TITLE: Immersion
AUTHOR: K. Leigh                        
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Okay to archive at Gossamer, others
please ask.  No changes without author's permission. 
SPOILERS: Tiny references to episodes up to and including the
movie, but not enough to depend upon those episodes.
RATING: R to mild NC-17 for violence, sex, disturbing concepts.
CONTENT WARNING: Mild MSR.  Set prior to the events in Season Six.
CLASSIFICATION: X, R, A
SUMMARY: During a murder investigation in Texas, Mulder is offered
the Truth he has sought.
DISCLAIMER: Although at times I'm slightly delusional, I understand
that I hold no rights to the X-Files or the characters.  This is a 
piece of fiction intended for entertainment purposes only, and no 
money is involved.  For other notes and disclaimers, see end.
NOTES: Please see notes at the end.
FEEDBACK: I won't beg, but I would appreciate it!  Constructive
criticism always welcome. This is my first posted work and it's
taken me almost a year.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Without the tremendous help of Ford and
Ursula Luxem and Cynthia Douglas, this story would probably never
have been posted.  All of their support and criticism have helped
enormously and I am so grateful!  Also, a big thanks to the X-Forum
folks who offered amazing critiques.
E-MAIL: trowel@express-news.net
WEBSITE: http://www.enconnect.net/trowel/


Immersion  
Chapter One
Houston, Texas
11:46 p.m.


The knocking at the door was similar to the sound of the rain
hammering outside, loud, sinister, and persistent.  The interior of
the apartment was dark and cool, and the abrupt banging woke the young
woman, who shook off the bedcovers, and still slightly disoriented
from sleep, pointed herself toward the sound.

"Just a moment."  She felt around on the floor near the queen-
sized bed for the pair of sweatpants that she'd discarded earlier that
evening in favor of sleeping in a T-shirt and panties.  She located the
sweats amongst the piles of dirty clothes and papers and grumbled as 
she pulled the baggy, oversized pants over her underwear.

Fully clothed now, she glanced around the small flat for a
makeshift weapon.  Perhaps it was the rain or perhaps the fact that
she was not accustomed to late visitors, but the feeling of dread
she'd woken with refused to go away.  The only object readily
available that seemed to suffice was the broom leaning near the front
door.

The skies opened three days ago and the downpour
hadn't ceased.  Earlier that day, many of the roads were declared
impassable.  The soft East Texas ground was already saturated with
the rain of several recent coastal storms, the drainage systems full,
and the flood waters continued to rise as the chain of storms
mercilessly beat a path from the Gulf of Mexico to the Central Texas 
Plains.

The pounding at the door resumed, and she took an extra moment,
broom in hand, to lean over a small birch end table and click on 
a reading lamp.  The lamp did little to illuminate; mostly it just
heightened the drama of the shadows into a frightening chiaroscuro. 
As the low-wattage light defined the blackness around her, she
chuckled, "I am definitely giving myself the creeps."

Approaching the door, she leaned forward to look through the
peephole.  She reclined the broom against the wall, undid the
chain, unbolted the lock, and opened the door.

"Oh, it's you," she uttered, as the man brushed past her into the
shadowy apartment.

* * *

Due to the flooding, Mulder and Scully were late arriving at the
crime scene.  The apartment in Montrose where the girl was
killed was quite a distance from Houston Intercontinental Airport, even
without all the street closures.  After a four-hour delay at
Dulles Airport the airline decided they would attempt to fly into
Houston, despite the hurricane that was due to make landfall.

For the first three hours of their wait, Mulder was excited and
chatty, the prospect of a new case appealed to him.  Scully, however,
was considerably less exuberant.

"Why so glum, Scully?" he pried.

"I just keep thinking about some other great times we've had in
Texas...the vampire thing in Chaney, and more recently the bombing
in Dallas."  She put her face into her hands for a moment.  "I don't
think I like Texas," she stated over the tops of her fingers, "and I'm a
little worried about what may be in store for us this time."

Mulder forced a reassuring smile. "Talk like that could get you lynched 
in Texas, Yankee.  That's a love it or leave it state."

"Aren't you just a little uneasy about going down there?"

"Actually, no.  Houston is hundreds of miles from Dallas and
Chaney, and I'm not even sure why we were sent to investigate this
case.  It doesn't appear to be an X-File, just a homicide case that
probably should be under the jurisdiction of the local police
department."  It was unusual for her to have such reservations about 
an assignment.

"That's what bothers me," she replied as their flight was called for
boarding.  Mulder reached down to grab his carry-on bag and also
started to grab hers, but she shoved his hand away from her bag.  "I
got it, Mulder." 

Chastised, he stood there for a moment after she started walking
toward the gate to board the plane.  Always the professional, Scully's
tailored suit and amazing poise turned several heads as she headed
purposefully toward the woman taking boarding passes, but Scully
didn't notice...she never did.  'One of these days, Scully's going to
take
off one of those high heels and pound it into my heart,' he thought as
she approached the ticket agent to exchange her boarding pass for a
cramped coach seat.  

After Scully surrendered her boarding pass at the gate, she turned
back to Mulder and saw that he hadn't moved a step since she'd 
refused his help with her carry-on.  She realized that he might have 
been hurt by her curtness.  It was not fair of her to take out her bad 
mood and uneasiness on him, she knew.  Scully looked at him for a 
moment, taking in his tall, lean frame, slouched in a posture of
wounded pride.  She watched several other women in the terminal
eye Mulder appreciatively...his black suit, white shirt, dark tie 
combo could only indicate that he was either a government employee 
or a funeral-goer.  With the sullen look on his face and downcast 
eyes, Scully was willing to bet that the casual onlooker would 
assume the latter and would be thinking of creative ways to get him 
past his grief.
 
Finally, sensing her attention on him, Mulder looked up to meet her
eyes and she couldn't bear to be the one responsible for his hurt.  
"Come on, G-man, we've got work to do," Scully coaxed.  She also 
turned a sly smile, almost a leer, on him and winked briefly.  He lit
up, 
grinned broadly, and with a few lengthy strides, he rejoined her.

* * *

When they arrived at the apartment, the police were just
about finished going over the crime scene.  Scully noted that aside
from the corpse and surrounding bloodstain, the apartment was 
tidy.  It was a small one-bedroom flat, typical of the artsy Montrose
area, in which a large old house had been converted into four or more
separate residences.  Considering the age of the structure, the place
was in good repair.  The hardwood floors gleamed, and the rooms
were brightly painted in primary colors: the living room was red, the
kitchen was yellow, and the bedroom was blue.  The furniture was
tasteful, simple, and Scandinavian.

Then there was the body lying face-up on a large abstract-print
rug that was mostly obscured by the spread of blood. The young
woman was in her mid-twenties, and had probably been attractive
prior to her disfigurement.  The cause of death appeared to be the
large cut across the throat that severed the jugular vein, however,
all of the skin not covered by clothing was riddled with numerous 
other straight, precise wounds.  

As Scully examined the body, she noted that some cuts even
seemed to form patterns on the lifeless girl's body, and some were
decidedly symbolic, stretching over the forearms, face, hands, neck, 
and exposed feet.  Photographs and a bit of research might help
reveal their meaning.

Looking over his shoulder as he prodded through a closet crammed
full of dirty clothes, he saw what Scully was wondering about.  Mulder 
pondered, "Runes?"

"I think you may be right."  Motioning to one of the police officers,
she said, "Get that photographer back in here to take some detailed
shots of these cuts."

Gesturing to the girl's blood-soaked University of Houston T-shirt,
Mulder started, "Did you happen to notice that the blood seems to
have soaked *through* her clothing, but the clothing isn't ripped? 
Those patterns extend underneath the T-shirt and sweats,
however except for the bloodstains, the fabric is undamaged."

The Investigator in Charge from the Houston Police Department,
Detective Allen, scratched thoughtfully at his scrubby blond goatee. 
"So you think that her clothes were taken off, she was cut up, and
then the killer took the time to put her clothes back on?  Why would
someone do that?"

Scully wandered around the body, surveying the multitude of drying
brownish-red spots that swelled over the fabric of the T-shirt and
sweats.  She'd thought it unusual that so much effort was put into
the crime, as well.  "I'm curious, too, Mulder.  Any theories?"

"I don't know yet."  He paced the small room.  "The complexity and 
number of cuts, and the fact that the body was marked, but the 
clothing was put back on intact might indicate that the
killer placed a great amount of significance on the death.  Not just
the death, but the whole event or ritual of her death seemed to have
a higher meaning for him.  There may be some amount of reverence
there, too, since the body was clothed and I suspect that the killer
was the one who straightened up the apartment after the girl's death."

Detective Allen looked squarely at Mulder, who was headed toward
the window, "You got all that from a body and a recently cleaned 
apartment, Agent Mulder?"

"At this point, it's little more than a guess.  I'm trying to figure 
out the motivation for the actions here." Mulder's voice dropped 
almost to a whisper as he parted the Venetian blinds and craned his 
neck around to view the street below.  The rain continued to drum
against the window and there was virtually no visibility.  Though he
could see nothing unusual or otherwise outside, the twinge of
awareness that struck Mulder was alarming.  Releasing the blinds, 
he hurried to the apartment door, threw it open, and peered down the
stairs.

Concerned, Scully asked, "What is it?"

Glancing back over his shoulder, Mulder replied, "I think we're
being watched."

The detective stared at Mulder as if he'd suddenly turned into a
frog. "What are you talking about?  This place is covered in
cops...there isn't anyone around that isn't supposed to be here," he
paused and looked Mulder over carefully, taking the suit and tie as an
indication of a desk jockey.  "It's probably just jitters or paranoia
from
working on a case like this."

Almost snickering, Scully told Allen that this was not even in the top
ten weirdest cases they'd investigated.

Allen shrugged, "Well, it sounded like the heebie-jeebies that some
rookies get on homicide cases when they've seen too many suspense
movies."

"Those aren't the type of movies Agent Mulder enjoys," Scully
gibed.  The detective looked perplexed, but Mulder knew what she
was referring to and shot her a warning stare.

A couple bright camera flashes nearby alerted them to the fact that
the photographer was just about done and the officers were preparing
the body to be moved.  "I guess that about wraps it up," Allen said.
"You're lucky we were able to slow the process around here to wait for
you guys.  Normally we'd have finished much earlier." 

As the police officers filed out of the apartment, the detective
turned, and almost as an aside added, "Agent Scully, I was told you
would be performing the autopsy?"

"Yes," she replied, ready to go on the offensive if the detective
sounded like he was going to imply that it wasn't women's work.

"If you would like, I can escort you to the Harris County Medical
Examiner's office.  With all the road closures, a map is virtually
useless in telling you how to get where you need to be," he offered.

Scully smiled at the broad, blond detective, mentally comparing
him to her dark, lean, and complex partner.  "Sure, I'd appreciate it."

Detective Allen straightened up, grinned, "and perhaps after you're
done with the autopsy, you'd like to join me at a great place I know 
for an authentic Texas beer?"

Mulder winced visibly, and though she did not notice her partner's
reaction, Scully had not anticipated this.  Although Allen was
attractive
and built like a linebacker, she searched herself for potential
romantic interest and found none for him.  "Sorry Detective, when I'm 
on assignment, Mulder keeps me pretty busy," she said, hoping her
refusal had sounded polite.  She glanced over to her partner who
looked queasy.

As Scully met Mulder's eyes, he expelled the breath he'd been 
holding, hoping she hadn't seen how worried he'd been.  He wasn't
blind, he knew that the investigator was attractive...and probably
just Scully's type.

"Yeah, I'm a regular slave-driver," Mulder added unnecessarily.

Allen didn't seem too put off.  "Okay, pretty lady," he grinned, with
an extravagantly exaggerated drawl, "we'll make sure you still get to
the ball on time."

* * *

Detective Allen had a good game face, but he resented the hell out
of having the FBI take over this case, and that Miss Holier-than-thou
FBI Queen felt like she had to let him off the hook gently. 
Women just didn't refuse him.  For god's sake, he'd played goddamn
pro football before he joined the police force.  He was stung by
Scully's rejection, partially because he had always been attracted to
fiery redheads, but also because he wanted to have that little victory
over her smug partner, who was very obviously interested in her.  

Agent Mulder stayed behind to search the apartment further and to
speak to some of the victim's neighbors.  One of the police officers 
agreed to drop Mulder at the motel after he'd finished. 

Allen left as soon as he had escorted Agent Scully safely through 
the waterlogged streets to the Coroner's Office and watched her
park the rented Taurus.  On the way out, though, he did slow the
car just a bit to appreciate the way the driving rain plastered her 
hair to her head and her clothing to her curvy form.

