Title:  Ascent to Hell - Part 1 of ? (WIP)
Author:  Kronos
E-Mail Address:  kronos1@adelphia.net
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence, disturbing images, adult situations
Category:  XA
Spoilers:  Takes Place Sixth Season after How the Ghosts Stole 
Christmas
Keywords:  Mulder/Scully UST, Mulder/Scully/Skinner Friendship

Summary:  Kersh separates Mulder and Scully in an attempt to divert 
their work and drive them from the Bureau.  Mulder's been assigned to a 
case with the ISU.  Similarities to a case he became involved with 
while a trainee at the Academy take him, Scully, and Skinner on a trip 
to the past.  

Disclaimer:  The X-Files characters herein belong to 1013 Productions 
and Fox Broadcasting.  Usage is made without authorization but with 
utmost respect.  Other characters and story are mine.

Archive:  Anywhere appropriate with notice to author and name left 
attached.  Please archive at the Spookys site.

Author Notes: Since the beginning, I've been fascinated with Mulder's 
background in profiling.  This is an attempt to demonstrate one 
possible way in which he might have discovered his talents in this 
area.  It is also a completely different take on his childhood and 
relationship with his parents.  In this story, I chose to explore his 
evolution into the Mulder we now know in different ways than are 
commonly recognized.  Feedback is greatly appreciated and avidly 
anticipated.

Acknowledgments:  At present, this is being posted as a WIP.  Although 
I anticipate rewriting some parts prior to a final posting, I wish to 
acknowledge my editors and beta readers at this time.  My thanks to 
Vickie, Heidi, Ed, Jan, and Kristina for their beta reading of the 
parts thus far and for their keen eyes in correcting the smallest of 
detail errors.  My appreciation to Paula who performed as both beta 
reader and part-time editor.  And my utmost thanks go to Julie who 
continues to act as editor in chief, never allowing me to get away with 
inventing words or trying to pull a fast one with respect to detail.  
The story is unquestionably the better for her active and supportive 
involvement.  Thanks, Julie, and all my beta readers.


*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 1 of ? (1/?)
by Kronos
*******************************************


Thursday, 4:32 p.m.
FBI Lab, Quantico, Virginia


Her back hurt.  Her shoulders hurt.  Her feet hurt.  Her little 
friggin' fingers hurt. All resulting from hour after hour standing at 
the autopsy table on the fourth day of yet another useless assignment.  
But more irritating and bothersome than any of the physical aches and 
pains was the nagging worry that had been creeping up on her all day.  
The worry that came from the knowledge that her partner was off on his 
own somewhere in the middle of a horrific case, with no support and no 
one to watch his back.  Damn Kersh anyway for doing this to them.  

Dana Scully's musings were interrupted by a clatter from behind.  She 
turned to see Sam Barrister on hands and knees, reaching under a table 
for a fallen tool. The young lab tech reminded her so much of Pendrell 
it hurt.  Short reddish-blonde hair, not too tall, expression always 
oozing with sincerity.  It was a bittersweet memory that elicited a sad 
smile.

"Everything okay over there, Sam?"

He made it to an upright position once more, groaning slightly as he 
straightened, then gave her a quick nod.

"Just clumsy.  It's like I have five thumbs on each hand today."

She watched him move to a chair and sink into it wearily, then focused 
her attention back onto the body in front of her.  It had been a long 
week already and the simple act of sitting suddenly sounded quite 
appealing.  The thought distracted her enough that his next words 
caught her by surprise.

"Dr. Scully, aren't you tired of this?"  

She turned back again, more slowly this time.  He must have caught her 
raised eyebrows because he rushed on, as if in explanation.  "It's just 
that it's been four straight days of bodies that even I could have 
autopsied.  There's nothing unusual or difficult in these cases.  I 
don't understand why they called you in."

She let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding and 
set down the tool she'd been holding as a delaying action.  After 
another second of thought, she decided to play it safe. She pulled down 
her mask before speaking.

"Well, Sam, AD Kersh evidently felt it was worth my time and effort.  
Look, I'm almost finished with this one. Why don't you start 
straightening things, and we'll be out of here in another fifteen 
minutes or so."

She just started to turn back to the body in front of her when her cell 
phone trilled out in the quiet room.  She stripped her gloves off 
quickly, even as she moved towards the little office to the right.  She 
managed to answer by the fourth ring.  

"Scully."

There was nothing but silence on the other end and it spoke more loudly 
to her than any words could have.  She stopped in her tracks, only a 
foot from the office door and waited it out, knowing instinctively who 
it was.  After thirty long seconds she broke the impasse.  Her voice 
wavered slightly when she spoke. "Mulder?  Is that you?"

She heard it then.  Heard the ragged intake of breath at the other end 
and she closed her eyes.  She wondered where he was.  Whether he was 
alone.  Whether he'd be able to sleep tonight.  Whether he'd gotten any 
sleep the night before. Her throat tightened so that she could barely 
whisper her next words.

"Mulder, please.  Talk to me."

The silence continued and she finally opened her eyes, realizing that 
she still stood in the autopsy bay with her young assistant staring at 
her in concern.  She gestured to Sam that she'd be taking the call 
inside the office and took a couple weary steps forward.  She closed 
the door and sank into the desk chair slowly.  The only illumination 
came through the almost closed blinds, resulting in horizontal stripes 
of light cutting across the darkened room.  She left the lights off, 
feeling a comfort in the darkness.

She licked her lips and decided she'd force him to talk with her now.  
Really talk.  No more 'I'm fine's and 'It's all going well's.  She 
tightened her grip on her cell phone and formed a fist with her left 
hand.  She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

"Mulder, I heard they found another body last night.  The little girl 
who disappeared the other day.  It was on the news."

She'd heard it on the radio early in the morning and knew he'd be 
there, on the scene, even as they reported it.  Knew he'd been there 
since long before they'd reported it.

He spoke finally, the words forced and harsh, the exhaustion and 
despair evident in his words and tone.

"She turned seven two weeks ago.  She had blonde hair and green eyes.  
Her name was Sarah."

A picture of him formed in her mind.  He was alone -- she knew it.  She 
had an image of him sitting hunched over, elbows on knees, in a 
darkened room.  She pictured his shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie 
loosened and askew.  One hand holding the phone, the other occasionally 
rubbing his face, then running through his hair.  She knew he'd been 
working nonstop since the little girl disappeared, so it was a sure bet 
he hadn't shaved or changed.  His clothes would be rumpled and his 
beard would be a dark shadow by now.  

The image was so clear in her mind he could have been in the same room.  
She felt her chest tighten with the knowledge that he was not.  That he 
was miles away and all alone.  She had to force words past the 
tightness and knew they sounded strangled.

"Mulder, I'm so sorry."

She closed her eyes when she heard the stifled sob at the other end.  
She wrapped her left arm around her chest tightly and lowered her head.  
She felt so powerless.  Completely helpless.

"Scully."

Her name was a jolt in the quiet.  He'd said it with such longing.  Her 
eyes opened and she blinked rapidly to clear the tears that had pooled.  
Her words were a whisper when she managed to respond.

"Yes, Mulder?"

A pause again and then his words came hard and fast.

"He crushed her spine.  Broke her arm and separated her shoulder.  
Crushed her windpipe and caved in her skull.  We found a pink mark on 
the wall where the drywall had cracked from an impact.  It was from her 
barrette, when her head hit the wall.  And as sick as it is, I at least 
understand how that all happens.  But ..."

She allowed the silence to hang, knowing he'd continue when he could.

"Scully ... he bruised the soles of her feet."

His voice was filled with disbelief and disgust as he asked, "How is 
that possible?  What the hell did he do to her to bruise the soles of 
her feet?"

His breathing was ragged now and it was all she could do to keep from 
getting in a car and driving to him.

"Mulder, I can't imagine.  I'm so sorry."

She realized she'd already said it once, but couldn't help feeling that 
she should apologize to this man.  She should be there with him, 
helping him to figure it out, helping him to get through the day ... 
and the night.  She should have found a way instead of letting Kersh 
force her to Quantico.  Damn the man for not listening to reason.

"Scully, I have to go."

There was silence again, broken only by their uneven breathing.  She 
swallowed hard finally and forced herself to speak.  Forced herself to 
sound as normal as possible. "Mulder, what number will you be at 
tonight?"

He was slow in answering but finally said, "What?"  He was obviously 
distracted.  Thinking already about the case and what he would do next.

"What phone number?  What hotel?"

She heard fabric rustling.  Heard the creak of a chair and knew he had 
just stood.

"You can get me on my cell, Scully."

She pressed her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes tightly.  
Opened them again and looked up to the ceiling.  She took a deep breath 
and concentrated on keeping her tone even and nonjudgemental.

"Where have you been staying?"

She didn't want to be intrusive.  Didn't want to upset him.  But she 
had to know he was taking care of himself.

"There's a couch here and a shower in the gym."

Before she could respond he spoke again, his voice hard now.  

"It's where I need to be, Scully."

Subject closed.  She shook her head softly and said, "I understand."  
She didn't, not really.  But she knew enough to recognize the truth of 
his words.

"Mulder, please make sure you have your cell phone with you, okay?  If 
you go anywhere?  Will you do that?"

She could hear the exhaustion dragging at his words when he finally 
answered.

"I will.  Promise.  Gotta go, Scully."

"Okay."

The click in her ear turned into a buzz, signaling the abrupt end of 
the call.  She closed the phone and put it on the desk, then turned and 
rested her head on her folded arms.  She let the tears flow then, the 
release cathartic.  And in the quiet she whispered aloud, "Dear God in 
Heaven, please watch over my partner.  Keep him safe."

*******************************************


Friday, 4:23 a.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


The room was pitch black.  The only light making its way into the 
conference room was past the slightly ajar door.  Mulder shuddered as 
he shook off the remnants of the dream, featuring a little blonde girl 
in braids, pink barrettes keeping stray bits of hair out of her eyes. 
He rubbed at his face and pushed himself away from the couch.  He 
flicked the switch by the door and jerked in response to the light that 
flooded the room, almost blinding him.  He squinted, and raised a hand 
in front of his face as if to block the light.  

He paused, then raised his other hand to his head.  The stabbing light 
had only made his headache worse.  He rubbed his forehead lightly then 
rubbed at his temples.  Damn, he'd give anything for a decent nights 
sleep.

He dropped his arms then and made his way to the corner where his 
suitcase and a suit bag were crammed.  He pulled them away from the 
wall and unzipped the suitcase, then rummaged until he found a clean 
undershirt and boxers, socks and a still wrapped white shirt.  
Definitely time to get cleaned up.  He then pulled out his last clean 
suit from the hanging bag.  He grabbed his shaving kit and 
miscellaneous toiletries and headed for the gym, juggling his burdens 
awkwardly.  His steps dragged as made his way there, and the stillness 
that encompassed the building soothed him.

No one was stirring yet and he relished the quiet.  The solitude.  The 
last several days had been so filled with activity that he needed this 
time to decompress.  Once in the locker room he dropped his clean 
clothes on a bench, pulled a couple towels off a rack, then made his 
way to the first shower stall.  He'd fallen asleep in his suit again 
and knew it was a lost cause.  He wouldn't be able to wear it again 
until the dry cleaners did their magic with it.  Discarded clothing 
fell in a pile on the floor and he moved to turn on the water.  

It was a little slice of heaven.  Such a small pleasure, but one that 
had such power over him.  He braced his arms against the wall and 
leaned into the stream, allowing the water to beat down on his head.  
He didn't have to be anywhere for a couple hours.  No one expected 
anything out of him before then.  No one would be looking for him.  No 
one would even think about where he might be or what he might be doing.  
No one but Scully.

At the thought of his partner he closed his eyes and leaned forward, 
allowing the water to hit his shoulders and back.  He wondered if she'd 
realized what Kersh was doing.  He had a feeling this case wouldn't be 
the end of the man's strategy to get him to quit.  To get him to walk 
away.  Endless months of fertilizer duty and meaningless assignments 
hadn't done it, so now the AD was trying separating them.  And they had 
no recourse.  No one to go to for appeal.  

He tilted his head back and lifted his face to the spray, relishing the 
sharp needles of water that reminded him he was alive and could feel.  
He'd worked hard at closing off his feelings the last four days.  
Worked to disassociate himself from the horrors of this case.  He'd 
been successful, too, until he'd spoken with Scully the afternoon 
before.  The sharp longing for her company, for her friendship, gripped 
him by the heart, catching him unawares.  God, how he'd give anything 
to have her by his side.  He bit his lower lip hard to fight back the 
sob that threatened to break free.

A half-hour later he was back in the conference room, this time with 
lights shining starkly on the photos tacked to the walls.  He reflected 
again on the disturbing nature of the case.  Beyond the brutality, 
beyond the violence.  It was disturbing because he didn't understand 
the UNSUB -- the unknown subject.  He didn't know whether there was a 
single assailant or multiple assailants working together, despite the 
unusualness of such an arrangement.  Not only was the m.o. fluid and 
ever-changing, which wasn't in itself unusual, but the level of 
organization, the planning that went into the attacks, the victim 
choice, and even the actual damage inflicted on the victims varied from 
one attack to the next.  If it weren't for the phone call that 
inevitably came within a few hours of the kidnapping, these crimes 
wouldn't even have been considered to be linked.  It was the only thing 
that could be considered part of a signature with the exception of the 
violence perpetrated on the victims.

Mulder stared at the photos on the wall, as he paced the length of the 
room.  Old, young, black, white, male, female, rich, poor.  
Strangulation, gunshot, knifing, drowning.  The only similarity between 
the four victims was that their bodies were essentially unrecognizable 
by the time the assailant finished with them.  What the hell was going 
on here?  As far as anyone could recall or determine, there'd only been 
one case in the ISU's database that held any similarities.  A case with 
which he was intimately familiar.  God, it was so long ago.  Almost 
thirteen years, now.  Jesus, he wasn't sure if he could survive another 
nightmare like the DC Murders case.  

His eyes traveled up and down the wall, stopping on one of the pictures 
of little Sarah Canderfield, the latest victim.  The photo had been 
taken outside of a church, at what looked like a wedding.  The little 
girl was dressed in a blue velvet dress, with long puffy sleeves and a 
white lace collar.  Her long blonde hair hung straight and shone 
brightly in the winter sun.

His breath caught in his throat and his chest tightened as the long 
buried image of Lorri Kiley superimposed itself over Sarah's face.  He 
reached blindly for a chair and sank into it, his eyes glued to the 
photo of a little girl who could have been the reincarnation of the 
beautiful teenager who'd been killed almost thirteen years before.

He moved to the couch and fell onto it, exhausted and drained.  He 
draped an arm over his eyes to block the light and squeezed them shut 
more tightly.  The memory of the Lorri's face and the details of her 
murder flooded through him once again, as if it had happened yesterday.  
He couldn't avoid it or escape it.  And as he had then, a he'd done so 
many times after her murder, he imagined her kidnapping.  Imagined her 
deaths, as if he were there with her, the night it happened.

*******************************************

The night was cool, but clear so that the stars were visible even in 
the city.  The street was busy, with cars driving by every minute or so 
at least.  The church was large, designed with a steeple that reached 
far into the sky as if by its sheer height it could bring those inside 
closer to God.  The smells of food permeated the air because of the 
little restaurant down the street.  The restaurant's parking lot was 
full, with occasional customers leaving or arriving.  

It was quiet except for the stray sounds from the road.  The silence 
was broken suddenly by laughter and the light patter of the group of 
teenagers spilling out of the side door of the church.  It was obvious 
that some of those leaving the church were couples, while others walked 
singly amidst the crowd.  They all seemed friendly with each other.  
The twenty or so kids started to scatter as some headed for cars and 
some for the sidewalk.

A boy's voice called out into the night then.  "Hey, Lorri, come back.  
We'll take you home."

Lorri turned and waved back at them with a smile.  "I'm fine.  You guys 
go on.  See you tomorrow."

The boy looked disappointed, obviously wanting to be closer to the 
beautiful teenager.  Lorri wore a dark blue dress with long sleeves, a 
white lace collar giving the appearance of innocence.  Her long blonde 
hair flipped around her shoulders in the cool breeze.  She must have 
been cold because she wrapped her arms around her chest, burying her 
hands under her arms.

The others scattered and she was alone on the sidewalk.  She walked 
down a residential street, each house showing lights in the windows.  
Cars passed occasionally, breaking the quiet of the night.  She was 
lost in thoughts of Jay, the boy who'd offered her a ride, and she 
didn't hear the car stop next to her at first.

The driver called out to her.  She walked close and stopped by the 
passenger's side.  Lorri leaned over then, obviously trusting the 
person inside.  They talked for a moment or two and then Lorri stood up 
and opened the door, climbing inside.  The car drove off, and Lorri's 
fate was sealed.

Mulder wanted to scream out to her, to tell her to stop.  To turn away 
and run.  But he was incapable of changing the outcome, no matter how 
hard he wanted to.  And just as he had done so many years ago, he went 
with Lorri as she got in the car.  Drove with her and her assailant, as 
the inevitable approached.

He didn't know how long they drove, but they ended up stopping in a 
deserted parking lot.  He saw it all, but could do nothing to change 
what was happening.  He wanted to warn Lorri so badly but he was 
consigned to mute observation.  His chest ached with the desire to tell 
her to scream.  To get out of the car and run.  But instead, he watched 
as she sat and laughed with the driver.  He tried to see the 
assailant's face, but there was only a silhouette, sheathed in 
darkness.

Lorri laughed at something and turned her head to look out the 
passenger window.  The black entity moved then, throwing a ligature 
around the girl's neck.  And Mulder's own scream was cut off, as was 
hers.

Lorri struggled, raising her hands to her neck, unable to get her 
fingers under the tight rope that cut into her skin and cut off her air 
supply.  Little whimpers and pathetic grunts were the best she could 
manage.  She kicked her feet and pushed, trying to dislodge her 
assailant.  She raised a hand to her killer's arm and sunk her nails 
into his skin, leaving deep welling wounds.  But while she drew blood, 
it was too little, too late.  

He watched her struggle and was powerless to help.  Powerless to 
prevent it or change the course of events.  It was as if his own limbs 
were being restrained.  As if someone had placed a hand over his mouth 
so that he couldn't speak or scream out.  His heart pounded in his 
chest and he had to gasp just to get enough air to keep from passing 
out.

He watched as Lorri tried to move, tried to get away from her 
assailant, but she was growing ever more weak.  Her arms dropped 
finally and she fell back against the man's chest.  She stared out the 
window with glazed eyes.  Her last image before death was of the stars, 
shining so brightly in the clear sky.

The despair washed over Mulder as he realized once again his impotence.  
He watched the drama unfold through his mind's eye, but couldn't move.  
Couldn't act.  He could only watch in horror and disgust as the 
reconstructed memory played itself out.

The assailant pushed Lorri onto the floor of the front seat and then 
looked around, making sure no one had seen him.  Mulder was there, 
standing in the shadows, but the assailant looked right through him.  
The man pulled out of the parking lot then and drove and Mulder was 
still there.  Still watching, a disembodied participant of the horror 
that had occurred so long ago on a cool spring evening.

The assailant drove for an hour, then two. And Mulder was there, with 
him. The dark entity circled neighborhoods, stared into lit windows, 
drove through the mall parking lot.  The man watched the people there 
and Mulder could almost hear the man wondering aloud who they were and 
what they wanted out of life.  

The dark shape leaned forward occasionally and ran his hand over 
Lorri's cooling skin and through her hair.  And the voice murmured, "So 
soft, so silky.  Perfect.  Just perfect."  And Fox felt ill at the 
man's obvious pleasure as he communed with the dead body of Lorri 
Kiley.

The car drove on until well past midnight.  It was time then.  Time to 
let Lorri go.  The car pulled into the church parking lot and around to 
the back, by the dumpster.  It was safe.  No one was around.  

The assailant moved quickly, coming around the car to open the 
passenger door.  He pulled Lorri's body out and let it fall to the 
ground.  He rolled her onto her back and straightened her legs, then 
carefully arranged her hair so that it fanned out around her head in a 
halo of gold.  He folded her arms on her chest and pulled her necklace 
out from the dress so it could be clearly seen.  Then the assailant 
moved to her feet and removed her shoes and knee socks so that Lorri's 
feet were bare.  He made sure she was perfectly positioned, then closed 
the passenger door and returned to the driver's seat.  He pulled away 
slowly, careful of any potential witnesses.

The assailant was in the clear -- no one the wiser.  Fox watched the 
scene unfold and fought against the inevitability.  He wanted to scream 
out.  Wanted to see the bastard's face.  He ran after the car, not 
willing to let him get away yet.  And he finally managed to scream out 
into the night.  He ran as fast as he could, keeping up with the car as 
it pulled down the residential street and again he screamed.  A single 
word, echoing into the still night.  "Stop."  

He was gasping for air as he ran full out.  And then an amazing thing 
happened.  The car stopped.  He saw the red brake lights from twenty 
yards away, beacons in the night.  He sprinted the final distance, but 
started sliding to a stop when he realized the assailant was right 
there in front of him.  And as he tried to halt his forward motion, he 
was suddenly in the man's grip, being shaken.

He screamed out again, a lone strangled cry, "No."  And then the man 
was calling his name, over and over.  He forced his eyes to open and 
tried to focus on the face in front of him.  Tried to remember where he 
was and what was happening.  And then the face became clear and he 
realized it was Carl Chang, one of the team members.  Jesus, it wasn't 
enough that his dreams were filled with the four victims of this case, 
now his mind was drudging up long-buried memories of the case that 
launched his career as well as his signaled the end of anything 
resembling a normal sleep pattern.  The dream was a haunting reflection 
of his dreams during that case.  He didn't think he had the energy to 
cope with those memories right now, on top of his dreams about Sarah.

He waved Chang off and sat up slowly, rubbing his face wearily.  He 
looked at his watch and ran a hand through his hair.  Shit, only six-
thirty in the morning and he was already drained and exhausted.  He 
fought back the cloud of despair that crept over him and glanced once 
more at the wall with the photos.  Little Sarah's face looked back at 
him, giving him the strength to stand and start the day.

*******************************************

Friday, 6:34 a.m.
Washington D.C., Dana Scully Residence


Dana Scully rolled over and hit the snooze alarm for the third time.  
She was exhausted.  Not a good way to start a workday, but the last 
several nights had been spent mostly tossing and turning.  She'd been 
completely unsuccessful in turning her mind off.  Images of Mulder, 
alone and immersed in the Richmond murder case kept intruding at the 
most awkward times.  The call yesterday was just too much.  It hadn't 
even sounded like him.  

She sat up abruptly and switched off the alarm, swung her legs over the 
side of the bed and rubbed her face.  She had to do something to help 
him.  She knew he'd hate it.  Hate her intruding.  But he was her 
friend.  Her partner.  And he was in trouble.  It was time to talk with 
AD Kersh.

*******************************************


Friday, 7:36 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, AD Kersh's Office


Dana Scully recrossed her legs, smoothing the material of her tailored 
pants suit for the tenth time in as many minutes.  She was trying to 
decide exactly how to approach the man and whether it really mattered 
what approach she took.  She suspected it didn't.  She found it hard to 
believe that her partner was the only one they could find for this 
case.  Excuses of sick analysts and an overwhelming caseload would only 
go so far.  This was now the third case in which one of them was 
supposedly the only possible agent who could meaningfully contribute in 
the entire Bureau.  She had to admit that she'd bought the explanations 
the first time, was justifiably suspicious by the second, and was now 
just outraged. 

There was a movement to her right accompanied by what sounded like a 
stifled groan.  She turned to see AD Kersh walk in with briefcase in 
one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.  She'd barely stood when he 
stopped in front of her with a slightly irritated expression on his 
face.

"Agent Scully, I was under the impression you were supposed to be at 
Quantico."

She straightened even taller, smoothed down her jacket and took a 
breath before replying.  "That's correct, sir.  I was hoping to speak 
with you quickly before I headed there today."

She held her breath for the few seconds it took for him to decide 
whether to grant her request.  She knew she'd won the first battle when 
he nodded, looking resigned.

"Very well, Agent, come in."

She kept pace with him and waited while he got settled behind his desk.  
He didn't offer her a seat so she stood in front of her 'usual' chair, 
waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.  He did finally, with a 
brief nod.

"Sir, I would like to request that I be assigned to assist in the 
Richmond case.  I believe my skills would be better used ..."

She could tell before she'd finished the first sentence that it was a 
lost cause.  When he interrupted her, she wasn't even surprised.

"Agent Scully, you have been given your assignment.  Your skills are 
required at Quantico.  Is that clear?"

He hadn't even blinked.  Hadn't changed expression.  And she knew more 
surely than ever before that he would never act in her or her partner's 
best interest.  She nodded slightly and replied, "Yes, sir.  It's very 
clear."

She didn't even feel guilty when the door slammed harder than she'd 
intended on the way out.

*******************************************


Friday, 8:02 a.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


Mulder jerked as the conference room door swung open, slamming back 
against the wall.  He turned to stare at the man standing in the 
doorway, wondering what could have been behind the drama.  It was the 
SAC on the case, Carl Landers, and he appeared to be upset about 
something.

Mulder shot a questioning look at a couple of the other agents in the 
room, then turned back to the SAC.  Before he could say a word, the man 
started barking out orders.

"Singleton, Chang and Mulder -- I need you to go do follow-up with the 
victim's family, classmates, and teachers.  Mulder, the family's 
expecting you by nine.  Singleton and Chang take the school.  Also, 
Mulder, the parents want details about their daughter's death.  Give it 
to them."

A quiet fell over the room as the unusualness of the directive settled 
in.  Mulder felt his breath catch and was momentarily shocked.  He had 
to have heard wrong.  He took a tentative step forward and said, "Sir 
...", but was cut off before he could continue.

"I didn't ask for your input, Agent Mulder.  If you have problems 
carrying out your assignment, you may feel free to contact your 
supervisor."

The man turned then and left the room as abruptly as he'd entered it, 
leaving a residual anger that was almost palpable.  Understanding came 
to Mulder then as the SAC's words sank in.  He took a deep breath and 
glanced around the room warily.  He could see confusion on the faces of 
the men and women on the team.  None of them were looking at him, their 
gazes directed instead anywhere but at his face -- at the floor, the 
walls, the door -- all obviously uncomfortable.  

It wasn't an analyst's job to work follow-ups and certainly not to 
debrief the family on the cruelty inflicted on the victim in the last 
moments of their lives.  The analyst was supposed to have the freedom 
to go to crime scenes as he saw fit, interview whom he deemed 
necessary, and have access to all case information as needed.  The 
analyst was not supposed to be ordered to perform duties of the general 
team.  But Mulder understood something these men did not.  That AD 
Kersh's arm was long and was reaching his way even now.  He grimaced 
slightly as he internally acknowledged the reason for SAC Lander's bad 
mood.

He took another deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart and 
troubled thoughts.  As much as he hated the idea, he didn't have much 
say in the matter.  Who could he complain to, after all?  Best to steel 
himself and get it over with as fast as possible.  He turned around and 
nodded towards Singleton and Chang.  "So who's driving?"

Without waiting to see whether they were ready or not, he started 
gathering files to review on the way.  He packed his briefcase, 
fighting off the sense of dread that continued to stalk him.  He 
rationalized that he needed some time to get a handle on the UNSUB 
anyway and it could be done in the car just as easily as in the 
conference room.  And besides, he needed something to keep his mind off 
what he was being forced to do.  He started for the door and glanced 
back at Chang and Singleton.

"Come on, agents.  You heard the man.  Time to go."

*******************************************


Friday, 8:47 a.m.
FBI Lab, Quantico, Virginia


Scully pulled the phone closer to her and dialed a familiar number.  
She felt the need to admit to Mulder what she'd done.  He'd probably 
laugh at her for being so gullible as to think Kersh would do anything 
to help them.  The cell phone rang for the fifth time, then the sixth.  
She was just getting ready to hang up in frustration and worry when 
someone finally answered.

"Hello?"

The strange voice caused her heart to immediately beat faster.  She 
knew the number was right, after all.

"This is Agent Scully.  Who is this?"

"This is Agent Friedman.  Can I help you?"

Scully shook her head in frustration, wondering why her partner wasn't 
answering his own phone.  Thoughts of an injured or missing Mulder 
filled her head.

"I was calling for Agent Mulder.  Is he there?"

She could swear she heard a sigh before Friedman answered.  

"No, I'm sorry, Agent Scully.  He's out right now.  Can I take a 
message?"

She stared at the desk for a few seconds before answering, feeling 
uneasy about leaving a message with a man she didn't know.  Before she 
could decide, however, the man on the other end said, "I'm sorry, I 
just realized something.  Is this Dana Scully, the MD?"

She closed her mouth abruptly, then said, "Yes, it is."

A gentle laugh preceded the man's next words.  "Dana, this is Jerry.  
Jerry Friedman.  We went through the Academy together."

An image of a tall, slender man, blonde with intense brown eyes popped 
into her head and the smile came immediately after, despite the 
lingering worry for her partner.

"Jerry, it's good to speak to you.  It's been a while."

"It sure has.  So what do you want with Mulder, Dana?"

The abrupt change of topic caught her off guard only for a moment.

"Actually, he's my partner.  I'm stuck at Quantico while he's working 
the Richmond case.  I was just checking in with him."  She finally 
remembered her earlier question and asked, "Why are you answering 
Mulder's cell phone, Jerry?"

"Actually, I didn't even realize it was his.  I heard a ringing coming 
from the corner of the room and tracked it down to a suit pocket.  
Mulder must have forgotten to take it out when he changed this 
morning."

She couldn't help the sigh of frustration that she knew would be 
clearly audible.

"Dana ..."

She realized suddenly that Jerry's voice had turned serious and she 
immediately became concerned.

"Jerry, is everything all right down there?"  After only a moment's 
hesitation she continued her thought, almost afraid of what his answer 
might be.  "Is Mulder all right?"

His voice was obviously strained when he replied.  "It's rough.  
Everyone's on edge.  Mulder's been working the case practically round 
the clock.  We're all a bit frayed right now."

He was sounding defensive about something and she instinctively knew 
something was wrong.  That something had happened.  She fought down the 
rising panic.

"What, Jerry?  What's happened?  Where's Mulder?"

This time it was his sigh that could be heard quite clearly, then his 
voice dropped, as if he were trying to avoid being overheard.

"He's taking follow-up statements with the victim's family."

"What?  What's he doing that for?  He's supposed to be working on the 
profile."

She felt the pressure starting to build behind her eyes and strained to 
pay attention to his response.

"I know, I know.  It's weird.  I've known the SAC on this case for five 
years.  He's a good man.  Fair.  This morning he ordered Mulder out to 
do the follow-ups and also to debrief the parents on what the assailant 
did to the little girl.  I swear he was angry and frustrated.  I got 
the impression it wasn't his idea but that he didn't have any choice."

She closed her eyes and lowered her head, knowing immediately what had 
happened.  Damn it!  It was because of her.  If she'd just kept her 
mouth closed and hadn't interfered, this wouldn't have happened.

"Dana, you still there?"

Her voice dragged with weariness when she answered.  "Yes, still here.  
Jerry, could you do me a favor please?  Could you make sure Mulder's 
phone is charged and get it back to him when he comes in?  I know it's 
asking a lot, but I'd really appreciate it."

"No problem.  I should be seeing him later this afternoon at the team 
meeting."

"Could you do one last thing for me, Jerry?"

"Sure.  Name it."

"Could you ..."  She paused, felt a flash of paranoia and decided not 
to ask the favor she'd really wanted to, so finished, " ... could you 
ask Mulder to call me when he gets a chance?"

There was silence for just a second and then her old classmate said, 
"No problem.  And Dana?"

"Yes?"

"I'll keep my eye out for him, too, okay?"

She laughed then, for the first time in days.

"You haven't changed, have you?"

"I think I'll take that as a compliment.  Later, Dana."

"Bye."

She hung up the phone, at once concerned and relieved.  At least she 
knew there was someone she could call if she needed to.  She sighed 
heavily and stood.  Time to start yet another meaningless autopsy.  She 
wondered idly just where Kersh had managed to get hold of so many 
bodies. 

*******************************************


Friday, 9:04 a.m.
Richmond, Virginia, Canderfield Residence


Mulder watched Chang and Singleton drive away, then turned back to the 
woman standing silently in the doorway. Alexis Canderfield was a 
beautiful woman, tall and graceful with short, dark blonde hair that 
hung in soft waves about her face.  He knew that she was in her mid-
thirties, but appeared old beyond her years.

He took a deep breath, then followed her into the living room.  They 
both stopped in front of her husband, Jason.  Mulder reached out and 
shook the man's hand.  Where Alexis was fair and blonde, Jason 
Canderfield was dark complexioned with dark brown hair and brown eyes.  
He seemed to be almost incapable of action or speech.  Mulder took the 
initiative, keeping his voice soft and steady.

"Sir, I'm very sorry for your loss.  I was told you and your wife had 
some questions that I might be able to answer for you."

The man merely nodded and finally gestured to a chair.  Mulder almost 
dropped into it, the exhaustion hitting him hard.  The knowledge of 
what he was about to relay to the parents was a weight hanging over his 
head.  He felt his breath quicken and the sweat begin to roll down his 
back.  He gripped the arms of the chair tightly and steeled himself for 
the inevitable.

It was Alexis who spoke first.  "Agent Mulder, we want to know what he 
did to her.  They haven't told us yet.  We want to know what she went 
through, what he did to her.  I have to know."

He doubted that she was even aware of the switch from 'we' to 'I' and 
glanced over at Jason Canderfield to see the man's reaction.  It was as 
he'd expected.  The father would be more than happy to bury his head 
just now and not hear another word, but the mother wanted to know every 
last detail.  It was a familiar dynamic among family members and 
friends following a violent murder, but was one he'd generally only 
read or heard about.  He'd never been instructed to perform this 
particular duty in all his years with the Bureau and had no desire to 
do so now.  The closest he'd come was in the Roche case and that 
certainly hadn't involved debriefing the remaining parent about how the 
victim had suffered.  And that time, he'd had his partner next to him.  
He didn't feel qualified to perform this task, despite his psychology 
and criminal profiling background.  He cleared his throat and turned to 
Alexis, his hands clasped tightly on the arms of the chair.

"Ma'am, I'll answer your questions and provide whatever information I 
can, but I want to be sure you understand that it doesn't have to be 
now, so soon after ..."

She cut him off sharply, saying, "No, it does have to be now.  I need 
to know."

He nodded and looked again towards the father, wanting to give him an 
out.  He leaned forward a bit in the chair, as if the movement would 
lend more legitimacy to his words.  "Sir, you don't have to hear this 
now.  Perhaps I can answer your wife's questions and then speak with 
you afterwards."

Canderfield blanched and turned to his wife, then seemed to stand 
straighter.  Mulder knew the man felt as if he had to stay, for his 
wife as well as for the memory of his daughter.  The knowledge tore at 
Mulder, making him feel impotent.  

He didn't want to allow this to happen.  He mentally cursed the SAC for 
putting him in this position and decided to try once more.  He looked 
first at Jason Canderfield and then settled his gaze on Alexis.

"I think it's important for you to both realize that different people 
need different things to help them understand and to cope following a 
crime of this nature.  There's no such thing as the right course of 
action for the survivors.  You each need to do what you have to but it 
might not be the same thing for both of you."

He held his breath, praying the message would sink in through the 
lingering shock that paralyzed their every thought and made every 
action near impossible.  He watched as Alexis turned to her husband and 
reached out her hand.  Jason walked the two steps necessary to reach 
her and grabbed it, as if it were a lifeline to sanity, as perhaps it 
was. She raised her other hand to his face tenderly and said, "Wait for 
me in the family room.  Please, Jay?"  The man nodded, obviously filled 
with relief even as tears fell down his face, then turned and walked 
out of the room.

It was a show of strength on both their parts that left Mulder amazed 
at the resiliency of his fellow men.  His throat was tight when he 
turned his gaze back to Alexis.  She was staring at him with gratitude 
and he felt a momentary connection with this women who was consumed 
with the desire to know the truth, regardless of the brutality of that 
knowledge.  

"What can I tell you, ma'am?"

And while his voice wavered, hers did not.

"Everything.  Every single detail you know and have access to.  I don't 
want it to be sanitized.  I need to hear it all."

He nodded wearily and considered what he'd say to the woman.  Tried to 
decide how best to start.  He hated this and hated Kersh for arranging 
it.  More than anything, he hated the fact that he had to do it alone.  
His voice didn't come at first and he had to will himself to be strong.

He looked into the woman's eyes and felt a calmness settle over him.  
She understood.  She knew what this was doing to him, but her need to 
know the truth was all-consuming.  He breathed deeply and gripped the 
chair arms tightly before starting.

"Sarah was taken from the Jackson Heights park between 5 and 5:30 p.m. 
The car he used had been stolen two days before.  He left it at the 
site where we found her.  We found trace evidence suggesting he 
transported her in the trunk.  We believe he used duct tape around her 
wrists and ankles to restrain her and tape on her mouth to keep her 
quiet.  We believe he didn't hurt her, didn't touch her for the first 
fifteen to sixteen hours."

He paused, knowing that the hard part was still ahead.  Sarah's mother 
hadn't moved.  Had barely even breathed.  His own breathing had sped so 
that he feared he was going to hyperventilate.  His throat was now so 
tight he could hardly swallow.  He closed his eyes for a moment and 
wished once again that his partner was with him.  He needed her so 
badly it was a physical pain that gripped his chest and sapped his 
will.  Left him shaking in despair.

He remembered back to something Scully once said.  The sooner we start, 
the sooner it'll be over.  It was true then and he knew it was true 
now.  No more putting this off.  He wiped at the sweat on his forehead 
and steeled himself to continue.

Almost forty minutes later, he pushed himself up out of the chair and 
walked over to Sarah's mother.  The woman was quiet now, her driving 
need to know extinguished, as she'd relived every horror that had been 
forced on her little girl.  He rested his hand on her shoulder and had 
started towards the kitchen when she grabbed it, squeezing tightly.  
Her words were simple but cut him to the quick.  

"Thank you."  

He could merely nod before stumbling towards the family room where 
Jason Canderfield still waited for him.  God, how could she thank him?  
It felt almost obscene.  He'd told her everything, every sick fact.  
Told her about every wound, every contusion, every horrible act 
perpetrated on the little girl.  His eyes clouded momentarily and he 
had to pause outside the room to rub at them.  He was filled with grief 
at the knowledge that this family would never be the same.  That there 
was another little girl, Sarah's big sister Morgan, who would never 
know the joy of sharing adolescent secrets with her sister.  He 
wondered if the family would survive or if they'd be torn apart as his 
own had been.  He prayed they'd find the way back towards some kind of 
stability and normality.

He moved into the kitchen, noting the refridgerator covered with 
children's artwork. There were two clay handprints on the wall next to 
the sink and his steps faltered when he saw the scrawl 'Sarah' under 
one of them.  He blinked hard and continued on, finally stepping down 
into the dimly lit family room.

Jason Canderfield was there, staring at a television that wasn't even 
turned on.  Mulder again raised his hand to his eyes and fought back 
the nearly overwhelming emotion that washed over him.  He had to keep 
it together for just a few more minutes.  Just another hour and he'd be 
out of here, out of this house and heading back to his files and 
reports.  His voice was rough when he was finally able to speak.

"Sir, I'm very sorry to bother you, but I wonder if we might talk for a 
little bit.  There were just a few details I needed to clarify for the 
official report."

The man nodded to him and Mulder again sat, this time on the vacant 
couch.  The police detectives and one of the Bureau team had already 
recorded the family's statements but there were just a few loose ends 
that still needed to be addressed.  Mulder knew his time would be 
better spent working on his profile, but it was still important and at 
least he could empathize with the family.  It was a draining 
experience, though, and the thirty minutes he spent trying to draw 
information out of Jason Canderfield were almost as trying as those 
spent providing information to Alexis.  

At the end of it, Mulder stood wearily and reached out to shake Jason 
Canderfield's hand.  The man was shell-shocked and it took a few 
seconds before he actually responded.  Mulder was filled with pity for 
the man.

"Thank you for your time, sir.  Again, I'm very sorry."

The man was only in his mid-thirties but looked to be much older.  
Mulder understood.  He'd seen it too many times before.  The grief, the 
shock, the guilt of losing a child had weighed heavily on Canderfield, 
and Mulder knew it would only get worse before it got better.  There 
was still one other person he had to speak with, and he steeled himself 
once more before asking the man in front of him for permission.

"Sir, I wonder if I might speak to Morgan for a few minutes?"

Canderfield's shoulders slumped even more and his head fell forward.  
Mulder again understood.  Not only was one daughter kidnapped, 
tortured, and killed, but the man couldn't even keep his other daughter 
safe from the trauma of being questioned by the FBI.  But regardless of 
the pity Mulder felt, he knew he still had to speak to the child.

"Sir, it's very important."

He waited for the nod, then gripped the man's shoulder briefly as he 
walked towards the staircase leading upstairs to the bedrooms.  He 
stopped partway up to look at the photos on the walls.  Pictures of the 
family in happier days covered both sides of the stairway.  One looked 
as if it might have been from the Christmas just past and showed Sarah 
and big sister Morgan sitting arm in arm in front of the Christmas 
tree, smiles incredibly wide, with wrapping paper, ribbon, and bows in 
a pile around them.  He forced himself to continue to the second floor 
and paused at the landing.

The soft strains of music wafted down the hallway.  He followed the 
sound to a closed door and paused for a moment before knocking.  There 
was a sign on the door, written in a childish scrawl, which clearly 
stated 'Sarah's Castle.'  He cleared his throat and steeled himself, 
then knocked lightly.

He swung the door open when he heard the little girl's voice and 
stopped at the threshold.  She was a pretty little girl, small for her 
age.  She had light brown hair and striking blue eyes, so pale they 
almost seemed transparent.  She stared at him, a serious expression 
dominating her features.  She was ten going on thirty.  He knew she'd 
lost a childhood innocence that could never be regained and he was 
filled with sorrow at the loss.

His voice was low and soft when he said, "Hello Morgan, my name's Fox.  
I'm an agent with the FBI."

She didn't move, didn't acknowledge him at all.  He took a single step 
into the room, eyes still on her and added, "I was just talking with 
your Dad and he said it would be okay if we talked for a few minutes.  
Is that all right with you?"

She nodded finally so he stepped farther into the room, then carefully 
lowered himself to the floor.  He looked around and knew that 
everything had been left exactly as Sarah had left it.  A pair of dress 
shoes lay discarded in the corner.  A set of tinker toys was scattered 
across the floor.  Toys were spilling out of the pink chest against the 
left wall.  A book was open on the bedside table.  Morgan sat on the 
foot of the bed, a doll clutched tightly in her arms.  She'd followed 
his every move but had made no movement of her own.

He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees.  He had to tread 
lightly.  He had no desire to instill even more pain into this little 
girl's life.

"Morgan, I'm very sorry about Sarah.  I know what it's like to lose a 
little sister.  I lost my sister Samantha when I was just a little 
older than you are now.  I know it hurts."

He watched as she pulled the doll even closer to her chest, her 
delicate fingers plucking at the material of the doll's dress 
nervously.

"I want to find out who took Sarah from you.  I want to punish him and 
make sure he can never hurt anyone again."

He watched the pale eyes close tight.  Watched as Morgan started 
rocking back and forth, back and forth.  This was a little girl who 
needed help, badly.  He closed his own eyes and listened as yet another 
song started on the tape player.  It was something fast and light, 
cheerful.  It seemed terribly wrong that it should be playing at such a 
time.  He looked at Morgan again and was surprised to find her staring 
at him, once again sitting still.  She spoke finally and her words 
filled him with despair.

"Are you going to make him suffer?  Will you torture him like he 
tortured Sarah?"

He schooled his expression into blankness, forced his voice to remain 
steady as he said, "I believe that everyone gets what they deserve 
eventually. "

"Do you believe in God?"

His breath hitched as he considered the question, unsure what the 
little girl was after, but not willing to put her off. He swallowed and 
licked his lips before answering, feeling terribly uneasy with the 
thrust of the conversation.

"I don't know.  I believe in Fate.  That things happen for a reason."

"I want to believe in God because if there's a God that means there's a 
Heaven and if there's a Heaven that means there's a Hell.  I want him 
to burn in Hell forever for what he's done to Sarah."

He nodded his head slowly, seriously.  Perhaps she was in better shape 
than he had thought.  At least this response was a healthy one, all 
things considered.

"For your sake -- and Sarah's -- so do I."

She returned his nod and then breathed heavily, her shoulders slumping 
as if weighed down heavily.  Her eyes were on the doll in her hands and 
he dropped his own eyes to look at it himself.  It looked like a 
mermaid doll, with long reddish hair.

"That's a pretty doll, Morgan.  What's her name?"

Morgan looked up at him, her forehead creased lightly and said, "It's 
Ariel."  She said it as if it were obvious, as if he should have known.  

He nodded slowly and she must have understood that he still didn't get 
the reference so she added,  as if to a slow-witted child, "From 'The 
Little Mermaid'."

Memories of reports of another Disney box-office smash flitted through 
his mind and he smiled.  He finally noticed the bedspread covered with 
mermaids and other characters.  Finally noticed the little figurines 
next to the book by the bed.  Finally put two and two together and 
recognized the song that was playing as one from the movie.  Morgan's 
soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Sarah was Ariel for Halloween."

He smiled, the image bittersweet.

"I bet she made a beautiful mermaid."

Morgan nodded seriously, then said in a quivering voice, "I yelled at 
her."

He held her eyes and willed her to believe what he said.  "That's what 
sisters are supposed to do.  It's part of being a family.  It doesn't 
mean you didn't love her.  And she knew that."

A tear slipped down her cheek and he fought an urge to go to her and 
wrap his arms around her.  He shifted his legs slightly, quietly, not 
wanting to disturb her thoughts.  The floor was a bit hard for such an 
extended discussion.  She sniffed loudly and wiped at the tears with 
the back of one hand.

"When the police came they asked me lots of questions."

He waited for a moment, expecting more, then realized she'd said 
enough.  She wanted to know what he wanted from her.

"Yes, they had to ask questions to try to find out what happened.  What 
people remembered -- especially Sarah's family.  I want to ask you some 
questions, too, if that's all right."

"So you can find him and punish him?"

His breath caught again as suddenly an image of little Sarah's mangled 
body came to him.  "Yes, so I can find him."  And he continued the 
thought silently, '... and punish him.'

*******************************************


Friday, 2:47 p.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


Mulder checked his watch and sighed.  Just thirteen minutes until the 
team meeting.  Thirteen minutes to try to make sense of this case.  
They expected a profile.  They expected him to waltz in and tell them 
who they were looking for.  Sex, age, employment status, what kind of 
car the UNSUB drove, whether he lived alone, had a wife, loved his 
mommy.  They expected a profile today, just as they expected one 
yesterday and the day before.  Hell, the ISU profilers were renowned 
for giving telephone profiles based on a fifteen-minute background of 
the case.  He'd now been on this case for four days.  Four fucking days 
and no profile.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on knees, covering his face 
with his hands.  After several haggard breaths he rubbed hard, as if he 
could rub understanding and enlightenment in, then dropped his hands 
away.  He clutched them between his legs and looked around the room, 
eyes focusing on the photos once again, as they had so many times over 
the past few days.

Sarah's was there on the end, her school picture and the wedding photo 
tacked right next to a crime scene photo.  The dichotomy was 
staggering.  It took his breath away and he stood, then walked closer 
to them.  What was the UNSUB looking for and did he find it when he 
kidnapped Sarah?  Had he found it when he'd kidnapped Andrew and Eliot 
and Donna?  When he'd tortured them and eventually killed them?  And if 
so, what was it?  What was the thing that tied these four victims 
together?  Or was it that there was nothing but the fact that they were 
in the wrong place at the wrong time, as with the DC Murders case so 
many years ago.  A desperate randomness to confuse and mislead.

He looked at his watch again and groaned.  Seven minutes.  Jesus, what 
was the point in delaying the inevitable.  He walked to the other side 
of the room and retrieved his jacket.  Pulled it on and jerked down the 
sleeves of his shirt.  It dawned on him then that he had no clean suits 
after this.  He looked at the pile of clothes in the corner and shook 
his head.  Oh well, this suit had another day of life at least.  Maybe 
he could get Scully to arrange for a courier to bring him some clothes 
from home.  He shook his head and grabbed his notepad, then headed out.  
The meeting was two floors up. Two floors and five minutes until D-day.

He was just reaching for the handle to the stairway door when he heard 
his name called.  He stopped and turned, then nodded as one of the team 
members jogged towards him.  It was an agent who'd just been assigned 
to the case the day before.  He searched his memory and came up with a 
name.

"Agent Friedman, what can I do for you?"

The man smiled at him and held something out.  Closer inspection 
revealed a cell phone and his stomach did a little flip at the sight.  
He looked up at Friedman in confusion.

Friedman was smiling as he spoke.  "I was in the conference room when 
it rang.  I answered it and it turned out to be Dana Scully.  We went 
to the Academy together.  Anyway, she asked if I'd make sure it was 
charged and you got it back so ... here it is."

Mulder could feel his face flush suddenly as he reached for it and 
wasn't exactly sure how to respond.  Friedman must have sensed it 
because he punched Mulder in the arm lightly and said, "Dana hasn't 
changed.  Always looking out for everyone else.  Anyway, she wanted me 
to ask you to call her when you got the chance."

Mulder nodded and slipped the phone into his suit pocket.

"Thank you, Agent Friedman, I appreciate your taking the time."

Friedman opened the stairwell door and gestured for Mulder to go first.  
"No problem.  Listen, call me Jerry.  And tell Dana I said 'hi' when 
you talk to her."

"Sure."

"So, how long have you two been partners?"

Mulder glanced over and decided there was only sincere interest behind 
the question.

"Almost six years now."

"Wow.  I had no idea.  So why isn't she here?"

Mulder sighed as he made another turn to the next landing.  "Excellent 
question, Jerry.  I wish I knew."

*******************************************


Friday, 5:12 p.m.
FBI Lab, Quantico, Virginia


Dana looked at her watch once more and sighed.  She knew the team 
meeting started at three so it was quite possibly still going on.  Oh 
well, she'd catch up with him sometime tonight.  She hung her lab coat 
on a hook and grabbed her briefcase and purse.  Time to go home.  

She was just flicking off the lights when her cell phone rang.  She had 
it out and open before the third ring and answered breathlessly.

"Scully."

"Hey, it's me."

She was flooded with relief and took a moment to answer.

"Hey.  How's it going?"

She heard a thud at the other end and imagined something dropped onto a 
table.  There was a squeak and rustling then and she figured he'd sat 
down.  He still hadn't answered and she was beginning to wonder if he'd 
heard her.  His voice was strained when he finally spoke.

"Not very well, actually."

She was shocked at the admission.  She moved to a chair and pulled it 
out, dropping her briefcase and purse onto a table.

"Why?  What's wrong?"

His sigh was heavy and obviously troubled.

"I can't ... I can't figure this one out."

His candid confession scared her more than anything else could have.  
Her mouth went dry and she raised her free hand to her neck, her 
fingers reaching for her cross without even realizing it.  Her partner 
was speaking in a frightening monotone.  

"I can't come up with a profile.  This case defies categorization of 
any kind.  He or they -- whatever.  He's going to kill again and again.  
Our only chance of catching him will be if he makes a mistake."

His voice cracked on the last word and then the silence stretched long.  
She heard a rustling at the other end of the phone and wondered what he 
was doing.  How he was dealing with the frustration.  

"Scully, I had to tell the team that today.  I had to tell them I 
couldn't come up with a profile.  I don't think they understood."

The monotone was gone now, the barricade breached, the walls crumbling.  

"Scully, no one could do this.  No one could profile this bastard.  
It's as if ..."

She swiped at a tear angrily and said, "What, Mulder?  As if what?"

The rasp of his voice cut like a knife.

"It's like he knows all the rules, knows all our categorizations, and 
is intentionally trying to confuse us.  Like it's all planned.  It's 
like the DC Murders case.  I swear it is."

His voice had dropped off towards the end so she could barely hear him.

"What case?  What case is it like?  I didn't hear you."

The silence was unbroken except for their breathing.  There was a 
rhythm to the silence, just as there was a rhythm to their friendship.  

"Mulder, what case is it like?"

He was withdrawn and distant when he answered. 

"It's nothing, Scully.  Never mind."

She heard him draw a shuddering breath and then he continued.  "Look, I 
have a favor to ask."

She pursed her lips and decided to let it pass for now.  "Yeah?"

"Could you maybe go to my apartment and get some clean clothes for me?  
I pretty much need everything.  I'll have one of the secretaries here 
arrange for transportation.  I'll give them your cell number, if that's 
okay."

"Sure, Mulder.  No problem."

She heard him exhale almost explosively, then he said, "Thanks, 
Scully."

She couldn't help taking a little jab at him, though. "You know you 
could have your things brought to the dry cleaners."

She heard a soft chuckle before he responded.  "That's the second line 
of defense. I'll arrange it first thing on Monday."

The silence dragged again, neither of them willing to let the other go 
yet.  She spoke finally, her voice filled with feeling.

"I miss you, Mulder."

She could imagine the smile.  Imagine the cloud pulling back just 
slightly.

"I miss you, too, Scully."

And then she was left with a click and the accompanying buzz that 
signaled the end of the call.  It took her several minutes to gather 
enough energy to stand and collect her things once more to leave.

*******************************************


Friday, 9:36 p.m.
Bureau Gym, Richmond, Virginia


The slap-slap of his feet on the track, the swoosh of his shirt every 
time his arms swung, the sharp intake and exhale of his breath.  These 
were the only sounds in the gym at this time of night.  Mulder 
stretched his gait further, pushing harder during the last lap.  When 
he came around to where he'd started some four miles ago, he dropped to 
a slow jog and eventually slowed to a walk.  He shook his arms and 
concentrated on bringing his breathing back to something approaching 
normal.  He stopped by the towel he'd left by the entrance and picked 
it up, running it over his face and arms.  He was dripping with sweat 
and realized just how long it had been since he'd exercised -- way the 
hell too long.

He shook his head and walked a bit more, then leaned over, hands on 
knees.  It was taking too long to come back down from the run.  He was 
starting to get out of shape.  It had felt good, though.  He'd managed 
to clear his head and was ready to tackle the case again with fresher 
eyes.  There was a solution there somewhere, he just had to find the 
key.

A half-hour later, showered and dressed in clean sweats, he opened the 
conference room door and was assaulted by the smells of hot food.  What 
the hell?  There was a box sitting on the table, several bags nestled 
inside.  He leaned over and withdrew a note.


Mulder,
Figured you could use some real food for a change.
Hope you like Chinese.  See you tomorrow.
Jerry


Huh!  Either the guy was being sincerely nice or he was trying to get 
on Scully's good side.  Mulder smiled and decided either way, he was 
benefiting, so what the hell.  He threw his dirty clothes in a corner, 
not even looking to see whether they made it all the way, and started 
pulling out cartons.  His stomach growled loudly and he realized then 
just how hungry he was.

"Jerry old pal, I owe you one."

*******************************************

Two hours later, he sat with files spread across the table, arranged by 
victim from left to right.  On the wall on the far side of the table 
were the photos of victims and crime scenes.  He stood slightly bent 
over, with arms propped on the edge of the table, gaze moving from 
written word in the files to the photos on the wall.  He straightened 
and moved back to lean against the near wall, then closed his eyes.

Out loud he began reciting facts, as if to an audience.

"Victim 1, seventy-two year old black female, Donna Wilcox, widowed, 
taken from her home between 1 and 6 a.m.  Drugged.  Phone call received 
by 911 from self-declared kidnapper at 6:03 a.m.  Police verify 
abduction by 7 a.m.  Victim's body found the next morning following a 
second phone call to 911 at 6:21 a.m.  Both calls made from diverse 
locations, public phones, voice distortion equipment used.  No prints, 
no witnesses, no forensic evidence.  Victim beaten, tortured, 
eventually shot."

He took a deep breath and shifted his weight slightly, eyes still 
closed.

"Victim 2, thirty-three year old white male, Eliot Rosen, married, two 
children, taken from parking garage at work, approximately 7 p.m.  
Drugged.  Phone call received by 911 from self-declared kidnapper at 
7:32 p.m.  Police verify abduction by 8:30 p.m.  Phone call to 911 the 
following day at 7:48 p.m.  Police find victim within the hour.  Same 
procedure on phone calls.  Victim beaten, tortured, knifed to death.  
No prints, no witnesses, no forensic evidence."

He raised his left hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes.  Drew his 
hand down over his face wearily, letting it drop back to his side.

"Victim 3, fifty-one year old Hispanic male, Andrew Alvazedo, divorced, 
no children, taken from home, between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m.  Drugged.  
Phone call received by 911 operator at 3:05 a.m.  Police verify by 3:45 
a.m.  Phone call next morning at 3:31 a.m.  Victim found by 4 a.m., 
beaten, tortured, drowned in fresh water.  No prints, no witnesses, no 
forensic evidence."

He drew in a shaky breath and opened his eyes, turned his head to the 
right where Sarah's school picture was tacked on the wall.  

"Victim 4, seven year old white female, Sarah Canderfield."

He couldn't speak for a moment as he thought of the life extinguished 
before it had really even begun.  His fists curled tightly almost of 
their own accord and he had to force his hands open.  He laid them flat 
against the wall before continuing.

"Taken from a public park, between 5 and 5:30 p.m., with her entire 
Brownie troop nearby.  Drugged.  Phone call to 911 operator at 5:37 
p.m., verified by 6 p.m.  Phone call received next day at 6:02 p.m.  
Victim found within the hour, ligature strangulation.  No prints, no 
witnesses, no fucking forensic evidence."

He stood, hands flat against the wall, low at his sides, allowing the 
silence to surround him.  His breathing stilled finally and he opened 
his eyes.  Pushed himself away from the wall and sank into a chair 
slowly, tiredly.  He pulled over a pad of paper and pen and began his 
list, as he had so many times over the past several days.  For some 
reason, though, the image was clearer in his mind than it had been 
before.  He was surer than ever that this was a single assailant.  He 
couldn't point to any particular event or piece of data that had 
convinced him but he was sure now.  It simply felt right.


Challenge offered to police.  Game player.  Hunter?
Twenty-four hour grace period given before victim killed.
Smart.  Cocky.  Careful.
Leaves no evidence.  Knows procedures?
Previous record?  Doubtful.
Moves quickly.  Mobile.  
Blends in.  Not noticeable.  Uniform?
Steals transport vehicle - no witnesses.
Strong.  Can move 200-lb. man.
Access to prescription medication.  Drugs victims.
Kidnaps outside of work hours.  Has job?
Motivation?  No sexual assault.  Show superiority?
Flaunts authority.  


An image was finally beginning to form of a big man, strong, finally 
succumbing to violent urges due to some precipitating stressor out of 
his control -- a lost job, a failed marriage, an unnatural death in the 
family.  The UNSUB was spitting in the eye of the police establishment, 
an entity with which he himself might be affiliated.  The man didn't 
care about his victims -- about who he or she was -- because it didn't 
matter.  The victim was merely a means to an end.  Merely the physical 
embodiment of that which frustrated and angered him.  The victim 
existed for him solely to provide for his release.  To be beaten, 
tortured, and killed so that he might feel his superiority and have the 
opportunity to flaunt it to the world.  The UNSUB knew enough about 
evidence gathering to prevent leaving anything useful that could be 
used to identify him.  He was able to blend in so effectively that not 
one person noticed him.  Not when placing 8 different phone calls from 
public phones, not when kidnapping Eliot Rosen from a busy parking 
garage, not even when kidnapping little Sarah within earshot of her 
friends and den mother in the Brownie troop.

Mulder wrote his notes on the pad in front of him, almost frantic to 
get it down while he thought of it all.  His understanding of the UNSUB 
was growing with every second now, the image so clear he could 
practically see the man standing in front of him.  His hand was 
starting to cramp by the end of an intense ten minutes, when he set the 
pen down and reread his notes.  It was a start.  He needed to flesh it 
out before the team meeting in the morning, but it was finally 
something concrete that he had faith in.  The other thing he had faith 
in was that the UNSUB was escalating.   It was obvious after Sarah was 
taken, a mere week after Andrew Alvazedo.  And it could happen any time 
now -- any minute.  Most likely at night.  And it would be another 
child, he was sure of it. The ultimate demonstration of superiority -- 
robbing a small child from the sanctity of its bed, right from under 
the watchful eyes of his or her loving parents.  

He pushed back from the table and stood shakily.  He was exhausted.  He 
looked at his watch and saw that it was well after one in the morning.  
He had to get some sleep tonight if he were going to be of any good to 
that child when it counted.  He cracked open the conference room door, 
then flicked off the overhead light.  After making his way to the couch 
he almost collapsed on it, his body sending definite signals that it 
needed rest.  But his mind was sending very different signals.  It was 
racing, flitting from one thought to another.  He couldn't turn it off.  
Couldn't slow it down.  

After ten minutes, he pulled himself up and reached for the phone next 
to the couch, then dialed a familiar number.  He laid back down again, 
cradling the phone partly on the pillow, and closed his eyes.  Her 
voice answered, slurred with sleepiness, and he smiled at the 
familiarity of it.  Almost cried at the awareness of the distance 
between them.

"Mmmm.   H'lo.  Scully."

"It's me.  You awake?"

He could hear a rustle and knew she'd just sat up.  Was probably 
rubbing her face, pushing her hair out of her eyes.  Turning to the 
clock to read the time.

"Yeah, I am now.  Mulder, what time is it?"

He smiled again and said, "It's around 1:30 or so.  Sorry to wake you."

"That's okay.  What's wrong?  Why aren't you sleeping?"

Trust Scully to jump right to the nitty gritty.

"Haven't been able to.  I'm understanding him now.  I have a handle on 
him.  He's going to grab someone soon.  Either tonight or tomorrow 
night."

His voice wavered and he was frustrated at the lack of control.

"Scully, it'll be another child.  I know it will."

He couldn't mask the desolation.  Couldn't pretend he wasn't feeling 
it.  Not to Scully.

"God, Mulder.  I'm so sorry."

Her words didn't make a lot of sense, but they helped somehow.  Just 
knowing that she cared enough about him to feel his pain, to want to 
help with it.  He sniffed, then cleared his throat.  It was so tight 
suddenly he could barely breathe.  He wished she were with him, right 
next to him.  He wanted her there so badly it almost hurt.  The most he 
could manage was a hoarse whisper when he spoke.

"Scully, I'm so tired."

He could tell that her own voice was on the verge of tears when she 
replied. "I know Mulder.  I know you are.  You have to sleep.  There's 
nothing you can do right now.  You have to clear your mind.  
Concentrate on an old case.  Something we worked together.  Think about 
..."

There was silence for a few seconds as she thought about it.

"Mulder, you remember the circus case?  Think about that and about all 
the crazy characters we met."

A smile lit his face once more as he remembered his partner sticking a 
cricket in her mouth - or pretending to.  

"Mulder, I'm coming down tomorrow.  I picked up some of your things, 
enough to get you through most of next week.  I don't have anything 
else to do this weekend, so I figured I might as well be your clothes 
courier."

She'd been rushing through her explanation as if she were expecting him 
to object, but he wasn't going to.  Not in a million years.  His heart 
had fluttered as soon as she'd said it and he was filled once again 
with the desire to see her face.  To speak with her.  Just to sit next 
to her.  The smile was there again, on his face.  That dorky smile he 
knew appeared whenever he thought about her.  Whenever he thought about 
how much he cherished her friendship.  

He cleared his throat again and rolled onto his right side, wrapping 
his left arm around his chest tightly. 

"Thanks, Scully."

"No problem.  Close your eyes, Mulder.  Sleep.  I'll see you in the 
morning."

He nodded, as if she were there with him, and reached awkwardly over 
his head to drop the phone in its cradle.  He was still smiling, 
thinking about tattooed geeks and nerveless blockheads when he drifted 
off to sleep five minutes later.

*******************************************


Saturday, 3:48 a.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


The neighborhood was dark as Mulder walked down the quiet tree-lined 
street.  Occasional street lamps shone their light on the rows of 
suburban homes.  He looked to the left and saw the open door.  It was a 
pit of absolute blackness in the murky dark, a black hole that pulled 
him towards it.  He walked slowly, fighting the feeling of doom that 
rose up in him with every step.  He wanted to turn away.  Wanted to 
run, but the open doorway beckoned.

The steps were slick with a coat of water from the earlier rain.  Beads 
of water still dropped from the porch overhang -- the splats providing 
the only sound in or around the house.  He crossed the porch and 
paused, holding his breath, listening for more.  Hoping for the joyful 
sound of laughter, or even the angry sounds of an argument.  Anything 
at all that would signal that all was normal.  But there was nothing.  
Nothing at all, and the utter absence of sound was terrifying.

He exhaled almost explosively and raised his hand to wipe at the sweat 
on his face.  His heart was beating so loudly now that he thought it a 
miracle no one else heard it.  That no one came to investigate.  And 
now he feared there was no one alive in the house to hear it.

He stepped over the threshold and stood in silence, waiting for his 
eyes to adjust to the darkness inside.  Gradually, the murky outline of 
furniture became clear and he stepped forward.  Looked to the right and 
saw the toys.  A plastic Fischer-Price lawnmower and a rocking horse 
were in the middle of the living room floor.  He felt his breath catch 
and looked to the left.  The dining room was spotless, pristine, except 
for a little boot, lying haphazardly on its side by a chair.

He wiped at his face again and looked up the stairs.  There was a sound 
now.  It hadn't been there before, he was sure, but now there was a 
creaking.  It was cyclic, sounding out every few seconds.  Creak, 
nothing, creak, nothing.

He grabbed the rail with his left hand and started up the stairs.  The 
sense of foreboding increased and became almost overwhelming so that he 
stopped on the last stair, as if not taking the final step to the 
landing would stave off whatever disaster awaited him.  Awaited the 
household.

His breathing was harsh now, uncontrollable.  He closed his eyes 
tightly for a long moment, and had to shake his head to attempt some 
composure.  He took the step then, and turned to the right.  All the 
doors were closed but one, at the far end, and it again beckoned to 
him.  Taunted him.  Daring him to enter and challenging him not to.

He moved as if in a trance, unable to avoid the call.  The creak, creak 
was still there, coming from the far room and it seemed as if the 
hallway stretched out before him, making his journey long.  But then he 
was there, just a step away and he froze, unsure whether he could make 
it to the end.  

The darkness weighed on him, choked him so that he could barely take in 
a breath.  His feet were leaden as he finally entered the room. There 
was a soft light to the right, a nightlight, but it wasn't enough to 
allow him to see.  He reached his right hand out to the wall to feel 
for a switch and found it after a moment's search.  He flicked it on 
then, bathing the room in light.

And the blood was everywhere.  It coated the walls in stripes and 
colored the sheets of the toddler bed.  It dripped to the floor and 
soaked the rug in a dark puddle.  And the mother in the rocker cried 
softly, her arms empty and open wide, her eyes beseeching and 
reproachful.  And she asked him with an agonized voice, "Why?"

Mulder jerked upright, his eyes searching his surroundings frantically, 
trying to make sense of what he was seeing.  Trying to remember where 
he was and why.  It came to him then, flooded through him, and left him 
shaking with the knowledge that his dream could be true, even now.  His 
heart pounded and the sweat dripped down his face, his neck.  His hands 
reached out as if he were a blind man seeking something he'd lost.  He 
could still see the woman, sitting there, looking right at him.  He 
closed his eyes and she was still there, accusing him with her silent 
stare.  The sound of his ragged breathing cut through the room and 
bounced off the walls.  He was impotent, lost.  He didn't know what to 
do.  He needed Scully.  She'd know.  He wanted her there with him so 
badly.  The desire sliced through him and he wasn't even aware when he 
called her name out into the darkness.

*******************************************

End Part 1 of ?

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 2 of ? (2/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
*******************************************

Saturday, 3:56 a.m.
Washington D.C., Dana Scully Residence


The harsh ringing woke her once more, but this time she was immediately 
alert, her mind sharp when she answered.  She already knew who it was.

"Mulder?"

His ragged breathing sent her heart racing as she struggled to 
understand what could have happened in the last couple hours.

"Mulder, are you all right? What's happened?"

His words came in a rush, almost jumbled as they fell over one another. 

"Scully, he's going to do it again and I can't prevent it.  I know him 
now, I know what he wants and what he does.  I know, but it doesn't 
matter because he'll take whoever's convenient.  It doesn't matter to 
him except it'll be a baby, Scully, just a baby, and I can't stop it.  
He's probably already found the one, probably followed the mother from 
the store or from day care.  He's found the house and he'll do it soon.  
He'll take the baby just to show he can, to rub our faces in it.  And 
he'll torture it, Scully.  Oh God, he'll do what he's done to the 
others.  He's getting ready right now, I know it.  It's like the DC 
Murders case.  He's confusing us on purpose, just like then.  God, 
Scully, the blood was everywhere, it was everywhere and the mother was 
lost.  She was so lost."

She could barely breathe herself and fought to keep calm.  She had to 
say his name several times to get his attention -- to stop him from his 
almost rambling litany.  

"Listen to me, Mulder.  Stop and listen.  Mulder, you had a dream, 
right?  You dreamt that a baby was taken but it was just a dream."  She 
was up now and moving about the room, as she spoke to him.  She 
balanced the phone on her shoulder as she set out to gather clothes.  
"No baby's been taken, Mulder.  Not yet anyway.  They would have called 
if one had been.  But Mulder, even if a baby has been taken, it's not 
your fault and you couldn't have prevented it.  No one can prevent it.  
Do you hear me, Mulder?  Are you listening to me?"

She could tell he'd calmed somewhat and knew that he'd been only partly 
awake when he called her.  "You there, Mulder?"  She had struggled to 
pull jeans and a sweater on and was reaching for her socks and tennis 
shoes, juggling the phone from one shoulder to another, when he 
responded finally.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I'm here."

She could hear the embarrassment in his voice and knew what was coming 
before he said it.

"God, Scully, I'm sorry for waking you.  I don't know what I was 
thinking.  I'm an idiot.  I'm sorry.  Go back to bed, okay?"

"Mulder, you know you can call me any time.  You know that, right?  
This is a horrific case and you shouldn't be there by yourself.  I wish 
I were there to help.  I will be soon, if only for a short time.  Okay?  
Just hang on for a bit longer."

She knew she was offering empty promises.  She'd visit for a few hours, 
help in any way she could, then she'd be back in DC and he'd still be 
there by himself.  This situation was untenable.  There had to be a 
solution.  A way out, for both of them.

"It's okay.  I'm okay.  Look, go back to sleep, Scully.  I'll see you 
later today."

And while her heart was heavy with dread, she knew she had no choice 
but to agree.  "All right, Mulder.  Soon."

She hung up the phone, and sat in the stillness.  She closed her eyes 
and gathered her thoughts and determination.  Time to move, Dana.  She 
reached down and slipped on her tennis shoes quickly, then stood.  
Grabbed her weapon and identification and pulled on a jacket, then 
unplugged her cell phone from the recharger and pocketed her keys.  
Time to head out.

*******************************************


Saturday, 4:42 a.m.
Washington D.C., Walter Skinner Residence


Walter Skinner jerked awake and fumbled for the alarm.  It kept 
buzzing, over and over.  No matter what button he hit on the damned 
thing, it kept buzzing.  Then it dawned on him that it wasn't his alarm 
at all, but the phone.  He grabbed at the handset and answered in a 
fuzzy voice.  "Skinner."

He cringed slightly when he recognized the voice at the other end.  
This couldn't be good.

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you so early, but it's very important."

He heard a groan and then realized it came from him.  Not very 
professional, Walter.

"Agent Scully, what can I do for you at ..."

He fumbled for his glasses and looked at the clock by his bed.  Then he 
groaned again and continued, "...almost 4:45 in the morning."

"Sir, I am sorry, but I really need to speak to you."

"Agent Scully, I've explained this to you before.  We are not to have 
contact.  I am no longer your supervisor.  You need to work through AD 
Kersh."

"Sir, with all due respect, AD Kersh is trying his hardest to drive 
Mulder out of the Bureau and might just kill him in the process."

Well, that was an eye opener, to be sure.  He sighed and sat up, 
flicking on the light in the process.  He raised his left hand to his 
face and pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyes.  He 
couldn't help himself.  He knew he had to see her.  "Where are you, 
Scully?"

"Outside your apartment building."

He grinned slightly and stifled a chuckle.  Tenacious, was Dana Scully.  
He sighed again, shook his head to himself, then said, "Give me five 
minutes.  I'll let the doorman know you're coming."

He could hear the relief in her voice when she said, "Thank you, sir."

Five minutes later, he headed for the door in jeans and a long sleeved 
tee shirt.  He ran a hand over his head then reached for the knob just 
a moment before the knock came.  He swung it open and stepped back, 
then gestured for her to enter.  She looked stressed -- and very tired.  
He couldn't help sighing yet again.  Jesus, this was killing him.

He walked over to a chair and sank into it, waiting as she settled onto 
the couch.  "So, what's going on?"

She was sitting on the very edge of the couch, tense and rigid.  "Sir, 
you may have heard that Mulder and I have been assigned to background 
checks and ... fertilizer detail.  But over the past two months, AD 
Kersh has made assignments that have resulted in Agent Mulder and 
myself being separated for up to weeks at a time.  And now -- Agent 
Mulder has been working the Richmond murder case for the past week, 
while I've been loaned out to the Quantico labs.  Sir ..."

He knew suddenly where this was heading and could understand her 
concern.  He'd shielded Mulder as best he could as the man's 
supervisor, especially after the Mostow case, and now it seemed the 
agent's skill at profiling was being used against him.  He leaned 
forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them, as she continued. 

"I believe AD Kersh has given the SAC instructions to push him.  Kersh 
is trying to drive him to quit and I'm afraid ..."

He could see her hesitate and took advantage of the temporary lull.  
"How's he doing?"

She seemed to collapse even as he watched -- to grow smaller before his 
eyes.  "Not well, sir.  I'm going there now."  As if to add some levity 
to the discussion she added,  "He ran out of clothes so I'm 
replenishing the stock."

A small smile crossed her face in a flash and he could imagine the 
turmoil behind the facade.  "I haven't been keeping up with the case, 
Scully.  I didn't know.  I'm sorry."

He pushed himself up off the chair and walked over to the balcony 
doors.  It was still dark outside, with an hour or more to go before 
sunrise.  He leaned on the door jam for a moment, lost in thought, then 
pushed himself back.  When he turned, Scully hadn't moved, except to 
lean forward slightly.  She looked lost.

He strode back towards her, more frustrated than ever.  He stopped in 
front of her, a few feet away and waited for her to look up at him.  
"Scully, I don't know what I can do.  My hands are basically tied.  I 
have no control over you and Mulder anymore and no influence over your 
assignments."

Her eyes dropped again and he could sense the defeat that had taken 
residence, threatening to overwhelm.

He dropped into a crouch before her and grabbed a hand for just a 
second to get her attention.  His voice was soft when he said, "Tell me 
a way that I can help and I'll do it.  What can I do, Scully?"

She was looking at him again, her forehead creased, her eyes glistening 
with unshed tears.  She shook her head just once and said softly, "I 
don't know.  I'm not sure why I came here, sir, I just .. I didn't know 
where else to turn."

He moved to the couch then and sank next to her wearily.  It had taken 
a long time to gain her trust and a small part of him was pleased by 
her words.  Still, the thought of Mulder being driven to perform his 
magic with no moral support, with no one to look after his interests 
and emotional well-being, was disturbing.  A fleeting memory of the 
younger man's face following the capture of Patterson several years ago 
came to him.  His agent's expression had seemed professionally blank at 
first until closer inspection revealed the tremor at the corner of his 
mouth, the eyes that held a wildness that couldn't be masked.  The 
occasional stumbling steps and shaking hands denoted a physical 
exhaustion suggesting imminent collapse.  It had taken a week of 
continuous harassment by his partner to take it easy and enforced mild 
assignments from Skinner himself before Mulder had started to seem more 
like himself.

It almost surprised him when she spoke again, breaking his reverie.

"I guess I hoped you'd know what to do.  All I know is that we can't go 
on like this.  Mulder can't.  The assignments have been much worse for 
him than for me.  This case ..."

She turned away from him and was now staring across the room, mouth 
open slightly, breathing heavily.  He reached for her hand again, 
holding on a bit longer this time, and waited until she turned back to 
him.

"What, Scully?  What about this case?"

She shook her head and licked her lips, almost nervously.  Her eyes 
were intent on his as she continued.

"I have no idea whether he's been eating or sleeping.  I've gotten 
calls from him at all hours.  The little sleep he has gotten has been 
on the couch in the command center.  In addition to pushing him for a 
profile that he's had an extremely hard time developing, the SAC's had 
him taking victim statements.  And ... I was told he was assigned to 
answer the parents' questions about what the assailant did to the 
little girl."

Skinner had to fight to keep from grinding his teeth.  "That's crazy.  
Richmond PD has a victim support unit with people trained to do that."

She merely looked over at him knowingly and shook her head again before 
continuing.  "This morning -- an hour or so ago -- he called, half 
asleep, just awake from a dream."  She gave a snort, harsh and short 
and said, "He sounded so ..."  Her voice dropped off again and he could 
tell she was lost in the remembrance.  

He was filled with anger suddenly.  An anger so sharp that his nostrils 
flared and eyes narrowed.  Damn the men who would allow the waste of 
such talents.  Who would sanction the unconscionable abuse of the 
government's power and resources in this way.  He sensed movement and 
turned to look at Scully again.  She appeared almost frightened and he 
realized that his anger must have taken on a life of its own and 
alerted her to its presence.  He softened immediately at the awareness 
and did something so uncharacteristic that it probably shocked him more 
than it did his former agent.  He put his arm around her and hugged her 
for a moment, saying, "We'll figure something out, Scully.  There has 
to be a way."

*******************************************


Saturday, 5:49 a.m.
Southwest of Washington D.C.


The sky was beginning to lighten, and Scully's heart felt easier at the 
knowledge that the sun would still rise in the morning and would set 
again this evening.  Few things in life were as reliable.  She glanced 
toward the passenger seat, making sure the cell phone was still ready 
to grab.  It was just a feeling, a hunch, but somehow she knew Mulder 
was right and another child would be taken or already had been.  She 
shuddered slightly, almost physically ill at the thought, and prayed 
that for once, Mulder would be proven wrong.

She glanced at her watch and for a moment only regretted the time lost 
while at AD Skinner's, but then she was filled with warmth at the 
knowledge that she and Mulder had a friend who would help them in any 
way possible.  Now they had to be creative enough to figure out how to 
make use of Skinner's good will.

The trill of the phone sent a shiver down her spine as she reached out 
her right hand to feel for it.  She flipped it open and barely managed 
to say her name before her partner began speaking.

"It's me.  I'm at the Rossbacher's now, where their three year old son, 
Christian, was taken from his bed sometime between 4:45 and 5:15.  The 
bastard called 911 at 5:23 to gloat."  He'd said it with no inflection, 
seemingly no emotion whatsoever, but she knew he was in turmoil.

"I'm on the way, Mulder.  I'll be there soon.  Will you be at the crime 
scene or the Bureau?"  She glanced at her watch then checked the 
dashboard clock.  She stepped on the accelerator even more and almost 
missed his answer.  "What?  What did you say, Mulder?"

"I'm not sure.  Give me a call when you get close."

"All right, I will."

The silence hung then, as it had so many times over the past week.  She 
didn't want to hang up, feeling that if she did, he'd be lost to her.  
It was ridiculous, silly even, but she couldn't shake the feeling.

"Gotta go, Scully.  See you soon."  His voice was again filled with 
longing and she could only nod into the dark as he disconnected.

*******************************************


Saturday, 6:37 a.m.
Washington D.C. Ronald Reagan National Airport


Skinner had heard it on the news not long after Scully left and knew he 
couldn't sit idly by any longer.  He'd taken a glance at his gym bag 
and decided he could work out any time.  It had been the high point of 
his weekend plans and getting away for a while would probably be a 
blessing in disguise, especially if he could help out Mulder in some 
way.

He glanced at the display, then slung his bag over his shoulder and 
headed for his gate.  He'd be close on Scully's heels at this rate.

*******************************************


Saturday, 7:32 a.m.
Richmond, Virginia, Rossbacher Residence


Mulder gradually became aware of a presence close by and turned 
slightly to see Jerry Friedman hovering to his right, watching him 
closely with what seemed like concern.  Instead of being annoyed, he 
was filled with appreciation and summoned up a tired smile.  He looked 
straight again and felt a chill at the sight of the empty red and green 
plastic toddler bed in the corner, stuffed animals lining three of the 
sides.  It was so similar to the one in his dream he could almost see 
the blood, even though he knew it wasn't really there.  And it was a 
mirror image of little Kevin's room all those years ago.  Jeez, first 
Lorri Kiley haunted his dreams and now Kevin Fletcher.

He closed his eyes and shook off the almost overwhelming dread that 
caused his hands to shake and his knees to weaken.  The last thing he 
needed now was to get lost in the details of the DC Murders case.  
There were haunting similarities, but also striking differences.  He 
sighed and glanced around at the various people milling about.

He'd been standing in the center of the room for some time and knew it 
was making the team nervous.  The forensics people flowed around him, 
evidently unwilling to ask him to move.  He wanted them all to leave.  
To just let him stand in silence.  He wanted the immersion in the 
victim's environment.  He needed it.  He sighed and turned to the man 
behind him once again.

"Jerry, could you clear the room for me as soon as possible?  Just for 
a few minutes?"

The agent merely nodded and headed off to the leader of the evidence 
gathering team.  Mulder was aware of a short but heated conversation 
and then heard the sharp command of the team leader to wrap things up 
quickly.  Men and women started leaving, one by one, until there was 
only Jerry left.  The other agent said, "I'll be downstairs.  Let me 
know if you need anything."

He didn't respond, already focusing on the rocking chair in the corner.  
He moved slowly towards it and reached out to caress the arm.  He sat 
in it then and leaned back, closing his eyes.  He rocked slowly and the 
chair made a sound with every move -- a creak, creak, creak that filled 
the stillness.  

*******************************************

Dana knew she'd found the right neighborhood when she spotted the 
flashing lights and news vans.  She drove to the barricade and pulled 
out her badge, partly surprised when she was waved in so easily.  She 
got as close to the house as she could and then parked.  It was a zoo.

She approached the house and flashed her badge once more, saying, "I 
was told to meet Agent Mulder here."  The police officer stared at her 
in silence for a moment, looked down at her badge suspiciously, then 
looked back at her, sweeping his eyes over her from head to foot.  She 
realized then that she was still dressed in her jeans and sweater.  She 
was wearing tennis shoes, for God's sake. She felt the flush but 
ignored it, saying in her most professional voice, "Is there some 
problem, officer?"

The young man stood straighter, but still hesitated.  Then she heard a 
familiar voice saying, "Dana, is that you?"

She turned and looked behind the officer at the door to see Jerry 
Friedman walking her way.  She smiled at him, even as she grabbed her 
identification out of the officer's hands and pushed her way past him.  
"Hi Jerry, it's good to see you again."

Her old classmate grabbed her hands and leaned down to kiss her on the 
cheek.  "Good to see you, too.  I didn't know you were coming, Dana."

"Just decided this morning.  I was already en route when Mulder called 
to tell me about this latest kidnapping."

They walked further into the house and stopped in the living room.  She 
looked around at the mass of bodies, wondering just where her partner 
was.  

As if reading her mind, Jerry said, "He's upstairs in the victim's 
room.  He wanted some time alone."

She nodded slowly and raised her eyes to his face.  Jerry looked as if 
he were worried, or at least concerned.  She licked her lips and drew 
in a deep breath before asking, "How long has he been there?"

"About fifteen minutes or so."

She nodded and turned to the stairs without a word.  Jerry would 
understand.

As she approached the landing she was sure she heard a noise.  There 
was a creaking coming from the end of the hall to the right.  She moved 
in that direction and stopped in front of the open door, taking in the 
sight of the room and her partner inside.

He was in a rocking chair in the far corner, rocking slowly even while 
hunched forward with his hands clasped in his lap.  He was staring 
straight at her, but she knew he wasn't actually seeing her.  She'd 
seen the look he wore now after the Roche case, and her throat 
tightened in fear and apprehension.

She moved straight towards him until she was only a foot or two away, 
then knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers.  His face was 
gaunt and unshaved, the weariness painting a paleness that stood out 
starkly against the dark hair that fell limply on his forehead.  He was 
staring right through her and she watched as his eyes gradually focused 
on her.  They filled with tears suddenly and he gasped.  He'd finally 
figured out what he was looking at.

"Scully?"  It was said tremulously, almost in disbelief.  

"Yeah, Mulder, it's me."

She knew he wasn't aware of the tears that fell down his face.  She 
moved forward and wrapped her arms around him gently, as if he were 
breakable.  She could feel him tense at first and then relax into the 
embrace.  He grabbed her tightly then and she could feel his face 
pushed hard against her shoulder.  He was trembling, whether in 
exhaustion or because of overwhelming emotion she wasn't sure.  She 
turned just enough to kiss his forehead lightly, wanting him to know 
that she was there and he wasn't alone.  She rested her chin firmly on 
the top of his head then and waited, letting him set the pace.

After only a minute, she felt him pull away and dropped her arms, but 
she took his left hand in her right, unwilling to cut off all contact.  
He allowed the gesture, even while he raised his right hand to rub at 
his face and wipe at the tears that remained.  She watched him take a 
shaky breath and he finally raised his head to look at her.

He whispered, "I'm sorry," softly and she just shook her head, denying 
him the apology.

"No.  Don't."  It was enough.  She saw the acceptance in his face, and 
his forehead smoothed slightly.  They knew each other so well.

She shook his hand and squeezed it, then stood, saying, "Is there 
anything I can help with, Mulder?"

He raised himself out of the chair slowly, and she couldn't help but 
notice the shakiness in the movement.  He'd pushed himself too far 
already and she knew he wouldn't stop now.  Not when a child was out 
there with a death sentence counting down.

He rubbed at his face once more, with both hands, then dropped them to 
his sides.  She waited him out, knowing he was deciding on the best 
course of action.  When he turned to look down at her again, she saw 
the regret in his face and knew he wasn't entirely pleased with the 
decisions he'd made.

"Can you work with the forensics team, Scully?  Look over everything 
they've collected.  Then come to the Bureau and look over the autopsies 
on the other victims."  He ran a hand through his hair, and shook his 
head abruptly.  "What am I saying?  I don't have any control in this 
case.  I don't even know if they'll allow you to look at anything.  I'd 
like you to try, though."

It wasn't the answer she'd been hoping for, but it was the one she 
expected.  Even though she'd much rather be by his side, they both knew 
that anything she might be able to do to help find Christian Rossbacher 
would ultimately be best for both of them as well.  She nodded and took 
his arm, pulling at him gently.  "Come on.  Let's go downstairs.  Maybe 
Jerry can introduce me to the right people."

She was relieved when he followed her without question.  She looked 
back at him and asked, "What are you going to do, Mulder?"

He took a shaky breath and said, "I'm going back to the Bureau.  I need 
to listen to the 911 tapes again.  All of them, from all the victims.  
The calls are a challenge to us to find him, but that implies he's 
given us a means to find him.  It has to be there somewhere and we 
don't have a lot of time."

She swallowed and nodded in understanding.  They'd reached the ground 
floor and she moved towards the living room again, where Jerry had been 
earlier.  She saw him finally, standing with a group of agents, 
embroiled in what looked like an argument.  She glanced back at her 
partner and realized he hadn't noticed.  Wasn't really paying attention 
to much of anything.  She pulled at him again, for just a moment, to 
get him moving in the right direction, then started across the room.  

One of the agents noticed their approach and she saw his eyes flicker 
from Mulder to her and back again.  The man must have said something to 
the others because the entire group turned to stare at them.  

She was relieved to see Jerry smile a bit, then he said, "Agent Dana 
Scully, let me introduce you to a few of the team members."  He 
gestured to the two men to his right and said, "This is Roger Singleton 
and this is Carl Chang."  He then waved to his left and said, "And this 
is Andres Sachs."

She nodded to them, pleased to see no overt hostility in their 
expressions.  She noticed that they seemed to take turns glancing at 
her partner and she took a moment to glance back at him herself.  She 
understood then.  

Mulder was staring off to the right, his gaze intent on a plastic 
rocking horse in the corner.  His face was so pale it appeared almost 
translucent.  It dawned on her that these men were worried about her 
partner and she felt slightly easier knowing she wasn't alone in 
wanting to watch over him.  She stepped back so she stood next to him 
and reached out to touch his arm.  

She looked back to Jerry and said diplomatically, "I know that Mulder's 
going back to the Bureau to review the assailant's 911 tapes, but I'd 
be happy to lend my services if you feel it would be useful."

Jerry smiled again and glanced at the others before saying, "Come on.  
I'll introduce you to Ketter.  He's in charge of the evidence gathering 
team."

She turned back to her partner and smiled at him, thankful that he was 
paying attention to the conversation once again.

"I'll see you at the Bureau later.  I'll have someone drop your clothes 
off there in the meantime though, okay?"

His nod was brief and the lightening of his features assured her he'd 
be all right until she saw him again.  "See you, Scully."

She nodded to Jerry and followed him out to the front of the house.  
The sky had clouded up so that it was dark and menacing.  She knew the 
rain would fall soon.

*******************************************

Saturday, 10:18 a.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


Walter Skinner strode confidently down the hallway of the Richmond 
Bureau, seeking the office of Carl Landers, the SAC on the case Mulder 
was working.  He might not be Mulder's direct supervisor anymore, and 
he might not be directly involved in this case, but by God he was still 
an AD with the Bureau.

He arrived at the appropriate door and knocked sharply, then turned the 
knob and pushed when he heard an acknowledgment  from inside.  He 
stepped in and smiled at the man behind the desk.  He knew Carl from 
way back and had always thought of him as a reasonable man.

Landers stared at him for a second before recognition settled in.  Then 
he smiled back and said, "Walter, it's been a while.  What brings you 
to Richmond?"

Skinner stepped forward and shook the man's hand, answering, "Hi Carl.  
Good to see you again."  He took a seat even though it hadn't been 
offered and decided to cut to the chase, "I'm here about Agent Fox 
Mulder."

He was surprised at Landers' reaction.  The man actually flinched 
before schooling his features into feigned disinterest.

"Carl, Mulder used to be one of my agents.  I was his direct supervisor 
for almost five years before he and his partner, Dana Scully, were 
reassigned due to internal politics.  I'll be honest with you, I have 
no authority over him now, but as an AD with the Bureau, I am very 
concerned when any agent is put in a position that endangers his well-
being.  I believe this has happened with Agent Mulder."

Landers was no longer attempting to appear nonchalant, but was now 
sitting with his head bowed and hands clasped tightly on the desk in 
front of him.  Skinner let the silence stretch, waiting for the SAC to 
look up.  The man did finally, with a sigh.

"I have superiors, too, Walter.  What was I supposed to do?"

"Believe it or not, I do understand, Carl.  Better than you might 
think.  But I'm telling you now that Mulder can not be pushed on this 
case unless you want to kill him or get him killed.  It's time to take 
a stand."

He let the silence stretch again, then said, "So what's it going to 
be?"

He could tell the other man was waging an internal struggle which 
finally ended when Landers slammed both hands on his desk and stood 
abruptly.  His voice was harsh when he said, "Fuck this crap.  Walter, 
I was told to make Mulder's life as miserable as possible, as long as 
the case wasn't compromised.  I was instructed ..."  Landers stressed 
the word, saying it as if it were obscene.  "... instructed to do 
whatever it took to break him."  The man turned towards him then, hands 
out as if in supplication and said, "Who the hell are these people, 
Walt?  What gives them the right?"

Skinner almost felt sorry for the SAC, even while fighting his own 
anger and frustration.  "I'm not sure, Carl.  What I do know is that 
they finally got tired of me protecting my agents, and assigned them to 
AD Kersh as the solution."

Landers was obviously upset when he said, "If they want to get rid of 
Mulder so badly, why don't they just cut him loose from the Bureau?  I 
don't understand what's happening here, Walter.  What the hell did 
Mulder and this Scully do?"

He almost snorted at the question but managed to restrain himself.

"They didn't do anything except uncover a conspiracy in which our own 
government has been a lead player.  They became too uncomfortable to 
the wrong people.  They got too close and now they're paying for it.  I 
don't want them to pay with their lives -- or their sanity.  They 
deserve better."

Landers sagged somewhat before sinking back into his chair in defeat.  
The SAC stared at him with confused disbelief.

"A conspiracy?  What kind of conspiracy?  I don't understand."

He shook his head at the SAC and said, "You don't want to understand, 
Carl, believe me.  Just do me a favor -- do Mulder and Scully a favor -
- and lay off a bit."

"I will, Walter, I will."  The man stood up then and added, "Come on.  
I'll show you where Mulder's been hanging out."

Skinner waited for Landers to precede him then followed him out the 
door and to the left.

"He's down a floor in one of our conference rooms.  I have to tell you, 
Walter, the man's good.  We had two other profilers try their hand at 
this and they got nowhere.  The ISU Chief recommended your man over his 
own people.  Mulder was assigned after the third victim and was able to 
come up with a profile that makes sense finally.  Now with this latest 
kidnapping ..."

Landers let the sentence hang and he could guess what the man was 
thinking.

"You think Mulder might be able to figure it?"

The SAC pulled open the door to the stairway and gestured for him to 
enter first.

"Yeah, I do.  He seems to have a handle on the UNSUB.  He knows him.  I 
swear he's able to think like our assailant.  I'm hoping he'll also be 
able to anticipate.  Maybe figure out what kind of challenge the 
UNSUB's making.  The victim just turned three.  It's a media 
nightmare."  Landers turned the corner to the next landing and 
muttered,  "As well as any parent's."

Skinner merely nodded, knowing that Landers had several children 
himself.  The SAC again held open the door as they exited the stairway 
and took a right.  They'd only taken a few steps when the man came to a 
stop and turned towards him.

"Look, Walter, I can't say I understand what's going on and why.  I do 
know Mulder deserves better than what I've shown him here.  But we now 
have less than nineteen hours to find this child if we're going to get 
him back alive.  What am I supposed to do?"

He could see the honest concern and frustration, and empathized with 
his old acquaintance.

"Carl, you don't have to push Mulder.  If it's in his power, he'll do 
absolutely anything to find this child, regardless of what it might do 
to him personally.  His partner is on her way here -- is probably even 
in town already, in fact -- and I recommend you use her.  You won't 
find a better forensic pathologist and frankly, you won't find a better 
team.  Let them work together.  They can't perform miracles, but I have 
faith that if anyone can find this child, they can."

He waited for the nod before adding, "Now, show me where Mulder is.  
I'd like to keep him in one piece long enough for him to be able to 
work whatever magic he can."

The SAC nodded again and looked chagrined as he said, "I have to admit 
I haven't treated him very well.  He's been working pretty much around 
the clock on this, sleeping and eating here.  He's showing it, too."

Skinner nodded his understanding, already prepared for such news.  
"Where is he, Carl?"

The man turned and continued down the hall, stopping outside a closed 
door.  He gestured to it and said, "Here you go.  I think Mulder's the 
only one here now."

Skinner nodded slowly and thanked the man, then watched as Landers 
turned and walked away.  He knocked lightly, waiting for some sign to 
enter.  After several seconds of silence and another light knock that 
went unanswered, he opened the door.  It was practically dark inside, 
the only light coming from a small lamp in the far left corner.  

He took a step into the gloom and looked around, searching for a 
familiar figure.  He saw Mulder finally off to the right, almost in a 
corner, sitting hunched over.  He took another step in and considered 
turning on the overhead lights, then discarded the notion.  He walked 
slowly to the right, along the length of the conference table, then 
followed the end of it around and stopped in front of his former agent.

Mulder sat with elbows on knees, eyes closed tightly, with hands 
gripping what appeared to be a small tape recorder.  A wire snaked up 
to attach to a set of earphones, which at least explained why the 
younger man hadn't seemed to hear his approach.  His suit jacket had 
been discarded and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, practically to his 
elbows.  His tie was loosened and twisted haphazardly, his shirt so 
wrinkled it appeared as if it had been slept in.  

Skinner pulled out a chair and sat heavily, some four feet away, 
deciding to wait until the tape finished.  He took the opportunity to 
study his former agent.  The disheveled appearance was an obvious 
indication that all was not well.  Added to this was the lightly 
shaking hands, the lines of exhaustion on the man's face, and the 
uneven breathing.  Worst of all was the fact that Mulder had still not 
noticed his presence, even though he'd made no special effort to be 
quiet when entering.

Skinner sat, increasingly uncomfortable, a few chairs away.  His former 
agent had still not moved except for the rise and fall of his chest.  
He turned his eyes away from the still figure, then sat back in the 
chair and rested his elbows on the arms.  He forced his fists to 
unclench, stretched his fingers straight, then allowed them to hang 
loosely.  He looked up at the photos on the wall, his gaze drawn 
irresistibly to the last one in the line of five -- a little boy, still 
looking like a baby.  His brown hair and intense brown eyes were offset 
by a wide toothy smile that gave him an impish appearance.  This must 
be the latest kidnap victim, little Christian Rossbacher.  

He heard a sharp scraping sound to his left and turned quickly.  He was 
shocked to see Mulder standing straight, arm raised high, tape player 
clenched in his right hand, ready to launch it against the wall 
directly behind Skinner's own head.  For a fraction of a second he 
debated whether to throw himself out of the way or try to get the man's 
attention.  It became a moot point when he saw Mulder's eyes focus on 
him finally. The younger man's face was a mask of confusion and 
bewilderment, mixed with a heavy dose of frustration.

Not sure whether his former agent was actually seeing him or not, 
Skinner drew in a quick breath and asked softly, "Mulder?"

The lightning quick expressions that passed across the other man's face 
were almost painful to watch.  Mulder had dropped his arm now, the tape 
player evidently forgotten, and was staring directly at him.  The 
younger man seemed to be struggling to catch his breath and Skinner was 
starting to get worried.  He stood slowly and approached his former 
agent, wondering just what the hell was going on.  When he was just a 
foot away, he spoke again. "Mulder?"

The response was dramatic this time, as the younger man jerked 
backwards, dropping the tape player on the floor with a clatter.  
Mulder gasped and raised a hand towards him, as if unsure whether he 
were actually there.  

Mulder's voice wavered when he asked, "Sir?  Is it you?"

He grasped the outstretched hand for a moment, then took the other 
man's arm to guide him to a seat, saying, "Yeah, it's me, Mulder.  Come 
on and sit down." 

He guided the man to a chair, then pulled up another one next to it.  
He couldn't pull his eyes off Mulder's face.  He'd seen the man 
furious, frustrated, anxious and worried, but he couldn't recall this 
look of hopelessness and fragility in all his years of working with 
him.  It was downright frightening.

"Mulder, are you all right?"

The younger man sat for another moment as if in a daze and then started 
laughing harshly -- a sharp, self-deprecating laugh that cut through 
the silent room.  It made Skinner even more concerned.  Mulder was 
leaning over, arms propped on knees and hands covering his face.  He 
decided to wait for the younger man to calm before attempting to speak 
with him, but Mulder broke the silence himself.  

"I didn't think you were real."  Another harsh laugh and then, "I 
thought I was starting to hallucinate." 

Skinner shifted in the chair, wondering how to respond, when Mulder 
asked in a curious tone, "Why are you here, sir?"  His former agent had 
dropped his hands between his splayed legs and was now staring at him.  
It was clear that the emotion was still near the surface so he decided 
to tread very lightly.

"Last time I checked, I was still an AD with some authority over VCS 
cases, Mulder.  I thought I'd stop by and see how things were going.  
The Bureau's getting a lot of press over this one."

Mulder's head was tilted, as if to better determine the veracity of his 
words.  His former agent evidently came to a conclusion when he said, 
"Bullshit, sir."

Skinner couldn't help the grin that surfaced.  Couldn't get much past 
Mulder.

"You're right.  I'm here to try to keep you out of trouble."  He pushed 
himself up off the chair and added, "And that means the first thing I'm 
doing is dragging you out of here.  Come on, we're going to get 
something to eat."

Mulder's almost relaxed  posture was immediately  replaced by a stiff 
spine and clenched fists once more.  Not allowing the younger man time 
to object, Skinner said, "I just came from SAC Landers' office.  He 
knows you've been pushing hard on this case."

The younger man again looked confused and he could at least understand 
why this time.  Last time Mulder knew, the SAC was the one doing most 
of the pushing.

Skinner cleared his throat and waited for Mulder to focus his attention 
on him. He didn't want the man to get offended by the fact that he was 
interfering so had to feel his way carefully. "I've known Landers for a 
long time, Mulder.  Believe it or not, he's really not a bad guy -- 
usually."  He waited for the inevitable disbelief to show on his 
agent's face before continuing.  "You have to understand that 
everyone's not as good as you are at ignoring their supervisors."

He adopted a grin when he said the last part, hoping to take some of 
the sting out of the remark.  He waited until the other man relaxed a 
bit into the chair, signaling acceptance, then said again, "Come on, 
let's go get something to eat."

Mulder tensed once more and gripped the chair arms as if it 
unconsciously thinking he'd have to be pried away.  Skinner sighed at 
the sight, wondering just how the hell the exhausted and run down man 
sitting across from him was going to make it through the rest of this 
case.  He forced a patience he didn't really feel when he spoke again.

"You're not going to do that little boy any good if you can't think 
straight or even sit straight.  You're taking a half hour break. I 
never got breakfast and it's almost lunch time now, so come on.  Move 
it, agent."

He'd said the last part in his most AD-like voice and it must have done 
the trick.  Mulder stood and stumbled awkwardly to where his rumpled 
suit jacket was tossed over the arm of the couch he'd obviously been 
sleeping on.  Mulder pulled it on slowly, every move deliberate, and 
Skinner could see the struggle against exhaustion that was being waged.

Mulder turned back to him, finally, and then stood as if awaiting 
further instructions.  Skinner sighed heavily and walked towards the 
man, taking his agent's arm once more.  

"Come on, Mulder, I have a car out front."

The younger man just nodded and allowed himself to be maneuvered.  It 
was all Skinner could do to keep from grinding his teeth.  Damn that 
smug smoking son of a bitch anyway.  And damn Kersh for not having more 
of a backbone.

*******************************************


Saturday, 10:51 a.m.
Bureau Lab, Richmond, Virginia


Scully tossed the file onto the table and glanced to her right, where 
Jerry Friedman sat reading another report. Bill Ketter had been 
surprisingly forthcoming, helping Jerry to gather all the forensic and 
autopsy reports from each of the crimes.  She'd scanned them all 
briefly and was chilled by the knowledge that Christian Rossbacher 
would soon be subjected to the torture and violence the assailant had 
imposed on the other victims.  Unless Mulder could actually figure the 
UNSUB out in time.

She shook her head slightly, almost angry with herself for even 
thinking it.  Her partner had enough pressure without having the life 
and death of a baby on his conscience.  Of course, he'd feel 
responsible anyway, regardless.

She closed her eyes briefly at the thought and wondered where he was 
now and what he was doing.  She glanced down at her watch, resolving to 
check on him soon.  She wanted to help him however she could, but 
couldn't help thinking that what he really needed was her support more 
than her forensic expertise.

She looked over to her right again and saw that Jerry was staring at 
her, so she asked, "What's the deal on the voice analysis?  Definitely 
the same guy each time?"

He nodded and replied, "Same guy.  Caucasian, slight mid-western 
accent.  Between twenty and forty.  Intelligent."

She considered the description for a few seconds and then asked, "Any 
progress being made in identifying a suspect list, based on the voice 
analysis description and Mulder's profile?"

Jerry was shaking his head.  "No way.  Just not enough there.  It 
pretty much covers 15-20% of the male population of Richmond and the 
surrounding area."

She was ready to ask for more details when she realized that Jerry 
seemed to want to say more.  She decided to give him the opening.

"You're thinking something, Jerry.  What?"

He grinned at her wryly, then just stared at her for a few moments 
before replying.

"It's something Mulder asked me to track down on the side.  He tried 
bringing it up in a team meeting and evidently again to the SAC later 
but got shot down both times.  Pretty decisively the second time from 
what I heard."

"What did he want to know?"

"He asked me to compile a list of all males, age 24-35, who'd had any 
law enforcement or military background, who'd applied to the Bureau and 
either been rejected outright, failed out of the Academy, or were 
kicked out later."

"When was this?"

"He called me yesterday afternoon, right after he got back from the 
Canderfield's, I think.  I had to call in a few favors.  No one was 
very anxious to go behind SAC Landers' back.  Neither was I, to tell 
the truth."

She could imagine how difficult it must have been for him and was 
filled with gratitude that there were still people like Jerry willing 
to do what was right, regardless of the politics involved.

"I know Mulder appreciates it.  So do I, Jerry."

He gave her a small smile, and lowered his head as if in embarrassment.  
When he looked up again, the smile had been replaced by an intense 
expression that caught her by surprise.

"Dana?"

She knew enough to be worried, but wasn't completely sure why.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering ..."  He stopped abruptly and she could see the flush 
that colored his cheeks and forehead.  She couldn't imagine what was 
troubling him and started to wonder if he knew something about Mulder 
that he wasn't telling her.

Her voice was tinged with concern when she asked, "What is it, Jerry?"

"I know it's a personal question, but I noticed you didn't have a 
wedding ring on and was just wondering if you were married or seeing 
anyone -- you know, seriously?"

She was completely caught by surprise and needed a few moments to 
gather her wits.  Then she realized she was flattered.  It had been a 
long time since she'd been asked out.  At least that's what she took 
this to be.  But as flattered as she was, she knew her heart had been 
claimed long ago.  She turned to him and said kindly, "No, I'm not 
married and I'm not really seeing anyone seriously."

She dropped her gaze for a moment trying to decide how to say it so 
that it wouldn't hurt his feelings.  She was just getting ready to 
speak when he beat her to it.

"So just how good a friend is this Mulder, anyway?"

Her first reaction was to object strenuously, to deny the implication, 
but then she saw the smile and the twinkle in his eye.

She smiled back at him and said, "It's not like that, Jerry.  It's 
complicated."

"When wasn't it with you, Dana?"

She laughed with him then, comfortable with the knowledge that she and 
her partner had a friend here in Richmond.

*******************************************


Saturday, 11:03 a.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner led the way down the hallways of the Richmond Bureau, turning 
occasionally to make sure Mulder was still with him.  He got to the 
front doors and grabbed the handle, waiting for the younger man to 
precede him.  He swung open the door, waited for Mulder to pass, and 
then almost walked into his agent's back.  The man had stopped dead in 
his tracks just outside the portals.  He started to chastise him when 
he realized finally what was happening.

A surge of noise assaulted him as he came even with his former agent.  
Everywhere he looked, the flashing lights of cameras practically 
blinded him.  The press.  Why the hell hadn't he thought about this?  
They'd evidently gotten tired of waiting around the Rossbacher's and 
had set up shop at the Bureau sometime within the last hour.  

One particularly tenacious woman had pushed herself right up to Mulder, 
microphone in his face, and was yelling, "Do you have any suspects, 
Agent Mulder?  Are you going to be able to find Christian Rossbacher 
before he's tortured and killed like the others?"

Skinner cringed at the question, grabbed Mulder's arm and started 
pulling him back into the Bureau.  He leaned in front of his agent to 
block their view and said firmly, "No comment."

By the time they'd gotten back inside, the security guard at the door 
was next to them, saying, "I'm sorry about that, sirs, I should have 
warned you.  Can I help get you out the back entrance?"

Skinner took a look at Mulder and decided maybe this hadn't been such a 
good idea after all.  The man was white, shaking visibly, and looked as 
if he were going to be ill.  He was staring at the closed doors as if 
still watching the fiasco unfold.  His hands were clenching, then 
unclenching.  Clenching, unclenching.  

Skinner took his arm and shook it slightly saying, "Mulder, I'm sorry 
about that.  I should have thought about the press.  They weren't there 
when I came in a little while ago."  He licked his lips, unsure now 
whether it would even be possible to get away without being hounded.  
It wasn't often that he felt at a loss as to what he should do.  When 
he turned back to Mulder, he could see the man was back with him and 
aware once again.  His voice was slightly shaky when he spoke, but it 
was obvious his agent was starting to recover from the shock.

"It's okay, sir.  Let's just order in.  I know numbers for pizza, subs, 
and Chinese.  What's your pleasure?"

Skinner was amazed at the man's resiliency.  He could tell Mulder was 
still shaken by the experience, but was already working to put it 
behind him.  The flipness was obviously forced, but much preferable to 
the vacant stare of a minute before.

"Something hot.  You don't have a number for soup somewhere in that 
head of yours, do you?"

He was relieved to see the ghost of the smile that played at Mulder's 
lips.  

"I'm sure it could be arranged, sir."

The smile was gone again, replaced once more by a furrowed brow and 
expression of resigned acceptance.  The thought of eating in that 
conference room, surrounded my photos of the victims and crime scenes 
was too much for Skinner.  The whole idea was to get Mulder out of 
there.  He jerked his head up the hallway and said, "Isn't there a 
cafeteria here?"

Mulder stopped in his tracks and nodded, then said, "It's a floor up.  
I'm not really sure I'd recommend it, though.  I think the chefs are 
the reject cooks from the public school system.  Only the criminals eat 
there."

Skinner gave a fake laugh then nodded to the stairway.  "I think we'll 
survive it.  Lead the way."

He was almost to the first landing when he realized Mulder was several 
stairs down and slowing.  He stopped and turned, saying, "You okay, 
Mulder?"

The man was gripping the rail tightly with his left hand and had his 
right to his head.  He was bent over slightly, as if fighting off 
dizziness.  "Whoa.  I think I'm out of shape."

Skinner was back at his side in moments.  "Mulder, the human body 
requires things called food and sleep on occasion.  I'm sure you've 
heard of them."

Although he'd said it lightly, he was actually worried about the 
younger man.  He'd always thought Mulder was indestructible and this 
show of weakness threw him.  He debated whether he should offer his 
help or not and finally settled on resting his hand on Mulder's back as 
a show of support.  After almost a minute, his agent stood up again, 
slowly and carefully.  Obviously testing the waters.

Skinner could see a thin film of sweat coating Mulder's forehead and 
knew the man was fighting dizziness.  Skinner's mouth was dry, making 
it difficult to swallow.  He cleared his throat and fought to stay 
calm.  This was not good.  He forced a nonchalance when he asked, "How 
you doing?"

Mulder nodded a couple times, then looked at him finally and said, "I'm 
okay.  I guess I could use something to eat, after all."

Skinner merely cocked an eyebrow.  The man had a definite gift for 
understatement.  He took Mulder's right arm and started pulling 
slightly, then walked beside him as they started back up the steps, 
climbing slowly.  Five minutes later he pushed Mulder into a chair and 
told him to stay put, then went in search of nourishment.

*******************************************

"You know, sir, I still don't know why you're here."  

After ten minutes of complete silence as they ate, Skinner was 
surprised to hear Mulder speak and even more surprised at the comment.  
He paused, his loaded fork midway to mouth and said, "You have a 
problem with my being here, Agent Mulder?"

He could swear Mulder actually flinched at the unintentional harshness 
that had crept into the question.  The man's voice was soft when he 
responded.

"No, sir, not at all.  I didn't mean that."

Skinner immediately felt guilty and said, "Sorry, Mulder, I know you 
didn't."

"I meant, how did you find out about my being assigned to this case?  I 
don't think it was common knowledge."

"No, it wasn't, and in fact I didn't know until I got a visit from 
someone expressing their ... frustration at the situation."

Mulder was smiling and Skinner was shocked that the word 'sweet' 
actually popped into his mind to describe it.  The man looked up from 
his meal and partly asked, partly stated, "Scully."

Skinner merely smiled in acknowledgment, then resumed eating.  A glance 
at Mulder showed that he seemed lost in thought, his own smile still 
lingering.  His former agent actually looked content, so Skinner was 
caught totally off-guard by his next words.

"Sir, have you ever considered quitting the Bureau?"

He knew it was asked in all seriousness and felt compelled to tell the 
younger man the truth.  He had to struggle to appear as if the question 
hadn't gotten to him.  He always figured Mulder was too damned 
obstinate to quit.

"Yes, I've considered it once or twice -- briefly."  He dropped his 
fork back on the plate, no longer hungry.  "Why do you ask, Mulder?"

His agent was staring across the room, gaze unfocused, when he 
responded.  "It's just that ... I don't know how much longer I can take 
this.  I'm ..."  His right hand waved in the air in a meaningless 
gesture and finally said, "I'm just tired."

Skinner knew that his agent wasn't just talking about a physical 
exhaustion, but also a weariness of spirit.  He knew what the admission 
had cost his agent and felt his throat tighten.  He watched Mulder push 
his tray back, prop his elbows on the table, then cover his face with 
his hands.  The younger man looked more than just tired, he looked 
depleted, his energy reserves completely consumed.

Skinner pushed his own tray back and folded his arms in front of him.  
He dropped his head to his chest and closed his eyes for a moment, 
hoping to find the right words.  He took a deep breath, looked up 
again, then said, "I know you are, Mulder.  You deserve better than 
this.  You and Scully both do.  Once I get back to DC, I promise you 
that I will do everything in my power to help you.  You know I have no 
control over the X-Files, but perhaps I still have enough pull to get 
you out from under Kersh and back to working as a team."

Mulder was staring at him now and he could see that the earlier 
fragility and tentativeness was back.  "Sir, this case ...  I don't 
know if I'll be able to figure it out.  I don't think I'll make it in 
time."

He was thrown by the change in topic for just a moment, but then 
realized the topic really hadn't shifted at all.  It was working as an 
analyst for the ISU, without any support, that was killing the man -- 
was making him consider quitting.  Skinner was determined that Kersh 
would not win in this way.

"Mulder, no one is expecting miracles.  You can only do your best, 
nothing more.  There were two analysts before you that didn't get 
anywhere near as far as you have."

Mulder's next words were whispered so softly that Skinner could barely 
hear them.  "But he's just a baby."

He closed his eyes briefly against the image of little Christian, 
ripped apart violently by a madman. "I know."  

He stared hard at his agent, willing him to listen carefully and 
actually accept his words.  "But Mulder, even if he dies, it will not 
be your fault.  None of this is your fault.  There's a sick bastard out 
there who gets off by playing games with people's lives.  It has 
nothing to do with you.  Do you understand?"  He couldn't tell whether 
his words were sinking in or not.  Mulder looked like he wasn't really 
listening.  "Mulder?"  He was pleased to see a nod of acknowledgment, 
finally.

"I keep dreaming of Malloy.  You remember him, sir?"

Skinner felt his breath catch at the question.  How could he ever 
forget?  "Of course."  He shifted to get more comfortable and asked, 
"Why are you thinking about him, Mulder?"

"In a way, that case is responsible for my being here.  It's ironic, in 
a weird, X-Files kind of way."  Mulder was looking at him intently now, 
the play at levity already forgotten.  "This case -- the UNSUB's 
playing with us.  Toying with us."

Mulder sat up suddenly and leaned forward, over the table.  The 
movement was so abrupt, so unexpected, that it caused Skinner to jerk 
back slightly in surprise.

"This UNSUB -- he's mixing characteristics intentionally.  Leaving some 
scenes looking as if it's a work of a disorganized assailant while 
others are clearly organized or even some mix of the two.  Then there's 
the differences in victim characteristics and even the mode of death, 
as well as placement of the victim after death.  It's all orchestrated.  
All of it.  The team originally thought there might be multiple 
assailants.  Did you know that, sir?"

He shook his head, not wanting to speak, not wanting to break Mulder's 
train of thought.  

"It's similar in so many ways."  Mulder's voice had drifted off so that 
Skinner could barely hear him say, "I wonder where Malloy is now?"

