Title: Domination of Lies Author and E-mail: C Slatton at cslatton@pdq.net Rating: PG for language. (Put that bar of soap down!) Classification: X (X-File), S, H (I hope), A (if Mulder's anywhere around, ya gotta have it). Keywords: M/S friendship/UST Summary: Mulder, disillusioned with his beliefs, hauls Scully in on a case for Violent Crimes. And they stumble into a mystery that hits a little too close for home. Spoiler: As many as possible, apparently, through Detour. Archive: Yeah, sure. Whatever. Disclaimer: Did I say I wrote this? I lied. Or maybe this is a lie. If I'm a liar, which lie do you believe? Welcome to Mulder's world... Anyway, here's the part where everyone seems to start whining about having to give credit where credit is due. Well, I'm proud to say I don't own these characters and you'd better be glad that someone with far more creativity and drive does own them (namely CC and Company) otherwise they'd have never seen the grand light of day and we wouldn't be out here wasting so much of our time worrying over people who don't even exist. So shad-up already, no one's forcing us to write this stuff! Author's Note: If I were truely perverse, this thing would be called Death, Life and Oodles Noodles. But I'm not (you'll never take me alive!) so this is what you got. If you like it, tell me. If you hate it, tell me. But tell me WHY. Monosyllabic flames will be appropriately dealt with, unless of course, they evidence good word usage. My next endeavor requires, at times, a bit more --ah- - colorful phraseology than I'm used to using and maybe you have something I can use... If you're skimming and notice reference to a psychiatrist and a psych hospital please note: Mulder is not in it! 'Nuff said.... You know who you are, you wonderfully twisted little minds... Further Disavowals: Mulder Incorporated are property of 1013 Productions and Chris Carter, God love `em. The FBI, Quantico and the US Marine Corps Reservation are property of the Federal Government (isn't that us US tax payer! I own them!). Carl Jung was himself (I hope) and I have only paraphrased him here. Wallace Stephens is wonderful and is, or rather was, himself and I have quoted him, citing his authorship. The poem is "Domination of Black," copyright 1954, printed in a number of fine anthologies and used here without permission with total lack of guile. Bob Dylan's quote is from "The Ballad of Judas Priest and Frankie Lee" and is used here under the same non-suspicious circumstances and intent. The John Douglas quote is from his book, The Mind Hunter. If you recognize someone, then they're not mine. The parks exist and I've tried to describe them as true to reality as possible. YADA YADA YADA. On with the point of this little triad... (didn't think I had a point, did ya?) XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX It was dark and quiet. After all the noise and chaos of the day, the silence was a treasure in small hands. Now only the stars, stretched horizon to horizon in their moonless void, stared steadily down at her through towering hemlock and pine. Stretched full length upon the snow, she stared steadily back. Both dainty feet, shoeless, rested very ladylike side-by-side, just below the hem of her white gown. Her arms were outstretched, palms up, the cups of her hands filling with fresh unmelting snow. Winds whispered and branches responded in hushed tones high above. Far below, the pale little girl lay quietly on an expanse of white. And stared unblinking at the still, silent stars. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX "Am I keeping you awake, Agent Mulder?" Mulder dropped the hand rubbing his eyes and sat up straighter. "No sir. I mean--" "Just how well do you know Dr. Bruner?" Mulder regarded Skinner across the desk. "Who?" Skinner set his jaw. , Mulder thought. "When I walked into my office yesterday morning the two of you certainly seemed chatty enough," the Assistant Director prompted. Mulder shook his head; it seemed to help knock something loose. "The phone call? Ah, you weren't here and your secretary wasn't answering, I picked up--" "How long did you speak?" "No more than a minute. I didn't even get his name before you walked in and took the phone." Mulder bit his lip innocently. "Well, he certainly got your name, didn't he? Per his request, I'm sending you to see him." He tossed the agent a bio file, sat watching, turning his pen end on end as Mulder scanned the first page. "Dr. Emil Bruner, psychiatrist," Mulder read. He looked up playfully. "You made me an appointment. How thoughtful." "Not three years ago," Skinner explained, "Bruner was the top psychiatrist in DC. His patient list included twelve Congressmen, twenty-two Representatives and a number of high ranking military and Bureau personnel. He was discreet, trusted and sanctioned by two Secret Service investigations. Then one day he literally chews the head off a former Ways and Means Committee chairman during an appointment." "I must have missed my newspaper that morning." "For security purposes, the death was officially recorded as a heart attack." "Heart attack?" "Heart attack." Mulder considered. "I can see how having his head chewed off could do that to a man. Was any reason found for the good doctor's sudden penchant for cannibalism?" "No." Skinner grimaced, "Actually, I understand it wasn't cannibalism, at least not technically. Apparently Bruner didn't ingest." Mulder nodded reasonably. "And Clinton didn't inhale." Skinner wasn't laughing. Mulder couldn't help it: "Dr. Emil Bruner, psychiatrist. And you made me an appointment." As usual, Skinner wasn't taking the bait. "Your appointment's in two hours. Dr. Heissman's the Director of the Institute. He'll see you have as much access to Bruner as security precautions will allow--" Mulder was shaking his head again but this time nothing was shaking into place. "Why is Bruner calling you? How is Bruner calling you? And just what am I supposed to be seeing him about? Or is Jodi Foster just unavailable for Silence of the Lambs II?" Skinner stared him down. "I'm glad to see you're feeling so well, Agent Mulder, especially considering you look like Dante's third level of hell. Next time, try parking your smart-ass routine at the door. As for your question: Bruner is notoriously well-behaved, at least as long as he's not within biting distance of anything human. His first week in incarceration he attacked a psychiatrist, two guards and a nurse. Since then he hasn't been touched by human hands--at least not while he's conscious. Like most psychopaths, he manipulates his own therapy and as a psychiatrist he's better at it than most. So when he actually is co-operative Heissman allows him a privilege or two. Like an occasional outside phone call. I don't know why he called me." He paused, played with his pen a moment without looking at Mulder. From across the desk, Mulder caught a whiff of the lie, small and white as it was and sat silently. Skinner passed him credentials and a Maryland driver's license. Mulder regarded the license, the name next to his photo said Dr. Heitz Verber. He looked up to Skinner's steely gaze. "You're going to Baltimore. Alone. I'm telling Agent Scully you're away tending to personal business. And that's exactly what I expect her to hear from you. You get in, you see Bruner, you get out. You don't let that maniac inside your head. I don't want to hear from you until you're back here. Then you report to me. Only to me. And in person. No phone calls. Certain people have expressed an interest in one phone call too many as it is." He lifted a file from the desk, revealing the unempty ashtray beneath. Mulder mused, unsurprised somehow, Skinner regarded him, waiting for a reaction. There was none and he nodded his admiration. "I don't know what the hell all of this is about, Agent Mulder," he smiled humorlessly, "but then I hear that's what the I's for in FBI." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX As the third set of security doors slammed and locked behind him, Mulder fought back the familiar wave of claustrophobia. He heard the breathing of inmates around him, felt the surveillance of numerous eyes locked between his shoulder blades and defied the urge to shake them off. Here he was, a hater of cages, walking into a world of cages filled with the caged of the world. Some he'd put here himself. Freud would have a written a whole set of papers on him, he was certain. "Dr. Verber?" It took Mulder a minute. "I'm sorry, I was just, uh, thinking." Dr. Heissman's assistant nodded blandly. Apparently he was used to absent-minded academic types. Having met Heissman upstairs, Mulder understood. "I was just saying I'm late for my rounds so I'll be leaving you with Bruner's orderly." They had approached a fourth set of gates and Dr. Graham waved through the bars to a desk set in the corner. Yet another security door dominated the wall facing them and Mulder cocked his head. He could swear he heard chamber music. From the shadows behind the desk a large black man with graying hair rose and just seemed to keep on rising. The man would have been formidable in a Packer's uniform; in his orderly's coat he was nonetheless impressive. "This is Wallace," Graham made quick introductions as Wallace unlocked the door. "Sorry to interrupt your evening, Wallace." "'Wally's' fine, Dr. Verber." Wally's handshake was anything but disappointing but it was friendly enough. He smiled after the retreating form of Dr. Graham. "He never has liked coming in here." He winked conspiratorially at Mulder, "But then he got a good look at the last doc that got too close to Dr. Bruner." Mulder nodded. He'd gotten a good look at the postmortem photos in Bruner's file. "Who's jamming?" he nodded in the direction of the ward. Wally smiled again. "Oh, Dr. Bruner's the only patient on this ward, Dr. Verber. He tended to play mind games with the other patients, you understand. Just between you and me, I think he really started out intending to help them, but then--," Wally shrugged sadly. "He just can't help it, I guess. Anyway. He's pretty well locked in around here, so we try to give him what he wants when we can. Keeps him happy. I'll turn it down for you, though. I'll be grateful for the break. He's had me play this thing over and over and over for the past three days." "It's Schostokovitz, isn't it? The one he dedicated to victims of war." Mulder was impressed that he could identify the piece so readily but the music had made quite an impression on him when he'd attended the concert on the steps of the Holocaust Museum. But then the museum was an impressive place to sit in silence, as well. Wally laughed. "Sounds like the two of you went to the same music appreciation class. Me, I'm a Stones fan." Now Mulder smiled. "I don't imagine you get many requests for around here." Wally unshot the bolt in the door with an appreciative chuckle but put a massive arm across the jamb as Mulder approached. "Dr. = Bruner's been told of your arrival," he said, suddenly all business. "I wish I could tell you he was happy with it, but I couldn't tell. He's a hard man to read most times. I tried to put a chair in the hall for you but he had a little bit of a fit about that. I can get it for you, if you like. He's usually a little better behaved with company. No? Okay. Here's the rules. Nothing but nothing passes from your hand to his or visa versa. Any papers or whatever you might have for him goes through me. No exceptions. You stay to the center of the corridor. Do not touch the bars. Don't even get close to them. It makes him nervous. You need me, yell. I can see you on the camera," he nodded at the monitor on the desk, "but we're wired for video only so you'll have privacy." He moved aside and let Mulder pass. Mulder heard "You be careful in there" before the bolt slammed into its housing and he found himself walking toward the cage of his nightmares. It dominated the end of the corridor: the standard bars reinforced by yet another set of bars placed four feet behind them. Between was a rubber network of mesh. Someone was taking no chances. Bruner's lights were off, his sparse furnishings vague shadows; it was difficult to tell which shadow was Bruner. Mulder stopped a respectful three yards from the bars. "Dr. Bruner? May I speak with you, sir?" Silence from within. Mulder thought about the breathing he'd heard in the other wards coming in. The only thing he heard here was the hum of fluorescent lights; one of the fuses was bad. He felt the hair stand on the back of his neck. He had stood within striking distance of any number of career criminals and psychopaths, most without the comfort of bars or restraints, and had felt only healthy fear, fear designed to insure survival. Raging terror was a rarity in his psychological makeup. The presence behind the bars, however, exuded a malice he found difficult to resist, as though it could reach through the cage and walk into his soul and take possession. Mulder allowed himself the acknowledgment that he was scared. It kept him from shaking visibly. He looked back down the corridor at the bolted security door with its tiny window then around for the camera. It was positioned for maximum coverage of the cell. Mulder estimated the best position to prevent any lip reading. It put him an uncomfortable 3 feet from the cell. He smiled to himself. He heard a slight--was it a rasp?--as he approached and stood as unthreateningly as possible: hands folded in clear view, feet close together, head lowered, his voice low-pitched and calm. "Dr. Bruner. I know you've been told to expect a Dr. Heitz Verber. I--" "Ever been on a foxhunt, Dr. Verber?" The voice was raspy and harsh like a seldom-used door. There was a deliberation in the speaking that went beyond the play of words. "Yes," Mulder answered cautiously. Still no movement within: "Were you the hound or are you the fox?" Silence on both sides of the bars. Then Mulder answered quietly, "Fox." Bruner approached from the corner to Mulder's right, then stopped, his upper torso and face still in shadows. He was a stocky man without being fat, a good half foot shorter than his guest. Mulder noted the form of the head: too large and round as a ball. A remarkable head to have so much twisted up inside it. Mulder allowed himself to be inspected, wondering mildly if he should pirouette for his host. He tried to recall whether random waves of giddiness accompanied sleep deprivation. Bruner asked softly, "Did they tell you they have video only surveillance here?" Then softer still: "Did you believe them?" Mulder held quite still. Bruner inhaled deeply in the silence as if savoring some delightful fragrance. He bent sideways from the waist until one eye was free of the shadows for Mulder's perusal. "Do you know me, sir?" the agent asked. "Do you know yourself, little Fox?" Bruner mused without blinking that solitary eye. Mulder's mind jerked, a tectonic plate shifted in his brain and burned clear to his gut. Once, many years ago, in the front room of his parents' house, someone had called him that. . He could still hear his father's booming laugh. He felt his hands grimy with playing outdoors, felt his head hot with anger at being brought in to be presented to grownups he didn't know, didn't care to know. Long before Samantha disappeared. Long before Samantha. When it was just Fox. Little Fox. He'd hated the name ever since. "There's no reason for you to remember me." Again that soft rasp. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mulder contemplated what kind of damage Bruner may have caused himself in attempting to appropriate the head of a Ways and Means Committee chairman. He slammed the thought down quickly and saw a slight smile tug on Bruner's jaw. For the life of him, Mulder felt his knees begin to give and he sat down carefully, cross-legged in the floor, marveling at his own sudden loss of control. He had interviewed as many violent offenders as any seasoned agent in the Bureau, most of them certifiable. He had prepared himself for the usual ramblings, charming or not, highly articulate or not. All he had expected to receive from this meeting was a load of inconsequential BS. As far as he was aware, he had not set himself up for this reaction and it frightened him in a vague, disconnected manner he was unaccustomed to. His training held firm in one regard, however: he refused to break eye contact, to disconnect his level gaze from that one deep eye. The figure behind the doubled sets of bars and the dark mesh regarded him a long while before approaching the limits of his cell, his face at last in the light: an old man with sparse gray hair, eyes piercing hot and anything but feeble. Fox knew Bruner smelled blood. For a moment, the younger man's heart danced lightly against his chest. Bruner's eyes were eager and hungry, green, sea green and just as deep. , Mulder thought and that gnawing fire spread up from his gut and clamped around his heart. Making it beat harder, slower, listening. Bruner whispered, "I didn't know your sister. I have no answers for you." There was a pause. He lisped sadly, "Should I not have asked for you to come? " Still Mulder refused to drop his gaze. He felt tears hot behind his eyes, forced his anger to dry them before they fell. The headache he had managed to ignore all morning pulled a switchblade on his right temple. Questions poured from the wound like a storm let loose. He did not trust himself to ask them. To trust no one sometimes included not trusting himself; he sat silent. He'd bitten his tongue in his struggle there on the floor. The blood was bitter and angry in his mouth. He concentrated on his breathing and watched Bruner settle himself on the floor, against his bars, mimicking Mulder's own cross-legged stance. The madman acknowledged his guest's recompose with a soft "Ah." Above Mulder's head and behind him the bad fluorescent fuse popped again, sending the light into a flickering fit. Bruner looked like an image in an old nickelodeon film, jerking and sputtering upon a dark screen. Mulder heard Skinner's voice: For all his anger, Mulder was tired; he felt he could sleep comfortably on the floor where he sat, with a psychopath for his rear guard. Bruner smiled softly at him, sea green eyes roaring joy as though he too could picture that and Mulder suddenly heard someone laughing. After a moment he realized it was himself. Bruner was watching him, fascinated, waiting for him to recover before speaking. "Have you ever prayed to die, Little Fox?" "Yes." It was stated as simple fact. Bruner began to smile again, thought better of it. "And were you angry at God when He didn't answer?" "He answered." "A 'no,' obviously." Bruner chanced an indulgent nod. "Actually, I believe the answer was 'yes.'" Mulder deadpanned. He was feeling giddy again. "He just hasn't gotten back with me on the timing yet." Now Bruner was laughing. It was silent and painful to watch. "You were not surprised by the question." It wasn't a question; Mulder didn't respond. He recognized psychoanalytical bait with he smelled it. Bruner was not to be put off, however. "Perhaps, sir, you consider the subject of life and death only so much balls aching crap." It still wasn't a question, but if this was the only track Bruner had, Mulder could follow at least the first mile. "Nothing is ever about anything else but life and death, as you well know. Of course, that still doesn't keep it from being balls aching crap, does it?" Bruner smiled again. "And do you dream?" He asked. He was quite still but Mulder could sense him circling, searching for the wound in his new prey. Bruner repeated the question. "Do you dream, Fox?" "Only in Jungian terminology." A little humor between psychiatrists conducting clandestine sessions on the floor of a mental institution. Even Freud would have appreciated it. Mulder closed his eyes momentarily; he was certain he would need a tranquilizer soon. "What colors do you see when you dream? There's quite a bit of red in your dreams, is there not?" "I'm red/green color-blind." "So you say. But not in your dreams, sir. No, you see quite clearly in that great land." He smiled at Mulder's silent acquiescence. "You've been dreaming the same dream for several nights," Bruner was uncomfortably sure of himself about a number of things, things Mulder couldn't argue with. "What is it you dream, Little Fox?" Mulder opened his mouth to shut Bruner up with the Little Fox routine. He closed it again without quite knowing why. "Lately I haven't been dreaming much. I haven't been sleeping well." "Because your dreams disturb you," Bruner insisted, smiling again. "What is it you dream?" Mulder regarded him, his chest pounding, his head too light. "Of little girls in the snow." "I see why you choose Jung," Bruner answered patiently. "Freud would have had an orgasm over that, wouldn't he?" Mulder couldn't take his eyes off this monster in his cage. "Little girls in the snow. Ah." Bruner inhaled deeply again, savoring Mulder's confession through his open mouth, rolling it on his tongue. "And what do your little girls speak to us of? Purity--no, no, we must never, but never confuse purity with decency. Purity outside the Godhead is irrational. And it's not God you're dreaming of, or is it, my hunted Fox?" He closed his eyes, rolling the dream around again. "Little girls lost in the snow. Children." His eyes pierced Mulder again. "We are all the children of our darkest hours. What is your dark hour? I think I know. How old are these little girls lost?" he hissed. Mulder eyes fixed in sickening realization. "About seven or eight." Samantha had been eight when they'd come for her. "And what are you pursuing?" Mulder was startled. "Pursuing? In my dreams?" "No, Little Fox. In your life. What are you pursuing? Peace? No. No, not yet, I think. Love? But love is so painful, isn't it? One must be careful to avoid it once hurt, if possible. It is such a difficulty and after all, so much of what we call love is only so much emotional con. No." Bruner nodded at his new patient. "Justice, I think." "Truth," Mulder countered in a whisper. Listening to Bruner made his throat hurt. He told himself all of this was the cheap philosophizing and crap he'd come here expecting. Love and emotional con. Hell, psychopaths were the ultimate emotional con. Even to themselves. He wanted to leave. This was a waste of time; Scully would tell him he was reading far too much into Bruner's "Little Fox" schpiel. Still the little boy with the grimy hands burned in his guts and would not let him up from the floor. And Mulder was tired, like a man swimming so long against a tide he no longer cared if he went under. Bruner was shaking his head, the sea in his eyes darkening. "Truth," he almost spat the word. "A poor choice, offering little gratitude for the search while demanding much too much. Tell me, Little Fox, how do you fit that in a test tube? Not everything can be proved by scientific method, sir. Not even the existence of Napoleon, given the nature of history in the hands of conquerors." Mulder regarded him blankly. "How do you know when you've found the truth?" Bruner asked patiently. "How do you test it for accuracy?" Mulder blinked slowly. "Bob Dylan has a song that says 'Don't go confusing paradise with that home across the road.'" It was his turn to be patient. "Unlike the truth, facts can be manipulated. Never but never confuse facts with the truth, Dr. Bruner." "Ah." Bruner's smile was irritatingly indulgent. "And what truth do your little girls bring? Do you know?" "No. Not yet." "Perhaps they have no truth. What then?" "That's not possible." "How so?" "Because they're dead. And the dead always speak the truth. They have nothing else." "Unlike the living?" Bruner smiled and his heart froze when the young man on the floor smiled back. It was one of the most genuinely joyful smiles he had ever witnessed. The same smile he remembered all those years ago. The smile he'd thought for years he'd helped destroy. There was something in the eyes, however, he had not noticed before. They were the intense green of an animal. A wounded and angry animal. Bruner regarded the face that could hold such a smile. The soft and sleepy expression. The eyes that bled too deeply. Mulder returned his gaze steadily, unblinking. For the first time in many years, Bruner recalled fear. Unable to break Mulder's gaze, Bruner's eyes unfocused. "He was right," He rasped, so softly Mulder was not certain he'd heard. "You are the one." "The one what?" Mulder's voice was level but not kind. Bruner's eyes refocused. "What is it you pursue?" he repeated. "What is it you say you seek?" The word hung unspoken between them. Bruner nodded. "Seek and you shall find. But careful of your questions. There is a price." He smiled. "But then you already know that." Bruner closed his eyes abruptly and stood. "Time to go now, Little Fox. Run away home." Mulder heard something small hit the floor, skidding through the interior bars, sliding under the mesh, stopping just short of the outer bars. A felt tip pen. He sat frozen, eyes moving from the pen to Bruner's face. The shadow back across his eyes, Bruner's jaw was expressionless as he stepped back into the shadows. "Quickly, now," he rasped. Mulder cursed his own fear; reaching in for the pen his hand shook. Then he was on his feet again, on his way out of this world of cages. He refused to run. