "I don't know yet what it was that possessed you to come here, but I do know one thing: Some partnerships aren't meant to be broken. From what I hear, Scully's a damn good agent, and she's got the kind of expertise you need on a case like this one. Besides," he added, "you do trust her, and you need someone you can trust. E-mail's got its limitations." Mulder looked at him then, his expression unreadable. "Such as someone might be reading it?" "Such as someone might be trying to," Prescott said, and Mulder noticed for the first time that all the good-old-boy jive had disappeared from his supervisor's speech. "Such as someone tried pretty hard to read what you got tonight, possibly relating to a few matters they don't want you to know about." Mulder shrugged. It didn't especially surprise him; but it was, unquestionably, bad news. "How do you know about that, sir?" he asked, keeping his voice level. "Because I knew someone was going to try, Mulder, and I've monitored your e- mail," Prescott said. "I haven't read it; don't fly off the handle. I put a trace on your account to see if anyone tried to access it. About two hours ago, someone did." "Do you know who?" Mulder asked, his eyes narrowing just slightly. Prescott shook his head. "No, but I will find out, if you like," he said. "Meantime, Mulder, let's blow this popstand and go get a drink. Your e-mail's shut down right now until I can trace your hacker; you can't get any more work done here tonight." "I appreciate the offer sir, but I really don't drink much," Mulder said. "Why not? Against your religion?" "No, sir, not at all," Mulder said. "It's just a personal quirk." "Well, no quirks allowed in the Tragic Pity, Mulder," Prescott said, rising and putting on his coat. "Come on, one drink with the boss won't kill you and it won't make you a suck-up, either. Get your coat, Oxford boy; we're going." Reluctantly, Mulder got to his feet. "I'll be right there, sir," he said. ~~~~~ Dana Scully's apartment Friday, March 11 1:17 a.m. "Hello?" <"Hey, Scully, it's me."> "I'd just about given up on you." <"Sorry. Stuff's happening, Scully."> "Sounds like Scotch is happening, Mulder." <"Gin, actually. It's not my fault."> "Gin is not your fault?" <"No, I mean it's not my fault that I've been drinking it."> "I can't wait to hear this one." <"Yes, you can, because I'm not going to tell you yet."> "Mulder, did you call me intending to piss me off, or is it something you decided to do on the spur of the moment?" <"I'm not trying to piss you off. I'm sorry I was late calling you, but I went out for a drink with my SAC, and he didn't seem to want to go home."> "No Mrs. Prescott waiting up for him?" <"The subject didn't come up."> "What did come up?" <"Mostly stuff I can't tell you on the phone."> "Mulder, go to bed. You're drunk." <"Just a little."> "More than a little." <"I'm sorry."> "You don't have to apologize, Mulder. You're over 21." <"Apparently I do. You sound pretty annoyed."> "Well ... I shouldn't be." (pause) "I'm sorry. You're right, I'm angry, but it has nothing to do with whether you went out for a drink or two ... or four." <"Three."> "Whatever." <"What does it have to do with?"> (long pause) <"Scully?"> "It's nothing, it's just ... Mulder, I had a really rotten day and ... and now I'm worried about Bill, and I was waiting here for you to call me and you didn't. I thought maybe you were working, but you weren't because I called and ..." <"Whoa, whoa. Let's take that one problem at a time. Your rotten day was because no one's speaking to you, or was there some other reason?"> "No ... no other reason, just ... I'm sick of this, Mulder. I'm sick of being treated like a vindictive bitch who filed a complaint because someone complimented her hair or called her honey or something equally trivial." <"I don't blame you. But you know that's not what happened."> "No one believes me." <"I believe you."> (softly) "I know you do. But you were there, Mulder, you saw it happen." <"Not all of it."> "No. You're right, you didn't see all of it." (sigh) "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be angry at you. You're the only one who's stood by me through all of this." <"I wish I had."> "No. Don't start. No reopening old wounds, Mulder." <"Yes, ma'am."> "Stop it." <"Yes, Agent Scully."> "Mulder ..." <"Sorry. Listen, about Bill ... that's the part I can't talk about. But there are things happening."> "I can't imagine what could be happening that would be worse than all these veiled suggestions, Mulder." <"I didn't say it was worse. I just said it's not safe to talk about it. Scully, Prescott said someone's been hacking my e-mail."> "Oh, my God." <"No, I don't think it's that bad. It's entirely possible that what registered as an unauthorized entry was actually the Lone Gunmen trying to enhance the FBI's encryption before sending me the information about Long."> "There's an even better chance it was someone else." <"Maybe. I'll know better by this time tomorrow. What's important is that Prescott told me about it almost as soon as he found out."> "Are you saying you trust him?" <(laugh) "No, although to be honest I almost feel as if I could. But he doesn't expect me to. He knows who I trust."> "How does he know that?" <"Because he's a damn good agent."> "Have you been talking about me to someone I don't even know?" <"No. I told you, he figured it out."> "What did he say?" <"He said some partnerships aren't meant to be broken."> (pause) "I think I like him." <(laugh) "Yeah, I think you would, if you ever met him."> "Mulder, I'm sorry I was so angry." <"You have a right to get angry, Scully. It's not a character flaw."> "It is if you're angry at someone who doesn't deserve it." <"I deserved it. I kept you waiting."> "Oh, my God." <"What? What's wrong?"> "I may have to alert the media. Fox Mulder just apologized for ditching me." <"I didn't apologize. I just said you were right to be angry."> "It's the same thing." <"No, it isn't."> "You're splitting hairs, Mulder. You probably think Clinton told the truth when he said he didn't have sex with Monica." <"Oh, no. You're not getting me into that. There's not a man on earth who could win that argument."> "About whether fellatio constitutes sex?" <"Yes."> "Do you think it does?" <"Scully, I told you, I'm not getting into this with you."> "Into what?" <"This ... discussion."> "Oh. I thought you meant something else." <(pause) "What?"> "You know ... blow jobs." <"Oh, Jesus."> (laugh) "There you go again." <"No, that was Reagan. Clinton said ..."> "Don't change the subject." <"I'm acting in self-defense, Scully."> "Why? Don't you like blow jobs, Mulder?" (silence) "Mulder?" (silence) "Mulder, say something." <"Yes."> "Yes?" <"Yes."> "Oh." <"Can we change the subject now, please?"> "Can I just say one more thing before we do?" <(pause) "Okay."> (slowly) "When I ... think about you, you know ... that's what I think about doing." <(groan)> "I do." <"That ... that turns you on?"> "Oh, yes. Yes, it does." <"Oh, Jesus."> "I've got you all upset now, don't I." <"That's not exactly the word I would use."> "Whatever. I want to be with you. I want to do that to you." <"Oh, sweet baby Jesus ..."> "I thought that might get your attention." <"Tell me something -- did I accidentally dial Fifi the Fibbie at 1-900- GWOMAN?"> "You need one more digit for that number, Mulder." <"Sorry. You're making it ... difficult to think."> "You almost said I was making it hard, didn't you?" <"Trust me, you already did that."> "Do you need to go?" <(sigh) "I should. I should let you get some sleep."> "Remember to think about me ..." <"I will, but I don't think it'll be for long."> (laugh) "I can't wait to be with you again." <"I can't, either. I can't wait to hear what else you've been wanting to do."> "Everything." <"Okay, I really, really gotta go now ..."> "You can't go yet. You didn't say it." <"What didn't I say?"> "What you say every night, Mulder. You know ..." <"Oh. I love you."> "I love you, too, but that's not it." <"I know. I'm just being difficult. Sweet dreams, G-woman."> "You, too." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AS I lay with my head in your lap, Camerado, The confession I made I resume -- what I said to you in the open air I resume: I know I am restless, and make others so; I know my words are weapons, full of danger, full of death; (Indeed I am myself the real soldier; It is not he, there, with his bayonet, and not the red-striped artilleryman;) For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them; I am more resolute because all have denied me, than I could ever have been had all accepted me; I heed not, and have never heeded, either experience, cautions, majorities, nor ridicule; And the threat of what is call'd hell is little or nothing to me; And the lure of what is call'd heaven is little or nothing to me; ... Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still urge you, without the least idea what is our destination, Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell'd and defeated. "As I Lay With My Head In Your Lap, Camerado" -- Walt Whitman Chapter 23 VICAP Friday, March 12 9:32 a.m. Scully pushed away from her desk, pulled off her glasses and pressed her fingers against her eyes. The computer screen seemed to glare even more annoyingly than usual today, and her head ached; despite the vast improvement Mulder had wrought in her emotional state, thinking was still not the effortless task it had once been for her. She found herself having to push harder to accomplish less than in her best days. Still, the improvement was real, and, she thought, ongoing. Each day, she felt a bit more of her old confidence returning. She reached eagerly for each new sign of her returning mental health the way she had once reached for her physical health after the cancer stopped growing. Sighing, she leaned back in her chair, shifting her shoulders around to ease the tense muscles in her neck. She closed her eyes, letting the darkness soothe her, and for just a moment, let her thoughts drift back to the conversation she'd had with Mulder the night before. How had she ever become so bold with him? Come to think of it, how had he stopped being bold with her? Scully sat up, propping her elbows on the desk, resting her chin against her cupped hands. That really was strange, she thought. Mulder the flirt, Mulder the consummate porn consumer, stammering and bashful at her first feeble attempts at phone sex? Perhaps the world really wasn't governed by immutable laws ... She heard a burst of laughter from the other side of the room, and looked to see Glassman and two of his friends looking her way, nudging and winking at each other. It would be a real pleasure to kick you right in those nuts you overvalue so much, Glassman, she thought, feeling a pleasant feline thrill at the mental image she'd conjured up ... I'm not as easily controlled as you thought ... not anymore. She sat straight up, stunned. That was the answer. Control. Mulder had given her control of the one aspect of his own life he'd always kept carefully, almost entirely, private and under control: his sexuality. The videos, the magazines, even the flirtatiousness, all added up to one thing. He, and he alone, controlled how and when he felt anything, whether he responded or to what. It made her think of her high school days, when girls giggled about how so-and- so had "given herself" to some boy. That was the polite girls' phrase; there were others. Scully had always found the polite phrase annoyingly Victorian. People didn't give themselves to anyone. People weren't property. But that was exactly what Mulder had done; he had given himself to her, in an almost literal fashion. Even with hundreds of miles between them, he was waiting for her, letting her set the pace, letting it be her words, her desire that aroused him. He had put her in control. No wonder he'd responded with that odd, endearing mixture of arousal and bashfulness. This was as new to him as it was to her. She'd had his heart for a long time; now, his body was hers as well. And with it, he'd given her back some sense of control over her own life. For just a moment, she thought about picking up the phone and calling him at the field office to tell him ... something. I love you, or I know what you've given up for me. They both meant the same thing. He'd given up practically everything that ever meant anything to him. The X Files, the search for Samantha, whatever was left of the promising career he'd once had in the Bureau -- even, she strongly suspected, those damn videos. No. There was no way to tell him that while Glassman was staring and sniggering at her. That would have to wait until tonight, when they could talk privately. Back to work, Dana, she told herself sternly. You will not indulge in woolgathering ... ooh, that was just a little too apt. Woolsorter's disease was what she was supposed to be investigating. I'm still too forgetful, she thought. I must learn to overcome this tendency to drift mentally. Work. Get back to work. Deal with love and lust on your own time. She straightened in her chair, breathing deeply to recenter her thoughts. When she thought she had herself under control, she reached for her phone and called the investigator from CDC who'd come on the case in Daphne. "I'm glad you called, Dr. Scully," the man said. "I was just about to call you. We have a bit of a situation regarding your case." "Not more anthrax in Alabama, I hope," she said. Later, she thought she'd almost known what the man was going to say -- if it were possible for the skeptical Dr. Scully to indulge in thoughts of premonition and precognition. "No," the investigator said. "Not in Alabama, anyway. I wish it were as simple as that. I mean, it's anthrax, all right, but it appears to be a new strain -- and it's resistant to every antibiotic we've tried." ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 9:52 a.m. God, would this crap never be done? Mulder was plugging away at his scutwork again, with little interest and no patience, writing up his findings from a background check into a Birmingham attorney who was being considered for a federal judgeship. He tried consoling himself with the thought that this was at least a little more interesting than the National Guard; anyone who wanted to be a federal judge had enemies, and it was presenting him with a bit of a challenge to figure out whose assessment was accurate and whose might be politically motivated. Not that anyone cared for his opinion, he supposed. But it was important to him that he have it all clear in his mind before he began to write, important to double check and verify accusations that might turn out to be nothing more than someone grinding a political ax. He'd learned a thing or two about political motivations in the past few years. An e-mail notice popped up on his screen. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Found something. Sorry to e-mail, given the bad news of yesterday, but this is strictly on the FBI Intranet and ought to be secure from hacking. I got a report from CDC. They have two reports from Saudi Arabia of human anthrax. And it gets worse: The people who got it were health-care workers; they'd been vaccinated, and they died in spite of being treated with every antibiotic available. This won't stay secret for long, Mulder; CDC will have to publish it in the next MMWR. Do you think this connects to what we've been working on? ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: you sure did Holy shit. It sure sounds like it. Is there any precedent for anthrax infecting someone who's been vaccinated? And what's an MMWR? ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: vaccine Mortality and Morbidity Weekly Report. And the answer is yes. There's always the chance that the vaccination series wasn't completed, or that the vaccine itself wasn't up to par, or simply that too much time had passed since it was administered. For some people, it just doesn't take. It's about 90 percent effective at best. ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: vaccine Any reason to think that's the situation here, that these two cases were exceptions? ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: vaccine I don't know enough about it to say yet. I've asked CDC to send me the case summaries. When I get them, I'll know more. The vaccine is bad enough, but if this is an antibiotic-resistant strain, then we've got a much bigger problem than we knew. ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: trouble with a capital T I couldn't agree with you more. This decides it for me; I'm going to check a couple of things out this weekend, test this theory out. I think you know where I'm going. I may be out of pocket for a day or two, so don't panic if you can't reach me. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: caution Mulder, be careful. If this is a resistant strain, then you're not immune to it, either. If you're exposed to it, you could contract the disease even though you've had the vaccine. And there doesn't appear to be any effective treatment for this one, even given that anthrax is notoriously hard to treat. Anthrax can reach lethal concentrations before you even know you're sick. Prevention has always been the main strategy. ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: don't worry I'll be as careful as I can be. But this is one of those times. You know what I'm talking about. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Safety in numbers Mulder, you need backup. Can't you wait and let me fly down there later today? ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: No way And let AK and his friends find you? I don't think so, Scully. It's too dangerous for you. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: You're a bullheaded bull Thanks for deciding my career path for me. Mulder, I'm serious. You can't do this alone. Isn't there anyone in Birmingham you trust? ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: Need you ask? No. There's only one person I trust, and I'm not going to risk losing her. ------------------ TO: fwmulder@fbi.gov FROM: dkscully@fbi.gov SUBJECT: promise me you'll come back to me ------------------ That was all. No message. He hit the reply button. ------------------ TO: dkscully@fbi.gov FROM: fwmulder@fbi.gov SUBJECT: I promise, G-woman. ~~~~~ Fort McClellan Anniston, Alabama Saturday, March 13 12:19 a.m. I've trespassed on a lot of military installations, Mulder thought, but this one was the easiest yet. He didn't find the thought reassuring. Uncle Sam still had a huge stockpile of chemical weapons stored here, awaiting a final decision about how they would be disposed of. Even though the huge Army base was being closed down, there should have been better security at the perimeter. But the base was dying by inches, and security was lax. Mulder hadn't had to hunt long for a breach in the outer perimeter of fences that he could slip through. He'd been walking for several hours now, keeping out of sight as he made his way toward the chemical weapons stockpile. The place really was huge. Formerly home to the now-defunct Women's Army Corps, then to military police training, it was now falling victim to the base closing commission's task force. The last flags had already been lowered, the last cadre personnel moved on to other duty stations. It was quiet, deserted, and dark. Not nearly enough lighting, he thought, and smiled to himself as he pushed the overgrown brush out of his way. If the base was properly guarded, you'd have been caught already, Mulder, he thought. No Scully here now to get you freed, either. Count your blessings. And quit worrying about who's got access to those weapons? No. He didn't think so. He was nearly there. Ahead of him was an area that, he saw with mixed emotions, seemed to be more secure. There were floodlights all over, and a 10- foot fence topped with razor wire. Electrified, too, by the looks of it. Slowly, as silently as he could, he made his way around the perimeter, keeping low and out of sight, searching for the main gate into the secured area. After about 15 minutes, he found it, a locked gate guarded by sentries, that barred access to the area from a two-lane asphalt road with no traffic markings that appeared to be the only route. He crouched lower, backing away from the fence until he found a sheltered spot, slightly elevated above the road, that would still give him a good view of the gate. Just wait for your opportunity, Mulder, he told himself. Be patient. You can wait here all night if you have to; just be out of here by dawn. He settled down to wait. An hour, two, went by, and still nothing. Not a sound, no one moving along the road. It was a closed installation, after all, he thought. So much for hitching a ride with incoming traffic. He would have to find another way in. He got up, slowly, stretching his cramped muscles, and began inching his way along the fence again, a little closer now, looking for the weak spot that experience told him would always be there somewhere. The light from high-beam headlights suddenly flashed in his direction, and he hit the dirt, fast. Peering up, he saw an olive-drab, 2 1/2-ton truck -- what the Army called a deuce-and-a-half -- lumbering out of the fenced area. If you can't find out what's coming in, he thought, find out what's leaving -- and where it's going. Quickly, he slid down the slope toward the road just as the truck stopped at the sentry gate. Keeping the truck between himself and the sentries, he edged around to the back and peered under the canvas flap. No one there. He climbed inside, pulling the flap closed behind him, just as the truck took off. ~~~~~~~ Dana Scully's apartment 4:23 a.m. Scully sat bleary-eyed at her kitchen table, drinking coffee mechanically, barely noticing how cold and bitter the brew had become as she sat there. She had it down to a science now: Sip the coffee, swallow the coffee, look at the clock to see if it's moved, look at the phone to see if it'll ring. Repeat ad infinitum. Easy. She'd done it plenty of times before after being on the receiving end of the patented Mulder Ditch. Only never with such fear before, not even when he was infiltrating a terrorist organization and she was forbidden to help him. She knew where he was -- there was only one place he would have cared to go, and that was to the place they both suspected was the staging area for a terrorist attack. Fort McClellan. Had to be. And she strongly suspected he would find what he was looking for. He needed backup, but there was no one in Birmingham he would trust, and she was too far away to get to him before he left. And if she knew him, he wasn't anywhere she could find him now. The tension was becoming almost unbearable. She had slept poorly, waking up twice in the grip of her old nightmares, shrieking Mulder's name. The nightmares were less vivid than before, but now they had a new element: Mulder lying in a hospital bed, coughing his lungs out with pneumonic anthrax. At 3:30 in the morning, she'd given up, got out of bed and began her vigil. This is the first time I've had nightmares since Mulder and I became lovers, she thought, sipping at her icy drink. She knew it was illogical, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the nightmares had come back for one reason: because Mulder hadn't wished her sweet dreams before she went to sleep. I am becoming so impressionable in mid-life, she thought, her lips twisting in disgust. That cannot possibly have anything to do with it. I'm just stressed out and worried about him. She sipped again, swallowed, and looked at the clock. It hadn't moved at all since the last check. ~~~~~~ Somewhere on the highway 5:45 a.m. Two hours or more of bumping along in the dark, and Mulder had lost all sense of where he was. On an interstate highway, he knew that much; but with no reference points, after having twisted and turned all around Fort McClellan on the way out, he didn't have a clue where they were heading. Or, for that matter, what was in the crates that packed the truck's loadbed nearly to the top. He didn't want to risk turning on his penlight for fear the driver might see him; he contented himself with glimpses each time the truck passed a lighted area -- passed, but never stopped. I could very well be riding in a truck full of rubber dog shit bound for the PX, he thought, and in his tired, disoriented state the thought struck him as so funny that he had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. This is why you're supposed to have back-up, he thought. That way, you don't let your thoughts carry you into dangerous territory. You don't get crazy, the way you do when you're alone. I should have waited for Scully. No. Not an option. He crouched lower in the slim space left to him, squinting around the edges of the tarp, hoping almost against hope for some hint of where he was going. ~~~~~~ Scully's apartment 9:44 a.m. Scully was running out of things to clean. The refrigerator was clean, inside and out, the floors swept, mopped or vacuumed, the baseboards were clean, the switchplates were clean, even the telephone was clean -- carefully, so as not to leave it off the hook for too long. Mulder might call, after all. That he might call her cell phone instead didn't matter in the least. The phone had to be on the hook; it was just that, well, she was running out of things to clean. She was cleaning the Venetian blinds when the phone finally rang. She lurched for it, knocking over the bucket of rinse water. She didn't even notice. "Mulder?" she said, breathlessly. There was a brief silence. "Shit, I guess that means he ain't there," came a slow Southern voice. "I -- I'm sorry, who is this?" Scully said, suddenly even more apprehensive than before. "Daniel Prescott," the man said. "I'm guessing this is Agent Scully?" "Mulder's SAC," Scully said, her body sagging with disappointment. She flopped down on her couch. "I'm sorry, sir. You were looking for Agent Mulder?" "He seems to have wandered off, Agent Scully," Prescott said. "I was kind of hoping he'd gone to visit you for a while." "No, sir," Scully said. "He ... said he was going to take care of a few things this weekend." "Right, and you've probably got a few acres next to the Lincoln Memorial you'd like to sell me," Prescott said. "Agent Scully, I've got a pretty good idea what Mulder's up to, so let's not play games, all right? He's into something dangerous and he's in it all by himself. I want to know where he is." Scully said nothing. Her stomach was churning. Mulder said he didn't trust Prescott, but not because he didn't want to. But could she? "Agent Scully?" Prescott said. "Would you please try to answer me when I speak to you?" "I'm sorry, sir," Scully said. "I -- honestly, sir, I don't know what to say." "Tell me where Mulder is, if you know," Prescott said. "And if you don't know, give me your best guess. I am in no mood for bullshit, either, Agent Scully, if you'll pardon my language." Scully swallowed hard. Her gut was telling her that no matter what kind of mood Prescott was in, Mulder would have told him where he was going if he'd wanted Prescott to know. On the other hand, just because Mulder didn't want Prescott to know didn't necessarily mean it was a good idea to keep the SAC in the dark. She had to decide fast -- Prescott wasn't going to be kept waiting. She crossed her fingers, praying she was making the right move. "Sir," Scully said, "I do think I know where he went. And I would tell you, but I'm not sure this line is secure. In fact, there's a good chance it's not. It wouldn't be the first time." "All right, Agent Scully," Prescott said, affably. "I'll buy that. What I won't buy is that that's a good enough reason for you not to tell me where one of my agents is." "Sir, I don't quite know what to do ..." Scully said, her voice trailing off helplessly. "If I could tell you, I would. I'm quite worried about Agent Mulder myself." "I know you are," Prescott said, in a more serious voice. "Which is why I want you to get your butt up and on the next flight to Atlanta. I'll meet you at the airport." "Atlanta, sir?" Scully said, puzzled. "Why Atlanta?" "Like you said, Agent Scully, this may not be a secure line," Prescott said. "Get yourself on down to Hotlanta and I'll tell you when you get there." "That's a big airport, sir, and I have no idea what flight I'll be on," Scully said. "How will I know who you are?" "There's a Ben and Jerry's kiosk in one of them Delta concourses," Prescott said. "Meet you there. If you get there first, I like Chunky Monkey. Two scoops. Cup, not a cone. Think you can remember that?" "Chunky Monkey," Scully repeated, mechanically, then she burst into laughter as she realized her leg was being pulled. She was beginning to see why Mulder liked working for this man. "Sir, I honestly can't wait to meet you," she said, smiling for the first time that day. "Oh, trust me, that's mutual, Agent Scully," Prescott said. "Get going, now. We gotta go find that Oxford boy of yours." ~~~~~ Hartsfield International Airport Atlanta, Georgia Saturday, March 13 2:15 p.m. Scully scanned the people milling around the Delta concourse, looking for one who had the unmistakable air of a cop. She saw one or two, but they returned her gaze so suspiciously that she knew they were just regular police officers. She'd only been here a few minutes, and she had no idea how long it took to get from Birmingham to Atlanta -- come to think of it, she didn't even know whether Prescott was flying or driving, although she guessed it was the latter. All she knew was that she was worried sick about Mulder, and Prescott's vague hints hadn't helped. She wanted to find out what he knew, and fast. "Where the hell's my Chunky Monkey?" came a booming voice behind her, making her jump. She whirled around to see what could only be SAC Daniel Prescott. Nice build, her brain registered automatically, then she immediately switched gears. Professional. Calm. Cool. I am woman, hear me freeze. "You have just got to be Agent Scully," Prescott said, extending his hand. "Daniel Prescott, special agent in charge of the Birmingham Field Office." "Special Agent Dana Scully, sir," Scully said, taking his hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you." "Wish I could say the same," Prescott said. "Come on, let's sit down. We got a few things to discuss." He headed toward a row of chairs and Scully followed him, edging sideways through the milling crowd. "So, I understand you're with VICAP," Prescott said, as he sat down. "Must be interesting work." "Mostly paperwork, sir," she said, pulling her thoughts, with difficulty, away from Mulder's plight. "We do manage to catch a bad guy or two sometimes." "And you're a medical doctor?" "Yes, sir," she said. "A forensic pathologist." "And you used to instruct trainees at Quantico?" "For about three years, all told," she said, amused. "It seems you have heard a lot about me, sir." "Got all that from the grapevine," Prescott said, shaking his head. "Mulder's about as talkative as a Tide fan the day after the Iron Bowl." "Sir?" Scully said. "Aw, it's just an Alabama thing, doc," he said, winking. "You wouldn't understand. Now," Prescott settled himself in the chair, and his face turned serious, "why don't you tell me where your partner's got himself to?" "Well, technically, sir, he's no longer my partner," Scully began, but stopped when she saw the pained expression on Prescott's face. "Agent Scully, do I have to give you the same speech I gave Mulder?" Prescott asked, shaking his head in dismay. "Don't bullshit me, all right? I don't give a good goddamn about technicalities. I know you and Mulder are working together. If you're using another definition of partnership, that's fine, but I don't really care. I just want to know where he is. You got me?" "Yes, sir," Scully said. She got it, all right. Prescott had the same air of command about him that her father used to have, and every cell in her body responded to it. He seemed to sense that, too. "All right, then," Prescott said, more pleasantly. "Where do you think he went?" "Fort McClellan," Scully said. Quickly, she sketched out for him all the things that had led them to believe there was a connection involving the soon- to-be-defunct base. "I had several e-mails from him yesterday," Scully said. "He never said specifically where he was going ..." "Good thing," Prescott grunted, interrupting her narrative for the first time. "Go on." "Well -- I was reasonably certain he wanted to see what he might find in the chemical weapons dump, sir," Scully said. "That would typically be his next step." Prescott nodded, pulling at his lower lip pensively. Then he looked at Scully shrewdly. "I don't know you, Agent Scully," he said, slowly, still with that penetrating stare, "and I don't know why I should trust you, any more than you know why you should trust me. But I'm guessing that's exactly what we've decided we're gonna do. Am I right?" Scully said nothing, just nodded. He was right. Her instinctive urge to trust him -- coupled with her eternal reverence for authority -- had won the day. She would trust him. "All right, then," Prescott was saying. "You said Mulder didn't tell you much about me, so I'm guessing you don't know I was a Navy SEAL." "No, sir, I didn't," Scully said. That was impressive, she thought. FBI training was a kiddie party compared to what SEALs went through. Her respect for Prescott leaped higher. "Well, I was, and I stay in touch, if you know what I mean," Prescott said. "I don't know your brothers, although I know people who know them, but I knew Captain Scully, I mean, not personally, but I served with him once. Everybody thought highly of him. He was a good officer." "Thank you, sir," Scully said, softly. She couldn't say anything else; after more than five years, it still hurt sometimes. "So you being Captain Scully's little girl, you know just how much trouble I'm gonna be in if you burn me on what I'm about to tell you," Prescott said, and his face and voice told Scully he was in dead earnest. "Am I right?" "Tell me what, sir?" Scully said. "That your Navy SEAL, the guy you two are looking for, was reported killed in a covert action near the Black Sea," Prescott said, in a low voice, so low that Scully had to strain to hear him. "Killed back in January, apparently while trying to navigate the Straits of Bosporus with several other SEALs. Damn fool mission, if you ask me. But he never bought any drugs in Daphne, Agent Scully; not unless he came back from the dead to do it." "Oh, my God," Scully said, involuntarily putting one hand over her mouth. She stared at the SAC, wide-eyed with horror. "The Black Sea? Sir, were they attempting to enter Russia covertly?" "That, I don't know," Prescott said. "Not sure I'd tell you if I did, although I know Commander Scully's on the ship that dropped Long and the other SEALs off in the Aegean. I know you're bound to be worrying about him." "I'm very worried, sir," Scully admitted, looking away as she nodded her head. "About my brother -- and about Agent Mulder," she added, in a softer voice. Worry lines creased her forehead; she blinked, just once, and fell silent. Prescott looked at her carefully. Unlike Mulder, Scully had immediately accepted his authority over her; getting that relationship straight had taken no effort at all. Yet whatever Dana Scully was, she wasn't a pushover. There was steel, finely honed and yet flexible, beneath that calm, professional exterior. Seeing Scully in the flesh confirmed his earlier estimation: This woman, with her science and her calm professionalism, was what made Mulder the agent he was; professionally, and, he suspected, personally as well, she was his other half. That just added to the mystery of why Mulder had left D.C. and left Scully behind. It also, he thought, meant that if Mulder was out there without her, he was in worse danger than Prescott had believed. No more time to waste, then. "Your brother's all right, Agent Scully," Prescott said, with complete certainty, and he saw Scully's tense expression ease a little. "I'm not gonna tell you how I know, but I know -- he's OK, and he'll be home PDQ. But you'd best not let him know that you know where he's been." "I won't, sir," Scully said, blushing as she saw Prescott's understanding nod. It always unnerved her to realize she was letting her feelings show. She steadied herself, recreating her outer shell as best she could. When she felt in control again, she looked up at the SAC. "No one is going to know you told me any of this, sir," Scully said in her most professional voice. She fixed her eyes on Prescott's and held his gaze firmly. "I'm good at keeping secrets -- when I have a reason to." Prescott eyed her for a minute, half-smiling. "All right, then," he said, patting her hand in a fatherly fashion. "Now, you and me need to get over to McClellan and see for ourselves just how bad ol' Oxford boy's managed to fuck this up in 24 hours. Let's get." ~~~~~ 10:36 a.m. Mulder was getting tired -- tired, and damned sore from sitting so nearly motionless for so long. His eyes ached from the strain of trying to see in the dimness, of peering through nearly microscopic spaces between the tarp and the truck's body. What he'd seen hadn't reassured him, either. He was no munitions expert, but what he was seeing outside the truck looked a hell of a lot like bombs to him -- bombs that, perhaps, could be used to disperse anthrax spores in a deadly aerosol over Washington or New York or Los Angeles. Mulder remembered all too well the photo op staged by the Department of Defense. He remembered how the secretary of defense had hoisted a five-pound sack of sugar for the cameras, telling the assembled reporters that just this much anthrax bacillus, released in the air, could infect every man, woman and child in the District of Columbia. About 90 percent of those infected, he'd said, could be expected to die -- most without ever knowing what had hit them. Much as he hated politicos who postured for the cameras, Mulder had to admit that the demonstration had been effective. He was impressed, and that didn't happen very often. But those were some very damn grim statistics. So lost was he in the memory that he almost didn't notice that the voices had stopped, didn't notice the back flap of the tarp moving aside; not until a small shaft of light fell almost at his foot did Mulder react, reaching for his weapon and aiming it for the source of that light. It was a man -- a young man, by his silhouette -- moving uncertainly around in the load bed, examining the crates. He didn't look as though he was planning to unload them; more like he was trying to figure out what they were. The man was coming closer and closer, too close for Mulder's comfort. Time to stop him, whoever he was. "Federal agent. I have a gun aimed at you," Mulder said, in a calm, quiet voice, but the man jumped anyway, seemed to be going into an attack posture. Mulder wasn't worried; one thing he'd learned in FBI training is that no amount of martial arts training can protect you against a man with a gun, and he was the man with the gun in this situation. "Don't move," Mulder said, very deliberately, keeping his voice pitched low. "And don't make a sound. I will fire if I have to, but I don't really want to, so just put your hands on top of your head and stand very still." The man nodded, but with less fear than Mulder would have expected. "Who are you?" the man asked, also very quietly. "FBI," Mulder said. "Now tell me who you are." "I'm a dead man, is who I am," the man said. "Not if you stay quiet, you're not," Mulder said. "No, I mean I'm dead," the man said. "Like you wouldn't believe. Tell me something, Mr. FBI Man -- are you here looking for anthrax?" Mulder's heart skipped a beat, but he managed to keep calm outwardly. "What makes you think I'd be looking for anthrax?" he asked. The man laughed. "Because you're FBI, and because that's what I'm here looking for. Because I was supposed to be dead now, killed in Russian territory, and it was all because of anthrax." Russia? The bells were going off in Mulder's head. "Who are you?" "Are you one of them?" the man said. "I'm not telling you until I know." "No," Mulder replied. "Unless you think the FBI is them, which I'm guessing you don't, or you wouldn't have told me as much as you have. Put your hands down." The man complied, and slowly, warily, edged closer to Mulder. "Who are you, really?" he asked, suspiciously. "Really, who I am is Fox Mulder, and I'm FBI," Mulder said. "You want to see my badge?" "It wouldn't impress me," the man said, sinking down to the floor and burying his face in his hands, wearily. "I've seen some damn good fake IDs in my life." "So have I, but suit yourself," Mulder said, with a shrug. "Now, who are you, and what are you doing here?" "The same thing you are -- looking for anthrax," the man replied, looking up at Mulder. "That's what I was supposed to die for." "Your name," Mulder said, slowly, as though explaining something to a backward child. "Tell me your name." "My name?" the man said. "My name is Mark Long. I'm a Navy SEAL." Mulder stared at him. "Jesus H. Christ," he said. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, ... But leave me a little love, A voice to speak to me in the day end, A hand to touch me in the dark room Breaking the long loneliness. "At a Window" -- Carl Sandburg Chapter 24 11:02 a.m. "Long, do you have any idea how hard we've been looking for you?" Mulder said, sinking down beside one of the crates. He holstered his gun, but didn't snap the holster closed; he wasn't feeling that trusting. "Looking for me?" Long asked, suspiciously. "Why were you looking for me?" "Well, supposedly, you bought anti-anthrax drugs at a pharmacy in Daphne, Alabama, not too long ago," Mulder said. "You want to tell me how you did that while you were at sea?" Long snorted, and it was a bitter sound. "I had help," he said, in a flat tone. "I had a lot of help." He sat down next to Mulder. "Is it all right if I move, sir?" he said, flashing Mulder a sarcastic glance. "Just tell me what the hell's going on, Long," Mulder said, wearily. "I don't feel like playing any more games. This damn case almost got me and my partner killed once already, and I'm not out of here alive yet." "Welcome to the club," Long replied. "You ever been officially dead, Mulder?" Mulder nearly laughed. "More than once, actually," he said. "So tell me. How did you come to be among the walking dead?" Long sighed, rotating his head to ease the tension in his shoulders. "It's a long story." "I have nowhere to go," Mulder said. "But that doesn't mean my patience is unlimited. Talk." Long shrugged. "I don't know everything. I was one of six SEALs aboard USS Nassau in the Aegean Sea. It was a hand-picked force; we were supposed to enter Russian waters covertly and gather soil samples. I don't know exactly where in Russia we were headed. That was classified until we got to shore. But I never made it that far. Some diver I never saw before came up out of nowhere and stabbed me." "He wasn't a SEAL?" Mulder asked. "No," Long said, and even in the dim light Mulder could see the hatred in the young man's face. "They never would have gone along with that. Never," he added, vehemently. "SEALs look out for each other, Agent Mulder." "Fair enough," Mulder said, although privately he suspected Long's trust in his fellow SEALs might still be misplaced. "So what happened after that?" "I just barely made it out of there," Long said, darkly. "My air hose was cut. I knew I'd been set up; no one but our team leader was supposed to know where we were going. Somebody sold me out, so I knew I couldn't go back to the Nassau." Over the next two weeks, moving by night to escape detection, he made his way into Turkey. "Why Turkey?" Mulder asked. "Just because it was close?" "I made contact with ... some people I knew," Long said, shaking his head. "They confirmed what I already knew: I'd been set up. Our team was after Russian soil samples, all right; samples that were supposed to contain a new strain of anthrax." Mulder started at that. "How long ago was this?" he asked, watching Long intently. "January," Long said. "My informants told me my body was going to be the transport mode for whatever the other SEALs found. The Nassau would have brought me home for burial, and my guts would have been replaced with pure-D Russian dirt." "Do you know Commander Scully?" Mulder asked. "Sure, he's the skipper of the Nassau," Long said. "Why? Is he in on this?" "I have no reason to think he is," Mulder said. "But his sister is my partner, and as I said, she and I were nearly killed last year while looking for a bioweapon. Shortly after that, Commander Scully's leave was canceled and he was shifted from one fleet to another on classified orders which, apparently, included taking command of the Nassau." "Shit a brick," Long said, making a face. "I guess that's why nobody really seemed to know him real well. He seemed okay, but I didn't get to talk to him or anything. Runs a tight ship, though." "I'll bet," Mulder said, dryly. "How did you get back to the United States?" "Friends," Long said, blandly. "Let's leave it at that." "No, let's not," Mulder said, tiring of the game. "Suppose you tell me who they are, and how they managed to purchase anti-anthrax drugs for you in your hometown while you were supposedly stranded in Turkey." "How did you find out about the drugs?" Long asked. "During an investigation in Daphne," Mulder said. "Now tell me how you got home." "No," Long said, shaking his head. "Later. I'll tell you later. Right now, I just want to find the men who set me up to be killed and take them home to Jesus a little early. They're here. This is where they've got their ordnance stored. I've known that for a while now. Just waiting my chance to kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out." "Grow up, Long," Mulder growled. "I don't need any of that macho SEAL shit. What I need are answers, which you can't give me if you get yourself killed." "I made contact with some people I knew and got back into the United States covertly," Long said. "And that's all I'm telling you for now." "Long, if these people are manufacturing anthrax, and if this facility holds ordnance capable of dispersing it, then we can't afford to have your personal vendetta get in the way of stopping them," Mulder said, a trace of anger in his voice. He caught himself, and lowered his voice again. "This is much more important than your private vengeance." "Shut the fuck up," Long snapped. "You don't know what it's like, to have somebody betray you that way." "The hell I don't," Mulder said. "That's not the issue." "The issue is somebody's going to pay for this," Long said. "You just take it to the bank, Mulder: Nothing else matters to me." Nothing else matters. The words sent a pang of guilt rocketing through Mulder's brain. Nothing else matters. Mulder remembered saying that, long ago, in a hotel room in Bellefleur, Oregon. He told Scully that nothing else mattered but finding Samantha. That was true enough then, but now that he'd had a chance to do some growing up, other things mattered: Scully mattered, and stopping the anthrax threat mattered. Finding Alex Krycek mattered. Nothing else matters. The words echoed in Mulder's mind, reminders of his own single-minded folly, of what it had led him to do, the risks -- unjustified risks, as he now saw them -- he'd been led to take. Something else matters, kid, he thought. Live long enough, and maybe you'll find that out. Sooner than I did, I hope. The only thing that matters now, though, is getting you, with all your stored- up information, back to the real world where you can put me in touch with these mysterious Turkish "friends" who seem to know one hell of a lot about this conspiracy. "Let's find a way out of here, Long," Mulder said, forcing his mind back to the present. "I haven't heard any voices outside for a while, and I'm guessing there's no one there or you wouldn't have been able to get in." "There wasn't when I got in here," Long acknowledged. "But I'm not leaving until I find out what I came here to find out." "It won't do you any good to find out if you're dead for real and not just on paper," Mulder said. "I take it you're unarmed?" "I got a knife," Long said, defensively. "I don't need anything else." "You'd have needed something else if I'd decided to shoot you," Mulder replied, mildly. "Let's just do our best with what we've got. Stay behind me. You know how to move covertly, I take it?" Long scowled. "Move out," he said, brusquely. Quietly, slowly so as not to rock the truck, Mulder moved toward the tarp flap, lifted it a mere fraction of an inch and peered out. He shook his head at Long, then pointed straight ahead -- nobody out there, let's go. Carefully, carefully, Mulder told himself as they inched out of the truck. There was little light in this structure, which looked more like a tunnel than any kind of building, but that didn't mean they couldn't be seen, especially when they were in motion. Mulder motioned toward a darkened doorway about 10 feet ahead. He turned to see if Long had gotten the message, so he didn't see the slight movement in the darkness ahead, didn't see the muzzle flash. But he heard the gunshot. And he saw Mark Long's head explode in blood less than two feet away from him. For a split second, Mulder stood, unable to comprehend how the key to this whole ungodly plot could be lying in a quivering dead/not dead heap at his feet. He's really moving around a lot, the calm part of his brain observed, and then instinct took over and he hit the dirt, fast, just as another round went whizzing through the air just past where his head had been. Struggling to stay flat, Mulder reached for his weapon and fired twice in rapid succession in the direction of the gunfire, or what he judged it to be based on the sound. Answering shots told him he'd either missed or there was more than one shooter. "He's over there, right next to the other one!" someone -- was it Gravel Voice? -- called out. Shit. More than one, then. Mulder looked around, frantically trying to see through the gloom. If the shooters were in that doorway, he was a dead man. But he hadn't seen the muzzle flash -- maybe they were using flash suppressers. Or maybe, he thought, I just don't know where the fuck they are. Two more shots came flying by him, and he felt the concrete floor shatter next to his left leg, the impact sending chips of concrete through the air. Some of them skidded past his face, and he felt a warm trickle of his own blood running down his cheek. They're getting warmer, he thought, grimly. Time to get the hell out of Dodge - - run for it. They'll either shoot me or they won't, but they'll sure as shit shoot me if I lie here much longer. That made up his mind. As fast as he could, Mulder got to his feet and started toward the doorway at a dead run. More gunshots rang out as he sprinted for what he could only hope was an exit. He made it to the door, jerked it open and ducked through, slamming the door behind him. He would have preferred to lock it, but there was no time to search for a lock that might or might not be there. Just run, Mulder, he told himself. He was in a dimly lighted hallway now; daylight was streaming through a door 20 feet or more ahead of him, and he was running for all he was worth. He heard the door behind him opening just as he made it to the outside door. He grabbed the handle, yanked the door open and ran into the thick woods just outside. This time, he didn't bother trying to shut the door. The underbrush whipped and tore at his face and his hands as he ran, but his leather jacket turned the worst of the thorns from him. Mulder had no idea which way he was headed; the sun was nearly overhead, and he was never very good at that Scout stuff, anyway. He just ran, and ran, hearing the sounds of his pursuers fall further and further behind him. After what seemed like hours, Mulder reached a chain link fence covered in kudzu. He vaulted over it, ripping more skin from his hands in the process, and landed on his hands and knees in a shallow ditch -- A ditch, he noted with some relief, that ran along what was unquestionably a stretch of a rural highway; a federal highway, from the looks of it. He was Somewhere, wherever that might be. He rolled over onto his back, gulping air into his burning lungs, listening for the sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing. He was alive, at any rate, and maybe not likely to die soon. But as usual, he was left with absolutely nothing. ~~~~~~~ Interstate 20 West 11:45 a.m. Prescott was driving on the way to Birmingham, which was fine with Scully -- the big Econoline van, equipped for short-term surveillance, was just a little more vehicle than she liked to drive. But Prescott was proving to be entertaining company, as Mulder had predicted. Mulder, she thought, feeling the knife strike of fear in her stomach again. Where are you and why haven't you called me? She reached into her pocket again and pulled out her cell phone, checking to make sure it was still on and the battery was still good. Prescott watched her out of the corner of his eye. She'd made that same check about six times since they'd been on the road. Scully, for all her outward cool, was about as nervous as a cat with blind kittens, he thought. So why don't you just step in and make things a little better, like your old friend Skinner? He asked himself. Might be fun. "Agent Scully," Prescott said, startling her, "I think we're going to need your help on this case for a day or two -- you're familiar with it, and you've got the background to deal with a biological threat. If you're agreeable, I'm gonna call Rolfe and ask him if you can stay on for a day or two." "Sir, SSA Rolfe can't approve that," Scully said, with the barest trace of hesitation. "I have a complaint pending against another agent at VICAP, and SSA Rolfe has ... been relieved of the burden of supervising me." "Meaning he's part of the problem, right?" Prescott said. He snorted. "I swear, Mike Rolfe is so full of shit he squeaks going into a turn. All right, I'll call Mad Dog and see what he says about it." "Call -- who?" Scully said, her interest piqued. "Mad Dog?" "Yeah, Mad Dog Skinner," Prescott said, easily. "Walter got that name back at the Academy." "You went through the Academy with AD Skinner?" Scully said. "That surprise you?" "No, sir," Scully said. "I'm just surprised that Mulder never mentioned it." "He didn't mention it because he doesn't know about it," Prescott said. "I don't tell everybody everything I know, and I ain't gonna tell you why Skinner's called Mad Dog, either, long as you're working for him. You ever get out of the Bureau, Agent Scully, give me a call and I'll tell you all about it." "I may hold you to that, sir," Scully said, repressing a smile again. "Go ahead," Prescott said. "Now, since we've agreed we're not telling the truth, doc, I got a question for you. How come you and Mulder split up your partnership?" Scully said nothing. Prescott shot her a quick glance, and he could almost see her closing up, shutting off the answer that might otherwise have come. "Okay, I'm guessing that constitutes 'it ain't none of your business, Prescott,'" Prescott said, with a shrug, looking back at the highway. "I can live with that. Nobody ever said you had to tell me all you know, either. But I can't help wondering what the hell the point was -- y'all seem to work together pretty well." "I would say very well, sir," Scully said, and some of the tension left her face. "We always had a productive partnership." "And a little bit more, I imagine," Prescott said. "Don't answer that. I ain't asking." "I'm accustomed to people's curiosity about us, sir," Scully said, quietly. "I suppose questions like that are inevitable when a man and a woman work together as closely as we did for six years." "You ain't working together now," Prescott said, mildly. "And somehow, doc, I'm just not convinced that's the way either of you really wanted it." Scully shrugged. "Things are the way they are and I don't know that they can be changed just now," she said, so softly that Prescott had to strain to hear her over the engine noise. "The FBI's mission is paramount, not my own preferences as to my assignment -- or, for that matter, Agent Mulder's preferences about his assignment." Prescott drove along in silence for a minute, gnawing reflectively on his lower lip. He opened his mouth to speak again, but he was interrupted by the chirping of a cell phone. Scully grabbed her phone, looking at the display, but her face fell almost immediately. "It's you, sir," she said, unable to hide entirely the misery in her voice. Prescott reached into his coat pocket and took out his own phone. "Prescott," he said. Then his face broke into a slow grin. "Well, I'll be dipped in shit," he said, the grin widening. "What the fuck you been up to, Oxford boy?" ~~~~~~~ U.S. Highway 19 Near Roswell, Georgia 1:32 p.m. Mulder awakened to the sound of a car crunching to a halt on the roadside gravel. He lifted his head. Not a car -- a van, an FBI surveillance vehicle by the look of it. Sure enough, there was Prescott himself, walking toward Mulder. "You picked a hell of a place to take a nap, Mulder," Prescott said, rubbing his hands together against the cold. "You hurt?" Mulder shook his head. "I'm all right, sir," he said, but the slow, painful way he got to his feet told a different story. Prescott spared a quick glance at the angry red marks on Mulder's hands and the bruises and scrapes visible on his face. "You sure you're okay?" Prescott said, a sly grin on his face as the passenger door opened. "'Cause I brought you a doctor, you know, just in case ..." Mulder barely heard him. He was on his feet, walking toward the van with the disbelieving look of a man who has fallen into a waking dream. "Scully," he said, her name barely more than a breath. He managed to rein in the impulse to run to her and sweep her off her feet, but his step was quicker than usual and his eyes bright with wonder as he extended his hand ... But then she reached out with her left hand and gently pulled him closer to her, placing a tiny, feather-light kiss on his cheek -- which, he thought, was for Scully the equivalent of a knock-down tackle of a kiss from anyone else. Mulder held her hand more tightly, unwilling for the moment to trust his voice. "Thank God you're okay," she whispered. "I was so worried about you." "I'm fine," he said, then cleared his throat and squeezed her hand again, quickly. "Scully, how in the world did you get here?" "I flew, of course," she said. "No, I mean ... " He felt someone's eyes on his back then and let go of her hand. He turned to see Prescott standing behind them. "Damn fool thing to go doing, Mulder, trying to stake out a terrorist organization all by your lonesome," Prescott said, shaking his head. He gave Scully a wink, and Mulder noted, with mixed amusement and -- oddly enough -- jealousy, that Scully blushed just a little -- the curse of a redhead, he thought, unconsciously glaring at the older man. When redheads blush, everybody knows it. Then he felt that warm hand on his arm, and looked down to see the gentle warning in Scully's blue eyes. Oh, shit, he thought. That's the 'Mulder, back off' signal. I'm about to do something stupid. She held his gaze for a moment, saw the instant contrition in his eyes, along with a silent plea. He wanted to go on touching her. His eyes were asking permission, a permission she had seldom granted in the past, and never while they were working. But this wasn't the past; there were no more secrets to keep and, anyway, she was cold. She moved a little closer, granting permission, and he put his arm around her shoulders, protectively, possessively. Prescott watched them with pretended casualness. I don't know jack shit about your love life, Mulder, he thought, except that you're a lucky son of a bitch. But I do know that any two agents who can communicate like you two do ought to be working together. What the hell did you split up for? Figure it out later, he told himself. Time to get moving toward Mulder's little underground cavern and find out what the hell's going on over there. He cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt fond reunions," Prescott said, flashing his usual intense gaze at Mulder, "but we got to get moving. There's some serious shit over we ought to be checking on." "More serious than we suspected, sir," Mulder said, removing his arm from Scully's shoulders. Scully could sense the shift in him. Love, even her love, was on the back burner for now; Mulder was in full conspiracy mode. She didn't mind. There was a time for work, and a time for ... other things. Now was a time for work. Later ... well, she would think about later when later got here. "When I finally got out of that truck, I found what looks like ordnance of the kind that could be used to disperse a biological agent," Mulder was saying. "I also found a young man who claimed to be Mark Long of Daphne, our Navy SEAL." "That can't be," Scully interrupted, her brow knitting in puzzlement. "Mark Long was reported missing, believed killed in a covert action on the Black Sea." "Yes, he was," Mulder said, looking at Scully in amazement. "He told me that was part of the plan. But how do you know that?" "Trust me, Mulder, we know," Prescott said, and his face was grim. Prescott stuck his hands deeper into the pockets of his windbreaker and rocked back and forth on his heels. "I can't tell you the source ..." "I wouldn't ask you to, sir," Mulder said. "Are you sure your source has good information?" "Always was reliable before," Prescott said, still rocking, contemplating. "Either the person you met wasn't Mark Long, or the disinformation goes so high it scares the living shit out of me. Did he say anything that would let you verify his identity?" "Not exactly," Mulder said. "But I'm not sure it matters now -- he's dead." Briefly, he related the story of the meeting, their attempt to leave and the rain of gunfire that left Long dead on the cold slab floor. "Shit," Prescott said, looking disgusted. "Did he know the purpose of his supposed death in action?" "He suspected that his body was going to be used to smuggle something back to the U.S.," Mulder said. "Soil samples from Russia." "Of course," Scully said, with more certainty than she usually displayed. "Russian soil is infested with B. anthracis spores in several of the more temperate regions. That's got to be the source of the resistant strain we encountered." Scully turned to Prescott. "Sir, we've got to find and shut down that warehouse, or whatever it was, where Agent Mulder was," she said. "We've got to make sure none of that bacteria gets out." "I'm sure SAC Prescott's already got the Atlanta Regional Office on that, Scully," Mulder said, wryly. "Just as I'm sure it's not accidental that you're here." "Damn, Mulder, you figured it out already," Prescott said, slapping his forehead with a look of mock amazement. "Maybe it really does take a fucking Rhodes scholar to do this FBI shit. Pardon my French, Agent Scully." "That's perfectly all right, sir," she said, suppressing a smile. "SAC Prescott asked me for some technical assistance with the case, Mulder." "Hell, a man ought to get some competent assistance once in a while," Prescott said. "This is what you meant when you said you needed backup, isn't it, Oxford boy?" Mulder looked down at his partner again. "Yes, sir," he said, not taking his eyes off her. "This is exactly what I meant." Prescott watched them, amused at how quickly he'd dropped off their radar. Enough heat going on here to roast half a Texas ox, he thought. This is just too damn much fun. Damn, I'm going hate losing Mulder. Can't remember the last time FBI work was this much fun. But the air was getting colder by the minute, and Mulder looked about half dead. Time to move on, Prescott thought. "Let's don't stand here by the side of the road and freeze, boys and girls," Prescott said, turning and walking toward the van. "You can tell me what you found once we get on the road; it's colder than a well-digger's ass out here -- although, come to think of it, y'all two don't look too cold. Get in the back, Mulder, you look like you could stand a little nap." Scully threw Mulder her best 'I don't believe this' look. He laughed, and took her hand as they walked toward the van, lacing his fingers through hers. "All right, now you've met Daniel Prescott," Mulder said, keeping his voice low, the laughter threatening to break back through. "You still think you like him?" "Yes, I do, Mulder," she said, firmly. "And he and I are planning to give you a serious lecture on the dangers of running off without proper backup." Scully's chin was tilted upward in that peculiarly Irish way that Mulder had come to recognize, to love -- and to be very, very respectful of. It was a look that said she damn well meant what she was saying. He remembered reading a book once in which the author, himself an Irish American, claimed that Irish Catholic men were genetically programmed to obey that tilt of the chin. I need to write that guy and tell him that it works on Russian Jews, too, he thought. Mulder reached for the passenger door, opened it and gave Scully his hand, helping her in. "Hold that thought," he said, "because think I will take that nap after all." He closed her door quickly, cutting off her reply. Mulder got in through the side door and lay down in a narrow space on the carpeted floor among all the electronic equipment and weaponry the van carried. It was dark enough, and quiet; a heavy curtain separated the surveillance area from the passenger cab. Wearily, he pulled off his leather jacket, tucked it under his head for a pillow, and was asleep in seconds. ~~~~~ Prescott started the van's engine and eased the vehicle back onto Highway 19, then cast a glance over at Scully. She was shivering, although the heater was up and running, and Prescott thought her lips were trembling, too. I bet I know what you're upset about, doc, he thought. And I bet I can do something about it. "You know, Agent Scully, you look a bit peaked yourself," Prescott said, finally. "Why don't you go on back there behind the curtain and lie down for a while, see if you can't catch 40 winks? I need some time to think, and I'd just as soon sit up here by myself and listen to the radio for a while, if you don't mind." Then he looked over at her with a shadow of his usual leg-pulling grin. "Let me know if the music gets too loud, all right?" he said, but there was no hint of a leer in his voice. Just kindness, almost -- concern, she thought. Can he possibly feel any real concern for me this quickly, or am I trusting him too soon? And do I really care, if it means I get to go be alone with Mulder for a few minutes? Not one bit, the practical part of her mind answered, and she made her decision. "Thank you, sir," she said, a soft smile playing around her lips. "I do feel a little bit tired." She unbuckled her seat belt and, pulling the dark curtains apart, stepped into the back of the van. Prescott took one fast glance at the rear view mirror as the curtains were falling closed, just in time to see Scully kneeling down beside Mulder, with a soft expression on her face he doubted anyone but Mulder was ever supposed to see. "Some partnerships aren't meant to be broken, Oxford boy," Prescott said softly to himself, shaking his head as he saw the curtain close behind Scully. "You lucky son of a bitch." ~~~~~ The floor of the van was cold, the carpet pile short and scratchy and unpadded, offering little relief from the pressure of the corrugated steel beneath, but none of that mattered to Scully as she knelt down beside her sleeping partner. All that mattered was that Mulder was here -- bruised, battered and emotionally exhausted, but alive. And at last, she could touch him the way she wanted to, the way he'd wanted her to ... the way she couldn't touch him before, not with Prescott there. Slowly, carefully, so as not to wake him, she lay down beside him, snuggled up against the warmth of his body gently, slowly easing her arm under his head, cradling him against her breast. She let her lips just touch his forehead, the kiss as delicate as a dragonfly's wing. And then she felt Mulder's warm, slightly rough hand slip beneath her sweater and T-shirt to rest on her stomach. "I've missed you," he said, sighing as he nestled deeper into her arms. "I've missed you, too," she said. "But I didn't mean to wake you. You were asleep, weren't you?" "Yeah," he said, in a voice thick with sleep. "But it's okay -- unless you're here to lecture me about ditching you." "Later," she said, pressing her lips to his forehead again. "Right now, I just need to know that you're all right." "That depends on your definition of 'all right,'" Mulder said, his hand making slow, lazy circles over her stomach, and the touch made her shiver. But she was still Dana Scully, and Prescott was still sitting just a few feet away. Wanting wasn't reason enough to behave unprofessionally. But she didn't want to reject him, either. Not when he was touching her in that way. He'd already learned so much about what she liked ... and she strongly suspected he was counting on that knowledge now. This is going to be a tightrope walk, she thought, and God willing, one day we'll be partners again and there will be lots of chances to perfect the techniques required to balance work and love. Not now, though. "Mulder," she said, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Mulder, I love you, but this is neither the time nor the place for that. You should try to get some sleep." "I already got some sleep," he said, but he took his hand away, tucked it under his head. "It was in a ditch by the side of the road. Not what I'd call restful. I just wanted ..." But he didn't finish the sentence, just let his voice trail off. She looked at him closely, seeing in the dim light the new lines in his face, the bruises and scrapes, the flecks of dried blood -- Mark Long's blood, thank God, not Mulder's. But even though he was alive, he was exhausted, emotionally drained by the long, tense hours of waiting, the shock of being discovered and the final, bloody, violent escape. I can finish that sentence for you, love, she thought. I just wanted ... to touch you. Delicately, she laid her hand on his stubbled jaw and lowered her mouth to his for a long, gentle kiss. "I'm the one who should be sorry," she said, softly as she pulled back a little. "I forgot what a horrible situation you were in today. I'm just thankful you came out of it alive." Mulder said nothing, but in the next instant she felt his hand slip back under her sweater, pulling at the bottom band of her bra, lifting it up so that her breasts were bare beneath the soft blue wool. She breathed in sharply, arching forward without even thinking so that her breast pressed softly against his hand, and she felt his fingers close around her carefully, felt his forehead pressing against her chest. She looked down, just as he raised his eyes to hers. He kissed her once, gently, then started to take his hand away from her. Moved by an impulse she only partly understood, Scully covered his hand with hers, stopping him. She bent and kissed him, a soft kiss full of promise, and she felt him moving toward her again, felt him pushing the sweater up, easing the thick wool out of the way. Mulder's hand closed over her breast again, and she knew with the sureness of ancient instinct what he needed to comfort him. Scully rolled onto her side and laid his head on her arm, easing herself down so that her nipple rested against his lips. She brushed the hair back from his forehead and then gently stroked his cheek, and bit back a gasp as he took the nipple in his mouth and began suckling slowly, rhythmically. That's the mammalian rooting reflex, she thought, a little dazed, touch the cheek and the mouth opens, and then she forced herself to stop analyzing, just let her thoughts drift away, let her entire world shrink down to nothing but the feel of his mouth on her, his hand on her back holding her closer -- as though I could want to get away from this, she thought. She ran her hands through Mulder's hair and kissed his forehead tenderly. He answered her with a shuddering sigh as he relaxed completely into her embrace. She felt the tension leave his body, saw his beautiful face relax into a look of peace that usually eluded him even in sleep. It's almost like he's nursing, she thought, and a wave of fierce protectiveness swept through her as she realized just how close to the truth that was. She remembered what her obstetrics professor, Dr. Merton, had said about it. Dr. Merton, who had three children of her own, had called it comfort nursing, and she'd warned her first-year medical students not to underestimate its importance to mother and baby. "Nursing brings comfort first and milk second," Dr. Merton had said. "The baby quiets when he's put to breast, not when the milk lets down." "The adult male quiets when he's put to the breast, too," one of the class clowns had called out, but Dr. Merton remained calm. "That's true," she'd said, off-handedly. "Although generally he's looking for something other than milk as a secondary bonus." The students had giggled, but Dr. Merton, Scully thought dreamily, was wiser than any of us knew. And I'm analyzing again, damn it. She held Mulder even closer, guided his head gently to the other breast, offering her body for whatever he might take from it, of comfort, of desire, or of love. It no longer seemed important to know what he wanted, or how he went about getting it, so long as it was her body from which he drew it. But comfort time seemed to be over; Scully could feel the slippery, slick feeling between her legs that told her she was ready for him, more than ready for him; he was touching her more sensuously now, his hand on her back dropping lower to cup her bottom, pulling her against him, and she could feel his erection even through the heavy denim of the jeans they both wore. He let go of her breast then, raised his mouth to hers, shoving his hands almost roughly into her hair as his tongue plundered her mouth. Scully moaned, involuntarily, and he pulled back almost instantly. "Should we stop?" he whispered, hoarsely. "I mean, I don't want to, but Prescott's right there on the other side of that curtain ..." "No," she whispered back, raising her hands to stroke his stubble-covered cheeks. "I'll be quiet. I promise I will. But I want ..." Her voice trailed off. "What do you want?" Mulder said, still whispering. "Tell me." She smiled at him then, and he thought that it might well be the most wicked smile Dana Scully had ever given anyone in her life. "I told you already," she whispered, "on the phone, remember?" and before he could think what she was talking about, her hands were at the waistband of his jeans, unfastening the button, slowly, quietly, lowering the zipper. She kept her gaze fixed on his slowly widening eyes as she unbuttoned the fly on his shorts and reached in, closing her hand around him. Mulder gasped, and she laid her other hand softly over his lips. "You have to be quiet," she said, gently. "If I do this, can you be quiet?" "Oh, Jesus," he groaned. "You don't want much, do you?" "No, not much," she said, softly, bending forward to kiss him again. "Just one thing." She put her lips next to his ear, whispering as softly as she could. "I want you to come in my mouth." You've got to give the man credit for self-control, she thought. Every muscle in Mulder's body seemed to jerk simultaneously, but only a tight little whimper escaped his lips. Scully rolled over on top of him then and kissed him, slowly, lingering for a moment, just barely caressing his mouth with the tip of her tongue. She felt him trembling beneath her, and she thought for a moment she might cry -- nothing else seemed sufficient to express the jumble of emotions racing through her, lust mixed with the joy of seeing what she could do to him, love mixed with wanting, need, desire ... Language wouldn't do. It would have to be tears, but later, she told herself. Cry later, when you know you've pleased him. She slid off him, knelt near his hips, and slowly, slowly lowered herself toward his straining erection. Gently, as delicately as she could, she pressed her lips to the tip, then slowly lowered her mouth down over him. Mulder's hips jerked upward as her mouth closed around him, but he made no sound. Good, she thought; not that she thought Prescott didn't have a pretty good idea what might be happening back here, but there was such a thing as propriety, even when you were giving your partner a blow job in the back of a surveillance van. She put her right hand around the base of his erection, steadying herself with her left as she began to stroke and gently suck on him. Up, down, slowly, savoring the feeling of him in her mouth, the taste, the feeling and -- above all -- the unimaginable intimacy of this act. It was every bit as arousing to her as she'd imagined it could be -- and had never been before, not with any other man. She felt him twitching in her mouth, and she knew he wouldn't hold out for long. His hands grasped at her hair, but he didn't try to force her down as some men she'd known had done -- this was a caress, the only way he had to communicate with her in this moment. I'm close, he was saying. Scully, I am so close, if you don't want it to be in your mouth now's the time ... But I do, Mulder, she thought, and she lifted her left hand just briefly to stroke his leg, trying to reassure him. It's okay, baby, it's okay, she thought, and once again, their non-verbal communication worked. She felt his muscles tighten, felt him become suddenly even harder in her mouth, and then she tasted the first salty, slightly bitter drops ... And all at once his whole body was convulsing and the hot, thick jets were filling her mouth, one after the other, the dark, powerful taste filling her senses, and she stopped moving, just let him come, knowing already that this was the way he liked it best. When he stopped shaking, she pulled back, looked at his slightly unfocused eyes, and smiled. I did it, she thought, feeling ridiculously proud as she saw how completely he was undone. "Oh, Jesus," Mulder said, weakly, extending his arm toward her, and she went to him, nestled in his warmth. For long moments they simply lay there together as Mulder's breathing slowed to normal. "Penny for your thoughts," she said, quietly. "Wow," Mulder said. "I beg your pardon?" "Just ... wow," he said, and kissed her gently. "That was pretty amazing." "I thought you liked it," she said, and she laughed, unable to find any other means of expressing the joy within her. "Liked is not the word," he said, rolling onto his side again. "But I think it's my turn now." "I thought that was your turn," Scully said, demurely. Mulder shook his head, reached out to fondle her breast again, his thumb gently brushing over her nipple. "Oh, no," he said, almost absently. "No, this is my turn." He bent over her again, kissing her more firmly now, and she was struck again by his utter abandon. Most men she'd known would no more have kissed her after what she'd just done than ... well, they wouldn't have done it. He had no more problem with that than he did with kissing her after ... Oh, God, he wasn't going to do that _here_, was he? Scully thought, just a hint of fear creeping into her. I don't want to be a prude with you, Mulder, but your SAC is right there, she thought. Let's be practical about this ... we can't rock the van ... But Mulder seemed to know that. His hand was at the waistband of her jeans, slowly loosening the button, sliding the zipper down just far enough so that he could reach inside, under her panties, right to the wet, hot heart of her pleasure. She would have cried out as his fingers reached her core, but the sound was swallowed up in his mouth. He pulled her a little closer, putting his other arm around her shoulders as his fingers gently probed through the slick, swollen flesh until they reached the spot that made her shiver and gasp. He stopped there, stroking rhythmically, and it was enough, just that touch, to start her toward her climax ... his arm was firm around her, letting her feel his presence, letting her know she was safe. Her last coherent thought was how lovely it was to have the man you love simultaneously destroying your control with his skillful fingers and giving it back to you with his strong arms ... And then she was coming, her soft cries gathered up in his mouth as he kissed her more deeply, as her hands clutched at his shirt, and he held her closer, closer as she reached the ultimate moment and then slowly, slowly, relaxed against him. And for a long time, that was enough. ~~~~~~ "Mulder, are you awake?" "Yeah. Just thinking." "About what?" "A lot of things. Mostly to do with you." "With me?" Scully raised her head slightly. She could just make out his face in the dim light, but it was clear that something was troubling him. "What about me?" she said, placing her hand carefully just over his heart. He covered her hand with his own, his fingers curling around hers. "Roughly a dozen different things." He turned his head to look at her. "You want the whole megillah?" "Whatever you want to tell me," she said, snuggling closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Why, is it bad?" "No, never." He kissed the tip of her nose, gently, making her smile. "It's always good when I think about you." "But it is serious." "Yeah." "So tell me." He shrugged. "Mostly that I know you've got something on your mind, something you haven't told me yet. I was wondering what it was." "Been getting into my head, Mr. Profiler?" she said, but her voice was soft. "No, not deliberately," he said. "But there is something, isn't there?" "Yes, but it's not bad," she said. "It's just ... not easy to say." "Not even in these palatial surroundings?" he asked, with a hint of his crooked smile. She smiled in return. "I haven't gotten much of anywhere with our case." "Neither have I. That's not what you wanted to tell me." "No." She was silent for a moment. "Mulder, when you -- rescued me -- while we were in Daphne, you said you needed me with you on the case." "That was the truth." "I know." She raised herself on one elbow, looked at him directly. "I do know it. But I realized on the flight down from Washington this morning that the reason I haven't gotten much of anywhere with this case is because I need you, too. I can't do this without you." "I didn't think you were doing it without me." "I didn't think so, either. After all, we talk on the phone, we e-mail, we've got access to each other's computer files; we stay in almost constant contact with each other, and I thought that would be enough." "You're saying it's not?" "I'm saying it's not. And I didn't know for certain why that was until now." "I'm listening." "See, you know, too. I can tell by the look in your eyes." "And that's what's been missing. Is that what you're saying?" "Yes. Think about it, Mulder. When we made that forced entry in Daphne, did you say, 'Scully, you go low, I'll go high'? Did you tell me that you'd unlock the door and I should pull the handle?" "You know I didn't." "No, you didn't. Because we just knew. I knew where you wanted me to go, what you wanted me to do, and I did it, and it worked. We communicated all that without saying one word." "And you're saying that kind of communication doesn't travel over the phone lines." "It doesn't." She shifted a little, so that she was lying almost on top of him, and he put both arms around her. "It only works when I can see you." She kissed his mouth, softly. "Or touch you." "So we should spend a couple of hours making love before we start on an investigation?" he teased. "I like the idea, but the scheduling's going to be a bitch." "Mulder, be serious." "I am. Honestly. I know we haven't gotten as far with this case as we would have liked ... " "We haven't gotten nearly far enough. I haven't, anyway. There is a serious threat out there in the form of an anthrax-based bioweapon, and I haven't done nearly enough to expose and curb that threat." "I don't know what else you could have done, Dana," he said, one hand drifting upward to brush the hair away from her face. "You've gone in every direction you could think of to go." "And now we're back to my original point," she said. "I can't think of what else to look for, because I've exhausted all the logical possibilities. What I need to do now, Mulder, is to begin checking the illogical impossibilities, and I can't force my brain to come up with those. You're the only one who can do that." "So what are you suggesting?" "I'm saying that I need you," she said, softly. "That I can't do this without you. I fell apart without you, and you put me back together, but I'm still not the agent I was when I worked with you." "That's not true ... " "Yes, it is, but it doesn't make me feel bad to say it now," she said. "We had as nearly perfect a working relationship as you'll ever see, because you made me consider the extreme possibilities and I made you find the evidence to back up your theories. It worked. It worked beautifully. And now I need it to work again; the anthrax we found in Daphne is still out there and still a serious threat." "Dana ... " He paused. "What?" "I hate to be the one to bring this up, but our relationship is not what it was when we were on the X Files," he said. "We were just partners then; now we're lovers. Maybe the problem isn't that we're not together, but that we are." "No," she said, firmly. "I've thought about that, and I know that's not what's wrong. There's been heavy sexual content in our relationship all along, and we could always put it aside and do our jobs." "Was there?