A few blocks down the road, he passed another police car and
recognized the officer as a trusted friend and colleague.  Allen 
flipped on his lights and sirens to get the attention of the other
officer.  The rainy weather had kept it grey and dreary outside all 
day, but now the absolute darkness of nightfall was sweeping over 
the city like the storm.  The news reports earlier that day said the
hurricane that was headed straight for the Texas coastline stalled 
out over the gulf, gathering force while it churned over the open
waters. When it began to move, it would wash over the area with 
renewed force.

The other police car swung around and followed the detective
under an awning in a nearby parking lot, where they parked in the
familiar cop style, one car facing forward, one backward so that the
driver's side windows were lined up and they could talk easily.  
"Hey, Allen...how's it going?  I heard you got a big case," the 
officer called to him.

"Yeah, I did get a big case, and a couple of Feds marched right in
and took over.  I need a favor."

The other police officer eyed the detective, gauging the stormy
mood and the hatred shifting behind his eyes, and replied, "You know I
owe you one.  What do you need?"

Allen looked directly into the officer's eyes, "I want you to keep an
eye on these FBI agents.  Something seems...wrong...about them. Let
me know if they do anything that might be...misconstrued."  The officer
nodded.  After a few more moments of talking, Allen drove off toward
the station.

--end (part one of six)

Title:  Immersion 
Author:  Kelly
Rating:  R
E-Mail:  trowel@express-news.net
Missing Parts?  http://www.enconnect.net/trowel/
Disclaimers in Part One, Notes in Part Six
************************************************


Chapter Two 
Bayou Bend Motor Lodge
10:15 p.m.

When Scully completed the autopsy, she returned to the motel.
Exhausted, but needing companionship, she knocked at Mulder's
door, rather than retiring to her room.  In her hands, she held
a six-pack of Shiner Bock beer.  "I was thinking I needed an 
authentic Texas beer." 

"How did it go," he inquired as he stepped back so she could
enter, then returned to his seat in front of the television.

After slipping off her soaking shoes and shaking her clothes a bit
to remove some of the water, she flopped back onto the bed. 
"About as expected."

"Nothing unusual?"

"Except for the fact that somebody tried to turn her into the
Illustrated Woman, the findings weren't abnormal for a case like
this," she sighed as she rolled onto her side to face him.  "I hope
you don't mind if I borrow your bed for a moment."

"Why Agent Scully, that might be considered unprofessional
behavior," he quipped.

"Cram it, Mulder."

"Well, as long as you're in a good mood, I might as well join you."
He rose from the armchair and leapt, landing hard on the side of the
bed opposite where Scully was lying.  The bedsprings spent a few
moments protesting this treatment; their trademark rusty, high
-pitched squeaking from the impact forced images into Scully's mind
that brought color to her cheeks.  He gave her an inquiring look,
"Penny for your thoughts, lurid as they may be..."

They were lying side by side, facing each other.  Suddenly
uncomfortable, she met his eyes and then sat up, stretching her legs
out before her.  The tailored skirt, still wet from the 
downpour, pulled up with the motion, exposing more of her thigh 
than she'd intended. After a short pause, she admitted, "I was 
actually thinking how glad I was that my room is the one adjacent 
to yours, otherwise that sound might have been misinterpreted by 
the occupants."

Mulder took a moment without replying to pull himself up, crossing
his legs into an Indian-style position.  Ignoring the serious look on
her face, he bounced up and down on the bed a few times so that
the box springs resumed their rhythmic squeaky protest.  Scully was
about to shoot him a look designed to impart how long her day had
been and how inappropriate this was, but the look failed to compose
itself on her face.

Instead, she smiled brightly, stood up on the bed, and jumped a
couple of times experimentally.  Mulder beamed with delight.  He
also stood up on the bed, which was covered with a gaudy maroon
and blue floral print bedspread, and joined her -- jumping on the 
bed like a couple of excited kids.  The sound of the creaking bedposts
and overworked springs was obnoxiously loud, and Mulder and
Scully's faces were flushed with laughter and exertion.  

Mulder, in his excitement, forgot how tall he was and how low the
ceiling was.  He straightened his body out, and as he jumped,
cracked his head on the ceiling.  Spackling rained down upon the
bed and he collapsed.  Scully stopped bouncing immediately, her
smile vanished.

"Are you okay?"  She sat down and moved closer to
him.  She slid her hands underneath his torso and pulled him to
her, his head lying across her lap.  Running her hands carefully
through his dark, soft hair, she probed for any cuts or bumps.  She
repeated, "Mulder, are you hurt?"

He groaned.  Her brow furrowed, "You'll have to tell
me what's hurt so I know what to do."

Looking up from his vantage point in her lap, he said, "If you
applied a bit more pressure while rubbing my scalp, I'm pretty sure
I'd feel much better."

"And to think, I was almost worried about you," she sighed, but her
hand continued mussing his hair and massaging his scalp.

Mulder rolled onto his back to allow her better access to continue
applying tiny circles of pressure to his scalp, but as soon as he
moved, she pulled away.  He made a slight moaning sound, almost
irritated by how quickly she'd regained her composure when he was
far from calm.  It was alarming how aroused he'd become during her
display of concern.  Taking a moment to try to switch back into
business mode and to hide his distress, he asked her to recap the
details of the case so far.

Scully straightened up, collecting her thoughts.  "Okay, we have
one body, Annie Gershwin, young, female, with numerous unusual
cuts that are as yet unexplained, but probably significant.  We have
no suspect so far, no weapon, no witnesses, and no other evidence.
It was a very clean crime scene."

"What else," he prodded, forcing her to think out the details.

"The door was not forced, and there either wasn't a struggle or the
signs of a struggle were covered up.  So, most likely the victim knew
the killer quite well to let him in so late.  Time of death was
approximated to be somewhere between 11:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. 
Hopefully tomorrow we can go out and question some of the
neighbors and any friends or relatives," she concluded, "if the rain
ever lets up."

* * *

Stationed just outside, watching through the torrential rain, a man
waited.  He patiently observed through the slightly parted curtains
with his binoculars from the shelter of his vehicle.  His position
allowed him to note when Scully finally got up and went to her own
room to retire for the evening.

* * *

Bayou Bend Motor Lodge
6:17 a.m.

As Mulder stepped out of the shower, his cell phone rang.  The
shrill, unexpected sound startled him.  The voice on the other end of
the line spoke briefly while Mulder's face darkened.  He muttered a
terse, "We'll be right over," and hung up.

When Scully opened the door that joined the two rooms, Mulder
noted that she opted for more casual attire, probably due to the
severe weather.  She'd even left her hair wet, which was unusual.
Jeans and a T-shirt sounded appealing, and Mulder decided he
would change before they left.  Seeing him examining her clothing,
she offered, "The rain yesterday probably ruined that suit.  I 
figured that since I'm virtually guaranteed to get soaked, I'd 
wear something more practical.  Do you mind?"

"No, not at all.  In fact, I'll probably do the same," he said,
glancing down at the constricting suit and tie he was wearing. 
"We're going to have a busy day today.  There's been another
murder."

Her eyes darkened as she ran a hand through her damp hair. 
"Shit, Mulder, we haven't even had a chance to find anything out
about the first one.  What were you told?"

"Not much," he admitted.  "Let me throw on an official-looking
T-shirt and we can go to the hospital and find out more."

A few minutes later, Mulder and Scully splashed out to their car. 
In the downpour, they didn't notice the black sedan that sent large 
fans of water spraying out behind it as it pulled away.

* * *

Hermann Hospital
8:32 a.m.

The cold holding area of Hermann Hospital was sterile, steel, and
ringed by several police officers writing on little notepads.  
Detective Allen spoke with an impatient doctor who kept shifting 
his weight from foot to foot.  Seeing Mulder and Scully arrive, 
Allen dismissed the doctor and turned, "Good morning, Agents."

Forgoing the formalities, Mulder said, "So, what's the story with this
one?"  He was irritable already.  At the last crime scene, he'd felt
like he was being observed.  Here, he not only felt watched, but had
the impression that the observer was standing right next to him, as
solid and actual as himself and Scully, but just not as
visible.  This sensation refused to pass, and he was beginning to feel
a bit paranoid.

"An ambulance brought the man into the ER late last night. 
Apparently he drove his car into a low water crossing and drowned.
The paramedics were unable to save him.  They were about to write
the incident off as just another flood statistic, assuming that the
older gentleman was unable to free himself from the vehicle.  Then
they noticed that he had a carving at the base of his neck.  It was
similar to the ones found on the girl's body yesterday."

"He only had one marking?" Scully asked.

"Yes, and so far that's the only thing linking this body to the other
case.  Assuming you don't mind, Dr. Scully," Allen drawled, "I've
scheduled you to perform the autopsy on Mr. Wallace."  

Scully's face was impassive.

"While you're doing that, Scully, I think I'll go talk to some of the
people who knew the late Mr. Wallace and the Gershwin girl,"
Mulder said.  "Call me if you need me."

* * *

Rice Village Square Apartments
9:41 a.m.

The latest victim was Steven Wallace, a 55 year-old widowed
father of two grown children.  One of the children, Emma Wallace,
lived in Dallas.  The other one lived in Houston.  Luckily, young
Wallace's apartment was near the hospital, because the bayous
were beginning to swell into the streets and with each hour driving
became more treacherous.  The hurricane would probably touch
land by midnight.

Mulder arrived at Jeremy Wallace's apartment, glad to see that
Wallace was home.  However, Mulder was shocked when
a uniformed police officer opened the door.  The officer had a badge
on, but not a nameplate.  

"Jeremy Wallace," Mulder asked for confirmation.

"Yes, that's me," the officer replied, eyeing Mulder's jeans and
Quantico T-shirt critically.  "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Special Agent Mulder with the FBI.  I am investigating the
murder of your father," Mulder said, searching Wallace for any signs
of grief or feigned surprise.  Although Mulder had not known that 
Jeremy was a cop, he knew one of the police officers at the hospital 
had already notified both children of their father's passing.

"I've been expecting you," Wallace remarked, "come in."

Mulder followed him through the short entryway into a spacious 
living room.  Apparently Wallace lived alone, Mulder observed,
because the apartment had no indication of a woman's touch.
In fact there was no indication of even a roommate.  Conspicuously
absent was a dining room table.  Meals must be over the sink
or in front of the television.  There was a simple taupe couch, a 
large entertainment unit with some enviable stereo and television 
components, a bookshelf, armchair, side table and coffee table.  In 
one corner, there sat a small ivy on the side table, and from the 
look of it, the plant must have created a living will at some 
point, because Wallace had graciously neither resuscitated nor 
buried it.  

Wallace took a seat on the sepia-toned sofa without offering
Mulder a seat.  Ignoring the discourtesy, Mulder sat in the armchair,
which was a strange shade of burgundy.  "How did you know I would
be coming?"

Wallace straightened his arm out across the back of the sofa, "Word
travels in the police department.  I knew that Feds were called in on
yesterday's murder and that my father's death had
been linked to that crime.  Since routine investigational procedures
dictate that friends and family of the deceased may be good sources
of information, I knew you would show up eventually."

Mulder tried to gauge the officer's sincerity.  Wallace was a tall
man in his late twenties, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. 
Even without a uniform, Mulder was convinced that few people
would guess Wallace was anything other than a law enforcement
officer.  Authority, confidence, and a degree of arrogance that
comes with power, were intrinsic parts of the man, almost palpable
physical characteristics, as obvious as the sharp planes of Wallace's
face.  His lips were thin and drawn, lacking the full sensuousness of
Mulder's, but coupled with intensely blue eyes and vaguely
whimsical wavy chestnut hair reminiscent of cherubs Mulder
guessed Wallace was the kind of cop women would practically beg
for speeding tickets.  

The officer also seemed to be a man of reserved character, but the
effect made him seem rather indifferent.  "I notice you're still in
uniform," Mulder mentioned, knowing that stating the obvious
sometimes sounds ridiculous, but it often led to discussion of less
obvious topics, "did you just get off work?"

"Yeah, I worked the night shift," Wallace replied, offering no
additional information.  Glancing across to the bookshelf, Mulder
searched for inspiration on which tactic to take to get Wallace to
open up.  The man actually had quite an impressive and literate
collection of books, Mulder noted snobbishly.

A large section of the shelf was devoted to Russian literature:
Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Bunin, Gogol, Solzhenitsyn, and several books
actually printed in Cyrillic.

"How long have you been on the police force?"

"About two years.  I decided to become a cop after my mother was
killed.  Her murderer somehow managed to elude the law despite a
sloppy, poorly executed crime.  Since then, my attention has been
focused on learning as much as I can about the criminal and human
mind.  I've also devoted myself to understanding the law
enforcement techniques and processes we use to catch these 
criminals."

Mulder paused.  "Did your father have any enemies?"

"No.  He was a good man," for the first time, sincerity gleamed in
Wallace's eyes, "He had no enemies, and he really didn't have any
close friends, either."