*******************************************


Saturday, 1:25 p.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


Dana Scully knocked lightly on the door Jerry had directed her to and 
was shocked when AD Skinner opened it moments later.  She'd been so 
intent on checking on her partner, on seeing him and finding out if he 
was okay, that it had never occurred to her that someone else might 
even be in the conference room.

She struggled with the confusion for a second, then asked, "Sir?  What 
are you doing here?"

He waved her to be quiet and joined her in the hall, adding to her 
confusion further.  She wanted to see her partner and could think of 
only one reason why Skinner wouldn't want her to see him.  She felt her 
breath quicken and clenched her fists, without even realizing it.

"Where's Mulder, sir?"

She looked up at her former boss expectantly, hoping that the 
explanation would not involve bad news.  She had decided that if 
Skinner were there, it must.  His words calmed her immediately, though.

"I heard there was another kidnap victim and decided to fly down.  I 
know the SAC on the case and thought I might say hello.  You know, just 
touch base again after so many years."

She was filled with gratitude as well as fondness for this man and 
didn't even try to hide the smile that came to her face.  She laid her 
hand on his arm and said, "Thank you, sir.  It's good to see you here."

He actually looked embarrassed at her admission.

"Scully, Mulder was basically out on his feet.  I managed to get him to 
eat something and he's been asleep now for a little over an hour."

She felt the relief wash over her and acknowledged to herself just how 
worried she'd been.  It was good to know that Skinner was on their 
side.

"Come on, we can go in.  I don't really think he'll wake up for another 
hour at least.  He's pretty done in."

She nodded, but held back for a moment.  She wanted to see Mulder for 
herself.  She needed the reassurance.  But she also knew that her 
former boss might actually be in a position to help Mulder out on this 
case in other ways than just offering his friendship and support.

"Sir, first -- one of the agents on the team, Jerry Friedman, has been 
compiling a list of possible suspects.  Mulder asked him to collect 
information on male subjects who might have applied to the Bureau and 
been rejected, either before, during, or after making it through the 
Academy.  I just left Jerry and he says he's making progress but it's 
slow."

She took a deep breath and crossed her arms tightly against her chest.  
Time to start bucking the system.

"You see, sir, the SAC specifically told them not to 'waste time' on 
Mulder's idea so Jerry's been having to call in favors.  He's got 
people doing it in their spare time."

She could see Skinner knew where she was heading with this.  He was 
already nodding.  The slight upturn of his lips and his words verified 
it.

"Scully, have you met the SAC yet?  He's an old acquaintance of mine."

She stepped back as Skinner shifted.  She understood the suggestion and 
appreciated the thought.  Time to kick a little SAC butt.  It might 
actually be fun.  Besides, the man deserved a little harassment after 
what he'd done to her partner.

She looked up at her boss as he raised his arm, gesturing down the 
hallway.  His voice was almost playful as he said, "Shall we?"

She smiled widely and dropped her arms, perfectly willing to take his 
lead.  "Absolutely, sir.  I haven't had the pleasure of meeting SAC 
Landers yet.  I look forward to it."

It felt good to have someone who was willing to go to bat for you when 
necessary.  She hadn't realized until now just how much she'd missed it 
these last few months.  She glanced at her watch and decided that her 
partner would probably be out for the count for another forty-five 
minutes at least.  Plenty of time to take care of this little problem 
for him.

*******************************************


Saturday, 1:37 p.m.
Bureau Office, Richmond, Virginia


It was the sound that was getting to him the most.  The sound and the 
smell.  The buzzing went on and on, surrounding him and encompassing 
him.  It was a vibration in his head, a hum that he couldn't block out, 
no matter how hard he pushed his hands against his ears.  But the smell 
-- the smell was definitely something he recognized.  The smell of 
death.  Putrid, decaying flesh, made worse by being closed away in a 
hot house with no air conditioning for several hours.  Perhaps even 
days.  He knew it was here somewhere.  The body was here, in the smell 
and the incessant buzz.  

He breathed through his mouth, his right hand trying unsuccessfully to 
block the air from his nose.  He turned to the right and saw a closed 
door in his way.  The sound seemed louder in this direction.  It was 
there, behind the door.  He was sure of it.

His steps slowed and he dropped his hand finally to reach out for the 
knob.  It was cold in his hand, so cold it practically burned.  He 
turned it and pushed at the door, and the buzz from inside seemed to 
swell louder with every inch it opened.  The window to the right let in 
a shaft of light that shone on the middle of the floor, illuminating 
the small body that lay there.

It was a child, dressed only in the tee shirt and underpants he'd been 
wearing to bed, but it looked at first as if he also wore a black coat 
with a hood.  But then the coat moved.  It undulated sickly, wavering 
up and down -- an invidious indigo mass that set his stomach rolling.  
His harsh breathing cut through the room then as the coat lifted up, 
off the child and separated into thousands of pieces. The swarm of 
flies disbanded into a hovering cloud for several moments so that he 
could see the decomposing, maggot-infested body of Christian 
Rossbacher, lying with arms crossed over his chest, his eyes empty 
holes in his head.

*******************************************

Scully glanced at her watch and decided to check up on her partner.  
She opened the conference room door slowly and stopped at the 
threshold.  He wasn't on the couch.  The overhead lights were on and it 
was clear with a sweeping glance from left to right that he wasn't 
there.  She walked in further, closed the door behind her, then dropped 
a stack of files on the table. With a sigh she pulled out a chair and 
sank into it gratefully, trying hard not to be concerned.

After ten minutes of looking through files and reports, she could no 
longer deny the inescapable feeling of unease that had settled around 
her.  She stood and paced the length of the room, arms wrapped around 
her torso tightly.  She'd just started to consider going in search for 
her partner when the silence was shattered by the slam of the door 
against the wall.  She turned quickly and saw Mulder there, fresh suit 
and still wet hair indicating just where he'd been.  He'd taken a 
couple steps forward and was now frozen just inside the room, staring 
at her.

His breath released explosively and he said merely, "Scully."  

There was such longing and despair in his voice that she was frozen in 
place at first.  She had just started to move towards him when he 
seemed to shake his head lightly, as if to clear his thoughts.  He 
added, "How long have you been here?"

She stayed where she was, realizing that for whatever reason, he wanted 
the distance.  "Just ten minutes or so.  AD Skinner and I met with SAC 
Landers and he's pushing the search for your list of suspects.  Jerry 
said he should be able to have something to us by 6 or so.  Maybe a 
little after."

She watched as he walked around the table and then threw a pile of 
clothes in the corner. She could tell the stack was growing dangerously 
high. 

She took another step forward, betraying her worry.  "I see you found 
the clothes I brought."

He turned back and nodded, then settled at the table across from her, 
sinking into the seat slowly.  His eyes flicked from her face to the 
table, then back to her face again.  His gaze rested on her for seconds 
only before flitting away once again.  He seemed nervous, on edge, and 
she had no idea why.

She wanted more than anything to be closer to him.  To take his hand 
and let him know she was there, and wouldn't be leaving him if she had 
anything to say about it.  Instead she pulled out one of the chairs and 
dropped into it heavily, sensing his desire to keep a distance, at 
least for now. "How are you feeling, Mulder?"

He seemed to flinch, but it was gone so quickly she couldn't be sure of 
it.  His forehead was furrowed, and he was turned slightly away from 
her now, looking down at the pen he was playing with, as if unwilling 
to tell a lie to her face.

"Not too bad."

He pulled an open file over in front of him and played with it idly for 
long moments before looking up at her finally.  She could see the 
mantle of exhaustion that still hung over him, causing his shoulders to 
drop and his fingers to shake slightly.  

She wondered briefly if she could convince him to try sleeping again.  
The brief nap he'd taken had obviously not been enough and she knew it 
would only get worse. 

"Scully, did anything turn up at the scene?"

"No, I'm sorry.  There wasn't anything unusual.  A few stray partials 
but nothing that we could match to existing databases.  No hair or 
fibers other than the usual.  Nothing right now that would lead us to 
anyone, anyplace, or anything."

He seemed to sink into the chair even further at her words.  She licked 
her lips nervously, almost afraid of the image of defeat her partner 
was presenting her with.

"What's next, Mulder?"

She watched him tap the pen against the table top in a quick staccato 
beat, then toss it down and rub at his face with his right hand, his 
left still rifling the pages of the file in front of him.  She could 
see the frustration bubbling under the surface.

"I'm going to the previous dump sites.  I've only seen photos -- read 
reports.  I need to actually see them."

She bit her lower lip quickly.  She had two options and she already 
knew which one Mulder would opt for. She sighed heavily. "I need to 
head back to the lab.  They've been working on the tapes."

She was startled when he jerked upright and started pacing the length 
of the room.  His voice was so low she could barely hear him when he 
muttered, "The tapes."

He shook his head sharply and stopped directly across from her.  Leaned 
on the table and rocked slightly, forward then backwards -- eyes on the 
table top.  It was as if he were suddenly filled with energy.

"The answer's there, Scully.  The bastard's given us the hints but 
we're just not getting them."

She shifted in the chair and recrossed her legs, waiting for him to go 
on.  She could tell he was still thinking.  

"I sent the tapes off to the guys.  I figured it wouldn't hurt to have 
some backup on this."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled at him. "When do you expect to hear 
from them?"

He chuckled a bit and said, "Whenever.  Who knows?"

She gathered up her files and said, "Make sure you keep your cell phone 
with you, okay?"

She was happy to see the grin that indicated he knew she was mother-
henning him but didn't mind too much.  She decided to take advantage of 
his forbearance even further and said, "Why don't you take Jerry with 
you?  He'll be happy to help."

The grin turned into something softer and she wondered for a moment 
whether he was going to say no.  He didn't.  He merely nodded slowly.  

She forced a smile in return, then leaned across the table and gripped 
his right hand in her left for just a moment.  She knew it was the most 
he'd allow right now.  She wanted to hold on tightly and never let go, 
but after a quick squeeze, she stood up and gathered what she needed, 
saying, "Later, Mulder."

The feeling of dread that weighed on her was almost overwhelming as she 
closed to door behind her. His soft "See you soon" was the last thing 
she heard.

*******************************************


Saturday, 4:07 p.m.
Murphy's Gas Station, Richmond, Virginia


Mulder stood at the curb, watching the cars pull in and out of the gas 
station with regularity.  It was an old fashioned station, with two 
rows of pumps that still required a human to take money.  He sensed 
movement to his left and turned his head to see Jerry standing 
patiently, hands in his overcoat pockets and expression resigned.  

Mulder raised a hand and brushed at the hair that kept falling in his 
face, then rubbed at his eyes.  They burned so that he had to blink to 
clear his vision.  He was so tired he could barely even think.  He 
didn't know anymore why he was even here.  Visiting the dump sites had 
shown him nothing.  Each was different from the others and had 
absolutely nothing to do with the victims, whose bodies had been left 
there for police to find.  The only message the UNSUB was delivering by 
leaving Alvazedo's broken and drowned body here was that he could do 
it.  That he was smart enough to confuse them and avoid any pattern.  
Smarter than they were - smart enough to prevent getting caught, even 
though it was a relatively busy gas station in a busy part of town.

Jerry shifted again and Mulder knew the other agent wanted to say 
something.  He decided to beat the man to it.  He breathed deeply and 
tried to stand a bit taller.  Tried to fight gravity's pull. It seemed 
almost impossible.  "There's nothing here, Jerry.  Let's go."

He knew his voice was strained and that the words wavered in the cold 
air.  He closed his eyes and rolled his head to the left and then the 
right, trying to stretch tense muscles.  A crack sounded loudly, 
causing him to wince.  He raised a hand to the back of his neck as he 
dropped his head forward for a moment, as if he could rub the 
exhaustion away.  God, he was so tired.  He couldn't remember the last 
time he'd actually slept through a night without waking with a pounding 
headache or shaking from the knowledge of what was resting on his 
making progress in this case.  An image of little Christian flashed in 
his mind and he opened his eyes quickly to banish it.  

Jerry was right in front of him, only a foot or so away, obviously 
worried.  Mulder jerked back slightly and wiped at the sweat on his 
forehead, then waved his hand vaguely towards the car.  "Come on, 
Jerry, let's get out of here."

The other agent merely nodded, although it was clear he had more on his 
mind.  Jerry paused to wait for the traffic to clear and then jogged 
across the street.

Mulder walked more slowly towards the Bureau car, parked some thirty 
feet away, and was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of deja vu.  He 
shivered violently, knowing that the sweat that had broken out on his 
face and neck was now chilling him in the brisk winter air. It was the 
sight of Friedman standing by the blue car, casually looking over his 
shoulder.

A familiar vision of Malloy's blue Ford Escort overpowered him.  The 
image was suddenly superimposed over the pale blue Taurus towards which 
he'd been walking.  He felt his breath catch and knees give way 
suddenly and unexpectedly.  It was all he could do to keep from falling 
flat on his face.  The illusion persisted and he knew, more certainly 
than ever, that his subconscious was trying to give him insights into 
this UNSUB.

His synopses started working overtime to play catch-up when the blaring 
of a horn, coupled with screaming voices, finally made themselves 
known.  A belated message reached his feet and he stumbled forward, not 
even sure if that was the right direction.

Then he realized there was a hand at his elbow and an arm around his 
waist.  Before he knew what had happened, he was propped against the 
car, shaky legs barely keeping him upright.  His vision cleared enough 
to show Jerry opening the back door.  Then he realized the other 
agent's right hand was firmly planted in his chest while the man's left 
was swinging the car door open.  Several cars in the middle of the 
street were just now starting to move again.  The drivers looked more 
than just frustrated and it sunk in then that he'd almost caused an 
accident.

He allowed himself to be maneuvered and was more than happy to sink 
back into the vinyl of the car seat.  He was vaguely aware of a voice 
speaking and finally decided Jerry must be saying something to him.  He 
didn't have the energy to really listen.  He closed his eyes tightly 
and saw the image again.  The blue Escort station wagon with the back 
seat laid flat.  A small, unmoving lump under a blanket in the back.  
The image taunted him, just as this UNSUB was taunting him now.  

There had to be a reason he was thinking of that case.  There had to be 
a connection beyond the obvious arrogance and M. O. of both this UNSUB 
and that in the DC Murders case.  If he could figure out the 
connection, maybe it would lead him in the right direction to find 
Christian.

The voice that had been speaking in the background fell silent finally 
and then he felt his legs being pushed, not ungently, into the car.  
His door slammed and moments later he heard another open.  He couldn't 
summon the energy to open his eyes and see what was happening.  
Instead, he closed them tighter, wishing for even a brief respite from 
visions of kidnappers and killers.  But then he knew he had to 
concentrate even harder because there was a kernel of knowledge buried 
there somewhere.  He just had to find it.

The last thing he remembered before he drifted into blackness was the 
trill of a cell phone, sounding through the tense silence.

*******************************************

End Part 2 of ?
(Feedback to kronos1@adelphia.net is greatly appreciated)


*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 3 of ? (3/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
*******************************************


Saturday, 4:12 p.m.
Richmond Bureau, Forensic Laboratory


Skinner entered the forensic labs and was surprised by the number of people working so 
diligently on a Saturday.  When he didn't see the agent he was looking for, he flagged 
down a young woman heading past him and asked her, "Do you know where I could find 
Agent Scully?"

The woman smiled at him and waved to the right, saying, "Yes, sir.  She's in the first lab 
on the left down that hallway."

He muttered a quick "Thanks" and then headed where she'd directed him.  He glanced in 
the windows that served as a wall on one side of the lab indicated and saw Scully bent 
over a table, obviously looking at something of interest.  An older man, dressed in a 
white lab coat, stood next to her, expression intent.  He raised his hand to knock but 
stopped before he could carry through when his cell phone rang.

He stepped back from the door and answered briskly, "Skinner."

The voice on the other end took him so by surprise that he almost dropped the phone.  
"AD Skinner -- you and Mulder made the national news."

He grimaced and glanced at his watch.  It was Saturday, dammit.  What he did on the 
weekend was his business.  He straightened unconsciously before replying.  "What do 
you want, Kersh?"

The man's reply was annoyingly smooth.  "I was just curious what brought you to 
Richmond, Walter.  And I'm also curious why I haven't been able to reach Agent Scully 
here in DC."

He clenched his jaw and then forced himself to relax.  "Last time I checked, I was free to 
do whatever the hell I wanted on a Saturday, Alvin.  So is Agent Scully.  You have a 
problem with that?"

"I don't, Walter, but the OPR just might."

Skinner sensed movement to his right and saw Scully coming out of the lab, eyes on his 
face.  It was obvious she could tell he was upset and her concern shone clearly.  He met 
her eyes when he spoke, low and dangerously even.

"Are you threatening me, Kersh?"

Scully's eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open slightly in surprise.  There was 
nothing but silence on the other end of the line and he felt a surge of pleasure in knowing 
that he was making the man squirm.  

"I don't threaten, Walter.  I just thought I'd pass on the fact that your participation in 
Agent Mulder's case has been noted.  As has Agent Scully's."

That was it.  The straw.  He'd fucking had it with this jerk.  The phone was clenched so 
tightly in his fingers that they were starting to go numb.  Even though he knew it 
wouldn't really matter, he turned to his left to block Scully's view.

"Listen, you little kiss ass.  I don't give a flying fuck if you report me to OPR.  Go ahead 
and do it.  I think they might be slightly interested in hearing how an AD gave directions 
to an SAC to lean on an agent hard enough to break him.  I think they'd be interested in 
hearing that an AD instructed an SAC to drive an agent out of the Bureau, even when that 
agent's the only hope of solving a horrific serial murder case.  I think they'd like to hear 
about that.  What do you think, Alvin?"

His own harsh breathing was echoed on the other end.  He gave the man a half minute to 
calm down, even while willing himself to do the same.  He closed his eyes and raised his 
left hand to rub at his face. He sighed before speaking again.  "I can't really bring myself 
to believe that you don't want this case solved, Kersh.  A little boy -- a baby -- is missing.  
Mulder might be that child's only hope of seeing another birthday.  Do you really hate 
Mulder so much you'd sacrifice a baby to see him suffer?"

He was surprised by the enmity in the other man's voice.  "God damn you, Skinner.  
Don't you dare act so superior with me.  I never intended ..."

The man stopped himself, as if realizing he was about to admit to culpability over an 
unsecured line.  Skinner could imagine the man struggling to get control, angry over his 
lack of control.

"Look, Kersh.  I'm not about to let my agents be sacrificed by you or anyone else.  I'm 
here to make sure that doesn't happen.  Scully's here to help her partner make it through 
this in one piece."

He felt a hand on his arm and looked into Scully's worried eyes.  He licked his lips, 
knowing it was time to end this.  "I'm sure that Agent Scully will notify you if she'll be 
unable to be at work on Monday. Good day, Kersh."

It felt good to flip the phone closed before allowing the other man to speak, but deep 
down, he knew that trouble was brewing.  The reality was that Kersh could cause his 
former agents serious problems and he could have just made things much worse for both 
of them.

He was suddenly consumed with regret and guilt.  He felt Scully squeeze his arm again 
and looked down at her.  She was smiling, the playful grin making her appear years 
younger.

"Sir, maybe we could send him some flowers to let him know we appreciate his 
concern."

He laughed then, knowing there was nothing for him to feel guilty about.  He shook his 
head and tucked his phone away, then nodded to the lab door.  Time to forget the last five 
minutes and move forward with this case.

As if reading his thoughts, Scully dropped her hand, nodded to him, then preceded him 
into the lab.  She walked over to the man she'd been talking with before and nodded.  

Skinner glanced around at the piles of paper and the various monitors.  "Scully, anything 
new?"

She glanced at him quickly, expression intent, then raised her hand, making a so-so 
gesture in the air.  She pointed at several pages of paper laid out on the table.  "We've 
been analyzing all the 911 calls.  We know there's something strange -- some sort of 
embedded signal -- but we haven't identified it yet.  We've got a team on it."

Skinner nodded and glanced to her right at the man standing next to her.  She must have 
realized his curiosity because she immediately said, "Sir, this is ASAC Bill Ketter, who's 
been leading the forensic team on the case.  Bill, this is AD Walter Skinner."

The man nodded to him and he reached out to shake his hand. 

Scully asked, "Sir, has there been any word regarding possible suspects?"

He shook his head and shifted his feet to a more comfortable position.  Put his hands in 
his pants pockets and replied, "Not yet.  They should call me by six or so."

Almost as if planned, a cell phone rang out on the last word.  Both he and Scully pulled 
out their phones, neither sure which one was actually ringing.  He was only slightly 
embarrassed when it turned out to be Scully's.  Just after the third ring she flipped it open 
and answered briskly, even as he was replacing his own cell phone in his pocket.

He saw Scully's expression blanch and knew it had something to do with Mulder.  He 
couldn't resist asking, "What?  What is it?"

She disconnected the call and glanced over at him quickly before punching in a number 
with a stabbing finger.  He could tell she was worried, scared even, and wanted to know 
just what the hell was happening.  He tried to avoid sounding too demanding when he 
said, "Scully."

She spared him another glance and then said simply, her tone completely flat, 
"Friedman."

He nodded and waited her out, knowing she'd fill him in when she could.  He knew 
someone had answered finally when her expression changed from stony indifference to 
nervous expectation. 

The expressions playing over her face caused a feeling of dread to settle over him. His 
fists were clenched tightly at his sides and he had to concentrate hard to force his fingers 
straight.  Damn, why couldn't this be on a speakerphone?

He watched Scully breathe deeply as she listened.  The silence seemed to drag, even 
though he knew mere seconds passed.  "Where are you?"

The silence stretched too long this time and Skinner couldn't wait for answers any longer.  
"What's wrong with Mulder?"

He knew his voice was sharper than it needed to be, but wasn't particularly interested in 
sparing anyone's feelings just now.  He wanted to know where his agent was and what 
shape he was in.

Scully turned to him and raised a hand, while saying, "We'll meet you there."  She closed 
her phone then and said softly, "Jerry says Mulder collapsed, sir.  He's bringing him to 
the garage entrance.  I told him we'd meet them there."

Skinner raised his free hand to his forehead and rubbed wearily.  He felt a touch on his 
right arm and looked down into Scully's worried eyes.  Time to collect yourself, Walter.  
He nodded and took his agent's arm, pulling at her gently.  "Come on.  Let's go meet up 
with Friedman and Mulder."

She was keeping pace next to him, her face frozen in a professional mask, but he knew 
she had to be extremely worried.  He waited until they were in the elevator before saying, 
"I'm sure he'll be fine, Scully.  He probably just needs to get a little sleep."

It sounded lame even to him, but even so she nodded, then shifted nervously, obviously 
working hard to maintain her composure.  The elevator dinged loudly, and the doors 
swished open, indicating their arrival.  Without even thinking, he placed his hand at the 
small of her back and felt her tense in reaction.  Images of Mulder escorting his partner 
out of his office flashed through his mind and he dropped his hand immediately.  He 
cleared his throat and stepped out ahead of her, then waited for her to catch up.  

They walked side by side down the short hallway, and nodded to the guard sitting there.  
Then he opened the door that would lead them out to the parking garage.  A car was just 
pulling in at the far end and he could see Friedman's strained face even from where they 
stood.

He glanced down towards Scully once again and could tell she was frightened and 
anxious.  He leaned over and said softly, "It's going to be all right, Scully."

He saw her nod and give him a tight smile, then she rushed to the back door when the car 
came to a stop in front of them.  Friedman was out of the car in moments, actually 
looking guilty.  Skinner nodded to the agent and was shocked to hear Mulder's voice 
raised in what sounded like a weak protest.  He moved to Scully's side to get a clearer 
view of what was happening.

Mulder was flat on his back, stretched out on the back seat, legs spilling out the open 
door.  He had one arm draped over his face, as if to block out the light.  Scully had 
managed to actually maneuver herself into the back, where she now knelt on the floor, 
leaning over her still reclining partner.  She had his right hand in hers and seemed to be 
trying to pull his arm off his face.  

Skinner heard Mulder mumble, "No.  Almost.  Close."

He saw Scully glance back at him and he shrugged at her, then shook his head gently.  He 
had no idea what Mulder meant, and evidently, neither did she.  He heard her whisper, 
"Mulder, come on, let's go inside.  Can you sit up?"

But the man didn't seem to hear her at all.  He continued mumbling, arm firmly covering 
his eyes, saying, "It's like DC.  It's there."

Scully seemed torn between worry and frustration, but the frustration finally won out.  
Her voice was sharp when she said, "Mulder!  Stop this.  You need to sit up and talk with 
me."

Skinner was shocked to see that her rough treatment worked.  Mulder stopped his restless 
movements and jerked his arm away, turning his head towards her as if in confusion.  It 
was obvious that he'd been unaware of his partner's presence or the events that had 
brought him here.  His voice barely carried to where Skinner stood in the car's door.

"Scully?  What ...? Where ... are we?"

Skinner swallowed nervously, his throat completely dry, despite the sweat that had 
broken out on his forehead.  Seeing Mulder this way, disoriented and weak, worried him 
beyond anything that had come before.  He could tell that Scully was frightened as well, 
her normal mask of aloofness slipping, even in his presence.

She had Mulder's hand in her right and had her left on his head.  Her voice was soft and 
gentle when she answered reassuringly.  "It's okay, Mulder.  You're at the Bureau, in the 
back of Jerry's car.  We're going inside and you're going to lie down and rest for just a 
bit."

He could tell that Mulder was still confused.  The younger man's brow was furrowed and 
his mouth worked silently.  Time to get involved directly.  Skinner leaned into the car 
just slightly and said, "Agent Mulder, it's time to sit up now. We need to go inside.  
Come on, now."

Mulder jerked, then started forcing himself upright, but was obviously struggling.  
Skinner leaned into the car and grabbed Mulder's arms, then pulled gently.  The man's 
head fell back limply until he was finally upright.  Mulder seemed to rouse somewhat 
more then and even looked at him with what appeared to be awareness.  Damn Kersh for 
doing this to the man.  

Skinner was honest enough to recognize that some small part of his psyche also cursed 
himself.  His voice caught just a bit when he spoke this time.  "Come on, Mulder. We're 
going to get you inside and you can get some sleep."

His former agent stared at him for a moment and then nodded his head, as if in slow 
motion.  Mulder started moving on his own finally until he was perched in the open car 
door.  He sat with head falling almost down to his chest, breath coming in fast spurts as if 
he'd just run a sprint.  His hands were clenched into fists and were pressed into his thighs.  

Skinner let him rest for a few moments and then took Mulder's right wrist and pulled 
once again.  The younger man was positively gray.  "Come on, Agent.  Let's go."

He pulled the man upright and nodded to Friedman, who took Mulder's other side.  But 
Mulder pulled away from them, seeming to find an internal strength to sustain him.  
Skinner backed off, waiting for the man to set the pace on his own.  He was constantly 
amazed at the tenacity his former agent showed in almost impossible circumstances when 
others would have given up long before.  Tenacious -- it was a good word for Mulder.  
The younger man was now reaching his right hand out to brace himself against the car 
roof.  Scully pulled herself out of the car and slipped under his arm, evidently either 
forgetting about Skinner and Friedman's presence or just not caring anymore.  

Skinner watched as Mulder seemed to drag his eyes open at the partial embrace. The man 
looked down at his partner with such tenderness it made his own chest hurt.  Skinner 
heard him say, "I'm sorry, Scully.  I lost track for a bit, that's all.  I'm okay."

Scully seemed to hug her partner a bit tighter, then responded, "You're not responsible 
for this, Mulder."

Skinner felt as if the conversation had left him behind, but decided to try to figure it out 
later.  He moved to Mulder's other side and took the man's arm yet again, pulling slightly.

"Come on, Agents.  Let's get inside."

He was relieved that there was no resistance this time, and nodded, more to himself than 
to them.

*******************************************

Saturday, 4:49 p.m.
Richmond Bureau, Conference Room


Scully pulled a chair closer to the couch where Mulder sat.  He made a forlorn image, 
bent forward, hands covering his face, elbows propped on knees.  They were alone in the 
room, finally.  Skinner had sent Jerry to continue work with the team developing the list 
of suspects while he'd gone to the lab to check with Ketter about the voice analysis of the 
tapes.  She had a suspicion the AD had done it intentionally to give her some time alone 
with her partner.

She reached out with her left hand and wrapped her fingers around his, pulling gently.  
He allowed her to pull his hand away and even dropped his other, but he wouldn't look at 
her.  She reached out with her right hand and took his chin, forcing his head towards her.  
She didn't understand what was going on.

"Mulder?"

His eyes closed as if he couldn't bear to look at her, but then opened again slowly.  He 
was looking at her now, his expression twisted as if in pain and something else she 
couldn't identify.   "I'm sorry, Scully.  I feel like such an idiot."

And then she understood that he was embarrassed and even ashamed at what he 
perceived to be a weakness.  She didn't know whether to hit him or hug him, and opted 
instead to squeeze his hand a bit tighter.

"Mulder, you are an idiot."  She smiled slightly before going on.  "You're a complete and 
total idiot for even thinking you're an idiot."  She was relieved to see the ghost of a grin 
surface.

"You've been working on this non-stop, being pushed by the SAC and pushing yourself.  
It's time to put on the brakes."  She saw the objections already forming and tried to cut 
them off before he could actually voice them.  Her voice was gentle when she said, "I 
know, Mulder. I understand."

She covered their linked hands with her other one and gripped him even more tightly.  "I 
know what's riding on this.  I do.  But I also know there is only so much that you can do 
without more data.  Without something at least approaching a break in the case."

She knew by his furrowed brow and drooping head that he wasn't convinced.  Her voice 
was firm as she said, "You need to rest so that when we get the suspect list or get a break 
in the voice analysis, you'll be in shape to make use of the information."

Whether he was convinced or not was now immaterial.  The exhaustion that he'd been 
keeping at bay now overtook him, causing his eyes to close further and his shoulders to 
drop.  His hand was practically limp in hers.  She raised her right hand to his shoulder 
and guided him down to lay flat, then moved to pull his legs up onto the couch.  He was 
already asleep.  

She shook her head slightly at the realization, then gently removed his shoes and 
loosened his tie.  She pushed herself upright and glanced around the room, spotting a 
pillow and blanket tossed carelessly in the corner next the pile of discarded clothes.  She 
grabbed them both and brought them back, laying the pillow on the table temporarily.  
She shook the blanket out and draped it over her partner's unmoving form, tucking the 
edges in here and there.  She picked up the pillow again and knelt down, raised Mulder's 
head gently and slipped it under.  He never moved.  

Her breath was stolen away as dread suddenly gripped her heart.  She was overwhelmed 
with the irrational fear that he'd stopped breathing.  That he'd gone away and left her 
alone.  She reached under the blanket and picked up his left hand in her right.  She moved 
her fingers to the underside of his wrist and was filled with relief when she felt the pulse 
beating strong and sure.  She laid his hand back down, covering it once more, then 
reached out to his forehead.

His hair was a mess, with stray locks dropping onto his forehead.  She smoothed them 
away, even as she took in the image of him lying there -- pale and worn -- vulnerable.  
She wished she could smooth away the worry and fatigue lines so easily.  She didn't 
know how much more of this she could take.  Having Kersh torture them while they were 
together was one thing, but watching helplessly as he put Mulder in one horrible situation 
after another was something else all together.  It had to end.  It was inevitable that he'd 
get hurt, if not on this case then on the next.  Hurt or worse.  And then what would she 
do?  How would she possibly go on?

She was almost surprised by the direction her musings took her as she gazed down on her 
partner -- her best friend.  And so much more.  Her very life.

She leaned forward carefully, not wanting to disturb him, and placed a soft kiss on his 
forehead.  Her lips lingered for a moment as she realized more surely than ever what her 
life would be without this man in it.

She pulled back and ran her hand over his forehead once more, then through his hair.  
She pushed herself up then and moved to the far end of the table where a stack of files 
awaited her.  She sank into a chair wearily, but her gaze was drawn once more to the 
couch and the sight of her partner.  She whispered, "Please let him be all right." 


*******************************************

Saturday, 5:02 p.m.
A Richmond Street


He saw them first outside the school and pulled his car over to the curb down the street 
and out of their immediate view.  He'd been driving for hours, searching for the right one. 
He'd found him -- he was sure of it.  The little boy had dark brown hair, long enough that 
it covered his ears.  He was wearing a light jacket that hung open to reveal a green jersey 
underneath.  He had a backpack in one hand and a lunch box in the other.  There was a 
hole in the knee of the child's pants.  He could tell the mother was asking about it, her 
hand gesturing even as she sank down to get a closer look.  The woman was evidently 
reassured there were no lasting hurts because she stood again and reached out for the 
child's hand.  He could tell the boy was slight, almost delicate even, and wondered what 
his hands would look like.  Whether they'd be soft, with long sensitive fingers. Whether 
there'd be dirt under the nails.  He wondered what the boy's name was; how old he was.  
He appeared to be only four or five, but this was an elementary school with first grade 
and higher, so he was pretty sure the kid had to be six at least. 

His breathing was coming fast and hard and the sweat dripped down his back and over 
his neck.  He felt himself growing hard and shifted in the seat restlessly.  He licked his 
lips, his tongue lingering in the corner of his mouth.  It had been a long time.  Four weeks 
since the last one and the pressure had been growing.  Increasing until he could barely 
stand it.  He'd been scouting for days, just driving around the city almost at random, 
knowing he'd find the right one eventually.  And this was it.  It felt right.

The mother had settled the boy in the back seat of the little compact car and was now 
sliding behind the wheel.  Time to find out where they lived.  Time to find out more 
about the little boy who so intrigued him.  

He put the car into drive and pulled out after the little boy and his mother.  He steered 
with his left hand and reached down with his right to his crotch.  He pulled his zipper 
down slowly, the metallic sound causing a shiver to run down his spine.  The metal 
rubbed against him and his breathing quickened.  He grabbed himself and started 
kneading, slowly at first, then increasing the pace, faster and faster.  Sweat dripped into 
his eyes and he had to blink fast to clear his vision.  The sweat rolled down his cheek and 
a drop fell on his mouth.  He licked his lips, slowly, taking pleasure in the sensation, and 
rubbed himself harder, little grunts escaping with each squeeze and thrust.  

The car ahead turned right at a light and he followed, being sure to keep far enough 
behind that he wouldn't be noticed.  He caught sight of the little boy's face as the car 
turned and squeezed himself harder, pants now joining the grunts, with each jerk of his 
hand.  The blood rushed through him, leaving him gasping in the car in pain-filled 
ecstasy.  God, he was so close.  So very close.

The long wait would be over soon.  The long dry spell ended.  It was going to be good.  
So very good.  They hadn't been taking him seriously and it pissed him off.  They were 
all idiots who didn't know a good thing when they saw it.  They'd be sorry.  He'd show 
them all.  He was better than them.  Smarter than any of them.  The anger that 
overwhelmed him was fuel, stoking the fire even further.

He groaned out loud and fought to keep his foot steady on the pedal.  He had to stop 
soon.  Find a safe place to do what needed to be done. The car he was following turned 
again, this time into a residential area.  He turned as well, allowing his own car to fall 
back a bit.  The red compact turned left into a cul de sac and he passed on by, his right 
hand working even harder now.  He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and turned his 
car around at the first opportunity. He pulled into the cul de sac then, the sweat rolling 
down his neck and back, making his shirt stick in patches.  

He could see them on the right, the car in a driveway in front of a modest ranch house.  
The little boy had just climbed out of the car and for just a moment as he passed by, he 
was sure the child looked right at him.  

He knew then it was destiny and the knowledge put him over the edge.  He came hard, 
his left hand clenched on the wheel, his right foot momentarily jerking down on the gas 
pedal.  It took every ounce of his self-control not to drive off the road.  He pulled into the 
driveway of a house with a for sale sign in front and sat, breathing heavily, right hand 
lingering in his lap.  

It felt good, so very good, but he knew killing that boy would be better.  And better yet 
would be the satisfaction he'd get when the police and FBI started fumbling around, 
trying to find him.  He laughed harshly and looked around, making sure no one was 
watching.  He turned his head to look out the back window and saw the mother and boy 
were gone, no longer in the driveway.  He looked down at his lap and smiled at the wet 
spot there.

He'd have to drive carefully now.  It would be ironically ridiculous to be pulled over for 
some stupid reason at this point.  He looked at the dashboard and took in the time.  
Almost 4 p.m.  Tomorrow at this time he'd be having fun.  A little excitement to brighten 
his day while waiting to deliver his message to the Fibbies.  They were so incompetent it 
was funny.  

A seed of anger took root once more and grew as he remembered the rejection.  The 
humiliation when he was cut loose.  Not FBI material.  What a joke.  He was filled with 
righteous anger then and knew the boy would be the perfect foil for his frustration.  And 
the ultimate message.  The thought of the child's limp body in his arms excited him and 
he felt a stirring once more in his groin.  He reached down with both hands and pulled up 
his zipper, then wiped his hands on his pants.  He didn't have time for that now.  Now he 
had to make sure he was presentable.

He smiled and looked into the rearview mirror to straighten his hair and check his 
appearance.  The face that smiled back at him was Mulder's.

*******************************************

Mulder jerked upright, arms flailing and eyes darting around the darkened room.  First 
came the realization of where he was and a heartbeat later came the flashes from his 
dream.  One after another, as if in fast forward, and it made him ill.  Memories of the DC 
Murders case together with the details of this one had solidified into a clear image of the 
kind of person who could do this.  Could carry out such evil.  Not only did he now 
understand what motivated him, this destroyer of families, but he'd become the bastard.  
Had sunk into the creature's mind.  Thought his thoughts and dreamed his dreams.  
Understood the UNSUB better than the asshole understood himself.

He gripped the back and arm of the couch tightly and closed his eyes, trying to think of 
anything but the image of the dark-haired little boy of his dream.  Fuck, his nightmare.  
Every bit of his willpower was focused on damping down the nausea which had him in 
its grip.  He was breathing through his nose, his teeth clenched tightly, determined to 
overcome the feeling of helplessness that had consumed him.  He'd managed to block out 
everything but now became aware of someone gripping his right arm and rubbing his 
shoulder.  

He opened his eyes again and gasped when he discovered Scully sitting right next to him.  
She was speaking to him, running her hand over his head, his cheek, but he still couldn't 
manage to focus enough to understand what she was saying.  His stomach was clenched 
so tightly it was a stabbing pain.  He discovered he'd moved his hands, one over the 
other, to his middle with out even knowing it.  

He felt his eyes water and was even more disgusted with his lack of self-control.  He was 
ashamed that Scully would see him like this.  He closed his eyes once more and bent at 
the waist, moving his arms to form a cradle on his lap.  He was so incredibly revolted by 
his own sick mind that he couldn't get beyond it.  Couldn't think of anything else.  Jesus 
Lord, it was his own mind that had dreamed up that little boy.  He'd fantasized stalking 
the kid -- fantasized killing him.  And had felt the pleasure.  The erotic satisfaction of 
superiority.  He was sick.  Fucking sick.

He heard a voice whispering the same word over and over and realized it was him.  He 
was whispering "sick, sick", but it wasn't because of any physical ailment.

Then Scully's cracking voice broke through the haze and he could tell she was frightened.  
It was sobering, the idea that he was scaring his partner, and it served to focus him more 
than anything else could have.  He knew he had to pull himself together for her sake.  He 
couldn't bear the thought that he was causing her such worry.  He bit his lip hard and 
fought down the nausea.  Forced it back.  

Scully had evidently given up trying to actually communicate with him and now was just 
saying his name over and over.  He concentrated on her voice, letting it be his guide.  His 
ragged breathing started to calm finally and he was able to unclench his jaw.  He moved 
his head, rubbing his face against his sleeve, wiping his eyes dry.  More than anything he 
wanted to see her face.  To have her hold him in her arms.  To hold her in his.  God, he 
wanted it so badly, even though he knew he didn't deserve it.

He felt her hands on either side of his face and finally dragged his head up, so that he 
might see her. Her face was there in front of him and it was a vision that broke through 
his despair.  When he said her name, it was a caress.  "Scully."

Tears rolled down her cheeks and he knew he'd made her cry.  

"I'm sorry, Scully.  I'm so sorry."

She was shaking her head as if unable to speak and leaned forward so her forehead was 
pressed against his own.  He felt a tear roll down his own cheek and knew, really knew, 
that he was the luckiest bastard on the fucking planet.

He was shaking in earnest now and leaned even further into her, feeling her arms wrap 
around his shoulders, feeling her hand move down to his back, the other move to his 
head.  And he felt safe.  Secure.  So that after a long minute, his breathing calmed even 
more and the trembling of his limbs subsided so that he lay weakly and spent in her arms.

Then her lovely voice broke through his thoughts.  "Mulder, are you all right?  Are you 
okay?"

She pulled back from him and his breath caught.  He didn't want to leave her caring 
embrace. He nodded and wiped at his face with his hand, then covered his eyes for just a 
moment to collect himself.  He was a selfish, self-centered asshole, making her worry 
like this.  

He looked at her again and nodded, then said, "I'm okay.  I'm fine, Scully."  His voice 
broke on her name and he forced himself to sit up straighter.  He took her hands in his 
and surprised himself by saying, "Scully, I don't deserve you."

She smiled at him and even laughed a bit.  "You're right.  You don't." Then she grew 
serious again, her brow furrowed and lips pursed.  Her hand was at his cheek again and 
he felt himself push into the caress, his eyes fluttering closed of their own accord.

"Mulder, what was it -- your dream?  Please, tell me."

He shook his head and pulled back even further. "Not now, Scully.  I can't.  Not now."

He could see the hurt on her face, but couldn't begin to explain it to her.  Not now.  After 
this was all over, maybe.  Some day when they could sit down for a while and just talk.  
Really talk.  But now wasn't the time or the place.

He heard movement from across the room and turned his head to see Skinner there, 
shifting nervously from one foot to the other.  He felt a flush of embarrassment spread 
across his face. It was one thing to lose control in front of his best friend and partner.  It 
was quite another to do it in front of your former boss.

To the man's credit, Skinner only appeared concerned.  When Mulder turned towards him 
again, Skinner asked, "Are you feeling all right, Mulder?  Can I get you anything?"

He couldn't help the snort that escaped.  It was slightly surreal, after all.  Scully stroking 
his face and Skinner asking if he needed anything.  He shook his head and said, loud 
enough for the man to hear, "No, sir, I don't need anything.  Thank you."  He pulled 
himself back and gathered his thoughts.  Looked into his partner's eyes once more and 
said, "I'm fine.  Really."

He could tell she didn't totally believe him, but was evidently going to let him get away 
with it.  This time.

*******************************************

A half hour later, he gathered clean clothes to head to the shower.  Skinner was off 
checking in with Jerry and Scully was once more back in the lab.  They'd agreed to meet 
in a little more than an hour to touch base before the evening's team meeting and he was 
actually relieved to be alone.  Both Scully and Skinner had been treating him as if he 
were breakable and it had started to get on his nerves.  Actually, he was feeling better 
than he had in days.  Just knowing Scully was here in town made all the difference.

As he sorted through his suitcase, he caught a glimpse of his running shoes and decided it 
was just the thing he needed to help him clear his mind and refocus before the team 
meeting.  He'd gotten some rest and now was filled with a nervous energy that needed 
release.  Time was running out for Christian, but until something broke with the tapes or 
the suspect list, they were dead in the water.  

He ran his fingers over his running shoes, making the decision, then picked up the phone.  
He was suddenly nervous, knowing that he had a battle ahead of him.  He punched in his 
partner's cell number with a slightly shaky finger and heard an anxious "Scully" at the 
other end after only two rings.

"It's me."

"Everything okay?"  

Her voice wavered a bit and he smiled slightly at the knowledge she worried about him.  
The smile vanished as he prepared himself for the next couple minutes.  With his free 
hand he reached for his running clothes.  "Everything's fine, Scully.  Look, I'm not 
needed right now -- not until the team meeting tonight.  I need to clear my head.  I'm 
going out for a run and ..."

He didn't get a chance to finish the sentence.  He could hear the frustration and 
perturbation in Scully's voice.  He had to give her credit, though, she was trying very 
hard to sound unconcerned.

"Mulder, I don't think that's a good idea.  You should be getting rest."

He sighed and walked a couple steps to the conference room table, dropping his burdens 
onto the top noisily.  The phone cord tangled in the sweatshirt and he worked at the 
bundle to separate them.  "I'm not tired, Scully.  What I am is wired.  I need to get out of 
here for awhile.  Away from here."

There was a momentary silence before she answered. He could almost hear the gears 
turning.

"Mulder, you collapsed just a couple hours ago.  I don't think its wise for you to go 
running right now."

Wow, she went straight for the big guns.  He expected her to lead up to it more slowly.

"I didn't collapse.  I ..."

Well, just what was it?  How could he explain that what had happened was something 
very much different.  He breathed deeply to calm himself and tried again.  He hated 
having to explain himself to anyone, even Scully.  But she deserved something from him.

"I was just ... concentrating very hard on an old case which I thought might help me to 
understand this UNSUB better."

The silence stretched much longer this time and he could hear rapid breathing on the 
other end.  He couldn't tell whether she was walking or just pissed off.  The question was 
answered a few moments later when the door flew open and she was standing in front of 
him, obviously fighting anger.  She was just closing her phone when she took a couple 
steps into the room.  Her next words indicated that she'd lost the battle to be calm and 
reasonable.

"Are you crazy?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but wasn't given the chance.

"Are you trying to kill yourself, Mulder?  Is that what this is -- a death wish?"

His shoulders dropped and he raised a hand to his eyes, rubbing them wearily.  He had 
the energy for a good run but he wasn't at all sure he had the energy for a fight with his 
partner.  A small seed of anger took root and he tried hard to damp it down.

"Give me some credit, Scully."

And as if the floodgates had opened, the frustration, anger, and helplessness of the last 
several days poured out.  He stepped even closer to his partner and was barely conscious 
of the fact that she stepped back as if threatened.

"God damn it, stop treating me as if I don't know what I'm doing.  Stop acting like you're 
my god damned mother.  I don't need you..."

And he froze at the words.  Stopped dead in his tracks when the words sunk in.   He had 
intended to say that he didn't need her to tell him what to do.  That's what he'd planned on 
saying.  But that combination of words -- 'I don't need you' -- stopped his tantrum cold.  
He did need her.  He needed her friendship.  Needed her companionship.  Her 
partnership.  Needed her -- more surely than ever.

Her eyes were filled with tears, but she stood even straighter now.  Not about to be 
bullied by anyone.  Not even by him.

His shoulders slumped and he sighed before reaching out to her.  A little piece of him 
died when she flinched at his movement.  He took her hand in his and said, "I didn't mean 
to yell.  Scully ..."

His voice cracked on her name and suddenly the tension fled from the room.  She stepped 
closer and gripped his hand tightly.  He could see that he'd been forgiven.

"Please be careful, Mulder."

He smiled then, a small sad smile that surfaced at the realization that she would forgive 
him, even when he was an ass.  "I will."

"Take your phone."

"I will."

He realized then that he still held the conference room phone in his left hand -- a hand 
which he suddenly wanted to use for something very different.  He dropped it on the 
table with a loud thunk and took her other hand in his.  It felt so good to hold even this 
much of her.  He looked at their joined hands, entranced by the vision they made.  Her 
hands were almost lost in his.  Small and delicate, belying a steady strength.  He was so 
distracted that it took a moment for her words to sink in.

"Mulder, I'm sorry."

He looked at her face once more, filled with the desire to memorize it.  To fix it so 
clearly in his mind so that fifty years from now he would be able to recall her expression, 
the way her hair wisped about her face, the color of her eyes, the slant of her eyebrow.  
She opened her mouth to speak again, but he beat her to it.

"Stop.  Don't.  You have nothing to apologize for, Scully."

He wanted to set her mind at rest.  Somehow reassure her that everything would be all 
right, but he couldn't lie to her.  Not to Scully.  But there were things he could tell her.  
Things he'd wanted to tell her for a very long time.  Maybe now was the time.

He looked down at their hands and finally realized that she was gripping his tightly, so 
that her fingernails were white from the pressure.  He returned the pressure and took a 
deep breath, knowing that she was waiting for him.  And just as he was ready, there were 
footsteps outside the door.  They dropped their hands simultaneously and he felt as if a 
connection were severed.  

He took a step back and dragged his eyes to the door, frustrated at the timing.  Jerry was 
there, looking very much like a deer caught in headlights.  The man knew he'd 
interrupted something.  Time to let him off the hook.  Mulder tried not to let the 
frustration show when he spoke.

"Jerry, is anything wrong?"

The man actually seemed to gulp before responding.  "No.  It's just that I tried to call here 
and kept getting a busy signal.  And Dana's phone was giving an unavailable message."

Scully pulled her phone out and hit a button.  It was obvious that she'd aborted her call to 
him by doing more than just flipping the phone closed.

Jerry continued on, despite the silence.  "I just wanted to let Dana know that Ketter was 
looking for her."

Scully had moved a few feet away and was facing Jerry.  "Thanks for the message.  I'll be 
there in just a few minutes."

The other man just nodded and waved self-consciously before excusing himself.  He 
closed the door behind him.

Scully had wandered closer to the door and now turned towards him.  He could tell that 
she regretted the interruption as much as he had.

"Take your phone."

He nodded, smiling just a bit at her perseverance.  His voice was little more than a 
whisper.  "I will."

She returned the nod and left without another word.  The room, which had only moments 
before been charged with emotion, now felt empty.  He walked back to the table and 
moved the conference room phone to its cradle.  He stood straight and stretched, 
suddenly feeling lighter.  The thought of a good run, outside in the fresh, cold air, 
appealed to him now more than ever.  

He locked the conference room door and changed into sweats.  Took some money out of 
his wallet, retrieved his identification from his discarded suit jacket and pulled his 
weapon from his holster.  He tucked them into various pockets under his sweatshirt and 
sweatpants, then headed for the door.  Scully's last words came back to him and he went 
back and grabbed his cell phone as well.  He flipped it open and turned it on, then 
hesitated when he saw the battery was almost dead.  He'd forgotten to recharge it last 
night.  Damn.  Well, there was definitely enough juice to see him through the next hour.  
Besides, it wasn't like there was going to be a real need for it.

It had warmed slightly in the last day and was still in the fifties even though the sun was 
starting to set.  He figured he had a good forty-five minutes before he had to get back and 
set off to the right, aiming for a park he knew was only a couple miles away.  These were 
perfect conditions for a run and Mulder pushed hard, reveling in the exercise he'd been 
missing so much lately.  Running in circles around a track just wasn't the same as 
dodging pedestrians, crossing streets and tackling hills.  He was almost able to forget the 
sick dream of an hour before.

The park was beautifully maintained, with a wide path to accommodate walkers, joggers, 
bikers and even rollerbladers, and they all seemed to be out today.  He freed a part of his 
mind to wonder about the people he passed -- who they were and what kinds of lives they 
led.  He wondered if they were married, had kids and dogs.  He wondered if they were 
happy.

He was miles away from the Bureau and pushing the envelope to go just a bit faster and 
just a tad farther before turning back when his cell rang.  He slowed down to a jog while 
pulling it out, and finally was able to flip it open before the fourth ring.  His breathing 
was loud and uneven when he answered.

"Mulder."

He almost dropped the phone when Byers' voice answered, breaking through a static 
filled silence.  

"Hey, Mulder.  We got it."

He had to play catch up fast.  He'd completely forgotten he'd sent them copies of the 
tapes to analyze.  He was walking now, trying to slow his heartbeat and breathing down, 
and managed to gasp out, "What'd you find?"

"We performed a spectral analysis, of course, and eventually identified a second signal at 
a different frequency.  We thought at first it might be noise, which is pretty common, but 
eventually discovered an offset carrier with an encrypted signal.  There were interlaced 
frames that actually had structure.  It took us a while, but we isolated them and ran them 
through a series of pattern recognition algorithms."

Mulder shook his head in frustration, glanced at the phone readout which showed a 
dangerously low battery level, and broke in.  "What did you find, Byers?"

Byers was clearly excited when he continued on, but Mulder was starting to have a hard 
time hearing him.  There was static that made it difficult to understand the man.  "It was 
digital.  Massive amounts of data extending to some of the higher harmonics.  Among 
other things, the signal contained a map.  A series of maps, really.  Five of them and each 
one had a big red X.  And Mulder?"

He could feel his heart start to beat even faster and realized he'd been holding his breath.  
He released it explosively and prayed for the cell phone battery to last another lousy 
thirty seconds.  He said, "Yeah?  Where?  Tell me where?"

"2137 Jackson Heights, the warehouse district.  You should be able to find him there." 

And then the signal was severed, the phone battery dead.  But it had lasted long enough.  
He looked around, trying to decide the best course of action from here.  He knew they 
had to act immediately.  The UNSUB left his victims alone for the first fifteen hours or 
so, but made sure their last nine hours alive were filled with unspeakable horrors.  
Sometime in the next hour, it was due to start for little Christian.

He saw a cab and flagged it down, pulling his badge out at the same time.  He directed 
the driver to take him to the warehouse and instructed him to get on his radio and get 
patched in to the local Bureau.  To his credit, the driver took it all well and followed 
instructions without question.  Even while Mulder was communicating with the 
dispatcher, explaining the situation, he was checking his weapon and preparing to go in.  
It would be long minutes before the cops and FBI could get to the warehouse.  They were 
much farther away than he was.  And every minute counted.  He prayed that Scully 
would forgive him for his indiscretions and relayed a final message to the dispatcher, 
making sure the woman knew just how important this was.

He waved at the driver to let him out down the street and waited until the man pulled 
over.  It was a dead area, with nothing at all moving.  He took a deep breath and got out, 
then turned back to the driver.

"Do me a favor, will you?"

The man nodded to him, eyes wide and fingers gripping the wheel tightly.

"Wait down the street until the cops come and let them know where I am.  Contact the 
Bureau dispatcher again and make sure they've alerted Assistant Director Skinner.  Make 
sure they know I'm here and are on their way.  And if you see an Agent Scully ..."

Mulder paused, wondering what might be an appropriate message, and finally said, "... 
tell her I said I was sorry for ditching her.  Tell her ... tell her it wasn't intentional."

The man looked confused, but nodded anyway and Mulder took off.  Time to find 
Christian and get him back to his parents.  Time to find this sick bastard and make him 
pay.  Way past time.  This time, the bastard would definitely pay.

*******************************************

Saturday, 7:12 p.m.
Bureau Laboratory, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner headed into the Labs once more and saw Scully immediately.  She and Keller, 
along with two other agents were standing in front of a television monitor.  He caught a 
glimpse of what appeared to be some sort of three dimensional figure with valleys and 
peaks, in all sorts of colors.  He stopped behind the crowd to see what they were all so 
fascinated by.  Scully stood straight and stepped back, finally noticing him.

"Sir."

Then in a flash her brow furrowed, her arms crossed, and he could tell she was worried.  

"Is everything all right, sir?"

One side of his mouth lifted slightly and he nodded, answering wryly.  "As far as I know, 
Scully."  He could tell the lab technicians and Keller were excited and gestured towards 
the display they were looking at.  "What is this, Scully?  What have you found?"

"It's a spectral analysis.  They've located another signal and are running it through search 
algorithms now to attempt to decode it.  We know it's not noise because there's a definite 
pattern.  We're very close, sir."

He nodded, preparing to speak, when he was interrupted by the ring of his cell phone.  He 
held a finger up to Scully, turned slightly, and pulled out the phone.  He flipped it open, 
watching her move back to the cluster of scientists.  "Skinner."

"Sir, this is the Bureau dispatcher.  We were contacted by an Agent Mulder who 
instructed us to contact you.  We're patched through right now to an Alli Hassan, who's a 
cab driver with Checker.  He just dropped Agent Mulder off on Jackson Heights, about 
ten minutes ago.  Agent Mulder directed one of our dispatchers to contact you.  Mr. 
Hassan says that Agent Mulder instructed him to inform you that he was at the location 
where Christian Rossbacher was being held.  Agent Mulder said to come in force, but 
that he couldn't wait."

Skinner felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut.  "This was more than ten minutes ago?!  
What the hell took so long?"

"Sir, it took a while for us to verify that this wasn't a crank call."

Behind him, he heard raised voices and excited conversation, but could only handle one 
crisis at a time.

"Where exactly did he leave Agent Mulder and what were the circumstances?"

"Sir, he dropped Agent Mulder off a block or so away from where a child is evidently 
being held.  Agent Mulder instructed Mr. Hassan to remain there and answer any 
questions the police might have when they arrive."

"God damn it!"  Skinner couldn't hold back the curse and was immediately ashamed of 
his lack of control.  But dammit anyway, what the hell did the man think he was doing?  
Who'd he think he was, the Lone Ranger?

There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line, but there was plenty of noise 
on the other side of the room.  He glanced that way even as he continued speaking, 
surprised to see Scully talking with Keller.

"What's the address?"  And as if in stereo, he heard the same thing both over the phone 
and from across the room.

"2137 Jackson Heights."

He pulled the phone away from his ear in confusion and looked over at Scully.  She was 
excited and walking towards him, saying, "We know where the UNSUB has Christian.  
2137 Jackson Heights.  We have to move, sir."

He nodded his head and held the phone out in confusion.  "How did you know, Scully?"

She looked just as confused when she replied, "We broke the encryption and found maps 
of all the dump sites.  We got the address of where Christian's being held."

Skinner decided to figure all this out later.  "Scully, Mulder's already there.  He called it 
in."

He finally flipped the cell phone closed, ignoring the look of alarm that now crossed her 
face. He touched her shoulder briefly and jerked his head towards the door.  They both 
took off while he flipped it open once more and dialed Carl Landers' number.  The SAC 
answered on the second ring.

"Carl, this is Walter.  We have the location for Christian Rossbacher.  Mulder's already 
there.  You need to arrange for a SWAT team ASAP and coordinate with Richmond PD.  
The address is 2137 Jackson Heights. I'm mobilizing the members of the team here and 
sending them to the conference room.  We'll be heading out immediately.  We have to 
move fast, Carl.  Mulder's been there almost fifteen minutes already with no backup."

Scully was on her own phone and he could tell she was getting even more frustrated.  He 
guessed she'd just tried Mulder with no success. They rounded the corner and he saw 
several agents running towards the conference room.  More agents came running from 
behind them.  At least Landers had gotten the word out fast.  He and Scully entered the 
crowded room to find Landers forming assault teams and giving orders.  He looked at his 
watch and knew this was all taking too long.

The teams were already dispersing, vests and jackets proclaiming them to be undeniably 
FBI.  Jerry Friedman came towards them with extra vests in his arms, Landers right 
behind.  They headed out wordlessly towards the garage exit, suiting up on the way.

He glanced to his right and saw Scully cinching her vest tight.  Her face was stone, the 
professional mask firmly in place, but he could see the clenched jaw and the tight 
features.  He glanced at his watch again.  As fast as they'd been, almost twenty minutes 
had passed since Mulder had been dropped off and it would be another ten or more 
before they'd be at the site.  God only knew what was happening to Mulder in the 
meantime.  He prayed the man had enough sense just to wait for them, but knew that if 
his agent thought Christian was in danger, he'd move on his own.

*******************************************


Saturday, 7:05 p.m.
Jackson Heights, Richmond, Virginia


The sun was starting to set, so that the shadows cast in the alley were long.  Mulder 
moved slowly, his back to the wall of the dilapidated building, careful not to make any 
noise or draw any attention to himself.  The evening was cool and getting colder with 
every minute.  He paused at the corner of the building for just a moment and wished for a 
thicker jacket as he shivered in the slight breeze.

There was nothing moving between the two buildings and he couldn't see any lights or 
signs of life in the warehouse across the alley.  In fact, the entire area seemed to be 
deserted.  There were no windows on the ground floor but he could see several on the 
second floor that were open or even broken.  He checked his watch and tried to calculate 
just how long it would be before the first support teams arrived.  Probably fifteen to 
twenty minutes at the very least, most likely closer to thirty.

He bit his lip and shifted his fingers around his weapon.  His palm was sweating despite 
the chill in the air and the metal felt cold in his hand.  He gripped it even tighter and took 
a deep breath, then sprinted across the alley separating the two buildings.  He paused and 
listened for any indication that someone was inside, even while wiping at the sweat on 
his forehead.  He assessed his chances of getting in from the ground floor and started 
moving quietly towards the back.  Maybe there would be a door he could use.

He dodged piles of debris and stacks of crates, moving quickly to the rear of the 
warehouse.  The wind blew and discarded papers flew into the air around him.  There 
were several large roll-up doors off the loading dock and a smaller one next to them.  He 
moved closer and checked one of the loading dock doors.  There was a thick lock on it, 
just as there were on the others.  He moved to the small doorway then and discovered it 
was also locked.  

He felt a surge of anger and frustration and looked down at his watch again.  The sense of 
urgency was too strong to ignore.  The UNSUB could have already started his stint of 
torture by now.  He had to get in and he had to do it now.  He shook his head and leaned 
against the wall, resting his pounding head back wearily.  He couldn't remember the last 
time he'd been so tired.  He wanted to wait.  Wanted to just hold off until the cops arrived 
but he knew was close.  So fucking close, he could feel it.

His legs were trembling and he wanted nothing more than to just close his eyes and sink 
down to the ground, but Christian's future was depending on him.  He pushed himself 
away from the wall and transferred his weapon to his left hand just long enough to wipe 
his palm on his pants.  He was shivering hard now and it only worsened as the sweat 
dried in the cool air.  He had to find a way inside out of the breeze.  

He headed back to the side of the warehouse and looked at the stack of crates part way 
down the length.  There was an open window on the second floor just above the pile.  He 
might be able to reach it.  He put his weapon back in its holster and grabbed hold of one 
of the lowermost crates, then shook it gently.  The pile seemed firm.  He was just about 
to start his climb when the breeze picked up and he caught the putrid smell of decaying 
flesh.  He gagged and raised his left arm to cover his nose.  He walked around the pile, 
afraid of what he'd find, and discovered the rotting carcass of some rodent.  Probably a 
rat.  He shook his head and swallowed hard, then turned back to the crates, even more 
determined to find Christian.  

He pulled himself up and began climbing to the top, gingerly -- carefully.  The crates 
were rough beneath his fingers and he was conscious of the uneven wood that cut at him.  
He was at the top finally and reached up for the window, some two and a half feet above.  
He jumped just slightly and grabbed hold of the ledge, then hung there for several 
moments, gathering his energy.  He could feel the chips of paint and the rough edges of 
the windowsill under his fingers.  He stared at the blackened bricks only inches from his 
nose and decided he had to make his move now.

His arms shook with the effort, but he was able to pull himself up finally.  He managed to 
swing a leg over the sill and then pushed himself inside, allowing himself to collapse on 
the floor limply in a controlled fall. He'd managed to keep his entry quiet so far, but was 
frightened his harsh breathing might alert the UNSUB to his presence.  He was 
completely drained and could only manage to roll himself over so he could look out 
across the room.  His breaths were coming in short bursts and he felt ill, his stomach 
rolling with every tiny move.  He knew this was payment for the last several days of 
hardly any sleep or food.

He forced his head to roll and dragged it up off the floor to look around.  He decided he 
was in an old storage room. The remains of cleaning supplies and old rags, along with 
discarded boxes, were scattered around.  It smelled musty.  Dead.  He allowed his head to 
drop back to the floor again and tried to gather his strength.  He needed to get moving.  
Had to figure out where he was and where the UNSUB was.  Whether Christian was safe.

The door was in front of him, partly open and hanging from its hinges.  He rolled onto his 
left side and pressed his cheek against the floor, closing his eyes for just a moment.  He 
had to move.  He had to get up and look for the child.  Christian was depending on him.

There was a coat of dust on the floor and every breath he expelled caused a little puff of 
the stuff to fly up into the air.  The dust and dirt stuck to his face and hand, turning to a 
thin layer of mud where it mixed with his sweat.  He laid his right hand flat on the floor 
by his head and started pushing himself up.  He dragged his left hand up as well and 
forced his arms to extend.  He got up on his knees and stopped, his head hanging down 
between his arms.  He concentrated on slowing his breathing down and finally pushed 
himself upright, fighting the dizziness that caused his eyesight to go black for several 
heartbeats.  He staggered to the door, willing protesting muscles to cooperate, and 
stopped just short of it, looking out carefully around the door jamb.  

It was dark inside the warehouse with hardly any of the day's remaining natural light 
finding its way through the windows.  He didn't see anything moving at first in the near 
dark and could hear only his own breathing.  He stood frozen, eyes closed, straining to 
hear. He was terrified of making any sound and wondered whether it was safe to move.  
Wondered whether Christian was there somewhere, fighting for his life, even while he 
stood and did nothing.  There was no sound at all at first and then he heard it.  A low 
murmuring, with occasional creeks from the floor boards.  Someone was definitely there.

He pulled his weapon out once more and moved forward slowly, making sure each step 
was solid.  He was in a hallway that ended with a wall to the right and went on for 
another ten or so feet to the left to open into a bigger room.  He moved left slowly, one 
step at a time.  The sounds grew louder with each step he took and he knew he was 
getting close.  He raised his left wrist and took in the time once more.  Damn, probably 
another ten to fifteen minutes minimum before backup would arrive.  He wiped at the 
sweat on his forehead and tried to swallow past the knot of fear that gripped him.  
Christian's life was in his hands and the burden was heavy.

He got to the end of the hallway and stopped, back pressed to the wall, willing his legs to 
stop trembling.  He peeked around the corner and saw the man immediately.  The 
UNSUB was big, well over six feet tall, and muscular.  The man had a gun tucked in the 
back of his jeans and a knife in his right hand.  The UNSUB was bent over a burlap bag 
with the knife hovering over it.  But then the man turned suddenly and Mulder pulled 
back quickly, not sure whether he'd been seen or not.  He didn't want to precipitate any 
action against the child and knew that as long as Christian wasn't being harmed, waiting 
for backup was the logical course of action.

He tried to hold his breath long enough to detect other sounds, but heard nothing.  The 
silence surrounded him so that he fancied he could hear his own heart beating.  He licked 
his lips nervously, bit the inside of his cheek, then decided to risk another look.  He 
turned his head to the right and took a slow step forward, inching towards the corner.  

The shovel that hit him in the left side of his face forced him to his knees, stunned.  In a 
delayed reaction, it seemed seconds later that he heard the reverberation as it made 
contact with his cheek and temple.  He wasn't even aware of the pain at first, and felt 
completely detached from the arms flopping bonelessly in front of him.  But then the 
pain hit full force and he sagged down, gagging at the blood flowing down his throat.  He 
leaned forward so that his forehead rested on the floor, his upper body propped on elbows 
that somehow managed to support him.  

There was a pool of blood in front of his eyes and he realized it was his.  Then he became 
aware of a boot in his line of sight, and then a knee.  He turned his head just slightly to 
look up and saw a blurry shape.  Then realized that hands were coming towards him. He 
tried to move away, but wasn't fast enough.

The hands grabbed his clothes, near his throat and yanked him up, forcing him to a 
standing position.  His head felt too heavy for his neck and he had to force it upright.  He 
was only partly successful.  His vision wavered, and he struggled to keep his knees 
locked.  He reached his hands up and grabbed hold of the UNSUB's arms, finally seeing 
the man's face somewhat clearly.  It dawned on him for the first time that he no longer 
held his weapon and the panic that he'd managed to keep at bay thus far now flooded him 
full force.

The UNSUB was in his late twenties, with piercing blue eyes and hair so dark it was 
practically black. The man spoke then, with an air of anticipation and a smirk on his face.  
"Agent Mulder.  I'm glad you could make it.  We're gonna have a little fun, you and me 
and the kid."  The smirk turned into a full blown grin, that left Mulder feeling ill.

The man shifted then and Mulder was tossed to the right as if he weighed nothing.  He 
gasped as he hit the floor hard, crashing into a pile of empty boxes against one wall.  The 
pain from the impact caused him to groan aloud.  He forced himself to roll so he could 
climb to his knees.  He managed it finally and looked up to see the man in front of him 
once more, the burlap sack clenched in one hand.  His thoughts cleared enough to realize 
what was in the bag.

He dragged his head up straighter and forced himself to speak. The pounding in his head 
was overpowering and caused his eyes to water so that the image in front of him 
undulated wildly.  It made him even more nauseous.  The words he finally managed to 
gasp out were hardly audible, even to his own ears.  "What do you want?"

The man smiled again and it almost made him sick.  There was a red film across his sight 
now that gave the bastard the appearance of the devil.  It was fitting.  The UNSUB spoke 
again, his deep tenor echoing through the cavernous room.

"I just want to prove a point, Agent Mulder. It's as simple as that. No one thought I was 
good enough.  None of you did.  Well, who's not good enough now?"

Mulder watched in horror as the man untied the ropes at the top and opened the sack, 
pulling it down far enough to reveal little Christian.  The child seemed too scared to even 
breathe, his eyes wide and tears streaming down his face.  Mulder's heart nearly broke at 
the fear in Christian's eyes, and he resolved that he would do whatever was in his power 
to prevent the child from being hurt any more.

"You know what it's like to be told you're not good enough?  That you're not wanted or 
needed, even after you've done everything right?  Everything you were supposed to."

He swiveled his sight up to watch as the man moved back several steps, dragging the 
sack along the floor.  Mulder heard a little squeak as Christian disappeared once more 
into the bag's depths.  He pushed himself to a sitting position and kept his eyes on the 
man, wondering just what the bastard intended.  There was a knot of fear in his stomach 
that started to grow larger with every moment.  The man continued to drone on, as if 
relishing the fact that he had an audience.

"I'm better than any of you.  I'm faster.  I'm stronger.  I could have helped and instead ... 
Instead, you don't want me.  You sent me away."

Mulder closed his eyes briefly and raised a trembling hand to wipe at the blood that still 
flowed from his forehead, his cheek, and his nose.  He prayed that Scully and Skinner 
would arrive soon.  He had no idea what this psycho intended and didn't think he could 
last much longer.

The man's voice came harsh and abrupt through the still air. "Do you know what it's like?  
Do you?"  The UNSUB's tone became almost a whine then.  "I was always good.  I 
always did what I was supposed to.  And they said I wasn't good enough.  Do you know 
what that's like?"  The man had paused in his movements and now stared at Mulder 
intently, the threat in his gaze obvious.  "Well, you're going to find out."

Mulder tried to follow the man's actions and pushed himself upright once the assailant 
was about ten feet away.  He made it to his knees and had to pause to gather his energy.  
He remembered the dead and mutilated bodies of the other victims and knew with a 
certainty that if he allowed that to happen to Christian, he'd never be able to live with 
himself.  The thought gave him the impetus he needed and he pushed himself the rest of 
the way up. He wavered for a moment, fighting for balance and had to put his left arm 
out to the nearby wall for added support.

The UNSUB was smiling still, even while backing up to the very edge of the loft.  
Mulder realized they were on what amounted to a raised platform, with a rail along the 
edge of the drop off.  There were breaks here and there which he assumed corresponded 
to ladders leading to the ground floor.

It had been close to a minute now since either of them had spoken.  It was surreal, with 
the UNSUB moving ever closer to the ledge in the dark gloom, a maniacal smile lighting 
his face.  A small ray of light reflected off the man's teeth, causing Mulder to feel a 
strong sense of disconnect.  As if this had to be happening to someone else.

The assailant had put the knife away at some point and now held the gun in his right hand 
and the burlap sack in his left.  Mulder held his arms out from his side and approached 
the man, slowly and somewhat unsteadily.  His head was pounding and his right arm and 
side ached from the impact from when he'd been thrown against the boxes.  He wished he 
hadn't eaten anything earlier because he could feel his stomach battling to hang onto his 
last meal.

He swallowed hard, then gagged at the coppery taste of the blood in his mouth.  He spit 
to clear his mouth and had to fight down the nausea that threatened to drop him.  He had 
to do something and knew it had to be soon. He couldn't help but remember the 
UNSUB's reaction in the DC Murders case and decided to use that knowledge as a guide.  
Reasoning would do no good.  He had to wrest the sack away from the man somehow.  It 
was the only possibility to ensure Christian's survival.  The assailant wanted to win and 
could care less if his own life was lost in the process.  It was all about winning.  And 
winning now included killing Mulder in addition to Christian.

Mulder stopped eight or nine feet away and stood as straight as he could.  He tried to 
clear his throat of the blood that continued to drip from the cut in his mouth. It had been a 
couple minutes now since they'd started their dance on the ledge and neither had spoken.  
It was time to break the silence.  

He knew he had to sound in control when he spoke and forced a cockiness he didn't 
remotely feel. "You think you're going to teach me a lesson?  You think you're smart, but 
you are incredibly stupid if you think anything you do to me will make any difference.  
You obviously didn't do your homework."

He saw the man's arm jerk in response to his words and prayed he was doing the right 
thing.  The thought of Christian falling to his death because he made a mistake terrified 
him.  He allowed his arms to drop just slightly, unable to hold them up much longer.  
They felt as though they weighed a hundred pounds each.  A coughing fit overtook him 
and he had to spit out the blood in his mouth yet again.  He managed to collect himself 
after a few short moments and spoke again as strongly as he could. "You don't know who 
I am, do you?  I'm the Bureau's outcast.  They're trying their damnedest to get me to quit.  
It's why I was assigned to this fucking case in the first place."

He was feeling stronger now and took another small step forward.  "You're a fucking 
asshole if you think that the Bureau will give a shit about what you do to me.  Torture me 
and they'll just be happy you did their work for them."

The UNSUB actually seemed confused by his words, evidently not understanding how 
the supposed profiling genius wouldn't be beloved by the Bureau.

Mulder took advantage of the man's surprise to get to within six feet.  The bastard 
seemed to wake up again then and jerked his weapon higher.  Mulder froze, forcing his 
arms to stay raised as high as possible despite the fierce trembling that had overtaken 
them.  He knew what he had to do, just as he knew what this man was thinking.  He knew 
exactly what the UNSUB's reactions would be and why.  It was just like the DC Murders 
case, only this time he'd do it right.  This time, things would end differently.

The man looked behind him and then smiled again. An evil smile playing across his face.  
"I'm not that stupid, you little shit.  I'm still going to win.  I was told about you.  You 
can't trick me." Then the UNSUB turned to his left to hang the bag out over the drop.  As 
if in slow motion, Mulder saw the  fingers start to loosen and knew he only had one 
chance.  The adrenaline surged, leaving him lightheaded but filled with a focused energy.

He took advantage of the man's distraction to launch himself across the distance, diving 
for the edge of the platform.  He made contact with the bastard's legs, hoping to drive the 
man off the ledge, but was only able to knock him off his feet.  He reached out with his 
right hand, even as he crashed to the floor, and managed to grab at the dangling ropes of 
the sack before the baby dropped to his death.  He was pulled out over the ledge, little by 
little, his head and shoulders already dangling in mid-air.  The strain on his ribs was 
enough to cause him to gasp for air.  He had the ropes in his fingers and finally managed 
to wrap them around his right wrist.  He spread his legs out and grabbed the rail with his 
left hand just in time to stop himself from slipping over any further.  

He pushed himself back, then swung the bag to the left and hitched the rope over a hook 
just as the UNSUB's booted foot met with his ribcage.  There was a sick crunch and a 
shooting pain as he felt a grinding along his left side.  He screamed wordlessly as his 
vision went black. There was a rushing in his ears and he had to struggle to get a breath.  
Then there was another sharp pain, this time in his stomach, as he was kicked again.

He had enough presence of mind to disengage the rope from his wrist before rolling over 
to meet the next attack.  The boot was coming again but this time he was able to reach 
out and grab the man's leg.  He jerked as hard as he could, the action sending waves of 
pain through his body.  The assailant went tumbling backwards, hitting the ground hard, 
with a muttered curse.  

Mulder was gasping now, every breath a struggle.  He was so tired he could barely think 
and the overwhelming pain was making him even more muddled.  More than anything he 
wanted to give up.  Wanted to just curl up in a ball and let the bastard put a bullet in him.  
Put him the fuck out of his misery.  But he heard the soft crying from below and knew 
Christian was still alive, at least for now. And the curses of the assailant sounded in 
counterpoint.  

He closed his eyes tight and willed himself to stop crying  Then the vision of his partner 
floated unexpectedly in his mind's eye, reminding him that there was even more to live 
for, if he could just hang on long enough.  If he could hang on a few minutes more, she'd 
be there, making the pain go away.  Telling him everything would be all right.

He reached out and gripped the rail, then pulled himself up to a sitting position just in 
time to see the assailant lunging for him, arms reaching for his neck.  He reached out his 
own arms and grabbed the man tightly, then rolled to the side and back, using the 
momentum of the movement to launch the bastard over the loft edge.  He was only 
partially successful, being too weak to lift the heavier man in the air. The UNSUB 
retained a grip on Mulder's right arm and he felt a sharp jerk as tendons and cartilage 
were painfully stressed.  Once more he was pulled towards the edge of the loft.  

His arm and shoulder were on fire and he couldn't help screaming out loud in a wordless 
howl of agony.  The UNSUB was yelling and he could hear Christian crying loudly now, 
probably frightened by the screams and noise.  The man had gotten a grip on the ladder 
and finally let go of his arm.  He yanked himself back onto the platform and fell back 
limply, praying that reinforcements would be here soon.  He couldn't take much more of 
this.  He was so fucking tired and everything hurt.  Everything was a struggle -- every 
single breath.  The tiniest move sent waves of pain crashing over him.  He heard sobs 
mixed in with the cries and screams and realized they were coming from him, but he 
couldn't stop, even though the sobs themselves were causing him pain.

He could see the UNSUB climbing back up, determined to finish him off, but he couldn't 
move.  He watched the man approach him, knife in hand, but he just couldn't move.  Not 
yet.  The knife flashed above him, a solitary ray of light hitting it, and then it was closing 
on him, coming for his chest.  He managed to roll to the right sluggishly, narrowly 
avoiding the thrust, but then the man struck again and this time scored a cut on his 
ribcage, all along his left side. He didn't even feel the knife hitting him at first until he 
rolled again.  Fire erupted from his navel to his chest and tears flowed freely.

The knife was coming at him again and he knew he had to do something.  Anything.  He 
just needed to hang on long enough for Scully to get to him.  He swept his feet out and 
knew he made  contact with the UNSUB when he heard a thud and an accompanying 
grunt. He grabbed a rail with his left hand and pulled himself to his knees, concentrating 
hard to ignore the tearing of the flesh and the warmth he felt flowing down his side.  God 
damn it, who the hell did this bastard think he was?  To do this to so many innocents?  To 
Christian and his family?  The Canderfields.  Him ... and Scully?

He started getting angry then and told himself to move.  It had become his mantra and he 
muttered the words aloud.  "Move, move, move." He pulled again and dragged himself 
forward towards the edge, his knees scraping against the concrete floor. It was his turn to 
attack.  He had to end it, once and for all.

The man was starting to climb down the ladder and was already reaching for the hanging 
bag.  Mulder threw himself towards the UNSUB and wrapped his arms around the man 
tightly.  The momentum took them both off the ladder and into thin air.  The fall seemed 
to last for minutes, but he knew it was little more than a second at most.  He landed partly 
on the UNSUB and partly on his left side.  The impact took his breath away and sent all 
new sensations of pain down his side and back.  His head bounced off the UNSUB's 
shoulder and then the floor and he couldn't breathe -- couldn't even move, but knew he 
had to. He rolled away from the man sluggishly, once, twice, each movement an agony.  
The assailant was unmoving, seemingly unconscious, at least for now.

Mulder's head pounded and he gave up the battle against the nausea, feeling as if his 
insides were being ripped out.  He calmed finally and pushed himself away from the 
disgusting pile, then managed to raise his head a few inches off the floor.  He was 
shocked to see the barrel of a gun, aimed right at his head.  This guy was incredible.  
Mulder ducked his head and rolled again, just as the blast reached his ears and the bullet 
ripped past his ear and into the far wall.  He was long past speaking now, even though the 
UNSUB was now letting loose an almost continuous litany of curses. Amidst the threats, 
though, the man was groaning and panting, evidently having hurt himself in their little 
flight from the upper floor.  Even so, the man was raising his weapon again to fire, his 
voice raising in cadence simultaneously.

"You're dead, you FBI prick.  You can't do this to me and get away with it. I'm gonna kill 
the kid, you asshole.  Gonna rip him apart and make you watch.  Then I'm gonna kill you, 
slow.  And I'm gonna enjoy it.  It's my job and I'm good at it.  I'll show you, you fucker." 

Mulder summoned his energy to raise his head and saw the weapon aimed right at him 
once again.  He knew something was very wrong.  Knew that the words this man had 
been speaking held a critical key to the case if he could just find the time and energy to 
replay them and work it out.  But he didn't have that luxury now.

He forced himself to move -- to roll to his left -- but wasn't fast enough to avoid the 
discharge this time.  He felt a burning in his right shoulder and fell flat, the darkness 
finally overcoming him.  He gave into it eagerly, unable to think of anything anymore but 
release from the pain.  

He didn't know how long he lay there, but when he opened his eyes again, the UNSUB 
was gone from view.  He turned his head and saw the bastard then, almost to the ladder -- 
at the top of which hung the sack containing little Christian.  He fought off the nausea 
that hit him as soon as he moved and strove to ignore the almost debilitating pain.  He 
knew the man would kill the child if he couldn't get to him first.  He had to move now.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees and paused, head hanging low, then finally 
started crawling.  Every movement caused agony in some part of his body.  Tears mixed 
with the blood on his face and dripped into red puddles on the ground.  Both the wound 
along his ribs and his shoulder wound were bleeding again and left an even broader path 
in his wake.  The knees of his pants were soaked in blood.  His own blood.  

He managed to drag himself about four feet forward when he saw something off to the 
right of his outstretched hand.  His muddled thinking combined with his wavering sight 
made it incredibly difficult to process what he was seeing.  He stopped, his legs and arms 
shaking with the effort of crawling, and dropped his face to his chest.  He rubbed it 
against his left arm to try to clear his sight, then looked to the right once again.  It took a 
long moment for it to sink in -- it was the UNSUB's gun.  

He forced his head up and saw the man was halfway up the ladder, moving awkwardly as 
if only one leg worked.  Mulder reached out and placed his fingers around the weapon, 
pulling it towards him.  He allowed himself to fall to the ground then, and rolled slowly 
to his back.  He forced his right hand to raise and gripped the gun as tightly as possible. 
His hand was slippery with blood and he had to struggle to keep the weapon on his target.  
He raised his left arm to try to provide additional support.  He blinked his eyes and 
prayed for steady hands for just a second.  

The man was just a rung away from the baby when Mulder said in a voice that barely 
carried across the few feet that separated them, "Stop.  Federal Officer."

The man looked down at him, his expression filled with outrage and anger.  The UNSUB 
obviously wasn't ready for it to end in this way.  The assailant looked up at the bag and 
pulled the knife out once more, climbing up one more rung. Mulder took another shaky 
breath and said, as loudly as he could, "Freeze or you're a dead man."

The knife was raised now and only a foot away from the little boy.  Mulder watched the 
man's arm pull back farther.  He blinked his eyes to try to clear them, then took careful 
aim.  He was terrified that he might miss the UNSUB and hit Christian.  But then the man 
stabbed and Mulder heard the rip of the burlap, heard Christian scream, and he was left 
with no choice.  A surge of adrenaline poured through him and he fired again and again, 
recoiling after each shot.  It sounded out loudly, echoing off the concrete walls and floor. 
The assailant swung around and looked down at him, in obvious shock, but also with 
what appeared to be a look of betrayal.  The man made a strangled sound and said, "But 
it was my job".

It was as if time slowed.  The man's right hand opened and the knife fell, just a few feet 
away from Mulder.  It clattered noisily for what seemed like a minute, but could only 
have been a second.  Then the man started falling backwards as he let go with his left 
hand. His feet left the ladder only a fraction of a second later and then he hit the floor in a 
sick thud, eyes staring lifelessly right at Mulder.

Mulder stared at him for a long few seconds, filled with an unease he couldn't explain.  
He had to set it aside for now because he knew there was one last thing he had to do right 
now. He had to see if Christian was OK.  If the baby was alive.  The gun fell from his 
hands onto the floor in a loud clatter. The remains of the adrenaline still flew through him 
as he forced himself to the ladder, carefully bypassing the dead body of the UNSUB. He 
reached out to pull himself to his feet.  His hands were slippery on the rails, the blood 
making it difficult to grip tightly, but the bag hung there, calling to him.  

He started the slow climb, but had to stop half way up to rest.  He laid his forehead 
against a bar and closed his eyes.  He was gasping, unable to get enough air, and every 
movement of his chest caused his broken ribs to grind and his wounds to pull.  

Never in his life had he felt so bereft -- and so very alone.  He couldn't remember why he 
was doing this.  Why he shouldn't just stop.  Just give up.  Then a sound from above 
floated down.  Christian's weak cries reached his ears once more and he knew why.  He 
whispered, "Scully", for no other reason than he wanted her there, with him, and made 
himself move once more.  He forced one hand over the other, ignoring the biting pain in 
his shoulder, his ribs, and all the other hurts he'd managed to accumulate in the past 
fifteen minutes.  He got to the top finally and collapsed to lay flat on his stomach.  He 
reached over with his right hand and grabbed the sack, forcing the cords over his wrist 
securely.  He knew Christian only weighed thirty or so pounds but would have sworn the 
bag weighed three times that much.  He closed his eyes and pulled hard, groaning with 
the effort.

He pulled the burlap sack over the edge and pushed himself up to lean his back against 
the rails, his legs splayed awkwardly.  The cries coming from inside were more frantic 
now.  He was filled with fear at the thought that the baby had been wounded.  He fought 
with the ropes and untangled them finally, the blood on his hands causing his fingers to 
slip.  He pushed the edges of the sack down and reached for the little boy, pulling him to 
his chest.  There was no sign of blood on the child.  

Christian grabbed him around the neck tightly, his soft whimpers playing countermeasure 
to Mulder's own murmurings and gasps.  And all he could manage to say was, "It's okay.  
You're okay."  Over and over.  

The little arms around his neck were reassuring and the body pressed against his provided 
a much needed warmth.  He allowed himself to relax for the first time in a week.  He 
shushed the little boy and told him everything would be all right.  At some point, he 
closed his eyes and conjured an image of his partner -- his very own security blanket.  
Mulder let himself go then, to the sounds of sirens in the distance and Christian's soft 
cries.

*******************************************


Saturday, 7:33 p.m.
Jackson Heights, Richmond, Virginia

Scully was the first out of the car, but Skinner's voice yelling at her to wait restrained her.  
Too much time had passed and she was sure that everything was already over inside the 
warehouse, but understood that there were procedures to be followed.  She waited 
anxiously for Landers to get out of the car and direct the assault teams.  Landers had 
already communicated with the cab driver by radio and she could see the taxi still sitting 
up the street.  She shook her head to herself in frustration.  This was all taking too long.  

The directions were flying finally and she found herself at the back entrance, second in 
line to enter when the signal was given.  The teams went in from three sides and the roof, 
and found the UNSUB's body almost immediately.  Scully could barely breathe as the 
reports were called in from different quarters.  She was gazing frantically from right to 
left, trying to locate her partner.  The body of the UNSUB lay at the foot of the ladder 
and she heard one of the team leaders saying, "Someone get this piece of crap out of the 
way."  She saw them grab the body and move it a few feet to the side, clearing the access 
to the upper level.

She stopped where she was and waited for someone to tell her where her partner was. It 
was so dark, she could barely see ten feet in front of her.  Several officers stood with 
flashlights shining at different angles in an attempt to provide at least a minimal amount 
of illumination.  The sounds and sights were almost overwhelming.

Despite the dimness, she could see trails of blood across the floor near the base of the 
ladder.  It chilled her so that she couldn't bring herself to move.  It was Jerry's voice that 
finally reached her through the bedlam.  He was yelling down at her from the upper level.

"Dana, up here.  Get up here now."

She didn't need to hear it twice and was lunging for the ladder in a heartbeat.  They'd 
moved the UNSUB's body away from the base of the ladder but even so she had to step 
over the pool of blood that still lay there.  There was more blood on the rungs and she 
shuddered to think about whose it was.  She was still several rungs down when she saw 
the cluster of bodies up above her, all leaning over someone or something.  She had a 
feeling she knew exactly who it was.

She reached the upper platform and froze for a second as she looked to the left.  He was 
there, unmoving and covered in blood, with his head tipped back loosely on his neck.  
The little boy was wrapped around him, with a death's grip. Jerry cleared a space and she 
sank to her knees next to her partner, reaching out her hand.  

Dear Jesus, there was blood everywhere, covering him and Christian, as well as the floor 
around them.  She couldn't tell whose it was.  God, could he even be alive still after 
loosing so much blood?  This couldn't be happening.  It just couldn't.  He had to be all 
right.  She hadn't gotten the chance to tell him anything, yet.

One of the agents attempted to pry the little boy out of Mulder's arms.  The child was 
whimpering and seemed to have her partner's neck in a choke hold.  Christian's head was 
buried in Mulder's neck and he was covered in blood.  One agent had the little boy's 
hands while another was trying to disengage her partner's arms, which seemed to be 
gripping the child just as tightly.

Christian was loose finally and the man holding him said, "He's fine.  No obvious 
injuries."

She knew that meant all the blood was Mulder's.  She had to find out where he was 
injured and fast.  Her fingers went to his neck and had to search before finding a thready 
pulse.  She glanced up to find both Skinner and Jerry waiting to help.  The other agents 
had cleared the area.

"Help me get him flat."

There were plenty of times during their partnership when Mulder had been hurt.  Injured 
to the point where his life was in question.  But only once before had she seen so much 
blood and that was when a major artery had been hit in his thigh.  She was terrified that 
he was once again pumping out his life's blood while she was fumbling around looking 
for the wounds.

The head wounds were obvious and were still bleeding relatively heavily.  She gestured 
to Jerry and said, "Try to find something to staunch this."

She dropped her hands then to push at Mulder's jacket and found the bullet wound almost 
immediately.  A quick check of her partner's back showed it had passed all the way 
through.  She looked up at Skinner and said, "Apply pressure here."  She moved his 
hands to the right place and was reassured when he did it without question.  

She ran her hands down her partner's chest and found the knife wound.  She pressed her 
palm against it tightly and muttered, "Jesus, Mulder, can't you do anything the easy 
way?"  

She didn't know whether to be reassured or not.  None of the injuries that she could see 
were life threatening in and of themselves, but taken together there was no question he 
had to get to a hospital as soon as possible.  He'd lost massive amounts of blood already 
and there was no telling what else might be going on.

She fought to keep calm and looked around, locating Landers almost immediately.  The 
man was keeping everyone back and looked both concerned and guilty.

"We need to get him to the hospital now.  Where's the damned ambulance?"

He nodded and said, "They're on their way", then raised a radio to his mouth.  She looked 
back down at her partner and was filled once more with fear.  He was so pale, it looked 
as if he'd been drained of all life.  She couldn't even see his chest move and became 
convinced suddenly that he'd died while she'd looked away.  She moved her free hand to 
his neck again and found the pulse there, even weaker now than before.  She stared at her 
hands, coated now in red, slick from her partner's blood.

Her ears started to pound and her vision narrowed so all she could see was her partner's 
face and all she could think about was how empty her life would be if he weren't in it and 
that her last words to him had been said in anger.  

She heard her name being called and forced herself to look up.  Skinner was speaking to 
her and she realized then that he must have been trying to get her attention for a while.  

"Scully, come on.  Hang in there with us.  This is Mulder.  He's too damned stubborn to 
die.  And he needs you to talk to him.  Come on, Scully.  Talk to him now."

She realized then that she hadn't spoken to him yet.  Hadn't even told her partner she was 
there for him.  She nodded and caught her breath, then blinked to clear her eyes, forcing 
herself to calm down.  Skinner was right.  Mulder needed to know she was there, with 
him, and that she'd stay with him.  She found his right hand with her left and gripped it 
tightly, then leaned forward so she was close to his face.  She spoke to him softly, not 
quite a whisper.

"Mulder, it's me.  You're going to be fine.  You need to hang on for us, though, okay?  I 
know you're tired and you hurt, but I promise it'll get better."

She leaned even closer then and kissed his forehead.  Then turned to whisper softly in his 
ear, "Don't leave me alone, Mulder.  Please come back to me."

There was a clatter behind them and she turned and looked back.  It was the paramedics 
with a portable gurney that could be lowered down over the rail.  Skinner and Jerry 
moved back allowing the men to gain access, but she couldn't force herself to move away 
just yet.  They worked around her for a minute and then Skinner was there, pulling her 
away.  She still had hold of Mulder's hand as they shifted his still body to the gurney.

Skinner took their joined hands then, and tried to pull them apart. She turned to him as he 
said, "Scully, let go.  It's just for a few minutes.  They need to get him down."

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion and it took long seconds for her to 
comprehend his words and respond.  She looked down at her and her partner's joined 
hands, covered in blood, with Skinner's gripping both lightly.  She nodded finally and 
allowed him to take her hand in his.

They both watched as the paramedics rigged the stretcher to be lowered over the edge, 
and before she even realized it, Mulder was gone.  She gasped at the suddenness and felt 
a reassuring hand on her right arm, even as Skinner gripped her left.  She looked to her 
right and Jerry was there.  Then Skinner's voice broke through her daze.

"Let's move, Scully.  We have to go."

She nodded again and allowed them to pull her to her feet.  She started feeling stronger 
then and more in control.  

"I'm okay.  I'm fine."

She waited for Jerry to go down the ladder first and then followed quickly, once again 
shuddering at the blood evident on each rung.  Skinner was down right behind her and 
both men strode beside her as she took off after the paramedics.  They had already loaded 
him in the ambulance and she could tell there would be no room for her.  There were 
three paramedics working on Mulder in the back already.

Skinner must have understood because he was pulling at her again, this time towards the 
vehicle they'd come in.

"I'll drive, Scully.  Come on.  We'll follow the ambulance."

She nodded and climbed into the front seat.  She watched him turn to Jerry and say, "Will 
you arrange for police escort for us, Agent Friedman?"

She could see Jerry nod and jog off towards a cluster of agents and then Skinner was in 
the car next to her. It seemed as if everything was taking forever, even though she knew 
it had been less than ten minutes since they arrived at the warehouse.  The ambulance 
was taking off then and she was entranced, watching it pull away.  

Skinner pulled in behind it and she looked out the back window to see an RPD unit 
following them, lights flashing and siren sounding.  She looked down in her lap at her 
hands.  She held them up and turned them to the right, then the left.  They were covered 
in Mulder's blood, the red soaking down even under her fingernails.  It was a sight she 
knew would never leave her memory.  Her stomach churned and her chest grew so tight 
she couldn't breathe for long seconds.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat.  She was so tired of this.  
How often was this supposed to happen?  How often would she be racing to a hospital to 
see whether he'd survive once again?  To see whether her own life would be inexorably 
changed forever by the loss of his.  

She let the tears fall finally, knowing that Skinner would understand.  She felt his hand 
take her left and appreciated the contact.  He didn't say anything -- didn't even take his 
eyes off the road, but it was comforting.

The ride was only four or five minutes long but left way too much time for her to think 
and to remember.  She and Mulder never seemed to get a break.  The last six months, 
ever since making it back from Antarctica, she knew more surely than ever what she'd 
tried to deny before.  That Mulder loved her.  That he'd do anything for her.  Would give 
his life for her without a thought.  And even as she realized this, their life had been 
changed once more by political machinations that left no room for personal feelings.  It 
had been convenient for her.  She'd been able to delay facing it.  She'd been able to 
effectively ignore it with an "Oh, Brother" and silence.  But she knew it hadn't been fair 
to Mulder and it wasn't fair to her, either.  They deserved better than this.

The car jerked and she raised her eyes.  They were already unloading Mulder.  Skinner 
was out of the car and at her door, opening it and extending his hand to help her.  She let 
him help her, partly knowing she needed the support.  She wasn't sure at first whether her 
legs would hold her, but the sight of Mulder's stretcher disappearing into the emergency 
room was enough to spur her on.  

She was vaguely aware of Skinner throwing keys to a cop and giving directions to park 
the car, and then he was walking beside her as they entered the hospital.  His voice was 
sure and steady when he said, "We're Federal Officers.  Where's Agent Mulder been 
taken?"

The nurse behind the desk never even questioned him but merely pointed to the doors 
leading to the emergency examining rooms.  Scully allowed herself to be led, but then 
stepped ahead of him when they reached the doors. She pushed them solidly and glanced 
around the room. She knew the activity to the right had to be about her partner.  There 
was a group of six or seven people -- doctors, interns, and nurses, working quickly on 
various tasks.  She moved slowly towards them and stopped about ten feet away.  
Skinner was standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder.  She listened to the doctors 
for a full minute and her heart sank with every word.  Internal bleeding, broken ribs, 
possible concussion, gunshot, knife cut, the list seemed way too long.  She started 
trembling and heard one of the doctors yelling for an open OR.  Then they were pushing 
him out and she still couldn't move, couldn't do anything but shake.

She felt Skinner move closer and turned her head slightly towards him.  When he placed 
his hands on her shoulders she didn't pull away, but leaned back into him, letting the sobs 
she'd been holding back come and the tears flow.

*******************************************
End Part 3 of ?

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 4 of ? (4/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
*******************************************


Saturday, 10:32 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia

Skinner carried the coffees carefully, wishing he'd poured some out before trying to walk.  
He'd been here before, in this position, waiting to find out whether Mulder would pull 
through or not, but had never seen Scully like this.  So blatantly emotional.  So fragile.  
She was wearing a green scrub top with the navy blue pants she'd been wearing earlier 
and a hospital issue blanket draped across her shoulders.  He'd gotten a nurse to convince 
her to change and get cleaned up.  He'd shed his own blood-soaked jacket and tie, but had 
managed to salvage his shirt.  

Scully was leaning forward in the chair, her arms wrapped around her chest tightly.  He 
could see her shoulders shaking even from four feet away.  Jerry Friedman was sitting on 
one side of her, looking almost as dazed as she.  He glanced to the right and saw a cluster 
of agents, Landers among them, respectfully waiting for news.  One thing about cops, 
they took it personally when one of their own was wounded in the line of duty.

He handed a cup to Friedman and then sat next to Scully.  He held a cup in front of her 
and placed it in her hands, then waited until her fingers responded.  She'd stopped crying 
long ago but hadn't said a word since.  She started shaking a half hour ago, but he didn't 
know whether it was from cold or delayed shock.

He took a deep breath and looked around again.  They were in the Critical Care Waiting 
Room.  Off to the right was a young couple, the husband holding his softly sobbing wife 
gently.  Across the way was a group of five people who had to have been family 
members awaiting word on their loved one.  The hospital had attempted to make the 
room a soothing place, with soft colors, plants, and comfortable furniture.  There was a 
door that opened onto a little patio, with trees, benches, a bubbling brook, and a walkway 
that allowed worried visitors to work off some frustration.  

He looked again at the young husband and wife to his right, then back to Scully.  She still 
held the Styrofoam cup in her trembling hands, the coffee untouched.  He decided hell 
with it, and put his hand on her arm.  She turned towards him, eyes huge and tear-filled, 
but somehow managing to keep them from flowing.  He whispered, "He'll be fine, Scully.  
Just keep telling yourself that.  He'll be just fine."

He could tell she wanted to believe him and when she turned forward once more, raised 
his eyes over her head and looked into Jerry Friedman's.  They held the same doubt his 
own did.

*******************************************

A half hour later the silence was broken by a doctor walking towards them.  He'd 
obviously just come from the OR and seemed drawn and tired.  He asked, "Who's waiting 
for word on Fox Mulder?"

Everyone came to attention and Skinner said, "We are.  How is he?"

The man glanced around and then seemed to focus attention on Scully, as if somehow 
sensing she was Mulder's partner.  Without even realizing it, Skinner had once more put 
his arm around her.  He tried to divine what the man might say just by his expression but 
found it impossible.

The doctor finally answered, "He made it through surgery. The bullet wound in the 
shoulder nicked an artery.  It took a while to close it off.  The knife wound was deep and 
required quite a bit of work.  The head wound wasn't so bad, but he's got a concussion to 
along with the stitches.  He's got a broken rib, two more with hairline fractures, multiple 
abrasions and contusions.  Bruised kidney.  Internal bleeding.  We believe we caught it in 
time.  He lost a hell of a lot of blood before getting to us and went into cardiac arrest 
twice on the table.  All in all, quite a mess."

Skinner didn't know whether it was safe to breathe again or not.  He asked the obvious 
question.  "So is he going to make it?"

There was a pause and the doctor tilted his head as if he wasn't really sure how to answer.  
"He made it this far.  All we can do is wait and see.  The next twenty-four hours should 
make the difference."

Skinner looked down at Scully to see her still staring at the doctor, eyes unblinking, 
barely breathing.  He turned back to the man and asked, "When can we see him?"

The doctor was staring at Scully, brow furrowed in concern.  The man's eyes flicked to 
his own and it seemed he somehow understood how important it was for Scully to see her 
partner.

"He's being taken to CCU right now.  It's right around the corner  You should know, 
though, he's in a coma.  He won't be able to respond just yet.  Visiting hours are posted 
on the door.  Fifteen minutes every other hour during the day."

Skinner felt Scully tense and knew that he himself responded similarly.  He had his 
mouth open to object, when the doctor raised a hand to forestall discussion.

"In this case, however, it's critical to reach the patient.  I'm allowing family and close 
friends outside of hours.  But ..."

Skinner had started to relax but tensed again, wondering what other restrictions were 
going to be imposed.

The doctor said, "Remember that he's incredibly weak.  The coma is a mixed blessing.  
On the one hand, it gives his body a much needed rest.  On the other, there's a chance that 
he won't know to fight.  I think it's worth the risk to have you there.  Please leave tension 
outside the room, talk to him, remind him of things that are worth remembering, try to 
reach him however you can."

The man stopped then and Skinner swallowed, finding it difficult because of the tightness 
in his throat.  He licked his lips and nodded, then looked down at Scully.  He couldn't tell 
whether she understood or not.  His voice was gentle when he said, "Come on, Scully.  
Let's go see your partner."

He was filled with relief when she nodded to him, the first actual movement she'd 
initiated for the past hour or more.

*******************************************


Hour 1 of the Wait
Saturday, 11:07 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


The room was bathed in soft light with green and red reflections from various indicators 
shining eerily.  Even though he'd expected the machines, the overwhelming number of 
them still came as a shock.  He paused just inside the door, not sure if his legs would 
carry him, but Scully kept going right to the side of the bed.  He watched her take 
Mulder's left hand in her own and wrap her fingers around her partner's.  Her right hand 
moved to Mulder's forehead, gently brushing back his hair.  As she leaned over to kiss 
her partner's forehead, it came to him then, like a bolt from the blue, that she loved the 
man.  Not loved like a friend.  Not loved like a partner.  That he'd known for years.  But 
this was so much more.  

He looked once more at the man lying so still in the bed, this time with the realization 
that Mulder's life was more intricately connected to this woman's than he'd originally 
thought.  It was a weight on his shoulders that almost took his breath away.  Mulder 
couldn't die.  It would mean Scully's lifeline if he did. The man was clearly everything to 
her and he knew that it was the same for Mulder.

Skinner moved into the room then and pulled a chair close to the bed for Scully to sit in.  
He guided her into it, silently acknowledging her nod of thanks by patting her shoulder.  
She looked so lost sitting there.  So alone.  He let his hand linger on her shoulder for a 
moment longer and said, "Scully, I'll be right back.  I'll just be gone for a minute."

She nodded again, this time not even turning her head, and he headed for the door.  

*******************************************

She'd vacillated between numbness and panic, and knew that the panic was slowly 
winning.  The swoosh of the door signaled Skinner's exit and a little piece of her 
panicked even more.  She hadn't realized just how much he'd served to steady her the past 
few hours and sent a silent prayer that he'd be back soon.

She took a shaky breath and closed her eyes tightly, feeling the tears building up once 
again.  She clenched her jaw and fought them off.  She couldn't afford more tears.  She 
and Skinner had been granted permission to stay in the CCU room with Mulder, and she 
wasn't about to waste the opportunity by shedding useless tears.  Her partner needed her 
strength and he needed to know she was there for him.  

He was far away from her now.  So very far away.  Despite her intentions, tears fell down 
her cheeks and the panic crept up on her again.  

*******************************************

There were plenty of things about his job that Skinner didn't like, but notifying relatives 
of his people that their son or daughter, brother or sister, might not make it was definitely 
his least favorite.  The phone rang two, three, four times and he was just getting ready to 
hang up when a woman's voice answered.  It was obvious he'd awakened her.

"Hello."

"Hello, Mrs. Scully.  This is Walter Skinner."

He sensed the increase in tension and hurried on.  "Dana's fine, Mrs. Scully.  It's Mulder.  
Mulder's been injured pretty badly."

Her voice wavered when she said, "Fox."  He heard the intake of breath and then she 
asked, "What happened?  Where are you?"

"We're in Richmond, Mrs. Scully.  Mulder was injured saving a little boy from a ... 
murderer.  Scully -- I mean Dana's quite upset and I thought you should know."

He wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing.  This wasn't technically his responsibility.  
This was not Mulder's mother, after all, it was Scully's.  

"Thank you, Mr. Skinner, I appreciate it.  What's Fox' condition?  And what hospital are 
you at?"

"He's in the CCU, ma'am, in critical condition.  It's Mercy Hospital, in the city."

There was silence again and then she said, "Is he ..."

He sighed and said, "We don't know, ma'am.  It's wait and see at this point."

He could hardly hear her when she said, "Thank you for calling, Mr. Skinner.  I'll be 
there as soon as I can."

He heard a click and knew she'd hung up.  He looked at the phone in his hand and steeled 
himself for the more difficult call he had yet to make.  He looked down at the scrap of 
paper in his hand and dialed the second number.  He'd only really met the woman once 
before, but he had to admit she could be slightly intimidating.  

She picked up after the second ring.

"Hello."

He cleared his throat and swallowed quickly, then said, "Hello, ma'am.  This is AD 
Walter Skinner with the Bureau."

She surprised him by almost immediately asking, "Fox?  Is he all right?"

He closed his eyes for a moment and answered, "He's been seriously injured, ma'am.  
He's in CCU right now."

There was an uneasy silence then and he could tell she was fighting to keep her voice 
steady when she asked, "Is his partner with him?"

He was surprised by the direction of the question for a moment but answered, "Yes, 
ma'am, Agent Scully is here."

There was silence again for several seconds and he thought he could hear her breathing.  
Then she surprised him again.

"My son has always been strong.  And very determined.  As long as his partner is there, 
I'm sure he'll be fine.  He just needs something worth coming back for."

He found himself smiling and said, "I hope you're right, ma'am."

"Where are they, Mr. Skinner?"

He realized then that she didn't know he was with them.  "We're at Mercy Hospital in 
Richmond, Virginia, ma'am."

"Thank you, Mr. Skinner."

He hung up after she disconnected and marveled at the resiliency of mothers.  

*******************************************


Hour 2 of the Wait
Sunday, 12:26 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


She felt something on her shoulders and looked up, turning her head to the left.  AD 
Skinner was there, draping a blanket around her.  She blinked and realized that she had 
no idea what time it was or how long she'd been here.  She felt as if her every move was a 
struggle and every decision was near impossible.  The beeps, gurgles, and hums of the 
machinery had helped to lull her into a state of blessed numbness.

"Sir?"

She had started to ask him something but didn't really know now what it was.  He pulled 
over a second chair and sat down next to her. Both her hands rested on Mulder's left arm, 
just below the IV.  She felt as if she couldn't let go.  That if she did, he'd somehow know 
and think the action gave him permission to leave her.  

She turned to look at the man beside her, wanting more than anything for him to tell her, 
just this once, what to do.  She was used to knowing.  She was used to making decisions 
quickly and competently.  But somehow, right now, it just wasn't in her.  The tears 
started again and she was ashamed that she should have such lack of control.  She almost 
never cried, and Skinner must think she was a complete wimp.  

She shook her head and was thankful when he again put his arm around her and pulled 
her close.  He didn't seem to mind her emotional show.  He whispered, "Scully, he's 
strong and he has the best incentive in the world to wake up and get better."

She looked up at him, eyes questioning and he said, "He has you here waiting for him."

She smiled and pulled away, feeling stronger and more alert.  "I've been thinking, sir."

"Dangerous."

She looked at him and smiled again, but it faded as an overwhelming sadness consumed 
her.  "I don't really know what makes him do these things.  What drives him.  I mean, 
why couldn't he have just waited for us?  Why the hell didn't he just wait?"

She knew her voice was getting louder but couldn't help it.  She felt like she was on a 
roller coaster of emotions.  She was angry now, as well as frightened -- angry that he 
hadn't waited for her and terrified he might not come back to her.

She raised a hand to wipe her eyes and cheeks.  She moved to lay it back on Mulder's 
arm, but Skinner reached out and took hold of it first.  She looked at him again curiously 
and was surprised by his thoughtful expression.

"Scully, you know better than that.  Mulder knew that every second counted.  He knew 
that the assailant would start torturing Christian at any time."

She nodded, clearly recognizing the truth of his words, but was concerned when Skinner 
didn't let go of her arm.  He seemed to be staring at her intently, as if trying to assess her 
to make some decision.  He nodded then, as if in response to something she'd said and 
then spoke. 

"Scully, it's more than that, too.  To understand why he couldn't wait, you have to 
appreciate just what it means to be the Bureau's best profiler.  And you need to appreciate 
how he got to be the best."

She was curious in spite of herself.  "What do you mean, sir?  What do you know?"  She 
could see the hesitation and doubt.  She squeezed his hand gently and added, "Please tell 
me."

She looked into his eyes and could tell he'd made a decision.  He nodded to her, dropped 
her hand, and sat back in the chair, as if to get comfortable for a long story.

"Did Mulder ever tell you about how he got started with the ISU?"

She shifted a bit and ran her left hand down Mulder's arm to take his hand in hers.  She 
thought back and realized they'd never talked about it.  She shook her head and said, "No, 
sir.  I know it was the Monty Propps case that allowed him to work on the X-Files, but 
we never talked about any of his other cases."  She paused for a moment, then added, 
"Except for Roche, of course."

He nodded and said, "The Props case was how he got out, but it was the DC Murders 
case that got him started.  And I was the reason he got involved.  I suppose you could say 
I'm responsible for his profiling career and he's responsible for my being an AD."

She'd never seen such an expression on his face as he wore now.  It was a mixture of 
bittersweet regret and pride.  She was filled with curiosity to know how these two men 
had somehow been involved in the same case all those years ago.  And the name of the 
case -- she was positive it was the same one Mulder had mentioned.

"The DC Murders case.  Sir, Mulder said something about that.  He said that this case 
was the same.  I didn't know what he was talking about."

She looked at her former boss carefully and saw the indecision.  "Please, sir. Tell me 
about the case."

*******************************************

Skinner didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but decided to tell her anyway.  He felt 
a pang of guilt, as he always did when he thought about the DC Murders case.  Jesus, 
what a nightmare it had been.  For everyone.

He looked over at her and then turned to look at Mulder again.  The man had aged.  They 
both had.  It had been so long ago.  He sighed heavily, then stood and stretched his back 
and his legs.  He walked around to the other side of the bed and looked down at the 
agent, taking in again the pale and drawn features.  He rested his hands on the rail and 
raised his eyes to look across at her.

He cleared his throat and said, "I was an ASAC in Chicago.  I'd had some successes.  
Things were going pretty well for me.  My regional SAC recommended me to 
Headquarters.  There was this case that was making the national news.  A serial murderer 
who had the Behavioral Sciences people stumped, along with every cop in the DC metro 
area and suburbs.  I was assigned to it as one of two ASAC's."

He took a deep breath and tried to remember how it had been.  How he'd felt.  How 
excited and frightened he'd been.  

"It was April of 1985.  I was loaned out to Headquarters so I packed my bags and drove 
from Chicago to DC.  They'd started forming the Bureau team when it became clear that 
the UNSUB was not only very serious, but also out for attention.  Attention of the worst 
kind."

Scully looked confused so he waited for the inevitable question.

"But, sir, 1985 was the year Mulder joined the Bureau."

He couldn't help feeling proud of her.  No one could accuse Scully of being slow on the 
up-take.  "That's right.  Trainee Fox Mulder showed up at Quantico in late April of that 
year.  And he was still a trainee when he got involved in the DC Murders case.  When I 
got him involved."

He couldn't stand still anymore so turned and headed to the end of the room, then turned 
again and walked back.  He needed to move -- to burn off the excess energy he was 
feeling.  He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back against a wall.  He looked 
across the room to Scully and saw she was watching him intently.

"Scully, I bet you didn't know this.  When Mulder started out a trainee, he went by his 
first name."  

The look of disbelief on her face was expected.

"Really.  He went by the name Fox.  I kid you not."

He pushed himself off the wall and went back to the other side of the bed, across from 
Scully.  He laid one hand on Mulder's arm, just for a moment, then gripped the rail again.  

Scully's voice interrupted his reverie.  "That's difficult to imagine, sir."

He looked up and smiled at her and was suddenly tired.  Weary.  He walked around the 
bed and sank back down next to her.  The smile still lingered when he said, "He was 
pretty unremarkable at first.  Just another trainee."

He grinned even wider when he said, "The instructors put him at the top of their jock list, 
initially, but they figured out pretty quickly they had more than just a good athlete."

He remembered the stories he'd been told and conjured up the image he recalled of a 
young and cocky Fox Mulder, taking great delight in showing off his athletic prowess 
and intelligence.  The typical practical jokes the trainees took such pride in at Quantico 
developed an all new degree of sophistication under Fox Mulder's influence.

He shook his head and closed his eyes.  Almost thirteen years.  Jesus, it didn't seem like it 
could possibly have been that long ago.

*******************************************


August 25, 1986
Monday, 1:53 p.m.
Chicago Bureau, Chicago, Illinois


Walter Skinner's boss gestured for him to close the door and sit down.  He nodded to 
Sam Plinsky, his SAC, and took his accustomed place, a bit disconcerted at the 
unexpected meeting.  As far as he knew, he hadn't screwed anything up lately.  

SAC Plinsky was staring at him, with an assessing look on his face.  "Walter, you've been 
with me here for what -- three years?"

He nodded nervously, feeling as if somehow a threat had been made, and said, "That's 
right, sir." 

Plinsky leaned back in his chair and picked up a pen from his desk.  He started playing 
with it in a familiar habit well known to anyone who'd ever sat across from him.  

Skinner cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his seat.  His boss looked up at him 
again finally.  "You've done excellent work here, Walter.  You're going to go far."  The 
man grinned then and added, "I've recommended you to HQ.  They've got a big case that 
I think you'll be perfect for.  You're being transferred there temporarily."

His boss stood up then and leaned across the desk, his right hand stretched out.  Walter 
stood, pride and excitement warring with one another, and shook hands with his boss.  
"Thank you, sir.  I appreciate the opportunity."

Plinsky smiled at him again.  "I always said you'd go far, Walter.  This is your shot."  He 
leaned forward then and said, with a conspiratorial wink, "Don't fuck it up."

*******************************************


August 27, 1986
Wednesday, 8:21 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC


Skinner strode up the steps of the J. Edgar Hoover Building with a confidence bolstered 
predominantly by adrenaline and caffeine.  He'd been riding high for the past day and a 
half and had wasted no time in packing his few essential belongings before heading off 
for DC.  Sharon hadn't been particularly happy with the assignment, but he knew it was 
the break he'd been needing.  They'd been married for three years now and she still didn't 
seem to understand what it meant for him to be an FBI field agent.

He ran his right hand through his hair, smoothing it back over his forehead and regretted 
not taking the time to get it cut before leaving Chicago.  He dropped his hand to his hip 
then and ran it over his weapon.  The gesture was practically a caress.  He couldn't 
imagine not having the comforting weight there.  

