TITLE: The Bill Scully Files AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray EMAIL ADDRESS: publius@avalon.net DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere and everywhere, so long as my name stays on it and no money changes hands. FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out. SPOILER WARNING: Numerous spoilers all the way through Season 6. RATING: PG-13, for language and violence. CONTENT WARNING: Bad words; ScullyAngst (Bill, Dana and Tara); MulderAngst; M/S friendship; Mulder/Tara friendship; Bill,jr/Tara romance CLASSIFICATION: XRA DISCLAIMER: In my dreams.... SUMMARY: A set of three loosely-connected stories in which Bill Scully and Fox Mulder gradually come to terms with each other’s existence. BOOK ONE: Insurmountable Opportunities. Bill Scully and Fox Mulder investigate a series of grisly murders on the high seas (well, okay, on Chesapeake Bay). BOOK TWO: Seven Days in November. Bill Scully returns to Washington, and finds himself caught up in another X-File -- but this time the situation could have profound consequences for the future of the United States. BOOK THREE: Fox Mulder and Tara Scully combine forces to solve a mutual problem. However, in the course of the investigation they discover that there is far more at stake than they had originally suspected. =========================== BOOK ONE: Insurmountable Opportunities SUNDAY Bill Scully was angry. Nothing had gone right that day. From the moment he woke up, to realize that he'd slept through the alarm for the first time in god knows how many years, the world had seemed to conspire against him. First there had been the oversleeping. Next had come the blowout on the freeway, at seventy miles per hour. At least he had managed to maintain control of his car, and wrestled it over onto the shoulder. He supposed he should be grateful for that. But even that piece of good fortune had taken on sinister implications, in the light of subsequent events. It was almost as if Something was toying with him, before finally closing in for the kill. Against all odds, he got the flat changed and made it to the airport with 20 minutes to spare -- only to find that his flight had been delayed by "mechanical difficulties". Time had dragged on and on, while Bill paced and cursed and paced some more. Then, finally, his flight had been called, and he had boarded the plane, thinking that maybe his troubles were over. Fat chance. The airliner's seats were packed, with not a single vacancy, and to his despair he had found that his seat assignment had him sandwiched between a salesman who would not shut up the entire flight, and a college-age punk who all too evidently hadn't bathed nearly recently enough. Now, finally, after a seemingly endless purgatory of lame jokes from the salesman and cheerful obliviousness from the unwashed punk, they had touched down at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport and were now rolling towards the disembarkation gate. Bill was out of his seat and off the plane like a rocket. He burst out of the companionway (as he couldn't help thinking of it), and exited rapidly past the security check point. All he wanted at this point was a drink and a nice, thick steak, medium rare. And then maybe another drink. Eagerly, he scanned the swirling crowds, looking for Dana, who had promised to meet him at the airport and drive him back to her apartment, where he would be staying while he was in Washington. Normally he would have stayed with his mother, but she was out of town for the week, and Dana's apartment was more convenient to the Pentagon in any case. Then he froze in horror as he spotted a familiar figure leaning up against a pillar. Mulder. For an instant, Bill thought wildly that it must be a coincidence. He knew that his sister and her partner traveled frequently when they were on a case. This had to be happenstance. Mulder was here to catch his own flight. Probably going to Scotland to check in with the Loch Ness Monster. But no. The man had spotted Bill, and now was bearing down on him, that dopey, infuriating grin hanging lopsided on the front of his face. "Hi, Bill," Mulder said cheerfully, extending his hand. "Welcome to Lewinskyland. Here, let me take one of your bags." Still numb from shock, Bill allowed Mulder to take his duffel, while keeping the garment bag holding his two Class A uniforms for himself. "No claim checks?" Mulder went on. "Good; I like to travel light myself. C'mon; the car's this way." Mulder proceeded to thread his way through the crowd; Bill trailed along after him grimly, while Mulder kept up a rapid fire of inane patter: "Dana said to tell you she's sorry she couldn't be here as planned. She got called out of town on short notice -- has to give a deposition in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, of all places, tomorrow morning at eight a.m. -- that's eight bells to you sailor boys." Mulder gave an infuriating smirk at his own "cleverness", and then continued to chatter all the way to the parking lot. There was a brief respite as they were exiting the lot, when Mulder's cell phone beeped, and he took a call from someone named Langley -- probably someone in the FBI crime lab, Bill guessed, judging from the technical nature of the conversation. But then the call ended, and Bill was once again the sole focus of Mulder's relentless personality. Finally, they arrived at Dana's apartment building. Mulder grabbed Bill's bags and bounded up the stairs two at a time. By the time Bill caught up with him, he had already opened the door and charged directly into the kitchen, dropping the bags in the living room on the way, and was rummaging around in the refrigerator as if he owned the place. Bill felt an unpleasant prickling on his scalp, as for the