"Did you know Annie Gershwin?" Mulder asked.

Wallace sat up straighter, "What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing.  So, did you know her?"

"No."

Getting nowhere fast and realizing it, Mulder shifted focus.  "You
have some great books.  I noticed particularly the number of books
by Russian authors.  A fascination of yours, perhaps?"

Wallace settled back into his seat.  "Nobody understands suffering
and redemption like the Russians.  Well, with a few exceptions, of
course.  When I found out that the FBI was assisting on this case, I
made a point to learn more about the agents they'd sent.  I've done
some checking up on you, Agent Mulder.  I know, for example,
about your sister's disappearance...and your father's
murder.  You and I are not dissimilar in our quest to create meaning
out of the anguish and loss we've inherited," Wallace explained,
gazing straight at Mulder with a directness he had not experienced in
a long time.  Mulder considered some of Wallace's responses
suspect, but it was a vague suspicion that needed more to flesh out.

The questioning session Mulder planned quickly changed
direction, but he was curious to see where this discussion would go. 
Wallace had finally started to talk without much prompting, and
Mulder was afraid if he shut Wallace down when he took a
conversational tangent, all the other answers he might hope to gain
would be lost.  Wallace had stopped, though.  Probing, Mulder
urged, "What does suffering have to do with your father's death?"

"Everything...nothing.  You're not ready to understand," Wallace
said, almost apologetically, "but you will be."

Mulder cringed, sat forward on the armchair, and bared his teeth
slightly.  "Cut the cryptic bullshit.  Just tell me what you want to
tell me."

Wallace got up from the sofa, palmed a small book entitled "A
Joyful Guide to Lachrymology," which had been sitting near the ivy,
and replaced it amongst the other books on the shelf.  "There's
really not much else to say at this point.  I have a side project I've
been working, and I'm afraid I have to leave now, but we'll resume
this conversation shortly?when you're a bit more receptive."

With that note of closure, Mulder watched as Wallace searched
through a small stack of laundry for something to change into. 
"Come back later," Wallace suggested.

It was unusual for Mulder to leave when there were still questions
to be asked, however he found himself standing outside the
apartment without a clear idea of how he got there.

* * *

Scully finished the autopsy on Steven Wallace.  She left the sterile
chambers and stepped into a small, clean break room with a large
window that dominated the far wall.  She stood near the window,
watching the driving rain while her breath made small foggy spots on
the glass.  The storm seemed far from abating.
 
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Mulder's number.  He
answered on the first ring.  "Hey, I just finished up the autopsy.  Can
you come pick me up?"

"Sure," he replied, "but be patient.  The roads are hell."

"Be careful," she insisted.

--end (part two of six)

Title:  Immersion 
Author:  Kelly
Rating:  R
E-Mail:  trowel@express-news.net
Missing Parts?  http://www.enconnect.net/trowel/
Disclaimers in Part One, Notes in Part Six
************************************************


Chapter Three
Hermann Hospital

When Scully saw the rented car slog into the parking lot, she
grabbed her umbrella and ran for it.  The umbrella was useless
against the storm, which was picking up the preliminary winds from
the hurricane.  "You know, they say that the same amount of rain will
fall on you whether you run or walk from a given point A to point B,"
Mulder advised as she jumped into the passenger seat. 

Her tennis shoes squished as she pressed her feet against the
floorboards.  She shook her hair, throwing water all over Mulder and 
the interior of the car.
    
"Hey!  If you keep getting me wet, I'm going to shrink."

She shot him a mock-indignant look.  "And all along, I thought I
had the pre-shrunk Mulder."  Mulder thought he got her joke, then
wasn't sure, thought about a reply, opened his mouth to say
something, then closed it again.

With the windshield wipers losing their battle to an unbeatable
foe, Mulder backed the car out.  After a few moments of comfortable
silence while the car heater began to dry Scully, she started to
tell him about the autopsy findings.

"This seems to be a pretty straightforward homicide case, Mulder,"
she remarked as she toyed with partially dry strands of her auburn
hair.  "Wallace was given a potent sleeping drug, then somebody
must have carved that symbol on his back, and then he was put
behind the wheel of the car...most likely.  The drug was not
administered in a high enough dosage to kill him, but it was enough
to keep him from being able to concentrate adequately on a 
complicated task like driving, especially in weather like this.
The case is a bit unusual, but it isn't an X-File."

Taking a moment to digest what she'd told him, Mulder then
updated her on his work, "I spoke with Wallace's son. 
Jeremy Wallace is a police officer, did you know that?"

Scully looked perplexed.  "I'm sure the HPD investigators on this
case should have known that.  Why do you think they didn't tell us? 
Resentment for our involvement?"

He didn't reply for a moment.  "That may be part of it, but I don't
think that's all.  I think there's something else going on here."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, "but I had a number of questions I
intended to ask Wallace.  We talked only briefly about his father,
nothing specific.  Then he talked about Russian authors, suffering,
and me.  He told me that he was aware of the FBI's involvement in
this case when I introduced myself to him, but he didn't act like he
knew who was investigating the case.  Later he admitted that he'd
actually reviewed my personnel information, which was really odd.
Suddenly I found myself outside the apartment and I hadn't found
out what I needed to know."

"Did he force you out or threaten you?" 

"No, it's hard to explain," he said.

She gave him a slightly evil smile, the corner of her mouth quirking
upward.  "Did you experience 'missing time.'"

Mulder shot her a look halfway between amusement and anger. 
"Missing time...no, not exactly.  It was more like the questions I 
had were temporarily suppressed.  I left pretty much without 
coercion, but I didn't make the decision to leave."

Turning her eyes to meet his, she waited for elaboration, but
apparently that was it.  "Is he a suspect, then?"

"Since we have so little to go on, everyone is a suspect as far as
I'm concerned.  I do think he might be capable of killing his father.  
Since he's a police officer and knows how to avoid suspicion, I 
wonder why he didn't choose a simpler method to kill his father 
or Annie Gershwin.  And what is the connection to the girl?"

"I really haven't had a chance to find out much about her.  I turned
up a couple of phone numbers for some of her friends, but I haven't
been able to reach them.  I didn't locate any family in the area,
either," Scully said.  "The weather has really made the 
investigation slow, since some phone lines are down and many 
people are homebound or stranded elsewhere.  I'm sure it won't be 
long before they highly recommend evacuation of most of the 
city.  Our job is only going to get harder."  The pair fell into 
a comfortable silence, absorbing the information about the case.

The rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers coupled with the hum
of the heater was making Scully drowsy.  It was only about 1:30 p.m., 
but the sky was unnaturally dark with cloud cover.

Mulder periodically stared into the rearview mirror. 
There were few cars out, except for the occasional car stuck in
high water and abandoned.  Most people seemed to have resigned
themselves to being homebound for a few days.  For some reason,
Mulder's guard was up, though.  He continued to drive, but almost
slammed the car into a nearby mailbox when suddenly he felt a
probing sensation in his mind.  The assault was so private and
personal that it was impossible to concentrate on driving.      

"Mulder, what's wrong?"

His eyes were dark and unreadable.  "I didn't want to say anything
until I was sure, Scully, but we're being followed."  He was 
reluctant to tell her about the presence he'd felt within his mind,
but he wasn't sure why, so he continued, "At the sites where we
investigated both of the murders, I've felt like I was being 
watched.  Each time the sensation got stronger.  Just a moment ago,
I felt it again, but it was like an actual intrusion into my mind.
It's a violation I don't know how to stop.  I'm sure that the 
person responsible for this feeling is nearby, and there's a 
black sedan that's been tailing us."

Scully turned in her seat and confirmed it.  "What should we do,
Mulder?"

"For now, I think we should just get away," Mulder said as he urged
the car faster through the flooded streets.  As they rounded a corner,
they ended up in a business district.  Most of the shops were closed
due to the weather.  The sedan closed the distance as
Mulder tried to evade it.  At the first intersection, Mulder
veered right, and as the car made the turn, Scully noticed barricades
across the road warning of a low-water crossing.

"Mulder," she screamed as the car plunged into a wall of water.
 Although there was little current, the water quickly covered the car
doors up to the base of the windows. 

"We've got to get out of here."  Mulder slammed the
car into reverse.  The car backed a few feet, but the direction 
change forced water up underneath the vehicle and the car died.  

A short distance behind them, the black sedan pulled over to
the side of the road and four dark figures got out of the car, guns
drawn.  In this eerie light, the faces of the men were not 
discernible, but the intent was unmistakable.

"Run," Mulder ordered as he jiggled the door handle with no effect.
The weight of the dark water made it impossible to open the car
doors.  Fortunately, the windows were manual.  

Scully propelled herself through the window, but gracelessly
fell into the spontaneous lake.  Due to his size and the 
interference of the steering wheel, though, Mulder had trouble 
getting out of the vehicle.

Without the hum of the engines, it was unnaturally quiet.  The 
shadowy figures continued encroaching, and although no shots had 
yet been fired, the soft, purposeful splashing sound they made as 
they waded out to the car was menacing.

Mulder had just about freed himself when he realized that she was
still standing, almost hip-deep in water, next to the car.  "What 
are you waiting for," he almost choked, "Get out of here!  I'll 
find you later.  Go!"

The water was too shallow to swim away, but too deep to be able
to run.  Scully started deliberately pushing her way through the 
water, glancing back in time to see Mulder duplicate her fall out 
of the window.  He wasn't going to be able to get away.  The men 
waded out toward the vehicle and had almost surrounded him.  Mulder
had just gotten his feet underneath him and was spitting out the 
cold rainwater.

Despite the odds, Scully could not abandon him.  She drew her
SIG and leveled it at the man closest to Mulder.  Immediately, two of
the dark men pointed their weapons at Mulder and a third man fired a 
warning shot that grazed her shoulder.  Although she didn't want to
leave him, she understood the message.  If she fired her weapon, 
she or Mulder would die...maybe both of them, instantly.

Surrounded by four men he did not recognize, Mulder saw Scully's
indecision.  He wanted to shout at her, to tell her to save 
herself, but he was simultaneously trying to commit to memory the 
faces and descriptions of his assailants, watch to see what she 
would do, and keep himself alive.

She gave him a look, a heart-piercing gaze that seemed to say
"Stay alive -- I'll come for you," as she turned and headed down the
darkening street as quickly as possible, clutching her hand to her
wounded shoulder.  Mulder knew it was best that she was leaving, but 
regardless, he felt a twinge of betrayal at her abandonment.

Confronting him to his right was an ominous gun barrel that
seemed to absorb rather than reflect light.  Looking past the barrel
of a gun was difficult, but behind it he glimpsed a slim man, 
dressed in black, of average height with hooded brown eyes and 
thick brown eyebrows.  Turning to his left, Mulder saw a man who
reminded him of one of the police officers he'd seen at the first 
crime scene.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shiny silver
firearm being brought around in a wide arc through his peripheral
vision.  There was a resounding 'crack,' not unlike a gunshot as 
the butt of the gun slammed into his temple, then there was a 
bright flash of pain, then nothing.

* * *

The disorientation that caught and held Mulder as he began to
come around confirmed the fact that he wasn't dead.  From what he
could feel, he was laying on his side on a cold (and thankfully dry)
concrete floor.  He moved his hands and feet gingerly, which helped
him determine that his limbs still functioned and that he was not
bound. 
 
He was reluctant to open his eyes, but he knew that despite the
pounding in his head, continued inaction might get him killed.
Before anything could register visually, Mulder gave a strangled 
cry, "Scully!"

"She's not here," a smooth, measured, and slightly familiar voice
said, "but she should be the least of your concerns for now."

The room rolled into focus, and Mulder judged that he must be in
some type of small underground parking facility.  There were no
vehicles nearby, but the smell of oil, exhaust, and gasoline were 
an intrinsic part of the concrete.  Mulder pressed himself
against the smooth cinder block wall behind him and sat up carefully.

"When I found out that a couple of high-profile Feds were
investigating this case,"  Jeremy Wallace continued, "I was worried 
that I would have to kill you and your partner to protect myself 
and my secret.  I pulled a few favors and got access to your file,
though, and I saw indications that we might be kindred spirits.
After meeting you at my apartment earlier today, you convinced me 
that we were.  Instead of killing you, I'd much rather turn you 
into my ally."

"We have nothing in common, Wallace," Mulder spat.
        
Shrugging slightly, Wallace resumed, "I'm not here to argue, Agent
Mulder.  You are a driven man, haunted by ghosts from the past and
tormented on your quest for the truth.  I have a gift for you that 
will end your quest and will make it unnecessary for me to kill 
your partner.  After sharing this information with you, I am sure 
that you will make the right decision regarding how to handle the 
lovely Agent Scully."

"Leave her out of this," Mulder warned.

Wallace shook his head, "That's not possible.  We do have several
options concerning Agent Scully, but it will be most beneficial to
you if you handle the matter yourself."