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX "Come in, Agent Mulder." Skinner held the door, regarding Mulder with that particular look that said the cat had swallowed the canary and the next of kin were over his shoulder requiring cat liver. As he entered, Mulder inhaled deeply, expecting the acrid smell of cigarette smoke; what he got was a chokingly powerful whiff of Skinner's Old Spice. The next of kin however were indeed seated expectantly at the conference table. Mulder's alarm level heightened as Scully nodded at him from her position between Jeff Leichman, SAC for Violent Crimes and his shadow, Pete Glenn. Mulder stood watching Skinner take his seat at the table; Skinner waved Mulder to one of his own with a castigating look that was lost on no one. Leichman cleared his throat. Pete snapped to and passed a thick file to Mulder. "We've been discussing the possibility that you might be able to shed some light on a case we've been having some difficulty with, Agent Mulder." Mulder nodded at Leichman, sparing another glance for Scully. She raised her brows at him over her eyeglasses and her own pile of papers. Mulder opened his file and was confronted with one of those photos that will put your life back in perspective. Even putting his glasses on, it took a minute to recognize the subject as human. The second photo, apparently of the same crime scene, was no better. The body was badly decomposed: the greenish-red skin had blistered and was beginning to burst, the nails loosen. Something gauzy and rotted draped the swollen torso. It was an out-of-doors scene; Mulder bit the inside of his cheek. Outdoor killings were the worse: the indignities of exposure to the elements and the casual eye were like a final hateful slap. It didn't help that this victim was obviously a child. Shots of the hands followed, each presenting a swollen hole in the center of the palm. He flipped through some typed reports and came to another set of photos. The subject was simply a set of bones laid out, what looked like fragments of paper scattered among the remains. Exterior crime scene. Child. The prints following showed the hand bones: one finger was missing. He lifted the file and began digging for the next set of photos, feeling Scully's eyes on him. She had questioned him once about his penchant for looking at the pictures first, like a toddler with a storybook, she'd said. Behind his eyes, he heard John Douglas, his Criminal Behavioral Science instructor: The next set of photos found, he dropped the file back on the table abruptly. This body had been a fresh find, only perhaps 6 hours old before discovery. The skin was a waxy blue-gray, the corneas still clear, rigor mortis yet a few hours away. To Mulder, however, this was the worst of the three. There was something about the position of the body. Something tugging at the corner of his brain. Something he could taste. Bitter and dark. Like blood. He shuffled back through the prints, laying them out on the table side by side, standing to get a clearer overview. Oblivious to the glances of satisfaction that swept round the table, he stared at the hand shots of the third set of photos. There was the same wound in the palm as the first victim. Mulder's eyes grabbed the hand photos of the second child and with a grim smile of satisfaction he located a grazing wound on one of the central metacarpals. He sat down and looked at Leichman expectantly. Leichman knew Mulder's reputation well enough to not get too cocky about the agent's apparent interest. He kept his most professional tone and manner. "All the girls are Jane Doe's," he explained, "approximately seven to eight years of age found in various national parks in Virginia. All are minus heart and liver, professionally removed." Leichman paused to let that one soak. "All were wearing paper hospital gowns. We've run every lead we could find and then some on unauthorized transplantation. Nothing. Ditto on unorthodox research and morgue thefts." "Any sign of sexual assault or necrophilia?" "None. We suspect the killer's into organ specific fetishism but there are no signs of sexual aberration common to necrofetishists. No sadism, no torture. "What if the killer's just sexually dysfunctional?" Skinner speculated. Scully shook her head. "We would still expect evidence of sodomy or object rape. I don't believe this is about lust or domination. At the same time I can't imagine anonymous eight year olds as subjects for contract killings." Mulder was scanning the autopsy protocols for the free histamine tests. "He's certainly not into overkill. All the discernible damage seems to have been done postmortem." "Including the palm injuries in both hands," Leichman agreed. "I take it you noticed that on victim two, as well. We're assuming the both hands part on that one; there's no bone damage on the other hand. You're partner here has speculated it's some type of stigmata phenomenon." Scully opened her mouth but Mulder spared her the trouble. "You must have misunderstood, sir. Agent Scully is well aware of the difference between a phenomenon and a penknife. I'm sure the allusion is what the killer had in mind, however." "This is cult-related activity then?" Mulder shook his head as much to clear it as to answer. "What makes you think it is?" Leichman frowned, feeling his hook begin to slip. "The stigmata wounds, the cross position of the bodies, the bodies being drained of blood and washed. Each one laid out under a tree..." He tapered off, looking around the table for support. Mulder was back to looking at pictures. "Victim two is the only one missing a finger." Leichman nodded. "Considering the state of the body, it's probably just a fluke. An animal may have run off with it, anything." "Are all the bodies facing the same direction?" "Uh. Up?" Mulder glanced up a little less than patiently. "In relation to the compass. East, west, what?" Leichman turned on Glenn who made a note. "We'll find out." Mulder rubbed his eyes. The six aspirin he'd choked down at the cooler hadn't made much of an impact. He didn't see Leichman's puzzled expression; Scully stepped in. "Most Christian burials are done with the body facing east," she explained, "toward the return of Christ. However, since the majority of burials in this country are laid out along that same direction, Christian or not, it may or may not be significant." Mulder nodded. "All the bodies facing west could mean a satanic cult but they're usually not so careful about the condition of their victims at the point of disposal." "They're also usually rather adamant about inflicting some form of torture on their victims," Scully added. "Especially children." Mulder winced, rotating a suddenly throbbing shoulder. "They're also not usually noted for their surgical skills," he said. "What if the positions are random?" Skinner was looking at Mulder's photo display from across the table. "That would be a surprise." Mulder conceded. "There doesn't seem to be very much random arrangement to the crime scenes. You say they're all found under specific trees?" Leichman looked back hopelessly to Glenn. But this time Glenn's notes were up to snuff. "Hemlock," he quipped proudly. "They're fairly common to the region." Leichman nodded blankly. "Is that significant?" "It's apparently significant to our UNSUB." Unsub, unknown subject. It always amazed Mulder, this need to label the reprehensible, to give a breathing death a name. He was looking at the photos again. Three unnamed children. "Explain the washing of the bodies," he said. Leichman shook his head. "That's where it gets weird. They're not just clean. They're not just washed and dressed. They're immaculate. Like someone's chemically sanitized them. And there's our situation. There no evidence. Not so much as a loose dead skin cell. Forensic Botany found some spores but they're all indigenous to the forests the bodies were found in." Mulder smiled sweetly. "There goes your cult theory." He leaned forward. "I'm not buying the X-Files slant you're trying to feed into this, sir. In the Hillside Strangler investigations, law enforcement only had two tufts of fiber as evidence after ten murders--" "But they had those two tufts. That's more than we've got." Leichman leaned forward, his face hard. "Look, Mr. Mulder, I don't care if this fits your protocol or not. This cannot be the work of some garden variety psychotic. You don't take three eight year olds and lay them out cold like that without making a mistake. Leaving something behind. Something undone. There should be some kind of evidence, damn it!" "First day of Academy training, sir," Scully countered, quoting: "'The single most important piece of evidence in any murder investigation is the victim's body.' We have three." Mulder stared down at the photos. "What's this they're laying on," his voice was very quiet. "Snow?" "Yes, Agent Mulder," Skinner could have flayed him with that voice. "It's February. It's snowing in the mountains in Virginia." Scully sensed a storm brewing from Mulder's side of the table, a storm that had nothing to do with Skinner or Leichman. A storm whose eye was cold and too calm and focused in the photo Mulder was holding in one unsteady hand. The third victim. "Perhaps I'm missing something," she announced, deliberately pulling the table's attention away from her partner. "If the killer has access to such sophisticated means of sanitation why go to all the trouble? Aside from the fact he could simply bury them in all this wilderness, surely he could get hold of a little sulfuric acid and get rid of the evidence entirely. No body. No investigation. No questions." There was silence around the table. Mulder had pulled out a felt tip pen to make some notes and was staring at it. He said almost absently, "Maybe that's exactly what he wants. Someone to ask questions." He almost whispered, "And, maybe, I am the one." Across the table, Leichman and Skinner exchanged glances of surprised triumph. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX "Relax, Scully. It'll just be another nice little trip to the forest." Scully stopped peering out at the pines looming heavily on each side of the road long enough to glance at her partner. "That's what I'm afraid of." She sat back behind the wheel as he laughed. "Well, Mulder, you have to admit between mutant bugs, invisible moth men and cannibalistic wild women, our track record with the Forestry Service leaves a great deal to be desired. And to think I actually used to enjoy camping." "No camping. This trip is strictly hotel/motel." "Chicken." "Cluck, cluck." Scully slowed to allow a semi to pass. It was a moment before she felt safe enough to spare Mulder another glance. He looked tired. Which was probably why he hadn't protested when she insisted on driving them to Shenandoah National Park where Jane Doe Three had been recovered. The last time she had done sixty down Skyline Drive she'd been in the trunk of her own car with Duane Barry behind the wheel. This time she wanted to be certain the trip was her idea. "Mulder, Do you ever get the feeling that the X-Files is just where we get to hang out until ViCap needs you?" He muttered, "You mean it isn't'?" "Why don't you try getting some sleep instead of playing with that pen? What is it? One of those novelty pens with a girlie picture in one end?" Mulder smiled. "No. Something much more interesting." Scully risked a longer look. "Now I know you need sleep." Mulder had taken the pen apart for at least the third time in as many hours, collecting the pieces in the rental car's cup holder. He shook his head. "There's something here, Scully. What do you see?" "A broken pen." Once more, he began reassembling the marker, examining each piece carefully as he screwed and snapped the parts together. The sun came out from behind a cloud and set the powdery snow on both ground and trees glowing with unnatural fire. Mulder stared out at the splendor doing sixty-five miles per just past his window. The full length of Skyline Drive meandered along the crest of the front range of the Appalachians; up here, several thousand feet high with nothing but virgin forest on either side, the Bureau, Bruner and the rest of his life were far away and trivial. He wondered what would happen should he simply walk off into that wilderness and never emerge. He sat a moment, absently turning the pen cap over and over in one hand. "Poetry with roots and sap." Scully followed Mulder's gaze up through the lush pines and barren birch to the rugged grandeur of the Little Stony Man Cliffs. "He causes it to rain on a wilderness in which there is no man," she quoted quietly, surprising herself that she had spoken aloud. Mulder looked at her curiously. She blushed. "I've been reading through Job." He nodded. "And the point?" "Ahm. That God is faithful even when no one is looking? I don't know, looking at all this beauty here in the middle of nowhere, it just seemed to fit." Mulder looked back out the window silently. He had known Scully had returned to her religious upbringing since enduring the worst of her cancer and had remained comforted by it even beyond her recovery. He was grateful for the peace it seemed to give her. There were days he was envious of it himself. He was thinking again about Bruner and what he had said about Mulder's anger. "Scully, do you remember the last time we were in the woods?" "Who can forget invisible moth men, Mulder?" He smiled. "I meant do you remember what you said when you were trying to get a fire started?" "As I recall, 'trying' was about all I managed," she smiled. "I recall you saying you had seriously considered dying but only when you were at the Ice Capades. Why, do you have tickets?" "Maybe." She looked at him carefully; he was staring out the windshield, avoiding eye contact but refusing the discourtesy of turning his head away entirely. She said, "I'm listening." "You said you were angry about your cancer. About the senselessness of it." She waited. He sighed. "This isn't exactly the question I think I'm wanting to ask but," he shook his head. "Did you ever get angry at God about your cancer?" "Yes. Sometime I think I'm still mad. But, Mulder, God didn't give me cancer. It was those tests, when I was abducted and that computer chip was put in my neck." He turned to look at her, his eyes hot, his mouth grim. "But if he's God," he demanded, "couldn't he have stopped them?" For a moment she thought he was on the verge of tears and the thought frightened her suddenly. This depression of his lately was getting out of hand. She began to speak, stopped, uncertain what to say. "I think," she said slowly, "we all have things happen in our lives that change us, for better or worse. I think a lot of those things happen because of the decisions of other people and we can only make more decisions, hoping to make things right, or at least better. And I think that God allows people to make those decisions, bad or good because if he controlled and manipulated everything he'd be no better than the evil we despise." "So he confines himself to miracles like flowers and forests and rainstorms--" Mulder sing-songed. "And the love people have for one another. And sometimes miracles like curing people of cancer, or at least providing the means for their cure." She risked a long look at him. "Or putting people in the world that are strong enough to fight for what is right, who care enough to keep looking for the truth even when everyone else turns away. The basic requirements of the human heart are still faith, hope and love, as hokey as that may sound. No shortcuts. No substitutes. That's why I do this job, Mulder. That's why you do it, too." He sat looking ahead, still restlessly angry but thoughtful. She heard him whisper something that ended in "children of our darkest hours." "You're angry at God because he didn't keep your sister from being stolen away." Scully said gently. "Remember when the bounty hunter exchanged Samantha's clone for me? You made that choice, Mulder. To give up a woman you thought was your sister for me. You told me your father was upset because you'd lost her again." She paused. "Maybe God has to make those kinds of choices, too. And maybe he has to endure our anger and disappointment." Fox was silent. She continued. "This depression you're experiencing... If there's one thing I've learned about you, Mulder, it's that you have way of delaying your responses to events. It's part of what makes you a good investigator. Like the dreams you had years after you closed the Paper Hearts case. You've learned early in life to survive by delaying the effects of stress and here, with everything you've seen through this past year, in Russia, the cases--" "It's amazing," his voice was hard and abrupt. "I'm the clinically certified psychologist and everyone else wants to play armchair psych but me. I'm sorry, but just where was I supposed to have learned this survival technique so prevalent in your little theory?" "Your sister's abduction--" "Damn it, Scully, Samantha does not influence every area of my life." "Yes, she does." He stared at her in amazement. There were no words in his mind. Just numbing shock. He refused to accept her rational. He could not accept it. He was angry suddenly, viciously, and it frightened him. Scully glanced back at him, misreading his closed expression and his silence. "Mulder, with that psych degree of yours, haven't you ever considered that you might just suffer from survivor's guilt? That it colors your perception of everything else?" He had found his voice at last. It was flat and too hard. "Including my concept of God? Let's see, now, he's supposed to outlast us all. And being God, he would know that, so do you suppose maybe He suffers from survivor's guilt, too?" This was getting a little to convoluted for her and he was becoming increasingly agitated. "You know," she said lightly, "I distinctly remember that in that same conversation you said you that you believed, and I quote, 'God is supremely indifferent as to whether we live or die--'" "No, I said 'Nature is supremely indifferent.' Even in my limited theology, the two terms are not interchangeable." "Of course not, that wouldn't leave you with much of a God to be angry at," she laughed, trying too hard to lighten the mood. "It's not nice to fool Mama Nature--" "So now I invent the God I want so that I can hate him?" He was not laughing. "And of course, you're on a first name basis with the right one and he makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. Now who's delusional?" He looked away. This was not going well; she wasn't used to this kind of hostility from him. Her voice was quiet. "I'm not suggesting that an infinite being can be fully comprehended by a finite being, Mulder. It's just that I believe in a God who wants to be known, that pursues us more than we pursue him." "Yeah, well then, it's a hell of a thing, isn't it," he said finally, "Now after all these years of pursuing Samantha, I finally find her and she doesn't even want anything to do with me. Looks like me and God have a few things in common, wouldn't you say?" She slowed the car and watched him, fearfully. "Mulder, you don't even know if this woman is your sister. She could just be another ploy. Another clone for all we know." he thought, He didn't voice the thought. He knew Scully was grasping at straws, trying to find something, anything to lessen his pain. But his head felt like it would explode just at that moment; that if his mouth formed the words an aneurysm of boiling anger would flood his brain and choke the life from him. Mulder looked down at the pen cap he gripped in both hands. The plastic was starting to buckle from the pressure. He hated the pointlessness of this. He hated himself for caring. He looked back up and out the windshield, willing himself to relax. To not think. He pointed to a small sign to the right. "There's the turnoff to the ranger station," he said hoarsely. He returned his attention to the pen but it was obvious he no longer really saw it. Turning off the well-traveled Drive, Scully slowed to accommodate the combination of blacktop, gravel and potholes that comprised the narrow service road. The rumble of traffic faded behind them to the soft roar of wind high in the canopy of trees. Scully had resigned herself to completing the remainder of the trip in silence when Mulder suddenly jerked upright. "Scully, do you have a tweezers?" "Tweezers? In my makeup bag, I think." "Which is where?" "In my suitcase in the trunk. Why?" "Stop the car." "Mulder, what--" "Stop the car!" Scully braked quickly, pulling over to the side as far as she dared. She'd scarcely came to a halt when he had his door open, skipping out as the brakes skid on the gravel shoulder. "Mulder!" He rapped his open hand on the back window. "Pop the trunk, Scully." She complied, scrambling out of the car and pushing him away from her overnight bag. "Do you mind?" "I was going to let you open it." Scully found the little case quickly but held the tweezers tightly in her fist. "How much are they worth to you?" she asked her exasperated partner. "What?" "You've been edgy and moody for almost two weeks. Now you're waxing philosophical and obsessing over a felt tip pen, for crying out loud. Just what is it you're up to, Fox Mulder?" "I'm not obsessing over the whole pen, Scully. Just the cap. See?" He held it in his open hand, innocent that he was, and she snatched it, dancing away with both the cap and the tweezer. "I'm just going to look at it, Muld-- Ohhh! Mulder, I'm going to hurt you! Stop it! " He submitted. "I'll give it back," she promised as he stepped away, shoving his hands in his pockets and setting his jaw. She gripped the cap tightly, keeping one eye on him; he didn't usually surrender so easily. He rotated his shoulders tiredly, pacing with impatience and cold as she looked down the barrel of the cap at the bit of dark paper rolled up inside. Certain he had resigned himself to behave, she fished out the contents and pocketed the tweezer and cap to unroll it. Mulder peered over her shoulder intently. "What does it say?" Scully was silent a minute, turning the little paper this way and that. "It's just a blank piece of paper." "No!" He snatched it away, digging out his penlight in the bright sun to inspect the tiny strip. Finding as much as she did, he straightened, turning away from her, pacing first this direction, then that, finally slamming his fist against the top of the car. "God, I'm so sick of this crap!" She gave him a minute. "Mulder, what is it?" He shook his head, still without looking at her. "Just the same old BS, the same lies and double speak. Why do I do this to myself, Scully? Why do I let them do this to me? To us? I've found Sam. Why can't I just walk away?" "Mulder, you can't close the X-Files. We've been over this before. The truth is--" "Out there, yeah. Right. But has it ever occurred to you, Scully that maybe I just don't give a damn anymore." "Mulder--" "Scully, look at the past five years of your life, for Chrissake. We've been lied to by law enforcement in most of the continental United States, the CIA, the NSA, the NSC, and let's not forget our own beloved initials otherwise known as the Friggin' Bureau of Investigation. Both of us have been shot at, kidnapped, and used as lab rats. We've had family murdered. I haven't been exactly keeping score here but I do distinctly recall being stalked, surveilled, shot, shot at, stabbed, strangled, drowned, frozen, flash-fired, bombed and poisoned and quite frankly, my dear Dr. Scully, I'm tired." She stood silently absorbing the triad, flinching at the violence with which he flung the words. "Mulder, you lost the faith to keep looking once before. You just need to find it again." He stared at her, his eyes hard and much too green. "No, I don't, Scully," his voice was flat. "That's just my point." She stood numbly, watching him as he took off up the road. After a moment she became aware of the frozen air turning her breath to mist and she collected her makeup kit. She had stowed the overnight bag in the trunk before she realized that this time he wasn't just pacing and was making pretty fair time. She started the car, hoping she could convince him to get in so they didn't make too odd an entrance at the ranger station. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX They never made it to the ranger station. Mulder had been too tired and disappointed to argue with her about walking and he was sitting beside her quietly when they came to the roadblock. It was comprised of a single bright orange sawhorse in the middle of the road with a Jeep parked behind it on the shoulder. No one appeared to be home. Scully stopped, shared a shrug with her partner, and honked. There was a sharp thud in the Jeep and a yelp of pain as the vehicle began swaying. After a moment's effort, a heavy set man in a Park Services uniform came sliding out, puffing and groaning, backside first. Scully looked over at Mulder in bewilderment. He was watching the show, head to one side and she turned away quickly. He was about to smile and she knew that was all she would need to start laughing. And once she started laughing, it would be all over. She bit her tongue and tried to recompose herself as the gentleman approached her window. He leaned over and she presented her badge. "FBI, huh?" He tried unsuccessfully to cover the top of his head with the few very long wisps he had left. "You folks runnin' a tad late, aren't you?" "I'm sorry?" "Well, the rest of the arson investigators arrived last night. We figured that was the last of you." Mulder leaned over to the window. "Exactly where was the fire?" "Up the road here another two miles. Puts it almost dead center between Brown Mountain Overlook and Rocky Mountain, about a half mile from Big Run." "Mulder, that's--" "Jane Doe Three's stomping grounds," he nodded, keeping his voice low. "Sir, how large an area did the fire cover?" "Several acres in one direction, a good three miles in the other." "If we stay on this road then, we should be able to find it?" "Well, you won't see the fire damage from this road, but you'll come to another roadblock. That one's unmanned though." Scully smiled at him sweetly and he blushed. "Well. Yeah. You can just park there and proceed east of the road on foot just a little ways. You'll find it okay. Just give me a minute to move my roadblock." It took more than a minute. "Mulder, don't you think you should get out and help him?" "It might hurt his feelings, Scully, seeing he's a local official and all. Besides, I wouldn't want to make him look bad after he just discovered the love of his life." He blinked at her innocently. "You're just jealous." "Damn right. You don't smile at me like that." Finally on their way again, Scully was careful to give the old gentleman her friendliest wave. "Suck up," Mulder grumbled. The old man had been right on target with his directions. Scully pulled her jacket closer; the trees that would have provided a wind break here on the mountainside were now just so much sodden ash and debris. She stared across this bare spot on the Old Dominion and shook her head. "Yeah, it is a shame," Mulder agreed, looking back at her. "Who'd want to do something so senseless?" He shrugged, his breath visible in the cold mountain air. "Maybe someone with something to hide." "You're so certain this has something to do with the body?" "I'm not certain of anything. I just think it's odd that in a park covering two hundred thousand acres, the one area recently favored by a killer as a dumpsite is also favored by an arsonist." "Yo!" They spun around to find a park ranger approaching in an ATV. He stopped, leaning out of the vehicle to inspect their badges. "Special Agent Dana Scully. Special Agent Fox Mulder. Uh huh." He straightened up and regarded Mulder blankly as he flashed his own credentials. "And I'm Ranger Rick Badger." Mulder was careful to keep his face expressionless. "Glad to meet you, sir." Ranger Badger squinted at him suspiciously. "Most people like to make some kind of wise ass crack about now. But with a name like Fox, I guess you know better." "Sir?" Scully closed her eyes so the ranger wouldn't see them rolling. Badger regarded Mulder's innocent face and spat thoughtfully on the sodden earth. "Uh huh. So, you folks out here to investigate the arson?" "Actually, no," Scully confessed. "The body of a little girl was found out here about twelve days ago. We've just been called into the case and were coming to look over the area." "Yeah, I remember. Real shame, that. Well, I'm sorry to have to disappoint but there's not much left but ash and dead animals. Climb on in, I'll take you out there, if you want. You need to hold on though. = This trail drops about four hundred feet in a quarter mile." Bouncing along the rough terrain, Scully managed to ask: "What evidence has your team found for arson? Couldn't this simply have been an out of control campfire?" "Well, first off, campfires are banned year round in this area of the park. Second off," he shrugged, "you're in the forestry service long enough, you get a feel for different types of fire: how it burns, how hot, how high, how fast, the color of the smoke. Then of course, the lab guys have been out, ran chromatography and spectrometry. This one was probably set with a match or a cigarette, the two best igniters: after the burn, no evidence. It just goes up in smoke with the acreage." Mulder leaned from the back seat, one hand on the