hundredth time he wondered just exactly what was the nature of his sister's relationship with Mulder. So far, he had deliberately refrained from asking her about it, and had privately resolved that he never would. In his mind, she would always be his baby sister, but she was also a grown woman, and entitled to her privacy. And besides, if he DID ask her about it point blank, he wasn't sure that he would like the answer. Mulder emerged from the kitchen, two bottles of beer in his hands. He tossed one in Bill's general direction -- which Bill juggled wildly for a moment and then managed to hang onto -- and plopped himself down on the sofa, popping the twist-off cap with one hand and clicking the remote control of the TV with the other. "Hope Rolling Rock is okay, " he said. "I grew up on the stuff in New England, and I've kind of converted Scully -- Dana -- to it." Again, the idiot grin. Bill ground his teeth together, but didn't say anything. "Anyway, why don't you go ahead and unpack and get cleaned up. I'll hang out here, and whenever you're ready I'll take you out to dinner." Shaking his head in disbelief, Bill scooped up his bags and headed for the back hallway. "Guest room is the second door on your left," Mulder called after him, and again Bill's hackles rose. <> he thought to himself resentfully. Twenty minutes later, having unpacked, changed clothes and washed up a little bit (the absence of any male toilet items in Dana's bathroom had been considerably reassuring), Bill reluctantly emerged into the living room again. He had considered just crashing on the guest bed for a couple of hours (he was tired, after all) in hopes that Mulder would get bored and go away, but the good manners his parents had drilled into him in childhood would not permit it. Mulder was comfortably ensconced on the couch, working on his second beer and watching what Bill at first thought was a football game. Taking a second look, he realized that it was some sort of retrospective of former star players. <> Bill grudgingly admitted to himself. Mulder waved his beer bottle at Bill. "Hiya," he said. "Feeling better? I always hate flying; you never know what kind of crazies you're going to wind up sitting next to. But you get used to it; I think I must have more Frequent Flyer miles than Captain Kirk." Again he gave that annoying grin, then finished his beer in three quick chugs, put the bottle down on the coffee table and bounded to his feet. "Ready to eat?" he asked. "I've got a real treat lined up for you." Bill refrained from pointing out to Mulder that he had lived in this area as a boy, and had attended Annapolis -- less than an hour away by freeway -- for four years. It was therefore highly unlikely, in Bill Scully's estimation, that Mulder would know about any restaurant worth knowing about that Bill, himself, didn't know about. He did briefly toy with the idea of telling Mulder he was too tired, and just wanted to make a sandwich and go to bed. But before he could act on the impulse Mulder had the door open and was charging out into the hallway; resignedly, Bill trailed along behind like a small boat caught in the wake of an aircraft carrier. A few minutes later they were in Mulder's car again, tooling along the Beltway, while Mulder continued to chatter: "I'm really glad we're getting this chance to spend some time together. I know you don't like me very much -- " <> Bill thought. <> "-- and I'd like to get to know you a little better, and give you a chance to get to know me. As Westmoreland said -- you remember him; he was the commanding general in Vietnam, poor bastard. As Westmoreland said, 'There are no insurmountable obstacles; there are only insurmountable opportunities.' I hope we can turn this visit into an insurmountable opportunity. We do have a connection, you know -- Dana." And that much, at least, was true, Bill had to admit -- if only to himself. Mulder steered the car through an interchange, and thence onto a city street, heading into Washington. "So anyway," Mulder continued, "you're important to Dana, and I'd like for us to get to know each other better. I'll even go first. So go ahead -- ask me anything." Mulder grinned toothily, and Bill was momentarily and unfavorably reminded of Howdy Doody. Bill Scully looked at Fox Mulder in amazement. This was unreal. No -- it was SURreal. The man actually seemed to be serious, despite the bad blood between them. For reasons he had never fully understood, Bill had felt an instant suspicion of Mulder the first time Dana had even mentioned his name. That suspicion had flowered into dislike, and then open hatred, as he watched his sister's life gradually being consumed by this man's bizarre obsessions. He had watched Dana metamorphose from a reserved, serious but basically happy young woman (or at least, so Bill believed her to have been, before she met Mulder), into something strange -- almost alien. Her letters, previously clock-faithful at the beginning of every month, had gradually become less frequent -- and when he did receive letters from her, they were strange and troubled, and spoke of bizarre, impossible things. Finally, she had stopped writing altogether, leaving Bill with no idea at all of what her life was like, or what had caused the change -- except for the certainty that Mulder was somehow at the center of it all. Bill realized that Mulder was still waiting for him to say something. Quickly, he rifled through his mind. Something. Anything. "Uh..." He cleared his throat. Maybe he could deflect the man by asking him about Dana. "Uh, what sort of case is Dana working on right now?" he asked awkwardly. Mulder seemed to shrug slightly, as if to say, <> Then he nodded, and said, "You may have read about it, it was in all the papers last year. They called