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "You know there was. Remember how you used to flirt with me?" "I remember when you started flirting back. That thing about it raining sleeping bags ... God." He shook his head. "If you'd only known what that did to me." "My point exactly. Sex has always been an issue with us. It's not new. Do you have any idea how much time I used to spend thinking about you in our little basement office, wondering what you would be like in bed?" "No," he said, slowly, and she could see the fascinated gleam in his eye. "Did you?" "Yes. In fact, the last day we were in D.C. together, I came to work all hot and bothered because of you." "You're kidding." "No. Remember our last case in the field, before Daphne?" "Vaguely." "We had takeout pizza in my room. I got some sauce on my face." "Ahh." "Now you remember, don't you." "Yes." He sighed. "I remember thinking that we'd never been quite so relaxed with each other, and that you were beautiful, and that I wanted to take you to bed, and maybe it was finally time to let you know that." "What, nothing about love?" she teased. "That just ... seemed to be understood," he said, apologetically. "It was," she said, softly, stretching up to kiss him, a long, deep kiss, and she felt his arms tighten around her again in a way that told her she would have more of him tonight, if she wanted. She did. Oh, yes. But she had more in mind than just one night, no matter how good it promised to be. "Mulder," she whispered as she drew back from him, just slightly, "I want us to be together. All the time, not just for a night or two. Always. I need for you to help me make that happen." "Scully," he began, but she interrupted. "I know what you're worried about," she said. "You're afraid Krycek will do something to harm me." "Yes, I am," he said, tightening his hold on her. "There's no reason to think that chip in your neck isn't operable from a distance. Maybe he's capable of shutting it off, making it stop doing whatever it is that it does to keep the cancer away." "I don't have an answer for that," she said. "Except, maybe, that if he could do that, I think he would have done it already. So maybe he can't. Even if he can, the best way to stop him is to find him, prosecute him and let the Bureau of Prisons lock him up in a maximum security cell for the rest of his life." "That's not the best way," he said, a little grimly. "I know what you're thinking, and I hope you remember what I told you: If it's justifiable -- justifiable, Mulder -- I won't stop you from killing Alex Krycek. But you can't put yourself in danger for me. I don't want to live without you, and if you're rotting away in some federal prison, that's exactly what I'll be doing. It won't be worth it, not to me." He let out a long, deep sigh. "What do you want me to do, Dana?" he asked. "I want you to be my partner," she said, simply. "Come work with me at VICAP, or go back to Behavioral Sciences, or maybe we could even get the X Files reopened. But whatever you do, I want to be your partner again, for real this time." "And what if Skinner says no?" "I don't think he will." "If he does." "Then I'll ask your SAC if he could use the services of a forensic pathologist," she said. "I think he kind of likes me -- don't you, Oxford boy?" Mulder laughed then, breaking the heavy tension between them. "Yeah, I think he does," he said. "Prescott's a good man, even if he can't resist making fun of my education. He's not bad to work for at all." "So maybe that is what I should do." "You'd hate it," he said. "Working in a field office is a real come-down from working in an elite unit like VICAP or BSU." "All the more reason you should ask for a transfer," she said. "You know they'd kill to get you back in BSU." "Yeah, but I'd kill to stay out," he said. "Profiling takes a lot out of me, Dana. You know that." "Whatever's best for you," she said. "I just want to be with you, and I don't much care where." She shifted upward, letting her body slide against his. "Promise me you'll try?" "Unfair coercion, Agent Scully," he murmured, his hands beginning to move restlessly over her again. "You have me at a serious disadvantage." "It's all right," she whispered. "I'm sure you'll find a way to get back on top of the situation ... " ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" -- William Butler Yeats Chapter 25 U.S. Highway 19 Near Roswell, Georgia 3:14 p.m. "There," Mulder said, pointing to a dirt road that branched off the highway. "Try that one. It goes the right general direction, anyway. And we've traveled about the right distance." "We'll give it a try," Prescott said, steering the van down the narrow path. "Worst that can happen is we have to turn around and go back again." They'd been searching for the underground facility for about an hour now, Mulder in the front seat next to Prescott, Scully crouched between the two men, uncharacteristically ignoring the Georgia seat belt laws. This was the third dirt road they'd driven down, and they hadn't found the place yet. As they drove, Scully told herself she was sitting in front because she just wasn't inclined to hang around in the back of the van while Mulder and Prescott ran this investigation by themselves. The thought that she might just be afraid to be alone right now, she rejected entirely; although, for some reason, something undefinable was scraping at the edges of her emotions. It was almost as though the hard-packed red dirt roads had gained the power to speak, to murmur terrifying hints about what might lie at the end. Probably just remembering ... bad things, she thought, uncomfortably. Red clay will probably always be a trigger. It's so hard, and cold, and it stains; like blood, only even harder to wash out. The marks are permanent ... you can never make them go away. No. Stop it. That's all behind me now; I can handle this. Even if I couldn't handle it when I was alone, I'm not alone now. Mulder's here, and his SAC is here, and we're all trained and on guard and ready to deal with this. No. No problem. I'll be fine. But without thinking, she laid one hand on Mulder's forearm and leaned a little closer to him. "You okay, Scully?" he asked, looking down at her pale face, her eyes, which were just a little too wide, the line of her jaw, just a little too firmly set. "Yes, of course, Mulder," she said, in a voice that told him a different truth. "I'm fine. I'm just ... a little tense." "Shit, who ain't?" Prescott said, easily, tightening his grip as the ruts grabbed at the tires, threatening to jerk the steering wheel from his hands. "This looks like the kind of place I'd want to dump a body, if I had one to dump. You wouldn't see it if you weren't lookin' for it." "Someone's been here," Mulder said, pointing at the road. "Those tire tracks are fresh. Maybe we ought to stop and walk the rest of the way so we don't disturb them." "Let's ride on just a little further first, Mulder," Prescott said. "If there's tracks here, there'll be tracks closer in, too, and I for one don't feel like walking out in the open if this turns out to be where your shooters are." Mulder nodded his assent. "Are there any long guns in this van, sir?" he asked. "A couple," Prescott said. "Agent Scully, you much of a rifleman? Or woman, whatever the heck you want to call it?" "No, sir," she said, shaking her head. "I've fired the MP5, but I can't say that I'm much good at it. I'll stick with my sidearm, if that's all right with you." "Don't make me no nevermind," Prescott said. "Use what you're good at, I say." Suddenly, he reached over Scully and rapped Mulder's upper arm sharply with the back of his hand. "Look over there, Mulder," he said, in a tone that was almost admiring, Scully thought. "I bet that's the entrance to your whatever-it-is." Scully rose up on her knees and peered ahead. Sure enough, there was a concrete abutment rising from nowhere. Set in one side of it, and almost hidden by the overgrown kudzu vine, was a door. "Mulder, is that it?" she said. "Looks like it," he said, with a shrug. "I wasn't really looking. I was more or less running for dear life." Prescott snorted a laugh. "He who fights and runs away, etc., Mulder," he said. "A dead agent's no better than no agent at all." He steered the van off the road, behind a clump of kudzu-covered bushes, and stopped, shut off the engine. "Not the best cover ever, but it's about all we can hope for," Prescott said. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his own service weapon and checked the clip, shot it back home with a practiced hand. "Now what, sir?" Scully said. "Now you go back in the back of this van and send a scrambled message to the Atlanta Field Office and tell 'em where we are," Prescott said, holstering his gun and leaning back, closing his eyes. "Wake me up when they get here." ~~~~~~~ 3:56 p.m. "Sir," Scully said, softly into Prescott's ear. "Sir, our backup is here." Prescott was instantly awake; a phenomenon Scully recognized from other combat veterans, who quickly learned to sleep in short spurts and awaken completely at the first sign of trouble. Her father had had that facility; not her brothers, though. They'd never seen combat. But Mulder wakes up that way, she thought. And so do I. "Get those rifles, Mulder, and let's go," Prescott was saying as he opened the van door. "Agent Scully, since you're using short arms, let's put you in the rear guard." He stepped out of the van, closing the door silently behind him. Scully followed Mulder out the passenger side door, but shook her head as he offered her his hand to help her down. Mulder sighed, under his breath, but he knew her refusal wasn't any kind of rejection of him -- he'd have a hard time even considering that as a possibility, considering what had passed between them only a short time ago. It was just that she could never allow herself to appear less than fully strong and competent when there were other agents around. She could scarcely do it when it was just the two of them, for that matter. He couldn't blame her, though; he'd seen it himself far too often. If a male agent advised backing off, or asked for help, it was just assumed he'd looked over the situation and made a logical decision. If a woman did it, it was because she wasn't up to the job. I wish I could change that for you, Scully, he thought, but I can't. Nobody can, not until the rest of the Bureau has had years and years of dealing with agents like you. Then, maybe, the Dana Scullys of the FBI will be able to say "wait, hold off, this doesn't seem safe," and not have to be afraid for their careers when they say it. But you shouldn't be afraid to say it to me, he thought. Not after all this time. He watched her, feeling a little sad as she straightened her shoulders and walked toward one of the black vans, where Prescott was standing with another agent; this one, wearing full tactical battle dress. "SWAT," Scully said, quietly, as he caught up with her. "They really are expecting trouble." "I am, too," Mulder said, grimly. "I already found it once today. Can't say that I'm eager to go back in." "Maybe we shouldn't, Mulder," Scully said, slowly, feeling a trace of apprehension again. "Maybe we should just back up the SWAT team. They're better trained for this kind of thing." "Can't do that," he said, shaking his head. "I'm the only one who has any idea how to get inside that place, or how to get around once we're in. But you heard Prescott, Scully; you're bringing up the rear." "And have the SWAT team start calling me a rear-echelon MF?" Scully said, trying to smile. "I don't think so, Mulder." "Hey, if you hang back far enough, they'll call you a JAFO," Mulder said, and he was smiling, too, but Scully saw the worry in his eyes. "You know," he went on, "Just Another Fucking Observer." "God protect me from that," she said, but she averted her eyes so Mulder couldn't read the fear that was sure to be there. But it was too late for that, apparently. "You know, you don't have to go in," Mulder said, pitching his voice low so no one else would hear. "There's every reason in the world this particular operation could trigger some bad feelings, maybe even flashbacks. I could tell Prescott that you need to stay here and monitor communications." She shook her head, annoyed. "The SWAT team will have an officer on comm, Mulder," she said, unable to keep the irritation from her voice. "There's no reason I can't go in. I've done this kind of thing before." "If you're sure," Mulder said, slowly. "I'm certain," she said, shortly. "I did all right in Daphne, didn't I?" "Daphne didn't involve going underground in the dark," Mulder said, gently. "This is going to be a lot more like what we faced in Mobile; it's almost inevitable that you'll have some kind of reaction to it. And unless I miss my guess, you're feeling that reaction already." Against her will, Scully shuddered. Mulder saw it. "That's it, isn't it?" he said, very softly. "Scully, no one's going to blame you if you don't want to go in here. I don't especially want to myself, but I've got to play lead sled dog here. Just go get back in the van, I'll figure out something to tell Prescott." "Thank you, but I think I can decide this for myself," Scully said, coolly. "I'm not a cripple, Mulder; I can do my job." "Nobody said you were a cripple," Mulder said, still calm. "But no matter how much better you're doing, you need to realize that you don't get over PTSD overnight, or even over a few weeks. It's a years-long process, Dana, and you've only just started." "I can't give into it, Mulder," she said, looking up at him. "I just can't. I'll do my job now and if I need to vent about it later, then I'll do that. I'll be fine. Really." "Scully," Mulder began, and then shook his head. Prescott and the SWAT team leader were walking toward them; there was no more time to talk quietly. "Just don't push yourself too far. You'd be dangerous to yourself and to the team." Scully felt a flare of anger at that. "Mulder, I wouldn't go in if I thought I might endanger anyone," she said, shaking her head in annoyance. "Certainly, I can't believe you think I'd ever put you in danger." "I would never even suggest that you would do that," Mulder said. "I just don't think I could stand it if anything happened to you." Turning so his back was to Prescott and the SWAT leader, blocking their view, he reached up briefly, touched her face for just an instant. Scully could barely feel the touch, so delicate was it, and so quickly over, but she caught on his fingers the musky, unmistakable scent of her own sex. She gave a tiny gasp, and then a slow, soft sigh as her over-sensitive memory brought back, with perfect clarity, the memory of his body next to hers, the feeling of his hands on her flesh. She looked up at him, and saw the truth in his eyes: He wasn't challenging her competence; not Mulder. He never had, and he never would. "Mulder, I'll be fine, really," she said, her voice softer now. "I think I could go in the vanguard with you, really. You know we do better when we're working together." "The SAC said rear guard," he said, but she saw that he was considering it. Finally, he sighed. "If you want me to, I'll ask him." She smiled, a tiny, quick smile, and shook her head, as though she'd thought better of it. "I'd never be able to explain it to him," she said. "Let's just follow orders, for once in our careers." She and reached behind her back for her gun as the men approached. "All right, boys and girls, we've got ourselves a battle plan," Prescott said as he came nearer. "Mulder, you're going in with the One Stars, show 'em around the place a little; Scully, you hang back, come in once the area's secure, and keep your eyes open for anybody coming in from outside. Any questions?" Mulder didn't answer immediately, and for a moment Scully thought he might tell the SAC that she wasn't up to the job, but he only shook his head. "No questions, sir," he said, looking over at his partner. "Scully?" "None, sir," she said, keeping her eyes on Prescott. "No questions at all." "What're we waiting for, then?" Prescott said. "You want to live forever? Move out." ~~~~~~~ From her position in the rear, Scully could see the SWAT team moving into place in perfect, synchronized battle formation, Mulder in front with the sharpshooters, Prescott back with the team leader. Two groups of SWAT agents moved obliquely toward the entrance, staying down in the brush -- which in this part of Georgia, Scully thought, ruefully, was probably half kudzu and half poison ivy. Mulder and the vanguard team were at the door now; she could see the black- garbed agents affixing a small explosive charge to each of the hinges and the latch of the heavy steel door. Mulder had his weapon out, and he was crouching behind the cover of the concrete abutment, watching the team leader intently. The leader of the vanguard raised his hand in the familiar count. Three fingers, then two -- Then one. WHAM! The charges blew with a deafening report, sending shrapnel in a wide radius, forcing the agents to duck and cover. Scully could almost feel the rush of air as the door rocked, tottered, and fell with a resounding thud. The dust hadn't begun to settle when Mulder -- flanked by the SWAT sharpshooters -- ran through the now-open doorway. Prescott and the SWAT team leader followed, along with two more agents carrying rifles. A beat ... two ... three ... and one of the SWAT officers re-emerged, waving his arm overhead to signal "okay to move forward." The flanking teams moved rapidly toward the door, two agents dropping out of the formation to stand guard by the doorway, two others gesturing to Scully. We're going in. Now. Scully gripped her weapon firmly, trying to ignore the sweat beading on her brow and the pulse that beat harshly in her chest. The sound of the explosions still rang in her ears, and she could hear little except her own heartbeat; it was literally deafening her to any other sound. Nodding her understanding to the SWAT agents, she stepped forward, through the doorway and into the dark. The darkness surrounded her, slowing her movements and chilling her skin like the touch of heavy, wet wool. There was light ahead, enough for her to see that the corridor in which she stood was scarcely higher than she was tall, and it sloped gradually downward toward the larger area. The light was there, but it was far away, and so faint ... Scully felt her heartbeat speeding even faster, her breath coming in short, harsh gasps. Forward, now, inch by inch; she heard the echoing footsteps of the advance group, but no voices. Was the facility really cleared out that fast, or were they in the wrong place? Maybe I just can't hear them, she thought. The thought didn't reassure her; if anything, it left her feeling more vulnerable than before. There was another flash of light, and a huge noise reverberated painfully in the long concrete corridor -- Scully gasped aloud, and shrank back against the rough, cold walls, feeling the first slender, insidious threads of panic working their way into her soul. Keep focused, she told herself, reaching up to wipe away the sweat that was now dripping into her eyes, stinging and all but blinding her. Stay on track. You have a job to do. You'll do it, and then you'll be out of here, and it will be all right. Slowly. Move forward slowly. Be ready to stop at the first signal. Do it right by the book. "Get down!" a SWAT agent yelled, and Scully, her training moving her on autopilot, hit the floor, the breath whooshing from her lungs as her chest struck the solid floor beneath her. A rapid burst of gunfire sounded in the distance, and she heard the zinging ricochet as the bullets struck concrete. A short silence -- no screams, no cries of pain. Mulder was okay. Or he was dead. Stop it, Dana, she ordered herself, firmly. You cannot lose your focus. You could be killed if you do. Stay with what you know, not what you fear. Then she heard shouts ahead, the familiar warnings being given: "Federal agent! I'm armed! Drop your weapon!" It wasn't Mulder's voice; must be the SWAT team, but then where was he? She raised her eyes, and saw the agent on her left jerking his head upward, forward. Get up, let's move, he was saying. She knew the signal. She'd learned it, and a few dozen more, at the Academy. But it had been so long since she'd followed anyone but Mulder into danger; every fiber of her being resisted following this agent she'd never laid eyes on before. But it was follow him or wimp out and fail in front of Mulder, his SAC and an entire FBI SWAT team. Trembling in every muscle, Scully got up, holding her gun down for safety's sake but ready to raise it to firing position in a split second. She felt a sudden flush of shame, and she knew why: This was too much like the way she used to search her apartment every night before bed. Only I had a light on then, she thought, and now I'm going down into the dark. The thought settled into her soul and scraped against the fringes of the terror that lurked there, the terror she thought had gone forever. It's not gone, it was only sleeping, she thought; sleeping with Mulder, just like me, and the irrationality of the thought loosened her grip just a little more. She nearly giggled. I am getting hysterical, she thought. Please, God, don't let me break down, keep me going just a few minutes longer, just until this job is done and I am out of here. Please. Forcing herself to breathe more slowly, she walked behind the SWAT officers, inching along sideways to keep the least possible area exposed to potential gunfire. That's it, she told herself, only dimly aware that the voice she heard in her head was Mulder's. You've moved another foot, now one more, that's it, keep going, you'll get there. "Where's the truck?" she heard someone yell in the distance, and she let out a shuddering sigh that was nearly a sob. That, at last, was Mulder's real voice. He was alive, and apparently well enough to question whoever it was they'd found up there. She heard footsteps approaching, and raised her gun slightly, but the SWAT officer on her right pressed one hand to his radio headset and shook his head. One of ours, he was saying. It was Prescott, holstering his gun as he walked toward her. He wasn't hurrying. "We caught two men in there, Agent Scully," he said, shaking his head as though he was unhappy. "One of 'em looks about half dead, though. Best you get in there and see to him." But I don't want to go in there, she thought, and then steeled herself again. Slowly, calmly, she thought. One step, one more, into the darkness, and then it gets lighter ahead and Mulder is there. You can do it. On into the darkness, down and down ... And then she was at the door, and through it, and into the storage facility. Mulder was there, clipping handcuffs onto a middle-aged man with a pockmarked, heavy-jawed face. "You got no reason to hold me here," the man was saying in a deep, grating voice. "I'm not telling you anything." "You have the right to remain silent, sir, so please shut up," Mulder was saying, giving the cuffs just a bit more of a tug than he needed to. Then he saw Scully. "Over there," he said, gesturing toward a dark shape on the floor about 15 feet away. "I think it may be too late, though." Scully holstered her gun. Okay, Dana, she told herself, just be a doctor. You know how to do that. You know the drill. Kneeling beside the still form, she pressed two fingers against the underside of the man's chin, feeling for the pulse in the carotid artery. Nothing. She felt his chest, pulled out a penlight and examined his eyes, then straightened up, shaking her head. "He's gone," she said, walking toward Mulder. "What about your friend Long? Did you find him?" "Yeah," Mulder said, taking her arm and moving away from his prisoner. "The SWAT guys are pulling some prints for us now. They're going to take the body back to Atlanta for autopsy, but I wanted to go ahead and get started checking his identity." Scully nodded, then wiped her upper lip and forehead with the back of her hand and closed her eyes for a moment. Mulder watched her carefully in the dim light. "You okay, Scully?" he said, quietly. "I'm fine --," she began, and then stopped. Walk in the light, she thought, then wondered where the words had come from. Breathing slowly, she forced herself to look Mulder in the eye. "Actually, I'm about wiped out, Mulder," she said, more quietly. "I think I'll go back to the van, unless you need me here." "Not right now," he said, shaking his head, but she heard something in his voice -- happiness? But how could he be happy? "You go on back outside. I'll be there in a minute. We've got to go to Atlanta to interrogate this guy, but we'll let their agents handle the search." "So this was the place?" she asked. "This was it. And there's about two tons of high-powered ordnance here," Mulder said. He took her arm again and propelled her -- gently -- toward the open door. "Most of the stuff we found here appears to have been removed from a military installation." "Fort McClellan," Scully said, slowly. Mulder nodded. "But there was more here before. I can't be sure, but from what I remember, whoever's doing this has more than enough equipment to disperse whatever chemical or biological weapons they've got ready." He paused for a moment. "I'm reluctant even to suggest this," Mulder said, "but maybe it's time we stopped looking for the terrorists and started finding their target. Knowing who did this won't matter if a major U.S. city gets hit with aerosolized anthrax. And you know what the primary target has always been presumed to be." "Washington," Scully said, grimacing. "The seat of power in America. And also not too far from my mother." ~~~~~~~ Atlanta Field Office 4:51 p.m. Gravel Voice, to no one's surprise, would not give any information, including his name and address. "I do not recognize the authority of the federal shadow government," was all he would say. "Nor am I going to cooperate in any way with the Jew-controlled FBI." Mulder just laughed, humorlessly, and looked away, as he usually did when confronted with anti-Semitic remarks. Scully, as usual, became angry -- but she kept her cool, just turned on her heel and walked away. "Doesn't matter what he tells us anyway," Scully told Mulder as they left the interrogation room. "We've got his fingerprints." "Maybe, but we might find something out from the way he said it," Mulder said. "Something other than the usual right-wing Nazi rap. But for some reason, I don't think it matters what he tell us -- my instincts tell me he doesn't really know as much as he pretended to back in that cave." "Your instincts are good, Mulder," Scully acknowledged, with a wry smile. "But I think I'll put my faith in fingerprint ID, if you don't mind." "Go ahead and run them," Mulder said, shrugging. "My inclination is still to get an idea of where that ordnance went. Whatever the print check tells you, it won't tell you that -- and neither will he." ~~~~~~~ 5:38 p.m. Scully pulled off her glasses and rubbed her nose, right near the spot where the cancer had lived until so recently -- where it might, for all she knew, still live. She never felt certain, at times like this, that the ache between her eyes was really just tension and eyestrain, despite all the evidence that it was. It felt enough like the pain of cancer to keep her perpetually wary. The six- month checkups, the X-rays and MRIs, the blood tests, no matter how good the report, were never enough to make her sure that the cancer wasn't still there, somewhere, pressing deeper into her brain, ready to take her away. Hell of a parallel, she thought. A biological entity, hidden away God only knows where, ready to strike God only knows when, ready to take you like a thief in the night. All right, Dana, that will do, she ordered herself. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in the rear guard, waiting while Mulder goes into danger alone, called on only to pronounce death after it's all over, you'd better find a way to get your mind on your work. She shifted nervously in her chair. Mulder hadn't said anything about her reactions at the raid, but if she knew him, he'd have something to say later on, and she wasn't looking forward to it, either. How many times do we have to talk about this before he's finished with me? she thought, and immediately felt ashamed, remembering the pain he'd gone through just to make it possible for her to talk about it at all. If he wants to talk, she thought, resigned, I suppose I'll talk. But not all night. Not even for him will I do that. I just want to put this thing behind me. She picked up the freshly printed autopsy report on Long's body. His lungs were clear, which was reassuring; the toxicology report wasn't back yet, and wouldn't be for several days, but she had no doubt they'd find anti-anthrax drugs in his system. More important at this point, several possible identifying marks, along with a set of fingerprints, were included, which she could use to prove or disprove the identity of the person who'd claimed to be Mark Long. That's if we ever find his military records, she thought, gloomily. Mulder was the one who'd brought that bad news. The U.S. Navy's personnel office had no information, he'd been told, on a SEAL named Mark Long. There did not appear to be any such person, he was told. The records' disappearance, while not startling to someone who'd seen as much evidence disappear as Scully had, was still disturbing. A top-secret, covert action in Russian waters would have to have been ordered at the highest levels in the military -- or in the executive branch itself. For someone at that level to be involved in disappearing evidence was -- well, terrifying. And if that person also had the authority to order Bill Scully to sea in the wrong fleet, on a ship of a type he'd never even served on before, that could very well be a message to her -- don't interfere. Ve know you haf family, she thought, and a tiny laugh escaped her. Bad Nazi impressions, even mental ones, had no place in this. Mulder sure as hell wouldn't find it funny. And, in reality, neither did she. Once again, the parallels were entirely too close for comfort. ~~~~~~~ I-20 West 7:32 p.m. "Mulder, I know you've been accused of paranoia," Prescott said as he steered the van along the darkened interstate highway. "But this time, if you are, you've got company. Ain't there a name for that, when two people make each other crazy? Besides marriage, I mean." "Folie a deux," Mulder murmured, drawing a tired smile from his partner, although in truth she barely heard him. They'd left Atlanta a little while earlier, over Mulder's protests. Prescott, in his typical take-no-prisoners manner, had announced that they had done all they could do there and that Mulder was goddamn well coming back to Birmingham for some badly needed sleep preparatory to a good chewing out about unauthorized investigations. But Prescott hadn't started the chewing out yet -- Mulder wasn't sure he ever would -- and as of now, they were just driving back to Birmingham with Scully nearly asleep in the passenger seat. Mulder had insisted on sitting on the floor between her and Prescott; Scully was leaning against the door, occasionally mumbling responses but less and less able to keep her eyes open with every passing mile. "Whatever it is," Prescott said, shrugging his shoulders. "My gut tells me this thing is being supported at high levels of government." Mulder laughed. "I've been saying that for years. Nobody believes me -- not even Scully, not always, anyway." "I'm pretty sure Skinner believes you," Prescott said. "If he acts like he don't, it's just him, he's just being political." "Yeah, Skinner's always been pretty good at that," Mulder said, his mouth twisting in a slightly bitter smile. "I never know for sure whether I can trust him. I want to, but he's so goddamn secretive most of the time." "You would be, too, if you'd seen half of what he's seen," Prescott said, in a mild tone. "You might want to give the man a break, Mulder. From what I know of him, he won't betray you -- but he won't always tell you everything you want to know, either." "What about you, sir?" Mulder said. "You've apparently got sources inside the Navy, unless I miss my guess, and they seem unusually well informed. So will you tell me everything I want to know?" "Shit, no," Prescott said, laughing. "But I'll tell you everything you need to know, if I can." "And how am I supposed to trust you to make the distinction correctly, sir?" Mulder said, but there was no challenge in his tone, Prescott noticed, and that pleased him. "You don't have to trust me, Mulder," Prescott said, calmly, still watching the road. "All you have to do is remember who it is that hands you that check every payday, and you'll have the situation figured out." ~~~~~~~ Birmingham 8:46 p.m. "All right, Oxford boy, you're home," Prescott said as he pulled up in front of Mulder's apartment. "We'll drive up to Anniston tomorrow and get your car. I'm too damn tired tonight." "That goes for both of us, sir," Mulder said, wincing as he rose. His left leg felt completely numb; he knew it would be a mass of pins and needles before much longer. But it was worth it, he thought, casting a glance at Scully, who was sound asleep, her hands pillowed under her cheek like a little girl. Unconsciously, he smiled at the sight, and his eyes softened as he looked at her. It wasn't lost on Prescott. No graceful way of asking you where she's gonna sleep, is there? Prescott thought with amusement, looking from one agent to the other. If she had a car, it'd be a no-brainer -- I'd just drop you both off wherever she was parked -- but she don't have one, and you don't, either. So I gotta drop you both off here without making a big deal out of it. Damn, Mulder, I don't know how you managed without me, he thought, and smiled a little. He had it now. "Mulder, I don't believe Agent Scully's had a chance to get a hotel room," Prescott said. "And it's getting kind of late. I'd take her home with me but Mrs. Prescott's funny about that kind of thing. You got a spare bedroom?" Mulder smiled, half in