"Which option is most beneficial to her?  You know, I'm getting tired
of all this enigmatic crap."

"Well, shortly you won't ever have to worry about 'enigmatic crap'
again."

"If that's a threat, then just kill me and get it over with.
Leave Scully alone," Mulder rasped.  He was baring his teeth like
a feral animal again, an effect Wallace seemed to have on him.  

Calmly and deliberately, Wallace reached into the briefcase he
carried.  Sensing danger, Mulder tried to gather himself into an
action-ready position, but his body refused to cooperate.  Instead of 
the gun, weapon, or syringe that Mulder anticipated, Wallace pulled
a small book from the satchel.  "I don't want to kill you, Agent 
Mulder.  You underestimate me."

The book Wallace was holding, almost reverently, was the book
Mulder had seen earlier, A Joyful Guide to Lachrymology.  Wallace
placed the book into Mulder's hands, "Read this.  It is the 
foundation for opening the flood gates of knowledge and unlocking 
the potential of your mind."  Pulling open the door behind him, 
Wallace exited the garage.

Mulder heard the lock engage and glanced around the room for
another exit.  The parking area was only large enough for two cars,
and the large door Wallace exited was the only viable way out. 
The door that a car would have used to access this area had been
bricked over from the inside.  Chills crept across his spine as he
remembered "The Cask of Amontillado." Words
from the story spun through his head:

     "'You do not comprehend?' he said.
     'Not I,' I replied.
     'Then you are not of the brotherhood.'
     'How?'
     'You are not of the masons.'
     'Yes, yes,' I said; 'yes, yes.'
     'You?  Impossible!  A mason?'
     'A mason,' I replied.
     'A sign,' he said.
     'It is this,' I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the 
  folds of my roquelaire."

Despite the dark irony that Mulder always enjoyed in that story,
he was beginning to feel frighteningly like Fortunato.

Realizing there wasn't much else he could do, Mulder examined
the book.  It was about fifty pages long and bound in fine black
leather.  The book was small, journal-sized, and warm to
the touch.  He read the introduction and quickly found himself 
engrossed in the text.  The pages within were old, worn, and 
somehow warmer than the outside of the book.  It was not the
remnant heat from a presence that had touched the book, 
but more like the gentle radiation of a natural body temperature.
Planning to merely skim over the words, Mulder was surprised 
when he reached the end of the book and had read it cover to 
cover.  

The garage was so isolated that he could not even hear the rain he
assumed still drummed outside.  Before Mulder had
much time to dwell on anything, Wallace reentered.  "Come with
me," he told Mulder.  The agent stood, stretched his legs, 
and followed.

Jeremy Wallace led him to a small room with walls entirely
covered in mirrors.  It looked like it had once been a department
store dressing room.  The only piece of furniture in the room 
was a scoop-backed yellow plastic chair in the center of the 
room.  "Have a seat," Wallace gestured to the chair.

Sitting down, Mulder stared into the mirrored expanse in front of
him.  He could see himself reflected in the mirror, damp and
disheveled, and the reflection of his reflection, on and on into
infinity.  "Okay, the fun house effect has been amusing.  
Millions and millions of Mulders," he said, unenthused.  "What's
the point?"

"The point is a demonstration," Wallace gestured like a vaudeville
magician, suddenly tickled with himself.  "I'm going to leave the room 
and then we're going to have a discussion.  You can present your 
book report."

Mulder looked puzzled as Wallace exited.  The expansive mirrors
made the room seem paradoxically smaller and larger.  Before
Jeremy had been gone more than a moment, Mulder felt a shock of
awareness that had haunted him periodically since he'd arrived in
Houston.

The feeling intensified from a sensation of being observed, to
sensing a presence in the room.  Mulder got up, walked to the
mirrored wall in front of him, and ran his fingertips over the 
glass on each wall as if to verify that there was no trickery.

When he turned back to the chair, he was startled to see a vague
figure sitting there though there was no reflection in the mirrors
of the figure.  The door had not opened.  In the chair, the ghostly
apparition continued to solidify until the form was clearly that of
Wallace, but perhaps a shade or so less vibrant than he'd been when 
he left the room.       

Trying to determine how this deception was being executed, and
suddenly wondering when he'd inherited Scully's skepticism, Mulder
walked over to the figure and reached out to touch.

"Go ahead," Wallace invited.  Mulder gave in to his curiosity and
put his hand where the specter's shoulder appeared, nothing - no
sensation.  Air whispered between Mulder's fingers.

"What kind of fancy projection equipment are you using to pull this
off, Wallace?"  Mulder's voice reverberated over the glass as he 
rubbed his fingertips together.

"No, it's not a trick.  Try again.  I want you to understand," Wallace
insisted, as he shifted position, crossing his spiritly legs. 
Tentatively, Mulder reached out to the figment's shoulder again.
The slight pressure of Mulder's fingertips encountered the 
resistance of human flesh.

Perplexed, Mulder ran his hands over Wallace's face like a
blind man, stroking the man's eyelids, the strong, smooth skin 
over the defined cheekbones, the thin, serious lips.  Awe and 
wonderment shone in his eyes as solid flesh, human skin, greeted 
his touch.  Then, almost as soon as the sensation appeared, it 
was gone.  Wallace remained visible, but without physical substance.

"What's going on?" Mulder's countenance was swathed in
disbelief.

"You just experienced the power of the human mind, Agent Mulder,
the whole human mind.  I am not a smart man, not even nearly...but I 
am learning how to fully utilize the potential of my brain.  It is a
skill that can be taught, if the pupil is willing.  Do you know 
how much of our brains normal people utilize?"

Mulder realized that Wallace did not expect an answer, they both
knew that it was a tiny portion, like ten percent.  "So how do
you perform the materialization trick?"


"When I was insubstantial, what you saw was me controlling your
visual centers.  Through controlling your mind, I can show you what I
want you to see.  I did not reflect into the mirror because I was
creating an illusion for you and what you were seeing was only in your 
mind.  When you touched me and I had substance, I was controlling 
both your visual centers and your touch receptors.  Part of learning to 
control your own mind is realizing that it is inexplicably connected to 
everyone else's.  This was just a tiny example of what can be done, 
Agent Mulder.  I, myself, am still learning what I am capable of."

"This sounds like a bunch of new age bullshit.  Why should I believe 
you?" Mulder demanded.

"Why shouldn't you?  You've seen proof."

"You've shown me nothing.  There's got to be some new
technology behind this."

Wallace nodded.  "Yes, the technology of the mind."

Exasperated, Mulder questioned, "You said this could be taught? 
How?"

"We'll get to that.  Tell me what you thought of the book," Wallace
urged.

Mulder turned the book over in his hands and peered intently at it.
The radiance the book had held before was gone and Mulder wasn't
sure it had ever been there. "You want to talk about the book now?"

"Yes."  Insistent.

Mulder chewed at his bottom lip for a moment then eyed Wallace's
insubstantial form.  Wallace seemed to be enjoying himself, his
already slightly demonic features composed into an inviting grin.
"I had heard a little, very little about lachrymology before: the
'study of crying.'  All of the accounts I had found regarding it
referred to a text that was supposedly the definitive work on 
the subject, but could not be found in either the lists of books in 
or out-of-print.  Most people believe the book doesn't exist.  The 
book referred to was this one...A Joyful Guide to Lachrymology."

Wallace looked pleased, "Correct.  There are very few copies.
Most of the people who have heard of it have written it off
as a hoax, a ruse."

"That was the conclusion I, too, had reached several years ago and
I hadn't given it any more thought," Mulder explained.  "From what 
I've read, Lachrymology is all about improving yourself through
suffering.  The concept is not unique -- or even new.  There are 
quaint sayings like, 'whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger,' 
and so forth."  Mulder was pacing the small room in tight, 
controlled strides.  

"But none of the information I've read about it so far advocates
violence," Mulder continued.  "This book is not about masochism,
either."

"You're exactly right," Wallace interrupted.  "Lachrymology is a
basic tool, a foundation for what I believe, and there are a few others
who have become believers.  I am sure that you will find that the next 
logical step beyond suffering holds the answers you've been
seeking...."

"What is the connection to the murders?"

"I was just getting to that?"


--end (part three of six)

Title:  Immersion 
Author:  Kelly
Rating:  R
E-Mail:  trowel@express-news.net
Missing Parts?  http://www.enconnect.net/trowel/
Disclaimers in Part One, Notes in Part Six
************************************************


Chapter Four

Scully made it back to the motel, forced to get there on foot; the car
was a total loss. She was convinced they'd be blacklisted from ever 
renting a car again.

Dutifully, Scully reported Mulder's abduction to the police and to the 
FBI Field Office.  They assured her that an agent would be sent out
to investigate the site where the car had stalled and Mulder had been
taken at gunpoint.  Though her partner's whereabouts were unknown, 
it was a reasonable assumption that he might return to the motel.  She 
had been ordered to stay at the motel and wait in case he returned or 
tried to contact her.  Scully was plagued with indecision; she wanted
to search for him, but knew she was supposed to wait.

In the end, she did not leave the motel room.  Houston was as foreign 
to her as Mars, she didn't know where she needed to be looking for 
him, and it wasn't safe to be out running around.  She had no clues, 
no car, and little time.  The television was on to provide some 
background noise, and it continued to warn of the encroaching 
hurricane.

While dialing Mulder's cell-phone, she eyed the television.  The 
newscaster, with carefully controlled enthusiasm, warned that as 
little as six inches of fast moving floodwater could knock a person
down and two feet of water would float a car.

She let the phone ring until his voice mail picked up.  The TV droned 
on and she let herself be mesmerized by the report of the drama
unfolding outside.  The combination of the hurricane with several days 
of heavy rainfall beforehand had created a type of synergistic effect, 
which made the situation much worse.  According to the Saffir-
Simpson Hurricane Scale, the hurricane was a Category Two, which 
meant that the winds would gust between 96-110 miles per hour with 
moderate damage to shrubbery, trees, and structures due to water, 
wind, and debris.

There was video of a couple being rescued off their rooftop to 
emphasize the seriousness of the situation.  Of course, the TV 
cautioned, just because the hurricane was only Category Two did not 
mean it was not a dangerous storm. The newscasters were 
encouraging everyone to evacuate the coastal areas before the storm 
touched land in a few hours.  Many people had already left.

Rationally, leaving sounded like an excellent idea.  She couldn't 
abandon Mulder again, though (twice in one day would have to be a 
record, even for her, she thought miserably).  There was still a 
killer running free.  Scully wanted to call someone, she needed 
advice, but she was unwilling to admit her inability to locate 
Mulder.

She sat in the armchair, unconsciously mimicking one of the casual 
slumped postures Mulder sometimes adopted in these uncomfortable 
low-budget motel-issue chairs, and began to weep.  Burying her face 
in her hands, she cried for him, for the pain he might be feeling, and 
for her complete powerlessness.  Mulder had been gone about four 
hours.  As the sky outside darkened, her panic increased.

Rather than sit in vigil by the phone in her motel room, she tried
again to contact Detective Allen.  The detective might be willing 
to assist her in searching the unfamiliar city for her missing 
partner, but he seemed to be impossible to find.  Scully got up 
from the chair and started gathering supplies to go search for 
him.  Weighed down by guilt and regret, she wondered what she 
would do if he didn't return this time.  She couldn't let that 
happen.  As she examined and tended to the slight wound the 
bullet had left across her shoulder, she considered how every 
time he left her and she was sure she'd never see him again, she 
wished that she'd had the guts to admit her feelings, the less 
than partnerly ones, to him.

She took Mulder's presence for granted.  Occasionally, she indulged 
in fantasies about her partner that had nothing to do with 
professionalism, but for the most part when he was around she kept it 
all strictly on-the-level.  It was when he was gone, or injured, 
that she felt not only the loss of him, but of that relationship 
that might have been.

Scully was a superstitious woman?not in the typical way of bad-luck-
when-a-black cat-crosses-your-path, but in terms of her relationship 
with Mulder.  As much as she sometimes wanted to progress their 
relationship to the next level, she was afraid that the status quo was 
what kept him coming back to her, and any change might jinx what 
they had.  

No, she didn't suspect that it was the Syndicate that would be forced 
to kill them if they became lovers.  If, and when, the Cigarette 
Smoking Man and his shadowy group decided to kill them, it wouldn't 
be because Mulder and Scully were lovers.  There was always ample 
reason to kill them whether they had consummated their relationship 
or not.  In fact, their current levels of platonic intimacy probably
could have been enough of an excuse for the issuance of death 
warrants from the Syndicate if they concerned themselves with 
such things.               

She called the police again to see if there'd been any progress in 
finding her partner.  When the duty sergeant gave her a disappointing 
answer, she shouted a few choice words over the line, and located 
her flashlight.