it the Saucer Scam. A couple of farm kids from Grinnell -- the McLain brothers -- got into cahoots with one of the local TV stations, and whipped up a 'flying saucer'. Fake of course -- it was all sheet metal and scrap lumber, but with the TV station providing fake 'news' coverage of the supposed spaceship, they were able to make quite a bit of money from tourists and such. Scully -- Dana and I went in on the first day, undercover, and wound up exposing the fraud." He glanced at Bill, and his lip quirked. "We posed as brother and sister -- 'Sam and Mary Cavanaugh'. The desk clerk at the motel thought we were shacking up. Anyway, one thing led to another, and now they're going through discovery for the criminal fraud trial -- the FCC already yanked the TV station's license -- and Dana's deposition is tomorrow morning, like I told you. And so there you are." And so here they were, apparently. Mulder abruptly steered the car onto a side street, pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine. He climbed out of the car and headed down the block on foot at his usual frenetic pace, Bill following along behind as before. The neighborhood did not look terribly reputable, and Bill was already having misgivings when Mulder came to a halt in front of a seedy, run-down looking restaurant, with an ancient, barely legible sign over the door reading "Pizza Italy". Mulder led Bill inside, saying over his shoulder, "This is a great place. Third generation, but totally authentic. The owner's grandfather was a cook at Mystic Pizza, the place in Connecticut where they invented the pizza in the late 40s. They still use olive oil as a condiment. Scully will never let me eat here; she says its bad for my heart. You'll love it; I guarantee it." Bill, whose taste in pizza ran to Chicago style, nodded weakly. "Hey, Tony!" Mulder hollered at a man wearing a greasy apron over faded Levis and a flannel shirt. "Bring us a jumbo with all the trimmings. And a couple of beers while we wait, eh?" Without waiting for a reply, Mulder led Bill to a booth in the front of the restaurant, with a view through a plate glass window of the street, and they sat down. They had barely gotten settled before the man in the apron appeared with two bottles of Rolling Rock and set them on the table. The man -- Tony, Bill remembered -- exchanged a few words with Mulder, then disappeared again, and Mulder immediately launched into a seemingly endless story about a giant fluke that supposedly lived in the sewers of New York City. At first, Bill was sure it had to be a tall tale, and he felt his eyes start to glaze over, although he did manage to maintain, he hoped, a semblance of polite attention. But before long he felt himself being drawn into the story, and then becoming genuinely interested, as he realized that, whether he believed the fantastical details or not, he was at least hearing about a side of Dana which he had never really seen or paid attention to before: The professional, tough-minded investigator, devoted to truth and science, and willing to risk everything in their pursuit. Nor could he ignore the light and animation that washed across Mulder's face and took residence in his eyes and voice whenever he spoke of Dana. Against his will (and better judgment), Bill found himself warming to Mulder, just a little. Finally, the story ended; before Mulder could launch into another one, the pizza arrived, and it was everything Bill had feared: countless toppings, not all of which he could identify, smothered in melted cheese, which ran off onto the pan in rivulets, and the whole mess floating in a sea of grease. As he watched in horror, Tony proceeded to pour more olive oil over the top of the thing, before quickly and expertly cutting it into wedges with a pizza slicer and serving the first two pieces onto their plates. Bill could almost hear his arteries harden, just from looking at it. Without hesitation or regard for the mess he was making, Mulder dived into it. Picking up his first piece, he rolled it into a cylinder and took a huge bite off of one end, heedless of the cheese and tomato sauce squirting out the other end. <> Bill thought, <> Very gingerly, he picked up his piece of pizza, and proceeded to try to emulate Mulder. To his surprise, it turned out to be quite good -- excellent, in fact, although he shuddered to think what his cholesterol count was going to be in the morning. Fortunately, Mulder didn't seem inclined to talk while he was eating, and so the meal passed in relative peace and quiet. Part way through, Mulder called for another round of beer, and then for the check, and 45 minutes later they were in the car again and heading back to Dana's. Mulder remained quiet on the way back, although he still seemed to be cheerful. They pulled up to the curb in front of Dana's building, and Bill stepped out of the car. Mercifully, the other man did not seem inclined to come inside with him. "Hope you've had a nice evening, Bill," Mulder said, and then waited while Bill climbed the front steps before throwing the car into gear and speeding off into the darkness. Bill let himself into the apartment with the key Mulder had given him. It was new and shiny-looking, as if it were freshly cut, apparently a duplicate of the one Mulder had on his key chain (Mulder had joked about charging him a buck fifty for the copy), which had again aroused Bill's suspicions about Dana's relationship with the man. He stood for a moment in the living room, trying to decide what to do. He considered the TV, but then said to hell with it, and headed down the hall to the guest room. He stripped off his clothes, neatly hanging them over the back of a straight chair sitting in one corner, and fell into bed and was sound asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. # # # MONDAY