amusement and half in gratitude. For Prescott, the question -- and the way it was phrased -- amounted to extreme tact. "We'll have to ask her if she minds," Mulder said. "Well, while you ask her, how 'bout give me your keys so I can go in and take a leak?" Prescott said. "Been a long damn trip." Mulder dug in his pocket for the keys and handed them to Prescott. "It's 1013, sir," he said. "Just drop the keys on the kitchen table, I'll be right there." "The thought of looking at your kitchen scares me 'bout as much as anything I've done today, Mulder," Prescott said with a snort, as he got out of the van and shut the door. He leaned in the window. "After all, I've seen your desk." With that, Prescott left, just as Scully opened her eyes, awakened by the sound of the door latch. "Mmm," she said, sitting up and blinking. "Where are we?" "We're at my apartment building," Mulder said, "which brings up a serious question." "What question?" she said, yawning and stretching. "The question of where you're staying," Mulder said, gently brushing a strand of hair back from her face. "If you want, we can find you a hotel room." Scully smiled. "If you'll let me, I'll stay with you," she said, softly, raising one hand to caress his face. "I want to." "Then stay with me," he said, and kissed her, very briefly. "Come on, it's late and you're still tired." Mulder opened the door and got out; Scully climbed over the center console and climbed down, still clumsy from sleep. "I'm not as tired as I was," she said, as she shut the door behind her, but she yawned again. "Where's Prescott?" "Right here," Prescott said, walking toward the van. "You two got everything figured out?" "Yes, sir, I think so," Mulder said. "Well, I'm outta here, then," Prescott said, slapping Mulder on the back. "Mulder, I'm gonna need both of you at the field office tomorrow, but I don't want to see your sorry ass before noon. You hear me?" "Yes, sir," Mulder said, absently, then seemed to come back to himself. "I'm sorry, sir. You said ... noon?" "You need a day off, Mulder, but there's no time for that right now," Prescott said. "Maybe when we get this thing done. I'll be checking a few things out in the meantime. Agent Scully, you could use some shut-eye too. See you around lunchtime." "I'll be there, sir," she said. "Mulder," Prescott said with a nod, as he climbed into the van, started the engine and drove away. Scully shook her head. "I have no secrets anymore," she said, but Mulder thought she seemed more amused than annoyed. "Anyway, it looks as though we're off duty, so what do you want to do?" "Is that a rhetorical question?" Mulder asked, taking her hand as they walked toward his door. She laughed. "No, actually, it's not," she said. "I'd imagine you're about ready for something to eat ... . behave, Mulder," she said, seeing the sly grin beginning on his face. "I meant dinner." "Oh, is that what you meant?" he said. The grin slowly faded as he let his eyes drink her in. "I still can't believe you're really here." "I am," she said, softly. "And I'll be here until we finish this. We have some time, seriously." "Not a lot," he said, opening the front door. "This thing is heating up; no matter how much I want to keep you around, we have to try to wrap this up as fast as humanly possible. After that ... I still don't know." "So what do we do now?" "Get something to eat, I guess," he said. "After that ... it's up to you." "What do you usually do in your time off these days?" "Work," he said, with a laugh as they stepped through the doorway. "What about you?" "I visit my mother, I shop for groceries, I clean my apartment ... and I get caught up on work," she said, ruefully. "Basically, I have no life." Mulder closed the door. "What about those scintillating telephone conversations with your long-distance squeeze?" he said, tossing his leather jacket onto the sofa and taking Scully in his arms. "Don't those constitute some kind of life?" "Some kind, although I much prefer sleeping with him," she said, softly. "Do you think we could arrange that?" "Yeah," Mulder said. "I think I could." His mouth descended on hers, his kiss every bit as warm, as soft and as all- consuming as before, making her shiver at the knowledge of what would come next. She opened her mouth to him, felt his tongue moving slowly against hers, invading, claiming her for his own. She tasted the salty tang of sunflower seeds on his lips, the taste reminding her once more that it was Mulder, really Mulder, not a dream or some cheap Mulder substitute like Ed Jerse. That thought sent her fever even higher, and she inhaled deeply, sharply. He lifted her sweater over her head, then dropped his hands to her waist, holding her gently. She took his hand and put it to her breast, but with little pressure, wanting to take the time to go slowly and arouse him gradually. His hand closed over her breast, and he bent to take the nipple of her other breast between his teeth, nibbling at it through her bra, and she couldn't help it -- she cried out. He raised his head then and looked at her. "Do you like that, Scully?" he said, softly. "Is that what you like?" "Mmm," she said, nodding her head, then reached up to recapture his mouth with her own, pressing her body against him. His hands slipped under her bra and unclasped it, stroking her back, her breasts, resting on her waist, rolling her nipples gently between his fingers. "You still want to get something to eat?" he murmured against her mouth. "Or would you rather do something else?" "We can eat later," she said, her voice husky. "Right now, let's go to bed and make love." Without another word, Mulder scooped her up in his arms and carried her into his bedroom, closing the door behind them. ~~~~~~~~ Mulder's apartment 9:20 p.m. Their love-making was slow this time, softer, tempered by their fatigue and Scully's emotional exhaustion. Hands touched bodies gently, fingers traced the contours of faces with reverence and exquisite care, lips and bodies moved together slowly, with no goal in mind but union, healing, restoration. And when it was over, they lay together in silence, their fingers interlaced, foreheads pressed together, until at last, with a tender kiss, they parted and lay quietly together, savoring the afterglow in silence. "Now do you want to get something to eat?" Mulder said, lazily, after a long silence. "I would rather sleep, if I thought I could," she said. "I wish you could, too. You look exhausted." He did look tired, she thought, but still strong, still Mulder, holding it all together, tending to her in his own way -- holding her, making love to her, letting her talk. Thinking about that sent a sweeping wave of affection through her for the tired, determined man next to her who for so long she had called partner and friend and now, lover. "You are good to me, Mulder," she said, very softly. He looked at her, surprised. "Where did that come from?" he asked. "It's called a compliment," she said, and she felt the smile on her lips. "Or gratitude. Whatever you want to call it. But I mean it, so just accept it, okay?" "Okay," he said, with a tired smile. "I know better than to argue with you anyway." "Since when?" she said, letting her voice show her affection, something she was still getting used to. "You always argue with me. And usually, you win." "I do not," he said. "Yes, you do," she said. "Scully, I do not win when we argue," he said, emphatically. "Never. Almost never, anyway." "You're sure about that?" she said, teasing him a little. "Absolutely." "Okay, you win," she said, in the same tone. That annoyed him, just a little. She could see it. "Nice trap, Agent Scully," he said. "You should handle more of the interrogations in this partnership." "I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, smiling apologetically. "I shouldn't tease you like that." "You don't tease, Scully," he said, and she saw with relief that he wasn't really angry. "You've never teased in your life." "You haven't been around for enough of my life to be sure of that," she observed. "But I'll try to take it in the spirit in which it was offered." "Thank you," he says, then smiled again. "You should try to get some sleep, Scully. I think the fatigue is starting to do a number on your basal ganglia." "Not enough yet, apparently," she said. "I still don't feel ...." She stopped there. "Don't feel what, Scully?" he asked, gently. "I don't really feel anything, Mulder," she said, then realized her mistake, and hurried on. "I don't mean I don't feel anything with you. You do ..." She wetted her lips. "You do wonderful things to me in bed, Mulder," she said, more softly. "I was wondering," he said, but he was almost smiling. He wasn't worried, not really, and that was how she wanted it. "It's not about you, or about us," she said. "That's not what I'm talking about. I mean about everything else that happened today, down in that -- place. I was terrified, and now I can't feel anything about it. Not much, anyway." "Maybe you're just a little tired," he said, gently. "No." She shook her head. "Just ... numb. Sort of. Dead. As though something terrible is still out there, waiting to swallow me alive." "You're not dead, Scully," he said. "You're alive. And you don't have to feel guilty about that." "I don't," she said. "Not most of the time. A lot of the time lately, I just feel -- nothing." "You're still recovering," he said, moving closer to her, putting his arm around her. "You seem to be having a hard time accepting that." "I want to be well again," she said, her lower lip trembling just a little "Is that asking too much?" "No," he said, and kissed her forehead gently. "But PTSD isn't a bad day or a bad mood, Scully. It doesn't go away all at once. PTSD does to your emotions what a fracture does to your leg. Can you think of it that way?" She laid her head against his shoulder, thinking. "I don't know," she whispered, finally. "I've had cancer, but strange as it seems, I'm still not much good at being sick. I don't know how to put up with this. I thought it would go away." "No," Mulder said, his voice gentle but definite. "Today was a big step, Scully -- from here, it gets better. It's not likely to be that bad ever again, but it never goes away completely. It just becomes part of who you are. But that can be good, believe it or not." "I fail to understand how an illness of this nature can be good for a law- enforcement officer," she said. She heard the stubbornness in her voice, and hated it, but that's just me, she thought. He ought to be used to it by now. He was. "It makes you more aware of what you're doing," he said, calmly. "It makes you more empathetic, more aware of what the limitations of your fellow officers are, and what they need. And it makes you examine how you do things, maybe come up with a better way to do them, a way that doesn't always involve a head-on confrontation." "Oh, you're a fine one to talk about that, Mulder," she said, but she nestled closer to him, pulling the covers over both of them. "I'm not going to argue that point," he said, and she could hear the beginnings of a chuckle deep in his chest. "I don't always practice what I preach, and neither do you. But you do see what I'm getting at, I hope." "Yes," she said. She tried to think of something else to say, but there really didn't seem to be anything. It makes you more aware of what your fellow officers need, she thought. What does Mulder need? She knew she didn't really need to ask. It was a truth she had known but had refused for years to face. He needed her. He needed her in his arms, needed to touch her, to be held and to feel loved. At that moment, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that -- wounded as she still was -- she could heal him, could heal both of them, simply by taking him to bed, letting him lose himself inside her and feel whole again, if only for a little while. But he had lived so long without it -- they both had -- because he simply wouldn't even try to go beyond the boundaries she had set. And for so long, no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn't bring herself to enlarge those boundaries enough to let him in. Now, she thought, it's easy; I just tell him I want to make love and we do and, in the process, I take some comfort for myself, and all these things that I hate so much to think about, let alone discuss, become so much less frightening in his arms. She moved a little against him, felt his arms holding her so gently. It was lovely, she thought, being able to feel him this way, to appraise the sight and the feel of his body, the thick, corded muscles in his arms, those arms that had always been so strong, so protective, so warm and so good on the rare occasions she had allowed herself into his embrace. And now, those arms were hers, anytime she wanted. Sighing, she curled up closer to him. Slowly, her eyes closed and she drifted off again into a peaceful sleep. "Scully?" Mulder said, quietly, when she didn't speak again. He looked down, and saw that she was asleep, and he smiled and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Sweet dreams, G-woman," he whispered, then closed his own eyes and slept dreamlessly. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful. ... ... Every farthing of the cost, All the dreaded cards foretell, Shall be paid, but from this night Not a whisper, not a thought, Not a kiss nor look be lost. Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of sweetness show Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find your mortal world enough; Noons of dryness see you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love. -- W. H. Auden Chapter 26 Fort McClellan Sunday, March 14 2:05 p.m. Mulder's car was right where he'd left it. But, as usual, nothing else was. The fenced area where Mulder had jumped aboard the truck looked for all the world as though it had been abandoned since World War II. "Sir, I promise you, there was something here two nights ago," Mulder said as Prescott stood, hands on hips, surveying the site from the roadway. They were on the base legally this time, thanks to Prescott's clout, but by gaining legal access, Mulder thought, they'd fairly well guaranteed there would be a major clean-up before they actually got inside. "Oh, I don't doubt it," Prescott said, shaking his head. "Seen this kind of thing before, Mulder, believe it or not." He pointed to a lone sentry at the gate. "Let's us get down there and ask that boy what he knows about all this." ~~~~~~ The sentry was, like most sentries, less interested in giving out information than in obtaining it. "You'll have to speak to my commanding officer, sirs," the MP said, stolidly. "We'll be happy to do that, son, but you sure could save us a little time," Prescott said. "Start with how long you've been on duty at this post." "Sir, respectfully, you will have to obtain that information from my commanding officer," the MP began again, but Prescott interrupted him. "First of all, Corporal, I'd appreciate it if you didn't 'sir' me," Prescott said. "I work for my living. Second, you're about to annoy the shit out of me with all this and you're just gonna wind up under subpoena anyway, so why don't you just tell me how long since you started standing guard at this gate?" Prescott's speech was friendly enough -- for Prescott, that is -- but Mulder noted with some amusement that the SAC's jaw was becoming more set and the liver-colored eyes were slowly turning to agate. The MP seemed to have noticed it, too; the old military joke about working for a living hadn't passed unnoticed, either. Mulder remembered Scully's telling him once that the joke was standard among senior enlisted people. "Sir," the MP began, then seemed to catch himself. "I beg your pardon. I came onto this post yesterday morning." "And you were never here before that?" Mulder asked. "No, sir," the MP said, then flinched, as though he expected a reaming out from Mulder about the 'sir,' too. Not me, pal, Mulder thought. Closest I ever got to military service was bumping into Marines at Quantico. You can call me sir all you like. "If this area is unused, why is it so carefully guarded?" Mulder asked the MP, who looked almost relieved. You got him off balance, Prescott, Mulder thought, admiringly. Couldn't have done it better myself. "Sir, this area's been the target of some vandalism and theft, from what I understand," the MP said. "There were a few incidents in the past few months when kids tried to get inside, and they could have been hurt." "What kids?" Mulder asked, feeling that tingling start in his scalp again. Prescott must have noticed, because his eyes narrowed in a way that suggested he might be having a little spider-tingle, too. "I couldn't say, sir," the MP said. "There's a log book in the CO's office. I think it might be best if you were to ask there -- sir." "Can't think of a damn thing I'd rather do than talk to some headquarters JAFO," Prescott grumbled. "Come on, Mulder, let's go polish up the brass." ~~~~~ Military Police headquarters Fort McClellan 2:41 p.m. It took two calls to the Pentagon and two more to a federal judge in Birmingham, but at last Mulder and Prescott got their hands on the logbook. And, Mulder thought as he scanned through it, it didn't take a criminal profiler to figure out why someone might have wanted to keep it hidden. There was only one entry of the type the sentry had mentioned: Four high- school ROTC students who'd scaled the fence a few weeks earlier. Only one student had actually made it inside the facility before he was caught: Wilhelm Nivek. According to the logbook, Nivek and the other students had been cautioned and released. Mulder could almost hear the solid "click" of the circle closing. The mystery - - one mystery, anyway -- was solved. Nivek got anthrax while he was at Fort McClellan, but somehow, Mulder reasoned, Nivek got away before whoever was manufacturing the deadly microbe could silence him permanently, so they came back later and finished the job. "If these cadets broke into a secure installation, what the fuck did they let 'em go for?" Prescott demanded as he read over Mulder's shoulder. "According to the file notes, Nivek begged the officer on duty to let him go because he was planning to join the regular Army after graduating from Daphne High School this spring," Mulder said, turning the page over. There were no further break-ins listed for that area. "So they cut him a break so he could get his own damn uniform, and then they killed him?" Prescott said, dubiously. "Don't make sense, Mulder." "It does if you realize that the people who cut him loose were not the ones who killed him," Mulder said, still leafing through the book. "We're going to need to take this with us, sir, or it's going to disappear." "Can't do that, Mulder," Prescott said, shaking his head, as he reached over and tore out the sheet with Nivek's name on it. "Government property. Be illegal to take it." Calmly, without hurrying, Prescott folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. Mulder just stared. "Close your mouth, Mulder, you're drawin' flies," Prescott said, zipping his windbreaker. "Come on, let's get back to the Tragic Pity and do some of that FBI shit." ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 3:13 p.m. "Scully." <"Hey, Scully, it's me. Can you look something up for me?"> "What have you got?" <"Remember our young victim?"> "Of course." <"Check and see if he ever attempted to enlist in the Army."> "Do you have reason to think that he did?" <"Very good reason. Don't call back, though; I'll be there soon, you can tell me what you find in person."> "All right. See you then." ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 3:50 p.m. "Whaddya got for me, Scully?" Mulder said, as he walked into the nearly deserted field office, where Scully sat at his desk, reading a printout. "Nice to see you, too," Scully said, absently. If she wasn't used to Mulder's occasional abruptness by now, she thought, she never would be. "What I have," she said, turning around to face him, and handing him the printouts, "is absolutely no indication that Wilhelm Nivek ever attempted to enlist in the United States Army or any other branch of military service, including the Coast Guard, which isn't technically military except in wartime. In other words, a big fat goose egg." "You sure?" Mulder said, half-sitting on the edge of the desk and leafing through the printouts. "As sure as I know how to be," Scully said. "What led you to believe that he had?" "Because that's what he told the authorities at Fort McClellan that he was going to do," Mulder said, slowly, still looking over the printouts. "It got him out of a B&E charge, but unfortunately, I believe it also led to his being murdered back in his hometown just a few days later." "Mulder, are you sure of that?" Scully asked, in surprise. "I'm sure," he said, putting down the printouts. "We found records at the fort that showed Nivek had broken into the secure area while he and his ROTC unit were there. Prescott's got the evidence with him." "That would mean that Nivek's murder really was planned ahead of time," Scully said. "It would also tell us how he got cutaneous anthrax," Mulder said. Scully sighed, and shook her head. "You win again, Mulder," she said, resigned. "I should have remembered how you got started with all this." "Profiling?" Mulder asked, and Scully nodded. "Don't get too carried away with that aspect of it. It's still 99 percent guesswork, if you ask me." "I didn't," she said, with a wry smile. "But it occurs to me that there's one other avenue I haven't checked -- and I should have. Reserve units." "Wouldn't Nivek have gone through a regular intake center to join a Reserve unit?" Mulder asked. "Not necessarily," Scully said. "Some Reserve units do their own intake." "And their own physicals?" Mulder asked, raising one eyebrow. "No, only a medical unit ..." Scully stopped, realizing what she'd said. "A medical unit. Mulder, Stouffer belonged to a medical unit." Mulder nodded. "Got the Mobile phone book handy?" he asked. ~~~~~ The sergeant at Stouffer's Reserve unit was helpful, so helpful that Mulder was almost at a loss how to proceed. "Sure, I'll be glad to look that up for you, Agent Mulder," the sergeant said. "I can tell you already, though, that nobody named Nivek ever joined any unit in this armory. I handle all the personnel files, and I'd remember a name like that." "Could you check and see if he tried to join and was rejected?" Mulder asked. "Be glad to," the sergeant said. "Hang on just a sec." In a few minutes, the sergeant was back on the line. "Found it right here," the sergeant said. "Wilhelm Nivek tried to join, sure enough, but he got rejected for medical reasons." "What was the reason?" Mulder said. For reasons he couldn't explain, his throat suddenly felt dry. "Nothing specified on the record," the sergeant said, musingly. "That's funny. Wasn't like Jon to be sloppy that way, bless his heart." "Jon?" Mulder asked. "Jon Stouffer," the sergeant said. "The company clerk. Died a little while back." "Yeah, I heard," Mulder said. Stouffer, he thought. Holy shit. "Got killed by a honest-to-God serial killer ..." the sergeant said, and Mulder could tell -- just by the voice -- that the man was getting set for one of those long Southern recitations that seemed to entertain most of the state's population. "Sergeant," Mulder asked, breaking off the story before it could start, "do you have a record of long-distance telephone calls placed from the armory?" "Yes, sir, I do," the sergeant said, sounding a little miffed. "Not sure I can give 'em to you, though." "Just tell me if anyone there called the Centers for Disease Control about the time Wilhelm Nivek was rejected for service," Mulder said, then he put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Scully, what's the name of that Army place where they do what CDC does?" "USAMRID," she said. "The U.S. Army Medical Research Institute into Infectious Diseases. Why?" Mulder held up one finger -- wait, I'll tell you in a minute, the gesture said. "Any calls to USAMRID, too, sergeant," he said into the phone. "I'd appreciate it." Mulder listened carefully, jotting notes on a pad as Scully watched. His expression told her all she needed to know. "Thank you, sergeant," Mulder said. "You've been a big help." He hung up the phone and looked at Scully. "Stouffer made one long distance call the day after Nivek was rejected," he said. "He called USAMRID," Scully said. Mulder nodded. "But the number on the phone records is the main USAMRID number. There's no way to know who answered that call." "Even if there were," Scully said, dryly, "the way this investigation's been going, the records would be long gone by now." "Almost certainly," Mulder said. "But I think we've got our connection now. Nivek got the bacteria at McClellan; Stouffer reported it to USAMRID, and someone inside USAMRID tipped off whoever it was who decided to eliminate Stouffer and Nivek and have it blamed on Lee." "What about Gentry?" Scully asked. "Where does he fit into all this?" "That's one question I haven't had the good sense to ask," Mulder said, rising and walking over to a filing cabinet. He reached inside and took out a folder -- plain manila, Scully noted with a pang -- not the red-and-white stripes of an X File. Maybe someday, Mulder, she thought, wistfully. Maybe someday we'll be back in that dark little basement office together, and it will all be like it used to be ... except that at night, we'll go home together and sleep in the same bed. "You know, I only met this guy once," Mulder said, pulling a photograph from the file. "Did the rest of the check by phone -- well, most of it, anyway." He picked up the phone, dialing the number listed on the file jacket. "Yes, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI," Mulder said. "I need to speak to the officer in charge." "Who are you calling?" Scully asked. "The 87th MAC," Mulder said. "Gentry's unit." "For what?" Scully asked. "He won't be there." "No, but I need to find out what telephone calls he may have made around this time," Mulder began, then broke off. "Yes, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. To whom am I speaking, please?" He paused, listening. "Colonel, I'm the agent who investigated Robert Gentry for top secret security clearance a while back, and I need to check one more thing." Mulder stopped there, and his eyes went wide with surprise. "Are you sure about that, sir?" he said. "No, I wasn't doubting you, I'm sorry. I was just surprised to hear that. Has anyone been able to contact him?" "What is it?" Scully whispered. "Bad news," Mulder whispered back. "No, sir," he said into the phone. "That's all I need right now, although I may be back in touch with you later. Yes, sir, thank you, I'd appreciate that." Mulder put the receiver back on the hook, slowly, and looked at Scully, shaking his head. "Gentry got his security clearance," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "He planned a single war game -- for regular Army troops at Fort Benning, Georgia -- then he disappeared. As of two weeks ago, he's officially AWOL from drill." "Oh, my God," Scully whispered. Mulder nodded, picking up the file. "Let's go see Prescott," he said, rising. ~~~~~ SAC Prescott's office 5:35 p.m. "Why would they play war games in Atlanta?" Mulder asked. Prescott eyed Mulder, shaking his head in mock dismay. "You know, Mulder," he said, exaggerating his accent as he always did when he was preparing to have some fun, "you act so much like a combat veteran that I forget sometimes that you were never in the military." "I'm not sure what you're getting at, sir," Mulder said, puzzled. "It's basic combat strategy," Prescott said. "Atlanta is where the major anti- germ defenses are: the CDC. The only real defense, if USAMRID is infiltrated. You always want to eliminate the defenses in a first strike." "Defenses against anthrax," Scully said, slowly. "So maybe Washington isn't the primary target here." "Maybe," Prescott said, shrugging one shoulder. "I don't exactly know." "Or maybe," Mulder said, thinking hard, "what we're looking at is a pre- emptive strike, with something worse to come afterward." "Such as what?" Scully asked, then she saw that familiar gleam in her partner's eye. "Mulder, don't say it," she pleaded, knowing already that it was no use. "Don't say what?" Prescott asked. Scully sighed and closed her eyes. "What you've almost certainly been waiting to hear, sir," she said, resigned. "Go ahead and say it, Mulder. You will anyway." "An alien virus," Mulder said, smiling just a little. "Feel better now, Scully?" "No," she said, almost wearily, but she was smiling a little, too. "An alien virus," Prescott said, disbelievingly. "Mulder, you almost had me thinking you were over that shit." "Never happen, sir," Mulder said, shaking his head. "Not again, anyway. But hear me out. We do have some evidence of a virus that -- whatever its origin," he said, with a quick look at Scully, "can cause rapid, widespread destruction of the human body. There is also some evidence tying this virus to a worldwide conspiracy against the American people." "Oh, shit," Prescott said, grimacing. "You had to go and get spooky on me, Mulder. What evidence?" "You wouldn't believe it if you saw it, sir," Mulder said. "Just try to trust me on this, please -- I have seen a lot of evidence of this, as has Agent Scully. I think we both know that there were those at high levels in government who were behind the destruction of the X Files." "I wasn't aware they'd been destroyed," Prescott said, eyeing Mulder with keen interest. "That does put a different spin on it. Destroyed how?" "In a fire, sir," Scully said, softly, seeing that Mulder wasn't going to answer. She saw the pain in his eyes, and she knew what he was remembering -- that dreadful night, not so long ago, when the two of them had stood together in the sodden, smoking ruins of the X Files, in the charred remainders of the investigations that had been Mulder's entire life. "A fire that was set?" Prescott asked, still looking at Mulder, who said nothing. "Yes, sir, we believe it was," Scully said. Without thinking, she reached over and laid her hand briefly on Mulder's arm, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. "The fire burned too hot and too fast not to have been arson," Scully went on, giving Mulder time to collect his thoughts. "There were no traces of accelerant, but the investigators concluded that it might have been jet fuel, which could have burned away completely." "Damn shame if a man's office ain't safe even inside the Hoover building," Prescott said. "That would seem to indicate somebody inside the Bureau cooperating with these people." "Yes, sir," Mulder said, flatly. "That is what I believe happened." "As do I," Scully said, firmly, and Mulder looked at her gratefully. Scully hadn't yet bought into the whole conspiracy theme, and maybe never would, but that made her support now all the more significant to him. "So if we operate within your theory, Mulder," Prescott said, "what's all this add up to?" Prescott plopped his feet on his desk, leaning back in his chair and steepled his fingers, waiting for Mulder's reply. "Colonization," Mulder said, without hesitation. "Someone uses anthrax to destroy the CDC, USAMRIID's already neutralized by the presence of a mole, and the next step is to loose this -- other -- virus on the population, leading to the colonization of the United States and perhaps the entire world by an alien race." "Mulder, you're startin' to scare me," Prescott said, putting his feet back on the floor. "Leave out the alien part, and this whole damn theory makes sense, from a logistical point of view." Prescott stood up. "Maybe knocking out CDC is the first strike toward something worse," he said. "But you still haven't figured out what the hell that something else is, in my book. For now, this remains an investigation into anthrax-based weapons manufacture. Come up with some hard evidence of that other theory and we'll explore it. But I ain't holdin' my breath, Oxford boy." "Yes, sir," Mulder said, rising from his chair. "I understand you perfectly." "You two go on home, get rested up, come back and see me Monday and we'll see if you've got something," Prescott said, waving the agents away. "Mulder, aren't you overreaching?" Scully said as they left Prescott's office. "There's no hard evidence to tie any of this to your global conspirators." "What about Krycek's involvement?" Mulder said. "And Marita's?" Scully thought for a moment, then spread her hands in surrender. "You're right, Mulder," she said, softly. "If this isn't part of all that, none of it makes any sense." "Scully, my brain is going into overload," Mulder said, clasping Scully's hand in his briefly. "I never thought I'd hear that from you. Let's go home like the man said; I think I'd like to quit while I'm ahead." ~~~~~ Back in the now-empty field office, Prescott sat at his desk, lost in thought. Up until now, Mulder hadn't thrown any of that X Files shit at him, Prescott thought. That he was doing it now was perplexing. Not because Mulder still believed in it; Prescott had had a pretty shrewd notion all along that Mulder's transfer to Birmingham wasn't a signal he'd given up on the Spooky stuff. What was perplexing was that only with his cool, scientific partner at his side had Mulder ventured to advance that theory. Scully seemed like the last person on earth to buy into any bullshit idea about little green men, yet if she hadn't supported Mulder's theory, she hadn't scoffed at it, either. That, Prescott thought, may just be the scariest thing about this whole thing. Prescott spun his chair around to face the computer terminal on the credenza behind him. Logging on, he checked the file where Mulder's e-mail was being tracked. On the list was one e-mail Mulder had told him to expect -- one from the guys Mulder called "The Lone Gunmen," whatever the hell that meant. Prescott clicked on the list to call up the e-mail. Inside was a full medical and dental record for Mark Long -- not just a list, either, but exact replicas of the late SEAL's military records. The records that had gone missing about the time the man died, Prescott remembered. "Who the hell are these SOBs?" he muttered, scrolling down the file. Prescott hit the "forward" button, sending copies of the file to Scully's e- mail account, and to his own. Without looking, he reached behind him, picked up his telephone and set it on the credenza. A few taps on the keyboard, and he had the number he was looking for. He dialed it. "Yeah, this is SAC Prescott over in Birmingham," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Put me over to the SAC, would you, darlin'?" "Fred," Prescott said, after a brief pause. "Dan Prescott. How the hell are you? Gettin' tired of hearing from me?" A pause. "Nah, this ain't a social call. I got some evidence shaping up that there's a threat to the CDC. Can't talk about it right now, but I expect I will in a day or two. Might want to send a couple agents over there, have 'em check out the security." There was a pause, and Prescott laughed. "Nah, don't send that SOB. He won't know what to ask 'em -- he couldn't say shit if he had a mouth full of it. Get somebody with some anti-terrorism experience, Fred -- take it from me. I'll call you when I got more." Prescott put the receiver back on the hook, and leaned back in his chair again. Then he sighed. "Don't like doing this," he said to himself, "but I don't exactly know what else to do." He reached for the telephone again, still so lost in thought that he didn't see the dark-clad man standing in his office doorway, watching him. But he heard the click as the gun was cocked. Prescott spun around, quickly, dropping the telephone and reaching for his own weapon -- but too late. The gunshot, muffled by a huge silencer, made little noise. Prescott's eyes widened as the bullet penetrated his chest. He coughed, spraying blood across the room, then slumped to the floor as the light in his eyes faded and his breathing stopped. The gunman tossed the weapon carelessly to the floor and stepped out, shutting Prescott's office door behind him. ~~~~~ Mulder's apartment 2:42 a.m. "Mulder," Scully murmured, sleepily, as the telephone awoke her from sleep, "I told you not to call me at this hour." "I think that's someone calling me," Mulder said, rolling over toward the nightstand and switching on the light. "Oh, God," Scully moaned. "Do you have to do that?" "Sorry," he said, and picked up the phone. "Mulder." "Agent Mulder?" came a tremulous female voice on the other end. "Yes?" "Agent Mulder, this is Belinda Prescott," the woman said. "Dan Prescott's wife. Is he with you?" "No, ma'am," Mulder said, instantly concerned. "He's not. Is he not home yet?" Scully, alerted by the change in Mulder's voice, sat up, listening. "No, and he should have been home hours ago," Mrs. Prescott said. "I thought, since the two of you are such good friends, that maybe y'all had gone out for a drink again ... but you say he's not with you?" "No, ma'am," Mulder said. "The last time I saw him was at the field office, but that was earlier this evening. Did you try calling him there?" "Agent Mulder, I've been calling him there since suppertime," Mrs. Prescott said, her voice breaking. "I don't know what to do. He doesn't answer his cell phone, I've beeped him and he doesn't call back, and this just isn't like him." "No, it isn't," Mulder said, rising and taking his jeans from the back of the chair where he'd draped them. "I'll go down to the field office and see if I can find out where he is. Just stay where you are and I'll call you as soon as I know something." Mulder hung up the phone and pulled on his jeans, then grabbed a clean T-shirt from his dresser. "Something wrong?" Scully said. Mulder nodded. "That was Mrs. Prescott," he said, pulling the shirt over his head. He took his weapon from the nightstand and checked the clip. "Her husband's missing," he said as he replaced the clip and shoved the gun back in its holster. "Give me five minutes," Scully said, tossing the covers aside. ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 3:13 a.m. The field office was completely dark when the agents arrived; the only light came from the streetlamps outside. "Oh, shit," Mulder said, looking toward the SAC's office. "What?" Scully said. "What is it?" "The door," he said, nodding his head in that direction. "It's closed. Prescott almost never closes his door when he leaves." "That doesn't mean he didn't this time," Scully said. "But we do need to check it out -- although if he's in there with some sweet young thing, you may be out of a job." "At this point, that would be a relief," Mulder said, "but my intuition tells me that's not what we're going to find." "I wish I thought you were wrong," Scully whispered, drawing her weapon. "Come on, let's go check." Mulder took his gun from the holster and held it down and to the side as he and Scully walked quietly toward the SAC's office door. "Sir?" Mulder called out as they neared the door. "Sir, it's Agent Mulder -- are you in there?" Silence. Mulder tried the doorknob. Locked. Mulder started to raise his fingers to give the silent count, but then he remembered -- this was Scully. They hadn't needed that signal for years, not when it was just the two of them. But when he looked down, Scully's eyes were already on him; she paused for a moment, then nodded. Mulder kicked in the door, and Scully crouched, weapon before her, as Mulder raised his above her head ... They both saw him at the same time. "Oh, shit," Mulder whispered as Scully quickly holstered her gun and moved forward to check Prescott's neck for a pulse. She thought her own heart might stop. Looking up at Mulder, though, she realized she wouldn't have to tell him anything. He'd seen death enough to recognize it clearly by now. "I'm sorry, Mulder," Scully said, softly, sitting back on her heels. "How long?" Mulder said, his voice harsh in the silence. "A few hours at least," Scully said. "Long enough for whoever did this to get away, at any rate." She rose, and reached into her pocket for a latex glove. She pulled it on, and carefully flicked the light switch, flooding the room with a harsh fluorescent glow. "Mulder," she said, gently, "we have to get out of this room and call in an evidence team." Nodding dumbly, Mulder followed Scully from the room. Once outside, he sank into the same straight-backed chair where he had waited to be called into Prescott's office on his first day here, and sat staring into the distance. Scully watched him for a moment, then pulled out her cell phone and dialed the FBI emergency number. "Yes, this is Special Agent Dana Scully, badge number JTT0331613," she said. "There's been a homicide at the Birmingham Field Office, and we need assistance immediately." ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office Monday, March 15 6:47 a.m. The evidence team was nearly finished with its task, and the Department of Forensic Sciences had already taken Prescott's body to the lab. Mulder had roused himself from shock almost immediately, and had given his statement to the ASAC and the Birmingham Police detective who'd been called in to assist. He had insisted on calling Mrs. Prescott himself. "She called me, Scully," he'd said. "I'm the one she's expecting to hear from." Mulder had gone into the ASAC's office to make the call, and had emerged, gray- faced and shaken, about five minutes later. "Did you tell her?" Scully asked, quietly, and Mulder had nodded. "She's on her way," he said. Now, as they sat waiting for Mrs. Prescott to arrive, Scully slipped her hand into Mulder's, and he clasped it gratefully. "Who do you think did this, Mulder?" Scully said, softly. He shook his head. "Could have been anybody," he said. "The security tapes might tell us." "If it's the people we've faced before, won't they have taken care of that?" Scully asked. Mulder shrugged, looking off into some unseen distance. "Maybe," he said, thoughtfully. "But there's always a chance there's one camera they didn't see. You can't exactly case an FBI office carefully beforehand." "Not usually," Scully said. She refrained from voicing her strongest thought -- that whoever did this probably had someone inside the FBI feeding them just exactly that information. Or, she realized with a sudden shock, someone in another branch of the federal government. "Mulder," Scully said, her throat suddenly dry. "Prescott had contacts in the Navy." "Yes, he did," Mulder said. "Are you seeing a connection here that I'm not?" "Something he said to me in Atlanta," Scully said, nodding. "He said that Bill was all right and that he'd be home pretty damn quick. I think he knew that because he'd arranged it." "We still don't know why your brother was on Nassau in the first place," Mulder said. "Right now, I'm drawing a blank as far as a reasonable theory. Do you have one?" "It could be part of the plan to make us stop our investigation into biological weapons," Scully said, after a pause. "And maybe a way to show me that they could get to my family -- not that I didn't already know that. After all, they got to your father, Mulder." "Yeah," Mulder said, looking down. "But it didn't happen this time." He raised his eyes to hers. "They didn't get to your brother." "He's not home yet," Scully said, taking Mulder's hand briefly. "But if he makes it home, it may be because you found out what was happening and you told someone who could stop it. You trusted Prescott; and I know that's not easy for you." "If Prescott intervened, then he may have been killed in retaliation for it," Mulder said, grimly. "Maybe he pulled enough strings to foul up someone's plans." "Because if Bill was supposed to die," Scully said, feeling the tightness in her throat again, "he was probably supposed to die in a way that might implicate him with the anthrax plot." Mulder nodded. "I think you're right, Scully. At least, the theory accommodates all the known facts." "And some that aren't known," Scully said, softly. "You're rubbing off on me, Mulder -- I'm speculating here." She started to say more, but then she felt Mulder's hand tighten around hers, then let go. "She's here," he said, rising. Scully sat watching as Mulder walked, shoulders slightly bent, toward the weeping woman. They talked for a few minutes, then Mrs. Prescott burst into tears and Mulder put his arms around her, held her for a few moments until she quieted a little, then handed her over to the ASAC. When he walked back to Scully, she could see the tears in his eyes. "What did she say, Mulder?" Scully asked, taking his hand again as he sat beside her. "She said ..." Mulder stopped, and swallowed, the way he always did if he was trying not to cry. "She said that Prescott talked about me all the time, that it was 'Mulder did this,' and 'Mulder said that,' and that she just knew he and I were the closest of friends. That was why she called me." "Oh, Mulder," Scully said, feeling a lump in her own throat. He shook his head. "Scully, I need you to do something for me," he said, very low. "Anything, Mulder, you know that," she said, squeezing his hand. "I need you ... I need you to get me out of here," he said, and then bit his lip, breathing slowly. After a moment, he went on. "Because I think I'm about to lose it," he said, turning toward her with a look that broke her heart, "and I wouldn't want anyone but you to see that." "Let's go," she said, rising, still holding his hand. "Agent Mulder," the ASAC called out. "I think we've got a couple more questions for you." "I'll have him back here in a minute, sir," Scully said, as she walked toward the outer door. "I need him to ... check some possible tire tracks." "Oh," the ASAC said. "Well -- let me know what you find." "Yes, sir, we will," Scully said, still walking. She pushed the door open, and steered Mulder quickly down the dark hallway toward what looked like -- and was -- an empty room. They just made it. The door closed behind them with a soft snick, and almost as though the sound were a trigger, Mulder buried his face on Scully's shoulder and wept like a lost child. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair, This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. "Return From Paumanok" -- Walt Whitman Chapter 27 Birmingham Field Office Monday, March 15 9:28 a.m. "Agent Mulder?" As one, Mulder and Scully looked up from the computer terminal. It was the ASAC. "Sir?" Mulder said, dragging himself with difficulty away from the utterly fruitless leads he'd been trying to trace -- with Scully's now-expert help -- through VICAP's extensive database. "Agent Mulder, there's a report for you on a print check you submitted Saturday," the ASAC said. "I signed for it. Here it is." The ASAC handed Mulder a brown mailing envelope. "Thank you, sir," Mulder said. "Is that our terrorist?" Scully asked, scooting her chair closer to Mulder's, as the ASAC walked away. "Probably," Mulder said, then gave a humorless laugh. "Somehow, I'm having trouble getting worked up about this guy right now." "I know, Mulder," Scully said, softly. "But I can't help thinking that all this will come together for you, and very soon. I know how you think. And if there's anything at all in there, you need to know it, to help you get that picture that's eluding you right now." "I hope you're right," Mulder said, rubbing his forehead. "Because right now I'm not thinking very clearly at all." "That's understandable," she said, gently. "You're grieving, Mulder. That's normal. But like you're always telling me -- it will get better." "I talk too much for my own damn good," Mulder said, a little gruffly, as he opened the envelope and took out the print-outs inside, then gave a long, low whistle. "What is it?" Scully asked. "Gravel Voice has a name," Mulder said, reading over the report. "He's Martin Adamson, 51 years old, a native of Idaho, and he has a lengthy criminal record. Perhaps not surprisingly, he also has ties to several western U.S. militia groups -- including some that have been known to support domestic terror." "So that's it?" Scully said, sounding almost -- annoyed, Mulder thought. "This is a domestic terror operation, and nothing more?" "You know I don't believe that," Mulder said, shaking his head and tossing the papers aside. "I just don't exactly know what it is." "You know exactly what you think it is," Scully said, but her serious tone of voice didn't entirely match the almost indulgent look on her face. "You think this is a prelude of some kind to alien colonization. You haven't budged an inch from that, even if you haven't mentioned it since ..." She broke off there, remembering. "Since we talked to Prescott?" Mulder said, raising his eyebrows. "No. I haven't. And now I'm wondering if anyone was listening -- and if so, might they not be listening now? So let's hold this part of the discussion until some other time, all right?" Scully sighed heavily, then spread her hands in a gesture of resignation. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, you know," she said. "I know that," Mulder said, but the ringing of his desk phone cut off whatever else he was about to say. "Mulder," he said as he answered it, and then his eyes went wide. "How are you, sir? It's been a while." "Who is it?" Scully whispered. "Skinner," Mulder whispered back, putting his hand briefly over the mouthpiece. "Yes, sir, she's right here," he said into the mouthpiece, then he handed the receiver to Scully. "He wants to talk to you." "This is Agent Scully, sir," she said into the phone. "You wanted to speak to me?" As Mulder watched, her face changed from apprehension -- an understandable emotion in anyone talking to Skinner -- to disbelieving joy. "Sir, that's wonderful news," Scully said, closing her eyes and sighing with relief. "I appreciate your passing it along to me." Then, just as quickly, her expression changed to apprehension again. "Sir, if you don't mind ..." She stopped, abruptly. "No, sir, I didn't mean to imply that at all," she said, closing her eyes. "I'll be there on the next available flight." She paused again. "Yes, sir. Tell Kimberly I appreciate it." Scully looked at Mulder apologetically. "He wants to talk to you." "What's up?" Mulder whispered, but Scully shook her head. "I'll tell you in a minute," she whispered back. "It's good news and bad news." "Great," Mulder muttered, then took the receiver. "Yes, sir?" he said, then listened, his face twisting in something that -- to Scully -- looked very much like pain. "Effective when, sir?" "What is it?" Scully mouthed, and he shook his head. "No, sir, I can't say that I'm pleased, but I'll go wherever you put me," Mulder said. "But I need another couple of days here." Another pause. "Yes, sir, I'll tell her. I'm looking forward to it, too, sir." Mulder hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He looked a little dazed, Scully thought. "What's up?" she said. "You tell me first -- what's the good news?" "We may have been right about SAC Prescott's intervention; my brother's ship is expected in port tonight," she said, smiling. "I know you don't like him ..." "That's got nothing to do with anything," Mulder said, shaking his head. "I'm happy to hear that he's home safely -- or that he will be." "Mulder, I can't tell you how much I've worried about him," Scully said, simply. "Especially since you met that SEAL." "Well, it looks as though things are all right with your brother, anyway," Mulder said. "Now what's the bad news?" "Ah -- the bad news," Scully said. "I have to go back to D.C. Tonight." "Back to VICAP?" Mulder said, with a look that begged her to tell him no. "No -- but back to Quantico," she said, and sighed. "Not to VICAP, not yet, anyway. Skinner has ordered me to bring SAC Prescott's body there and do the autopsy myself. Kimberly has me booked on a 2 o'clock flight to Dulles today." Mulder closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head wearily. "Well, I have similar news," he said. "I have to go back, too -- to Investigative Support -- but not today." "You're kidding," Scully said, amazed. "For what reason?" "Because Skinner wants me there to work on this case," he said, opening his eyes again. "The anthrax connection seems finally to have impressed someone at Hoover -- maybe someone higher up than Skinner. Anyway, he says I have to figure out who's behind this, and he wants me to handle it from D.C." "Mulder, that's wonderful," Scully began, but stopped when she saw the look in his eyes. "Oh. You have to go back to profiling?" Mulder nodded, grimly. "And you don't want to do that," Scully said, sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Mulder." "I would almost rather be shot than profile full time again," he said, flatly. "But if it gives me a way to find out who killed Prescott -- and a way to be with you -- I'll deal with it." "Mulder," Scully began, then hesitated. When she spoke again, it was in a much lower tone, one pitched exactly to reach Mulder's ears and not an inch further. "Mulder, I know you're not happy about this, but I can't help it -- I am. The thought of being able to work with you again is ... well, it's all I've really wanted for months now." "I know that, Scully," Mulder said. "And I want to work with you, too. But I can't help it if I don't want to go back to that kind of psychic hell. And it doesn't get me one step closer to taking back the X Files." The heaviness in his voice was clear, and Scully automatically swept him with an assessing glance. His eyes were still red-rimmed and tired, and his shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped, she thought; once again, he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and once again, I am leaving him to do it alone. For just a moment, Scully contemplated calling Skinner and telling him they had both come down with a bad case of equine encephalitis or something and couldn't fly back yet. But that wouldn't do, and she knew it. That didn't mean there was nothing she could do to ease his burden, though. "Mulder?" Scully said, and he raised his weary eyes to hers. "Let's call it a day. You're tired and you haven't eaten, and neither have I, and I have to get my things." She paused for a moment. "Let's go home," she said. "Home?" he repeated, as though he was unsure he'd heard her correctly. "Home," she said, firmly. "You and me." ~~~~~~~ Mulder's apartment 10:17 a.m. "Mulder, are you sure you don't want to come back with me tonight?" Scully asked as they walked through the door. He shook his head. "I want to," he said. "The way I feel right now, I can't get out of Alabama fast enough." He went into the kitchen, tossing his suit coat over a chair as he went. "I just don't want to leave here until I have some idea of who killed Prescott, and the lab guys are still working on the security tape. You want anything from in here?" "A glass of water, if it's not too much trouble," she said, sitting on the couch. "If it weren't so early, I'd ask you for something stronger." Mulder walked from the kitchen, two glasses of water in his hands, and gave Scully one. "Thanks," she said, taking a sip. "You're welcome," he said, sitting next to her. "What's making you want a drink this early in the day?" "Nothing all that bad," she said. "It's just that in the middle of being happy that you're coming back to D.C., I forgot that I have to autopsy Prescott. I hate to autopsy someone I know -- knew." Mulder nodded, slowly. "I guess I forget sometimes how hard this can be for you," he said, thoughtfully. "I always think you're just used to performing autopsies." "I got used to performing autopsies a long time ago, Mulder," she said, with a little shrug. "But every forensic pathologist, sooner or later, comes up against a body that shakes him or her up." She took another sip of water. "When it's someone I know," she said, setting the glass down, "it's infinitely worse, because I identify with them. I wonder when they knew that they were going to die. I wonder if they ever gave up hope of being rescued, or whether they began to hope for death, to welcome it as a release from pain." "Is that the hardest part?" Mulder asked, softly. "Wondering?" "No, it's looking at their hands," Scully said, without hesitation. "People always imagine that the faces are what disturb you, but it's almost always the hands. It was when I was in medical school. It still is." "Why is that?" Scully paused for a minute, gathering her thoughts. "I suppose," she said, slowly, considering, "because there is more essential humanity in the hands than in any other part of the body. The face doesn't even come close. Hands are what touch you, hands are what carry out all the daily tasks of living. And, I believe, we think of ourselves as a pair of hands, because that's what we see, more than anything. I see _your_ face, but I see _my_ hands." "That's an interesting way to look at it," Mulder said, nodding, then he smiled, wryly. "The sort of thing a profiler might tuck away in his brain for later use." "And no matter what else you ever become, Mulder, you will always be that," Scully said, returning the smile. "You couldn't stop if I put a gun to your head." "I know that," he said, shaking his head ruefully. "Sometimes, I wish I didn't. I don't particularly enjoy this reflexive urge to analyze every crime report in the newspaper, or to stow away tidbits of behavioral psychology like a squirrel putting away acorns for the winter." "But it helps you understand," Scully said, taking his hand. "And I know what it costs you, but I'm still glad that you do it. I'm glad you help catch these monsters. I know what it is to be helpless and in torturous pain, pain inflicted by someone who cares nothing for what you're suffering. Flashes of it still come back to me sometimes." "That will get better, in time," Mulder said, very low. "I promise." "I believe you," Scully said, with a gentle smile. "Really, I do, because I can feel it happening. But sometimes, it's still bad. I still feel numb, off and on, or unable to concentrate, or just emotionally dead. It is better, though." Mulder watched her for a moment, thinking, then leaned closer to give her a soft, slow kiss. "That felt good," she said as he pulled away. "Felt good to me, too," he said, putting his arm around her. "So you're not completely numb, and you're certainly not dead." "No, not completely," she said, nestling closer to him. "I wish we had more time. There were so many things I wanted to say to you." "We have some time," Mulder said. "Not much, but some. What did you want to tell me?" "A lot of things," she said, with a sad little laugh, shaking her head. "That I love you and I want you, most of all. That I want to be your partner again, officially, and I want us to be as comfortable working together when we get back to D.C. as we always were." "I don't think we're doing too badly at that, Scully," Mulder said. "We just need a little more time to get used to things." "Time is what we have the least of these days," she replied. "I want to solve this anthrax mystery, once and for all, but I don't want to try to do it without you. That didn't work well the first time around." "We'll be working together again in just a few days." "But how many days, Mulder? And is this permanent, or just a temporary assignment? I know you don't want to do this. I can't think of an assignment you'd want less. So how long until you're gone again and I'm alone?" "I can't answer that," he said, very quietly. "I wish I could." Scully nodded. She drained the last of the water from her glass and stood up, setting the glass down on the coffee table. "I'd better get my things together," she said, kissing his cheek, "such as they are." "Scully," Mulder called out, then stopped, gnawing on his lower lip uncertainly. "What?" she said. When he didn't answer, she sat down again and took his hand. "Mulder, what is it?" "Look, I don't want to go back to BSU," he said. "I want to get back to the X Files, whatever's left of them. I want us both to get over all this trauma and get back to doing what we do best. But if it's a choice between the X Files and being with you, well -- call me Clarice Starling." He was serious, but Scully burst into laughter -- as she was pretty sure he'd meant for her to do. "Oh, for God's sake, Mulder," she said, putting her hand over her mouth. "I can't call you that. That would make me Hannibal Lecter or something." "Nah, you'd be that old guy, the one that they based on John Douglas," Mulder said, holding her hand more tightly, but he was smiling now. "What the hell was his name, anyway?" "Jack Crawford," Scully said, still chuckling. "Thanks so much. How can you not remember that? You're the one with the photographic memory, not me." "I didn't read the book," he said, shrugging his shoulders, but he was still smiling. "I saw the movie. I have to see the words before the old eidetic memory kicks in." "Well, I'm not going to call you any of those names," Scully said, laying her head on his shoulder. "No?" Mulder said, putting his arm around her. "No," Scully said, firmly. "Absolutely not." "So it's just Mulder forever and aye, is that it?" "Well ..." Scully said, slowly, "that's not what I call you in my mind." "Oh, God, not Fox, please," he said, groaning. "Not a chance," Scully said, airily. "Even though I now have your permission to use it, I still think I'll leave that one to the delightful Agent Fowley." "Ouch," Mulder said, wincing. "Your eyes are turning green -- and for what I'm sure are very good reasons," he added, quickly, as he saw Scully's eyes narrowing. "Just tell me what your secret name for me is and let's leave unpleasant subjects aside." "Love," Scully said, simply. "Love what?" "No, love," she said, quietly, a softer smile on her lips now. "That's what I call you." Mulder thought for a minute. "I like it," he said, finally. "I'm glad," Scully said, turning to kiss his cheek. "But of course, I already know what you call me." "Do you, now?" Mulder said, raising one eyebrow. "And just how do you know that?" "Because of what you said when I was having that awful nightmare in Daphne," she said. "You called me baby." "Did I?" Mulder seemed genuinely surprised. "You did," she nodded. "I liked it, too. I kept hoping you'd do it again." Mulder nodded solemnly. "I'll try it out," he said, then gave a short laugh. "Somehow, though, I can't see us walking around Quantico addressing each other in terms of endearment." "I can't either," Scully said. "So I guess we'll just have to stick with Mulder and Scully." "All the time?" he asked, a little wistfully. "No, not all the time," she said, snuggling a little closer. "There'll be times for -- other names." She thought for a moment, then looked at her watch. "Like now," she said. "Now is a good time for that." "How so?" "We have a few hours," she said, nuzzling against his throat in the way he was coming to recognize as a clear signal. And he was developing a well-conditioned response to it, too. "And what do you want to do with those few hours?" he murmured. "I want to make love one more time," she said, continuing her slow, sensual exploration of the pulse behind his ear, her hand dropping to the rapidly growing bulge in his trousers. "Take me to bed, Mulder. Please. Now." ~~~~~ Mulder's apartment 11:36 a.m. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, way too brightly, Scully thought, and something was keeping her from moving. Scully opened her eyes, confused for a moment. Then she saw Mulder, lying on his side, one leg thrown over her, his hand lying on her bare stomach. She was wearing his shirt, and the tail of it was caught underneath him. She was thoroughly trapped, pinned down like a butterfly. She loved it. She nestled closer to him and closed her eyes. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to wake up," she heard him say. "I didn't know you were awake." "Sort of. Half awake, at best," he said, rising up on one elbow. "I was watching you sleep. I'm not sure I ever really got the chance before. But I think I fell asleep again." He bent over, kissed her gently. "You're beautiful when you're sleeping." "So are you," she said. "So what do we do now?" "Shower. Get dressed. After that ... I have to take you to the airport." "Good, you can buy your own plane ticket home while you're there," she said. "Come on, Mulder, get up. Or at least get off me." "You are no fun at all," he said, rolling over. "I'll be a lot more fun after I get out of the bathroom, Mulder," she said, climbing out of bed. She turned back to him. "But feel free to join me in the shower, if you like." "Hey, why don't I get the bathroom first?" he called after her. "It's my apartment, isn't it?" "I'm company," came the voice from down the hall. "I'll be out in two minutes." "The thrill is gone," he groaned comically, although he was pretty sure she couldn't hear him. He flopped back on the bed, and caught the faint scent of Dana Scully on the pillow next to him. God, if I could just keep that smell somehow, if I could just take that out and smell it sometimes, I'd be a happy man, he thought. Wonder if I could? With a quick look down the hall to make sure she wasn't watching, he got up, took the pillowcase off and folded it, put it on the top shelf of his closet. Great. Now she's going to notice there's one missing, stupid. The sheets are in the bathroom where she is. Maybe I could slip in there and get one ... "Mulder?" she called from down the hall. "You want a shower?" "Be right there," he called. He grabbed the uncovered pillow and shoved it under the bed, throwing the covers over the rest of the pillows, and headed down the hall to join her. ~~~~~ Birmingham Field Office 5:01 p.m. Prescott's death led the evening news -- the network evening news. Mulder wasn't paying much attention. Between the now-familiar pain of saying goodbye to Scully without knowing when they might say hello again, and his near- obsessive study of the scant evidence in Prescott's death, he was barely even aware that anyone else was in the field office. They'd talked non-stop en route to the airport, about everything and about nothing, storing up the sights and sounds of each other as a defense against the silent nights that lay ahead. At the gate, Scully had kissed him gently, and he had held her just for a moment, inhaling the soft lavender scent of her hair, until she had stepped away from him. "I'll see you in a few days," she said. "I'll probably stay with my mom for a day or two if you want to call me." That was all she said, but her eyes added a plea: Make it soon, love. Soon, his eyes answered. Very soon. And he had nodded once and turned away, not wanting this time to stay around and watch her disappear through the doorway, as if by not seeing it he could believe that she was still here, somewhere, just out of his line of sight. But she was gone, and he was back in the field office surrounded by grief- stricken support staff and agents -- agents who, unlike Mulder, weren't dealing with the added shame of knowing that it was their case that got their revered SAC killed. Mulder, however, was nearly suffocating under that shame, and he was dealing with it the only way he knew how: Find Prescott's killer. He owed it to the SAC's widow, and to Scully, and to himself. No, he had no time and no attention at all to spare for the evening news, although the rest of the local agents -- some crying openly, some silent and still -- were gathered around watching together as the ASAC spoke at a hastily convened press conference. "We have some leads which we are pursuing at this time," the ASAC was saying. Liar, Mulder thought, without malice, as he scanned over the police reports for the umpteenth time. What we've got is what my grandmother would have called bupkes -- nothing. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder looked up from his work. It was Dan Michaels, the young newbie who'd gone with Mulder to investigate the slaying in Shelby County. "What is it, Michaels?" Mulder said, carefully ignoring the younger man's reddened eyes and thick voice. "Agent Mulder, the ASAC's got the enhanced security tape ready," Michaels said, clearing his throat. "Sorry. He asked if you would step into his office for a moment -- there's something on there he wants you to see." "Tell him I'll be right there," Mulder said, gathering up the papers and putting them carefully away in a desk drawer. See, Scully? he thought. I'm not immutable. Pig-headed, maybe, but I can be careful if I want to. I can clean off my desk before I leave it, just like you always told me I should. I can take your advice sometimes ... even when you're not here to give it. Closing the drawer, he straightened his shoulders and walked to the ASAC's office. "Agent Mulder, come in," the ASAC said. Using the remote control as a pointer, he gestured toward the television screen. "We've got an unknown subject in the building around the time of the SAC's death," he said. "I was wondering if you recognized this man as someone connected to the case y'all were working together." Mulder looked at the screen and felt his blood turn to ice. "Sir, could you rewind that part and play it back?" he said, in as normal a tone as he could manage. And he watched it again, watched the tall, slender figure walk toward Prescott's office, gun in hand, and stand in the doorway with the gun raised. He watched, fury churning in his brain, as the man on the screen pulled the trigger and the gun fired. "Once more, sir?" he said, perfunctorily, although he no longer had any doubt about what he was seeing. "Who do you think it is, Mulder?" the ASAC asked. "Do you have any suspicion?" "No, sir," Mulder said, a chilling almost-smile spreading across his face -- but not all the way to his eyes. "I don't have any suspicion. What I have is a certainty. Stop it there," he said, pointing at the screen. "That's him. That's the photo you need to put out with the bulletin." "You know who this is?" the ASAC said, watching Mulder intently. Mulder nodded. "I know him, all right. And I should have killed him years ago when I had the chance. His name is Alex Krycek." ~~~~~ Maggie Scully's home Wednesday, March 16 6:15 p.m. "Mmm, great dinner, Mom," Dana said, getting up from the table and beginning to clear plates. "I haven't had your pot roast in so long I forgot what it tasted like." "I'm glad you liked it, Dana," Maggie said as they headed to the kitchen. "I don't get much chance to cook for anyone else lately. It's almost recreational for me." "I'll bet it wasn't when we were growing up," Dana said, laughing. "I remember thinking back then that I couldn't understand how you could work as hard as you did. I went to school, did my chores, did my homework, and I was done, while you were still up into the night, cleaning, sewing, doing laundry ... " "I never minded it, really," her mother said, as she turned on the taps to wash the dishes. "It kept me busy while your father was at sea." "But when he was home, you had twice as much work to do," Dana reminded her. "I never minded that, either," Maggie said with a smile, handing her daughter a dishtowel. For a few minutes they worked in silence, Maggie washing and rinsing, Dana drying the dishes and putting them away. Not until they were down to the pots and pans did Maggie break the silence. "All right, Dana," she said, scrubbing away at the roasting pan. "What made you decide to come all the way to Baltimore to pick your brother up at the dock in the middle of the work week?" "Do I have to have a reason to visit my mother and my brother?" "Lately, yes, you do," Maggie said, but she was smiling. "Ever since you and Fox got back together ... " "We didn't get back together, Mom," Dana interrupted. "We were never together before." "Semantics," her mother said, rinsing out the heavy pan. "All I'm saying is that since you two have been a long-distance couple, I haven't seen you much. You're always at home, waiting by the phone. Not that I mind," she said, as Dana seemed about to interrupt again. "I don't. I haven't seen you this happy in a long time. But it is unusual for you to volunteer to get Bill. Is there something unusual about this particular voyage?" "I was -- just concerned about him, and I wanted to see him," Dana said, taking the pan from her mother and beginning to dry it. "And I couldn't help wondering where he had been for so long." "You flew all the way from Alabama to Baltimore on a week night for that?" Maggie said. "Dana, is something wrong?" "Not with Bill, not that I know of," Dana said. "I was ordered back home for something else." "A case?" "Yes." "And it involves Bill?" "Not Bill himself, no," Dana said. "Although if what we suspect is correct, Bill has been in some danger, and could be again. But I can't really say much about it." "Well, I'm sure there's some good reason why he hasn't been in touch," Maggie said, calmly. "The Navy must have good reasons for secrecy, which Bill is bound by his oath to protect. You just have to trust that the Navy knows what's best here." "I'm not -- entirely certain that I trust the Navy anymore, Mom," Dana said, looking down as she folded the dishtowel and hung it on the rack. "I don't know that I trust any branch of the military anymore." "Well," Maggie said. She walked over to the wooden kitchen table and sat down. "I'm glad your father wasn't here to hear you say that." "It wouldn't surprise him," Dana said, coming to sit next to her mother. She took Maggie's hand. "Mom, you know Dad never trusted the FBI. That was one of his main objections to my becoming an agent. But that kind of mistrust is a fact of life among government agencies, in part because we're all competing for our share of the taxpayers' money, but also because our interests are sometimes in conflict. Dad might not have liked to hear me say it, but he would have understood my reasons. I wish you could, too." For a long time, Maggie Scully said nothing, but she wrapped her fingers around her daughter's hand. "Dana, when you and I talked at Christmas, you said there were things about your work you couldn't tell me, things that you didn't want anyone to know," Maggie said, slowly. "You said you felt as though you'd be tearing down the wall between hell and humanity." "I remember, Mom," Dana said, softly. "Well," Maggie said, then looked up at her daughter. "Then I suppose I have to trust that you know what it is you're keeping back from the rest of humanity, and that you're committed to keeping that wall strong. You've been through a lot in the past few years, and yet you've come back stronger than ever." "Then please believe that what I'm doing is right, and honorable," Dana said, tightening her grip on her mother's hand. "And believe that I would tell you if I thought it was safe for you to know, and would do anything to protect Bill." "I never doubted that, baby," Maggie said, putting her arms around her daughter briefly. "I never doubted it for a moment." Just then the phone began to ring. Maggie turned and looked up at the clock, frowning. "Who could that be at this hour?" she said, getting up, but Dana stopped her. "It's probably Mulder," she said, with an apologetic smile. "I told him I'd be here." "Oh," Maggie said, then she smiled. "Well, go answer the phone, then. And tell him I said hello." "I will, Mom," Dana said. She kissed her mother's wrinkled cheek softly. "And thanks." Maggie watched as Dana walked into the living room toward the telephone. "Dana?" she called out as her daughter reached for the receiver. "Yes, Mom?" Dana said, her hand paused in mid-air. "Give Fox my love." Dana's face broke into the brightest smile her mother had seen since she was a child. "I will, Mom," she said, picking up the phone. "I will." ~~~~~ "Hello?" <"Scully, it's me. Krycek's on the security tape."> "Mulder, you can't be serious." <"I'm deadly serious. It's Krycek. He shows up clearly, standing in Prescott's doorway and firing the kill shot."> "That motherfucker. That goddamned motherfucker. I could kill him for that." <"My sentiments exactly."> "Any ideas where we might find him?" <"Not here. Not now. He'll be long since gone. Where else he might go -- I couldn't tell you."> "Do you know him well enough to come up with any kind of profile, any suggestion of what he might do?" <"If it were anyone but Krycek, I'd say yes. But he's a devious son-of-a- bitch. There's no telling where he might go or what he may do. Still, there's little point in my sticking around here."> "Are you coming back to D.C.?" <"Later tonight."> "Really?" <"Yeah. But it'll be really late, Scully."> "Why don't you fly into Baltimore instead, and I'll pick you up?" <"What about your brother?"> "I'm going to go pick him up in a few minutes." <"No, I mean ..."> "I know what you mean. I still want you to come here. If we're going to find Krycek before he gets away for good, we need to start as soon as we can. Can you change your ticket?" <"If you're sure it'll be okay with your family ... all right."> "That's wonderful. Call me on my cell phone when you get in, and I'll be right there to pick you up." <"I'll take a cab. I know where your mom's house is."> "Yes, you do, don't you?" <"Uh-oh. Is there still a bad odor about the Mulder name in the Scully home?"> "No. Not at all. Mom and I were just talking about you." <(pause) "You were?"> "Yes, and it was all good, so don't panic." <"I never panic."> "You said you were panicking in Dallas when you were locked in a vending room with a giant IED." <"Yeah, well, that was different." (pause) "So what were you ladies saying about me?"> "Mom said to give you her love." <"You're kidding."> "No, really, she did. Just now." <"That's -- amazing."> "Oh, I don't know. I don't find it all that hard to love you." <"You're not your mother."> "If I were, I'd be too old for you, wouldn't I? Mulder, what am I going to tell Bill about this anthrax threat?" <"It might be safer for him if you didn't tell him anything."> "Mulder, if what you suspect is correct, then my brother could have been exposed to this without knowing it." <"He's almost certainly had the vaccine. But if there is any danger to him, we'll tell him."> "Are you sure we'll know?." <"Scully, don't worry about your brother, please. I'm not going to let anything happen to him, even if he does think I'm a sorry son of a bitch."> (softly) "You know, you really are wonderful." <"No, I'm not. I'm just obsessing over this case, wishing to Christ I'd killed Krycek years ago and hoping like hell I get another crack at him."> "It's normal for you to feel that way. You're angry, Mulder, and you're still grieving." <"No, I'm not. I wish I were."> "What do you mean?" <"I mean I don't grieve. I never have, really. Not when Samantha was taken, not when my father was killed -- I came closest to it when Emily died, but I still don't do it too well."> "Didn't you take any sociology classes along with your psych requirements?" <"My tutor wasn't big on sociology. Why?"> "Because if you had, you'd know more about grieving as a cultural phenomenon." <"Elucidate, please, Agent Scully."> "Well, for example, when Irish Catholics grieve, they light candles and say the rosary and go to the cemetery every All Souls Day." <"I'm not an Irish Catholic."> "No, you're a Russian Jew. But you have those kinds of rituals available to you, you know." <"Not interested."> "Why not?" <"I don't believe in it."> "You don't believe in it as a religious experience, or you don't believe that such a ritual exists, or you don't believe that communal grieving is efficacious?" <"I mean I don't believe in God, Scully. Why would I stand around with a kipoh on my head mouthing words I don't believe and can't even really understand?"> "For the same reason you stood around with all those other people who were mouthing those same words at Jonathan Stouffer's house -- because it's part of who you are. It's how your family has grieved for -- centuries, probably. Maybe millennia. If it worked for them, it could work for you." <"They believed. I don't."