There were undoubtedly obstacles in the way of a more intimate 
relationship with him, but it was doubtful that there was a conspiracy 
from any external source, whether FBI, secret government agency, or 
the numerous enemies they'd made during their partnership 
concerning potential physical involvement.

Her superstition was just that, a belief unfounded but based on the 
fear that there might be a cause-effect relationship based upon 
whether they had sex.  So far, Mulder had always come back to her, 
against terrific odds.  Though she did trust him, and love him, she had 
always been reluctant to change the equilibrium.  What if he lost his 
reason or ability to return? 

She wiped her eyes as she stuck her cell phone in her pocket and
headed toward the dresser where her gun was.  Scully could feel the 
onset of grief, and it felt like her betrayal.  She left him.  
She'd left him to his fate back at the car, whether it was live 
or die.  What a partner...what a friend.

A sudden frantic banging at the door gave her a start.  Her heart 
constricted in her chest as she imagined it must be the police coming 
to tell her they'd found his body -- and she hadn't done anything 
to try to save him.

Light-headed, she rushed to the door and swung it open to see 
Mulder.  He scowled, his hand pressed tightly against the doorjamb.  
The rain soaked him through, and there was the beginning of a dark, 
livid bruise across his temple...but he was alive.  And he was angry.

"Oh my god, Mulder, are you okay?"

He stepped inside the room and slammed the door behind him, 
droplets of water falling from his body to the floor, "No, I'm not
okay...I may never be okay again."

Confused, she probed, "Did they hurt you?  What happened?" 

Mulder stepped back for a moment and ran a hand through the wet 
hair plastered to his head.  The quick tousling left his hair in 
a damp, disarrayed state.  "Except for the pistol-whipping, 
they didn't hurt me, but what I was told changes everything."

"I don't understand.  Tell me," she pleaded, seeing that his mind was 
drifting elsewhere, his expression dazed.

Still lost in thought, he whispered, "I can't."

In a flash, her ire was up, "Damn it, Mulder.  I was worried about 
you."  Realizing that snapping at him was not going to 
accomplish anything, she changed tactics, "At least get out of 
those wet clothes before you get sick."

He'd refocused his attention on her suddenly.  He grabbed the hem of 
his drenched Quantico T-shirt, which now had several serious mud 
stains and tears, stripped it off over his head, and threw it on the
floor.  He smelled of sweat, rain, musk, and gasoline.  Tucked 
securely in the waistband of his jeans, protected from the 
weather, was a small, leather-bound book.

Despite the fact that she was pretty sure she was going to be having 
an argument with him any moment, she couldn't keep from silently 
admiring his broad chest.  His ribcage rose and fell heavily in an 
expression of the irritation he felt, and the flat planes of his 
torso were accentuated with every inhalation.

Mulder was a magnificent specimen of the male body, Scully noted 
analytically.  She admired the physical shape that embodied the 
brilliant and mysterious man she'd grown to care for and respect.  
With the shirt discarded, she could more easily see how his Levi's 
clung low down on his taut stomach and covered an ass that just 
about defied description.  

She watched his temper building again as he leaned down to slowly 
remove his tennis shoes.  It was a control maneuver, she realized, the 
equivalent of counting to ten.  Mulder was enraged and was trying to 
keep a handle on his heated emotions.

Scully was not sure what to do about his volatile mood.  She pondered 
a couple of options, but she'd never seen him like this.  Getting 
Mulder to release his anger was like trying to defuse a bomb. 

Barefoot now, Mulder advanced on her.  She lifted her head up to 
meet his stormy eyes, but backed up a few paces to keep some 
space between them.  "If it were just about me, everything would be 
so simple: kill me, convert me, convolute my beliefs," he rasped, pain 
evident through his anger and his cryptic explanation, "but no 
one is satisfied with that.  The real conspiracy seems to involve 
using you to hurt me."

He continued stalking toward her, and she tried to step back again 
only to find that she'd come up against the wall of the motel room.  
Quieter now, in a pleading voice, with a hesitance that sounded like an 
apology, he asked, "Have I ever deliberately hurt you, Scully?  Have I 
ever asked you to do anything that I wouldn't do myself?"

"No, Mulder, you haven't.  You know I trust you," she assured.

Mercurial Mulder swung back to anger, "Maybe you shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what?"

"Trust me," he almost choked.  Her face paled at the rage glowing 
behind eyes that looked almost gold in the light of the motel room.  

She went on the defensive as soon as he took that last step toward 
her, placing him well within her carefully defined personal space.      
"Mulder, don't," she said, intending it to sound like a warning,
but it came out weak and pleading.

He didn't respond.  Rarely had she been in such close proximity to him 
so that she could feel his warm breath as he looked down at her, his 
emotions were a dangerous mix of rage and desire.  Defending 
herself from impending violence was priority in her mind, though.
She didn't know the cause of his turbulent emotions and had never 
dealt with him in such a state.  Reaching out with both hands, 
she sought to increase the distance between them, to give her more
space.

Her attempt was ineffectual.  Mulder didn't budge.  Instead, he 
grabbed her wrists and pinned them roughly against the wall above 
her head with enough force to jar her.  Pain radiated between the 
fragile bones of her wrists and the wall behind her, a harsh 
transference.

His eyes were clear, lucid, and dark with a purpose and intensity that 
frightened her.  She struggled against his grip, speechless, as their 
eyes locked.  Scully had depended on his strength enough times to 
know that physically she was no match for him.  Defeated, she 
realized that she needed to find a way to drain the anger from him.

Need was the foremost expression on his face, and evidently for once 
he had no doubt.  He brought his mouth down upon hers with a 
ferocity that cracked her head against the wall.  The weight of 
his body pressed against hers as he tightened his grip on her 
wrists and continued his punishing kiss.  His lips ground against 
hers and their teeth clashed as his tongue forced open her mouth.

Though she'd almost decided that their joining was inevitable, she 
did not want it to be a mindless act of brutality that would 
forever shatter their partnership.  His knee was thrust between 
her legs and their lower bodies were crushed together.  The heat
he generated enveloped her, but she refused to respond to his
threatening kiss, instead looking to him for some kind of 
explanation for his behavior.

Mulder finally realized that she wasn't kissing him back.  He 
didn't ask her permission, but he paused for a moment and met 
her eyes.  She regarded him warily, but he saw flickers of desire 
in her confused gaze.  He removed the black book from the band 
of his jeans and set it aside.  Methodically, he lowered his 
head to place heated kisses around the base of her neck.  His 
passion had not been restrained, but most of the violence had.
He forced himself to give her a little breathing room and leaned 
in to rest his forehead against hers briefly.

One of his hands continued to hold her in place, while the other slid 
down to the waist of her jeans.  Grabbing her T-shirt, he rumpled the 
soft cotton in his fist and pulled it free from where it had been 
tucked into her Levi's.  His hand, a hand she'd watched involved 
in numerous tasks -- some mundane and some spectacular, found 
its way under her shirt.  Short, well-kept nails grazed along 
her ribcage on his way to her breasts and she began to tremble.   

The conflicting textures of her bra's underwire fascinated him.
He paused momentarily to compare the silky fabric that covered her 
flesh to the steel wire that supported her breasts.  Reaching 
underneath the bra, he finally found her bare skin.  Her knees 
almost went out from under her as he glided his thumb across her 
raised nipple and then pinched it -- hard.

Scully gasped and arched her back to thrust her breast further 
into his palm.  The tempo his pelvis set, grinding against her 
dispelled any thoughts of resistance she might have harbored.

Arousal had given her skin a rosy blush that complimented her 
fiery tresses.  "I need you, Scully," he said simply, shuddering 
with the force of his desire.  

She recognized that he was giving her the only chance she would get 
to refuse.

Occasionally, the sensible Agent Scully had allowed herself 
to indulge in fantasies involving her strange and wayward 
partner.  These fantasies were never the typical romantic 
seduction scenarios.  Since she knew that his sexual interests 
tended toward the prurient, she had trouble picturing him in a 
normal sexual relationship.  Some of her fantasies included waking 
in a cheap motel room on some odd case to find him already 
thrusting deep within her, or that he'd found creative ways to 
utilize their handcuffs, or several other quite lurid couplings 
that usually involved Mulder wresting control away from her. 

Mulder was glaring at her intently, and she struggled against 
his arms as her mind tried to process everything that was 
happening.  He was never slow and gentle in her imagination and 
since romance and sweet nothings had not been an expectation of 
their first union, she was not disappointed with what he was 
offering.  In fact, once his frantic need for violence had 
been channeled into strictly frantic need, she was becoming 
incredibly aroused.

Finally, he released his grip on her arms, bracing himself physically 
against the wall and mentally against the angry rejection that was 
unavoidable.  His arms pressed tightly against the wall on either 
side of her body, but other than that, he didn't move.  His 
breathing was harsh and ragged.

Instead of cursing him or slapping him, or any of the other responses 
he anticipated, she looped her arm around his neck and drew him 
down to her.  There was no hesitance in the meeting of their lips.
The urgency he radiated fueled an equal response in her...she 
wasn't sure what was driving him, but she was not going to let 
the momentum end.

Their haste made them clumsy.  Scully's teeth scraped against his 
bottom lip, and his hand came up again to tightly cradle her head as 
his tongue sought entrance to her mouth.  This time it was Mulder who 
gnawed at her bottom lip as he reached up under her shirt again to 
unclasp her bra.

Without further ado, she released him and wrenched her shirt over 
her head and let her bra drop to the floor.  Instantly, his hands
went to her lovely, exposed chest...rubbing, squeezing, and 
kneading the sensitive flesh.  Moaning, she worked at her 
jeans, unzipping them and sliding both them and her panties off.

Naked, standing encircled in his crushing embrace, she reached out 
to try to remove his jeans -- the last barrier between them.  As her 
hand brushed against his arousal through the denim, though, breath 
whistled through his teeth and he pulled away from her.

The message was clear.  He didn't want to be touched, she 
concluded.  For whatever reason, he had decided that he must have 
this moment with her, but he wanted to stay emotionally separate.  
Scully refused to allow him this detachment.  If he was trying to 
distance himself from her now, amidst his guilt and pain and the 
fear of whatever was the catalyst for this fevered expression 
of his need, she was in greater danger than she comprehended.
Necessity demanded that she determine the source of this threat 
later, but she had to break through the barrier he was building.

"Mulder, let me touch you," she whispered huskily against his chest.  
Splaying her hand across his belly, she slowly ran her fingers down, 
slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans to clutch him.  Once 
again, he attempted to back away from her, wanting to retain 
some control, but his movement caused her hand to move along his 
length, an awkward caress.

It was too much.  Frantic, he suspected that his resignation to her 
wishes would be as sweet as it was tormenting.  Intending to aid her, 
he reached down to remove his Levi's, fumbling at the button-fly, 
allowing her access to complete his damnation.

Discarding his jeans, he stepped back briefly, struggling to 
comprehend the reality of this -- hurtling over the last boundary 
between them.  His heated stare committed to memory every detail of 
her petite form, which was more perfect than he'd ever dared to 
imagine.

Anguished that even this anticipated moment could be tainted by the 
quest he was burdened with, the quest that took everybody he loved 
away, he tried to impart his urgency and purpose through his fervent 
kisses.

--end (part four of six)

Title:  Immersion 
Author:  Kelly
Rating:  R
E-Mail:  trowel@express-news.net
Missing Parts?  http://www.enconnect.net/trowel/
Disclaimers in Part One, Notes in Part Six
************************************************

Chapter Five

It was approximately 2:00 a.m. when she woke, wrapped loosely in the 
bedsheets, comfortable and sated, to the sound of her cell phone 
ringing.  Scully almost decided to ignore the insistent tone.  The
thrum of the wind and water against the motel window left her 
amazed that she could even hear the phone.  Without a doubt, 
the hurricane had arrived.

Looking around the room, she noticed Mulder sprawled on the floor, 
twitching slightly with the agitation of troubled dreams.  It 
disturbed her that he had not chosen to share the bed with her 
after their intimacy.  Pulling one of the blankets from the bed, 
she covered his tortured body, blushing at the memories they'd 
created that night.

Into the cell phone, she whispered, "Scully."

"There's going to be another murder if you don't prevent it." 

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"That doesn't matter. Stephen Wallace's daughter has come to 
Houston for her father's funeral.  She's in danger."

"Who are you?" she repeated.

"Agent Scully, this is an exercise in futility.  Emma Wallace is 
staying at the Doubletree Hotel at Highway 59 and Kirby.  Go 
protect her - your life depends on it," the strange voice finished 
as the caller severed the connection.

Scully was not very familiar with Houston, but she knew that the 
intersection mentioned was not far from Bayou Bend, their motel.  
Had the car not been lost, they would still have been forced to 
go on foot.  Car travel was pretty much out of the question 
with the current water levels.  