The next day was the first of the Pentagon meetings which Bill Scully had come to Washington to attend. The subject matter -- proposed downsizing and outsourcing at the San Diego Navy Yard -- was frustrating for Bill; the Washington bureaucrats (including some in uniform who were more bureaucrat than sailor, he groused to himself) were even more so. <> he thought, <> By the time 4:30 rolled around, he was more than ready to call it quits for the day, and lost no time catching the Metro back to Dana's apartment. The phone started ringing as he opened the front door. He hesitated for just a moment, then decided to answer it. <> he thought, and realized guiltily that he had not called her since arriving in Washington. He scooped up the phone on the second ring. "Hello?" "Hi, Bill? This is Fox Mulder." Bill closed his eyes and suppressed a groan. "What can I do for you, Fox?" he asked. He knew from conversation with Dana that Mulder hated his first name; maybe using it would make him go away, or at least maintain a decent distance. Mulder didn't seem to notice the deliberate faux pas. "Couple of things. First, Dana called me this afternoon, and said she isn't going to be back as soon as she hoped. This case is apparently turning into a real bear -- the defense is raising all sorts of objections, making procedural motions and the like --makes you wonder if they're bucking for jobs at the White House. Anyway, the long and short of it is that she won't be back until Wednesday at the earliest." Two days from now. "The second thing is, I've run into a bit of a problem on a case I'm on, and it's actually right up your alley. I was wondering if you could help me out." "If it's a Navy matter you probably ought to call the Department," Bill replied cautiously. "Well, I've found that it pays to be careful who you confide in over at the Pentagon," Mulder replied. <> Bill thought sourly. "No offense. And in any case, it's not really something the Navy would be interested in, but it does involve seafaring -- you know, 'wooden ships and iron men' and all that." He gave a nasal laugh which instantly brought to mind the grin that Bill hated so much. He wanted to say no. Lord, how he wanted to say no. But he had sworn an oath of service to the United States, and two decades and more of devotion to duty would not permit that answer. Besides, Mulder probably just wanted to ask him a few questions. How long could that take? And if it helped solve a crime, well, that was its own justification. He sighed. "All right. What can I do for you?" "That's great," Mulder enthused. "I knew you'd come through for me. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes." "But --" It was too late. Mulder had already hung up. Bill returned the phone to its cradle, sank down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. "How did I get myself into this?" he asked the room. "This is like the script for a bad movie." He shook his head and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes. That barely gave him time to change out of his uniform and grab a quick shower. Wearily, he climbed to his feet and headed down the hall. Twenty minutes later, on the dot, he was standing on the curb in front of Dana's apartment building when Mulder pulled up in his car. Bill climbed in, and they were off. Once he'd gotten his seat belt fastened, he turned to Mulder and asked, "So where are we going?" Mulder looked at him briefly, and grinned the Grin. "Your old stomping grounds," he replied. "Annapolis." <> Bill thought. <> He had assumed they were going to FBI Headquarters, or at least somewhere local. Annapolis was forty miles or so away; they would spend at least an hour and a half just commuting there and back. He closed his eyes and slumped down in his seat resignedly, as Mulder resumed speaking. "Early this morning," Mulder explained, "some fisherman found a boat floating out in the middle of the Chesapeake. Its running lights were on and the engine was idling, and there was loud music blaring from the cockpit, but there was no one on deck, and the boat seemed to be basically just drifting in the current. Being good citizens -- the fellowship of the sea, and all that -- they pulled up alongside to check things out." Mulder stopped speaking. Finally, Bill opened his eyes and looked at him inquiringly. "And?" Mulder nodded; he'd obviously been waiting for some sign of interest. "They found five bodies on board. Two married couples, all in their forties or early fifties, and the adult son of one of the couples." He glanced again at Bill, apparently gauging his reaction. "They'd been hacked to bits with some sort of cutting tool, like a butcher knife or even a small axe. Actually, according to the telephone report I received, several weapons were probably used, as the wounds are not all alike." "So why are you involved?" Bill asked. "More to the point, why am *I* involved?" Mulder flashed the Grin at him again. "I'm involved because the federal government has technical jurisdiction over every navigable body of water in the United States. Normally that means the Coast Guard, but they're not really equipped for this sort of thing. You're involved because I figured if it happened out on the water you might have some useful insights. Besides, it gives us a chance to hang out together. You know -- the male bonding thing." Again the Grin. "I really don't know how much good I'm going to be to you," Bill objected. "The last ship I was on had a fuel bunker that was probably larger than this entire boat of yours. And what I know about how to solve a murder you can fit on the back of a grocery store receipt." "But this isn't an ordinary murder," Mulder responded, his eyes glinting with excitement. "This happened on the