He checked in with the security guard at the front desk and was directed to his new 
SAC's office.  From everything he'd heard, SAC Darien Keenan was being groomed for 
an AD position.  His jacket was spotless and he held the record for best solve rate in the 
VCS.  Up to now, at least.  

Skinner meandered through the halls, following the directions he'd been given until he 
came to a glassed-in office right outside a bullpen area.  Agents worked busily, both 
singly and in groups, many of them with a phone to their ears.  He stopped in front of the 
door and paused before knocking.  The shade in the door was pulled down and he could 
just make out his reflection in the glass.  He tilted his head from left to right to make sure 
he was presentable and grimaced slightly to himself at the lingering bruise on his chin.  
He'd just taken up boxing and hadn't fared very well his first time in the ring.  He enjoyed 
the sport, but knew that until he bulked up a bit, he'd be spending a lot of time on his ass.  
Oh well, nothing he could do about it now.

He took a deep breath and tapped on the door lightly.  He strained his head to the right so 
he could see the man inside through the glass next to the door.  Keenan looked up and 
waved him in.  

He entered the office, closing the door behind him, and waited patiently for the man to 
give him some indication of what to do.  The SAC was in his early forties, with a Robert 
Redford kind of look about him.  The man just stared at him for several long seconds and 
then gestured towards the only free chair.  

Keenan still hadn't said a word to him and now sat staring down at a file on his desk.  
Skinner shifted in his seat, wondering just what the hell the man was waiting for.  After 
another thirty or so extremely uncomfortable seconds, he cleared his throat and shifted in 
his seat again.  

Without even looking up or shifting a muscle, the man said, "Haven't you ever heard that 
patience is a virtue, Mr. Skinner?"

He froze, gripping the arms of his chair tightly.  Shit!  Not a good way to start.

"It wasn't intended to be rhetorical, Mr. Skinner."

Well, damned if he did, damned if he didn't.  Now he was just starting to get pissed.  
"Yes, I have, sir."

The SAC looked up at him then, one eyebrow raised.  "I was just reading through your 
jacket, Mr. Skinner."  The older man flipped a page, almost indolently, then continued, 
"Impressive."

He nodded and said, "Thank you, sir."

"Wasn't giving you a compliment.  Just stating facts."

He clenched his jaw and counted to three.  "Yes, sir."

Another page flipped by.

"What do you know about this case?"

"Not much, sir.  I know the Bureau was contacted for a serial case a little over two weeks 
ago, after police from Arlington, Falls Church, and Alexandria started comparing notes.  
They determined their respective unsolved cases were tied together."

"That it?"

"Yes, sir, pretty much."  His voice was harder when he continued, "I haven't been briefed 
yet, sir."

The pages stopped flipping, the head raised, eyebrow along with it.  "You do read the 
paper, don't you Mr. Skinner?" 

Now he really was getting angry.  "Yes, sir, I do.  However, I'm from Chicago and this 
hasn't really gotten much press there.  Sir."

Keenan flipped the file closed and leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out in front of 
him.  Then linked his hands and dropped them to his lap.  "Fair enough."  The man was 
staring at him again and he felt like he was under the magnifying glass.  "Do you know 
what it is I want from you?"

He opened his mouth, ready to answer the obvious, then stopped and reconsidered.  After 
a long pause, he said, "I would assume you want someone who can think for themselves 
to help run the investigation.  Someone who doesn't have to ask your permission every 
time he has to take a piss."

He couldn't help throwing it in.  He'd already decided this case wasn't going to be for 
him.  Might as well go out in style, dammit.  And then the most amazing thing happened.  
Keenan smiled at him, and even chuckled.

"You're right, of course.  I can't stand kiss-ups and incompetents.  Okay ... Walter, is it?"

He nodded, still slightly shocked at the fact the man had smiled at him.

"All right, Walter.  You're going to be my second ASAC on this.  I've been putting my 
team together for the past week.  I'll introduce you to my other ASAC now, Doug Astren.  
He's been with me for two years.  The two of you can work out assignments and fill in 
any gaps we might have in personnel."

The man stood so quickly, Walter jerked back a bit in surprise.  He stood as well and was 
surprised again by the hand stuck out in front of him.  He shook firmly and looked 
Keenan in the eye.  The man said, "Good to have you on board, Walter.  Call me Darien."

Then the SAC was heading out the door then and he was rushing to follow, still in a bit of 
a stupor.  The man was going to keep him on his toes, that was for sure.

*******************************************

An hour later, he and Doug Astren were reviewing the cases and evidence gathered thus 
far.  Doug was a few years older than he and had a similar build -- a muscular slimness 
that spoke of controlled power.  Doug had wavy light brown hair cut short and a neat 
mustache.  They had files, photos, forensics reports, and profiles scattered across three 
tables in a small room down the hall from the bullpen. He felt overwhelmed by both the 
brutality the assailants had shown as well as the seeming randomness of it all.

"All right, let me see if I understand this.  We have Victim 1, Alan Hanover, single white 
male, thirty-six year old engineer, unemployed, living in Alexandria, who was murdered 
in his own home during the middle of the day."  The smiling face of the victim looked at 
him from the photo in his hand.  He dropped it down on the stack and rummaged through 
the pile for a crime scene photo.  Blood was smeared on walls and furniture, as if painted 
with a brush.

"Victim 2 was some two months later, body dumped in Falls Church, murder location 
unknown, fifteen year old white female, Lorri Kiley."  This one had been a sophomore in 
high school, popular and pretty with no enemies.  The body was dumped behind a 
Catholic church and the crime scene photo showed the body laid out as if for burial.

"Victim 3, two months later, Jesse Smith, twenty-four year old married black male, 
missing from place of employment, a music store in Arlington, body found across the 
street from the public library in an alley."  He reached out for the victim's wedding 
picture, the bride a beautiful young Hispanic woman who could have been on the cover 
of any magazine.  Smith had been discarded in pieces, his body hacked apart by 
something on the order of a dull ax.

He took a deep breath and sighed in frustration, then continued.  "Each death a 
completely different M. O., each seemingly having nothing to do with the others."  He 
reached out and picked up a plastic bag with a note, then located the other two.  "Except 
for the notes."

He looked over at Doug and shook his head.  "Jesus.  How'd they find out they had a 
match across the cities?"

The man was slouched down in his chair, looking quite drained.  "Falls Church PD 
initiated a request for information from DC and surrounding areas on any cases with 
similarities to their own.  An Arlington D picked up on it -- a Detective Rafi Martinez.  
You'll meet him tomorrow.  Once Martinez and Mary O'Shea -- that's the D from Falls 
Church -- once they got together, they knew they had something.  They figured 
something might have slipped through the cracks in other cities so they arranged for 
personal calls and tracked down the Alexandria case."

Doug yawned and looked at his watch, then said, "You know, Walt, I need coffee.  I've 
been cramming on this for the past twenty-plus hours.  Come on, let me give you the 
tour."

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 3 of the Wait
Sunday, 1:15 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner felt the weariness tugging at him and decided it was time for a caffeine jolt.  He 
turned to look at Scully and said, "How about coffee?  If you're going to keep after me to 
tell this I need some refreshment."

He'd said it lightly, but a part of him was grasping at any excuse to avoid taking this 
particular trip down memory lane, even if he had been the one to initiate it.

"Thank you, sir.  That would be nice."

He gave her a tight smile and stood slowly, pausing for a moment to look at Mulder.  The 
nurses had been moving in and out of the room on a regular basis to check various 
indicators.  They would jot notes on Mulder's records and then wander out again, without 
a word.  One of them was across the bed now, leaning over a machine.  She seemed 
satisfied by whatever she'd seen, nodded to them and left.  Mulder seemed to be holding 
his own, at least for now.  He prayed the man would have the strength to make it back to 
them.

He turned back to Scully and said, "Be back soon," then headed for the door.  He had a 
feeling it was going to be a very long night.

*******************************************

Scully watched her former boss leave the room and then turned her gaze back to Mulder.  
She stood up, never letting go of his hand, and leaned over the bed, propping her elbows 
on the rails.  She took in the pale features, the blood soaked bandages.  The wires and 
tubes that sustained and monitored him.  And despite the familiarity of the circumstances, 
she knew also it was so very different.  He'd been near death in Alaska.  That recovery 
had been a tenuous and long one and for a week she waited to see whether he would live 
or die.  

But still, it was so very different.  Different because back then, despite the closeness she 
felt to him -- the trust and the friendship -- even the love, she knew it was a different tie 
that binded them now.  A different kind of love and a trust hard won through ice and fire.  

But despite their newfound closeness, there was a distance that had wormed its way into 
their lives.  She was honest enough to recognize that they had both let it happen.  Perhaps 
out of fear, or just weariness.  It wasn't like they'd ever been the kind of people to share 
midnight secrets or intimate details of their hopes and dreams.  But lately it had become 
even worse. Their lives had become such a struggle in the last year that it was all they 
could do to find one simple thing to smile about each day.  It was much easier to let the 
unknown be.  Let it stay firmly in its box until the time was right.  Pretend that all was 
well and that time would solve all their problems.  But now they might possibly have 
waited too long.  Time had quite possible turned on them -- becoming the bringer of 
death and the destroyer of dreams.

She shook her head and closed her eyes tightly, trying to banish the thoughts that had 
taken residence in her soul.  She looked down at her friend again and reached her right 
hand out.  She trailed her fingers across his forehead, then down his cheek, avoiding the 
bandage above his left eyebrow.  

It was a face she'd come to know so well.  Better even then her own.  Yet she realized 
that she knew little about the man behind it.  The journey of his life that had brought him 
to her six years before.  She had only stray remarks and occasional insights upon which 
to build her understanding.  One of them came to her now, out of the blue, as if they were 
still standing in a pasture in the town of Home, the smell of manure, dirt, and growing 
things filling their nostrils. 

'Pick up games on the Vineyard.  The only place we had to be was home by dinner.'

He'd looked happy and content then, remembering a time when life was as it should have 
been.  She was filled suddenly with the desire to know more.  To know what he'd been 
like, what he thought, what he wanted out of life.  

She leaned forward even more over the rails and whispered, "Who are you, Fox Mulder?  
I'd really like to know."

*******************************************

Skinner balanced the coffees awkwardly and paused at the door, watching as Scully stood 
unmoving by her partner's side.  He'd known her for almost five years now.  Five fucking 
years of one disaster after another.  And yet, somehow, she and Mulder had survived and 
were stronger than ever.  It couldn't end this way.  He felt it more strongly than ever 
before.  They deserved a chance at happiness.

He clenched his jaw and concentrated on getting past the flare of anger that had 
momentarily overcome him, then made his way into the room.  She turned at the sound, 
looking startled.  He kept his voice low and steady when he said, "Sorry it took so long, I 
had to search a bit.  They were out in the CCU Waiting Room."

He reached a hand out and offered her the foam cup, then smiled back at her when she 
thanked him.

They sat companionably, without speaking for several long minutes.  Then she broke the 
silence by saying, "So how did Mulder get involved in the case, sir?"

He was thoughtful, remembering the sequence of events.  "It was about a week and a half 
or so after I came on board.  But you need to know a bit more about the case before you 
can appreciate how it happened and why."

*******************************************


August 27, 1986
Wednesday, 7:23 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC


His first day had been a long one and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd made a horrible 
mistake in accepting this assignment.  Walter Skinner stood and looked around the small 
room that had been lent to him as a temporary office.  Not even 10' by 10' with no 
windows, the walls were already starting to close in on him.  Of course, at least he had 
walls, which was something of an improvement over a desk in a crowded bullpen.  

His initial enthusiasm had given way almost immediately to an overwhelming 
apprehension.  It had become clear that this case would be the most challenging of his 
career.  Three murders, each one individually horrifying, but written off initially as 
typical for the DC area.  What looked to be a robbery gone bad, an apparently sexually 
motivated strangulation, and a sick dismemberment.  No law enforcement officer in the 
country would ever group them together.  But the notes changed all the rules.  The notes 
changed everything.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, stretching them out in front of him.  He 
reached out to the piles on the desk and picked up a copy of the first note, which had 
been sent to the Alexandria PD two weeks after Hanover's murder.  It had arrived in a 
plain white envelope with no return address, and a postmark from downtown DC.  It 
read:


Play the Game, if you choose.
But I will win.  You will lose.
You are stupid, I am smart.
To play with me requires heart.
Shooting's easy, shooting's fun.
Can you guess why he's the one?


The Alexandria PD were certainly curious about the note, but weren't able to definitively 
connect it to any of their outstanding homicides. They sent it to the crime labs for 
analysis, then hung onto it.  When Detectives Martinez and O'Shea contacted them about 
murders that were similar to theirs, Detective George Haftka remembered the note and 
was able to connect it to their still unsolved male shooting victim of months before.

Note two had been sent to the Falls Church PD a week after Lorri Kiley was discovered.  
It read:


A beauty she was, a beauty for sure.
A virgin she wasn't, her spirit impure.
Blonde and beautiful but stupid as rock.
The clock's ticking fast -- tick tock, tick tock.
Gunshot, strangulation, what's it about?
Do you have what it takes to figure it out?


The police immediately connected the note with their ongoing investigation into the girl's 
murder, but weren't able to obtain any forensic evidence from the note -- no fingerprints, 
no indication as to who might have sent it.  The words were cut out of popular magazines 
and pasted onto a sheet of typing paper, of the sort sold at any office supply store.  The 
glue was a common brand that could have been purchased anywhere.  With no traceable 
evidence, they sent it off to the Bureau for a more in-depth analysis.  The FBI Labs were 
able to provide no further details.

Then came the third note, sent to the Arlington PD a week after Jesse Smith's remains 
were found.  It read:


The Game's afoot and you're nowhere around,
I'm way ahead as the idiocy abounds.
An ax was messy, I must admit,
But not enough to call it quits.
Perfect he seemed, but it's all just a lie,
You won't catch me, whatever you try. 


Not getting many ax murders in their fine city, the Arlington Detectives also immediately 
recognized the connection to their ongoing case.  Following much the same actions as the 
Falls Church PD, with the same results, they also ended up sending the note to the 
Bureau.  By coincidence, the same analyst received both notes and informed the 
Detectives in each case that they seemed to have a serial murderer on their hands.

Walter shook his head in disgust and threw the copies of the notes back on his desk.  He 
leaned back further in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.  It had definitely seen better 
days.  The plaster was cracked here and there, with parts of the ceiling appearing to be on 
the verge of imminent collapse.  Gotta love this place.

He sat forward and looked around the room, searching for his belongings.  Definitely 
time to call it a day.  His head was pounding and his eyes were starting to cross.  He 
stood wearily and rubbed them, wondering if it was time to think about getting glasses.  
Jesus, you're getting old, Walter.

A sharp bang sounded and he jerked around, eyes flying to the door.  Doug was there, a 
grin on his face.

"You got it figured out yet, Walter?"

He looked at the man and couldn't help the snort of mock disgust.

"You've only given me twelve hours.  Gotta at least let me catch up to you, first."

Doug shook his head wearily and said, "No can do.  We have an appointment.  Grab your 
jacket and let's go.  Detectives Martinez and O'Shea will be meeting us in about a half 
hour at the Falls Church PD.  Detective Haftka can't work us in until tomorrow.  Bright 
and early -- 7 a.m.  Gotta love shift work, huh?"

He realized he'd been staring at Doug in complete and utter shock and quickly closed his 
mouth, teeth clicking loudly.  He'd just decided to call it a day and here Doug was 
proposing another several hours tonight, with another meeting at the crack of dawn.  
Didn't the man ever sleep?

"You okay, Walter?"

He pulled himself together and nodded, then gathered his belongings silently.  It was 
quite an adjustment, but one he was ready to make.  He knew he was up to this.  It was 
the break he'd been hoping for his entire career.  He pulled on his suit jacket and 
straightened his tie, then stuffed files into his briefcase.  He glanced at his watch and 
realized he owed Sharon a call, but decided it could wait for a few more hours.  He 
looked over at his co-ASAC and nodded, then said, "I'm ready.  Let's go."  And he knew 
that he was ready for more than just this meeting.  He was ready to attack this case with 
every ounce of his being.  

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 3 of the Wait
Sunday, 1:54 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


A nurse came into the room and quickly made the rounds, checking various indicators.  
Skinner saw her frown and sat up straighter to watch what the woman was doing.  She 
left the room silently and only moments later, came back in with a doctor.  Scully was 
standing now and he forced himself to his feet to stand next to her.  The doctor hadn't 
said a word to them, and was now bent over Mulder, checking him over.

Skinner glanced quickly at Scully, then decided he couldn't wait any longer.  "Is he okay?  
Is something wrong?"

The doctor glanced across the bed at him, his eyes flicking quickly to the woman 
standing tensely beside him.  The man finished checking the gunshot wound, replacing 
the bandages carefully, then stood straighter.

As he stripped off latex gloves, the doctor said, "His temperature's up.  We're concerned 
about infection.  We have him on an aggressive treatment of broad spectrum antibiotics 
already.  The fact is his system's seriously compromised.  We'll keep monitoring 
closely."

Skinner nodded and watched as they left the room.  He caught a glimpse of a woman 
standing out in the hall and knew he had to go out to talk with her.  He turned to Scully 
and paused, not sure what to say to her.  She was leaning over her partner, her right hand 
on his forehead, her left holding his hand.  She was whispering so softly he couldn't hear 
her words.  He decided she probably wouldn't notice if he wasn't there anyway, so headed 
towards the hall.

The woman he'd caught a glimpse of was standing by the nurses counter, speaking with 
one of the women behind it.  He walked over quickly and said, "Mrs. Scully?"

She looked worried and drawn, but relieved to see someone who'd answer her questions.

"Hello, Mr. Skinner.  They won't tell me anything.  How is Fox?"

He reached out a hand to her shoulder and pulled her gently towards the room where 
Dana waited.  

"He's hanging in there, Mrs. Scully."

She stopped outside the room and turned towards him, arms crossed, insistent on learning 
the truth.

"What does that mean exactly?"

He could face down killers and bureaucrats, but he knew that lying to this woman just 
wasn't something he could pull off.  He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes, knowing he'd 
have to tell her the truth.  He leaned against the glass window and looked in at his two 
former agents.  Without turning, he said, "It means that it could still go either way.  And 
he's not getting any better.  In fact, he seems to be slipping a bit."

He looked back at her and saw that she, too, had been looking in the window.  It struck 
him then that he'd never seen her smile.  He'd seen her at one hospital after another, while 
either Scully or Mulder lay injured or dying.  It was an unnerving thought.

She turned to him and asked, "How's Dana?"

He clenched his jaw, then said, "As well as can be expected.  She'll be glad to have you 
here."  He looked down at her and gestured to his right.  "I'm going down the hall for a 
few minutes."  She took a deep breath and nodded at him before lifting her hand to push 
at the door.  He watched through the window as she walked to Scully and stopped next to 
her.  They both seemed so small.  Mrs. Scully lifted her hand to her daughter's shoulder 
and a moment later had her arms wrapped around her sobbing daughter.  He turned away 
then, knowing that the best thing he could do for them all was to give them some time.  
He just hoped Mulder had enough of it to spare.

*******************************************

A half hour later, Skinner walked back down the hall, and stopped to look in the window 
of Mulder's room.  The rail on the near side of the bed had been lowered and Scully sat 
with head on crossed arms, her right hand reaching out to grip the fingers of Mulder's left 
hand.  Margaret Scully sat next to her daughter, her right hand on her daughter's back, 
moving in slow circles.  He moved to the door and pushed slowly, then moved to the 
other side of the bed.  He pulled the single free chair closer to the bed and sat, meeting 
Margaret Scully's eyes with his own.  

He tried to smile at her but had a feeling it probably came off as a sick grimace.  He 
glanced to the left and saw that Scully was pushing herself up, evidently not asleep after 
all.  Her eyes were red and puffy, but clear as she looked across her partner at him.

"Sir, thank you for calling."

He glanced at Margaret quickly once more and said, "No problem, Agent Scully."  He 
turned his gaze back to Mulder and tried to convince himself the man looked better.  

Scully's voice interrupted his thoughts when she said, "His temperature's gone up.  He's 
weakening.  They might have to put him on a ventilator."

He licked his lips nervously and gripped the chair arms tightly.  What could he say, after 
all?  The silence stretched long, each of them lost in their own thoughts.  He found 
himself staring at Mulder's face, wondering what the man's life would have been like if 
he hadn't allowed the him to become involved in the DC Murders case all those years 
ago.  Would Mulder be happy?  Would he be married with kids, a dog, and a mortgage?  

Scully must have been thinking similar thoughts because she said, "Sir, from what you've 
told me about the DC Murders case, I can see some similarities to this one.  Do you think 
it somehow influenced Mulder?  Was it something about that case that made him go in 
without backup?  I still don't understand."

He pulled his eyes away from Mulder's pale and frighteningly lifeless face to focus on 
Scully.  He sat up straighter in his seat and nodded, thinking again about the monsters 
that hid behind masks of normality, only to come out to wreak havoc on so many lives.

*******************************************


September 2, 1986
Tuesday, 10:12 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC


Walter looked around the room wearily.  It had been a week of hell.  The downtown DC 
cops had reported receiving a note that matched the M. O. they'd advertised to the metro 
area.  Walter and Doug had immediately responded, along with several of their team 
members.  With the aid of the DC Detectives, they'd tracked down the homicide that 
matched the note.  It was another bizarre one.

Victim 4 was Ellen Haggerston, a fifty-six year old happily married elementary school 
teacher.  She'd ultimately died of a knife thrust to the heart, although there had been a 
total of fifteen stab wounds about the body.  As with Alan Hanover's death in Alexandria, 
the police originally thought the murder a result of a frustrated burglar.  They knew they 
were wrong when they received the note a week later.  

Walter picked up the copy and read it again.


The Game has rules, I know them well.
It's elementary, truth to tell.
You're all so slow, you haven't a clue.
Better learn fast to know what to do.
I'm way ahead, if we're keeping track.
You just can't win, 'cause I'll be back.


They'd managed to tie it to the death of the elementary school teacher, but had no idea 
why she'd be the target of a serial killer.  Actually, the team had no idea why any of these 
people would be a target for a serial killer.  There was absolutely nothing tying them 
together.  None of the victims knew each other,  None of them lived in the same city, 
went to the same church, had the same doctor.  Nothing.  There was nothing obvious to 
link them or to suggest a motivation for their deaths.  

They'd already had two of the Bureau's analysts strike out in coming up with any kind of 
reasonable profile so had made arrangements to go to Quantico.  Bill Patterson had 
consented to review the case with them personally.

Walter stacked the files and papers as neatly as he could and pushed himself up from the 
desk wearily.  He gathered his belongings and stuffed all the important files into his 
briefcase.  They had to be at Quantico tomorrow by eight so it would be an early start in 
the morning.  He pulled his overcoat off the back of a chair and draped it over his elbow.  

He flicked the light out on his way to the hall and stopped a few offices down.  Doug was 
fast asleep, his head and arms draped over his desk awkwardly.  Walter stepped in and 
put his briefcase down, then leaned forward to shake his fellow ASAC -- not so gently.

"Hey, Doug.  Time to go home."

Doug jerked upright, and blinked owlishly in the bright fluorescent lighting.

"What time is it?"

"Time for us both to head out."

He ignored the dirty look and added, "It's about 10:30.  Come on, I'll drop you off."

He waited as the man gathered his things slowly, then preceded Doug into the hallway.

"So what time we leaving tomorrow, Walt?"

"How about if I pick you up at seven?  Will that give you enough time to get your beauty 
rest?"

"Ha ha, asshole.  Seriously, why so early?  It's forty minutes to Quantico."

"I know that, but I want to drop in on an old friend of mine before our meeting with 
Patterson.  He's teaching there now."

"Yeah?  What's he teach?"

"He's with Violent Crimes and usually gives two or three of the VC lessons to the new 
classes. He's not an official analyst, but I've always respected his instincts."

Doug just nodded to him, not even questioning his proposal.  They drove in 
companionable silence until they reached Doug's apartment.  The man climbed out of the 
car and then turned back to lean down.

"See you tomorrow at 7, Walt?"

"Sure thing.  Bright and early."

*******************************************

The next morning, the ride south to Quantico was relatively traffic free, with most 
everyone fighting to drive into the city instead of out of it.  Doug was in a good mood, 
going on and on about his three year old daughter's latest exploits.  

"I swear she remembers everything.  Every little detail.  She's going to be a crack Agent 
when she grows up."

Walter merely smiled, the thought of children still somewhat foreign to him. He and 
Sharon had discussed it, but decided the time just wasn't right. He only had time for one 
thing in his life right now.  His career came first and so did hers.  

"Hey, Walt?"

"Yeah."

"Ever think about what happens if we can't solve this case?"

The question caught him by surprise.  One minute they were talking about Doug's kid, 
the next about the potential end of their careers.

"It's not an option.  We have to solve it.  That's all there is to it."

Doug snorted and said, "Just like that, huh?  Well I have news for you, Walt.  Things 
aren't lookin' too good for the home team right about now."

He grinned wryly before answering.  "Hey, we've only been on the case a little over a 
week.  I think it's a bit early to be talking about failure just yet, don't you?"

Doug actually squirmed in his seat, then said thoughtfully, "I understand.  But this case ... 
Walt, you know as well as I do that this is something completely different.  This bastard's 
too smart.  Too ... savvy.  Like he knows all the rules and is intentionally rewriting them 
just to taunt us."

He gripped the wheel a bit more tightly, uncomfortable with the discussion.  Failure had 
never been an option for him.  It didn't fit within his frame of reference and it disturbed 
him that Doug would even be having such doubts.  Finally he said, "We'll get him, Doug.  
We will.  It just might take a little time."

His fellow ASAC sank into the seat a bit deeper, and responded in a resigned voice.  "I 
hope you're right, Walt.  I really do."

The rest of the trip was made in an uncomfortable silence.

*******************************************

Walter looked at his watch and decided he'd have a good half hour or so to meet with 
Dean before the man started his class.  He turned to his fellow ASAC and said, "Come 
on, let's get to the lecture hall.  I told Dean I'd meet him there."

The room was pretty much the same as he'd remembered it, with the exception of being 
updated with more advanced AV equipment.  It was the smaller auditorium style room 
that seated about one hundred in seven neat rows.  Walt entered from the front of the 
room and glanced around, finally seeing his old acquaintance in the back.  He gestured 
for Doug to follow him and took the steps two at a time.

Special Agent Dean Waring stood just shy of six feet, was slim and boyish looking, with 
light brown hair, and a wild tie that brightened up his otherwise boring outfit.  The man 
smiled as Walter reached him.

"Dean, it's good to see you again.  It's been a while."

He gestured towards Doug and introduced the two men.  "This is Doug Astren, my fellow 
ASAC on the DC serial case.  Doug, Dean Waring."

The shorter man smiled and stretched his hand out to shake with both men.  "Good to see 
you again Walt.  Nice to meet you, Doug."

Walter hefted his briefcase and said, "Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure, let's come in here."  Dean gestured to the AV Control room in the back of the 
auditorium, then swung the door open.

Walter started pulling files out immediately, laying the most pertinent reports out, side by 
side.  He stepped back then, letting Dean review the material at his leisure.  He took the 
time to look out into the auditorium.  The students were starting to straggle in, in ones 
and twos.  It was a mixed group, with new trainees as well as the cops attending the 
National Academy mixed together.  

A ruckus up at the front caught his attention and he watched as two of the younger male 
students tossing what appeared to be a racquetball around the room.  The goal was 
evidently to see how many walls they could hit and still have it return to them.  They 
obviously made a mistake as the ball bounced off a wall and whacked another trainee in 
the head.  The kid then grabbed the ball and threw it, as if it were a basketball, some forty 
feet across the room and directly into a trash can.  He then blew on his hand in an 
obvious 'I'm so hot' gesture and gave them a wide grin.

Walter shook his head, partly in disgust and partly in appreciation.  It had been a while 
since he'd gone through training and could remember the antics of both students and 
cops.  The pressures of the coursework, coupled with the intense physical challenges 
could drive a person to the very edge.  Any chance to blow off some steam was taken 
advantage of.

It now seemed that the cocky kid was being challenged to repeat his performance.  
Several of those below were egging him on, slapping him on the shoulder and giving him 
other encouraging gestures.  The kid stood up again, glanced around the room, and 
moved even farther back.  Walter had to admire the kid's panache.

Even with the door to the small room closed, Walter knew there was dead silence down 
below.  The kid froze for a moment, then raised his hands and tossed the ball in one fluid 
motion.  It sailed across the room in an arc that was obviously too high.  The kid still 
wore a cocky grin on his face, though and Walter watched as the ball hit a wall, came off 
at an angle to bounce directly in the trash can.  As if time froze, no one in the room below 
moved for a long second or two.  Then pandemonium broke out.

Walter shook his head and glanced to his left.  Dean and Doug had evidently also 
watched the performance below.  He gestured out the window and asked Dean, "Who's 
the hotshot jock?"

"Believe it or not, probably the smartest kid in the class.  Name's Fox Mulder.  First 
week, he blew the pants off his fellows in the obstacle course.  Everyone took him for a 
brainless brawn type.  Until the first serious lecture that demanded some interaction and 
independent thought, that is.  Gave even the seasoned cops a run for their money.  This is 
my third lecture series to this group and it was obvious from day one that boy's going to 
graduate top of his class."

Walter stared at the kid for another moment, taking in the lanky form, the too long hair 
and the cocky smirk.  "Boy looks like trouble to me."

Dean laughed and slapped him on the arm.  "You're getting to be an old fuddy duddy 
already, Walt."  In a more serious tone he said, "Look, I have about five minutes.  Let's 
talk about this quickly."

They turned back to the table and Dean gestured to the photos he'd laid out.  "This is too 
strange.  No way in hell would anyone assume these are done by the same person.  I'm 
wondering if you've thought about multiples?  Maybe a gang?  This could be some sort 
of strange initiation.  I doubt you'll be able to find anything to tie your vics together.  
Looks to me like they're chosen randomly."

Walter and Doug exchanged puzzled frowns before he said, "The notes clearly relate to 
the victim's lives or background in some way.  They imply that a knowledge of the 
victim's lives is known a priori."

"Not really.  He or they know something before they send the note.  That doesn't 
necessarily mean they knew it before they killed the victims.  The notes come a week or 
more later, right?  Plenty of time to find out something about the person before 
constructing the note."

For the first time, Walter felt truly uneasy -- and stupid.  Neither he nor Doug had 
considered such an obvious fact.

"But if we can't use the notes to figure out who the UNSUB is, the victims have nothing 
to do with one another, he has no clear M. O., and he's too smart to leave any evidence, 
how the hell are we supposed to catch the bastard?  Or bastards?"

Dean looked at him apologetically and said in a tentative tone, "Luck out and catch him 
in the act?"

He was shocked by the realization that Doug's earlier negativity might actually be right.  
They might actually fail.  They might be completely unable to catch this bastard.

Dean interrupted his thoughts by saying, "Look, sorry to run out on you but I need to get 
down there.  Feel free to contact me on this, okay?  If you can give me some files, I'll 
review them in greater detail."

As if sensing the disappointment in the room he added, "You never know, guys.  These 
kinds of cases -- it's sometimes plain dumb luck that solves them and sometimes it's plain 
old detective work.  I've seen enough of them to know that you can never know.  You 
have to follow every lead and explore every option.  Listen, give me a ring and we'll talk 
again, okay?"

Walter nodded and shook hands with the man silently, then watched through the window 
as he made his way to the front of the class.  He turned to Doug and leaned back against 
the glass window, suddenly exhausted.

"Time to talk to Patterson, huh?"

Doug merely nodded agreement, looking every bit as tired as he himself felt.  "Got a bad 
feeling about this one, Walt."

He sighed and nodded in return.  "I know what you mean, Doug, I know what you mean."

The lights had been dimmed in the room below.  He turned and looked out the window as 
the slide projector next to him clicked over.  Dean stood at the lectern with a pointer 
aimed at the image on the screen below.  The half clad body of a woman was displayed, 
obviously dead, with crime scene tape in the background and various police officers 
standing around in bored detachment.  Blood covered the body as well as the surrounding 
ground.  The slide projector clicked again and suddenly he was seeing a close up of the 
woman's face.  Tear tracks showed quite clearly that the woman had undergone horrible 
torture prior to death.  

He was filled with outrage and frustration at the knowledge that somewhere out there, the 
UNSUB was laughing at them.  Taunting them with notes.  Challenging them with every 
murder.  And he wasn't at all sure that there was anything he could do about it.  

He felt older suddenly.  It had been a long week already and he knew -- really knew -- 
that they had a long way to go before this case would be brought to any closure.  He sent 
a silent prayer to the Lord above to help him keep focused.  To help him see what he 
needed to see so he could do what he needed to do.  He glanced down into the classroom 
once more and saw yet another blood covered body on display.  He was sick of the sight, 
but knew he'd see plenty more before this case was done.

*******************************************

Present Day, Hour 4 of the Wait
Sunday, 2:43 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


She'd been listening to Skinner for the past two hours and despite the fuzziness that 
surrounded her found that she was interested in his story.

She turned to look at her mother and was reassured by her calm presence.  She looked 
across the bed then to Skinner.  He'd taken a break from his recollections to sip at the 
remains of a cup of coffee, and now wore a grimace of obvious distaste.  She smiled 
slightly at the sight, then dragged her head to the right to look at Mulder's face.

They'd moved him so that he was propped somewhat on his left side.  His head was 
turned towards her.  Normally they would have had him fully on his side, moving his 
position every 4-6 hours to avoid accumulation of fluid in the lungs, but his broken rib 
and wounds prevented this.  The best they could do was to prop him on foam triangular 
shaped pillows that raised his right side some six or seven inches.

He was so pale it seemed his skin was translucent.  A blood spotted bandage covered 
much of the left side of his face.  A sheet was pulled up to his shoulders, but she knew 
well the bruises, cuts and wounds it covered.  His arms rested on the top of the sheet, his 
right sporting an IV drip.  Wires from various sensors were attached to his chest and 
head, and sprouted from the sheet wildly.  He was motionless, his chest barely moving, 
and the sight once again caused fear to grip her.

She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and bit her lower lip.  All sound had faded 
so that she heard only the slow and struggling breaths Mulder managed under the oxygen 
mask.  Time seemed to slow as she raised her right hand to touch his forehead, careful to 
avoid the bandages. His skin felt as if it were on fire and she felt the heat emanating, 
even from inches away. Her heart lurched and her breathing sped up as she realized the 
implications of the fever.  She stroked his forehead softly and then trailed her finger 
down his cheek.  

She stared at her partner and tried to imagine the fresh-faced cocky kid of Skinner's story.  
A small smile made its way to her face as she pictured trainee Fox Mulder sinking the 
racquetball from some fifty feet away.  She could almost imagine the sly grin -- the high 
fives with his buddies -- his quiet pride.  She was filled with curiosity then about the 
carefree youth Skinner described.  She wanted to get to know that man.  She prayed she'd 
have the chance.

Her reverie was broken by movement from the bed.  For one electrifying second, she 
thought Mulder was wakening from the coma.  Then reality set in as alarms went off on 
three of the monitors in the room.  It started slowly, with her partner's right arm and leg 
shaking, gently at first and then more violently.  

She heard Skinner mumble "Shit" just before doctors and nurses poured into the room.  
The head nurse said, "You all need to step out.  Now."  There was no question about 
arguing.  Scully stood immediately and took a step backwards.  Then her mother was 
pulling on her arm and before she knew what had happened, she was in the hallway, with 
Skinner on one side and her mother on the other.

She was shaking so hard she could barely stand.  Skinner tried to pull her away, down the 
hallway to a waiting room, but she resisted.  She stared through the window at the 
activity inside.  He was seizing.  Her partner and best friend was completely consumed 
by a seizure, the convulsions causing his previously motionless body to jerk and twitch in 
sickeningly unnatural ways.  The question was why.  And she was terrified of what the 
answer might be.

She lost the battle to stay and watch, as Skinner and her mother finally managed to pull 
her away. The lights were dimmed throughout most of the ward, and they were the only 
visitors who'd been allowed to stay.  She was barely even cognizant of moving through 
the Critical Care ward and out the double doors that slammed behind them with a clang 
of finality. Then she found herself sitting on a couch, sandwiched between her mother 
and Skinner, and didn't even know how it had happened.  

Almost as if she had no control over her own body, she found herself leaning to the left 
and into her mother's embrace.  It felt safe.  It was reassuring.  She closed her eyes and 
willed herself away, to someplace else.  Willed herself to stop seeing the jerking body of 
her partner.  But no matter how tightly she closed her eyes, no matter how much she 
wanted to banish the sight, she was powerless to achieve the feat.  

*******************************************

Present Day, Hour 4 of the Wait
Sunday, 3:16 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


A doctor entered the Critical Care waiting room and sat down in the chair across from the 
couch.  Scully heard her boss call her name and dragged her eyes open. She'd been 
repeating the same words over and over to herself, whispering them in her mind.  'Don't 
let him die.  Don't let him die.'  As she focused on the man waiting across the room, her 
breath caught in fear.  

The older man was staring directly at her, as if somehow sensing the impact his words 
would have on her.  "Mrs. Mulder?"

She felt both her mother and Skinner shift and it was her former boss who actually spoke.  
"Agent Scully is Agent Mulder's partner with the FBI.  I'm Assistant Director Skinner.  
This is Dana's mother, Margaret Scully."

The man seemed surprised for just a moment and then went on.  "Mr. Mulder -- I mean 
Agent Mulder -- suffered convulsions in the extremities on his right side as a result of 
swelling of his brain due to the impact he'd received.  We'd hoped to avoid this, but were 
aware of the possibility."

It was what she'd surmised and now that her suspicion was confirmed, she began 
trembling in fear.  She understood what her mother and Skinner did not -- that in his 
already weakened state, her partner might not recover from the trauma to which his brain 
had been subjected.

She heard Skinner's voice as if it came to her through cotton.  "What does this mean?  
What now?"

"We may have to operate to reduce the pressure.  I want to avoid that if at all possible.  
At this point, I'm not sure if he's strong enough to handle that option."

Then her mother entered the discussion, her voice wavering just slightly.  "But if you 
wait, won't he possibly be weakened even further?"

There was a short silence then and Scully knew what it meant.  She answered her mother 
in a near whisper.  "He's saying that if they operate now, Mulder will die.  The only hope 
is that the swelling will reduce on its own or that Mulder will somehow regain enough 
strength so that they can operate."

The doctor looked uneasy but didn't deny her words.  He slipped forward in his seat and 
said, "I think it would be wise to get his family here.  As soon as possible."

She heard her mother breathe in sharply beside her and gripped her hand more tightly.  

Skinner spoke then and his voice seemed so very far away.  "I already spoke with his 
mother.  I'll contact her again."

Scully felt as though she were in a vat of water.  Every breath was a struggle, every 
sound was muffled.  Every move felt as if she were fighting against a resistance that 
required more energy than it was worth.  But she managed to say, "We are his family."  
She couldn't continue with the thought.  Instead she raised her hand to cover her face, not 
even aware of the drops that fell through her fingers.

Her mother pulled her close again and she went willingly, content this once to allow 
someone else to make decisions for her.  

She again heard Skinner's voice, as if it were coming from across the room and had to 
travel through yards of cotton, "When can we see him again?"

She managed to focus on the doctor finally.  He stood slowly, eyes on his linked hands, 
and said, "You can all go in now.  We're monitoring him, trying to bring down the fever 
and reduce the swelling with medication.  We'll just have to wait.  It might help to keep 
talking to him, though.  Let him know you're there."

The doctor left and she felt her arm being shaken lightly.  She looked up into Skinner's 
concerned eyes, and was overcome by a feeling of closeness to this man.  "Sir?"

"Come on, Scully.  Let's go see him.  Come on, now."

She nodded, unable to speak, and allowed herself to be pulled upright.  With stumbling 
steps, she made her way through the double doors and into the hall leading to the Critical 
Care ward.  It stretched long before them and it seemed to take forever to arrive back at 
the window that opened on his room. There were more wires -- more machines now, and 
one of them caused them all to freeze in their tracks.  He was no longer breathing on his 
own.  A ventilator forced air in and out of his lungs, in a mechanical attempt to cheat 
death.

The doctor's voice sounded behind them, unexpectedly.  "We wanted to help him 
preserve his strength as much as possible.  That's all."

She heard his footsteps lead away from them then and felt a pull on her arm once again.  
It was her mother this time, saying, "Let's go in, sweetheart.  Let's let him know we're 
here for him."

She nodded and took a shaky step towards the door. They weren't restricting visitors.  
They didn't care if all three of them stayed in Mulder's room.  She knew they'd already 
given up on her partner, but she wasn't ready to do that.  She couldn't give up on him.  
She'd never give up.

She couldn't sit yet.  She stood next to the bed, staring at the tubes and wires, the 
bandages and the blood that showed here and there.  They'd moved him yet again so that 
this time he was propped slightly on his right side.  She leaned forward, careful to avoid 
the machines and wires, and rested her elbows on the bed.  She gently laid her hands on 
his left arm and whispered to him, praying that somehow, some way, something would 
make its way through to him.

"Mulder, I won't give up on you and you can't give up on yourself.  You owe me some 
stories.  I have a feeling AD Skinner doesn't know everything about you from back then, 
when you were going through training, and I'd like to hear it from you directly.  Okay, 
Mulder?  You owe it to me, partner."

She sank down in the seat then, her hands still on Mulder's arm, and turned to her left to 
look at her mother.  She was filled with anger suddenly and had to clench her jaw tightly.  
She was angry at the circumstances, angry at herself for not being there, angry with 
Mulder for not waiting for backup.  Goddamn it!  God damn him for doing this to her.

Her mother seemed to sense her feelings -- her anger.  Maggie Scully raised her hand to 
caress her cheek gently.  Her mother said, "It's not your fault and it's not Fox's.  People 
are who they are.  You wouldn't want him to be any other way."

Her mother was right, she knew it, but it didn't really help.  "But it will get him killed and 
... I don't think I could bear it.  I know I couldn't."

"Sweetheart, you can't even think it.  You need to think only about one thing right now.  
You need to think about Fox getting better.  Can you do that for him?"

She nodded, her head moving sluggishly.  She took a deep breath, and turned to look 
across the bed at Skinner.  She normally hid her feelings, avoided letting anyone in.  
When Mulder'd been lost at sea, she'd trusted Skinner implicitly, knowing he'd help.  And 
he had, as he had so many times in the past.  He was a true friend and she knew he'd be 
there to support them both as long as they needed it.

He was trying to smile in encouragement and she found that it helped.  Just having him 
here, having her mother here, helped.  She leaned back in her chair just slightly and said 
to him, "Sir, tell me .. tell me about Mulder.  Tell me how he got involved in your case 
back then."  

He nodded to her, his smile growing larger and more confident, and said, "It's a long 
story."

"We have plenty of time, sir."

*******************************************
End Part 4 of ?
(Feedback to kronos1@adelphia.net is greatly appreciated)
Ascent to Hell
		67

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 5 of ? (5/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
*******************************************


September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 10:07 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter ran his hand through his hair, then over his eyes in frustration.  This Bill Patterson 
was an incredible asshole.  He could understand having pride in your work and in your 
capabilities, and a certain degree of arrogance was a given for any successful agent or 
department chief, but this was an all new level of conceit.  He took a deep breath and told 
himself to count to ten.  He made it to five before saying, "So can one of your people 
help with this or not?"

He saw Doug shift in his chair nervously but didn't really give a shit about playing nice 
with this character.  

The man smiled at him with disdain and replied, "Agent ... Skinner is it?  Well, Agent 
Skinner, I've had two of my best people try their hands at this case already.  If it's 
miracles you want, you should try a priest."

He clenched his jaw and tried to avoid the words that had immediately rushed to his 
tongue.  He lost the battle, however.

"I don't want a miracle, Agent Patterson, just some competence."

Doug stood and began to stammer an apology, but the BSU Chief just waived him to 
silence, eyes never leaving Skinner's own.  There was silence for a good half a minute 
before Patterson spoke again.

"Agent Skinner, what you have on your hands here is a bona fide enigma.  My best 
people have already spent too many hours on this case, to tell you just that. So, until 
more information is gathered, or another crime is committed that yields new insights, my 
people won't be able to do anything more for you."

The man stood then and gestured to his door.  "Let me know if anything new turns up."

Walter gripped the arms of his chair tightly and then forced his fingers to release.  He 
wondered fleetingly if it were possible to strain your jaw, but managed finally to relax a 
bit and stand.  With more nonchalance than he thought he'd be able to muster, he held out 
a hand and said, "Thank you so much for all your time and help."

Patterson smirked again, knowing he'd been insulted, but reached out and gripped his 
hand anyway, shaking firmly.  "Good luck, Agents."

Walter nodded to Doug who still stood frozen next to him and turned for the door.  It was 
a tremendous relief to head out.  They walked down the depressing cinder block hallway 
and stopped by the elevator, neither speaking.  It wasn't until they exited the building that  
they both stopped and turned to one another.  As if by prearrangement, they both 
muttered, "What an asshole."

They immediately broke out in laughter, causing several trainees to eye them 
suspiciously.  Doug slapped him on the back and said, "Got any other bright ideas, 
Walter?"

He smiled and laughed again before turning to look out over the complex.  It hadn't 
changed much.  There was a group of trainees off to the left, just coming up from the 
obstacle course.  They were a bedraggled lot, covered in dirt and sweat, but still moving 
pretty well.  He turned to Doug and said, "I guess we should head back to DC."

Doug must have sensed his hesitation, because the man asked, "What else are you 
thinking?  Come on, Walter, give."

"Let's talk with Dean again.  I thought of something else to ask.  We can go in through 
the back of the room, wait for his class to get out, then hit him up real quick."

Doug glanced around, looked at his watch, then shrugged.  "You're on.  Let's go."

*******************************************

They entered quietly from the rear, with no one the wiser to their presence.  Walter sat 
down in the last row, leaving the aisle seat for Doug.  The last two rows were completely 
empty, as were the seats that were farthest to the outside.  He estimated that there were 
some sixty or so trainees and National Academy participants in the room.  The two 
groups sported different color shirts, but even without such a distinction, it was easy to 
tell who was who.  It wasn't age really.  After all, the typical FBI trainee was in their mid 
to late twenties.  Quite a few of the law enforcement officers attending the National 
Academy were in that age group as well.  No, it was the air of innocence that 
differentiated the two groups.  The NA participants were mostly seasoned officers, 
having seen their share of violent and senseless crime.  To the trainees, the slides being 
shown on the screen and the stories accompanying them were someone else's story and 
someone else's problem.  They hadn't been baptized in blood just yet.

Walter focused on Dean's presentation then, curious about the case he was laying out for 
the class.  It must have been a new one, because he didn't recognize the victims or the 
crime scene slides. 

Dean was saying, "So what do we make of this?  Victims 1 and 2, both male and black, 
working at the local convenience mart.  Both shot with a .38 caliber handgun, head and 
chest, middle of the night, a few hundred dollars missing from the register.  A day later, 
Victim 3, also male and black, shot with a different .38 caliber weapon, four times, while 
walking down the street around mid-night. No obvious robbery. Day after that, farther 
south, Victims 4 and 5, both white, shot coming out of a McDonalds with yet another .38 
caliber weapon, multiple shots each, this time at just after 8 p.m."

Dean paused, then looked up at the screen which held an image of the wrecked car of the 
fourth and fifth victims.  The assailant had opened fire on them, causing the driver to lose 
control and head into oncoming traffic.  Both had been dead long before their car was hit 
by a pickup truck and thrown into a light pole.

Dean turned and looked back into the class, then asked, "So, the question of the day is, 
were these victims killed by the same assailant?"

There was a silence as those in the room considered it.  One of the NA participants -- a 
forty or so year old burly type with curly brown hair and an unruly mustache -- raised his 
hand and said, "You've got victims of different races, different m.o. for each, different 
weapons, different cities, and different times of day.  That would suggest different 
assailants."

Walter wished he'd heard the earlier details of the case, sensing there was a hell of a lot 
more to it than that.  He was curious whether anyone else would offer an opinion.  
Towards the middle of the room, another NA officer, a bit younger than the other one, 
raised his hand and said, "It doesn't make a lot of sense.  The first assault appears to be a 
botched robbery.  The second perhaps gang-related or a targeted hit.  The third was 
possibly a random drive-by shooting.  Wouldn't make any sense for them to be related."

Dean continued to remain silent, waiting for any more brave souls to offer an opinion.  
He appeared ready to break the silence finally when another voice spoke up from off to 
the left.  Walter craned his neck a bit to get a better view and discovered it was the jock 
from earlier.  The kid was saying, "Do we know whether there were any other crimes in 
these cities by an assailant with a .38 within a couple weeks of these crimes?"

Walter could see the slight smile that came to Dean's face as he answered, "No shootings 
in these cities or nearby cities with the exception of a single family retribution murder."

The kid then said, "These cities all connected by an interstate?"

Dean nodded.

"The violence in each represents an escalation.  Also an increased confidence.  It's got to 
be the same guy.  It might have started as a botched burglary, but more likely that was his 
test case.  It seemed to have essentially been an execution."

Dean nodded and asked the kid, "What's the motive?  And what can you tell me about the 
UNSUB?"

It had become a private conversation at that point.

"The motive isn't anything obvious.  His actions are psychologically-based, therefore 
only have to make sense to him.  I'd say he's an assassination-type, paranoid or even 
paranoid schizophrenic.  Black, mid to late twenties."

"What color car does he drive?"

Everyone was completely entranced by the conversation and there was now total silence 
as everyone waited to hear whether the kid would actually come up with the answer.  He 
did.

"Black or dark blue."

"What else do you know about him?"

Walter saw the kid tilt his head to the left, then look down at his hands for a moment.  He 
raised his head finally and said, "He probably owns a dog -- maybe a German Shepherd.  
He probably has a record denoting some sort of assaultive behavior."

"Why do you say that?"

"He's overcompensating.  It can't be new behavior.  He's probably been picked up for 
some sort of inappropriate or even criminal behavior or has possibly even been 
institutionalized."

"And the dog?"

"He's paranoid and would want a power dog for protection."

"The different guns?"

"Can't ever have too many guns when you're paranoid."

The silence stretched then and finally Dean moved.  He crossed his arms and turned to 
look around the room.  Then asked, "What do you think?  You've heard two different 
views."

Walter was impressed and pretty damned sure which view was the right one.  He was 
more curious than ever now about the jock with a brain.

Dean uncrossed his arms and propped his hands on his hips.  Then paced back to the 
center of the room.  "All right, I'll tell you.  It was a single assailant.  He was black.  
Twenty-seven."

Dean turned to the kid, smiled a bit more broadly and said, "He owned two dogs -- a 
German Shepherd and a Doberman."

There was a smattering of laughter, then he went on.  "The assailant had four different 
weapons, all .38 caliber.  And drove a dark blue car."

There was some whispering amongst those in the room and Dean asked, "So how's it 
done?  Trainee Mulder, how'd you know the age?"

Walter could see the kid shift, as if uncomfortable in being in the limelight.  "Paranoid 
schizophrenia as well as assassin syndrome both surface in mid-twenties."

"And how did you determine race?"

"Highest comfort level."

Walter immediately appreciated the answer, but could see a smattering of curious looks 
below.

Dean said, "Could you expand?"

The kid squirmed again and answered, "He'd start with his highest comfort level.  That 
means he'd start with what he knows.  Black victims, black assailant."

Dean nodded and, as if sensing the kid's discomfort in being on the spot, he turned to the 
other side of the room and said, "There's an answer for everything, and a reason for 
everything.  The problem with violent crime is that motivation isn't necessarily clear or 
obvious.  It's up to the investigator to keep his or her mind open to extreme possibilities."

Dean glanced at his watch and then said, "Okay, we'll take a fifteen minute break.  Be 
back on time, please." 

Walter watched as a few of the fellows in the class playfully harrassed the kid on their 
way past.  It all seemed to be in fun, and the kid had a resigned grin on his face when he 
stood and stretched.  Walter stood himself and waved at Dean.  His old acquaintance was 
heading his way already, evidently having spotted them earlier.

"What, I can't get rid of you guys?"

Walter smiled and jerked his head to the left.  "See what you mean about him.  What's his 
background?"

"Graduated top of his class from Oxford in psychology.  Recruited when he got back to 
the States.  He'd evidently already accepted a teaching position at some university when 
the Bureau tracked him down and convinced him that he belonged in the FBI."

Walter was even more impressed.  He looked past Dean's shoulder and watched the small 
cluster of trainees and NA students around the kid.  One of the NA guys was speaking to 
the little group, arms waiving in the air.  After thirty seconds or so, everyone started 
laughing.  At least there didn't seem to be any petty jealousy or resentment aimed at the 
kid for being good.

He realized then that Doug had been talking to Dean.  "So this Patterson guy's a real 
piece of work, huh?"

Dean laughed a bit, then said, "Why do you say that?  What exactly happened during 
your meeting?"

Walter snorted.  "I don't think I'd go so far as to call it a meeting.  We asked for his help, 
he told us to go to hell, we left."

Doug shook his head and inserted, "It wasn't exactly like that, but ...  Well, I suppose it 
was, actually."

They laughed companionably again, then Dean said, "He's Chief of the BSU for a reason.  
He knows how to read these sick bastard's and he's damned good.  So are his people."

Walter ran his hand through his hair in frustration, and shifted his weight from one foot 
to another.  "That may be, but all his people have told us is that they can't help."

He shifted once more, then crossed his arms.  "Look Dean, I'd really appreciate it if you'd 
look the files over.  I can leave this set with you.  What do you say?"

"I say that if you think I'll be able to come up with something Patterson's people couldn't, 
then you're crazy."

"But?"

"But I'll look.  Just don't expect anything, Walt."

"Who me?  I wouldn't dream of it."

Dean shot a disgusted look his way and held out his hands.  Walter passed the thick pile 
over with a smile.  

"Later today?"

Even Doug snorted at that.  

"Maybe tomorrow."

Dean turned and started down to the front of the room, but turned two steps down and 
looked back.  "No miracles, Walt."

There was silence for a heartbeat or two and then he replied, completely seriously, "But I 
always expect miracles from you, Dean."

The other man looked disgusted, then turned away again.  Walter turned to Doug then 
and said, "Time to head out."

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 5 of the Wait
Sunday, 3:52 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully felt the need to move, so stood carefully, making sure to avoid all the tubes and 
wires.  She stretched her neck to the right, then the left, finally allowing her head to drop 
forward for a second or two.  A smile came to her face as she thought about Mulder back 
then, waiting for the others to put forth their opinions, probably hoping that someone else 
would offer the right answer so he wouldn't have to.  Then when they hadn't, he had to do 
it himself.  There was no way he could let it go by without stating what he believed to be 
the truth.  Even back then, almost fifteen years before, he just couldn't sit back passively.

She looked across the bed to Skinner and felt a sliver of amusement at the thought that 
her former boss could have been so unrealistically demanding. "You had some slightly 
high expectations, wouldn't you say?"

He actually looked embarrassed and just shrugged.  A nurse came in then, saving him 
from having to explain or reply.  They all watched the woman, Shannon, move from one 
monitor to another, as if she would somehow proclaim Mulder cured.  The CC doctor 
assigned to Mulder's room came in then and nodded to them all before conferring with 
the nurse.  He turned to Skinner and said, "Could you step back for just a moment, sir?  
We're going to shift his position.  It'll just take a minute."

Scully felt an alarm wash over her at the doctor's statement.  They'd just moved him a 
little over an hour ago.  "Dr. Patrick, is there a respiratory problem we should be aware 
of?"  

The doctor continued working with the nurse, moving Mulder onto his back, then looked 
up at her when he was done.  He crossed his arms and the gesture immediately set off 
alarms.

"Dr. Scully, as you know, the possibilities of contracting pneumonia increase 
dramatically for patients with broken ribs, and even more so for those in a coma.  We're 
merely trying to head off any potential problems by moving him hourly.  That's all."

She bit her lip and considered his words, then decided it was what she'd do as well were 
she the one making decisions.  She nodded finally, then sat back in her chair and 
readjusted her light touch on Mulder's arm.  She moved her left hand down to take his 
hand and wrapped her fingers through his.  She thanked the man then and looked across 
once more to her boss, no longer paying attention as the doctor and nurse moved out of 
the room.  

Skinner pulled his chair closer to the bed again and sat down.  She watched as he got 
settled, then started getting curious again about this man who had been her and Mulder's 
boss for five years.

She'd always wondered about his history and what kind of man he'd been before she met 
him as an AD.  Now she was learning not only about the kind of person Mulder had been, 
but also the kind of man her former boss had been.  And she was more fascinated by 
these insights than she was about the actual case Skinner'd been working.

Her mother spoke up then, entering the conversation for the first time.  "Mr. Skinner, if 
Fox was just a student, a trainee, how in the world could he have gotten involved in such 
a serious case?  Surely, it can't be FBI policy to use untrained Agents in the field?"

Scully could hear the accusation that resided just below the surface of her mother's words 
and felt compelled to jump in to defend the Bureau.  Before she had a chance, though, 
Skinner clarified.

"No, Mrs. Scully.  It's not policy.  In fact, Mulder's involvement broke just about ever 
rule we have.  But you could say that these were pretty exceptional circumstances and 
that his involvement happened in such a way that it wasn't really anyone's fault."  Her 
boss paused then, but it was obvious he was going to say more.  It appeared that he was 
clenching his jaw, considering whether to say any more.  Then he added, "But his 
continued participation -- once we discovered his involvement in the case -- that was 
because of me.  All because of me."

She was curious about how such a thing could have happened.  She remembered back to 
her own time at the Academy and couldn't even imagine it.  "Sir, how did it happen?  
What were the circumstances?"

Skinner leaned forward, raised his left hand and rested it gently on her partner's forehead.  
She wasn't sure if he even realized that he'd done it.  He had a thoughtful expression on 
his face and she wondered just what he was thinking.  He must have been remembering.

His tone was just as thoughtful as he said, "I didn't know about it first hand, but Dean 
told me how Fox first learned about it."

The switch from Mulder to Fox caught her by surprise, but it was obvious that her boss 
was thinking about her partner as he'd been fifteen years ago, not as he was now.

"It was that same day, in fact.  Dean never forgave himself. He blamed himself for 
everything that happened to Fox after that."

That was ominous.  She wondered just what the heck had happened to her partner. "Tell 
us what happened, sir.  I'd really like to know."

*******************************************


September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 11:56 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Dean looked down at his watch and knew he had to wrap this lecture up quickly.  He was 
supposed to be across the complex at five after and would really have to push to make it 
in time.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, I believe I'm due to see you again sometime next week 
for another lecture.  I'm afraid I won't be able to hang around to answer your questions 
today, but I'll be available tomorrow between noon and one and then again from five to 
six.  Feel free to track me down then."

He waved quickly, then turned and headed out the nearest door.  It was only some hours 
later that he learned what had happened next.

*******************************************

The students in the class started moving out in groups of two and three.  The trainees 
were due at Hogan's Alley at 1:30, we so every minute was valuable.  A small group 
stayed behind, however.  Fox Mulder still stood by his chair, talking with a couple of the 
NA students.  He was fascinated by their experiences and insights and actually found 
himself enjoying these discussions.

He'd formed a friendly relationship with these two men, initially because of their interest 
in basketball.  Every Tuesday and Saturday night from 8 p.m. on, Fox was guaranteed to 
catch these two on the court, ready for a friendly but sometimes violent pickup game.  

Jarrod McKnight was shaking his head.  "Okay, Fox, it all makes sense in retrospect -- of 
course, it always does -- but I have to admit that in my fifteen years on the force, we 
never saw anything so strange.  What about you, Clay?"

Clayton Baker shrugged, leaned back more comfortably against the table in the row 
behind them and replied, "Not that I can recall.  You have to remember, though, that 
Detroit's main problem is its gang and drug related-crimes.  We don't really have a 
history of anything too bizarre."

Fox stretched a bit and then sank his hands in his pockets.  "Have you seen any serial or 
spree killers in the St. Paul area, Jarrod?"

"We've had a couple since I've been on the force, actually.  One in St. Paul and one in 
Minneapolis.  The Minneapolis case was interesting.  We all followed it pretty closely.  
The guy was a sexual sadist.  Incredibly violent.  He cut the heads off his vics -- all 
female of course -- and moved them from one spot in the house to another until he was 
finally satisfied.  He arranged the decapitated bodies in the living room, generally on the 
couch or a chair facing a television."

Both Fox and Clay grimaced and shifted a bit.  Fox hadn't read about this case, but was 
curious.  He'd definitely look it up in the library.  

Jarrod continued his description, almost with a guilty pleasure.  "The heads would 
sometimes be on the mantel, once on a kitchen counter, once in the bedroom, facing the 
bed.  Really creepy.  All the vics had the same physical appearance.  Kind of hefty but 
pretty.  All around mid-thirties in appearance.  They finally caught the guy in the act of 
killing his fifth victim.  Turned out the guy was trying to kill his mommy over and over.  
Pretty typical as far as motivations go for these assholes."

Fox grinned a bit, remembering his classes on sexual sadists and the havoc they'd been 
known to wreak.  "So what about the case in St. Paul?"

Jarrod shrugged a bit, as if tossing the question off, but replied, "It was pretty 
straightforward, actually.  Another sicko, but so disorganized we caught him before he 
got to victims 5 and 6.  The only twist was that he killed couples.  He was abused as a 
child, both physically and emotionally, but he was also retarded."

Fox cringed internally at the use of the R word, but merely nodded.

"Had an IQ of around 76 or so.  Kind of felt sorry for the sick bastard, but not sorry 
enough to cry when they finally fried him a couple years ago."

Fox shuddered once again, uneasy with any discussion of the death penalty.  It was an 
issue he'd struggled with internally, but hadn't yet definitively decided on a stance, one 
way or the other.  As a psychologist, he could appreciate the undeniable fact that one's 
environment was a major determinant for behavior later in life.  But he was unable to 
resolve in his own mind whether such facts should ever excuse violent behavior or 
relieve one from suffering the consequences of their actions.

Clay broke the silence that had settled by picking up his belongings and saying, "I'm 
outta here guys.  Jarrod, remember we've got anti-terrorism class this afternoon.  Fox, I 
hear you guys are going to the Alley."

Fox grinned and nodded.  "Yep, bank robbery I think."

The two NA men grimaced and he wondered what their experience had been that had 
caused such a reaction.  Clay said, "Have fun, boy.  Just remember, it's never as easy as it 
looks."

He smiled back and nodded as they headed out, saying, "Catch you on the court old 
men."

He looked around then, suddenly realizing he was the last in the room.  His eyes fell on a 
stack of files on one of the tables up front and he remembered Agent Waring dropping 
the pile on the desk just after the last break.  

He should probably alert someone.  He picked up his pad, mostly empty with the 
exception of doodles and some minimal notations, and wandered down to the front of the 
room, then stepped up on the platform.  His eyes were focused on the pile, and he felt 
drawn to it.  

He wandered over to the table and stared down at the pile of packed folders.  The words 
'Eyes Only' were typed in large red letters on the top file.  The corner of a photo stuck out 
from the file just enough so he could make out a bare foot.  It was so tempting.  The files 
sat there and taunted him.  He turned and looked around the room, confirming that he 
was alone.  

He felt his heart start to race and a trickle of sweat tickled at his neck.  This felt like a test 
of some sort, even though he knew that was ridiculous.  He'd always thought of himself 
as a moral person.  He'd never cheated on exams, never lied to his parents -- well, no 
serious lies, just the little white variety.  He tried to act in good faith at all times.

He knew this was wrong, but it was as if he were powerless to avoid the temptation.  He 
whispered out loud, "And the serpent said, 'Eat of the fruit of the tree, for you will surely 
not die'."  He licked his lips nervously and wiped at his forehead with the palm of his 
right hand.  His eyes never left the files.

He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and rested his fingers on the top.  Ran them 
over the big red letters that had been stamped there.  He raised his hand again and ran it 
over his mouth, wiping away the sweat that had gathered on his lower lip.

Then, in one decisive movement, he reached out and flipped the file open to stare at the 
photo.  It was of a young girl, a teenager, with blonde hair and blue eyes.  She was 
dressed in a long-sleeved blue dress, with a dainty white collar.  She was laid out on her 
back, her hair spread across her shoulders carefully, and her hands crossed on her chest.  
Her legs had been straightened out with great care, but she had no shoes, socks, or hose 
on.  

Her eyes were open, and if it hadn't been for the purple bruise around her neck and the 
bluish tint to her lips, he'd have thought she was staring up at the sky.

He absorbed the seen, memorizing every detail.  This was a real case.  Something 
ongoing, not one that was over and done with.  He wanted to learn about it.  He knew it 
was wrong and that what he was about to do could probably get him kicked out of the 
Bureau, but he just had to know more.

He raised his head once more and glanced around.  No one in sight.  A look at his watch 
revealed that he still had an hour before he had to be at the Alley.  Plenty of time.  A 
photographic memory came in damned handy on occasion.

He pulled a chair over and situated himself so that he would have full view of all the 
doors, then sat down and opened the file to the first page.  He began reading about Lorri 
Kiley, a sixteen year old high school student who disappeared after a youth bible study 
class at her church.  The teenagers had scattered, as always, mostly walking home of 
riding with friends.  When she hadn't arrived home by ten, her parents started calling 
friends.  Those who'd attended the class with the girl, had all said the same thing -- she'd 
said good-bye and headed off on her own.  It was Falls Church, after all.  One of the 
safest cities in America.  

He read through the file, finding the actual ordering and compilation of reports, photos, 
and notes almost as interesting as the content, itself.  When he finished, after fifteen 
minutes of straight reading, he shifted a bit to get more comfortable and reached for the 
next file.  This one told the story of the very first victim -- Alan Hanover.  

While Lorri Kiley had been strangled to death, this man had been shot in his own home.  
It had originally been assumed to have been a burglary, since it appeared there were 
items missing from his house.  A burglary wherein something went wrong, forcing the 
robber to murder Mr. Hanover.  It had been originally speculated that this had sent the 
burglar over the edge, causing him to act out by spreading the blood around the house 
and the furniture.

The Alexandria PD had been completely stumped, unable to compile any possible 
suspects, since Hanover had been assumed to have been a random target.  The note 
received two weeks after Hanover's body had been discovered hadn't originally been 
linked to that crime.  It wasn't until many months later, that a connection could be 
established, with the aid of the Bureau and the Detectives from Falls Church and 
Arlington.

The next file contained information on Jesse Smith, the third victim.  It dawned on him 
suddenly, as he read through the files, that this was a real serial killer -- in operation right 
now.  And these were real victims, real people, who'd been killed in violent and unnatural 
ways.  He started to feel angry.  

He wasn't a violent or demonstrative man and never had been, but he felt the urge to hit 
something.  To pound on someone or something until he felt better.  He dropped his head 
to his chest and closed his eyes.  Tried to concentrate on slowing his breathing.  He had 
to clench his teeth to avoid screaming out loud in frustration.  He counted to ten, and then 
to twenty.  He ended up counting all the way to sixty before he could finally start 
releasing his fingers from the clenched fists that still threatened to cut off all blood 
supply.

He opened his eyes again finally and discovered he had to wipe away some moisture that 
had pooled there.  He sniffed loudly, then reached for the folder of Jesse Smith once 
again.  

The man was a happily married father of a one year old with another on the way.  He'd 
left the store where he was Assistant Manager to run a quick errand during a break and 
then hadn't been heard from or seen again.  His pregnant wife called the store when he 
didn't get home from dinner and panicked when she was told he'd never returned.  She 
called the Arlington police, only to be told that it was too soon to file a missing person's 
report.  By the next morning, she'd convinced them that something horrible had to have 
happened and they began investigating Smith's disappearance.  When the dismembered 
remains of a black man were discovered later that day, they were able to immediately 
identify them as Smith's.  The man had officially died from cardiac failure, but in reality 
had died from blood loss and shock as his arms and legs had been cut from his body, 
while still alive.  The crime scene photographs were gruesome.

The Arlington PD had immediately suspected the man of being involved in drugs or 
organized crime, despite the protestations of his wife.  When the note arrived, they 
figured out quickly they had something pretty unusual on their hands.

He pushed the completed folder to the side and pulled over the last one.  This was Ellen 
Haggerston, a second grade teacher, who'd been killed in her own home.  Jesus, a 
goddamned elementary school teacher.   The woman had been killed with a knife.  What 
the hell was this about?

He shook his head in amazement.  He was no expert on violent crime, granted, but even 
he knew that this was all damned unusual.  This was both similar to the case Agent 
Waring had reviewed earlier and not.  It was similar in that one would not normally 
assume these crimes to have been committed by the same individual or even individuals.  
It was substantially different in that this had both organized as well as disorganized 
elements.  Some of these crimes appeared to have been thought out and planned, while 
others were substantially more violent and spur of the moment.  It was all very confusing.  

He closed the last file and moved it on top of the pile, arranging the stack neatly.  He 
stood and stretched, then started to look at his watch when the door to the left opened 
abruptly.  He jerked in surprise and then felt his face flush with guilt and shame when he 
came face to face with Agent Dean Waring.

The man had taken two or three steps into the room before seeing him and now stood 
frozen.  Fox swallowed, then hastily cleared his throat.  Without really having any 
particular plan of attack, he said, "Hello, sir. I was just getting ready to bring these to 
you.  You left them after class." 

He hadn't lied -- not really.  He was pretty sure he was going to bring them to the man, 
after all.  He stood with one hand resting lightly on the stack and the other clutching his 
pad of paper from class tightly.  He concentrated on appearing to be calm as he waited 
for a response from the man across the room.

Agent Waring moved finally, approaching him slowly.  The man stopped on the other 
side of the table and just stared directly at him, as if daring him to move or speak.  
Waring said, "Just now, Trainee Mulder?"  The man looked down at his watch and then 
back to Fox, eyes squinted and forehead creased.  

Fox merely nodded in acknowledgment, then waited for the inevitable.

Waring had been staring at him for a full minute before he spoke again.  In a dangerously 
quiet voice, the man asked, "And did you find them interesting, Trainee Mulder?"

Fox briefly considered lying, but discarded the notion immediately.  It wasn't his way.  
He swallowed noisily and responded simply, "Yes, sir."

Waring's eyes narrowed even further, and for the first time, Fox was actually frightened.  
"Do you know what the words, 'Eyes Only' mean, Trainee Mulder?"

He licked his lips and nodded, saying, "Yes, sir, I do."

"But that didn't stop you?"

"No, sir, it didn't."

"Can you tell me why?"

He paused then, considering his answer carefully, but in the end, it was really quite 
simple.  "No, sir.  I really can't.  I just couldn't help myself, sir."

The other man seemed to relax slightly, or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.  "So 
you're saying that you're using the 'I couldn't help myself' defense?"

He couldn't tell whether the man was ready to kick him out on his butt or laugh at him so 
he took the question seriously.  "I guess so, sir.  It's no excuse, of course."

Waring moved forward so quickly and abruptly then, that he fell back in his seat in pure 
surprise and shock.  Waring's voice was hard when he said, "It damned well isn't, mister.  
I could have you kicked out on your ass for what you've done."  The man leaned over the 
table then so that he was only six or so inches from him.  "If I ever hear that you've done 
something like this again, I will make sure you hit the road so hard you get friction burns.  
Am I clear, mister?"

Fox was actually trembling now, both in relief that his career as an Agent hadn't ended 
before it had even had a chance to begin, as well as in shock that he'd actually allowed 
himself to get into such a predicament.  He nodded, then added hastily, "Yes, sir, very 
clear, sir."

Waring pushed himself away from the table and crossed his arms, then just glared down 
at him.  Fox sat straighter in the chair and reached for his pad of paper with trembling 
fingers.  He didn't know whether it was safe to leave or not, but decided he'd wait until he 
was dismissed.  It might not be the military, but these men took training just as seriously.

Waring finally broke the silence, saying, "You are dismissed, Trainee Mulder."

The words sent a chill down his spine as he realized just how close he'd come to ending 
something that he really wanted.  There hadn't been all that many things in his life that he 
wanted badly.  He'd wanted his sister to be returned to them.  He'd wanted to be eight 
inches taller so he could play professional basketball. He'd wanted a dog.  As he grew 
older, he came to understand that some things just weren't meant to be.  He'd gotten the 
dog, but had to do without the extra eight inches or his sister.  

And he knew now, more than ever before, that he wanted a career in the Bureau.  He 
wanted it badly.  And he would do anything to avoid fucking it up.  He stood hastily and 
nodded in grateful relief, saying, "Thank you, sir."  

Then, in the largest surprise yet, Waring said in a friendly tone, "You're good, Fox, and 
you'll go far in the Bureau if you give yourself a chance.  I'd hate for you to screw things 
up for yourself at this point in your career."

He was consumed with shame and guilt then, so that he had to force his head up to look 
in Agent Waring's eyes.  "I appreciate that, sir, and I really am sorry.  It won't happen 
again."

Waring actually smiled at him then and said, "You're going to be late to Hogan's Alley if 
you don't double time it, Trainee.  Get your butt out of here."

He looked at his watch then and was horrified to see he had only five minutes.  He 
nodded and mumbled a quick thanks yet again before running out the door.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 6 of the Wait
Sunday, 4:27 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner shifted in his seat, leaned forward and rested his arm on the bed rail.  He raised 
his right fist and propped his chin on it, then rotated his head to the left and looked at his 
former agent.  It had been a hell of a long time since he'd first seen the kid.  That was 
how he thought of him now.  That Mulder of fifteen years past had been so very young 
and innocent.  He also seemed to be content.  Maybe even happy.  And definitely excited 
about the Bureau.  How things had changed.

His musings were cut short by Mrs. Scully, who said, "I would have liked to have known 
Fox back then.  It's hard to imagine him so ..."

Skinner smiled and finished the sentence for her.  "Normal?"

She laughed lightly and even Scully smiled.

"He was and he wasn't.  I don't think anyone would ever accuse Fox Mulder of being just 
normal -- at any age."

He saw movement at the door and turned his head to see a nurse with an elderly woman 
in tow.  With a shock, he recognized Mulder's mother.  He started to stand, but she 
gestured him to stay seated, saying, "You're right, Mr. Skinner.  Although I've always 
thought of my son as being exceptional."

Both Scully and her mother jerked around in surprise, and Scully stood, with Mrs. Scully 
and he, himself right behind her.  He walked to the door and put his right hand on her 
shoulder and his left on her arm.  He pulled her gently towards the left side of the bed, to 
where he'd been sitting, then said, "Always exceptional, Mrs. Mulder."

Scully was still standing, tears pooling in her eyes, her hands still resting on her partner's 
arm as if letting go would mean she was giving up on him. Her mother wrapped her arm 
around her daughter and raised her hand to Scully's head to stroke her hair.

He knew Scully was pleased to see this woman, for Mulder's sake, and he found that he 
was touched as well.  There couldn't have been any flights leaving so late, so she had to 
have driven and must have left right after she received the call.

"Mrs. Mulder, you must be tired.  Please, sit down.  Would you like anything to drink?"

The woman merely shook her head, eyes focused on her son.  Tears streamed down her 
cheeks, but she said nothing.  She moved as close to the head of the bed as she could, 
carefully avoiding the tubes and wires, and stroked her son's forehead gently.  With her 
left hand still on his head, she leaned forward to kiss him lightly.  

He heard her whisper something, but couldn't make out the words.  She moved away then 
and seemed to collapse in slow motion.  He guided her to the chair and settled her, before 
glancing across at Scully.  

His former agent had turned into her mother's embrace, the emotional impact of Teena 
Mulder's reaction causing her barely maintained equilibrium to waver. Even so, she still 
had her right hand wrapped around Mulder's limp fingers.

Mrs. Mulder was sobbing, quietly, softly, into her cupped hands.  He wasn't sure what to 
do or what to say, but finally rested his hand on her shoulder.  It took a long minute, but 
everyone quieted finally.  Mrs. Mulder rubbed her face, almost angrily, then raised her 
right hand to rest on top of his own.  She looked back and up at him and said, "Thank 
you, Mr. Skinner.  Thank you for calling me."

He nodded, still not sure what to say, and wasn't surprised when she looked across her 
son's still form to focus on his partner.  "Ms. Scully, thank you also.  For being here for 
him.  I know it means so much to him."

He could tell that Scully was struggling to maintain her fragile control.  She merely 
nodded to the older woman, biting her lower lip hard.  He felt incredibly uncomfortable 
in the silence that had settled over the room.  Mrs. Scully came to the rescue once again.

"Mrs. Mulder, I'm Dana's mother, Margaret."

Mulder's mother tore her eyes away from the tubes and wires she'd been staring at to look 
across the bed.  Scully and her mother had sat down once again.

"It's so nice to meet you finally.  And please call me Teena.  Thank you for being there 
for my son so often in the past.  He's talked about you often with great respect and high 
regard."

Skinner was touched once again to know that mother and son had remained in contact.  
He'd never really been sure about Mulder's family situation and it reassured him 
somehow to know that there was someone who cared about the younger man.  Someone 
besides his partner and himself, that is.  And he acknowledged to himself that both 
Mulder and Scully meant quite a lot to him.  He'd considered them to be much more than 
just his agents for a very long time.

Margaret Scully nodded her thanks and caressed her daughter's back in a soothing circle 
once more.  He could tell that Scully wanted to speak, but hadn't yet collected her 
frazzled nerves.  

Mrs. Mulder turned her gaze to the younger woman then and said, "Ms. Scully, we never 
really seem to get the opportunity to talk, do we?  Perhaps when Fox gets out of here, we 
can remedy that."

He knew the woman wasn't trying to deny reality, but was rather trying to remain 
optimistic, for her own as well as for Scully's sake.  It was an incredibly generous offer 
that wasn't lost on Scully.

He was proud of his former agent as she attempted a smile and managed to say in a 
wavering voice, "That would be very nice, Mrs. Mulder."

The older woman pushed herself forward in the chair and took her son's hand in her own.  
Without even realizing it, she'd mirrored Scully's own position.  

He looked around the room and decided that another chair would fit.  No one had come 
to kick them out yet, after all.  He decided to adopt Mulder's policy of 'it's better to ask 
for forgiveness than permission' and said, "I'll be right back.  Can I bring anything for 
anyone?  Coffee, perhaps?"  They all nodded and he excused himself quietly.  

As he headed down the quiet hall, he took note of all the patients in the CCU.  Despite 
the lowered lights and lack of any visitors (except for them), there was still a great deal 
of noise and activity.  This place never went to sleep.

He let a nurse know he'd be right back and she kindly propped the doors to the CCU ward 
open for him.  He also let her know they'd need another chair in Mulder's room and she 
merely nodded, evidently aware of the unusual circumstances that allowed them to 
remain despite the stringent CCU rules.  The knowledge only depressed him further.  
After all, if they'd dispensed with all the rules, it couldn't be good.

He filled four cups and stuffed his pants pockets with sugar packets, creamers and stir 
sticks.  Balancing the cups carefully, he headed back to the forbidding double doors and 
into the darkened unit.  He saw a nurse and then a doctor leave from Mulder's room and 
knew they'd turned him once again.  Every hour like clockwork.

He nodded to them and headed into the room, surprised to see that Scully was more 
animated now than she had been for the past few hours.  Teena Mulder had evidently 
relayed some anecdote about her son that had made both Scully and her mother laugh.  
He wished he'd been there to hear it.  Then Mrs. Mulder said, "I bet he never told you 
about his plan to be a basketball star, did he?"

This sounded interesting.  He handed out the coffees and settled into the extra chair that 
had been pulled in, content to be the one to listen to a story for a while instead of being 
the one telling it.

Mrs. Mulder was saying, "They knew already, you see, that he had a gift for it.  From the 
time he was just a little boy, he spent hours and hours in the driveway, working on 
sinking that ball from anywhere he stood.  He was always patient with Sammy, though, 
and worked hard to teach her how to shoot the right way -- not like a girl."

She'd said the last part with a grin on her face and he could just about imagine a young 
Fox saying, 'No, no, Sammy, you look like a girl when you do it that way.'

"When he was ten, his little league team won their Division.  Believe it or not, we 
actually had scouts calling to try to get us to send Fox off to their school.  It was really 
quite crazy.  Ten years old."

It was obvious to Skinner what the Mulder's decision had been.

"Well, let me tell you about just how determined my son could be, even at that age."

*******************************************


January 19, 1971
Monday, 4:53 p.m.
Mulder Residence, Martha's Vineyard


Teena Mulder leaned over the back of the couch to look out the front window.  She 
craned her head to the right and caught sight of her wayward son then.  He was supposed 
to have been in by 4:30 to do his chores but instead he was outside in twenty degree 
weather, shooting hoops with only a sweatshirt and jeans.

She watched him for a full minute, filled with pride.  He was a good boy, if sometimes 
trying.  He'd been working on the same shot for the past week and hadn't yet let the 
frustration of not getting it hold him back.  It was a shot that recreated the exact play he'd 
missed in the last game and required a tight angle where a bank off the backboard wasn't 
possible.

She felt arms come around her and she jerked in surprise before settling into the embrace.  
Bill was home and it wasn't even 5 yet.

"What are you doing home so early?"

"Got my marching orders again.  I have to go down to West Virginia for a bit.  Shouldn't 
be gone for more than a week."

She tried to hold back the disappointment as she turned in his arms to face her husband.  
She was surprised by the look of sorrow that he just couldn't hide from her.

"Darling, what is it?  Is there anything wrong?"

He was quick to smile, then.  "No, nothing at all.  I just hate being gone from you and the 
kids."

She returned the smile and leaned forward, kissing him softly.  The kiss deepened but 
was interrupted by a high pitched giggle, followed by a screech.

"Daddy, you're home."

Teena knew what would come next, and so did her husband.  She saw him brace himself 
as Sammy launched herself across the room and into her father's arms.

He pretended to fall backwards onto the floor, sending Sammy sprawling.  But then he 
was on his knees and tickling her, even as she tried to roll away.  

Teena laughed at the sight and knew they were blessed.  It wasn't every father who'd roll 
around on the floor with his kids while still wearing his business suit.  The kids were 
everything to Bill, just as they were to her.  And the thought propelled her into action 
then, as she remembered that one of her children was still outside and likely to catch 
pneumonia if she didn't get him in and warmed up.

As she headed towards the garage, she heard her daughter filling Bill in on everything 
that had happened at school that day.  She heard her husband laughing at one point and 
knew that she was the luckiest woman on the planet.

She grabbed her coat and pulled it on quickly, then took Fox's off the hook.  She shivered 
as she stepped into the garage and walked a bit faster.  She unlocked the side door and 
walked around to the front, pausing for just a moment as she got there to allow her son to 
finish his shot.  The ball sailed up and went into the hoop in a perfect arc.  

He stood there, frozen in surprise, and then smiled so widely she thought he'd strain his 
jaw.

"Did you see that, Mom?  Did you see?"

"I did, sweetheart.  That was wonderful.  I knew you'd do it."

Despite the fact that she could see him shivering even fifteen feet away, she gave him the 
time to enjoy his achievement.  It had been hard won and he deserved to bask in his 
success for a few moments at least.

He moved finally and she could tell he was planning on continuing to practice.  She cut 
him off at the pass and held up the coat, then said, "I think you've practiced enough 
tonight, Fox.  And what better way to end for the night?"

She almost gave in as his face crumpled.  "But, Mom, I just want to practice for a few 
more minutes.  I think I know what I've been doing wrong and now that I got it right, I 
just need to reinforce it."

That was a favorite expression of his coach -- reinforce the good shots.  She wavered, and 
then was convinced as he said, "I've already finished all my homework.  I know I have 
chores, but they won't take long.  I promise I'll be responsible and do them tonight."  
Then came the word that always did her in.  "Please??"

She sighed and zipped up his coat to his neck.  She took his hands in hers and rubbed 
them, trying to instill some warmth, then said, "Just for fifteen minutes more.  That's it, 
okay?"

She was surprised when he threw his arms around her and hugged her.  He'd been pulling 
back lately, not wanting to seem like a baby in public.  It felt good to have her little boy 
in her arms, even if it were only for a few brief moment.  She felt him start to pull away 
but grabbed him tighter and whispered, "Love you, sweet boy."

His reaction was expected.  He pulled away then with an "Aww, Mom" and glanced 
around, worried that a friend might have seen him.  She ruffled his hair and turned back 
to the garage, saying, "Fifteen more minutes, Fox."

"Yes, ma'am."

When she got back into the house, Bill had changed out of his suit and sat in the living 
room with the paper spread out on his lap.  He looked up as she entered and she could tell 
he was looking behind her for Fox.

"I told him he could stay out for another few minutes."

He dropped the paper and smiled at her, saying, "You old softy."

She had to laugh.  He was right, after all.  She leaned on the arm of the chair and said, 
"Yes, but would you want me any other way?"

"Not on your life."

He'd moved the paper over to the side and picked up a letter that had come in the mail 
that day.  "Do you believe this?"

She shook her head in disgust.  "He's only a little boy.  What could they be thinking?"

He looked just as disgusted as she was.  "I'm going to talk with his coach tomorrow at the 
game.  The last thing we need is for Fox to get wind of this.  We'd never hear the end of 
it."

She nodded wordlessly as he went on.

"I can't believe they'd think we would ever send our just turned ten year old off to 
boarding school just so they could get him on their damned basketball team.  Jesus!"

Ever the devil's advocate, she felt compelled to say, "I imagine this kind of thing would 
be important for some families.  It might be the only way their child could get a decent 
education."

"Well, Fox won't need anything like this.  He'll have colleges begging him to just come 
and look at them.  And not because he can play basketball, either.  It'll be because he's a 
damned smart kid.  Smarter than I could ever be, that's for sure."

She smiled again at his passion and leaned over to kiss him.  God, how she loved this 
man.  She whispered, "I can't imagine not having my children with me as they grew up.  
How sad that some parent have to make that decision -- to send their kids away."

Her husband moved so quickly then that it shocked her.  He grabbed her around the waist 
and pulled her into his lap, then kissed her passionately.  He whispered, "I wish I didn't 
have to leave tomorrow.  I wish I'd never have to leave you."

Just as the kiss deepened, the slamming of the kitchen door alerted them to their son's 
presence.  She pulled back again with a sigh, slipping off Bill's lap.

She could hear Fox in the kitchen.  Then he yelled, "Mom!"

She called out, "We're in here."

He came into the living room a few moments later.  "Hey, Dad.  Guess what?"

Bill had a smile on his face and looked inordinately proud.  "What, Fox?"

"I got it.  Once, five times in a row and again, four times in a row."

"That's fantastic.  I never doubted you."

She could see her son stand even taller at the praise.  She hated to burst his bubble, but 
life moved on.  Even when you'd just made five baskets in a row.  But she never had to 
say anything.

Fox waved at them and turned back to the kitchen, saying, "I'm gonna empty the garbage 
in the house now, Mom.  I'll take care of bringing the trash out to the street right after 
dinner."

She smiled and nodded at him, saying, "All right, sweetheart.  Just remember to wear 
your coat and gloves when you go out."

He groaned good naturedly but didn't argue as he headed out.  He really was a good kid.  
Both of them were.  She turned to her husband and said, "How'd we ever get so lucky?"

He just shrugged and said, "Good living, I guess."

She swatted him on the head as she went into the kitchen.  Time to get dinner on the 
stove.

The next day passed quickly.  She sighed as she looked down at her watch, realizing that 
Bill wouldn't be back for almost an entire week.  Well, it was almost time for dinner, and 
Fox still hadn't shown himself.  Three guesses where he might be.

She leaned on the couch and started to crane her neck when it dawned on her that it 
wasn't necessary.  Fox was in clear view, standing at the end of the driveway, talking 
with some stranger.

She felt a surge of anger competing with curiosity.  This was a safe neighborhood, so she 
doubted there was anything harmful going on, but she was still perturbed that her son 
didn't show more sense.

She ran out the front door without even putting her coat on and hurried to the end of the 
driveway.  When her son realized she was there, he turned to her.  The excitement shone 
clearly on his face.  "Mom, this is Coach Andrews from the Hartford Academy.  They 
want me to come and play basketball there."

She was so angry she could spit.  Without even looking at her son, she said, "Fox, get 
inside, please.  I need to talk with this man."

"But, ... "

"No buts.  Get in the house now."

She knew she wasn't being fair to him.  He hadn't done anything after all except get 
excited, but she had to try to end this now.  She watched as he disappeared into the house 
before turning back to the man in front of her.  Did they even realize the impact they'd 
have by approaching a child directly?  Of course they did.  What was she thinking?  They 
knew exactly what they were doing.  At it made her even angrier.

"Look, Mr. ..."

"Coach Andrews, ma'am.  I'm pleased to meet you."

She had to give him credit.  He was charming and suave, standing there with his hat in 
one hand and the other stretched out to shake.  She ignored it and said, "Mr. Andrews, I 
do not appreciate you coming to my house and talking with my son before you speak 
with me.  You have no right."

She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down a bit.  She could see he was 
getting ready to speak and cut him off before he could even try.  Her voice was firm as 
she said, "No.  I don't want to hear it.  We are not interested in your offer.  Fox is ten 
years old and he belongs here with us."

The man actually had the nerve to try to talk her out of it.  He got this patronizing look on 
his face and said in an oily voice, "Mrs. Mulder, I understand that you want the best for 
your son, but you need to appreciate that this will be an incredible opportunity.  Seventy-
two percent of our boys are offered college scholarships when they graduate, regardless 
of grades."

If he thought this would help his case, he was miserably mistaken.  She forced her jaw to 
relax before saying, "Mr. Andrews, Fox was tested in the genius range just last year.  
He's a year ahead in school and still completely bored.  He won't need any basketball 
scholarship to go to college." 

She felt a guilty pleasure as the man realized he hadn't done his homework well enough.  
She crossed her arms, shivering now that the heat of anger was passing, and said, "Good 
day to you, sir."  She stood there, daring him to even try to say anything more, and 
merely nodded to herself as he got in his car and left.  When she turned to go back into 
the house, she saw the curtain in the living room swish closed.  Now came the hard part.

As she entered the house, Fox met her.  He stood some six or so feet away from the door, 
leaning against the wall, with arms crossed and a determined expression on his face.  She 
wasn't sure if she had the energy for this tonight.

"Fox, I really don't want to talk about this right now.  That man had no right speaking to 
you before discussing it with your father and me."

"But, ..."

"No buts.  There are no buts here.  You are ten years old.  You will live with us until you 
are old enough to go to college on your own.  Not sooner."

She saw the lower lip jut out and knew he was thinking up arguments.

"You let me go away to camp by myself."

She closed her eyes, disgusted that she'd forgotten the obvious.  "The only exception is 
camp.  It's not the same, Fox, and you know it."

His eyes narrowed then and she started getting nervous.  "How is it different?  If I went 
to play basketball at the Hartford Academy, it would be like basketball camp except 
there'd also be school."

She fought to keep calm when she answered.  "Basketball camp is one month out of the 
summer.  These people are talking about nine months of the year.  It is completely 
different."

She could practically see the wheels turning as he shifted his feet and said, "Coach 
Andrews says that almost all the boys get college scholarships and a lot of them go on to 
play in the pros."

"A lot of them do, huh?  And how tall are those that go on to play pro ball?  Fox, I have 
no doubt you're going to be a tall young man, but there's no one on either side of our 
families over six foot two.  Have you ever heard of a pro ball player that short?"

She knew it was a mistake as soon as she said it.  The fierce light of determination went 
out of his eyes and his shoulders slumped.  He looked absolutely devastated and she 
couldn't believe she'd said it.  For years when he was younger he'd pray every night that 
God would make him tall.  He'd stopped praying for it out loud, but she had no doubt he 
still hoped, deep down, that it would happen.

She knew she had to try to make it right and quickly said, "Fox, I didn't mean it.  For all I 
know, we have giants in our family history."

Without a word he pushed himself away from the wall and headed down the hallway to 
his room.  She called out to him, but he ignored her.  She didn't blame him, really.  She'd 
crushed his heart not once, but twice in a matter of minutes.

She muttered out loud, "Bill, I wish you were here.  I need you."

She heard a movement to her left and looked into the living room.  Sammy was there, 
crying.  God, what had she done to her daughter?

"What's wrong, baby?"

"I don't want Fox to go away."

"What?  Sammy, what are you talking about?  Fox isn't going anywhere, sweetheart."

"But I heard.  He wants to go away to play basketball."

She pulled her daughter onto her lap and smoothed her hair back.  "Yes, he does want to, 
but he's not going to.  Fox isn't going anywhere, baby.  Now, come on.  Why don't you 
help me set the table for dinner, okay?"

Sammy sniffled and ran the back of her hand across her eyes, but nodded in agreement.  
She got up and wandered into the kitchen, and Teena followed a few moments later.  If it 
wasn't one thing, it was another.

She stopped at the door to watch her daughter as she pulled over a stool to get the plates 
down from the cupboard.  Her hair was getting more unruly by the day, but Teena 
couldn't bear the notion of cutting it.  Besides, while she'd never admit it, she actually 
loved the five minutes she spent every morning braiding her daughter's hair.  It was a 
time for just the two of them and she looked forward to continuing the tradition for years 
to come.  She looked at the clock and decided she needed to get moving.  Dinner was 
going to be a bit late tonight.  

The rest of the evening was relatively uneventful.  Fox excused himself early on and 
spent the rest of the night in his room.  Right before bedtime, she knocked lightly on his 
door.  When he didn't answer, she said, "Fox, can I come in?"

There was no answer, so she turned the knob and entered the darkened room carefully.  A 
sliver of moonlight shone in through the window, and fell across the room and onto his 
bed.  She dodged a half-built robot from his erector set, avoided a pair of well worn 
basketball shoes, and made her way over to him.  He was fast asleep, still dressed and 
lying sprawled on top of the covers, his basketball next to his hip.  Tear tracks were clear 
on his cheeks.

She shook her head at the sight and felt an almost choking sorrow at having had to 
disappoint him.  She moved to the bottom of the bed and picked up a blanket, then spread 
it over him.  She tucked it around him gently, then brushed his unruly hair from his 
forehead.  She leaned down to kiss him goodnight and whispered, "Sleep well, my sweet 
boy."

The rest of the night was spent in a sleepless misery as she tried to figure out how to 
make things better for him the next day.  He was still quiet the next morning, resistant to 
entering into any kind of light banter or even serious discussion.  She'd decided the night 
before that he just needed some time to get over it.  He was a smart child and was 
generally able to see multiple sides to an issue.  He just needed a bit of time to see the 
other side to this one.

When it was time to leave for school, she stopped him as he headed out the door and said, 
"Fox, you know I would never do anything to hurt you.  I only want what's best for you, 
sweetheart."

He looked at her with the oddest expression and finally said, "I know you do, Mom.  
Good-bye."

She watched as he walked up the street to the school bus stop.  Then continued watching 
until the bus drove up.  She sent silent well wishes for a good day before heading off to 
check on her daughter's progress.  

The day was long and she waited breathlessly to see whether Fox was more himself when 
he came home.  But when the bus passed by, her son was not on it.  She didn't grow 
concerned immediately.  He often visited with friends after school, although usually only 
after arranging it beforehand.

She started calling all his friends, only to get more and more concerned.  Paulie 
suggested that he hadn't seen Fox since early afternoon.  She called the school then and 
was shocked to hear that Fox gave his teacher a note stating that he was to meet his father 
outside the school promptly at 1:30 p.m.  The teacher was horrified to learn that Fox's 
father was out of town and had definitely not written any note.  She hung up the phone 
quickly, then immediately dialed the number Bill had given her for emergencies.

She recognized the voice that answered after four rings, and said, "Grant, this is Teena 
Mulder.  I have an emergency here and I really need to speak with Bill.  Is he there?"

The man responded quickly, saying, "Of course, let me get him."  The five minute wait 
was almost unbearable, but finally her husband came on the phone, obviously worried.

"Teena, what is it?  What's happened?"

She spent another five minutes filling him in.  He said, "Call the police immediately.  I 
know it doesn't sound like something Fox would do, but it's possible he could have run 
away.  I'll get home as soon as I can, Teena.  I'll call in every hour or so until I get there, 
okay?"

She felt reassured, just knowing that he was on his way.  "I'll call now.  Hurry back, 
Bill."

Four hours later, she'd still heard nothing of her son. It had turned dark hours before and 
was freezing out.  She knew he only had a jacket on that morning.  His winter coat still 
hung behind the door. 

The police had come to the house immediately and had taken the case very seriously.  A 
child wandering the streets alone was always taken seriously.  At a little after eleven, the 
phone rang and she jumped to pick it up.  It was Bill, again.

"Any word?"

"Not yet.  Where are you?"

"Close.  Be there soon."

"All right."

There was silence for several long moments and then Bill said, "Don't worry.  We'll find 
him."

Bill made it home soon after, but there was still no word about their son.  It was a 
sleepless night, filled with tense calls to the police every hour or so.  Around six in the 
morning, the sun started to rise, casting a pinkish glow through the front window.  

She sat on the couch with Samantha in her lap.  Bill was in the chair, his right hand 
resting on the phone, his left rubbing his temple.  She couldn't imagine not having her 
son in her life.  It was a thought that was too terrible to even consider.  She couldn't help 
the tears that started to flow then, and the sobs that shook her shoulders.  Bill raised his 
head and looked at her, his own face starting to crumple.  He moved then, pushing 
himself out of the chair to come to her.

He sat on the arm of the couch and leaned towards her, wrapping his arm around her 
carefully.  She leaned into him, and closed her eyes, barely able to think coherently.  She 
was terrified.  Terrified that her little boy was dead, kidnapped, injured and dying.  
Terrified that he was alone and frightened with no one to help him.

They sat quietly for almost a full hour, and both jerked when the phone rang.  Sammy 
stirred on her lap and sat up sleepily as Bill answered the phone.

She could only hear his side of the conversation but knew almost immediately by the 
relief that flooded his face that Fox had been found.  

He'd made it all the way to the Hartford Academy outside New York City.  The Coach 
was shocked to find him sitting shivering outside the gym's entrance around seven in the 
morning.  He'd immediately called the police there and they'd told him to stay put with 
Fox.  As soon as the police confirmed the child's identity, they called the local police 
who then contacted her and Bill.

She was filled with relief and heard Bill making arrangements for Fox's safe return.  He'd 
be put on a plane directly by the police, and they would meet him at the airport in a little 
over two hours.  She wasn't sure if she could wait that long.  She picked up Samantha and 
brought her back to her daughter's room, setting her down gently.  She kissed her cheek 
and said, "Help Mommy, now, okay, Samantha?  We're going to pick up Fox in a little bit 
and Mommy and Daddy have to get ready.  Do you think you can get changed by 
yourself?"

The little girl nodded slowly, her expression intent, then said, "Do I get to come too, 
Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart.  You sure do.  We're all going to go."

"I'll wear something special, okay?"

"That sounds nice, sweetie.  You get dressed and then we'll all eat breakfast.  Then we'll 
go to the airport and pick up Fox."

Her daughter got a serious look on her face and asked, "Is Fox in trouble, Mommy?"

She could see the tears already starting to form.  Samantha always wanted to protect her 
big brother from any punishment, no matter how deserved it might be.

"Just a little trouble, baby.  Don't worry, he'll survive it and be just fine."

She smiled at her sensitive daughter to show she wasn't really angry and was relieved to 
see Sammy's features lightened.  She loved her big brother with a passion and would do 
anything to keep him out of trouble.

"Go on and get dressed now, okay, Sammy?  We'll see Fox real soon."

"Okay, Mommy."

The two hours felt more like twenty.  By the time the plane arrived, her nerves were 
almost shot.  She felt Bill's hand rest on her shoulder at one point and it calmed her.  The 
door to the gangway opened and the passengers started exiting.  It seemed as if it took 
forever.  She was starting to look around nervously, wondering if somehow they'd missed 
him, when a stewardess came off with their son in tow.

Her first reaction was to grab him to her in a tight hug and kiss him.  Her second was to 
hold him at arm's length, shake him and say, "Fox, what were you thinking?"  Then she 
felt her husband's grip on her shoulder again and looked closely at her son's face.  There 
would be time for recriminations later. Right now, it was time to go home.

She pulled him close again, more gently this time, and whispered, "I was so scared.  
Please don't ever scare me like that again."

Bill patted her on the back and said, "Come on, everyone.  Let's go home."

She felt Fox tense as his father spoke and could guess why.  The last he'd known, his 
father was in West Virginia for a week.  He was smart enough to figure out why his 
father was now here.  The trip to the car was made in silence, as was the thirty minute 
trip home.

Even Samantha seemed to realize that she needed to be quiet.  Right before they pulled in 
the driveway, she looked back and saw that Sammy was plastered next to her big brother. 
Fox was holding his sister's hand, as if it were she who were in trouble.  When they got in 
the house, she sent Samantha off to play in her room, whispering, "It's okay.  Everything 
will be all right.  Go on now."

She waited for her daughter to close her door and then moved into the living room.  Fox 
was already sitting in a chair, looking like a death row prisoner.  She sat down on the 
couch across from him and waited for her husband to join them before speaking.  She 
wasn't looking forward to this.

Bill joined them after a few minutes and said, "I just got off the phone with Officer 
Adams.  I need to go over in person and talk with them when we're done here."

She nodded to him, then looked over at her son.  

Bill spoke to him first.  "What do you have to say for yourself, son?"

Fox raised his head and looked right at them.  "Nothing, sir."

She tensed, wondering why her sweet, obedient son was suddenly being so defiant.  The 
anger in her husband's voice was clear.

"What do you mean by that?"

Fox shifted in the seat and said clearly, "I mean I don't have anything to say, sir."

She turned to her husband and raised one hand to rest on his knee. She said, "I don't 
understand, Fox.  Do you realize how worried we were?  Do you realize what could have 
happened?"

He was thoughtful, not appearing to be intentionally disobedient at all.  He finally said, 
"I'm sorry that you were worried.  I wasn't in any danger, though.  I was very careful.  I 
didn't talk to strangers."

She was still mystified.  "But, Fox, don't you see how we'd be worried when you didn't 
come home?  Can't you see that?"

He appeared to be getting upset now, with tears pooling in his eyes.  He was emotional 
when he said, "But I had to show you I could be independent, Mom.  I had to show you I 
could live on my own.  Then you'd let me play basketball at the Hartford Academy."

She felt her stomach lurch at the thought of a ten year old trying to prove he was so 
independent he didn't need anyone or anything.  Tears rolled down her cheeks and she 
couldn't speak.

Bill said, "Fox, it's not a matter of you proving that you're independent.  That's not what 
this is about.  This is about us being a family.  Families stay together.  Do you understand 
that, Fox?  We love you.  Sammy loves you.  We don't want you leaving us before you 
have to.  There's no reason for it.  Do you understand that, boy?"

Fox was crying in earnest now, but managed to say, "But I want to play basketball, Dad."

Bill moved from the couch and walked across the room to kneel down in front of his son.  
He rested a hand on the child's shoulder and cupped Fox's face with the other.  He wiped 
away the tears then and said gently, "I know you do, son.  But you don't have to be away 
from home to do that.  If the team you're playing on now isn't challenging enough, we'll 
see what else we can do to make it a bit more exciting, okay?  Deal?"

She was relieved when she saw her son nod his head in agreement.

Bill then said, "But you have to promise me something, Fox.  You have to swear to me 
that you'll never do anything like this again.  You can't run off and leave us behind like 
this.  You scared us, son."

She could hardly hear her son when he said in a trembling voice, "I'm sorry, Dad.  I didn't 
mean to scare you.  I just knew I could do it and that I could prove it to you.  I just 
wanted to prove it, that's all."

She moved across the room, too, then and knelt to the side of her son.  She ran her hand 
over his head gently, then leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. "You don't have 
to ever prove anything to us."  She kissed him again and said, "I love you, sweet boy.  
You know that?"

He grimaced a bit and nodded, but then said, "I do know, Mom.  I'm sorry."

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 7 of the Wait
Sunday, 5:07 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully was absolutely entranced by both the story as well as the woman telling it.  In all 
the years she and Mulder had been partners, she hadn't really appreciated the fact that 
Mulder had led a relatively normal life before his sister had been taken.  His parents had 
loved him.  And she had no doubt whatsoever that the woman sitting across the bed from 
her still loved her son.

This fact was reinforced as Teena Mulder picked up her son's hand in hers and kissed it 
gently before laying it back down on the covers.  The older woman said, "The thing that 
was so amazing about the whole situation was the planning that he'd put into it in such 
short order.  We found the details out later."

The smile on Mrs. Mulder's face was nice to see.  Teena Mulder was obviously still 
remembering the events of so long ago.  Scully was curious to know more.  This look 
into her partner's past was not only fascinating, but was providing a valuable insight into 
many of his actions over the last six years.

She ran her hand over her partner's arm, then through his hair, in what had started to 
become a ritual.  When she looked up from his face, she saw that Mrs. Mulder was 
watching her.  She felt as if she'd been caught at something, but the smile the woman 
gave her set her at ease.  

Mrs. Mulder said, "He forged a very convincing note for his teacher, then convinced the 
poor woman that his Dad was right there waiting to pick him up.  He got on a bus and 
rode across town to the bank where he withdrew $200 from his savings account.  The 
teller swore his mother was waiting for him by the door."

The woman was shaking her head in what appeared to be a combination of fondness and 
amazement.  "I would have sworn before that incident that my son couldn't lie to save 
himself.  But he evidently discovered he had quite a talent for it.  He played the same 
trick on one person after another.  Whenever someone questioned his being alone, he'd 
point to some adult and swear the person was his mother or father.  Then he'd wave at the 
person and when they waved back, it would seem like they did indeed know each other."

She shifted in the chair and laughed a bit out loud.  "When we found out the details, Bill 
didn't know whether to be proud or furious."

They all could relate to that.  Scully herself had been faced with that dilemma enough 
times herself.

Mrs. Mulder continued with her story.  "After he withdrew the money, he caught a cab to 
the bus station, then bought a ticket to Harriston, via New York City.  The layover in 
New York was for three hours.  I still shudder to think what might have happened to him 
there, all by himself."

And the woman did seem to shiver before continuing.  "He caught the bus into Harriston, 
bought something to eat at a local diner, then walked more than five miles to the 
Academy.  By this time, it was well past midnight.  He parked himself in front of the 
gym doors and spent the night there."

Scully was surprised when the woman stood and looked right at her. "Like I said, my 
son's always been determined, Ms. Scully.  And I know he'll pull through this, too.  He 
just has to decide he wants to."

She nodded, knowing intuitively that the woman was right.  She felt her mother's hand on 
her shoulder and turned to her with a small smile, happy to have such support.  She 
sighed deeply, and wished for the hundredth time that she could rewrite history.  God, 
she was so tired.  She wanted to sleep.  Wanted to lie down and rest.  But she knew she 
wouldn't be able to until Mulder showed some sign of making up his mind to live.

She looked back over at Mrs. Mulder and said, "AD Skinner was telling us about another 
situation where Mulder was more determined than was good for him.  When he was at 
the Academy.  The ..."

"DC Murders case.  Oh, I know all about it, Ms. Scully.  Believe me, I do know about 
that one."

Scully saw the woman glance to her right to where Skinner sat.  They exchanged a 
significant look, then the AD said, "I just told them about the day Mulder got hold of the 
files for the first time."

Mrs. Mulder nodded and with a sad expression said, "I often wonder if things might have 
gone differently for Fox if he hadn't gotten involved in that case.  But, ultimately, a 
person's who they are.  If it hadn't been that case, I have no doubt it would have been 
another."

Scully realized then that the woman was sending a message to Skinner, and by his 
expression, he'd gotten it.  He nodded in acknowledgment, then said, "Probably, Mrs. 
Mulder.  But I've always wondered, too."

*******************************************

End Part 5 of ? 

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 6 of ? (6/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 7 of the Wait
Sunday, 5:23 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Another nurse came in and went through the routine they'd now become so used to.  
Skinner watched closely as the woman moved around the bed and machines, checking 
monitors and flipping switches.  It dawned on him then that everyone else in the room 
also sat breathlessly, waiting as he was to hear whether there had been any change.

The woman smiled at them before leaving and he breathed deeply in relief.  He smiled a 
bit as he heard other sighs echoing his.  His relief was short-lived, however, as a doctor 
came in just moments later followed by the exact same nurse.

He stood quickly, hands thrust in his pockets.  "Is everything all right?"

The doctor nodded, then glanced around at those in the room before replying.  "There's 
been no change.  He's still holding his own. However, I do need about a half hour so we 
can run some tests and change bandages.  If you could sit out in the CCU Waiting area, 
I'll come out as soon as I'm done."

Skinner glanced about nervously, wondering if there was more to the story than the man 
said.  But, when he focused on Scully, she didn't seem overly concerned so he merely 
stood back to allow the ladies to precede him.  He took a last look at his agent lying so 
still in the bed and swallowed heavily.  He prayed it wouldn't be the last time he saw the 
younger man.

The doctor pulled the sheet down far enough to look at the wound on Mulder's ribcage.  
Skinner watched the man shake his head, as if in puzzlement or disgust.  A little sliver of 
fear shot through him so that he was distracted.  So distracted that he had no idea where 
the nurse who now stood in front of him came from. Her voice cut through his daze, 
finally.

"Sir, could you step out for a bit, please?"

He flushed a bit in embarrassment, but nodded and stepped out, feeling somewhat lost.  
The curtains were pulled in front of the window and past the open doorway.  He turned to 
the CCU doors and saw that Scully stood there waiting for him.  He summoned up a 
smile he didn't really feel and started the long walk towards her.

He couldn't remember ever feeling as helpless as this.  But then, he'd never been in this 
position before, watching it all unfold.  This was what Scully had been through time and 
again.  This was what Mulder had been through all those times Scully's life had hung in 
the balance.  He hated this.  He hated not being able to do anything.

"Sir, is everything all right?"

Great.  Now he'd gone and worried her.  "Everything's fine, Scully.  I was just thinking 
how ... frustrating this is."

Her features lightened a bit, but her own worry was still evident in her every move and 
expression.  Still, she tried to appear strong, and he admired her for it all the more.  
"Believe me, I understand what you mean."  She gestured down the hall to the waiting 
room then.  "Come on, sir.  I'll buy the coffee this time."

"Agent Scully, I do believe you're trying to perpetrate a fraud.  You know the coffee's 
free here."

At least he got her to smile.  Her hair was mussed and the light make up she'd worn 
yesterday was smeared and uneven from tear tracks.  She looked so young and 
vulnerable.  He was filled with the desire to protect her somehow, but knew he had no 
control over what was going to happen in the next hours.  What she needed, he couldn't 
give.

As they walked into the room, he saw that Margaret Scully and Teena Mulder were 
sitting next to one another on a couch, each with a cup of coffee in hand.  They were so 
alike and yet so very different.  Both strong women who'd do anything to protect their 
children.  Teena Mulder was tall and statuesque, while Margaret Scully was even more 
petite than her daughter.  But the strength that shone from both had nothing to do with 
any physical attributes.  He felt honored to be spending this time in their collective 
company.

He handed a cup to Scully, then filled his own.  He moved to sit in a chair to Mrs. 
Scully's right, while Scully sat in a chair next to Mrs. Mulder.  Mulder's mother reached 
out with her left hand and rested it on Scully's for a moment.

Skinner glanced at his watch and decided this might be a very long thirty minutes.  He 
raised a hand to his eyes and rubbed them, finding it more difficult to keep them open.  
He and Scully had been here now for more than nine hours and he knew already it would 
be quite a while before either of them would leave.  At least he prayed it would be a long 
time.  There was only one thing that could happen that would cause them to leave before 
Mulder was out of the woods.

He breathed deeply, telling himself to stop thinking along those lines.  A movement in 
the doorway drew his eyes to the left and he noted a very tired looking Jerry Friedman 
waiting there.  The man seemed unwilling to enter the waiting room so Skinner excused 
himself and went out to the hallway.

He nodded a greeting toward the younger man and said in a low voice, "Agent."

Jerry looked nervous, fidgeting with the papers he held, practically bouncing from foot to 
foot.  "Sir, I've brought the report on our UNSUB.  SAC Landers felt you should be kept 
in the loop.  I hope I'm not interrupting."

He reached out to take the file Friedman held when he noticed the man trying to look 
around him into the waiting room.  He realized then that neither he nor Scully had 
provided any updates on Mulder's condition.  The team members his former agent had 
worked with for close to a week were probably concerned about him.

"Mulder's still in critical condition.  He's in a coma and on a respirator.  Temperature's up 
due to infection.  But ... he's still hanging in there.  I'll be sure to keep you apprised of 
any developments."

He could see the news hit Friedman hard.  The man's shoulders drooped even further and 
his face wore a scrunched, tight expression.  "Thank you for the update, sir.  The most 
they'd tell us was that he was in critical condition."

He nodded, then waved the file somewhat aimlessly, saying, "What did you find, Agent?"

Friedman did an admirable job of pulling himself together, standing straighter after 
taking a deep breath.  "Sir, the UNSUB's been identified as Harold Stevens -- a thirty-
three year old, white male.  Single, never married, no children.  No living relatives."

Friedman wore a painful expression, prompting Skinner to ask, "What's the problem, 
Agent?"

The man sighed and shifted his feet, obviously nervous.  "Sir, it's Agent Mulder's 
profile."

"Yes?"

"Well, sir, this man both does and does not fit."

"But that's not all that unusual.  A profile is intended to be a guide, not a bible.  Even 
Mulder's not always a hundred percent."

His words didn't seem to sway Friedman though, who now looked painfully unconvinced.  
He glanced at his watch felt a pressure to get back to the waiting room.  At the same 
time, he knew that Friedman had been of great help to his former agents.  The man's 
opinion, or even his gut feeling, was worth a little bit of time and a great deal of respect.

"Agent Friedman, tell me what has you concerned."

The man seemed to be wavering, obviously doubting his own read of the situation, and 
Skinner reached a hand out to the agent's arm.  As if this were a trigger, Friedman finally 
started talking.

"Sir, Agent Mulder had profiled a man who was intelligent -- of above average 
intelligence.  A man without a prior record who had tried join law enforcement, perhaps 
even the Bureau, but who would have washed out because of psychological imbalances."  
Friedman was agitated now, his voice rushing on more quickly.  "Mulder's profile 
suggested a man who was self-assured and cocky.  This man, Harold Stevens, did attempt 
to join the Richmond PD, but was found to be unacceptable due to three primary reasons 
-- a prior record involving a string of misdemeanors as well as a larceny charge which 
ended up being thrown out due to lack of evidence, a borderline schizophrenic with a 
suggestion of a paranoid personality, and also a below average intelligence.  And the 
RPD are pretty damned sure he had something to do with the death of his mother a 
couple years ago, but they haven't been able to collect one shred of evidence to support 
it." 

He understood then why Friedman was bothered.  This was no small discrepancy.  This 
was the grand canyon of discrepancies.  And he wasn't sure what it meant.  Friedman was 
staring at him as if he'd have all the answers, be able to find some reasonable explanation 
as to why Mulder would have been so far off.  He raised a hand to forestall the man and 
opened the file that had been handed to him earlier.

He glanced over the details of Stevens' early years and began reading about the petty 
crimes, the larceny charge.  Read about the death of the man's mother a couple years ago, 
under questionable circumstances.  Read the results of the tests for the police academy 
last year.  It was obvious that the man was a misfit -- a bomb waiting to explode who 
probably should have been behind bars years before.  He could actually see a man such 
as this carrying out the crimes in this case.  But the problem was that Mulder evidently 
could not.  Did not.  Mulder saw a very different kind of person perpetrating these 
crimes.  And for all the disagreements, for all the arguments over the years, there was one 
thing he knew.  Knew more surely than anything.  And that was that he trusted Mulder's 
profiling abilities more than any other person's in the Bureau.

He sighed and closed the file, tapping it against his hand.  He looked at Friedman again 
and saw the understanding there.  Neither of them believed this case was completely 
resolved.  There was more to be learned.