She knelt down beside Mulder and tenderly ruffled his hair and 
spoke his name. He was instantly alert when wakened. His strong 
hand reached out to cup her chin, then his expression grew distant
and he pulled away. 

Reverting to professional mode, she gave him a brief overview of the 
anonymous call.  There was no time to analyze his curtness or to 
chastise him for his insensitivity.  Scully had made the decision to
give in, partially because she'd wanted to for so long, but also 
because she'd sensed a deep and destructive darkness welling up 
in him - and she'd foolishly thought she could meet his need 
and save him.  Time would tell how drastic the repercussions 
would be.

He wasn't speaking.  She wished he'd say something, anything.  One 
of his flippant remarks made when he was uneasy could have worked, 
or even a serious remark about their shared intimacy or the danger
of the hurricane blowing relentlessly outside. He began pulling
his clothing on.  By his closed countenance and slumped posture,
she knew he'd already conceded defeat to whatever he'd been 
fighting when he came into her motel room and initiated their 
rough and frantic lovemaking.  She'd witnessed his self-destructive
streak before and knew that if he couldn't have immolation, he'd 
content himself with deadly immersion.

Her body was bruised and sore, and she was not eager to face the 
elements at their worst.  

"Do you really think she's in danger?  We're going to be risking our 
lives to go out there," Scully said, trying to prod him out of his
silence.

There was no acknowledgment, either with word or gesture.  Mulder
continued shrugging into his clothing.  He picked his pistol up and
holstered it, finally giving her a soul-wrenching look before 
continuing with the business at hand.  He grabbed the book she'd 
noted earlier, once again tucking it safely against his body. 

"What's the book?" Scully asked.

Noncommittal, Mulder answered, "Evidence."

Once again, they dressed in casual wear.  Unfortunately, they had not 
brought adequate rain gear, so they both pulled on their FBI 
windbreakers, grabbed flashlights, and prepared to leave.

Scowling, Scully stood beside the door, listening to the wind rattle
against its hinges.  The rain blown against the dark palette of 
the night destroyed any visibility.  After allowing her hair 
to be whipped about for a few seconds, she fished in her pocket,
found a tie, and pulled her already drenched hair into a short, 
frayed ponytail.

The rising water was lapping up to the top of the steps that led 
to the motel room.  She thought wryly that a life preserver, 
raft or buoy might be in order.  The navy blue government-issue
windbreakers were uselessly water resistant rather than waterproof,
so they quickly soaked through.  Additionally, the dark color 
only helped them disappear into the storm.  Scully flashed her 
light ahead, barely catching sight of Mulder as he trudged away 
in the direction of the Doubletree.  The beam of the light she 
carried was trained on the bold yellow FBI logo on his jacket, 
the most visible portion of her partner.

"Mulder, wait," she hollered, her voice quickly dissipating into 
the downpour.  The hotel was about five blocks away, she estimated.  
Five blocks seemed like a hundred miles in this weather.  

She tried to decide whether he hadn't heard her or was just ignoring 
her.  A sudden cracking noise behind her alerted her, and she swung 
aside just in time to avoid a long, heavy piece of metal flying 
through the air that looked like it might have been the bumper 
to an automobile.  Her breathing was heavy and her pulse was 
racing as her body reacted to the tension induced by the weather, 
the case, flying debris, and her flaky partner. 

Four more blocks to go, as she picked up her pace to try to catch up 
with Mulder.  He'd chosen an inappropriate time for his introverted 
angst-fest.  

Periodically, Scully tried to get her bearings.  To look to the sky
was to invite pain.  The sharp raindrops drilled into the soft 
skin of her face and eyes.  On the left there were some 
weather-obscured storefronts.  One in particular caught her eye, 
a royal purple and yellow faade on a building that resembled a bar
or club: The Velvet Elvis.  Under any other circumstances, Mulder 
would probably be tugging on her sleeve to get her to go check 
it out with him.

Nobody else was around, and the water running along the street they 
were trudging eastward on, Richmond, was knee-deep in most spots. 
She managed an awkward high-stepping jog and fell into place beside 
her morose counterpart.

Scully grabbed his shoulder tightly and wheeled him around to face 
her.  An unreadable and unfamiliar expression told her he was almost 
beyond her reach.  "Whatever it is, whatever has happened to you," 
she shouted over the gale, "we can work it out?but later!  Mulder, I 
need you here with me now.  We're so close to the hotel - she's 
depending on us!"

His eyes were downcast, studying the eddies around where his feet 
were submerged.  Water and small leaves whirled past his head.  
Once again, he gave no indication that he'd heard her.  She clutched 
his shoulders harder and shook him gently.  Mulder's eyes rose to her 
and she continued, "and I'm depending on you."

Soberly, he said, "You know how much I need you, right?"  It was an 
out of place comment, she realized, but she just nodded.  His words 
sounded frighteningly like closure.

Gingerly she removed her hands from where they'd been gripping his 
shoulders.  This time, she took the lead as she fought her way 
forward.  Three more blocks, she guessed as they headed south onto 
Kirby.

There were fewer streetlights here and the night darkened further.  
Walking down Richmond had been a reprieve, she saw after they 
turned left at the cross-street and started down Kirby.  The street 
they were on now intersected a large drainage ditch that ran 
parallel to Richmond, a block toward the hotel.  The knee-deep 
water was the overflow from this formidable ditch.  Now they were 
at the spot where they would have to cross the flooded channel if 
they were going to reach the hotel.

The water was cold.  Scully's legs had stopped protesting against
the exertion it took to push through the deep water, in fact she
registered little sensation from them at all.  Somehow the 
numbness was more frightening and tangible than anything else.

In her battle against the elements, she'd paid Mulder little mind 
after their confrontation.  She had noticed him lagging at first, 
but carried on until reaching the raging flood of the ditch.  
Intending to warn him of the treacherous waters before them, she 
turned and saw Mulder standing about six feet behind her with his 
gun drawn, pointed in her direction.

Trust was so natural in their relationship that she quickly glanced 
around to see if someone dangerous had come up behind her - there 
was no one.  Mulder was aiming at her.

"What are you doing, Mulder?  For god's sake, put down the gun!" she 
said, trying to sound calm while violent tremors tripped through her 
body.  He wasn't looking at her.  He had his gun locked on her, but 
seemed unable to watch himself hurt her.  The SIG in his grasp 
wavered slightly, the only indication that he might have heard her.

Scully saw the muscles in his body tensing for action.  If he'd been 
deciding her fate before, he'd chosen now.  Out of desperation, she 
screamed, "Mulder, if you're going to shoot me, then damn it, at least 
look me in the eyes!"

Slowly, with the pistol still trained on her, he raised his head.
Despite the torrential rain, she could plainly tell from his 
miserable expression that he was crying.  'I'm going to die, right
here, today,' she thought, almost with wonderment, 'He doesn't want 
to, but for whatever reason, he's going to kill me.'

Briefly, Scully considered reaching for her own gun, but she knew
it would be a wasted effort.  She used the only weapon still 
available to her?her eyes.  The unspoken had always been a potent 
and sincere method of communication between them.  If he was 
going to kill her, it would be with her eyes locked with his 
and he'd see an expression of disbelief that would haunt him
forever. 

Intuitively, she stood her ground and fought years of FBI 
training that screamed for her to make herself as small a 
target as possible.  He trembled like something inside him 
was shattering.

Mulder tightened his grip on the gun - his hands were shaking as 
badly as the rest of him.  Scully stood her ground, though.  Scully's 
bravery amazed him as spears of fire shot through his brain and his 
mind transitioned into the mode of professional detachment, where 
killing was evil, but a necessary evil.  For emphasis, he extended
his gun arm closer toward her and lightly stroked the trigger 
beneath his shaking finger.  The last of his feelings for her were
being safely boxed away in his psyche when suddenly he lowered the
gun.

She sagged to her knees, feeling the cold water splash around her 
chest, in exhaustion and relief.  "Don't be relieved," he gasped
through clenched teeth.  A sudden flash of lightning illuminated 
his tortured visage.  "I'm a danger to you.  My evolution depends 
upon making this sacrifice - giving you up.  But your death will
be wasted if I allow myself indifference."

"Why do you want to kill me," she stuttered, both curious about and 
dreading the answer he might give.

"Everything I've been searching for all these years can be revealed 
finally, and Wallace has shown me the path to the answers."

"How?"

"Grief, guilt and anguish are the purest forms of human emotion. 
They're purer and more powerful because the positive emotions, like 
love, are always tainted by anxiety, doubt, and selfishness.  Through 
great suffering, one can learn to utilize the full capabilities of
the mind," Mulder spouted.

"You've been brainwashed, how can you believe that?"

Seeing and hating the disbelief in her eyes, he continued, "According 
to Jeremy Wallace, the first step toward enlightenment is to kill the 
person you love most.  As long as I'm alive, you won't be safe, Scully.

"I can barely remember a time when I wasn't searching for meaning, 
searching for Samantha, searching for aliens.  Every failure I 
experience fuels the quest, rather than killing it.  I lost my 
father, I lost my sister, and I lost your sister.  If I quit 
now, I render myself useless and their sacrifices are wasted."

Stepping closer to her, Mulder turned the SIG in his hand so that 
the barrel was facing him and the grip was offered to Scully.  
"I do love you," he whispered over the rain, "but I want this?this
is the truth behind it all, the meaning.  You will always have 
to fear me."

Grabbing her by the shoulder, he shoved the gun into her hand.
The cold fingers of her hand clutched it reflexively.  He knelt 
down in the swirling water beside her.  "If I am an imminent threat
then you can claim self-defense," he sobbed as he guided her arm 
upward so that the barrel of the gun was pointed at his temple.
"Shoot me, Scully.  Save me from my failures: the failure to 
protect the people I love and my inability to grasp the truth 
when it's finally offered to me.  The pile of bodies stretching 
out behind me because of my inadequacies is growing.  Save 
yourself, Scully!"

Stunned, she felt him urge her hand forward further so that the gun 
was shoved tightly against his skull.  The motion rocked her forward 
on her knees so that her body was almost touching his.  In an 
awkward maneuver, he brought his hand up to clasp the gun also, 
wrapping his fingers around hers and lacing their index fingers near 
the trigger.

He urged her finger up to curve around the trigger and began to 
increase the pressure he was exerting on her hand.  Terrified, she 
used all her strength to jerk the weapon out of his grip and away 
from his head.  Mulder managed to force her to pull the trigger as 
she ripped the gun sharply to the right.  The bullet went wide, 
barely avoiding his deadly intention.

Ashamed, sobbing, and cloaked in his failures, he fell into her arms, 
"You're wrong to let me live."

Gently, she wiped the hair back from his forehead, "We might both die 
out here, Mulder.  If it's possible, we need to get to the hotel, 
and if it isn't, we've got to get to higher ground and shelter.  
Just stick with me for this and we'll figure the rest out later."

Eyeing the still rising waters skeptically, he said, "The current 
is too strong."

Nearby there was a parking garage for a large office complex.  By 
mutual consent, they headed toward it.  The wind, echoing and 
intensifying through the structure's concrete support beams, was 
worse, but it was dry and deserted above the third level.  "I need to 
know what's going on," she told him as they sat down on the cold, dry 
concrete.  He was badly shaken, though, and shivered inconsolably.  
Scully pulled him into her arms and held him for a few moments as he 
pulled himself together. 

After his shivers quieted somewhat, he began explaining what he 
could about his experiences after Scully escaped from the four men 
that took him captive for the afternoon.  The account he gave was 
sketchy and erratic, with more gaps than useful information.  "Wait," 
she interrupted, "Tell me how you were convinced to kill me."

"Wallace gave me a demonstration of his abilities.  He showed me 
how he could make himself appear and disappear at will.  He could 
conjure up a spiritual body for himself and imbue it with substance.
He has powers of persuasion that would make Modell envious."

Scully snorted, "So he used mind control to get you to shoot me?"

"He didn't have to.  By the time Wallace let me go, he'd proven his 
abilities, and once I knew that I could learn them, I was convinced."

"And although he didn't offer you any scientific evidence, you just 
believed him?  How do you know that these abilities are genuine?  
How do you know that even if what Wallace has told you about his 
particular aptitude is legitimate, that the skill can be taught?"

Mulder chewed at his bottom lip thoughtfully, and Scully's temper 
flared.  "You just bought it?  Mulder, sometimes you are so gullible. 
It 
amazes me that someone so intelligent can be so easily led simply 
because you want to believe." 

He had the grace left to look ashamed.  "I don't know what to say, 
Scully.  If you'd only seen?it seems like you can be in all the right 
places at the right times, and still never witness the things that 
would convince you."

With a gesture, she silenced him.  "We've had this discussion before.  
Why don't you tell me about the murders and his motive?  Will he 
come after his sister?"