water. That makes it piracy." He glanced again at Bill. Bill raised an eyebrow, amused in spite of himself. "You expecting to bring in Blackbeard, Mulder? I hate to break this to you, but he died almost three hundred years ago." Mulder looked at him mysteriously. "We'll see," was all he said. The drive to Annapolis went surprisingly quickly. Mulder wove in and out through the late afternoon rush hour traffic with the deft reflexes of the experienced big city driver, and kept up a steady patter about nothing much: Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa's home run chase, how long it was likely to be before the Redskins managed to win a game, the relative merits of the Ford Taurus versus the Crown Victoria. "I think on the whole I prefer the Taurus," he concluded. "It's got more headroom AND leg room, front and back, than any other car on the road today." By this time they had exited U.S. 50, and were cruising through a quiet residential neighborhood of Annapolis. The quiet streets, the quaint colonial architecture, the smell of salt in the air -- all these things brought memories rushing back for Bill. <> he thought. <> A few minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the Anne Arundel Medical Center. As Mulder switched off the engine, Bill raised his eyebrows in question. "This is where they brought the bodies," Mulder explained. He glanced at his watch. "The autopsies should be done by now. Too bad Dana couldn't be here; she just eats this stuff up." Bill winced slightly at the image that brought to mind, but Mulder appeared not to notice. Mulder led the way inside and down the first flight of stairs that they came to. He called over his shoulder, "The morgue is always in the basement. Don't ask me why; it just is. Something to do with a subconscious desire by doctors to bury their mistakes." He clattered on down the stairs, and Bill wondered how bad it was going to be. It was bad. Bill took one look at the body in the freezer drawer, then looked away. He had seen his share of injuries -- even violent death. <> he thought. But this --- this was the worst thing he'd ever seen. Those wounds -- they looked like they'd been inflicted with a fire axe. Mulder said, "Well look at that." Almost against his will, Bill found his eyes drawn back to the corpse. Mulder had donned a pair of surgical gloves, and was gently probing a series of blue and purple welts scattered across the victim's arms and upper torso. Several of them had apparently been cut open by the surgeons -- dissected, that was the word Bill had heard Dana use. As he watched Mulder probing, something popped out of one of the welts and fell onto the freezer tray the body was resting on with a dull, metallic clank. Mulder picked it up and examined it, absently wiping it clean with a corner of the sheet covering the body, then handed it to Bill. Bill turned it over in his hand. It was a small metal ball, apparently made of lead from the softness when he tried to dig his fingernail in, and about the size of a large, somewhat lop-sided shotgun pellet or B-B. Bill's eyes widened as he realized what it was, and he looked up at Mulder. "Grape shot!" he exclaimed. Mulder shook his head. "Grape shot? What's that?" Bill's lips quirked slightly. "'Wooden ships and iron men,'" he quoted back at Mulder. "Grape shot was a type of load used in cannon during the Age of Sail. It worked on the same principle as shotguns: Rather than firing one large ball, you fired a bunch of little pellets, the idea being to rip the other guy's sails and rigging to shreds. It was also used as an anti-personnel weapon -- a broadside of this stuff would mow down sailors on deck like so much wheat." Bill handed the pellet back to Mulder, who looked at it thoughtfully. "Cannons, huh?" Bill shook his head. "But Mulder, this couldn't be the result of cannon-fire. If this man had been hit with that kind of a blast, he'd have been torn in two." "What if he was at the outskirts of the blast?" "Well -- maybe," Bill said grudgingly. "You have to understand, I've never actually SEEN the effects of grape shot; I've only read about it in books." Mulder continued to look thoughtfully at the pellet, but did not reply. "Who are you men? What are you doing here?" Mulder and Bill swung about, to see a middle aged woman wearing surgical scrubs standing in the doorway. Bill was at a loss; Mulder, however, calmly stepped forward, pulling out a small leather folder and flipping it open. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI," he said, and jerked his head towards Bill. "And this is Captain William Scully, United States Navy. We're conducting an investigation into this man's death, as well as the other four. And you are?" Bill couldn't help but admire the way Mulder had turned the tables on the woman, and put her on the defensive. The woman sputtered, "I'm -- I'm Dr. Scarpetta. Kay Scarpetta. I'm the Chief of Pathology at this facility." She glanced at Mulder's badge. "I suppose it's all right for you to be here," she continued. "But I wish you'd checked in with me before you came down here." "I apologize, ma'am," Mulder said smoothly. "It certainly wasn't our intention to bypass anybody. We just wanted to take a quick look at the bodies before we started digging into the matter." He nodded at the corpse. "Are they all like that?" "Pretty much," Dr. Scarpetta said, moving past Bill and tucking the sheet back around the body. The doctor raised her eyebrows inquiringly at Mulder, who nodded; she then slid the tray back into its drawer and shut the door. "Have you determined the cause of death?" Mulder asked. The pathologist shrugged. "All five bodies were hacked and slashed multiple times with a variety of weapons. If you want my guess, the weapons included an axe and