ceiling to keep himself from bouncing into it periodically. "Was there any sign of diffused explosive? Nitric acid or--" "Naphtha," Badger nodded. "One of the choice accelerants of arsonists. And ammonia." Scully frowned. "I don't recall ammonia being especially combustible." "Arsonists use it to keep firefighters away, to let the fire burn longer. It also offsets the odor of any fuels used to accelerate the fire. Like gasoline. But like I said, this was naphtha, with a little benzene here and there. One match and poof! Of course, we're continuing our investigation. So far we have no motives, no suspects. Nada. Zilch. And here we are." The ATV lurched to a halt and Mulder and Scully looked around at the desolation and back at each other. This was the most damaged area they had been through yet. "Here we are where?" Mulder quipped, his adrenaline rising, anticipating the answer. "Your crime scene," Badger smiled grimly. "And mine. Ground Zero." Scully felt her stomach roll over. "Our crime scene is the fire's point of origin?" In the back seat Mulder closed his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck. He smiled when Scully asked: "Know any good motels, Ranger Rick?" XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX "Room service, heated pool open even in winter, five star hotel. Hey, we should splurge like this more often, Scully." "We're going to have a hard enough time convincing the Bureau we were here because the local motels were full of skiers." "Well, since we'll probably wind up paying for part of it anyway, what do you say we enjoy ourselves? Dinner and dancing?" Scully sighed as the elevator chimed their floor. She knew he had to be kidding about the dancing. She'd do well to get him to eat. "Dinner. No dancing. And no dinner till I wash this smell out of my hair." The wind had not been kind; they were both gritty with soot. "Give me about an hour," she said as he saw her to her room. "Mulder?" He stopped and turned back to her, his hotel room key jangling in his hand. She was standing with her hand on the doorknob, her jaw working slightly like she was tasting her words before offering them to him. Her face was pinched. The lighting in the corridor was not kind. "You really scared me. On the way into the park--- He cringed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Scully, I just-- I don't know, maybe I should have the water softener in my building checked out again." "Don't do this. Don't laugh this off. It's important to me." He looked down, half turned, wanting to be anywhere at that moment but where he was. "Please don't do it, Mulder. Please don't close the X-Files." He looked up, met her eyes and was suddenly unable to look away. He concentrated on his breathing. Her eyes were bright. "We've come too far to quit now. To turn back now... it would be like betraying all we've lost. we've lost." Mulder felt the room spinning, but it was a slow spin and lately he'd found himself getting used to the sensation. Scully was watching him. He heard himself speaking, his voice light, like it belonged to someone else. "Don't worry about it, Scully. The X-Files stay open. Hell, where else do I have to go? I'll see you downstairs in an hour." He turned on his heel and walked to his room with a surety of tread that belonged to another man. It took him minutes to shower. The hot blast of water was cleansing to his mind right now as much as to his body. But a few minutes more of prowling his hotel room half dressed convinced him he was entirely too wired to nap the rest of the hour. He riffled his coat pockets for the notes he'd taken at the crime scene. Three small scraps of paper if he counted Bruner's little joke. There wouldn't be much of a report. He began sneezing from the soot he'd stirred up off the coat and helped himself to some tissue from the bathroom, leaving the notes under a bottle of shampoo. He'd get the hotel to dry clean the jacket before morning. The call to the desk took him to the window and the view of the pool in it's glassed enclosure below. The glow of green subsurface lights was visible even through the condensation of the glass; it looked inviting even with it's backdrop of white-capped mountains. He had always left his bag pre-packed with a few items: extra boxers, socks. A Speedo. The hotel swore the pool was heated. With a good part of an hour left, he decided to investigate those claims. They were true to their word. Mulder had dived in quickly once out of the hotel robe and slippers; the air was freezing. He knew anyone seeing him would think he was crazy but then it would be even crazier to join him so he could be assured of having this gloriously warm and quiet world all to himself. He made several laps unhurriedly, allowing his muscles to stretch and warm, staying under as much as possible. He had always been a better swimmer underwater anyway. He felt the tension in his back and shoulders start to loosen and melt into the luninesence swirling around him. He felt the wall of the pool beneath his hands and kicked it away, swimming in earnest now. He failed to count the laps, enjoying this submerged reality and it's particular quiet, broken only when he rose for air. He was getting tired but he didn't want to come out. Not just yet. One more lap. This time with a challenge: no surfacing. Not for love or money or air. He kicked off the side of the pool, swimming with all his strength. He reached the far wall sooner than he expected and lost a little air in recovering and kicking back for the other side. Halfway back his lungs began screaming. He ignored them. His fingertips began tingling, itching to feel the pool wall, to claw him up for air. Still, he refused to surface, concentrating on his strokes; his kicking becoming sluggish as his muscles burned what little oxygen remained them. He thought of the little girls in the snow. The ones in his dreams. The ones in the photos. Then suddenly, he found the wall and his body was propelling upward, his lungs filling with icy air, his body shaking from cold and oxygen depravation. His lungs filled, he fell back into the water, back under to warm just brief seconds; then back up again, reveling in the frozen air supply. A cry of triumph escaped from somewhere deep in his gut and he pushed off again, backstroking his way across the pool in luxurious = abandon. As the pounding in his chest began to calm, he opened his eyes, staring up through fogged glass at the brilliant stars staring down at him. From her vantagepoint at her hotel window, Scully stared down at him as well. She was shaking her head. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Between the running water of his shower and the monotone of CNN's Washington Journal, he almost missed Scully's wakeup call. "Don't tell me you were sleeping that hard." Mulder sat on the rumpled bed toweling off one-handed. "Who slept? When we get back to Washington I'm taking a sedative and a day to sleep it off." "What's wrong? You can't possibly not be tired." "Bad dreams. Maybe it's something I'm eating." "More likely it's something eating you." She sighed into the phone. "Listen, how soon can we be in Richmond?" "Richmond? Three and a half, four hours, maybe. Why, what's in Richmond?" "Jane Doe Number Four." It was Mulder's turn to sigh. "Who's working the scene?" "Local law enforcement handed it to the Richmond field office at first glance. The MO's been put out to every police department and sheriff's office in Virginia. The Chesterfield County dispatcher called Agent Walter Hovind as soon as their deputy called it in. Skinner says we're in luck, that Hovind's team is more reliable than most. Knowing Skinner, that's high praise. Hovind's says it's about freezing in the area so he'll try to leave the victim as is till we get there, if he can. Mulder, it would be a great help if we could get to one of these girls in situ." Mulder was already half dressed. "I'll meet you downstairs in ten," he promised. Hanging up the phone he remembered he'd left the shower running. Twenty minutes later, Scully was debating whether to call up or storm up to Mulder's room. Deciding on the latter, she almost collided with him at the elevator. He pushed past her and she double-stepped trying to keep pace as he made for the front desk. "Mulder, I've already checked us out." "Great," he muttered absently, waving for the desk clerk. "What took you so long?" "Sorry. Something came up." "Between your room and the elevator?" "Excuse me," he said to the desk clerk, pulling a book from under his arm and fumbling to find his place. Scully recognized the bookmark: the little slip of paper from Mulder's mystery marker. She almost swallowed her gum as she recognized the book: the Gideon Bible whose replicas graced the bedside tables of most every hotel and motel in the country. Mulder handed this one to the clerk, careful to remove his bookmark. "Could I get a Xerox of this page please?" "Sir?" The clerk's expression was almost a carbon of Scully's. Mulder repeated his request, adding, "Please, we're in a bit of a hurry." The clerk hesitated, then took the Bible from Mulder as if he were uncertain of which would bite first: the book or the half-shaved man offering it. He took a step, then turned suspiciously. "Say, this isn't some kind of entrapment is it? Like copyright law infractions or something?" Mulder, startled, turned to Scully. "There's a copyright on the Bible? Who does the renewal forms for that, the archangel Gabriel?" Scully assured the young man it would be all right and he disappeared into the back office still squinting over his shoulder at her partner. "What's all this about, Mulder?" In response, he presented the bit of paper. It was now faintly inscribed with the words: "St Luke 8:11-17". "It was laying on the bathroom cabinet when I took my shower this morning," Mulder explained. "I'm not sure, but I think the steam from the shower must have activated the ink." "Reappearing ink," Scully shook her head, waving the paper back to Mulder. "Someone's certainly taking the round about approach in trying to convert you." The clerk was back, presenting the fruit of his labors still warm from the copier. Mulder smiled, pocketing the paper, "Thanks. Well, Scully, let's get to Richmond before that body needs cold storage." The little clerk mouthed the word "body?" and backed hurriedly for the copy room as Scully followed her partner out the door. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX In nearly one hundred fifty miles Mulder had managed to finish shaving, consume half a bag of sunflower seeds and exceed seventy-five at every available opportunity. Scully had manned the cell phone and calls both to and from the Bureau's Identification Division, the Center for Missing and Exploited Children and the National Forestry Service. No, there were no matches on the victims. No, there were no reports of fires at the crime scenes of the first two victims. Mulder had shrugged at that one. "Victim one was removed from the scene three months ago. Victim two, six weeks. Given the weather and the elements, what could possibly have been left to find that Heissman's crew wouldn't have recovered?" "Granted, but I refuse to believe no one's reported these kids missing," Scully said to her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her makeup needed some serious touching up. In site of the James River, Mulder pulled into a gas station. "We've got another twenty miles. Next stop is Pocahontas State Park and all the investigating time your bladder can handle." He popped the trunk without further comment and went inside to pay for gas and soft drinks. He needed something to wash the aspirin down. Scully pushed the trunk closed before heading for the ladies room. She appreciated Mulder's thoughtfulness but she knew what it took to run with the old boys network and had removed the word primp from her vocabulary early on. Unlike the massive Shenandoah National Park, Pocahontas was just over seven thousand acres with fully developed picnic and camping facilities, bicycle paths, fishing and an impressive swimming pool complex. Although the pools were closed awaiting Memorial weekend, there were still plenty of hikers and campers trying to peer past the police barricade. Mulder and Scully skirted a local television crew, stepping under the yellow tape for the short hike to Swift Creek Lake. Even from a distance Swift Creek Lake was anything but. Local development had left it silting and shallowing; aquatic plants and algae blooms made it difficult to tell where the lake and land parted company. Scully frowned as she and her partner exchanged winter gloves for latex. "The other victims were found in remote trail areas. This is practically downtown Richmond on a Sunday off." "Maybe our UNSUB didn't appreciate the lack of attention. Or maybe he's just hedging his bets against firebugs trying to upstage him." "You don't think he set the fire himself?" "Why? Because the thought of Spooky Mulder and the Enigmatic Doctor Scully sniffing around suddenly frightened him? It's not his work, Scully. It's not his style." If Mulder had already developed a sense of their killer, he was way ahead of his partner. She was glad of it. This was what he did best: getting into the head of the perpetrator and developing a workable profile. Her job was to keep him objective. And sane enough to get back out of whatever demented head he found himself wandering in. They found the highly praised Walter Hovind leaning against the "No Swimming" sign. He reminded Mulder of Fruhike with a trenchcoat and a badge. Fruhike in a trenchcoat was a frightening enough thought but the badge... Mulder caught sight of the little plastic covered shape on the snow and shook off his foolishness. Hovind led the way, reporting on the morning's activities. "She was found by a couple of local weekend warriors. They say they didn't touch anything. I believe them. Coroner estimates she'd been here maybe eighteen hours judging from the fixed lividity but with the temperature it could have been longer. The Chesterfield Med Ex's a good man, he's kept the body as found. Beyond that," Hovind shook his head, "we've combed the area for every footprint and broken twig within an acre. Here's your only clue." He pulled back the plastic sheeting to reveal their silent hostess. Scully knelt, hearing herself mentally composing the autopsy report: White female, approximately seven to eight years of age. Subject is past rigor mortis, corneas cloudy, skin slightly greenish. Mulder was uncharacteristically pale as he squatted beside her, his hands resting between his knees. There was something almost sacrilegious in the thought of disturbing the little figure. Her jaw had dropped slightly during the loosening of rigor mortis and she lay very daintily, very sweetly, very pale, her mouth open just so, her hands just so still. No bruise or look of terror disturbed that quiet face as it stared up at the towering hemlock above her. Except for the milkiness of her eyes, she looked like a work of art. The work of art of a madman. Somewhere in the colder part of his mind he noted she was facing due east. Mulder looked away to his left, to the little arm extended due south. He took the child's hand, lifting it several inches from the dirty snow. It managed to be even colder than the winter chill. He stared a moment at the little wound in the palm then closed his hand around hers and stared at nothing. Scully gently lifted the paper gown, gloved hand probing the surgical scars approximate to heart and liver. She looked up at Mulder. She continued looking at him silently. He didn't notice. She looked up at Hovind; funny, she hadn't noticed how old he looked before. But everyone looked older when standing over the dead. She said, "I'd like to get her to an autopsy room ASAP." "Coroner's ready to release her to the Richmond Bureau unless you prefer flying her straight to Washington." "No. I think she's waited long enough." Mulder had replaced the girl's hand and stood, looking up at the hemlock. "I'd love to see this guy's House-Tree-Person test," he said quietly. Hovind, clueless to Mulder's psychology background, followed the agent's gaze well enough. "We've checked the tree over, even had one of the Park Service's experts check it for markings, odd pollen, rot and bugs. Nothing." The little man shook his head. "They say take only pictures and leave only footprints. We should get so lucky with this SOB." He turned. "Hey! Let's get a body bag over here!" XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX It was exactly thirteen minutes after ten when Scully emerged from the autopsy bay to find Mulder asleep on the medical examiner's couch. Pulling off her mask and gloves, she watched him a moment as he lay so deceptively still. He was in REM sleep, eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids, his mind cataloging and detailing even now. She collected her data and her laptop and padded quietly down the hall to complete her report in the deserted reception area. She was settled in with a fresh cup of coffee and earphones when he gasped in his sleep. It was dark and quiet. He was outside, looking up at stars. Their light, resplendent in their distant somewhere was devoured by the dark. Snow fluttered against his skin, licking light from his face. All about him, he felt the unconquerable dark; it stalked him, enveloped him, pervaded him. Resplendent white beckoned at his feet but he didn't want to look down. He hated looking down. He always saw the same thing when he looked down. He closed his eyes, lowering his face involuntarily. The snow and wind were patient and soft. They knew he would eventually come round. He always did. He had no choice. His eyes fluttered; opened; focused upon the ache and sorrow of whitened earth. She was there. Laying quietly on the snow. Waiting. Like the snow and the wind she was patient. Like him, she had no choice. He approached like a man treading holy ground; the trembling that possessed him had little to do with the cold. He knelt by the little form. Took her hand. Wrapped it in his own. Willed it to warm, knowing it wouldn't. He sensed her invitation, struggled against it. But it was such a small thing; he could not refuse her. He took his place, laying down beside her just beyond the span of the little arm. She never moved; never turned her head, yet he could feel her eyes upon him, trusting and unafraid. He felt the chill of ice and snow against his back, felt the colder presence beside him, his left side going numb from the cold she radiated. The numbness spread to the center of his body; his heart growing sluggish. Arms frozen by force of death, his fingers clawed the snow in desperation. , his mind screamed. This was new ground. He had never allowed the dream to go on so long. He struggled to release himself; his brain ignored him, his silent screams went unanswered. She lay quiet beside him waiting for what came next. They were no longer alone. A mass of eyes fluttered above them: soft, raspy, fluttering blue-green-silver set in a field of deep iridescent blue. A cry, metallic and harsh, many-throated, echoed above his silent screams. Then in a blink, they folded and disappeared into the cold black that was the forest around them. A figure of shadow emerged from the darkness, darker than the darkness. It approached, lumbering and massive, hunched across the snow. It moved on human feet, stopped, blocking several thousand stars from his view. Hands, dark as midnight and huge reached out and he was helpless to stop them. Then he felt the object in his mouth. The part of his brain struggling for consciousness identified the object as undissolved aspirin he had failed to swallow or had regurgitated in his frozen fight. Her voiceless answer came from beside him. The voice was his sister's. And still the hands of the shadow returned, shoving the object down and suddenly he was choking. Frozen in the snow, he gasped, fighting for air that could not come, his mind reeling, the shadow retreating in the darkness closing around him, his sister's voice in his ringing ears. Scully heard the thud and the crash and threw the earphones across the desk in her dash for the hall. "Mulder!" He was struggling on the floor in a tangle of files and coffee table bric-a-brac. He was blue, his hands clawing at his neck. She knelt behind him, fighting him to reach under his ribs. She performed the Heimlich. Nothing. Mulder pushed her away, his eyes bleeding panic. His desperation unnerved her and she looked around for the only help he would allow her to render: she found a cup of cold coffee on the desk and tossed it in his face. He took a deep noisy breath, then another. He slumped back in the floor, hands over his eyes, luxuriating in the oxygen supply. "Oh, God. Oh, God." His voice was harsh, like his larynx had been damaged. Scully knelt and felt his neck, recoiled as he jerked. "You're all right, Mulder. It's okay." His eyes registered recognition and he tried to relax as her physician's hands probed first his neck, then his chest and abdomen. Satisfied, she let him sit up. "What was all this, Mulder? Were you eating something or--" He shook his head. "Just a dream," he rasped. "That was some dream." He closed his eyes again, took another deep breath, let it out slow and controlled. "I want to see your report." "The report will keep. I'm taking you to the hospital." He shook his head, pushed her away and stood shakily. "It was just a dream, Scully," his voice cracked with effort. He swallowed hard. "It's called an incubus dream. The subject wakes--" "The subject wakes choking, screaming or shaking. I've read the literature. The literature also says that these dreams are unusual in adults." She pushed him into the ME's restroom. "Is this like any of the nightmares you've been having lately?" He shrugged noncommittally which was usually his reluctant yes. "You get the coffee washed off and I'll print out my report for you. But I'm warning you, Mulder, you start flaking out on me, I'm giving you a tranquilizer." She heard a croaking "Promises, promises" through the closing door then the sound of running water. Mulder leaned his arms on the little cabinet, letting the cold water run over his hands until they had stopped shaking. His fingers had finally stopped tingling. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror above, looked quickly down again. He began scooping doubled handfuls of water onto his face. He worked at it compulsively until he felt he would drown himself. He fisted his hands, forcing them to be still, rested his forehead on the misty faucet. It was a long time before he turned off the water and dried his face. He did not look back at the mirror. Scully didn't comment as he emerged. They stood face to face as he read the report and she watched him. He handed the papers back to her and mentally prepared himself for some major hell. "Where are the x-rays?" His voice was just over a whisper and cracked. "X-rays are in the evidence file. The results are in the report." "I would like to see them. Please." "You think my report is incomplete?" "I think your report is exemplary. As usual." He swallowed, trying to cool his burning throat. "May I see the x-rays, please?" She lead the way to the exam room and popped the sheets of film into the clips of the light box. She stepped back, jaw set, watching him select and focus on a single negative. She stepped up behind him, staring around his shoulder. The film was a frontal shot of the lower jaw, neck and upper thorax. "Is there any lateral film of the neck?" he asked even as he shuffled through the remaining film on the shelf. "No, Mulder. What exactly are you looking for?" "Something that might show the throat. Without the vertebrae in the way." "Why--" "Is that too much to ask, Scully?" Her look stopped him cold. He sighed. "I'm sorry, I know you don't take the x-rays. I know you performed a thorough examination while I sat on my backside--" "It's not about that, Mulder, and you know it. Look," she said calmly, "I'm going to drink one more cup of coffee, then I'm going to call Skinner. Then I'm going to a motel and get some sleep. If you want to spend the rest of the night here, that's your business. I'll drive us back as far as Alexandria but I am not fighting the traffic into DC. That's your job. Clear?" She didn't even wait for his nod. "Scully." She turned. He looked like hell, she thought, but he had that pathetic look she'd always been a sucker for.... Jeezus. "What, Mulder?" "Mind if I look down her throat?" "For?" He shrugged. "The view?" She close her eyes wearily. "Sure. Fine. Whatever." When she returned from the coffee pot, Scully paused by the window looking into the autopsy bay. Mulder had located little Jane Doe's drawer. The lights in the office were low, giving her a clear view as he stood over the child on the shelf. His back was to her; the weight of horror rested on his shoulders. She no longer wanted her coffee but welcomed the sensation of the cup hot in her hands. It somehow made the scene before her a little less surreal. Mulder stepped slowly around the end of the shelf, his eyes never leaving the body as he circled. He pulled the sheet down from the little face and placed it softly across her shoulders. Scully caught her breath. There was something about the way he adjusted the sheet; like a man tucking a loved child into bed for the night. Or a dear little sister. He stood there a moment regarding the cold open eyes. He stepped back, entranced, listening. He placed his hands on her stomach, lightly and very deliberately. Still his eyes had never left those cold sightless pupils. Scully felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to rise. When the phone buzzed beside her she almost dropped her cup, hot coffee splashing on her shoes. She snatched up the receiver to find Skinner on the other end. He had received her e-mailed report. She clarified a few details and assured him Agent Mulder was working on his profile even as they spoke. Her confident voice hesitated as she turned back to the window. Mulder's fascination dance with the victim was done, apparently. He had donned latex gloves and was probing the girl's mouth with forceps and a dental mirror. Scully tapped on the window and was ignored. Skinner's voice filtered through the receiver. "It there a problem, Agent Scully?" "No, sir. Agent Mulder and myself were just verifying our findings and-- what the hell?" Mulder was examining something gripped in the forceps and seemed to need to hold himself steady to do so. He almost fell across Jane Doe in his effort to remain standing. Scully barely gasped out an "I'll call back" before hanging up on Skinner and running for the exam room. Steadied now, he held out the forceps for her to see. "Mulder, it's-- It's a sunflower seed." He closed his eyes, sighed deeply. "I noticed that." She held his hand to remove the forceps from his grip. He surrendered the grisly trophy without comment and turned back to the body. Scully busied herself with the evidence, preparing to make microscopic slides. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Mulder lean over the child and--was he whispering in her ear? Scully held her breath and heard "...good girl. You did just fine" and then his voice dropped lower. She watched his reflection on the stainless steel backsplash as he gently swept an unruly strand of hair from the lifeless forehead and reverently consigned little Jane back beneath her sheet. Scully turned back to the seed, prying it gently open. Her cry brought Mulder to her side. Together they regarded the tiny piece of metal cradled within the shell. "Mulder, it's a computer chip." "Scully, I'm suddenly very turned on." His voice was still raspy. God, he sounded like Bruner. Sunflower seeds. He touched Scully's arm. "I've got to make a phone call." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX If the road to success was never easy, it was obvious to Scully at least that she and Mulder were well on their way to greatness. With an entire series of interdepartmental screw ups and miscommunications it was noon before all the last minute paperwork had been completed, a quarter of two before the Coroner got back from lunch to sign the death certificate and four twenty when she and Mulder finally saw Jane Doe Four off in her hearse for the trip to Washington. Walking across the parking lot to their rental car, Mulder used his cell phone and left one more message for Dr. Heissman. Scully, again in the driver's seat, listened as Mulder fought a losing battle with someone named Graham. His voice had mended but that fact seemed to do him little good in this conversation. She waited as he punched a bitter finger at the power button. "Okay, 'Dr. Verber,'" she asked, "What's so important at the Maryland Institute for the Criminally Insane?" "I'm trying to see if my commitment papers have been accepted." "Uh huh. Need a recommendation?" "It's always good to know I can count on you, Scully." "Seriously." "Seriously," he smiled, stretching back in the passenger seat. "Tell you what, let's play a game." "Anything to keep from answering a direct question, right?" "What's wrong, Scully, you never played games on family road trips when you were a kid?" She started the car and pulled out into the traffic of Greencourt Road. "This isn't the one where you try to locate the license plates that spell out naughty words, is it?" "Your parents were obviously far more open-minded than mine. No, this is simple word association. I say something and you say the first thing that pops into your head." He smiled and popped a sunflower into his. "You can pick my brain only on the condition that I get to pick yours next." "Between nightmares, case reports, and phone calls I've only had about three hours of actual sleep this week so just don't expect any money back guarantees on the quality of my answers. I go first, okay? First word. White." "Black." "Snow." "Ice." "Dream." "Choke." He met her disapproving gaze with one of his own. "White," he said. "You used that one already." "White," he repeated. "Uh, blank." "As in you're blank or is that the association?" "That's the association. You know, like a blank space." Mulder tilted his head, thoughtfully. Then, "Blank." "God, you're irritating. Blank. Fill in the." "Good." "Evil." "No, I meant 'fill in the blank' was good." "Thank you. Is it my turn yet?" "No. Dream." He gave her a warning look this time. "An answer to a question you haven't yet learned to ask yourself," she sing-songed, quoting her partner's long standing position on the subject. "Suck up," he said. "That's not part of the game, I hope." She'd made him laugh and only then realized how much she'd been missing that. "No," he said, still smiling. "Okay. Hum. Snow." "White. And don't say white again. I'm fresh out of white associations." "Quiet." She looked at him. "That was your word, not a request," he explained. "Oh. Ah, let's see. Quiet. Loud." She looked over. "Loud. Your = tie. There, that's two associations for the price of one. Now is it my turn?" "Seed." "As in sunflower?" She knew where this was going. "Your favorite snack. Your father's favorite snack. Your father's experiments. Computer chips. Implants. Abductions" Mulder nodded quietly staring out at the window as Interstate 95 crossed the Ann River. The smile was gone. "Word of God," he said. She felt the storm brewing again; considered her answer. "Truth." Mulder turned to look at her. He opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. "The seed is the word of God," he said aloud to himself. "The seed is the truth." She looked at him puzzled. "St. Luke 8:11-17," he answered, turning back to the view outside without seeing it. "Someone wants us to find the truth, Scully. It's out there and at least one person wants us to find it." He turned back to her, his eyes shadowed. "The frightening thing is: I think that person is our suspect." She changed lanes, passing a Winnebago with an "I love New York" bumper sticker plastered above Oregon plates. "Okay. My turn," she said. "Did our suspect give you that pen?" "No." "Are you sure?" Mulder closed his eyes, seeing Bruner's cage, seeing Bruner's eyes burning against his retina. "I'm sure." "I promised Skinner he'd have your profile today." "I e-mailed it about noon. If he'd had any problems with it he'd have called by now." He tried to rub at the sudden pain in his right temple. "Give me the highlights." He moaned, suddenly tired and apathetic. He shook his head to clear it, tried to remember his report. "Killer is organized, method specific, victim specific. Highly intelligent. High social competence. Highly educated, obviously, a surgeon. Probably involved in research of some sort. Sexual competence. Geographically and occupationally mobile. Possibly, make that definitely, part of a team of at least two. Probably more. UNSUB two, specifically our body dumper, is also organized, method specific. Feels a bond with these kids and may possibly be the one abducting them in the first place. If he is the abductor, conventional profiling would tell us he is a white male approximately twenty-five to thirty-five. I would disagree, putting him more of a grandfatherly type, in his mid-fifties to late-sixties. He's also highly intelligent with moderate to high social competence, well educated, mobile and sexually competent. He's also experienced personal suffering first hand. He controls his crime scene, personalizing the victims and leaving little evidence- -" "Try no evidence." "You know as well as I do that nothing disappears without a trace. It's like you told Leichman. The evidence is there. The bodies. Their positions. The arrangement of the crime scene. What is and isn't there. It's a pattern. That in itself is a clue. We just don't know how to read it yet." "What is this about his experience of personal suffering? That's something you've gotten from the crime scenes?" "From the victims," his voice was barely a whisper. "From the victims or your dreams about the victims?" Silence. "Mulder, answer the question." He signed. "Okay, Scully, you name me one person who's made it to fifty-five without experiencing personal suffering of some type. Or thirty-five for that matter." "That's not a direct answer but I'll concede the point. You also said he personalizes the victims. I don't see that." Mulder's eyes were closed, his speech soft. "Look at the care given to the crime scenes, Scully. These kids are not just dumped there. They're laid out in a very specific manner. He has to realize that every element at the scene is a potential clue or has the potential for revealing something. Like the paper gowns. Why put them in the paper gowns when he could lay them out nude and not have to worry about the paper catching hold of a fiber, a hair, an eyelash? He's concerned enough about their dignity to clothe them. What does it matter? It matters because he cares." They drove in silence for a few minutes, passing the familiar signs marking the US Marine Corps Reservation and the Quantico FBI Academy opposite. "I've been thinking about the stigmata thing," she said. "Are you asleep?" He rotated his neck, feeling the pull in his left shoulder. "No, Scully. What about the stigmata thing?" "Couldn't that just be a form of haematodipsia? A sexual compulsion to see, taste and touch human blood? And that in turn be attributed to necrophilia?" "Could be. But I don't think so," Mulder opened his eyes, looking out at the road. "I don't think these are thrill killings, not for the killer and not for the guy laying these kids out. I think he's using the stigmata as a smoke screen. Or maybe, he's imitating a crucifixion because he thinks that's what the girls are: a sacrifice. Maybe that's the only form of protest to this thing he's allowed." "But you don't believe this is cult related." "There are many kinds of sacrifices, Scully." He was digging in his coat pocket. "I think he believes these killings to be more of a sacrifice for a greater good. Like using lab rats for cancer research." "Evidenced by the missing organs?" "Surgically removed missing organs," he emphasized. He tried swallowing four ibuprofen without water, winced as they went down. "So we're supposed to believe he's a noble benefactor of mankind? You okay?" "I'm fine. There is such a thing as a successful psychopath. These people blend in with the population, lead lives of relative normalcy but they're essentially psychopaths in their attitudes and ideology. Many of them join the medical profession or the ministry because they believe themselves to be noble benefactors of mankind as you call them. Their egomania is such that they believe that they have the right to do anything they want so long as they can justify it to themselves. And having no concept of truth, no clear distinction between truth and a convenient lie, they can justify anything. Especially to themselves. You have nurses administering lethal doses and calling it mercy killings. You have psychiatrists ripping out the throats of Ways and Means Committee chairmen and declaring they're doing their country a service--" Scully's eyebrows made a leap for her hairline. "Excuse me?" Mulder shrugged, ignoring her, his eyes shut again. "Maybe that one doing us a favor. Who knows?" In sight of the Washington Beltway Scully said, "Enough of that. Now it's my turn to profile. You." Mulder peeked at her through the slit of one eye. The hell she hadn't given him the evening before was on it's way now he was sure. It couldn't be too bad, though; they were less than fifteen minutes away from his apartment. Scully intoned: "Patient suffers from sleep disturbances, loss of appetite, various physical complaints including muscle cramps, pinched nerves and headaches--" "I've only had one headache," he corrected. "It's just that it's lasted two weeks." "Patient vacillates between periods of apathy, anxiety, depression and extreme irritability-- "Irritability? Who the hell's irritable--" "Diagnosis is adjustment disorder due to prolonged stress, possibly leading to a breakdown if he continues ignoring his need for real rest." She stopped the car in front of his building. "Point taken, Dr. Scully." He said, collecting his bag. "I'd invite you in but I've got a hot date with a sedative." "Good. You look like hell." "So I've been told." She gave him her best park ranger smile. He waved and shook his head, giving her a smile that was too tired to be anything but genuine. She watched him retreat into the gathering twilight. "Good night, Mulder." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX She drove the thirty-five miles to Annapolis with the car radio blaring golden oldies. Her brain was tired and she was ready for a few hours of much needed down-time: a long, warm bath of bubbles with a scented candle in the soap dish followed by some herbal tea with her feet propped on the back of the sofa. She was more in need of the downtime than she knew: she was halfway across the lawn before she realized every light in her ground floor apartment was on and the front door was standing open. She dropped her bag on the walk, adrenaline rising along with the gunsite of her pistol, and made her way carefully toward the door. With training ingrained by drill and experience, she paused, back to the wall beside the door, listening for the faintest sound. There was a soft footfall = several rooms in, no voices. She stepped in quickly, silently, muzzle scanning with her line of vision the disarray of furniture and bric-a-brac. In the back of her mind she assessed the obvious damage: nothing major, nothing stolen. This was no thief. The realization made her heart pound in earnest; the front rooms assessed, she followed her pistol site down the hall to the half open door of the bedroom. Scully paused beside the doorjamb, repeating the caution that had brought her to the front door. She heard rapid breathing behind the door and hoped that, whoever he was, he didn't have a calmer partner waiting farther in the room. In one quick movement she rushed the door, slamming it hard into the intruder and jumped past him, firearm aimed lethally. "Don't move!" The figure behind the door moaned; she'd knocked out both his breath and his weapon--her bedside lamp. He rolled over in the floor and sat up blearily. "Bill?" "Hi, Dana," he said weakly, staring down her gunsite. "You wouldn't shoot your own brother, would you?" She holstered the weapon and helped him up. "What are you doing here?" "Well, Mom and Tara met up in New York for a week on the town. I got an early leave and thought I'd come out and visit with my baby sister." Scully regarded him blankly, an uneasy feeling in her gut. "Oh?" "Yeah, well, you know," he said sheepishly. "We're always wondering just what it is you really do and I thought I'd show some overdue moral support, show some interest and," he shrugged, looking around. "And when I got here, well, things looked pretty interesting. Are you okay, then?" "I'm fine." She began righting furniture. "We're on a case right now and I just got in from Richmond." She walked back through the apartment, closing riffled cabinets and drawers. "It doesn't look like they took anything. Are you sure you didn't surprise them and scare them off?" "I've only been here a few minutes. I didn't see or hear anyone. God, I'm glad you're okay. I walked up and looked through the door and feared the worst after Melissa..." his voice trailed off and he looked back wistfully at the door where Melissa had died. Someone had mistaken her for her sister. Dana wanted to ask Bill how long he was staying. She knew she couldn't. She sighed and sat down on the couch. Bill stood over her, hands on his hips. "So, Agent Dana, does this kind of thing happen often?" She smiled tiredly. "No. Not to me anyway. They're usually too busy breaking and entering at Mulder's to bother me much." She jerked up off the couch. "Oh, God. Mulder." She found the phone under the coffee table and hit speed dial. Bill waited, watching her face as Mulder's answering machine picked up. "Mulder, it's me. Pick up the phone." She bit her lip nervously. "Mulder, pick up the phone! Fox Mulder, if you don't pick up this phone right now, I'm coming over there!" Bill left the room silently and began turning off lights throughout the apartment. When she tossed the phone on the couch he was waiting for her by the door. "Bill, I'll be back--" "I'm not letting you go over there by yourself. God knows what you'll be walking into," he raised his hand to quiet her protest. "I know you're trained and all that crap but you're still my sister. I'll follow you in my car if I have to. I mean it, Dana. Besides, if in he's trouble maybe you both could use my help." "Bill, you don't even like Mulder." "I think he's a cold hearted SOB but I know he's saved your life once or twice--" "More than once or twice." "Whatever, but--" "No 'but.'" Scully pushed past him, walking fast, flinging words back at him on the way to the car. "I know you think he's at fault for every danger I've ever been in, but this is my job, my choice, do you understand? It's the work I do that puts me in harm's way. Fox Mulder didn't make that choice. I did. If you can't at least grant me that much respect then you might as well go home now. Mulder and I are both under enough stress as it is without putting up with an attitude from my family." Bill bowed an apology, scooping up her bag off the lawn as he passed it. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'll be civil." He was barely in the passenger seat when she put the car into drive. "I just hope he's still alive for you to be civil to," she snapped. Three blocks later, Bill asked, "They teach you to drive like this in the FBI?" "Your tax dollars at work." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Mulder wasn't answering his door either. Bill shrugged helplessly at his sister's frustration. "Hey, at least his door is still locked. Yours was standing open." She shook her head in answer and fumbled for her key ring. "You have a key to his apartment," Bill stated flatly. Dana looked up at his clinched jaw and rolled her eyes. Bill defended himself: "I'm only implying that he's a healthy single male, and this kind of situation could be potentially embarrassing." She slipped the key into the lock and turned it. "You're implying that Mulder has a personal life. He'd be flattered. Stay back." She upholstered her gun, entering the darkened apartment expecting the worse. Light from the hall showed her what she feared: his apartment had been searched as well. She stepped over papers and books, her gun scanning the room nervously. Bill flipped the light on behind her and she jerked. Bill was by the kitchen door. He raised a finger to his lips and pointed through the kitchen. She joined him in the doorway and peered to the right, cursing whatever architect that would put a bedroom off a kitchen. She pushed Bill back and allowed her gun to proceed her. Mulder's bedroom door was partially open. If anyone was lurking behind it in the dark, they were far more professional at this than Bill had been. She bit her lip, took a deep breath and slammed into the door. It bounced against something soft on the floor and Scully scrambled for the light switch with a sickening feeling in her gut. A basketball. She sighed and looked over at her partner, asleep in the bed. "Mulder?" He didn't move. She shook him. He moaned softly and pushed her away. Bill spoke from the doorway. "Why don't you just let the man sleep?" "He's usually a light sleeper. Something's wrong." She felt his forehead and checked the pulse in his neck. No fever, and his BPM were good. She checked the bedside table: a glass--she sniffed: water. Turning on the bedside lamp she searched the drawer, found an old watch, some letters and several old Lone Gunman newsletters. She trotted past Bill, into the bathroom, stepping over a damp towel. There on the cabinet she found what she'd been looking for. A medicine bottle: the prescription was a sedative, thirty to be exact, the date was two years old. She dumped the contents into her hand on her way back to the bed. Three left. She shook him in earnest now. "Mulder. Fox, its Dana. Wake up." He complied blearily. He was too groggy to be coherent and she had to ask him twice, "How many pills did you take?" "One," he finally managed, falling back to sleep even as he spoke. "Are you sure? Mulder, are you certain you only took one?" He nodded, tried to speak then gave up. She sat on the edge of the bed a moment more and Bill switched off the room light, coming in to stand over her. "Is he okay? She nodded. "He's been depressed and moody lately, probably from exhaustion considering our recent workload, but I don't think he's suicidal. This particular drug has a number of side effects, though: tachycardia, respiratory depression, increased motor activity during sleep." "You want to stay and keep an eye on him." He shrugged at her look. "He'd probably do the same if the situation were different. I know I would." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do you think these guys will be back?" She sighed and shook her head. He patted her shoulder. "I'll help clean up." He didn't wait for her to protest. They quickly had the place in fair order: at least the furniture was upright. Books filled the top of the desk. Bill hadn't minded the opportunity to do some snooping into the personal effects of this man who's life so intertwined with his sister's and Dana had pretended not to notice. He sat on the couch, sipping coffee and reading when she returned from checking on her patient again. "Listen to this," he said, then read: "Now it is a peculiarity of psychic functioning that when the unconscious counteraction is suppressed it then begins to have an accelerating and intensifying effect on the conscious process. A condition then arises in which not only no inhibiting counteraction takes place, but in which its energy seems to add itself to that of the conscious direction-- ." He nodded at her blank look. "Yeah, me to. And that's one of the parts he's highlighted. Is he really that smart or does he just not have any books in English?" She smiled, stretching out in the chair. "Graduated Oxford suma cum laud with a degree in clinical psychology. Graduated Quantico with highest honors. Commendations out the yin yang, I've heard tell. He's really that smart. Unfortunately, he's also willing to follow his own ideas and gut instincts even if that means mowing over a few egos here and there." "Or looking like a total idiot." "That too," she conceded. "Mulder seems to have been blessed with the gift of not giving a damn about what people think about him. Sometimes I envy that." She smiled. Bill flipped a few pages and read aloud again: "The drawing of a spellbinding circle is an ancient magical device used by one having a special or secret purpose in mind. He thereby protects himself from the perils of the soul that threaten him from without and attack anyone who is isolated by a secret." He flipped back to the book's cover: " And I thought all his weird ideas were original." She smiled but Bill was thoughtful as he laid the book aside. His voice was quiet. "Melissa said something to me once I've never really understood but, I don't know, it seemed important to her at the time. She said there are some things, some people, places, events, in this world that are precious. Things you wrap your life around. Things you hold onto gently. But you hold them at any cost." He looked up. "She said Mulder understood that as a truth in his own life. That what he was holding on to might cost him his life. Dana, I don't know what that something is but I just don't want it costing you your life." She looked away and sighed. "How is that all the men in my life are going through a philosophical phase at the same time?" "All of them?" "All right, both of them, smart ass. What's this about, Bill?" He looked down sheepishly. "When we had the baby baptized Tara and I started going back to church." She waited. "Well, Father Mitchell was talking about how we often sow what we reap. If we want justice and mercy then maybe we should start showing a little." She raised her brows at him, still waiting. He cleared his throat. "You're right. I always blamed your partner for all the times your life was in danger, for all the things you've suffered... Because he supported you in this dream of yours. Of being in the FBI. I blamed him. I refused to allow you to grow up and make your own decisions. My baby sister." He couldn't look at her. "And I was jealous, too. Because you no longer needed us as your moral support, as your shoulder. You had him. And he would stand with you, right or wrong." "Unlike my family?" "You know we stand behind you, Dana." "But not without criticism." "If we're critical, and we are," he conceded, "it's because we care." "And Mulder doesn't care because you don't think he's critical of me?" He regarded her, his little sister, remembering her tears when she'd killed a snake because of his childish dare. Remembered her tonight entering two apartments, ready to take human life. He missed the old Dana. But if she was gone, he'd take whoever was in her place. "He'd better not be critical of you. I'll kick his ass." She smiled. "That might not be quite as easy as you think." Bill cocked his head. "Well, you never can tell. He and I might still get round to proving that." He smiled. "So, how does the couch sleep in this place?" "Okay." "I should have known you would know that. Just a statement, don't get bent out of shape." He stood. "Why don't you get some sleep? I'll go back to your place and try out the guest room and come back in the morning bright and early." "Not too early," she said, "it's Saturday." He fetched her bag from the car and hugged her goodnight. "Tell Sleeping Beauty in there to behave himself." He winked at her, locking the door as he left. She helped herself to a shower and a blanket then was back in the bedroom to check on Mulder again. His breathing was regular but he sighed fitfully now and then, fighting with the covers. Still she could see no REM activity; the dosage he had taken would depress REM sleep anyway, at least until its fullest effects had waned. No, this time the problem was not dreams but the extent of his fatigue: even with the sedative, he would be plagued by neuralgia and muscle cramps. She was too keyed up to sleep and found herself straightening again. A suit still in it's cleaner's bag laid over the back of the one dining room chair that had remained upright through the search. She was hauling it to the closet when the phone rang. "Mulder residence." "Is Mr. Mulder in, please?" The voice on the other end was a tenor or low alto, oddly asexual, twisted by a raspy half-whisper. Scully felt the hair on her arms stand up. Probably static electricity from the cleaner's bag. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder won't be available this evening. Would you like to leave a message?" "And who might you be?" The tone was pleasant enough. Scully looked again at the suit she was holding. "Housekeeping," she said wryly. "Just tell him someone was doing a little foxhunting." "Excuse me?" The dial tone was her only explanation. "Fox Mulder," she said to the room, that's weird even for you." Then she and the dry cleaning were back to the bedroom. Her mission accomplished Scully reached for the pull chain to turn the closet light back off. The flash of foil paper caught her eye. She paused. There on the shelf next to boot boxes and several old yearbooks were gifts wrapped in Christmas paper. The poinsettia print was frayed and dull with age. Curiosity was too much. She glanced back nervously at Mulder's quiet face and carefully pulled the packages down. One was obviously a puzzle of some sort, the second quite light; the third may have been books. All were graced with name tags inscribed with the same adolescent hand: "To Samantha, From Fox." Events unknown to her played out in her mind. Samantha had disappeared only a month before Christmas. Knowing Mulder, he would have already been buying gifts for his family by November. These were the gifts Samantha never saw. The puzzle rattled at her jealously, drying the mist that had formed across her eyes. The man behind her moaned at demons in his sleep. She returned the packages carefully, snapped off the light, closed the door. Mulder gasped, pushing at a corner of the blanket across his chest. She brushed back his hair, shushing at him softly and he relaxed again, his breathing calmed. She adjusted the shade of the lamp to direct the light away from his eyes and padded back to the living room, suddenly very tired. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Agent Jake Perez woke her on her cell phone at seven. "Oh man, did I wake you? "Yes," she said a little less than graciously, then instantly regretted it. Knowing Perez, he'd probably stayed at the lab all night working on the package of evidence she'd sent with Jane Doe Four s body. She'd certainly applied enough feminine charm in her call to him the day before. Of course, with Perez, it didn't take too much effort. "Agent Scully, I'm sorry--" "No, it's okay. Really. I was waiting for your call, in fact." She let her voice drop only just enough to hint at being provocative. "It's good to hear your voice." she thought, There was a pause on Perez's end. "Ah. Listen I got the results back on that computer chip you asked me to look over. You were right, of course. It's almost a dead match for your implant." Scully was wide awake now. "How's Biology coming on the chemical workup?" "That's pretty interesting, too. Results are still fairly preliminary, as you know, but there appears to be some kind of cellular damage." "What kind of cellular damage?" "Like these kids have been frozen." "Perez, they were exposed to frigid temperatures: snow, ice--" "No. Not elemental deterioration. This is far beyond that. In fact, I'd swear these girls were cryogenically frozen. Is that possible? I mean, based on what you and Agent Mulder have going on out there?" "Perez, I hate to ask this but, I'm going to need a listing of all facilities capable of cryogenic freezing--" "Pete Glenn's already on it. Apparently he's been following your work pretty closely. I think he's quite happy with what he's seeing in your reports." Scully smiled. "Thanks. That's good to hear. I really appreciate the OT you've put in on this, Perez. It's good to know there are people in the department I can count on when it really matters." She was sincere this time. So why did it sound like such a suck up job? Perez's stuttered response and goodbye assured her that she hadn't lost her soft touch, however and she collected her things for a shower. Mulder was still out cold, covers askew, his face tight. She was glad he was sleeping but doubted he'd gotten any real rest. She'd finished updating her report and was enjoying the quiet and her second cup of coffee when Mulder's phone rang. Bill's voice was bright on the other end. "So, you guys eat donuts or is that just for local law enforcement?" "Actually, I'm more the breakfast croissant type." "Ah, Ms. Sophistication. Will do. I'll be out of here in about twenty minutes. I managed to get most of it picked up, but you know how I am with decorating." "I'll tell Martha Stewart not to worry about her day job. Drive carefully." She stood and stretched luxuriously. Oh, well. Time to get the show on the road. And Mulder in the shower. Daylight filtered in through the curtain near the bed. She snapped off the bedside lamp and shook his arm. "Muld-- Oh!" The room did a double loop and she found herself flung on the bed, penned down by his weight and staring down the business end of a 9mm Glock. It was an impressive view. "Good morning," she said, catching her breath. Mulder stared at her a second longer then swore. "Damn, Scully, don't you ever knock?" "Can I get up now?" He jerked, suddenly realizing their positionand rolled off her. His attempt to stand was none too steady, however and she sat down next to him on the bed. "You're still a little groggy from the sedative. I don't want you getting in the shower until you've had some coffee." He nodded. "I'm sorry about that," he nodded his head back to her landing zone. "I was dreaming again..." He brushed back his hair, staring at nothing in particular. She patted his knee on the way to the kitchen. "Bill will be here with breakfast in about half an hour--" "Bill? As in brother Bill? Your brother Bill?" he called after her. "Mulder," she warned, handing him a steaming cup, "I've talked with him and he feels he's been unfair and he's trying to extend you a little mercy--" "So does the death angel, I'm told." She sighed and gave him the Look. "I don't want you antagonizing him." "Who, me? I'm Mr. Congeniality, remember? Okay, okay." She stepped back out of the room and he called out to be heard. "You know, you might want to tell him sometime that you don't need a brother. You have a .38. And that you use it on me ocassionally." He lowered his voice as she came back in. "He would enjoy hearing that last bit." He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and looked over her update. "Well, well. Agent Perez's been a busy boy. Scully, you're a heartless tease." She ignored him. "Are we ready for that shower?" "This part of that 'we' is. How about your half?" "Mulder." "Well, since you apparently don't think it's safe for me to sleep alone don't you think--" "Mulder, it is so important for your personal safety that you not finish that sentence." By the time Bill arrived, Mulder was showered and dressed and standing over the fax machine with a phone to his ear. "Yes, ma'am, I'm aware its Saturday, but surely you have at least one scientist who might be working on the weekend? You know, in the spirit of discovery? Yes, I'll hold." He nodded at Bill and rolled his eyes at Scully. "No wonder this nation's losing our technological advantage. The Smithsonian can't even keep a biologist on staff for the weekend." She helped Bill lay out breakfast at the table. "I told you, Mulder, Glenn's handling it already--" "Glenn had better be handling the update on my profile." "Since when did you update your profile?" "Since about five minutes ago." Then back to the phone. "Yes, sir. This is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. May I ask your specialty, please? Cellular Biology? Great. I'm going to fax you some data and I'd really like your opinion--" Scully, her mouth full of breakfast sandwich, pulled the discarded profile off the fax and returned to the table. She let Bill peruse it while she poured another cup of coffee. "Wow. Dana, I thought you said this killer of yours hadn't left any clues?" "Nothing useful. Mulder's just matching known psychological patterns to criminal methods and victimologies. General stuff at this point." "This is what you call a general description? It looks to me like all you need is his name and his shoe size." "About a twelve, maybe twelve and a half," Mulder quipped, off the phone and peering into the bag on the table. He settled for the coffee. "Dr. William Rickman, Cellular Biologist extraodinare says he's seen better freezes. Apparently whoever's freezing these kids is using some pretty old technology. He says it looks like some results he's seen of government research done in the fifties or early sixties." His phone rang and he was up again. "That'll be Forensics. I asked them to see if we've got any more sunflowers planted in our other victims." Scully looked up from the profile to stare at her partner on the phone. If looks could kill Bill was certain they'd be sizing Mulder up for a body bag. Mulder raised his voice. "No, sir. Agent Glenn, if you would just calm down and listen--Yes, sir, I'm aware of that. No, sir! I stand behind this profile. Yes, I will be at the meeting Monday and I'll be happy to explain-- Sir, with all due respect, people's kids are dying here. Just put out the APB and-- Yes, as a point of fact, I will come in today and explain my rationale. Well, I'm sorry if that's not convenient--" It was obvious he had been hung up on. He slammed the phone down to find Scully standing over him holding the profile. She read. "Accomplice is a Black male, muscular, late sixties possibly but not probably early seventies, six two to six four, 210 to 250 pounds with a very slight limp, preferring his left side?" She looked up. "Mulder, are you out of your mind?" "I don't want to hear it, Scully." "You have no evidence to back this and you know it--" "Glenn's not putting out the APB," Mulder was so angry he could scarcely see her, let alone hear her. "Do you blame him?" "Yes, damn it! Just once, I'd like to see someone in this Bureau operate with the courage of their convictions." "He operating with the courage of his convictions, Mulder. He just doesn't have enough courage to spare for convictions. What are you basing this physical description on? Your dreams?" "I've seen him, Scully." "In your dreams," she repeated. Mulder paced away then back again quickly. "Yes," he conceded. "Scully, I've been dreaming about this case every night for two weeks--" "We've only been on this case four days, Mulder." "I noticed that, too. Does that tell you anything?" The phone rang and he snatched it, still glaring at his partner. "Yes, sir," he said into the receiver. "No, sir, I haven't lost my mind." He rolled his eyes at Scully. "Yes, sir, Agent Scully is here and she's seen the report." Her hands were on her hips. "No, sir, she does not agree with my assessment." She relaxed but only just. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir." She tapped her foot. Mulder raised his eyebrows at her. At the table, Bill was laughing softly; they ignored him. Mulder said "Yes, sir," one more time and Scully thought she would scream. He handed her the phone. "Skinner," he said. Now it was Scully's turn to "Yes, sir." The Assistant Director's voice sounded no more irritated than usual. "Agent Scully, since I'm fading the heat on this, I suggest that the next phone call, fax, e-mail or smoke signal coming from either one of you gets on the receiving end. Is that clear? Put Mulder back on." Mulder accepted the receiver and barely got his name out before Skinner cut him short. Mulder shut his eyes suddenly, gratefully. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I--" Scully heard the dial tone. Mulder actually smiled. "He's putting out the APB." "On recommendation. Mulder, you had better be right. It's one thing to go into that meeting Monday with looking like idiots and quite another to haul Skinner into it--" "Forensics called Skinner. It seems the Doe Family finally showed to collect their kids. The first three bodies have been claimed from the morgues in Virginia." "Claimed by who?" "Well, that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it? Because by an odd coincidence the release records have all disappeared." The room was silent. Mulder's desk clock chimed hollowly. "So, all we have is Jane Doe Number Four," she said. "And Number Five. He laid her out last night, Scully." "In your dream." "I need to talk to Bruner." "If he's a doctor at that institution you called yesterday, I agree." "There weren't any messages on my machine when you came in this morning, were there?" "Well, I guess that puts all my fears to rest," Bill chirped. "She was here all night. It's comforting to know you didn't notice, Mulder." Scully interrupted Mulder's response, giving Bill her Look. It had about the same affect on him as it did Mulder: specifically none. "Someone called last night about nine or so," she said. I thought it was an obscene phone call at first. I'm still not so sure it wasn't." "And you didn't take a message?" Mulder quipped sweetly. "What did she say?" "I couldn't tell if it was a man of woman but they said something going on a little foxhunt--" Mulder blanched white. Even Bill recognized something had jumped track. He gave Dana a questioning glance as Mulder disappeared into his bedroom. Fox emerged again, shrugging into his overcoat. She heard the jangle of car keys. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Her partner paused at the door. "I'm going to seek psychiatric help," he said reasonably, then disappeared. She grabbed her own coat and trotted out after him. Bill sat a moment longer at the suddenly quiet table before jerking up to follow suit. When he reached the porch, Mulder had started his car and Dana was slamming her palm on the passenger window. The door lock clicked open and Bill pushed past her, climbing into the back seat. Dana and Fox stared at him. He shrugged. "I haven't been anywhere interesting since I got here." Mulder turned back around and looked at Scully glaring at her brother. The expression on her face made him smile and he glanced at Bill in the rearview mirror. "So, Bill. Do you like Baltimore?" "I live for Baltimore." Mulder grinned and even Dana's scowl didn't dim it. "Well," Mulder said to no one in particular, "Looks like the Scully family reunion's about to do a road show." He turned to Dana, "What was that road game you were mentioning yesterday?" Dana's intriguing suggestion of what Mulder could do with himself made Bill blush as she slammed the door. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Forty-five minutes later, Bill and Dana found themselves sitting in the anteroom of the Maryland Institute for the Criminally Insane. Dana leaned forward on her bench, peering down the long corridor that had swallowed Mulder fifteen minutes before. There was still no sign of him. She sat back, her frustration obvious. Bill tried a little humor. "Real fun guy, your partner. Does he often take the two of you off on weekend outings to mental institutions?" "Only if he can find one that will take him on an out-patient basis." She wasn't smiling. They sat in silence several minutes. Bill inspected his nails, picked lint from his coat and generally fidgeted until Dana's look stopped him cold. He cringed playfully then pointed to his ear. "You're missing an earring." She reached up and verified the information absently. "Probably fell off when Mulder threw me onto the bed--" Her face blanched white then turned several shades of brilliant red. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I mean, it's not what you think." Bill's face was expressionless. "I'm not thinking anything. Should I be thinking anything?" "Bill, there's nothing going on between myself and Mulder." "Uh, huh," he was enjoying this. "That's what I thought." "Mulder and I--" "Speak of the devil," Bill quipped as Mulder's footsteps echoed back up the hall. "I'm sorry you guys had to wait like that--" "Oh, that's okay," Bill smiled sweetly. "Dana was just trying to explain how she lost her earring in your bed." Mulder turned pale and stayed that way. He stared at Scully, keeping Bill at several arm lengths and well aligned in his peripheral vision. "Scully, if you want me dead, don't wait for your family to do it, just shoot me yourself. God knows you've had the practice." Scully rolled her eyes from the ceiling to her brother. "It was a joke, Bill." "Mulder's not laughing." Bill was. "This is insane. Bill, next time, you're staying home." Then to Mulder: "Did you get to see Dr. Bruner?" Mulder shook his head. "They won't let me in. Apparently, he's had several psychotic episodes and--" "He's a patient? You're consulting with a mental patient?" "Maybe he can find your earring." "Shut up, Bill." Bill's smile faded as his focus shifted up the hall. "Mulder," he said softly, "I think one of your friends is loose." Mulder turned. Shuffling down the hall toward them was one the patients he'd noticed in Heissman's waiting room. He was a young man, probably early twenties, emaciated and stooped. His shuffling stopped periodically as he approached but not from fear or trepidation; it was simply that the voice telling him to go on had ceased. And then of a sudden he was off again until the voice ceased again at Mulder's elbow. = Eyes of watery blue peered up at the agent's six-foot height and struggled to register why they had sought him out. Mulder waited patiently. He knew that somewhere in this mind of turmoil thought struggled on. Too wide of its mark, perhaps, but nevertheless, Reason stalked it's owner. It was simply an unfortunate twist of fate that Reason was always seeking him where he was not to be found. Mulder's patience and that of the young man's was rewarded when the vacant eyes at last focused and a wizened hand held out a crumpled manila envelope. "You dropped," the young man lisped, stopped, then began again. "You dropped your file, Dr. Verber." Then he was off again, back up the hall in his halting little shuffle. The threesome watched him in fascination. By now, Bill was certain he'd taken a sharp left into the Outer Limits. If this is what driving with Fox Mulder got you, Dana was right: next time he'd keep himself at home. It was Scully who stated the obvious. "Mulder, you didn't come in with a file." She was speaking to his back again: he was heading out for the car. This time Bill didn't wait to be last out the door. Back in the backseat, Bill experienced a wave of deja vu: Dana was slamming her door again. Mulder was ignoring her, again, rifling through the papers he'd shaken out of the envelope. After a moment's silence he handed them to Dana who shuffled through them before tossing them back to Bill. "They're blank, Mulder," she said, back to the obvious again. "And here we sit fresh out of shower steam. Are you going to tell me what this is all about or do we have to play twenty questions like yesterday?" For a moment her only answer was the shuffling of papers from the backseat. Mulder stared through the misty windshield, and shook his head just barely, chewing his lip. "Seek and you shall find, he said," Mulder mumbled. "There's a price." He turned to Scully. "I don't mind paying the price, at least God knows I'm used to it. But would it be too much to ask if just every so often I could get a straight answer?" "St. Mary falls Mary Regina 55?" Bill puzzled behind them. "Is this Bruner some kind of religious nut or does he just have a thing for Catholics?" Mulder turned and Bill offered him one of the sheets from the file. "This is the only page with something on it," he explained. Mulder accepted the page and stared in wonder at the broken handwriting a half inch from the bottom of the page. The hand was light, all caps, penciled. "ST MARY FALLS MARY REGINA 55." He looked back at Bill with such open admiration that Bill almost blushed. "The St. Mary Falls," Mulder smiled, looking over to Dana. "George Washington National Forest off the Blue Ridge Parkway." "Great," she said. "Here I go again. Down Skyline Drive." "Bill," Mulder said, "consider yourself a junior G-man for the weekend. Boys and girls, let's go do some hiking." The commuter plane touched down two hours later and Bill managed to get his photo taken in front of the "Welcome to Staunton, Birthplace of Woodrow Wilson" sign while Scully signed out for a rental car. She handed Mulder the keys. "If this turns out to be a wild goose chase, you, sir, are going to be out quite a chunk of change for this little weekend trip." Mulder was studying his map as they walked to the car. He didn't look up as he asked, "So, is big brother coming with us or would you prefer to leave him here with his political idol?" Scully waved for Bill and he waved back and sat down on a bench several yards away. She left Mulder with the car and went to fetch him, exasperated. "Bill--" "I don't get it, Dana. I've sat in that plane with you for half an hour listening to how insane you think this all is: Mulder following clues based on the advice of a psycho and, what did he call them, precognitive dreams? And yet, here we are. If it's so insane, what are we doing following him off in his delusion?" She sighed. "Because Mulder's dreams and delusions have an annoying habit of becoming reality." He stared at her. "Dana, even if there is something out in those woods, I've read the brochure. Saint Mary's Wilderness is almost ten thousand miles of just that. Wilderness." He nodded at Mulder, leaning on the hood of the car, still staring at his map. "With that kind of ground to cover, he's going to need directions from Rod Sterling." She sighed again and shrugged. "Come on, Bill. It'll be a nice little trip to the forest." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX At the edge of the park parking lot a purposely rustic sign read: SAINT MARY'S WILDERNESS GEORGE WASHINGTON NATIONAL FOREST. Beyond, little orange flags staked out the Mine Bank Trail winding through the great expanse of trees and snow. Scully was grateful she'd opted for comfortable shoes. Mulder, park map in hand, simply stepped out of the car and started for the path like a man with a long way to go and a short time to get there. A ranger on duty stepped from his little booth at the far end of the parking area. "Sir, I'm sorry but all guests are required to sign--" Mulder flashed his badge and kept walking. Scully, double stepping behind him did the same. Bill reached for his wallet, then stopped and shrugged sheepishly. "I'm with them," he explained. After two miles of hiking, Bill had to concede that Special Agent Mulder was obviously in much better shape than he was. Sure, the trek had been a fairly steady descent and the little creek they were following was pleasant enough but since leaving the parking lot, Mulder hadn't slacked his pace in the least and showed no sign of doing so. And he hadn't spoken a word. Bill heard his sister panting behind him and was ready to call for a rest stop when Mulder broke into a run. Bill looked back at Dana and her look told him that at least one of them had to keep up with this madman. Bill took off after him. Scully caught up with them in a clearing. Somewhere up the trail, the frantic whispering of a waterfall echoed through the trees. Beside them through the brush, a cry cut through the quiet. It was very like a scream, but too grating and hollow to be human. Metallic and raspy, still it sounded like someone--no, there were several--crying out in unison. Crying out for help with no hint of hope. She shuddered, even as she gasped for air, watching Bill watch Mulder silently. Fox stepped off the trail, quietly, deliberately and Bill followed several feet to his right. Mulder waved him back. "No, Bill, that's path in, get behind me, you'll be less likely to destroy evidence." Bill complied with a glance back at his sister who followed hard behind them. The underbrush was thick here, even in the winter; dead limbs and barren bushes pulled at clothing and skin alike. But after several yards, Mulder had stopped again. Bill peered round his shoulder a moment then turned to Dana. His face was pale and he pushed past her back to the clearing, ignoring her questions. She approached her partner and fell against him, tripping on the undergrowth. Mulder caught her on instinct, his eyes never leaving the sight in the clearing beyond. It wasn't really much of a clearing: just big enough to showcase a giant hemlock wrapped in snow and it's pale little guest below. "Mulder," she said quietly. "How did you know she was here. I mean exactly." "The cry of the peacocks." And there, stepping cautiously in the underbrush was a peacock with his hen. The peafowl regarded them in all its regalia, then his long bright feathers folded with a raspy whisper. Mulder watched the birds retreat into the forest: a fluttering of feathered eyes, blue-green and silver set in a field of deep iridescent blue. There was another screech and Scully shuddered again. How could such a beautiful creature possess such a terrifying voice? A voice of multi-throated fear? Next to her, Mulder was speaking, his own voice terrifying in its stillness, his eyes still locked on the little form before them. "Out of the window, I saw how the planets gathered Like the leaves themselves Turning in the wind. I saw how the night came, Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks. I felt afraid. And I remembered the cry of the peacocks." Scully stood quite still in the midst of eerie calm. High above, a thousand trees whispered, voices of angels conferring on the secrets of God. And here she stood, in the middle of nowhere with a man quoting poetry over a decomposing body. She studied Mulder's profile, asked quietly, "You heard poetry in your dreams?" He shook his head like a man in a trance. "Wallace Stephens." , Scully told herself. She tugged Mulder's arm and tugged it harder when there was no reaction. "Let's get a team out here, Mulder. We need to do this right." He nodded and allowed himself to be pulled away and led back to the car. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Bill'd had enough. Five hours after the arrival of the Ident Team, no one seemed in any kind of hurry to leave. He was hungry, he was tired and God knew, he was cold. If this was the kind of thing his sister did all day, she could have it. He'd been alternately run over by, run off by or generally ignored by more badge carrying individuals than he'd ever seen on or off a military base: FBI, sheriff's department, coroner's office, the parks service and--of all things, the Fish and Game Commission. He'd never heard so much about the process of decay, seen so many photos of body parts or smelled so bad in all his life. He'd always heard there was a sickening sweet smell about a decaying human body. There was nothing sweet about this; this was acrid and hateful, something that had no business in the world. At least not his world. It had woven itself into his clothing, soaked into his hair, permeated his nose, clung to him since that first horrified glimpse over Mulder's shoulder. Every deep breath made him want to gag. Where was Mulder anyway? He hadn't seen him for well over half an hour by now. He made his way back up the trail to the parking lot, found Dana deep in discussion with her boss--what was his name... Skinner. Yeah, that was it. Skinner was standing listening, his arms crossed, staring impassively at the rental car Dana, Bill and Mulder had arrived in. Bill blew into his hands to warm them and followed Skinner's gaze: Mulder was sitting in the car, passenger side, seat reclined. One arm slung over his eyes. The car didn't look like a half-bad place to be to Bill either. At least he could turn on the heater and warm up a few minutes. Mulder didn't even glance over when Bill opened the driver's door and slipped inside. The keys were in the ignition; Bill helped himself to the heater. After a few minutes of thawing, he reclined the seat and tried to relax. Presently he was sitting up again, gagging. "The heater only makes the smell worse, Bill," Mulder said, his arm still shielding his face. "This is awful," Bill gasped, reaching for the switch and cracking the window. "How do you get rid of it?" "A good shower helps. Lemon shampoo will get the smell out of your hair. Once it's in your sinuses, though," Mulder shook his head, rubbing his face tiredly, "you just have to wait it out." The two men sat in silence a few moments, struggling quietly with their own thoughts. "I couldn't do this, Mulder. I mean, what kind of cold-hearted son of a bitch could tolerate this--" he stopped. Mulder was quiet, half smiling, still reclined, his eyes still closed. When he answered his voice was soft. Even in the quiet of the car, Bill had to concentrate to hear him. "Go back into the woods, Bill. Go look at her again. She's somebody's kid. Go look into those milky eyes and tell her that she isn't worth your time. That the justice due her is not worth the threat to your sanity. Look into those eyes and see your own kid. Then say the words. The man that can do that, Mr. Scully: That's definition of a cold-hearted son of a bitch." Bill regarded Mulder in the quiet. There had been no animosity in the voice, no anger, no detectable emotion at all and yet more passion than Bill had felt about anything in his own life in years. Except maybe the birth of his son. Bill looked over at Skinner and Dana. They were looking at photographs. He watched his sister's face: nothing but quiet, academic interest, impartial detachment. Her medical training stood her well. "Dana says you started out in Violent Crimes right out of the FBI Academy. Stayed with it for years. I can understand now why you went to the X- Files. I'd have to get out of it, too. I mean, looking at this kind of thing day in and day out... it has to destroy a man's faith in humanity." Again that sleepy half smile. "Actually, I have a great deal of faith in humanity, Bill. Given the opportunity to screw someone over, stab someone in the back or cut them open and cannibalize their liver, someone'll do it. I have complete faith in that." Several more vehicles arrived; the funeral home had finally shown up followed by--Bill shook his head--a catering truck. "Do you ever have nightmares about this stuff, Mulder?" That prompted a soft laugh. "Yeah." "So why do you keep doing it?" There was a pause. "Because I can." Bill considered that a moment. "Dana says it's like a calling," he said. Do you feel that? Like you've been called?" Behind his closed lids, Mulder saw his sister that last night, long dark braids hanging down, her nightgown glowing in the eerie light. Heard her voice calling for him. "Fox! Help me, Fox!" "Yeah," he said quietly. "You could say I've been called." Dana was waving to them, pointing at the catering truck. Bill grimaced. "You hungry, Mulder? You didn't have anything but coffee this morning, did you?" "Are you hungry, Bill?" "No." "Go get you a 7-Up. It'll probably settle your stomach." "Yeah? Can I pour it on my hair and get rid of the smell?" "Whatever. Just don't try to snort it. It doesn't clear the sinuses." It was hard to tell if Mulder was kidding and he looked so genuinely tired Bill decided he should probably just let the man sleep. He'd always liked 7-Up, anyway. With Bill out of the car, the world was again wondrously still. Mulder chanced a brief peek from under his forearm: it was snowing again. Through the frosted glass of the windshield, it was surreal and beautiful. Like a dream. No. He wouldn't think about that just now. He grunted to himself softly. What was it he had told Bruner? It was crap. But it was true. Sometimes he thought that maybe if he didn't think so much he'd be happier. Maybe if he could just shut it all off for a short while, it would do him good. The snow whirled outside and his mind, as always in overdrive, whirled with it, even as he told himself he was not really thinking at all, that he was calm and relaxed. Even as he told himself all these lies his cerebellum shifted gears, not down but up, and suddenly his mind was wandering far from Augusta County, Virginia, wandering in counties of the soul, territories of ruins. He heard as with physical ears Samantha's baby squeal of terror at her first real encounter with snow. <"Fox! The sky! It's falling in on us!