Nodding emphatically Mulder said, "Yes, definitely.  Wallace has 
extrapolated the method for a type of enlightenment, and according to 
him, the quickest path is a type of emotional shock treatment.  The 
loss of your loved ones, and by your own hands, is the catalyst.  His 
theory is a bastardization of the original intent of a philosophy 
called Lachrymology.  Wallace has made what he considers to be the 
next logical step and each kill increases his abilities, unlocking
new segments of his mind.

"But the value of the murder is lost if detachment is allowed.  So, 
Wallace couldn't take the easy path when he killed his father or his 
lover.  With Annie, he was full of purpose.  He really got his hands 
dirty, and he didn't shirk from brutality.  The runes we saw on her
body are meaningless; I asked.  Basically his comment was some 
symbolic sounding nonsense about him branding her body like he 
was branding his soul.  Tempted to put up an emotional barrier, he 
spent a lot of time hurting her to ensure that he would suffer 
enough."

Mulder had unconsciously slipped into profiling mode, and she 
realized that he was revealing as much to himself as to her.  
"Apparently Wallace loved her very much.  After the murder, he tidied 
up her apartment, collected the items that linked her to him: photos, 
mementos, and so forth, and left.  There may even be a contact within 
the police department that might have known about Wallace's 
intentions and helped clean up the crime scene, but I'm not sure if 
there's enough evidence to support that conspiracy.

"By the time he was going to kill his father, he'd lost his 
momentum?I'm guessing anyway.  The trauma of Annie's death had 
not been blunted by his heightened awareness, it had been enhanced.

"For the third victim, his father?"

Snapping around to face him fully, Scully interrupted, "Whoa.  There 
are only two victims so far, Annie Gershwin and Steven Wallace.  
What do you mean three?"

"Wallace made some oblique references to the murder of his mother 
two years ago.  At first I thought he was talking about a crime 
someone else committed, but now I realize he was confessing in his 
own way.  Apparently the event drove him into the police force.  
Initially, I think he joined the force to learn to commit unsolveable 
crimes.  The butchering of his mother was not a crime driven by his 
theories on the evolution of the mind; it was prior to that.  I 
suspect becoming a police officer did two things for Wallace: 
taught him guilt and gave him a perfect alibi."

Scully nodded attentively, "So how did he discover this 'talent' he 
supposedly has?"

"I would speculate that as his conscience developed, and as he 
delved into some extremely obscure texts to try to cope with his new 
feelings of remorse, he experienced some precursors to this 
extraordinary ability.  He was extremely successful with Annie's 
murder and was pleased to have somewhat enhanced mental utility.  
Wallace's capabilities will continue to grow with his capacity for
grief, which is why he will continue to kill."

"But something happened when he was going to kill his father," Scully 
added, seeing where he was headed.  "Wallace wasn't able to remain 
indifferent about killing his father, and was afraid of inflicting
as much pain on his father and himself.  He only managed one 
small carving, then resorted to drugging his father and allowing him 
to drive into an area where the flood would wash him away.  It was
a much less personal death."

The wind screamed through the concrete columns that surrounded 
them as Mulder's epiphany continued, "You're right.  He's breaking.  
Despite the fact that he has gained some abilities we've only 
speculated the human brain was capable of, he's losing his sanity.
There may have even been an outside force, an influence driving 
him to the murder of Annie Gershwin, but once he'd killed her
the coercion was gone.  For the murder of his father, it was all
Jeremy." 

"What makes you say there might have been an outside influence?"

Mulder paused, rubbed absentmindedly at his scalp, then shrugged.
"I guess you'd call it a really strong hunch."

She stood up and paced, "Are you sure that he will still try to 
kill his sister in light of these revelations - especially if 
there's no more coercion from someone or something else?"

Nodding, Mulder explained, "He's set his course.  Wallace may 
believe that if he sees this through, he'll recapture his sanity.
More likely, though, he doesn't comprehend how unstable he's become.
Regardless of whether he was pushed into murdering Annie
Gershwin or not, he's seen some psychic gains as a result of this
killing spree.  He'll want to know what comes next, whether he'll
transcend grief with the next death."

"God, Mulder.  Did you think that you could follow Wallace's example 
and not suffer the same consequences?"

He spent a moment pondering her question, "I was?I am tempted to 
try.  Scully, I don't know.  Maybe we operate on such limited brain 
function for a reason.  Perhaps the walls inside our minds are for
our protection; our fragile minds can tackle the complex tasks, 
but can't hold up to the stress of the extrasensory talents.
Rationally I realize that it would be a mistake for a lot of 
reasons, but part of me really wants to have access to know 
everything."

Purposefully, Scully reached down to help him to his feet.  "Wallace 
can't promise you'll know everything."  As her hand clasped his, 
pulling him up to stand before her, an electric charge of sexual 
awareness arced between them.  "We're connected, Mulder, whether 
you like it or not," she assured him, still pressing his hand 
in hers, "If you were to kill me, you'd destroy yourself as well."

Splaying her fingers behind his neck, she stretched up to gently kiss 
him on the lips.  Releasing him, she said, "Now we've got to find a 
way to cross that ditch and save Emma Wallace."

--end (part five of six)

Title:  Immersion 
Author:  Kelly
Rating:  R
E-Mail:  trowel@express-news.net
Missing Parts?  http://www.enconnect.net/trowel/
Disclaimers in Part One, Notes in Part Six
************************************************


Chapter Six

>From the third floor vantage point of the parking garage, they got an 
aerial perspective of the area.  Spreading out, Mulder peered out 
into the darkness to determine if there was a place where the ditch 
turned in another direction or if there was another way around the 
rough waters.  No car would have made it through the deep and 
turbulent channel, and a person would be swept away or dragged below 
the surface by the churning, spontaneous undertow.

"Hopeless," Mulder said, "I doubt that a boat could even safely 
cross the water at this point."  As they ran along the perimeter 
of the garage, they were within range of the rain that stung like 
needles and the piercing wind.  The gale seemed to be picking up 
force, lifting debris and hurling them with dangerous might.  At 
first, Mulder was willing to be amused by the thought that he 
finally meet his end via a flying acorn.  The novelty of being 
pelted by small projectiles quickly wore off.

He could barely see Scully running along the west edge of the 
garage, her damp form harshly lit by the structure's fluorescent 
lighting.  "Mulder," she yelled, "I've found a way to cross!"

"Magic carpet?" 

"Just get over here."  The wind was blowing to the northwest, so the 
gale provided momentum for his sprint over to her.

"I hate to be the skeptical one," Mulder raised one eyebrow in a poor 
imitation, "but I can't imagine what could possibly get us across 
that water."  He came to stand beside her, peering out through the 
dark.

Pointing to the southwest, she watched as his eyes followed in the 
direction she'd indicated.  A hovering greenish line of light seemed
to stretch across the ditch.  "What the hell," he exclaimed.

"This area is really close to the Compaq Center where the Houston 
Rockets play."

"When they're not on strike," he interrupted, and she was glad to see 
he'd regained some of his humor.  

"Anyway," she continued, "there are lots of office buildings in the 
surrounding area, Greenway Plaza.  I think what we're seeing is a 
skywalk that connects two of the office towers on either side of the 
ditch, perhaps to allow pedestrian traffic access to the Compaq 
Center without fighting traffic."

"So how did you become an expert on Houston," he queried.

"I read a couple of the tourism brochures while waiting at the 
airport in DC.  One was specifically designed for the sports 
fan visiting Houston.  Unfortunately, that's the extent of my 
knowledge of the city."

The rain obscured their vision, but when he stared intently, 
he realized that the windblown rain seemed to cause the wavering 
motion and the lights had been reduced to their photo-representative
equivalent.  When he concentrated, it did appear that there was an 
elevated walkway about two blocks back in the direction they'd come.

Mulder reached out, grabbed her by the forearm, and urged her into 
motion.  As they hurried back down Richmond, they passed a car
submerged up to the roof in the expanding floodwaters. 

"We've got to finish up here and get to higher ground," he heard 
Scully shout over the wind.

A fierce gust of wind slammed a large tree limb against the small 
of Mulder's back.  The impact, coupled with the push of the gale, 
threw him forward onto his knees.  The swirling water cushioned 
his collision with the ground, but he was momentarily stunned.  
The black book that he'd been guarding fell splashed into the 
floodwater.

Scully deftly reached out and grabbed the book as it floated past.  
It was oddly warm and would not fit in her jeans pocket or in the
pocket of the windbreaker, so she copied Mulder, tucking it safely
in her waistband.  The look Mulder gave her as she rescued the 
book was the same look she'd seen on the faces of parents who's
children have been kidnapped.  It was an ugly, sick look of longing
and loss.

Now it was Scully's turn to drive him onward.  As she gripped his 
slick hand and helped him to his feet, he let out a shriek of 
pain.  After the initial shock of regaining his feet, Mulder 
seemed to have regained his composure.

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the doors of the 
office tower on the north end of the pedway.  Mulder tugged at the 
large handles on the glass door, but they were locked.  Glancing at 
Scully as if for permission, he watched as she nodded.  He brought 
his pistol up and aimed it at one of the solid glass doors.  Firing 
several times in a tight pattern, the glass shattered enough that 
he could knock an entryway out with the butt of his gun.  At her 
puzzled look, he replied with a wry grin, "I'm not above playing 
hero, but I'm not going to kick out glass this thick when there's 
no EMS to respond."

Chuckling despite herself, she followed him into the deserted 
building.  Except for the few generator-driven lights that burned 
continuously in large office towers like this one, the place was 
dark.  She followed him as he purposefully strode in the direction 
of the stairwell and ascended to the third floor, grateful for 
the respite from wind and water.

The skywalk between 8 Greenway Plaza and 9 Greenway Plaza, two
skyscrapers that looked rather vulnerable in this weather, was 
a glass and steel hallway spanning the churning water.  A section 
of the glass wall had been destroyed by storm-driven debris, 
which amplified the shriek of the wind through the walkway.  
Scully felt her legs quiver slightly as she looked down into the 
expanding floodwaters.

Finally, they made their way through the second building and 
out onto the street on the opposite side of the ditch.  Bracing 
themselves against the wind, they stepped out only to find that 
the rain had slowed dramatically and the wind had almost completely 
died.  "The eye," Mulder whispered, awestruck.

They took advantage of the momentary calm to cover the remaining 
distance to the hotel.  The Doubletree was a structure about 
fourteen or fifteen stories high and upscale in keeping with the 
rest of the affluent Greenway Plaza area.  Unlike the rest of the 
area, however, there were still a few employees working at the hotel 
- even during the hurricane.

As the weary agents approached the entrance, one of the doors was 
opened from within by a security guard.  "Evening, folks," the tough, 
grizzled guard greeted them.  

Mulder resisted a strange urge to salute the guard, who had the 
demeanor of a drill sergeant.  "Are there still guests staying 
here," he asked as he ushered Scully through the entry into the 
welcome shelter of the lobby.

"A couple of stubborn fools have stayed," the old soldier grumbled, 
"you might want to check at the desk to see if your party is still 
registered."

"Thanks, we'll do that," she muttered as she headed toward the front 
desk.  The lobby was arranged in a circle, with the front desk off at 
nine o'clock, a bank of elevators at twelve, and a small French 
bakery and dining area at three o'clock.  In between, there were 
several burgundy columns and periodic chairs covered with an 
attractive burgundy and gold tapestry.

The desk clerk on shift was clearly a formality.  Behind the desk 
sat a young woman who was much more concerned about the weather 
than about working.  Her eyes were riveted to the small black-and-
white television that was beeping frantic warnings and continuous 
weather updates.  Mulder and Scully stood at the desk, shaking 
off the water and the woman had not even glanced at them.

"Excuse me," Mulder said, trying to divert her attention from the 
TV?No response.  Pulling out his badge and swishing it through the 
air near her face, he repeated, "excuse me?"  

The young blonde shoved her chair back from the TV with a "humph" 
and swung around indignantly to face Mulder.  As she looked him 
over, though, the rudeness and annoyance in her visage was replaced 
by a sticky-sweet look of pure sexuality.

"I guess the hurricane finally blew something good in here," she 
commented, appraising his lean frame, apparent through his clinging, 
wet clothes.  Scully felt the urge to roll her eyes, but instead 
shot the woman an all-business stare and stated, "We're looking 
for a guest of the hotel?Emma Wallace.  Could you tell us which 
room she's in?" 

Unimpressed, the girl tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard, 
"She's staying in Room 314," she intoned as she arched her back to 
push her ample breasts more clearly into Mulder's line of sight.  
For just a second, he couldn't help himself as he appreciated the 
girl's curves.  Below the counter-girl's visibility, Scully soundly 
kicked him in the shin.

Wincing, he followed her to the stairwell.  "Jealous?" he jested 
as they climbed, "Don't be.  You have amazing breasts."