some sort of bush knife or machete. Cause of death? Blood loss, shock." "Were the women sexually molested?" Bill winced as Mulder put this question. "No. We found no evidence of that." "What about this?" Mulder handed over the pellet they'd found. The doctor nodded. "All of the men and one of the women had those embedded in their bodies. The one you saw was typical, both as to number and distribution." "What do you make of it?" Dr. Scarpetta shrugged. "We're not sure. One of the residents who assisted me on the autopsies has a grandfather who collects guns. He said they look like pellets from some sort of antique shotgun or blunderbuss. I have no opinion, formally." "But informally?" Mulder persisted. Again, she shrugged. "The resident's theory is as plausible as anything else I've been able to come up with. It doesn't really matter; the pellets in no way contributed to death in any of the cases." Mulder nodded and held out his hand. The doctor dropped the pellet into it; Mulder folded the pellet carefully into a handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket, then stripped off his gloves and threw them in a covered waste receptacle marked "Biohazard". "Did the victims try to defend themselves?" he asked. "Based on the cuts, bruises and abrasions on their arms, I'd say yes," the doctor replied. "It looks very much as if these people were being attacked with some sort of edged weapons, and they raised their arms in an attempt to ward off the blows. And one of the women had some deep gouges on her upper back, which would seem to indicate that she tried to run away." "One last question, Doctor," Mulder said. "What would you estimate as the time of death?" "That is difficult to say with precision. But based on body temperature, and the advanced state of rigor...I'd say four to eight hours before they were found." "Between 9:30 p.m. and 1:30 a.m.," Mulder mused. "That would be my estimate," Scarpetta agreed. Mulder glanced at Bill. "Captain Scully," he said, "can you think of anything else?" Was that a twinkle in his eye? "No, Agent Mulder," Bill replied gravely, playing the game. "No, I think you've covered everything." "Thank you, Dr. Scarpetta," Mulder said, shaking the pathologist's hand. "We'll be in touch if we have any further questions." He handed Scarpetta a business card. "And if you think of anything else that might be useful, please call me." As they headed back up the stairs, Bill thought wonderingly, <> Aloud, he asked, "Where to now?" "Down to the wharf where the boat was brought in," Mulder replied. It was only a short drive from the hospital to the public wharves. The sun was just touching the horizon, casting long shadows everywhere, as they walked out along the pier where the boat was tied up. Bill noted that Mulder had brought with him from the car a flashlight that looked like it might do for a club in a pinch. Reaching the end of the pier, Mulder ducked casually under the yellow tape cordoning off access to the boat. Bill shrugged slightly and went after him. The boat was unremarkable; a small pleasure craft with an open cockpit, a twin screw inboard motor and, Bill estimated, probably two cramped staterooms below decks. The tide was in, so the boat was riding high, its gunwales rising two or three feet above the pier. Mulder vaulted easily over the side and onto the deck; Bill was about to follow suit when he noticed something interesting. There was a deep gouge in the gunwale, almost as if some sort of hook or clamp had been affixed to it. The gouge was several inches deep and an inch and a half wide, and the wood around it had buckled and splintered. "What have you got, Bill?" Bill looked up to see Mulder standing over him. "I'm not sure," he replied, and proceeded to point out the qualities of the gouge. "I'd say it was done pretty recently," he concluded. "The wood down inside the gouge doesn't look very weathered." He shook his head. "Funny." "What's funny?" Mulder asked. "Just...I don't know." He shook his head. "Just a notion I had. But it can't be." "What couldn't be?" Mulder persisted -- and again his eyes had that odd, intense glint in them. "Well --" Bill hesitated, then shrugged. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that gouge was caused by a grappling hook." "A grappling hook?" "Yeah. 'Wooden ships and iron men' again. In the old days, sometimes an attacker would want to send over boarding parties to try to capture a ship. The target vessel, of course, didn't usually want that to happen, and would try to maintain as much open water between the two ships as possible. In order to force the two ships into contact, the attacking vessel would often throw grappling hooks, with heavy lines on them; once a hook was firmly seated, the rope could be used to drag the two ships together." He gestured at the gouge. "This is pretty typical of the damage you might expect from such an operation." Mulder nodded thoughtfully. "Very interesting." He turned and trotted towards the aft of the boat. "Now come take a look at what *I* found," he called over his shoulder. Bill vaulted over the gunwale and strode after Mulder. When he caught up with him, Mulder was shining his flashlight (it was now twilight, and details were getting hard to see) at rear deck and engine compartment. Bill whistled in surprise. The entire rear end of the boat looked as if it had been caught in a mighty explosion. The paint and varnish had been stripped almost entirely away from the deck and the bright work, and the entire area was peppered with hundreds, maybe thousands of pockmarks and blisters. Most impressive of all, there was a ragged hole five feet wide in the engine compartment itself. "Wow," was all Bill could think of to say. "Maybe there was cannon-fire after all," Mulder said