"Agent Friedman, please tell SAC Landers that I'd like to speak with him at his earliest 
convenience.  In the meantime, I think it would be wise to continue investigating this 
man Stevens.  Dig into every aspect of his life.  I want confirmation that he's the man 
we've been looking for.  Absolute confirmation."

Friedman nodded, looking relieved, and said merely, "Yes sir."  The man turned to go 
and then paused, turning back more slowly.  "Please give Dana my regards, sir.  And 
please let me know if there's anything that any of us can do for Mulder."  He paused 
again, obviously unsure how his words would be taken, but then said, "He's a good agent 
and a good man.  We're all pulling for him."

Skinner nodded, then watched as Friedman walked down the hallway and eventually 
disappeared from view around a corner.  He leaned back against the wall, feeling tired.  
Tired and old.  He looked across the hallway at a clock hanging on the wall and 
discovered that it was a little past five-thirty in the morning.  His stomach rumbled and it 
reminded him that he hadn't eaten since lunch time the day before.  

He pushed himself away from the wall and stood straight.  Maybe in an hour or so he 
could force the ladies to have some breakfast.  In the meantime, it certainly wasn't 
necessary for Scully to know about Friedman's news.  He sighed and blinked his eyes 
hard, hoping to clear his vision as well as his head, then walked back into the waiting 
room.

He sat down once more next to Margaret Scully and attempted a smile.  They all 
appeared drained and depressed.  He searched his memory for an appropriate installment 
of the Mulder Story Hour and remembered a tale that had been told and retold over the 
years, each telling adding new and ever more daring exploits.  But he knew the truth, and 
it was a story to be proud of without any embellishments.

Just as he'd decided to launch into it, a nurse came to the door, a smile plastered onto her 
face.  "You can go back in now."

And before they had a chance to question, the woman was gone from the room.  He didn't 
know whether this was a good thing or not, but stood anyway.  

The trek to Mulder's room seemed to get longer with each passage, but they were there 
finally and nothing seemed different to his eye.  Mulder had been shifted once more and 
it appeared that the bandage on his forehead had also been changed.  The antiseptic smell 
hit him more powerfully than at any time before, almost making him gag at the 
pungency.  

He waited as Scully and Teena Mulder took their places, with Margaret Scully following 
close behind.  He took his own place, the chair that had somehow become 'his' in the last 
several hours, and sat back.  

There was a heaviness in the room -- a despair that worried him.  If Mulder was the least 
bit aware -- if he could sense anything, it shouldn't be this gloom.  He cleared his throat 
to get the attention of the ladies and said, "You know, the day Mulder discovered the files 
was the same day he made Academy history in Hogan's Alley."  He could tell that his 
abrupt words caught them by surprise, but he ignored it and continued on.  He turned to 
Scully with a slight smile and asked, "You know what I'm talking about?"

She leaned back farther in her chair and crossed her legs, an upturn of one lip revealing 
that she did, indeed, know something about it.  "I heard about it during training.  It was a 
tough precedent to follow."

Mrs. Scully was obviously curious.  She leaned forward towards him a bit and asked, 
"What do you mean?  What did Fox do?"  Mrs. Mulder appeared to be curious as well, 
and he wondered if perhaps her son hadn't filled her in on this little adventure.

"Mrs. Scully, Mrs. Mulder, you know about Hogan's Alley?"

Scully's mother nodded almost immediately, but Teena Mulder hesitated. He decided it 
wouldn't hurt to give them some background.

"Hogan's Alley was built in the mid-seventies to be the primary training ground for our 
Agents when they go through the Academy.  It's meant to represent a typical town, with 
the All-Med Drugstore, the Bank of Hogan, the Co-Op Laundromat, the post office, and 
the Biograph Theatre.  All of those are reasonably respectable, but there's also a seedy 
billiards parlor, a pawnshop, a no-tell motel, and the Pastime Lounge."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and clasped his hands between them.  "We have a 
couple situations that are constructed in such a way that they're basically unwinable.  Sort 
of like the Bureau's equivalent to the Kobyashi Maru."

Both ladies just stared at him, obviously not understanding the reference.  He shook his 
head and continued.  "You see, sometimes what we're really interested in is seeing the 
trainee's reactions to certain situations regardless of what the end result might be.  So the 
Academy instructors take great pleasure in coming up with circumstances that would be 
incredibly challenging even to the most experienced of agents.  Then they throw in some 
additional ethical or moral dilemmas and turn a group of trainees loose to see what 
happens."

He was getting into the story now, and placed his coffee on the small table beside him to 
free up his hands.  "That very afternoon, Mulder was put in charge of a team handling a 
bank robbery."

*******************************************

September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 1:34 p.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


He slid to a stop at the back of the group, praying no one would notice.  No such luck.  

Agent Philip Ramey yelled out gruffly, "Trainee Mulder, it's so nice of you to join us."

He groaned internally, but merely stood straighter, trying to avoid the smirks of some of 
his classmates.  He was still breathing hard, having run across the complex in mere 
minutes, and was trying to appear nonchalant.

Ramey had pushed his way through the group until he stood just a foot away from Fox.  
The man had only an inch of height on him but was much broader and more muscular.  
His hair was dark brown with just a dash of white at his temples, and he wore wire rim 
glasses.  Despite the only slight advantage in height, Ramey somehow gave the 
impression of looking down his nose in complete disdain.

"Since you're so full of energy this afternoon, you're going to have the pleasure of leading 
the team during our little bank robbery."

He didn't know whether to be pleased or terrified.  In six weeks of play-acting, with some 
sixty hours already spent in Hogan's Alley, this was his first opportunity to call any of the 
shots.  

"What do have to say about that, Trainee Mulder?"

He smiled tightly and said, "I look forward to the opportunity, sir."

Fox had already experienced a bomb threat in the Drugstore and a raid on the Dogwood 
Inn, but today was a bank robbery and it looked like he'd be directing some of the action.  
He glanced around at his thirty-one classmates, wondering who'd be on the team with 
him.

Agent Ramey answered the question by yelling out eleven names and directing them all 
to the left, along with Fox.  "All the rest of you are with Agent Seymour.  She'll give you 
your background and positions and explain your roles.  Be prepared to be tellers and 
hostages."

The day was bright and warm, and a gentle breeze blew from the west. All the team 
members were dressed alike, with light windbreakers over their tee-shirts and khaki 
pants. Fox knew that in mere minutes they'd be donning the heavy assault armor that he 
despised so greatly.  The damned equipment made it almost impossible to move with any 
ease and was so loud you could hear it clanking from thirty feet away.  What was the 
worst of all, in his opinion, was that the helmet restricted head movement so that 
peripheral vision was reduced.

He glanced around at his classmates to see that they were all excited, with none of them 
appearing to hold his 'in charge' status against him.  They were waiting for Ramey to 
come back from the other group and start filling them in.  He was filled with a nervous 
energy and started tapping his hand against his leg.  He wanted to get this show on the 
road.

He glanced around to see his classmates evidencing similar signs of agitation.  He caught 
Shirley Kudla's eyes and smiled back at her.  She'd made it quite clear that she was a 
woman who usually got what she wanted and she'd told him she wanted him.  Badly.  He 
hadn't dismissed the notion.  She was nice enough.  Intelligent.  Certainly a looker.  Five 
foot nine, long legged and trim.  Blonde hair with sun bleached tips, long and straight.  
She always wore it pulled back in a pony tail during training exercises so it bobbed out 
behind her. He could do worse -- and had on many occasions.  He winked at her before 
turning his gaze back to the rest of the group.  They'd gone through this on several 
occasions so the silence was comfortable.  

He crossed his arms and forced his feet to stay in one spot.  When he turned his head 
back to the left, he saw Jimmy looking at him in curiosity.  He raised his eyebrows and 
said, "What?  What is it?"

The guy was a good five years older, some four inches taller and thin as a rail.  Fox had 
tried to get him on the basketball court, but it had been a complete disaster.  The man had 
a background in accounting and law and had evidently avoided team sports like the 
plague while growing up.  Jimmy had a strange expression on his long face when he 
answered.  "You know, I've heard they enjoy killing people in this exercise."

That got everyone's attention.  Fox had to admit that he'd overheard some comments here 
and there that had suggested the exercise could be a difficult one.  Before he could ask, 
someone else said, "What do you mean, Jim?"

"I overheard some guys from the 84-3 class talking in the library.  They didn't realize I 
was there.  I couldn't hear everything, but it certainly seemed from what I did hear that 
the instructors like to use this exercise to instill a little humility in the participants."

This comment sparked a flurry of discussion which Fox listened to with one ear, even 
while considering what it might mean.  He remembered Clay's words from that morning, 
along with the painful grins on both the NA men's faces. 'Just remember, it's never as 
easy as it looks.'

He was sure that Jimmy was right.  There would be nothing straight-forward or simple 
about this exercise.  They'd been challenged this morning to consider extreme 
possibilities.  Now was the time to start thinking along those lines.  Avoid linear 
thinking, avoid the trap of carelessness due to overconfidence.

He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and turned to look at the little town.  They were 
on the outskirts right now, but the main street was visible from their present position.  
The bank was partway down the street, with an alley behind it, streets on the front and 
right side, and a shared wall with the town hall to the left as you stood looking at it from 
the front.  He nibbled at the inside of his cheek as he considered the implications.

Access could be gained through the front double doors and two glass windows.  To the 
right of the building as you looked at it was a side street.  The bank had another two 
windows on the side, the lower sills seven feet off the ground.  The top of the windows 
was some six or so feet from the roof, which was flat.  He wasn't sure about the back, but 
knew there was an alley that ran parallel to the main street.  What was really intriguing 
was the fact that the bank was attached to the town hall, actually sharing a wall.  He knew 
none of these buildings had basements, so any assault from below was out.  But that 
shared wall ...

He sensed someone to his left and tore his eyes away from the Alley.  Shirley was there, 
looking at him with a knowing smirk.  "You have an idea, don't you?"

He laughed a bit before replying.  "I always have ideas."

He enjoyed the look of disgust that flitted across her face.  He still wasn't sure about her, 
but one thing he did know was that if they were ever going to be more than friends, she'd 
better have a sense of humor, or develop one fast.  

She elbowed him in the ribs and said, "Come on, Fox.  Give.  What are you thinking?"

He glanced back at the main street, imagining how to best use twelve bodies.  "I'm 
thinking that it would be interesting to see what the wall between the town hall and the 
bank is made of."

Shirley looked shocked for a moment and then grinned broadly.  She leaned in close so 
that her hair actually tickled his chin.  "Do you think they make the trainees pay for any 
damaged property?"

He laughed with her and just shrugged.  "Would be interesting to find out, don't you 
think?"

She turned so she could look down the main street as well.  He could tell she was getting 
into the swing of it when she said, "Would definitely be easiest to swing in those 
windows from above.  And you know, now that I'm thinking about it, I bet that roof has 
some access through the ventilation system."

He nodded and asked, "How strong do you think the brick is out front?  Would a car be 
able to drive through it?"

Chris Hanson had overheard them at some point and now joined in.  "I got a look at the 
back once.  There's an alley, and across from that is just a grassy area.  Plenty of room to 
pick up some speed if necessary."

Fox had to smile at the guy.  Chris had been a cop in San Diego.  He'd managed to go to 
school part-time and had received a Master's in Political Science.  "I'm not sure if the 
Bureau would appreciate our wrecking their building as well as a vehicle."

Shirley quipped, "But I thought we were interested in saving lives."

He nodded and grew more serious.  He looked to Chris and asked, "Were you ever 
involved in any bank robberies?"

The man paused in thought before answering.  "Yes and no.  Not in the actual assaults or 
negotiations, only in the management during and the clean-up afterwards.  Keeping 
people back, taking statements after it was over, that sort of thing."

Shirley asked, "What kind of negotiations were necessary and how were any negotiations 
initiated?"

Fox knew they were good questions and looked to Chris for a response.  They'd had 
several hours of lectures and classes on bank robberies, but there was no substitute for 
first hand experience.  By now, several of the other students had made their way over to 
the little group and were also listening with interest.

"It depended on the circumstances, of course.  In each case, a teller had hit the silent 
alarm.  One time, the bank robbers didn't even realize the cops were there until they 
started to head for the street.  Then they see all these flashing lights.  A minute later, the 
phone starts to ring.  I took witness statements in that one.  One of the tellers said that the 
phone caused the head guy to flip out.  She thought he was going to start firing at first, 
but eventually he had someone answer it."

Everyone was listening with rapt expressions.  "It was the police of course.  Actually, it 
was one of the local Bureau negotiators.  The man calmly explained that the bank was 
completely surrounded and there was absolutely no way out.  Then asked what the bank 
robber wanted to do about it.  The teller said that after twenty minutes on the phone, the 
robber was in tears.  That one ended peacefully with the robbers giving up."

Chris looked around at the group surrounding him.  All the remaining eleven of them 
were there and listening.  "The one that really stands out, though, was a case where the 
bank robbers really weren't interested in the money.  They were out to make a statement 
and were determined to blow the entire bank up.  They knew the teller had hit the alarm 
and were just waiting for the FBI to show up."  Fox discovered he was quite interested in 
how this situation had been resolved.

"The cops called first and the guy inside told them not to call back until the Bureau was 
there.  When the Bureau negotiator showed up, the guy gave his demands, then calmly 
hung up the phone.  He said they had a bomb and they'd take out the entire building if 
they didn't meet his demands."

Fox asked the obvious.  "And what were the demands?"

Chris wore a grimace now.  "Oh, basically world peace.  The guy was an absolute kook."

There were nervous laughs around the group.  Fox was pretty sure he knew where this 
was going.  He saw Ramey approaching and decided to cut to the end.  "Were there any 
survivors?"

It was obvious by the confused expressions surrounding him that most of the other 
students hadn't yet made this leap.  Chris shook his head slowly.  "Nope.  And we lost 
five cops, too."

The story merely reinforced the morning's lesson.  Irrational people do not act rationally 
or have realistic expectations.  He had this weird feeling that the lesson was about to be 
driven home even  harder this afternoon.

By the time Ramey reached them, he found twelve trainees lost in thought, each with 
deadly serious expressions.  The man turned to Fox and gestured toward the town.  
"Trainee Mulder, bring your team along.  I'll brief you.  We have fifteen minutes."

Fox nodded and smiled back at his classmates.  They all followed along silently, eyes 
glued to the bank that sat half way down the little main street that ran through the Alley.  
The briefing, such as it was, lasted all of five minutes.  They sat in rows of chairs in one 
of the twenty-four rooms of the no-tell motel.  It had been converted to a little classroom 
for briefings just such as this.

Ramey stood in front of the room with a pad of paper in hand.  "This is what you know.  
A silent alarm has been triggered.  In addition, a call to 911 some two minutes after the 
alarm was triggered claimed there were gunshots and screams from inside the bank.  The 
first cop car arrived three minutes after the alarm was tripped.  By seven minutes, the 
bank was completely surrounded and by eight minutes, the Bureau negotiator was onsite 
with an assault team ready to go, if necessary."

The man looked around the room, his gaze finally settling on Fox.  "That's you."

Fox shifted nervously, suddenly feeling as if the fate of the world was in his hands.  His 
throat was uncomfortably dry and he tried to generate enough moisture so he could 
actually speak when he needed to.
  
Ramey continued.  "There's been no contact whatsoever as yet.  There's no intelligence.  
The cops have secured the area and are available for limited assistance."  The instructor 
paused and swept his gaze around the room.  "I'll be your primary contact with the cops. 
Captain Ramey at your service."  He smiled grimly.  "There'll be eight cars and sixteen 
cops at your disposal.  Getting ahold of any building plans will take a minimum of an 
hour."  The man looked at his watch then and said, "Technically, you have eight minutes 
before you arrive on the scene.  You have typical assault gear available, as well as 
equipment.  Get your butts into any necessary gear and start making decisions."

Ramey gestured towards a side room where the assault gear hung on hooks, and then 
approached Fox, with another glance at his watch.  His last words were, "Trainee Mulder, 
they're all yours."  The man handed Fox a slip of paper with the bank's phone number on 
it, then turned and left.

Fox nodded and stood. "Let's get suited up, people."

Even as he moved towards the room and started handing gear out to 'his' people, his mind 
was working.  After about a minute, while everyone was still engaged in preparation 
mode, he started his own briefing.

"It's clear we need intelligence.  I want to make sure no one inside is aware of our arrival.  
We stay out of sight so that the robbers don't know we're actually there.  Let them see the 
cops, but none of us, is that clear?"

There were nods and curious looks, but no dispute.

"It's either a robbery gone bad, in which case the assailants are going to be looking for a 
way out that won't involve the gas chamber, or it's something else entirely.  If they're 
wanting to make a statement, we deprive them of that opportunity for as long as 
possible."

Chris spoke quickly, "And if there are injured people inside?"

Fox nodded, already having thought of this.  "That's why we need intelligence ASAP.  I 
want Handley on the right side on the ground.  Come up from the alley and avoid the 
possibility of being seen.  I want Kudla, Hanson, and Shriver on the roof, ready to go in 
the side windows and one of the front windows if necessary.  Approach from the town 
hall roof."  

Shirley Kudla was grinning, obviously more than ready for the challenge.  He added, 
"But see if there's roof access through the ventilation system.  Quietly."

He glanced around, making sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to.  "The 
rest of us will go into the town hall, right next to the bank.  We'll gather what intelligence 
we can through the wall."  He looked at his watch and realized they had four minutes.  
He had to relay as much of his thinking as possible.  "If there are injuries, we have to 
attempt to assess the severity.  If it looks like there are serious injuries, we'll have to try 
to end it quickly.  If they're not so serious, we can afford to be a little more patient.  If 
there are no injuries, the plan is to never let the guys know what's going on outside and to 
avoid even talking with them.  We make them wait, and try to gather more intelligence.  
Delay will be the name of the game."

He glanced at his watch again and started to feel the pressure.  Two minutes.  "Those 
who are with me, once we're in the town hall I want Lieber and Reed to handle sight and 
sound.  Handley, you need to start reporting as soon as you're in position."

He turned to one of the older students, known affectionately as 'the Hankster'. The man 
was a stocky, red-faced and red-haired thirty-four year old who'd just made Detective on 
the Boston police force.  He'd dropped it all in a heartbeat when the Bureau accepted his 
application.  "Hank, I want you on communications.  Make sure all intelligence is being 
coordinated and distributed appropriately.  We'll use channel 3 for Hank, 6 for 
emergency broadcasts to all.  Got that?"

Everyone nodded without question or comment.  They'd already heard way too many 
stories about failures due solely to lack of communication.  

With a last glance at his watch he said, "Time to go, folks.  We approach from the east 
side down the alley.  Hank, Farrady, Lancaster, and Morrow, get the rams, tools, and 
other equipment.  Everyone else, make sure you have what you'll need for your own 
tasks.  Let's go, people."

In mere minutes, his entire team was in position, right on schedule.  Hank started 
relaying information from those on the roof and from Handley, even as Lieber and Reed 
were setting up their equipment at the common wall.  Fox worked with the rest of the 
team to lay out equipment and discuss strategy.

Hank said softly, "Handley reports no visible injuries, but she does not have an 
unobstructed view.  Requests verification from our team.  She has three assailants in her 
sights, all with what appear to be assault rifles.  She reports leader is in middle of room, 
one by wall nearest to her, one pacing near front of bank.  She counts five tellers standing 
in front of counter with hands on their heads.  She counts eight people lying on the floor, 
between the tellers and the leader.  No other obvious people."

Fox nodded and turned to Hank, "Report from the roof?"

The man nodded and again said in his quiet, but confident baritone, "Kudla is 
investigating.  Looks promising.  Hanson in position at front, Shriver in position at side."

"Tell all to hold positions until further intelligence is gathered."

He heard the man's murmur, but tuned it out.  He closed his eyes and thought hard.  
Could there be injured people that they weren't aware of?  He turned to Lieber and asked, 
"Do we have sound yet?"

The man nodded and raised a hand, then reported, "Got it."  The static filled, but audible 
discourse from the bank then filled the room.  It was obvious there were some problems 
in the chain of command inside the bank.  They heard a voice screaming.  "This is totally 
fucked up.  I can't believe I let you talk me into this.  The cops are everywhere you 
asshole.  They've got us fucking surrounded!"

There were shots fired then and even though intellectually Fox knew they were blanks, it 
was still shocking.  He turned to Hank and waited for the inevitable report.  It came 
moments later.

"Handley reports the leader fired shots at the ground, in front of the assailant towards the 
front of the bank.  She reports substantial tension."

He snorted at that and gestured to Farrady and Lancaster.  "Got the sketch ready yet?"

The two had been assigned the task of sketching out the floorplan of the bank based on 
reports from Handley and Lieber.  They nodded and he walked over to them, even as 
more scratchy yelling could be heard from the bank.

"If you don't shut up and stand still, the next shot will be in your worthless head, you 
moron."

Hank's voice drifted quietly, "Handley reports assailant in front of bank has stopped 
directly in front of doors, eight feet away."

Fox nodded and said, "Morrow and Ellicott, I want you out front, ready to take someone 
out or to enter through the doors if necessary.  Stay out of sight."  He said to Hank, 
"Coordinate with cops, let them know they are NOT to give away the fact that we are 
here."

He glanced at his watch and knew that decision time was coming.  Couldn't delay the call 
much longer.  Or could he?  What would happen if no one called.  If they just let the guys 
inside sit.  They might just kill each other.  Of course, they could also flip out and start 
killing the hostages.  He was pretty sure that would be the result, in fact.

He licked his lips and listened to the ranting, even as he looked at the sketch.  It was a 
new voice, the third guy.  "Jack, we have to get out of here.  We need to give it up.  
Harry's right.  This is crazy."

There was some loud noise then.  A crash which shook them all.  He stared at Hank, 
waiting for the report from Handley, when Reed said, "I got pictures over here."

Fox walked the few feet necessary to bring him to the little monitor and watched, even as 
Reed moved the little camera from one angle to another.  It was a bad view in that they 
couldn't really see any of the hostages on the ground.  They could see the back of the 
tellers who stood against the counter and they could also see the leader and the assailant 
who stood at the far wall, near where Handley was. 

He had Reed swivel the little camera from left to right and then back again.  What looked 
like the remains of a display case lie on the ground in pieces, evidently the source of the 
crash they'd heard earlier.  He wasn't about to trust anything though, so had Reed do it 
again.  He saw it on the second pass.  A suitcase, some four feet from where the leader 
stood.  At first he'd assumed it was someone's briefcase, but knew now that it was 
nothing of the sort.  Without even realizing it, he whispered, "Holy Christ."

He sensed the halt of all movement in the room and glanced around.  He backed up and 
said, "Reed, Hank, Lancaster, take a look at the suitcase four feet to the right of the 
leader.  What do you make of it?"

He could tell by their expressions that they knew, also.  Hank said quietly, "Boom."

During their exchange, the yelling next door had quieted.  The leader spoke now in a 
confident monotone.  "We knew what could happen when we decided to do this.  We 
came prepared.  We will ultimately prevail.  We'll relay our message soon.  I know we'll 
win this."

With the knowledge of what was in the suitcase, the words took on a completely different 
meaning.  He looked over at the phone and thought hard.  There had to be a way to delay 
long enough to come up with a workable plan.

His eyes rested on Gloria Lancaster.  There was something about her.  Something was 
niggling at the back of his mind.  He just needed to bring it to the forefront.  What was 
it??  

She must have noticed him staring at her, because she said, "Fox, you okay?"

And when she spoke, it came to him.  Her voice sounded like those recordings you hear 
when you can't get through on a phone line.  He grinned at her and grabbed at a piece of 
paper, writing carefully.  At the same time he said, "Hank, let the cops know that any call 
out from the bank is to be routed here directly -- immediately.  They are NOT to answer 
it.  Let them know quickly please."

He glanced over what he'd written and gestured Gloria closer.  He handed her the slip of 
paper and said, "Think you can say this as if it were a recording?"

She read quickly, then looked up and smiled at him in understanding.  He grinned back 
and turned to Lieber and Hank.  "We need to tape something and have it ready to play by 
phone if they call out.  Can we do that quickly?"

Hank nodded and said, "Affirmative."

He watched the two men scramble to get equipment ready and walked over with 
Lancaster.  Hank nodded and said, "On three.  Three, two, ..."  He held his finger up on 
one and then pointed to Gloria.  She read in a nasally voice, "I'm sorry.  We are 
experiencing difficulties.  This line will be out of service while repairs are implemented.  
Please try again later.  Thank you."

Hank made a cutting gesture at his throat, then smiled.  "Nice."

Fox patted Gloria on the arm and said, "Can you have it ready to go fast?  Might be any 
second."

They both nodded and were working quickly with the equipment.  He saw Hank pause 
and put a hand to his ear.  Then the man said, "Shit.  Handley reports the leader's gone for 
the phone.  Come on, Lieber, we gotta work fast."

Thirty seconds later the phone rang.  Fox stared at Hank and watched the man move a 
plug from one location to another in a piece of communications equipment.  Then Hank 
signaled to Lieber who threw a switch.  They all sighed when Gloria's recorded voice 
repeated her message.  After the message, they could hear the bank robber say, both over 
the phone and through their sound hook-up, "What the fuck?"  There were a few seconds 
of silence and then Gloria's message started repeating.  Then there was a loud click.

They all waited then for a report from Handley.  Fox was looking over Reed's shoulder at 
the little camera monitor and could see the leader standing in the middle of the room.  All 
the man needed to do to complete the picture of utter confusion was to scratch his head.  

One of the other assailants said, "What?  What's wrong?"

The leader replied, "There's something wrong with the damned phone.  I can't fucking 
believe this."

Fox wasn't sure if this was a true reaction of the agent or whether the man was still in 
character.  He found out by the man's next words.

"Well, shit!  What the hell are we supposed to do now?  Send a goddam telegraph?"

One of the other bank robbers asked, "Should we call a halt to this?  Let Ramey know?"

Fox had to smile.  They'd managed to throw the instructors for a loop.  The agents really 
thought there was something wrong with the phone.  He glanced around and saw grins on 
everyone's faces.  He realized, though, that they could still continue, even if those inside 
had stopped playing their parts.  The grin left his face as he considered it, even while the 
prattle continued in the background.

The first assailant who'd been stationed by Handley's wall said, "Try again, Farley.  
Maybe it was just a temporary thing."

They were completely out of character now.  One of the supposed hostages said, "We're 
still gonna get paid, aren't we?" To which the lead assailant replied, "Everyone stay 
where you are.  We need to decide whether we're continuing with this or not.  Just give us 
five."

Hank said, "Handley reports they're going for the phone again."  Sure enough, a few 
seconds later it started ringing.  Fox cued Hank who again signaled Lieber and the same 
switch was thrown.  They listened to the recording intently and heard the lead bank 
robber, evidently an agent named Farley, say, "Same damned thing.  I can't believe this.  
Now what?"

Fox turned to Hank and said, "Get a report from Handley."  He moved over to the 
monitor even while he was saying it.  He wanted two views on what was happening 
inside.  From the monitor he saw the three 'robbers' all in a cluster, guns draped over their 
shoulders.  They were obviously trying to decide what to do.  

Hank's voice reported on Handley's view from the other side of the building.  "All 
assailants together in a cluster.  Hostages relaxed."

"Any idea of where the trigger to the bomb might be?"

He couldn't tell from the image he was seeing.  It had to be on the leader's body 
somewhere.  There had to be a trigger or a remote control.

Reed shook his head.  He turned to Hank who said, "Handley hasn't seen anything."

"Find out from Kudla if she's got a way inside from the roof."

He propped his hands on his hips and chewed at the inside of his lip.  Hank nodded, 
saying, "She's in the ventilation system.  She'll come through at the north side, along the 
back wall."

He turned to those in the room and switched on the channel 6 so that the entire team 
could hear him.  "Folks, those inside think the game's over.  They've stopped playing 
their parts but we're going to finish ours.  We're moving in approximately one minute.  
On three we'll be going in - wait for my mark. Morrow and Ellicott from the front 
through the glass doors.  Hanson and Shriver from the side through the window.  Kudla 
through the ventilation system.  We're coming through the wall."

He waved a couple of the heftier men towards the ram while still relaying orders.  
"Handley, you stay where you are to give us intelligence up to the last second on channel 
6.  First one in and stable MUST make sure the three assailants can not reach anything 
that might trigger the bomb.  Shoot them if you have to but just make sure the bomb 
doesn't blow.  Also make sure we're not in each others' crossfire.  Adjust quickly as soon 
as you're in and stable."

He got his own team ready and nodded to them.  Reed said, "They're straight in front of 
us, twenty feet in.  All of them still in a cluster and approximately six feet from the 
bomb."

He nodded and stepped back, saying, "Get us in on the first try, boys.  Three, two, one - 
go!"

And in a cacophony of shattering glass, collapsing ceiling, splintering wall board and 
screams all around, they made their entrance.  Fox was first through the opening in the 
wall with the others right behind him.  He saw Hanson, Shriver, Morrow, Ellicott, and 
Kudla surrounding the assailants on the other side.  The robbers were frozen in surprise 
and shock, but Fox could see it was fading fast, to be replaced with embarrassment.  

He strode towards the three assailants and stated clearly, "Federal Officers.  Raise your 
hands slowly.  Do not make any sudden moves."

He jerked his weapon upwards, making it clear that he meant business.  He saw the three 
men look at one another and decided to help convince them.  He raised his weapon so it 
was trained on the leader's head.  His voice was hard and allowed no room for 
misunderstanding when he spoke. "Raise your hands now."

The leader closed his eyes and shook his head, but raised his hands.  The three were 
quickly disarmed and cuffed.  Fox assigned Hank to watch over the suitcase until they 
could alert the bomb squad, then gestured for Kudla and Hanson to escort the hostages 
out of the bank.

Everything seemed to happen quickly then.  The trigger for the bomb was found in the 
leader's jacket pocket.  It was placed on the counter with utmost care.  Fox directed his 
people to secure the area and then called for the police to come in.  The first one in the 
door was Ramey.

The man strode in the front door and stopped six feet in to survey the damage.  The scowl 
on his face was almost frightening.

Fox was still coming down from his adrenaline rush now and he was completely soaked 
with sweat. He was just now starting to realize how uncomfortable he was.  He removed 
his helmet and wiped at his face, then tried to dry his hand on his pants.  Ramey came 
over to him and stopped just a foot or so away.  The scowl was even worse now.

"Trainee Mulder, were you or were you not aware that Agent Farley and his team were 
under the impression there were mechanical problems that were impacting the 
continuation of this exercise?"

"I was indeed aware of that fact, sir."

"And yet you continued with the assault anyway?"

"Yes, sir."

The man seemed to be grinding his teeth in frustration or anger.  Fox wondered briefly 
whether the instructor expected him to answer in more detail.

"And why would you do that, Trainee Mulder?"

Fox thought about it for a moment and bit his lower lip nervously before answering.  "We 
were instructed to bring the encounter to a peaceful conclusion and rescue the hostages.  
Just because there was some momentary confusion inside, this did not change our own 
objectives.  Sir."

He must have answered correctly because he could sense a slight smile playing at the 
older man's lips.

"Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused here, Trainee Mulder, and how 
long it will take to rebuild?"

He glanced around the bank and took in the completely shattered windows, the destroyed 
doors, the hole in the ceiling and the collapsed wall.  He looked back to Ramey and said, 
"Not really, sir."

The man leaned forward and Fox felt as if he were absolutely entranced.  He couldn't 
look away from the instructor's eyes.  Ramey got to within mere inches before speaking.  
"Congratulations, Trainee Mulder.  I do believe you've managed to set a record."

Ramey pulled back, a big smile on his face now.  The man looked around at those agents 
still in the bank before saying, "You not only created the most wreckage in Alley history, 
you've also managed to actually beat the bank robbers.  Never been done before without 
loss of life.  Congratulations, everyone."

There were whistles and claps all around.  Ramey gestured towards the door.  "Let's meet 
up in the motel classroom.  We need to discuss what happened.  Five minutes, everyone."

Fox turned to head out when he felt a hand on his arm.  He turned back to Ramey, trying 
hard to fight the pride and excitement. "Yes, sir?"

Ramey looked around, obviously waiting for the others to clear out.  He was thoughtful 
when he looked back to the trainee.  "Did someone tell you what was going to happen 
here, Trainee Mulder?"

Fox was actually shocked by the question.  And then he started to become angry.  He 
shifted a bit, anchoring his feet solidly.  "No, sir."

It was obvious that his anger got through to the older man.  Ramey was immediately 
defensive.  "Look, Fox, I was just asking.  I didn't mean any offense."

His tone was friendly and it put Fox at ease.  Enough so that he nodded, accepting the 
apology for what it was.

"You all did good.  Real good.  Get your butt over to the classroom and I'll be there in a 
couple minutes."

"Yes, sir."

He made his way out the front doors, careful to avoid as much glass and debris as 
possible.  The sun was still shining brightly and he had to squint for a bit until he could 
see clearly.  A few of his team members had waited for him outside and greeted him with 
smiles. 

Chris whacked him on the arm and said, "Good job, boss."

The others laughed and made similar comments.  Fox felt as if he were floating by the 
time they got to the little motel.  He was grinning so broadly his jaw hurt, but damned if 
it didn't feel fantastic.  His entry into the motel classroom was met with clapping and 
hoots, whistles and stomping feet.  

It made him feel good.  More than good.  Euphoric.  He knew, down to the depths of his 
soul, that this was what he'd been intended for.  He was meant to be an FBI agent.  He 
knew the Bureau would be like family to him for the rest of his life.  He was so damned 
happy at that moment that his eyes actually teared up a bit.  He sat down with his 
classmates, secure in the knowledge that his future would be filled with success and the 
camaraderie of his colleagues.  Life was just about perfect.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 8 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:05 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia 


Scully was still smiling from the story when she saw a doctor she didn't recognize pause 
outside the door.  He was older than the others they'd met, of Indian or Pakistani descent, 
with silvered hair and an experienced gate.  She watched him turn around, as if waiting 
for someone, and then saw another doctor, the one who'd been responsible for Mulder all 
night, join him.  They conferred in quiet voices, reviewing the latest test results, before 
entering.  

She dropped her crossed leg so abruptly that everyone around her jerked from the noise.  
She couldn't bother with apologizing just yet.  She needed to know what was happening.

Before she could make any further moves, the new doctor waved her to stay seated and 
stood at the foot of Mulder's bed.  His voice was resonant and sure when he spoke, his 
slight accent suggestive of the UK. 

"Hello.  I'm Doctor Singh.  I'm a neurology specialist and was called in by Dr. Shalin for 
a consult."

She couldn't speak at first as her mind tried to fully appreciate the implications of the 
man's statement.  After all, several specialists had already been called in, there wasn't 
really any reason to suspect that this act should be ominous.  No one spoke, as if waiting 
for the doctor to continue.

"Dr. Shalin felt that with the head injury, coupled with the swelling and obvious 
infection, and Mr. Mulder's weakened condition, that there were possibilities of 
unforeseen problems."

Despite her earlier thinking, she now knew that this was indeed something to be alarmed 
about.  She pushed herself to her feet and asked, "What are you saying?" The man waved 
her to be seated, but she ignored him, asking again, "Are you talking about brain 
damage?"

The man sighed and glanced around at the others before settling his gaze on her.  
"Frankly, ma'am, that's always a possibility with an injury such as this.  It would be 
irresponsible of us not to consider it."  His eyes were intent on her own when he added, 
"But after looking at Mr. Mulder's records -- his very thick and sizable records -- I see no 
reason to assume the worst."

The doctor smiled at them, then added, "The coma isn't a great concern right now.  It's 
the body's way of preserving strength.  What's important is that you try to reach him.  
Make sure he knows there's something worth opening his eyes for.  The rest will take 
care of itself with a little time."

Scully allowed herself to breathe again, somehow reassured by the man's calm words.  
The other doctor, Sam Shalin, had moved to the head of the bed and was checking 
various indicators.  Her eyes followed him and she could see a frown on his face.  She 
became alarmed once more.  "Is there a problem, doctor?"

The man straightened in a jerk, as if he'd forgotten they were there.  "There's not really 
much of a change."

"What does that mean, exactly?  Not 'much' of a change."

"His temperature's up slightly.  Other than that, his condition hasn't changed."

She felt her breath catch and her stomach clench.  "But his temperature's been over a 
hundred for hours.  What is it now?"

She could tell the doctor wasn't anxious to go into specifics, but he did finally answer.  
"It's gone up to a hundred-three."

She felt her knees start to tremble and decided she'd better sit after all.  She sank into her 
chair and then realized her entire body was shaking.  She looked to her left, first at her 
mother and then at Mrs. Mulder.  They didn't fully understand, she could tell it from their 
eyes.  They were confused by her reaction, but her mother reached out to take her hand 
anyway.  She gripped her mother's hand tightly, then turned back to the doctor.  "Are you 
trying other antibiotics?"

"Yes, of course."

"What's next?"

"We're going to get him under a cooling blanket now."

She closed her eyes, knowing what the others could not.  That this would only sap his 
strength even more.  That the fever would weaken him to the point where his body could 
no longer fight back.  To the point where he'd want to give up.  

When she looked back to the doctor, she felt a kinship in their shared knowledge.  She 
had to struggle a bit to find her voice and was shocked at how faded it sounded when she 
said, "Thank you for the information."

Both doctors nodded, then left the room silently.  Only seconds later, two nurses came in 
with the cooling blanket, fixing it over her partner in mere seconds.  She knew that the 
water that passed through the tubes inside was ice cold and was the best chance of 
helping to get his body temperature down before serious damage could occur.  

She watched the nurses leave and walk down the hall before turning to those waiting with 
her.  She could tell they knew that something serious had happened, but she wasn't 
prepared to explain just yet.  All she knew was that she had to speak to Mulder 
immediately -- by herself.

She tried to swallow and forced the words out past the tightness in her throat.  "Would 
you mind if I spoke with him for a minute?  A few minutes, maybe?  Alone?"

She turned towards Mulder's mother when she said the last word, knowing that the 
woman had a far greater right than she did to see him.  Teena Mulder stood immediately 
and leaned across the bed, her arm outstretched.  Scully took the woman's hand in her 
own and felt it squeezed tightly with an unexpected strength.  

Mrs. Mulder said, "We'll wait down the hall. You talk with him for a bit, dear."  

Scully wiped away the wetness on her cheeks and tried to smile at her partner's mother.  
She stood and said merely, "Thank you," as the others walked out the door and down the 
hall without a word.

She was having a hard time thinking clearly.  Memories of past conversations and 
arguments with Mulder flooded over her so that she was consumed with guilt and self-
recriminations.  Her last words with Mulder had been said in anger.  They came back to 
her now, haunting her.  'Are you trying to kill yourself?'  She shook her head, trying to 
chase the memories away.  She knew it was a waste of her energies.  She knew she was 
being unfair to herself.  She knew, most importantly, that none of these thoughts would 
bring her partner and best friend back to her.  

She stood next to the bed and surveyed the room.  The gentle hum of the new machine 
attached to the cooling blanket added to the beeps and gurgles, the buzzes and whirs of so 
many others.  

Her partner was turned so that he was elevated slightly on his right side, away from her.  
She moved around to the other side of the bed and leaned close to his face, whispering, 
"What have you done, Mulder?"

She gently rested her forehead against his, careful of the wound, and allowed the tears to 
fall.  She moved her right hand down and slipped it under the blanket so she could wrap 
her fingers around his.  She moved her left hand to his head and ran her fingers through 
his hair, feeling the heat emanating from his skin.  Her breath hitched, and she couldn't 
hold back any longer.  She let herself cry then, in great wracking sobs.  

She knew something that no one else knew.  Not her mother, not Skinner.  Certainly not 
Mrs.  Mulder.  This was the first time her partner had ever continued to get worse after 
being injured.  Even in Alaska, when he was so near death, he'd improved day by day, 
hour by hour, if only slowly.  But this ... this was different.  And she was terrified that 
she was the reason.  Always before, he'd come back to her, despite the odds.  And she'd 
secretly believed it was because he loved her and that he believed she loved him.  But 
lately ...

Their relationship had been so strained before this case.  Everything had been difficult.  
They hadn't faced their unfinished words of the summer and she'd rebuffed Mulder's one 
stab at confronting it with an 'Oh Brother.'  Their motto had become Scarlett's, so that 
they kept putting off the discussion until some later day. And then Kersh had split them 
up, with disastrous results, so that the day might never come.  

She knew that if she'd been with her partner from the beginning, this wouldn't have 
happened.  She was sure of it.

Mulder kept going farther out on that damned limb, and she'd done nothing to stop him.  
All it would have taken was three words.  He'd said them to her and she'd brushed them 
off.  Taken the easy way out.  She'd set him adrift and now he was paying the price for 
her cowardice.  She had to convince him now.  Had to let him know that what he'd 
believed all those times was in fact the truth.  That she was there for him.  That she 
trusted him.  That he was her life.

She tried to control her tears and her shaking hands.  She stood straight then and reached 
out with her left to the box of Kleenex.  She pulled out several, wiping her eyes and her 
nose with fiercely, fast, abrupt movements.  She started to get angry then.  Angry at 
Kersh for splitting them up.  Angry at herself for letting it happen.  Angry at Mulder for 
not waiting for backup.

She swiped at her eyes again and threw the wadded up tissues in the trash can.  Her 
breath caught when she looked back at her partner.  It appeared as if he'd also been 
crying, with tears rolling down his cheeks.  Tears she knew were her own.  She pulled out 
more tissue and wiped his face gently, careful to avoid the cuts and bruises.

She rested her left hand on his right shoulder then and tried to decide just what to say.  
There were so many thoughts flitting through her mind that she wasn't sure where to 
start.  Then she realized that it really wasn't that difficult.

She breathed deeply and told herself she could do this.  She could say the words out loud 
that she'd been saying to herself for so very long.  The words she'd said in the dark 
loneliness of the night, when the rain beat against the window in sheets.

"Mulder ..."  Here voice caught in her throat so that she had to pause, but she found the 
courage finally, and took the plunge.  "Mulder, I do love you."  She gasped with the relief 
of finally admitting it out loud.  She leaned forward to speak directly in his ear then and 
repeated, " Do you hear me?  I love you." She felt an exhaustion settle over her and could 
only whisper to him softly then.  "I love you, Mulder.  Don't leave me alone.  Please 
come back to me."  

*******************************************

Scully sank into the chair, feeling drained, but oddly content.  At least she'd finally said 
it.  She sighed deeply, rested her hands on her arm and let her head drop onto them 
wearily.  Five minutes later, she heard a scuffle at the door and looked up to see Mrs. 
Mulder entering the room.  Scully was sitting in the chair the woman had been in earlier 
so she moved to stand.  Teena Mulder waved her to stay where she was and even came 
over to sit next to her.  

Scully was surprised at first to find the woman alone, but then realized that Skinner and 
her mother were giving them both this gift.  The time to sit with Mulder alone.  Just the 
two of them.

She turned to Mulder's mother, not sure what to say, but Teena Mulder solved the issue 
by placing her hand on Scully's arm and saying, "Ms. Scully, I know that the last time we 
saw each other didn't end well.  I'm sorry for that."

Scully merely shook her head, not really wanting to go into it just then.  

Teena Mulder's voice started to shake and she seemed to be consumed by sorrow and 
regret.  "It doesn't matter now, though.  All that matters is that Fox gets better.  I would 
do anything to make my son better."

Mrs. Mulder started crying softly then and Scully was once again touched. She switched 
her grip on Mulder's hand to her left, freeing her right to take hi mother's.  In all the years 
she and Mulder had been partners, they'd rarely spoken of family matters.  His past was 
one of those topics that was strictly off base.  She'd never had the nerve to ask him 
anything too personal, for fear of bringing up memories best left alone.  But she knew 
undeniably that he was loved by this woman, at least.

She tried to sound sure when she said, "I know you would, Mrs. Mulder, and so does he.  
He knows it."

Her voice cracked on the last word and she clenched her jaw to try to keep it from 
trembling.  

"Thank you for that, Ms. Scully."

They sat in silence for at least a minute, just watching Mulder breathe, each reassured by 
the other's presence.  Scully watched his chest rise and fall under the cooling blanket and 
found her thoughts wandering.  Without even realizing it, she found herself speaking out 
loud.

"I wonder what would have happened if Mulder hadn't gotten involved in the BSU. From 
what AD Skinner said, he was happy at Quantico.  He had friends and the respect of 
peers and instructors.  He could have done so many other things than profiling."   It was 
still such a foreign notion to her.  Mulder happy.  The words just didn't seem to go 
together.  Mulder driven.  Mulder obsessed.  Mulder determined.  All those couplets 
made sense.

"I don't think it would have mattered, Ms. Scully.  It was in his blood.  It was inevitable."

The woman turned towards her, a sad smile on her face.  "Fox always had a gift for 
profiling.  Or maybe I should say a curse."

Skinner's deep voice spoke out then from the doorway.  "It is a curse, Mrs. Mulder.  But 
your son has saved many, many lives over the years because of it."

Skinner and her mother had come back and now made their way to the opposite side of 
the bed.  She waited until they were settled, watching as both Skinner and her mother 
reached out to touch Mulder, as if both needed a physical reassurance.

"Sir, I still don't understand how he got involved in the case back then.  Reading case 
files is one thing.  Actually becoming involved in a case is something completely 
different."

A nurse came in then and everyone waited as she moved through her motions of 
checking various readings.  She smiled at them after making her recordings and left 
silently.

Scully found that she'd been holding her breath and let it go finally in a relieved exhale.  
She turned her head back to her former boss then and he continued as if there had been 
no interruption.

"That night, after the bank robbery exercise, Mulder's entire class went out to celebrate.  
From what Dean told me, Fox had a bit too much to drink.  Whether it was that or 
something else, I don't know.  But that night -- that night ..."  

He shook his head in what she took to be a combination of frustration and sorrow.  She 
thought at first he wasn't going to continue, as the silence grew longer.  But then he 
raised his face to her and she saw the regret clearly etched there.

"I suppose you could say it was an eye opening night for both of us, in totally different 
ways."  

*******************************************

September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 5:27 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC


Walter leaned forward over the cluttered desk and rested his head on folded arms.  He 
needed sleep.  He and Doug had been running full out for way the hell too many days 
now.  His head pounded, his muscles trembled, and his stomach growled, reminding him 
that he'd neglected his body a bit too much.  His eyes had actually started to water a few 
minutes ago from the headache and lack of sleep.  God, he wanted this to be over.

Doug's tired voice sounded by the door, causing him to raise his head wearily.  "Hey, 
Walter, how you doing?"

He had to squint at his fellow ASAC just to bring the image into focus.

Doug seemed to be smiling when he said, "That good, huh?"

Walter merely shrugged, unable to manage words just yet.

"Listen, Walt, I say we call it a night.  I don't know about you, but I don't think I could 
add two and two just now.  I think we need a break.  What do you say?"

Walter raised his right hand and wiped at his still watering eyes, then just nodded in 
agreement.  The thought of a bed was particularly enticing just then.

Doug took a step into the room and added, "You look worse off than me.  Listen, I just 
talked with Angie.  She's holding dinner for me.  Come with me and join us."

As good as food sounded, Walter wasn't really sure he'd be able to stay awake that long.  
Then Doug was next to him all of a sudden and he discovered his arm being pulled.

"Come on, Walt.  We both need a break and a real meal.  No burgers or sandwiches 
tonight.  Come on.  You can't say no."

He managed a groan in protest, but Doug still pulled at him.  He swallowed painfully and 
allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.  "Doug, my head is killing me.  I really don't 
think I'd be decent company tonight."

"Walter, the reason your head is killing you is the same reason mine is killing me.  We 
both need a break from this case, food, and rest.  Come on.  We'll take a cab.  It's only ten 
minutes from here."

He couldn't argue any more.  It just wasn't in him.  He managed a small nod and 
stumbled out the doorway after Doug.

Twenty minutes later, he woke up to his arm being jostled.  He opened his eyes to see an 
equally tired Doug gesturing towards an apartment complex.  He forced himself out of 
the back of the cab and concentrated on watching his feet and Doug's just ahead of him.  
He figured all he had to do was keep putting one after the other and eventually he'd be 
able to stop.

After an almost agonizing five minutes of trudging up stairs and down hallways, he 
forced his head up to look into the eyes of his partner's wife.  The woman wasn't 
beautiful, but had a sweet warmth that made its way even through his own muddled 
thoughts.  She had light brown shoulder length hair that curled up at the ends with a little 
flip. He attempted a smile and reached his hand out to shake hers.  

Her voice had a lilting quality to it that was soothing.  "Hello, Walter.  It's good to meet 
you finally.  I'm so happy you could join us."  She pulled him into the cozy apartment 
and turned to her husband. "You both look absolutely wiped out. Doug, why don't you 
take Walter into the living room and relax for a few minutes.  I'll let you know when 
dinner's ready.  Okay?"

Walter managed a smile at the sight of the two exchanging greetings.  The smile faded as 
a feeling of unease settled over him.  Angie kissed her husband once more with an added 
passion, then finally disengaged and swatted him towards the living room.  

He looked around the little room and once again felt uneasy.  It was an unease born of a 
growing awareness of something he lacked.  He'd always scoffed at domesticity.  At 
those who'd made so much of family.  He'd always known what he wanted out of his 
career and had assumed that a sacrifice was necessary.  He'd been willing to pay the 
price.  So had Sharon.  But now he wondered if it couldn't be different.  Doug had 
managed to do both.  Why couldn't he?

He sank into the recliner, while Doug collapsed on the couch.  He pushed the chair back 
so that his feet were raised and closed his eyes.  The wonderful smell of home cooking 
emanated from the kitchen and wafted through the room.  He sighed deeply and smiled 
when he heard an echoing sigh from Doug.  This was nice.  He could get used to this.

Some unknown time later, he was once again awakened to his arm being shaken.  It was 
Doug again, but this time, Walter actually managed to open his eyes without squinting.  
He reached his left hand up and brushed his hair out of his eyes.  Time for another hair 
cut.  

Doug extended his hand to help him out of the chair.  "Come on, boy.  Time for dinner."

Even as tired as he was, Walter enjoyed the dinner.  Halfway through the meal, though, 
he was shocked to hear a wailing come from the back of the house.  He stopped mid-
chew and looked over at Doug.  The man was pushing himself away from the table.

"I'll get him.  Sit still."

It was obvious Doug was speaking to his wife, and he watched with interest as his fellow 
ASAC came back into the dining room holding a baby to his shoulder.  The man sat 
down at the table and turned the little one around, putting him on his knee.  

His face was filled with pride when he said, "Walter, this is Daniel."

The headache from earlier in the evening was long gone, but that feeling of unease crept 
back once again.  He smiled at both Angie and Doug.  "He's a cute little guy.  How old?"

Angie couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from her baby and her smile was wide when 
she answered.  "He'll be seven months next week."

Daniel was drooling on Doug's suit, but the man didn't seem to mind.  In fact, it was 
obvious his fellow ASAC was in his element. Walter felt an overwhelming sadness at the 
realization that he himself would most likely never know that kind of completeness.  He 
and Sharon had committed to making the most of their careers and had decided that 
children would only slow them down.  He sighed a bit as he tore his eyes off Doug and 
Daniel.

The rest of the evening passed quickly, with both men fading fast.  Afterwards, Angie 
insisted Walter stay in their guest room.

"Walter, why waste time going all the way to Alexandria when you can just crash here?  
We have the room and Doug can lend you something to wear.  I insist."

And so it was settled.  As he lay on the small bed, before drifting off to sleep, he realized 
he never called Dean about the case.  He'd do it first thing in the morning.  Time was 
running out.  Victim number five was due soon.  But he fell asleep thinking not about the 
case, but rather about wives and babies.  About the compromises he and Sharon had 
made, naively believing it was the only way to get where they wanted to go.  But deep 
down, he knew their choices were rationalizations.  Lies to themselves that would color 
every moment of their future.  It was a sobering thought to fall asleep to.

*******************************************

PAST
September 4, 1986
Thursday, 2:34 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


The day was unseasonably warm and the sun shone so brightly outside that it reflected 
off cars and the sidewalk to bounce in through the window of the little music store.  The 
street outside was busy, the cars filled with people rushing to work and play.  There was 
a bakery two doors down that also served pizza in the late afternoon and the smells of the 
Italian spices and tomato tang wafted down the street and into the music store.  

Fox was there, observing the happenings of the day and enjoying the crispness of the air.  
Inside the store, business was slow, the lull coming before the after school rush.  An 
album by Eric Clapton was playing over the speakers.  The two people inside looked 
bored, one of them a young woman, idly rifling through albums, occasionally moving 
one a couple places back or a few forward, the other a young man, leaning over a 
counter, working a crossword puzzle.

The man was black, dressed sharply in khaki's and a crisp white shirt with a thin blue tie.  
He looked to be in his mid twenties and wore a wedding ring on his left hand.  The 
woman was white, in her late teens or early twenties, and wore her hair up on her head, 
with pale blonde wisps falling out to float around her face.  Her designer jeans were worn 
and her tee-shirt was tight, the outline of her bra straps clearly visible.  She made an 
enticing picture, but one that the man was obviously not interested in.

The young woman evidently tired of her arranging and came over to the counter where 
the man worked on an eight letter word for tip.  "Jesse, I'm going crazy here.  There has 
to be something to do for the next two hours."

The man stood straight and smiled at her, as one would an anxious and impatient child.  
"Hannah, I told you to bring your textbooks.  That it would be slow at times.  You didn't 
listen to me."

She sighed, with an testy harumph.  "Please."  She drew the word out long, for added 
emphasis.  "I get enough lectures from my parents.  Please don't go adding to them."

The man laughed and said, "Okay.  No lectures."  He glanced at his watch then and said, 
"I'll tell you what.  I need to run to the bank to make deposits for yesterday and this 
morning.  Mr. Angelo had to leave early and is out for a couple days.  So I'll give you the 
responsibility of watching things here for the next ..."  He made a show of looking at his 
watch, then tilted his head up so that he stared at the ceiling for a good ten seconds before 
looking back at the girl.  "... fifteen minutes.  You think you can handle it?"

Hannah groaned again, but good naturedly nodded her head.  "Go on, I'll hold down the 
fort.  I'll circle the wagons.  I'll sacrifice myself so that you might live."

Jesse laughed harder then, before saying, "You know, you're taking that acting course 
way too seriously.  I'm starting to get concerned about you." 

Their good natured camaraderie followed the man out the door as he made his way to the 
sidewalk, the bank envelope stuffed carefully in the inside pocket of the jacket he'd 
donned.  Fox followed, unobtrusive and curious.  He had to squint, the sun was so 
brilliant, and he picked up his pace as Jesse did, to get to the bank a few blocks over that 
much faster.

The Arlington streets were still busy, despite the time of day, but they were alone on the 
sidewalk.  Jesse must have felt secure in the brightness of the busy day, because he cut 
down an alley that would bring him more quickly to the bank.  It wasn't a dark, unused 
alley, but rather a thoroughfare for the many delivery trucks that stocked the stores there.  
But it was empty today, devoid of activity.

There was the sound of a vehicle from behind, a rumbling of an untuned engine, when 
Jesse was halfway down the street, and he moved over to the side so the car could pass.  
It slowed, though, and Jesse turned, then bent slightly to see inside the car that stopped 
next to him.  He must have trusted the person inside, perhaps even known him, because 
he leaned on the window sill, a friendly smile on his face.  

Fox watched from his position behind Jesse, an unseen observer.  Jesse and the driver 
talked for a while, then Jesse looked at his watch and waved his hand in the air, a gesture 
that clearly stated he was anxious to get going.  But the driver must have been persuasive, 
because Jesse got in the car, slipping into the passenger seat with a smile.  Then they 
were driving and Fox was there, sitting in the back seat, looking out the window.

They drove past the bank and Fox felt his chest tighten with anxiety, but Jesse still 
smiled, talking to the driver with an easy assurance.  The man didn't seem to be worried, 
even though Fox felt the tension course through him.  He wanted to call out, to warn 
Jesse Smith, to tell the man to get out of the car and run.  But he couldn't move, couldn't 
speak, could do nothing but watch.

The driver was just a darkness, without features, without definition.  But he knew more 
surely than he'd known anything that the driver was evil.  He didn't know why Jesse 
Smith couldn't feel it.  Couldn't sense that his life and the lives of his family were about 
to be irrevocably altered.

They were driving down yet another alley, this one obviously less used than the other, 
and the car slowed to a stop.  Jesse turned his head to the right, then gestured with his 
hand out the window, as if giving directions or providing information about what lay on 
the other side of the fence to which he pointed.  He didn't see the brick that slammed into 
his temple.  Didn't know it was coming and couldn't defend against it.

Fox saw it happening though and screamed silently, tears of frustration coursing down 
his face.  He looked at Jesse and saw the man was slumped sideways, head bobbing 
forward and to the right bonelessly.  He couldn't tell whether the man was alive or dead.

The car was moving then, moving fast and sure through the alley, pausing only slightly at 
the end to take the right turn onto the main street.  Fox prayed for someone to notice 
Jesse's blood soaked head and shirt, but no one paid any attention.  They drove for 
several minutes before coming to a dilapidated warehouse.  The windows were broken, 
the remnants of paint peeling in long strips from the walls, a 'For Sale' sign barely 
readable tacked to the fence out front.  Trash lay in heaps along the side of the building 
and small furry rodents scurried into hiding.

The car drove into the building through the open loading dock doors and came to a stop 
several feet in.  It was dark inside, in spite of the brightness of the day, with little squares 
of light falling in patches here and there.  Time shifted, the laws of physics were 
suspended, and suddenly Fox found himself standing five feet away from the body of 
Jesse Smith, who was tied, wrist and ankle, to stakes that had been pounded into the 
concrete floor of the warehouse.  

In some macabre twist, the assailant had taken off Jesse's coat and tie and had rolled up 
the man's sleeves, as if to make him more comfortable.  Fox stared at the man lying on 
the ground and was horrified to discover that Jesse was alive.  He found himself wishing 
that the store manager would remain unconscious, so that he wouldn't know what was 
happening to him, but that wasn't to be.

Jesse started stirring, the last vestiges of unconsciousness falling away, and he opened his 
eyes, blinking quickly to clear them.  Fox saw him start to breathe faster, to practically 
hyperventilate as the man realized what had happened.  There was a movement to the 
side and Jesse turned his head sluggishly.  Fox looked also, but again saw only a 
blackness that undulated sickly with each move, simultaneously formless and 
recognizably evil.  But there were whispered words -- words that frightened him even 
more.

"We're going to play, Mr. Smith.  We're going to have some fun.  Play with me, Mr. 
Smith."

And Jesse started to cry then, knowing that he was doomed and that escape was unlikely.  
Still he tried.  "Please, I don't know what you want.  I have money.  You can take it.  It's 
in my coat pocket.  Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

A the sibilant voice said, "Don't fret, Mr. Smith.  You'll give me what I want.  All in good 
time."

And despite Jesse's pleading, despite his words about his pregnant wife and baby boy, the 
dark figure went about his business with no more discussion.  The figure's movements 
were economical and terrifying.

He took off Jesse's shoes and socks and rolled up his pants.  Took off the store manager's 
watch and tucked it into the discarded suit jacket's pocket.  Fox prayed that Jesse would 
struggle.  Would somehow escape his bonds, but it was obviously futile.  The stakes were 
pounded several inches into the concrete and could not be dislodged easily.  The ropes 
around Jesse's wrists and ankles were tight and knotted securely.  There was no hope of 
escape.  And then the dark figure approached Jesse and knelt beside him, tying a gag 
around the store manager's mouth.

And Fox was bound just as securely by the invisible bonds that kept him fixed to a single 
spot, with mouth closed so tightly he couldn't scream for help and could barely breathe.  
He couldn't close his eyes or turn his head, but had to watch as the black figure picked up 
an ax and held it out in front of Jesse Smith to look at.

The whisper came again, somehow heard over Jesse's muffled screaming.  "Don't worry, 
Mr. Smith.  I know the rules to this game.  All you have to do is follow my lead."

And the ax swung high in the air and came down fast, chopping through Jesse's right calf 
as if it were made of butter.  Sparks flew when the metal hit the ground, and blood 
spurted in bright red geysers.  

There was an unholy silence for a fraction of a second so that only the scrape of the ax 
head and the assailant's heavy breathing could be heard.  But then the pain indicators in 
Jesse Smith's mind were overloaded and the scream that erupted in spite of the gag was 
heart-wrenching.  The man's body started twitching and the stump of his right leg waved 
in the air for a moment before falling to the ground again with a sick splat.

Then Jesse was gagging, throwing up the breakfast and snack he'd eaten earlier, but the 
cloth tied around his mouth prevented him from expelling the vomit so that he started 
choking, unable to breathe past the mess.  A urine smell filled the air as the man lost the 
ability to control the most basic of human functions so that he suffered further indignity 
on top of torture.

And Fox could do nothing but watch and cry.  The tears streamed down his face and he 
wanted nothing more than to escape this torture.  He was consumed with guilt because he 
knew that a part of him wished Jesse would just die faster so he wouldn't have to view 
the agony any more.  

He saw a movement to the side then and once again saw the rising ax.  It was moving fast 
again and this time partly missed its objective, cutting through only a portion of Jesse's 
right thigh.  The ax swung again within moments, finishing the job, so that Jesse's leg lie 
totally detached in two pieces on the ground, the ankle still tied to the stake.  Jesse's body 
convulsed in the last throws of death, but the man was still alive as his left leg was 
chopped off in a similar fashion.  

Fox started gagging himself then and lost the dinner and drinks that had had flowed in his 
team's victory celebration.  He couldn't stop retching.  Tears streamed from his eyes and 
he prayed for release.  

The creature with the ax paused then, as if hearing Fox's silent plea, but instead started 
masturbating over Jesse's still twitching body.  The grunts and gasps and other little 
sounds were almost too much for Fox then and his mind refused to accept what his eyes 
were telling him.  He threw up again, this time managing only dry heaves due to the 
emptiness of his stomach, and grasped for a religious practice he'd spurred for most of his 
life.  He prayed for deliverance from a God he suddenly believed in again, because to not 
believe would mean he'd have no hope whatsoever of escaping this hell.

And again time jumped so that in just a single second, he was transported hours ahead.  It 
was night and the dismembered body of Jesse Smith was being loaded into plastic bags 
for easy transportation.  The car's headlights were beams that cut through the darkness to 
illuminate the red and black pool of blood that had already begun to coagulate.  The bags 
were thrown into the back of the car and in a short minute, the driver got in, ready to 
leave.

The car started backing up, slowly at first, then gaining momentum, and Fox was still 
stuck on his spot unable to move, the smell of vomit, and urine, and blood surrounding 
him.  And he knew, to the depths of his soul, that he had to do something.  He had to 
move.  Had to scream.  Something so that he could at least say he tried.

With every ounce of his being he forced his mouth to open and he screamed, a lone 
strangled cry. "No."  And before he knew it the assailant had grabbed him and was 
shaking him.  And again he cried out, "No."  And then the man was calling his name, 
over and over.  But then it wasn't the assailant at all.  It was someone else, saying his 
name.

"Fox, wake up.  Goddamn it, Fox, come on.  Wake up."

The assailant was gone.  The car was gone.  Jesse Smith was gone.  He was crying now 
for the man's loss, and was having a hard time catching his breath.  The voice that had 
broken through to him earlier was now saying, "Open your eyes.  Come on, Fox, you're 
scaring the hell out of us.  Wake the fuck up."

It started to make some sense to him then, as he attempted to calm down and collect his 
scattered nerves. He dragged his eyes open, despite the fact his lids were so very heavy.  
He had to pry them open by sheer force of will. His heart clamored in his chest and his 
stomach rolled as if he were on a ship in a stormy sea.  His eyes watered in the harsh 
stabbing light, but he could make out the blurry face of his roommate, Rob Morrow, and 
to the other side Chris Hanson.  Both had his arms in a death grip so that he couldn't 
move. Behind Rob stood another four or five men who'd crowded into the small room, 
obviously disturbed from their sleep.  He was soaking wet from sweat and was covered in 
his own vomit.

He pulled his right arm free from his roommate's grip and raised his shaking hand to his 
face.  His entire body started to tremble then as he began to understand what had 
happened.  He heard Rob speaking to the others, as if from a distance.  "Show's over, 
guys.  Out.  Outta here, please."

Then Chris' voice was next to him, saying softly, "Hey, Fox.  You okay, man?"

He pulled the arm away and dragged his eyes open.  Chris and Rob were on either side, 
the concern obvious.  Chris had a towel and was trying to clean him up.  Rob had a hand 
on his forehead and was frowning.  He tried to tell himself it was just a dream.  A lousy 
dream.  Nothing to get all worked up about.

His body seemed to have a different opinion.  His entire body shook, no matter how hard 
he concentrated on regaining control.  He couldn't speak, yet, either.  Couldn't get his 
mouth to work.  He was powerless to convince Rob and Chris that he was all right, 
because he didn't think he was.

He heard Rob say, as if from far away, "I don't know what's happening but I think we 
need to call someone from the infirmary."

He closed his eyes again and pulled the arm back over his face.  He was tired and so very 
cold.  He was freezing.  He couldn't remember ever being so cold in his life.  What the 
hell did Rob have the air conditioner set at, for cripe's sake?  All he could think about 
was how miserable he was, so he never even heard movements at the door some five 
minutes later.  He never heard the voices of the onsite paramedics or the agent assigned 
to the housing facility.  Never heard the diagnosis that he was in shock.  But was so very 
relieved when they piled blankets on top of him.  Even more relieved when, after feeling 
a prick in his arm, he was able to drift off to sleep, blissfully unaware of everything and 
able to effectively block out the dream that had been so very traumatizing.

*******************************************
End Part 6 of ?
(Feedback to kronos1@adelphia.net is greatly appreciated)
Ascent to Hell
		33

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 7 of ? (7/?)
by Kronos (clb@eng.buffalo.edu)
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 8 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:51 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


He didn't like this memory at all and for the first time tried to direct his thoughts.  He'd 
been content till now to let the waves of memory crash over him, but no longer liked 
where the wave had thrown him.  The voices were kind but they had dredged this 
horrible memory up from where he'd stashed it away, thinking at the time that he'd never 
have to face it again.  It was time to try to take back control of the wave.

*******************************************

Walter Skinner looked down at his watch and tried to calculate just how long ago it was 
since everything turned to shit.  Just about twelve hours since Mulder headed off on his 
own.  And almost eight hours since Mulder came out of surgery.  He took off his glasses 
and rubbed his hand across his face, scrubbing his eyes hard.  God, he was tired.  The 
night had seemed to stretch forever and recollections of that day so long ago only served 
to depress him.  A pall had settled over the room at the telling of Mulder's first step 
towards involvement in the DC Murders case.

There was a window in Mulder's room, with mini-blinds closed tightly.  Still, he could 
tell from the bright shafts of light making their way in that the sun had risen.  It was a 
new day and his agent had managed to make it through the long night.  Now, if only the 
man could hang on a little longer his body might have a chance to make that critical turn.  
It might have a chance to start healing.

He sighed and replaced his glasses, settling them on the bridge of his nose just so.  He 
heard Maggie Scully sigh next to him and turned to her.  She wore a sweet but sad smile 
as she looked at Mulder.

"Do you know, Dana, when you were returned to us after your abduction and you were so 
sick, Fox and I talked quite a bit.  It was sort of like this.  Sometimes Missy was there, 
but often it was just the two of us."

He glanced across the bed to see that both Scully and Teena Mulder were interested in 
what Maggie had to say, eyes focused on her in anticipation.

"He told me that there were nights when you were missing when he'd wake up in a cold 
sweat, screaming, thinking about where you were and what might be happening to you.  
He said he kept going over every moment of the last day you'd been together, trying to 
see whether he could have done anything differently.  He said he wished his mind came 
with a switch so that he could turn it off."

Skinner thought he understood exactly what his agent had meant, but began to doubt his 
understanding when Teena Mulder spoke. 

"You know, I imagine, that Fox has a photographic memory."

It was both a question and a statement, but it was obvious she didn't expect or really want 
a reply.

"It's been both a blessing and a curse throughout his life.  Do you know, I wonder, what it 
means to have a photographic memory?"

Again the question was rhetorical.

"As a child, even a very small child, he remembered most everything.  Every little 
detail."  A smile settled over her features as she said, "When he was just two he wanted a 
dog.  Bill told him he was too young to take care of a dog and we'd get him one when he 
was older.  He asked how old and Bill said six.  You know, just to give Fox an answer."

Skinner already knew where this was heading and Teena Mulder confirmed it with her 
next words.  "So on his sixth birthday, we had a party.  He opened one present after 
another as if it was all just some task he had to complete to get to the really good 
presents.  Then he just looked at Bill and me, obviously waiting for something.  We had 
no idea what was going on.  I mean, it had been four years before and neither of us really 
remembered the comment.  At least not at first."

The smile was even wider now as she continued.  "Well, I'm sure you know what 
happened next.  He just sat there, staring at us, the smile on his face fading with every 
second.  Bill asked him what was wrong -- didn't he like his presents?  And he said, 'Yes, 
Dad, but where's my dog?'"  

They were all smiling at the image of a precocious Fox Mulder dragging up a throw-
away sentence from four years before and presenting it as a dyed in the wool promise his 
parents had to deliver on.

"Bill and I just looked at each other in confusion and Fox said, 'You told me that when I 
was six I could have a dog.  I've been waiting and now I'm six.'  He just looked at us like 
we were these pathetic creatures who couldn't remember even the simplest of promises."

That elicited laughter all around.

"So needless to say, we folded immediately and ended up with an addition to the family. 
Scout was smelly and messy and way too big for our house, but Fox did love that dog.  
And he took care of him, too."

After a minute's reflection, Teena Mulder said, "There were so many situations like that.  
He kept us on our toes from the very beginning.  We couldn't put anything past him -- 
and neither could his teachers.  I think they mostly wanted to strangle him, but did an 
admirable job of pretending otherwise during parent-teacher days."

Skinner was relieved to see the look of cautious delight on Scully's face.  She was 
enjoying hearing these little tidbits from her partner's mother.  But then Teena's smile 
faded.

"The flip side of his memory was that ... well, to put it simply, he couldn't forget.  He 
couldn't forget even when he wanted to."

She sighed heavily then, and everyone in the room knew she was thinking about her 
missing daughter and the impact that event had on her family and, specifically, her son.  
She was looking at Mulder with such an air of sadness that it permeated the room and 
became an almost tangible thing.

"For years after Samantha disappeared, I'd catch him looking at something with the 
oddest expression. I'd ask him what he was looking at.  What was wrong?  He'd always 
say, 'I was just remembering when ...' and then proceed to recite some event involving 
Sammy that neither Bill nor I could ever remember."  She shook her head slightly, her 
hands gripped in her lap.  "Every little detail.  Every shared moment of their lives.  He 
remembered it all. Every word and phrase, expression and action.  And for years, it 
affected his sleep."

Skinner realized she was looking right at him.  "I guess I'm not surprised he had 
nightmares about those case files.  He always did put himself into other's shoes.  Tried to 
understand their motivations for doing things.  He always wanted to know why.  In fact, 
there was this time when he was just five ..."  Teena was smiling widely again as she 
looked at each of them in turn.  "You know, I do believe it would qualify as his very first 
case."


*******************************************


December 13, 1965
Tuesday, 4:53 p.m.
Mulder Residence, Martha's Vineyard


Teena was at her wit's end.  Dealing with a rambunctious Fox on a tear was one thing -- a 
normal day, in fact.  But dealing with a rambunctious Fox on a tear, his rowdy seven year 
old neighbor, Todd, and a screeching baby for hours on end, while stuck inside on a cold 
and rainy day ...  Well, that was enough to make her seriously weigh the penalties for 
infanticide.

She and her neighbor, Erika, had agreed to exchange baby-sitting detail every week so 
that they could have time to do the shopping without their whirlwind boys in tow.  It had 
been reasonably successful, until now.  She had chased them back to Fox's room to play 
in the hopes she would get a half hour to try to get Samantha calmed down.  Her baby 
daughter was not a happy camper this afternoon.

When the doorbell rang a little before five, Teena prayed it was Erika coming to retrieve 
her son.  She opened the door and almost collapsed in relief.  Stepping back, she waved 
her friend in, and yelled, "Todd, your mother's here.  Boys, get out here."

When she turned back to her neighbor, Erika was laughing quietly.  "Teena, I'm sorry.  It 
looks like you've about had it with them today.  Was it normal disaster or special 
circumstance disaster?"

Teena had to laugh with her friend.  "Oh, pretty normal.  But I couldn't send them outside 
because of the rain, so it was all contained within the house."

The crash that came from behind her didn't even startle her anymore.  She'd grown used 
to such noises over the course of the day.  She turned to see a small end table overturned 
with both boys working to right it.  Nothing was broken, of course.  She'd Fox-proofed 
her house a few years before. When her son stood and looked up at her, she could tell he 
was honestly sorry.  She smiled and waved him to her.

"It's okay, Fox, now come on in here and say hello to Mrs. Callo."

She watched him turn shy as he came down the hall next to his friend.  He was two years 
younger than Todd and it showed clearly in their respective sizes.  Fox was a slight child, 
a good five inches smaller than the older boy, but they actually were best of friends, with 
comparable personalities and interests.  They were usually content to play outside in the 
yard for hours and only had difficulties today because of the rain.

Erika ran her hand over her son's head, trying to smooth the unruly hair.  "You ready to 
head home, kiddo?"  

Teena knew immediately it was the wrong question.

"Can I stay for dinner, mom?  Fox and I were playing Army.  We didn't finish yet."

Teena felt a momentary alarm at the prospect of dealing with the two of them for another 
few hours, but Erika headed the suggestion off at the pass quite effectively.

"Not tonight.  Remember, your dad's going to be home in about a half hour and we're 
supposed to go to Grandma's.  We have to get home and get ready."

Teena smiled broadly as the two boys exchanged pushes and shoves in their own little 
good-bye ritual.  She sighed deeply in relief when she was finally able to close the door 
on her neighbors.

"Okay, Fox, it's just us for a while and I have to get dinner going.  I'm running really late 
tonight.  Do you think you can play quietly for a while by yourself?  Maybe you could 
read?"

Despite the obvious disappointment, her son nodded and wandered off to the back of the 
house.  She managed to get her fussy daughter down for a nap and was almost done 
getting dinner ready an hour later when she heard the yelling coming from Fox's room.

She ran back to his room, heart pounding in fear, and came to an abrupt stop at the sight 
of her son, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he threw things from one spot on the floor to 
another.  He was almost hysterical and after only a few seconds of watching him, she 
could tell he was looking for something.

"Fox, what is it?  What's wrong?"

His strained voice almost broke her heart when he replied anxiously.  "I can't find him.  
Quest is gone.  Help me find him, Mommy."

The 'mommy' almost caused her to cry.  Her little boy had grown up so fast that he had 
started calling her 'mom' the year before.  For him to forget meant that he was extremely 
upset.  She glanced at the empty cage, then dropped to her knees beside him and placed a 
hand on his back.  

He just shrugged it off and said, in an even more frantic voice, "Help me, Mommy."

She nodded and lifted piles of toys carefully, moving from one side of the room to the 
other, thinking hard about what to say to her distraught son.  "Fox, we'll find him.  Don't 
worry.  Gerbil's are known for escaping from their cages."  He didn't answer, so she 
turned to look at him.  

He was sitting in the corner, back to both walls, with his arms around his knees.  He was 
trying not to cry, but his lip trembled and the tears pooled in his eyes, occasionally 
traveling down his cheeks to drop off his chin.  He expected her to make it better.  He 
expected her to find Quest for him and make it all better.

She went over to him, wanting more than anything to make it all better.  She couldn't 
stand to see him so upset.  She sat next to him and was almost surprised when he allowed 
her to pull him close.  She hugged him tightly and leaned down to kiss the top of his 
head.  His hair was mussed and standing in spikes here and there, his cowlicks wreaking 
their usual havoc.  She raised a hand to smooth his hair, then kissed him again.

"Fox, sweetheart, just because you haven't found him yet doesn't mean we won't.  We 
haven't looked everywhere.  He could be anywhere in the house right now."  She reached 
down to take his chin in her hand and tilted his head so she could look right in his eyes.  
"You know how fast that little squirt is, right?"

She was relieved to see the slight grin appear.  The slightly smirking grin that always 
suggested, 'I know something you don't'.

"I'll tell you what.  Why don't we go over everything you remember about the last time 
you saw Quest.  Okay?"

He sniffed loudly, a thoughtful expression settling over his face.  "I saw him when I came 
in to get my six-shooters and I knew they were in the chest next to the cage.  When I was 
looking for them, I saw Quest.  He was eating.  That was the last time I looked in the 
cage."

"When was that?  If we can narrow down the time, we'll have an idea of how long he 
might be missing.  That way, we can figure out how far he might have gotten."

She could tell he was thinking hard, mulling over what she'd said.  He had the oddest 
expression on his face, as if he'd had a revelation of some sort.

"It was right after lunch."

He started pulling away from her so she loosened her grip.  He was so independent.  Too 
darned independent.  She sighed a bit and let him go, watching him think.

"Mom, what time is it now?"

She could practically see the gears turning.  She glanced down at her watch and said, "It's 
almost six."

"That means he could have been gone from his cage for ..."

He was chewing on his lip, trying to work it out.  He'd had a math epiphany the year 
before when he began to understand the concept of addition and subtraction.  The telling 
time epiphany followed close after.

His brow was furrowed in concentration when he said in a quiet voice, "He could be gone 
for five hours, right, Mom?"

She was filled with pride at his deduction, but also with worry at the resulting fact.  
"That's right.  So you see, Fox, Quest could be just about anywhere in the house.  I think 
we need to organize a search and rescue, what do you say?"

She'd tried to say it lightly, but the reality was that there probably wasn't an awful lot of 
hope.  The little thing could be in the ventilation system, for all she knew.

He nodded though, his expression now determined.  She had no doubt he was already 
planning out the search procedures.  She heard the front door open and was filled with 
relief.  Bill was home.  Thank God.  He'd be able to help.  Before she could even shift 
position to get up, Fox was up and running.

When she caught up to him, he was already filling his father in on the details.  Bill 
looked at her with raised eyebrows.  She knew what he was asking.  'Could the gerbil still 
be alive?' They could practically read each other's minds after nine years of marriage.  
She shrugged back to him. 'Maybe.  I hope so.'

Bill was kneeling down in front of their still rambling son.  When Fox paused for a 
breath, Bill said, "Whoa, there.  Slow down, now.  If Quest has been missing that long, 
we need to approach this logically and think it through.  Let's not just jump in with both 
feet, okay, son?"

Fox nodded solemnly, waiting for his father to tell him what to do next.  Bill dropped his 
briefcase and jacket on the floor and took his son's hand to lead him into the living room.  
By the way he sank into the couch, Teena could tell it hadn't been a particularly good 
day.  Still, here he was, taking the time to attack the latest Mulder household crisis.  

Bill pulled his son forward so Fox was standing right in front of him.  Her husband held 
both Fox's hands in his as he said, "Now, if Quest has been loose for five hours, he could 
be anywhere, right?  So I think we need to go room by room and eliminate all the 
possibilities, okay?"

Fox nodded again, understanding.  In the back room, Teena heard her daughter crying 
and exchanged glances with her husband.  She left them, knowing that Bill had things 
well in hand.  She heard movement in the room next to Samantha's and knew they were 
starting the search in Fox's room.  No tears or hysterics now.  Fox had obviously calmed 
down and was attacking the search with great seriousness.

Three hours later, the house had been turned upside down, everyone was starving from 
lack of dinner, it was way past Fox's bedtime, and Quest remained unfound.  She 
convinced her son to eat something and sent him off to get ready for bed.  When she 
came into his room ten minutes later to tuck him in, she could tell he was still wide 
awake.

He was on his side, curled slightly, eyes glued to the cage sitting on the table next to his 
bed.  His eyes flicked to hers when she came in and he said in a small, tremulous voice, 
"The cage door was closed, Mom.  How'd he get out?  I don't understand."

She moved over to the bed and sat down next to him, her hand smoothing back his unruly 
hair.  "I don't know, Fox.  Gerbils are pretty tricky."

He didn't seem to be convinced.  She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, 
whispering, "Try to get some sleep.  Maybe he'll turn up in the morning."

He nodded, but she could tell it would be a long night.  She stood and walked to the door, 
then turned back and said, "Sleep well, sweet boy."

Five hours later, she was awakened from a deep sleep by a buzzing.  She jerked upright 
just as Bill did, and jumped out of the bed, somewhat disoriented.  She heard Samantha 
start to cry and knew what her first priority was.  She'd already taken two steps towards 
her daughter's room when it dawned on her that it was the doorbell.  She turned to find 
her husband already slipping on a pair of pants and a shirt.  

He said, "I'll get it.  You make sure Samantha and Fox are okay."

She heard him opening the door even as she lifted her daughter out of the crib.  She was 
just getting ready to check on Fox when Bill yelled for her.  She practically ran into the 
hallway to see her husband, Erika's husband Allan, Fox, and Todd standing in front of the 
closed door.  Both boys looked scared to death and she couldn't imagine what in the 
world was happening.

Allan seemed to be fighting a smile when he said, "We had a little visitor.  Scared us to 
death.  I figured I'd bring him back to you before you started calling the police."

His words sunk in then and she realized Fox had left the house and gone next door.  She 
struggled with confusion, not able to imagine a reason why he might have done such a 
thing.  Her husband seemed equally confused and waved towards the living room.

"Why don't we all come sit down and figure this out?"

She'd managed to get Samantha back to sleep so brought the baby back to her bed, 
tucking her in carefully before heading back to the living room.  Fox had staked out one 
of the high back chairs and looked lost in it, his little legs sticking straight out in front of 
him.  He had his tennis shoes on with his Star Trek pajamas.  She couldn't really find it in 
her to be angry just yet.  He was a good little boy and there had to be a reason that made 
sense.

With everyone settled, Bill looked across the room to his son and asked, "Fox, can you 
tell us why you went next door in the middle of the night without checking with me or 
your mom first?"

She saw the little jaw jut out and felt a flutter of worry and concern for her headstrong 
son.

"I went to find Quest."

The response surprised her husband as much as it had her.

"But, Fox.  There's no way Quest could have made it all the way next door.  I thought we 
decided we'd talk about it in the morning.  What made you think he could have traveled 
all that way?"

Bill was trying to keep his voice even, but the exasperation was clear.  It didn't help in 
getting information out of Fox, though.

"His cage door was closed when I found out he was missing."

Fox said this as if it would answer everyone's questions.  It only frustrated her husband 
even more.

"Fox, what does that have to do with anything?"

Her son crossed his arms tightly, hugging his chest, then answered, "There's no way he 
could have gotten out of the cage."

"But he obviously did, Fox."

The lip jutted out to match the chin.  Fox merely stared at his father with a look she could 
only describe as disdainful.  It was disconcerting and she decided it was time to enter the 
fray.

"Fox, I don't understand.  Can you explain why you thought Quest was next door."

His little shoulders dropped, and he sighed heavily.  He turned to her with tears in his 
eyes and said again, "The door was closed, Mom. He couldn't have gotten out."

And then something curious happened.  She saw Fox shoot a quick glance across the 
room to Todd.  She watched the little boy drop his head and flush and suddenly it all 
started to make sense.  And she knew Fox was right.  The cage door was closed and 
latched when he found it empty.  There was no way the little gerbil could have escaped 
on its own.

She could tell by Bill's expression that he'd had it with the entire conversation so she 
jumped in quickly.  She turned to their little neighbor and said, "Todd, do you like Quest, 
sweetheart?"

She could see both Bill and Allan jerk in surprise, but Todd didn't seem surprised when 
he answered in a soft voice, "Yes, ma'am."

"You like playing with him?"

Todd just nodded, his little hands gripped tightly in his lap.

"You know Fox loves him very much."

The little boy nodded again and then sniffed loudly.

"Did you maybe borrow him?  To play with him?"

He looked up at her then and nodded again.  He glanced over at his father before ducking 
his head in shame.  She could tell both Bill and Allan were shocked, neither of them 
having put the pieces together in time.

"Todd, where is Quest now?"

The little boy reached into his coat pocket and dug around for a moment before pulling 
out the little ball of fur.  She held her breath for a moment until she saw movement, then 
smiled.  Poor Allan was red with embarrassment and Bill still seemed stunned.

"Sweetheart, why don't you and Fox bring Quest back to his cage and make sure he has 
food and water, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She watched the two boys move out of the room and out of sight before turning back to 
her neighbor with a smile.

Allan was obviously horrified and said, "I am so sorry about this.  I had no idea."

She raised a hand and said, "Allan, he's just a little boy.  I'm sure he didn't think about the 
consequences.  All he wanted to do was have some fun."

"I'll talk with him.  I'm so sorry."

They were standing now and the boys had rejoined them.  She was proud of Fox when he 
said to his friend, "I'll see you tomorrow."  It took a great deal of character to forgive 
someone as he'd done.

When Allan and Todd had gone, leaving them alone, Bill knelt down to look his son in 
the eye.  "I'm sorry, son.  You were trying to tell me what happened and I just wasn't 
listening."  She saw Fox smile a little.  Then her husband asked with honest interest, 
"How did you figure it out, Fox?"

Her son tilted his head to the side and seemed to bite at his lip.  Then he said, "I checked 
the cage, Dad.  There wasn't any way Quest could get out.  I saw him right after lunch.  
He was okay.  There was just Mom and Samantha and me and I knew Mom didn't let him 
out.  I knew Samantha couldn't have done it and I didn't do it.  The only other one here 
was Todd.  Todd's always liked Quest."

She could see the pride now shining over her husband's smiling face.  "And you figured 
all this out on your own?"

Fox nodded solemnly.

"But why go over in the middle of the night?  Why not tell your mom or me?"

"I dreamed about it, Dad.  I woke up and I knew I dreamed it right."

"What do you mean, you dreamed it?"

"I dreamed I saw someone take Quest out of his cage and I followed him through the 
house and over to Todd's house and I dreamed I saw Todd playing with him.  I knew I 
dreamed it right and I wanted to get Quest back."

She felt her breath catch and stared at her husband in shock.  In her entire life, she'd 
never solved a dilemma in her sleep.  She couldn't even imagine how it might happen.  
She knelt down next to her husband and, still silent, stared into her son's face, as if she'd 
never seen him before.  Bill was struggling with the concept as much as she, but finally 
she just said, "I'm glad you dreamed it right, Fox.  Now why don't we all go to bed and 
get some sleep?  How does that sound?"

Then she did something she hardly ever did anymore.  She picked him up and hugged 
him tightly and she almost cried from happiness when he wrapped his arms and legs 
around her and rested his head on her shoulder.  She walked slowly, knowing that this 
might be one of the last times he'd ever let her carry him like this.  She wanted it to last.  
She wanted to keep him this age forever.  But the walk ended all too soon and she had to 
lay him down in his bed finally.  He was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.  She 
leaned over anyway and whispered, "I love you, sweet boy."


*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 9 of the Wait
Sunday, 7:23 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner had been growing more frustrated by the second.  A part of him didn't want to 
hear these stories.  It was easier to keep a professional distance when you didn't know 
personal information about your agents.  It was easier not to care what happened to them.

He stood abruptly, deciding he needed to get out of there for a few minutes.  He had to 
stretch his legs, use the restroom, and basically take a break from the sight of his agent -- 
his former agent -- lying broken and quite possibly dying in this room.  He looked around 
at the three women, their eyes glued to him in shock, and felt ashamed. 

He cleared his throat and managed to say, "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry, ladies.  I need to make a 
few phone calls.  I'll be back."

It was a lame excuse and he didn't expect any of them to really believe him.  Without 
even looking behind him he left the room.  He strode down the still silent hallway, 
heading for the double doors that would bring him out of the CCU.  He slowed as he 
reached them and turned to look back.  He couldn't believe he'd been so cowardly.  He 
couldn't believe he'd put himself before his agent.  

He paused there for long moments, trying to decide whether to go back or not.  His 
musings were cut short by the sight of a flashing light above Mulder's door.  A faint 
alarm could be heard echoing down the hallway and then within only seconds, doctors 
and nurses were running towards the very room he'd just vacated.

He was rooted to the floor for several seconds, unable to breathe or even process what 
was happening.  And then Scully, her mother, and Mulder's mother exited the room as if 
propelled, and he was running towards them.  Running to find out whether his agent and 
friend would survive into the new day.

He slid to a stop next to them and discovered he couldn't speak.  Hell, he could barely 
stand.  The rush of adrenaline was still pumping through his system and his heart was 
beating so fast and hard he could practically feel it against his ribs.  His eyes were glued 
to the activity inside the little room.  All the chairs had been pushed out of the way so 
that the two doctors and three nurses could have an unobstructed access.  One of the 
nurses turned and met his eyes, then quickly walked over to close the door and pull the 
curtains.

He heard a gasp from his left and saw that Teena Mulder looked like she was ready to 
collapse.  He finally found the ability to move and went to her quickly, taking her arm to 
steady her and offer a much needed support.  Scully and her mother still stood staring at 
the now closed door in obvious shock.  It was time to move.  He knew he had to get them 
all out of there.

"Let's go to the waiting room.  Mrs. Mulder, Scully, Mrs. Scully ..."

None of the ladies moved and he couldn't tell whether they hadn't heard him or were just 
ignoring him.  He could feel Mrs. Mulder shaking and put his left arm around her 
shoulders while he squeezed her right arm gently.  "Mrs. Mulder, let's go sit down."

The older woman was in a daze but turned her head to look at him.  She finally nodded 
and allowed him to lead her towards the double doors.  He caught Margaret Scully's eye 
and knew she'd bring Dana with her.  He looked back to see Maggie pulling her 
unresisting daughter away from Mulder's room.

The trip to the waiting room was made in complete silence, the only noise coming from 
the scuffling of their shoes and their harsh breathing.  There were others in the waiting 
room now and he steered Mrs. Mulder to a far corner where they'd have at least a little 
privacy.  He helped the woman into a chair and watched as Mrs. Scully did the same with 
her daughter.  He stood and leaned against the wall then, allowing his head to fall back 
against it.  He swallowed hard as he swiveled his head to look at Scully, sitting across 
from Mrs. Mulder.

Scully was white, drained of all color, and visibly shaking. She leaned into her mother, 
who sat on the arm of the chair, holding her daughter tightly. He wasn't sure whether he 
should be more worried about Scully or Mrs. Mulder right now.  

They stayed that way, unspeaking, for over twenty minutes.  Seconds dragged like 
minutes, and minutes like hours.  He felt more and more ill with every passing moment.  
His stomach was clenched in a tight knot and sweat rolled down his back and pooled on 
his forehead. He ran his hand across his face wearily, his fingers pushing at his eyes 
under the glasses. He couldn't believe this was happening.

After everything these two had been through, it seemed obscene that it might end in this 
way.  A partnership brought down by a fucking serial killer.  He closed his eyes and 
leaned his head back against the wall again, irrationally satisfied by the loud thunk the 
motion made.  But then there was a sound -- someone clearing their throat.

His eyes shot open and he pushed himself away from the wall.  A doctor stood there, 
looking at them all, eyes moving almost nervously from one to the other.  He was 
younger than any of the others had been and must have just come on shift within the last 
hour.  Even though he was new, Skinner recognized him as being one of those in the 
room with Mulder.

He couldn't take it any more and blurted out, "How is he?"

The doctor focused on him then when he replied,  "He's hanging in there."

Skinner felt his knees start to give in relief and he had to reach a hand out to brace 
himself against the wall.  There was a rush in his ears and he had to clench his eyes shut 
to regain his equilibrium. When he finally managed to turn to the ladies on his left, he 
found Scully sitting still as stone, eyes glued to the doctor, while Mrs. Mulder sat with 
her face in her hands, quietly crying.  Mrs. Scully was whispering to her daughter and 
while he couldn't hear the words, he knew they were encouraging and soothing.

He breathed deeply and turned to the doctor again. His voice broke when he asked, 
"What happened?"

The doctor again swept his eyes from one to the other before going on.  "His systems 
have been severely compromised.  He's suffered from renal shutdown.  We've got him on 
dialysis right now."  The man paused before saying, "We need to discuss the terms of his 
living will.  I know this was already discussed once, but his condition has worsened."

Skinner watched Scully pull out of her mother's embrace.  She stood slowly, obviously 
struggling to stay upright.  She took a step forward, stronger now, and said simply, "No," 
in a voice that brooked no room for discussion.  She walked out of the waiting room then, 
without turning.  He was damned proud of her, for some reason.  

He turned to the doctor and said, "Can we go back in?"  He already knew that Scully was 
heading there and that she wouldn't take no for an answer.  The doctor wasn't about to 
deny them, at this point.  He merely nodded, then left them alone.

Skinner looked at the two ladies and then at the door that would lead back to the CCU.  
He stayed where he was, deciding to give Scully a few minutes head start.  If anyone 
could get through to Mulder now, it would be his partner.

*******************************************

Scully walked straight into the little room, ignoring the nurses and doctors who looked at 
her with their misplaced pity.  They only angered her.  What the hell did they know about 
Mulder?  They knew nothing, if they were so willing to think that it was over.  Mulder 
never gave up.  It wasn't in him.  She stood at the foot of the bed and just looked at her 
partner, willing him to get stronger.  To wake up.  To open his eyes and look at her.  

There was a loud beep that sounded every forty seconds or so.  It was a new sound that 
emanated from the portable dialysis machine they'd installed by the left side of the bed, 
towards his head.  She moved to his right side and stared at him, her eyes moving from 
head to foot, then back.  This couldn't be the last image she had of him.  God couldn't be 
that unfair, could he?  

She took a sobbing breath, then fought down the panic.  The doctors couldn't be right.  
She wouldn't believe them.  Never.

She moved suddenly, filled with the need to convey her thoughts to him.  She knew that 
he could hear her.  She was certain of it.  She leaned forward so she could speak right in 
Mulder's ear.  Her left hand was clutching the cooling blanket tightly and the fingers of 
her right hand were wrapped in his hair.  Her lips brushed at the hair by his ear as she 
whispered to him.

"I know you're tired, Mulder.  I know you want to rest.  But this isn't the way."

She closed her eyes to fight off the tears that had suddenly pooled.  She was done with 
tears.  No more.  She sniffed and cleared her throat and then spoke again, more strongly.

"I need to talk with you about some things, Mulder, and I need you awake to do it.  I can't 
have a conversation with you when you're just lying there."

She moved back and released the grip of her right hand enough to move her hand through 
his hair.  She rested it on the top of his head then.

"I think, Mulder, that you're just taking your own route back to us.  That's okay.  I 
understand it.  But you've got your mother pretty frightened.  And I think you're scaring 
Skinner and my mom, too."

She stroked his forehead, then leaned forward to kiss him, brushing her lips lightly 
against his.  She whispered to him one last time.  "I need you back here, Mulder.  Don't 
leave me alone.  Please."

*******************************************

Skinner followed Margaret Scully and Teena Mulder as they walked slowly back to the 
CCU.  His steps were slow and sluggish.  He was filled with apprehension, and admitted 
to himself that he'd started to give up hope.  Maybe Mulder's run was over.  After all, 
how could the man possibly come back from such a weakened state?  As soon as he 
admitted the thought, he became angry with himself.

When he entered the room behind Margaret and Teena, he stopped at the threshold, eyes 
on Scully.  She stood straight, spine stiff, looking at them intently.  Her voice brooked no 
discussion or disagreement.  "He's going to be fine.  I know it."

She was daring them to contradict her, looking each of them in the eye, one by one.  
Skinner just nodded.  Margaret Scully's expression was inscrutable, while Teena Mulder's 
was filled with a hopeful longing.  

The silence grew uncomfortable, no one moving.  He spoke finally, not about to disagree 
with her.  "Scully, no one's given up hope.  Mulder always goes for the shock value."

He waited until he saw her posture relax just slightly and then said, on a completely 
different tact, "Agent Friedman needs to meet with us.  It's important."

Scully appeared flustered for a moment.  He understood why.  She'd clearly written off 
the case as solved and behind them.  Her only concern right now was lying in that 
hospital bed.  But she wasn't aware of the discrepancies that had surfaced, and as one of 
the few people who understood her partner's motivations and thinking, she was needed 
for this meeting.

She rallied quickly, adopting her professional mask, but wasn't about to leave her 
partner's side without more justification.  "Can't it wait, sir?"

He shook his head quickly.  "No.  There are some problems that Agent Friedman brought 
to my attention last night.  The team has continued to work on them, but now we need to 
try to understand them.  In order to do that, I need you, as Mulder's partner, to help us 
understand his thinking."

He could see that he still hadn't convinced her, so added, "The UNSUB doesn't match 
Mulder's profile, Scully.  We want to know why."

That did it.  Her eyes grew a bit wider before she nodded in acknowledgment and 
acceptance.    He was caught by surprise by her next words, directed at Mulder in a no-
nonsense tone.  "Mulder, AD Skinner needs me.  I have to leave for a while to attend a 
meeting on this UNSUB you took out.  I have to go because you're not around to answer 
his questions.  You hear that, Mulder?  AD Skinner needs you."

Her shoulders drooped then, and he understood that she could sustain such harshness 
only so long.  She leaned over and whispered something, something that he couldn't quite 
make out.  But then she stood and nodded to him, walking away from her partner's bed 
without another look.

Skinner nodded to the ladies inside, each of whom had taken up their posts again, then 
turned to catch up with Scully.  She never failed to surprise him.  

*******************************************

Skinner caught up to Scully quickly and strode beside her down the short hall.  Friedman 
was standing outside the doors to the CCU, looking as exhausted as Skinner felt.  The 
man was slumped against the wall, his suit wrinkled beyond repair, his eyes bloodshot 
and hair limp.

Skinner nodded to the younger agent, and gestured to the right.  "Let's go to the cafeteria.  
I could use some breakfast."  It had been almost twenty hours now since he'd had 
anything to eat and he was starving.  It looked like Friedman could use a little care and 
feeding, too.  The needs of the body rarely recognize troubles of the soul.  Besides, he 
knew a command was probably the only way he'd get Scully to eat.  He'd figure out a 
way to get the other ladies to take a break after he and Scully got back to Mulder's room.

He turned and started walking, hearing the footsteps of the other agents behind him.  
Over his shoulder he said, "Agent Friedman, could you fill us in please?"

He heard a muffled "yes, sir", coupled with a shuffling of papers.  Then Friedman said, 
"We've been able to get a pretty clear picture of this guy and his history.  SAC Landers 
faxed Agent Mulder's profile together with a history of this UNSUB, Harold Stevens, and 
the facts of the case to the ISU.  One of the profilers who'd consulted on the case before 
Mulder came on board determined that in his opinion, Mulder had misread some of the 
facts.  That Harold Stevens was clearly the man who'd committed these crimes and that 
his psychological make-up was consistent with the type of individual who could do so."

They walked silently then, as both he and Scully considered the words.  He sank his 
hands into his pants pockets and played with the change and keys there.  They rounded 
another corner and saw activity halfway down.  Smells of bacon and sausage wafted 
down the hallway and his stomach growled loudly. He was lost in thought, considering 
what Friedman had told them and trying to ignore the demand of his stomach, when 
Scully's voice broke through the silence.

"Jerry, could you fill me in on the discrepancies between Stevens' background and 
Mulder's profile?"

He glanced behind him and saw Friedman nodding.  He turned forward again and pushed 
through the cafeteria door.  

"Harold Stevens was given a psychological exam upon his application to the Richmond 
PD.  At that time he was found to be borderline schizophrenic, with paranoid tendencies, 
of below average intelligence, and malleable -- easily manipulated."

They were in line now and as if by unspoken agreement, no one spoke until they were 
seated at a table some five minutes later.  Then the conversation resumed as if there had 
been no break.  

Scully was playing with her spoon, dipping it in and out of her cereal without actually 
scooping any.  She was obviously distracted, thinking hard about what Friedman had told 
them.  She took a bite finally and before even completely swallowing was stabbing the 
spoon Friedman's way.

"Jerry, had Stevens ever been convicted of a violent crime before?  Ever even been a 
suspect?"

Friedman nodded and swallowed before replying.  "He was convicted on four occasions 
for misdemeanors.  Defacing public property, that sort of thing.  He had one felony 
charge thrown out for lack of evidence when he was in hi mid-twenties and he was a 
suspect in his mother's death two years ago.  RPD couldn't tie him to it, though."

He mulled the situation over again, as he had earlier, then said, "But according to 
Mulder's profile, the UNSUB would have no criminal record, would be of above average 
intelligence, and would have sociopathic tendencies.  Not schizophrenic."

Friedman nodded, clearly  weary, raised a hand to his eyes, then rubbed slowly, as if even 
that required more energy than he had in him.

Skinner noticed a splash of red on the agent' sleeve and the reality of the day was 
hammered home once more.  He sighed and finished off his eggs, even though he'd lost 
his appetite.  Dammit, there was just no way that this made sense.  Scully must have felt 
similar frustrations because her voice was tight when she spoke again.

"In six years, I've never known Mulder to be so far off.  This can't be right.  Mulder's 
profile suggested that the UNSUB would have no criminal record.  And sociopaths and 
schizophrenics are at opposite ends of the psychological spectrum.  This isn't right."

He sighed again, torn between wanting to lay the case to rest and doing the right thing.  
But there was only one way to go on this.

"Agent Friedman, what progress has been made on filling in this man's history?"

Friedman sat straighter and picked up the thick file he'd brought.  The agent handed it 
across the table and he took it, impressed by its weight.  The team had certainly worked 
hard over night.

"It's all there, sir.  Pretty complete.  We managed to interview neighbors from his 
childhood as well as more recently.  We've got teacher statements, school records, 
medical records, employment records.  Pretty much everything."

Skinner lay the file on the table and then rested his hand on it.  He and Scully had some 
homework to do, and they needed to do it fast.  A television blared in the corner and 
reports of the shootout and death of the kidnapper and Christian's safe return, along with 
the heroic actions of Special Agent Fox Mulder led the hour.  

He looked over to Friedman and saw the man was looking at him, his face filled with 
questioning concern.  He realized then that his earlier promise to keep the team informed 
of Mulder's status had already fallen by the wayside.

He tried to smile and knew he wasn't particularly successful.  "Thank you for bringing 
this over Agent Friedman, and for keeping us in the loop.  Please inform the team that 
Mulder's still hanging on.  He's just being a little stubborn in waking up."

He looked over at Scully then and saw that there was no doubt whatsoever in her face.  If 
Mulder knew what was good for him, he'd wake up fast and start getting better.  Scully's 
determination was definitely starting to convince him.  He started to believe his earlier 
words himself.

He stood slowly, stretching the kinks out of his back, and tucked the file under his arm.  
He then balanced his tray and started searching for the drop off area.  He was anxious to 
get a look at the report.  He could tell from Scully's lingering glances that she was 
interested as well.

At the door, he turned to Friedman and said, "Agent Friedman, I'd like you to do me a 
favor please."

The man nodded.  "SAC Landers has placed me at your disposal, sir."

He smiled tightly at the thought, thankful at least that Landers was showing good sense, 
if a bit belated.  "Go to the conference room at the Bureau where Mulder was staying and 
bring us his notes.  Any scribble he might have made, no matter how insignificant it 
might look."

Scully was nodding in agreement.  "And bring his computer.  He sometimes keeps notes 
on his laptop."

Friedman nodded to them both, looking relieved at having something to do.  "Would you 
like me to give SAC a message, sir?"

Skinner moved to his left to allow a nurse entry to the cafeteria and thought about it.  
"Yes.  Please inform SAC Landers that in my opinion ..."  He stopped and glanced at 
Scully, knowing that he had her support.  "That in our opinion, there's more to this case 
than we know right now and that any statements to the press should be sufficiently 
vague."

Friedman again nodded, then turned to leave.  He arrested his movements though, and 
turned towards Scully.  "Dana, I'll be sending lot of good thoughts you way.  Let me 
know if there are any developments."

She reached out a hand to his arm and Skinner could see that the respect was genuine.  
"Thank you, Jerry.  I will.  See you soon."

A few minutes later, after a quick stop to freshen up, they walked past the CCU waiting 
room and down the short hallway to the closed double doors. They received dirty looks 
from the numerous relatives who waited for the nine o'clock chime that would signal 
their chance to visit with their loved ones for a whole fifteen minutes, until eleven, when 
they'd be able to visit again.

Skinner wasn't pleased by their special privileges, though, because it only reinforced the 
fact that the medical staff had already written Mulder off. He walked a bit faster to get 
past them all and buzzed at the double doors.  The nurse let them in, with a tense smile 
and he became concerned that something had happened to Mulder while he and Scully 
were gone.

Scully must have thought the same because she practically ran into her partner's room.  
Teena Mulder and Margaret Scully both looked up in shock, making it obvious that there 
were no emergencies here.  He sighed in relief, his knees practically giving out at the 
sight of the two mothers, one on each side of Mulder, hands resting on his arms.

He exhaled almost explosively  and moved to a chair, sinking into it gratefully.  Scully 
still stood near the door, visibly shaking.  Maybe she wasn't as convinced that Mulder 
would make it as she'd let on.  Mrs. Scully stood and moved down a chair, freeing the 
one by Mulder's head.  She then spoke, breaking the tense silence that had settled over 
the room.

"Dana, everything's fine.  In fact, the nurse said Fox's temperature went down a bit. Now 
why don't you come sit down?"

Trust Margaret Scully to take the soothing, reasoning approach.  It worked to calm them 
both and Scully finally did move next to her mother, as if on autopilot.  He watched her 
reach out and touch her partner, forehead, arm, hand, before he actually at again.  But she 
managed to gather her scattered nerves quickly.  

She took a shaky breath, then turned to her mother and said, "Thank you."  She then 
swept her gaze across the bed and added, "Mrs. Mulder, Mom, why don't you both take a 
break, now?  Go get something to eat.  AD Skinner and I will be here."  

He watched her again stroke Mulder's forehead, then allow her hand to trail down her 
partner's arm.  He knew she wasn't really aware of her actions.  

He saw the doubt on both mothers' faces so added, "You just said yourself that he's doing 
fine.  Go on and we'll be here.  Mulder's not going anywhere.  He'll be here when you get 
back."  He put his own hand out then and rested it on the blanketed arm of the younger 
man, as if a physical reminder of why they were all there.

The ladies agreed finally and after a few minutes it was quiet in the little room.  Quiet 
except for the beep, gurgles, whines and whistles of the numerous machines that now 
sustained his former agent's life.  He stared at Mulder and tried to imagine what was 
going on in the man' head.  Tried to figure out what the key was to reaching him.  By 
Scully's next words, it was obvious their thoughts had traveled along similar paths.  

"Sir, do you think he can hear us?"

She was looking at him intently and he felt as if he were on trial.  That his next answer 
would either win or lose the case for him.  Honesty was always the best approach with 
these two.  "I don't know, Scully.  But I do know that he's got an amazing mind that 
doesn't necessarily work the way one might expect.  If he can profile UNSUB's in his 
sleep, based on reading a few case files, then he can probably hear and understand us 
now."

The answer must have satisfied her, because she sat back in her chair, chin propped on 
her upraised fist, while her right hand never lost contact with her partner's.  Her tone was 
musing when she spoke again.  "What did he dream back in the Academy?  The night 
after the exercise?  I assume that was the start of his involvement in the case."

"Yes, it was.  He'd dreamt about Jesse Smith's murder.  It was the most violent and 
gruesome of them all.  The man was hacked into little pieces with an ax and dumped 
behind a public library.  Thank God it was an adult that found the body.  The remains, I 
should say."

He really didn't want to think about it anymore.  The image of the crime scene flashed 
through his mind's eye as if he'd been there himself just yesterday.  His heart raced a bit 
faster and he was happy when Scully distracted him.

"But what did he dream exactly?  What could have been so bad that it actually put him in 
the infirmary?  And what happened afterward?"

He removed his glasses with his right hand and tapped them against his knee, reflecting 
on the question.  Remembering the day.  "Dean got ahold of us early that morning and 
told us what happened.  Doug went on to the Bureau and I headed down to Quantico.  I 
needed to find out from Dean how Mulder had gotten involved and also whether he had 
any ideas about the case."

"When I got there, I went straight to the infirmary.  Dean was there, talking with Fox."

He realized then that he'd referred to Mulder by his first name, but the memory of the 
man, looking so very dispirited, was as clear as if it had happened just yesterday.  The 
image was so clear -- Mulder standing by the window in the room at the clinic, dressed in 
sweatpants and loose tee-shirt, arms wrapped tightly around his body, staring out the 
window, forehead resting on the glass.  Dean standing sitting in a chair, leaning forward 
over his knees, clasped hands hanging down between them.  He remembered standing by 
the open door, looking in the window.  He remembered every word, every gesture, every 
sound so very clearly. 

*******************************************


September 4, 1986
Thursday, 7:16 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


"Fox, we have to talk about this.  I know you don't want to, but they won't release you 
until I give the okay. "

Fox shifted, pulling his forehead away from the glass, resting it instead against the wall 
next to the window.  The sun was bright, leaving a square of light on the floor. He didn't 
say a word.  He didn't even indicate that he'd heard Dean.

"Fox, you were admitted here a little after two a.m. following a lapse into shock.  You 
were physically ill.  You vomited in your sleep and could very easily have choked to 
death if your roommates hadn't done the right thing and called for help."

Still Fox made no move and made no indication that he was listening.  Dean allowed the 
silence to stretch for an uncomfortable five minutes.  Walter was just about to break the 
silence himself, when Fox finally spoke.  His voice was low -- so low he could barely 
hear him.

"There's nothing to talk about.  It was just a dream.  That's all."

It was said in a somber, monotone voice that made Walter want to scream.  He was filled 
with regret at the dispirited image, so very different from the young man who'd cavorted 
in front of his classmates just the day before.

Dean sat straight in the chair, gripping the arms tightly enough that Walter could see the 
flexing muscles in his arms.  His voice was hard, brooking no debate.  "You have a 
background in psychology, Fox.  Don't give me answers like that."

Fox jerked back from the wall then and turned angrily, arms still wrapped around his 
chest tightly, perhaps in an effort at maintaining some semblance of control.  His voice 
was so strained, it almost seemed detached.  "I've never subscribed to Freud's views on 
dreams."

Dean seemed to droop a bit, perhaps knowing that he wasn't up to a head to head debate 
with the younger man.  Especially not on the topic of psychology. 

Fox turned his back on Dean again, falling against the wall so heavily his head bounced 
against it a bit.  His expression had remained unperturbed, even throughout his brief 
outburst.

Dean stood from his chair, moving slowly, obviously tired.  He went to the window, 
standing just a foot or so away from Fox.  He never looked at the younger man, but rather 
out into the courtyard.  When he spoke this time, his voice was without challenge.  
Gentle, even.

"What did you see?  What was it, Fox?"

Walter could see the younger man's back tense.  Could see that he stood straighter.  But 
then a strange thing happened.  After about a minute, Fox slumped, his head drooping, 
giving the impression that he'd decided to surrender.  To give up.

Walter winced when the younger man spoke again.  Fox's voice wavered and it was clear 
that he was still extremely disturbed by the experience the night before.  

"I dreamt I was there, when Jesse Smith was killed.  I was there when he was picked up.  
I was there when he was tied down.  I was there ... "

The words drifted off then and Fox seemed to stare at nothing.  Head drooping down 
almost to his chest.

"Fox, what do you mean you were there?  Can you describe it for me?"

For the first time, Fox moved to sit, practically collapsing on the bed.  Walter caught 
sight of the man's face more clearly and was shocked by the obvious exhaustion.  The 
darkened circles and puffy eyes.  The trainee raised a hand to his eyes, then dropped it 
into his lap limply.

"It was like I was there.  A ghost.  No one could see me, but I could see, hear, smell.  
There was a bakery down the street and I could smell the bread and the pizza.  It was 
bright and cool.  It was so real."

Fox's voice had turned introspective and Dean made no move or sound, as if knowing 
that the younger man was ready to talk.  Ready to explain what had happened.

"Jesse was working in the store, but it was a slow day.  He decided to go to the bank so 
he left the girl in charge.  She was bored and wanted something to do."  Fox shifted, 
pulling his arms around his chest once again.  "He walked down the street, past the other 
stores, past the bakery.  And the sun was so bright."  Fox shook his head, obviously not 
aware of his surroundings any more.  "He decided to cut through to the next block so he 
walked down an alley.  The stores backed up to the alley where the trucks would unload, 
but there weren't any that day.  There was no one.  Nothing.  Except the car."

Walter barely breathed, finding himself entranced by the story, as well as the teller.  
Dean was also frozen in his spot by the window, keeping his back to Fox, merely 
listening without moving or speaking.

"The car pulled up next to him and he leaned in the passenger window.  He wasn't 
frightened or concerned.  Why wasn't he afraid?"  His voice had dropped so low Walter 
had to strain to hear him.  "And then he got in.  It didn't make sense.  I mean, he had to 
get to the bank.  He promised Hannah he'd be back in just fifteen minutes, but he got in 
the car.  It's so strange."

Walter could see Fox from the side, so the man's face was in silhouette.  Fox's eyes were 
closed and he could tell the younger man was sinking further into the memory.

"They drove for a while -- past the bank -- and then Jesse pointed at something out the 
window.  Like they'd been talking about something and he wanted to point it out.  I don't 
know what.  Then the driver slammed a brick into Jesse's head.  He didn't see it coming.  
Didn't know anything about it.  I saw it happening but I couldn't do anything.  Couldn't 
scream or warn him.  I couldn't stop the brick."

Fox seemed to wake up a bit then, and he sat up straighter and dropped his arms down to 
his lap.  "They drove for a while and then I don't know what happened.  It was like time 
moved forward and hours passed in just a fraction of a second.  And Jesse was lying on 
the floor on his back, with ropes on his wrists and ankle, tying him to stakes that had 
been pounded into the ground."

Fox stirred a bit and actually turned to Dean.  Dean must have sensed it, because he 
turned to confront the younger man for the first time.  "Did you see who did it?"

Fox licked his lips and shook his head slowly.  "There was just this dark, nebulous 
creature.  It was always there, but I couldn't see it clearly.  No matter how hard I tried."  
He raised his head and looked Dean straight in the eyes.  "It was evil.  Pure evil."  His 
eyes dropped away from Dean's again, focusing now on his own hands.  "Jesse pleaded 
with him.  Told him about his baby boy and his pregnant wife.  Nothing worked though.  
Nothing."

The last word was whispered.  Fox started rocking ever so slightly.  "The ax made such a 
loud sound when it hit into the ground, bounced off the concrete.  But there was hardly 
any sound when it cut through Jesse's shin.  Just a little snick.  I never heard anything like 
it before.  Never."

Fox's voice wavered when he said, "The ax just kept chopping and chopping, and Jesse 
tried to scream.  He threw up, but there was a gag around his mouth and he started 
choking.  He couldn't breathe.  His eyes stared right at me, but I couldn't move and I 
couldn't speak or scream.  I couldn't do anything at all."

The younger man looked up at Dean again, as if searching for understanding, or perhaps 
forgiveness.  He was shaking his head from side to side.  "He took a long time to die and 
I kept praying it would happen sooner."  The kid made a strangled sound then, and 
Walter finally realized it was a laugh.  "Do you believe that?  I wanted the man to die 
faster because it was uncomfortable for me.  Because I ..."  

Dean moved to the bed and sat at the foot, facing Fox, several feet away from the 
distraught trainee.  "You know that's normal.  You know it would be an appropriate 
reaction."

Walter couldn't tell whether the words made an impression or not.  Fox still rocked ever 
so slightly, back and forth, back and forth.  Silent and brooding.  

After another minute of quiet, Dean said, "What then?  What happened after Jesse's 
murder?"

Then tension mounted as Fox launched himself once more from the bed and strode over 
to the window, arms wrapped securely around his ribs.  "What -- a dream where a man's 
chopped into little bits isn't enough?  You want more gore?  More sick descriptions?"  
And again there was a strangled laugh.