Scully whirled around to face him, uttering in a calmly serious 
tone, "We have some things to talk about, Mulder, but this isn't 
the place."

Mulder stared at the walls of the stairwell and wondered if the 
thick concrete and the soft whirr of the nearby generator isolated 
them from the sounds of the storm, or if the hurricane had not yet 
resumed its intensity over this part of the city.

They reached the third floor finally, and Scully drew her SIG and 
cautiously peered both ways beyond the stairwell door before exiting.  
Mulder followed, repeating the maneuver.

Evidently the stairwell had served as a sound buffer, because as soon 
as they stepped out, shouting could be heard from further down the 
hall.  Judging from the progression of numbers on the hotel room 
doors, he guessed that the sounds were coming from Room 314.

Moving quickly and silently down the hallway, they arrived at the
door of Emma Wallace's room.  The door was ajar, and although he 
could not see anyone through the tiny aperture, Mulder clearly 
recognized Jeremy Wallace's agitated voice yelling at someone, but 
he did not hear another voice.

Remembering that Scully had not met Wallace, he whispered, 
"Wallace is already here."

He stepped forward slightly to try to assess the situation through 
the crack in the door before barging in, but something alerted 
Wallace.  A masculine voice from behind the door beckoned, "Agent 
Mulder," and then quieter, "Agent Mulder," as if tasting the words.

Scully swung the door open and the two agents entered the hotel 
room, guns drawn.  A beautiful young woman sat paralyzed on the 
edge of the bed; she was breathing and conscious, but she was so 
still that Scully hadn't noticed her blink.

Emma Wallace was having a fear reaction Scully assessed.   There 
was nothing paranormal about it.  The uniformed officer in the room 
who she'd deduced was Jeremy was trying to adopt a casual posture 
while leaning against an oak chest of drawers.

Jeremy had also been graced with astonishingly attractive features, 
but somehow they seemed to gather shadows and his appearance 
reminded her of some of the drawings she'd seen of wrathful angels.  
Mulder's earlier speculations that Wallace was losing his reason 
with his progression down the evolutionary path he'd created seemed 
like it might be accurate.  When Jeremy faced her, his eyes were 
crazed and erratic.

"I've misread you, Agent Mulder," Wallace smirked.  "I was certain 
the charming Agent Scully would be dead by now.  I've been watching 
you two, you know?as a favor.  I saw everything," he let the words 
fall like a death sentence.  "I was asked to prepare a report," he 
grinned as his eyes refused to focus on anything in particular, "I 
should warn you, it's pretty lewd.  Send it to AD Skinner, I was 
told, but I figured that if you were dead, it would all be kind 
of moot, you know?"

There was a large, wicked knife lying on top of the chest of 
drawers.  Wallace picked it up and began to pass it back and forth 
between his hands, toying with it absentmindedly.  It appeared to 
be a kitchen knife of some variety.  "You failed, Agent Mulder.  
I gave you one task, a simple one at that, which would have 
ultimately solved your problems?and you couldn't even handle it."

"I didn't fail," Mulder asserted, following the motion of the knife 
Wallace fondled, "I decided the price you demand is too high.  There 
must be another way to find the truth." 

Emma Wallace still had not moved.  Jeremy Wallace's insane smile 
was creasing his cheeks into tight balls, "No, there's not another
way.  I was almost a failure, just like you, Mulder.  I was losing 
heart, but I think I'm better now."  Wallace's grin flattened out, 
stretching the skin taut over his skull.  "I hope you'll follow my 
example."

The sight of Wallace simultaneously laying down the knife and 
drawing his pistol transfixed both agents.  Before either could 
react, he'd fired twice, the surprising impact jerking Emma's body 
backward. 

Jeremy exploded into hysterical wailing as he whirled around, 
training the gun onto Mulder, then indecisively to Scully.  Back 
and forth, Wallace could not decide whom to shoot, so the gun 
wavered.  "Your turn, your turn?" he chanted.

Scully felt a sudden charge in the air, a crackle like static 
electricity.  The window in the room exploded into shards of 
hurricane-driven debris.  She turned to watch the two men staring at 
each other, a dark look overtaking her partner's face: a familiar 
look that told her he was losing to Wallace's forceful persuasion.

"All you've experienced, all you've suffered is for nothing if 
you can't make this sacrifice," Wallace told Mulder.  "In your 
whole life, no one has ever sincerely offered you that which you 
seek.  Can she give you the truth?  She's done nothing but hinder 
your progress and obscure the path.  Kill her," he insisted, the 
last vestiges of sanity swiftly disappearing as he continued 
whispering over and over, "kill her, kill her?"

Mulder looked confused, torn.  Wallace's mad offer held him like a 
magic spell; he was enthralled by the misleading glamour.  Despite 
his intelligence, Mulder had been a victim of "truths" that seemed 
sincere more times than she could count.  She did not want him to 
have to make this decision between her and the elusive Truth.

Still chanting, Wallace paced the floor, prying at Mulder's 
vulnerable mind.  Knowing and completely disregarding FBI protocol,
Scully raised her SIG, leveled it at Wallace and fired.  The bullet 
was slightly low, piercing Wallace through the cheekbone and 
shattering most of the left half of his face.  Jeremy's body 
dropped to the floor, his head cracking back against the dresser 
as he fell.

Stunned, Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.  The 
electrical current dropped out of the air almost immediately.  
Finally he spoke.  "What did you do, Scully," he gasped.  
"He wasn't the danger to you, I was?am."

"I think you'll be okay now that Wallace isn't able to influence 
you.  I would have preferred to let the Justice system deal with him,
but he would have continued to exercise his power over you if 
he'd lived," she paused to let him consider her words.  "You 
torture yourself enough with guilt as it is, Mulder.  How would 
you handle it if you'd killed me?"

He looked defeated.  "I scare myself sometimes, Scully."

"I know."

"I never wanted to hurt you?"

"I know that, too."

Mulder looked at her, almost through her, to assure himself that 
she was okay.  Her drying red hair was disheveled, her clothes 
stuck to her skin.  He confessed, "I was really tempted.  How 
would it have changed my life to possess that knowledge?"

Soberly, Scully pulled him into a tight, reassuring hug.  She 
wrapped her arms around his waist.  "Since the earliest times 
there have been tales of men desiring knowledge, just like you.  
Look at the parable of Adam and the apple.  These are the things 
that separate men from gods.  Tremendous knowledge comes at a 
terrible price.  What good would your enlightenment have been if it 
came at the expense of your sanity?"

"Are you going to get all preachy on me?"  His fingers stroked 
through the damp strands of copper, and she glimpsed his tentative 
smile out of the corner of her eye.

"No, just promise me you won't try to kill me again," she teased as 
she lowered his head toward hers and gently pressed her lips to his 
heated forehead.

***

The police showed up a short while later, and with the meager 
number of emergency personnel they were able to assemble in the 
midst of the hurricane, the Wallace's bodies were wheeled away.  
Mulder and Scully were questioned briefly about the events that 
transpired, but none of the officers disputed their version of 
what had happened.  

Scully asked, "Detective Allen was handling this case.  Why didn't
he come to investigate?"

"When your call came in, Detective Allen and three other officers 
left the station.  We thought they were headed over here, but there 
has been no radio contact despite repeated efforts to reach them.  
At first, nobody thought much of it with the weather crisis and 
all," the officer paused, "but Allen was Wallace's partner, and the 
other three officers worked closely with them.  There may be some 
connection between the officers that took off and the murders 
Wallace committed.

"Of course, it is awfully early for such insinuations, but when I 
heard that Allen didn't tell you that Jeremy was his partner when 
you started investigating Annie Gershwin's death, some suspicions 
we had concerning them grew." 

Mulder shot Scully a haunted glance, "Wallace was confident that he 
could get away with the murders because his partner and a couple 
other loyal confederates were investigating.  He probably never 
could have guessed that the FBI would be sent to investigate, 
since it should have been a job for the local police.  'The best 
laid plans?' you know," he assessed.  "Where's the book, Scully?  
That's really the only piece of evidence we have of Wallace's ideas 
and abilities."

Scully patted the band of her jeans.  "It's gone, Mulder."

"Did you drop it?"

"No, I don't know.  I remember it was pressing against my stomach
when we entered this hotel room, but I can't remember
having it after that."

A thorough search did not uncover the book.  "It's not here," Scully
said.  Then to the officer she added, "If you find a small, black 
book, can you let me know?"

The officer nodded then said, "The storm's not over yet.  Why don't 
you get a room here and get some sleep."

Scully briefly looked horrified before she managed to compose 
herself.  "I'd prefer to go somewhere else."

"Where then?" Mulder asked.

***

8 Greenway Plaza
20 minutes later

The building they'd come through earlier on their way to the 
Doubletree housed the offices of a large oil conglomerate.  Water 
ran freely through the first floor, but the tower was dry above the 
lowest level.  On the fifth floor, they found a small employee 
lounge with a plush couch.  "Here is good," Scully said.

Exhausted, Mulder collapsed onto the couch.  The emergency lights 
hummed dimly in the room.  Scully suddenly felt awkward as she 
looked at his sprawled form on the sofa.  

With drowsy eyes and a lazy drawl he beckoned, "Come here," and 
rolled on his side so she would have some space.

With some trepidation, she cautiously lowered herself onto the couch 
beside him.  She rolled onto her back and crossed her arms beneath 
her head.  Without invitation, Mulder wrapped his arms around her, 
pulling her tightly against the length of his body.  The rain 
hammering outside sounded muffled and comforting.  

Sincerely, he apologized, "I'm sorry, Scully."  There was no need to 
elaborate, she understood him.  His fingers drew slow patterns over 
her belly, feeling the muscles twitch slightly beneath the damp 
cotton of her T-shirt.

"It's okay."

His fingers stopped moving.  "No.  No, it isn't okay.  I'm 
expecting indignation, at the least.  I've betrayed you in every 
sense of the word. I tried to kill you, I took advantage of you to 
exploit your body?"

"Is that what it was?  Exploitation?"

"No, not exactly," he admitted.

She allowed her hands to wander into his short hair, twirling the 
soft strands.  "Don't torture yourself.  It'll be all right," she 
promised, pressing her hand over his mouth when he looked ready 
to interrupt.  "We have some things we'll need to discuss, 
but later, okay?"

He nodded, too exhausted to even verbally agree.  Tucked together, 
they fell asleep in the lounge of the Greenway tower and for the 
moment, everything felt right.

-end-

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

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Regarding the technical accuracy of the piece:

CITY OF HOUSTON: I lived in Houston several years, so some of the 
places depicted actually exist.  I've tried to keep streets and most 
buildings where they belong.  It is possible that the ditch and 
skywalk may exist in Greenway Plaza, but I've created them for the 
purposes of this story.  Anyone who has driven in Houston, especially
down Richmond, in the rain will attest to how quickly the Bayou 
City will flood.  The Bayou Bend Motor Lodge is entirely 
fictional, but there is an area called Bayou Bend in Houston.  
It is nowhere near where the motel is set in the story.  The 
Doubletree Hotel exists where it stands in the story and is much 
like it is described, again?used without permission. This story 
was intended to take place during late October, still hurricane 
season and still when the NBA was on strike.  The Velvet Elvis really
existed in Houston until recently.

LACHRYMOLOGY is an idea mentioned by the band Tool in an 
interview.  The article discusses the concept and the book, A Joyful 
Guide to Lachrymology.  I have been unable to find the book and 
believe, as do others, that the concept is an invention of the band.  
The actual philosophy, as it is understood, does not imply or 
condone violence.  This is a liberty I've taken for the sake of 
fiction?a logical extension that might be made by a disturbed 
mind such as Wallace's. Tool's lyrics also discuss the concept of 
evolution of the mind, but it is not directly linked with 
Lachrymology so far as I know.  No infringement on their ideas 
was intended.  I borrowed a fascinating concept and have taken a 
tiny bit of existing information and have done quite a bit of 
speculation.  As with the X-Files and the characters, I hold no 
rights to any of it.

"THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO": I shamelessly borrowed the excerpt 
from Edgar Allen Poe's story.  

THE WEATHER: The National Hurricane Center's website is 
where I got most of my information about the devastation a hurricane 
would cause and what its strength would be.  It's a pretty neat site,
you 
should check it out. 

EDITING NOTES: Where appropriate, the Stylebook rules from the 
Associated Press were used.  Of course, I am not studying Journalism 
anymore, so I may have missed some spots.

FEEDBACK: An important part of a balanced breakfast!  Since you
made it to the end, I'll throw out a reward.  Send me feedback and
a link to your story and I'll reciprocate.

Other than the above, any similarity to any works, fanfiction or 
otherwise, is coincidental.  I tried to attribute anything I 
deliberately borrowed.

Thanks for reading!  --kelly.