> "I've always thought that one of the best things about being Jewish is that you don't have to believe to belong. When I lost my faith, I didn't really belong anymore: a Catholic who doesn't believe isn't really a Catholic. But a Jew who doesn't believe is still a Jew." <"That's not necessarily an advantage, believe me."> "Well, I won't belabor the point. I just want you to think about it." <"I will. But only because you asked me to. I have no faith in it myself."> (softly) "Do you have any faith in me?" <"Lots. Always. You know that."> "That's good to know. I have faith in you, too, you know." <"Scully ... "> "I know. I'm making you blush." <"Yeah, a little. But it's nice."> "I'm glad." <"I guess I should let you go visit with your mom."> "I guess so ... " <"Drive carefully on the way to get your brother, okay? None of that evasive- maneuvering crap you learned in the Academy."> "You never did trust my driving." <"No, and I still don't. You're a maniac on the road, Scully."> "And in other places as well?" <"I'll say."> "I'll see you in a little while, okay?" <"Yeah. But just in case you're asleep when I get there ..."> "Yes?" <"Sweet dreams, G-woman."> "You, too." ~~~~~ Hartsfield International Airport, Atlanta 8:49 p.m. The inevitable Atlanta layover was frustrating Mulder more than usual. Something was niggling at the back of his brain as he sat drinking too-strong coffee in the terminal -- something significant having to do with Krycek. But he couldn't put it into words. There was something there, he knew: Even a highly motivated and dedicated rat bastard like Alex Krycek would have to have a damn good reason -- a very damn good reason -- to murder a special agent in charge. Hell, murder wasn't even the right word -- it ranked closer to an assassination. An act of that magnitude was a damn near straight shot to the Ten Most Wanted list and an ironclad guarantee that you'd be pursued by every federal agent in the nation until you were caught -- or, more likely, killed while resisting arrest. Mulder finished his coffee, dropped a handful of change on the table as a tip and picked up his overnight bag, started walking toward the gate for his connecting flight. He was nearly there when he saw that morning's "Mobile Register" staring at him from a newsstand. "Serial killer escapes from Metro Jail," the headline read. Next to the story was a photograph of Malcolm Ronald Lee. "Oh, holy shit," Mulder whispered, reaching for the newspaper. He scanned rapidly down the front page, then turned to the inside for the remainder of the story. Lee had apparently escaped from custody by urinating on the electric locks of his cell, shorting them out, and had then made his way gradually down to the booking room where he managed to amble out with a group of drunk drivers who were being sprung from the drunk tank. Lee's escape represented an unbelievable fuck-up, if the story was true, Mulder thought, his heart racing as he read. Who the hell's running that jail? Mulder threw a dollar on the counter and tucked the newspaper under his arm, then reached into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed Scully's number. After 15 rings, he clicked off and dialed again. Still no answer. After a moment's thought, he punched in Walter Skinner's home telephone number. "Skinner," came the answer after two rings. "Sir, it's Fox Mulder," Mulder said. "I'm sorry to bother you at home, but were you aware that Malcolm Lee had escaped from custody?" "I got that call this morning, Agent Mulder," Skinner said. "There's no reason for you to be concerned. Our information leads us to believe that Lee will seek refuge with some member of his family." "With all due respect, sir, I believe you're wrong," Mulder said. "I profiled Lee, and I would conclude that he is much more likely to have taken up with Alex Krycek and is heading for the Washington area as we speak." "On what do you base that, Agent Mulder?" "Sir, I'm sure you know that Agent Scully and I have substantiated several links between Lee and Krycek," Mulder said, trying to keep his voice even. Skinner didn't react well to emotional displays from others, although he was perfectly capable of letting his own temper fly. "And," Mulder went on, "you must also know by now that Krycek is on the security tape from the BFO. I am as certain as anyone in criminal personality profiling could ever be that the murder of SAC Prescott and the almost simultaneous escape of Malcolm Lee are connected, and that Krycek isn't through killing yet." There was a long pause. "Where would Lee -- or Krycek -- go?" Skinner asked, in a tone that told Mulder the assistant director was at least a little persuaded by the argument. "I don't know that, sir," Mulder said. "But Lee is classically paranoid; he is apt to attempt revenge against those who have hurt him, and in his mind that's got to be either me or Agent Scully." "With good reason, I might add," Skinner said, dryly. "I don't dispute that, sir," Mulder said. "I've tried to call Agent Scully to warn her, but she's not answering her cell phone." "Agent Scully, as I'm sure you know, was going to greet her brother on his return from a sea voyage. Perhaps she's just out of range or her phone's in a dead zone." "Possible, sir, but not likely," Mulder said. "I'm on my way to Baltimore now, but I would appreciate it if you would notify the Baltimore police of this situation and at least ask them to drive by the Scully residence a few times this evening." "That's a reasonable precaution, Agent Mulder," Skinner said. "But until you have something more concrete, I think it's unlikely that Lee is targeting you or Agent Scully. If the situation changes, I'll let you know." "They're calling my flight, sir," Mulder said. "You won't be able to contact me for a while. Could I ask you to call Margaret Scully and at least advise her to be careful?" "I will call her, Agent Mulder, but I don't want anyone alarmed unnecessarily," Skinner said. "Get on that plane and get back here and then perhaps we can see what you've got and plan some strategy. I don't have to tell you that finding SAC Prescott's murderer is the Justice Department's top priority right now." "No, sir, you don't," Mulder said, quietly. "It's going to be my top priority for a while, too." ~~~~~ Margaret Scully's home 10:51 p.m. Who in the world could be knocking at this hour? Maggie thought as she walked toward the door. Dana wouldn't knock, and neither would Bill. "Who's there?" Maggie said, with her hand on the doorknob. "It's Fox Mulder, Mrs. Scully," came the voice on the other side. Maggie peered through the peephole. It was Fox. Quickly, she unlocked and opened the door. "Come in, Fox," she said, smiling faintly. "I'm sorry, I thought Dana was going to pick you up at the airport." "Is Dana here, Mrs. Scully?" Mulder said, as he stepped through the door. "No, she's not back yet," Maggie said, closing the door. "She went to get Bill, but they're apparently running a little late. That's the way it goes sometimes -- the ship gets in a little late, and the officers have to stay aboard longer than the men." "When did she leave?" Mulder said, then caught himself. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully; I don't mean to be abrupt. It's just that this case we're working on has gotten more complicated than ever in the past few days." "Mr. Skinner told me that man had escaped," Maggie said, puzzled. "But he said there was no danger, that the man was somewhere in Alabama. Is that not the case, Fox?" "I don't know, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said. "I hope it is. We'll just have to see." "Well ..." Maggie said, then smiled, encouragingly. "I'm sure it will be all right. Why don't you make yourself at home? I'm baby-sitting tonight; my daughter-in-law and grandson are here, waiting for Bill, and I was going to watch Matthew for a while and let Tara get some sleep. He's in his high chair right now, and I need to see about him; he's quite a handful these days." "I'm sure he is," Mulder said, smiling politely. "Can I give you a hand?" "Oh, there's nothing to do, really," Maggie said, smiling back. "He's still taking his bottle at night; I was just getting him another, his mother won't let him take it to bed with him." "I understand that's what doctors are advising these days," Mulder said, following Maggie into the kitchen. "What doctors advise changes every five minutes," Maggie said, rolling her eyes in a way that reminded Mulder very much of her daughter. "You can't keep up with it. Here we are," she said, bending over to unlatch Matthew's safety harness. "Fox, could you get that bottle from the counter over there?" "This one?" "That's the one," Maggie said, picking Matthew up and sitting at the kitchen table, holding him on her lap. "Now, Matthew, finish up so we can get you to bed." Matthew grabbed the bottle and began swigging away at the warm milk inside, like a college boy chugging a beer. "Oh, you're such a glutton," Maggie said, adoringly. "He's a big boy," Mulder said, ruffling Matthew's hair. "Like his father, I suppose." "Well, Bill Jr. is tall, but Matthew looks much more like Tara to me," Maggie said, smiling at Mulder fondly. He looks so tired, Maggie thought, and grieved, just as Dana said -- not at all like the cold-blooded killer she described to me at Christmas. Look at the way he smiles at Matthew, really smiles at him. Could a man who's as violent as Dana described be so gentle to a child? Matthew was now drinking one-handed, the other hand being occupied with getting a death grip on Mulder's finger. "He's pretty strong," Mulder said. "Aren't you, Matthew?" "I think he likes you, Fox," Maggie said. "That's because he's not a very good judge of character yet," Mulder said, wryly. "Dana is," Maggie said. "Or don't you think so?" Mulder went still for a moment, then resumed his tug-of-war with Matthew. "She keeps hanging around me," he said, trying for an off-handed tone and failing utterly. "There are plenty of people who would tell you that doesn't speak well of her ability to judge character." "Including my oldest child," Maggie said, softly, then reached out and put her hand on Mulder's. "That doesn't mean he's right, Fox. I know a little bit about what happened at Christmas between you and Dana, and I'm very, very sorry that you both had to go through that. But if you're here, it must mean that things have worked out." "I don't know, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said, still watching Matthew. "I want to believe that they have, but it seems that around every corner, there's something else putting her in danger -- something she wouldn't have to face if it weren't for me." "Fox, Dana chose to be in the FBI long before she knew you," Maggie said, patting his hand. "You didn't make that choice for her -- no one makes choices for Dana, but I'm sure you knew that." Mulder gave a short laugh. "All too well," he said. "Entirely too well." Maggie opened her mouth to say something else, but whatever it was was forgotten as the front door opened and Dana walked in, holding Bill by the hand. Mulder rose as they entered, casting one quick glance at Bill's glowering face before turning his gaze back to his partner. "Hi," he said, but she didn't answer. Instead, she dropped her brother's hand and ran toward Mulder, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. Maggie stood watching, holding Matthew on one hip, as her daughter -- normally so reserved -- pulled back just long enough to fasten her mouth on Mulder's. Quietly, Maggie walked past the couple to give her son a quick hug and kiss before putting his baby son in his arms. "Welcome home, Bill," she said. "This is not the welcome I was hoping for," Bill grumbled. "The welcome you were hoping for is upstairs in the guest bedroom," Maggie said, quietly. "The rest of your welcome is in your arms. That," she said, looking quickly toward the kitchen, "is Dana's welcome home." "Welcome to what?" Bill said. "To the man who keeps putting her ass on the line?" "No," Maggie said, with a tiny shake of her head. "To her lover." She looked up at her son, and laid a gentle hand on his face. "Go upstairs and see Tara, Bill," she said. "Let her have a chance to welcome _her_ lover." Kissing his cheek again, Maggie turned and walked quietly back toward the kitchen, then as silently as she could manage, closed the door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good -- was good to show, Better to hide, and best of all to bear. We are the masters of the days that were; We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered ... even so. Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow? Life was our friend? Now, if it be our foe -- Dear, though it spoil and break us! -- need we care What is to come? Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, Or the gold weather round us mellow slow; We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare And we can conquer, though we may not share In the rich quiet of the afterglow What is to come. "What Is to Come" -- William Ernest Henley Chapter 28 Maggie Scully's kitchen 11:21 p.m. "Anyway, Skinner thinks Lee's headed for home," Mulder said, his elbows propped on Maggie's immaculately scrubbed kitchen table. "I wish I could believe that." "I've only done the external exam so far, but I didn't find any papers on Prescott's body, Mulder," Scully said, scooting her chair nearer to the table and laying her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. Whatever you found, whatever was in that logbook, is gone." "Which may, after all, have been the point of killing him," Mulder said, quietly. "Or maybe his contact in the Navy, or someone his contact trusted too much, spoke the right words in the right ears and once again, a link disappeared -- which makes me even more certain that someone in this house is scheduled to be the next to disappear. Maybe me or you, maybe your brother -- at Lee's hands, or Krycek's, I don't know." "Are you sure Lee is going to hook up with Krycek?" Scully said. "Let me put it this way," Mulder said. "If I were writing this up as a criminal personality profile, I'd put that prediction in writing. Is that good enough for you?" "More than good enough," Scully said. "I wasn't doubting you, Mulder. But Skinner doesn't seem to agree with you; whatever he said to my mother, it doesn't appear to have alarmed her much." "Which is fine," Mulder said. "No one needs to be alarmed. But everyone needs to be ready, just in case it does happen. Anyway, Krycek's perfectly capable of coming here without his psychotic errand boy." "Maybe, but as you said, the timing of Lee's escape is awfully convenient," Scully said, rising. "Let's go talk to my family. They need to know what they might be up against." "Before we go, may I ask you a question?" Mulder said. "Since when have you ever asked my permission before doing that?" she said, but she was smiling when she turned to face him again. "Is this going to be something about Chantilly lace or sleeping bags?" "Au contraire," he said, rising and placing a quick kiss on the end of her nose. "This is a very serious question. Do I imagine it, or are you actually unarmed this evening?" "You don't," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not armed. That's progress, don't you think?" "Major progress," he said. "Although I wouldn't push that position too far, under the circumstances." "Don't worry, I'm not going to start leaving my gun off all the time," she said, with an amused smile. "Just for tonight. I knew you were going to be here, I wanted to wear this sweater, and there's no way I can do that and conceal a weapon." "Or much of anything else," he said, his eyes roaming approvingly over her. "That's why I wanted to wear it," she said. "Anyway, you're armed, aren't you?" "Of course." "Well, then, we're okay." "Maybe," he said, slowly. "But under the circumstances, it might be better to keep your weapon where you can reach it -- at least for the next few days." "I'm going to," she said, in a more serious tone. "Anyway, with Matthew in the house, I need to wear it because there's really no safe place to put it down. He's at that age where he's into everything." "I'll keep that in mind," Mulder said, smiling. "So where is your gun?" "In the trunk of Mom's car, in the garage," she said. "I'll go get it." "I'll come with you," Mulder said. "Mulder, don't you think I can walk out to the garage by myself?" Scully asked, just a little miffed. "You know better than to ask me that," he said, taking her hand. "But if Lee or Krycek is around, and only one of us is armed, then we stick together. Primary tactical directive, Agent Scully." "Mulder, did anyone ever tell you that you can be a real pain in the ass?" Scully said, taking her mother's car keys down from the hook. "Actually, that's how I got to Oxford," he said. "The Royal Pain in the Ass scholarship." ~~~~~ The garage was dark, and filled with the scratching, scurrying sounds of small animals -- or insects, Scully thought, as she reached around for the chain pull that would turn on the bare light bulb hanging overhead. I'd never admit it to you in a million years, Mulder, but I'm glad you didn't let me go out here by myself. Too much like that damn warehouse in south Alabama. Way too much. When am I ever going to get over that? Finding the chain, she turned on the light, then unlocked the trunk and took out her gun and holster. She removed the holster, dropped it back in the trunk and stuck the gun in the waistband of her skirt. "Not into holsters tonight?" Mulder said, watching her from the open door. "Not with this outfit," she said, shaking her head. "There's no good place to put it -- my holster's too wide for the skirt band." "So when are you going to break down and get an ordinary, everyday side holster?" "When they start making women's business clothes with enough room to wear one," Scully said, slamming the trunk closed and turning around, leaning against the bumper with her arms folded. "Which I believe will happen at about the time they start making cars with a place to hang a purse." "I think I'm going to backtrack my way out of this minefield before I get blown up," Mulder said, but he didn't really look annoyed, Scully thought -- just tired. Very tired -- and still very, very grieved, guilt-stricken and weighed down with the burden of protecting the Scully family from the monsters that lurked somewhere outside in the night. She couldn't do anything about the monsters, not yet -- but she could do something about the rest of it. "Mulder," she said, in her softest voice. "Come here for a minute." He moved toward her, and she linked her arms around his neck. Putting one foot on the bumper, she hoisted herself onto the hood of the trunk and pulled him closer, so that he was standing between her thighs. "Mulder, I need to tell you something," she said. "Something very important." "What might that be?" he said, putting his arms around her waist. "That whatever happens," she said, quietly, "no matter how things turn out, you are not responsible." "You don't know that." "Yes, I do. I know you, and I know that you're constantly blaming yourself -- even for things that aren't your fault. It's counterproductive, Mulder." "Maybe," he said, with a shrug. "Or maybe it's just easier for me than it is for you to see what I should have done differently." "No," she said, shaking her head. "Self-blame is just a reflex reaction with you. That's what I see. Mulder, ask yourself something -- if you were as flawed as you think you are, do you really think I'd keep you around?" "I guess I thought you just hadn't figured it out yet," he said, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I figured you out a long time ago, partner," she said. "Mentally, anyway. Emotionally -- physically -- well, I'm still working on those." "And what conclusions have you reached?" "None," she said, shifting her posture so that his body pressed more firmly against hers. "I need -- more experiments." "Just what kind of experiment do you have in mind here?" Mulder said, sliding his hands under her sweater. "A goodnight kiss," she said, almost demurely. "Just a goodnight kiss." "Tell it to the Marines, the sailors'll never believe it," Mulder said as he bent to kiss her parted lips, his hands moving higher up on her back. "Because somehow," he murmured against her mouth, "I think a woman who wanted just a goodnight kiss would be wearing something under her sweater." "You're probably right," she said, huskily. "I'll have to remember that next time." "No, that's okay," Mulder said, his hands moving around to cup her breasts, making her shiver and moan. "This is fine -- although I must point out, we are supposed to be on duty, more or less." "Then this is just going to have to be a quickie, isn't it?" she whispered, reaching for his zipper. "Do it, Mulder -- make me come real quick." "I'll try," he said, lowering his mouth to hers. "I swear to God, I'll try." ~~~~~ Maggie's living room 11:44 p.m. "I don't know what else I can say to convince you," Mulder said, lacing his fingers together. He and Scully were seated, side by side, on one end of Maggie's couch. Maggie was seated at the other end, while Bill sat in a chair opposite, his arm around Tara, his lip curled in disgust. Too much like a replay of Christmas, Scully thought; except this time, we're not here to say goodbye. Somehow, though, Bill's disdain was easier to bear with Mulder near her, when her face was still slightly flushed and her body still wet and burning from their love-making, her skin still tingling from the touch of his hands and his mouth. She looked at Mulder, wondering if he was gaining the same kind of strength from their union. Maybe he was -- certainly, he was facing Bill with much more equanimity than ever before. "Mr. Mulder, if your superior officer believes this man Lee is in Alabama, where exactly do you get off saying that he's going to come here?" Bill was saying, challengingly. "I'm a behavioral profiler, Commander," Mulder replied, patiently. "I used to do this for a living, and apparently I soon will again. I profiled this man, very recently. I have a pretty clear idea of how he thinks." "Dana, do you really think he'll come here?" Tara asked, fearfully. "Maybe we should go stay somewhere else." "I think that Mulder is the expert in this area," Scully said, turning a cool glance toward her brother, who averted his eyes, looking almost guilty, she thought. She looked at Tara again, and her expression softened a little. "If Mulder thinks Lee will come looking for us, Tara, then he probably will. But you need to understand something, Bill," she said, looking at him again. "Mulder and I are not the only potential targets here." "What the hell does that mean, Dana?" Bill asked, genuinely puzzled. "It means that you may be involved in this, Commander," Mulder said. "We have reason to believe that a domestic terror operation connected to that attack may have involved a SEAL who was aboard Nassau when you took command." "What SEAL?" "A man named Mark Long," Scully said. "He was reported KIA -- in the Black Sea." "I can't discuss that," Bill said quickly, averting his gaze in a way both agents recognized as the sign of someone who knew much more than he was saying. "I understand," Mulder said, quietly. "But I will tell you there's reason to believe that report was false, and that Long was actually killed just a few days ago near Atlanta, at a depot from which a biological weapon of terror was about to be staged, if not launched." "Mr. Mulder, I simply cannot discuss anything to do with Nassau's mission or men," Bill said. "In fact, I will almost certainly have to report this conversation to my superior officers." For once there was no challenge in Bill's voice, Scully thought. Bill was completely serious -- as he should be when classified matters were mentioned. "That's entirely up to you, Commander," Mulder was saying. "But before you decide to report it, you need to know that this Long, or whoever he really was, claimed to have knowledge of a conspiracy to import anthrax aboard Nassau." "Anthrax?" Bill said, dubiously. "Anthrax," Mulder repeated, nodding. "Anthrax spores which he claims the SEALs aboard were ordered to gather, and which he now believes would have been brought into the United States in his own dead body." "I don't need to hear any more of this crap," Bill said. "Yes, you do, Bill," Scully said, leaning toward her brother. "You need to listen to what Mulder's saying." "Why, Dana?" Bill demanded. "He's impugning the honor and patriotism of the men under my command, while simultaneously prying into classified matters that he has no need to know." "You need to listen, Bill, because neither Mulder nor I think it's a coincidence that you were given command of Nassau almost immediately after we were attacked," Scully said. "Before he died, Long claimed that someone attacked him as he and his fellow SEALs were heading for the Straits of Bosporus," Mulder said. "All that leads me to speculate, if not to believe, that this is part of an international conspiracy." "Dana, do you have any idea how paranoid this guy sounds?" Bill said incredulously. "I do," Scully said, with an ironic smile at Mulder. "But I agree with him." She looked back at Bill. "I am quite serious about this, Bill. You have to trust me. This man Krycek -- who has tried to kill me, and otherwise harm me," and she shot a quick look at Mulder then, a plea for his silence, "and who was involved in Melissa's murder, and in the murder of Mulder's father, may now be after you." "And if we're right about Krycek's connection with Malcolm Lee," Mulder said, "and I don't think that's in dispute at any level, in the FBI or elsewhere -- then Lee's escape, coupled with Krycek's connection to the murder of a special agent in charge, leads me to believe that you, Dana and I are all in danger." "I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, but all this sounds to me like more of your little green aliens," Bill said, "not to mention a serious violation of the laws governing classified material." He made as if to rise, but Tara clutched at his hand. "Sit down, Bill," she said, in a frightened tone. "I think we need to hear what else ... Dana ... has to say." "There really isn't much more," Scully said, quietly. "Mulder and I will continue to track these men, and in the meantime, we'll stay here and stand guard. I promise you, I'm not going to let anything happen to anyone in this house -- and neither is my partner." "Maybe we need to call the Baltimore Field Office for backup," Mulder said, quietly, but Scully shook her head. "There's no reason to do that yet," she said, firmly. "I'm here, and you're here, and that's about as many agents as you'd normally assign to this kind of watch." "I don't know that I'll be staying," Mulder murmured. He wasn't looking at Bill, but the meaning was clear: Scully, I'm not wanted here; not under the same roof with your brother, I'm not. "Fox, you have to stay," Maggie said, in her firmest maternal tone. She had caught the look in Mulder's eyes. "I know we'd all feel much safer with you here -- wouldn't we, Bill?" "Mom," Bill began, his eyes narrowing, but he got no further. "Good, that's settled, then," Maggie said, rising. "Dana, would you be an angel and run upstairs and get some pillows and a blanket for Fox? I'm sorry I don't have another spare bedroom for you, but we're a little full right now," she said, smiling at Mulder. "The couch is fine, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said, as he stood up. "But I don't want to be in the way ..." "You're not at all in the way, Fox," Maggie said, patting his arm. "You're practically family. Come along, everyone, it's getting late; it's time we all were in bed." Tara gave her sister-in-law a tentative smile as she headed up the stairs, followed by Bill -- still glowering -- and Maggie, rounding them up like so many ducklings. "I'm sorry," Scully said, quietly, as she watched them go. "Bill just has a hard time listening to you." "It's mutual," Mulder said, dryly. "Scully, are you sure your mother really wants me here?" "I know she does," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "And only partly because she wants you here to protect me -- and Bill. She believes you about Lee; as do I. Krycek is another matter; like you, I'm not too sanguine about my ability to predict what he'll do." "I doubt whether Krycek even knows what he'll do from one minute to the next," Mulder said, putting his arm around her. "I doubt it, too, although I'd be less than surprised if I were wrong," Scully said, then laughed, shaking her head ruefully. "I must be tired. I'm not sure what I just said makes any sense." "It makes a lot of sense," Mulder said, with an ironic smile. "Krycek is the real wild card in all of this. Shit, for all I know, Krycek could be in the Oval Office right now, giving orders." "Or with Cancer Man, taking them," Scully said, smiling back. Mulder shook his head. "I can't quite figure that relationship out. I wonder sometimes whether they can." He yawned then, and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry. It's been a long day." "It's been a series of long days for you," Scully said, straightening up. "and here I am yakking away when I should be getting you that blanket. Are you sure you don't mind sleeping down here?" "I'm not sure I have an alternative." "You could come upstairs after the others are asleep ... " Scully said, wistfully, but Mulder shook his head, firmly. "Scully, we can't do that," he said. "Much as I want to sleep next to you, I can't, not in your mother's home. She wouldn't approve of it at all." "She wouldn't know." "I would." "Must you be so damn noble?" Scully asked in mock annoyance, then sighed heavily, and got up. "I suppose I'd better go get the damn blanket." ~~~~~ 12:26 a.m. "I say we do 'em now," the darker man said, crouching lower behind the neatly trimmed hedge. "Get 'em before they get away." "Patience," the light-skinned man said, mildly, settling back on his haunches. "I told you, I'm not here to kill anyone. I have unfinished business with both of them, but it doesn't involve murder -- not yet, anyway. We have all night to do what we came here for." "I ain't waiting for shit," the other grumbled. "Longer we stay here, more chance somebody's gonna see us. And I ain't looking to go back to face Yellow Mama." "You're not facing the electric chair, tovarisch," the light-skinned man said, patiently. "You know perfectly well you're not. Besides, what you have in there," he said, nodding his head toward the house, "is a rare opportunity -- the chance to find the person I've wanted for for a long, long time lying in bed, asleep and vulnerable." "Yeah?" the dark man said, belligerently. "Who you been waiting for? Her -- or him?" If he'd expected to provoke an angry response, however, he was disappointed. The pale man only smiled. "Does it really matter?" he said, softly. "Now shut up and sit still. We're not going anywhere for a while." ~~~~~ Maggie Scully's guest bedroom 12:49 a.m. Tara Scully turned over restlessly, trying vainly to find a comfortable position and go to sleep. It should have been easy to drift off. Bill was home from the sea, they'd made love -- fast and furious, but wonderful all the same, as it always was after such a long period of celibacy. Now her husband slept beside her and their son slept peacefully in a folding crib next to his grandmother's bed. There was no need to lie awake listening for the baby; even if Matthew did wake, Maggie would be the one to tend to him tonight. There was no good reason for this attack of insomnia -- except that Dana, and Agent Mulder, had seemed so certain that the men they'd encountered down South were on their way here to cause trouble, and that they might be after Bill. And no matter what precautions Dana and her partner were taking, it wasn't going to be enough to reassure Tara Scully. Not when Bill's life could be at stake, it wasn't. Anyway, even though Tara liked Dana a lot, had always liked her, she just couldn't see Bill's little sister as much of a threat to a determined, dangerous criminal, no matter what Dana's credentials were. In her heart, Tara knew she would always see Dana not as an FBI agent, but as the gangly junior bridesmaid who'd walked so shyly down the aisle at Tara and Bill's wedding. And much as Tara had tried to like Mulder, Bill's utter disdain for the man made it all but impossible for her to place her trust there, either. We should have left the house until the police could find those men, she thought, turning over again as slowly as she could so as not to wake Bill, who snored beside her. Bill was sleeping just fine, she thought with some annoyance, because he clearly wasn't impressed by Agent Mulder's prediction. But then, Bill wouldn't believe Agent Mulder if the man told him the sun would rise in the east tomorrow. There was just too much antipathy between them. I could get up and take a sleeping pill, Tara thought, but then if anything did happen, I might not be able to wake up -- or I could wind up taking them all the time, like some Navy wives I know. Forget it. But if it was just a little darker in this room -- It's almost like someone's left a light on somewhere. Tara sat up, looking toward the window. Sure enough, there was a light shining through it. Tossing back the covers, she got out of bed and walked to the window. The garage light was on. Bill must have forgotten to turn it off after he got their bags out of Mom's car. Well, if I can't do anything about the criminals, I can at least go turn off that light, Tara decided. She slid her feet into her slippers, pulled her robe around her shoulders and tiptoed from the room, noiselessly closing the door behind her. ~~~~~ "Look," the pale man whispered, gesturing toward the open back door. "There's our chance, just as I told you." "Bout damn time," the dark man grumbled, reaching into the waistband of his jeans and drawing out a weapon -- a .38 caliber revolver. "All things come to him who waits," the pale man said, standing up, stiffly. "I'm going to get inside quick before she comes back. You wait out here in case there's trouble; be ready to come inside if you have to." With the silent stealth of a tiger, the pale man slipped through the shadows, up the three concrete steps to the landing and then into the dark kitchen. And there he waited. ~~~~~ 12:58 a.m. "Mulder?" Scully's soft voice startled Mulder from sleep, and he sat up, momentarily confused. "What's up?" he said. "Why are you still dressed?" "Sorry," she said, sitting down next to him, her hands resting on her thighs. "I didn't mean to wake you. But I couldn't sleep. I was trying to read, but all I was really doing was thinking about this case." "And you thought of something?" "Yes. I was thinking about the man you called Gravel Voice, Martin Adamson. I couldn't remember what you said about his criminal record on the NCIC check." "That's because I didn't read it," Mulder said, thoughtfully. "Let me think a minute." He closed his eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip -- a sure sign he was concentrating. Scully said nothing, just waited patiently. She knew how this worked, and it had long ago ceased to startle her. "He had two arrests on weapons charges in North Dakota," Mulder said, slowly, his eyes still closed, and Scully knew he was "reading" from the photographic image of the NCIC report that was stored in his mind. "He was arrested and convicted of shoplifting in Tullahoma, Tennessee, and was arrested and pleaded no contest to simple assault in -- Hagerstown, Maryland," Mulder went on, opening his eyes in surprise. "Pretty close to home." "Too close for comfort," Scully agreed. "Anything else?" Mulder closed his eyes again. "Oh, shit," he said, under his breath. "He was investigated by the Charlotte Field Office after purchasing 700 pounds of ammonium nitrate." "So he's a bomber," Scully said, puzzled. "Didn't we know that, or at least suspect it?" "That's not it," Mulder said, opening his eyes again. "Scully, Charlotte is in western North Carolina." "And?" "So is Andrews, N.C.," Mulder said, "and the Nantahala Forest -- where our old friend Eric Robert Rudolph is believed to be hiding from authorities." "Oh, my God," Scully said, wide-eyed. "Mulder, are you suggesting that Adamson is connected to the Centennial Park bombing?" "Maybe not that, not directly, although the time frame fits," Mulder said, grimly. "But yes, I think it's quite plausible that he's connected to Rudolph, maybe even still working for him." "That would mean that Eric Rudolph -- or Christian Identity, or some other organization to which he's connected -- is behind this anthrax plot," Scully said, in dawning horror. "Mulder, do you think that's what this is really all about? Another attack on Atlanta, only this time with a biological weapon instead of an explosive? Or more anthrax threats against abortion providers, only this time for real?" "No," Mulder said, shaking his head. "I think there's still more to it than that, but Rudolph could easily be part of it." "Would anyone on the Centabom team know whether Adamson is a part of any Rudolph-supporting groups?" Scully asked. "Yeah," Mulder said, with a wry smile. "I would. And no, he's not known to be affiliated with Rudolph, or with Christian Identity, but that doesn't mean much. What we don't know about that bunch of kooks could fill a library." "Oh," Scully said, then laughed. "I forgot. You're on the Centabom team." "Or was, until this morning," Mulder said, nodding. "For all the good it did." "So how does Alex Krycek fit into this?" Scully asked, ignoring Mulder's self- deprecating remark. "He's an operative at the international level -- so far out of Rudolph's league that it's almost unthinkable that he'd be part of any plot so mundane as a domestic terror attack." "Shhh," Mulder whispered, suddenly. "Do you hear something?" "What?" Scully whispered back. "A noise, outside. Listen." Scully cocked her head, trying to hear. "There," Mulder said, taking his weapon from the coffee table and pulling it from the holster. "Someone's out there." This time, Scully heard it, too. A faint rustling noise, a muffled voice -- or a muffled cry? Someone was out there. Quickly, she reached behind her back and drew her own weapon. Her eyes met Mulder's, and even in the dim light she could see the message: Wait. Be ready. The kitchen door began to swing open, slowly. Scully placed her finger on the trigger guard and began to raise the weapon to firing position. Mulder's gun was already aiming at the slowly widening opening ... and at the dark figure that both agents could now clearly see silhouetted against the light from outside. "Federal agent! Stop right there!" Scully called out, firmly. "If you're armed, put your weapon on the ground and raise your hands." There was another muffled shriek, and a sound of a brief struggle. Scully strained to see more clearly, but it was just too dark, the garage light just too bright. "I said don't move and put your weapon down," Scully repeated. "I am armed and I will fire." "I don't think you will, Scully," a familiar voice said. "Not unless you're even colder-hearted than I think you are." The sound of that voice sent a shock of fear through Scully, fear stronger than she could remember feeling before in waking life. It was the voice of her nightmares, the voice that had pushed her beyond the limits of bearing into near-madness. Cold sweat ran down her back and her muscles tensed as she renewed her grip on her gun, aiming at last in real life for the monster she had aimed for so often, without knowing it, while in the grip of terror. It was the voice of a thief, the voice of the man who had brought death and pain and months-long waking nightmares into the life of Dana Katherine Scully. Alex Krycek. "I had hoped you were dead," Scully whispered. "I wanted you dead." "No such luck, Scully," Krycek said. "I have too many tasks left undone to die yet." "Krycek, whatever you're up to, drop it," Mulder said through clenched teeth. "Game time is over; this one's for keeps." "I'm not playing games, Mulder," Krycek said, taking a step forward. "I'm serious as hell." The tall figure took another step forward, and Scully felt the blood drain from her face even as she and Mulder simultaneously took their aim and made ready to fire. There, his tall frame nearly filling the doorway, stood Alex Krycek -- holding a terrified Tara Scully by the throat, with a gun pointed at her head. Upstairs, as if on cue, Matthew Scully began to wail. ~~~~~ Maggie Scully's bedroom 1:10 a.m. "All right, Matthew, all right," Maggie said, sleepily, throwing back the covers. "I'm coming. Just give me a minute." Pulling on her robe, Maggie walked to the small portable crib and picked up her grandson. "Are you wet, baby?" she cooed, slipping one hand in the back of his diaper. Dry -- or it felt like it, anyway. She wasn't much good at judging wetness with disposables, not the way she had been with a good, old-fashioned cloth diaper. Still, Matthew didn't seem uncomfortable, so that probably wasn't it. It was warm enough in the room, but not too warm, so that probably wasn't it either. "Must be teething, poor baby," she murmured, lifting him to her shoulder. "Come on, Mattlet, let's go downstairs and see if Grandma can't find you something nice to put in that bottle." ~~~~~ "You make one move, Mulder, and so help me God, I'll blow her head off," Krycek said, calmly. "You know I don't bluff." "I also know it'll be the last move you ever make if you do," Mulder said, grimly, his weapon still at the ready. "You've got nowhere to go from here, Alex. Put down that damn gun before I put you down permanently." "Really?" Krycek said, then shook his head, his lips curled in an almost- smile. "I'd say you're in a very poor bargaining position, Mulder." "That wasn't an attempt at bargaining, Alex," Mulder said, his eyes cold and steely. "That was an iron-clad guarantee. You're a dead man, whether you know it or not." "So are you, Mulder," Krycek replied. "So is your lovely partner. We're all dead, sooner or later. It comes with the job." "What do you want here, Krycek?" Scully asked coldly. She had a clear shot at Krycek, but no illusions about her ability to take the shot and make it count -- not faster than Krycek could pull the trigger and end Tara's life. And there was no hope of cooperation from Tara, either. Even in the dim light, she could see that Tara's face was ghostly pale, and her knees were trembling; she was near fainting. "Just tell me what you want," Scully repeated, slowly, more to gain some time than anything else. "I want you," Krycek said. "Oh, nothing like that," he added, giving a short laugh as he saw Mulder's muscles tense. "I just need you, your partner and your brother to undergo a little -- medical treatment." "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Krycek, but no one in this house is going anywhere with you," Mulder said, his eyes narrowing in fury. "You only get one shot before I kill you, rat bastard, so you'd better make it count." "I'm not here to kill you, Mulder," Krycek said, patiently. "I've told you before -- I'm your friend. I'm on your side." "I'm not your friend," Mulder growled. "And it'll be a cold day in hell before you try to help me, you son of a bitch." "After all we've been through?" Krycek said. "But you know something, Mulder? You want to know why I'm here? It's because if I decide I want you to believe you're my friend, you'll believe it. You know what the people I work for can do to a man's memories -- or a woman's." Against her will, Scully shivered. Mulder saw it -- and so did Krycek. "Yes, you know," Krycek said, soothingly. "And you know that's why I'm here tonight -- to help everyone forget what they're better off not remembering." Before Scully could reply, a soft voice came from the stairs. "Dana?" "Mom, stay where you are!" Scully called out, but too late. Maggie was walking down the stairs, peering into the dimness ... Holding Matthew in her arms. "Dana, is something wrong?" Maggie said, still descending the stairs. "Nothing's wrong, Mrs. Scully," Krycek said, softly. "But you might be better off back in your own bed." "Who is that?" Maggie said, puzzled. "Fox, is that you?" "Just a visitor, Mrs. Scully," Krycek said before Mulder or Scully could speak. He nodded in Maggie's direction, his gun still aimed at Tara's head. "An old friend of your daughter's. A very close friend." Maggie was on the bottom stair now. She took in the scene -- Mulder and Dana with their guns aimed, a strange man with a gun on Tara, who looked half dead with terror. "Oh, dear Lord," Maggie whispered in shock. "Dana, what is going on here?" "This is Alex Krycek, Mom," Scully said, slowly. "This is the man who helped kill Melissa." Fire blazed in Maggie's eyes. "You ... you're the one," she whispered. "You took Missy from me? And now you're here to take Tara too?" "I'm not here to kill anyone unless I have to, Mrs. Scully," Krycek said, then called back over his shoulder, "Lee, I'm going to need some assistance in here." Lee stepped in, his gun pointed straight Mulder's head. Mulder moved not at all, but his eyes narrowed even further. "Good to see you again, Mr. Mother-fucking FBI Agent," Lee said. "Nice to see you on the other end of a gun for a change. 