Dean stood as well, but Walter could tell he was uneasy, unsure of what to do or how to 
offer the younger man any comfort.  He stayed where he was, staring at Fox's back.  
"That's not it.  You know it's not."

"I don't know anything."

Dean walked back to the chair then and Walter was struck by the symmetry of the event.  
Both Fox and Dean were in the exact positions they'd started in.  Fox at the window with 
his forehead against the glass, Dean in the chair, hands clasped between his legs.  Dean 
waited silently for Fox to break the impasse again.

"The ... dark figure -- the assailant.  He ... masturbated over Jesse's body.  Over the 
remains."  Fox took a shuddering breath before continuing.  "Then he put the ... pieces in 
trash bags.  Loaded them in the car.  That's all I saw."  And he turned to Dean, voice firm.  
"That was it."

Dean nodded, then stood.  "There was nothing in the report about the UNSUB 
masturbating at the scene.  Where did that come from?"

Even from the hallway, Walter could tell Fox was shaken by the question.  Perhaps 
taking it as an accusation for something more.  He merely shook his head from side to 
side, in denial.  Whether to Dean or himself was unclear.

Dean approached the window and stopped next to the younger man.  For the first time, 
put a hand on the other's shoulder.  "Fox, you know about the BSU, right?"  He waited 
for the nod before continuing.  "Patterson lectured to your class a couple weeks ago."  
Again, the nod, slow but sure.  "Patterson always tells his profilers that to understand the 
artist, you have to understand his art.  Get into the UNSUB's mind.  His feelings, hopes, 
dreams.  Become the UNSUB.  He told you that, didn't he?"

Fox had turned now so that he stared directly at Dean.  He nodded again, even more 
slowly than last time.

"Fox, there are only a few people in the Bureau who can do what you do.  And while you 
might be thinking right now that it's a curse, the victims you'll save and the families 
you'll bring relief to will say it's a gift.  And they'll thank you for it."

Walter saw Fox raise a hand to his face and wipe at it angrily.  He realized then that the 
man was crying.  Dean dropped his hand from Fox's shoulder and said, "The fact that you 
reacted the way you did to what you dreamt means that you're very much human.  You 
don't need to doubt yourself or your motivations."

Dean moved away then, several feet away.  "Fox, I'm sorry I got you involved in this.  If 
I hadn't left those files out ..."

The trainee shook his head, saying, "No.  No, I shouldn't have read them.  I knew it.  I 
knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway.  You could have had me kicked out.  You still 
could."  He turned so his back was to the window.  So that he again faced Dean head on.  
There was an element of supplication to his voice when he said, "Please don't do it now."

Walter knew how Dean felt.  He was feeling pretty guilty himself.  If only ... If only he 
hadn't brought the files over.  If only he hadn't involved Dean.  But still, a part of him 
couldn't help but be curious about the kid's dream.  He wondered just how much of it was 
accurate.  And if it was accurate, then why did Jesse get in the car?  Was it someone he 
knew or someone he trusted?  And were there sexual elements to the motivation that they 
didn't know about?  He needed to talk with Dean soon.  He saw that Fox and his old 
friend were almost finished now.

Dean wore a sad smile when he spoke.  "You're too good a trainee and too good a man 
for us to lose you over this, Fox.  Besides, anyone who can cause more than a hundred 
thousand dollars in damages at Hogan's Alley, win at an exercise that no one's ever 
managed to win before, and tick off an entire group of instructors, all within about an 
hour time span, is much too valuable to lose."

And for the first time that morning, Walter saw a ghost of the smile he'd seen the day 
before on the younger man's face.  The kid would be all right.  

Dean slapped Fox on the arm and said, "Try to forget this case, Fox.  I know it won't be 
all that easy, but try.  Now, get yourself some breakfast, get dressed, and get your butt 
outta here.  I think your group's at the obstacle course this morning. If you feel up to it, 
you can join them."

Fox nodded and moved out of Walter's sight.  Dean came out of the room just moments 
later and stopped in the hallway.  Walter smiled tightly.  "We need to talk."

Dean sighed heavily, a frown creasing his face.  "You bet we do.  Come on."

The walk to Dean's temporary office was made in silence, both men reflecting on what 
they'd heard.  Before they were even settled, Dean spoke, his tone pensive.  "He'll be at 
the top of Patterson's hit list when word of this gets out."

"Does it have to?  Why would anyone have to know what happened?"  He felt ashamed 
after he'd said it and Dean's frown merely served to reinforce the feeling.  "I'm sorry.  
Forget I said that."

Dean nodded, then sighed wearily.  Rubbed at his face, then slammed his hand on the 
desk so hard that Walter actually jumped.  "Damn it!"

Walter had no idea why Dean was suddenly angry.  "What?  What is it?"

Dean turned to him, a look of angry disgust distorting his features.  "Don't you get it, 
Walter?  That kid is a natural profiler.  Patterson will scoop him up for the BSU as soon 
as he can.  Do you have any idea what that means?  Weeks on the road, round the clock 
high profile cases, divorce, nervous breakdowns, any number of gastro-intestinal 
disorders.  Hell, we outta just do him a favor and kick him out now."

Walter felt out of his element.  He knew almost nothing about the profilers of the BSU.  
Surely Dean was exaggerating.  At any rate, he felt it was time to focus on the case again. 
"Look, Dean, it's not our place to make decisions like that.  Decisions that will impact 
another person's life and career choice.  He made the choice to join the Bureau.  He made 
the choice to come to the Academy.  He'll then make the choice as to whether he wants to 
make a life out of it.  Neither you nor I have a right to interfere with his choices."

Dean slumped back in his chair and Walter relaxed a bit, feeling as if he'd won an 
argument.  "Can we talk about the case for a few minutes?"

Dean was staring at him, so intently and searchingly, that it made him feel like a bug 
under the microscope.  He grew concerned after a few moments.  "What's wrong, Dean?"

The older man looked disappointed and Walter knew it was because of him.  He'd 
somehow let down the man who had been his mentor and friend. Dean seemed to shake it 
off then.  "Nothing, Walter.  Nothing."  The man shifted in his seat and ran his hand over 
his face again, before dropping it into his lap limply.  When Dean looked at him again, 
Walter could swear the man had aged five years.

"Walter, I think this kid is onto something.  No one ever suggested the UNSUB might be 
a sexual psychopath before.  It hasn't been in any of the previous profiles. I think you 
ought to consider it.  Also, this idea that Smith knew the assailant or at least trusted him 
enough to get in the car with him.  I saw in the notes that this issue had been discussed on 
numerous occasions.  The latest theory suggests that he was overpowered and forced into 
a vehicle or that someone came up on him from behind and slammed the brick into his 
head."

Dean paused and looked at him, as if to make sure that he was following.  He nodded 
quickly.   Dean pulled the stack of files over and found the one for Jesse Smith.  He 
flipped open the cover and rifled through the reports and photos contained within until he 
reached the page he wanted.  "One of the things that bothered me was that the blow from 
the brick clearly came from the side, only slightly from the rear.  If someone had snuck 
up on him from behind, the wound would have been in the back or top of his head."

Walter shifted, thinking quickly.  "But Smith could have heard something and been 
turning.  That could also account for the angle."

Dean nodded slowly.  "Yes, it certainly could."

They sat in silence, thinking about it, when Walter remembered another aspect that 
supported the kid's version.  "You know, the police claim they scoured the route from the 
store to the bank and found absolutely nothing.  They say they checked in the alley as 
well.  You'd think if someone got slammed in the head with a brick hard enough to 
render him incapacitated that there'd be blood."

Dean smiled slightly.  "Head wounds always bleed the worst."  The older agent pushed 
himself up from his chair then and paced a few steps in the small room.  Walter could 
feel the man's nervous energy , and the air itself seemed charged with it.

"Dean, what do you think?  You read the files.  Spent some time on them.  What do you 
think we're looking for here?"

Dean stopped in his tracks and moved more slowly to lean against the desk.  He stared 
out across the little office, over Walter's head.  His arms were crossed over his chest, in 
an unconscious imitation of Fox's earlier stance.  The man took a deep breath before 
answering.  "I don't know.  It's very strange.  But, I'll tell you one thing.  This idea that 
the victims knew the assailant or trusted him for some reason is compelling.  It would 
explain quite a few problems in terms of the initial acquisition.  It would explain quite a 
bit, frankly.  And I think you ought to explore the idea of a sexual sociopath.  It would 
impact your suspect list, such as it is, substantially."

Walter nodded, knowing intuitively that Dean was right.  It was just a gut feeling, with 
little evidence to back it up, but his confidence in the theory had grown with every word 
they'd spoken.  He was sure that the kid had it right.

*******************************************

PAST

Fox went directly to his room when he was released.  He changed into the official tee-
shirt and sweats of the Bureau and cursed silently when he saw the time.  He would be 
pushing it at this rate.  He'd have to run all the way to the obstacle course in order to get 
there before they started.  He felt up to it though.  Ready to run off some of the 
frustration and lingering anger he felt over the night before.  He hated what he'd seen in 
his dream.  Hated the fact that his own imagination had come up with so many of the sick 
details.  That was the word he kept thinking -- sick.

He swallowed and glanced around at the room before leaving.  Someone had put clean 
sheets on his bed and made it up.  He owed his roommates big time.  He smiled before 
closing the door and stretched quickly.  After only a minute, he took off, determined to 
beat his old time on the course.  He made it there in only a few minutes and was pleased 
by the greeting he got.

Classmates smiled and said hello.  Shirley whistled, then yelled out above the din, "Our 
fearless leader has returned to us."  Claps and laughter followed the comment.

He shook his head in mock disgust but sighed in contentment.  Chris made his way 
through the crowd and slapped him on the back, while Rob said, "Good to see you alive 
and well.  We were worried there for a while."

This time his grimace was in earnest.  "Sorry about that guys."  He looked first at Chris 
and then Rob before saying, simply, "Thanks."

Their response was cut short when their instructor, Mark Thompson, showed up.  The 
man made no indication that he was aware of what had transpired the night before and 
immediately started organizing the group.

Fox found himself assigned halfway through the pack and smiled.  Being too far in front 
meant you were forced to lead.  There was really no way to determine how good you 
were doing.  Being in the back meant you had way too many bodies to fight through to 
get farther forward and no matter how hard you pushed, you still felt like you weren't 
making headway.  But being in the middle was the best of all worlds.  He'd have some 
ten or so people in front of him with a crew hot on his heels.  Perfect motivation for 
pushing hard and kicking butt.

He wandered over to a group of trees on the right and started stretching seriously.  He 
stretched out his right shin, then left.  Worked on his thighs, bending over at the waist.  
He turned to rest his left hand on one of the trees and saw that Shirley was next to him.  
She was facing him, bent at the waist, and her tee-shirt was delightfully tight in all the 
right places.  She looked up at him, still bent at the waist, and he got a wonderful glimpse 
of the top of her breasts, peeking out over the white lacy bra, through the slightly 
drooping shirt neck.

He smiled at her and winked, then turned his back.  Now was the time to concentrate on 
the upcoming obstacle course, not Shirley's exquisite body.  Her very shapely, very 
accessible body.  He stretched out the other leg and closed his eyes.  Breathed in the fresh 
air.  Listened to the snaps and pops of twigs and leaves underfoot. 

Thompson's voice was loud and clear in the wooded area.  "First up.  Morrow, you go in 
one.  Ellicott and Handley should be on deck."

He managed to block out the unnecessary chatter, as well as the image of Shirley's 
freckled, well-endowed breasts.  He concentrated on the course, knowing the biggest 
challenge for him would be 'The Wall' -- a twenty foot high torture device, probably 
dreamed up by some military first sergeant before the first World War.  The thought of 
the rough ropes made his hands ache already.  This was their third official shot at the 
course.  The first two times had left his palms covered in blisters and blood.  Then 
damned if the instructors didn't send them off to the shooting range in the afternoon, just 
to complete the agony.

He rolled his neck and willed the tension to disappear.  He was determined to beat his 
previous times.  Determined to beat the Academy record before he graduated.  He heard 
his name called then and knew he was on deck.  They were heading out at one minute 
increments on a course that could take as long as half an hour.  He'd be able to overtake 
four or five of his teammates at the minimum.  He knew there were at least one or two 
people ahead of him who would be his greatest competition for best time.

He moved closer to the launch off point and twisted his torso one last time, feeling his 
muscles flex with strength.  Then he knelt in a pseudo-runner's crouch, ready to go at 
Thompson's signal.  He rocked forward and backwards, anxious for the minute to be up.  
At the instructor's 'go' he was off, sprinting down the little dirt lane that had been formed 
after years of runners pounding their feet into the ground.  

The first part was completely flat, well into the forest with tree branches forming a roof 
of green and brown. Within a couple minutes he'd already caught up to Lieber.  He was 
in the groove, running with long even strides when he passed Kudla just seconds later.  
The first hill was in front of him and he hit it at full speed, thinking only about the next 
challenge.  The course started out easy but quickly turned into a series of hills, walls, 
ropes, pits, and logs.  

The smells of the forest were all about him, enhanced by an evening shower which left a 
spring fresh smell that still lingered.  His feet were sure on the grass and dirt, and he 
knew he was doing well.  He could feel the strength in his legs.  The power in his stride.  
And for the first time, it looked like he'd overtake another classmate before finishing with 
the hill.  Gloria Lancaster was just ahead, obviously struggling.

He stretched his legs and drew even with her, nodded, then passed.  He heard her say, 
"Go for it, Fox," and it brought a brief smile to his face.  

He was up and over the hill, with a clear view of the next few hundred yards.  Shriver 
was visible a little distance away, but past the first set of serious obstacles.  It would be a 
challenge to catch the man.  

A series of raised logs, some four feet off the ground was ahead of him.  He hit them fast, 
getting into the groove.  He planted his right hand, simultaneously launching his legs up 
and over to the left.  He allowed his butt to hit the log so he slid off the other side.  Then 
three more strides and he planted his left hand and swung his legs to the right, repeating 
the process for the rest of the eight logs.  It was definitely the best he'd ever done.

He was breathing hard, but evenly, still feeling strong.  He started down a steep hill then, 
taking pains to plant each foot carefully.  More than a couple of his teammates had ended 
up with scrapes, bruises and sprains after tumbling down this very hill.  Still, he pushed 
as hard as he could, drawing ever closer to Shriver.  He was at the bottom finally and 
expelled a held breath hard in relief.  

There was a flat stretch for the length of a football field before the pit and it was his 
chance to catch up with Shriver.  Every stride sent a jolt through his legs that 
reverberated through his body.  He managed to pass Shriver right before they hit the pit 
so he was able to grab the rope first, swinging out over the murky mud and water.  He 
managed a quick "Sorry" and could hear Shriver behind him now, breathing raggedly and 
hard.  But the man said, loudly enough for him to hear, "You show off!"  He could tell it 
was said jokingly, though, and raised a hand to acknowledge his classmate's words.

'The Wall' was ahead and he shook out his arms and flexed his hands to prepare.  It was 
in front of him, only thirty feet away.  He slowed just in front of vertical wall and jumped 
to grab the rope a good eight and a half feet off the ground.  There were occasional holes 
in the wall, as well as protuberances on which he could place a foot here and there.  Or at 
least his toes.  He moved up the wall quickly, going from foothold to wall-walking 
seamlessly, so that he actually started to get concerned about how well it was going.  If 
there was one thing he knew, it was that there was always something, some event, some 
person, whatever, just waiting to bring you down when things are going well. 

When he reached the top, he swung his legs over, grabbed the rope and lowered himself, 
hand over hand.  He dropped to the ground when he was still five feet up and regained 
his footing quickly.  The next challenge was a twelve foot long log over a ditch with 
parallel bar immediately after.  If he fell off the log, he'd have to drag himself through 
three feet of muddy water to get to the other side.  If he fell off the bars, he'd have to 
climb out of a six foot pit.  

He swallowed hard, and breathed through his nose, psyching himself up for the double 
jeopardy obstacles.  He could see Chris ahead, climbing out of the pit, and grimaced for 
his friend.  He was determined to avoid that particular experience, if at all possible.  He 
started slowing ten feet from the log.  When he got a few feet away he launched himself 
onto it, with two hands firmly planted on the rough wood surface.  He got to his feet and 
walked quickly, starting to pick up speed as he gained confidence in his footing.

He ran his hands up and down his shirt, then his sweatpants, trying to rid his palms of the 
sweat that was now flowing freely down his arms, down his back and neck, and left his 
shirt sopping wet.  When he got to the end of the log he jumped, grabbing the bars 
securely.  He swung forward and had sufficient momentum to swing himself easily to the 
next bars.  He rapidly moved hand over hand to the last of the twelve bars.  He dropped 
to the ground and started running hard once more.  Chris was in sight and he knew he had 
a chance to pass yet another person before finishing the course.  He was close to the final 
stretch now, almost done.

The last challenge was 'The Mountain' -- a hill so long and steep that another rope was 
necessary in order to make it to the top without breaking your neck.  But first was a mile 
of winding, rocky, and uneven paths.  Broken ankles weren't uncommon, although their 
own class had avoided it thus far.

This was his favorite part of the entire course.  The woods were dense so that little light 
shone through.  It was impossible to see very far ahead and the only sounds were those of 
the small creatures of the forest, together with his own running and breathing sounds.  He 
always felt as if he were alone -- the only one in the entire woods.

He watched the ground carefully, knowing that if he made it past this trail, he'd be just 
about home free.  He followed the path to the left and glanced ahead of him, almost 
shocked to see that Chris was only twenty or so feet ahead of him.  He smiled, then 
concentrated on the ground again.  Plenty of time to pass his roommate on the straight-
away.

And he did just thirty seconds later.  He slapped Chris on the back as he passed and was 
rewarded with a groan.  Neither could manage words at this point.  

He was feeling on top of the world, euphoric, his energy level still high, when he came to 
'The Mountain'.  It stretched above him, seeming to soar endlessly, but he took his first 
steps without a pause, grabbing the rope simultaneously.  Hanson was about halfway up 
and it dawned on him that if he could push just a bit more, he might be able to overtake 
the man.  It would be his last chance this time around.

He worked his hands quickly, one over the other, grasping the rope tightly.  He could feel 
the rope strands cutting into his palms, but didn't care.  The angle became even more 
steep about a third of the way up and he started to slow.  In fact, his arms started shaking, 
the onset so fast and unexpected that he almost let go of the rope.  And then his legs 
started trembling, almost as violently.  His breaths were coming in hard bursts that 
actually caused pain along his ribs. It caught him by surprise, but then he realized that 
he'd pushed too hard and was now paying the price.

He looked up the steep slope and saw Hanson getting close to the top.  He wanted to slow 
down.  To take it easy the rest of the way, but he knew there was still a chance to catch 
his classmate and just couldn't help himself.  He forced one hand over the other and made 
his suddenly leaden legs move.  His stomach clenched then and he thought he might 
actually be sick or pass out.  He had to slow down for a moment and his hands started to 
slip on the rope.  He wiped his left on his shirt quickly, leaving a stripe of red and black, 
then did the same with his right.

For the first time, when he looked up the slope that stretched above, he was frightened.  
Last night he'd learned that he wasn't immune to terror and now he was terrified to learn 
he might not be impervious to failure.  He'd only failed once in his entire life.  The one 
time that had changed his family's lives forever.  He couldn't fail again.

He forced his legs to move and ignored the shaking.  Ignored the fact that the bile was 
rising in his throat.  He had to finish this.  It wasn't about winning anymore.  It was all 
about not failing.  He couldn't fail.

The next minute was agony as he fought every instinct that told him to slow down and 
stop.  But it just wasn't in him to quit, no matter how miserable, in pain, or hurt he was.  
When he topped the hill, he almost collapsed in relief, but knew he had a mile left to go.  
He dragged his arm up and wiped it across his forehead and face, then let it fall back 
down to his side.  

Every gasp was painful and a stitch in his side caused him to double over for a moment, 
his right hand outstretched in front of him, imploringly.  But he overcame it and ran on, 
eyes staring straight ahead at Hanson's back a hundred yards ahead.  He was no longer 
trying for a speed record but discovered he was growing on Hanson anyway.  The man 
must be worse off than he was.

His head seemed to have grown heavier in the last minute and he had to force it to stay 
upright.  He just focused on Hanson's back and told himself to keep running.  To keep his 
legs moving, his arms swinging.  And without knowing how, he was next to Hanson and 
then passed the man.  For several seconds in time, their gasping breaths coincided under 
the leafy trees.  There were no words this time.  No friendly gestures, no humorous 
groans.  Fox knew that Hanson must have felt about as bad as he did.

He ran on for what seemed like an eternity.  When he forced his eyes and head up to look 
ahead, he saw a small group of people, only a hundred yards or so away, and knew he 
was getting close.  For a moment, he wanted to cry.  It was the final run of the game, and 
the goal was in sight.  He told himself he could do it.  He could finish, if he would just 
keep putting one foot ahead of the other.  But it seemed like he was getting nowhere.  As 
if he were torturing himself with no hope of reprieve.  And his chest was so tight, his legs 
were starting to cramp, he could barely swing his arms and they kept falling down at his 
sides to flop bonelessly.  He kept saying to himself, 'run, run', and then suddenly there 
were people grabbing at him, forcing him to stop.

It took long seconds for it to sink in.  For him to realize that it was all over and he could 
finally rest.  He felt so ill, his stomach roiling, and he was so tired that his legs finally 
gave out under him.  Someone was on either side and he felt his arms being gripped 
tightly, trying to pull him up off his knees.  He didn't have the energy to open his eyes 
yet, but tried to concentrate on the words that were floating around him.  While he was 
trying to understand what they were saying to him, he was forced upright physically and 
made to walk.  They were making him walk and wouldn't let him lie down.  At that 
moment, he hated them, whoever they were.

It was a couple minutes later that he finally began to recover.  Began to catch his breath 
and at least focus on what was happening around him.  Ellicott and Morrow, the first two 
men to finish the course, were on either side of him.  He realized then that Ellicott had 
been speaking to him, although he didn't know for how long.  The man was saying, "Just 
take it easy.  Breathe deep.  Easy now."  

He managed a nod and even tried to stand on his own, without requiring their total 
support.  He took a couple shaky steps and bent over, dropping his head almost to his 
navel.  He stood again and found that Morrow was still there, to his right, a broad smile 
on his face.  Fox wasn't sure why.  He managed a single, whispered word in the hopes 
that it would be clarified.  "What?"

The man actually grinned and Fox wanted to slap the smile off his face.  Morrow said, "I 
think you did it.  I think you broke the record."

Fox was confused.  It couldn't be.  He clearly remembered coming to a near stop towards 
the end.  "What?"

"Yeah, man.  Instructor Thompson said he'd have to verify it, but that it looks like you 
beat the record by more than half a minute.  Congratulations!"

Fox shook his head, still confused, and stumbled closer to the instructor.  He wanted to 
see the time for himself.  He stopped by Mark Thompson's right and waited for one of his 
classmates to cross the line before intruding.  The man noticed him immediately and said, 
"Congratulations, Trainee.  Look like you managed to set another record."

Fox tried to gather his scattered thoughts, but managed to ask, "What was my time?"

Thompson glanced down at his sheet.  "Twenty-two, seventeen.  The record was twenty-
two minutes, fifty-four seconds."

For the first time, he started to believe it.  He nodded his thanks and started a cool-down.  
A few of his classmates wandered over to congratulate him and each one's comments 
made him feel that much better.  Despite the nearly debilitating reaction a half hour ago, 
he was starting to feel better physically, as well.  His strength was coming back to him, 
although he knew that pushing so hard after the night he'd had was probably the stupidest 
thing he'd done in a very long time.  He glanced around and saw that almost all his 
classmates had made it back.  

Chris wandered over, still breathing heavily, and said, "Hey, Fox, is it true?  Did you set 
a new record?"

He felt his face flush, but answered honestly.  "Looks that way."

Chris smiled broadly, despite his obvious exhaustion.  "Jeez.  I think you've just given us 
all a new pastime.  Finding something that Fox Mulder can't do!"

His roommate was very clearly pleased, and he could tell there was no animosity in the 
comment.  He relaxed and tried to strike the right tone for his response.  "Well, I'll take 
that bet, buddy.  Haven't you heard?  There's absolutely nothing I can't do."

Chris only groaned but there was a tinkling laugh from behind.  Fox knew that there was 
at least one thing he'd be doing very soon and he had no doubt he'd be doing it very well.  
He and Chris both turned to find Shirley behind them.  She was delightfully seductive, 
despite the sweat that matted her hair and stained her tee-shirt.  Her cheeks and nose were 
bright red and her hair looked five shades darker wet.  Their gaze met and their smiles 
grew.  Words were definitely unnecessary.  Tonight would be the night.

*******************************************
End Part 7 of ?

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 8 of ? (8/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************

PAST
September 5, 1986
Friday afternoon
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


The Friday afternoon flew by, helped by the knowledge that weeks of flirting would 
finally be realized.  Their class was free to leave the compound at five o'clock and didn't 
have to report back until Sunday night at eight. Fox went directly to his room, thinking 
about long legs and white freckled breasts.  He changed into jeans and a tee-shirt, then 
brushed his teeth.  He stuffed a small duffel bag with toiletries and clothes, keeping his 
additions sparse.  He wrote out a brief note for his roommates, then headed out, grabbing 
his leather jacket on the way.  At twelve after five, he arrived at the parking lot and 
leaned back against the red Mustang convertible which he knew belonged to Shirley.  He 
dropped his bag on the hood, then crossed his arms, keeping his gaze focused on the door 
leading to their quarters.  

They hadn't actually discussed the rendezvous and part of him knew this was a test, 
perhaps on both their parts.  He figured that if they were truly destined to become better 
acquainted, she'd know to meet him here.  He wasn't at all sure what she was thinking but 
figured he'd see soon enough, one way or the other.  Shirley didn't disappoint.  

He saw her as soon as she left the building.  She had a bag over her right shoulder and 
wore her hair down, so that it flew out behind her in the breeze.  She was casual and 
comfortable, also dressed in jeans and a light short-sleeved sweater.  She paused on the 
landing and cocked her hip.  He could see the broad smile even from where he was.  It 
appeared they were most definitely on the same wavelength.

His own smile broadened as she sauntered across the parking lot, slowly and seductively.  
She intentionally exaggerated every step, every swivel of her hips.  He was entranced by 
the demonstration and was laughing out loud by the time she stopped in front of him, less 
than a foot away.  He dropped his arms and reached out for her, pulling her closer in one 
quick move so that her stomach was snug against his hips.  Their lips joined and in mere 
moments he was tasting her, and she him.  Tongues dueled and heartbeats quickened for 
a good minute.  

They pulled back simultaneously, breaths coming in fast, hard bursts, ragged and loud, 
and stared at each other for long seconds.  The smiles returned, and they pulled away 
from one another slowly, hands lingering on sensitive skin.  He pushed himself away 
from the car and took her right hand in his, drawing her toward the passenger door.  She 
reached in her jeans pocket and handed him the car keys.  She was obviously content to 
allow him to orchestrate and lead.  He opened the door quickly and got her settled, then 
practically ran to the driver's side.  It dawned on him, just before he opened the door, that 
he wore a huge smile.  The other thing he realized was that not one word had been 
spoken between them.  Then again, actions did speak louder than words.

He slipped into the car, and fumbled with the key for a heartbeat before fitting it in the 
slot.  He took a shuddering breath at the symbolism and glanced at Shirley.  She was 
watching his every move and stared at him now with an obvious desire.  Her cheeks were 
flushed and the tip of her tongue peaked out of her mouth, sweeping from one side to the 
other.  She was a temptress.

He groaned out loud, tore his eyes away, then turned the key.  Her laughter filled the car.  
Oh yeah -- she definitely knew the power she held over him.  They drove to the little 
town of Triangle, only ten minutes away, and pulled into the Falls Motel.  He wasn't 
really sure what the significance of the name was but appreciated the fact it was so close 
to Quantico.

Their jaunt had turned somewhat surreal.  They still hadn't spoken one word to each other 
in almost a half hour.  It had become an unspoken agreement -- that their tryst was to be 
consummated in silence.  

Registration took only a few minutes and before he knew it, he was opening her door and 
helping her out of the car.  He pulled out their bags, slung them over his right shoulder, 
then locked the car.  He gestured for her to precede him, gallantly, placing his right hand 
on her lower back.  The sun was still bright and it glistened off Shirley's hair.  He looked 
down and saw her firm behind, the jeans hugging her shape tightly.  The breeze blew and 
her hair was lifted up, revealing the back of a long, white neck.  

He wrapped his left arm around her from behind and pressed his lips against her neck 
hungrily.  He placed his right hand against the motel room door to provide leverage.  She 
smelled like baby shampoo and powder, fresh and desirable.  God, he wanted her so 
badly.  He heard her groan and pushed his hips against her behind, having to bend his 
knees just slightly.  He moved his left hand lower, from stomach to hip, then thigh, 
allowing it to drop down to her crotch.  He nuzzled her neck and left a trail of kisses from 
her hairline to her shoulders.

He ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh and almost bit her shoulder when one of her 
roaming hands squeezed his ass.  That caught his attention enough to realize it was time 
to move the show inside.  He forced his hands to drop and pulled away from her, 
fumbling in his pocket for the key.  She was behind him now, pressed tightly to his back.  
Her hands roamed freely over his body, finding their way under his tee-shirt.  She blew 
into his ear and he shivered, just as he managed to open the door.  He swung it open hard 
and it slammed against the wall.  

He took two steps in, turned and grabbed her, pulling her close.  They kissed hungrily, 
lips, tongues and teeth engaged in an untamed duel for dominance.  He reached out with 
his left foot and kicked the door closed with a loud bang.  The bags slipped off his 
shoulder and fell to the carpet with a thud.  He dropped the key on the floor next to them 
and pushed Shirley backwards, step by step, mouths still engaged.  The back of her legs 
hit the bed and they both tumbled onto it in a collection of intertwined arms and legs.  

They rolled once and he found himself on his back with Shirley lying on top of him. Her 
legs fell between his own splayed ones and he wrapped his right ankle around her shin.  
She was a delightful weight that seemed to move in all the right ways.  He grabbed her 
tightly and forced them both to roll again so he was on top.  He straddled her, grinding 
his pelvis into hers.  He was so hard, it was becoming painful, especially with the 
restriction of his jeans.  He hadn't been this aroused since Phoebe, two years before.

Her hands grabbed each side of his jacket and started pulling at it.  He understood where 
she was coming from.  There was way the hell too much material between them.  He sat 
up on his knees and pulled the jacket off quickly, tossing it to the floor without a thought.  
His tee-shirt followed a moment later.  

She wiggled under him and stroked his crotch, then cupped her hand around him.  He 
pushed into it and dropped onto her once more.  She moved both hands up to his fly then 
and worked at the buttons.  Her mouth was open and she was breathing as heavily as he.  
Her tongue wetted her lips and he froze at the sight, realizing that everything was taking 
much too long.  He rolled off the bed and reached down to help pull her off as well.

He pulled her tee-shirt over her head in one jerk and discovered that she'd left her white 
lacy bra at home.  He ran his hands over her breasts, brushing his thumbs over her 
hardened nipples.  He leaned over to take her right breast in his mouth and sucked 
greedily before tearing his mouth away to find hers once again.  He felt her hands down 
at his hips and tried to ignore them, focusing instead on getting her jeans off.  He 
managed to unfasten them in record time and pushed at them, letting his hands run down 
her hips to grab her rear.  Holy Christ, she wasn't wearing any underwear.

He groaned at the realization and felt himself twitch in anticipation.  He pushed against 
her again, hard and demanding.  He wanted her now.  He allowed her to force his own 
jeans down past his hips, his breath catching when the rough material rubbed against him.  
He was overheated and wanted nothing more than to shed every stitch of clothing.  He 
wanted Shirley's skin against his.  Wanted to take her in his mouth and hands.  Wanted to 
pound himself inside her.  Possess her and be possessed by her.

They fumbled with the last of their clothing until the last shred was discarded on the 
floor.  As if they both realized it at the same time, they froze, hands at each others' hips, 
separated by six inches or more.  If possible, his breathing quickened and he was 
consumed with a single thought.  There wasn't going to be gentleness between them.  Not 
now, at least.  Maybe later, in the dark of the night.  But, the needs they were feeling 
were primal and only a primal reaction to them would do.  

He grabbed her again and pushed her against the wall, his swollen penis pushing against 
her flat stomach.  The force of the impact sent a loud reverberation through the room, but 
Shirley didn't object.  He knew without needing to hear it that she wanted him just as 
badly as he wanted her.  Just as badly and at least as urgently.

She bit his shoulder and actually growled, low in the back of her throat.  He swung her 
again and practically threw her to the bed.  She scooted back several inches and he 
dropped down on top of her again, pinning her.  He was driven to new heights of arousal 
when she dragged her fingernails up his back.  She grabbed his ass again and he lowered 
his head to hers, seeking out her mouth.  

They started moving against each other, creating a rhythm and he couldn't wait any more.  
He tore his lips away from hers and gazed into her eyes, his chest heaving.  He'd lost all 
ability to speak -- to vocalize thoughts or desires.  But there was one thing he needed to 
know before they went on.  She smiled just slightly and nodded and he knew her answer.  
There was no doubt in his mind.  She was already taking care of everything that needed 
to be.

Sweat rolled off his nose and dripped onto her left breast.  He leaned down and licked at 
it, then pulled on her nipple with his teeth.  He ground his hips into hers and then reached 
down to push her legs apart, roughly.  They weren't in a gentle mood, either of them.  
There was no love involved.  This was all about lust.  

He reached down to guide himself and pushed hard, driving home in one sustained move.  
She was warm and tight, wet and perfect.  They were both slick with sweat and he lost all 
thought then as he pounded into her in inelegant but effective jerks.  Her hands were 
pushing at his shoulders but her mouth was on his neck, his chin, his mouth, pulling at 
him and encouraging him.  She was making grunting sounds that corresponded with his 
every thrust and they were driving him wild.

He needed this release and knew it was fate that he'd met a woman who thought enough 
like him that he could find it.  He tore away from her mouth then and raised his head and 
shoulders to look at her.  He grabbed her hands in his and wrapped his fingers through 
hers, then pushed her arms down, so they lay on either side of her head.  Her hair was 
spread out around her head, creating a halo, and light from the window caught the 
highlights, making them shine.  Her face wore an intent expression, as if she were 
concentrating hard.  

The blood pounded in his ears and his eyesight clouded.  He gasped for breath and 
prayed for release.  In a heartbeat, the image below him shifted.  It wasn't Shirley's face 
he saw beneath him but rather, Lorri Kiley's.  Empty eyes stared up to the ceiling and he 
saw someone's hands wrapped around her neck, choking the life out of her.  There was an 
urgency that he didn't understand and someone was screaming his name.  Screaming 
words that finally started to sink in.

"Stop it.  Fox, what are you doing?!"

His was able to see clearly again and he focused on Shirley's terrified eyes.  Saw his own 
hands wrapped around her neck.  Her hand trying to push them away, unsuccessfully.  He 
was filled with disgust and self-loathing when he realized what he'd done, as well as an 
underlying confusion and he tore his hands away.  He pulled himself back so fast that he 
fell off the bed with a thud.  His erection had vanished as fast as it had originally 
appeared, shriveled from the shock and horror of his actions.  His stomach roiled and he 
felt the nausea begin to overtake him.  Despite an almost overwhelming weakness that 
caused his legs to tremble and his hands to shake, he managed to get into the bathroom 
before throwing up violently into the toilet.  

He sank onto the cold floor and leaned forward, grabbing onto the bowl lid tightly with 
his outstretched right arm.  His left hand helped to prop him up at first, since every 
instinct told him to curl up into a ball on the floor.  He thought again about what he'd 
done to Shirley and his stomach heaved painfully.  He vomited again and moved his body 
even closer to the porcelain.  He was plastered against the toilet, holding on now with 
both hands, as if for security.  

He started crying uncontrollably at the thought that he'd done such a sick thing.  Tears 
streamed down his face to drop on the rim and in the bowl.  The smell was disgusting and 
reminded him once more of the smells he'd dreamed about during Jesse Smith's murder.  
His tears came harder and he was inconsolable, consumed with guilt and, above all, fear.

He couldn't catch his breath and became terrified that he might hyperventilate and then 
choke on his own vomit, like Jesse Smith.  He wasn't even totally sure that Shirley was 
all right.  Jesus, he hadn't even checked on her!  He could have killed her.  He had to 
check on her but didn't think he could move.  He couldn't even breathe, for God' sake.  

He was gasping seriously now and the sobs were loud in the little tiled room.  But he 
heard a shuffle then and water turning on.  Then there was a cloth at the back of his neck 
and a soft touch on his head.  There was a soft murmuring, but he didn't understand the 
words.  All he knew was that Shirley was all right and he felt the relief course through 
him.  His fingers were gripping the edge of the toilet seat so hard it was making his 
forearms ache.

After another couple minutes he quieted enough to understand what Shirley was saying 
to him.  "Fox, try to calm down.  You have to breathe.  Just calm down and breathe 
deeply.  You're scaring me here."

The knowledge that she was okay and had evidently not totally condemned him for his 
actions, even though she should have, finally sank in.  He quieted further, the retching 
stopping after another minute.  

His eyes were closed tightly, afraid to look at her.  Afraid to see the disgust and 
disappointment in her own eyes.  But then the hand on his head and the cloth on the back 
of his neck were removed. He heard a splash in the sink and a moment later, the cloth 
was being put to his face, as the hand pushed the hair off his forehead.  His body 
shuddered with every breath.

Shirley's gentle voice said, "It's okay, Fox.  Take it easy.  You're going to be okay.  I'm 
here."

Her kind words caused the tears to spill again, as he realized anew that he could have hurt 
her terribly.  He was sick.  Sick.  And he whispered without realizing it, "Sick."

The cloth was wet again and she washed his face, carefully and gently.  His entire body 
trembled now from the drying sweat as well as the horror in which he'd engaged.  He felt 
her lips at his temple, her gentle hands stroking his face and shoulders.  Her courage and 
kindness gave him the strength to open his swollen eyes.  

He dragged his head up and turned to look at her.  He had to say something to her.  Had 
to apologize.  Somehow make it all better.  His voice was a mere whisper.  "Shirley, I'm 
so sorry."

The tears started falling again so that her image shimmered in front of him.  Still, he 
could see that she was beautiful, with her hair falling straight, the sweat dampened 
shorter pieces curling from the heat they’d generated minutes before.  She shushed him 
and brushed off his attempt to apologize, as if he'd forgotten a meeting instead of just 
tried to kill her.

"Fox, come on now.  You have to get up.  It's too cold to be lying on the floor."

The air conditioning was on high in the room and the air was chilled.  He tried to focus 
on her more clearly and could see the goosebumps.  Could see now she was shivering.  
He realized that he was cold as well and that his own trembling was partly due to sitting 
on a freezing floor, hugging a cold porcelain toilet bowl.  He nodded sluggishly and 
started to push himself away from it.  She had his right arm and was pulling.  He forced 
his legs to move and his knees to work under him.  He was upright finally after a bit of 
give and take, and he wavered, dizziness overtaking him momentarily.  

When he felt reasonably sure of himself, he turned to the door.  He'd only taken a step 
when Shirley stopped him and held out a glass of water.

"Here.  Rinse out your mouth.  You'll feel better."

He nodded and tried to ignore the tears that welled once more in his eyes.  Not of sorrow 
this time, but of shame and embarrassment.  Shirley took the glass from him when he 
finished, then grasped his hand and arm tightly.

"Come on, I've got you."

The walk to the bed was made slowly.  He felt like an old man, unable to walk without 
support and guidance.  When they crossed the distance, they paused as Shirley pulled 
down the bedding they hadn't bothered with earlier.  He fell into the bed then and rolled 
onto his right side, away from her.  He wasn't ready to face her yet.  

He felt the bed dip behind him a few moments later.  There was a shuffling and then 
covers were pulled up over him.  The sheets were cool against his skin and he shivered, 
but the weight of the blanket and comforter gave him hope that warmth was imminent.  
Then he felt her touch at his ribs.  The bed dipped again and she moved behind him, 
spooned tightly, with her left arm wrapped around his ribs and chest.

His body shook slightly now with his gentle crying.  She seemed to understand and ran 
her other hand over his head and through his hair.  It was calming and he released himself 
into her care for several long minutes, the silence broken only by his own snuffles and 
ragged breathing.  She held onto him tightly, not saying a word.  Her actions told him 
everything.  Her touch told him that, despite what he'd done, she knew that such a thing 
wasn't in him.  That she'd wait for the reason.  For the explanation as to what had 
happened.

It was seven or eight minutes before his body started to unclench.  Another couple 
minutes before he started to feel warm again.  Shirley must have felt it because she broke 
the silence then.

"Fox, are you better now?  Can you talk yet?"

A shiver ran through him again, but it had nothing to do with the cold.  He tried to collect 
his scattered wits.  He nodded once, still somewhat shakily and whispered, "Yes."

There was no condemnation in her voice when she said, "Tell me what happened.  Did it 
have something to do with last night?"

The shivering started again, but he knew it had nothing to do with the cold.  She hugged 
him tighter.  "You don't have to tell me if you can't."

He shook his head hard.  He wanted to tell her.  He had to.  He took a deep shuddering 
breath.  "There's a case.  An open case with a serial killer.  I found the files by accident 
and I read them.  I wasn't supposed to, I know.  It was wrong of me.  I know it."

Her hand paused in it's stroking at his words, then she started again.  "What case?  What's 
it about?"

"There have been four victims so far.  Scattered by age, race, sex.  He kills each one 
differently."  He shuddered again and she draped her leg over his.  

"What does that have to do with last night?"

He could hear the unspoken words clearly.  'And with me.'  He swallowed and licked his 
lips before answering.  "I have a photographic memory.  I know all the case details, like 
I'm reading them on a page.  Last night ..."  His voice broke and he had to stop for a 
moment to collect himself.  "Last night I dreamed about Jesse Smith's abduction and 
murder.  It was like I was there, observing everything, but I couldn't control anything.  I 
couldn't stop it from happening or call for help."

Her tone was curious, but respectful.  "How did he die?"

The memory caused another shiver to run through him.  Her warm body, tight against his, 
was reassuring.  The security she offered made the telling much easier.  "He was staked 
to the ground and dismembered with an ax, while he was still alive."  He added, in a 
whisper, "For a while."

He heard the gasp from behind and her arms tightened again.  He moved his right hand so 
that it lay over hers and was thankful when she twined her finger with his.

Shirley shifted against him and he felt her lips on his shoulder.  There was nothing erotic 
about the kiss.  He took it for what it was.  The kindness of a caring human being towards 
another in need.  And for the first time in the last fifty minutes, he started to relax.  

The silence stretched for a while and then he knew he could tell her the rest.  "I tried to 
scream.  Tried to stop it.  But I couldn't do anything at all and I couldn't even wake up.  I 
guess I got sick while I was still asleep and Chris and Rob managed to wake me up.  My 
body went into shock and one of them called the medics.  That's all I know.  I woke up 
this morning and got grilled by Agent Waring.  They released me and I went to the 
obstacle course."

She sighed behind him and the little puff of air hit his shoulder blades.  "Jesus, Fox, that's 
incredible."

He shook his head and replied, "It's sick.  Sick."

He felt her head shaking behind him and her voice was adamant when she replied.  "You 
are not sick.  You're one of the nicest people I've ever met."

It was as if she'd forgotten what he'd done just a short hour ago.  His voice was strained.  
"Shirley, I almost killed you."

She snorted and responded, "Hardly."  She moved then, propping herself up on her elbow 
so that she leaned over him.  He looked into her face as she added, "It's not like you were 
actually choking me.  Your hands were just around my neck."  But then her eyes clouded 
as she listened to her own words and realized just what she was excusing.  She 
whispered, "What happened?"

He thought he had no tears left in him, but they started again at her question.  He shook 
his head, then said, "I'm not sure.  It was you, but all of a sudden I saw one of the victims, 
Lorri Kiley.  She was under me, staring at me with dead eyes, and I saw hands around her 
throat.  It was someone else's hands, not mine.  Then you screamed and it was you there, 
with my hands around your throat."

It had been easier to tell her than he expected and her response did more to calm him than 
anything else could have. 

She said, "That's the most incredible thing I've ever heard."  Her voice jumped with 
excitement and curiosity.  "What do you think it means, Fox?"

He actually managed a little laugh and lifted his head to look back at her.  "Are you 
insane?  I try to kill you and you think that's incredible?"  He shook his head and dropped 
it back on the pillow hard.  "Jesus, I'll never be able to have sex again.  I might as well 
quit the Bureau now and see if there's a monastery with an opening."

Her laughter was gentle behind him.  "That would be way too much of a waste of talent, 
Fox."  

The double entendres hit him a moment later and he laughed with her.  It was exactly 
what he needed and he finally let himself relax totally.  He was tired suddenly and his 
eyes drooped closed.  He took a deep breath and started to drift off to sleep.  

The last thing he heard was Shirley whispering into his back.  "You're a good person, 
Fox.  Don’t ever think otherwise.”

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Hours later, he awoke to a gentle touch.  He was lying on his back in the middle of the 
bed, his right arm stretched out to the side and his left bent up by his head.  There was a 
weight on his groin and stomach and he opened his eyes to see Shirley above him.  She 
straddled him, and sank down to rub against him when she saw his eyes open.

She was smiling and she looked like an angel.  The sun had set and a shaft of moonlight 
reflected off her hair.  He smiled back at her and sighed, filled with pleasure at the sight.  
She held out her hands and he surrendered his to her.  She linked fingers and gently 
pushed them down on either side of his head.  She moved against him again and he 
realized he was hard.  He became frightened for a moment but he had only to look into 
Shirley’s eyes to know that everything was going to be fine.  He surrendered himself to 
her care willingly.  

She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, his nose, his eyes.  She moved lower and kissed 
his mouth gently, chastely.  Her breasts were soft against his and he could see the flush in 
her cheeks.  He let her set the pace and gave her all control.  She used the power well.  

She moved over him and rose to her knees, then lowered herself onto him, slowly, inch 
by inch.  He felt his heart start to race, but this time, there was no lust.  This had nothing 
to do with lust and everything to do with love.  The love of good friends who want to 
help each other.  Who have respect for each other.  

She set the pace and started a slow rhythm.  Her face was beautiful above him and he 
smiled, squeezing her hands gently.  She leaned forward and kissed him again, a 
lingering kiss of lips pressed to lips.  The change in angle made his breath hitch and she 
started speeding her moves just slightly.  Her control over him was an exquisite torture.

He rocked his hips and pressed his toes into the bed.  She smiled at him again, a soft 
loving smile and he was filled with a peace and contentment that he’d never experienced.  
Even the orgasm she enticed from him was gentle, causing his eyes to fill once more.  
Not in sorrow, but in happiness.  And for the first time since Shirley had awakened him 
that night, they kissed deeply, tongues gently engaged in the dance of the ages.  And life 
was good. 

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 12 of the Wait
Sunday, 10:22 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully rubbed her eyes and set the papers in her left hand down on top of the cooling 
blanket still covering her partner.  She ran her right up and down Mulder's arm without 
really thinking then turned to Skinner, sitting quietly beside her, and wondered if he'd 
made any progress on his stack.  Jerry had brought Mulder's notes and computer forty-
five minutes earlier and she and her former boss had spent the time trying to figure out 
just what Mulder was thinking the last few days.  He turned to look at her and just shook 
his head.  He dropped his own papers and stood, stretching his back out.  

She looked across the bed, seeking out her mother's gaze.  She and Teena Mulder had 
been talking to one another in a soft murmuring the entire time and she couldn't help 
wondering what secrets her mother was revealing.  She felt a surge of guilt at the 
realization that almost the only times she ever saw her mother any more was when there 
was a crisis with either her or Mulder.  Her mother met her eyes and smiled, letting her 
know that she had nothing to feel guilty about.  Her mother loved them both and wouldn't 
be anywhere else right now.

Scully stood up, next to Skinner, and shuffled through the papers now spread out on 
Mulder's bed.  She sorted them carefully and stacked them the way her partner had 
originally organized them, then handed them to Skinner.  She looked up at the older man, 
hoping that he would know what to do next.  She didn't have the energy to think much 
any more.  She searched for her partner's arm again, reassured by the steady pulse at the 
wrist.  "What now, sir?"

He shook his head wearily.  "We still need to go through the files on his computer.  Why 
don't you pull it out?"

She retrieved it from behind them and pulled out the laptop quickly.  She felt stupid for 
not thinking of it.  She rested it on the bed and turned it on, the little chime sounding 
oddly loud, even amidst the machines' various noises.  

Teena Mulder's voice surprised her.  "What exactly are you looking for?"

Scully felt guilty again when she realized they'd forgotten to fill the mothers in.  They'd 
only said that 'something had come up with the case'.  Both ladies deserved much more 
than that.  She glanced at Skinner and decided his silence implied permission.

"We found out that the man Mulder shot didn't fully match the suggested profile."

Teena asked, "But you know that man was the one who had that baby.  He was the one 
who hurt Fox."

Skinner cleared his throat and Scully allowed him the floor.  "Yes, ma'am.  There's no 
question whatsoever that Harold Stevens was holding Christian in that warehouse and 
that he was the one who attacked Mulder.  We don't doubt that.  What's curious is that 
Mulder was very sure about his profile the day before all this started.  Frankly, ma'am, 
I've never known Mulder to be so far off."

She could tell that both Teena Mulder and her mother looked confused, obviously unsure 
of the significance.  She added, "We just want to find out whether there was more that 
Mulder might have been thinking that he didn't actually write in the profile.  That's all."  
No need to get them unnecessarily upset, after all.  There was enough for them all to be 
upset about as it was.

Her mother didn't seem ready to give up the discussion, though.  "I don't understand, 
Dana.  You know that man took Christian.  You know that man almost killed Fox.  
Where's the confusion?"

Dana smiled at her mother's bluntness.  "Actually, mom, we don't know that Stevens took 
Christian.  All we know is that he was found with Christian."

She sat back in her seat and pulled the computer closer.  Skinner sat next to her, 
obviously waiting for her to bring up the right files.  She'd never opened her partner's 
computer before, though, and it felt as if she were rummaging through his private 
drawers.  When the screen launched, there was a security window, clearly demanding a 
password for the default username of FWMulder.

She again felt stupid.  "I should have expected this."  She shook her head and stared.  She 
knew what it used to be, but that just didn't feel right.  Still she typed it in -- trustno1.  
Denied.  She searched her memory for conversations.  Tried to remember every 
discussion they'd had that might give her some idea of the right password.  Skinner 
shuffled beside her and she knew he was getting anxious.  She closed her eyes and 
pictured her partner and friend in her mind's eye.  He was smiling and said, "Scully, 
you're the only one I trust."  She opened her eyes and typed in -- 'trustonly1'.  The word 
Accepted appeared.

Her eyes filled at the sight and what it meant.  She really was the only one.  She heard 
Skinner exhale in relief beside her, but couldn't do anything for a few moments.  She 
cleared her throat then and started searching through her partner's files, looking for one 
that might reveal his thoughts about the UNSUB of the case.  She found the right folder 
quickly, marked 'Richmond-Serial', then viewed the list of individual files.  There was 
one marked 'profile-notes' and she opened it.  

Her breathing quickened and her heart started to pound.  This was it.  Everything was 
here.  Her eyes skimmed the lines.  Each one contained a thought or conclusion or 
question.  Sometimes complete, sometimes fragments only.  Her eyes stopped about a 
third of the way through the file at the lines:


similarity -- DC Murders
schizophrenia/sociopathy -- happening here?? yes.  too early for team.  won't understand.  
Scully/Skinner?  later.


She'd been concentrating on the words so hard that Skinner's voice surprised her.  "Shit.  
What does that mean?"

She shook her head in confusion and looked up at her partner.  He was facing her, 
propped on his left side for now, and she wished he would wake up.  Open his eyes and 
talk with them.  They were in over their heads and he was the only one who could tell 
them what to do now.  She stood and leaned over the bed, raising her hand to her 
partner's forehead.  She pushed back the spikes of hair that insisted on falling forward 
and ran her hand over his head.  She leaned closer and whispered, "We need your help, 
Mulder.  Please wake up and help us."

As she was pulling back, there was a beep that didn't belong.  Her head whipped around 
to the left and Skinner shot out of the chair.  Teena Mulder and her mother seemed 
oblivious to the sound but jumped at their own movements.  She turned to Skinner and 
demanded, "What was that?  Did you hear?"

"Yes.  I don't know.  I couldn't tell where it came from."

There were so many sensors, so many indicators making different sounds, that it was 
impossible to narrow it down.  She pulled her hands away and headed for the door.  
Every machine in the room was being monitored and a record would exist.  She needed 
to know what just happened.

She exited the room into the hallway and searched for a familiar face.  All the doctors 
were new, the shift change an hour ago releasing way the hell too many unknowns into 
the equation.  She shook her head in frustration and headed directly for the control center 
of the CCU.  It was in the very center of the room, raised and glassed, so that those 
within could see every room and alarm around them.  She took two steps in and was 
stopped by a nurse.  Just as the woman raised a hand and opened her mouth to speak, 
Scully said, "Something unusual just happened in Room 107, Fox Mulder's room.  I need 
to see the readouts for the past two minutes."  

The nurse was taken aback, but obviously gathering her thoughts again.  Scully pushed 
past her and walked directly to the control panels, ignoring the woman's words that 
followed her. A doctor came to investigate the commotion.

"What is going on here?  Ma'am, you are not permitted here.  You need to leave 
immediately."

Scully stood as straight and tall as she could.  Her voice was crisp and commanding.  
"My name is Dana Scully.  I am a doctor and the partner of Agent Fox Mulder who is a 
patient in 107.  He's been in a coma and his condition has continually worsened since he 
was brought in.  About a minute and a half ago, there was a …"  Her voice faltered for 
just a second before she could continue.  "There was a sound from one of the indicators 
that was out of place.  Someone needs to check his readouts for the past three minutes 
and identify the source of the inconsistency."

She dared the doctor to defy her.  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully and then he nodded, 
saying, "Time's wasting.  Come on."

The man led her to the control panels and directed one of the nurses monitoring them to 
bring up the recorded readouts for her partner, starting three and a half minutes before.  
Scully stood behind him respectfully, trying her best to look over both the doctor's and 
nurse's shoulder.  She licked her lips and stared at the graphs and charts, the little spikes 
and valleys.  And then she saw it.

"There!"  Both she and the doctor said it simultaneously, pointing to a spike that hadn't 
been before.  She sought out the indicator that it represented and felt her heart start to 
race and her eyes fill.  

The doctor looked back at her, the corner of his mouth uplifted slightly.  "Looks like your 
partner might be waking up."

She nodded, unable to speak, and swiped at the lone tear that had rolled down her face.  
She smiled broadly then and turned her back on the man.  She had only one thought.  She 
had to get back to her partner -- fast.

When she stepped into the room, she had eyes only for Mulder.  She walked straight to 
him and leaned over, her hands on his head and arm.  "Hey, Mulder.  It's about time.  
How about if you work on waking up a little faster, though?  I'm afraid our mothers are 
going to tell all our childhood secrets if we don't get them out of here soon."  And she 
actually laughed out loud for the first time in days.

She felt a hand on hers and looked across the bed to Mulder's mother.  The older woman 
had a questioning look on her face and Scully realized she hadn't told them anything.  
She swallowed and tried unsuccessfully to wipe the smile from her face.  "There was 
brain activity.  He's starting to come back."

In reality, the news didn't mean that Mulder would automatically get better.  His 
condition had deteriorated so rapidly and seriously that she knew he had a long way to go 
until he could be considered to be in stable condition.  But she knew her partner.  Knew 
her friend.  He was on his way back to them. 

There were people at the door and she turned to see the doctor she'd just spoken with, 
along with an intern and a nurse.  The doctor smiled at her kindly and said, "We need a 
little time here.  I'm going to ask you to step down to the waiting room."

She didn't argue.  She merely nodded and pushed all the papers and computer out of the 
way against the wall.  She realized as they left the room and walked down the hall to the 
CCU exit doors that this was the first time they'd traveled this way that she hadn't been 
filled with fear and dread. 

The waiting room was almost filled to capacity so Skinner led them outside into the little 
garden.  She had to squint as the sun assaulted her eyes.  It had been awhile since she'd 
been outside.  The air was fresh, smelling of the bubbling brook and growing things, and 
the colors surrounding them were vibrant.  She stood by a tree, arms crossed and stared at 
the little fountain that gushed water, her smile even broader now.  She'd learned it well 
after her cancer, but hadn't allowed herself the time to have it sink in to the point it was 
second nature.  Life was precious.  Mulder's life especially so.  She not only needed him 
by her side, but wanted him there.  With every ounce of her being, she knew she wanted 
Mulder with her on this journey.  She sighed with contentment, convinced that he'd be 
back by her side soon.

She heard a shuffle behind her and turned her head to see Skinner next to her.  His 
expression had lightened, but still he looked concerned.  Reality set in then, and she knew 
they still had a case to solve.  She sighed before speaking, feeling guilty at breaking the 
tranquil silence that had surrounded her. "Mulder wrote that there was a similarity to the 
DC Murders case.  He had a theory but didn't want to tell the team because he didn't think 
they'd understand or believe him.  What happened after Mulder became involved back 
then?  I need to know."

The older man nodded and gestured to a bench, across from where her mother and Teena 
Mulder sat.  She settled in, anxious now to know the ending of the story her former boss 
had started so many hours before.  

His voice was pensive.  "The next day was Saturday.  I had planned on going home and 
getting cleaned up, but neither of us had a chance to do anything.  We got a call that 
morning that another body had turned up.  There wasn't a note to indicate that it was part 
of our serial case, but the Alexandria PD wanted us to come out to the crime scene to 
check it out."

Skinner shook his head and sat down next to her, his hands gripped tightly and hanging 
between his knees.  "We were skeptical.  We figured it was way too close to the last 
murder.  The time scale had been about two months in between victims for our UNSUB.  
It had only been a few weeks since Ellen Haggerston had been killed."  He looked over at 
her and added, "And we didn't think the victim was right.  It was a child."

Scully felt a jolt run through her.  She had a feeling she knew where this was going. 

Skinner sighed again and stared off into space.  His voice seemed to come from a far 
distance when he spoke.  "It was a little girl, twelve years old.  She had short reddish 
brown hair, green eyes, and freckles.  She was a cute thing."  A stricken expression 
overtook his face and he amended, "Had been, that is."

*******************************************


September 6, 1986
Saturday, 9:21 a.m.
Alexandria Crime Scene


Walter rubbed at his face, feeling the stubble scratch his palm.  He leaned against the 
wall and tried to slow his breathing.  Doug was next to him, softly muttering.

"Bastards.  They said strangulation.  They said female victim.  They did this on purpose.  
Assholes."

Walter pushed himself up straighter and took a step away from the wall, keeping his head 
turned towards the right.  He had no desire to see Margie Conner's body again.  Not yet, 
anyway.  He turned to his fellow ASAC, trying to keep his expression even, and leaned 
his right arm against the wall.  "You're right.  They did it on purpose to see the Fibbie's 
reactions.  I think we've done enough to satisfy them on that score, don't you?"

He was starting to get angry himself now, but understood they'd get nowhere with these 
idiots by waving fists and calling for apologies.  Time to just take it and keep their cool.  
He heard Doug exhale heavily beside him.

"Yeah, you're right.  It's just…"  

Doug didn't have to finish the sentence.  Walter knew.  He knew very well what his 
partner was feeling. 

They were distracted by yelling down the hall and then saw a slim, dark haired man in a 
suit headed towards them.  Doug leaned closer to him and said, "George Haftka, the D on 
the Hannover case."

Doug pushed away from the wall and stood next to him, so they offered a unified front.  
The Detective looked sincerely upset when he spoke.

"I'm sorry.  I just heard what happened.  They should have warned you and I should have 
made the call to you myself.  I don't know what to say."

Doug took the lead.  He raised a hand and said, "It's okay.  We understand about 
interagency rivalry.  We just didn't expect …"

If anything, Haftka looked even more stricken.  "Can we talk about the scene?"

Walter  sighed and looked at Dean.  They both knew that before they could talk about 
whether this might be their serial, they'd have to go back in and look at it again.  Neither 
of them spent more than a few seconds the first time.

Walter cleared his throat .  "Detective Haftka, we need to actually see the site first.  Why 
don't you give us ten or fifteen minutes?  Perhaps you can remove your people."

"Of course."  The man nodded and turned, already yelling out orders with a group of 
people he was quite obviously perturbed with.  A minute later, they stood at the 
classroom's entrance and surveyed the scene.  

They were in a junior high school, where a thousand seventh through ninth graders 
typically spent their weekdays. The desks had all been pushed out of the way and in the 
very center of the room, twelve year old Margaret Conner's naked body hung from one of 
the lowered fluorescent lights.  She'd been hung with an electrical cord, tied in 
unprofessional but extremely effective knots.

Even though he expected it this time, it was still almost too gruesome a vision to look at.  
The child's mouth was open, her tongue protruding and swollen.  There was a puddle 
below her, the smell and color leaving no doubt about what it was.  Dried blood coated 
her thighs and it appeared obvious that she'd been molested at the least.

Walter fought the nausea down and raised a fist to his mouth.  He closed his eyes and 
shook his head.  Jesus, if this is what it took to get ahead, he might just head back to 
Chicago and work anti-terrorism the rest of his life.  He heard Doug move beside him 
and saw his partner move even closer to the body.  He wasn't quite ready to move yet 
himself.

Doug's strained voice echoed through the quiet room.  "Why did you call us?  Why do 
you think this might be ours?"

Haftka spoke up from behind.  "I guess I have a hard time imagining anyone else who 
could have possibly done it.  It just couldn't have been a student.  I just don't see that.  
And it's like there's a message being sent, although I have no idea what it might be."

Walter stepped further into the room and walked next to his partner.  Doug was partly 
bent, staring at Margie's mid-section, obviously looking for evidence.  The sight was 
bizarre and incredibly disturbing.  Walter couldn't tear his eyes off of Doug.  The sight of 
this happily married father staring at a naked little girl was finally too much for him.  He 
felt his head spin and his eyes saw only black.  

The next thing he knew, something pungent was waved under his nose and he opened his 
watering eyes.  The first thing he saw was the soles of Margie's feet, hanging five or so 
feet above him.  He rolled over and stared instead out the door.  A cop stood there, a 
smirk on his face, and Walter felt himself burn with shame and embarrassment.  He 
closed his eyes and rested his head on the floor again, trying to collect his thoughts.

Doug was next to him, by his head, and he heard his partner say, "Hey, Walt, how are 
you feeling?"

The man deserved an answer, so he nodded.  "Okay.  I'm okay."  Actually, he was quite 
comfortable on the floor and wasn't particularly anxious to get up.

"Come on, I'll help you.  I think it's time for us to head out.  Our forensics people are here 
and will work the scene.  Come on."

Great.  Not only did the Alex PD see his little display, but probably his own people did as 
well.  Screw it.  He forced his eyes open and struggled to a sitting position.  His head was 
pounding and he raised a hand to his left temple.  He had a huge knot that was tender to 
the touch.

Doug's tone was contrite.  "Sorry about that, Walt.  I wasn't quite fast enough.  I'm afraid 
your head took a whopping."

He nodded, then let his friend help him up.  He wavered for just a moment before his 
vision cleared and he felt confident he could walk without assistance.  His back was 
turned to Margie and he had no intention of looking at her again. 

He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve and was thankful that Doug led the way.  His team 
was waiting outside the door, most of them looking pale and all wearing serious 
expressions.  Not a one looked at him with anything less than the utmost respect.  He 
understood then that basic human sensitivity was not a crime, nor was it something to 
ever be ashamed of.  He prayed he'd never become so immune to human suffering that he 
would walk past it without thought.

He let Doug take the lead in assigning tasks and then they both walked down the hallway 
together, side by side.  He heard Doug take a deep breath and then his partner said, "I 
don't believe I did that, Walt.  Do you know, for a few seconds I actually managed to 
forget what it was I was looking at.  I'm sorry."

He merely shook his head, not really knowing what to say.  He found words finally, but 
they were strangled and barely clear.  "It was just a shock."

"I know."

They walked in silence to the car.  Ten minutes passed before Walter found the courage 
to launch the conversation they needed.  "Well?  What do you think?"  He knew his own 
mind, but was anxious to hear Doug's opinion.

"I think it's ours."

Walter let out a pent up breath and said, "So do I."  

"Why?"

"I don't know.  I guess it's like Haftka said.  I can't see this girl being a target for any 
normal kind of murder.  Where's the motivation?  And even if someone wanted to do her 
in, why choose such a … such a horrific way to do it?  It was for the shock value."

Doug said, "I agree."  The man drove in silence for a bit longer and then added, "And it 
worked."

Walter snorted a bit.  "You bet it did."

"Alex PD forensics people seem to think she was penetrated."

The switch in topic threw him for a moment.  He breathed deeply and squeezed the 
bridge of his nose.  His head was really pounding now.  "It would be the first time, if so."  
None of the others showed evidence of sexual molestation.  But Dean's words from the 
day before came back to him.

"I know."

"Dean suggested we consider a sexual sociopath."  He hadn't told Doug everything, but 
had at least hit the high points.

"It would fit."

"This would represent an intense escalation.  Less than a month between this one and the 
last."

"I know."

They did know.  Very well.  And they knew that if this was the work of their UNSUB, 
then they'd better start moving a hell of a lot faster, because the next one would come 
even sooner.

Walter said, "We need to bring this to Dean and to Patterson's group.  He said to come 
back when we had more."

"But we don't know for sure this is our guy.  We need to wait for verification before we 
go to Patterson."

He thought about it for a moment a realized that Doug was right.  Patterson wouldn't 
waste his time on looking at this unless they could verify it was part of their serial murder 
case.  He sighed and clenched his teeth.  Just the thought of Patterson put him on edge.  
"Okay, but we can still take it to Dean."

"All right.  We'll be having the team meeting tonight at 7 p.m.  We should have prelims 
by around two.  That should give you plenty of time to see him."

Walter raised his eyebrows and turned to his partner.  "Me?  What about you?"

The man smiled a little.  "Hey, someone has to be here to direct the troops.  Besides, 
there's that little matter of the meeting with SAC Keenan. Did you forget?"

Walter closed his eyes and rested his head back.  "I guess I did.  Wasn't really thinking.  
Sorry."

"No prob.  We're both strung out on this one.  I wish I could have just one day off and 
one night of good sleep.  I guess it'll just have to wait until this is all over, though, huh?"

"Yep.  When it's all over."

And Walter prayed that it would be over and soon.  "Will you be okay with Keenan?"

Doug snorted.  "Sure.  I'll let him yell at me.  He'll probably throw some things."  Doug 
turned towards him with a smile.  "Hopefully not directly at me."  The man turned his 
gaze back to the road before continuing.  "I'll explain that he has his best people on it and 
that we're doing everything we possibly can.  He'll tell me that's not good enough and ask 
if he needs to find two new ASAC's."

Walter laughed, knowing that Doug probably wasn't far off.  He'd come to know Keenan 
a bit during the last week or so and knew the man never took no as an answer.  He 
wanted results, not excuses.  "I'll tell you what, Doug.  The next time Keenan wants to 
meet with us, I'll find you a good excuse and meet with him myself.  We'll take turns at 
the abuse."

The mood lightened and the rest of the trip was made in comfortable silence.  When they 
got back to Headquarters, they headed for Doug's office to summarize what they knew.  
Doug flopped into the chair behind his desk and Walter sank into one of the guest chairs.  
It was hard, incredibly uncomfortable, and looked to be a hundred years old.  Still, his 
aching feet and pounding head appreciated the break.

"Okay, Walter, here's the advance report I got from Haftka.  We know that twelve year 
old Marguerite Conner went missing yesterday afternoon after school.  The last report of 
her to date was a visual from a classmate.  Said she got off the bus at the corner up from 
her house a little before 4 p.m.  Cops are doing door-to-doors right now to see whether 
anyone saw anything.  Mother says she never got home and that she wouldn't have gone 
anywhere without her express permission.  Mother said Margie was quite good about 
such things."  Doug sighed and shrugged.  

Walter shook his head and said, "Yeah, but she was twelve.  Yesterday could have been 
the day she decided to start her rebellious teen years.  Who knows?"  He reached his right 
hand up to rub his neck, then raised his left to look at his watch.  Jesus, not even eleven 
yet.  He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees.  "What do we know about 
her friends?  Anything yet?"

"Nope.  I've got Bretner on it.  His team's working on friends and family."

"Teachers?"

"Leebow's on it."

Walter nodded, amazed at how much his fellow ASAC had coordinated in the couple 
minutes he himself had been out.  "When will forensics be able to give us anything?"

"No later than 2 p.m., but I requested an ASAP."

He nodded, trying to decide whether there was anything else they should do right now.  
"Who's talking with the parents?"  If this was a victim of their serial killer, one of them 
would eventually have to meet with the family.

"Right now I have Bretner doing the initial debrief.  I figured we'd pow-wow before 
jumping into anything."

He nodded agreement again, then leaned forward and picked up the initial report Doug 
had collected on Margie's murder.  He read down the sheet, scanning it for anything that 
struck him as anomalous, then threw it down on the desk in disgust.

"Doug, when do you think we'll get autopsy data?"

His fellow ASAC leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.  Walter could practically see 
him doing the math.  "Not sure.  Later this afternoon."

Walter knew they were both thinking the same thing.  Wondering whether there would be 
body fluids left behind this time.  Actually hoping for semen.  He squeezed his eyes and 
said, "Sometimes I don't much like this job, Doug."

The other man sat forward in his chair and crossed his arms on the desk in front of him.  
"I know what you mean."

They stared at each other for almost a minute.  It was strange.  Until they found out more, 
there wasn't an awful lot they could do.  They were in a holding pattern.  Almost 
simultaneously they looked at their watches.

Walter smiled at his friend.  "I'm going to my apartment to shower and change.  I'll meet 
you back here a little after twelve."  

Doug nodded and stood.  "I'll do the same.  Come on.  I'll drive."

*******************************************

A little over an hour and a half later, both were back in the exact same positions, sporting 
freshly shaved faces and clean clothes.  Reports were starting to come in and both were 
reviewing everything that had been gathered.  Walter shifted in the hard chair and 
crossed his legs.  He had a report on potential witness interviews conducted by the Alex 
PD around the area of the school.  No one saw anything of any worth.  The only 
interesting piece of information came from a woman who lived down the block from the 
school.  She reported seeing a small dark colored station wagon late the night before, 
heading towards the school. She said the only reason she noticed it was that it was going 
unusually slowly around 9 p.m.  She'd been expecting a friend to stop by and thought at 
first it was her friend.  Then she saw the same car pass her house going the other 
direction about two hours later.  That time she reported that the car was going extremely 
fast.  It sounded suspicious enough to Walter to warrant further investigation.

"Hey, Doug.  Read this."  He tossed the report over.  "Second paragraph."

Doug skimmed quickly.  "Looks good.  One of us should meet with her personally.  Find 
out whether she saw anyone inside."  He placed the report to the side and waved another 
in the air.  "Listen to this.  Advance data from our forensics folks."  He set the report 
down and scooted forward in his chair.  "The girl was definitely penetrated, but no 
semen.  Bruises and vaginal tears.  Blood.  She was a virgin."

It wasn't unexpected, of course.  She was just a child.  Walter shifted uncomfortably and 
waited for Doug to continue.  His fellow ASAC looked up from the report and stared at 
him intently.

"They're not sure what she was penetrated with.  Their report suggests that the damage 
done was too severe for a … human organ."

Walter felt the nausea return and the sweat start under his arms and on his forehead.  He 
swallowed heavily and asked, "What the hell does that mean?"

Doug looked about as ill as he felt.  The man just shook his head, then sat back in his 
chair.  "I'm not sure.  We hadn't really started linking the sex aspect yet.  I don't know 
what it means.  Maybe Dean will know."  Doug's voice was less sure when he suggested, 
"Maybe we should go to Patterson now.  I think we're way the hell out of our element."

Walter snorted at the words in disbelief.  "Doug, we were out of our element on day 1."

His partner actually looked chagrined at his words.  "Yeah, I guess so."

Walter forced himself out of the chair and reached for his copy of the reports.  "Let me 
put it to Dean and get his opinion on Patterson."

"Okay."

"Good luck with Keenan.  I think you're going to need it after this."

"Gee, thanks buddy."

He grinned at the other man, feeling somewhat guilty at managing to escape the meeting 
with their SAC, but not about to suggest that he not go.  He stuffed the papers in his 
briefcase and nodded.  "Later."

He was practically out the door when Doug's voice stopped him.  "Hey, Walter."

He turned and looked back, questioning.  "Yeah?"

Doug was as serious as he'd ever seen him.  "We have to get this guy, Walter."

He didn't need to answer.  He knew it.  "See you soon."
 
*******************************************

The drive was fast, with little traffic to slow him down.  He pulled into the parking lot at 
a little before two and tried to decide where to go.  He had confirmed that Dean was at 
Quantico today, but had no idea of exactly where.  He figured he'd try Dean's office first 
and then the lecture hall, although since it was a Saturday he couldn't imagine a class in 
session.

The day was overcast and cool, with clouds getting increasingly darker.  It looked like a 
storm was approaching.  He pulled his jacket tighter and was relieved to get inside.  He 
got to the office Dean used in just a couple minutes.  Although it was empty, the lights 
were on and the door was open.  Walter shook his head, frustrated at the lack of paranoia 
his friend seemed to possess.  He stopped at the threshold and looked for a familiar stack 
of files.  He didn't see them anywhere obvious and sighed internally in relief.

He stared up and down the hallway and finally decided to check at the lecture room.  He 
entered from the ground floor, at the podium level.  It was darkened, but not completely 
dark, with a few track lights providing some illumination.  He only needed to take a 
single step in to realize that it was deserted.  He shook his head in frustration and turned 
to leave when the room's overhead lights were flipped on.

He squinted and looked around, trying to see who was responsible.  A door creaked and 
he looked up the steps towards the back of the auditorium.  Someone was standing in 
silhouette in front of the AV room.  He raised a hand to shade his eyes and tried to make 
out the form.

Dean's voice boomed out then, eliminating all doubt.  "Walter?  So you found me after 
all.  Get your butt up here."

He smiled, amused and also thankful that he'd found the older agent.  He walked up the 
stairs, taking long strides, and shook Dean's hand when he reached the top.  "I'm glad I 
found you.  Did you hear?"

The man nodded slowly and gestured to the AV room.  "Yes, I heard a little girl was 
found naked, hanging in her school.  I thought you might be by."

Walter was confused for a minute.  "And that's why you weren't in your office?"

"I always knew you were smart, Walter.  I just hoped you weren't smart enough to track 
me down."

He froze in the doorway, unsure whether he was welcome or not.  "Dean, I can come 
back.  We can talk later.  It's just…"

"It's just.  Yes, I know.  It's just that the UNSUB's out there, maybe escalating, and you 
need to solve this case."

Walter started getting angry and shoved his free hand into his pants pocket.  "I would say 
that the Bureau needs to solve it, Dean.  Or the police.  Frankly, I don't give a good 
goddamn who solves it, but somebody sure as hell better."

Dean merely glared at him for long seconds but finally softened.  "Oh, come in and sit 
down, Walter.  Just don't think I'm pleased that you dumped this on my desk."

He glared back at his mentor for a half minute and finally realized that if he didn't bend, 
they'd be there all day, glaring at each other.  He took a step inside and sat down stiffly.  
Dean took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before putting them back on.

"Oh, stop looking at me like that.  Can you blame me for being unhappy?  Here I was, a 
simple agent, lecturing three days a week to a bunch of wet-behind-the-ear Trainees, 
advising on basic VCS cases on the other two days, and you come and dump this in my 
lap.  And Fox Mulder isn't the only one having trouble sleeping, so forgive me if I'm 
grouchy."

Walter remained silent, but stopped the glaring.  He did understand.  In a way, it was the 
same thing that had happened to him.  He was ripped out of his Chicago office and 
working on the case in a day.  At least he chose it.  He hadn't been dragged into it 
unwillingly.  He sighed and hung his head.  "I'm sorry I got you involved, Dean, but you 
are the best investigator and the best analyst I've ever known."

The other man seemed to sink further into his chair and finally said, "I don't know the 
details of this one.  Only what was reported on the news.  Do you think it's him?"

He shifted and crossed his right leg over his left.  Gripped the chair arms and nodded.  
"Yes, Doug and I both believe it is."

"But?"

"We won't be able to confirm until we get the note."

"And?"

He smiled a little.  Dean knew him pretty darned well.  "And there was something new 
with this one.  If it is ours, then your Fox Mulder was right."

Dean's eyebrows flew up.

"The girl was definitely penetrated, but forensics doesn't know yet with what.  We're still 
waiting on autopsy results."

Dean nodded slowly then breathed heavily, making a little snorting sound.  "The sexual 
psychopath who masturbates over his tortured victim."  Dean looked at him, straight in 
the eyes, and said, "Tell me."

He dropped his leg to the floor and reached down to his briefcase.  He pulled out the file 
on Margie's murder and started citing facts.

"Twelve year old girl, Marguerite Conner.  White from a good neighborhood.  Never in 
any significant trouble.  On the school swim team.  Lots of friends.  Average student.  
Got on the school bus Friday afternoon, got off near her house, never made it home.  No 
one saw anything.  A woman near the junior high school reports seeing a car -- a small, 
dark station wagon of some sort -- drive by around nine, going towards the school, 
driving very slowly."

He shifted and turned the page.  "Two hours later, the same car drives by again in the 
other direction, driving very quickly.  This morning a little after 7 a.m., a janitor almost 
has a heart attack when he discovers the nude body of Margie hanging from a light in one 
of the classrooms.  No way she did it herself.  There was blood between her thighs.  She 
was definitely alive when hung.  Her tongue exhibited signs of engorgement and she lost 
control of her bladder."

He shifted again, terribly uncomfortable in the wood chair.  "I have initial reports from 
interviews -- friends, family, teachers, classmates, neighbors.  Also from forensics.  Not 
complete, yet.  Still waiting on autopsy results."

He handed the file out and was relieved when Dean reached for it.  Walter was shocked 
at how old his mentor looked all of a sudden.  The man was worn, obviously disturbed by 
this case.  He began having serious doubts about getting the man involved.  "Dean…"

"No, it's okay, Walter.  You were right.  Someone does have to stop this man.  I just don't 
think I'll be able to help you much.  It's all beyond me.  I spent most of yesterday and last 
night in the library, trying to find out whether there had ever been a serial killer that 
resembled, in any way, what we have on our hands here.  You know what I found?"

Walter shook his head, although he was pretty sure he did know.

"Nothing.  Nada.  Not a single case that bore any resemblance at all.  I thought maybe 
this was a man who was copying other killers.  That would have explained the mix or 
organized and disorganized scenes.  It would have explained the different victims and 
modes of death."  Dean shook head again and raised his hands, palms upwards.  
"Nothing."  He dropped his arms then and leaned back in the chair, obviously exhausted.

"What does that mean, Dean?"

"I'm not sure.  But he's smart.  He knows about evidence gathering techniques.  
Otherwise there would have been something found.  A hair, an eyelash, a fingerprint.  
Something.  But this man …  He's too smart.  He's doing it on purpose, Walt."

"On purpose?"

"He's causing confusion because he can.  He knows enough about our classifications, 
about crime scene treatment, about evidence, that he can avoid being caught and throw 
everyone into a headspin at the same time.  And he's enjoying it.  It's a game and nothing 
more to him."

Walter remembered the notes and knew Dean was right.  'Play the Game if you dare'.  
They'd played all right, but they were losing terribly.  He looked up at his mentor as he 
realized the significance of the other words the man had said.  "What are you saying, 
Dean?"

The man didn't answer for a long time.  Just as Walter began to give up hope of ever 
getting a straight answer, Dean said, "I think you need to look close to home on this, 
Walt."

It wasn't the answer he'd wanted, but was the one he'd dreaded.  His voice actually caught 
on his next question.  "You think it's one of us?  Someone in Law Enforcement?"

Dean again raised his hands out, palms up, but dropped them without speaking. 

Walter licked his lips nervously and swallowed hard.  "So what do you suggest?"

"Something I can't believe I'm suggesting.  Something that makes me sick even thinking 
it."

"What?"  He was getting more anxious now.  "What is it, Dean?"

The man stared at the wall blankly for a good thirty seconds before turning back to look 
at him.  "I suggest we let Fox Mulder take a look at the file when it's compiled."

"What!?"  He launched out of the chair, unable to help his reaction.  "Are you crazy?  I 
don't have any desire to be kicked out of the Bureau just now, Dean, at least not before I 
solve this God forsaken case.  I can't show this file to non-Bureau personnel."

Dean raised an arm and propped his chin on his fist, then stared at him, gaze unwavering.  
After a long silence, broken only by Walter's shuffling feet, Dean said, "I understand that, 
Walter.  I also know that Patterson won't be able to help you until you can confirm these 
cases are related.  And whether you want to admit it or not, the kid's already involved.  
He picked up on the sexual aspect before we did.  He also picked up on something else."

Walter reached down behind him and guided himself back into the chair slowly.  He felt 
tired.  Exhausted.  He wanted this case over.  He closed his eyes and searched his 
memory, trying to understand what Dean was implying.  He remembered then.  "Jesse 
Smith got in the car willingly."

"That's right.  According to Fox's dream, Jesse Smith trusted the person in the car.  That's 
how he constructed it."

"Law Enforcement."

"That's right.  Person in the car flashes a badge or is wearing a uniform.  Talks the person 
into the car on some pretext.  They go willingly, being good citizens or concerned by 
whatever the cop tells them.  Trust.  That's what the kid dreamt."

Walter licked his lips and thought about it again before nodding.  "How do you want to 
do it?"

Dean shook his head and slammed his hand on the desk.  "I don't want to, Walter.  
Understand that now.  But I think this kid might be able to look at things in an unbiased 
light.  That's all."

The man sat back again and linked his hands in his lap.  "I'll talk with him.  He should be 
back tomorrow night at the latest.  His class had the weekend off.  I'll probably wait until 
next week, until you have all the reports.  In the meantime, you should collect everything 
you can.  And start looking close to home."

Walter nodded and stood, tapping his fingers awkwardly against his legs.  "Is it wrong, 
Dean?"

The man stared at him again, just as he had the day before.  "Does it matter?"

He didn't know what answer Dean wanted from him.  He was confused, unsure about the 
balance of the greater good and the good of a single person.  "I guess not."  And again, 
Dean looked disappointed in him, but the man didn't correct him.  Didn't suggest 
anything different.

"Goodbye, Dean."

His old mentor nodded and waved to him.  "Bye, Walt.  Drive safe."

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 14 of the Wait
Sunday, 12:09 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully sensed Skinner's sadness and knew he regretted his choice.  His face was lined and 
his head hung down, nearly to his chest.  She realized that he'd probably been younger 
than she was now when he was put in charge of the case with Doug.  She tried to imagine 
what it must have been like.  The pressures and the fear that the UNSUB would never be 
stopped.  She saw Skinner's hands, clenched tightly and hanging down between his legs.  
She reached over and, just for a moment, rested her hand on top of his.  His look of 
thanks was heartfelt.

She took a deep breath and stared up into the sky.  The sun was directly overhead and she 
wondered what was happening inside.  She glanced at her watch and realized that well 
over half an hour had passed.  She looked across at her mother and Teena Mulder, both 
of whom were solemn after Skinner's story.  "I'm going to check on Mulder.  Find out 
when we can go back in."

Skinner and the ladies nodded to her.  She was only two steps into her journey, though, 
when the door opened and Jerry Friedman walked out.  His face was almost white and a 
thunderbolt of fear shot through her body at the sight.

"Jerry, what's wrong?  What is it?"

He actually looked confused for a few moments before shaking his head.  "Nothing.  I 
was told you were all out here and I just got worried.  I thought something had 
happened."

Her shoulders dropped in relief.  "Don't do that to me, Jerry."  She took a deep breath and 
tried to get over the temporary fright.  She realized then that Jerry was frozen to the spot, 
looking incredibly guilty, as well as exhausted.  Time for fence-mending.  "Jerry, 
Mulder's doing fine.  In fact, he showed brain activity for the first time.  That's why we're 
out here -- so they can run some tests."

A wide smile came to Jerry's face, reminding her just how long it had been since she'd 
seen it.  He strode towards her and grabbed her, actually lifting her off the ground so her 
feet dangled for a few seconds.  "Dana, that's wonderful.  I knew Mulder would pull 
through.  I knew it."

She heard a throat clearing behind her and realized that Skinner was there.  That sobered 
her quickly and she stepped back, adjusting her clothes self-consciously. 

"Agent Friedman, have you got anything else to report?"

The other agent straightened visibly and his smile faded.  "Yes, sir.  Agent Chang spoke 
with Stevens' neighbors.  One of them reported that Stevens told her he had a new job.  
That he was excited about it because it was something that he was really good at.  The 
neighbor didn't ask any questions because she was frightened of the man.  Wanted to get 
out of there as soon as possible.  According to IRS records, though, they don't know 
anything about a job."

Jerry was growing more excited now.  "In fact, we haven't been able to determine where 
Stevens got all his money from.  His mother had a small amount saved away.  When she 
died two years ago, Stevens inherited about thirty thousand dollars.  But the old woman 
had set it up so that he could only get a few hundred a month.  The weird thing is that he 
hardly even touched any of it after the first year.  So for the past year, he's got sporadic 
deposits into an account, but there's no record of where he got the money."

Scully was confused.  "I'm not sure I totally understand the implications of what you're 
telling us, Jerry."

The man turned to Skinner and then back to her.  "I'm not sure, Dana.  All we know is 
that he was getting money from somewhere.  Makes you wonder just what kind of skills 
he had worth paying for, that's all."

Skinner made a frustrated sound and both she and Jerry looked at him.  They were both 
surprised at his words.  "Mulder originally asked that a list be made up with people who 
had applied to the Bureau and were later kicked out, either during the Academy or after.  
Was that list ever completed, Jerry?"

The other man looked taken aback, but finally shook his head.  "No, sir.  We were 
working on it and had made progress.  When the report came in that Mulder was at the 
warehouse, we stopped pursuing it."

Skinner nodded and said merely, "Finish it.  Fast.  I want to see that list."

"Yes, sir."

Jerry turned to leave and Scully reached her hand out to grab his sleeve.  "Hey, Jerry.  
Thanks for being concerned about Mulder.  I'll let you know if anything else happens, 
okay?"

The other agent smiled and waved at them before turning to leave.  Before the door fully 
closed behind him a doctor exited.  It was the same man who'd chased them out of 
Mulder's room and she walked towards him quickly.

"Doctor, is everything all right?"

He smiled and nodded.  "Yes, Dr. … I didn't catch your name."

She felt like an ungracious idiot and immediately held out her hand.  "I'm sorry, doctor.  
I'm Dana Scully, Mulder's partner."  She gestured next to her and said, "This is Walter 
Skinner, Mulder's … boss.  And friend."  Next she waved to the mothers who were just 
now standing.  "This is my mother, Margaret Scully, and Mulder's mother, Teena."

She turned back, grateful that the introductions were over and prayed the man would just 
answer her original question.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you all.  I'm Nathan Parish.  Dr. Scully, I spent a while 
looking over all your partner's records from the past twelve hours or so and I have to tell 
you that what we're seeing now looks like very good news."

She felt her knees weaken and held her breath.

"His temperature has gone down and he seems to have regained kidney function.  That's a 
huge hurdle.  We're more optimistic now, but you still need to understand that he has a 
very long way to go.  He's still in much worse shape now than when he was first out of 
surgery.  But, I'd say your partner's a fighter.  He has a good chance."

She replayed every word he'd just said and finally smiled.  She turned behind her and 
grabbed both her mother's and Teena Mulder's hands, squeezing them for a moment.  Her 
mother hugged her and kissed her forehead before releasing her, then before she knew it, 
she was in Teena Mulder's arms.

The doctor's voice cut through the little celebration.  "Please, you have to understand.  
This doesn't mean that he's out of danger.  I don't want you to get the wrong idea or a 
false hope."

She turned back to him, fierce with determination.  "Dr. Parish, you don't know Mulder.  
Once he's made up his mind, there's no changing it.  And he's made up his mind here.  I 
know it."

The doctor was now looking at her like he was considering prescribing a sedative.

"Dr. Parish, I know you've spent the last twenty minutes reviewing his records from last 
night.  If you want some really interesting reading, take a look at his records from the 
past six and a half years.  That's how long I've been partners with him and I can tell you 
that you won't find more interesting reading."

She crossed her arms and cocked her head.  "Now, I know my partner.  I've sat at the side 
of more hospital beds than I care to count.  I understand that you don't want to give us 
false hope and I appreciate that.  But the truth is that he's already made up his mind and I 
fully intend to be there when he wakes up and opens his eyes."

It was a challenge, thrown out intentionally to let him know clearly what her stance was.  
He got the message.

He smiled, just at the corner of his mouth.  "If he's anything like you, Dr. Scully, I don't 
doubt that he'll be just fine in record time.  And since it appears that your presence has 
been helpful, all of you, and that he might actually be responding to your voices, I'll let 
you stay."  The man smiled more broadly and gestured towards the door.  "You can go 
back in now."

*******************************************

End Part 8 of ?
(Feedback to kronos1@adelphia.net is greatly appreciated)
Ascent to Hell
		37

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 9 of ? (9/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 14 of the Wait
Sunday, 12:31 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully followed Skinner and the mothers down the hall and into the room she'd become 
so accustomed to over the past fourteen hours.  A few things had changed in their 
absence and she was pleased to notice that the portable dialysis machine had been pushed 
back against the wall.  The cooling blanket had been removed although the machine that 
circulated water through it still sat at the foot of the bed.  A smile came to her face and 
she began to feel more than just a glimmer of hope.  

She paused inside the door and watched as Teena Mulder went straight to her son's side.  
Mulder's mother placed both hands on his now exposed arm, her left sliding down to take 
Mulder's hand in hers.  The woman sank into the chair with a contented sigh, with 
Scully's own mother sitting close by.  The sight made Scully smile even more.

She swiveled her head to the readouts on either side of the bed, studying them intently.  
They reassured her, letting her know that her partner was on the way back, slowly but 
surely.

Teena Mulder and her mother seemed to have become close in the past several hours.  
They sat next to one another again, leaving the seat next to Skinner, at the head of the 
bed, for her.  She took the few steps necessary to bring her to the bed and took a good 
look at Mulder.  There was a light sheen of sweat coating him, his cheeks and nose 
flushed red from the fever that had finally broken.  One of the nurses had left a washcloth 
and bowl of water sitting by the bed.  She dampened it and ran it over his face and neck, 
careful to avoid the cuts and bandages.  

The flush in her partner's face made him look years younger. She caught a whiff of a 
cleaner that had a pine smell and immediately flashed on the image of a much younger 
Mulder, sitting on the floor by the side of his bed in a darkened motel room, candles 
flickering, surrounded by woods that held a town's dark secret.  It had been six and a half 
years before.  It was a time of innocence for them, and lasted such a short while.  A time 
before heartbreak and conspiracies.  But it was also a time of openness.  A time when she 
could turn to him when she was in fear and a time when he felt comfortable telling her 
about his past.  She could admit to herself now that they'd started their partnership with 
more honesty than they'd showed each other in more recent times.  

Standing here, looking at Mulder now, she could finally admit to herself that she'd been 
the more dishonest of the two of them.  He had reached out to her over and again.  She'd 
rebuffed him.  Turned his overtures into jokes or pretended not to understand.  She was a 
coward who couldn't face the fact that she needed another person.  That she needed him.  
She was so used to thinking that she was strong and independent that she'd forgotten the 
most important thing.  That there can be strength in admitting need.  And that it takes 
more strength to admit a need than in pretending not to have one.

She'd closed herself off, denying her feelings, denying that she felt anything more than 
friendship.  But deep inside was a fierce loyalty and respect, a kinship and a love that she 
just couldn't deny any longer.  She made a promise to herself that she'd be honest with 
her partner and friend.  When he opened his eyes and looked into hers, she would tell him 
the words that she'd only whispered to herself in the dark of the night.  The words she'd 
only admitted out loud when no one else could hear. He deserved that much from her.

Skinner clear his throat noisily and she turned towards him, coloring slightly.  She 
realized then that she'd been standing by Mulder's side for many silent minutes, evidently 
making the older man uncomfortable.  She smiled at him briefly and then sank into her 
seat gratefully, taking hold of her partner's hand in hers.  Her fingers dropped down to his 
wrist to feel for the pulse in a habit that was long ingrained.

She sighed and tried to turn her thoughts to Jerry's visit.  Tried to decide whether there 
was anything they could do here to help make better sense of the case.  And before she 
could bring the subject up, Skinner himself did.

As if they had just left off with the conversation a minute before instead of twenty 
minutes, he said, "I think the DC Murders case is relevant here, Scully."

Skinner sat back, obviously trying to get comfortable.  She watched him shift in the chair, 
and knew that part of his unease came from the story itself.

"Doug and I worked the case all weekend.  The autopsy report was consistent with our 
earlier assumptions, but didn't answer our questions about what the girl had been 
assaulted with.  It did state that she was very much alive when assaulted and conscious 
when she died.  I met with Dean again that Monday morning and he told me an 
interesting story."


*******************************************


September 8, 1986
Monday, 10:16 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter didn't have to search this time, and managed to find Dean working in his office.  
The man had all the lights out, except for a small desk lamp.  Dean looked positively gray 
and Walter was filled with concern.  His mentor didn't look at all well.

"Dean, you look like you could use a few days off."

He'd tried to say it jokingly but knew there was nothing funny about the situation.  When 
the older man merely raised an eyebrow at him, he felt like an idiot for even bringing it 
up.  Dean had been working VCS cases with the Bureau for well over twenty years.  The 
man didn't need him to make suggestions about how he should go about that work.

Walter licked his lips nervously and sat down in Dean's visitor's chair.  "I brought the 
autopsy reports.  Nothing much new, really."  He opened his briefcase and passed the file 
over.  He sat quietly, watching his mentor read.  The play of emotions was subtle, but 
Walter could see the flush of red that colored the man's cheeks.  Dean was definitely 
angry. 

"How the hell do sick bastards like this manage to roam around in society without being 
identified?  How is it possible, Walter?  In all the years I've worked in this job, I've never 
been able to understand that."

Dean physically turned towards him then, swiveling in his chair so they faced one 
another head on.  Dean leaned over, as if to get closer to share a secret and said in a low 
voice, "What always amazes me is that these sociopaths look normal.  They act normal.  
Their friends swear they couldn't be guilty, because they're just too damned nice.  Except 
you go back far enough and you discover they had a penchant for killing small animals as 
children.  They liked to play with fire.  Parents will say, little Billy was sick for a while as 
a child, but he got better."  Dean made a loud harrumphing sound.  "But the truth is that 
these creatures aren't sick, they're just evil.  They are without conscience.  Without soul."

Dean sat back, obviously spent, and his voice grew reflective.  "That's where the word 
psychopath comes from, you know.  It's Greek for 'disease of the soul'.  Now, it's 
somehow more socially acceptable to call them sociopaths, as if their only problem is that 
they never learned how to socialize with others."  Dean snorted in disgust.  Walter felt 
confused, not sure where his mentor's meanderings were taking them.  He found out from 
Dean's next words.

"I ran into someone in the library last night.  We had a conversation about evil.  Evil 
versus true mental illness, and the fact that the legal system doesn't sufficiently separate 
the two concepts."

Walter asked, "Mulder?"

Dean nodded.  "I checked into his records a bit more deeply.  He graduated top of his 
class from Oxford.  Psychology.  Did his thesis on 'The Mad and The Bad: Societal 
Paradox or Legal Pretext?'  Despite the fact that he had the gall to take a stance that 
opposed that of his faculty advisor, he was awarded first place honors for his work."

Walter shifted uneasily, again unsure of where Dean was headed.  The man reached 
across his desk to a pile and pulled an almost two inch thick oversized book towards him.  
He caught a glimpse of the name Mulder stenciled in gold type along the side.

"It's an interesting piece of work.  He's got thirty case studies dating back to 1275, when 
the first recordable use of an insanity defense was recognized by English common law."

He was getting antsy.  He didn't see how this discussion could possibly help them with 
their present case.  He took a deep breath, prepared to interrupt, but Dean continued on.

"One of the cases he cites is that of James Hadfield who, in 1800, fired a shot at King 
George III as he entered a theater in London."  Dean turned towards him again, with a 
look of intrigue on his face.  "What is it, do you think, about assassins and theaters?"

Walt just shook his head, confused and unsure of his part in this particular play.

Dean said, "Where was I?  Oh, yes.  He also covered M'Naghten, of course.  Amazing to 
think that so many of the states in our own union still use the M'Naghten standard to 
define insanity.  Old Queen Victoria wasn't particularly happy when the man got off after 
attempting to kill her prime minister."

Walter wondered whether his old friend was seriously losing it.  They didn't have time 
for this.  He leaned forward and said, "Dean.  What does this have to do with our case?"

The man leaned back in his chair and propped an arm on his desk.  Dean rested his chin 
on his fist and stared at Walter intently.  "Know thy enemy, Walter, because you can be 
damned sure he knows you."

Walter felt a chill run down his spine at the words.

Dean continued.  "You see, when I ran into young Mr. Mulder last night in the library, he 
had a stack of books in front of him and had been reviewing pretty much the same ground 
as I had the couple days before.  When I asked him what he was looking for, he said, 
'Understanding'."

Walter grasped his hands and let them hang between his legs, starting to appreciate the 
history lesson.


*******************************************


PREVIOUS NIGHT
September 7, 1986
Monday, 11:16 p.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Fox stared at the ceiling, his eyes focused on a little spot of light that had made its way in 
through the blinds.  He'd almost convinced himself that it wasn't moving at all.  That the 
world had stopped revolving about its axis.  Had frozen in space, somehow halting time 
in the process.  The little splash of light was shaped like a car.  He'd been trying to figure 
out for the past hour at least just what kind of car it looked like.  Some kind of sports car.  
A Corvette or a Jaguar.  He couldn't make up his mind, but had gone through all the specs 
of each, and decided that the 'vette would have been his personal choice.  Always good to 
buy American, after all.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and rubbed his face hard with his hands.  He rolled over 
on his side, and stared at the window, eyes focused now on where the shaft of light 
entered through a gap.  He had no sleep in him.  He was exhausted, wanting nothing more 
than to close his eyes and sink into blissful oblivion.  But he knew it wouldn't happen 
anytime soon.  Thoughts of Jesse Smith kept intruding, the vision of the man's mutilated 
and tortured body flooding through him.  Even thoughts of a shiny red Corvette couldn't 
keep dreams of the terrible murder at bay.  

He was overwhelmed with the need to know more about men who could do these things 
to another human being.  He'd spent three years at Oxford studying sociopaths, but knew 
that he'd never really understood.  Not until he'd seen the files.  Not until he'd seen the 
photos.  Lorri Kiley, looking like an angel, even in death.  Jesse Smith, mutilated beyond 
recognition.  

He swallowed hard and shifted in bed again, so he was on his right side. Clenched his 
eyes tightly shut and tried to convince himself that he could sleep.  Sleep was a good 
thing.  All he needed to do was put these thoughts of a case that he wasn't supposed to be 
involved with aside.  It wasn't his business.  He rolled onto his back, almost violently and 
brought his hands up to his face.  He scrubbed hard, hating that he had so little control 
over his own mind.  

A voice called softly out in the darkness.  "Hey, Fox.  Everything okay?"

It was Rob.  Damn.  He'd obviously woken the other man.

He tried to keep his voice low, so they wouldn't wake Chris up, too.  "Yeah.  Sorry, Rob.  
Just can't sleep."

"Wanna talk about it?"

He thought about it, but knew it wasn't really what he needed.  He sighed and rolled to a 
sitting position.  "No, I think I'll go for a short walk.  Maybe drop by the library.  I want 
to check something out."

Now that he'd made up his mind, he felt as if a weight had lifted.  He stood and padded 
across the room to his closet.

He could hear the concern in Rob's voice when the other man spoke again.  "It's kind of 
late, Fox."

He smiled in the darkness.  It warmed him to know that he had friends here who cared 
about his welfare.  "I know.  I won't be too long.  Don't worry."

He threw jeans and a tee-shirt on quickly, then pulled on his running shoes.  No need to 
worry about socks.  He was just going one building over, after all.  He pulled his jacket 
out of the closet as an afterthought and headed for the door.

Just as he turned the knob, he heard Chris say, "Don't do anything we wouldn't do."  

He could hear Rob snickering and joined in the laughter.  As he headed out the door he 
muttered affectionately, "Assholes."

The hallway was empty and quiet.  After all, it was a Monday night following a weekend 
off.  Everyone was recovering, just as he should be.  He smiled at the remembrance of 
how he'd spent most of the weekend.  He and Shirley had become good friends.  Very 
good friends.  Many times.

His heart was slightly lighter as he walked outside and jogged down the steps.  He headed 
towards the next building over, glancing up at the top floor.  Lights were still blazing 
through about half of the building, but the top floor was completely lit.  The library was 
housed there and he'd become quite familiar with it over the past several weeks.  It 
reminded him of his time at Oxford.  There were cubicles behind the stacks where you 
could lose yourself for hours.  It was quiet.  Peaceful.  And the best part was the old case 
files.  Even a trainee had access to them and they made for fascinating reading.

When he got to the library, he stopped just inside the entrance.  He hadn't really decided 
completely what he was going to do there, after all.  It was just an instinct that had 
brought him to this place.  He looked around and his eyes settled on the large room off to 
the right.  It was where the files and reports of the most famous and heinous crimes ever 
documented were filed.  

He wandered that way, his steps becoming more certain as he approached the desk.  He 
knew the man there by name and nodded to him.  

"Hi, Jake.  I won't be long."

He relinquished his badge to the man and didn't allow the gruff response to bother him.

"Make sure you sign out with me when you're done."

"No problem.  Thanks."

He walked into the room and looked around, wondering what to look at first.  He moved 
to the card catalogue and started looking under the subject of serial killers.  It was a 
familiar topic.  He'd spent three years researching sociopaths at Oxford.  At least two-
thirds of the case studies he'd used had been serials.  Still, Quantico had information that 
he'd never seen before.

He was lost in the pile of books and files in front of him so didn't notice the person 
standing next to him at first.  Then there was a shuffle and clearing of a throat.  When he 
turned, he was surprised to see Agent Waring there, looking simultaneously nervous, 
concerned, and irritated.

He wasn't sure what to say, so decided to keep it simple.  "Hello, sir."

Waring sounded merely curious when he spoke.  "Trainee.  What are you doing here?  It's 
..."  The man glanced at his watch before continuing.  "... almost one in the morning."

Fox was surprised.  It hadn't seemed like he'd been there so long.  He licked his lips and 
stared at the pile of books on the table in front of him.  "Just doing some reading, sir.  I 
couldn't sleep."

It seemed like Waring slumped a bit.  "What are you reading about?"  The man pulled a 
chair out and sank into it.  Pulled one of the books closer to him.

"Just reviewing some serial cases, sir."

Waring flipped the book open, letting the pages turn until he stopped at a photo.  It was 
an old case from the sixties.  Still, it was brutal in execution and mystifying as to purpose.  
The victims were chosen at random, having been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fox looked up at Waring again to see the older man staring at him intently.

"Fox, you shouldn't be getting involved in this any more than you are."

Again, he wasn't sure how he should respond.  He ran his fingers over the case file he'd 
been reading and chewed on his lip for a second.  Then raised his eyes to meet Waring's.  
"Sir, I can't really explain this, but ... I feel like I was supposed to be involved.  Like it 
was meant to happen."  

He could see the growing frustration on the other man's face so hurried to explain.  "I 
spent three years researching sociopaths for my dissertation.  Trying to understand how 
their evil could have been missed for so long.  I read hundreds of cases.  Maybe even 
thousands.  I read about the case details, the investigations, the criminals ...  I read about 
the victims and their families."

He could see Waring's interest now.  "It was all just academic, though.  I read about them.  
I wrote about many of them in my dissertation.  I thought I understood them.  But, they 
weren't real.  The evil that they'd perpetrated with their acts were still just words on a 
page."  He licked his lips and glanced again at all the books and files piled around him, 
knowing they contained details of numerous tragedies.  When he looked at Waring again, 
he could tell he'd struck a chord with the man.

"And in all this, no one ever really called them evil, despite all the terrible things they 
did. They wrote them off as 'sick' instead. Mentally unbalanced.  I thought I understood, 
but I didn't.  That's what I'm looking for tonight, sir.  Understanding."

The other man nodded slowly, a sad smile on his face.  His voice was almost as sad.  "I 
wish you luck, Trainee.  But be careful ... Sometimes when you find the thing you've 
been looking for, you realize you would have been much better off not even starting the 
search to begin with."

Waring pushed the book back, then stood from his chair slowly.  The instructor looked ... 
weary.  It was the only word that came to mind.  Weary of the case, weary of work, 
perhaps even weary of life.  

When the older man was upright, he said, "Truth, justice, honor -- these are important 
things, Fox.  But they can sometimes be expensive ideals.  They can cost more than 
they're worth.  Be careful that you don't ask too many questions, Trainee."

Fox was so surprised by the agent's words that he merely nodded, then watched as 
Waring walked slowly out the door and out of his sight.  He couldn't imagine how a man 
who was an agent in the FBI, a good agent, who'd dedicated his life to stopping injustice, 
could possibly make such a statement.  Fox was consumed with confusion.  He prided 
himself on understanding the motivations and character of others, but was at a loss to 
understand Agent Waring.  It was almost fifteen minutes later that his introspection was 
interrupted by a touch on his arm.

This time when he turned, he was met with one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever 
seen.  Shirley was there, hair tousled, sweat pants bagging in delightful ways, an 
exasperated expression painting her features.

"Shirl, what are you doing here?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and grimaced at him.  "Me?  Fox, it's after one in the 
morning.  And I know you haven't gotten much sleep lately.  What are you doing here?"

He was baffled as to how this came to be.  "Shirley, come on.  Spill.  I asked first.  Why 
are you here?"

She dropped her arms and propped them on her hips.  "Rob called."

He could feel his jaw drop, then clench as the frustration, horror and anger overtook him. 
He couldn't believe that his roommate had done such a thing.  Shirley must have 
understood his conflicted emotions because she rushed on quickly with her explanation.  
"Don't get upset.  Rob and Chris were just worried and they ... well, I guess they knew we 
were ... friends.  They just thought ... I mean ... That is ..."

He couldn't stay angry.  Her flustered response, coupled with the blush in her cheeks was 
too much for him.  He had to fight to keep a straight face.  "Thought what?"

He lost the fight to avoid smiling when she rolled her eyes and cocked her hip.  He 
laughed and reached out to grab her.  She danced out of his reach gracefully.

"Don't you dare.  Don't even think it.  Now put all this away and come to bed."

He could feel his eyebrows shoot up and the grin on his face grew even wider.  "Oh baby, 
you know what I like."

She gave him such a disgusted look, he was almost convinced she was mad at him.  Then 
a corner of her mouth curved up just a bit and he knew she wasn't serious.  "Don't even 
try that crap, buster.  Come on, Fox.  I'll walk back with you."

He sighed and realized that the exhaustion was catching up with him big time.  He stared 
at the stacks around him and nodded, then pushed one pile towards her.  "Okay, tell you 
what.  You take these and I'll get the rest."

She smiled back and said, "Deal."

They made fast work of it, then walked side by side back to the sleeping quarters.  When 
they got to the stairs that would bring her to her room on the floor above his, he grabbed 
her hand.

"Hey, Shirl."

"Yeah?"

He smiled broadly.  "Thanks."

He let go of her hand and was rewarded when she raised it to his cheek briefly.  "What 
are friends for?"

He turned his head fast enough to kiss her palm as she withdrew her hand, feeling 
inordinately proud of himself for the feat.

She laughed, a tinkling sound that lightened his heart.  "Go to bed, Fox."  Her expression 
grew serious then.  "And try not to think about that case.  The only dreams you're allowed 
to have are about me."

They parted on that note.  But that night, he did dream, unable to escape the images of 
innocents slain.  Murderers who evaded justice.  And loved ones who were left to try to 
understand why.  And the night was long.

*******************************************


September 8, 1986
Monday, 10:31 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Dean stared at Walter intently. "His thesis traced the use and misuse of the insanity 
defense over a seven hundred year period and he drew the conclusion that since the 
fifteen hundreds, the loss of the word 'evil' from the legal and psychological lexicon has 
done more damage to our ability to prosecute and deal with true sociopaths than anything 
else."

Walter swallowed heavily as Dean added, "But even more, that the loss of the word has 
made it difficult for us as a society to adequately identify these individuals or even know 
the signs for recognizing them when they're in operation.  He suggests that it's because 
it's easier for society to think of them as ill, rather than evil, since otherwise the devil 
incarnate might just be their next door neighbor."

Walter nodded slowly.

"That's what you're looking for here, though.  Make no mistake about it."

He nodded again.

"I'm going to bring the Margie Connor case to the class this week.  The entire class.  John 
Malloy and I were supposed to lecture on crimes against children.  I'll use this as one of 
the case studies.  I'll hit this one tomorrow."

He nodded understanding.  "Thanks, Dean."

As he stood to leave he understood something else.  That this case was driving a wedge 
between his mentor and himself and he didn't like it at all.  He knew that Dean didn't 
approve of some of his decisions.  Walter had felt the chill almost from the beginning, but 
he didn't know what to do about it.  It was almost as if Dean disapproved of him doing 
whatever necessary to solve this case.  Walter looked back as he reached the doorway and 
added, "I appreciate your help, Dean."

The older man looked at him finally and he could see the sorrow there.  Dean understood, 
too.  The man nodded slowly, without a word.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 14 of the Wait
Sunday, 12:54 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


"On Tuesday, I got there early and met with Dean briefly.  Doug and I had been trying to 
figure out just how our suspect list should be investigated.  I wanted to run a few ideas 
past Dean.  I never really got much of a chance, though.  He and John Malloy had a bit of 
a disagreement about using Margie's murder as part of the case studies."


*******************************************


September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 7:13 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter settled himself into one of the chairs in the AV room and decided to wait the 
discussion out.  Dean and John Malloy were down in the front of the room and had been 
arguing for a good ten minutes.  The discussion had started going in circles about a 
minute ago and now there was a stiff silence.  The two men stood at opposite sides of the 
platform, and both of them were obviously angry.  Their stances were similar, each with 
crossed arms and set jaws.  John was a large man, a few inches over six feet, with a 
muscular bulk that made him a threatening figure.  Despite his smaller stature, Dean still 
held his own, giving up no ground.

John broke the silence first, his voice almost pleading.  "Look, Dean, you know this isn't 
right.  We have strict policies about these things.  We can't present a current case that's 
under investigation.  Not to trainees."  The man dropped his arms to his sides, as if in 
defeat.

"I know the policies, John.  I helped to write most of them."

"Then why are you so insistent?"

The silence stretched and it was as if Walter could see the tension begin to dissipate from 
the room.  Dean stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and John stood with hands on 
hips.

"Because this case is different, John.  I can't tell you everything right now, but there are 
exceptional circumstances."

John seemed honestly interested.  "What's so exceptional, Dean?  I understand that we 
don't get little girls strung up nude every other week.  But still, what makes this so very 
different from any of the hundred child violence crimes we get every year?"

There was a beat of silence and then Dean said, "I guess I'm just asking that you trust me 
on this.  Please."

The door to the left slammed open and everyone jumped, including Walter.  A couple 
trainees took a step into the room and then froze, obviously aware that they'd walked into 
the middle of something.  He had to smile as they turned as one and walked out again, 
closing the door much more quietly this time.

The interruption had served to break all tension. Malloy merely nodded, then walked 
towards the steps.  "We need to reorganize things, then.  That one should go last.  We'll 
replace the Franklin kidnapping.  Sound all right to you?"

Dean turned also and headed after the larger man.  "That's what I was thinking as well.  I 
had some slides made up.  We have time to review them before class today."

Walter stood as they approached the door.  John Malloy stopped at the threshold, 
obviously surprised to find him there.  He stuck out his hand and introduced himself.  
"Hello, sir.  My name's Walter Skinner."

He didn't know just how much the other man knew about the DC Murders case, but 
decided it would be prudent to keep the details to himself for now.  Malloy looked at him 
with suspicion until Dean said, "I'm working with Walter on the Conner case."

Malloy glared at him for a moment and he shifted awkwardly, feeling very much out of 
place.  The older agent said, "So you're the reason Dean's lost his mind, huh?"

He kept quiet, not wanting to feed the discussion further.  The man pushed past him 
gruffly, and reached for the slide carousel.  Walter moved back to the corner to allow 
them room to maneuver.

The two older men spent the next fifteen minutes rearranging slides and discussing the 
presentation.  The room below had been surprisingly quiet and Walter had a suspicion 
that the word to keep clear had gone out.  He settled down on the corner of a table and 
propped his elbow on the sill of the glass window that opened onto the classroom.  

At five before eight, the doors opened and a crowd of trainees and National Academy 
participants entered the room.  They were a relatively quiet group, subdued and 
respectful.  The seats filled quickly and Walter kept his eyes open for one man alone.

The kid was one of the last to enter the room.  He seemed to move slowly, his steps 
unsure.  He paused at the doorway and looked around, then moved to one of the last rows 
to sit by himself.  

Walter saw a couple heads turn back to look at the kid and at least one person waved his 
hand to gesture him to come down.  Fox either ignored him or just didn't see him.  The 
younger man was dressed in the standard khaki pants and tee-shirt all the trainees wore, 
but somehow he looked messy.  Walter realized that Fox's tee-shirt was only partly 
tucked in, as if he'd dressed in the dark or with too little time.  The kid definitely looked 
distracted.

Fox was only a few rows down from Walter's location, over towards the left side, and he 
could see part of Fox's face from his angle.  The word pensive came to mind.

Class started a few minutes later, when Dean and John Malloy walked down the stairs 
together.  If Walter hadn't seen and heard the argument from forty-five minutes before, he 
never would have known the two men had ever had a disagreement.  Walter stayed in the 
AV room, but kept the door open so he could hear the lecture and any discussion.

They got to the case a little over an hour later.  Dean presented it.

"This next one is something a little different.  We'll call the victim Jane Doe.  Twelve 
years old.  Found hung with an electrical cord from a light in a classroom of her junior 
high school."

Dean hit the button for the slide projector and the nude image of Margie Connor, hanging 
from the neck, was flashed onto the twelve foot tall screen.  There was a murmuring 
throughout the class and Walter knew it was due to two things.  First, he was certain that 
most of those in the room below probably had heard about this case on the news or in the 
papers.  Second, this was one of the more graphic and disturbing slides the class had seen 
that morning.  

He looked to his left and saw that Fox Mulder sat with his elbows propped on the table, 
hands clasped in front of his face.  The younger man's head was bowed, but it was clear 
he watched the screen with the rest of the class. 

"Jane was an average student, well-liked by teachers and classmates.  She had no history 
of trouble.  She was on the swim team and in the school band."  Dean hit the button again 
and another picture of Margie flashed on the screen.  This time she was alive, just 
climbing out of the swimming pool, her arms in the air in a victory sign.  A teammate 
was slapping her on the back and it was obvious the girl had just won a race.  This was 
the photo that was intended to drive home to those in the class that this was a child who 
had everything ahead of her.  A happy child whose life was taken prematurely and 
unnaturally.  

Again Walter looked to the Mulder.  He hadn't moved a muscle, appearing frozen in 
place while others in the room shifted in frustration or unease.  Dean's monotone 
continued in the background.