> He heard his own older, wiser-at-six-years-of-age laugh. Felt it in his throat. Felt her chin in his hands, her tears drying on his fingers, felt the weight of her on his knee, saw her glittering, attentive eyes as he told her the story of Chicken Little. Saw her smile, felt her quick hug--in the car he gasped, his chest suddenly too tight--then she was gone. Off to play in the dazzling new land of snow. "Oh Sam," his voice echoed in the empty Ford, "I miss you." Then the car was silent again. It was his mind that was screaming. Years of fear and wonder and hope. And here he sat at the other side of six years' fruitless work. No EBE's. No Little Green Men. No Sam. No hope for Sam. And no more wonder. It frightened him, this new state of being he'd found outside his warm cocoon of extreme possibilities. So this was "normal." He couldn't say too much for it, but then he couldn't say too much about it, either, being such a recent arrival. He was still struggling to find his place in it. To decide whether he wanted a place in it. Both worlds could not be the truth. But which was the lie? Bruner was right. He had no test tube. Mulder closed his eyes against the snow, saw Bruner's unblinking gaze roaring maniacal joy as Fox swallowed his own blood there on his floor. Bruner had found his place in this world of the normal. Locked up in the psych ward. But Bruner didn't believe in UFO's. That would be crazy. As a psychologist, Mulder had spent most of his adult life observing in amazement his own latent psychopathic tendencies: denial, repression, manipulation, fear of boredom. He wondered now how close he stood to that magical border of sanity, how soon before he, too, joined the select society of the sociopath. Whether there was even such a border left. Because he was back in the snow again. Kneeling. Holding her hand. No. He would not lay down. This time she registered no disappointment to his refusal. This time she was colder than she had ever been. Despite the whirling snow, his peripheral vision registered a movement: the creature--man, he corrected himself-- with the seeds. He was coming again. And she was scared. "Fox. Help me." But she had hold of his hand and refused to let go. He struggled with her but it was no use and the hateful seed was getting closer. He buried the fingers of his free hand in the snow and reaching around her, circumscribed a circle of sorts, containing them both. He connected the lines just as the dark figure approached. It stopped short of the circle as though hitting a wall of glass, retreated into the hypnotic dance of snow. Somewhere beneath her left side, near the heart, where the heart should have been, a snake emerged. Bottle green skin reflected electronic fire as it traveled slowly, pulling it's glassy slick body onto her chest and raising its emerald head to regard him. It's eyes were the color of sea water. Bruner's eyes. Within the charmed circle, enwrapped by her serpent, she turned her head to regard him. Her eyes were the color of milk. The jaw, slack now that rigor mortis had loosened, moved, jerking, painfully. "You will hear the words. And they will come to make sense to you." The voice was not Samantha's. It was his father's. He pulled away, his heart pounding, but her hand held him fast. The jaw jerked hideously. "Forgive me." He screamed. With everything in him, he screamed. There was no sound. He struggled in earnest now, too terrified to think, just wanting to be free of this snowbound hell. Just wanting to hear the sound of his own voice, to know he was alive. The snow was alive around him, writhing and whirling, gathering light, sucking it up like a thing possessed. The force of the maelstrom pulled lightening from the ground, swirling it up to the impassive stars. And threw it back down at him. It hit his chest with an explosion. Scully was approaching the passenger side of the car with a thermos of coffee when she saw him jerk. Then jerk again. She ran. "Mulder!" She tapped on the misty glass as she opened the door. Fox threw himself out of the car like he'd been shot, knocking her back against the fender. He hit the pavement stumbling, holding his chest and gasping. "Mulder!" She circled him warily, arms out to catch him if he would let her. He was trying to speak but not to her, trying to breath, trying to stand. She was afraid to approach him, afraid he would injure himself if she didn't. "Oh God," he finally gasped, "Oh God, please make it stop." His erratic pacing slowed and she reached out cautiously. He jerked away, stumbling in his retreat. "Mulder, it's okay. It's Dana. It's okay." She kept repeating the words, matching his pace until he slowed and finally stopped. His eyes saw her at last, registered the parking lot, then focused back on her again. He took another deep breath, dropped his hands from his chest to his knees and concentrated on breathing a moment. She approached slowly, touched his shoulder, leaning over to study his face. "Mulder, is it the sunflower again?" He shook his head and straightened painfully, wiping his eyes. He tried to smile and failed. "My chest hurts like hell," he gasped. She took his arm and led him back to the car, all too aware of the scrutiny of Bill and various members of local law enforcement. And Skinner. She was grateful Skinner had let her handle this. So far. Mulder was still not too steady and had to stop several times to catch his breath. An EKG would not be a bad idea, she decided. She helped him back into the passenger seat then knelt down outside the car beside him, the car and the door shielding them from too close an inspection. She told him to shut up and breath as she slid her stethoscope under his sweater. He didn't argue and she wasn't certain that was a good sign. Mulder sat quietly, breathing, watching Skinner watching him through the tinted windshield. Skinner was on a cell phone. Fox waited for Scully to pull the stethoscope from her ears before he spoke. "Everyone thinks I'm a nutcase." "No, Mulder, we do not think you're a nutcase. You're under a lot of stress and you haven't been able to rest. Which only exacerbates the problem. If you could just sleep without having these damn dreams--" He was only half listening. "In the waking state we check reality against memory. In sleep: memory against memory. Ghost against ghost." "Carl Jung?" she asked. "Ray Bradbury." "Mulder are you saying you've seen this before, like when you reopened the Paper Hearts case--" "No, " he shook his head. "No. But I've heard the words." He was still staring at Skinner, but without seeing. She frowned. "I don't understand." "Neither do I." She sighed, frustrated. "Mulder, I don't know what to tell you." He was silent a minute, his eyes still vacant. "I never told you the first dream, Scully," he whispered. She waited. "There was the snow. The stars. The cold hands. Only the hands stretched out in the snow were not one of these kid's." He looked over at her, rolling his head against the headrest, eyes too green, too hollow. "They were my hands. It was me in the snow. Dead. Then the other dreams started. That was a week before we knew this case existed." "You're convinced these are some form of precognitive dream? Not just the mind processing evidence?" His eyes were closed again. He shook his head, his voice tired. "I don't know." Her reply was cut short by Skinner's voice close behind her. She jerked to her feet guiltily. Skinner's eyes rolled off her and onto Mulder. "Agent Mulder, step out of the car, please." Scully moved aside to let her partner comply and followed the two men across the parking lot to the spot where Mulder had stopped his retreat. A look from Skinner kept her at a respectful distance. It was amazing, however, how well sound traveled in a forest. "Agent Mulder, with all due respect, I realize that most people go to a psychiatrist when they're having some kind of trouble. That's fine. That's what they're for." Mulder was regarding him patiently. Skinner's voice hardened. "It's just that most people don't choose psychiatric help from a doctor who's been committed to his own institution." "Sir, with all due respect, most assistant FBI directors are not in the habit of having psychopaths call them on their direct phone lines. And order appointments for their agents." Scully was surprised by the sudden hardness of Mulder's voice. From being bone-weary and resigned he was angry and calculating. She didn't like the implications of the moodswing. Skinner didn't seem to appreciate it either. "I told you to get in, see this nut and get back out. Not call him back. Repeatedly. I specifically recall ordering you NOT to let this son of a bitch into your head--" "Sir, I believe he has information on this case--" "Damnit, Mulder, that's just what he wants you to think. If he thought he could play you along, he'd tell you were his secret love child, for Chrissake. called you in on this case. I called you in because I thought you'd be the best person to handle it. Well, from what I've seen here and in your partner's reports, you're not handling it--" "And just what do you think you get when you try to out think a psychopath? Stability? Order and propriety?" "Do you hear yourself?" Skinner hissed. "We've been over this ground before, Agent Mulder. How many times do you think you can put yourself in some wacko's shoes, and then just waltz right out of them again when you're done?" Mulder was as angry as Scully had ever seen him, it was all she could do to remain where she stood. "I'm the investigator here," he growled. "Hell, I'm the damned psychologist! I am sick and tired of everyone telling me what I can and cannot think about this case--" "Agent Mulder," Skinner warned, "You're losing it." "Damn right, I'm losing it," He was shouting. "Spooky Mulder lost it somewhere back in November of 1973 and I'll be damned if I'll lose her again." He brushed past Skinner and was on his way to the trail when Skinner's voice stopped him cold at the edge of the parking lot. "Agent Mulder!" The two men regarded one another in full view of all assembled personnel. Skinner's growl was loud. "Just find this SOB." Mulder didn't smile. "Yes, sir." As Skinner turned to her, Scully picked up her jaw and followed her partner back into the forest. Mulder was already shouting for a shovel. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX "A snake." She graced him with one of her more provocatively speculative looks. "Mulder, isn't that a phallic symbol?" He sighed. "Only to little Freudians such as yourself, Scully. In fact, in many ancient cultures, the snake was a symbol of wisdom and knowledge." He looked at her pointedly. "That's why its on the medical staff of life symbol. Unless of course, they're teaching a more hands-on comparative anatomy than I remember." "And the knowledge this serpent enticed you to was to look for this?" She held up the evidence bag containing the little dirt encrusted vial. The vial dug up from just seven inches of dirt below Jane Doe Five's heart. Or where her heart should have been. For good measure they'd dug under the area approximate to the missing liver as well. Nothing. Not even six feet down. Mulder was talking. "There was probably a vial at every site. Probably is one at every site." "Skinner's contacted the authorities at each location. We should have a full report by morning." She frowned at the medical vial, felt Mulder leaning over to whisper in her ear. "I'll hand you a thousand dollars with a smile on my face if that vial does not contain the same substance we found in the Erlenmeyer flask." She looked up sharply. "You'll hear the words," he quoted, "And they'll come to make sense to you." Scully glanced back down at the hateful vial then she was watching him again. "Is that what you think these girls are, Mulder? Merchandise? Experiments in genetic manipulation?" He began counting off his fingers. "Clear evidence of medical testing, cryogenic freezing, no matches in FBI and CMEC data bases. Not to mention that someone pops up and claims all four bodies and manages to erase the records? Stop me when I come to something that seems just remotely improbable to you." "Look, let's at least get the analysis on this vial before we jump to too many conclusions here." "Fine with me. I've got the Center for Missing and Exploited Children checking their data bases and microfilm for eight year old females missing since 1955." She blinked. "Mary Regina 55. Information you obtained from a certified schizo--" "He's not schizophrenic, Scully, he's sociopathic." "So on what basis do you insist that he is a reliable informant?" "On the basis of finding a dead body in the same park he identified." As much as she would have liked to, she couldn't argue with that. "I'd just feel a lot better about all of this if you knew something about this--who is it again, Dr. Bruner?" "I'll feel a whole lot better about this when we solve this case," Mulder countered. "As for Bruner, Skinner's made arrangements for me to see him as soon as we land." Scully glanced back at the Assistant Director and Bill sitting cozily musing over military life in the seats behind them. Mulder glanced past her at the gleam of evening sun reflected on the Washington Monument. They'd be landing at the DC/Baltimore Airport in a few minutes. He was grateful. God, but he hated sitting still. Scully was watching him again. That always made him slightly nervous. When other women stared at him like that he was usually flattered and often a little excited. With Scully, though, he was never too certain. He certainly knew better than to get excited. At least in that way. He smiled and hoped he emitted enough charm to dissipate any ill-will he may have created. "I saved my peanuts for you, Scully," he patted his jacket pocket and winked. She frowned but held out her hand. "I'm still going with you to see Bruner. Ooh, these are the dry roasted ones." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX "Hey, sis, don't stay up too late, okay?" "Okay, Bill. Sweet dreams." "Goodnight." Scully smiled after her brother as he retreated to her spare bedroom. She could almost hear Mulder sing out his favorite "Goodnight" sign-off: "Goodnight, John Boy." She leaned back into the couch, autopsy reports and chemical analysis data shuffling across her lap. She rubbed her eyes wearily then stared down at the phone. "Come on, Mulder. Call already." She should have never let him talk her out of going with him to the institution. But given their track record for being unable to hold on to concrete data regarding the Erlenmeyer project, she'd agreed that analyzing the vial was her first priority. "I'll be satisfied," she'd told him, "if you could just get him to tell us what the fascination is with Virginia parkland. If I have to see Skyland Drive one more time--" He had shrugged. "Maybe these guys are members of the Sierra Club." Just now, it didn't help that he had been right about the vial. And it's four counterparts.That they could have just as easily been labeled for them. She bit her lip ruefully there on the couch. The face of the clock returned her gaze. Eleven twenty-one PM. The phone beeped abruptly and her grab for it sent papers flying. "Mulder?" "Hey." With just one word she felt the tension raging through the line. "Mulder, where are you?" "Try out your front window." "What?" She scrambled to the curtain to see Mulder's car parked, lights off, at the curb. "Muld--" His voice filtered painfully even through the cell phone connection. It was deceptively light. That damned self-depreciating tone she so hated: "I've been driving around for hours, Scully. Then it finally occurred to me that I just didn't know where else to go." She was out the door, closing it quietly behind her for Bill's sake, but running to the car, the phone forgotten in her hand. She slid into the passenger seat, holding the door ajar a moment, using the light to assess her partner. Physically he seemed uninjured. Emotionally he looked like he'd been dragged through hell and forgotten the way back out. He'd been crying at some point not too long before. It worried her that he made no effort to hide the fact from her. She closed the door and they sat in the silent dark. At last he spoke. "Bruner's dead." She watched his profile, a bare outline and glint of moisture in the eyes highlighted by the street lights. She didn't speak, waiting. "It's been ruled a suicide. I've seen his cell, Scully. If that man committed suicide--like --," he didn't elaborate on what was and she didn't ask. "It just wasn't possible." He shook his head. "There wasn't even a note. Megalomaniac that he was, there's no way he'd have even entertained the idea of offing himself without taking out a full page ad in the Washington Post." His eyes closed against his own sigh. "It happened about four." He looked over at her, the line of his jaw tight, "Just after Skinner called to set up my meeting. It was no suicide, Scully. I made them show me his cell. It's been stripped clean. They'd already cremated his body. They'd dismissed his regular orderly and have been blocking my attempts to contact him." "Mulder, I'm sorry--" "I smelled cigarette smoke in the cell, Scully." Scully shuddered in the darkness, Mulder's gaze on her was cold as the winter chill. What he was saying wasn't possible. Cancerman was dead. The body had not been recovered but the blood... "Mulder, I'm sorry," this time he didn't interrupt her. "I didn't realize you and Bruner were so close--" He sighed and looked away. "It's not that... I'm sorry. Why don't you go back in and get some sleep, we can cover this in the morning--" "Only way I'm sleeping tonight is with you in the same room." He didn't even bother to make any of the usual remarks that kind of statement would have left her wide open for. The idea didn't even occur to him just then. "Come on," she opened the car door. "You're staying here. Bill's already asleep. And I'm not leaving him here alone to be another Melissa." He followed her quietly into the apartment. Stood quietly by the door while she went through turning off lights, checking windows and the back door. She returned to the living room to find him still standing where she'd left him. She stopped a moment and returned his gaze. He was looking through her. "Mulder, take off your coat." He complied numbly and she switched off the last room light in favor of the table lamp at the window. Now they would cast no shadows. She cleared the couch and called to Mulder, still standing by the door, his coat in his hand. He came over obediently and she sat him on the couch, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. "What else, Mulder. What haven't you told me?" "CMEC called." He managed to look tough and courageous and like a half- drowned pup that'd been kicked one too many times. It was a talent, Scully decide, but one he wasn't aware of. One honed from too much practice. "Center for Missing and Exploited Children found us a match?" She sat beside him, drawing her chilled legs under her. "Five matches." "Mary Regina?" "Mary Regina Pitnam. Missing since November 1955. Elizabeth Anne Baron. Missing since 1948. November. Angela Unger. November 1951. Genevieve Elliot. November 1960. Miranda Bergen. November 1968." Throughout the recitation his voice was flat, lifeless. Without his speaking it, Scully could still hear the conclusion of his list: He jumped when she laid a gentle hand on his arm. She left it there and he looked over at her. There was no life in his eyes. No light. No hope. "Mulder, we need to contact these families--" "The Bergens were killed in a car wreck with their second child in 1982. Mr. Elliot died of a heart attack in 1991; Mrs. Elliot of cancer two years later. Angela Unger's father died in combat in Korea. The mother's in a mental institution. A total vegetable. The Barons: murder suicide pact on the anniversary of their daughter's = disappearance. Mrs. Pitnam died of breast cancer in 1957. Mr. Pitnam's is in a nursing home in Arlington, Virginia. About two miles from my apartment. I went to seen him, Scully." He looked down at his hands. They were shaking just slightly. "He has Alzheimers. I showed him a photo of his daughter that he and his wife had given to police in 1948. He cried." Mulder closed his eyes against his own tears, sitting forward to shake her hand away but not trusting his legs enough to rise. She gave him a minute. "You were right about the vial, Mulder." There was no response. He sat, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands a long while. At last he ran his hands down his face, steepling his fingers together, staring at them hard. "You believe God is good, don't you, Scully?" She didn't answer. His voice was remote and soft. "So why does He allow suffering like this?" She had no answer. She stood. "Lie down, Mulder." When she returned with blankets he was asleep. She slipped off his shoes, covered him with a blanket and wrapped herself in one. She settled beside him on the floor, her head resting on the cushion at his chest. She fell asleep to the beating of his heart. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX He didn't sleep through the rest of the night, of course. The previous dream had repeated itself and by 2:17 AM he was struggling to escape Samantha again. Samantha with his father's voice. In his mind he was screaming, fighting for his life. Scully woke as these events translated into a whimper and a soft shuddering of his body against her arm. She watched him, his face running with sweat, his breathing tight and too rapid. She was shushing him again in the twilight of the room and laid her hand on his chest just as the dream's lightening bolt slammed into it. His body convulsed and this time she had enough on the ball to jump away. He hit the floor with a thud, his body jerking compulsively. Scully ran for her medical kit. A moment later she was back and he was still. He was no longer breathing rapidly. He wasn't breathing at all. Scully searched for the pulse in his neck: thready and overly rapid. She left her hand on his neck, rubbing just below the angle of his jaw to stimulate the carotid sinus while she dug in her bag. She released him to load a syringe with verapamil and inject him with it. He took a shallow gasp of air when the needle entered his arm and she bowed herself in relief over the syringe even as she pushed the plunger. A few minutes later she was threatening to sit on his chest to keep him on the floor. And threatening to break his arm if he came up with any sexually suggestive remarks about that threat. "You'd better be glad you cleared your physical last month or your butt would be in the back of an ambulance right now, Mr. Mulder." "What happened? I remember the dream--" "Paroxysmal atrial tachycardia triggered by an anxiety attack. In your sleep, no less. Mulder, we really need to see about having you evaluated for anxiety and sleep disorders." "I'm not living on a bunch of drugs, Scully," he sighed from his position of surrender on the rug. "Besides, it's not usually this bad and you know it. It's just this damned case." He shook his head, stopped shaking it and looked at her. Even sleep starved and disheveled she managed to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. His throat hurt suddenly and he didn't think it had anything to do with the dream. "Mulder, are you okay now?" He closed his eyes to clear his head, nodded. "I'm just really tired." And cold. His chest still ached and the pain lingered in his arms. Clinically, he knew she was right. Emotionally... He pushed it down deep somewhere, wherever it was he pushed all the crap in his life, all the sadistic shit he dealt with in his cases. The I'll-Deal-With-It-Later Pit. Phoebe had called it the Scarlet O'Hara Syndrome: "I'll think about it tomorrow" (Southern accent not optional). Come to think of it, Phoebe was down there somewhere too. He didn't want to think about that just now either. The pit was getting awfully full.... He heard Scully's voice, that silk voice, felt one satin hand on his chest, the other pushing that one stubborn damn lock of hair away from his forehead. He'd been thinking of getting a hair cut. It could wait a few more weeks. Maybe she'd do that more often. "Tomorrow--," she corrected herself: "Today is Sunday. No case. No files. I don't care who dies. And we're declaring a moratorium on dreams." Her hand thumped his chest imperatively. "Understand?" He smiled at her through veiled eyes. "Yeah, sure. Whatever." She was digging in her bag again. "Take this," she ordered. "I'm putting you in my bed. And that original offer of a broken arm still stands." Mulder sat up and regarded the tablet. Triazolam. Well, he'd be out for a good six hours, and in short order, too. He accepted water glass and swallowed obediently. By the time Scully had him undressed and tucked in he was pretty well numb. It wasn't an unpleasant experience; at least nothing hurt for a change. He watched her flit in and out of the room, hauling his clothes to the laundry room, turning off lights, asking if he were warm enough, bringing in another blanket, saying something. Saying something else. Yeah, sure. Whatever. By her fifth trip into the room he was out cold and she turned off the lamp. Four hours later his eyes jerked opened, abruptly aware that he was in an unfamiliar room. After all the cheap hotels he'd had to stay in doing field work, you'd think that wouldn't be such a shock. He was also immediately aware of a soft familiar fragrance of shampoo and Heaven Scent and the even softer pressure of a woman's arm across his upper abdomen. Scully. She lay modestly on top of the quilt she'd covered him with, wrapped, fully clothed as far as he could tell, in a blanket of her own, her breathing deep and even, her hair glowing amber in the bright morning light spilling around the drapes. This was no time to revel in fantasies, however. Mulder heard Bill tiptoeing around in the kitchen. The current situation was ripe with possibilities. Most of them ending with Mulder attending a funeral. His own. Mulder looked down at the little hand dangling at his side, and tried to work out the physics necessary to disengage himself without waking her. Thankfully, her arm was far enough down his chest to rest predominantly on the quilt. With cautious maneuvering he managed to hold the quilt level and slip out of the bed sideways, gently shoving the pillow into roughly his sleeping position before lowering her arm. Her breathing never even broke it's rhythm and he slipped off into her bathroom more than a little impressed with himself. He found she'd set out the knapsack he kept at her place and fished out toothbrush and jeans. The turtleneck had always been a little tight across the chest but the knit was comfortable and besides the stretch cleared out most of the wrinkles. He waited, listening for Bill's footsteps before he emerged. Nothing. Bill'd probably gone back to bed. Mulder stepped out into the living room and Bill greeted him from the couch. "Morning, Mulder." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world: Fox Mulder sneaking out of his sister's bedroom. Mulder was caught too far in left field to worry about blushing. He took a deep breath. "Hey, Bill." "I made coffee. Hope you like it strong." "Thanks." In the kitchen Mulder contemplated a quick dash for the porch but realized he'd left his keys in his coat pocket. Which was in the living room. With Bill. He heard Scully's voice: "Cluck, cluck," he whispered, staring into the Maxwell House. He walked back into the living room and settled in a chair. Bill was staring into a corner. It was either politeness, anger, or the man had the worse case of early-morning-stares Mulder had ever seen. It wasn't that early. Mulder couldn't for the life of him come up with anything to say so he didn't. It was Bill who broke the uncomfortable silence. "The stuff you guys do..." He stopped, looked at Mulder directly. Mulder swallowed. "It's a difficult job." It dawned on Mulder that Bill wasn't referring to anything that might have transpired in the bedroom and he blinked slowly then allowed the man the courtesy of full eye contact. "Yes," he said. "It's not for everyone." "True." "And you think it's not for Dana." Mulder's eyebrows scrolled up just a tad. "I've never said that. She's a good agent, an objective investigator. She's tough and determined and, despite anything you may have heard about talent, nine-tenths of the job is just so much graceless determination. She has that. And a hell of a lot more grace than most. Certainly more than me." "Then why have you asked her to give up?" Mulder took a minute to wonder where all this was coming from. "Has she told you that?" "She told me that you've asked her from time to time to consider leaving the X-Files, of going back to teaching at Quantico. Are you denying that?" Mulder regarded the man. "No, I'm not denying that. You've seen what it's done to her. God, Bill, you've sat enough hours with her in the hospital wondering if she was going to pull through--" "And she did." "Yes, she did. But look at what our work has cost her. Jeezus, Bill, she'll never have children--" Mulder cut himself short, glancing toward the bedroom and lowering his voice again. He was gripping the coffee cup in both hands, the heat radiating into his fingers was intense and he accepted it as his due just then. He looked back at the man on the couch. "She lost her--your-- sister while following me around trying to find mine. There's just too much of this shit that seems forever to keep turning back to me. To my goddam family. It shouldn't destroy her and her family. I shouldn't let it do that. I shouldn't allow her to continue working with me--" His voice was a just short of a dull hiss now and he stopped abruptly. He had no words to explain his frustration with himself. That he had never been able to convince Scully to leave the X-Files. Had never wanted her to leave them, really. Had often wondered if he could go on with them if she did ever opt to leave. He stared down into the blackness in his cup. Little stars of liquid light reflected back up at him in the silence. "But what if it's important?" Mulder looked up to find Bill watching him. "What if it's important, Mulder?" he repeated. "I mean, to more than just you. From what little Dana's been able to tell us, some very powerful people seem to be expending a great deal of energy hiding things everyone swears don't exist. Keeping you and her from certain kinds of information. And someone, somewhere's expending a great deal of energy keeping you two alive. Why all the sabotage and double talk? The cover-up--I mean, if there's nothing to cover- up... why bother? That's what this is all about, isn't it. That's what these X- Files are. Like these kids you keep finding. They've been missing, what? Twenty, thirty, forty years, some of them?" Bill shook his head. "Listen, I'm not saying I believe in UFO's and little green men or five-headed hydras of whatever the hell it is you think you're chasing but if your sister was abducted or kidnapped or whatever, there was a reason. My sister's dead--and there damned well better be a reason. I want to know why. Dana wants to know why. I don't know how to find an answer like that." He leaned forward. "I asked you yesterday why you do this and you said, because you can. I believe you, Mulder. I don't believe a lot of the hair-brained crap I've heard you believe or used to believe, and I don't care. But I do believe you know how to find answers. That you'll keep at it until you do." Mulder was suddenly staring at his coffee again. Bill glanced back at the bedroom door. "Mulder, I don't understand a lot of things about you and my sister, but I do know that she can't do this on her own. She needs you. And when you do find the answer, she wants to be there. " He looked back at Mulder and there was no love in the man's eyes but there was something of a grudging respect Mulder had never expected and didn't feel he deserved under the circumstance. "As much as I want to protect her, as much as it would hurt to loose her, I can't deny her the right to try." Bill poked a thumb at the photos and autopsy reports of the Jane Doe's littering the floor by the couch. "You're so worried about not silencing the voice of the dead. And you're probably right." His voice was soft. "Try and have the same mercy on the living now and then. Let Dana keep looking for her truth." Mulder had closed his eyes, his head bowed. He took a deep breath and found himself smiling as he looked up again. "Yeah," he said with a lightness he didn't feel, "like I could run her off." Bill gave him a reluctant chuckle and shook his head. "She always was the pitbull of the family." , Mulder thought. He didn't doubt that destined-for-sainthood Mother Scully didn't have her share of fangs as well, when pushed. Sounded like his kind of people. He was smiling at Bill when Dana emerged abruptly from her bedroom, a hairbrush forgotten in her hand. She took in the scene with her heart pounding. Mulder and Bill in the same room. Alone. And smiling at each other. She blinked rapidly for a minute. Now they were both staring at her. And smiling. Weirdness. "Who wants breakfast?" she asked sweetly before cutting her eyes to Mulder. "You raise your hand with a yes or I'll--" "--break my arm, I know, I know." He waved a hand obediently. Bill laughed. "Jeez, you two argue like you're married or something." "Well, the way I have to watch after him sometimes we might as well be." Mulder nodded to Bill. "Suits me just fine. From what I hear, married people don't have sex, either." Bill's witty reply was cut short by the explosion of the hairbrush impacting the wall above Mulder's head with a bang a little too hard to be playful. Both men regarded her in shock but it was Mulder's eyes she caught: his look of bewildered amazement became just a glint of something else and his eyes smiled ever so slightly, intrigued on a level that sent a thrill through her. It was not a sensation she was certain she was comfortable with. She felt a warm blush rising from other areas she was not comfortable with at the moment and she left the room as abruptly as she'd entered it, muttering something about a shower, the door thudding firmly behind her. Bill regarded Mulder thoughtfully. "I think you hit a nerve there, Fox." Bill obviously had his sister's gift for understatement. It must have been in the Scully gene pool somewhere. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX She refused to allow him to go home. "What's the problem, Scully? Don't you trust me?" "No, Mulder, I don't. Not when it comes to knowing when to stop." She glanced through the kitchen back into the living room where Bill was sprawled over the couch with the phone. Tara and Mom were checking in with all the news fit to tell and then some from their adventures in New York. She'd probably need to take out a small loan to cover the phone bill. She turned back to Mulder, found him staring out the kitchen window, his body wired with more nervous energy than any man had a right to on four hours of sleep. "Mulder, listen to me. Last night should have been a warning to you. You're body is screaming for down-time and if I have to tie you to the hood of my car, you're going to listen to it. You're staying right here where I can keep an eye on you." "I'm not a child, Scully. It would be nice if you could remember that ever so often." she thought. But aloud she said, "I mean it, Mulder. Don't bother arguing." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I don't want to argue with you, Scully. I haven't had enough sleep for that." "And who's fault is that?" He looked her dead in the eyes and she instantly regretted the pettiness of the statement. "It's not anybody's fault, Scully. I just don't sleep very well sometimes. I'm sorry if that suddenly comes as such a shock." Bill interrupted her answer. "Well, the girls'll be back in Baltimore tomorrow and I'll be out of your hair, sis." He rubbed the top of Dana's head playfully then stopped, finally noticing the tension in the room. He glanced at Mulder, back at his sister and decided it was time he started making some of the decisions. "Mulder?" "Bill." "You look like hell. Why don't you go take a nap while Dana and I get out and spend a little quality time together?" It was slightly more than a request and Mulder smiled, much to Dana's surprise. Well, Mulder could see she came by her drill sergeant manners honestly. Dana was shaking her head, "Bill, I think--" Mulder cut her short. "I think it's a great idea." He looked at his partner pointedly. "If I can prevail upon the good doctor for another sedative, I'd like to catch up on some sleep." She looked from Mulder to Bill and back again. She didn't know what Bill had threatened Fox with to get him to cooperate but if she could find out, she'd be bargaining with it for all it was worth. This time he managed six hours sleep before the dreams began. Dreams. Well, same dream anyway. Again. Sam holding him urgently in the snow. The lightening exploding in his chest. This time he'd been through it enough times to expect the blast and caught himself before the full impact of the panic set in. He woke on the couch, sweating and shaking, his breathing labored, his chest on fire and pain radiating down both arms. Clinical diagnosis: anxiety attack. He rose shakily, wrapping his arms around his chest. Where was that damned blanket? He was freezing. Scrounging Scully's bedroom, he heard the faint ring of his cell phone coming from her bureau draw. She'd hidden it under some very pretty lacy items and he smiled as he answered the phone, holding one of the more interesting little numbers up for closer inspection. "Mulder." "The bench, Mr. Mulder. Five o'clock. Tonight." "Who is--" The line was dead. Mulder stared at the little nightie without seeing it. Something he'd heard in the background. A song. He hummed the snatch of tune softly, then closed his eyes in realization. The Stones. . He found his old leather coat in Scully's closet--he'd wondered where he's lost it--but had no such success locating his keys. Knowing his partner, she'd taken them with her as insurance that he'd be there when she got back. His timing was lousy. Scully Incorporated met him on the porch. "Going somewhere, Mulder?" Dana asked. Mulder recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one and sighed, looking at his watch. It was just now one. He had four hours and only a twenty minute drive. He looked up smiling. "Yeah. How about lunch? I'm starving." "Well," Bill answered while his sister was at a loss for words, "I was kind of hungry for Chinese, myself." That did it. Mulder was beginning to like Bill more every time the man opened his mouth. Of course, he had little doubt that Bill still thought Mulder's middle name was Onesorrysonofabitch, but hey, the man had a beautiful sister and he liked Chinese. He couldn't be all bad. He wasn't far from wrong on the name bit, either, sometimes... "How about it, Dana?" "Bill, Mulder's favorite Chinese restaurant is Oodles Noodles in DC. Almost to Dupont Circle--" Mulder smiled. "That's okay, Scully. Bill doesn't mind. Hey, Bill, after lunch we can stop just a couple of blocks over and take you on a tour of the Woodrow Wilson House. It's great, you've gotta see it..." "Okay," Dana knew when she was out-gunned. "But we take my car." She pulled Mulder's keys from her coat pocket, shook them ominously and repocketed them. Mulder had seen less formidable guardians at the front gates of Fort Dix. If he argued, she'd be even more suspicious than she already was, and he wisely estimated she'd already reached the upper limits of her credulity scale. "Sure, fine. Whatever." He smiled. Minutes later, a delighted Bill was climbing into the backseat of her car and Scully grabbed Mulder's arm. "And just how many times have you seen the Woodrow Wilson House, Mulder?" "Scully, I'm just about to make it my second favorite site in Washington." "I don't know what you're up to, but whatever you're hauling us to DC for had better not be stamped official business." "I promise, Scully. This is not official business." He took the passenger's seat. Bill thought, What he said, more to himself than to the table at large, was, "I'm glad I don't have to live like that anymore." He glanced up, caught Mulder's eye without really intending to. Mulder looked over at the couple in question, then looked away. Bill wondered just how closely he'd hit a mark. The exchange had not gone by Dana unnoticed. She fielded the attention away from her partner--she was a pro at that lately--by smiling, saying, "I know men look at sex a lot differently than most women, but personally, I never saw the attraction of a one night stand." Mulder surprised them both by answering, "Well, Scully, some men like sex. They also like women." He shrugge. "And sometimes they just like to have them both together in the same room." He regarded his Heineken, his voice softer. "Of course, most of us anticipate having something slightly more enduring by the ripe old age of thirty-six." Bill realized just how sore a mark he'd hit and played with his napkin, considering his response. "Well, sometimes life just doesn't work out the way you want, Mulder. Sometimes it takes all you have just to pursue what matters most to you." Mulder closed his eyes, rotated the tension in his neck. "Then when you find out what that all important thing really is," he said, still in that soft, flat voice, "you realize you've used up all your energy. And your nerve." Bill caught Mulder's eye and held it, then looked pointedly at his sister. "I don't know, Mulder. Maybe it doesn't take as much nerve as you think." Scully felt innuendo the size of a Boeing jet slide over her head. Mulder was staring hard at Bill. Bill was returning the gaze, but not unkindly. Mulder could feel his heart pounding suddenly, felt Scully's confused expression. Some highly analytical nerve in his brain registered the fact that she had stopped breathing temporarily. The nerve twitched and he felt the memory of a soft arm across his upper abdomen. He dropped his gaze abruptly and excused himself. "Mulder, are you okay?" Her voice made him wince but he only nodded and made his way to the men's room. Sometimes that woman's voice was nothing short of pure silk. He wasn't quite out of earshot when he heard the voice turn hard: "Okay, Bill, just what the hell was that all about?" Good, let Brother Bill sweat a little. It'd do him good. Apparently Scully hadn't gotten her answer by the time he got back to the table: the two greeted him with tight smiles. The smile of the waitress was more genuine as she sat a plate with a single fortune cookie on the table. "Your friend near the door said you needed this." "What friend?" Mulder stretched over in his seat to see the area near the door. No one he recognized. "An older gentleman." She shrugged, baffled by the intensity of the look Mulder gave her. "Hey, just an old guy in a business suit. You don't want the cookie?" "No... Yes, thank you." She shrugged at Scully and Bill, leaving the table as Mulder snapped the cookie open and pulled out the slip of paper. Scully remembered him giving that same look reading another little slip of paper... "What is it, Mulder?" She was talking to his back again. By the time she could react, he was halfway out the restaurant, running for the door, the fortune clutched in his hand. She two-stepped after him, not totally oblivious to the people staring. Good thing he'd already paid the check, she thought. Cold air blasted into her face and she found Mulder striding down the sidewalk after a car just speeding away from the curb. Diplomatic plates and heavily tinted windows. She noted the number on reflex, realizing the odds were good that they were bogus. Mulder had stopped at the corner, realizing the futility of his situation. He jerked when she touched his arm. "What is it?" she repeated. Wordlessly, he presented her with the paper. She read: "If a shark stops swimming, it dies. Never stop swimming." She looked up at her partner's profile. He was still staring after the long gone vehicle. "Mulder, Deep Throat is dead." He was silent a long moment then looked at her quietly. "Not everything dies, Scully." He looked at his watch: 2:47. Just over two hours. He looked up again and smiled at Bill standing over Dana's shoulder. "Well, kids, looks like the next stop is Mr. Wilson's House." The tour of the Georgian town house turned out to be interesting enough to keep Mulder from being too fidgety. But by the time they reached "the dugout," as Wilson had apparently termed his private office, Scully had grabbed Mulder by the left wrist, yanking just a bit too hard to be friendly. "Look at that watch one more time," she hissed under her breath, "I'll pull that arm off and beat you with it." Mulder feigned innocence and smiled. Scully shook her head. It was a good thing he was unaware of the effect his smile had on most people. Otherwise he'd be using it as a weapon. She was watching him like the proverbial hawk. The problem was, she knew he was well aware of that fact and seemed to be totally unconcerned about it. Oh, he protested his innocence, certainly, but he was making no real effort to convince her of his sincerity, something he often had no problem doing when he really tried. Bill was delighted, pointing out the chair in the drawing room purchased in 1812 for the White House by President Monroe. Mulder raised an eyebrow. "You know Bill, most people just steal the towels and ashtrays." Any other time Mulder might have found this enjoyable. Wilson had, after all played a large role in drafting the United Nations Charter. But right now, the nicest thing about this place was the fact that it closed at four. Time enough to lose the Scully's, and walk to the Metro stop at Dupont Circle. He could transfer trains to the Blue Line at Metro Center and get off at the Smithsonian. From there it was a pleasant jog over the Fourteenth Street Bridge and on to the Memorial. The problem would be making a clean get away from Scully. The female version thereof, anyway. But even she couldn't hope to track him once he was in the press of human traffic in and out of the Metro station. She was good. But he'd been playing this game much longer than she had. So why hadn't he figured out a good excuse to get Scully out of his hair for the evening? He had exited the building quickly after the tour and was standing on the sidewalk, hands buried in his coat pockets against the cold, considering simply walking off when no one was looking. Scully looped a gloved hand through the crook of his elbow and interrupted the thought. "Mulder, are you okay?" "I'm fine," he said too abruptly. He sighed. "Sorry. I just really wish people would stop asking me that." Scully regarded his profile as he gazed up the road. The tightness of his jaw, the twitch of movement around the mouth, the darkness across his eyes. She'd come to know him more intimately in some ways than she had ever claimed to know anyone. And yet he was himself still a mystery deep enough to be an X-File of his own. Mulder was a = unique man, full of little quirks and subtle shifts, all of which were standard operating procedure. It was when he was playing "normal" that she got worried. And he had played normal just a little too well today. "So," she said, "just how do you intend to ditch me this evening?" He lowered his head and looked at her sidelong, not trusting himself to turn his head to view her fully. He shook his head and shrugged. "I thought I'd take the Metro over to Frohike's. Have a beer, catch up on the latest conspiracies and get him or Langley to drive me home." "Why don't you let me drive you to Frohike's?" He sighed. "I'd rather take the train, Scully." "You're not going to Frohike's, Mulder, and we both know it." He pulled away from her abruptly, pacing a few yards away before turning back to her. His voice was level and soft but firm. "As you so considerately pointed out to me once, not everything in your life is about me. Well, that's a two way street, Scully. This is my life. You've chosen as much of it as you want. You might have the decency to leave the rest of it to me, okay?" The words tumbled out as though someone else were speaking, there was a prophetic ring to them as they hung in the air and although he had spoken them, he knew he would be days deciphering their exact meaning. But that was later. Right now his gut was churning and there were sharp pains in his chest and arms. And he'd hurt her. Hell, he'd hurt himself. But Fox Onesorrysonofabitch Mulder had a date with a park bench in half an hour and just enough cash for the ride. She was watching him. He was in pain, she knew, and in more ways than emotionally. Wherever it was he was headed, she didn't want him going. She considered her options. "Don't you trust me enough to let me drive you to Dupont Circle?" She felt Bill step up behind her, quietly, realizing something incomprehensible to him was happening between his sister and this man. Mulder stood regarding her, his eyes screaming incoherently, precious seconds ticking away. "I'll walk. Bill, thank you for the day. Take your sister home." He turned on his heel and proceeded up the street, hands still deep in his pockets, shoulders set. Dana fairly pushed Bill to the car and got in the driver's seat. She gunned the car away from the curb, making as much of a scene as possible. Maybe he'd think she was pissed off and dumping him there. Maybe he'd think she was driving home. Maybe he wouldn't guess she'd be waiting for him at the terminal. Problem was , if she were Mulder, she wouldn't be fooling her. If she were Mulder, she'd--- She slammed on her brakes, making a very illegal U-turn in the middle of Massachusetts Avenue. Seconds later she slammed her hand against the steering wheel. Too late. In the precious minutes it had taken her to get back to Decatur Place Road, he was gone. Bill didn't bother to interrupt the screaming silence. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Mulder made the bench with five minutes to spare. He sat, half turned, eyes squinted in the gathering of evening twilight. They'd be turning on the lights shortly. Mulder knew what he would see: soft white lights shining up from the grounds, casting the shadows of pines against glowing granite. The interior lights would reflect soft green, and great bronzed Jefferson himself, all five tons, would look down at him from his lofty heights. God, but he loved this place. This took him back. Back to when Scully had first joined the X-Files. When he himself was new to the basement office-- A figure approached across the grounds from the monument, proceeded down the steps. A figure in a battered gray trenchcoat. Mulder's heart beat faster and he stood. He heard Scully's voice in his ear: Halfway down the steps, the figure turned and headed away from him. Mulder opened his mouth to call out and stifled a yelp as a hand was laid on his shoulder. He spun round and found himself looking into the dark eyes of Wallace Elliot, Bruner's orderly. "Dr. Verber?" Mulder couldn't tell if the question was sarcastic or not and let it go. "Good evening, Wally. You're a hard man to find." "I hope so. There seems to be somebody out there who would like to make certain that I'm permanently unavailable." His eyes were bloodshot with dark, heavy bags. He blinked wearily. "Anyway, thanks for coming." Mulder nodded. "The Knicks are playing Cleveland tonight. Anybody planning on missing that, I figured it had to be important." Wally didn't smile. He sat down on the bench and leaned forward like a man trying to make a smaller target. Mulder watched him a minute, took his own nervous glance around. "Who told you about the bench, Wally? Who told you how to reach me?" "The man at the Institute that night. He said I needed to find you. To tell you what I knew--" "The cigarette smoking man?" He sat down. "What is it you know, Wally?" Wally looked away nervously toward the Tidal Basin. It was getting dark fast. "I don't know what you think you know, man--" "I know you've been dumping those bodies. And I know you didn't kill those kids." Wallace jerked and stood, towering over Mulder. He was sweating profusely in the chill night air, tiny snowflakes pelted his immense shoulders. "It was something Bruner was into. Something from way back. Something he wanted known--" "So why didn't he just take out an ad in the Post?" Wally shook his head. "He said there were a lot of people in on this, people that he couldn't touch. He wanted them to hurt. Even if it was just to make them sweat--" The sudden roar of rifle fire cut across the lawn and as in slow motion, Mulder saw Wally's knees buckle, his body convulse, knocking Mulder back and to the ground. Mulder stumbled for the shelter of the Memorial, running low, vaguely aware of the sound of squealing tires, a vehicle approaching across the bridge and more gunfire. Suddenly he was on the ground, tumbling onto the steps, the marble brilliant in the twilight. The colder part of his mind told him the floodlights has come one. He gasped, rolled onto his back, one hand clutching the pain the lightening bolt of the rifle had delivered to his chest, the other held his gun. It was too heavy and he heard the Glock slam into the marble as he dropped his hand. He opened his eyes and regarded the stars looking down on him. Stars involved with the business of darkness. Like him. They had no choice. Like him. He moved weakly against the ridges of the steps, they were oddly slick with something... The hand on his chest reaching out for--for what? He lay there quietly and considered, a dark shape against the cold expanse of white, a negative of the lights above him, drifting into a darkness of his own. From very far away, he heard Scully scream. Bill had manned the cell phone starting with their return to the Wilson House. This time he'd seen enough not to question the need for the search, nor her urgency. And far from feeling they were chasing after some errant child, his heart beat faster with wondering just what it was Mulder was trying to protect Dana from that he would proceed alone. First phone number she'd barked at him was a dead end: guy had answered the phone in a laid back surfer kind of voice and Bill could have sworn he'd said "Lone Gunmen." He'd promised to call the minute Mulder showed up and to not give her cell number to someone named Frohike. Next call was to security at the J Edgar Hoover Building. She'd handled that one herself, rattling off her badge number and leaving orders for someone to call if Mulder checked in. By the time she'd shoved the phone back to him, they were in front of the Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History. Dana bailed out with Bill close behind. She flashed her badge to the guard on duty and showed a photo of her partner. Bill wondered if she carried it out of affection or because she frequently needed it for occasions such as this. Knowing Dana wasn't the type to even carry photos of her own mother, Bill settled on the latter. "Damn," she whispered, walking back to Bill, her eyes scanning Constitution Avenue. "Where else?" She considered DC's layout, as best she knew it and wracked her brain for other "Mulderish" locals. She pursed her mouth, turned back to the guard. "Excuse me, could you tell me how I get to the National Aquarium?" She knew he'd met Deep Throat there once. The guard shook his head. "Closed at two on Sunday, Miss." Bill started to ask if the guy ever visited anything other than museums in his off time but the desperation on Dana's face closed his mouth. She was thinking out loud. "Deep Throat used to meet him at the Jefferson Memorial--Jeezus, Dana, Deep Throat is dead. Think!" Bill sighed. Said nothing. She whispered. "Think, think... The Thinker met him at the US Botanic Garden-- Come on, Bill!" And they were off again. The Garden greenhouse areas were closing for the evening and Dana hauled Bill through the park, petite, dainty little legs fighting to cover ground rapidly. Bill mused that should he ever convince her to retire from the Bureau, she could open a tourism guide: Washington DC in Two Hours or Less. Bill breezed past statuary and carefully labeled plants of all kinds. He'd have to bring Tara here in the spring... At the rose garden, Dana swore again. "Maybe you should take him up on that shooting offer," Bill quipped. Then seriously again. "He acted like he didn't have much time, right? So this place he went had to be in DC... Or maybe he just went back to his apartment---" She shook her head. "That just doesn't feel right... Okay, one more spot." She was jogging this time. "And if he's not there, I just may take him up on that offer." Bill saw the dome of the Jefferson Memorial from the moving car just as the lights came on. The marble lit up like light through amber and he had to force himself to look away, sweeping the great manicured lawn for some sign of Mulder. Then the first shot rang out. Dana brought the car to a squealing halt just off center from the front of the Memorial. Then the second shot and she exploded with a scream, jerking frantically at her seat belt. "Call 9111," she managed to gasp then, "Oh God!" and she was running, stumbling across the lawn to the Memorial. Bill relied on his service training to keep his mind clear as he gave the location to the dispatcher even as he followed. He could see where his sister was running in the twilight: past a great slumped body against a bench, up to the steps where Bill could see Mulder. The phone went slack in Bill's hand. Something about the way Mulder lay against the cold white expanse of marble, the cross position of his arms, the whiteness of his face, the open, vacant eyes. But there were no peacocks here. The only thing screaming was Dana. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX There was a bright light suddenly. Not flooding everywhere like light does but focused, like a laser beam. He jerked, struggling to get away. They were back! Coming for him like they'd come for his sister-- The shadows pressing around him, shouting dully, distantly, unfocused as the light approached. He stopped struggling. This was brighter than the light that had come for Samantha. He'd heard of this light. Descriptions from hundreds of case files of near death experiences floated briefly through his head, floated gently away. There was no tunnel here, no figure in this light. The figure was the light. Suddenly there was no fear. Just a great sense of peace. A sense of having arrived at someplace he'd struggled to reach all his life. The light spoke to him. Assured him that someday he would remember the words. That they would come to make sense to him. He turned his head to another presence beside him. Through the press of shouting, probing shadows, Melissa Scully reached out to touch him gently, smiled. "Hello, Fox." The surgeon made several more notes before closing the chart and handing it to her. "We lost him twice in the ambulance and again in the OR Considering the nature of his injuries, his recovery is remarkable." Scully nodded, looking over at Mulder's sleeping form. The steady blip of instruments were a sweet song. They had removed the trach tube four hours ago and still the rhythm of his breathing had remained steady, his oxymeter good. They'd moved him to a private room after only eighteen hours in the ICU. World record for Mulder. She still didn't know where his parents had come up with a name like Fox but after this little side trip, he needed to consider changing it to Lazarus. There was a rustling at the door and she turned to see Skinner peering in hesitantly, the security detail he'd posted at Mulder's door looking over his shoulder curiously. The surgeon excused himself to finish rounds and the Assistant Director entered. They stood in silence a moment watching Mulder breathe. "I understand I'm witnessing a miracle," Skinner kept his voice low. "The bullet penetrated one lung, narrowly missing the aorta, exited his back a little too close to his spinal column for comfort, but... He should make a full recovery. Of course, he hasn't regained consciousness yet. We can't be certain that there aren't further complications from the blood loss..." Skinner nodded, sparing her the necessity of elaborating. "You were right about those diplomatic plates," he said. "The car was found in Chinatown this morning. Torched. The body in the park was Wallace Elliott, an orderly at the--" "Maryland Institute for the Criminally Insane. Yes, I know." Skinner gave her a hard look. "He told you about Bruner?" She sighed, crossed her arms. "I know Bruner was some kind of doctor. That he was a patient at the Institute and that Mulder was convinced that he had some knowledge of the disposal of these bodies. Have there been any more recovered?" "No. As far as the Bureau is concerned the case is closed." Her jaw dropped. Skinner kept his masked face on Mulder. "Sir--" "These killings took place some twenty years ago--" "Sir, may I remind you there is no statute of limitations on murder--" "Leichman closed the case this morning, Agent Scully." "And as his superior you have every right to demand it be reopened." "You have not been apprised of all the facts, Agent Scully. I will not allow you to pursue this case any further. Not alone." "Had Agent Mulder been apprised of all the facts?" Skinner didn't answer. "How did Mulder come in contact with this Bruner character." Skinner ground his teeth momentarily. "Bruner called me requesting contact with Agent Mulder on a personal matter." "Personal to Mulder?" "I was told that is was important for Mulder to pursue the matter. That I should also refer Leichman's case." "Did you tell Mulder there were outside influences prompting your decision?" Skinner was silent. "You sent him into this with no prior understanding of the situation." It was not a question. Skinner squirmed briefly under her steady gaze. "That's about the size of it, Agent Scully. I took a chance." "And almost cost Mulder his life." "Your partner knows the risks inherent in continuing his work." He looked at her coldly. "And so do you. If the risks are unacceptable, walk away." "I can't walk away." "No, Agent Scully, you just won't walk away." "Not until they let Mulder walk," she closed her eyes briefly. "And we both know they won't let him do that." Skinner watched the single tear track down her face, disappear around her jaw. His first meeting with her, a fresh idealistic instructor from Quantico, was a lifetime away somehow. He should have sent her back to her classes, told Blevins to go to hell. Her eyes were granite as she stared right back. Her voice was barely a whisper but tough and cold. "Mulder was once offered the chance to avenge me. To become a player in this game instead of a damned pawn. He refused to sell out. What was it they bought you with?" Skinner allowed her gaze to sear him a moment more then turned to the door. Before pulling it open he turned back briefly. "Agent Mulder would be interested to know. Pitnam died last night. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He was holding his daughter's picture." Scully waited for the door to close before she allowed a second tear to fall. She sat heavily in the chair next to Mulder's bed, struggling to pull herself together. She studied his hand, so still there on the bed. Her mind's eye remembered it moving, fidgeting, playing with the pen in the car. Remembered his questions. "Why does God allow all this suffering?" she whispered. Mulder's own voice answered, a gravelly whisper. "Maybe he's in pain. Maybe he just wants to share his heart." Scully stood, searched his face. Coming from anyone else, that would have sounded like so much sentimental dribble. But from Mulder.... >From Mulder, she could believe it, accept it. "Welcome back, Mulder." He tried to smile, managed a weak grimace. "So, is this your way of getting me caught up on my sleep?" She sighed, laid her forehead on his shoulder. Neither spoke for a long while. Finally she felt his hand on her arm. "Go home and rest, Scully. I'm not going anywhere for a while." "I am home, Mulder." She didn't raise her head, felt him tense suddenly, then just as suddenly relax. "You're a sick woman, Scully." His voice was warm against her hair. "Must be the company I'm keeping," she said. When he woke again, he was alone and the phone was ringing. In the process of reaching for it he realized they had removed more tubes while he was out. Especially the more painful one they always insisted on shoving in his groin. That being discovered, he answered the phone delightedly, ignoring the low roar of pain the movements caused. "DC Morgue. You stab 'em, we slab 'em." "And good evening to yourself, Agent Mulder." Every hair on Mulder's arms rose to attention. He laid back as much to absorb the shock as to relieve his pain. "I see the reports of your death have been grossly overstated," he said. "Damn my bad luck." An appreciative chuckle filtered through the receiver. "I understand your reticence to believe this, Agent Mulder, but you're going to be glad we had this little chat. Very glad. Maybe even grateful." "Grateful enough for what?" Mulder snorted, "To hunt you down and finish your execution? Sure. I can do that." "Same rules still apply as last time, Mr. Mulder. I die, the truth you need dies with me. Nothing's changed." "Oh, but things have changed, you black-lunged bastard--" The venom he threw into the receiver made him wince with pain and he had to lay back a minute to recover before continuing. The man on the other end of the line waited patiently. "I'm not playing this game anymore," Mulder gasped. "I want out." "Do you?" The voice was condescendingly patient. "Where's your partner, Agent Mulder?" Alarms went off in Mulder's head that had nothing to do with his EKG. He glanced round the room. A blanket lay rumpled across the recliner, Scully's shoes tucked under it. Her overnight case was open on the cabinet. The silence was deafening. "Are you there, Mulder?" The voice was light. Carefree. But then it always was. Suddenly it dawned on Mulder why he hated that tone so much. Because if he had nothing left to lose that's how he would speak. Like it didn't matter. Like nothing would ever matter again. The voice spoke again. "Has it never been a source of speculation to you, Mr. Mulder, that all the other women you and Agent Scully have encountered from the project were taken more than once? Some of them many times. All of them at least several times. All but Agent Scully." Mulder didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't really think he could at the moment. "You always believed her disappearance was intended to keep you in line. Perhaps you're right. Or perhaps it was intended to keep you moving; not to drive you away but forward." There was a lengthy pause. "Or has that fact never occurred to you." Mulder found his voice as the receiver went dead. He lay quite still a moment longer, gathering his wits, breathing hard. Once in another hospital room he'd told Scully he had found the faith to keep looking. Now he'd been handed a reason to do so. Ignoring the near blackout level of pain, he sat up on the edge of = the bed, dialed Scully's cell number. The blanket rang. Mulder's heart sank as he caught sight of her coat hanging from the back of the chair. The phone was in her pocket. She wouldn't have left it here if she'd gone home. Hell, she wouldn't have left her shoes. Not even to step out for coffee... Mulder hit the power buttons on the monitor and the IV pump and disconnected himself viciously. He found his bloodstained jeans in the closet; his leather jacket wasn't much better and there was a new hole in the back. No shirt. What the hell, maybe people would mistake him for a rock star. He found his gun in the false bottom of Scully's overnight case. He searched her overcoat and found hers in the pocket. He upholstered it and slipped it into his waistband. It was the night shift, thank God; the corridor was fairly deserted. Mulder noticed a folding chair with a table presenting a cup of coffee just across from his door. Where were Skinner's guard dogs? Mulder touched the Styrofoam. Coffee was still warm. The realization sent his chest into an entirely new level of pain and he had to concentrate to remind his body how to walk to an elevator. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Mulder was certain Scully couldn't have been gone long when he found the body on the elevator. Nightshift or not, bodies don't generally travel up and down too many floors before being discovered. Mulder recognized the man from his days in the bullpen. Rick Barclay. General Assignment. Wife and three little girls, last Mulder had hear. His neck had been snapped. His gun was still in it's holster. Mulder punched the garage level button. Looked like Barclay was going to have to take another trip and wait for someone with just a little more time.... By the time he stumbled out into the garage, Mulder was sweating profusely. God, but his chest hurt... He tracked his gun slowly, efficiently, scanning the cavernous floor. An echo of a car door being shut very softly. He turned, ducked low to run, cringed with pain, slipping slightly on his own blood dripping silently on the concrete. He ran anyway, grateful for the quiet rubber soled boots, bloodstained as they were. He rounded a column, brought his gunsite to bear on the man just stepping into the car. "Federal Agent, freeze!" The man paused, one hand on the car door, the other on the roof, his back to Mulder. The car's interior lights shone through the darkly tinted glass revealing a familiar head resting in the backseat. She wasn't moving. "Step away from the car and keep your hands where I can see them. I assure you I am armed." "You're making a mistake, Agent Mulder." The voice was familiar and his gut rolled over. But he'd run across one too many formerly dead acquaintances today to be too excited. "If she's dead or hurt in any way, your biggest mistake will have been not remaining dead." X turned and regarded him, keeping his hands on the roof of the car. The young man was too easily agitated.... "She's alive. Merely drugged." "Too bad we can't say the same for the guy in the elevator." He interrupted X's reply, "Yeah, I know, I'm just a naive schoolboy who still insists on calling murder 'murder' instead of 'business as usual.' Just part of my charm, I guess." He nodded at Scully. "What do they want her for this time? They forget a few tests? Want to do a follow-up? See if she has anything left they can destroy?" X did not answer. Mulder's voice was quiet, flat and hard. "You know you're not taking her out of here. I'll kill you were you stand." X stepped away from the car, hands to his sides but still in plain sight. "Now," he said. "Or later. It's all the same to me. And if not me, they'll send someone else for her." "Why? What do they want from her?" Mulder's voice cracked. He was trying hard not to choke on the blood bubbling in the back of his throat. X tilted his graying head, watching him. "They don't want anything from her, Mr. Mulder. HER life is not important to them." The words brought Mulder's rage up several levels and he felt his finger tighten the trigger, felt the trigger responding. Then suddenly he hit that plateau where his thoughts suddenly cooled and condensed, the excess blowing away like steam when lava hits the sea. Cancerman's words echoed in his head, light and laughing. He experienced a epiphany. X stood motionless, watching the younger man's finger relax, watching those intense eyes turn a sleepy, deep green. Mulder took a step back, his gun level, his face visible only as a half-silvered image = in a view finder. Mulder was smiling. Not the sweet smile of delight, but a genuine smile nonetheless that made X shiver involuntarily. "It's not her life that is important," Mulder repeated the phrase. X waited. "But you seem to have a vested interest in mine, don't you?" "Mr. Mulder--" "I'm your tool, right? That's what you always said." X nodded warily. "Well, tonight we put that glove on the other hand, sir." X stiffened. "You go to hell, Agent Mulder--" "That's exactly where I plan on going." Mulder moved his weapon: the barrel under his own chin, his finger still on the trigger. X took an instinctive step forward, stopped. "What the HELL do you think you're doing--" "Dealing. We both know there are some lines I won't cross. I won't take human life at random even to find the truth. But MY life is quite another matter. That's a field on which I think I can handle being a player." "No!" "Why?" Mulder hissed, cold rage the only thing keeping him on his feet. "Why is my life so important?" X shook his head, shaking his fists in frustration. "You are the key! Damnit, you die and the truth dies with you!" "What do you care? What is the truth? Why is it important to you?" The older man was sweating. He held his hands out to Mulder, palms down. "You said you would deal. Just put the gun down and we'll talk." "I'll leave the gun where it is and we'll still talk." "Agent Mulder, you're bleeding--" "And I'm about to bleed a hell of a lot more. What's it to you? "Mr. Mulder," X growled, "you will NOT DO THIS." Mulder regarded him dispassionately, tired. "I read once that once a man's hit thirty, there's not a day that passes that he doesn't think about his own death, at least at some level. It's what drives us forward. That day hit me when I was twelve. So I've had at least as much time as you to get used to the idea." He paused to breathe. It was getting harder. "This is no bluff. You know better. How about it? What is it worth to you? What'll you give me for not pulling the trigger?" X was having an epiphany now. It seemed to be catching. He turned his gray head to the motionless figure in the car. Mulder nodded. "Now your catching on." X looked back at him. "She lives," he said. Mulder pushed. "She lives and she remains here with me. Untouched." X regarded him. Mulder could almost see the gears turning behind those dark, intelligent eyes. "You forget, Agent Mulder, I'm not the only player in this game. Should--" "Should someone else have any problem with the terms of our agreement, you'll just have to convince them." Mulder's body was weakening, but his eyes had not so much as blinked. "Anyone," he hissed, "Anyone touches her and it's over." X smiled. "But, think, man. If you blow yourself away, who would she have left to rescue her?" Mulder returned the smile. "I'll make those arrangements. Don't worry." He paused to breathe again. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it. Now." X straightened to his full height and regarded the pale shaking man with eyes of cold steel. He nodded. "Her life is yours. She lives." His voice was hard. "YOU live. And you KEEP MOVING." Mulder lowered the gun, slumped against the column. He raised the site again as X reached into his pocket. The black man showed him the cell phone, punched in a number. Mulder slid to the floor and lost consciousness as X called for emergency personnel to the garage level. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX "But the seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by preserving produce fruit with patience." The minister closed his book and looked up. "Let us join in a moment of reverence for our dear brother, Walter Pitnam." Mulder looked over at Scully; her head bowed, eyes closed, red hair glowing in the sunlight. He bowed his own head to stare at the coffin being lowered slowly into it's plot. He inhaled deeply, slowing the intake as a whisper of pain shot through his chest. The hospital had released him only a few hours before and he was still trying to assure Scully he was well enough to go home alone. She'd even suggested his calling one of the Lone Gunmen in to babysit. But he'd talked to the guys two days ago, when he'd woken back in his hospital room, tubes intact. All the tubes... No, the Gunmen were working on... other things. Contingency plans. They weren't his only ace in the hole, although he hadn't told them that. Should they ever need to implement one of those plans, they would find a little more help that they would have expected. Formidable help. Mulder shook his head. It was so simple. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. Scully didn't know, of course. He could never tell her. She'd never forgive him for connecting his life so completely with her own. Never stop worrying over herself for his sake. Since the cancer had gone into remission, she had reveled in her independence, distancing herself emotionally from all the people she had relied on through her illness. Especially him. It wasn't a conscious decision on her part, certainly, but the fact that it was an unconscious reaction didn't make it any less human, any less true. Any less painful. Right now, he was simply a reminder of death. And she wanted to live. And that's just what he wanted her to do. So he'd told her the kidnapper was part of Wallace and Bruner's team. That he'd frightened the man off. That as soon as he'd heard Wally and Bruner were dead, he would slip away into the network of lies and disappear. What was that Deep Throat had told him? That a lie was best hidden between two truths? He felt her hand reach over and settle itself into his. He peered out at her sidelong from under dark lashes. Those brilliant liquid eyes asking if he was okay. He closed his eyes, squeezed her hand gently, rubbing her fingertips easily with his thumb. As she took his arm and he allowed her to lead him back to the car. She looked down at the hand she held, quiet and strong. Alive. She wouldn't tell him, of course. Wouldn't tell him that she was drugged motionless in the car that night. Motionless but not unconscious. He wouldn't worry about her so much if he believed she didn't know. And she knew he would never tell her for the same reasons. "Hey," he said, slipping into the driver's seat. "I never asked you how Bill was doing." "Oh, he's alright. Glad to be home, I think." Mulder smiled. "I bet." "He did strongly suggest that we both remain with the X-Files." Mulder paused before turning the key, regarding her warily. She smiled. "Apparently, he doesn't think Washington's tourism industry is quite ready for us." "So, which part of the weekend seems to have been the determining factor, the Institute or St. Mary's Wilderness?" "Apparently the Wilson House was a little more excitement that he's used to. He laughed. "Jeez, Scully, I can't take your family anywhere." "That's just what Bill said." XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX It was quiet. In a forest of virgin pine the hemlock bowed it's branches against the wind and sun. A cloud passed lazily above, trekking across the sky in leisurely fashion, gazing down at the lush land below. Spring was fast approaching. Grass pushed its way through the soft earth, wrapped around roots and rock, reached up to tickle at the skeleton lying stretched full length upon the ground. Dainty little foot bones rested very ladylike side-by-side. The remains of outstretched arms warmed in the sunlight bathing the tree. Winds whispered and branches responded in hushed tones high above. Far below, the pale little remains lay quiet on an expanse of green. And stared unblinking into the sun. END "To believe in one's dreams is to spend all of one's life asleep." --Chinese proverb.