'Bout time for me to do a little fancy shooting, don't you think?" "You're looking pretty good for a guy who got shot twice and never managed to fire back," Mulder said, almost casually. "Getting any good songs on the radio lately?" "Cut the crap, Mulder," Krycek said. "Mrs. Scully, I think for the baby's safety, I'll have my associate take him into another room." "No!" Maggie cried out, clutching Matthew closer. "You lay a finger on him and I'll ..." "Mrs. Scully," Krycek interrupted her. "I appreciate your sentiments, but unless you want that child to grow up without a mother, I would suggest that you do what I say." "Dana," Maggie began, helplessly, but her daughter shook her head, just slightly. "Just do what he says, Mom," Scully said, calmly -- far more calmly than she felt. "I won't let him hurt Matthew. I promise." "You're in no position to make promises, Scully," Krycek said as Lee grabbed Matthew roughly away from his weeping grandmother, making the baby cry. "Take Matthew out to the kitchen, Lee. Perhaps he has a bottle? Mrs. Scully, why don't you go sit down in that chair," he gestured with a jerk of his head, "until I can complete my business here." "Who are you here for, Krycek?" Mulder asked as Lee slid sideways past Krycek and Tara, who tried desperately to reach for her son, only to be jerked roughly back. "No Olympic games here to be bombed on national television -- or does your boss have some other games in mind?" "You disappoint me, Mulder," Krycek said, laughing. He shook his head. "You've got it all wrong. I'm spying on Eric Rudolph, trying to prevent him from carrying out his next plan. You and I are still on the same side, whether you believe it or not." "I'll believe you when you let my sister-in-law go and get that murdering bastard's hands off my nephew, Krycek," Scully said, vehemently. "Or is it Arntzen these days?" "I'm not likely to tell you what name I use underground, am I, Dana?" Krycek said, silkily. "But I've got to hand it to you, Mulder -- you had it all figured out, just like you told the late Mr. Prescott. The anthrax is just an air strike, a cover operation before the real fun begins." "You bugged Prescott's office," Mulder said, slowly. "You son of a bitch." "Standard operating procedure," Krycek said. "I'm telling you, Mulder -- I'm on your side. I've been fighting against the colonizers and their human Quislings for years now. I wouldn't be telling you this now if I weren't still hoping you'd join with me and fight this fight directly. But you won't believe me, so you leave me no choice except to do this by force." "How are you on my side, Krycek?" Mulder said. "How, after everything you did to Scully, and to me? If you're so committed to our side of things, why is it you're always around when our friends and family are hurt or killed?" "I kept you from being killed, Mulder," Krycek spat at him, furiously. "I kept you alive by erasing your memories, wiping out the trail. That was what put you in danger; not me." "In a word, Alex, bullshit," Mulder said, coldly. "Whoever shot at Scully back in December couldn't have known she was wearing a vest. She would have been killed if your plan had worked." "Then why wouldn't I kill you both when you were unconscious?" Krycek said. "I could have -- easily. But I didn't. I helped you; and I can help you again. Cooperate, and in 15 minutes, no one here will remember any of this. You'll all be much safer that way -- including you, Mulder." "How does that protect me, Krycek?" "No one will need to fear you once you lose your memories, Mulder," Krycek replied. "The physical evidence is gone -- the bodies, the paperwork, everything -- even your little friend in Daphne, Officer Mack, who seems to have committed suicide with his service weapon just a few hours ago. Of course, that's not common knowledge yet." Not Mack, Scully thought in shock, remembering the young officer's sweet Southern demeanor, his sense of humor, his genuine concern for her and for Mulder as they struggled through the darkest days of their partnership. "You heartless bastard," Scully said, tears coming to her eyes. "What did he ever do to you?" Mulder said nothing, but Scully could almost feel the cold anger rolling off him, the sudden tightness in his jaw. "Nothing," Krycek said, off-handedly. "But this is a sterilizing operation, and as you know, Dr. Scully, when you sterilize something, you kill whatever you don't want to live, whatever is dangerous to you. But I'm not the one doing the sterilizing. I told you -- I'm here to protect you." "Mack was no danger to anyone," Scully said. The tears were spilling down her cheeks now, but she ignored them, and she kept her aim steady. "You could have left him alone. He knew nothing at all." "He knew that Malcolm here could testify to our association," Krycek said. "He knew everything you knew, or almost everything, about the anthrax poor Willie Nivek came down with. With the physical evidence gone, the only thing left to eliminate is ..." "Witnesses," Mulder finished for him, flatly. "So you think you're going to eliminate witnesses here and live to tell the tale, Alex?" Krycek shook his head. "I'm getting tired of explaining things, Mulder," he said. "Get that stupid Navy lunk down here and let's get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible, shall we?" "No," Tara said, weakly, struggling in Krycek's arms, but she stopped as the gun pressed harder against her temple. "I don't want to hurt you, Mrs. Scully, but I will if it's necessary to gain your cooperation," Krycek said, in that same dangerously soft voice. "You aren't on the list of those who have to survive this night -- it would be wise if you were to remember that." "You let her go," Scully said. "Now." "My only viable hostage? I don't think so," Krycek said. "I'll be your hostage," Scully said, calmly. "I'll go with you, and I'll do whatever you want. Just let my sister-in-law and her baby go." "Tempting offer, Scully," Krycek said, almost in a whisper. "Unfortunately, you're a poor choice for a hostage because I'm not allowed to kill you, as I told you before. There are just some things I need to make you forget." "I'll never forget what you did to me, you bastard," Scully said, venomously. "I went through hell just to remember it -- but I remember now, and I always will." "I didn't do anything to you, Scully," Krycek said. "If you think I did -- or Mulder thinks I did -- it's because that was what you were made to remember." "You did do it," Scully said, her eyes narrowing. "Don't try to make me crazy again, Alex. I'll see you in hell first." "You're in no position to dictate to me, Scully," Krycek said, with a derisive laugh. "And your ability to remember has been messed with so many times you can't even be sure that man upstairs is really your brother. You remember what they want you to remember. That chip makes sure of that." "I don't believe you," Scully said, but Mulder could see the doubt in her eyes. "I know what I remember." "But you don't remember it correctly if you think that I did anything to you against your will," Krycek said. He quirked an eyebrow in her direction. "Maybe I should be flattered -- maybe you just wanted it to happen so badly that you dreamed it had." "Krycek, shut up or I promise you, I will shut you up," Scully said. "That's not what happened. Do you want me to tell everyone what did happen?" "Why don't you stick with something you remember more clearly?" Krycek said, smoothly. "Like that romantic little interlude you and Mulder had on the back of your mother's car a few hours ago? I didn't think nice Catholic girls did that kind of thing before they were married." Scully's cheeks flushed hot with shame and anger. "You were watching," she said, slowly. "You perverted cretin." "Even for you, that's low, Krycek," Mulder said, his voice nearly a growl. Krycek shrugged one shoulder. "Just satisfying a long-held curiosity, Mulder," he said. "Hell, when I was in the Bureau, I could have gotten quite a few free beers out of that story. There were heavy bets out on whether you two were playing hide the salami together. Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully," he said, with an apologetic nod in Maggie's direction. "That's not the sort of thing a woman likes to hear about her daughter, is it?" "Krycek, so help me God ..." Scully began, furiously. "I'll tell you what, Scully," Krycek said. "I'm tired. I've got a job to do and I'm going to do it, so listen to me very carefully: I'll put your sister-in- law and her pretty little boy right into the ground if you don't call your brother and tell him to come downstairs right now. Lee, get out here." Lee walked out, holding Matthew haphazardly on one hip. "I can't find no bottle," he said. "We don't need a bottle, Lee," Krycek said. "Just your pocketknife." "Gotcha," Lee said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a knife, the blade shooting out a lethal six inches when he pressed a button on the handle. "Switchblade," Mulder said, shaking his head. "Don't you know those things are illegal, Lee?" "I know they're pretty fucking sharp, Mr. FBI Agent," Lee said, pressing the blade against the soft rolls of baby flesh at Matthew's neck. "No!" Tara screamed, and reached for Matthew, but Lee jerked back on the boy's hair and pressed the knife more firmly against his neck. Scully saw a tiny trickle of blood, and a fury rose up in her that was beyond anything she'd ever thought possible. "Let him go," Scully hissed, watching in helpless fury as Matthew screamed and Tara sobbed. "You do whatever you want with me, but you let my nephew go." "Ah, Scully," Krycek said, laughing. "You always were easy to manipulate. Children. Who would ever have thought that would be the Achilles heel of such a tough federal agent?" "Children ..." Scully said, then stopped. "Children?" Krycek shook his head as though to clear it. "Let's don't dwell on irrelevancies," he said. "Call your brother." He's nervous, Mulder thought in surprise. But why? All of a sudden, Krycek's acting as though something's gone very, very wrong. Children. He knows he shouldn't have said that. Why shouldn't he have said it? What just went wrong? For no reason he could imagine, Mulder felt his blood run cold. Children. He looked over at Scully. Her face was leached of color, as though she were about to pass out, and she seemed drenched in cold sweat. But the gun in her hand never wavered. He knew that expression, though. She was in shock, all right; but she was thinking, hard. And so was he. ~~~~~ Children, Scully thought, utterly bemused. What the hell is going on? Children. My weakness. My fatal weakness. I don't understand. Mulder was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Krycek was watching, too, as was Maggie. Only Tara was looking away, weeping silently now as she watched the blood trickling down Matthew's chest and soaking his blanket sleeper. Children are my Achilles heel. What does he mean by that? Children. He would hurt the children. He hurt the children. But I can't remember. She looked at Matthew's chubby hands, reaching out for his weeping mother, his face contorted in screams. His hands ... little baby hands. Little faces, little voices shrieking in terror. And she knew. "Oh, my God," Scully said. Her knees buckled under her and she sank to the sofa, almost dropping her gun. Mulder, watching, backed up a step, giving him a better line of sight at Krycek and Lee. "Scully, are you okay?" Mulder asked, his eyes still fixed on the intruders. "Their hands," Scully said, in horror. "It wasn't Ahab's hands. It wasn't even Krycek's. It was the children. I saw their hands." "You don't know what you're talking about," Krycek said, suddenly even more uneasy. "Scully?" Mulder said, reaching toward her, but he backed away as Matthew gave another scream of pain. "I do remember," Scully whispered. "I remember now. There was someone else there." "Scully?" Mulder said again, in utter confusion. "What are you saying?" "It wasn't just us, Mulder," she said, and now she was weeping openly. "He erased so much of that memory. No wonder it didn't make any sense. No wonder I couldn't see it clearly. It was never just you and me. " She looked up at Krycek then, her face a mixture of pure misery and even more pure hatred. "That was the other choice you gave me, wasn't it, Alex?" she whispered venomously. "To tell you what you wanted to know and be allowed to treat them, or to leave them behind to die ... of anthrax. You were using them as lab rats. They were sick, and dying, and you told me ..." "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Krycek broke in, more harshly, but Mulder could have sworn the younger man had gone a shade paler. "You don't have any fucking idea what you're talking about." "Oh, yes, I do," Scully said, her voice choking. She looked down at her hands, staring sightlessly as her own tears dropped, one by one, onto her upraised palms. "That's why I kept thinking about hands, Mulder's hands, my hands ... little baby hands. They all had anthrax lesions on their hands." "Scully, what are you saying?" Mulder said, nearly whispering, but inside the truth was pushing its way into his conscious mind, and he knew, with mounting dread, what his lover would say next. The children. Lots of them. And all of them identical, all of them perfect, cloned replicas of the one child on earth whose suffering and death could have driven Scully to the edge of madness, the only child whose loss was so huge and incomprehensible that Scully would choose to firmly repress her memories of that dreadful night. The child either of them would willingly have died to protect ... and whom neither, ultimately, was able to save. Again. He knew. But he couldn't bring himself to say it. Scully did. "It was Emily," she whispered. "Emily's clones, strapped down, injected with anthrax, watched to see which would die first. Maybe you treated them, but you knew all along there was no hope. That's what they were being used to prove. They were just ... created to serve an agenda." She stopped there and bent over double as though she'd been struck in the stomach. "And they cried," Scully whispered. "They cried, Krycek. They were afraid and they cried. They tried to come to me." Scully seemed almost unable to breathe as the deep, suffocating sobs wracked her body. She could no longer speak. But Mulder could. Although his own grief, for Scully and for the children, was nearly crippling him, the icy rage in his veins was keeping him alert -- for now. "You killed them all, Krycek," Mulder said, slowly, the fury inside him far beyond anything he could ever have imagined feeling. "You bastard. You mother- fucking bastard." "Dana," Maggie whispered in bewilderment and terror, "what is he talking about? Emily died more than a year ago." But Scully didn't answer her mother. "There was more than one Emily Sim, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said, slowly, looking from Maggie to Krycek, certainty growing in his voice. "There was more than one Emily -- there were dozens. Clones." "And they were all mine," Scully said, raising her head suddenly, a fierce, murderous anger in her eyes. "They were mine, Krycek. My babies. And now they're dead. And I watched them die." "You can't trust your memories of that," Krycek said, but he seemed almost afraid of the deadly glitter in Scully's eyes. "You don't remember any of that." "You're wrong," Scully said, her voice like death. "I remember now, and I will remember forever. I will always remember how you took my child from me, and I will always remember the other children you took from me -- and how you killed them all. I will remember until I die." "You're not in any position ..." Krycek began, but Scully interrupted him. "Krycek," Scully said, slowly, wobbling to her feet, ignoring the swift tensing of Krycek's trigger finger, "I will kill you for this. It won't happen tonight, but it will happen. But I'm not going to see another child die because of me. I'll go with you now if you'll leave my nephew and my sister-in-law alone." Krycek eyed her suspiciously for a moment. "Deal," he said, finally. "But I don't let go of her until you're out the door." "Fine," Scully said, rising. "Let's go." "Scully, what are you doing?" Mulder whispered. "He's not here to make you forget. He's here to kill you; maybe not me, but he's got to kill you now that he knows your memories can't be completely erased." "I'm going, Mulder," Scully said, with an eerie calm. "You can come with me or you can stay here. I don't really care anymore." Mulder winced, but he could hardly blame her. The memories were coming back to him as well -- clear memories now, not hazy and muddled as they were that night in Daphne, and he knew what she was remembering was true. Because of him, she had had to witness, a dozen times over, the death of her daughters -- the only children she could ever have, and they had all died. That they lived, that they suffered, that they died -- that she was forced to watch helplessly as it happened -- all that, he knew to his endless shame, was because of his quest. No wonder she no longer cared whether he lived or died. But as he raised his eyes for one last look, he caught the meaning in Scully's blue eyes, a meaning that no one else on earth could read. And in that moment, Fox Mulder knew how this night would end. A chilling calm descended over him and he nodded, almost imperceptibly. Things began to move in slow motion; each fractional movement in the room seemed to magnify a thousandfold, giving him time to analyze the smallest change and consider carefully how to respond. Every step he was to take was clear to him now, like an elegant battle plan, like the thoughts of a chess player who sees thirty or more moves ahead, delineated and described as clearly as though she spoke aloud. He was ready. And so was she. "Mrs. Scully," Krycek was saying, jamming the gun against Tara's head even more forcefully, "I want you to take Dana's gun from her. Hold it by the barrel and then lay it on the floor behind her. Can you do that for me?" "Do it, Mom," Scully said, calmly. "Do what he says." With trembling fingers, Maggie took the heavy handgun from her daughter's limp, unresisting hand. Gingerly, as though terrified it might go off, she placed it on the floor as instructed. "Very good," Krycek said. He turned his head toward the stairs. "Commander Scully!" he shouted. "Front and center if you know what's good for you and your family." "Now, out the door, Scully," Krycek said, turning back toward them. "You, too, Mulder, if you ever want to see her again." "I'm coming, Krycek," Mulder said, quietly, laying his weapon on the floor and raising his hands over his head. "Pull up your pants legs," Krycek said, roughly. Mulder complied. "I didn't know you liked my legs so well, Alex," Mulder said. "I'm touched." "Don't flatter yourself," Krycek said. "I know you carry backup." "No backup today, Alex," Mulder said, evenly. "I'm clean as a whistle." Out of the corner of his eye, Mulder could see Scully tensing, readying herself to put the plan into action. "What's going on down there?" came Bill's booming voice from the stairs. Hearing his father's voice, Matthew began to scream again. Tara, in terror, screamed out her husband's name. Now, Scully's eyes said as her brother came pounding down the stairwell. Now, Mulder's eyes agreed. All at once, Scully let her knees buckle under her as she collapsed to the floor as if in a faint. Krycek, his attention momentarily diverted by Scully's sudden movement, whirled around to see what was up. The barrel of the gun slipped, almost imperceptibly, away from Tara's head ... and Scully came up in a shooter's crouch, with her weapon clutched firmly in both hands. Gracefully, as fluidly as a ballerina turning a pirouette, Scully raised the weapon and looked down the barrel. She heard Maggie's scream, heard Matthew's loud wails, saw Bill freeze in disbelief, saw Tara's eyes roll back in her head. She saw, but she was not distracted, not in this moment of glacial clarity. Her finger continued to press slowly and steadily, as she had been trained to do it, on the trigger of her gun. And then there was the solid feeling of the firing pin falling, the kick, the muzzle flash, the deafening roar. Later, she would swear she had watched as the bullet came blazing out of the barrel, heading for its target. The chamber clicked back, and the brass cartridge ejected ... And Krycek's head exploded in a mass of brains, bone and blood, his hair splattering against the wall behind him. Before the chamber slid back into position, before she even had time to assess how well she'd aimed, Scully saw Mulder reach into his back pocket and pull out his backup weapon, a small .22. Lee never saw it, though. He was too busy, watching in fascination -- in ecstasy, almost -- as Krycek's body slid in a quivering heap to the floor. Coolly, as slowly as a trainee lining up for weapons qualification, Mulder took aim and fired, the bullet striking Lee just millimeters from where Mulder had shot him only a few short weeks earlier. Only this time, there would be no dramatic rescue, no recovery. Mulder's aim was absolutely perfect. Lee was dead when the bullet hit him. The light went out in his eyes like a candle being snuffed out; his muscles lost all tone and he began to collapse. Scully leapt forward just in time to take her shrieking nephew from Lee's lifeless hands as the killer slid to the floor next to what was left of Alex Krycek. And it was over. Time returned to normal speed as Mulder stepped forward, kicking Krycek's and Lee's guns away from their bodies. He didn't need Scully to tell him these two were dead, but that was the way you did it, and he wasn't about to be incautious. Not again. Satisfied that the threat was over, Mulder stuck his gun in the waistband of his trousers and turned to see Scully huddling on the floor with Matthew clutched tightly in her arms. "He's gone now, baby," she was whispering. "He won't hurt you anymore. He's gone. Mommy made him stop this time. She made him stop hurting the babies forever." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Home is where the heart is and my heart is out traveling. Up into the wild blue yonder, wingless, prayerful that this miracle of flight will not end, just yet. Also at home, with you, on the ground wherever you might be at the moment, grounded like a highschooler, like a wire, a bird and a wire, feet on the ground and my heart in my throat now, now in my feet, lawfully descending with gravity to the lower, lowest, most sought after most beautifully bound, home. Aspirations involve reparations. We reach for the stars wondering what we are. But my Reason has been found by finding you and looking down. And it is there, not in the stars of fantasized worlds, fifth dimensions, sixth senses, holy parallel potentates of potentialities -- that my feet will trace their slow as history itself dance: a walking calligraphy so subtle that it will take 40 years and more and a view from above with an impersonal remove and lofty attachment I hope to barely fall at that mythical two-backed beast; itinerant statis; like the one I enjoy up here in the well attended air, to read the cursive strokes of my aggregate footsteps, like some fairy tale dissolve, "Once upon a time," or twice written on our little page of earth, ground, where our home may be will be wherever we happen to be. "Clich?uice" -- David Duchovny Chapter 29 Maggie Scully's house 4:51 a.m. In the end, it fell to Maggie to begin putting things to rights again. Mulder, as soon as he was certain the intruders were dead, holstered his and Scully's weapons and called the Baltimore Field Office to report the incident. Scully, almost as quickly, had arisen, quietly handing Matthew to her mother, and begun administering first aid to Tara, who came to minutes later, shrieking in terror. Before too long, an FBI forensic team was there, along with detectives from the Baltimore PD and a paramedic team for Tara, who refused to be taken to a hospital. Scully ordered a sedative injection and put Tara to bed, with Matthew in the crib next to her, in the guest room upstairs. Maggie and Bill gave statements to the police while Mulder and Scully gave their reports to the Baltimore ASAC, who had come out to the scene himself. "Looks pretty open and shut to me, Agent Mulder," the ASAC had said, shrugging as he put his notebook away. "I'll give copies of your reports to Baltimore PD, and they'll almost certainly want to question you and Agent Scully, but it looks like a clean shoot from here." "They don't get any cleaner, sir," Mulder muttered, looking toward the kitchen table where Scully was giving a statement to another agent. She had wiped Krycek's blood from her face and hands, but it still splattered her clothing. She paid that no notice at all; once again, Dana Scully was calm and in possession of herself. She was all business, for now, anyway. The agents hadn't spoken much after the shooting -- not that they didn't have a lot to say to each other, but they had work to do, and there was no time to talk. That was one thing that hadn't changed between them and, he suspected, never would: When there was work to be done, love, sorrow, passion -- whatever life brought -- had to wait until there was time to deal with it. Sometimes, it seemed that time might never come. Not much of a life for you, Scully, he thought, sadly. And maybe not much of a life for me either. But it's still the only life I know how to live. "Agent Mulder?" the ASAC said, patiently. "Yes, sir?" Mulder said, turning his attention back to the matter at hand. "I was just asking you if you knew of any connection between this missing officer in Daphne and the agent who investigated that case along with you," the ASAC said. "Glassman?" Mulder asked, in surprise. "No, sir. Agent Glassman spent some time with Officer Mack while we were in Daphne -- more time than he spent investigating the case, to be frank -- but I don't know that there was any connection. Why do you ask, sir?" "Because they're both missing," the ASAC said, grimly. "According to AD Skinner, Glassman was reported missing by SSA Rolfe yesterday morning. If your intruder was telling the truth, perhaps Glassman's also met with an unfortunate accident. After all, he is a witness in your Alabama case." Mulder shook his head. "Respectfully, sir, I don't think so. Agent Glassman was assigned to that case, but he was more of a hindrance than ..." Mulder broke off, his eyes widening slightly. "Mulder, what is it?" It was Scully. He hadn't even noticed her walking up behind him. "Glassman's missing," Mulder said. "He disappeared yesterday." "Oh, my God," Scully said, her eyes going wide with shock. "Sir, Agent Glassman was involved in this case. He could also be a victim." "Your partner doesn't seem to think so," the ASAC said, watching Mulder with keen interest. "Do you have another theory, Agent Mulder?" "Yes, sir," Mulder said, nodding. "At any rate, I don't believe Agent Glassman's dead -- but I also don't believe you'll ever find him." "Where would he be?" the ASAC asked, puzzled. Mulder shrugged. "I don't know, sir," he said. "Out west, maybe; or maybe somewhere in the western Carolinas. I don't think we'll see him back at VICAP or anywhere else in the Bureau." The ASAC eyed him, a little dubiously, then shrugged and stood up. "I've heard enough about you to take that suggestion seriously, Mulder," he said. "AD Skinner wants to talk to the both of you tomorrow. You can flesh out your theory with him then. I'm headed to the office; call me there if you think of anything else I need to know." "So what is your theory?" Scully asked as the ASAC left, the other agents and officers trailing behind him. "My theory is that Glassman was part of this all along," Mulder said, taking Scully's hand and sitting in one of the kitchen chairs. She drew up another chair and sat next to him. "As far as you're concerned, Glassman never did anything in Daphne or in VICAP except cause trouble for you, am I right?" Scully nodded. "That was about the extent of it -- but only so far as I was concerned, and that was a very subjective judgment, Mulder, arrived at during a time of extreme emotional stress." "Which Glassman, I believe, helped exacerbate," Mulder said, quietly. "Not only did he harass you while you were at VICAP, but when you and I got back together and started working the Daphne case, he did everything he could to derail it, including that late-night visit to your room and reporting you afterward." "Mulder, are you suggesting that Glassman was part of a plot to drive me ..." "Stark fucking apeshit," Mulder said, nodding. "Why?" Scully asked, angrily. "Why would it matter so much to them, why would they go to such bizarre, ungodly lengths, to try to make me crazy? Why don't they just kill me? Or both of us?" "I don't know," Mulder said, quietly. "But the facts fit that theory, without any serious stretching. The people behind this see you as a serious threat, Scully -- because they're smart enough to figure out that without you, I'm no threat at all." "Mulder, that's not true," Scully said, more quietly, holding his hand a little tighter. "If you weren't a threat to them without me, they'd never have sent me to the X Files in the first place." "That was a rare mistake on their part," Mulder agreed. "But they know it now, and they're trying to undo it -- and, for reasons that escape me, to undo it without killing either of us." "You're giving me too much credit," Scully said, shaking her head. "As usual. Mulder, if Glassman's really involved in this, does that mean Rolfe is compromised, too?" "Possibly," Mulder said, "I'd even say probably. Glassman wouldn't have been in Daphne unless Rolfe or someone higher up had assigned him to the case." "Thus keeping him near enough to me to carry out his dirty work," Scully said, evenly. "That makes sense. But Skinner sent me to VICAP, and only when I requested a transfer. So how does he fit in?" Mulder was silent for a moment. When at last he spoke, his voice was strained, as though he were speaking against his will. "I don't think," he said, slowly, "that we can ever assume that Skinner's not been compromised. Think how many times we've found Cancer Man in his office." "Do you really think Skinner would cooperate in a plot to make me lose my sanity?" Scully said. "I can't believe that of him." "I think he would, if the alternative was that you would be killed," Mulder said, as though thinking aloud. "And maybe that's the answer, after all -- that Skinner's made some kind of deal for your life, and that he's doing all he can to mitigate the damage. It wouldn't be the first time." "What do you mean?" Scully asked, but Mulder shook his head. "Not tonight," he said. "But I think we've found our conspirators -- Glassman spent a great deal of time with Mack while we were in Daphne, more than he spent working with us, anyway. Maybe Glassman was pumping Mack for information, and Mack didn't see any reason not to tell him what he wanted to know." "Which means Glassman was in a perfect position to report back to Rolfe or Skinner or whoever's behind this," Scully said. Sighing, she shook her head. "Poor Mack -- he was a good guy, a good cop. Mulder, do you suppose they'll ever find him?" "I think they'll find him," Mulder said, nodding. "Otherwise, why go to the trouble to make it look like suicide? That's assuming Krycek was telling the truth." "Which is -- was -- never a safe assumption," Scully said, putting her hands on the table and pushing herself, wearily, to a standing position. "Mulder, I know we still have work to do, but I've had about all of this I can take for right now. Would you mind if we talked about it later? I want to go ... clean up." "No, of course I don't mind," Mulder said quickly, rising. "I'm sorry -- I should have realized ..." "No," Scully said, shaking her head firmly. "I told you before, Mulder, you're not to blame for any of this." "Scully ..." he began, but she silenced him with a quick kiss. "I won't be long," she said, softly, laying a cool hand on his cheek before she turned and walked unsteadily from the kitchen. ~~~~~ Mulder sat back down and leaned against the table, his head in his hands. Scully was calm, for the moment, but there was more yet to be said between them -- much more, about the return of their memories, the still-unanswered questions about what had really happened to them that December night, and, most of all, the questions that still remained about Emily. All that could take months or years to sort out, and there was no telling how either of them would react once the shock wore off and the reality set in. They might put things back together, learn to live -- again -- with what remained unknown and perhaps unknowable, while still striving to uncover the secrets that were so deeply buried. Or they might try, only to find that their anger, their grief and their helplessness would inevitably undermine their best efforts and they would drift apart, or fly apart in rage and bitterness. Even for him and Scully, he knew, that was not impossible. It happened to other couples every day; it had happened to his own parents. The loss of a child was perhaps the greatest stress that could ever come to any relationship, and Scully had had to experience that pain magnified in a way that Mulder was reasonably sure no other parent on earth ever had. But there was that one fact he hadn't yet had time to mention, a truth that might, in time, save them both. If only he could know for certain ... ~~~~~ Scully dipped the washcloth into the warm water, squeezing it gently as she dabbed away the last of Alex Krycek's blood and tissue from her body. She had changed into a T-shirt, and her sweater was soaking in the tub, the cold water gradually turning pink as the blood dissolved away. In spite of the care she was taking, though, she couldn't imagine ever wanting to wear the thing again. Too many memories. Always, too much to deal with all at one time. She tried to stay focused on her task, as she had immediately after the shooting. She pushed back, firmly, every thought of the tiny Emily clones whose suffering and inevitable death threatened to send her plunging into a grief she could not now bear to face or feel. But she would face it, and she would grieve, as before. It was Mulder she was worried about right now. His inability to grieve, to suffer and feel and ultimately, to let the loss become part of his reality, could cripple him permanently. Loss ... there had been so much loss, more than she could ever have imagined dealing with almost seven years earlier, on the bright spring morning when she stepped over-confidently into the office of Section Chief Blevins to receive her new assignment to the X Files. So much destruction; so much death. Against her will, the images began to intrude into her brain: Prescott, lying in a bloody heap on the floor; Mack, grinning as he bit into his chocolate doughnut; Melissa, smiling serenely as she dispensed New Age wisdom; Bill Mulder, whom she had never met, but whose haggard, haunted face she knew from photographs; Samantha, another face she knew only from photographs, standing happily next to her tall, handsome big brother ... And Emily. Always, always, Emily, smiling as she showed off her pretty birthday cake. Emily, the tiny child she'd cradled in the hospital, and all the other Emilys, all the dozens of sick, dying children who bore that beloved face and form. "How many more are there?" Scully whispered to her bloodied image in the mirror. "How many, and where are they?" "Dana?" She turned around, still holding the washcloth. It was Maggie, her face drawn with worry and fatigue. "Dana, are you all right?" Maggie said, reaching to stroke her daughter's cheek. Scully shook her head. "No, Mom," she said, softly. "I'm not all right. I don't know if I ever will be all right again." "You've been through a lot, and you're tired ... " Maggie began. "It's not just that, Mom," Scully said, interrupting her mother. "It's what I remember now that I didn't before. It's true, you know; they made lots of Emilys. There may be more out there, all of them my daughters, and I can't get to them to help them." "Dana, I don't know enough about this to understand what you're saying," Maggie said. "I know," Scully said. She looked at herself in the mirror again, and then back down at the faintly pink water in the lavatory. "Someday, Mom, I'll tell you -- all of it, or as much of it as you feel able to handle. But not tonight. I can't get into it tonight; I still have work to do." "What you need tonight is to get some sleep," Maggie said, putting one hand on Dana's shoulder. "No," Scully said, shaking her head. "Not tonight." She squeezed out the cloth again and laid it on the counter, then pulled the rubber stopper and watched as the water went swirling down the drain. "Mom," Scully said, slowly, "I'm sorry about what happened here. I had hoped to protect you all better. I never wanted you to have to see anything like that, or to be put in that kind of danger because of me." "You did what you had to do, Dana, " Maggie said, gently, letting her hand fall to her side. Dana wanted some space right now; she could feel it in her daughter's tense posture, in the way she was avoiding her mother's eyes. "Dana," she began again, "I know you've tried to keep the more violent parts of your job away from your family ..." "It's not just the job," Dana said, leaning against the counter. "It's everything." Her slender frame sagged and, as Maggie watched, bewildered, Dana slid in a heap to the floor and began to weep, the tears rolling silently down her face. "I can't, Mom," she said, her voice breaking. "Please just leave me alone. I can't. I can't do this. I can't talk about it now." "Dana," Maggie said, reaching for her, but Dana didn't respond, just continued to weep and tremble. And Maggie knew, with a certainty that tore her heart in two, that Dana was again past her help. As quietly as she could, she turned away and walked down the hallway to the kitchen door. Slowly, she pushed the swinging door open just far enough to look inside. There was Fox, leaning his head into his hands. He hadn't even heard her come in. "Fox," Maggie said, and although she spoke softly, she startled him. He sat up, quickly, turning around to see who was there -- giving her, had he known it, another pain to store up in her heart, the pain of knowing that not even here, in her home, could he -- or Dana -- ever feel truly safe. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully," he said as he rose. "I was sort of lost in thought." "Fox, I think Dana needs you," Maggie said, gently, her voice shaking slightly as she fought back her own tears. For a moment, he stood still, uncomprehending -- wondering, she was sure, what Dana might need him for with her own mother right there. "Where is she?" he said, at last. "Come with me," Maggie said, reaching out her hand to him. For the space of a single heartbeat, Mulder hesitated -- then he put out his own hand and Maggie took it, and led him back down the hallway to where Scully lay in a crumpled heap on the tiled bathroom floor. "Scully?" he said, kneeling beside her, and she looked up at the sound of his voice. "What is it, baby, what's wrong?" "Mulder," she whispered, reaching for him with trembling hands, and he put one arm around her shoulders and lifted her up, helped her stand. "It's all right, I'm here," he murmured as she put her hands on his upper arms to steady herself. "Just stand still for a minute, don't try to move yet." "I'm sorry," Scully whispered, still weeping, as she laid her head against his chest. "I'm so sorry, Mulder." "Don't apologize," he said, putting his arms around her. "You've been through a lot." "You just need to go lie down for a minute, Dana," Maggie said from the doorway where she stood, one hand on the doorframe, as though she needed support herself. "You're exhausted." "I need to go home," Scully whispered. "I just want to go home." "You are home," Mulder said. "Your mom's here, and your brother, and his family ..." "No, I mean home with you," Scully said, looking up at him. "Please, Mulder. Just take me home." "Dana, you can stay here," Maggie said, almost desperately. "Fox is here, he can stay too. You'll be safe here; we'll all look after you." "Scully, maybe you should ..." Mulder began, but she shook her head, firmly. "No," she said, straightening a little. "Thank you, Mom, but that's not what I need to do right now." For a moment, Maggie seemed about to say more, but then she spread her hands in a gesture of defeat. "Fox, why don't you help Dana out to the den?" she said. "I'll go get her things." Without another word, Maggie turned and walked away. "I think you've upset your mother," Mulder said, putting an arm around her shoulders and steering her toward the den. "I know," Scully said, quietly, leaning against him as they walked. "And I'm sorry. But I can't stay here." "I understand that," he said, gently. "But what's upsetting her, I think, is that you as much as said you and I were going to be sleeping together." "Thanks to Alex, she already knows that," Scully said, bitterly, as they reached the couch and sat down. "That was cruel -- even for him." "Yes, it was," Mulder said, and put his arms around her. "But you can't blame her for being displeased." "I don't," Scully said, nestling closer to him. "I don't. But I want to sleep next to you." "Scully ..." Mulder said, then paused. "I want that, too. I do. But have you really thought about this? About what could happen if your brother hears about it? I don't think I want to put you through that -- or myself, for that matter." "I've thought about it," she said, nodding. "But I still want you to come home with me. I don't want to be without you when the nightmares start." "Maybe they won't." "They will," she said, quietly. "But maybe they won't last as long this time. I just can't live with the thought that there may be more Emilys out there somewhere, being treated like lab rats." "Scully," Mulder began, then paused. "What?" she said, turning to look up at him. "Mulder, what is it?" "There's one fact I don't think either of us has considered before," he said, slowly. "Such as why there would be a whole series of Emily clones -- or how that ties in to what happened to my sister." "What are you suggesting?" "That although they appear to have successfully cloned Samantha, they still haven't returned her," Mulder said. "Which suggests to me that they need the original, completely human being in order to keep producing viable clones." Scully stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending, then her eyes began to widen as the meaning behind his words sank in. "Mulder, are you saying there's an original Emily alive somewhere?" she said, scarcely daring to hope. "That they're keeping her alive so they can make more hybrids, more clones?" "I think it's a possibility, yes," he said, stroking her cheek softly. "That would explain why Samantha hasn't been returned, and it would also answer the question of how they continue to produce clones despite the obvious genetic weaknesses that result." "You're saying I have a real, completely human daughter out there somewhere," Scully said, tears of anger rising in her eyes again. "How could they do that to me?" "The same way they did it to my parents," Mulder said, quietly. "But I have to believe that there's a place, somewhere, maybe on an alien ship, maybe somewhere terrestrial, where Samantha -- and Emily -- are being kept alive because they need them alive." "Could they be in the same place?" "They could," he said, nodding. "It's certainly a possibility." "We have to find them," she said, lifting her chin in defiance. "We have to figure out where they are." Despite the seriousness of the conversation, despite the horror of the night, in spite of it all, Mulder began laughing. He couldn't help it. "Scully," he said, shaking his head, still laughing, "what the hell do you think I've been doing for the past nine years?" ~~~~~ A few minutes later, Maggie came down the stairs, carrying Scully's overnight bag in one hand. "Your brother asked you to wait a few minutes," she said, setting the bag down near the door, but not looking at Dana. "I'm going upstairs to watch Tara and Matthew while he comes down here." "Mom," Scully said, rising and walking over to her mother, putting one hand on her arm. "Mom, I'm sorry about what Krycek told you about Mulder and me," she said, speaking quietly so Mulder wouldn't overhear. "I know you don't approve of it." "No, I don't," Maggie said, just as quietly, but her voice remained even. "But I don't suppose it's for me to approve or disapprove, really. You're a grown woman, Dana, and I've come to know that there's a lot I don't understand about the world you live in now. If you and Fox are ... lovers ... then I'm sure you have your reasons." "I never wanted to disappoint you," Dana whispered. "And you haven't," Maggie said, comfortingly, patting Dana's hand. "But you don't have to leave, Dana. You could both stay here ..." "No, Mom," Scully said, shaking her head. "I can't. I need to be with Mulder -- tonight, and every other night." Maggie's lower lip began to tremble and she folded her arms across her chest. Gently, as gently as she could, Dana put her arms around her mother, enfolded her in a tender embrace. "I'm sorry, Mom," she whispered. "I know you think that belongs in marriage. And in a way, so do I." She loosened her hold and looked lovingly into her mother's eyes. "But Mom, please try to understand -- I am completely committed to him, body and soul, forever. I love him with everything that's in me. I think God will understand; I hope you do." "I'll try, Dana," Maggie said, tears welling up in her eyes as she hugged her daughter closer. "I'll try." She kissed Dana's cheek, gently, then -- with a quick, tremulous smile at Mulder -- turned and walked up the stairs toward the bedroom. "Scully, maybe we should just stay here and get some sleep," Mulder said uneasily as he watched Maggie go. The idea of Bill's being the one to see them off, of his knowing where they were headed and why, was almost too much to consider. "I won't sleep," she said, sitting down next to him again. "Not knowing you're so close and I can't be with you. I don't want to sleep without you anymore." She took a deep breath, steeling her nerve. "Which is why I want you to move in with me." That startled him. She could feel it in the sudden tension in his muscles. "Are you sure?" he said, cautiously. "That's a pretty big step, Scully." "I'm sure," she said, with that Irish tilt of her chin. "Let Frohike keep the damn apartment." Then her voice softened. "I've kept you at arm's length long enough, Mulder," she said, quietly. "I'm not going to let anything -- or anyone -- keep us apart again. Not anyone," she repeated. "I don't want to be without you, Scully," Mulder said, kissing her forehead. "But moving in together isn't the only alternative." "What are you suggesting?" "Well ..." He paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "You could always marry me." "Oh, Mulder," she said, softly, and laid her head against his shoulder, letting out a long sigh. For a long moment, she said nothing else, and Mulder thought his heart might stop beating. "Is that a no?" he said, hesitantly. "Not really," she said, looking up at him again. "I mean, yes, it's no, but not the way you think. It's more like ..." She stopped and shook her head in annoyance. "Mulder, I love you. I want to be with you, and I can't think of anything I want more than to be your wife, but ..." "Here it comes," he said, as though he were joking, but she could still feel the tension in his body. "Maybe someday, we could get married, but right now, we have to find Eric Rudolph," she said. "He may be the key to the entire conspiracy, and if we were married, we couldn't be partners, not ever again. They'd split us up." "Yes, they probably would," Mulder said, quietly. "Are you saying you don't want to risk that?" "That's what I'm saying," Scully said, raising her head and kissing him softly on the mouth. "I want to find out what happened here, Mulder. I want to know where Emily is, the real Emily. I can't do that without you. As for our relationship, well -- your apartment's still in your name. No one's going to know where you spend your nights." "I understand," he said, but she could see the sadness in his eyes. He understands my wanting to work with him, she thought, but he still feels rejected. And maybe I can't blame him for that. She thought for a minute. And then it came to her, something she'd learned long ago and thought she had forgotten. "Mulder," she said, quietly, "a friend of mine once told me a story about a Jewish couple who were stranded on an island ..." "Is this one of those minister-priest-and-rabbi jokes?" he interrupted, making her smile. "No, it is not," she said, cuffing his arm lightly. "Will you let me finish?" "Sorry," he said. "I just can't get over the fact that you seem to know more Jewish folklore than I do. So what happened?" "Well, they wanted to be married, but they thought they couldn't because there was no one there to officiate," she said. "So the man called on the birds, and the fish, and the stars and all the angels to witness that this woman was consecrated to him as his wife." There was a long silence, and for a moment Scully thought she might have offended him, but when he spoke again, his voice had the calm of utter certainty. "I understand," he said, quietly, and pulled her closer into his arms. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The soul that ever sought its God to find Has found Him now -- no matter how, or where. Yet can I not but mourn because he died That was my father, should have been my guide. "Written on the Anniversary of Our Father's Death" -- Hartley Coleridge Chapter 30 One week later En route to Marine Base, Quantico 6:23 a.m. "That's the place," Scully said, pointing to a tall, spire-topped building on the left. "Mulder, are you sure you don't mind waiting for me?" "For the umpteenth time, Scully, no, I don't mind," Mulder said, steering the car into the parking lot of St. Aloysius Catholic Church. "About how long does this take? I'm not up on weekday masses." "Half an hour, at most," she said, unbuckling her seat belt and leaning over to give her partner a quick kiss. "Go get some coffee or something; I hate to think of you sitting out in this parking lot all that time." "It'll give me time to think," Mulder said, with a shrug. "Go on, I'll be here when you get out." He watched as she walked lightly up the stone steps to the church, one of a tiny handful of early morning communicants hurrying in for sunrise prayers. Most of them, he assumed, were regulars; but not Scully. Even the supposedly mandatory Sunday mass was a sometime thing with her. Which was why he'd been so surprised when she'd announced last night as they were lying in bed, about to go to sleep, that she wanted to go to mass in the morning before work. "St. Aloysius is just down the street and it has a 6:30 mass," she'd said, as she nestled under his arm. "We wouldn't be late for work." "I'm not worried about that," he'd said. "But why this, all of a sudden? Is tomorrow some kind of religious holiday?" "No, nothing like that," she'd said, quietly. "I just wanted to go -- to say a prayer for Mack, and for Prescott. I haven't done that before ... I just wanted to." "Then you should," he'd said. And that had ended the discussion. A soft kiss, a whispered "I love you," and Scully had gone to sleep in his arms. For a long time, he'd lain awake, holding her, listening to her soft, slumberous breathing in his ear, and wondering -- not for the first time -- what he'd done to deserve this much happiness. There had been sadness, certainly; plenty of it. Mack's death, for one thing, was a gaping, painful wound for both of them, still too raw to touch. Mack's body had turned up, two days after their return to Washington, in a burned-out crack house in north Mobile County. The medical examiner determined that Mack had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, the bullet fired from his own service weapon. Scully, however, had persuaded the Mobile County district attorney to turn the case over to a grand jury, promising that she and Mulder would be available to testify. It would be an empty victory if the grand jurors ruled it a homicide, she knew. There probably wasn't anyone around to prosecute. But, as she told Mulder, she felt she owed it to Mack. "He was so kind to me, Mulder," she had said, tears rising in her eyes. "He tried to help me in every way he could. I was hoping to persuade him to join the Bureau." "He would have liked that," Mulder had answered. "Most of all, I think, because it would have been you doing the asking." And she had smiled, and turned away. She hadn't spoken of Mack again -- not until last night, when she said she wanted to pray for him. Not everything was sorrow, though; as soon as they'd returned to work, they'd discovered that they were -- at last -- officially partners again, but this time under the aegis of VICAP. SSA Rolfe, they learned, was on indefinite leave, awaiting an in-depth probe by the Office of Professional Review. Glassman -- to everyone's surprise but Mulder's -- had vanished without a trace. In the meantime, SSA Kennedy had taken over VICAP, and they would report to him, under the overall supervision of AD Skinner. "The anthrax found in Atlanta is a new strain, as you surmised, Agent Scully," Skinner had told them when he informed them of their new assignment. "The Atlanta Field Office and the CDC are working to gather up all the contaminated materials, but they don't know yet if they've got it all." "What is our role in this, sir?" Mulder had asked. "For now," Skinner had said, "you two are back on my team. If Eric Rudolph's involved in this, I want his ass found. I want to know if the anthrax was a dress rehearsal for a worse weapon yet." As they'd risen to leave, though, Skinner had stopped them. "Let's make this as painless as possible for everyone concerned," he'd said. "The less I know about your investigation, the better off we'll all be. I want to know nothing until Rudolph's been arrested, or until you locate the person who attacked your young SEAL." "The information that would allow us to identify the young man positively has vanished," Mulder said. "Unless we can retrieve it -- and so far, that's been a futile effort -- I can neither confirm nor disprove the identity of the person I met in Georgia." "That's more than I want to know for now," Skinner had said. "As I said, when you have Rudolph in custody, tell me. Until then, make your reports to SSA Kennedy. In time, you may be allowed to officially reopen the X Files. In the meantime, you have a certain latitude in investigations, as long as you keep a low profile. Am I understood?" "Perfectly, sir," Scully had said, and then she'd risen on tiptoe and kissed the assistant director's craggy cheek. "And thank you, sir. For everything." That was the end of the meeting. Skinner, blushing furiously, had gruffly ordered the agents out of his office, saying he had more important matters to attend to. "Did I just hear what I thought I heard?" Mulder had asked as they walked down the hall toward the elevator. "What I just heard is that the X Files are unofficially open and we're back in charge of them," Scully said, smiling up at him, but briefly -- she still shied away from any open displays of affection when other agents were around. "That's what I heard, too," Mulder said. "Scully, are you sure you want to come back into all that mess? It used to get pretty grim, as I'm sure I don't have to remind you." "Of course, Mulder," she'd said, in her coolest, most professional tone. "After all, I still haven't accomplished what I was assigned there to do." "Debunk the X Files?" he said, half smiling as they stopped in front of the elevator. "Do you still think that's going to happen?" "Well, if it doesn't," she'd said, pushing the "down" button, "then this is going to be a very long-term assignment." "From your mouth to God's ears," Mulder murmured, giving her hand a lightning- fast squeeze as the doors slid open. "Amen," she'd said. ~~~~~ That had been a good day; a great day, by any measure at all. Arriving at Quantico, they found they'd been given an office of their own which -- although it wasn't the basement -- was about as dusty and unattractive as the X Files office had ever been. After a long day spent organizing, straightening and setting up, they'd gone home to Scully's Georgetown apartment, taken a long, pleasant shower together and fallen asleep on the couch, watching television. The next day, he'd taken a flying trip down to Birmingham, packed up the few things he'd left in his apartment there and driven back to D.C. just as fast as he could get there. When he arrived, late on the following night, he found that Scully had been busy, too. He now had half the closet space, half the bathroom cabinet and all of a large, antique dresser where Scully had formerly stored out-of-season clothes. Best of all, he found Scully waiting for him in the bedroom, sitting up on the bed, wearing his Knicks T-shirt and a pair of his boxers. Her hair was twisted up into a haphazard ponytail, and her glasses were perched on the end of her makeup-less, freckled nose. Mulder thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life. "Welcome home," she'd said, looking up from her magazine and smiling as he came through the door. "It's been a while since I had a home to come to," he'd said, sitting down next to her. "I'm not sure I know how to behave." "Well, after you've had a chance to relax and unwind a little," she'd said, putting the magazine aside and sliding her hands into his hair, "I can show you." And that had been pure joy, joy of a kind he'd never thought he would know: lying next to her in cool, clean sheets, feeling her body against his, hearing her soft whispers as he entered her slowly, bringing them both to the pinnacle of desire and then lying together in the dark and the quiet until they both fell asleep. And when the nightmares came -- as he'd known they would -- and she reached for him in the night, he held her tenderly, letting her touch him and take from him whatever she wanted, giving her freely whatever she needed him to give until she stopped shaking and began to shiver and sigh with pleasure ... It was almost enough to make him believe in heaven. And yet ... Always, underlying the joy, was the sorrow, the deep, deep sorrow that he feared would always be there now, in spite of everyone's best efforts. It surrounded him like a cloud every day, and if the sadness didn't penetrate his nights and rob him of sleep, it was only because Scully kept it at bay. And she did; despite the depths of her loss, Scully seemed to be healing faster than he was, a phenomenon he credited at least in part to the ongoing reconciliation between her and her older brother. On the morning after Krycek's death, as the agents were preparing to leave Maggie's home, Bill had come down the stairs wearing an expression Mulder could never have imagined seeing on that face: Sheer, unmitigated gratitude. "I wanted to thank you," Bill had said, almost stammering as he held out his hand. "I know what you did; and I know that if it weren't for you, my wife and my son -- and I -- might not be here now." "How do you figure that, Commander?" Mulder had said, grasping Bill's hand briefly. "Because Tara told me ... before she fell asleep," Bill said, dropping the handshake and looking uneasily at his sister. "She told me what that man said when he grabbed her." "What did she say, Bill?" Scully asked, rising and taking Mulder's hand. Bill saw it, but for once, he didn't react to it. "She said," Bill said, looking at Dana, "that the white guy grabbed her hair and jerked her head back, and then he told the other guy ..." Bill went silent for a moment; his face was pale, and he was clearly struggling to get out the next words. "He said, 'That's the one we want; that's his wife,'" Bill said, swallowing hard. "My wife." He looked at Mulder now, his glance steady. "He came here for me. And you -- both of you -- took one hell of a risk to stop him." "He came here for all of us, Commander," Mulder said, quietly. "It wasn't just you." "It may have been, Mr. Mulder," Bill said. "You see, Nassau wasn't scheduled to make her homeport for another month. You were right about the mission -- and it was ongoing. If someone higher up hadn't intervened, Nassau would have been right back in the Straits of Bosporus -- and for all I know, might never have made it back home." "Who changed your orders?" Mulder asked. "I couldn't say," Bill said, shaking his head. "It happened pretty fast, though." "Prescott," Scully said, looking at Mulder. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "Had to be." "This is your superior you're talking about?" Bill asked, looking from his sister to Mulder. "The one who was killed?" "Daniel Prescott," Mulder said, nodding. "He was a Navy man before he joined the Bureau; a SEAL, actually." "And you think he intervened in military matters for my benefit?" Bill said, dubiously. "I think he did, Bill," Scully said, quietly. "We believe you were being set up to be killed." "Why would anyone want to kill me?" Bill asked, dubiously. "To teach me a lesson I wouldn't forget," Scully said. "But because of Mulder, that didn't happen." "I didn't do it," Mulder said, shaking his head. "Prescott did." "Because you went to him for help," Scully said, quietly. "Because you knew how worried I was about Bill." "Scully, I told you -- no matter what's happened in the past, the Scullys aren't going to lose anyone else on my account," Mulder said, quietly. He turned toward Bill again, and his gaze was steady. "No one, Commander." "It's Bill, Mr. Mulder," Bill had said, quietly, nodding his head. "Just Bill." "Bill, then," Mulder had said, also nodding. "I guess you've already noticed that I usually go by just my last name." "Then why does my mother call you Fox?" Bill asked. Mulder had shrugged, saying nothing. That left it up to Scully. "I can't tell you why she does it, Bill," she'd said, smiling just a little. "But I can tell you this -- she's one of the few people on earth who can get away with it." "She's always liked you, Mulder," Bill had said, shaking his head. "I never knew why until now." "Funny," Mulder had replied, deadpan, "that was exactly what I was thinking myself." Scully snickered, and looked up at her big brother who -- finally -- began to get the joke, and laughed aloud. Then, shaking Bill's hand once more, Mulder had picked up Scully's bag and walked her out to the car. ~~~~~ The sound of the church bells startled Mulder from his reverie. He looked at his watch -- just 6:30. They hadn't even started yet. Suppressing an impatient groan, he turned his head from side to side, trying to loosen the muscles that still managed to remain in an almost-constant state of tension. A movement across the street caught his eye, and he turned to see a group of three elderly men walking slowly together into an unimpressive brown building with massive wooden doors. Squinting against the rising sun, he read the sign out front: Congregation Beth Shalom, it said, in English and -- he presumed -- in Hebrew as well, although he couldn't read that part. Time for morning prayers, he thought, remembering his first and only attendance at the service, back at the Stouffers' home in Mobile. That was one for the record books, he thought, an ironic smile twisting his lips. Fox Mulder taking part in a minyan; it's a wonder the roof didn't cave in from the cosmic shock. "You have those kinds of rituals available to you, you know." Startled, he looked around him. It was Scully's voice -- but she was nowhere around. I'm hearing things, he thought, shaking his head to clear it. A brief auditory hallucination -- just the kind of thing that makes people think they're getting messages from God. But the words continued to nag at him, and his eyes kept returning to the doors of the little brown synagogue across the street. I have no reason to go in there, he told himself. No reason at all -- except maybe just to pass the time until Scully's ready to leave. Almost before he realized what he was doing, Mulder opened the car door and stepped out, locking it behind him, and crossed the street to the little synagogue. Opening the door, he stepped inside, into the dusky dimness, lit only by the rising sun slanting through green glass windows. At the front of the synagogue sat an elderly man in skullcap and prayer shawl who looked up at his approach. "We are ten now," the man said, rising and picking up his prayer book. Great, Mulder groaned inwardly. He couldn't very well leave now -- the service would have to stop if he did. He started to sit down, but a glare from one of the other men stopped him. What now? he thought, then he realized the man was staring at his head -- at his bare head. God, if anyone I know is in here, I may have to shoot myself, Mulder thought, casting his glance around the dark little room. At last, he saw what he was looking for -- a small wooden bin near the door that held an assortment of black yarmulkes. He grabbed one and self-consciously put it on, then sat down in a pew near the back. There was a prayer book there -- what his grandfather had called a siddur -- and he opened it, relieved to find that it had not only the Hebrew prayers, but their English translations and a transliteration of the Hebrew, enabling him to more or less follow along with the service. He was deep in contemplation of the book when he heard the prayers stop. He looked up to see the rabbi standing in front of the small congregation, his hands folded over his ample stomach. "Will all the mourners please rise?" the rabbi said, gesturing with both hands. His eyes went straight to Mulder as he spoke. I'm not a regular, Mulder realized, his heart unaccountably speeding up. He thinks I'm here to say the Kaddish. He thinks I'm here to mourn. But I'm not. Am I? He looked toward the rabbi, trying to decide what to do, but all he could think of was Melissa's empty hospital bed, Samantha, screaming his name as her abductors carried her away; Marita, lying pale and dead ... Mack, Prescott, Emily ... There had been so many deaths, so much pain; so much blame to be placed at the feet of Fox William Mulder, in Israel D'vid ben Avram, the beloved son of his father -- the father who had died in his arms, his blood staining his son's hands forever, dying because this son -- who should have been the promise of life for him -- instead was his sentence of death. His father, to whom -- alone of all that sad, lost group -- he owed this prayer, this remembrance, as a duty. The sun was rising higher outside, and the day was growing warmer, but Mulder felt a shiver begin at the base of his spine. The air in the synagogue seemed suddenly cold and heavy, burdened with the weight of unsaid prayers and unmourned griefs. You can never undo what has happened. You can never bring them back. But Scully was right ... this is how you atone, how you mourn and make amends as best you can, because this prayer, this observance, is part of you and part of your family, and your people, and has been for hundreds of years. Maybe you can't believe ... but because you are part of this people, you can still pray, just the same, and you can remember. Swiftly, before he could change his mind again, he rose, his hands tightening on the siddur. The words began to swim and move as tears rose in his eyes and he began, haltingly, to speak the words with the others. "Yis'ga'dal v'yis'kadash sh'may ra'bbo, b'olmo dee'vro chir'usay v'yamlich malchu'say, b'chayaychon uv'yomay'chon uv'chayay d'chol bais Yisroel, ba'agolo u'viz'man koriv; v'imru Omein." The tears were falling freely from his eyes now, dropping onto the yellowed pages in front of him. This time, he didn't even try to stop them. ~~~~~ He was back in the car, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in his hands, when Scully came out of St. Aloysius, smiling and happy. "Mulder, it was the most amazing thing," she said as she climbed into the car and fastened her seat belt. "The priest gave a short homily on St. Paul's exhortation to give thanks in everything. It was almost as though he meant it for me." "How do you mean?" he said, handing her one of the cups as he started the car and drove out of the parking lot. "He said that giving thanks for bad things, even for terrible, grievous things, was just a way of acknowledging that the universe is still under God's control," she said, taking a sip of the coffee. "That, to borrow a phrase, it means the universe is unfolding as it should, and that we can be at peace with God, whatever we conceive Him to be." She stopped herself then, and looked at Mulder with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "I'm rattling on and on about things you don't believe in. But it reminded me of that Jewish prayer for the dead, the Kaddish -- you said it was a prayer of praise, not a prayer of mourning." "It is," he said, very quietly. "And as far as going on about things I don't believe in, well, I've been doing that to you for years." They drove along silently for a while as the sun rose higher, burning off the early morning mist to reveal a sky so blue it was almost painful to look at. Spring was coming, at last; new growth showed on the trees that lined the highway, and a few timid flowers were poking their heads out of the ground as though testing the atmosphere for the riot of blossoms soon to come. "So what else happened?" Mulder said, finally. "Did you say your prayers?" "Yes," she said, more quietly. "I said prayers for all the Emilys, and for Prescott and Mack, for Marita and Melissa, for our fathers ... I even said one for you." "Thank you," he said, quietly. Scully smiled and leaned back against the headrest. "It's such a beautiful day, Mulder," she said, sighing. "I could almost stand to play hooky from work." "It's the kind of day that can almost make you believe in life after death," Mulder said, softly, and Scully turned to look at him in astonishment. "I never thought I'd hear that from you, Mulder," she said, shaking her head in amazement. "What brought that on?" He shrugged. "Call it spring fever," he said, smiling crookedly. "Or just an attack of sentiment." "I think I'll call it the heartfelt desire of a man who's been surrounded for too long by death," she said, quietly. "A man who wants desperately to believe that death doesn't win in the end." He was silent for a moment. "Maybe I do want to believe that," he said, finally. "But I don't want to believe it just because it makes life easier to bear -- I want to believe it only if it's true. And there's no way to know that." "Death teaches us a lot about life, Mulder," she said, with a shrug. "It's almost a cliche among pathologists; we put it over the door of every forensics lab in America. 'Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae -- This is the place where death rejoices to teach those who live.'" "And what does death teach those of us who aren't pathologists?" he asked, but he was smiling a little as he said it. "Look around you," she said, gesturing with her empty hand. "The flowers die, but they come back. The leaves die, but they come back. You said it yourself -- it's the kind of day that tells you that life goes on, that it renews itself every year, every time. Is that so hard to believe?" "You came back to life, and back to me," he said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "Maybe that's enough of a miracle for someone like me." Scully smiled and raised her coffee cup in his direction. "I'll drink to that," she said. "Here's lookin' at ya, kid." Mulder smiled back. "L'chaim, Scully," he said. "L'chaim, then," she said, more softly. "To life." THE END ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ TRANSLATION OF KADDISH May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world, which he has created according to his will. May his Kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future; and say, Amen. May his great name be blessed, forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored, elevated and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he -- above and beyond any blessings and hymns, praises and consolations which are uttered in the word; and say Amen. May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us and upon all Israel; and say, Amen. May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us and upon all Israel; and say Amen. He who makes peace in his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel; and say Amen. And Death Shall Have No Dominion -- Dylan Thomas And death shall have no dominion. Dead men naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan't crack; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ NOTES: If you've read this far, you deserve better than to be greeted with all this stuff, but I figured if I put it at the beginning, absolutely no one would read past the first page. My apologies. 1. Identifying information about suspects and victims in the murder cases has been changed; any errors are mine and not Mr. Douglas'. 2. Mulder's inner musings on the cases, except where otherwise attributed, are my own creation, and any flaws therein are entirely my fault. None of the real- life victims in any of Mr. Douglas' cases had any connection -- except as victims -- with any criminal or terrorist activity. Such connections in this novel are purely the author's own conceit. 3. Dylan Thomas and other writers quoted at the start of each chapter are quoted without permission, but likewise with admiration. 4. The names of certain people and places in Mobile and Daphne, Ala., have been changed; the geography remains intact. 5. The USS Nassau, during the time this novel takes place, was in the Aegean Sea, helping with the UN effort in Bosnia, and I mean no disrespect whatsoever to her or to her gallant crew by making her, in this novel, the unwilling transport of a traitor. 6. Thanks and lavish credit to police chaplain Hal Brown, for his insightful and compassionate work on law enforcement officers and post-traumatic stress, upon which I have relied heavily in researching this novel. Thanks also for his humorous insights into the FBI's responsibilities where doughnuts and toys are concerned. 7. Characters created by the author, including SAC Daniel Prescott and Officer Willie Mack, are her property.