"She was an only child.  Her father was an electrician and her mother was an elementary 
school teacher.  On a Friday afternoon she stayed after school to practice with her band.  
At 3:40 p.m. her bus left the school.  At approximately 4 p.m. it dropped her off down the 
street from her house.  A classmate saw her get off the bus.  She never arrived home."

Dean clicked and a close-up of the girl's upper body and head flashed on the screen.  
"Sometime between 4 p.m. and 10 p.m. that day, she was bound at her wrists and ankles 
with cloth.  Her mouth was covered with duct tape.  She was transported to some location 
where she was stripped.  The clothes were cut from her body."

Walter watched Mulder bow his head a little further.  It was no longer clear whether the 
man could see the images on the screen or not.  

A click again and a photo of Margie's backside was flashed on the screen.  A slight slash 
could be seen running almost six or seven inches along the length of her back.  "We 
know the clothes were cut because of the residual slice marks that were left behind on 
legs, arms, and back."  A click again showed an autopsy photo of the girl, obviously on 
her back, her vaginal area covered with a green cotton drape.  The blood on her thighs 
showed starkly against the almost white skin.  "At that location, the girl was sexually 
molested.  Autopsy results suggest a wooden implement.”

The silence in the room was so thick Walter felt that he could hear their every breath, 
even from his lofty position.

There was yet another click and a photo of her neck was projected, the electrical cord still 
tied in tight knots.  "The cord came from something on the order of a vacuum cleaner.  
Forensics were unable to narrow it down to a specific brand.  It's been used for a variety 
of small appliances for over ten years.  The knots were tied inexpertly.  The tape and 
bindings were removed when she was hung.  She was alive and aware when she was 
strung up and left to die."

Fox Mulder still sat in the same position, his head bowed so that his forehead rested on 
his linked hands.  Walter was curious, wondering what was going through the man's 
mind.  Wondering whether the kid was saddened, sickened, angry, or all of the above.

Dean clicked again and a close-up of the girl's face was projected, her open eyes filmed 
and pale in death.  "The janitor found Jane on Saturday morning and called the police.  
The parents had already called the police the night before when it became obvious that 
Jane was missing.  No one in the area saw anything, except for one woman who claims 
she saw a car driving slowly towards the school on Friday night around nine, and then the 
same car driving away more quickly later that night."

Dean let the silence hang then and it stretched uncomfortably long.  The man broke it 
with a series of questions.  "What was the motive?  What was the purpose?  Why her?  
What did the assailant get out of this act?"  Dean clicked again and a picture of a 
laughing Margie was projected.  Her hair blew behind her in the sun, bright and coppery.  
She was dressed in blue jean shorts and a red striped shirt.  She could have been Little 
Orphan Annie, with her freckled face and huge smile.  She was caught cavorting in the 
grass, with green stains on her knees and elbows.  It was a bittersweet ending to the slide 
show.

Walter looked down at Fox and saw the kid had raised his head and dropped his arms.  
They were stretched out in front of him now so that they gripped the far end of the desk 
tightly.  There were no raised hands below.  No one anxious to be the first to speak.  And 
the kid surprised him.  The last time Walter had watched this class, Mulder was 
obviously content to let others speak first.  This time was different.

Fox Mulder's voice rang out from the back of the room, clear and precise.  "She was an 
angel.  She was the antithesis of the assailant.  The assailant wanted to destroy her 
innocence, her purity."

A few heads swiveled around to stare at Mulder.  It didn't deter him.  "She was a bright, 
shining beacon that said 'I'll always be better than you'."

The silence held until John Malloy broke it.  "I think we'll need to end it here.  Instructor 
Waring and I have a meeting to get to.  We want a paper from each of you at the 
beginning of the next lecture.  Cite the facts as you know them.  Analyze them.  Suggest 
responses to the questions that were posed.  I think you all have an hour or two break 
before you have to be anywhere."

Malloy and Dean walked towards each other on the platform and Walter could see them 
conferring.  Malloy held the file under his arm.  The trainees and NA participants started 
filing out, in twos and threes.  Walter was interested to see a young woman walk up the 
steps to stop next to Fox.

She was pretty, tall and leggy, with a blonde ponytail bobbing out behind her.  She 
stopped next to the younger man and Walter could tell they exchanged words.  Fox 
reached out and took her left hand in both of his.  She leaned over close, to whisper in the 
trainee's ear. Then the woman nodded and stepped back, as if reluctant to leave.  But she 
did, moving slowly.  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned back and 
waved.  Walter saw Fox raise his hand in return.  

When the classroom was empty except for Fox and the two instructors, the show was on.  
Fox stood and started down the stairs, seeming to hesitate almost between steps.  In the 
front, John Malloy held the file up and said to Dean, "I'll need this back tomorrow."  The 
man set it down on the table and turned to leave from the left exit.  When he reached the 
door, he glanced up at Fox, then back to Dean.  He said, "You coming, Dean?  We need 
to get over to the Lab."

Dean nodded.  "I'm coming."  He walked past the table, leaving the file in clear view.  
Walter could see Fox stop on the last step, his head following Dean as he moved towards 
the door.  In the threshold, Dean turned back and said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Trainee."  
Then he was gone.

Walter watched carefully, curious as to what the younger man would do.  The message 
couldn't have been more clear, but the question was whether Fox would go along with it.  
The man took the last step down and walked towards the table, each step looking as if it 
were bringing him closer to hell itself.  And perhaps they were.

Fox stopped by the table and stared down at the file.  Walter watched him run his hand 
over it and then sink down into the chair.  The younger man pulled the file closer towards 
him and sat staring at it for long minutes.  Walter waited him out, holding his breath.  
And then it happened.  The kid flipped the file open.

*******************************************

PAST


Fox was filled with apprehension.  The half inch thick casefile sat closed in front of him.  
He knew that it was stuffed with reports, interview statements, and photos, but had no 
desire to prove it.  Photos that were most likely ten times more graphic than those used in 
the presentation.  His heart seemed to flutter in his chest and he began to feel his stomach 
turn with nausea.  His throat was so tight he could barely swallow.  He felt a tickling at 
his temple and reached up with his left hand to swipe at it.  His finger came away wet 
with sweat.  He licked his lips and ran his hand over the file again.

The words were there, just like last time.  'Eyes Only.'  The last time he'd opened a file 
marked with those letters he'd come damned close to ending his career before it had even 
begun.  Now, the same man who'd threatened to kick his butt out of the Bureau if he ever 
did it again was the one urging him to get involved this time.

He didn't fully understand it.  There had to be something going on that he wasn't aware 
of.  Why in the hell would they want him to look at the file?  What did they want from 
him and why?  He was a trainee, for God's sake.  

There was a pressure behind his eyes.  It kept building until he had to close them tightly.  
He'd never felt so out of control in his life.  But deep inside, in the dark recesses of his 
soul, he could admit that he wanted to do this.  Wanted to know what was inside the file.  
To catch a glimpse of the evil creature who could do such a thing to a child, and maybe 
even contribute towards catching him.  He recognized the pride.  The hubris within him.  
He realized then that Instructor Waring had recognized these things as well. 

With a deep breath and a shaking hand, he grasped the corner of the file and flipped it to 
the first page.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 16 of the Wait
Sunday, 2:31 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


A shuffling to his left caused Skinner to turn in his seat.  Teena Mulder stared at him, an 
expression of dismay on her face.  

Her voice shook with repressed feeling when she spoke.  "He called me.  I didn't know 
what was wrong at the time, but I could tell he was upset.  I remember now that it was 
right after that little girl's death made the news.  I had no idea at the time that Fox was 
involved."

Skinner wanted to turn away from her accusing stare but he couldn't.  He knew that 
ultimately he'd been to blame.

Mulder's mother spoke softly but with determination.  "He sounded distracted.  Distant.  
Not at all like himself.  I asked whether something had happened.  Whether there'd been a 
problem during training."  

She finally turned away from him and he felt an incredible relief.   He could see that she 
now stared at Mulder, and her expression softened.  Her voice was low and without 
inflection.  "He insisted everything was fine, but I knew different.  I let it go, assuming 
that he'd tell me when he was ready."

She seemed to shrink in her seat then.  "He never did, though.  Not really.  And that case 
..."  Her voice drifted off so that he could hardly hear her.  "It was the start of our 
problems.  We'd always been close.  He always talked to me.  But that case was the start 
of the end for us.  He became more and more withdrawn."

He didn't move when she stood.  He could see that both Scully and her mother were also 
frozen in their seats.  Teena Mulder walked past him, but paused for just a moment when 
she said, "I cursed that day, Mr. Skinner.  My little boy was gone for good.  I'd already 
lost one child and then I lost another, even though the losing took years."

He raised his head, knowing he couldn't avoid the confrontation.  But she only looked at 
him with sadness and regret, not with accusation.  

"I feel that I've been given another chance, now."  Her voice was like steel again when 
she added, "And I intend to take it."  She took a deep breath and then turned away from 
him to look over at Scully and her Margaret, obviously forcing a small smile.  "I'm going 
for a little walk.  I'll be back in a bit."

The door closed with a soft whoosh and he couldn't help the feeling of relief that washed 
over him.  He looked across the room, wanting absolution.  Hoping to find it in Scully's 
eyes.  But her eyes were glued on her partner's face and he had nothing but his own 
memories and thoughts to keep him occupied.  

He looked to the left and focused on Mulder's sweat-covered face.  Remembered back to 
that day.  He wondered again, as he had so many times since then, whether he should 
have done things differently.

*******************************************


September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 9:51 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter felt like a voyeur.  He needed to move.  Needed to leave.  The first few minutes 
he'd been fascinated, watching as the kid tried to decide whether to look at the file or not.  
Now he began feeling a little ill as the realization of what it was doing to the trainee took 
root.  He could see it.  With every move Fox took and every anguished sigh that escaped, 
it was obvious that this was tearing the kid apart.  

Walter walked to the door of the AV room and opened it carefully, making sure that no 
noise would give him away.  He turned to the right and pushed at the door leading out of 
the auditorium, not even looking back as it closed behind him.  He made it out into the 
sunlight finally and stood still.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his 
breathing and unclenching his fists.  When he opened his eyes finally, he was surprised 
that everyone around him continued to move as if nothing was wrong.  As if everything 
hadn't been turned upside down and inside out.

He drew a shuddering breath and turned to his car.  It was out of his hands now.  He'd 
loosed a monster and he had no choice but to try to follow its tail.  It was time to get back 
to Doug and the team.

*******************************************


PAST


Fox heard a sound in the back of the room and turned his head.  There was nothing there.  
Only the stillness that signaled an empty room.  He was all alone in the dimly lit 
auditorium.  It had been a long time since he'd felt so alone.  

He turned back to the thick file that lay open in front of him and caressed the photo with 
trembling fingers.  It was the same picture that Agent Waring had ended the briefing 
with.  Margie Connor, laughing and playing in the sun, cheeks red from activity, hair 
damp with sweat, but shining brightly.  

He turned the page to the medical examiner's report and devoured the details.  Read about 
the wounds, the catalogue of injuries.  Details on stomach contents, estimated time of 
death.  Studied the series of photos that showed every angle of little Margie's abused 
body.  Flipped the pages again and soaked up the interview statements.  Flip.  The police 
reports.  

He closed his eyes and tried to understand the kind of creature that could have 
perpetrated such horror.  A devil dressed in men's clothing. 

He felt empty.  Like there was a hole, deep inside, waiting to be filled.  But all he could 
summon was anger and hate.  A part of him knew that if he gave himself into those 
emotions, he would become lost.  He felt the sweat start at his temple and raised a 
shaking hand to swipe at his forehead.  

He lowered it again and closed the file, staring once more at the words stamped on the 
front.  He wondered to himself, almost idly, at the sequence of events that had brought 
him to this place and time.  He shook his head slowly, and wondered how the hell he was 
going to get out of this mess.

He looked around the room and saw the emptiness.  It matched the hollowness in his 
soul.  He gathered the energy to lift his arm and looked at his watch.  He had about a half 
hour before he had to be at the training grounds.  He couldn't just leave the file here.  The 
wrong person might see it.  He laughed to himself at the irony of the thought and pushed 
himself back wearily from the table.  Then picked up the file and headed towards the 
door.  Agent Waring's office was close by.  He could drop off the file and perhaps find a 
way to speak about what he was feeling.

The trip took a couple minutes only and he found himself standing in front of a closed 
door along a corridor that was oddly empty.  He was nervous, not completely sure of the 
reception he'd receive.  His stomach churned and he felt disconnected somehow.  As if it 
weren't his hand raised in the air in front of him.  He breathed deeply and knocked, a few 
raps that sounded out loudly.  After a half minute or so, he finally realized that Agent 
Waring wasn't in.  It was only then that he realized there was yelling coming from down 
the very hall he'd just walked up.  

He couldn't help but hear what was being said and he glanced around, embarrassed to be 
hearing it.  He'd have to walk past the door to leave and was hesitant to do so.  He took a 
few steps and then froze at the words coming from behind the closed door.

"I'm tired of hearing excuses.  I've just about had it with you.  Just do what you're told.  
And the next time you call me at work you better have a broken limb, a gushing wound 
that won't stop bleeding, or a robber at the door."

Fox shook his head and started down the hall, deciding to leave the file in his room.  He'd 
bring it to Agent Waring later.  But just as he started walking, the door down the hall flew 
open and Agent Malloy stormed out.  Fox again froze, only a few steps away from the 
obviously angry man.  His stomach clenched in fear and anxiety.  He didn't need this 
right now.

The older man saw him almost immediately and a strange thing happened.  Malloy turned 
from furious to cold in a mere fraction of a second.  The man's face was like stone, his 
expression betraying nothing.  

Fox swallowed hard and licked his lips.  He raised the file a bit and held it out to the 
older man.  "Sir, I was bringing this to Agent Waring but he's not in.  I finished ... that is, 
I found this in the lecture hall.  I didn't want to leave it there."  His voice dropped off as 
the insecurity crept over him.  He became even more uneasy as Malloy flicked his eyes 
down at the file he still held.  Then the man finally reached out to take it.

"Thank you, Trainee.  Wouldn't want it falling into the wrong hands now, would we?"

The sarcasm made Fox flush with embarrassment.  He shook his head, even though he 
knew Malloy didn't really expect an answer and was surprised when he saw a break in the 
other man's demeanor.  There was a flash of something that he couldn't quite describe.  
He stepped back from the agent, disliking the confrontation, wanting nothing more than 
to get away from the entire nightmare.

He was filled with relief when Malloy finally said, "Don't you have somewhere to be, 
Trainee?"

He mumbled a quick, "Yes, sir" and took off at a quick clip down the hallway.  He had 
twenty minutes or so to get over to the training area.  No need to rush, but he wanted to 
be away from Malloy.  He was barely aware of the door that shut again behind him.


*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 18 of the Wait
Sunday, 4:12 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


They'd actually been kicked out of Mulder's room and it was the best news she could 
have been given.  The doctors had evidently revised their opinion on her partner's 
chances and were now trying to reassert their rights. They'd been banned to the waiting 
room while the nurses and doctors changed bedding and bandages. Despite their 
objections, the lead doctor had insisted they wait until the next visiting period before they 
returned.  Scully was willing to stay away for now, but only for a bit.  Only while she and 
Skinner worked with Jerry.  Then the doctors had better prepare for war.

Scully moved away from the files and printouts spread out on the table and walked to the 
window.  She and Skinner had spent the last hour reviewing the latest findings on the 
case with Jerry Friedman.  They'd staked out a corner of the CCU waiting room and had 
tried their best to ignore the looks of apprehension and curiosity that occasionally came 
their way.

She twisted to the right, then left, rotating her head quickly, and grimaced at the crack 
that sounded loudly, even over the muted roar of the television and surrounding voices.  
Evidently Jerry had heard it, too, because he said, "Jeez, Dana.  That sends chills down 
my spine.  Do you mind?"

She turned back to him and summoned a tired smile.  "Sorry about that."  The smile 
remained and she realized that she felt oddly carefree, despite the utter exhaustion that 
robbed her of the energy to do more than lean against the window.  She glanced down at 
her watch and noted that they had another forty or so minutes before they'd be allowed in 
again.  More than enough time to get things moving with Jerry.

She turned back to where he sat, sprawled limply in one of the waiting room chairs.  His 
suit was worse than rumpled, his legs stretched long in front of him.  He was obviously 
running on near empty.  When she turned her gaze to Skinner, she saw that he wasn't in 
much better shape.  He was also in one of the chairs, a file spread across his lap.  His 
head was tipped back so far he might have been staring at the ceiling -- if one arm hadn't 
been draped across his face.  She wasn't sure if he was even awake.

She stumbled to the chair across from Jerry and sank into it, thankful for the soft 
cushions, regardless of how ratty they were. She had to fight off the desire to sleep.  
There would be time for that later.  She kicked off her shoes and stared down once more 
at the file in her hands. It contained printouts of Mulder's computer files.  She turned to 
the pages marked 'profile-notes' and read them again.  Her eyesight blurred from 
exhaustion and finally focused on the words:

similarity -- DC Murders
schizophrenia/sociopathy -- happening here?? yes.  

She'd wondered what it meant and had patiently waited for Skinner to connect the dots.  
They were still waiting on the list of names that Mulder had asked for days ago.  She 
rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, unable to concentrate on 
the problem any longer.  She finally succumbed, drifting off to the sound of Skinner's 
breathing and Jerry's light snoring.

She knew only moments had passed when she heard someone clearing their throat just a 
few feet away.  She heard Skinner jerk in his seat and a shuffling across from her that 
was probably Jerry.  She dragged her own eyes open to see SAC Landers standing 
awkwardly in front of her.

Skinner had lowered his arm from his face and was now struggling to sit up straighter.  
Jerry was pushing himself to his feet.  She stayed where she was, but made something of 
a concession by putting her shoes back on.  

Landers sounded nervous when he asked, "How's Mulder doing?"

Skinner answered first.  "Holding on."

It was obvious that he wasn't going to say more so she added, "He's starting to show some 
brain activity.  It's good news."

Landers looked towards her and smiled a bit.  He looked so relieved that she took pity on 
him.  "Sir, do you have something for us?"

He nodded and held a file out towards her.  She leaned forward and took it, arching an 
eyebrow enquiringly.

He cleared his throat again and said, "The list Mulder wanted.  Of people who'd applied 
to the Bureau and were either not accepted or kicked out within the first few months.  It's 
a longer list than I would have expected."

Both Skinner and Jerry came to attention at Landers' words, obviously interested.  She 
pushed herself out of the seat and tore open the envelope.  She pulled out the sheaf of 
pages and laid them out on the little table they'd claimed for their work area.  Skinner and 
Jerry hovered behind her as she ran her fingers down the names.  There were so many.

And as if he read her mind, Landers said, "Five hundred thirty seven unacceptables.  
That's the ones from just the last three years."

Jerry muttered a soft "Jesus" close to her left ear.  She turned towards him and was struck 
by a feeling of deja vu.  How many times had Mulder stood looking over her shoulder?  
How many times had he muttered that very word in her ear?  She drew a shaky breath 
and turned back to the list.  "It'll take forever to go through this.  There's got to be a way 
to refine the parameters of the search."

Skinner sighed behind her.  "Let's think it through."  She felt a touch on her shoulder and 
turned towards him.  "Scully, is there anything in Mulder's notes that might help?"

She stood and wrapped her arms around her chest, then shook her head.  "No, sir.  At 
least not that I can understand."

Skinner looked grim, but then obviously made up his mind.  He stood straight and put his 
hands on his hips.  "Well, there's nothing for it.  We need to cross-check every one of 
these bastards against our assailant.  See whether our man's path crossed with any of 
theirs.  Find out where these characters are now."  He turned to Landers and asked, "How 
many people can you put on it?"

The SAC grinned slightly when he replied.  "I've already got about ten people working it.  
Our entire analysis group is committed to it and we have a few others from headquarters.  
We'll hear as soon as they learn anything."

Scully breathed deeply and nodded, meeting Skinner's gaze.  The older man glanced 
down at his watch then and a look of alarm crossed his features.  "Two to five, Scully."

She nodded and was out the door before in moments.  She heard him explaining to 
Landers in the background.  "Time to see Mulder.  Will you stay here for a bit, Carl?  
Watch the files?"

SAC Landers must have agreed because a minute later, Skinner joined her in front of the 
CCU doors.  There was a crowd of about twenty or twenty-five other people standing 
with them.  Scully knew from experience that the friends and relatives took visiting times 
very seriously.  She'd generally been able to talk her way past the rules, using her status 
as M.D. coupled with Federal Agent as ammunition.  She started lining up the arguments 
again, knowing that there'd be fireworks if they tried to keep her out for the rest of the 
night.

She heard her name called from the right and turned to see her mother and Mrs. Mulder at 
the back of the crowd.  The doors opened then and she only had time to wave before she 
and Skinner rode the crest of the wave into CCU.  She walked quickly down the hallway 
she'd come to know too well in the last day and paused just inside the doorway.  

He looked worse, but she knew it was because of the fever that had finally broken.  His 
hair was soaked, laying in matted strands against his oddly pale skin.  Pale except for the 
bright red patches on his cheeks and forehead.  They'd turned him again so that he was 
partly on his left side.  There was a nurse just finishing replacing the bandage on his 
shoulder and she smiled at them as they entered.

Teena Mulder's voice took her by surprise.  "Any changes?"

The nurse smiled again and said, "Temp's down a bit.  The wounds are healing nicely."  
The woman nodded to them as she left.

Scully watched Mrs. Mulder approach her son and stroke his arm. She was touched as the 
woman dampened a cloth and ran it over his face and neck.  There was a touch at her 
shoulder and she looked into her mother's eyes.

"Dana, why don't you sit down?  We only have fifteen minutes."

She could feel her teeth clench at the statement, but merely nodded, moving towards what 
she'd come to think of as 'her' chair.  There was silence then for long minutes, each of 
them lost in their own thoughts.

The minutes passed quickly and before she knew it, the nurse was at the door again.  Her 
mother and Skinner stood immediately, but she looked across the bed at Teena Mulder 
and saw a look of rebellion that matched her own feelings.  She turned to the nurse and 
said, "I need to speak to the doctor in charge of the ward, please.  Mrs. Mulder and I will 
wait."

She merely nodded to Skinner and her mother, both of whom left without question.  She 
took a deep breath and reviewed all the arguments one more time.  Teena Mulder's voice 
broke through her reverie.

"Dana, do you think he can hear us?"

She shifted in her seat uneasily, not really knowing what to say.  "I'm not sure, Mrs. 
Mulder.  I'd like to think he can."

The older woman was staring at her, somewhat measuringly, and it was making her feel 
uncomfortable.

Teena Mulder said, "The night Samantha was taken, we found Fox, lying on the living 
room floor, in shock.  He was completely unresponsive.  His eyes were open but it was 
like he stared right through us.  I went to the hospital with him.  Bill had to stay at the 
house with the police at first.  When he made it to the hospital, we just sat there all night 
and into the next day, talking ... and waiting.  Waiting for word on Samantha.  Waiting 
for Fox to come back to us."

Scully was fascinated.  In all the years she and Mulder had been partners, they'd never 
shared such intimate details.  As if they were to do so, they'd be crossing some line that 
would somehow change their relationship or threaten their partnership.  He'd told her 
about Sam's abduction, but only in the most abstract means possible.  And while she'd 
known of the impact on his life, on his very being, she'd always wondered about the 
details.

She nodded in understanding, waiting for Mrs. Mulder to continue.  Wondering just what 
had happened the night her partner's life changed forever.

"It was almost fifteen hours later before Fox finally woke up.  One moment he was 
staring at the ceiling in a daze and the next he started screaming.  He was hysterical, just 
screaming and crying out Samantha's name."  

Hearing it like this, from Mulder's mother, made it seem that much more real. She'd 
imagined how it must have happened.  The impact it must have made on her partner.  But 
this... this was real.  Scully felt the tears well in her eyes and roll down her cheeks.

"They had to sedate him and it was hours until he was calm enough to talk to us.  And it 
was days later that I found out he'd heard every word we'd said.  He told me it helped him 
to find his way back.  That it was like he was lost in the dark and the only thing that gave 
him hope was the sound of our voices."

Scully wiped at the tears on her face and said nothing, knowing that there really wasn't 
anything to say.  

The door opened then, and she was caught by surprise.  Mrs. Mulder's story had 
distracted her so that she'd forgotten all about her impending confrontation.  But then the 
older woman surprised her again by speaking before she herself could.

"Doctor, Ms. Scully and I intend to stay with my son.  You said yourself that he'd 
improved because we were here.  He needs us to be here so he can find his way back to 
us."

While the woman's voice had started out strong, by the time she'd ended, she sounded as 
if she were pleading.  Scully turned to the doctor to add her arguments and found the man 
with his hand raised to cut her off.

"I understand your desire to be with him, ma'am.  However, you have to appreciate that 
his systems have been seriously compromised.  What he needs more than anything is 
time to heal.  His body needs rest and that will happen easiest if he's left alone."

Scully stood straighter and fought the tiredness that sapped her will.  "What you have to 
appreciate, Doctor, is that his body will heal that much faster if his mind has decided it's 
worth the effort.  Give us the chance to reach his mind and I guarantee that his body will 
heal."

It was obvious the man was wavering, so Scully moved in for the kill.  She pointed to the 
thick sheaf of pages in the medical file at the foot of the bed.  "I have been at his side 
through every one of those injuries.  I know my partner, Doctor.  He would want me 
here."  And almost as an afterthought, she said, "And he'd want his mother and friends to 
be with him, as well."

The man seemed to wilt just slightly, but then smiled a bit.  "All right, Mrs. Mulder.  Dr. 
Scully.  I'll allow two people in here at any time.  I'll let the staff know so you can get in 
and out of the ward easily."  The man smiled at them and added, "Your Mulder's a 
fighter.  It seems he fights best when he has family close by."  Then he left before either 
of them could say a word.

She let her breath out explosively and turned to Teena Mulder.  The older woman looked 
as shocked as she felt.  Then the relief won out and they both smiled.

She settled back and gripped Mulder's hand a little tighter.  She ran her other hand up his 
arm, careful to avoid the IV.  Touching him like this, feeling his skin under her fingers, 
calmed her and reinforced the fact that he was still there and would be back by her side in 
time.  She drew a slow breath and closed her eyes, imagining the day when they'd be 
back together, strong and healthy.  Her smile grew at the thought.

Teena Mulder's voice cut through her thoughts.  "Before Samantha was taken, Fox slept 
so deeply it would take me forever to wake him up in the mornings.  After Samantha 
disappeared, he could barely manage to sleep half the night.  He had the most terrible 
dreams."

Scully had known about her partner's sleeping problems for years, of course, and it came 
as no surprise to her that it began with his sister's abduction.

"We didn't know at first.  He never said anything to us.  I understand why, of course, but 
still ... it hurt to know my son was in such pain.  And I couldn't do anything for him."

It was obvious that Teena Mulder was lost in a memory and Scully decided to wait her 
out.  

"Bill and I grew further and further apart.  We argued about everything.  We knew, both 
of us, what we were really upset about.  The accusations became more hurtful.  We 
thought, naively, that we were successful in keeping it from Fox."

The older woman snorted and laughed harshly.

"We were wrong. Bill was the one to find out and he ended up moving out the week after 
it happened.  It was years before he told me about what happened that night, about six or 
seven months after Samantha was taken."

*******************************************


May 2, 1974
Thursday, 2:34 a.m.
Martha's Vineyard, Mulder Residence


Bill jerked awake, immediately alert.  He froze, straining his ears to catch the sound 
again.  There.  In the kitchen.  He pushed the sheet and blanket to the side and rolled off 
the couch soundlessly. He padded across the room, pausing part way there when he heard 
it again.  A clink.  Glass.  He was sure of it.  

He reached up to the top of the hutch and pulled down his gun box.  He reached inside 
and gripped the pistol tightly, then moved towards the kitchen.  They wouldn't pull this 
twice.  They'd be sorry they came back to his house.

He moved slowly, making sure of each step, until he was right next to the kitchen 
doorway.  He took a deep breath and then swung around to plant himself directly in the 
entranceway.  

His voice was dangerous, brooking no argument.  "Freeze, asshole.  Make one move and 
I'll blow your god damned head off."  And at the last word he flipped the light switch, 
bathing the room in light.

The sight that met his eyes shocked him more surely than anything else in his life.  His 
son stood frozen, glass of milk in hand, eyes wide with shock and fright.  And in a 
heartbeat, he realized what he'd done, but it was too late.  

The glass of milk fell onto the floor with a crash, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from 
his son to make more than a passing note of it.  Because Fox was shaking, first just 
mildly but then so hard that his entire body moved as if he were suffering a seizure.  

He threw the gun onto a counter in disgust and took a step forward, his voice pleading.  
"Fox, I'm so sorry.  I thought it was ..."  He couldn't finish the thought and he couldn't 
move.  His eyes were still glued on his son and the sight filled him with fear.  

Fox stared through him, obviously not seeing him, lost in his own private hell.  The boy's 
eyes were wide and glazed.  And then Bill was shocked to see the child's pajama pants 
become wet, in front of his eyes.  The small puddle that formed at his son's feet verified 
that the boy had lost all control.

He choked back a sob and took the remaining steps forward, hugging his son tightly.  
And as if it had been a signal, Fox went limp in his arms.  He lifted the boy up, cradling 
him against his chest and almost cried at the sight.  Fox's eyes were still open, staring 
without recognizing what he was seeing.  

Bill hugged the boy tighter and carried him down the hallway to the bathroom.  He closed 
the door and sat down on the side of the bathtub, then loosed one arm long enough to get 
the water running.  He whispered words of encouragement as he pulled off the boy's 
pajamas and slipped his limp body into the water.

"We have to get you warmed up, Fox.  You're cold.  In shock.  I'm so sorry, son.  Please 
wake up.  Please come back to me."

He was stunned at how slight the boy was.  All skin and bones.  Gangly limbs without an 
ounce of fat.  Where had all the baby fat gone?  And when had it happened?  

"Come on, son.  It's Daddy.  Can you hear me, Fox?"

The shaking hadn't stopped.  Hadn't even lessened.  He took several towels off the shelf, 
then pulled the boy into his lap.  He wrapped Fox tightly and rubbed his arms and legs 
vigorously, hoping to bring warmth back into the boy's body.  He picked his son up again 
and carried him into the boy's room.  He knew how critical it was to keep a person in 
shock warm.  He dressed his son quickly in sweats and pulled thick socks onto the child's 
frozen feet.  Then he cradled him once more to his chest.

The boy was so light, he wasn't a burden at all.  It scared him to think Fox had lost so 
much weight without his even knowing it.  Where the hell had he been these last months?  
How could he have missed it?

He walked back to the living room.  Slowly.  Hugging his son tightly to his chest.  Then 
sank down onto the couch.  He pulled the blanket around the boy, tucking it in carefully 
at the chin.  He leaned back and rocked just slightly, praying for things to go back to the 
way they'd been.

"Fox, I'm sorry.  I tried to protect you both.  I swear it.  I never would have let them hurt 
you.  Either of you.  I love both my babies."

He raised a shaking hand to wipe at the tears that rolled down his cheeks and cursed his 
own helplessness.  He had no control over anything.  He'd lost control over his work 
years ago and now it had complete control over him.  And over his family.  He couldn't 
keep any of them safe.  He couldn't even keep his family intact.

He tried to keep his voice even when he said, "It's Daddy, Fox.  Come on, baby, look at 
me.  Please, son.  Can you look at me?"

His throat was so tight, he could hardly get the words out.  Memories flooded him, 
overwhelmed him.  He remembered his boy's first step.  How proud he was when he'd 
learned that Fox spoke his first words.  Little league games and basketball tournaments.  
Bragging about how bright his son was to anyone who'd listen.  He wanted so much for 
both his children.  Most of all, he wanted them to be happy and healthy.  There was still a 
chance for Fox.  He'd do whatever was necessary to keep his boy safe.

"Come on, son.  It's Daddy.  Please look at me, baby.  Can you look at Daddy for me?"

And whether it was because of his words or just a coincidence, Fox shuddered in his arms 
and jerked his head. Bill was sure his son was looking at him and seeing him for the first 
time that night.

"Fox, son, can you talk to me?  Say something."

And the whispered response made him almost collapse in relief.  

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, baby, it's Daddy.  It's okay.  Everything's going to be just fine.  Close your eyes, 
Fox.  Daddy's got you.  You're safe.  I won't let anything hurt you.  I'm here and I'm not 
going anywhere."

The boy's shaking had subsided and there remained only a light shivering.  He ran his 
hand up and down Fox's arms and legs, rubbing him, letting him know he was there.

"It's all right, son. Daddy won't let anything happen to you.  Just go to sleep."

And with the trust of a child who hadn't yet learned the realities of betrayal, Fox fell 
asleep in his arms.  He pulled the blanket tight again and patted the boy's chest lightly.

He whispered into the dark, "I'll be with you, son.  I'll look out for you."

The night was long, but he didn't mind.  It gave him time to reflect about what was 
important.  It had been a long time since he'd been able to think so clearly.  He knew 
what he had to do.  It would be hard, but it was necessary.  He had to keep Fox and Teena 
safe.  It would be easiest if they weren't with him.  He'd distance himself from them.  It 
would be best for them all.

It was a little after six when the room started to lighten with the first rays of the spring 
sun.  Fox hadn't moved for hours.  The boy was clearly exhausted.  Bill lifted him enough 
to slip out from under him and settled him onto the couch.  He smoothed the hair back off 
his forehead and kissed him gently.

"I'll keep you safe, son.  If it's the last thing I do."

He pushed himself up and made his way into the kitchen.  It was still a mess and he didn't 
want Teena to know what had happened.  Not yet, anyway.  There'd be time to explain 
later.  

He mopped up the remains of the milk and glass, as well as the evidence of Fox's 
accident.  He threw the glass away and rinsed out the towel in the sink.  He looked 
through the cabinets under the sink until he found the bleach and mopped the floor 
quickly.  The smell burned his eyes, but seemed to bring a clarity that had been long 
missing.  The challenge would be in convincing Teena.  With the way things had been 
going lately, it probably wouldn't be all that hard.

He ran the rag under the water again and put the bleach back where it belonged.  One of 
the other cabinets had opened just a bit and he moved to shut it.  His fingers lingered 
there a moment and he opened the door wide.  Reached in and pulled out the bottle.  He 
wasn't a man who drank much except for social situations.  This particular bottle had 
been under the cupboards since the last party they'd had, more than a year ago.  But it 
looked awfully inviting right now.

He opened the top, twisting it slowly, and stared at the half empty bottle of Vodka.  His 
fingers trembled and then he lifted the bottle to take a long drink.  It burned his throat on 
the way down and left him coughing.  But then there was a warmth that remained and a 
feeling of strength that he'd been missing for a long time.  He took another long drink and 
wiped at his mouth with the back of a now steady hand.  

He put the bottle back in the cupboard and stood straight.  He still had to clean up the 
bathroom before Teena woke up.  He headed to the living room and paused at the 
doorway, catching sight of the gun, still lying on the kitchen counter.  His stomach 
twisted at the sight. He picked it up and brought it into the dining room, replacing it in its 
box, placing it high above the shelves.  He'd make sure his son would have no need for 
such things.  

He stopped by the couch and looked down at his son, face lit now by a ray of light that 
stretched across the floor and up the couch.  Fox looked so young.  So very innocent.  He 
swallowed hard, knowing it was his job to keep his son innocent.  Keep him safe.  He 
reached down and touched Fox's head, running his fingers lightly over the silky hair.

Then he went into the bathroom and gathered the soiled pajamas.  Rounded up the still 
damp towels from Fox's bedroom.  He brought all of it into the kitchen and placed it in a 
bundle.  He knew what he had to do now.  It would be all right.  They'd all be okay.  He 
brought it all down to the basement and put the bundle in the wash machine.  Maybe it 
wouldn't be necessary to tell Teena at all.  It would be better if she never heard the details 
at all.  And maybe ... maybe Fox wouldn't remember.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 19 of the Wait
Sunday, 5:54 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully could almost imagine it happening.  And for the first time since she'd known her 
partner and understood something about his past, she almost felt sorry for his father.  
She'd never thought it possible before, but now ...

Teena Mulder was hunched over, arms wrapped around her chest. She seemed so alone.  
Devastated again by the retelling of the story. "He left us.  I believe he truly thought it 
was the best thing for us.  He was wrong."

Scully couldn't speak.  Couldn't respond.  She couldn't begin to understand the nightmare 
they'd lived through.  Her own childhood had been a happy one, with parents who loved 
her and brothers and a sister who were always there.  Not abducted from under their 
noses, leaving them to have nightmares about it years later.

Teena continued, speaking as if to herself.  "Fox had been having trouble sleeping all 
those months.  He'd spend half the night up, reading or watching television.  When Bill 
moved out to the couch, Fox knew all about it.  We thought we were so smart."

The older woman laughed harshly and shook her head.  Gazed at the wall above Mulder's 
head, as if she could see through it.  "Fox was lost when Bill left.  I think... I think he 
thought it was his fault.  And nothing we ever told him could convince him otherwise.  
But we tried."

Scully nodded to herself, knowing well the guilt her partner carried with him.

"Bill knew Fox took the separation hard and, although I didn't know about that night until 
much later, Bill did.  He was determined to get Fox help.  He found a child psychologist 
in Boston.  He brought Fox there that summer, right after school was out.  He rented an 
apartment and brought Fox several days a week."

Scully was surprised by this news.  Her partner had always scoffed at therapists of almost 
any kind, despite the fact that he'd gotten degrees in psychology.  His mother was smiling 
now, and she couldn't help thinking the story would somehow have a happy ending.

"I think it helped.  Fox came back to me after that summer much happier.  I could almost 
pretend that nothing had changed.  That everything was all right.  He played basketball 
and baseball in school.  He seemed to be okay with the divorce.  Not happy, of course, 
but at least he seemed to handle it all right.  He understood it.  Bill stayed close and had 
Fox over every weekend and most of the summer.  Fox seemed to thrive through school."

Teena's mood had lightened.  "He was a good boy.  And he grew into such a handsome 
young man.  He was always so smart.  And funny.  Everyone always liked him."

Scully was surprised when Mulder's mother turned towards her and caught her gaze.  

"Ms. Scully, I wish you had known him then.  Before the Academy.  Before he got 
involved in the X-Files.  I know you would have liked him then."

And for the first time, she felt the urge to speak.  "I'm sure I would have, Mrs. Mulder."  
And after only a brief pause, she reminded the woman of something.  "As I do now."

The older woman seemed taken aback but recovered well.  "I didn't mean it that way.  
And I know you do.  You've been a good friend to my son.  I'm happy he found you."

Scully relaxed a little and nodded.  "And he's been a good friend to me, too, Mrs. 
Mulder."

"I know that."

There was silence again for a little while and then Mrs. Mulder spoke again.

"Bill and I were so proud when Fox went to Princeton to study psychology.  And when 
he was accepted to the doctoral program at Oxford ..."  The woman's voice became 
choked.  "You should have seen us, celebrating like it was old times."  Teena laughed a 
little, light and airy.  "We all went out to dinner, all three of us.  And it was so wonderful.  
It was almost like ... like we were a family again."

She smiled at the older woman, letting her know she understood.  They sat in comfortable 
silence then for long minutes.  She traced Mulder's fingers with her own and thought 
about everything his mother had told her.  She knew something now that she'd never 
understood before.  That his parents loved him and they'd done the best they could.  That 
they were human and made mistakes.  That they'd made plenty with their son, but that 
they'd tried to protect him as best they could.

But there was a little kernel of doubt.  A spark of frustration that couldn't be avoided.  
What she'd learned over the last several hours hadn't explained what she'd seen with her 
own eyes.  The tension between Mulder and his father.  The evasiveness of his mother 
when it came to the subject of Samantha's disappearance.  She had to know how it came 
about.  

"Mrs. Mulder?"

The older woman sighed and turned towards her, a small smile making Scully feel guilty 
at what she knew she was about to ask.  

"Hmmm?"

She swallowed hard and sat straighter, her fingers unconsciously tightening around her 
partner's hand.  "Mrs. Mulder, what happened?  What happened between Mulder and his 
father?"  She stumbled over the words a bit, aware that they weren't very clear, but 
knowing from the woman's expression that Teena understood exactly what she was 
asking.

The older woman looked as if she'd been slapped.  It was understandable, of course.  
Scully had asked the question out of the blue.  She watched Teena sit back in the chair 
and straighten, much as she herself had done not a minute before.  Then it was as if a 
mask fell into place so that Scully could read nothing from the older woman's expression.

Teena Mulder's voice was initially cold.  Defensive.  "I don't see how that's pertinent, Ms. 
Scully."

Scully bit her lip for a moment, then decided she had to pursue it further.  "I saw Mulder 
right after his father was murdered.  He was devastated.  I could see how much he loved 
his father, Mrs. Mulder.  But I also know that something had happened at some point to 
cause them to drift apart."  

She left it there, hoping that Teena Mulder would relent.  She practically held her breath, 
then exhaled loudly as she saw the older woman nod.  Teena's shoulders slumped a bit 
and Scully knew an explanation was finally coming.

"It started when Fox decided to join the Bureau, and only got worse after that.  Bill tried 
to forbid him to join."  Teena laughed harshly and Scully could just imagine anyone 
trying to forbid Mulder at any age to do something he'd set his mind on.  "Bill hated the 
idea.  He was absolutely furious at the thought that Fox would throw his future away.  
Those were Bill's words."  Teena Mulder looked so sad that Scully began to regret 
bringing the subject up.

"We were just so surprised, you see.  Fox had already accepted a faculty position at 
Harvard.  We were so proud.  I hadn't seen Bill so happy in years.  Then Fox attended a 
conference in Vienna.  Someone from the Bureau was there and saw him speak.  They 
started pursuing him, then.  We didn't know about it at first.  In fact, Fox never even told 
us that he being recruited until he'd already turned down Harvard."

Scully understood how disappointing it must have been, but even more, could see just 
how terrified Bill Mulder must have been at the news.  The man must have known that if 
his son joined the Bureau, the chances were high that his own history would be at risk.  
That his son might find out that his father was involved in his sister's abduction.  Teena 
never confirmed it directly, but it was clear to Scully what the real reason was for the 
break between father and son.

"Bill became crazy.  He screamed at Fox and cursed him.  It was horrible.  In all the years 
I'd known him, I'd never seen him like that.  He said that if Fox joined the Bureau, it 
would be the end of their relationship.  That Fox could forget about ever coming back 
home."

The woman was crying softly now, obviously hurting at the memory.  Scully didn't know 
what to do or say, so merely sat still.

"I didn't know what to do or say.  Fox was devastated.  He'd always looked up to his 
father.  Wanted his approval.  And then this."

Teena looked at her beseechingly.  "All Fox ever wanted was for Bill to be proud of 
him."

Scully nodded in understanding.  It was the same thing she'd wanted from her own father.  
She understood better than Teena Mulder might know.

The woman sniffed and wiped at her eyes then reached out for her son's limp hand once 
more.  "I drove Fox down to Quantico.  Bill refused to even say goodbye to him. Fox was 
so confused and hurt.  I couldn't explain his father's reaction because I didn't completely 
understand it myself."

Teena leaned forward in her chair.  "All I ever wanted was for Fox to be happy."

Scully nodded, knowing that her partner's mother was sincere.  Still, both his mother and 
father had much to answer for.  She tried to determine whether to push further or not, and 
finally decided that Mulder deserved to know the truth.  She'd like to be able to tell him 
when he woke up.  "Mrs. Mulder, a couple years ago, when Mulder and I came to your 
house.  You exchanged words.  You became angry with him."  She could see the other 
woman was becoming angry with her now, but continued on in spite of it.  "He felt that 
you knew things that you weren't telling him.  That you even might have known 
something about ... about the night Samantha was taken."

The woman launched out of her seat, obviously furious.  "You don't know what you're 
talking about, Ms. Scully.  Because of that, I'll forgive you for bringing it up, but I will 
not talk about this.  Not to you.  Not to him.  No matter how much I love him ..."  Mrs. 
Mulder's voice broke at the words.

Scully was confused.  Torn between the desire to push further and the need to establish 
peace once again.  But before she could say anything to bridge the new chasm between 
them, an alarm sounded loudly in the room.  

Both women froze at the sound.  Scully searched the various indicators frantically, trying 
to understand what was happening.  A doctor and several nurses rushed into the room, 
and before she even knew it, she and Mrs. Mulder had been pushed into the hallway once 
more.  Scully tried to swallow past the dryness in her throat, and willed her knees to stop 
shaking. What the hell just happened?

*******************************************

End Part 9 of ?

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 10 of ? (10/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 20 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:02 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner pushed off the wall of the waiting room and resumed his pacing.  He was filled 
with a nervous energy and he felt the need to move.  He walked over to the glass doors 
leading to the CCU, as he had so many times in the past half hour or so.  It was the same 
thing, over and over.  Walk to the doors, look down the hallway, head back to the waiting 
room.  Either flop in a chair for a couple minutes or watch television.  Try to avoid the 
patient looks Mrs. Scully sent his way.  Then do the whole thing over again.

But this time was different.  This time he saw nurses running.  This time he saw a doctor 
pushing himself into a room halfway down the hall.  Right where Mulder's room was.  He 
froze in place, unable suddenly to breathe.  Unable to do anything but stare in horror and 
fear.  But when Scully and Teena Mulder almost staggered out into the hallway, both of 
them appearing to be in shock, he spurred to action.

He almost threw himself at the doors, but couldn't open them.  His hands were splayed on 
the glass and he fought the urge to pound his fists through it.  A nurse had Scully and 
Mrs. Mulder by the arms and was pulling them down the hallway towards him.  He could 
see Scully fighting the woman, not with rancor or anger, but with desperation.  He 
stepped back when they were a couple yards off and didn't even wait for the doors to 
fully slide open before speaking.

"What happened?  What's wrong?"

He wanted to grab Scully and shake her out of her stupor, but turned to Teena Mulder 
instead.  Impatience made his voice harsh.

"What's going on?"

Teena jerked at his words and he immediately stepped back, both literally and 
figuratively.  The poor woman looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  He took a 
deep breath and then felt a touch at his arm.  Mrs. Scully was there, pushing herself 
around him.  Margaret approached Scully and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Dana, let's go into the waiting room and then you and Teena can tell us what happened, 
okay?"

Skinner took Mrs. Scully's lead and reached a hand out to Mrs. Mulder.  He swallowed 
hard and bit his lip.  Just a little patience.  He could wait for a minute, if he had to.

They reached the waiting room and went to the corner that had become theirs.  Scully and 
Teena sat down opposite each other, but he realized that neither looked at the other.  They 
both stared off into different directions, as if intentionally avoiding eye contact.  He 
turned his gaze to Mrs. Scully, who now sat next to Teena.  She was looking at him and 
seemed to nod.  He took a seat next to Scully and touched her arm to get her attention.

"Scully, what happened?  Is Mulder all right?"

He was relieved when she turned to him.  Almost listlessly she said, "His blood pressure 
went off the charts.  Heart rate shot up.  Respiration was affected."

He was appalled, not understanding how this had happened.  He thought Mulder was on 
the way back.  This came as a complete shock.  He shook his head, not knowing what to 
say.  Margaret Scully solved the problem for him by breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"How did it happen, Dana?  Why?"

Scully dropped her head, seeming reluctant to answer.  She was saved from doing so by 
the arrival of the on-shift doctor.  The man strode into the waiting room and planted 
himself in front of them.  The man did not look pleased.  Both his body language and 
words demonstrated just how frustrated he was.  Skinner moved closer to Scully to 
provide a little moral support.  He could see that Mrs. Scully had done the same with 
Mrs. Mulder, who sat hunched in the chair across the way.  At least they were presenting 
the appearance of a unified front.

The doctor's eyes focused first on Scully, then turned to Teena Mulder.  His voice was 
hard and left no room for argument.  "Ms. Scully, Mrs. Mulder, I'm not sure what you 
think you were doing, but if you wanted a response from Agent Mulder, you sure got one.  
Unfortunately, it's not the kind of response that does a patient any good."

Skinner saw Mrs. Mulder bend forward over her knees, hands cupping her face.  He felt 
Scully shiver beside him, then saw her wrap her arms around herself tightly.  He was 
almost afraid of what might come next.  If the doctor refused them entry, he knew it 
would be a disaster for all sides.  Scully at the least had to be there when Mulder woke.  
If Mulder were to wake.

The doctor must have recognized the impact his tone had on the ladies.  The man's next 
words were spoken in a much calmer voice, but his frustration and residual anger was 
still clear.  "I'll remind you that Agent Mulder is just now starting to exhibit brain 
function.  We still don't know whether there might be any lasting neurological damage, 
even if he does recover physically.  His physical condition remains critical and 
deterioration could occur at any time.  His state is still extremely precarious."

The last words were emphatic.  The man took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling 
for a few seconds before continuing.  Perhaps trying to collect his thoughts and calm 
himself.  When he looked back at them, Skinner could see that the anger seemed to have 
melted away.  "Agent Mulder has managed to hang on this long.  He seems to have 
turned a corner.  But I would be completely irresponsible if I were to suggest that his 
recovery is in any way assured.  I can not stress this enough."

Skinner looked at Scully again, wanting more than ever before to wrap an arm around her 
lightly shaking shoulders.  Margaret had not felt so inhibited and sat close to Teena, 
holding the other woman's hand in between her own.

The doctor sighed lightly and Skinner actually felt a bit sorry for the man.  "It's almost six 
thirty.  We're in the middle of shift change anyway.  Agent Mulder is doing just fine now 
and could use a little rest.  From everything."  The doctor's words were quite emphatic. 
"You can not upset him again.  Not with your words and not with your tone."

Skinner finally broke down and placed a hand on Scully's arm, whether to restrain her or 
reassure her, even he wasn't sure.  

The doctor glanced at his watch before continuing.  "Agent Mulder was first brought to 
us about twenty-three hours ago.  It's been almost twenty hours since he came out of 
surgery.  He's holding his own.  Starting to wake up and become more aware.  This is a 
good thing."  

Skinner could tell the words were now being offered to reassure them all and the doctor 
was speaking in a conciliatory tone.  

"Agent Mulder's responding well to the antibiotics and I believe he's getting stronger with 
every minute.  Despite the trauma he has suffered, I have great hope that he will awaken 
from the coma with minimal, if any, impact.  But ..."  The man stared at Scully and Teena 
Mulder, one after the other, before turning his gaze to Skinner.  "He can NOT be 
distressed as he just was.  If any of you are going to have arguments or fling accusations 
around, do it outside of his hearing.  Do you understand?"

Skinner was looking at Teena Mulder, but felt Scully nod in agreement.  Mulder's mother 
hadn't moved in the last minute.  Not since she'd covered her face with her hands.  But he 
was reassured then to see her nod as well.  The older woman dropped her hands and he 
was shocked by her expression of despair and the tears that streaked her face.  He hadn't 
even realized she'd been crying.  

This time spent waiting to see whether Mulder would live or die had been enlightening in 
more ways than he could count.  He'd seen a side to both his agents that he'd never known 
existed.  Margaret Scully had been a steadying influence on them all, and Teena Mulder 
had proved to him that regardless of the choices she might have made to cover up her 
own and her husband's activities, she did love her son.  

Skinner's throat tightened and his eyes clouded. He understood a bit more how tragic 
Mulder's childhood had been.  He was filled with admiration for the way the younger 
man had continued on, despite the hardships and roadblocks of his youth.  And despite 
the fact that his parents might have contributed, either knowingly or unknowingly to that 
tragedy, they did try to make it right.

He sighed deeply and realized the doctor was still with them.  The man met Skinner's 
own eyes, as if seeking someone to connect with.  It seemed that the ladies' attention was 
focused elsewhere.

The doctor said, "We need to run some more tests.  He's strong enough to handle a little 
trip and we need another CT scan, so I think it's reasonable that you come back at the 
next visiting period.  That's 8 p.m.  That will give us enough time to do what we need to 
do and it'll give you some time, as well."

Skinner nodded and gripped Scully's arm a bit tighter, hoping to stave off any verbal 
objections she might have, but she surprised him with her continued silence.

The doctor now seemed to be dealing with a guilty conscience at the way he'd chastised 
the ladies.  The man actually appeared contrite.  "Maybe you could take a little rest.  Eat 
something.  Then I'll see you at eight.  I'll be staying until midnight tonight.  All right?"

None of the ladies responded, so Skinner took the initiative.  "Thank you, Doctor.  We'll 
see you then.  And perhaps we could discuss the possibility of staying a bit longer than 
the fifteen allotted minutes.  I'm sure you'll agree that Agent Mulder still needs the 
support of his family and friends.  And I'm sure you'll also recognize that any ... 
disagreements or arguments that might have occurred before were unusual and will 
definitely not occur again."

He figured it was worth broaching the subject now, since he knew that Scully would do it 
sooner or later.  He could tell the doctor was eyeing both Scully and Teena Mulder, 
obviously assessing the likelihood of their upsetting his patient in the future.  The man 
merely said, "We'll discuss it,"  then turned on his heel and left without another word.  It 
was not at all clear whether they'd get visiting rights back or not.

Skinner could almost feel the tension leaking from the room.  He saw Margaret Scully 
lean closer to Teena and say something.  It was so soft that he couldn't hear what she 
said, but it must have been something kind, because Mulder's mother smiled a little.  
Then Margaret handed the older woman a tissue and Teena turned and thanked her, still 
sniffing quietly.

He sighed again and leaned forward so he could see Scully's face.  She seemed 
devastated and it concerned him greatly.  "Scully, are you all right?"

Her eyes were filled with unshed tears when she finally turned towards him.  Her voice 
was rough and he could tell she was fighting her own internal battle.  "I can't believe I did 
that, sir.  It was my fault.  I can't believe I did that."

His curiosity got the best of him and he asked softly, so only Scully could hear, "What 
exactly did you do?"

She seemed to be in something near shock and it actually scared him.  Her shoulders 
were slumped, what was left of her make-up was smeared, her hair lay limply and tangled 
against her head, and there were dark smudges under her eyes -- all sure signs of the 
exhaustion that had been wearing at them all for hours now.  

She sniffed slightly before answering and finally met his eyes.  "I basically called her a 
liar.  I accused her of knowing about Samantha and keeping it from Mulder."

Scully looked completely demoralized.  It actually hurt him to see her so wounded.  He 
made a command decision and stood abruptly, drawing all their eyes towards him.  
"Ladies, I think this is the perfect opportunity for a little break."  He turned to his agent 
first and said, "Scully, your hotel's not too far away.  I think you should go there, take a 
shower, change clothes, get something to eat.  In fact, I think I'll make it an order."

She'd started shaking her head after his first sentence, but he plowed on, before she could 
say anything, "And maybe your mother could go with you.  Both of you could use a short 
rest."

He turned his sights to Teena Mulder then. "And Mrs. Mulder?  I think you could use a 
break, also.  I'm going to have my secretary arrange for transportation and lodging for 
you close by."  Once again, he spoke quickly, looking at no one in particular.  "I'm going 
to stay here and I'll call you if there's any change at all in the next hour or so.  Then you 
can all be back here by eight to see Mulder."

He started walking away from them before anyone could argue and managed to make it 
outside without being stopped.  He stood in the little garden and enjoyed the peace and 
quiet for a good thirty seconds before reaching for his cell phone.  He hit speed dial and 
spoke with Kimberly for a few minutes, making the necessary arrangements.  It felt good 
to give orders and have them obeyed.  There hadn't been much opportunity lately, and it 
was reassuring somehow.  

After ending the connection, he turned to enter the hospital and was surprised to see 
Margaret Scully standing patiently by the door, obviously waiting for him to finish his 
conversation.  He walked over to her and asked, "Is everything all right?"  All he could 
think was that something had happened to Mulder in the few minutes he'd been outside.

The woman smiled and raised a hand.  "Everything's fine, Mr. Skinner.  I'm taking Dana 
back to her hotel.  I just wanted to find out what the arrangements were for Teena.  If 
she's close to us, we could drive together."

He sighed in relief and shook his head.  "Actually, I've arranged for her to stay just down 
the street, at the Hampton Inn.  You could drop her off if you like, but it's not necessary.  
We can have a cab take her.  I don't think it's a good idea for her to drive just now."

He realized how odd it was that he had no concerns about Scully or her mother driving.  
Somehow, Teena Mulder just seemed more ... fragile to him.  He was so distracted at the 
thought that he almost missed Margaret Scully's words when she spoke again.

"I understand, Mr. Skinner.  But we'll be happy to drop her at the hotel.  It's no problem.  
And we'll pick her up on the way back."

The woman smiled and started back for the door.  When she was partly through she 
paused, then turned back towards him.  "I don't think I've ever thanked you for taking 
care of my kids, Mr. Skinner.  I appreciate it more than you could know."  And then she 
walked out.

Her words reinforced what he'd begun to understand and appreciate the night before -- 
that Margaret Scully thought of Fox Mulder as one of her own.  He smiled at the 
knowledge and headed to a bench.  He sat down slowly, his legs trembling slightly, the 
exhaustion taking its toll.  He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, then 
scrubbed his face with his hands.  His head pounded and felt so heavy that it was a 
struggle keeping it upright and straight on his neck.  His left eye started twitching in an 
uneven cadence.  It made him feel completely out of control.  He closed both eyes tightly, 
wishing that he could get away for a rest, as well, just for a little while.

He was tired like he'd been only a few times in his life.  All night forays into the bush in 
'Nam.  Cramming for final exams in college while still travelling to wrestling 
competitions.  The DC Murders case.  Times that were stressful for completely different 
reasons, some in innocence, some in blood.  But all these times drained him of energy 
and left him feeling like a shell, waiting to be filled once again with the desire to go on.

This time, he was drained by more than just exhaustion and a heavy heart.  He was 
weighed down by the knowledge that as much as he might want to help Mulder and 
Scully, they were no longer his agents.  He'd allowed it to happen, even though he'd 
rationalized that his hands were tied.  That he had to support the decision to remove them 
from the X-Files in order to be of help to them later on.  It was a crock.  He had to help 
them somehow.  He had to take a stand or it would eat away at him as surely as if it were 
a cancer.  

He leaned into his hands and clenched his eyes even more tightly shut.  He hated what 
he'd become.  A pencil pushing bureaucrat who ordered others to do the dirty work.  A 
coward who'd allowed his integrity to be compromised.  He thanked God that his own 
parents were no longer alive to see what he'd become and angrily sniffed away the 
evidence that he'd been upset.  He scrubbed at his eyes and looked around the little haven 
to see if anyone had noticed him.  He was alone.

He leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to clear his head and his lungs.  He had to 
hold it together for another few hours.  At least until Mulder woke up.  Until they figured 
out just who else might be involved in little Christian's abduction.  Until he could leave 
with a clear conscience.  It wasn't his case and by rights, he shouldn't be involved.  But 
there were some things a man did because he had to.  This was one of them.

He stood up and walked to the right to lean against a tree.  There was a little brook that 
ran past only a couple feet away.  There was a fountain that fed the brook, and the water 
sounds were soothing.  He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, thinking how nice 
it would be to have nothing more to occupy his mind than bubbling brooks and spouting 
fountains.  But it was impossible.  His thoughts turned back, inevitably, to the DC 
Murders case.  He thought about where he'd last ended the story and remembered what 
happened after he met up with Doug again after he left Quantico.

*******************************************


September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 11:52 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.


Walter jogged up the stairs, anxious to get to the war room before the noon meeting 
started.  He'd hoped to touch base with Doug first, but there'd been an accident on the 
interstate.  He'd been forced onto back roads, along with hundreds of other displaced 
motorists.  He didn't think much else could go amiss this morning.  He was wrong.

He'd just passed by SAC Keenan's door, not even paying attention to whether the man 
was in his office or not, when he heard his name called out.  He stopped dead in his 
tracks, a little shiver of dread running down his spine.  He turned and headed back down 
the hall, pausing in front of Keenan's open door.

"Yes, sir?"

"Skinner, get your butt in here."

He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and felt a little drop of sweat at his 
hairline.  He licked his lips and entered the lion's den, hoping like hell that the lion wasn't 
particularly hungry just now.  He snapped to attention and waited for enlightenment.

The silence stretched for an uncomfortable minute.  More sweat gathered between his 
shoulder blades.  He wasn't sure what he'd done, but it must have been a doozy, whatever 
it was.  He tried to remind himself that Keenan appreciated patience and raised a hand to 
wipe away the sweat at his brow.  

He hazarded a glance to the left to see what Keenan was doing and discovered the man 
was staring at him.  Like the proverbial bug under the microscope.  His curiosity turned 
to alarm.  "Sir?  What's wrong?"

SAC Keenan shifted back in his chair, moving for the first time since Walter had entered.  
"Walter, perhaps you can explain to me why I see Doug roaming these hallways hour in 
and hour out, but I don't seem to ever see you around at all?"

Walter felt relief then, understanding that all Keenan wanted was an explanation.  He 
opened his mouth, prepared to explain what he'd been doing, when Keenan continued.

"You see, Walter, it's the job of the ASACs to manage every aspect of the case.  To 
assign manpower.  To initiate new courses of investigation.  To coordinate with the SAC, 
not just daily, but hourly, if necessary, so that the SAC can give informed direction to his 
ASACs and, most importantly, so that the SAC knows what the hell is going on."  

The older man's voice continued climbing until he was essentially yelling by the end of 
the last sentence.  It was finally clear to Walter then that Keenan didn't really expect any 
kind of explanation at all.  In fact, despite initial appearances, this was most definitely a 
one way conversation.

Keenan continued his lecturing, quite loudly.  "I expect to see both my ASACs in these 
halls every day.  If there's a compelling reason to be gone for days at a time, I expect 
them to discuss it with me first."

Walter locked his knees, determined not to let this man see him shake.  When Keenan 
spoke next, his voice was much calmer.

"Now, Walter, I've spoken with Doug and he says you've been spending a lot of time 
down at Quantico consulting with profilers there.  Funny thing, though, it seems Bill 
Patterson doesn't know anything about it.  He said you haven't spoken to him since early 
last week."

And this time, Walter thought maybe there was a question being asked.  He paused for a 
moment to see if Keenan were going to continue yelling at him, then decided it was safe 
to speak.  He cleared his throat first, almost testing the waters. "Sir, I did consult with 
Chief Patterson but he felt that his people had already tried their hand at the case and that 
they couldn't help any further.  He said they'd need more data before a different profile 
could be developed."  He swallowed and continued, standing straighter.  "So, anyway, I 
took the case to Agent Dean Waring.  He was an instructor at Quantico when I went 
through the Academy.  He's been with the VCS his entire career and knows more about 
the motivation of serious offenders than anyone outside the BSU."

He swallowed again and shifted nervously, wondering whether he'd somehow screwed up 
his career before he'd really gotten a chance to advance it.

Keenan seemed a bit thoughtful when he said, "I know Waring.  He's a good agent.  A 
good man."  The SAC continued to stare at the far wall for a few moments and then 
added, "You could do worse."

Walter breathed a little easier, realizing that it was a concession of sorts.  

Keenan waived to a chair, gaze now focused directly at him.  "Sit your butt down, 
Walter."

Walter's legs felt like rubber when he collapsed into the chair indicated.

"So what did Waring have to say?  Did he make any suggestions worth pursuing?"

Walter considered how much to tell the SAC and finally decided full disclosure was the 
best course of action.  "Do you have some time, sir?  It's not exactly something I can 
explain in just a few minutes."

Keenan nodded slowly, his face expressionless.  "I'm all ears.  Tell me everything."

Walter slipped back in the chair and gripped the arms tightly.  No telling what SAC 
Keenan would think about Fox Mulder's participation.  There was only one way to find 
out, though.

"You see, sir, something happened the first day Doug and I saw Dean.  After Agent 
Waring received the case files, he accidentally left them out and a trainee read them."

Walter was feeling under fire again, not at all happy about the expression on the SAC's 
face.

"This trainee, Fox Mulder, has a doctorate in psychology from Oxford.  Did his 
dissertation on serial killers and their motivations.  No one really knew this kid had 
gotten involved until he woke up screaming bloody murder the next night.  He ended up 
in the infirmary, suffering from shock.  The next morning, Dean spoke with him.  It 
seems this Fox Mulder dreamed about one of the murders.  In explicit detail."

Keenan hadn't changed expression, hadn't spoken a word, so Walter continued with his 
tale.  "This kid dreamt about certain things happening that we hadn't really considered.  
The sexual psychopath angle, for instance.  And he'd also dreamt that the person who'd 
abducted these people was trustworthy in some way so that the victims went with him, 
willingly.  That was something we had hypothesized, but hadn't committed to paper."

Walter shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the clock behind Keenan's chair.  He could just 
imagine Doug in the briefing meeting, wondering where Walter was.  Probably getting 
pissed ... and worried.

He shifted again and cleared his throat.  "Some of the things this kid told Dean suggested 
that he had a unique ... perspective.  And insight."

Keenan nodded.  It was encouraging.  There was no yelling involved, so Walter told him 
the rest.

"Well, anyway, after Margie Connor, I brought her case file to Dean.  He decided to 
present the pertinent details to the class.  He convinced John Malloy to go along with it 
and they did it this morning."

Now came the really hard part.  He had to admit that they were intentionally bringing the 
trainee into the case.  An accidental reading of the case file was one thing.  This was 
something else entirely.  

Keenan interrupted his reverie.  "I'm still listening, Walter.  What else?"

Walter nodded and plunged on.  "Dean was planning on leaving the file for this trainee to 
read again.  He's convinced that Fox can contribute valuable insight."  And after a brief 
pause.  "So am I."  

He waited while the silence grew heavy.  But he was surprised by his SACs relatively 
laid back response.  Walter kept expecting yelling.

The older man shifted a bit, propped his chin on a raised fist.  "What's the impact on this 
trainee?  How's he handling it?"

Walter shifted slightly and ran a nervous hand through his hair.  Then he leaned forward 
and gripped his hands in his lap.  "I'm not completely sure, sir.  I know that the first night 
his dreams were severe enough to land him in the infirmary, but the next day he broke the 
speed record at the obstacle course.  I know that Dean ran into him in the library pretty 
late a night ago, so I guess it's possible, probable even, that his sleep's been affected."

Keenan was staring at him much the way that Dean had done earlier.  The older agent 
seemed to be considering something.  Weighing his thoughts and trying to decide what to 
actually say.

"Walter, I have to admit that I want this case solved, price be damned.  But it never 
occurred to me that the price might involve the well being of an FBI trainee."  The man 
stood up abruptly, and surprised Walter so much that he sat frozen for a few seconds 
before moving himself.  He finally stumbled to his feet just as Keenan started speaking 
again.

"Get off to the meeting and touch base with Doug.  I want to hear from you both this 
afternoon.  Bring the case to Patterson's people again.  Develop parallel profiles.  If you 
need to go to Quantico, just let me know ahead of time.  And Walter?"

He turned towards the SAC, wondering what the man wanted from him.  "Sir?"

"I told you it's the job of the ASACs to manage every aspect of the case.  Well, it's just 
become your personal responsibility to keep a close eye on this trainee.  You've just 
become accountable for his welfare, Walter.  Understand?"

He wasn't sure he did, but had learned one thing quite early in life.  Always say yes and 
then figure out how to make it happen later.  He nodded, saying, "Yes, sir."

"All right, Walter.  Keep me informed."

And just like that, he was dismissed.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 20 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:47 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Walter pushed himself away from the tree and almost stumbled towards the bench he'd 
started thinking of as his.  When he sank down onto it, he realized that things hadn't 
changed much in all these years.  Even though Mulder wasn't really his responsibility 
right now, he still was.

*******************************************

Present Day
Sunday, 6:42 p.m.
Saratoga Hotel, Richmond, Virginia


Scully stood in the empty hotel room and stared at the connecting door that led to a 
stranger's room.  Her mother had gone searching for dinner and she was supposed to take 
a shower and change.  She'd made it inside the room far enough to kick off her shoes, but 
now stood frozen staring at the door that would normally have brought her to her 
partner's side.

Mulder wasn't there.  His things weren't there.  He'd been staying at the Bureau 
conference room.  But, still, it was almost as if his spirit were there.

How many times had she knocked on the connecting door between their rooms and told 
him to hurry up?  How many times had he pounded on hers and asked if she wanted to go 
for a run? Memories of past cases flooded her and she felt her knees weaken.  She 
allowed herself to sink down onto the carpet, eyes still glued to that door, and took a 
shuddering breath.  She wanted him to be there, whole and safe and strong, so very badly.  
She needed him to be whole again.  She could feel the tears coming up on her again and 
she tried to fight them off.  She had to stay strong for just a few hours more.  Just until 
her partner and friend was awake again.  Just until she could tell him what she should 
have told him long ago.

A sob overtook her and she allowed herself to drop her head down on her outstretched 
arm.  She rolled onto her side and pulled her knees up towards her chest.  She let the tears 
come finally as wracking sobs shook her entire body.  She knew she had to pull herself 
together.  She wasn't important.  Her feelings weren't important. Nothing was important.  
Nothing except getting her partner back, safe and sound.

She told herself to stop crying.  Told herself to get up, but she couldn't force herself to 
move.  She was gasping now, hardly able to breathe.  Her nose was clogged and her eyes 
were so puffy she could barely open them.  Her throat was raw and her body still shook 
from the sobs that she couldn't stop.  

She didn't hear the door open and close.  Didn't hear the exclamation of surprise, or the 
shuffle of feet on the carpet.  But she felt the arms that wrapped around her.  Heard the 
soft murmuring in her ear.  

"Shhh.  It'll be all right, baby.  Everything's going to be okay.  Mama's here, sweetie.  
Everything's going to turn out okay."

She didn't know how long she lay there. Her limbs felt almost disconnected, both light 
and cumbersome at the same time.  She started to calm finally, enough so that she could 
at least breathe more easily.  Her eyes were so swollen that it was actually painful to open 
them.  She realized finally that her mother sat on the floor behind her, one arm wrapped 
tightly around her ribs, the other smoothing back the hair from her face.

A flash of embarrassment overtook her and she had an urge to turn away.  To hide herself 
away from her mother or anyone else who would see her this way.  So weak and out of 
control.  But it was exactly that approach to life that had nearly caused a chasm in her 
relationship with her best friend and partner.  She had to stop turning away.  It was time 
to grow up and admit to herself that asking for help wasn't a weakness.

She rolled over and felt herself wrapped tightly in her mother's arms, her head resting on 
her mother's shoulder.  Her voice was hoarse and broken when she finally managed to 
speak.  "Mom, I'm so scared.  I'm so scared."

"I know, baby.  I know you are.  But it'll be all right.  It will.  Fox is strong.  He's getting 
better now.  He's going to be fine."

She shifted slightly so she could look up at her mother.  "I accused his mother of hiding 
information from him. I basically accused her of knowing about Samantha's abduction. I 
did it in front of Mulder, Mom.  How could I have done that?  It was cruel."

Her mother's hands rubbed her back, smoothed her hair off her face.  "But you didn't 
mean for it to be cruel.  You did it because you wanted to help your friend find what he's 
been looking for all these years."

Scully nodded, knowing that she would always be on Mulder's side, even against his own 
mother, if necessary.

"I shouldn't have asked her then. It was wrong of me.  She loves him, Mom.  I'm sure of 
it."

"Yes, I know she does.  But that doesn't mean that she doesn't have a lot to answer for.  
Still, baby, I think your timing probably could have been a bit better."

Scully felt the small smile that touched her lips.  It felt so strange.  So out of place. And it 
faded as she thought again about what she'd done and the ramifications of her actions.  
"I'm afraid he won't forgive me.  I'm afraid I might have screwed up their chances of ever 
making it right between them."  She was surprised when her mother laughed.  

"Sweetheart, Fox isn't stupid.  Neither is his mother.  Whether they ever make amends or 
not is something that they'll have to figure out on their own.  Nothing you say will affect 
that."

Scully sighed and let herself relax finally, willing her muscles to unclench, one by one.  
She was utterly drained.  Hollow now of almost all emotion and feeling.  There was 
nothing left but a spark of determination.  With her mother next to her and an image of 
Mulder held firmly in her mind, she knew that she could do it.  She could hold on for 
however long it would take.  She'd be there for him, helping to make him well.  Whatever 
he needed, now or in the future, she'd make sure he got it.  And she admitted to herself, 
there in the darkening hotel room, that she'd go to the ends of the earth for him.  She'd 
accepted yesterday that she loved him, but it had been an intellectual realization only.  
Now she knew it in every cell of her body and corner of her mind.  

She rolled to her hands and knees, then pushed herself upright.  Her head bounced on her 
neck like one of those dolls you see on the back ledge of tacky automobiles.  Her mother 
was next to her, lending her strength, helping her rise.  She accepted the help thankfully 
and looked directly at her mother for the first time.  She was shocked to discover that her 
mother's face was streaked with dried tears.  She should have known.  Her mother would 
do anything to take away her children's pain.  

Scully attempted a smile and stood straighter, feeling her strength start to return.  "I'm 
fine, Mom.  I'll be fine.  And Mulder will be, too.  I know it."

Her mother smiled and nodded, letting her arms drop slowly.

Scully turned to the bathroom.  "I'm going to take a shower, Mom.  We have to be back at 
the CCU before eight."

She heard her mother's soft words as she closed the bathroom door.  "We'll be there in 
time, Dana.  Don't worry."

But she wasn't worried anymore.  She knew herself better now than she had in years and 
years.  She had a purpose.  She had a direction.  As the water hit her skin, she thought 
only of one thing.  One name that made her whole.  Mulder.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 20 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:52 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Walter shivered a bit, realizing that the temperature was dropping now that the sun was 
setting.  He looked around the little garden area and saw a couple different groups of 
people.  He'd seen them before.  They'd passed by each other over the last day, each 
absorbed in their separate tragedies.  He wondered for a moment how their loved ones 
were doing.

A scuffle to the left caused him to turn and he saw Jerry walking towards him, looking 
like death warmed over.  Skinner slid over to the far right on the bench, leaving plenty of 
room for the younger man to sit.

Jerry looked on the verge of collapse, and it worried Skinner more than he cared to admit.  
But when the other agent nodded hello, Skinner could see the spark of excitement behind 
the weariness.

"AD Skinner, how's Agent Mulder?"

"He's still in critical condition, but he's starting to come out of the coma. There's reason to 
be at least slightly optimistic."

Jerry dropped his shoulders even more and sighed, his face clearly showing a heartfelt 
relief.

Skinner raised his eyebrows.  "Well?"  He knew the team back at the Bureau had been 
working round the clock and was curious as to whether they'd come up with anything yet.  
It wasn't really his place to be involved, but everyone had accepted that he would  be.  
Besides, he was pretty sure about what they'd ultimately find.

"Sir, the team's been divided as you suggested earlier. SAC Landers assigned a task 
group to investigate the list of those men who'd been rejected by the Bureau or had been 
accepted into the Academy but failed or dropped out."

Skinner nodded, encouraging Jerry to go on.  

"Based on the notes that Dana found in Mulder's computer referring to schizophrenia and 
sociopathy, SAC Landers established several different lists for cross-referencing."

Skinner shifted a bit, then nodded again.  He had hypothesized that Carl would follow 
that course of action.  It was the only thing that made sense, once the man had given 
credence to Mulder's request and the reason behind it.

"The SAC requested that the team give each rejected individual one or more of the 
following tags -- psychological disorder-schizophrenia, psychological disorder-
sociopathological tendencies, psychological disorder-other, physical inadequacy, 
personal choice."

Skinner was curious.  "Personal choice?"

Jerry nodded, then shifted on the hard bench in an obvious attempt to get more 
comfortable.  "Yes, sir.  Almost two hundred of the men voluntarily withdrew themselves 
from consideration at some point, so SAC Landers felt that these were not likely suspects.  
Agent Mulder had been adamant about checking on men who had been either 
unacceptable from the start or who had failed, not those who'd withdrawn."

Skinner pushed himself up from the bench and tried to stretch his back.  "All right.  I'll 
buy that.  So that leaves around three hundred suspects."

"Yes, sir.  Three hundred forty-four."

"Still a whole hell of a lot."

"Yes, sir.  But in addition, Agent Mulder had specified an age range that he believed was 
most likely.  He did this the very first time he asked me to check into these suspects.  By 
restricting our list to those men presently under the age of thirty-two, we were able to 
reduce our candidates to two hundred sixty-seven."

Skinner took a few steps away, then turned back to the younger man.  "Go on."

Jerry was now bent over a bit, elbows on knees, hands hanging down between them.  The 
younger man nodded before continuing.  "SAC Landers further prioritized by having us 
look at the last two years only.  This cut the list to one hundred seventy-three.  Of these, 
the team discovered that almost half had been unacceptable or had dropped out due to 
physical problems or lack of physical capabilities.  There were sixty-two men who'd been 
deemed unacceptable because of psychological problems."

Skinner stood with arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused intently on Jerry.  A list of 
sixty suspects was more than manageable.

"Of these, there were twenty-two who had been characterized as sociopathic or having 
substantial sociopathic tendencies."

Skinner propped one foot on the bench and leaned over his knee.  "Any of these live in 
the Richmond area?"

Jerry smiled just a bit.  "There were twelve men who lived within a three hundred mile 
diameter of the city.  Of these, seven of them live close enough to have what would be 
deemed easy access to the Richmond area."

"And what about cross-referencing to Harold Stevens?"

"Our team hasn't found anything yet, sir.  But they're still working on it."

"What about men who were rejected from police agencies other than the Bureau?  Why 
not look at men who'd been rejected from the RPD, for instance?"

Jerry dropped his hands to either side of his legs and laid them flat on the hard bench, 
seeming to flex arms and back simultaneously.  He took a deep breath, then nodded as he 
answered.  "Yes, sir.  SAC Landers put out alerts to PDs up and down the coast, but 
focusing on the Virginia area.  He requested that they put all available manpower on the 
search to see whether there were any likely suspects.  Those lists are being compiled, 
updated, and faxed to the Bureau.  We've got another hundred or so individuals that SAC 
Landers considers to be valid suspects.  From the Richmond area alone, we have fourteen 
possibles."

Skinner thought about it for a second, then stepped away and turned back to Jerry.  "So 
you have a little over twenty primary suspects right now, correct?"

Jerry nodded, then pushed himself upright, one hand on his back, the other running 
through his hair.  "That's right, sir.  The RPD is working with us on background checks 
for our primaries."

Skinner thought of something else.  "Do we have another analyst from ISU working the 
case?"

"Yes, sir.  Laura Jenkins drove down and has been reviewing everything, including 
Mulder's notes.  She's had his computer since early this morning.  She found another set 
of notes and is in the process of working up a revised profile.  We're making progress, 
sir."

Skinner breathed deeply and dropped his head, almost to his chest.  His neck was killing 
him.  When he raised his head to look at Jerry, he felt the headache that had flirted with 
him all night start to creep up on him again.  

"Agent Friedman, what about forensics?"

"Sir, there hasn't been anything yet from the Rossbacher's or from the crime scene at the 
warehouse that has indicated another perp.  They've rushed the autopsy on Stevens. They 
also collected as much as possible from Mulder's clothes in case there's evidence of a 
second assailant. They'll contact me if they find anything."

Jerry looked so despondent that Skinner took pity on him.  He took a step closer and 
gripped the other man's arm for just a moment.  "Something'll turn up, Agent Friedman.  
We have to just keep looking.  Sometimes, it's just a series of small things that only make 
sense when that last piece of data has been added to the pile."

The younger man nodded, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.  "I hope so, sir.  I hope it 
happens soon.  I'm afraid to think of what might happen otherwise."

Skinner knew very well what Jerry meant.  He glanced at his watch and saw he still had 
about a half hour before Scully and the others were likely to show up.  "Come on, Agent 
Friedman.  I'm going to get some dinner.  It looks like you could use something to eat, as 
well."

The younger man hesitated and glanced at his watch.  "Actually, sir, I was going to head 
back to the Bureau.  I really need to touch base with the SAC."

"When did you speak with him last?"

Jerry looked sheepish when he answered.  "Actually, right before I came here.  He asked 
that I deliver his regards and ask after Agent Mulder for him."

"And did he specify when he wanted you back again?"

"Well, not really, sir."

"Good, then it's settled.  You can keep me company."  He turned towards the door and 
smiled to himself when he heard the scuffle behind him.  Jerry had appeared to be on the 
verge of collapse.  At least he could make sure the younger man had one halfway decent 
meal in him before heading back to the Bureau.

It was a quiet trip to the cafeteria and in only minutes, Skinner found himself sitting at a 
table in a far corner of the large room, with Jerry across from him and a plate of meatloaf 
in front of him.  The silence stretched even longer as he buttered his roll and added sugar 
and cream to his coffee.  Jerry seemed to be playing with his vegetables nervously.  The 
younger man took Skinner by surprise by breaking the silence with a hesitant comment.

"Sir, I think I should tell you that there are some members of the team who are ... not 
convinced about this new theory.  They believe Stevens acted alone.  In fact, they think 
this entire line of investigation is a waste of time."

Skinner rested his elbows on the table and picked up his fork.  "It would certainly be the 
easier thing to believe."  He glanced across the table as he stabbed at his meat loaf.  
"What do you think, Agent Friedman?"

The younger man seemed to be confused. He played with his vegetables a bit before 
answering.  "I have to admit that I want it the be over, sir.  I can't help hoping that we'll 
find that Stevens thought this up, planned everything, and executed these kidnappings all 
by himself."

Skinner nodded in understanding.  "But?"

"But ... I guess I have more faith in Agent Mulder's profile and hunches that I originally 
thought.  I'm convinced."  Jerry took a bite and swallowed quickly.  "You're not bothered 
by the fact that they're questioning this, sir?"

Skinner smiled, then shook his head.  "It's only to be expected, Agent.  Besides, you 
wouldn't believe how many times I've been on the disbelieving side where Agent 
Mulder's concerned."

"But not this time, sir?"

Skinner paused, fork raised in front of him.  He felt a shiver run up his spine as a memory 
took him by surprise.  He cleared his throat hastily.  "No, Agent Friedman.  I know he's 
right.  Just like he was thirteen years ago.  Although it took us all a while to realize it.  
Including him."

Jerry took a sip of water and focused on Skinner.  "Sir, I went through the Academy 
about six years after Agent Mulder.  There were a few stories that circulated around then.  
Everyone called him Spooky, sometimes as if it were an insult and sometimes a 
compliment.  I don't understand it.  He's an incredible analyst."

Skinner waited the other man out, knowing a question was imminent.

"What happened, sir?"

"What do mean, Agent Friedman?"

The other man paused, as if considering just how much he really wanted to know.  "I 
know he was considered one of the best analysts in the ISU.  Then he left for the X-Files.  
Ever since I was assigned to this case, I've heard rumors and gossip.  It's hard to believe 
they're talking about the same man I've worked beside."

Skinner just nodded, again waiting silently.  He took a another bite of mashed potatoes, 
wondering how the cooks had managed to make them so incredibly boring.

"Anyway, sir, I guess I'm curious how someone who was the best in his class, the best at 
everything, ended up..."

"The butt of so many jokes?"

Friedman had the grace to blush, even though he hadn't said it himself.  "I guess so, sir."

Skinner picked up his glass of water, staring at it for a moment as if the answers were 
contained within.  He sighed deeply and said, "Even the best sometimes make mistakes, 
Agent Friedman."  He took a slow sip and stared out across the room.  "And sometimes ... 
sometimes, it's just that the rest of us don't realize that what looks like a mistake is just 
genius in disguise."

*******************************************


PAST
September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 10:52 a.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


Fox walked slowly towards the group of trainees and National Academy participants that 
gathered outside the proving grounds.  He glanced around and lifted his head, enjoying 
the sunshine.  It had been unseasonably hot and the cool breeze that blew across his face 
was a little slice of heaven.  They had a few minutes still before they were supposed to 
start.  He wasn't really looking forward to this exercise.  He felt stretched, out of control, 
exhausted.  He didn't know if he could focus and prayed he wouldn't be selected as a 
primary player today.  He saw Chris and Rob, talking with Hank and Shirley, and walked 
towards them.  Chris saw him and nodded, a frown on his face.  Fox saw the other man's 
gaze sweep over him and he almost stopped in his tracks at the scrutiny.

"Hey, Fox.  How are things?"

Fox sensed the concern behind the question and saw the others turn to look at him.  He 
flushed in embarrassment at the attention and ran a hand through his hair nervously.  He 
cleared his throat and attempted a smile.  "Just fine.  What's up today?  Anyone know?"  
He was pleased that he'd managed to sound calm.

Rob gestured behind them towards the set of makeshift houses.  "Not totally sure.  We 
think it'll either be a hostage scenario or standard bash and grab."

Fox nodded, not really caring at this point.  He just wanted it over with.  Wanted to go to 
bed and stay there for the rest of the week.  Maybe the month.  His musings were cut 
short by the appearance of Instructor Ramey.  Fox felt a surge of relief.  If Ramey were in 
charge, then chances were he himself would be a minor player, since Ramey had been the 
one to put him in charge of the bank robbery.

Fox sighed and let his shoulders drop a bit.  He hadn't realized how tense he was.  He felt 
someone brush against him and saw Shirley looking at him searchingly.  He tried to smile 
to reassure her but knew it fell flat.

Philip Ramey called them all to order then, dispelling any further interaction.  "Today 
we're breaking you into six groups.  Each group will have roughly six members to it.  We 
have six different stations that you'll be circulated through.  Each of you will have an 
opportunity to lead your team at one of these stations."

Fox groaned inwardly and was surprised when Ramey walked over towards him.  
"Trainee Mulder, do you have some problem with what I've outlined?"

Fox felt himself burn with embarrassment, even as he struggled to stand as straight as 
possible. He had no idea he'd made any sound out loud.  "No, sir.  I'm sorry, sir."  He 
swallowed dryly, wishing he'd be delivered from this hell.

"Trainee Mulder, you've just earned the honor of being first up at station one."  The man 
stepped back and turned then, saying, "The rest of you listen up as I give assignments.  I 
want you in your groups as soon as I call out your names."

Fox stood rooted to his spot, feeling the sweat start at his forehead and the back of his 
neck.  Jesus, it wasn't enough that he felt completely wasted, worse than any drunk he'd 
ever been on.  Now he was supposed to lead a team in some sort of hostage rescue 
situation.  He was breathing harder, unaware of the shuffle of bodies as students and 
National Academy students organized themselves into the appropriate groups.

It wasn't until he heard his own name called that he realized there were five others 
standing close by.  Clay, Chris, and Jarrod were there, along with Jimmy and Alison.  A 
nice mix of experienced NA students and trainees.  He swallowed again and nodded to 
them all.  Everyone looked tense.  He wondered idly if he'd missed an important 
instruction or if it was because he'd screwed up already.  They were probably worried 
he'd already given them all a black mark.

Clay swatted him on the arm lightly.  "You playing tonight?"

Fox was filled with confusion at first, his mind still focused on the upcoming exercise.  
"What?"

"Tonight?  Tuesday?  Basketball?"

He finally understood and felt stupid for not realizing it before.  He shook his head 
quickly.  "Doubt it.  I need sleep.  I'll probably turn in early."  He crossed his arms and 
hugged his chest tightly.

The other man laughed.  "You're not that old, boy."

Fox smiled, appreciating the other man's attempt at humor.  He relaxed a bit and tried to 
clear his mind.  

Clay spoke again, this time to Chris.  "What about you, buddy?  You claiming old age, 
too?"

"Not hardly, my friend.  I'll be there, never fear.  No lame excuses from me."

He knew Chris was trying to get him to lighten up and he wanted to oblige.  "Ha ha, old 
man.  Just wait until I'm a hundred percent.  I'll kick your ass."

"Yeah, yeah.  You talk big.  You know what they say about guys who have to resort to 
empty boasting."

Fox smiled more broadly and raised an eyebrow.  "Yeah?  Just what exactly do they 
say?"  He watched Alison out of the corner of his eye.  Despite Chris's talk, he knew the 
other man was a gentlemen.  It was going to be fun watching him get out of this.  There 
was no way the older man would make dirty comments in front of the female trainee.  
Sure enough.  Fox called it right.  Chris glanced at the woman standing across from him 
and turned red.  His mouth was open but no sound emerged.  After several seconds of 
uncomfortable silence, Ali started laughing, then moved to throw an arm around Chris.  
The other men in the group joined in the laughter, enjoying Chris's discomfort.  Fox felt 
freed by the laughter and the camaraderie.  It felt good.  Made him feel secure.

Fox sighed and dropped his arms to his hips, turning for the first time to see who was in 
what group.  He caught Shirley's eye and smiled.  She was standing with Jay and seemed 
to be flirting with the older man.  Fox grinned at her and winked.  They had an 
agreement, after all.  Good friends.  That was it.  Neither of them wanted or needed 
anything more just now.  There were just too many other things to think about.

He saw that some of the other instructors were already giving their briefings and 
wondered who they'd get for the first station.  He knew immediately when he caught 
sight of Agent Ramey heading their way.  He made sure to keep the groan to himself this 
time.  He stood straighter, eyes on the instructor, but sensed his classmates doing the 
same.

"All right.  Here's the drill gentlemen ... and lady."  The instructor nodded his head 
cordially to Alison.  There was what could only be called a feral smile on his face and it 
made Fox extremely nervous.  The man pointed to the warehouse behind the class.  
"We're starting here -- station one.  You'll run through your drill then proceed to that 
corner, Main and 3rd Street, where you'll receive your instructions for station two."

The man turned and waved his arm for them to follow, even while keeping up a running 
commentary.  "Here's the situation.  We've received a call from someone who was 
outside the warehouse. He claims he heard what sounded like gunfire.  The person who 
reported it said he didn't think the warehouse had been used for years.  That it was 
abandoned.  He claims to live nearby and said he was walking his dog.  Said it sounded 
like two or possibly three shots.  The warehouse had been targeted as being part of a drug 
smuggling operation involving multiple countries.  This is where we come in."

They'd reached the side of the warehouse and Fox saw a van with gear and weapons.  
Ramey gestured towards it.  "Get suited up.  You have two minutes."

Fox waited until a space opened and grabbed his gear quickly.  They'd gotten pretty good 
at suiting up fast.  He pulled the vest over his head and cinched the straps tightly.  Pulled 
on a heavy jacket, a helmet and radio.  An agent stood towards the back of the van with 
weapons.  Fox checked out a side arm and rifle, then took stock of those around him.  
Everyone was pretty much ready.  

Ramey stood in front of the warehouse so Fox walked towards him, rifle gripped tightly.  
He knew the others were following him.  He could hear the clinking from behind.  He 
stopped near Ramey and turned to look at the warehouse closely.  

Earlier in the day the sun had been bright and the day clear.  It had been clouding up all 
day and the temperature had dropped.  The sun was completely hidden now and it seemed 
almost as if it were late in the afternoon rather than mid-day.  The wind had picked up 
and the occasional burst of wind caused the sweat on his forehead to cool.  Fox could feel 
his hair plastered to his head, soaked already from the hot helmet.  He resisted the urge to 
try to wipe it away, knowing it was a futile desire.  Instead, he focused his attention 
solely on the building. He was already running scenarios through his head, trying to 
figure out what the situation might be inside.

Ramey's voice disturbed his thoughts and he forced himself to refocus his attention on 
what was happening.  He could practically feel the excitement of the men around him.  
And Ali, of course.  Testosterone and ... whatever the hell it was Ali exuded when she 
was psyched.  He smiled a bit at the thought and realized with an embarrassed start that 
he'd  been looking at her.  She was staring at him, not in challenge but in curiosity.  He 
shook his head slightly and turned back to Ramey.  He didn't need two of those particular 
problems in his life right now.  Although he had to admit they were the perfect kind of 
problems to have.

"I'm going to assign each of you a number.  You will be leader when you get to the 
corresponding station."  The instructor pointed to each in what appeared to be a random 
fashion, but ended with a finger pointed directly at Fox.

"You're number one, Mulder.  Get your team organized.  You have five minutes to 
prepare.  And one minute to ask questions."

Fox nodded and looked at his classmates.  He forced his earlier thoughts to the farthest 
reaches of his mind and considered the task ahead.  He licked his lips and turned to 
Ramey decisively.

"Do we know anything about the warehouse?  What might be in it?  The possible 
layout?"

Ramey shook his head.  "All we know is that it seems to have been unused as a real 
warehouse for several years.  We haven't yet received intelligence on what it used to be."

"What about exits?"

"There's the front door which you can see, and the three sliding doors at the loading areas 
here in front.  Then there's another door around the back."

"Do we know where it leads?"

"Inside?"

Fox grimaced at the other man's joke and was thoughtful for a few seconds.

"Windows?"

"Nothing near the ground."

"Any roof access?"

"We don't know."

"Has there been surveillance on the warehouse in connection with the drug smuggling?"

Ramey seemed to smile a bit, but Fox couldn't be sure.  "Off and on.  Always when one 
of the men being tailed has been inside."

"And are any of those who've been tailed present now, sir?"

"No."

"What kind of support do we have outside?"

"You're a special talk force that makes first entry.  There's a SWAT team waiting for your 
word to advance. Standard weaponry outside."

"Would those inside have been alerted to police presence?"

"Possibly.  There are several black and whites, unmarked cars, and the SWAT van.  
They're supposedly out of sight but it's always possible someone was careless."

"And the teams have approached silently?"

"Yes, and out of view of any windows."

Fox paused, bit his lip slightly.  He was missing something but couldn't think of what.  
He turned to his classmates and lifted an eyebrow.  "Anyone?"  He received only head 
shakes from them.

Ramey said, "Minute's up.  You now have four."  The older man walked away, heading 
towards the van.  Fox knew there were cameras inside, recording the event for later 
review.  He prayed he wouldn't make a total ass of himself.

He surveyed the building again, then looked back to his team.  "Okay, I want Ali, Clay, 
and Jarrod around back.  Jimmy and Chris are with me.  We stay in communication until 
entry and enter on my command.  Keep the radios on A band.  Radio silence once we go 
in."

Everyone nodded.  

"We're entering into a complete unknown here."  The thought grabbed hold of him and 
left him cold.  It was true.  They knew nothing at all about what might or might not be 
waiting for them inside.  It seemed the worst kind of recklessness to be barging in.  He 
glanced over to where Ramey stood by the van and considered asking one more question.  
He knew it would be useless, though.  He'd already spent his minute.  Time to move 
forward.

"Stay smart inside and relay intelligence as soon and often as possible.  Keep it low and 
quiet as long as you can."

He turned to Clay.  "You're in charge of decisions back there.  Keep everyone moving 
forward, making sure there's no opportunity for anyone to get behind you."

Clay nodded and glanced at his partners.  They were both smiling.

Fox turned to Jimmy and Chris. "Same holds true for us.  We'll all meet in the middle, 
hoping there's nothing more exciting inside than dirt and bugs."

They all smiled.

"Any questions?"

Fox nodded and gestured towards the building.  "Just remember, there might be armed 
suspects inside.  We don't know how many.  We don't know if there are rooms inside 
where the suspects might be hiding.  We don't know anything.  Be smart.  Now set your 
radios everyone."

He watched as Clay and his team disappeared around the corner and pulled his radio 
close to his mouth.  "Can you hear me okay?"

Clay's voice sounded out.  "Loud and clear."

"Everyone else check in."

"Alison here."  "Jarrod."  "Chris."  "Jimmy."  

"Okay, how you guys doing back there?"

"We're at the door.  I'm checking the lock."  

Fox and his team had approached the front door while the others were circling the 
building and he'd already checked it over.  Jimmy pulled out a lock pick and knelt down, 
waiting for the word to start working on it.  Fox spoke into the radio again, keeping his 
voice soft and low.  "Open or locked?"

"Locked.  Rusty, but we can open it.  We need about a minute."

Fox nodded to Jimmy.  "Same here.  We're starting.  Keep me informed."

Fox held his breath as Jimmy worked.  After only thirty seconds or so, the other man 
looked up and smiled.

"We're set out front.  How you guys doing?"

"Just about."

Another fifteen or twenty seconds passed before Clay's voice crackled over the radio.  
"We're set."

Fox breathed deeply and nodded.  Gestured for Jimmy to get to the right of the door and 
Chris to the left.  He'd go in first.  "You in position?"

"Yep."

"Okay, we go on three, but keep it quiet as long as you can."

"Yep."

"Everyone turn your sound down as low as you can manage.  Once inside, maintain radio 
silence unless it's an emergency."  He lowered his own sound and said, "One, two, three."  
On two he'd raised the rifle in front of him and on three, Jimmy turned the knob and 
pushed the door inward.

There was no sound whatsoever and the interior was very dark, with little light making its 
way inside from the broken windows up near the second floor.  In the instant he stood 
there, he realized he couldn't see to the back.  There were crates stacked up in the middle 
of the floor, blocking the view.  He moved immediately in and to the right, then used his 
left hand to wave the others in. He saw that there were no rafters or upper floor.  
Nowhere for anyone to hide above them.

There was no movement and no sound.  He panned from right to left then back again and 
was certain there was no one visible.  He whispered, "Chris, go left.  Jimmy, check out 
those crates and sweep the middle.  I'll head right."

He saw two rooms to the left, each with glass fronts.  It would be easy to tell whether 
there was anyone inside.  There were no lights on anywhere.  Dirt and trash on the floor.  
No visible signs that anyone had been here for years.  He knew intellectually that couldn't 
be true, seeing as how this was a testing area, but still, it sure looked damned deserted to 
him.

There were more crates shoved against the right wall.  They were stacked three or four 
high.  It seemed as if they formed walls that cut into the warehouse floor, jutting out 
basically perpendicular from the building's wall.  He kept his eyes riveted to the right, 
knowing that his partners would be taking care of the middle and left.  He moved slowly, 
making sure each foot was solid before picking the next one up and advancing.  He heard 
nothing except his own occasional scuff and the pounding of his heart.

There was a faint crackling at his ear and he paused, breath held.  There was no other 
sound from the radio.  No sound from anywhere.

He came even with the first line of crates and carefully looked around the edge, rifle held 
at the ready.  The crates were stacked up in such a way that he couldn't tell what was 
behind them until he physically moved into the aisle.  It made him more than nervous.  
Once he was sure the first aisle was clear, he started towards the second.  There were 
about four of them and he guessed that one of the team who entered from the rear would 
be approaching from the other side.  

He took a few more steps forward and paused at the end, listening for any movement.  He 
still hadn't seen anyone from the other team and it occurred to him that it was odd.  
Someone from Clay's team should be paralleling his own movements.  He considered 
asking for an update but decided that maintaining silence was probably the best course of 
action.  He swallowed past the dryness in his throat and once again resisted wiping the 
sweat from his forehead.  He had a horrible feeling that something was wrong, but he 
didn't know what it was or how it had happened. 

He leaned against the end of the row of crates and turned his head to the left for the first 
time.  He saw absolutely nothing.  No sign of anyone on his team anywhere.  He heard 
nothing.  He licked his lips and tried to figure out what the hell was going on.  Why he 
had this feeling of impending disaster.  He gripped the rifle more tightly and turned back 
the way he'd come.  

He knew what he was doing broke all sorts of rules.  He could be putting his team in 
danger by not continuing to clear the right side of the warehouse.  By heading back, he 
could be allowing a suspect to get around their perimeter.  Still, he knew it was the right 
thing to do.  He couldn't explain it or even identify exactly what was spurring him on.  
But he knew he was right.

His heart was pounding now and he was having trouble breathing.  The sweat poured into 
his eyes and he had to blink fast in order to clear them.  He shifted his hands minutely on 
the rifle and gripped it tightly.  He moved around the crates and checked the aisle he'd 
just cleared a minute ago.  There was nothing there.  He walked a bit faster and eased 
himself around the first set of crates.  There was nothing there.  He leaned back against 
them and stared across the empty space to the door where they'd entered.  It was still 
open, almost beckoning to him.

He felt like an idiot.  There was no one behind him.  He'd been imagining trouble where 
none existed.  He turned once again to retrace his steps and felt the jab from behind that 
bit into his lower back, despite the vest and heavy coat.  Felt the chill at his throat that 
signaled metal.  There was a pressure on his left hand, preventing him from moving it.

The whisper in his ear sent chills down his spine.  "Don't move, shithead.  You're 
busted."  Something pushed him forward a step, something hard and pointed, even while 
the cold of the metal remained at his throat.  Then there was someone beside him as well, 
grabbing his rifle.  Then his helmet was jerked off, taking away any chance of using his 
radio.

The whisper sounded again in his ear.  "Hands up.  Don't move.  Don't speak."  He was 
shoved against the crates, his face pushed against the rough wood.  Still, there was no 
sound.

Fox closed his eyes, trying to understand what had happened.  There was a man behind 
him and another beside him.  He had no idea where they'd come from.  Fuck!

The man to his side was dressed in black from head to foot. Even his face was covered 
with a black mask.   For the first time in the last ten minutes Fox relaxed.  Why not?  It 
was basically all over.  But then the anger started to build.  He couldn't believe he'd been 
taken like this.  There had to be a trick.  There was no way they could have got him from 
behind.  No fucking way!

He expelled an angry breath and tensed.  His jaw was clenched so hard he thought he 
might crack a molar.  God damn it!  How did this happen?!

He started considering his options, trying to find a way out.  Before he could make any 
decisions, though, the man behind him leaned close.  The whispered voice made Fox 
almost ill.

"Couldn't quite cut it this time, could you, pretty boy?"

Fox went completely still, realizing this man was no longer playing a role.  This was 
someone who seemed to be pissed off at him.  The worst part was that he didn't know 
who it was or why anyone would be angry with him.  

"The little fox got caught.  I'll fucking hang you by your balls this time."

Fox started to shake his head, started to open his mouth to speak, but a hand pushed his 
head hard against the wood of the crate.  There was a crack in the silence, the result of his 
forehead meeting the hard wood with force.  A stabbing pain shot through his head, 
emanating from his forehead and he resisted the urge to throw up.

The man's hand was wrapped around his neck, with long fingers pushing up into his hair, 
forcing him to stay still.  He started to shake when he realized that his other attacker was 
no longer there. It was just this man and him.  A man who seemed to hate him, for some 
reason.

Fox tried to shift but felt the man's entire body against him.  Felt the cold at his neck.  
Then there was a pressure and pain and he couldn't breathe.  Couldn't think at first.  Shit!  
Fuck!  It was a real knife and the bastard cut him.  He whimpered, softly, but was 
punished for it when the man pulled his head back and forced it into the crate again, this 
time both forehead and nose meeting the wood painfully.  He barely acknowledged the 
tears that came to his eyes and clouded his vision.

He knew he was in trouble.  Knew he had to do something.  This wasn't just a training 
exercise any longer.  He allowed his body to go soft as if he'd fainted, forcing the bastard 
to either grab him or let him fall to the floor.  His attacker dropped the knife and gripped 
both his arms.  Fox let his head flop back bonelessly and had to resist a smile when the 
man cursed softly. Evidently an unconscious trainee would be difficult to explain.

He felt himself lowered, not necessarily roughly, but had to avoid a groan when the back 
of his head met the concrete floor.  He heard muttering from above and opened his eyes 
just enough to see through the slits.  His attacker wasn't looking at him.  Perfect.

He placed his hands flat on the floor for support and kicked both legs simultaneously, 
knocking the bastard to the floor with enough force to leave the man stunned.  At the 
same time he yelled as loud as he could, "Head for the exits.  It's an ambush!"  He rolled 
over to his knees, fighting the nausea, and was just pushing himself upright when the 
muzzle of a rifle was pushed under his chin.

Then the man in front of him said, "Bang, you're dead."

Fox allowed himself to drop back to the ground on hands and knees.  He lowered himself 
to his elbows and rested his pounding head on the floor.  Damn, he hurt.  

The man standing over him yelled out, "Everyone report to the back of the warehouse.  I 
want you all there in two minutes."  

Fox dragged his head up and squinted.  He recognized the voice.  The man had removed 
the mask that had covered his face and he was shocked to discover Agent Malloy 
standing over him.  

He managed a confused "Sir?", but the other man had eyes only for his attacker, who Fox 
could hear moving behind him.

Malloy said, "Jack, what the fuck's wrong with you?  You know there's no physical 
attacks on a training exercise.  Are you crazy?  What the hell did you do?"

Fox finally rolled himself to a sitting position and let his aching head rest against the 
crates.  He was starting to understand now.  His attacker had pulled his mask off, as well.  
It was Jack Seabury, the agent who'd been in charge of the bank robbery exercise.  The 
one who'd evidently become the butt of a few jokes after Fox's team won the exercise.

Fox sighed and closed his eyes, wondering idly if this is the way it would always be.  One 
step forward, two back.  Do a good job and someone else thinks you're making them look 
bad.  He tuned out the angry interaction between the two men.  It wasn't his concern, after 
all.

He raised a hand to his forehead and felt the bump there.  Ran a finger under his nose and 
wiped at the small stream of blood.  Then down to his neck and discovered more blood.  
Jesus, he hated the sight of blood.  Especially his own.

He felt a nudge on his boot and looked up.  Malloy was there, looking like a thundercloud 
in human form.  The man had a hand outstretched and Fox reached out, understanding 
now that it was time to go.

It was strange.  His thinking was both clear and muddled.  He didn't think he'd been 
seriously hurt, but it was as if his thoughts were moving at a speed too fast to interpret.  
As if they'd gone off on their own without his express permission.

He found himself standing upright and wondered how that had happened.  Last he knew, 
he'd just reached a hand out.  Then there was an arm around his waist and a hand at his 
arm.  He walked, putting one foot in front of the other, allowing himself to be led.  A part 
of him was amused.  Another bemused.  And then there was the part that was screaming, 
silently.  Unable to understand what was happening.  The time shift happened again and 
he was outside, sitting on the back ledge of the van.  Someone was speaking to him and 
he wondered if it had been going on for a long time.  The words coalesced into something 
with meaning and he felt an urge to reach out and try to grasp them physically.

"Fox, can you hear me?  Do you know where you are?  Come on and answer, now."

He squinted and opened his mouth, fully intending to answer, when his stomach objected.  
He practically threw himself around Malloy and was retching into the grass, his arms and 
legs shaking with the effort to hold him up.  He knew he should be embarrassed.  
Horrified at the undignified picture he was presenting.  But he couldn't summon even an 
ounce of pride.  All he knew was that he was fucking miserable.  He wanted to go to bed.  
Wake up and have it be last week.  Roll the calendar back and be innocent again.  That 
was his last thought before collapsing into a pile of his own vomit and blood.

*******************************************

End Part 10 of ?
(Feedback to kronos1@adelphia.net greatly appreciated)


f*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 11 of ? (11/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


PAST
September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 1:35 p.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


Walter strode up the steps leading to the infirmary, still trying to make sense of the brief 
message he'd gotten second-hand from Dean's secretary.  Last he'd heard, the students 
were due for a training exercise late this morning.  What the hell could have put the kid in 
the hospital from a simple training exercise?

He walked down the hallway purposefully but halted suddenly when he saw Dean turn a 
corner at the far end.  Right behind Dean came John Malloy.  Both men looked angry, 
and they'd obviously been arguing.  Walter started towards them, this time with a slower 
gait, even as his heart raced.  What the hell had happened?

They stopped, a couple paces away from one another, and Walter waited for the other 
men to take the lead.  He was shocked when Dean gave Malloy a look of complete and 
utter disdain.  When the older agent turned towards him, Walter couldn't help wondering 
if the lingering look of contempt was for Malloy or himself.

Walter licked his lips and sunk his hands deep in his pants pockets.  He was determined 
to wait them out.  He didn't know what the hell was going on between them, but decided 
it wasn't any of his concern.

Dean finally relented.  The older agent's lips were pulled tight, in a disapproving grimace.  
The words were just as tightly drawn when they came.  "Walter.  I'm afraid you're going 
to have to wait for any insights young Mr. Mulder might bring to your case."

Walter was taken aback, caught by surprise at the implications of the other man's words.  
Then he started to get angry.  After a brief struggle to keep a grip on his anger, he 
managed a question to the men in front of him.  "What happened?  What's wrong with 
him?"

Malloy seemed to be staring at a point on the ceiling somewhere down the hallway.  
Walter stared into Dean's eyes, demanding an answer, even without words.  

The older man asked softly, but in a voice of steel, "Why do you want to know, Walter?"

Walter was beyond surprised.  He was cast adrift by what he saw in his mentor's eyes.  
He didn't understand.  He shook his head slightly, as if the gesture might magically clear 
his befuddled thinking.  Before he could summon an answer, Dean spoke again, this time 
without the challenge.

"Never mind, Walter. This isn't your fault."

Walter couldn't miss the inflection in Dean's voice and looked again at Malloy.  The other 
man's face was stone, with no emotion showing at all.  

Finally, Malloy turned to Dean and spoke for the first time. "I'm going to check on the 
training exercise.  I'll talk with you later."

Even Walter understood the implicit threat of those words.  The man turned and walked 
back the way he'd come.  When he finally turned the corner, Walter allowed himself to 
relax a bit.  He felt as though he'd weathered a bad storm, but knew by Dean's expression 
they were in the eye of the hurricane at best.

Dean sighed heavily, but his voice remained steady when he spoke.  "Fox was ... hurt 
during the training exercise."

"How?  What the hell happened?"

Dean snorted.  "That's a good question."

Walter was growing impatient now, and it must have shown on his face, because Dean 
continued.

"Malloy headed up the organization for the exercise.  It was the big one.  You know, 
several stations.  Terrorists, fleeing assailants, hostage crisis, whatever."

Walter nodded, remembering it well.  It had been worse than the obstacle course.  Much 
worse.  Five hours of hell.  Both physical and psychological, since inevitably you were 
going to end up dead.  Still, he couldn't really imagine what had happened in such a short 
period of time to result in Mulder's ending up in the infirmary.

Dean was thoughtful.  "From what Malloy said, Fox and his group were at the first 
station.  The warehouse." 

Walter nodded again, remembering all six of his team dead in a matter of minutes.  

"Malloy was actually leading that drill.  He says ..."

Walter waited the other man out.

"He said that one of his team members got a bit excited when he captured Fox.  Said the 
kid accidentally bumped his head against a crate.  He's got a minor concussion.  No big 
thing."

But Walter could tell by the way Dean relayed the story that the older man didn't believe 
it.  "What really happened, Dean?"

The older man shook his head hard.  "I don't know."

"Can you guess?"

The look Dean gave him was sharp.  Walter  crossed his arms, stood a bit straighter, 
refusing to be intimidated.

"I know that Jack Seabury was on Malloy's team."

Now, Walter was confused and it must have shown.

"Seabury led the bank robbery exercise.  He's been the butt of quite a few jokes around 
here ever since.  You probably wouldn't have heard.  Spend some time in the lunchroom."

Walter snorted softly.  He knew all too well what happened to someone who made the 
mistake of showing up another agent in front of his peers.  It was never pretty.  He turned 
toward the infirmary, as if he could see through the wall, suddenly feeling sorry for the 
kid.  Not because Fox had gotten hurt, but because Walter knew that younger man was in 
for a career of it.  It would be inevitable.

Dean broke him from his reverie.  "What pisses me off the most is the cut on the kid's 
neck."

Walter felt his stomach lurch.  His voice was dangerous when he asked, "What?"

Dean once again looked angry.  "An inch long cut, shallow but deep enough to draw 
plenty of blood."

What Dean was implying was something more than petty payback.  It was a damned 
exercise, for Christ's sake.  "What are you saying, Dean?"

The silence stretched out then.  Dean shook his head and muttered his response.  
"Nothing.  I'm not saying anything, Walter.  And I don't know why you're here."  The 
older man turned to him straight on and said, "Just why are you here?"

This was too much.  After all, the damned message had come from Dean.  "I got a phone 
call from your secretary saying that Fox had been hurt during the exercise.  I assumed it 
had come from you."

Dean was staring at him.  That scientist looking at a bug kind of a stare that Walter had 
almost become used to over the past week or so.  The man harumphed, as if all was 
explained.  "Go home, Walter.  If Fox tells me anything important, I'll let you know."

Walter felt the anger start to surface again, mixed in with hurt.  He could almost feel his 
face turn red as his blood pressure increased.  He took a step forward, not even aware of 
how menacing it was.  The words he spoke were practically a growl.  "What the hell does 
that mean, Dean?  You're sending me home like some recalcitrant child?  Who the hell do 
you think you are?"  He wasn't prepared for the other man's angry response.

"Who do I think I am, Walter?"  Dean laughed harshly.  "I wish to hell I knew.  I used to 
think I was a good judge of character.  I thought I knew you, but I'm not sure anymore.  
I'm not sure of anyone, anymore."

Walter immediately stepped back, letting himself lean against the wall.  He needed the 
distance and the weakness in his knees demanded the additional support.  He actually felt 
choked up and was embarrassed when his eyes filled.  He was too tired for this 
conversation.  His emotions were too close to the surface and completely out of control.  
He hated this.  Only Dean could elicit this response from him.

This time, all he could manage was a whisper.  "I don't understand."  The older man 
looked at him kindly this time and it was almost too much.  The exhaustion and stress of 
too many hours working the case caught up with him.  Walter swiped at his eyes, rubbing 
them with one hand.  He felt a hand on his shoulder and forced himself to look at his old 
friend.

Dean looked almost devastated.  The older man shook his head wearily.  "I'm sorry, 
Walter.  I'm an idiot.  An old idiot who thinks too much."

Walter swallowed heavily, still waiting for enlightenment.

"As you get older, you think you see more clearly.  I certainly thought I did.  I just hope 
it's not true this time, that's all."

Walter shook his head, not understanding anything about what the other man was saying.  
Dean must have seen it because he continued on, almost reflectively now.

"You know, Walter, I've been an agent for almost thirty years.  I'm thinking that maybe 
that's long enough."

Walter clenched his jaw.  Felt his fingernails sink into his palms.  He wanted to yell at the 
man.  Grab him and shake some sense into him.

Dean gripped his shoulder tightly again and added, "You're a good agent, Walter.  Don't 
worry about Fox Mulder.  You've got enough other things to worry about.  I'm heading in 
to see him now.  I'll give you a call after I've managed to talk with him."

Walter didn't have it in him to argue anymore.  He sighed and pushed himself away from 
the wall.

Dean's voice was kind when he spoke again.  "Go on now, son.  I'll talk with you later."  
And then the man turned away from him, slipping into the infirmary without another look 
or word.

*******************************************


A STREET CORNER


He'd seen her before, walking down the street, a huge smile on her freckled face.  He 
called her 'Annie' in his mind.  Her red hair reflected the sun and it shown more brightly 
than he'd ever seen before.  Sometimes, after swim practice, when it was still wet, it was 
several shades darker.  Like copper.  Burnished and aged.  Today, she was the last one off 
the bus.  She had her hands full, with a lunchbox in one hand, a backpack slung over her 
shoulders, and her swim bag in her other hand.  It must have taken her some time to get 
coordinated.  

The other kids were already racing away, ready to start the weekend as soon as possible.  
He knew her real name.  It was Margaret.  She went by the name Margie, but he still 
liked to think of her as Annie. 

She was smiling today, just as she was every other day he'd seen her.  She was perfect.  
He didn't care if her hair was wildly unruly and her nose was covered with freckles.  
Didn't care that she was a tad stout, the remnants of baby fat making her look like a 
tomboy.  None of it mattered.  

The anger and desire broiled up inside him, making his chest tight and the blood pound in 
his ears.  It had been so simple before this. He hadn't felt this way about the others.  They 
were just people he'd run across.  None of them mattered to him at all.  Not really.  The 
purpose of their selection and subsequent 'treatment' was to make a point.  To prove 
something.  Oh, there might have been one or two things that were irritating about each 
of them.  But it hadn't been like this.  Annie, he actually cared for.  Annie, he hated -- and 
loved.  The line was drawn and the conflicted feelings almost tore him apart.