with satisfaction. "It looks very much like a classic example of a stern rake," Bill admitted. "Stern rake?" "The dream of any ship's captain during the Age of Sail was to come around behind the enemy, and fire off a broadside directly at the stern. It brought maximum force to bear against what was often the most vulnerable part of the enemy ship, and best of all, the enemy was unable to return fire, because HIS guns were pointing out to the sides. When you succeeded, it was called a 'stern rake'." Again Mulder nodded. "I see. This case is getting more interesting by the minute. Let's see what else we can find." The two men proceeded to search the boat from fore to aft; other than minor evidence that a struggle had occurred, however, there was no other evidence of note. Finally, Mulder admitted as much. "I suppose the local authorities have taken away anything really interesting that could be carried away. I'll find out where they took it in the morning, and go take a look." Bill smothered a yawn. "Are we done for tonight, then?" Mulder grinned, and nodded. "And we need to get you back to Dana's and tuck you in for sleepy bye." He held out his hand. "I do want to thank you for coming with me tonight. Your perspective on things has been invaluable." The drive back to Washington seemed almost friendly. # # # TUESDAY <> Bill awoke with a start. His skin felt cold and clammy, and his pajamas and the bed clothes were soaked with sweat. The gray half-light of dawn filtered sleepily in through the bedroom window, and on the nightstand, next to the bed, the hands on the illuminated clock face stood at five minutes past six. Bill sat up slowly, and shook his head, trying to clear it. Gradually, his thoughts settled down, and he began to sort out what was real. Already, the details of the dream were fading, leaving him only with a pervasive sense of fear and foreboding. By the time he left for the Pentagon, and another round of meetings, the memory was completely gone. Nevertheless, despair seemed to settle over him like a heavy, gray blanket. Unable to remember the cause, he nonetheless felt as if he were suffocating, and the Navy Department officials he met with seemed to him to be unusually stupid and malignant. After his last meeting, rather than returning directly to Dana's apartment, he went for a walk in Crystal City. Normally, a long walk in the late afternoon was the perfect antidote for stress and jangled nerves. But today nothing seemed to help, and Bill found himself sinking deeper and deeper into depression. Finally, he boarded the Metro and headed back to Dana's. He was in no mood to cope with Fox Mulder, and of course the man was there waiting for him, sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, eating chips and watching television. Scarcely had Bill cleared the threshold before Mulder had bounced to his feet, brushing off crumbs onto the carpet. "Great! You're home," he said. "Let's get going." And he brushed past Bill and headed for the door. "Wait a minute!" Bill protested. "Where are you going? I'm not going anywhere." Feeling petulant, he sat down firmly on the spot Mulder had vacated on the couch and munched a potato chip. "I have just sat through two straight days of loathsome meetings with a bunch of know-nothing landlubbers. I am tired, I am hungry and I don't want to go racing off again to look at dead bodies or...or whatever1" He popped another potato chip into his mouth and crunched it loudly and defiantly, glaring up at Mulder. Mulder walked over and stood in front of him. "Bill, I'm sorry -- I was thoughtless. Look, we can drive through Wendy's or something on the way. But you've got to come with me." "Why?" "Because I need you." Mulder sat down next to Bill and half turned to face him. "I spent all day downtown doing research, and I think you'll find what I've discovered to be very interesting. A year ago, more or less, a team of marine archeologists discovered a shipwreck off the coast of North Carolina. Based on what was left after two or three centuries in the water, it appears to have been a late 17th Century or early 18th Century sailing vessel. Based on various things, not least of which was the exact location of the wreck, the team finally came to the conclusion that they'd found the QUEEN ANNE'S REVENGE. That was Blackbeard's flagship, and it was sunk in battle in the same general vicinity where the wreck was found, in 1718." "We do study naval history at the Academy, Mulder," Bill said, arms crossed and voice as remote and forbidding as he could make it. He tried to imagine himself in command and Mulder as a lowly ensign, and found it helped him regain his sense of control. Mulder ignored his comment. "So anyway, these marine archeologists have been bringing things up from the wreck for the last year -- cannon, an anchor, things of that nature. And here's the kicker: You'll never guess who was one of the three co-leaders of the team that has been working the wreck." "Try me," Bill said sourly. With a dramatic flourish, Mulder said, "The co-leader, one-third of the triumvirate, was Dr. Angelo Brevetti, Professor of Marine Archeology. Who just happens to be the poor bastard who used to inhabit that hacked up corpse we saw yesterday." Mulder looked annoyingly pleased with himself. "Let's cut the crap, Mulder," Bill said. "What, exactly, are you suggesting? More importantly, what do you expect ME to do about it?" He held up his hand. "Strike that. I really don't care. I've had a long, miserable day, and I'm going to take a shower. Then, I'm going to find something to eat, and I'm going to bed early and try to get some rest. Now, is there anything else you wanted to tell me?" There was a long silence. Finally, Fox Mulder seemed to shrug slightly, and rose to his feet. "If