Because she was perfect.  And he hated her for it.  She was everything he could never be.  
She was loved -- cherished even, by her parents.  He'd seen them watching over her.  Just 
watching her.  She had friends.  Everyone liked her.  Even her teachers and coach liked 
her.  He saw the coach once, ruffling her hair. She hadn't even won the race, but she still 
got praise.  Everyone accepted her.  Liked her.  Wanted to be with her.  Wanted to be her.

Annie would never know heartbreak.  Never know loss.  Never know love, unless he 
could show her the way.  They could be friends, maybe.  It was possible.  

This one -- this girl.  He hated her.  And wanted her.  Loved her.  Wanted to hurt her.  
This had never happened before.  His pulse quickened and breath caught in his throat.  He 
couldn't swallow and his chest ached.

She started to walk down the street and he rolled the window down fast.

"Hey, are you Margie?  Margie Connor?"

She stopped, the smile initially dying on her lips.  But when she turned at saw him in the 
car, she relaxed a bit.  The smile was back.  "Yes."  She was still somewhat cautious.  

"Margie, your mom sent me.  She's at the hospital.  She wanted me to pick you up and 
take her there."  The oldest trick in the book.  Because it still worked.

She took a step, then another.  She got in the back seat, not with reluctance, but fear.  "Is 
my mommy all right?"

He summoned a smile.  It wasn't that hard, really.  After all, he was pretty happy at how 
easy it has been.  He started driving quickly, to avoid anyone noticing.  "She's just fine.  
Nothing serious, honey."  He turned back a bit to look at her.  "After all, she's the one 
who sent me after you."

He was looking around as he drove down the street, and he saw that the few people who 
were out weren't paying attention to anything except what they were doing.  Looked like 
there wouldn't be witnesses, at least.  This had definitely been the most daring kidnapping 
yet.  It was worth the risk, though.  It was worth it because of who Margie was.  He had 
to have her and it had to be now.  He couldn't wait.  He still had a point to prove, but he 
wanted more now.  Because of how much he hated her.  And how much he loved her.

He heard the sniffling from the back seat.  He knew what he had to do.  He glanced back 
over his shoulder, then looked into the rearview mirror.  "You'll see your mommy soon, 
Margie.  Don't worry.  Everything will be just fine."  He smiled again at the sight of her.  
Then he felt his breath quicken and the sweat start on his forehead.  This one was 
definitely different.  This one, he wanted.  He wanted to punish her.  To make her cry.  
But he also wanted to make her laugh.  Make her smile.  Send her home and keep her 
forever.

He bit his lip and chewed at the inside of his cheek.  He couldn't afford this right now.  
Not yet.  He was surprised when he heard her voice again.  He'd almost managed to 
forget she was there.

"Where are we going?  Isn't the hospital on Center Street?"

He licked his lips and looked at her in the mirror again.  "She's not at that one, Margie.  
She and a friend went to a store outside of town and she had a little accident.  Nothing 
serious, like I said before.  Anyway, they took her to the nearest hospital.  It's out near 
Triangle.  We'll be there soon."

They were on the interstate now, racing away from the city.  It always amazed him how 
soon you could be in the woods.  He heard a rustle from the back seat and looked back 
again.  She was turned sideways in the seat, her head resting against the back.  She was 
looking out the side window.  A shaft of sunlight caught her face and he could see the 
tears glistening there.  It made him angry for some reason.

His foot pressed harder on the gas.  He wanted to get there fast.  He wanted to teach her a 
lesson.  He'd teach her good. 

But then someone gripped his arm.  Shook hard so he almost drove off the road.  What 
the hell?  What was going on?  His head pounded and he felt sick to his stomach.  
Someone was yelling at him.  Yelling so loud, he could barely think.  But the words 
didn't make sense. 

"Wake up.  Open your eyes."

He was driving, for Christ's sake.  His eyes were already open.  Then the pain increased.  
Someone was pinching his ear and it hurt.

He shook his head, tried to get away from the pain, but it only made it worse.  The pain 
vibrated through his entire head.  He groaned, wishing he could get away from it.  
Wishing the pain would go away.

"That's it.  Come on, now.  Open your eyes.  I know you're in there."

His stomach rolled and he felt himself gag.  He was vomiting, trying to, at least, but there 
was nothing but bile.  He felt something pushing at his chin.  Felt something else at his 
shoulder.  He was confused.  His eyes fluttered and he knew he wasn't in the car 
anymore.  He didn't know where he was or what was happening.

"What?"

He managed to croak out a word, and felt some small relief when there was an answer.  A 
woman's voice.  Soft and reassuring. 

"It's all right, Mr. Mulder.  You're in the infirmary.  You're going to be just fine, but we 
have to wake you up every couple of hours.  You were a bit stubborn this time.  It took us 
a while."

There was something cool wiping his face.
 
"Infirm..."  He couldn't quite get the word out.  He was still confused.  Disoriented.

"That's right, Mr. Mulder.  Do you remember anything?  Do you remember how you got 
here?"

He tried to lick his lips.  His voice was raw.  "Car accident?"  He blinked harder and 
understood that he was in a hospital or something like it.  What had the nurse said?  An 
infirmary?  The last thing he remembered was the car.  "Margie?"

He heard a sound.  A shuffle.  Then there was a different voice.  A man's voice, deep and 
sure.  The man spoke sharply.  "Fox, wake up.  Open your eyes and wake up, now."

It was a command that he couldn't ignore.  He forced his eyes completely open and tried 
to focus on the shape there.  His vision wavered a bit, and then he recognized Agent Dean 
Waring.  The man looked ... scared.

"Fox, do you know who I am?"

He started to nod his head, but stopped as the pain shot through his skull.  He had to close 
his eyes against the throbbing and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.  He managed to 
fight it off enough after a time so that he could open his eyes again.

"Agent Waring?"

The older man looked relieved.  "That's right, Fox.  Do you know where you are?"

"Infirmary."

Waring smiled at him, one side of his mouth lifted up just slightly.  "That's right.  And do 
you know how you got here?"

He was confused again, a jumble of images at the forefront of his mind.  None of it made 
sense, though.  He remembered being in a car, with Margie Connor. Then he remembered 
more.  He took Margie?  Why the hell would he do that?  He had thoughts about her.  
Jesus, what had happened?  She was in his car and he took her.  He felt his chest tighten 
and he couldn't breathe.  He was gasping for air now, desperate to get control of himself.  
He closed his eyes tightly and felt the tears that forced their way out.

He heard the woman's voice shouting in the background.  Felt someone gripping his 
arms, as if holding him down.  What the fuck was happening to him?  They were yelling, 
but the words didn't make any sense.  Then there was something covering his mouth.  
Half his face.  And he tried to push it away.  He was being held down and it terrified him.  
He struggled, fought to open his eyes, but it was all useless.  

Finally, the voices started to make sense again.  The tightness in his chest eased a bit and 
he was aware that he was still gasping for air.

"Slow down and breathe deeply.  You'll be fine.  Just breathe deep.  In and out."

It was the woman's voice, but he also heard Waring's voice, in between hers.  "Fox, just 
calm down.  You're hyperventilating.  Breathe deep."

He understood then and tried to follow their directions, concentrating hard on making his 
lungs move in and out.  In and out.  The tears were there again, from fear, from fright.  
He started to remember the dream and understood finally that it hadn't really happened.  
Margie was dead.  She was words on a page now.  An image on film.  

When his vision cleared and the weight lifted from his chest, he realized that Waring was 
gripping his left hand hard, offering a much needed security.  He felt another hand on his 
head, keeping it still and he knew somehow that that was Waring, too.  There was an 
oxygen mask on his face.  The woman was on the other side, injecting something into his 
right arm.  The pressure from the hand at his head lightened a bit and he felt its loss.  He 
calmed finally and focused on the instructor again.  Waring was looking at him intently.  

The older man wasn't about to let him get away with anything. The questions came fast 
and hard.  "You remembered something.  What?  You said something about Margie.  
What were you thinking?  What did you see?"

Fox licked his lips and wished for a glass of water.  Anything to soothe his parched 
throat.  As if she'd read his mind, the woman, who he assumed was a nurse, held a glass 
up close.  She lifted the oxygen mask and turned the straw so he could reach it easily.  He 
sipped greedily and felt the coolness run down his throat. 

"Fox."  Waring's tone was demanding.  Unbending.

Fox closed his eyes and nodded.  He didn't protest when the oxygen mask was slipped on 
again.  His words were muffled when he managed to speak again.

"I had a dream."

Waring nodded in encouragement.

"I dreamt that I was in a car.  I'd been following Margie.  I knew her schedule.  I knew 
where she got off the bus and when.  I dreamt I was there when she was taken."  He 
swallowed hard and ignored the shaking that had started in his hands.  "I dreamt ... that I 
was the one who took her."  He was afraid to admit it at first.  It was obvious that he was 
sick.  Perverted.  Waring would be disgusted.  But the older man's response took him by 
surprise.

Waring's voice was gentle.  Almost apologetic when he urged Fox to continue.  "Go on.  
Tell me what you remember.  Every detail, Fox.  It might be important."

He nodded understanding and raised his right hand to his eyes.  The tears were gathering 
again and he was embarrassed.  He sniffed hard.  "I called her over to the car.  Told her 
that I had to take her to her mother.  That her mother had been hurt.  She trusted me and 
got in.  Didn't even argue."

He was disgusted with himself.  How could he have dreamt such a horrible thing?

He paused and gathered his scattered thoughts.  "She got in the back seat.  Never even 
considered the front.  I don't know why.  Strange."

Pause again.

"Go on.  It's all right, Fox.  Tell me everything."

He rubbed his eyes hard. "I drove her out of the city and onto the interstate.  We were 
heading down the 495 I think.  Heading towards Triangle.  She started crying but I told 
her it was all right.  Her mother wasn't hurt badly and she'd see her soon."  He swallowed 
hard, then whispered, "Margie believed me."

He moved his hand off his eyes and turned to look at Waring.  "Why would she believe 
me?  She didn't know me."

Instructor Waring looked thoughtful.  After a few seconds he said, "I don't know.  It's 
interesting.  Go on.  Tell me what your thoughts were.  While you were picking her up.  
While you were driving."

Fox sniffed again, and turned to look at the ceiling.  He couldn't face the other man when 
he admitted what he'd been thinking.  "I hated her, but I loved her.  It was like one part of 
me wanted to be her friend while the other part wanted to hurt her.  Kill her.  And ... have 
her.  It didn't make any sense.  It was as if ... "  He was starting to get tired.  His thoughts 
starting to scatter.  He had to finish this while he could.  

"As if what, Fox?  Stay with me for another minute here."

He nodded sleepily and wondered what the woman had given him.  "It was as if he were 
schizophrenic.  But different.  More like multiple personalities.  Fighting with each other.  
They'd never disagreed before, but this time, they did.  The hate hadn't been there before.  
This was ... different."

He didn't consciously realize that he'd switched from first person to second.  Waring went 
along with it, though.  "Fox, what else was the man thinking?"

His words were slurred as he forced them out.  "That he wanted her.  Wanted to teach her 
a lesson, but also to be nice to her.  Treat her good.  Get her to like him.  But he wanted 
to make an example of her.  Doesn't make sense.  Was mad at himself.  Mad ..."

"What?  Fox, what did you say?"

He heard the question, but couldn't think anymore.  He was just too tired.  He allowed 
himself to relax and tried to forget the dream.  He prayed that this time there would be no 
dreams.  He wanted nothing.  Nothing at all.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 21 of the Wait
Sunday, 7:54 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner felt them coming.  He didn't know how, but he just knew it.  He turned to look 
down the hallway and there came a force to be reckoned with.  Scully walked in the front, 
freshly showered and looking years younger than she had just a couple hours before.  
Behind her, side by side, walked Teena Mulder and Margaret Scully.  They all seemed to 
be determined.  And unified once more.  Whatever had happened between Scully and 
Mrs. Mulder seemed to have been forgiven, or at least set aside.  They all looked much 
better for their brief break and he was envious.

He smiled at them and nodded.  "Ladies."

Scully planted herself in front of him, as if in defiance.  It was an amusing image, but he 
knew better than to actually smile.  She'd probably shoot him where he stood.  

"Sir, have you seen the doctor?"

He shook his head.  "No, not yet.  We'll see him in a few minutes."  She looked so 
downcast that he wanted to reassure her.  "I've been here the entire time.  If there had 
been any problems, he would have notified me."

She nodded and walked past him to stand close to the CCU doors.  He smiled at Margaret 
and Teena.  "I hope you had a chance to eat something."

Both of them smiled back at him and Margaret said, "Yes, thank you."

He gestured to the door and followed them both.  They seemed to be doing all right, 
despite the fact that neither had slept throughout the night.  Hopefully, they'd managed to 
grab an hour nap at least.  

He glanced at his watch and saw it was time.  The crowd had gathered around them, the 
various family members of CCU residents wanting to take advantage of every precious 
moment.  He prayed that he'd be able to talk the doctors into letting them stay again.  
This was the last official visiting hour until the next morning at nine. 

The doors opened then, breaking his reverie, and he found himself being pushed and 
shoved in the shuffle.  He fought the urge to push back and followed at a more sedate 
pace.  By the time he entered Mulder's room, he saw that some more changes had 
occurred.  It appeared that another machine had been pushed back.  It was certainly 
quieter, with fewer beeps and whirs.  He assumed that was a good thing.  He paused at 
the foot of the bed and took a good look at his agent.  Former agent, that is.  He had to 
keep reminding himself that no matter how responsible he might feel for them both, they 
weren't his to command.  

Mulder looked better.  The younger man was propped at an angle on his left side this 
time, pillows stuffed behind him.  He seemed to breathing more easily, an oxygen mask 
covering the lower part of his face, and Skinner could see his eyes moving under his lids, 
a sure sign that Mulder was asleep and not unconscious.

Skinner realized for the first time that he'd been dreading this moment.  Frightened of 
what they might find.  He needn't be.  For the first time, he felt that Mulder would make 
it back, at least physically.  He recalled the doctor's words of a couple hours ago and 
wondered whether there was a chance of neurological damage.  He shook his head in 
disgust.  Jesus, one step at a time.

He moved to the empty spot next to Teena Mulder and sat down.  Mulder's mother stood 
by her son's bedside, her hands resting on Mulder's right arm.  Scully stood across from 
them, her left hand gripping Mulder's left tightly.  Her right rested on his head, as if she 
were pushing the hair out of his face.  It was a familiar gesture.  One he'd seen quite a bit 
the night before.  He wondered if she knew just how much she gave away by the caress.  

He let his eyes drift to Scully's mother.  She watched her daughter, as well, a small smile 
playing at her lips.  

They stayed that way for about five minutes, with no one speaking.  There was no need, 
really.  They all seemed to know that they were waiting.  Waiting to know whether this 
would be the last few minutes they'd be able to stay with Mulder for the next twelve 
hours.

The doctor came in, finally, and both Skinner and Margaret Scully stood.  Skinner 
decided to take the initiative.  "Doctor, what can you tell us?"

The man seemed to have forgiven them, at least slightly, because he was much friendlier.  
"Agent Mulder has stabilized and his vitals are strong.  We're hopeful that he'll wake 
soon."

Skinner felt his breath whoosh out and was embarrassed that he'd done it so loudly.  
Everyone looked equally relieved though, so he imagined that he wasn't the only one 
who'd responded in such a manner.  

Scully's voice rang out in the room, not too loud, but strong and clear.  "Doctor, I'd like to 
stay beyond the end of the visiting period.  I think it's critical to Agent Mulder's recovery 
for him to have people he knows present when he wakes."

Her voice wavered towards the end and Skinner decided a little backup was in order.  
"Doctor, Agent Mulder has critical information pertaining to a serial murderer who might 
still be at large.  It's crucial that an Agent be with him when he wakes.  Agent Mulder 
may have vital information to relay.  It could save many more lives."

Take that, buddy.  Skinner was proud of himself.  He'd thought of this line of defense 
while sitting outside in the little garden.  Hell, at the worst, the doctor would say no.  At 
best, they'd have their visiting rights back.

The doctor was definitely on to him.  The man shook his head in mock disgust.  "Two at 
a time.  No more.  Do anything to risk his health, that's it.  Agent or no."

The smile that came to Scully's face was definitely worth the slight exaggeration.  
Skinner turned to the left and caught Teena Mulder's expression.  While it was clear that 
Scully intended to stay, it was also clear that Mrs. Mulder thought she was being evicted.  

She turned towards him, obviously distressed, and he reached his hand out to touch her 
arm for just a second.  "Mrs. Mulder, why don't you stay and keep Scully company.  Mrs. 
Scully or I will be in the waiting room if either of you want to take a break.  All right?"

The relief on her face was palpable.  He stood before she became more emotional and 
prepared to leave.  The doctor had already left on his rounds.  The fifteen minute visiting 
period in CCU had a tendency to come and go very quickly.  It was amazing how fast 
fifteen minutes went when you desperately wanted more time.  Of course, the reverse 
also seemed to hold.

He patted Mrs. Mulder once more on the arm and then walked to the foot of the bed.  
Scully didn't move, but she did look at him, her face set in an expression of appreciation.  
She said merely, "Thank you, sir."  He nodded and waited for Mrs. Scully to say goodbye 
to her daughter.  The older woman kissed Scully on the cheek and brushed her hair back 
as if she were a child.  It was such an endearing gesture that Skinner was touched.  

Before he knew it, he was back in the waiting room. Back to alternating between pacing 
and watching television.  Back to having Margaret Scully shooting him the occasional 
annoyed look at his restlessness.  It was so similar to the look he'd seen Scully give 
Mulder on occasion that he smiled without even thinking.  At least some things were 
constant.  It reminded him of that night, so very long ago, when Doug almost threw him 
through the window.  Accused him of being hyperactive.  Yeah, that night.

*******************************************


PAST
September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 10:27 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.


Walter wasn't at all sure he could take much more of this.  They'd spent the day 
alternating between strategy meetings with SAC Keenan, organizational meetings with 
the local D's on the case, and more meetings with the various Bureau teams.  He was 
completely meetinged out.  He wasn't cut out for this kind of work.  He felt the need to be 
in the field.  Running things personally.  Not relaying orders through three levels of 
bureaucracy.

He knew intellectually that what they were doing was critical.  That without this type of 
multi-jurisdictional organization, the case would never be solved.  Still, he had an urge to 
drop everything and run out to Quantico.  He hadn't heard from Dean all day and it was 
driving him crazy.

He'd been pacing in the small conference room and evidently Doug had reached his limit.  
Walter was shocked when a mostly empty coke can hit him smack dab in the middle of 
the chest.  He stopped abruptly, and raised his hands in the air.  "What the hell was that 
for?"

There was a small soda stain on his white shirt, courtesy of the can.  He dropped his 
hands to fuss with it and decided it was a lost cause.  Besides, the damned shirt was so 
wrinkled he wasn't even sure if the dry cleaners could salvage it.  The jacket and tie had 
long since been abandoned.

Doug didn't sound particularly pleased when he spoke.  "Will you either sit the fuck 
down or get out of here?"

Walter was doubly shocked.  Doug rarely cursed and certainly not over something like a 
little pacing.  He didn't feel particularly friendly when he answered.  "You got a bug up 
your ass, Doug?  Did I do something to piss you off?"

The other man seemed to deflate and Walter's own anger withered just as quickly.  He 
sank down into a chair and dropped his arms on the conference table, spreading them out 
in front of him.

Doug sighed and shook his head.  "No.  You didn't do anything."

"Then what?  What's up?  Other than the fact that our asses are on the verge of being sent 
to Alaska, that is."

Doug smiled at that and raised his head.  The smile faded and he sighed heavily.  "It was 
Patty's fourth birthday today.  I talked with Angie.  She threw a little party and had some 
of the neighbors over.  She said she took lots of pictures."

Walter was stunned.  He'd spent time with Doug's entire family and knew the man was a 
dedicated husband and father.  The man talked about his kids all the time.  It was still so 
foreign to Walter, even though he'd been married himself for a while now.

He felt like he'd let the other man down somehow.  "I'm sorry, Doug.  I'm sorry you 
missed it."  He realized he really was sorry and was surprised at himself.  He suddenly 
had an urge to call Sharon.  It was like a bolt out of the blue.  They'd talked every two or 
three days at least.  Sometimes even more often, depending on what was happening with 
the case.  He'd just talked with her last night, in fact, so it wasn't like she was expecting 
him to call.  Still ...

"Hey, let's get out of here, Doug.  We've covered enough ground today.  All the teams are 
doing what they're supposed to be doing.  We're not going to accomplish much ourselves 
until we start getting some of the reports.  We might as well get some rest and start early 
tomorrow.  What do you say?"

Doug nodded wearily and pushed himself upright.  "Okay, sounds like a plan."  Doug 
struggled into his own crumpled jacket.  "Why don't you come over, Walt?  Angie saved 
dinner."  Doug turned towards him with a grin.  "And some birthday cake."

Walter smiled back and nodded.  Doug and Angie had become his extended family.  He 
spent about half his nights at their home, now.  "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

His stomach growled loudly, as if to reinforce his words, and Doug laughed.  Walter was 
relieved that their earlier tension had been banished.  He'd come to respect and like his 
fellow ASAC.  He was still amazed at how close they'd become in such a short period of 
time.

He pushed himself up and wobbled a bit before getting his feet solidly under him.  He'd 
become used to getting only four or five hours of sleep a night.  Gotten used to missed 
meals and almost no exercise.  It was amazing how the body adjusted in periods of stress 
and need.  He just hoped his body would hold out until the damned case was resolved.

Doug drove, talking most of the way about Patty and little Jeffrey.  Walter couldn't help 
but smile.  Patty had started calling him Uncle Walt and he had to admit it had a nice ring 
to it.  

They stumbled into the apartment and were greeted by a soft hello from Angie.  She was 
in the recliner, reading what appeared to be a romance novel.  Walter smiled at the 
picture she presented.  He wondered idly what Sharon was doing.  Whether she was 
reading her own romance novel.  Maybe thinking of him, just as he was thinking of her.

Angie had gotten up while Walter's attention wandered.  She and Doug exchanged a 
sweet kiss and embrace and before Walter knew it, she was giving him a hug, too.  He 
smiled at her and hugged back, enjoying the warmth the touch represented.  "Hey, Angie.  
If you don't mind, I'm going back to call Sharon.  I'll be out in a few."  

Angie just nodded to him, then added, "Food in ten."

He made his way to the master bedroom and dropped onto the bed heavily.  He propped 
his elbows on his knees as he punched in the numbers, and wondered what she was 
doing.  Was she already in bed?  It was well after eleven here, after all.  That would put it 
after ten, there.  She might be perturbed with him for calling so late.  He was nervous.  It 
was almost funny.  Here he was, calling his wife, and he was nervous.

She picked up after the fourth ring.  She sounded out of breath when she said 'hello'.

He cleared his throat and said, "Hey, babe.  It's me."

He could almost hear the smile in her voice. "Walter."  Thank God, she was pleased to 
hear from him.  He was so relieved that he noisily released the breath he'd been holding.  
It must have alarmed her because her voice was filled with concern when she spoke.

"Is everything all right?  Are you okay?"

"Yeah.  Everything's fine.  I'm fine.  I just ..."  He wanted to tell her everything.  Wanted 
to let her know just how much he missed her, but he couldn't make himself do it.  "I was 
just checking in.  Thought I'd see how you were.  What you were up to."

It was a lame excuse and he doubted that she believed him.  He certainly hoped she 
didn't.  He could hear her own sigh at the other end.  A long-suffering type of sigh.  
They'd had this exact conversation many times over the years and he hated it.  He wished 
he could break himself free from the superficiality, but it was too damned hard.  He kept 
telling himself - later.  When things calmed down and they had time to talk.  Really talk.  
Then the walls would come down and he'd be completely honest.  

Her voice was like a lantern in the darkness, leading him back to all that was good.  "I 
just turned off the t.v.  I met up with Kate after work and we went to the mall.  Had 
dinner there."

He was starting to relax again.  "What'd you have?"  He could care less, and knew she 
didn't really care to talk about it.  But it was safe.  And it was easy.

"We went to the new grill that opened.  I had a chicken salad.  You would have hated it, 
Walter."

He smiled at that.  They had different tastes in food, that was certain.  

"What about you?  Have you eaten, yet?"

He sighed again.  "In a few minutes.  I'm over at Doug's.  Angie saved something for us."

He could hear the disapproval through the phone, despite the silence.  He decided to head 
off that particular conversation.  "How's work going?"  He knew she was ready to kill 
some of her colleagues.  She worked at an ad agency and hated the pretentiousness of so 
many of the creative people.

"Jeez.  You'd never believe what Frank did today?"

His tone was dry when he answered.  "Yeah, I probably would.  The guy's a complete 
flake."

She laughed and it was more beautiful than a symphony to his ears.  They talked about 
nothing for another five minutes or so until he heard Angie call for him.

"Hey, babe, I have to go."

There was silence for several long seconds and then his wife surprised the hell out of 
him.  "Let me join you, Walter."

He stammered, "What?"  He was confused.  Not understanding what she meant.

"I want to come to D.C.  I want to be with you, Walter."

He was shocked.  He thought she understood the nature of the work better than that.  
"Sharon, I'm on the case 24/7.  There's no time for ..."  He couldn't bring himself to finish 
the sentence.

She sounded frustrated when she broke in.  "I know that, Walter.  And I know that I 
probably wouldn't see you except when you manage to fall into bed for a few hours of 
sleep.  I know all that."

He made a confused sound - something between a what and a why, before he finally 
found his tongue.  "Then why would you want to come?"

The silence was a bit longer this time.  "Just to be with you, Walter.  To be there.  For 
whatever it might be worth."

He felt his air passages close and reached a hand up to his eyes.  He couldn't believe this.  
He was on the verge of tears because his wife said she wanted to be near him.  Jesus, he 
was screwed up.  He sniffed and cleared his throat.  "I'd like that.  I'd like that, Sharon."

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 22 of the Wait
Sunday, 8:27 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully finally felt ready to sit down.  She'd been standing by her partner's side for almost 
a half hour and her legs were starting to take on that rubbery feel again.  A few minutes 
of sleep and a shower just weren't quite enough to erase the exhaustion she'd been 
fighting.

She sighed and stepped back, sinking down into the cushions gratefully.  For the first 
time since the AD and her mother had left, she began to feel uneasy about being in the 
room with Mulder's mother.  Their last interaction had been unpleasant and memories of 
her irresponsible questions refused to dissipate.  Mrs. Mulder must hate her, right about 
now.  

She steeled herself and took a deep breath.  Raised her head and looked across the bed for 
the first time since they'd arrived.  And was shocked to see the woman crying softly.  
Tears rolling down her face, but no sound at all.

Scully was so surprised that she must have made a noise, because the older woman 
looked up slowly to face her straight on.  Her partner was better.  It was true he hadn't 
gained all the ground he'd lost since the operations, but he was definitely on the way 
back.

"Mrs. Mulder, what's wrong?  I'm sorry... I'm sorry about what I said earlier.  I had no 
right."

Teena was shaking her head and raised a hand, as if to cut Scully off. The woman's voice 
was rough and cracked when she spoke.  "No, it's not that.  Not at all.  It's just that ..."

Scully shifted in her chair, trying to get more comfortable.  She swallowed hard, not 
knowing where the woman was going with this.

"I was thinking about Fox a week or so ago.  I can't remember now what made me think 
of it, but it occurred to me that he hasn't cried since he was twelve."

Confusion and shock warred with one another and all Scully could do was shake her head 
to demonstrate her lack of understanding.  This was coming from out of the blue.

"When Samantha was taken, Fox was inconsolable.  He was so depressed.  I know he 
blamed himself.  I told you that Bill took him to Boston for the summer.  I visited as 
often as I could.  When he came back for the school year, he was so different.  So grown 
up."

Scully realized she'd been holding her breath and let it out slowly.  Teena Mulder still 
stood by her son's side, stroking his face gently with her left hand.  The woman looked 
over at her and smiled.  But it was a smile filled with sadness and loss.

"I think he left his childhood behind for good that summer.  And somehow, I think he 
decided that tears were only for children.  And that it was safer to avoid any kind of 
relationship that could ever possibly result in tears."

The woman swallowed hard and Scully could see her shoulders shake softly.  When 
Teena spoke again, it was little more than a whisper.  "When I realized it last week, I 
cried for him ... and for me.  I failed him, Ms. Scully.  Somehow, I should have taught 
him that ..."

The woman trailed off then, her words left unfinished.  Teena dropped her head almost to 
her chest, the despair obvious.  And Scully could only shake her head at first, amazed at 
how little the woman knew her own son.  She took the time to gather her thoughts before 
speaking, knowing that she had an opportunity she might never come again.

She cleared her throat and swallowed hard.  Looked directly at the woman.  "Mrs. 
Mulder.  He cried for you."

Teena raised her head slowly, a flicker of hope showing briefly.

"When you had your stroke, Mulder was frantic.  He would have done anything to make 
you better.  He followed a lead and almost got himself killed.  He was hurt, in shock, but 
he could only think of one thing.  Making it back to your side."

Teena was crying again, a bit harder this time, but obviously trying hard to be quiet.  
Scully's own throat was tight and she had to force the words out.  "He made it to the 
hospital -- I'm still not sure how.  And he cried for you.  He loves you so much, Mrs. 
Mulder."

Teena leaned forward and rested her head right next to her son's.  Scully knew the woman 
was still crying and it was all she could do to avoid it herself.  She'd cried more in the last 
twenty-four hours than she had in the last two years.  She forced herself out of the chair 
and reached across her partner to put a shaky hand on Teena's shoulder.  She squeezed 
gently, then dropped her hand down to Mulder's shoulder.  

Teena Mulder stood straight again, moving slowly, and swiped at her nose with a tissue.  
"Thank you, Dana.  Thank you for telling me.  I was scared that ... that he'd decided not 
to love anything anymore."

Scully was touched by the woman's use of her first name and actually smiled at Teena's 
words, again amazed that the older woman could think such a thing of her own son.  If 
anything, Mulder cared too much about things.  And people.

Scully turned back to look at her partner and it was as if the air was pulled forcibly from 
her lungs.  Mrs. Mulder said, "What?  What's ..."  But her words were also cut off in 
surprise when she looked at her son's face.

Tear tracks streaked his face, glistening in the soft light than shone from above his head.  
Scully started to reach out, but Teena was already moving. 

Mulder's mother reached for his face, slowly, hesitantly, with a single finger.  As if she 
were afraid he'd disappear once she touched him.  She wiped away the tears and leaned 
close, to whisper in her ear.  "I love you, Fox.  I love you so much."

He didn't respond and the monitors showed steady, but Scully knew it was only a matter 
of time now.  Her partner was in there, and she was sure he'd make it back, whole and 
safe and sound.  And maybe, finally, he and his mother would be able to talk.  To reach 
an understanding.

When Teena Mulder pulled back and stood straight, she appeared stronger than she had 
all night.  As if an internal fire had become ignited that leant her strength.  She surprised 
Scully again when she spoke.  Teena's words were firm and she seemed as if she'd either 
made a decision or reconfirmed an earlier one.  Teena met Scully's eyes and said, "I'd do 
anything to keep my son safe."

It was said as if it explained something.  After a few seconds, Scully nodded.  Perhaps it 
explained everything, after all. 

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 22 of the Wait
Sunday, 8:41 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner kicked at the floorboard with the toe of his shoe and almost jumped when 
Margaret Scully touched his arm.  Then she actually laughed at him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Skinner.  I didn't mean to startle you.  I asked whether you'd managed to 
eat?  I'll be happy to hold down the fort here if you wanted to leave for a bit."

He turned back and waved to their chairs.  "No, I already ate while you were gone, but 
thank you for the offer."  

She sat down across from him and crossed her legs at the ankle.  He took a good look at 
her for the first time and was struck by how similar she and her daughter were.  Both 
were women of steel. Then it occurred to him that Margaret Scully had spent more than 
her fair share of time in hospitals over the last several years.  

Her own thoughts must have traveled in similar paths.  "You know, Mr. Skinner, I'm 
really tired of hospitals.  Before Dana joined the Bureau, hospitals were only for stitches 
and babies.  I never would have guessed I'd spend so much time in them after that."

He felt the guilt wash over him in waves.  Still, her tone wasn't really accusatory.  It was 
more thoughtful than anything.

She smiled at him then, just a bit, and added, "But strangely enough, Dana's happier than 
I ever thought she'd be."

He remained silent, letting the woman take the lead.

"Dana was always so literal as a child.  Even when she was little, she was a hard one to 
convince.  If she couldn't feel it, taste it, see it, then forget it."

Margaret's smile was a bit broader now, as she remembered her daughter so long ago.  
"And she never had any friends.  No real ones.  Lots of acquaintances, good ones, but that 
really wasn't the same."  Her tone was almost musing now.  "She was so different from 
her sister.  So serious."

She looked at him and he wasn't sure how to respond.  He just nodded, as if he 
understood.  And he did, really.  Scully was nothing if not serious.

"They've done studies about military brats, you know."

He was surprised by the comment, unsure what it had to do with anything.  He shook his 
head slightly.

"They found that children who moved around so often had trouble in forming long term 
attachments.  It always worried me.  We moved every few years, after all.  New schools.  
New home.  New friends.  And her father was out to sea so often."

The woman's voice trailed off, but after a few more seconds she started again.  "All the 
kids adjusted, of course, but I think it hit Dana harder, for some reason.  It made her 
cautious.  And incredibly self-sufficient."

He was truly interested now.  The last twenty-some hours had yielded a great deal of 
insight on Mulder, but now he was learning more about Scully.  He could see it, too.  
Could see how his former agent might have been affected in this way.

"I think Dana decided someplace along the line that all she needed was herself.  From a 
very young age, she insisted that she could do everything herself.  That she didn't need 
help."

Margaret Scully leaned forward over her knees a bit and propped her elbows on them.  
Raised her hands and rubbed her face.  "I should have been paying better attention.  I 
allowed it to happen.  Someplace along the way, I should have made sure she understood 
that you can't do everything by yourself.  That it's not a crime to ask for help."

Skinner thought about the woman's words seriously, but then shook his head.  She just 
didn't understand her daughter very well.  "Mrs. Scully, I think there's a difference 
between being self-sufficient and isolated.  Scully is stubborn."  He smiled, remembering 
several memorable encounters.  "And she's headstrong."  The smile grew a bit broader.  
He met Margaret Scully's eyes, again.  "But, she not only knows how to ask for help, 
she'll demand it, if necessary.  In fact, I know she'd do just about anything for Mulder."  
He paused for just a moment to let his words sink in before adding, "And has."

Margaret sighed and smiled wearily.  Then nodded.  "I know.  I do.  It's just so hard, 
wanting to help, but not being able to."  She stared directly at him and added, "She's my 
daughter."

He understood.

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 23 of the Wait
Sunday, 9:52 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner jerked and his head hit the wall, hard.  He must have fallen asleep.  Something 
woke him.  What?  He blinked hard in the bright florescent light and raised a hand to the 
back of his head.  

A sheepish voice muttered, "Sorry" and then Skinner finally focused on Jerry crouched 
next to the chair.  He sat up quickly, thoughts of a little bump on his head forgotten. 
"Everything all right?"

Jerry stood straight, if slowly, and held a hand out, as if in reassurance.  "No problems, 
sir."  The younger man grinned wryly then.  "The SAC pretty much kicked me out so I 
figured I'd come over to see how things were going here."

Skinner allowed himself to relax a bit and glanced over at Margaret Scully.  She'd 
managed to turn in the chair in such a way that she actually looked comfortable.  A 
blanket covered her and, for the first time, he realized there was a blanket draped over 
him as well.  Jesus, he couldn't remember any of it.

He gathered the soft material up in a ball and shoved it onto the little table next to his 
chair, then gestured for Jerry to sit down.  He cleared his throat, realizing that he was 
desperate for something liquid.  His voice came out as a gravelly growl when he finally 
answered.  "Good as far as I know."  He cleared his throat again and scrubbed his face, 
then leaned back to rest his head a bit more gently against the wall.  He turned to get a 
good look at Jerry and decided the man would end up here himself if he didn't get some 
sleep.

"We got in to see Mulder at 8 and the doctor let Scully and his mother stay.  Mulder was 
doing better then.  If anything had happened, I'm sure we would have heard about it."

Jerry nodded, his head barely moving.  The younger man seemed to be staring at nothing.  
Walter was just getting ready to chase him off when the other agent spoke again.

"Sir, I was wondering something."

Skinner lifted an eyebrow.  About all he had the energy to do.

The other agent went on.  "You were telling me earlier about the warehouse scenario.  I 
remember that one well."

Skinner traded a smile with the other man.  Everyone always died in the warehouse.  
"Yes?"

"So, I was just curious.  What made Mulder retrace his steps during the exercise?"

Skinner smiled again, remembering the story as it had been relayed to him by Dean.

*******************************************


PAST
September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 8:21 p.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


Dean had just had one of the most frustrating days of his life.  It was strange, really.  For 
some reason, he felt responsible for this boy.  He hardly knew Fox Mulder.  The kid was 
one of hundreds who'd passed through the Academy and his classes.  There was really no 
reason that this kid should have made such an impact on him.  No reason at all.  But here 
he was, cooling his heels outside the infirmary, waiting for permission to see him.

But deep down, he could admit to himself the truth.  That what he saw in Fox Mulder was 
quite a bit of himself.  He felt an affinity -- a connection -- that he'd never felt before.  
Oh, he'd had his favorites.  Walter had been one, in fact.  But, still.  This was different.

The door swung open and he pulled himself to attention.  It was the same nurse he'd met 
earlier.  Her name was exotic.  Something unusual. "Genevieve?"

The woman smiled, not really indicating whether he'd gotten it right or not, and said, 
"You can go on in now.  Fox is awake.  And anxious for company, I'd say."

Dean smiled back, particularly interested in the fact that she was now on a first name 
basis with her patient.  

The last time he'd come to visit, Fox had been in a different wing of the infirmary.  This 
time, his injuries had been deemed sufficiently serious that he'd been put in a room right 
next to the nurses' station.  About half the wall leading into the room was glass, but 
shades had been lowered so that he couldn't see in.

He knocked on the door and heard a muffled response.  He opened it cautiously, not 
really knowing what to expect.  It was actually a very familiar picture, though.  Fox was 
standing with his back to the door, looking out the far window.  Arms wrapped around 
his chest and tucked under his arms.  He leaned against the wall with his right shoulder 
and his left foot, left foot crossed over the right at the ankle.  At least the kid didn't seem 
to be suffering from balance problems.

Dean tried to orient the room in his mind and decided it looked out into the forest, where 
the obstacle course was.  Wouldn't be much to see at this time of night.

He cleared his throat and said, "Hello, Fox.  How are you?"

He was pleased that the younger man turned to look at him.  He was afraid he'd get the 
silent treatment.  Instead, Fox actually looked pleased.  There was even a smile lingering 
on his face.  Of course, that could have been because of the ministrations of the lovely 
Genevieve.

"Hello, sir.  I'm fine."  Fox stood straight and dropped both arms, then lifted them 
slightly, palms up in a 'what's up' gesture.  "I wish I could get these people to believe 
that."  It was said dryly, with a trace of humor.  No rancor.

Dean laughed a little.  "Trust me, Fox.  I've had a few concussions.  They'll make your 
life hell for at least twenty-four hours, then send you on your way."  He sat down on the 
second bed in the room and added, "As long as you don't go into convulsions or show 
signs of dementia before the magic period is up, that is."

It got a laugh out of the other man, but he saw the seriousness return almost immediately.

"Sir, were you here?  Earlier, I mean?"

He understood that Fox didn't have a clear memory.  He debated whether to hide the fact 
or not and decided there was really no point.  "Yes, I stopped by right after you'd been 
brought in."

He saw the flicker of emotions cross by the younger man's face.  Curiosity, insecurity, 
frustration.  

"Did I ..."

"What?"

"Did I say anything?"

"About what?"

There was annoyance now.  He wasn't intentionally being an obstructionist.  Well, 
actually, he was.  It was just that he didn't want to push.  Any conversation about the 
dream, or The Dream, as he was now thinking of it, had to come from Fox.

"I seem to remember ..."  The kid licked his lips.  Moved over to the other bed and sat 
down, just a couple feet away.  The bed was high enough that Fox's feet were dangling 
off the floor.  He looked absurdly young, sitting there with mussed hair, a bandaid on his 
neck, kicking his feet back and forth in the air.

"What do you remember?"

"A dream.  I had a dream.  Did we talk about it?"

He made sure there was absolutely no inflection in his voice when he responded.  "Yes, 
we did."

The kid actually looked relieved.  Then he squinted.  Seemed to chew on the inside of his 
cheek.  "Was any of it ... helpful?"

Dean smiled a bit.  Nodded slowly.  "I think so.  I haven't processed everything yet.  I'd 
like you to let me know if you remember anything else from it."

The kid nodded again and looked across the room, over Dean's shoulder.  Dean had to 
fight the urge to turn and see what he was looking at.  Instead, he decided to broach a 
different subject.  One that John Malloy had brought up to him earlier.

"Fox?"

"Hmmm?"  The younger man was obviously distracted and Dean wondered where his 
thoughts had been.

"I have a question about the exercise."

That got the trainee's interest.  Dean knew that he had Fox's full attention.

"We can talk about this as much or as little as you want.  I want to make that clear right 
now.  I'm not trying to push you."  He let it sink in and saw the younger man processing 
his words.  He could imagine what was going through the kid's mind.  Narking out your 
colleagues, no matter how badly they'd behaved, was not a recommended course of 
action.  It wasn't fair.  It wasn't morally right.  But, it was life.  The kid nodded slowly.

"I'm curious about what made you turn back in the warehouse.  You'd gotten to the third 
row of crates on the right side, then before even checking the other side, you turned back 
and retraced your steps."

The other man was thoughtful.  The arms came up and crossed again.  The head was 
bowed, as if trying to decide whether there was a trap in the words.  Fox evidently 
decided it was a safe question, because he finally answered.  "I knew something wasn't 
right.  I should have seen the team coming from the other way.  I should have heard 
something.  I just knew there was something strange going on."

Dean nodded, still curious.  Wanting an explanation.  "But, what exactly was it that made 
you turn around?"  As delicately as he could, he added, "It's not exactly standard 
procedure, Fox."

The younger man flushed red, raised his chin in defiance.  Dean caught the tightening of 
the arms.  

"I know it wasn't procedure, but the exercise was wrong from the start."

"What do you mean?"

Fox shook his head.  Dropped his arms and pushed himself off the bed.  He wobbled just 
slightly, then walked to the window again.  Same position as before.  Dean heard his 
voice, low and muffled.

"I didn't understand why we were going in at all.  It didn't make sense."  Fox turned back 
to face him, back against the wall.  He shook his head in disgust.  "We didn't have 
intelligence.  No clear reason for going in.  A suspicion of gunfire."  He stressed the word 
'suspicion' as if it were dirty.  "I mean, it was just irresponsible from the beginning."

Dean fought the smile.  It was true, what Fox was saying.  That was part of the exercise, 
in fact.  The first mistake that every single team had ever made throughout the history of 
the exercise was that they went in when they shouldn't have.  "All right.  We can talk 
about that later.  But, it still doesn't explain why you went back once you were in."

Fox dropped his arms.  Put his hands on his hips.  Turned to look over his shoulder, out 
the window.  "I can't explain it.  I just knew something was wrong and that it was behind 
me.  Not in front of me."

Dean nodded, still not knowing how the trainee could have known that, but 
understanding that sometimes, you just can't explain everything.  Before he could ask any 
more questions, Fox continued.

"I know it was a set-up, but I've gone over and over the entire thing in my mind.  I still 
don't know what happened.  I can't figure it."  Fox looked directly at him, demanding an 
explanation.

Dean smiled.  Shrugged, not really wanting to be the one to tell the trainee.  "Oldest trick 
in the book, Fox.  What do you think all those carefully arranged crates were doing in an 
abandoned warehouse?"

He watched the intent expression.  The thoughtful gaze.  Then, as if a light was flicked, 
he could see that enlightenment was achieved.

"Fuck!  The crates.  They were in the God damned crates!"

He was surprised by the language, but he'd used much worse himself just hours ago.  
Actually, the flustered expression on Fox's face after he realized what he'd said during his 
outburst was priceless.

"Sorry, sir.  I mean, I didn't mean..."

He shook his head and lifted a hand to stop him, fighting a chuckle.  "No problem, 
trainee.  It's a typical response."

Once the shock had passed, though, he could see the thoughts processing again.  "But, it 
still doesn't track.  Why were they there?  What was the point of the supposed gunshots?  
What was the point at all?"

Dean smiled again.  "The point was ..."  He paused for a moment, making sure the point 
would be driven home.  "There's always someone smarter than you.  If you don't know 
what you're getting into, it's probably best you don't."

Of course, Dean didn't mention to the younger man that Fox had come damned close to 
actually catching part of the assault team as they exited the crates.  It was part of the 
reason Seabury was so angry.  He'd almost been shown up again, by the same damned 
kid.

Fox seemed to nod just a bit too quickly to his words.  Dean cocked his head and looked 
at the kid sharply.  This one required some looking after. Fox was smart, no question.  
The kid had an uncanny ability to see through to the heart of the matter.  But, he was way 
the hell too cocky.  It would get him hurt some day.  Maybe worse.  

Dean stood up straight, drawing Fox's eyes toward him.  "Listen to me, Fox.  This might 
just save you some day.  Know what you're getting into.  Learn everything you can.  You 
don't take chances with your life or the lives of those agents under you."

He was disturbed at the fact that Fox actually seemed to be thinking about this.  It should 
have been a no brainer.  "Fox."  He knew it was threatening, and he intended it to be.  
When there was still no reaction, he took a step closer.  The kid finally responded, as if 
realizing there was no other option.

"I understand what you're saying.  It's just ..."

"What?"

"Aren't there some situations that demand action before thought?  Or at the very least, 
action with minimal information?  You can't always know everything.  It's impossible.  It 
seems that it's more important to trust your instincts."

Dean shook his head and looked down at his shoes, struggling between wanting to 
strangle the kid and wanting to pat him on the back.  He finally looked up and stared 
directly into Fox's eyes.

"Listen to me, Fox.  You're right.  Sometimes, you have to act fast and the only thing you 
have to listen to is yourself.  But, this job -- it's not like the movies.  You'll be surrounded 
by colleagues, partners, bosses.  There are always other people around to get input from.  
You're never going to be the lone ranger, Fox.  Never.  Just remember that." 

*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 24 of the Wait
Sunday, 10:43 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


A nurse entered the waiting room and paused, obviously looking for something or 
someone.  Somehow, Skinner knew who she was looking for.  He had just stood when 
she focused on him and started his way.

"Are you Assistant Director Skinner?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sir, there's a call for you at the nurse's station.  It's someone from the FBI.  They also 
said to ask if there was another agent with you.  A ..."  The woman looked down at the 
slip of paper, obviously trying to make out her own scribble.

"Jerry Friedman?"

She smiled at him and nodded.  "That's right.  The phone's right this way."

He leaned took a couple steps and shook Jerry's arm.  The younger man barely moved.  It 
required quite a bit of shaking and a sharp kick to the foot in order to get him to open his 
eyes.

"Come on, youngster.  We're wanted by the Bureau."

That got the other man's attention and Jerry was upright in seconds, even though he didn't 
appear to be particularly steady.  Skinner glanced over to Margaret Scully and decided 
he'd let her sleep until he knew for sure what was happening.  He nodded to the young 
nurse, then followed along behind her down the hallway. 

She punched a button once he'd picked the receiver up.  "Skinner."

He knew who it was, of course.  From the moment he'd been told there was a call, he 
knew Carl Landers was on the phone with news on the case.  His instincts were still 
serving him well.

"Walt, it's Carl.  How's Mulder?"

Skinner appreciated the fact that the other man asked, even though he wanted to know 
what was happening.  "Better.  What's going on?"

He heard the sigh and what sounded like creaks from the man's chair.  "We need you 
here.  Is Friedman with you, by the way?  We haven't been able to reach him.  His cell 
phone's off."

Skinner cocked an eye towards the younger man.  "Yes, he's here.  No cell phones in the 
hospital.  You know the rules."  He paused for a second before adding, "Why do you 
need me?"

The silence was almost palpable.  "Just get here, Walt.  Fast."

And then there was nothing but a dial tone, buzzing in his ear.

*******************************************
*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 12 of ? (12/?)
by Kronos (clb@roadrunner.com)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 24 of the Wait
Sunday, 10:43 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia

Skinner turned to the nurse and said, "I need to speak with Agent 
Scully.  Can you ask her to come out for a moment?"

The woman nodded and smiled before heading down the hall.  
Skinner leaned against the desk wearily and looked at his watch.  It 
sounded like he was in for another long night.  He wondered idly 
when he might actually see a bed again, then turned at the sound of 
shoes approaching.  

Scully was coming towards him, pulling a sweater close about her.  
She looked concerned.  "Sir?  Is everything all right?"

Skinner forced a smile and forced his body away from the desk.  
For a moment, he wasn't sure if his legs were going to hold him.  
He took a step towards her and gestured a don't worry sign.  "We 
just heard that Stevens is awake and, evidently, ready to talk with 
us.  Jerry and I are heading to the bureau and then over to the 
prison infirmary where he's been moved."

He could see it in her face.  She wanted to come.  He shook his 
head and opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it.

"I need to be there."  She was resolved.  Determined.  He 
recognized the signs quite well, but didn't know how to deflect 
her.

"Agent Scully… Dana.  You don't need to be with Stevens.  You 
need to be with Mulder.  What if he wakes up?"

The momentary anguish spoke volumes.  He saw her gather her 
breath, and it seemed her resolve as well, before saying, "Mulder is 
coming back to us.  I know that.  If he does wake up while I'm 
gone, his mother and my mother will be with him."  She looked 
away from him then, back towards Mulder's room and said, "I 
know Mulder.  I know how he thinks."

Skinner couldn't help the little snort that escaped.  It brought a wry 
grin to her face.

"At least as well as anyone else on the planet.  I might be able to 
help in a way that no one else can."  And then she did what he'd 
been dreading.  She took a couple steps towards him and laid her 
hand on his arm.  Her face was weary, as she looked up at him 
beseechingly, but the determination shone through brightly, despite 
the exhaustion that she must have been feeling.

He closed his eyes and wished he could know the right thing to do, 
then opened them again and nodded.  Her smile lit the hallway.  

"I'll be right back, sir."  And then she was gone in such a rush he 
could almost hear a pop from the vacuum of air left in her place.

He watched as she spoke with her mother, then turned down the 
hallway towards Mulder's room, Maggie following more slowly 
behind.  Scully was only there for a minute and he guessed she'd 
done no more than say goodbye to Mulder's mother.  He was quite 
certain, however, that she'd taken her leave of Mulder as well.

She stopped in front of him and Jerry, who'd joined him once 
more, and nodded.  "Let's go."  Then, she took off down the 
hallway, leaving the two of them behind.  He couldn't help 
grinning.  This was the Scully he knew and admired.  He'd been 
worried about her the last day, wondering if he'd ever see this 
Scully again.  He put his worries behind him and gestured towards 
Jerry to lead the way.

Twenty minutes later, Skinner, Scully and Jerry brushed past the 
couple reporters staking out the Bureau so fast, the man and 
woman didn't even have time to ask a question.  Once in the lobby, 
Skinner looked to his right and grinned slightly at Jerry and Scully.  
That was one way to avoid questions.  They'd barely spoken to one 
another on the ride over and the tension of the unknown was 
building to an almost palpable pressure within.  Without even 
thinking about it, he turned into the stairwell instead of heading for 
the elevator, Jerry and Scully close on his heels.  

The conference room door was open and the sounds spilling down 
the hallway suggested some excitement occurring within.  Skinner 
paused only briefly at the door, then headed towards Carl Landers, 
over towards the right side.  The SAC hadn't seen him yet.  
Landers was bent over the table, obviously going over a file with 
another agent hovering to the man's right.

Skinner stopped a foot away.  "Carl, what have you found?"

The other man looked up sharply, obviously caught by surprise, 
but adjusted quickly.  "Walter, I'm glad you got here."  The man 
nodded to Scully, asking,  "How's Mulder?"

She nodded to him, saying merely, "Doing better." 

Skinner waved at the files spread across the table.  "What's 
happening?"

The other man put both hands to his back and stretched.  Despite 
Lander's exhaustion, a smile lit his face.  "I think we've got it 
narrowed down."  The man picked up the sheets in front of him 
and ran his finger down the list.  "We've got these seven men who 
have had the greatest potential of crossing paths with our assailant.  
They also fit the profile specified by Mulder."  The SAC then 
waved towards those in the room, where some eight or so agents 
were engaged in either discussion, phone conversation, or some 
other near frantic activity.  "I've got the team tearing these men's 
lives apart.  In another fifteen minutes or so, we'll be able to 
compile the details into a coherent report."

Skinner nodded in appreciation, especially considering the hour, 
but was somewhat confused.  "Carl, your phone call suggested 
some urgency."  

The SAC breathed deeply.  "We've had a couple of our people over 
at the Richmond PD.  Harold Stevens was moved out of the 
hospital into the jail infirmary.  He's been questioned several 
times.  We've received a report that he might be ready to say 
something significant.  I thought you might want to be in on it.  I'm 
expecting a call from my man any minute."

And as if it had been prearranged, a cell phone rang out at the very 
moment Landers completed his sentence.  Everyone in the room 
automatically reached into pockets to determine whether it was 
theirs.  Landers flipped his open, leaving everyone else looking 
somewhat chagrined.  Even Skinner had fallen into the trap. 

The one sided conversation was enough to convince him that it 
was time to move.  Landers confirmed it just a few moments later 
when he closed his cell phone and looked directly at him.

"Okay, Walt.  You're on.  Take Friedman with you."  Landers 
nodded towards Scully and added, "And Agent Scully, of course."

Landers turned to Jerry then.  "You know where to go.  The lead D 
on the case is Struthers.  He's expecting you.  They're holding off 
until you get there."

Skinner gripped Lander's arm briefly.  "Thanks, Carl.  I'll be in 
touch with you.  And let me know when you make sense of your 
suspects.  It might help in the interrogation.  Give Jerry a call.  He 
can let us know."

And then they were turning for the door.  It wasn't certain that 
Stevens either would or could help them, but it was at least 
something to do.  But, before he even took a step, something else 
surfaced in his consciousness and he came to a stop.  He realized 
that they'd been ignoring an important piece of evidence.  Just as 
in the DC Murders case.  He turned back to Landers, catching 
Scully's expression of confusion as he did.

"Look, Carl.  I just remembered something.  The messages the guy 
left the 911 operator.  Have those been looked at by a linguistics 
expert?"

Skinner could see the change of topic had surprised Landers, but 
the man adjusted quickly.  Landers replied, "We sent them off to 
Quantico, of course.  Someone at ISU looked at them.  Mulder 
looked at them, of course.  We've had the profilers crawling all 
over those tapes."

Skinner nodded impatiently.  "I know the profilers have, but what 
about someone who's professionally trained in forensic 
linguistics?"

Landers shook his head, raising his hands a bit.  "I have no idea.  I 
don't know whether the profilers had anyone else look at them."  
The man took a breath and said, with more confidence, "If you 
think it's important, I'll make sure it happens, Walt."

Skinner nodded his thanks and turned once more, Scully and Jerry 
at his heels.  They were in the hallway before Scully asked quietly, 
"Sir, what made you think of that?"

He smiled a bit and glanced over at her.  "Agent Scully, all our talk 
about the DC Murder's case reminded me about a key piece of 
analysis that was almost overlooked.  It was Fox…"  He stopped, 
then, realizing he'd referred to his agent by his first name.  Smiled 
and said, "Mulder, that is.  It was Mulder who first began looking 
at the notes in the DC Murder's case through a different light that 
helped break that case.  It occurred to me that we'd been ignoring 
the phone calls in this case just as we'd ignored the notes back 
then."

"What did Mulder do, sir? How did it break the case?"

*******************************************

PAST
September 10, 1986
Wednesday, 12:08 p.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


A knock at the door caused Fox to stop his pacing and turn.  It was 
unexpected, but at least provided a potential for saving him from 
the stuporous boredom he'd been subjected to for hours on end.  
No television, no books, no nothing.  If he had a nickel for the 
number of times some faux nurse told him to lie down and take it 
easy, he'd be able to buy his way out of the damned infirmary.

The sight that greeted him brought a smile to his face.  Shirley 
stood in the doorway, at first hesitant, then smiling broadly when 
she saw he was mobile.

"Hey, Fox.  Having fun?"

His own smile broadened.  "Shirley, please rescue me from this 
hell.  I think I'm going crazy."

"Not very far to go for that."

He gave her a fake grimace, then gestured towards a plate.  "Look 
at this, Shirl.  Mush for breakfast and mush for lunch."  He took 
another step and fell into the padded chair in the corner.  He patted 
his legs and she sauntered across the room, then broke into 
laughter and practically jumped into his lap.  He gave an 'oomph' 
and then was prevented from saying anything for a long minute as 
they exchanged pleasantries.

Shirley pulled back with a contented sigh.  "So, seriously.  How 
are you?"

The residual smile left his face then and he sighed deeply before 
answering.  "Fine.  Pretty much.  A little headache is all.  There's 
certainly no need for them to keep me here."

She looked at him critically, head tilted slightly to one side.  He 
could tell her gaze lingered at his neck.  "So what happened, 
really?"

He ran a hand up and down her arm, enjoying the silky 
smoothness.  "What have you heard?"

She leaned into him and said, "Oh, that you got into a fight with 
one of the instructors.  That he pulled a knife and you fought with 
each other and you got your butt kicked."

He pulled way back and stared at her in shock.  He couldn't tell 
whether she was serious or not.  When she started laughing, he had 
his answer.

"I'm sorry, Fox, I couldn't resist."  She wiggled a bit in his lap, 
making him groan slightly, then said, "Not really, of course.  The 
word is that you almost caught the bad guys at station one and that 
one of them wasn't too happy.  That he slammed you around and 
even held a knife on you."  She looked at him quite seriously.  "Is 
that true?"

He considered lying, but decided against it.  Not with Shirley.  
"Pretty much.  He gave me a concussion and a little souvenir here."  
He gestured to his neck.  "It got just a bit out of hand.  Do me a 
favor, though.  Keep it quiet, huh?"

She nodded, then gently ran a finger over his forehead.  She leaned 
forward and kissed him gently on the cheek, then trailed the kiss 
down to his neck. Her voice was low, almost a whisper when she 
said, "I'm sorry."

He was confused and tried to remember the past couple minutes, 
which was somewhat difficult given what Shirley was doing to 
him. He thought he must have missed something, given his level of 
distraction.  "What?  What are you talking about?"

Her expression was bittersweet.  "I'm sorry it happened.  I'm sorry 
any of the last week happened to you.  That's all."

He was touched and surprised, and pulled her to him again.  He'd 
have to be more careful.  She was finding her way into his heart in 
a way that he hadn't anticipated.  He kissed her gently, but she 
responded enthusiastically, turning the kiss into anything but 
chaste.

When she pulled away, it came to him, as clear as day.  "Shirley!"  
He'd startled her.

"What?"

"I need you to do something for me."

She was curious now.  "What?"

"I need a diversion."

Her eyebrow raised and her voice was suspicious.  "What are you 
talking about?  Just what are you thinking?"

"I need to do something.  Right now.  It can't wait until tomorrow."

Shirley was shaking her head slightly, obviously confused.

"Just trust me, okay?  I need you to give me a diversion so I can 
get the hell out of here for just an hour or so.  Please, Shirley."

She pushed herself off his lap and stood in front of him, a look of 
anger beginning to surface.  "You are crazy.  Fox, you're hurt.  You 
need to stay here and rest."  She backed up a step and crossed her 
arms.  She was looking at him as if he were some unrecognizable 
creature that'd just pissed on her leg.  

He pushed himself out of the chair and was actually surprised 
when she jerked away from him.  "Look, Shirley, I'm fine.  They're 
just being overprotective.  Look at me."  He could tell she was 
wavering now.  He took a step towards her and she didn't back 
away.  He took her hands and said, "All I need is a little diversion.  
Who better than you to wreak a little innocent havoc?"  He smiled 
at her and, at her grudging nod of acceptance, pulled her to him 
and swung her around, kissing her soundly.  "I knew I could count 
on you."

She pulled away from him and slapped his roving hand smartly.  
"Yeah, yeah, you smooth talker.  Now, just what the hell am I 
supposed to do?  And am I going to be kicked out for it?"

He headed for the closet and started pulling socks and sneakers 
out.  "Look, Shirley, you won't get in trouble.  I promise.  You just 
keep out of sight and do whatever you need to do from a safe 
location.  I promise I'll take any heat, if there is any.  But, look... 
All I'm doing is going for a little walk.  What can they do to me for 
that?"

He glanced in the mirror and made sure he looked presentable, 
deciding that the slight blood splatter on his tee shirt wasn't that 
noticeable.  He'd do.  He turned back to look at Shirley and found 
her standing with crossed arms, her face wearing an expression of 
irritation.  Time to do more fence-mending.

"Shirley, I promise.  You won't get into any trouble.  Would I do 
anything to screw you over?"

She dropped her arms and propped her hands on her hips.  "Not 
intentionally.  I'm starting to think you've got a talent for getting 
yourself into trouble, though."  She said it with a slight smile so he 
didn't take it personally.

He glanced at his watch.  "Let's make it ten minutes from now.  
Just pull the busybodies away from that desk for thirty seconds or 
so.  That's all it'll take me."

Shirley nodded and then turned for the door.  She turned back right 
before reaching it.  "So what happens when they come in to check 
on you and you're not here?"

He froze for a second and then just shrugged.  "I'll apologize to 
them and say I just felt like a little walk.  No big deal. And if I'm 
lucky, they won't even miss me.  It's supposed to be lunchtime 
around here."

She shook her head again, but said, "Good luck.  I hope it's worth 
it."

He smiled.  "So do I, Shirley.  So do I."

And ten minutes later, on the dot, an alarm sounded down the 
hallway.  He peeked out and saw both nurses running around a 
corner.  He quickly jogged down the other hallway and out the exit 
into the cool night air.  He stopped on the stairs outside and 
breathed deeply, relishing the crispness, as well as his freedom.  
He smiled and headed for the library.  He'd had a thought earlier 
that he wanted to explore.  

The attendant just waved him through without even questioning 
him.  He'd been there enough to have become a familiar fixture.  
He headed to the card catalogue and finally found what he'd been 
looking for.  He tracked down several books and journals on 
linguistics and headed for an out of the way corner.  He picked up 
a pad of paper and pen on the way, then settled himself in to do 
some reading.

He'd seen an interview a couple years ago about a professor of 
linguistics who could use several samples of writing and make 
projections about the author.  They'd already been lectured to on a 
related topic by one of Patterson's people, but this was a bit 
different.  

He knew the notes were important in more ways than one.  
Dialectology, a subset of forensic linguistics, would provide 
insight as to any dialectic uniqueness of the writer, which could 
point to an area of the country in which the UNSUB might have 
been born or raised. Author identification, as a sub-discipline, 
could be invaluable in comparing the notes to other writings, so as 
to determine whether the words, style and structure of the notes 
were consistent with other writings of a suspect, once suspects 
were identified.  Even discourse analysis could be used, in order to 
obtain any hints about who might be penning the notes and their 
motivation for doing so.

The more Fox read, the more he realized that Patterson's group 
was, for whatever reason, ignoring, or at least downplaying, a 
critical aspect of the evidence. Whether it was because Patterson 
had little respect for forensic linguistics or whether he just didn't 
have an expert in the field on staff made little difference.

Fox pulled his pad towards him and closed his eyes.  Cleared his 
mind and recollected the photos of the notes from each case.  He 
rewrote each, by victim order. The first was delivered a couple 
weeks after Hannover's murder.  

Play the Game, if you choose.
But I will win.  You will lose.
You are stupid, I am smart.
To play with me requires heart.
Shooting's easy, shooting's fun.
Can you guess why he's the one?

The second note arrived a week or so after Lorri Kiley's murder.

A beauty she was, a beauty for sure.
A virgin she wasn't, her spirit impure.
Blonde and beautiful but stupid as rock.
The clock's ticking fast -- tick tock, tick tock.
Gunshot, strangulation, what's it about?
Do you have what it takes to figure it out?

The third came a week after Jesse Smith's body was found.

The Game's afoot and you're nowhere around,
I'm way ahead as the idiocy abounds.
An ax was messy, I must admit,
But not enough to call it quits.
Perfect he seemed, but it's all just a lie,
You won't catch me, whatever you try.

Ellen Haggerston's murder was originally thought to have been a 
bungled burglary, until the fourth note arrived.

The Game has rules, I know them well.
It's elementary, truth to tell.
You're all so slow, you haven't a clue.
Better learn fast to know what to do.
I'm way ahead, if we're keeping track.
You just can't win, 'cause I'll be back.

They were still waiting on the fifth note, the one for Margie, but 
Fox knew it was only a matter of days before it would come, 
confirming what they all suspected.  He pushed back a bit so that 
all four verses were clearly in sight.  Then, started reading over 
them again, slowly, then again, more quickly.  The first thing he 
noticed was that there were almost no colloquialisms whatsoever. 
The closest thing he could identify was the reference to Sherlock 
Holmes. Beyond that, however, it was intriguing to see the 
somewhat sophisticated use of language. Various phrases were 
interesting…  'requires heart', 'spirit impure', 'idiocy abounds', 
'truth to tell'.  

Fox was quite certain that the writer of these notes was well-read, 
in addition to being quite obviously intelligent.  The use of the 
apostrophe in front of 'cause', the correct use of apostrophes in all 
the contractions…  these were all indicators of a learned 
individual.  And then something else started to bother him about 
the notes.  There was something about the tone of each which was 
more than just superior.  More than arrogance. It was almost … 

Fox quickly stacked up the books and journals and gathered his 
notes.  A quick glance at his watch indicated that he was long past 
his originally planned one hour of freedom.  Still, he couldn't go 
back to the infirmary just yet.  There was one last thing he had to 
do.

He raced across the compound, heading for Waring's office.  He 
turned his head to glance towards the infirmary as he passed, 
worried that someone might actually see him and put a halt to little 
outing.  And then, just as he was turning his head back towards his 
objective, his body slammed into an immovable wall of muscle.  
The impact forced the air from his lungs, even as his legs collapsed 
and he crashed backwards, head making contact with concrete with 
a sick thud.

Once his vision cleared and he could breathe again, Fox opened 
watery eyes to see a shape bending over him.  The sun was behind 
the man, giving an impression of a huge, black, towering figure, 
faceless and nameless.  He was consumed with an instant terror, 
disoriented, left gasping for breath. Without thinking, he started to 
scramble backwards, practically clawing the concrete in an effort 
to escape the very vision that had been haunting his dreams.

"Whoa – Trainee Mulder!  Fox, it's all right.  Stop!"

It dawned on him that this black forbidding silhouette somehow 
knew his name.  Was, in fact, reaching a hand down to him, as if to 
help him up.  Fox raised a shaky hand to wipe across his eyes and 
it seemed to help.  He reached back to feel whether there was 
blood and found only a bump. He wiped at his eyes once more.

Through still bleary vision, he could make out a man, tall and 
broad, perhaps in his thirties, dressed in a suit that looked slept in, 
weapon at his hip, granite chin and eyes hiding behind glasses, 
with hair falling down into his eyes.  Fox didn't recognize the man, 
who was quite obviously an agent, but realized that somehow, the 
man recognized him.

Fox shook his head and wiped his hand on his shirt before reaching 
up to take the hand being offered.  As the agent pulled him off the 
ground, he said, "I'm sorry about that.  I wasn't really looking 
ahead.  I was trying to read and walk at the same time."

Fox got a good look at the agent once he was back on his feet and 
then saw the scattered files lying on the grass, right next to Fox's 
own pad.  As he bent to pick them all up, he recognized one of the 
files as that belonging to the Margie Connor case.  He realized then 
that this man must be on the investigative team.  The agent must 
have been informed of Fox's involvement. It made him wary.  
Insecure even.  Who was this man and what power did this agent 
hold over him?

The man took the files with a nod.  The piercing look the agent 
gave suggested that Fox was right to be wary.  He cleared his 
throat and managed to say, "I'm sorry, sir.  I guess I wasn't really 
paying attention either."  

He saw the man's eyes slide down to take note of the dried blood 
splatter below the neck and then down further to the pad that Fox 
now held tight to his chest.  He could almost feel the curiosity 
pouring out of the agent.  He chose to remain silent, however.  The 
agent's eyes slid back to Fox's face and stayed there.  It was as if 
Fox were being held in a physical grip.  He couldn't move, 
couldn't back away, couldn't turn his eyes.  He could only stand 
and wait it out.  Fox felt the sweat that gathered at his back, 
causing his shirt to stick uncomfortably.  Could feel the drops 
tickling his ears and neck. Damn!  Why did he feel guilty?  He 
forced himself to stand still and ignore the pounding in his head 
and the sweat that was distracting him.

Finally, the agent nodded to him and said, "Carry on, Trainee.  
And next time… slow down and watch where you're going."

Mulder attempted a swallow and couldn't quite manage it.  He 
nodded, saying in a relatively steady voice, "Yes, sir."  Then, he 
slowly walked around the agent and headed towards Waring's 
office.  He could still feel the man's eyes on him and forced 
himself into a confident gait, despite the almost overwhelming 
feeling of insecurity. When he reached the building he'd been 
headed to, he paused at the steps and turned.  The agent was gone 
from sight, leaving Fox wondering just who he was and what the 
man knew about Fox himself.

The building was blessedly cool.  His headache had become a dull 
throb and he managed to relegate it to the far reaches of his 
consciousness.  He glanced around and saw that the hallways were 
practically empty.  He smiled to himself, aware that this, at least, at 
gone his way.  So far.  A tiny part of his mind kept reminding him 
that he was breaking rules.  Still, there were priorities.  Getting 
information about the DC Murders case to Waring trumped an 
infirmary stay.  At least in his mind.

He headed down the stairs to the floor where Waring's temporary 
office was.  The place was completely deserted and Fox began to 
suspect that he was missing a lecture.  As he walked softly down 
the hallway, glancing right and left at closed doors, a voice started 
to become clear. He couldn't tell who it was, but began to make 
out the words, as well as the tone.  It was clear that an argument of 
some sort was underway.

"It's over!  Do you hear me?"

Fox slowed, not sure whether to turn back or continue on.  The 
voice was harsh and angry.  Furious, even.

"You are too smart to be wasting your life with that loser.  It's 
over."

Fox could tell the man, whoever it was, was struggling to calm 
himself.

"We'll talk about it tonight.  Be there or don't come back."

The slamming of the phone into the cradle echoed down the 
hallway.  Fox turned and looked back in the direction he'd come, 
thinking that maybe his search for Agent Waring could wait.  But 
just as he decided to leave, Agent Malloy stormed out of his office, 
slamming the door behind him.  Fox prayed the man would choose 
to go the other way, but his hopes were dashed almost as soon as 
they'd been raised.

Malloy stomped towards him and stopped abruptly after lifting his 
head and seeing Fox.  The look of pure hatred and contempt 
chilled him. Fox couldn't understand what he had done to this 
man.  What Malloy seemed to be blaming him for… 

Fox cleared his throat and started to say, "Sir, I'm…"

He was cut off as the older agent gestured him to silence, then 
approached, somewhat threateningly.  

Malloy stopped a foot away and practically growled at him.  "You 
don't belong here.  Get the hell out of here and mind your own 
fucking business."

Again, the sweat started to pool, but this time, Fox found himself 
to be more annoyed than frightened.  Who the hell were these 
people to threaten him?  Who did they think they were?  Just 
because Malloy was an instructor didn't mean he could bar Fox 
from seeing Agent Waring in the man's own office – a place the 
trainees had been invited to visit.

Malloy must have sensed the rebellious thoughts because the man 
turned an interesting shade of red and purple.  Fox could see the 
veins standing out at the man's temple, the pulse beating fast and 
furious.  But before either man could move to round two, another 
voice entered the fray.

"John, Fox…  What's going on?"  Dean Waring's voice seemed to 
drop into the tension filled hallway from nowhere, but Fox found 
himself incredibly relieved to see the older man.  He shifted back 
and away from Malloy slowly, putting another foot between them.

Waring said, "Fox, I thought you were supposed to be in the 
infirmary until this evening at the earliest."

Fox swallowed and nodded, knowing he had to answer.  "Yes, sir.  
I was supposed to be.  I needed to …"  He found his voice drifting 
off, unable to complete the sentence in front of the still furious 
Malloy. 

As if sensing the difficulty, Waring said, "John, is everything all 
right?  I'll talk with Trainee Mulder so you can go on to the 
lecture.  I'll join you in a few minutes."

Fox saw Malloy's jaw working back and forth and was surprised 
the man hadn't broken any teeth. Finally, with a last malevolent 
glare, Malloy nodded jerkily to Waring and stomped off towards 
the exit.

Fox hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until Malloy was 
ten or so feet away.  He felt the pent up air rush out of his lungs 
and he had to bend over slightly to avoid passing out.  Then, there 
was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and he knew that 
Waring, at least, wasn't out to prove anything.

Waring said, "Come on, Fox.  Looks like you need to sit down for 
a few minutes."

Fox forced himself upright and nodded, attempting a weak smile.  
"Yes, sir.  That sounds pretty good right now."

Fox immediately felt comfortable once he was seated in Waring's 
office.  It was a warm place, with photos and personal items 
scattered around.  One wall was covered with clippings from 
newspapers and magazines. Books were stuffed in every way 
imaginable on the generous shelves.  He realized that Agent 
Waring was giving him time to look around, despite the fact that 
the man was supposed to be teaching soon.

Fox sat straighter in the chair and met Waring's eyes.  He was 
relieved to see only curiosity and concern.  "Sir, I know I wasn't 
supposed to leave the infirmary, but I felt fine and I remembered 
something that I'd come across a year or so ago that I needed to 
check on."

Waring wasn't judgmental.  He merely nodded in encouragement.  
Fox licked his lips and pulled out his pad of paper, covered in a 
messy scrawl.

"Sir, I remembered reading an article about forensic linguistics."  
Fox saw the spark of interest come to Waring's face. "I knew that 
the notes had been examined by Patterson's group, but only in a 
superficial way. I thought perhaps…"  His voice dwindled and he 
colored slightly in embarrassment.  It occurred to him that he was 
criticizing the man responsible for the creation of the ISU.

Waring merely nodded again and said noncommittally, "Go on, 
Fox."

Fox licked his lips and glanced again at his notes, even though he 
knew intimately everything on the pages in front of him.  He 
looked up once more, meeting Waring's gaze. "I needed to 
understand what was possible with the field of forensic linguistics 
and how it might apply to the notes received after each murder."  
Fox began to feel excited.  He slipped the pad across the desk so 
that Waring could see the text of the four notes.

"Sir, as I looked at these more and more, read them through 
carefully, it seemed to me…"  Again, he had to stop.  He realized 
the pure arrogance of what he was doing, what he was suggesting, 
and felt his throat go dry.

Waring smiled slightly, then frowned, both so quickly in 
succession that Fox almost doubted he saw the smile at all.  
Waring said, "Trainee Mulder, nothing about this case – the crimes 
themselves, the notes, even the handling of it – has been normal.  If 
I didn't want to hear your opinion, I wouldn't have asked you for 
it."  The man's face seemed to harden a bit then, before he said, 
"Sometimes, we do things in this job that we'd never have thought 
we could ever do.  I've found that even I have managed to surprise 
myself."

The last sentence was said almost to himself.  Fox was confused. 
Not at all sure what the man's words had to do with him.  Still, he 
knew he needed to finish what he started. "Sir, it seemed to me that 
the man who wrote these notes is extremely intelligent, has read 
widely, possibly had advanced schooling beyond high school, 
and…"  Fox stopped.  Chewed on his lower lip and searched out 
Waring's face.  He didn't have any evidence for what he was going 
to suggest, but he knew – from the bottom of his soul – that he was 
correct.

Waring said nothing, but again nodded with encouragement.

Fox swallowed hard and then continued with his surmise.  "Sir, I 
think the UNSUB is sexually conflicted."  He saw Waring's 
eyebrows raise, and rushed on. "I think the man may be struggling 
with his own sexuality.  He may be gay or he may be fighting 
transgender tendencies. It's even possible there's a split personality 
involved, with both sexes represented."

Fox ignored the look of incredulity on Waring's face and 
continued.  He leaned forward, pointing at the notes.  "Look here, 
sir, and here…  These are not typical expressions that a man would 
use.  And it's not even the writing itself…  It's more the tone of the 
notes."  He again pointed to the second note.  "Look here.  'Blonde 
and beautiful but stupid as rock'.  That's not something a typical 
man would write.  And here, in the third note about Jesse Smith, 
'Perfect he seemed, but it's all just a lie'.  And from the 
Haggerston note, 'It's elementary, truth to tell'.  

Fox looked up at Waring then, expecting to see approval.  He was 
disappointed at the furrowed brow and shaking head.

Waring said, "Fox, I'm sorry.  I don't see it.  Why wouldn't a 
'typical' man write these expressions? What does any of this have 
to do with the UNSUB's sexuality?"

Fox was filled with confusion.  It was all so clear to him.  Why 
couldn't Waring see it?  Fox became aware once more of the dull 
ache in his head, which seemed to be escalating now.  He was tired 
and suddenly filled with frustration. Of all people, he expected 
Waring to see what he had.  He raised a hand to rub his forehead 
and was surprised that it shook slightly.

Waring's eyes narrowed, but his voice was kind as he said, "Fox, 
there's a reason I'm not with the ISU.  I may have some talents in 
teaching some aspects of profiling, but there are others that one 
just has to be born with.  I'm good – very good, in fact.  But 
greatness is something that's a gift."

Waring paused, eyes searching, as if to determine just how much 
Fox was understanding.  Then he reached out a hand and rested it 
on Fox's arm.  "You, son, have a gift.  What that means is that you 
will see what everyone else sees, but to you, it will make sense, 
where to others, it will seem unconnected and confusing.  You will 
draw conclusions while others struggle with hypotheses. And you 
will be challenged at every step of the way because what will be 
obvious to you will be completely opaque to your colleagues, 
supervisors, and underlings."

Fox felt a chill pass through him. This wasn't a gift Waring was 
describing.  It was a curse.

Waring squeezed his arm, shaking it just slightly. "With this gift, 
you will be able to save lives, to give people futures they wouldn't 
otherwise have.  Never doubt it.  The challenge will be to ensure 
you don't lose yours along the way."

Waring was staring at him, almost through him, the eyes piercing 
in their intensity.  Again, Fox felt his arm shaken in Waring's grip.  
"Do you understand, boy?"

Fox wasn't sure.  He wasn't sure of anything anymore, but he 
nodded.

Waring pulled back, taking Fox's pad of paper with him.  The man 
tapped it and said, "Let me look at this.  Let me think about it.  
Then, at the appropriate time and to the appropriate people, I will 
make any suggestions I feel are warranted."

Fox swallowed hard, realizing that Agent Waring was protecting 
him.  He nodded and stammered out, "Thank you, sir."

Waring stood and Fox pushed himself to his feet as well.  Waring 
offered a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and said, "Why 
don't you get back to the infirmary.  I have a feeling you've been 
missed by now."  Fox smiled at Waring's wry expression.  "Stay 
there, Fox, until you're officially released.  Do you understand?"

Again, Fox nodded.  He was filled with appreciation and gratitude.  
Again he said, simply, "Thank you, sir."

Fox turned and left, knowing that he had at least one friend 
amongst the instructors.

*******************************************


Present Day
Monday, 12:43 a.m.
Prison Infirmary, Richmond, Virginia


Scully felt crowded.  Even though the infirmary was a large room, 
there were no fewer than eight people gathered around the bed of 
Harold Stevens, six of whom could have been linebackers for any 
professional football team.  Considering the hour and what the man 
had been through in the last day and a half, Stevens was 
remarkably alert.  In fact, Scully got the impression that the man 
was enjoying his present attention.

Stevens was lying in a hospital bed, one arm and one leg cuffed to 
the rails.  There was no sign of permanent trauma and Scully felt a 
wave of anger and indignation at the fact.  The confrontation 
between this man and her partner had left Mulder fighting for his 
life. This man had the gall to be lying there, a small smile playing 
at his lips, acting as if he were a special guest of the prison system.

Skinner spoke first, showing what Scully felt was amazing 
restraint.  "Mr. Stevens, my name is Walter Skinner.  I'm with the 
Federal Bureau of Investigations."  He didn't introduce anyone 
else.  Scully assumed it was an intentional move.  "Mr. Stevens, I 
know the Richmond police have spoken with you quite a few times 
already.  If you don't mind, however, my agents and I would like 
to speak with you a bit more."

Stevens nodded magnanimously.  

Skinner said, "You don't mind if we record our conversation, do 
you?  It's certainly a lot easier than writing everything down."

Again, the man nodded.

Skinner said, "You led us on quite a chase."

The smile on Stevens face grew wider, but he didn't say anything.  
Scully wanted to gag.

"We barely figured out your message in time."

Scully could see the smile fade just a bit. There seemed to be a hint 
of confusion, even. 

"You were way ahead of us on this case."

The smile was back full force.  All the flattery paid off.  Stevens 
finally spoke.  "It was only luck your man stopped me. He really 
wasn't up to it.  He was a wimp.  Pure luck."

Scully wanted to leap across the foot of the bed and strangle the 
bastard.  Skinner's voice was still smooth and clear when he spoke, 
with no sign at all of irritation.  "He was lucky.  There was an 
awful lot of luck involved in our catching you."

Stevens glanced around at those standing by his bed, as if to make 
sure that they were all listening to Skinner.  Scully had to again 
force her expression to remain carefully neutral.

Skinner said, "We're curious about a few things.  We wondered if 
you might help us out with them."

The man's expression grew only slightly wary.  He nodded for 
Skinner to continue.

"Mr. Stevens, I know your mother passed away a couple years ago 
and that recently, you started a new job."

It was all Scully could do to keep from snorting.  The suspicion 
was the Harold Stevens had somehow killed his mother and the job 
was playing gopher to a serial killer.

Stevens said slowly, "Yes, my mother died.  But I don't know 
what you mean about a new job."  The wariness was back.

Skinner smiled and nodded.  Leaned in just a bit, as if the two of 
them were having a friendly conspiratorial chat.  "Don't worry, 
Mr. Stevens.  We're not the IRS.  In fact, anything you do that 
screws over the IRS is just fine with us."

Stevens laughed a bit, then said.  "Well, I was doing some work off 
and on.  Nothing regular."

Skinner nodded and asked, "We know you're skilled at a lot of 
different things, Mr. Stevens."  Again, Scully had to bite her lip.  
As far as they knew, the man was a screw up at just about 
everything.  Skinner was saying smoothly, "We were just curious 
about the nature of that job."

Stevens shrugged.  "It wasn't much.  Just helping out a friend."

"What kind of help did you provide?"

"Oh, moving things.  Lifting things.  Rearranging things."

There was a bit of a smirk on the man's face.  Scully so wanted to 
wipe it off – forcibly.

Skinner merely nodded, as if the answer was just what he was 
looking for.

"Did it pay well?"

The man in the hospital bed was obviously trying to look 
nonchalant.

"It was okay."

Skinner turned to one of the agents to the left and reached for some 
papers.  He looked at them for a moment and then said, "It seems 
you were able to make some nice deposits in your account over the 
last several months."  Skinner flipped through a few pages and 
said, "The first one was about a half year or so ago."  Skinner 
looked up and towards Stevens again.  "Does that sound about 
right?"

Stevens seemed to be looking for a trap.  He finally answered, 
"Yeah.  I think so."

Skinner smiled and said, "Whoever you were working for must 
have been pretty happy with your work.  He kept giving you more 
jobs."

Stevens relaxed again.  "That's right.  I was really good at what he 
wanted me to do."

Skinner gave the pages back to the agent and gestured towards 
Jerry.  Jerry handed him the case file on Stevens.  Skinner opened 
it and again, seemed to be reviewing carefully.  Scully knew that 
Skinner was aware of every detail of the file already.  Skinner said, 
"Mr. Stevens, can you tell us about your car?"

Stevens was obviously confused by the change in topic.  So was 
Scully, at first.  "My car?" 

Skinner nodded.  "Yes, sir.  It's not the same one your mother 
used, is it?"

Stevens shook his head.  "No, I bought my own car."

Skinner nodded again.  "We can't seem to find much information 
on it.  It doesn't seem to be registered with the state."  Skinner 
smiled at Stevens and said, "Frankly, we don't really much care for 
the DMV, either."

Stevens relaxed and said, "I bought it from a friend.  It was all off 
the books."

Skinner pulled out a photo from the file and showed Stevens.  
"This is it, right?  A blue Ford Taurus wagon?"

The man again nodded slowly.

"We're curious about what happened with your mother's car. It 
seems to have disappeared."

Stevens licked his lips and then adopted an innocent expression.  
"I'm not really sure.  I gave it to a friend of mine."

Skinner merely nodded and then handed the file back to Jerry.  He 
shifted his stance slightly and gripped the rail at the bottom of the 
bed, where he stood comfortably.  "I guess that explains it.  We 
hate unanswered questions around here.  That's all."

Scully sensed the implicit threat in the words but thought that 
Stevens missed it.

Skinner said, "You know, the Richmond PD weren't able to take 
you on for training because of those few problems you had with 
the law."

Again, the change in topic caught Stevens by surprise, but Scully 
saw the narrowing of the eyes.  Harold Stevens was not a good 
actor.  He probably stunk at poker, too.

Skinner followed up quickly.  "It's not really fair for police 
departments to hold the indiscretions of youth against everyone, is 
it?"

Stevens was sulky.  "They were just misdemeanors.  Nothing 
serious.  And it was just bad luck I got caught on those."

Scully had to appreciate the degree of arrogance and self-
involvement.  The man wasn't upset that he'd done these things – 
only that he'd been caught.  And, of course, he failed to even 
mention the larceny charge, which had been thrown out for lack of 
evidence.

Skinner said, "Hey, we all do crazy things when we're young, 
right?  We don't really think about how it'll play out years down 
the road.  I'm sorry you were screwed by the RPD, but you know, 
they just have their rules to follow.  They can't really do anything 
about it either."

Stevens eyes moved around the bed, focusing on the few RPD 
officers in the room.  Scully noted that each wore carefully 
controlled expressions of neutrality.

Stevens shrugged slightly, then muttered, "Whatever."

Skinner said, "A guy like you – big and strong, obviously smart…  
Why didn't you ever apply to the Bureau?"  Scully was amazed at 
the sincerity in Skinner's voice. Had she not known better, she'd 
have sworn her former boss actually meant what he was asking.

Stevens resettled himself before replying.  "I thought about it.  
Figured they'd probably have it in for me, too.  Figured the RPD 
probably lied to 'em about me."

Scully recalled that Stevens had been described as having paranoid 
tendencies. 

Skinner nodded knowingly.  "That's probably true."  He shrugged 
as if to say, too bad.  Then added, again on an entirely different 
track, "You know, I bet you're the kind of guy who could take a 
weapon apart in no time. I knew some fellows like you in 'Nam.  
Real talented.  Big guys, diverse skills, real good with weapons."

Stevens looked like he was in love. He was certainly enjoying 
Skinner's apparent appreciation of his talents.  The man said, "I'm 
not bad.  Can strip and clean a gun in under 5 minutes."

Skinner looked impressed.  "Do you prefer a slotted end or a Jag 
on your rod?"

"I like the slotted end."

Skinner nodded, then reached to his side a pulled his weapon out.  
Stevens didn't seem concerned.  "I don't generally carry my 
service issued .38.  I prefer the 9 mm.  This is a Glock 21.  Only 33 
parts to the entire thing."

Stevens looked like he was in heaven.  "I got me a SIG-Sauer 
P220.  That's pretty close to yours."

Skinner smiled.  "That's a fine weapon.  I still prefer the Glock for 
its reliability, though."  Skinner shifted a bit and replaced his 
weapon in its holster. Then he said, "Where do you manage to get 
in target practice?  Not too many places around your neck of the 
woods, are there?"

Stevens answered, without even thinking. "We go out to James 
River Park, way out towards Ancarrow's Landing. We go on late 
at night and ain't no one for miles."

Skinner again nodded.  "You set up targets?"

Stevens actually laughed.  "Naw.  Plenty of animals to go after."

Skinner laughed, too.  "Nothin' like goin' after a squirrel or rabbit 
to make you realize just how tricky it is to hit a living thing."

"Squirrels and rabbits?  I like bigger game, myself."

Scully was chilled at the thought that the bigger game might 
include people.  She glanced at the PRD officers and saw them 
looking at each other.  She knew that there would be an 
investigation launched into any missing hikers or claims of shots 
being heard in that area.

Skinner followed up with, "Your friend use a SIG-Sauer, too?"

Stevens shook his head quickly, "Naw.  He uses a Colt 1911."

Skinner appeared impressed.  "The M1911A1?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Impressive."

"That's the weapon of choice for quite a few police departments."  
Skinner turned to the RPD officers.  "What about you guys?  What 
do you use?"

There was silence for just a moment and then one of the officers, 
Hernandez, said, "We got Glock 21's as our standard duty issue.  
Most of us go with those, but we can carry something different as 
long as it's approved."

Scully felt that the entire conversation was surreal.  She had to 
force herself not to scream at Skinner to move on.  Still, she 
understood what he was doing and why.  She desperately wanted 
to call the hospital, but stood firm, knowing that any movement 
would be distracting.

Skinner said, "In Glock we trust."

Stevens laughed.  

Skinner added, "Too bad your friend… what was his name again?  
Too bad your buddy and you haven't tried a Glock.  We swear by 
'em."

Stevens smiled again.  "We gotta try one, I guess.  Frank really 
don't like to try new things, though.  He's kind of set in his ways."

Skinner smiled.  "I know how that is.  The older you get, the more 
difficult it is to try new things.  Your still a young guy.  Just 33, 
right?"

Harold Stevens nodded, obviously flattered that Skinner recalled 
that fact.

"Your buddy Frank sounds like me.  I'm … well, let's just say I'm 
closer to 50 than I am to 40."

Stevens laughed again, then said, "Frank's not that old.  He just 
turned 40 this year."

Scully was amazed.  Did Stevens not understand what he was 
doing or was Frank truly just some friend not connected to the 
murders?

"So is Frank the guy who hires you on occasionally?  He sounds 
like a great friend."

"Yeah, he is. I don't know what I woulda done if he hadn't been 
around after my mom… passed."

"That when you met him?  Right around then?"

"Just before, yeah."

"Where'd you meet him?"

"Gun show.  Down at the Convention Center."

"He the one who got you to help with these kidnappings?"

And just like that, the interview was over.  Stevens shut his mouth, 
closed his eyes and turned his head.  The message was clear.

Scully could see the regret on Skinner's face.  She knew he was 
likely blaming himself for moving too fast.  Scully knew few 
investigators who could have been as subtle as Skinner had been, 
though.  She'd never seen him interrogate anyone before.  At least, 
not with words.

Skinner said, "Well, Mr. Stevens.  It was a pleasure talking with 
you.  Perhaps we'll get a chance again after you've been able to 
rest a bit."

The officers and agents around the bed started turning to file out.  
Scully knew she should follow.  Knew she should be walking out 
next to Skinner, but she needed to look on this man once more.  
This was the man who almost killed her partner.  The man she now 
admitted – to herself and to him – that she loved.  Damn this piece 
of shit waste of human skin.  This pestilence.  This complete and 
utter scum.  

Scully felt a hand at her elbow and looked up to see that Skinner 
had returned for her.  She took a deep breath and turned to follow. 
She noticed Stevens eyes on her, though, following them both. She 
thought to herself, 'Soon, Mr. Stevens.  Soon, I'll see you fry on 
death row for what you've done.'

As soon as they exited the infirmary, everyone slumped.  Scully 
moved against a wall for support and took a deep breath.  Skinner 
was there, in front of her.

"Agent Scully, are you all right?  I thought for a moment you 
might have decided to put Stevens out of his misery right then and 
there."

There was appreciative laughter from several of the men around 
the hallway.  She heard one mutter, "I wouldn't have stopped her."

Scully smiled and said, "I'm fine, sir.  Sorry about that.  You, 
however, showed amazing restraint."

She could see the frown settle on his features.  "Not enough, 
apparently.  I rushed it."

Friedman and one of the Richmond police officers both said, "No" 
at the same time.  Friedman said, "No way, sir.  It was brilliant."

Detective Struthers stepped forward and said, "Sir, you got more 
out of him in 20 minutes than we have in the past 20 hours.  Let's 
give it a break and maybe you can come talk with him again 
tomorrow."

Skinner nodded and shook the man's hand.  Then gestured to the 
others.  "Thank you all for letting us talk with him. We'll give a 
call tomorrow and set up a time to come back.  We'll keep you 
informed of any progress we make from our end."

Twenty minutes later, they'd dropped Jerry off at the Bureau and 
were heading back to the hospital.  

Scully had had time to think about the interaction with Stevens.  
She turned to Skinner, taking note of the weariness so evident in 
every move.  

"Sir, do you think Stevens was aware that he was being set up as 
the fall guy?"

Skinner shook his head.  "No way.  When I mentioned that we 
almost didn't figure out his message, he had no idea what I was 
talking about."

Scully thought about it some more.  "Do you think Frank is the 
guys real name?"

Skinner said, "Probably not.  You never know, though.  Mulder 
said this guy would be smart. Sociopathic tendencies.  That means 
he's probably also arrogant.  Sometimes, people like that think 
they have an inherent immunity."

Scully nodded.  "What about the messages, sir?  You said they 
were instrumental in the DC Murders case.  How do you think that 
relates here?"

"Well, Scully, you have to understand what happened with the 
notes back then. Waring called me that very night.  I went back to 
Quantico and we discussed the possibilities for almost an hour.  
We decided to feed the information to Patterson while at the same 
time send the notes to an expert in the field.  We decided not to 
take any chances.  We found out soon enough what Patterson 
thought about the information."


*******************************************

PAST
September 11, 1986
Thursday, 9:53 a.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


"Fox!"  

Fox turned and saw Chris and Rob, his roommates, coming up the 
steps towards where he sat.  Their joy at seeing him was sincere 
and brought a broad smile to his own face.

He stood up and reached out his hand.  "Guys!  How have you 
managed without me?"

They both laughed.  Rob slapped his back hard enough to knock 
the wind out of his lungs.  "So, they finally let you out of infirmary 
hell, huh?  We were wondering how long it would take."

Chris added, "We thought you'd be back last night.  Especially 
after Shirley reported you as being hearty and hale."

Fox grimaced slightly, wondering just what Shirley was telling 
people.

Chris said, "No worries.  She just told us.  She knew we were 
worried about you."

"Well, they couldn't really find any reason to torture me any more 
so they finally had to give me my walking papers.  First thing I did 
this morning was go get some real food.  I swear they were trying 
to starve me."

Chris and Rob both laughed in appreciation.  Then, Rob said, "So 
you managed to make it to Patterson's lecture, I see.  Better be 
careful, Fox.  I hear that he's starting to take notice of a certain 
trainee."

On that cautionary note, the doors below swung open to admit the 
man himself.  The room quieted immediately.  Rob and Chris 
nodded to Fox and headed back down a few rows, leaving Fox 
once again alone on an upper row.  Fox didn't mind at all.  That 
was just what he wanted.  He saw Patterson gesture towards the 
projection room, so wasn't surprised when the lights dimmed and a 
particularly gruesome picture was projected in front.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you've heard from one expert after another 
about profiling. You've learned about forensic technology, 
forensic psychology, forensic sciences, … some of you have even 
learned about forensic linguistics."

The last was said with a snide glance up at Fox himself.  Fox 
forced himself to avoid any reaction of any kind.  

"But no amount of evidence gathering, no amount evidence 
identification or assimilation will ever replace basic understanding 
of the human psyche."  Patterson gestured to the screen behind him 
without even looking. "The gentleman who did this liked little old 
ladies who all had one thing in common – they lived alone and had 
short, white curly hair."  The man glanced back and added, "Not 
that you can tell the hair's white with all the blood."

Fox felt a chill at the nonchalance of the words.

"There were five little old ladies who turned up like this."  
Patterson nodded towards the control room and four more slides 
were projected, one after the other.  "The murderer wasn't found 
through criminal profiling. He was finally stopped because of 
victim profiling.  It's not enough to know the criminal.  To get into 
his head and understand his thoughts.  Is that important?  Hell, yes.  
But, you also need to understand the victim.  Who they were.  
What they wanted. Who they'd be willing to open a door to.  Why 
they'd open a door.  Under what circumstances they'd get in a car 
with someone, give money to someone…"

Fox let the words wash over him. He occasionally jotted down a 
note, but found his mind wandering more and more.  He kept 
thinking about Margie and realized he wanted to know more.  He 
thought he knew her. He thought he knew why the UNSUB chose 
her.  But, maybe there really was more that could lead to finding 
her killer.  Why would Jesse go off with a stranger?  Why would 
Margie get in a stranger's car?  Who would Lori get in a car with? 

Fox scribbled a couple thoughts on the pad in front of him and then 
realized the constant droning of Patterson's voice had stopped.  He 
looked up to find most of the class looking at him.  Patterson was 
looking at him as well.  He felt his throat go dry and realized he'd 
totally tuned the man out.

"Trainee Mulder, perhaps you didn't hear the question."

Fox cleared his throat.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I must have been 
distracted."

The man smiled. To some it might have seemed a paternal smile.  
To Fox, it seemed quite threatening.  "I asked your opinion on the 
value of victim profiling."

Fox reddened immediately. He understood what Patterson was 
really saying, even if no one else in the room did.  He was being 
put on alert that Patterson knew of his involvement in the case and 
wasn't particularly happy.

Fox said, "Sir, of course I can see from what you've presented that 
it's an invaluable tool for law enforcement. I can understand why it 
would be particularly critical for any serial case."  And in his mind, 
he thought, 'There.  Try to make something out of that bullshit 
answer.'

Patterson only smiled.  Then turned to look over the class.  "You 
are dismissed."

Fox stood and prepared to head out the back when he heard the 
words, "Not you, Trainee Mulder."

Fox stopped and looked back down at Patterson.  The man stood 
comfortably looking up at him.

"If you have a minute, Trainee, I'd like to speak with you."

Fox saw Chris and Rob, who'd met up with Shirley, standing a few 
rows below him.  He nodded to them, indicating he'd catch up 
later, then started down towards Patterson.  He walked slowly, 
giving everyone else time to leave the room.  He had a feeling that 
they wanted out as much as he wanted no witnesses to what he was 
quite sure would be a pretty serious drubbing.

Patterson surprised him, though.  When he got down to where the 
man stood, Patterson reached a hand out.  "It's good to meet you 
personally, Trainee Mulder."  

Fox shook hands with the man, still wary and awaiting the lecture.

"I've looked extensively through your file, Trainee.  Very 
impressive."

Fox nodded.

"Your thesis from Oxford has been cited extensively already.  I'm 
making it required reading for our own ISU agents."

Fox felt himself redden again.  He didn't know what to say.  He 
managed a mumbled, "Thank you, sir."  Then, fell silent.

"You have a gift for profiling, Fox.  Dean filled me in on some of 
your input on this latest serial case."

Fox opened his mouth, but found he couldn't manage any words.  
He swallowed hard, still certain that the other shoe was about to 
drop.

"Fox, relax.  We in ISU don't begrudge input from some other 
source if it ends up solving the case.  That's the important thing, 
right?  That we put the bad guys away."

Fox nodded, still not sure where Patterson was going with this or 
even why.

"The idea you had about the UNSUB from the DC Murders case is 
intriguing. The idea that the perp is sexually conflicted."

Fox again nodded, saying nothing.

"I'm having my people look at it.  I think you might just have 
come up with something everyone else missed. We could use 
someone with your talents in the ISU, Trainee. I look forward to 
talking with you more." With that, Patterson smiled at him again, 
then turned and walked out without another word. 

Fox found himself actually weak in the knees and stumbled 
forward to sink down into the chair provided for the instructor.  He 
heard movement in the back of the class and turned to see Dean 
Waring walking slowly down the stairs. The man must have been 
in the control booth the entire time.

Fox started to push himself out of the chair, but Waring waved him 
back down.

"Bureau Chief Patterson tends to have that effect on quite a few 
people, Fox.  Just stay where you are.  I think you deserve a bit of 
battle pay after that encounter."

Fox smiled.  "He was really quite flattering."

Waring laughed.  "Bill Patterson can condemn with a smile and 
devastate with a glance. He's a connoisseur of contempt, but also a 
very skilled manipulator."

Fox laughed.  Waring came close.  Close enough that Fox saw the 
underlying concern.

"Listen, son.  I want you to take a moment and think about 
something."

"Yes, sir."

"What was the lecture about today?"

Fox shook his head.  Waring knew as well as he did, after all.  
"Victim profiling."

"Define victim for me."

Fox became more confused, but complied, dredging up a textbook 
definition.  "One who is harmed or killed by another."

"Give me another definition."

Fox smiled again, and gave him two more.  "One who is harmed or 
made to suffer from an act, circumstance, agency or condition.  Or 
a person who is tricked, swindled, or taken advantage of."

Waring nodded and then reached out to squeeze Fox's shoulder.  
"So, given the definition, what do you think Patterson just did to 
you, Fox?"

At first, Fox was filled with confusion.  Then he realized just what 
Waring was saying.  He flushed in embarrassment.  Of course.  
Patterson had profiled him.  Figured out just what to say and how 
to say it to make him intrigued.  Interested in the ISU.  He gave 
Waring a lopsided smile, then shook his head. Waring was right.  
Patterson was a very skilled manipulator.

*******************************************


PAST
September 11, 1986
Thursday, 11:43 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.


Walter stood and stretched, then reached for his jacket.  He was 
happy.  Sharon was coming into town and he was picking her up 
from the airport in just an hour.  He knew they wouldn't be seeing 
much of each other, but just knowing she was going to be there 
seemed to make his load lighter.

"You headin' out?"  Doug was slouched in his chair, an open file 
and sheets of paper with scribbled notes covering his desk.

"Just for a couple hours.  I'll check on the teams before I leave."

"You comin' over with Sharon tonight, right?"

Walter smiled.  "That's the plan.  We won't stay too late, though."

Doug laughed.  "What?  You think you'll be otherwise occupied?"

Walter felt himself redden a bit and then joined in the laughter.  
"What can I say?  I miss her."

He was almost ready to leave when his phone rang.  For a second, 
he actually considered letting it ring, but then sighed and picked it 
up.  "Skinner."

The voice on the other end shocked him.  "Agent Skinner, this is 
Bill Patterson."

Walter mouthed the name 'Patterson' to Doug.  "Yes, sir.  What 
can I help you with, sir?"

"It's not what you can do for me, son, it's what I can do for you."

Walter reached for his chair and pulled it over, dropping into it 
heavily.  "Yes, sir.  I'm listening."

"Your little experiment with Trainee Mulder seems to be paying 
off, Agent Skinner.  Our people have been discussing this 
suggestion of his that the perpetrator of your crimes might be 
sexually conflicted – perhaps even a multiple personality.  We've 
analysed the notes extensively in light of this hypothesis and we 
agree with his interpretation.  I believe you need to take your 
investigation in a different direction."

Walter was stunned.  When he and Dean spoke the evening before, 
they spoke of extreme possibilities.  An idea on the fringe.  Now, 
Patterson himself was saying the kid was right.  And if so, this 
changed everything.

Patterson said, "Are you there, Agent Skinner?"

Walter found himself nodded and managed to say, "Yes, sir.  I 
appreciate your considering this new theory."

"And?"  The question was drawled out.  Patterson obviously 
expected a specific response from him.  Walter wasn't sure what it 
was, though.

"Sir?"

"I assume you'll be needing to meet with my profilers?  Find out 
next steps, given this new lead."

Skinner cleared his throat quickly.  "Yes, sir.  That sounds fine.  
When would your people be available?"

"This afternoon should work.  But, I think you need to arrange for 
young Fox Mulder to be present.  I believe his input would be 
invaluable."

Walter finally realized his mistake.  By allowing Patterson to direct 
the conversation, the man had artfully manipulated him into a 
corner.  He wiped at the sweat that had formed on his forehead and 
said, "Sir, I'll have to see whether that would be possible.  Trainee 
Mulder's participation has not been … widely approved."

There was silence for a good twenty seconds and then Patterson 
said, "Shall we say 3 p.m.?"

Walter replied, "I'll be there, sir."

"You do that, agent."

And the phone slammed in his ear.

*******************************************

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 13 of ? (13/?)
by Kronos (clb@roadrunner.com)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 27 of the Wait
Monday, 1:51 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully was self-conscious of the sound her heels were making on 
the linoleum floor of the hospital but she couldn't help speeding up 
as she approached the CCU.  She'd been gone from Mulder's side 
for three hours and was now filled with conflicting feelings of 
dread and anticipation.  Had his condition changed?  Had he 
worsened?  Had he awakened?  

Scully was practically running when she came to the CCU doors 
and knocked lightly, waving at the nurse at the desk.  The woman 
allowed her in and smiled.  Scully almost collapsed in relief, 
knowing that she'd be getting a completely different reception if 
Mulder's condition had worsened.

"Welcome back, Agent Scully.  Fox is doing much better."

Scully smiled at the woman.  "Thank you, Barb.  Has he woken 
up? Can I go in?"

"He hasn't woken up yet, but there have been some good signs.  
You can go on in, but please remember the doctor has a two person 
limit."

She nodded to the woman and walked softly into the room.  
Mulder was propped slightly on his right side, amazingly free of 
machinery, and looking drastically better than he had just a few 
hours ago.  Both her mother and his mother were fast asleep in 
their chairs, each staking out a side of the bed.  Scully took the 
opportunity to walk to Mulder's side and whisper in his ear.

"Hey, partner.  I'm back.  Did you miss me?"

She smoothed back his hair and, after ensuring that neither woman 
in the room was looking, leaned down to kiss his forehead.  Scully 
smiled and whispered again, "Skinner's been telling on you, 
Mulder.  I've been especially interested in learning about some of 
your friends from back at the Academy.  It sounds like you and 
Shirley were particularly close."

Scully brushed her hand through his hair once more, then leaned 
forward and added, "I'm really looking forward to talking to you 
about her, Mulder."

She could have sworn Mulder's heart jumped a beat.  That was all 
right.  A little jolt to get him moving faster back to her was just 
fine. She smiled again, and then pushed herself upright.  When she 
stepped back, she saw her mother looking at her, a small smile 
playing at her lips.

Maggie spoke softly. "I'm glad you're back, Dana.  One of the 
doctors was in about a half hour ago and said that Fox should be 
waking up in the next few hours.  I was worried it would be while 
you were gone."

Her mother pushed herself out of the chair and stood.  "If you think 
you'll be all right, I'm going to go out to the waiting room.  You 
stay here and let me know if there are any changes."

Scully wrapped her arms around her mother and hugged her 
tightly.  "Thanks, Mom.  Try to rest if you can."

Her mother had just started to leave when Scully remembered 
something.  "Mom.  If AD Skinner is there, please let him know 
that I'll be staying here for a while."

Her mother nodded, saying only, "Of course."

Scully pulled the chair a bit closer to the bed so she could sit close 
and hold Mulder's hand.  She rubbed her fingers over his, 
marveling as she had so many times in the past at the long slim 
fingers.  She'd been watching those fingers playing with pencils, 
an envelope opener, paperclips… always something, for years.  
Mulder's fingers were almost always in motion. With her new self-
awareness, she could finally admit to herself that she wanted those 
fingers touching her, exploring her, soothing her.  She needed 
Mulder like she needed air. She wanted him suddenly like she'd 
never wanted anything or anybody in her life.  The shock of the 
sudden overwhelming desire left her almost breathless and just a 
tad flushed.

She glanced again at Teena Mulder and, upon ensuring the woman 
was still asleep, leaned towards her partner again.  "Hey, Mulder. 
I'm starting to discover that I'm not nearly as patient as I thought I 
was.  Do you think you could open those eyes of yours pretty 
soon?  I really want to talk with you, partner."

She sat down again, holding his hand tightly in hers.  Then, she 
laid down her head and decided to rest.  Just for a bit.

*******************************************

Skinner got off the phone with Landers, knowing that the team 
would contact him if anything turned up in the next few hours.  
Maggie Scully had just come from Mulder's room and filled him 
in on Scully's intentions.  He decided he could afford to just sit and 
rest for a bit.  Just an hour or two.  He sat in one of the more 
comfortable chairs available and stretched out as much as he could.  
He was asleep only moments after closing his eyes.

*******************************************

Scully was dreaming.  Someplace far down deep in her psyche she 
knew she was caught in a nightmare but she couldn't force herself 
out of it.  Someone was standing over her, a dark forbidding shape.  
He was threatening her, threatening her partner, but she couldn't 
scream, couldn't move, couldn't do anything to make it him go 
away.  She felt like she was struggling to just lift a finger.  

And then she heard a voice, clear and loud, say, "Who are you?  
What are you doing?"  It was enough to break the stranglehold the 
nightmare had on her.  Scully opened her eyes and jerked up.  
Teena Mulder was standing, one hand stretched over her son's still 
body, the other up, as if warding off evil.  

Scully saw a man in a dark suit rushing out the door and her mind 
finally caught up to what had happened.  She was on her feet and 
running after the man in a heartbeat.  In the CCU hallway, she 
shouted to the on duty nurse, "Call security.  Get someone here to 
watch over Mulder."

She was pulling her weapon out, even as she flew through the 
CCU doors and out into the general hospital hallway.  She caught a 
glimpse of a door closing partway down the hallway and noted it 
was an exit.  She raced past the waiting room, taking only a second 
to shout out her former boss's name, then continued on.

Scully was reassured to hear feet pounding after her.  She glanced 
back to see Skinner there, weapon out, drawing closer.

"Scully, what is it?  What's going on?"

Scully pushed through the exit door, saying, "Someone was in 
Mulder's room. He went this way."

They stopped to look up and down the stairs, trying to establish 
which way the man had gone, but there was complete silence.

Scully hit the stair rail and cried out, "Damn it!"  She jerked at the 
hand on her arm and then forced herself to relax.

Skinner broke the silence.  "Let's go to security and check out the 
cameras."

She nodded but said, "First, let's get some people on Mulder's 
door and find out if anyone in CCU saw anything.  Just anyone 
can't walk into CCU."

Skinner nodded to her and they both headed back to the CCU 
doors.

There were several nurses gathered at the desk, with one security 
officer standing with them and another standing at the opening to 
Mulder's room.  Scully caught a glimpse of Mulder's mother, 
looking pale and frightened.  She held her badge up to the security 
guard at Mulder's door and walked in.

"Mrs. Mulder, it's all right.  We're going to find this man.  Can 
you tell me what you saw and heard?"

The older woman sank back into her seat, somewhat shakily, and 
said, "I woke up to see this man next to me, leaning over Fox.  He 
had something in his hand.  I must have made a sound, because he 
turned away even before I stood or spoke."

Scully became alarmed, wondering if the man had managed to do 
anything to her partner.  She looked around the bed and on the 
floor, finally focusing on a discarded syringe.  She grabbed a tissue 
and picked it up, feeling her throat tighten at the sight of the 
yellowish liquid inside.

Scully placed it carefully on the bed, wrapped in the tissue and 
started examining her partner's arm, neck and IV tube.  She started 
to breathe easier when she realized that the man hadn't had a 
chance to inject it.

Teena Mulder said in a slightly strangled voice, "Is he all right?  
Did that man do anything to Fox?"

Scully turned and shook her head quickly, gathering her thoughts.  
"No, he didn't have time.  You stopped him, Mrs. Mulder".

The woman looked incredibly relieved.  Before Scully could say 
anything else, a ruckus at the door alerted her to Skinner's entry.

"Scully?"

She clearly heard the demand for information in his tone.  She held 
up a hand and replied, "It's all right.  Whoever he was, he tried to 
inject Mulder with something."

She turned and carefully held up the syringe.  "We need to get this 
booked into evidence and sent to the lab immediately."

Skinner nodded and pulled out an evidence bag from a pocket.  
She smiled a bit, wondering if he always carried them.  

She wiped the smile off her face when her former boss murmured, 
only for her ears, "It pays to carry them around you and Mulder."

She watched him seal the bag and gesture towards the door.  An 
RPD officer entered.  She was surprised that he'd gotten her so 
quickly.

Skinner said, "RPD was already on the scene with a shooting vic.  
They sent us a couple of officers until we can get our own people 
here."

Scully nodded her understanding and watched as Skinner handed 
the bag to the man.  "Log this in immediately.  We need to get this 
analyzed to find out just what this man was trying to do to my 
agent."  Scully felt a rush of warmth at the expression.  Even 
though she and Mulder technically weren't Skinner's agents 
anymore, he was still looking out for them both.

Her former boss turned to her and asked, "Do we know anything 
about this man?  All I got from the nurses is that they saw him 
from the back when he was leaving.  No one knows how he got 
into CCU and no one saw him from the front."

Scully looked to Teena Mulder who was shaking her head.  "I 
didn't see him either.  Not really.  He was about six feet tall.  
Maybe a little taller.  Youngish, but not too young.  I can't tell you 
color of hair or anything, except that he was a white man in a dark 
blue suit."

Skinner nodded, saying, "Thank you, ma'am."  Then turned to 
Scully.  "Hospital security is reviewing tapes for the past half hour 
or so.  Let's go down there."

Ten minutes later, they'd decided that their man was a ghost.  He 
never allowed his face to be seen on any monitor.  There was no 
way to link him with an automobile, no way to identify any critical 
feature.  The man waltzed into the hospital, got into CCU by 
following an unaware intern, then ran out so quickly that no one 
could catch him.

Scully was cursing to herself when Skinner's cell phone rang.  She 
listened to the one sided conversation with only part of her 
attention until she heard her former boss curse.

"When did that happen?  How did it happen?"

There was silence for a minute or so and then Skinner cursed 
again.

"That was our best chance of finding the UNSUB."

After another minute of silence, Skinner said gruffly, "Keep me 
informed."

When Skinner met her eyes, she saw the anger and frustration that 
he couldn't hide.

"What happened?"

"That was Landers.  Harold Stevens is dead.  He died in the prison 
infirmary of heart failure about two hours ago.  Just an hour or so 
after we visited."

Scully was stunned. And then she realized that the same fate had 
been intended for her partner.  She was lightheaded suddenly and 
needed to sit.  She felt a hand guiding her to a chair and sank into it 
gratefully.

Her words were forced, almost whispered, when she said, "He's 
trying to get rid of anyone who knows anything about him.  But, 
why Mulder?  What does Mulder know?"

She looked up at Skinner and saw him shaking his head.  "I have 
no idea.  But, we better find out soon.  This is a dangerous man, 
Agent Scully."

*******************************************

Present Day, Hour 29 of the Wait
Monday, 3:39 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully reached for her partner's hand once more, not even self-
conscious about the fact that Skinner sat across the bed from her 
and could see her every move.  She'd sent her mother and 
Mulder's mother to their hotels for some real sleep.  Each was 
under the protection of an FBI agent.  

She looked over to the door and was reassured by the two hulking 
figures there.  No one would get past them.  Not again.

Skinner interrupted her thoughts.  "He's taking a lot of chances 
now.  He must feel that we're getting close to him."

She turned to him and nodded, considering his words.  "I suppose 
he could think that Stevens said something to Mulder before the 
police arrived.  It's possible he did."

Skinner nodded.  "Or that Mulder knows something we don't.  I 
wouldn't put it past him to have been developing his own theories 
that he hadn't shared with anyone yet.  We know he put some of 
his thoughts down in writing in his computer.  You know 
Mulder… I'm sure there was quite a bit more he didn't even bother 
to write down."

Scully nodded, knowing that her partner's memory had often 
worked against her when she was trying to figure out what he'd do 
next or where he'd go on one of his unofficial jaunts.  

Skinner said, "I should have anticipated this.  I should have had 
extra men on the job."

Scully shook her head.  "You couldn't have known."

Skinner laughed a bit, harsh and low.  "Yes, actually.  I should 
have known.  I should have anticipated it.  All this talk about the 
DC Murders case, and it still hasn't sunk in just how many 
parallels there have been."

Scully was again intrigued.  She knew she should be resting, but 
the adrenaline from their recent excitement still had her wired.  
"What do you mean, sir?  You mean something like this happened 
in that case, too?"

Skinner shrugged.  "Not exactly, but…"

*******************************************

PAST
September 11, 1986
Thursday, 2:59 p.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


Walter glanced over at Doug and grimaced.  They'd spoken with 
Keenan who had told them to present a unified front at this 
meeting with Patterson's profilers.  There were three men already 
sitting at the table when they were shown in.  Just as they were 
starting to introduce themselves, the door slammed open and 
Patterson waltzed in.

Walter watched the man's eyes flick around the room and then 
settle on him.  Introductions were put on hold when the Bureau 
Chief said, "I see we're a man short.  Or perhaps you thought I 
wasn't serious this morning?"

Walter stood a bit taller before replying.  "Sir, I spoke with the 
training leaders about the situation. They were extremely unhappy 
about the level of involvement of Trainee Mulder in this case and 
informed me that he was not to be consulted, either formally or 
informally, about anything to do with this case."

Patterson lifted an eyebrow, then glanced around the room.  "Well, 
we'll see what we'll see."

Walter wasn't sure what the man meant by that, but before he 
could speak, Patterson said, "These are three of my top profilers.  
They've been looking at the case. They'll brief you with the latest 
profile."  And then the man nodded and walked out.

He heard Doug mutter a curse, but it was mostly drowned out by 
laughter from the other end of the table.  A youngish black man sat 
there, obviously amused about the interaction.  

"I'm Sal.  Don't let him get to you.  He's not happy when he 
doesn't get his way.  Seems to think the entire FBI should just shut 
up and do what he says because …"  There was a pause as Sal 
glanced at the other two men.  Then, all three voices said, "… he is 
Bill Patterson, after all."

Sal stood and shook hands, as did the other two.  Then the man 
said, "Seriously, there's no one better at profiling these guys."

Walter and Doug nodded and sat down. Walter pulled out his pad 
of paper, looked at his notes, and said, "Patterson said a bit earlier 
that you've looked at the notes.  Reconsidered their meaning."

Sal sat forward a bit in his chair, arms folded on the table.  "Not 
really reconsidered their meaning.  The meaning of each is clear 
and always has been.  No one is suggesting that there are hidden 
meanings.  Instead, we've looked at the way the notes are 
constructed.  The grammar, word usage, expressions…"

Another profiler, who'd introduced himself as Charlie, added, "I 
have to admit that we've never really gone through exactly this 
exercise before.  It's been a good one.  It's helped remind us that 
we don't know everything."  The man adopted a wry look and 
added, "Some of us took to the lesson a little easier than others."

Walter could just imagine.  He nodded and asked, "So what have 
you learned?"

Sal answered again. "We agree with the kid's interpretation.  Took 
us a while to get there, but he was totally correct.  The phraseology 
is inconsistent with typical male phraseology."

Walter still wasn't certain what they were telling him.  He felt 
impatient.  "Are you saying a woman wrote them?"

The three profilers laughed.  Sal said, "No.  There's no way a 
woman committed these crimes."

Walter raised his hands a bit off the table, gesturing his confusion.  
"Then what exactly?"

Sal got serious quickly.  "He could be a multiple personality, 
although such a thing would be incredibly rare."

There was a snort from the other end of the table.  Charlie said, 
"Some of us are still not convinced that multiple personality is a 
legitimate psychiatric diagnosis."

Sal waved a hand in dismissal.  "Doesn't really matter what you 
think, son."

Charlie snorted again.

Sal continued, "If not multiple personality, then we think it's 
someone with transgender issues, someone undergoing a gender 
identity crisis."

This time it was Doug who snorted.  "What the hell does that 
mean?"

Sal was completely serious when he answered.  "A man who feels 
he was born into the wrong body. The wrong sex."

There was silence in the room.  Walter turned to look at Doug. 
Doug's mouth was open in disbelief.  Then, Doug said, "You're 
shittin' me."

*******************************************

PAST
September 11, 1986
Thursday, 3:09 p.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


Fox knew he was whining but just couldn't help it.  He really 
needed this.  

"Come on, Shirl.  Just for a couple hours. I promise I'll take care 
of your baby."

Shirley stood with hands on hips, tapping one foot impatiently.  
"Fox, you're supposed to be catching up on what you missed, not 
wandering all over doing God knows what all by yourself!"

Fox was annoyed now.  What he did on his off time was his 
business, wasn't it?  "Look, Shirl…"

"Don't you dare!"  He was shocked at the way she approached 
him, shaking her finger in his face.  "Don't you dare!"

He wasn't sure just what she was upset about but knew enough to 
stay quiet until she'd finished her rant.

"Is this all I am to you?  A means of transportation?"  Her voice 
had gotten shrill as she waved her car keys in the air.

Fox was stunned.  How could she think that?  He shook his head 
and walked closer, trying to take her hand.  "Shirl, don't even think 
that.  How could you think that?"

He finally managed to take her hand in his.  "Shirley.  I already 
read over what I missed.  I already made notes for the paper they 
want.  I don't intend for this to mess up my career or anyone else's 
and especially not yours."

He must have taken the right tack, because he could see Shirley 
was really listening to him.  

"I know this is crazy.  I never wanted any of this to happen.  But, it 
has.  I've been drawn into this and now there are a couple things I 
have to do."

Fox licked his lips and decided to come completely clean with her.  
"Shirley, I have to admit I'm a bit scared here.  This is a real case, 
with a real serial killer.  It's not just a case study.  But, I swear to 
you, Shirley, I'm not going to do anything dangerous.  I'm not 
going to do anything that might risk my future or anyone else's.  
I'm just going to look at a couple of the murder sites.  They're all 
public places, Shirl.  There's nothing dangerous about what I want 
to do."

He could see that she was wavering.  He shook her hand just a bit.  
"Look.  This will all be over soon.  We're on the home stretch of 
our training period and soon, we'll be heading out to our 
assignments.  Before that happens, I promise you that I will treat 
you to a night on the town.  Any restaurant of your choice.  Any 
movie, play or …"  He evinced a fake shudder.  "… even ballet.  
Your choice."

She had a smile playing around her lips now.  "And I get to choose 
the hotel, too?"

He laughed.  "You know it, babe."

She slapped the keys in his palm and turned away, hips moving 
suggestively.  "Baby, you better not disappoint."

Fox watched in admiration and muttered to himself, "That is a 
promise, Trainee Kudla."  He shook his head and added, "That's a 
dangerous weapon you got there Shirl."  

She sashayed out of view and he shook his head, then forced 
himself to focus.  "Get a move on, boy, time's a wastin'."  He 
pocketed her keys, slipped on his leather jacket and headed for the 
parking lot.  Shirley worried way too much.

An hour later, he was in Arlington, in front of the music store 
where Jesse Smith was last seen before his murder.  Fox walked 
into the little store, ignoring the greeting by the clerk.  He wasn't 
interested in talking with anyone.  Just in wandering around.  
Getting a feel for the place.  

He wandered down one aisle and up another, then paused by the 
door.  There was a poster taped on the wall next to the exit.  It had 
Jesse Smith's picture on it and had messages from people who 
must have known him. An impromptu memorial.  He read a few 
and saw that the man was well-liked and respected.  He wondered 
if the murderer had visited to look at this poster.

Fox left the store and turned to his right.  He'd never been here, but 
had seen the photos from the file.  He knew where Jesse was 
headed when he left the store.  Fox decided to follow his path.  It 
was almost the same as his dream.  In fact, he almost felt that he 
was in a dream now.  He felt disconnected from what was going on 
around him. He heard the cars and traffic, but only as if they were 
muffled.  He smelled the odors wafting from the restaurants, but 
only as if from a distance.

Fox turned right at the end of the block, heading down the very 
alley that Jesse Smith had walked down in his last minutes before 
being abducted.  Fox slowed, trying to imagine how it was for the 
man.  He could imagine Jesse, slightly distracted, thinking about 
his wife, about the family they would have together.  

There was a loud rattle coming from behind and Fox turned 
abruptly.  He moved out of the way as a delivery truck made its 
slow way up the alley and past him.  Fox walked a bit farther and 
paused, knowing he was probably close to the place where Jesse 
had been picked up.  He turned in a circle, trying to see what Jesse 
would have seen.  Wondering just who the man would have gotten 
in a car with, especially considering he'd been on the way to the 
bank and had the store's receipts with him.

Fox looked around on the street, knowing it was fruitless.  The 
police had gone over every inch of the alley during their 
investigation.  Fox lifted his head and looked around once more.  
Then, took a deep breath and headed back to Shirley's car.  He 
wanted to see where Jesse's body had been found next.

Fox headed back to where he'd parked and slipped into the driver's 
seat.  He looked around and pulled out into traffic, heading once 
more for the alley.  This time, he wanted to drive the route from 
the alley where Jesse'd been picked up to where his dismembered 
body was found.  

Fox drove down the small street slowly, still looking from one side 
to the other.  He wound his way through streets and alleys until he 
came to the warehouse.  Remnants of yellow crime scene tape still 
flapped in the breeze.  Fox got out of the car slowly and walked 
forward a few feet.

The smell of death still somehow hung in the air, all these weeks 
and months after Jesse's body was found. The warehouse looked 
ready to collapse, with windows broken and doors wide open. Fox 
turned in a circle slowly to get a sense of the location.  To better 
understand how it was possible that a man could be butchered over 
a matter of hours with no one near to hear his screams of agony 
and cries for help.

There were weeds growing through the broken pavement here and 
there.  Broken glass shards glittered in the brightly shining sun.  A 
breeze tossed a plastic bag into the air and threw it around before 
discarding it against the warehouse door.

Fox took a step forward and stopped.  Took another and stopped 
again.  He felt uneasy.  Felt as if someone were watching him.  He 
turned around again, this time more quickly, searching for 
movement.  Searching for anything out of the ordinary.  There was 
nothing.  Nothing at all except a dilapidated warehouse, a deserted 
alley, and the lingering smell of putrid, rotting, animal flesh.

Fox took a swipe at his forehead to brush away the sweat and 
started forward once more.  He walked to the open garage door, 
where the UNSUB had driven his vehicle after abducting Jesse 
Smith.  Fox stared down at the cement floor where large splotches 
indicated where the blood had pooled. There were gashes in the 
concrete and he knew these were places where the ax had hit. He 
was sickened at the thought of the bugs that must have feasted on 
the puddles left behind.

He felt cold suddenly and knew someone was behind him.  He 
wished he'd been cleared to carry a weapon already.  He turned 
quickly, prepared to fight, but again, no one was there.

Fox felt the need to hear someone's voice, anyone's voice.  He 
spoke to himself, softly.  "Need to get a grip. You're losin' it, 
Fox."

He took a last look at the site of Jesse's murder and then headed 
back for the car.  He glanced at his watch and realized he still had a 
few hours before he absolutely had to leave for Quantico.  He 
started the car and backed it up, then turned towards the alley that 
would lead him to a major street.  He wanted to see where Margie 
had been picked up.  He needed to see it.

He drove almost without thinking.  His mind was in turmoil.  Fox 
knew it was a cop.  Maybe even someone with the Bureau.  It had 
to be.  The UNSUB knew too much about evidence collection. He 
knew too much about how these investigations were run.  There 
was no way even the smartest serial killer could have managed to 
avoid leaving some trace evidence unless he'd been trained by law 
enforcement.  

Fox heard a horn blaring and realized he'd drifted too far into the 
next lane.  He waved his hand in apology then shook his head, 
forcing himself to pay attention.  Soon after, he was at Margie's 
school.  He pulled up in front and sat there, just looking at the 
building.  Looking at the surroundings.  It was late enough that 
most everyone was gone.  There were a few kids playing on the 
playground.  A few kids riding their bikes along the street.  

He looked across the street and saw a man and woman staring at 
him from their front porch.  He realized that he probably looked 
suspicious.  A lone man sitting in a car in front of a school 
watching little kids.  He shook his head again and started the car 
forward.  He recalled the route Margie's bus had taken and 
followed it.  

Fox imagined the kids getting off the bus along the way.  One here 
at this corner.  One here at this fire hydrant.  They'd get off the bus 
and wave to the driver.  Perhaps even wave to some of the kids on 
the bus.  Probably one or two said goodbye to Margie.  And then 
he came to the spot where the driver left Margie and he pulled 
over.  He was just a few houses down from Margie's own house.

What happened between here and there?  He could see her house.  
There was still a feeling of sadness that permeated the air.  There 
were no children playing outside.  The lawns around Margie's 
house were uncared for. It was obvious that her neighbors were 
also distraught at her death.  A black wreath hung on the door 
down the street where Margie never arrived.

Fox reached out and turned off the car.  He sat, staring at the house 
down the street. Just staring at it for long minutes, trying not to 
think, but unable to stop.

The sound of a loud tapping against the passenger side window 
caused Fox to jump.  He turned quickly and saw a wall of blue.  
Then, a man bent down and he saw a police officer at the window, 
gesturing for him to roll the window down.

Fox reached over and rolled the window down as quickly as he 
could.

"Can I help you, officer?"

The man looked in, eyes traveling over Fox and around the inside 
of the car.  "That all depends.  Why don't you tell me why you're 
sitting here, watching that house up the street."

Fox grimaced.  He'd been stupid once again.  "Officer, can I pull 
out my identification?"

The man nodded, and said, "Slowly."

Fox kept one hand up in the air and reached into his back pants 
pocket.  He pulled out his wallet and fished out his FBI 
identification, then handed it to the officer.

"Sir, my name is Fox Mulder.  I'm a trainee with the FBI.  I've 
been involved in the recent serial killer case and came to see the 
abduction site for myself."

The man stared at the identification Fox had provided, then back at 
him.  Looked down the street and then stepped back from the car. 
"Mr. Mulder, was it?"

Fox nodded.

"Can you step out of the car, please?"

Fox made sure the car was turned off and then stepped slowly from 
the vehicle.  He walked around the front and approached the 
officer.  He saw the man's name was Higgins.

Higgins stared at him once more, then gave his identification back.  
"Mr. Mulder, I suggest you not park yourself in front of schools 
and crime scenes in the future without properly notifying local law 
enforcement of your intent.  It's a good way to get yourself 
mistaken for a criminal."

Fox colored slightly, feeling foolish.  "Yes, sir.  I'll remember 
that."

The man nodded and stared at him once more.  "If you don't mind 
my saying, you look a little young to be involved in this case."

Fox took a deep breath and replied, "I'm only peripherally 
involved, sir.  I'm not part of the official team."

The officer's eyes narrowed and Fox could imagine the phone calls 
that would soon be made.  He groaned inwardly, then decided this 
might be his only chance to ask questions first-hand.

"Officer Higgins, can you tell me if you were involved in the 
search for Margie?"

The man paused, but then answered.  "Yes, of course.  This is my 
area.  I know the family quite well."

Fox licked his lips, wondering if he should ask the next question.  
He decided to go for it.  "Sir, if there were some other officer in 
the area or even an agent from another agency, would you have 
known?"

The officer smirked a bit and said, "I did today."

Fox had to laugh a bit.  "I guess so.  What if someone was dressed 
as a police officer but just drove through?  What if the person only 
made one stop… to talk with Margie."

The man sighed.  "I know where you're going with this.  Look, we 
checked every one of our officers.  Not one person was 
unaccounted for.  Every man and woman on the force was either 
with a partner on the job or had an alibi.  It wasn't anyone on the 
force."

Fox nodded, then stared up the street once more.  He saw a woman 
in front of Margie's house.  The woman was staring at them.  She 
stood with shoulders slumped, hair blowing in the breeze.  Fox felt 
a stab of remorse at the sight.  He knew from first hand experience 
something that Margie's mother might not yet have understood.  
That her family would never be whole and would never heal.

When Fox looked back to Higgins, he saw the man had softened 
just a bit.  "Look, Mr. Mulder.  I knew Margie.  She was a great 
kid.  Always polite.  Always waved when we drove by.  And I 
knew the parents."  Higgins paused and glanced up the street 
before continuing.  "There's only two possibilities that make any 
sense.  Either it was a family member or police who picked her 
up."

Fox looked at the man intently and saw the desire for justice so 
clear on his face.  He nodded and thought it through. He reached 
out a hand and shook, saying, "Thank you, officer.  I appreciate 
your talking with me."

Higgins gestured to the house straight across the street.  "That's 
where she was let out. The people who live there also have kids.  
They've been devastated.  I can attest to everyone up and down 
this street.  No one here did anything or knew anything."  Higgins 
looked at Fox directly in the face.  "And if anyone had seen 
anything, they'd have told us."

Fox thanked the man again and slowly walked around the car to 
the driver's side.  He opened the door and slipped inside, then 
waved to the officer one last time before starting the car and 
driving down the street, his mind on thoughts of a man in blue, 
beckoning to Margie Connor.

Fox forced himself not to meet the eyes of Margie's mother, who 
still stood outside.  Instead, he concentrated on the road ahead and 
tried to figure out what he should do with the little bit of time left 
to him.  He saw that he was getting low on gas, so knew that his 
first stop had to be to fill Shirley's tank.  Then…  well, he needed 
to decide.

He pulled over to station just a couple blocks away and started 
filling the tank.  His mind wandered and his eyes flicked around, 
not really focusing on anything.  But then, he saw something out of 
the corner of his eye that intrigued him.  He made sure not to turn 
directly towards it.  He tracked a small blue station wagon that 
seemed to be moving slowly amidst the traffic. 

A horn sounded and then the car speeded up.  When it turned the 
corner, going away from the station, Fox decided he was being 
paranoid.  There was no shortage of small blue station wagons in 
the world.

He finished pumping, decided to clean Shirley's windows, and 
then went inside to pay.  After, a glance at his watch helped him to 
decide to head on back to Quantico.  There wasn't really anything 
else he could do in the time he had.

As he got in and started the car, he saw another small blue station 
wagon.  His heart started pounding and sweat popped out on his 
forehead.  Damn.  He was worse than Pavlov's dog.  He wiped his 
palms on his pants legs and started to drive away.  He turned in the 
opposite direction of the blue car, deciding that this would be in 
the nature of a test.  If it surfaced again in his rearview, then he 
would know he was being followed.  The question would then be – 
by whom.  And beyond that – what would he do about it.

Fox pulled out the map he had of the area, laying it out on the 
passenger seat.  He turned to look at it whenever he had a break in 
traffic and got a pretty good sense of where he was and where he 
needed to go to get back to Quantico.  He took a right at the next 
through street and sped up just a bit.  He kept his eyes in his 
rearview mirror and had just decided he was in the clear when the 
blue station wagon appeared about four cars behind him.  

"Damn!"  Fox wished he had a way to call in to someone.  He 
could have used Officer Higgins just about now. He turned made 
his way to the left lane and looked for a smaller road.  He wanted 
to get away from the more traveled areas.  Get to a road where a 
car wouldn't be able to hide.  Then, just maybe, he could turn the 
tables on this guy and trap him.

Deep down, Fox knew that what he was thinking was foolish.  
Foolhardy, even.  He couldn't help it, though.  He remembered the 
conversation he'd had with Agent Waring, who said that Fox 
would never be the Lone Ranger.  That he'd always have people 
around him.  And Fox recalled his own statement.  That 
sometimes, you just had to act without thinking, without planning, 
to avoid a larger catastrophe.

He knew what he was doing was possibly dangerous.  It could 
mean the end of his career with the Bureau, before it had even 
begun.  But, he couldn't help it. Jesse's face … Margie's face… 
they floated past his vision as if they were right there with him.  If 
there was a chance to get their killer, he had to take it.

Fox turned down another street, moving farther and farther away 
from city center.  Houses were stretched out more, and trees lined 
the road.  There were fewer cars.  Hardly any traffic lights.  He 
turned down an even more secluded road and sped up.  Backed 
quickly up a driveway behind trees and waited.  When the blue 
station wagon passed by, he floored it and tore out of the driveway, 
right up to the car's rear.  He tried to see who was driving, but the 
windows were filthy, probably on purpose.  He tried to make out 
the license plate but it was covered in mud.  He couldn't make out 
even one letter or number.

And before he realized what was happening, the car in front 
slammed on its brakes.  He swung the steering wheel to the right 
and slammed on his own brakes, just managing to avoid a tree.  
When he looked up, he saw the car speeding off down the road.  

Fox took a deep breath and looked in the rearview mirror, making 
sure the road was clear.  Then, he backed up and took off after the 
station wagon, now far in the distance.  Shirley's car was made for 
speed, while the station wagon clearly wasn't.  Still, the driver of 
the wagon was determined not to be caught.  He followed the car 
through turns and racing straightaways.

Fox realized his palms were coated in sweat and wiped them on his 
pants, one at a time.  The sweat rolled into his eyes and he tried to 
swipe at that, as well.  He was in trouble and knew it, but he just 
couldn't stop.

He was being led farther and farther away from civilization.  The 
area they were driving through was practically deserted now.  
There were few homes to be seen and fewer signs of life.  It was 
starting to get dark, the last few rays of sun hitting the tops of the 
trees.  Fox had to make a decision and fast.

But, before he could, it was made for him.  The blue car was some 
100 yards ahead of him.  He saw it turn down a small access road 
that seemed to go through the woods.  He slowed and took the 
turn, then slammed on his brakes when he saw the blue car stopped 
just twenty feet or so ahead.  Shirley's car started to skid on the 
dirt.  He fought for control and tried to track the blue car.  All he 
saw was a swirl of trees and dust kicked up from the tires. 

And then there was a crunch as the passenger's side of Shirley's 
car slammed into the back of the blue wagon.  Fox's head was 
thrown to the side so that it cracked against the driver's window.  
He heard glass shattering, even as he felt the intense pain from the 
impact overwhelm his senses.  He never even thought about 
holding the steering wheel any more but instead reached up to 
head.  He felt the blood pooling through his fingers and dripping 
down his arm.  

And through the red haze, through the pain, through the swirl of 
dirt and sounds of metal and glass still falling around him, he 
realized that there was a shape coming towards him.  Someone was 
walking towards him from the other car.  Fox couldn't get his eyes 
to focus.  Couldn't' concentrate hard enough to make out features.  
He only knew that he had to do something and soon.  But, he 
couldn't.  He couldn't move.  Couldn't hardly keep his eyes open.

And then he saw the shape pause, still six or more feet away.  
Then, the figure turned and ran.  The blue wagon started pulling 
away from the wreckage.  Speeded up and disappeared from view.  
And finally Fox began to hear something other than a ringing in his 
ears.  Something other than the crash of metal and tinkling of glass.  
He heard a siren.  A blessed, heavenly, wonderful siren.

Fox took a deep breath and allowed his head to fall back.  Closed 
his eyes and decided it would be all right to rest just a bit.  And the 
last thought that passed through his mind before he lost 
consciousness was that Shirley was going to be plenty pissed.

*******************************************

PAST
September 11, 1986
Thursday, 11:18 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Keenan stormed about the small room, quite obviously wanting to 
hit something.  Walter saw Doug look his way, but just shook his 
head quickly.  Not a good idea to talk right now.

Keenan finally stopped in front of them.  The man looked first at 
Doug and then at Walter.  His first words were directed at Walter.  
"I thought I made you responsible for this trainee's health and 
welfare.  Did I or did I not direct you to watch out for him?"

Walter tried to swallow before answering.  It was difficult.  "Yes, 
sir, you did."

"And did you or did you not allow him to end up in the hospital?"

Walter paused.  Just how was he supposed to answer this one?  "I 
didn't let him, sir.  It just happened."

Keenan barked out a laugh.  "It just happened.  That's your 
answer?"

Walter decided it was a rhetorical question and kept silent.  It was 
all he could do to keep from trying to defend himself.

Keenan took a few deep breaths and said, "What exactly 
happened?"

Walter again exchanged looks with Doug, but knew that this time, 
he had to answer.  "Sir, I had a man following Trainee Mulder 
without his knowledge.  I felt it prudent, given some of the 
trainee's recent actions."

Keenan actually sat down then, but still stared stonily at Walter.

"From what I've learned, my man tailed him to Jesse Smith's 
workplace, then the scene of his murder.  From there, the trainee 
went to Margie's school, then her house.  An officer spoke with 
Mulder at that point, after which the trainee filled his car with gas."

Walter swallowed.  This was where it got difficult to understand.  
"From there, he claims that the trainee somehow made him 
because Mulder started what he said was standard maneuvers to 
trap a tail."

Keenan hadn't moved.  The man merely said, "Go on."

Walter nodded.  "Evidently, though, it wasn't my man the trainee 
saw.  My agent claimed that Fox pulled a hide and follow on a …"  
Walter couldn't say it.  He took a breath and finished the sentence.  
"On a small blue station wagon."

Keenan nodded, obviously understanding the implications.

"Mulder chased the car for about fifteen minutes, while it kept 
leading him farther and farther away from the city.  My man lost 
them both for a couple minutes and decided to call in what was 
happening.  He called the local police, then got back on the road to 
try to find them again.  He said he saw a cloud of dirt in the 
distance and followed it.  Just as he was coming up on the small 
dirt road, he saw what looked like a crash a ways down."

Walter shifted, feeling angry at himself for letting the kid get 
involved in the first place.  None of this would have happened.

"My man hit his siren and called in his location.  He found Trainee 
Mulder unconscious and decided not to leave him until help 
arrived.  He saw a cloud of dust far down the road.  Once 
emergency services arrived, he tried to continue down the road to 
see whether he could find the blue wagon.  There were too many 
side roads.  It was impossible at that point."

Keenan nodded, then turned away from them.  The man propped 
his chin on his fist and stared into space for a minute before saying 
softly, "What the hell did the kid find?  Why is the UNSUB after 
him?"

Doug said, "That's what we've been trying to figure out, sir.  
We're hoping that maybe Fox saw the guy's face.  Or caught the 
license plate."

Keenan stood abruptly and glanced at them.  "So what are you 
doing here?  Get your asses to the hospital."

They answered in tandem, "Yes, sir." 

*******************************************

Present Day, Hour 30 of the Wait
Monday, 4:41 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully shifted a bit to get more comfortable.  The adrenaline high 
was long gone, but this story of Skinner's was keeping her awake.  
Scully turned to her former boss with a small smile playing at her 
lips, "So that was the start of his practice of ditching everyone?  I 
guess I have you to blame for years of being left behind."

He chuckled and shook his head.  "No, I think that was all Fox 
Mulder.  Don't try to drag me into it."

"I take it he wasn't hurt badly."

"No, no…  he wasn't.  Not then."

Scully felt her eyebrow lift of its own accord.  "Not then?"

*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 1:38 a.m.
Fairfax Hospital, Arlington, Virginia

Walter and Doug walked slowly down the hallway, exhaustion 
pulling at both of them.  Too many late nights.  Too little food.  
Too much stress.  But neither man was willing to call it quits just 
yet.

Walter ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, "Sharon's going 
to kill me.  I can't believe this is her first day here.  I've seen her 
all of thirty minutes.  Cancelled dinner and now it looks like we 
might be here for hours yet."

Doug sighed.  "I know.  Angie's starting to give me dirty looks in 
the morning.  I think she's about to tell me to just stay away until 
this things over."

Walter looked over at his fellow ASAC to see whether Doug was 
kidding.  He couldn't tell.

A police officer was stationed outside the room.  They showed 
their badges and explained who they were.  Walter pushed the door 
open then and was surprised to find his old mentor dozing in a 
chair by the kid's bed.  He took a couple steps into the room and 
stopped when Waring opened his eyes.

"Hello, Dean."  Walter kept his voice low, given that Fox was 
obviously sleeping.

Dean sat straighter in the chair and nodded, but said nothing.  

Walter was at a loss.  He knew that this case was pushing a wedge 
between them.  He knew that Dean blamed him for getting Fox 
involved, even though it had all happened innocently. But, here 
they were.  The situation was the situation and right now, he and 
Doug needed to debrief Fox Mulder.

Doug took a step forward, but Waring stood and raised a hand.  
The message was clear.  Waring said softly, "Outside."

Walter decided not to argue the point, but nodded and turned.  
Doug took a second longer to decide but finally followed Walter.

Once outside, they walked a little ways down the corridor and 
away from any of the rooms before talking.

Dean said, "Walter, I understand why you're here.  Fox just got to 
sleep a bit ago, though, and I think you need to leave him be for 
now."

Walter nodded, but said, "You know we need to talk with him."

Dean shook his head.  "Actually, I already spoke with him.  I'll fill 
you in on everything he told me.  It's not much, though, and I 
doubt it will help you."

Walter nodded encouragement. 

"You know the gist of what happened.  He managed to trail the car 
for quite a while, but then the driver laid a trap for him, which he 
fell into at about 50 miles an hour.  He's lucky to be alive, frankly.  
Anyway, he told me that the car was covered in dust and dirt and 
he couldn't see in the back window to get a description of the 
driver.  Also, the tag was covered in mud, probably intentionally, 
so there was nothing he could get from that."

Walter sighed in frustration.  The closest lead they had and it was 
pretty much falling apart.

"Fox said that just before he lost consciousness, the driver started 
walking towards him.  Unfortunately, he'd hit his head pretty badly 
on the driver's window.  His vision was unclear and there was 
blood dripping down his face.  He couldn't make out any details 
about the man walking towards him.  Then the man ran away and 
drove off when your man pulled in with his siren blaring.  
Probably saved Fox's life."

Walter turned to Doug.  "Had to be him.  It had to be."

"Yeah, but why?  Why follow some FBI trainee who doesn't know 
anything?"

Walter turned to Dean, wondering what the answer might be.

Dean said softly, "Maybe Fox does know something.  Somehow.  
I'll talk with him again as soon as he wakes up."

Walter nodded and reached out a hand.  He was incredibly relieved 
when Dean took it.  "Thanks, Dean."

*******************************************

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 14 of ? (14/?)
by Kronos (clb@roadrunner.com)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 4:52 a.m.
Fairfax Hospital, Arlington, Virginia


Fox kept trying to avoid the trap, but he was stuck in 
a dream loop from which he couldn't break free.  Each 
time, the dream was slightly different, but each and 
every time, he ended up shot in the chest.  At least 
three different times now he'd awoken, covered in 
sweat, head pounding, highlights of the dream still 
fresh in his memory, hands clutched to his chest. And 
each time, Dean Waring was there, speaking softly, 
soothingly.  After this last time, it occurred to Fox 
that his mother wasn't there. And it occurred to him 
that he really, really wanted her to be.

Waring said softly, "Go back to sleep, Fox.  We'll 
talk in the morning. Don't worry about anything right 
now."

Fox forced his head to turn and saw the man sitting in 
the chair next to his bed.  He was reassured, as he'd 
been the other times.  He nodded and closed his eyes, 
drifting back to sleep.  He was unaware, a few minutes 
later, of the cool cloth wiping the sweat from his 
forehead.

It was dark and he was driving without lights.  There 
was another car ahead of him.  It didn't have its 
lights on either, but every once in awhile, Fox saw 
the brake lights flash red in the darkness.  Fox knew 
he was following the car, but couldn't remember why.  
He was pretty sure there was a bad guy in the car.  A 
killer. He wasn't sure why he was alone, why he was 
driving with no lights, why he didn't even have a 
weapon…  He just knew he had to catch the killer.

The car in front started speeding up.  Fox tried to 
see who was in the car and thought he saw one man, 
then two, then only one again.  It was confusing.  He 
stepped on the gas and tried to close the gap between 
his car and the one he was following, but every time 
he speeded up, so did the other driver.  As if they 
were connected somehow.

The road was empty of cars, empty of houses, empty of 
everything.  There were open fields on either side of 
the road, with an occasional stand of trees hear and 
there.  Fox had no idea where they were or where they 
were going. 

All of a sudden, the car in front started going faster 
and faster.  He pushed the gas pedal down to the 
floor, but the car kept pulling away from him.  He had 
to catch up.  He had to keep on the guy's tail.  He 
knew it was critical – that someone could die if he 
didn't.  But, the car kept getting farther away.

Fox started breathing faster, wondering what he should 
do.  He pushed at the gas pedal again, but he was 
already going close to ninety.  The trees flew by now 
so fast that he could barely make them out.  He felt 
the sweat rolling into his eyes, making it even harder 
to see.  He swiped at it, angry and frustrated.

And then, all of a sudden, there was a car coming 
straight at him.  It was the one he'd been following.  
It was traveling fast, so that their combined speeds 
would result in impact in just a couple seconds.  He 
cursed and slammed on his brakes, pulling the wheel 
just slightly to the right to try to avoid a roll.  
The car responded as if he'd hit a ramp with his right 
front tire.  The car lost traction and started 
spinning and rolling.  

Fox screamed silently, unable to voice his terror.  
The sounds around him were thunderous and deafening. 
The steering wheel would no longer respond to anything 
he tried, but turned of its own accord, wildly.  Fox 
hit his head against the wheel, against the window…  
He felt his legs crushed between metal and plastic.  
He tried to scream again and still couldn't find his 
voice. He could barely breathe.  Barely keep his eyes 
open.

Everything was fluid, nothing making sense.  And after 
an eternity, he realized it was quiet. There was no 
sound, nothing at all.  No chirp of bugs, no rustle of 
leaves in the wind.  He couldn't even hear his own 
breathing even though he knew it had to have been 
harsh and loud.  It was surreal.  Unnatural.

But then, he heard whistling.  Whistling and the 
uneven crunch of gravel.  Fox strained his eyes in the 
gloom and made out a figure coming towards him. He 
realized that the car had finally stopped upside down. 
Fox lay on the inside roof, his head tilted 
unnaturally. But, despite the pitch black around him… 
despite the lack of lights from either car… Fox could 
see the figure walking towards him.

He could see the man's face.  No, woman's face.  No…  
The face changed, shifted, even as the shape came 
closer. And then it was a face he knew.  One he 
recognized all too well.  And then it shifted again. 
And the killer was whistling. Relaxed. Smiling.  And 
then the killer raised an arm and Fox could see the 
gun.  He knew he was going to die.  The face, that 
beautiful face – no a scarred and ugly face… It looked 
down upon him, upon his mangled body – and smiled.  
And then the gunshot rang out and Fox knew that he was 
dead.

"No!  No!"

Fox heard the screaming from a distance.  Knew that 
someone was screaming.  And then someone was shaking 
him and calling out his name.  He heard his own name 
quite distinctly.  He forced his eyes open and saw a 
shape leaning over him in the gloom and darkness of 
the room.  He screamed and realized, as he did, that 
he'd been the one screaming all along.

"Fox, it's Dean Waring.  Wake up, son.  Open your eyes 
and wake up."

Fox forced himself to listen to the man's words.  It 
was his instructor.  His instructor from the academy.  
He knew this man.  Everything was all right.  
Everything was fine.  It had just been a dream.  
Nothing more.  Just a dream.

"Fox, boy.  Can you hear me?  Do you understand me?"

Fox nodded and tried to speak, but couldn't.  His 
throat was parched.  He couldn't swallow.  Couldn't 
force out any sound but a croak.

Dean seemed to understand what he needed.  The man 
poured a cup of water and held it to his mouth.  Fox 
drank greedily, feeling the coolness of the water 
sooth his throat.  The water spilled down his chin but 
he didn't care.  He just wanted more.

"Whoa, now.  Slow down a bit.  That'll do for now."

Fox collapsed against the pillow, the strength that 
had enabled him to lean into the cup leaving him, so 
that he was weak and shaking.

"Fox, I'm calling a doctor. I'll be right back."

Alarm spread through Fox and he found the strength to 
reach out and grab Dean's arm.  He managed a 
strangled, "No. Wait."

"Fox, you should be able to sleep for more than a half 
an hour at a time without waking up screaming.  The 
doctors can give you something."

Fox forced his eyes open and realized there was plenty 
of ambient light in the room.  He almost had to 
squint.  He focused on the older man and saw the 
concern there.  Saw the worry.  "No, it's all right.  
I just keep dreaming about …"

Fox stopped, wondering if Waring would understand.  If 
anyone would, this man would.

"Go on.  Tell me what you're dreaming about."

Fox focused on the man's eyes. Locked onto them and 
said, "The crash.  But, not the crash.  It's 
different."

"Different how?"

He was able to speak more easily now.  "It didn't 
happen the way the real crash happened.  Not exactly.  
And I keep seeing the killer's face, but it changes.  
First a woman's face, then a man's.  The woman's face 
is beautiful. The man's is ugly and scarred.  But, 
there's also…"  He couldn't mention the other face he 
saw.  Not yet.

Fox was thirsty again.  He croaked, "More water, 
please."  Waring held the cup up once more.

Fox said, "After the crash, the killer started walking 
towards me.  He was whistling.  He was smiling.  And 
then he held up a gun and shot me, in the chest."

Waring nodded.  Turned away from Fox and stared at the 
wall for a moment.  Then, the man turned back and 
asked, "Is it possible that you actually saw the 
killer earlier today when you were chasing him?  Is it 
possible that this dream – these dreams – are just 
your mind's way of trying to get the information to 
the surface of your thoughts?"

Fox squeezed his eyes shut and tried to reconstruct 
the afternoon.  Finally, he shook his head.  "No, sir.  
I know I never saw his face.  There was no opportunity 
to.  The window of the car was so filthy I couldn't 
see inside at all."

"What about before you started following the car?  
What about when the car drove back and forth in front 
of the gas station?  Is it possible you caught a look 
at the face then but didn't realize it?"

Fox thought again.  Finally nodded slowly.  "Possible, 
I guess.  But, I have no recollection of it."

"What about when the UNSUB started walking towards you 
yesterday after the crash?  Could you have seen his 
face then?"

Fox again shook his head.  "I don't think so.  I 
couldn't really make anything out. I couldn't see 
straight.  There was blood in my eyes.  I don't really 
know what I was seeing then."

"But it's possible, isn't it?  Maybe you saw enough of 
him before the chase and afterwards to actually put a 
face to the killer – at least in your dreams.  Maybe…"  
Waring paused and grabbed Fox's hand.  "Maybe, dreams 
are answers to questions we haven't yet figured out 
how to ask. Maybe you know more than you realize, 
Fox."

Fox didn't really know what to say to that. Suddenly, 
he was so exhausted he couldn't say anything at all.  
Could barely think anything.  His eyelids were 
drooping, despite the effort he was putting into 
keeping them open.  He felt lethargic.  Unable to move 
even a finger.  His eyes fluttered closed, finally, to 
the soft murmur of Dean Waring's voice.

"Put it out of your mind, Fox.  You've told me what 
you saw.  You don't need to worry about it any more.  
You're safe here."

And the last thought Fox had was about what had always 
made him feel safe.  And he whispered, with yearning 
in his heart, "Mom."

*******************************************

Present Day, Hour 33 of the Wait
Monday, 7:02 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia

Scully jerked her head up, off the bed where she must 
have fallen asleep.  She looked around, in a daze, 
wondering what woke her.  Then she realized a nurse, 
Donna, stood by her side, speaking softly.

"I'm sorry, Dana.  There's a phone call for you.  I 
didn't catch the first name, but the last name sounded 
like Kirch.  It sounds pretty important."

Scully flushed a bit and nodded.  Kersh.  Damn.  It 
was Monday morning, though, and she hadn't actually 
put in for vacation or asked for time off.  She had 
just started to push herself up to take the call at 
the nurse's station when she heard movement from 
across her partner's bed.  Skinner was pushing himself 
up straight, a bit flushed himself.

Skinner said, "Stay here, Scully."  He turned to the 
nurse and asked, "Can you forward the call here, 
please?"

The woman nodded and left quickly, obviously confused 
about their reactions.  Scully looked across to 
Skinner and, despite the fact that she knew it was 
coming, jumped a bit when the phone rang.

She reached out and picked it up, a quick glance at 
her partner showing no response on his part to the 
sound.  "Scully."

The voice at the other end was hard and unyielding.  
"Agent.  I see you're still in Richmond."

Scully licked her lips and looked over at her former 
boss.  "Yes, sir.  Agent Mulder hasn't come out of his 
coma, yet."

"Agent, perhaps I missed a memo.  I don't recall that 
you've been assigned to Mulder's case.  In fact, I 
seem to recall that you are supposed to be here for a 
ten o'clock meeting at which you are to report on the 
autopsies you've performed over the last few weeks."

Scully looked down at her watch, wondering what she 
should do.  A small part of her was furious, while 
another was anxious.  She wouldn't put it past this 
man to make her life even more miserable than it 
already was.  And she was determined not to let him 
win.

"I do recall the meeting, sir.  I intend to be there."  
If she left immediately, she'd even have time to take 
a shower and change clothes.

There was silence for a moment and then Kersh said, 
"You better be, Agent.  I have some additional 
autopsies waiting that require your deft hand."

Scully was stunned.  She couldn't speak for several 
seconds.  "But, sir…"

"Agent, surely you didn't just use the word 'but' in 
speaking with me."

Scully felt her face going red.  She was either going 
to scream at this man or have a stroke.  She tried 
once more for reason.  "Sir, I apologize for that.  I 
did not intend to question you.  However, sir, I did 
intend to put in for vacation time so that I can be 
here with Agent Mulder."

"Agent Scully, I don't believe a request for vacation 
can be approved at this time.  Your skills are needed.  
I'll see you later this morning."

And then the phone clicked in her ear.  She pulled the 
handset away and stared at it.  Heard a throat clear 
and turned to her former boss.

"Scully?"

She shook her head and quietly hung up the receiver.  
Then, turned to him and asked, "Can he do this?"

Skinner was obviously confused. He hadn't heard the 
conversation, after all, although he probably could 
guess at most of it.  

"Can he deny my request for vacation time?"

She heard him curse under his breath, but then he 
answered.  "I'm afraid so. Only the total number of 
hours and days is guaranteed, Scully, not the actual 
time you're allowed to take it."

Scully stood slowly and ran one hand through Mulder's 
hair.  She felt her eyes flood with tears and was 
horrified when some of them actually made their way 
down her cheeks.  She swiped at them angrily, then 
turned back to Skinner.

"I need to go.  I'm not sure when I'll be back.  Tell 
Mulder…"

She swallowed hard, wondering just what to say to this 
man.  He'd known her and Mulder a long time.  Had 
saved their butts repeatedly.  Had risked his career 
often enough on their behalfs.  He'd become a friend 
along the way.  And he knew.  He knew now what she had 
just admitted to herself.  That she loved her partner.  
She loved Mulder and intended for Mulder to know it.  
Hell, Skinner probably knew it before she did.

The man rose to his feet and said merely, "I know, 
Scully.  Don't worry.  I'll tell him for you."

She tried to smile at him and succeeded marginally.  
Allowed the forced smile to fade.  Then leaned close 
to Mulder.  She whispered in his ear, not even self-
conscious any more about who might hear, "I love you, 
Mulder. I love you."  She brushed his forehead with a 
soft kiss and then said, "I have to leave for a while.  
AD Skinner's going to be here.  We really want to talk 
with you, partner.  Hurry back to us."

Then she headed to the door with a nod towards Skinner 
and walked out of her partner's room.  With every 
step, the anger at Kersh grew.  With every step, her 
resolve and determination grew.  She would make him 
pay.  For every time he put her or her partner in 
danger… for every time he acted with disregard for 
their welfare… for every time he attempted to put 
roadblocks up to prevent them from being together.  He 
would pay.

And her smile, as she left the CCU, was broad, but 
dangerous. 

*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 10:27 a.m.
Fairfax Hospital, Arlington, Virginia

Fox woke slowly.  The sounds in the room were soothing 
and predictable.  He felt safe and warm. And then he 
realized there was a hand stroking his forehead. And 
there were words being spoken by a voice he 
recognized.  A smile came to his face before he even 
opened his eyes.

His voice was a whisper when he said, "Mom."

He felt her move closer and then felt the kiss on his 
forehead.  He smiled even more and forced his eyes 
open.  She was there, smiling down at him.

"What are you doing here?"

He could tell she was trying not to look as worried as 
she must have felt.  She tried for a wry smile.  "You 
want me to leave?"

He laughed.  "You know I don't.  It's good to see 
you."

She allowed some of the worry to show through when she 
said, "What are you involved in, Fox?  I thought the 
Academy was safe. I thought I had another month before 
I had to start worrying about you getting hurt."

Fox pushed himself up higher on the pillow, taking 
stock of his body.  He actually felt pretty good.  
Only slightly banged up.  He reached out a hand to 
take hers in his.  

"Mom, this was a fluke.  You don't need to worry.  
It's not likely to happen again."

He saw her look over her shoulder to the left and 
followed her gaze.  His instructor, Dean Waring, was 
still there, trying not to listen.

His mother said, "Agent Waring explained to me that 
you got involved in this serial murder case."

Fox was surprised that Waring would have told her 
that.

His mother continued.  "He said you've been in the 
infirmary a couple times already."

Fox couldn't imagine what had possessed the man to 
tell his mother these things.  He shot the agent a 
dirty look.  Waring pretended not to notice.

Fox pushed himself up so that he was sitting, even 
though his mother protested the movement, as if he 
were on death's doorstep.  Now, he was just getting 
annoyed.

"Mom, it just happened. It wasn't anything 
intentional. And yesterday, I was in a car accident.  
That's all it was.  A car accident."

He saw her purse her lips, obviously not convinced, 
but also not wanting to argue.  He didn't want this to 
be confrontational.  He was honestly happy to see her.

"Mom, thank you for being here.  I really appreciate 
it."

He could see her melt a bit at that.  Then, she smiled 
and said, "Where else would I be?  When Agent Waring 
called this morning, I took the first flight to DC."

Fox sat back, getting a bit more comfortable.  "I do 
appreciate it, Mom.  How long are you here for?"

She shrugged a bit, answering, "At least until you're 
released.  I think …"  

There was a quick staccato knock at the door and she 
broke off.  It opened to a man in a white coat, 
evidently a doctor, with the proverbial stethoscope 
about his neck.

"Mr. Mulder?  How are you feeling this morning?"

Fox was a bit hesitant in answering.  After all, he 
didn't know this man.  He heard movement at the bottom 
of his bed and saw Waring standing there.  

Waring said, "Fox, this is Doctor Latner. He was here 
last night when you were brought in and has been 
overseeing your care."

Fox nodded, not impressed at the man's bedside manner.  
However, he figured he'd better answer if he wanted to 
get any information from the man.  "I'm fine, doctor."

Latner was young, looking only slightly older than Fox 
himself.  The man was somewhat short, with dark brown 
hair and a tan that spoke of outdoor activities.  One 
eyebrow raised enquiringly and then Latner said, 
"Fine?  Define that, please."

Fox couldn't tell if the man were kidding or serious.  
He decided the doctor really did want to know.  "It 
means… I feel fine.  No worries.  No problems."

Latner hadn't looked at him at all after the requested 
clarification of the word fine, but scribbled on the 
file he held.  "Um, hm?"

Fox again didn't know whether he was supposed to 
answer or not.

Latner finally looked up.  "Have you urinated yet?"

Fox felt himself go red and looked over at his mother.  
There were some things you just didn't discuss in 
front of your Mom.  At least, not once you hit 
puberty.  "Ummm…"

The doctor waved him off.  "Once you show us you can 
manage basic functions without trouble, we'll cut you 
loose."

Fox was relieved.  He should be out of here by this 
afternoon.

"That means you have to eat, pee and…"

For the first time, the doctor seemed to realize he 
was talking to a grown man in front of that grown 
man's mother.  Maybe there was at least a trace of 
humanity in the man.

"… well, you know.  Probably you can be released first 
thing tomorrow."

Fox felt crushed.  Tomorrow?  He felt fine.  

"Doctor…"  Fox realized it was coming out as a whine 
and tried again.  "Doctor, really.  I feel just fine.  
Surely I can be released earlier than that?  This 
afternoon, perhaps?"

The man looked at him as if he were a specimen.  
Evidently he didn't appreciate being argued with.  The 
doctor scribbled a bit more, then flicked his glance 
up.  Fox was embarrassed at the scrutiny.  Latner 
said, "Probably tomorrow.  We'll see how things go."

And then the man glanced at his watch and headed out 
of the room without another word, the dismissal 
complete.

Fox groaned and dropped back to the bed, knowing he 
was in for a miserable day.

He heard laughter and looked across to his instructor.  
Waring was grinning when he said, "Better get used to 
it, Fox."  

Fox shook his head.  "No way.  I don't intend to spend 
any more time in the hospital.  I've had enough of 
this."

Waring laughed, then the man slapped Fox's leg and 
walked towards the door.  "I'll stop by later, Fox.  
Time for me to check in with the Bureau."

A couple hours later, Fox had convinced his mother to 
check into a hotel close to Quantico.  He made sure it 
wasn't the one he'd visited with Shirley.  That just 
didn't even bear imagining.

Then, he proved to the nurse on duty that he could 
'manage basic functions' and begged and pleaded that 
she intercede with the doctor on his behalf.  He 
cajoled, wheedled and finally, convinced the on-duty 
nurse that they'd all be much better off if he were 
released today instead of tomorrow.  

Once he got the nod from the intern on duty, 
thankfully not Dr. Latner, Fox called Waring's office 
number.  He wasn't sure if the man would be there, 
given the fact that he'd been at the hospital the 
entire night before.  Surprisingly, the man picked up 
on the second ring.

"Waring."

"Sir, it's Fox Mulder."

He could sense the worry in the man's tone.  "Is 
everything all right?"

"Yes, sir.  Fine.  I'm being released this afternoon 
and I thought…"  He tapered off, realizing that he was 
being presumptuous in calling the man at all.

He needn't have worried.  "What time, Fox?"

"In about two hours, sir.  Around dinner time.  
Before, I hope."

Waring laughed.  "Fox, I'll pick you up, if you don't 
mind.  The DC Murders team has some questions.  I 
promised them I'd speak with you about it this 
afternoon anyway."

Fox felt relieved.  He'd been worried he'd have to get 
his mother to come pick him up.

"Thank you, sir.  I look forward to it."

Waring again laughed.  "I can imagine."


*******************************************

Present Day
Monday, 9:57 a.m.
F.B.I. Headquarters, Washington, D.C.


Dana Scully adjusted her shirt collar, then ran a hand 
down the front of her jacket and up through her still 
slightly damp hair.  She'd been able to go home and 
shower quickly before heading into the Bureau for the 
morning meeting.  She had her files in hand and was 
ready to sit through the next two hours, head held 
high.  She was quite certain that the rumor mill would 
have already spread the word that Mulder had saved 
little Christian and was still in a coma following the 
encounter with the kidnapper.  People would wonder why 
she was sitting in a meeting in D.C. while her partner 
was in a hospital in Richmond.  She was determined to 
make sure that everyone would soon know the answer to 
that.

Scully headed into the conference room and made her 
way to the far end of the table where there was still 
an open spot.  A few people nodded to her.  A couple 
asked after Mulder.  She was at least able to tell 
them he was doing better.  She saw some heads bent 
close and could imagine the whispers.  Then, just as 
she was getting settled, the door opened to admit A.D. 
Kersh.

Everyone took their seats and quieted.  Scully wasn't 
surprised when his first words were directed at her.

"Agent Scully, it's good to see that you could make 
it."

Scully had thought long and hard the entire drive back 
about what she would say, if she had the opportunity. 
She took advantage of the opening.  "Sir, since you 
made it clear to me that I wouldn't be able to take 
any of my saved vacation days to stay in Richmond with 
my injured partner, I knew you must have something 
quite important for me to do here in D.C.  I came 
immediately."  She allowed a slight pause before 
adding, "As directed by you, sir."

'There, Kersh,' she thought.  'Eat on that for a 
while.'  Scully forced herself to maintain her 
professionalism as well as her cool.  She could see 
that Kersh was failing at that challenge. She could 
swear he was turning purple.  The silence in the room 
was thick and heavy.  No one was looking at Kersh, 
although a couple agents were staring at Scully, 
mouths open.  They either were admiring her courage or 
thought she was insane.  Well, actually, given her 
years with the X-Files Division, they probably all 
thought she was at least slightly cracked anyway.

Kersh finally managed to get his own emotions under 
control and began the meeting, valiantly pretending 
that nothing at all had transpired.  As Scully had 
predicted, it was basically a waste of time and 
energy.  Quite possibly, the meeting had been called 
solely to put Scully in the position of having to 
choose whether she'd be there or not.  About a half 
hour into the boredom, a knock at the door sounded, 
interrupting one of the agent's report.  

Kersh called out, "In."  His secretary poked her head 
in and then brought a message to him.  The woman laid 
it down on the desk, just a foot away from Kersh's 
hand, then turned and escaped from the room.

Scully was more than curious.  She wondered what in 
the world could have caused Janice to respond in that 
way.  She, along with everyone else in the room, 
watched as Kersh read the message.  Then, he read it 
again.  Finally, he set the piece of paper down on the 
table and turned her way. The fire in his eyes was 
clear to Scully, although quite possibly not to anyone 
else.

Scully forced herself to remain calm and merely raised 
an eyebrow.  It was her sole concession to the man.  
If he wanted her to speak, he'd have to ask her a 
direct question.

"Agent Scully.  Evidently someone has interceded with 
the Director to request your assistance in Richmond.  
You've been asked to report to SAC Landers 
immediately."

Scully bit her lip and nodded, trying to avoid 
smiling.  She picked up her files and headed for the 
door.  As she neared Kersh, she looked at him and 
said, "Thank you, sir."

'Score one for the away team,' she thought.  'Mulder 
will laugh himself silly when he hears about this 
one.'

*******************************************

Present Day
Monday, 11:39 a.m.
Interstate 95, north of Richmond, Virginia

Scully was trying not to scream. Somehow, a tractor 
trailer had overturned, managing to block all six 
lanes of traffic.  How exactly was that even possible?  
She'd heard on the radio that no one was seriously 
injured, so she felt in the clear to begrudge them all 
the time it was costing her.

Scully pulled out her cell phone and, out of habit, 
called a well-used number.  The voice at the other end 
actually surprised her.

"Skinner."

She paused, gathering her thoughts, then said, "Sir.  
I'm sorry.  I guess I forgot who I was calling."

"Agent Scully? Where are you?"

She smiled.  "I'm on my way back, but I'm stuck in a 
horrendous traffic mess right now.  An overturned 
truck that's managed to block all southbound traffic.  
I have no idea when I'll be moving again."  She 
realized then that she had a question for her former 
boss.  "Sir, where are you?"  If he was on his cell 
phone, it was a certainty that he wasn't with Mulder.

"I'm at the Richmond Bureau right now, Scully.  The 
agents here have narrowed the field down to three men.  
SAC Landers is forming three teams as we speak. 
They're going to move simultaneously on all targets."

Scully shook her head in confusion.  Why move so fast?  
Why not gather more information and be sure?  As if 
reading her mind, Skinner continued.

"The profiler assigned to the case feels that the 
UNSUB's unsettled now. He's read all of Mulder's notes 
and has been briefed on  His murder of Stevens and 
attempted murder of Mulder demonstrate that he's 
overconfident and moving more quickly now. They feel 
he's out to rub our faces in his success.  We're out 
of time here, Scully."

She nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see her.  
She needed to think a moment.  "Sir, how's Mulder?"

"I was there an hour ago.  He's starting to show signs 
of waking.  The doctor felt it could be at any time.  
Both your mother and his mother are there."

She sighed, then said, "Thank you, sir.  Please let me 
know of any changes.  Or developments."

"Will do, Scully."

And then Skinner hung up, leaving her alone once more.  
She threw the phone down on the passenger's seat and 
craned her neck to try to see around the car in front 
of her.  What a time to be stuck in traffic.

*******************************************

Present Day, Hour 38 of the Wait
Monday, 12:26 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Mulder heard voices.  Not just beeping and chirping 
sounds, but actual spoken words.  He tried to make 
them out and, at first, couldn't manage it.  He knew 
that someone was with him, speaking.  He couldn't tell 
if the person was speaking to him or someone else. He 
really wanted to know. He hoped it was Scully.  He 
really wanted it to be Scully.

Even as Mulder was concentrating on the voice or 
voices, trying to make out who it was and what he, she 
or they were saying, he became aware of other pressing 
issues.  He started to feel pain.  Not an intense, 
sharp, biting pain from any one particular area.  
Rather, it was a dull, aching pain that seemed to 
generate from all over his body.  His head, his chest, 
his side…

Mulder tried to remember where he was and what he'd 
been doing.  He vaguely recalled going for a run.  Was 
that it?  He went for a run and must have had an 
accident.  Was he hit by a car?  Did he fall down and 
hurt himself?

Concentrating so hard was starting to make his head 
hurt even more.  He needed some Tylenol.  Where was 
Scully?  Why wasn't Scully giving him some good drugs?

Mulder groaned.  He knew that would likely be enough 
to get his partner off her butt and running for the 
pain medication.  He felt a hand at his forehead and 
then a kiss.  He smiled, then knew he had to open his 
eyes.  He wanted to look at his partner. Wanted to see 
her beautiful face. He wanted to tell her something.  
He wasn't sure yet what it was, but he knew he had to 
tell her something.  If he could just see her, he was 
pretty sure that he'd remember what he needed to say.

Mulder fought against gravity, knowing that eyelids 
couldn't really weigh as much as it seemed like they 
did.  He managed it, finally, but was shocked by the 
face that was there.  It wasn't Scully at all.  It was 
his mother.  

The world must be coming to an end.  He must be dying.  
What the hell???

"Mom?"  He wasn't sure if he actually voiced the word, 
but she seemed to understand anyway.  She smiled at 
him and brushed the hair off his forehead.  Just like 
when he was a kid.  Tears came to his eyes unbidden.  
He couldn't control them as they rolled down his face.  
So much between them, but she still loved him.  He 
knew it just by looking in her eyes.  She still loved 
him.

Mulder closed his eyes again, not worrying about 
anything.  If the world were coming to an end, or even 
if he were dying, at least he'd learned an important 
thing before going.  His mother still loved him.

And even though he was unaware of what was happening, 
his mother leaned close and kissed him again, saying, 
"Just rest, sweet boy.  You'll be fine, now.  You'll 
be just fine."

*******************************************

Maggie Scully was touched at the gentleness the other 
woman displayed.  For some reason, she'd always 
thought of Teena Mulder as hard as nails.  Of course, 
given the choices Teena and her husband had to make to 
protect Fox, she could understand it. 

There was a flurry of activity at the door and she saw 
nurses and doctors pushing their way in past the 
agents that stood there.  Dr. Parish was back, leading 
the way.  He gestured towards the door and said, 
"Ladies, can you give us some time, please? If you'll 
go to the waiting area, I'll come out when we've 
finished our examination."

Maggie nodded and moved towards the door immediately. 
She saw that Teena took one more opportunity to stroke 
Fox's forehead, then she turned as well.  Maggie was 
surprised when the other woman took her hand on the 
way out.

Teena said with a smile, "We have to call Dana.  She 
needs to know that Fox woke up."

Maggie smiled back, her heart light for the first time 
in days.  She managed to laugh a bit before saying, 
"She's not going to be happy that she wasn't here."

Teena let her hand go.  "She'll be here when it's 
really important.  When he wakes up fully, knowing 
what's happening.  Then, he'll want to see his lady 
love."

Maggie stopped sharply, surprised at the woman's 
words.  Teena turned to her, with a look of confusion.  
"Surely you know that Fox loves your daughter.  And 
it's quite clear that Dana loves Fox. They've already 
gone to the ends of the earth for each other.  Now, 
all they have to do is actually admit it to each other 
while they're both conscious."

Maggie laughed, surprised that Teena could be so 
matter of fact about something that their respective 
children had been so obtuse about for years.  Maggie 
reached for Teena's arm and they started walking once 
more.

"You know, Teena, it occurs to me that sometimes these 
two are a bit stubborn."

"I have noticed that, Maggie."

"Perhaps we should help them a bit.  If they need it, 
that is."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised if they do.  They tend 
to be somewhat close-mouthed at all the wrong times."

Maggie laughed again.  "So, it's a deal?  We give them 
a little help?"

"Absolutely.  But, only if they need it."

"Of course, Teena."

"Would you like some coffee?"

"That would be wonderful.  And then we better find 
that phone to call Dana."

"Of course."

*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 4:52 p.m.
Fairfax Hospital, Arlington, Virginia

Fox was dressed and sitting in the room's guest chair, 
waiting to be discharged.  He'd been ready for the 
past two hours and had used the time to go over every 
detail he knew about the DC Murders case. 

Fox considered his dream and what it might mean.  
While he'd never been one to fully subscribe to 
Freud's theory of dreams being a means for wish-
fulfillment, he did believe that dreams could be 
significant for a variety of reasons.  In fact, using 
Hall's theory that dreams are merely a cognitive 
process in which visual representations of personal 
conceptions are played out, his dream could, indeed, 
have been a way to attempt to bring meaning to the 
events of the day. Perhaps Waring was right – maybe he 
really had seen something that was then being worked 
out through his dream.

He scribbled on the pad in front of him, jotting down 
notes as he thought about them in a stream of 
consciousness approach. He doodled and sketched.  He 
made a note of questions he wanted to ask people but 
which he'd probably never get a chance to ask.  After 
a while, he tossed the pad of paper down on the table 
and sat back further, nestling into the cushions. Fox 
slid further into the chair, propping a foot up on the 
bed across from him.  He had held onto the pen and now 
played with it, thoughtlessly, rolling it back and 
forth, back and forth. 

Was it possible that the faces he'd seen were more 
than mere imaginative embodiments of his own 
suspicions?  Was it actually possible that he saw the 
UNSUB?  But, if so, why had there been three distinct 
faces?  And how did the scarred man's face and 
beautiful woman's face fit into things?  He'd 
hypothesized, given the notes, that they were quite 
possibly looking for a man who had gender issues.  Was 
this a man who was physically scarred in real-life or 
someone who was emotionally scarred?  Did this man 
have fantasies of living the perfect life if only he 
were the perfect woman?  

Fox shook his head, wishing he'd focused just a bit 
more on such psychological issues during his graduate 
years at Oxford. But, even if these faces he saw did 
somehow tie in with his previous theory, just what did 
that have to do with the other face he saw?  The one 
that had shocked him and made him question whether 
there was truly any meaning in the dream at all?

There was a scuffle at the door and an attractive 
young lady came in pushing a wheelchair.  "Mr. Mulder?  
It's time for you to be released. Are you ready to 
check out now?"

Fox shook his head to try to clear his thoughts and 
then nodded at the young woman. He smiled when he 
said, "I am more than ready."

She laughed and pointed to the wheelchair.  He 
grimaced a bit but decided not to argue.  After all, 
he wanted out of here as fast as possible, no matter 
which way it happened.  The girl said, "I'll bring you 
down to the admissions and release area.  I think 
someone will be outside to pick you up."  

"Here you go.  Last time before you're released."  She 
handed him a little paper cup with water and a pill.  
It looked like what they'd been giving him for pain. 
He considered arguing, but then decided to just get 
out while he could. 

He downed it quickly and then handed the used cup to 
the nurse, while sinking gratefully into the 
wheelchair.  She threw it away and then started 
pushing him towards the door.

For whatever reason, she took a somewhat circuitous 
route. Instead of the near elevators, she went down 
the hallway and around the other side. He didn't 
really think much of it.  In fact, it was starting to 
get hard to think about anything.  For some reason, 
his thinking, which had been clear and focused this 
afternoon, had become difficult and challenging.  He 
couldn't concentrate. His eyes started to droop.  He 
didn't realize he was so tired.  Maybe he could sleep 
on the way back to Quantico.

Fox put his head back, against the back of the 
wheelchair.  His head was too heavy for his neck to 
hold up anymore. His mouth was dry and he needed 
water.  He was having a hard time even breathing. With 
his head back, he realized he could see the woman 
pushing him. She was young and very beautiful.  But, 
she had a hard look to her face. She didn't look 
beautiful at all right now. In fact, Fox realized that 
she was very much like the girl in his dream.  And 
then, in the tiny bit of his mind over which he still 
had control, he realized he was in quite a bit of 
trouble.

*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 5:28 p.m.
Fairfax Hospital, Arlington, Virginia

Dean Waring was annoyed.  He'd been told to stand in 
line, fill out paperwork, sit and wait… One thing 
after another.  Finally, he did something he hated to 
do.  He pulled out his badge and told them to get his 
trainee released immediately. That the man was needed 
for questioning in a homicide.  That got them moving.

He was now looking at his watch for about the tenth 
time since making his demand and wondering what the 
heck was taking so long. There was a flurry of 
activity farther down the hall and he noticed a nurse, 
hands waving in the air, speaking with a doctor.  A 
security guard stood close by, listening to her.  
Then, what chilled him, was that the nurse pointed 
directly at him.

Dean stood up and started towards the little group.  
Right at that moment, Walter Skinner appeared, looking 
harried and exhausted, but somehow excited.  Dean 
nodded to him and asked, "Everything all right, 
Walter?"

The younger agent nodded. "Yes, indeed. We've made 
quite a bit of progress, in fact. We're virtually 
convinced our UNSUB has ties to either the FBI or to a 
major metro police department."

Dean somehow doubted that, given the stringent 
psychological exams every applicant must undergo, but 
he nodded anyway. During the time they'd spoken, the 
doctor, nurse, and security guard had walked their 
way.  The nurse spoke first.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but it looks like Fox Mulder already 
left the hospital."

Dean froze, staring at the woman.  His mind refused to 
process what she'd just said.  But, then it did and he 
was furious.  "What?  Young lady, there is no way that 
Fox Mulder would have left this hospital on his own.  
He knew I was coming to pick him up."

The woman looked frazzled. "I don't know what to tell 
you.  He's not there. He had to have left."

Dean turned to Walter.  Both men were alarmed.  Walter 
said, "We need to see the room, then get an all-points 
out."  

Dean agreed.  He turned to the security guard. "Call 
the APD. Tell them there's been another possible 
abduction in the DC Murders case. ASAC Skinner will 
arrange for a description of the man we believe has 
been taken."  Dean turned to Walter. "Come to the room 
immediately after."

And with that, Dean gestured to the wide-eyed nurse to 
lead the way. His thoughts were in turmoil as they ran 
towards the elevator, leaving the doctor agog.  What 
the hell was he going to tell Fox's mother?

The room, when they arrived, was indeed deserted. Dean 
gestured for the woman to stay back and then tried to 
take in the room from a fresh perspective.  This 
wasn't easy, given all the time he'd spent there 
recently.  He walked forward slowly, eyes scanning 
left to right. The room was empty. He walked around 
the far side of the bed and saw something on the 
floor, peaking out behind the little bedside table.  
He bent down and saw it was a pad of paper.  He pulled 
it out carefully, immediately understanding the 
significance.  Now, he just had to make sense of it.

Dean continued looking around the room, then peered 
into the trash can.  It was empty except for a little 
paper cup.  He looked at the nurse, still standing by 
the door and asked, "Was Fox scheduled for any 
medication this afternoon?"

The woman still looked frightened, but she answered 
carefully.  "I don't believe so. Since he was going to 
be released, the doctor would have given him a 
prescription. I'll check the records, though."

Dean nodded and pulled out a glove from his pocket.  
He fished out the crumpled paper cup, wondering how 
fingerprints would adhere.  He waited for the nurse to 
come back and then said, "Could you get me a plastic 
bag? This might be important."

She nodded and turned, but then said, "Oh, sir.  I 
looked at the records. Mr. Mulder was not due to have 
any medication after about 9 a.m. this morning."

Dean nodded and asked, "When does the trash get picked 
up here?"

She swallowed hard before answering.  "Every morning 
and every afternoon.  This room would have been picked 
up around 4 this afternoon."

Walter came in then, gingerly bypassing the distraught 
nurse.  He looked to Waring.  "Anything?"

Dean held up the paper cup. "Looks like someone gave 
him something for the road."  Then he held up the pad 
of paper.  "Luckily, he left behind his thoughts and 
suspicions for us.  Now, we just have to figure out 
what it all means."  Dean handed the pad to Walter.  
"And Walter?"

Walter looked up from the scribbles to meet Dean's 
eyes.  "We need to find him soon.  You understand, 
son?"

Dean could see the sweat on Walter's forehead.  They 
both knew what would happen to Fox if he weren't found 
within the next few hours.

*******************************************

Present Day
Monday, 4:17 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia

Scully was hot, tired, hungry, and just outright 
annoyed.  How the heck long could it possibly take to 
clear off a path on the busiest highway in the entire 
country?  One would think that it would be something 
of a national priority to have I-95 access 
uncompromised.

She stepped into the women's room to get cleaned up a 
little.  She laughed at herself when she acknowledged 
the why of it.  After all, her partner had been in a 
coma for a day and a half and awake off and on now for 
just a few hours since then.  It's not like he'd be 
expecting her to look her best. By now, he had to know 
that she'd been there with him almost the entire time.  

She finished splashing water over her face, then ran 
her hands through her hair, trying to force some 
discipline on the unruly mess.  She laughed out loud 
at the picture she made.  What a mess!  But, she 
really didn't care.  She turned for her partner's 
room, suddenly incapable of waiting a moment longer. 

Scully had to see him. She had to hold his hand. She 
needed to feel his warm skin and breathe in his Mulder 
scent.  

Her feet moved almost independent of thought, until 
she was at the CCU doors, knocking softly but firmly.  
Just a few seconds more.  Mere moments.  She wondered 
if he were awake.

One of the nurses smiled and waved at her through the 
glass, then released the lock so she could enter.  
"Welcome back, Dr. Scully."

Scully smiled, unable, in fact, to keep the smile off 
her face.  "Is he awake?"

The nurse laughed and said, "He's out of the room 
right now. They brought him down for a CT scan a bit 
ago. He should be back any time."

The woman must have seen the disappointment. She gave 
Scully a last smile before turning back to her desk.  
Scully sighed, then decided to wait for her partner in 
his room. As she was walking down the hall, Dr. Parish 
called out to her.

"Dr. Scully, hello."

She turned towards him with a smile.  "Hi, Dr. 
Parish."

"So, have you seen Mr. Mulder yet?  He's looking much 
better.  We're going to move him to a step down room 
this evening, in fact."

Even though she knew her partner had been getting 
better, this news sent a waive of relief washing 
through her.  "That's wonderful, doctor.  I haven't 
see him yet.  I guess he's still in CT."

The man got a confused look on his face.  "What?"

A little frisson of alarm sped along Scully's nerve 
endings.  "CT.  He was evidently taken down about an 
hour ago."

Parish shook his head.  "No, no.  You're confused.  
Mr. Mulder wasn't due for a CT until tomorrow at the 
earliest."

Scully's throat went dry and her heart started to 
race.  She turned back to Mulder's room and ran in, 
shocked by the emptiness of it, despite the fact that 
she knew he wasn't there.  

And then, the nurse at the desk was calling for her.  
"Dr. Scully.  Dr. Scully, there's a phone call from 
your boss.  He says it's important."

Scully knew.  She knew what he was going to say.  She 
walked slowly towards the desk and reached out her 
hand for the phone.  Her voice wavered as she said, 
"Scully."

There was a moment's silence and then AD Skinner said, 
"Scully, a 911 call was transferred to the Bureau."

Scully knew.  "He took Mulder.  He has him."

Again, Skinner paused before replying.  "I'll be there 
in about fifteen minutes.  Hang on, Scully.  We'll get 
him back."

Scully nodded, not even bothering to answer.  All of a 
sudden, her head was spinning and her knees were weak.  
The phone slipped through nerveless fingers. She heard 
voices screaming, as if from a distance and then she 
knew no more.


*******************************************

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 15 of ? (15/?)
by Kronos (clb@roadrunner.com)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 5:39 p.m.
Somewhere in Arlington, Virginia

Fox felt sick.  Lethargic.  Unfocused. He knew he'd 
been put in the backseat of a car.  The car was 
moving.  He saw flashes out the window.  Flashes of 
buildings, trees, sky.  Everything was moving.  He 
felt so sick.

There were dark clouds in the sky. Was it raining? It 
was humid, muggy, so that the air almost pulled at 
him.  Weighed him down. It smelled like rain. Then he 
made out little rivulets of water on the window.  It 
wasn't fair. Rainy days demanded a lover curled next 
to you in an inn out in the country.  A crackling fire 
and the smell of wood burning in the fireplace. He 
wondered if he'd ever know that satisfaction again.

He couldn't hear right. Things were muffled, as if 
everything were far away or as if something were 
stuffed in his ears.  He tried to shake his head to 
clear it, but all he accomplished was a shooting pain 
running through his neck.  

He concentrated hard and realized there were voices. 
There were two people.  Not just the girl, but a man, 
also.  He hadn't seen the man's face, but the voice 
was strange. So strange. The man was angry, excited, 
frightened… And the woman, the girl…  Fox wasn't sure 
how old she was.  Maybe just twenty or so.  She was 
controlled.  She was in control, in fact.  That became 
clear quickly, as the man jumped in to do whatever she 
told him.  Right now, she was evidently telling him 
where to turn. Fox saw her gesture and the man 
responded. Fox wondered where they were taking him.  
And why they'd taken him at all.

He forced himself to listen to their words.  To 
actually make out what they were saying. But it was 
beyond him just now.  So, he watched them. He knew 
they didn't realize he was awake.  Or perhaps they 
just didn't care. 

The man drove and now Fox could focus enough to see 
him more clearly. Every once in a while, the man would 
turn his head to the woman, whether for praise or 
directions, Fox wasn't sure.  The man was young, but 
older than the woman. He was likely in his mid-
twenties.  Possibly even late twenties.

It was obvious that the man had been in a fire at some 
point. He'd been terribly burned, the scars still 
looking inflamed themselves, even though Fox knew 
enough to recognize long healed injuries. It had 
happened many years before. And under the webbing of 
distorted, deformed flesh, Fox could tell that this 
had once been a handsome man.  Even now, there was an 
air of confidence. Fox could see that the man was big, 
strong, well-built. He wore nice clothes and his hair 
was cut precisely. Combed neatly.

Fox moved his eyes to the right and saw the woman. She 
really was quite stunning to look at, but there was 
something about her that made him cold. It was as if 
he could see that she was empty inside. Empty of 
humanity, but filled with something ever so much more 
frightening.  Pure evil.

And then she turned her head to look back at him, a 
small smile playing at her full lips, and Fox knew 
then that she'd been aware of his attention all along. 
She knew that he was awake and watching. She enjoyed 
his discomfort. His fear.

Fox shuddered slightly, thinking back to his own 
unofficial impressions of the UNSUB in the case. He'd 
thought there was a single killer.  After all, murder 
and torture was generally a very personal thing to 
most sociopaths.  But, all along there'd been two of 
them.  No wonder the killer's signature was so 
confusing.  No wonder the profilers had had such 
difficulty in this case.

Fox licked his lips, wishing he could move. His body 
still wouldn't do what he wanted. His commands to his 
arms and legs, fingers and toes, were being ignored. 
He chose then to think about these two killers.  
Whatever insights he might gain could only help him. 
Perhaps he could even manage to delay them long enough 
for Waring to find him.

Fox struggled to think it through.  To recall the rare 
situations in which killers had teamed up. He 
remembered a lecture from back at Oxford. The question 
under discussion was whether two narcissists could 
ever have a long-term stable relationship.

Fox closed his eyes and dredged up the details of the 
lecture, trying to fit the pieces into what he knew of 
the DC Murders case.  He had no doubt that these two 
were narcissistic sociopaths. The woman was quite 
obviously the one calling the shots. She was 
intelligent, that much was clear, showing the classic 
signs of a predominantly cerebral narcissist. The man 
was quite clearly somatic dominant, his body on 
display, flaunting his sexuality.

Fox opened his eyes once more and watched the 
interplay between the two.  At one point, the man 
reached out to touch the woman. Fox saw the quick 
flash of disgust cross her face before she smiled at 
her partner, slowly moving out from under his hand.  
Suddenly, it all became so very clear. She fit the 
textbook definition of a cerebral narcissist 
perfectly. She was asexual, obviously not caring about 
how she dressed or what she wore.  Fox cursed himself 
for not noticing the somewhat raggedy clothes when she 
came for him in the hospital.  He should have noticed 
the messy hair. The lack of make-up. The uneven 
fingernails.  

These two were so incredibly self-involved, it was 
amazing that they ever managed to plan for and carry 
out five murders in such an organized way.  But, Fox 
was quite certain the woman was the one for whom it 
was important. She was the one who planned.  She was 
the one who orchestrated everything. She was the one 
who wrote the notes.  The question was – why?

Fox felt that if he could figure out the answer to 
that question, he just might have a chance of stopping 
her, once and for all. And hopefully, save his own 
life in the process.

*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 5:52 p.m.
F.B.I. Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Walter looked around the room at the expressions of 
his team members. They got it.  They understood that 
this was both the break they'd been hoping for, and 
also a potential tragedy in the making.  

Walter ran his hand over his somewhat rumpled tie and 
adjusted his glasses.  He took a deep breath before 
continuing.  In the corner sat SAC Keenan.  The man 
hadn't blamed Walter, even though he blamed himself.  
Damn it!  It was his fault.  All of it.  It was his 
job to keep the kid safe and the first time he thought 
he could relax, the kid got abducted by the killer.  
How in the world was it even possible?

He shook himself mentally and realized that these 
people were all waiting for him.  Waiting for him to 
tell them what to do, where to go, how to save Trainee 
Fox Mulder.

He turned on the slide projector and stepped to the 
side, picking up a pointer as he went.  On the screen 
was a slide of Fox's page of doodles.  Figuring out 
what he was thinking might be their one shot of saving 
the kid.

"We believe, after discussions with one of Fox's 
instructors at Quantico who'd spoken quite a bit with 
the trainee, that Fox Mulder had an insight into the 
UNSUB's motivations.  We believe that it's possible 
that he saw the killer, in fact, just prior to the car 
accident or immediately afterwards. We believe that 
this is why he was targeted by the killer and taken."

He gestured to the page on the screen.  "This is all 
we have to go on. As you know, none of our prior leads 
panned out.  To some extent, with the exception of a 
relatively detailed profile, we are back to square one 
in figuring this out."  He tapped the screen.  "Except 
for these notes."

Walter paused and looked at the sheet.  It was covered 
in doodles, words that had been set down completely 
randomly, some in block letters, some in script.  
There were incomplete sentences and questions.  Just 
enough words to possibly make out what the trainee was 
thinking.  There was a sketch of a car – a small-sized 
wagon. Other little sketches that he couldn't really 
make out.

"We need to interpret, guess, divine…  whatever the 
hell is necessary, to figure out what the kid was 
thinking. We need your ideas. We've developed some of 
our own, based on Dean Waring's input, but we need to 
think out of the box and avoid falling into a trap of 
assuming that this trainee was being logical when 
writing these things down."

He could see confusion on some faces. "Trainee Fox 
Mulder has a graduate degree in psychology from 
Oxford. The man's extremely intelligent.  He also 
seems to have an ability to get into the mind of the 
killer."

Walter gestured to one of the team members.  "Chris 
here has training in psychology. He says that this 
sheet of Fox's is a result of a free-form writing and 
drawing exercise.  That Fox was allowing his mind to 
wander while writing down or sketching whatever was 
surfacing."

Some of the agents in the room looked uncomfortable. 
It was likely that none of them had ever participated 
in such an exercise. They were more likely to be list-
makers, in fact, trying to bring organization to their 
jobs. 

"So, this is what we have. We are going to split into 
three teams.  You will have 30 minutes to brainstorm 
and discuss this page.  Write down theories, no matter 
how crazy. At the end of that time, I want one person 
from each group ready to report back and provide us 
some avenues of search and investigation."

Doug quickly organized the agents into groups, then 
approached Walter.  Doug said, "What do you think?"

Walter rubbed his eyes, under the glasses.  Shook his 
head. "I just don't know, Doug. I just don't know."

Thirty minutes later, the first team started reporting 
back.  "Sir, we believe that the trainee suspected 
someone with the Bureau.  In fact, we think he 
suspected someone from Quantico to be involved."

Walter nodded. It wasn't a surprise. In fact, Waring, 
Keenan, he and Doug had come to the same conclusions, 
based on some of the sentence and question fragments 
on the sheet.  "Anything else?"

The man reporting looked a bit nervous.  "Something 
odd, sir."

Walter again nodded.  "Go on."

"We believe… We think that Fox…"

Walter could see the man was more than just hesitant.  
It seemed he was embarrassed.

"Go on, Agent."

"We think that Trainee Mulder was convinced that there 
were two separate personalities operating. That one 
was …female and dominant and that the other was male 
and subservient."

Again, Walter merely nodded.  

The man was encouraged. "We also believe that he did 
see the killer.  There's a sketch in the upper right 
hand corner. We discussed it quite a bit, trying to 
determine what it might be.  Some of our group members 
believe it's part of a face.  A man's face, with 
scars."

Walter hadn't seen that himself.  He saw others around 
the room nodding.  He said, "Did the other groups also 
think this?"

He saw Sarah Michaels raise a hand.  "Sir, our group 
also came to that conclusion."

Walter turned to Doug.  Doug said to the group, "What 
kind of scars?  Is this something we can describe 
enough to put out an APB?"

Walter was looking at the sketch while they were 
talking – trying to make sense of it. Trying to see 
what these groups had seen.

Sarah said, "We have a conjecture, sir. While we 
couldn't really tell from Fox's sketch, there's that 
little sketch close to it.  It's of a flame. Some of 
us thought … perhaps fire?"

Doug also turned to the screen where the sheet was 
being projected.  Walter took a step closer. Sarah was 
right.  It was a leap, but just possibly the right 
kind of leap.  He turned back and said, "Thank you.  
Sarah, what else from your group?"

"Not much else, sir.  Some members did feel that there 
was more to the sketch of the car than you originally 
see at first glance.  If you look closely, sir, you 
can see two heads in the front of the car."

Again, Walter turned and looked, even getting to 
within a foot of the screen.  Again, she was right.  
What did that mean, though?  He turned back to her, 
gaze sweeping over the others in her group.  
"Interpretation?"

Sarah looked uncomfortable now.  "One of two things, 
sir. Either he'd been thinking along the lines of a 
split personality and he sketched out the two 
personalities side by side..."

"Or?"

"Or maybe he really did catch sight of the car and, 
without even knowing it, saw two people in it. Maybe 
he saw that there were really two killers, but he 
didn't realize that he knew it.  But, through free-
form sketching, what he knew at a subconscious level 
surfaced."

Walter was caught by surprise.  Two killers?  Was that 
possible?  Was that what Fox Mulder had stumbled onto?  
Another hand raised.  Walter gestured towards the man 
to speak.

"Sir, our group spent some time focused on another 
part of the page. Sir, we believe we know who Fox 
suspected."

Walter was surprised.  He didn't recall anything that 
would lead to a specific person.  "Who?"

The man cleared his throat, obviously nervous about 
potentially ruining someone's career over a mistake.  
"Instructor Malloy at Quantico, sir."

At first, Walter thought he hadn't heard correctly.  
After all, Malloy had been an instructor even when he 
went through. He knew the man.  Of course, he'd seen 
Malloy's name, but it was listed amongst a group of 
seven or eight other instructors from Quantico. He 
hadn't really thought it was important.  Walter 
quickly regrouped and asked, "Why?  What makes you 
suspect him?"

The man quickly said, "We don't, sir.  We think Fox 
Mulder did."

Walter was impatient now.  "Why?"

"Sir, it's hard to really say.  Malloy's name was on 
the sheet."

"So were other names.  Why do you think Malloy's was 
significant?"

The younger man paused, then seemed more confident 
when he answered.  "Malloy's name was written in block 
letters, very bold.  None of the other names were.  
Malloy's name was close to the car and it seems that 
there might even be a faint line that connects 
Malloy's name to the sketch of the car."

Walter nodded thoughtfully, looking at the sketch once 
more. He could see the faint line.

"Sir, there's one more thing."

Walter turned back. "Yes?"

"Sir, the other names were both first and second 
names.  Malloy's name is the only one listed with just 
a last name."

Walter felt like laughing.  Had to force himself not 
to.  This was insane.  Malloy had been with the Bureau 
for years. He was a respected agent and a sought after 
instructor.  Were they supposed to destroy his career 
because of a faint line on a scribble page?

Walter regrouped and decided not to prejudge. To keep 
an open mind.  "How do you suppose Malloy factors into 
this?  He doesn't have facial scars."

No one spoke.  He saw the expressions of confusion and 
doubt.  "That's all right.  I asked for thinking out 
of the box.  Is there any more input?  Anything at 
all?"

He saw heads shaking all around.  "Okay, people.  Take 
five.  We'll reconvene in a few minutes to discuss 
strategy."

As the other agents headed out of the room, Doug and 
Keenan approached him.  Keenan spoke first.  "Walter, 
I'm a bit worried here.  I know John Malloy.  I've 
known him for years.  We actually served on the 
Arlington police force together before transferring 
into the Bureau.  I just don't see how he could 
possibly have anything to do with this.  And I would 
prefer to not have the man's career destroyed over 
nothing."

Walter understood completely, but wasn't sure they 
could afford to just discard the theory.  Doug said, 
"How about this?  We do a background check, including 
vehicles owned for the past twenty or even twenty-five 
years. If anything comes up the slightest bit fishy, 
we bring him in."

Walter looked to Keenan.  The man nodded, hesitantly.  
"I'd rather talk with him at Quantico, though."

Walter gathered his courage and asked, "Do you think 
you should be present, sir?"

He saw the flash of anger in Keenan's eyes, but then 
the normal mantle of calm prevailed. Keenan sighed 
deeply.  "I guess not. I better not let my friendship 
interfere in the investigation." Keenan looked at both 
of them closely.  "Just promise me, boys.  You be 
sensitive to the man's contributions and career.  
Don't ruin him for nothing."

Walter nodded, exchanging looks with Doug.  They 
understood.  They'd be as careful as possible, as long 
as Fox's life wasn't put further at risk.

*******************************************

Present Day
Monday, 4:49 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia

Scully wondered what had hit her.  Her head was 
pounding.  The blood was rushing in her ears, so that 
she couldn't hear anything else.  She forced her eyes 
open but squeezed them closed again. There was a 
bright light shining directly into her face. She could 
even feel the heat of it on her skin.  Where the hell 
was she and what was happening?

Then, someone took her hand. Someone was rubbing her 
arm with soft fingers.

"Mulder?"  Her voice sounded weak, even to her own 
ears.

"No, sweetheart.  It's Mom."

And then it all came rushing back.  Scully knew where 
she was and what was happening. Mulder had been taken 
and she was alone.  Bereft once more. Tears rushed to 
her eyes and she raised a shaky hand to wipe them 
away.  No time for that now.  Scully forced herself 
up, slowly, even though her mother was protesting.

"It's okay, Mom.  I'm fine."

"Fine?  You hit your head on the side of the nurse's 
desk.  You have seven stitches."

Well, that explained why her head hurt. She blinked 
several times, realizing that a little bit of dried 
blood was stuck to her lashes.  "Mom, can you bring me 
a washcloth, please?"

She could tell her mother wasn't very happy with her, 
but she went over to speak with a nurse anyway.  It 
gave Scully time to look around and get a sense of 
where she was.  She recognized the emergency room and 
decided they must have wheeled her down from the CCU 
after she'd taken her little nosedive.

She heard a familiar voice outside the curtained off 
area where she sat and pushed herself to her feet.  
She needed to speak with Skinner. 

Her mother let out a startled exclamation that must 
have warned her former boss that she was coming.  He 
reached out a hand and pushed the curtain back, just 
as she was approaching it.  She took note of the 
concern and worry immediately, knowing it wasn't only 
for Mulder.

"Sir?  Any word?"

Skinner flicked his glance towards her mother briefly 
before coming to rest on her once more.  She was 
annoyed at what she felt to be unnecessary 
overprotection.

"Sir?  Please."

One side of his lip trembled slightly, as if he almost 
smiled before answering.  "Our three teams already 
moved.  We've already ruled out one of the three 
suspects.  We've got one of the remaining two located 
and are initiating surveillance.  Frankly, the fact 
that we know where he is suggests that he's not the 
one.  We're searching for our third suspect right now.  
The Director has authorized us to use whatever means 
at our disposal, including the Press.  We're getting 
ready to release a statement very soon."

Scully felt her mother at her side and looked into the 
concerned face.  Then, a wet washcloth materialized.  
Well, first things first.  She swiped at the dried 
blood, making sure not to touch the stitches.  It gave 
her time to think.  To consider.

She turned to Skinner and said, "I want to see the 
file on this third man.  Everything you have."

Skinner smiled slightly and nodded.  "If you're up for 
it, I'll drive you to the Bureau office."

Scully nodded, then thought of something that needed 
to be done.  "What about security cameras around the 
hospital?  Inside and out.  Have they been checked?"

Skinner sighed.  "We already scanned the internal 
cameras. Same as before. The guy never shows his face 
or even part of his face to any security camera.  He 
entered the hospital dressed as an intern. Had some 
sort of official looking badge. He took a gurney from 
the emergency room entrance, which is where he entered 
the building, then took an elevator up to CCU. He 
waited until a doctor entered, then followed in. 
Looked like he belonged. He waited until the nurses 
were distracted and took Mulder's file. Scribbled in 
it, then slipped it back.  By the time the nurses came 
back, they just waved him through, once they saw the 
note in the medical records."

"Did any of the nurses have a description?"

"Not much of a one. Medium height, not too young, not 
too old, brown hair, no identifying features."

Scully was filled with fury. She couldn't really blame 
the nurses. She knew they were continuously juggling 
input and demands from numerous doctors, specialists, 
and family members. But, still!  There's common sense. 
She took a deep breath before continuing. "What about 
outside the hospital?  Has anyone checked security 
video in a radius from the hospital?"

Skinner again nodded. "We've got twenty agents already 
scouring every bank, store, and restaurant security 
camera within a three mile radius. It'll take a while, 
but we're doing it."

With that, Scully had to be happy.  She nodded 
confidently. "Let's go, sir."  Scully almost forgot 
her mother, standing next to her.  And somewhere, 
Mulder's mother was likely waiting. The woman was most 
likely frantic.  She turned to her mother and said, 
"Mom, can you take care of Mrs. Mulder?  Perhaps you 
can both go back to our hotel.  Stay in your room.  
We'll contact you there as soon as we know anything."

She could see her mother start to argue, but then 
stop.  Maggie's shoulder's slumped a bit before she 
replied.  "I'll do that.  We'll be fine.  Just find 
this man.  Bring Fox back."

Scully had no doubts that they would.  "Don't worry.  
I will."  There was no room for doubt whatsoever.

*******************************************

Present Day
Monday, 4:49 p.m.
Somewhere in Richmond, Virginia

Mulder came to awareness slowly. His entire body hurt. 
His head throbbed. The blood was rushing in his ears, 
making it difficult to concentrate.  He tried to open 
his eyes, but it was too bright.  Something was 
shining in his face.  He forced his eyes open and 
realized it was the sun, beating in through a class 
window. And then he realized he was in a moving car. 

Mulder could feel the motion, the rocking and the 
bouncing. It must be a secondary road or even a dirt 
road. The motion was starting to make him sick. Where 
the hell was he?  Why wasn't he with Scully?

His body had been thrown into the back seat with an 
obvious lack of care. He could feel stickiness at his 
ribs. Along his ear. He suspected that stitches had 
pulled.  His head was propped up between the back seat 
and passenger side back door.  His right arm and right 
leg both fell off the seat to the floor. His left leg 
was shoved up, with his foot against the driver's side 
rear door. His left arm was awkwardly raised up, above 
his head. He could actually feel the glass with his 
fingers. It felt cool, even though he knew the sun was 
shining.  Where the hell was Scully?

The thought of his partner sent a pang deep down, that 
echoed off the barriers in his mind. Without even 
thinking, he said her name. A whispered, heartfelt 
plea.  "Scully." He was suddenly consumed with desire 
for her presence. For her soft touch. For her Scully 
smell. He yearned for her. Yearned in a way he'd never 
known before in his life.

He heard movement from the front seat.  Forced himself 
to focus through the glimmering tears that obstructed 
his vision. He blinked them away. He was determined to 
see his partner again.  He would not allow it to end 
this way.  Not after all they'd been through.

He turned his head just slightly to make out the man 
in the driver's seat. Not a particularly large man, 
but one who was fit. The man had brown hair, lightly 
tanned skin, seemed nondescript. It was all Mulder 
could make out. Mulder knew it was the killer, but 
couldn't for the life of him figure out how the man 
had taken him. He had no memory of the event. The last 
thing he knew, he was being taken for a CT scan. 

Mulder had to figure out why this man had taken him.  
Why now?  He forced himself to concentrate, realizing 
that any insights he might gain could possibly help 
save his life. He tried hard not to think too much 
about the DC Murders case. The parallels between what 
happened back then and what was happening now were 
just too frightening to consider.

*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 5:52 p.m.
Somewhere in Virginia

Fox was lying awkwardly on the back seat, his head 
angled slightly up and forward, the rest of his body 
parts lodged uncomfortably wherever they'd fallen when 
he'd been thrown in the car. 

Fox stared out the window, seeing that the sky was 
starting to darken. He wondered if maybe these two 
were killing time, waiting for darkness, before doing 
whatever they were going to do. He shuddered at the 
thought.  Wondered what in hell they had in store for 
hind whether he'd ever see the bright sun of day 
again.

He decided to try to engage them in conversation. 
Maybe he could find out what they were planning, then 
somehow get a message to the Bureau.  It was at least 
worth a try.

He would have to appeal to their vanity. The man to 
his physical vanity, the woman to her intellectual 
vanity. It was the woman who'd be the challenge.  She 
was the one in control. She was the one he'd have to 
manipulate. He only hoped he was smarter than she was.  

Fox cleared his throat before speaking. He needed to 
convince her that he was worth speaking to. He 
concentrated on striking the right tone.  "I know what 
you want."

The woman laughed. She never even turned around.  At 
least he got a look in the mirror from the man.

"The Bureau will know that you took me. They'll figure 
out soon enough that I didn't leave on my own."

There was no response at all.

"We'd already figured out we were looking for two 
people. The notes gave you away."

There was nothing that said he couldn't lie to the bad 
guys.  Besides, he'd sort of known there were two of 
them.

"The notes were just too feminine.  Couldn't mask it, 
no matter how hard you tried."

He could see the woman's jaw clench, but she gave no 
other reaction.

"And a couple of the murders were just too… exotic for 
a man."

There was a slight smile at that.  Fox tried to move a 
little and discovered that his extremities were 
finally listening to his brain again.  He rolled 
slightly in the seat so he was a bit more comfortable. 
At least his head wasn't cocked at an unnatural angle 
anymore.

"Of course, we'd already figured out that the killers 
were sexually dysfunctional."

The man's eyes in the mirror were hard and angry. 

"And we'd also figured out that the woman was the 
intelligent one of the partnership."

The man actually turned his head to glare at him at 
that.  The woman smirked.  Maybe this was the key.  
Get the man so angry that he'd do something stupid.  

Fox's throat was dry.  Scratchy.  He desperately 
wanted something cool to drink. He was pretty sure the 
only way he'd get it was to extract himself from this 
mess.

"It was really quite obvious.  The team figured out 
early on that the man of the partnership wasn't up to 
any serious planning on his own."  Fox licked his 
lips.  He was pretty sure the expression 'playing with 
fire' might apply in this situation.  "We knew the man 
was just the brawn. The one doing all the dirty work."

Fox was certain he heard the man growl. 

"What we haven't figured out just yet is what the 
connection is to Quantico.  It's only a matter of 
time, though."

That finally resulted in a reaction.  The girl looked 
nervous for the first time. The man had reacted 
sharply, turning to her. Fox got the impression that 
he was ready to speak to her but stopped when she 
raised her finger in warning.

"The team was starting to look at all the instructors 
at Quantico. We knew there was a connection between 
you."

Fox could see the girl lick her lips. She glanced back 
at him briefly, delivering an expression filled with 
disgust, before turning back to her partner.  And in 
that heartbeat of a glance, Fox saw something. 
Something that leapt out at him, took his breath away, 
and made him finally understand the connection to the 
instructors.

He swallowed hard and said, "I know about your father. 
It's not something you can keep secret, you know."

The man finally broke.  "What are we going to do now?  
We can't go where we were planning.  They'll find us.  
We need…"

The girl hissed at him.  Actually hissed.  Then said, 
"Shut up. Let me think."

Fox followed up.  "Like I said, we knew the woman of 
the partnership was calling the shots.  We also knew 
she… you, that is… thought you were smarter than you 
actually are."

She saw her nostrils flare as she turned to look at 
him once more from the front passenger seat.  Her 
voice dripped sarcasm.  "And just what does a trainee 
know about the details of any case.  You're just 
guessing.  Don't think we don't know all about you, 
Trainee Fox Mulder."

He forced himself to look unconcerned. Forced a smile. 
"Of course you know all about me.  After all, you've 
been getting second hand reports on the 
investigation."

It was a shot in the dark. A first hand report would 
mean a member of the team directly. Fox was darned 
sure it wasn't one of the team members. Besides, they 
were all stationed out of Headquarters. No, he was 
certain it was an instructor.  And he was now almost 
positive which one and what the relationship was.

"All the instructors know me, after all.  And I know a 
few of them very well."

The woman looked like she wanted to speak, but forced 
herself to silence. She turned slowly in the seat and 
looked out the windshield.  He heard her mutter 
something under her breath, but he couldn't really 
make it out.  Then, she sat up straighter and pointed 
to the left. 

"Turn in there."

Fox wished he could see where they were.  He wondered 
if he could attempt to sit up.  Neither his hands nor 
legs were restrained, but he still didn't have full 
control.  Just shifting to a more comfortable position 
a few minutes before had been incredibly difficult.

He stared out the side window and saw the tops of 
trees.  He knew they'd been driving for quite a while.  
It wasn't difficult to assume that they were pretty 
far out from any city. Where the hell were they?  And 
what could he do to gain control?

*******************************************

PAST
September 12, 1986
Thursday, 6:48 p.m.
F.B.I Headquarters, Washington D.C. 

Walter pushed himself up from the table and stretched 
his back. He loosened his tie and rolled up his 
sleeves. His jacket had been discarded a while before. 
Just as he was deciding whether to search for more 
caffeine or for food, one of his team yelled out to 
him.

"Sir, I've found something."

Walter turned to see one of the younger agents on the 
team running towards him, a piece of paper in his 
hand.  "What do you have?"

Doug sat up straighter and Keenan stood.  The kid 
handed the sheet to Walter and he started scanning it, 
even as the young agent started speaking.  "We did 
vehicle searches on every single instructor at the 
Academy - again. We broadened our search to include 
vehicles of family members and went back twenty years. 
We found nine who had a station wagon of any type 
registered to them or a family member in the last 
twenty years. Three of these had station wagons that 
matched the description Fox Mulder gave after the 
crash. One of these…"

Walter cursed.  "Malloy."

Keenan said softly, "I'll be damned."

Walter looked over at Doug.  Both turned to Keenan.  
The older agent looked as if he'd aged ten years.  
Keenan nodded to them.  "Go on, boys.  Go get him. 
I'll stay here and coordinate things from this end.  
Give me a call when you get him."

Walter grabbed his jacket and was running in a 
heartbeat. This was it. He felt it. This case would be 
over tonight.  One way or the other.

The drive to Quantico was torture. Doug was behind the 
wheel, cursing most of the way. They couldn't talk to 
each other.  Even though Walter remained silent, he 
understood Doug's need for release.  Walter tried to 
tune out the continuous stream of invective and think 
about what they were going to do when they found 
Malloy. 

They knew he was supposed to be at Quantico.  In fact, 
there was a debriefing going on with the trainees 
following an exercise in Hogan's Alley.  Malloy and 
Waring were going to be there, amongst other 
instructors. The trainees were about to get a first-
hand look at FBI arrest and apprehend procedures. 

Walter sighed and laid his head back against the 
headrest. Damn.  This was all going to happen in front 
of Dean Waring. For some reason, that was the most 
distressing part of what was going to happen tonight. 
He wondered what Dean would say. Walter imagined the 
look of disappointment and disgust that would be on 
his old friend's face and a stab of regret hit him 
hard.  Damn.

Before he could think much more, they were there.  
Doug was out of the car before him, running towards 
the lecture hall.  Walter was right on his heels as 
they burst through the door.  And as if they were in 
communication with each other, they both slowed 
slightly, marching down the steps, side by side.

As luck would have it, Waring and Malloy were on the 
stage below. Waring had been speaking and came to an 
abrupt stop at their entrance. The trainees and other 
instructors all turned as one at the slam of the door.  
Walter had eyes only for Malloy.  He knew Doug would 
be the same.  Nothing else mattered right now.

A few steps from the bottom, Walter said, "John 
Malloy, you are under arrest for five counts of murder 
in the first degree, conspiracy to murder, attempted 
murder and abduction."  Damn, that felt good.  But 
then, before he reached Malloy, a hand was pushing at 
his chest and someone was yelling at him.

"Walter!  What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Walter blinked and managed to focus on Dean Waring.  
Doug never stopped.  He already was by Malloy's side 
and was instructing the man to put his hands behind 
him. Reading the man his Miranda rights. 

Walter stared at Waring.  "I'm sorry.  We found 
irrefutable evidence that he's linked to these 
crimes."

He vaguely heard, in the background, the murmuring of 
the class.  But over that, he heard Malloy himself.  
Walter saw him and was struck at the look of complete 
and utter confusion.  Malloy seemed unable to speak.  
The man was saying ,"What?, What?", over and over.  A 
little feeling of alarm started deep in Walter's gut. 
Doug had the man handcuffed. Malloy was looking around 
as if he were in shock.

Walter felt his arm squeezed.  Waring said, "You're 
wrong.  I'm telling you, Walter, you're wrong."

Walter clenched his jaw.  He leaned in close and said, 
"We know there's some link to the Bureau and suspect a 
link at Quantico. We just found out that Malloy's wife 
drove a blue Ford Escort station wagon that matches 
the description Fox gave as well as the vehicle seen 
after Margie's abduction. Isn't that just a bit 
convenient, Dean?"

Dean pulled back, surprised.  The older man turned to 
Malloy and Walter saw Malloy focus on him. Malloy 
said, "Dean, what's happening? What are they talking 
about?"

Dean shook his head, as if to clear it, then turned to 
the class.  "You are all dismissed.  Immediately."  
The man's tone made it clear that everyone better get 
out in the next minute.  Walter was surprised to see a 
young woman approach.  The woman looked familiar. 
Walter was pretty sure he'd seen her with Fox on an 
earlier occasion.  She looked stressed. Tired.  Like 
she'd been crying.

The young trainee approached Waring and asked, "Sir, 
is it about Fox? Have they found him?  Is he…?"

Waring just shook his head.  "Nothing yet, Trainee 
Kudla.  Go on, now.  You'll hear when we find him."

The young woman nodded, glanced at Walter, then left 
the room. She was the last to leave.

Walter was starting to get impatient, but Doug was 
evidently already there.  The other man said, "Come 
on, Walt.  We need to get him back to Headquarters."

Walter looked over at Doug and nodded.  Then, pulled 
his arm slowly out of Dean's grip.  He said, "I'm 
sorry, Dean."  Then turned, and started up the steps.  
He heard Doug behind him, telling Malloy to start 
walking.  But then, Dean was at his side again, 
speaking urgently.

"Walter, think this through.  Just because they owned 
a vehicle some fifteen or whatever years ago doesn't 
mean John even still has it.  And you know he doesn't 
fit the profile.  Not remotely. I'm telling you, I 
know this man. He is not a murderer."

Walter stopped, disgusted.  He was exhausted. He 
didn't want to have this conversation. He just wanted 
it all to be over.  But, there was Dean, trying to 
convince him to stop and think.  Damn it!  Why did 
Dean have to be there?

Walter stopped, gesturing for Doug to stop as well.  
Took a good look at Malloy.  Damn!  All he saw was 
confusion.  Mystification.  He cursed to himself.  

"Okay, let's take a moment.  Agent Malloy, are you 
willing to answer a few questions here, without the 
presence of a lawyer?"

Malloy still looked stunned, but nodded.  "Anything. 
This is a mistake. Ask me anything."

Walter could see Doug getting angry, but he tried to 
ignore his partner and think a bit more clearly. The 
problem was, there just wasn't time for gentle.  "Tell 
me about your car."

The man shook his head in confusion.  "My car?"

"What do you drive?"

"I just bought a Ford Taurus."

"What else do you own?"

"Nothing.  That's it.  I traded in my old car when I 
bought this."

Walter was surprised. He really hadn't expected the 
man to lie.  "What was the car you traded?"

"A …"  The man actually looked embarrassed. " A 1980 
Toyota Corolla."

Doug growled.  "Come on. This is a waste of time."

Walter nodded, almost distracted.  He was trying to 
figure out why the man wouldn't admit to owning the 
Ford Escort station wagon.  "What else?  What other 
cars do you have?"

Malloy shook his head, angrily.  "Nothing.  That's it, 
I swear?"

Walter looked at him closely. He would swear the man 
was telling the truth.  "What about your wife's car?"

Malloy looked as if he'd been slapped. Even Waring 
hissed.  Malloy said in a strangled whisper, "My wife 
died – nine years ago."

Walter bit his lip.  Was this truly all a mistake?  
"What happened to her car? To the blue Ford Escort 
station wagon."

Malloy seemed to regain some balance, although the 
look of mystification was back. "Fran's car? I gave 
that to my son years ago.  When he went to college."  
The man forced himself to stand straighter.  "Why?  Is 
that what this is about? Fran's car?"

Walter looked to Dean and Doug, wondering what to do 
next.  Waring solved the issue for him.

Dean asked, "Where's Sean now? We need to contact him 
immediately."

Malloy looked like he was going to put up a fight for 
the first time.  "Why? He's a good boy.  A good man.  
I don't want him getting in trouble over some damned 
mistake.  I don't want his career ruined."

Walter paused, thinking, but finally asked, "What 
career?  What does he do?"

Malloy looked as if he wouldn't answer for a moment, 
but then he said, "He's an officer with the Prince 
George Sheriff's Office in Maryland." 

Walter looked to Waring and nodded.  The man ran up 
the stairs to the projection booth where there was a 
phone.  He turned to Doug and saw that his partner 
wasn't quite so pissed off at him.  "You okay with 
this, Doug?"

The man slumped his shoulders a bit.  "Yeah.  We gotta 
get to the bottom of this fast, though, Walt.  That 
kid's runnin' out of time."

Malloy turned to Doug.  "Who?  Fox?  Is this about Fox 
Mulder? You know something?" And then comprehension 
came to the man.  "You think Fran's car was involved? 
Is that what this is about?"  Malloy shook his head.  
"I don't think Sean's driven that car for years.  I 
doubt he still has it."

Walter said, "We'll find out.  Give Dean a minute and 
then we'll know."

A couple minutes later, Waring returned, practically 
running down the steps.  He spoke directly to Malloy.  
"John, they piped me through to your son. He said he 
gave that car to your daughter two years ago so she 
could visit him from college.  He said she begged him 
not to tell you. That she swore you wouldn't let her 
keep it."

Walter looked at Doug, realization coming to both of 
them at once. Walter turned to Malloy quickly.  
"What's her name?  Where would she be right now?"

Malloy looked like his foundations were collapsing 
around him. He looked lost. 

Walter gestured to Doug to remove the handcuffs.  
"Agent Malloy, we need to know about your daughter.  A 
man's life is at stake here."

That got through to the man.  Malloy looked at him and 
said, "My daughter's name is Cynthia.  She prefers to 
be called Cyn."  A little shudder passed through him 
when he said it. 

Walter urged, "Sir.  Please."

Malloy absently rubbed one wrist as he nodded. "She 
goes to University of Maryland, College Park.  She's 
brilliant - got a full scholarship. She's majoring in 
Psychology. She's interested in forensic psychology. 
She wants to work with the police, just like me and 
Sean. She just started her senior year."

To Walter, it seemed as if Malloy were trying to 
convince them they were wrong just by throwing the 
girl's credentials at them.  Unfortunately, everything 
the man said just made her more plausible as one of 
the killers.

"Are you sure she's been at school?"

The man swallowed hard. Walter could see him 
struggling.  His eyes lost focus as he answered. "She 
didn't want to go back. We've been fighting about it 
for months. Since the middle of last school year."

Malloy mumbled something Walter didn't catch and then 
Walter heard, "That damned boyfriend."

And then things really clicked. "Can you describe this 
boyfriend? Do you know his name?"

The man actually had tears in his eyes.  Malloy looked 
at Waring, as if not hearing the question. "Do you 
really think she's involved? Is that possible, Dean?"

Walter saw Dean shrug a bit. Then, his old friend and 
instructor said to Malloy, "I don't really know. 
You've told me stories, though, John. She's always 
been a bit… defiant. Independent. Resentful, even.  
Hasn't she? Didn't you tell me she blamed you for 
Fran's death."

Malloy looked deflated. Ready to fall down.  Suddenly, 
Walter was filled with compassion for the man. If his 
daughter were somehow involved in these crimes or, God 
forbid, guilty of them, he was quite certain that John 
Malloy had no knowledge of it.

Walter took Malloy's arm gently.  "Sir, would you like 
to sit down?"  The man sank into a seat, still shaking 
his head.

Walter licked his lips, worried now about how much 
more the man could take.  "Agent Malloy, we need to 
find her and fast.  She may be with this man. They may 
have Trainee Mulder.  Sir, it's been several hours now 
since he was taken from the hospital."  Walter felt a 
renewed urgency, just thinking about the kid.  His 
voice was strained when he said, "Please, sir.  Please 
help us find Fox."

The man finally turned and seemed to focus on him.  
Malloy started nodding, then pushed himself up from 
the seat. "Yes, yes, of course. We need to find him 
soon."  Malloy blinked a few times and then nodded, 
more confident.  The man took a deep breath and 
finally said, "I know a few places she goes. They'll 
probably want to find a secluded place."  Malloy 
turned to Waring, as if seeking his input.

"They'll want to be away from people for…"  Walter 
could see that Malloy just couldn't say it out loud.  
But, at least the man was open to thinking about it.  
"Was Fox awake? Will he be able to talk with them?"

Walter shrugged.  "We're just not sure. We know he was 
given some kind of drug before he was taken from the 
hospital. We don't know what it was, though."

Malloy nodded.  "Look, Cynthia had a prescription for 
valium." The man looked ill, swallowing hard, then 
turned to Walter.  "My guess is she gave him that."  
Walter nodded for him to continue.  Malloy said, "If 
that's the case, he would have been conscious for some 
period of time. He'd be trying to talk his way out of 
it."

Walter agreed it all made sense.  He said to Malloy, 
"Let's go to the car. You can show us where you think 
they might go on a map.  Then, we'll call into Keenan 
so they can start some searches.  Contact local 
officials."

Doug spoke for the first time in a while.  "We need 
pictures. Of your daughter and her boyfriend.  Any 
information you have on him is critical. We'll be 
putting it on the news and getting it to the papers as 
soon as we can."

Malloy seemed to blanch yet again, but the man said, 
"I have a photo of Cynthia in my wallet."  He pulled 
it out, opened the wallet slowly and stared at the 
picture.  Then, he looked up at Waring, tears rolling 
down his face once more.  "This won't help. This is 
from when she was just fifteen.  She hasn't let me 
take a picture of her since then."

Dean attempted a smile.  He said, "Don't worry, John.  
We can have the photo aged at the lab."

Walter felt a lump in his throat.  He glanced at Doug, 
whose daughter was the light of his life. Doug looked 
ready to cry himself.  Finally, Walter cleared his 
throat and said, "What about the man.  The boyfriend. 
What can you tell us?"

Malloy's expression grew hard. His nostrils flared. 
"That bastard. It's his fault.  That's when she 
started talking about dropping out of school.  One 
year to go and that bastard is trying to get her to 
drop out."

"Sir, what about a name.  An address.  Anything."

Doug said, "A description. As detailed as you can make 
it."

Malloy nodded and started reciting what facts he knew, 
as they started for the car.

*******************************************

Present Day
Monday, 7:23 p.m.
Richmond Bureau, Richmond, Virginia

Skinner watched Scully carefully, even as he received 
reports and interacted with Landers and the team. 
She'd started out hell on wheels, but in the last 
fifteen minutes or so she'd gone quiet.  She'd 
withdrawn, vocally, emotionally, and physically.  She 
now stood at a window, forehead pressed to the glass, 
arms wrapped around her body in an image of complete 
dejection. 

Skinner wasn't sure if he would be welcome into her 
world.  After a lull in activity, he decided to find 
out. He approached carefully, making sure he scuffed 
his feet on the carpet so she'd know he was coming.  
He stopped just a foot behind her.

Skinner's voice was soft and low when he asked, "Are 
you all right, Scully?"

He could see a little smile flash that faded quickly.  
Then silence.  He wondered if this meant he should 
leave.  He'd just decided he should when she said, 
"It's almost totally dark, now. The last rays are 
disappearing, even as we speak."

Skinner wasn't sure of the significance, so he kept 
quiet.

"I know Mulder seems to love the dark."  She smiled 
even more before it faded again. "He doesn't really, 
though. He hates it. He always leaves something on. 
The television, a lamp in another room, even the light 
on his fishtank.  Something that'll provide just a 
little light, for when he wakes in the night."

Skinner understood, or at least thought he did.  He 
still kept quite.  He could see Scully was looking out 
at the city.  At least what they could see from the 
fifth floor. Lights were starting to show in the 
gloom. Little pinpricks here and there, that ended up 
illuminating the city center.

Scully pushed away from the glass as the last rays 
faded to black.  As she looked at him, he felt a lurch 
in his chest.  He knew what she wanted, even though 
she couldn't admit the weakness.

He smiled to her, resting a hand on her shoulder, and 
said, "We'll find him. He's strong. He's aware now. 
He'll fight for his own release.  You know that, 
Scully.  Mulder can use words to fight his battles and 
manipulate people better than anyone else I know."

Scully truly smiled at that.  "I know.  Thank you, 
sir."

Skinner gave one last squeeze of her shoulder before 
suggesting, "Why don't you come sit down?  We're 
starting to get more details about that car that was 
captured on the bank video.  I heard that the photo 
lab was rushing prints down. They should be here any 
minute."

He was reassured when she nodded and started walking 
back towards the table.

A few minutes later, a young agent came rushing into 
the room, photos in hand.  "Sir, we have them.  I 
think this might be him."

Everyone in the room went still and quiet.  Skinner 
practically barked at the man. "Let me see."

The photos were spread out on the table in front of 
him, Scully and Landers. Skinner could hear Scully's 
breath catch in the stillness.  She reached out a 
finger and caressed one of the photos. When she turned 
to him, Skinner smiled and nodded to her. "It's him."  
She smiled back.  "It's Mulder."

In the photo, enhanced to the greatest degree 
possible, was a clear hand that stretched up from the 
back seat of the car to rest against the back window. 
Enough of the hand and arm was showing in the window 
so that a sharp eye could make out a hospital band 
wrapped around the wrist.

Skinner stood up.  "All right, people. This is clearly 
not any of the vehicles we already have APBs out on. 
Let's get this updated information out to the police 
immediately. And now that we know what kind of 
automobile we're looking for and where this vehicle 
was, I want you to focus all your efforts on the 
security cameras along this path.  From the hospital 
to this bank and beyond. I want make, model, year, and 
tag number.  Get moving, people."

Everyone in the room seemed energized. They had a real 
shot at this now. Skinner turned to Scully and stopped 
what he'd been about to say.  Her finger was back on 
the photo, lightly running back and forth across the 
image of that hand.  Mulder's hand.

*******************************************

End Part 15 of ?
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