that's the way you feel, then that's the way you feel," he said, and turned and left the apartment. Bill waited until the door closed, then allowed himself to sag back into the sofa cushions -- and, for the first time in nearly 36 hours, Bill Scully smiled. # # # WEDNESDAY The next day was more of the same: More meetings, more yammering, more bureauspeak. By lunchtime, Bill Scully's head was pounding, and his stomach was churning with acid. He had not slept well the night before, and the bilge he was having to wade through at the Pentagon wasn't helping matters any. His conscience was also bothering him. As he pushed his tray through the line at the cafeteria, he thought about the previous day. He didn't know what had come over him, but whatever had caused his foul mood, it had been unfair to take it out on Fox Mulder. Bill had agreed to help the man with his case, and he had had no right to go back on his own word. Nor was it just a personal favor Mulder had asked of him; viewed in context, it was a legitimate request for assistance -- albeit through somewhat unorthodox channels -- from another government agency. Bill knew his superiors would almost certainly not see things that way, but he had agreed to help Mulder on that basis, and it was, to Bill's way of thinking, tantamount to dereliction of duty for him to back out the way he had. Bill worked his way rapidly through the chef's salad and iced tea he had selected. He regretfully decided against going back for dessert -- as he grew older, he was finding it more and more difficult to control his waistline -- and glanced at his watch. He still had almost twenty minutes until his next meeting, and he knew in his heart how he ought to spend them. Sighing to himself, he disposed of his tray and walked back to his CO's boss' office. Borrowing a telephone from the Admiral's secretary, he dialed a number he had copied from Dana's rolodex before leaving her apartment that morning. It was answered on the third ring. "Fox Mulder." "Mulder it's me," he said. "Bill Scully." There was silence at the other end of the line. Bill cleared his throat, and went on awkwardly, "I, uh, I want to apologize for the way I treated you last night. It was inexcusable." <> he thought, and then went on, uncomfortably, "I, uh, was wondering if there was still anything I could do to help." There was just the briefest moment of hesitation, giving Bill time for the ungenerous hope that he would get credit for good intentions without actually having to DO anything. Then Fox Mulder said, "Sure. There are still some leads I need to follow up on, and I could definitely use your help with them. When are you free?" "Well, I do have two more meetings this afternoon," Bill said resignedly. "But I should be done by 4:30 or so. Getting back to Dana's apartment takes about --" Mulder cut him off. "Look, why don't I just pick you up at the Pentagon City Metro station, okay? That'll save us at least half an hour, maybe more, depending on the traffic. About 4:30, you said?" "Yes." "Great; it's a date." The man rattled on, as if the harsh words of the night before had never been spoken. "Oh, by the way, Dana called me just before you did. They've had more delays, she didn't really go into details, but now it looks like she won't be back until Friday evening." "Oh," Bill said, disappointed. "I leave on Friday afternoon. And the ticket's non- refundable." <> "Yeah, she mentioned that. Tough break. She said to tell you she's sorry, but it can't be helped. I'm sure an old salt like yourself understands about the call of duty." Mulder gave his patented nasal laugh. "But she said she'll catch up with you at Christmastime, if not before." A moment's pause. "Look, I gotta run; talk to you later." The afternoon seemed to drag by -- and another four hours under fluorescent lights in stuffy conference rooms wasn't helping his headache at all. Bill sat and watched and looked at charts and listened to a vice admiral with forty years of military service soberly discussing the relative merits of putting Coca-Cola versus Pepsi in the vending machines, and inside Bill felt his soul start to shrivel. He actually found himself looking forward to spending the evening with the relatively inoffensive Fox Mulder. At last it was 4:30, and he was free. He almost bolted from the Pentagon, heading for the Metro station, and a few moments later he and Mulder were tooling down the Beltway once again. As they sailed through the exit and onto Highway 50, Bill belatedly realized that by allowing Mulder to pick him up directly from the Pentagon, he had lost the opportunity to shower and change out of his uniform. <> he thought. His naval rank had already come in handy once -- and this WAS, after all, something vaguely resembling official business, at least by the rationale that he was operating under. <> "Annapolis again?" Bill asked. Mulder nodded. "I've arranged to hire a small boat," he replied. "I want to go out on the Chesapeake and check out the spot where the bodies were found." Bill was amused. "This was out in the middle of the Chesapeake, wasn't it?" Mulder nodded. "You aren't expecting to find clues are you? Footprints, maybe?" He chuckled at his own witticism. "No, of course not. I may be a landlubber," he looked briefly at Bill and grinned, "but I'm not THAT stupid. No, I want to check the area for signs of paranormal manifestations." Bill hesitated. "You're kidding, right?" Mulder shook his head. "Not at all. That's what I've spent the last couple of days researching -- and I had Langly and Frohike working on it, too, trying to track down references to previous paranormal incidents in that area. We all drew a blank, but I'm not ready to give up on it; I think if we can just go out there, we may turn something up." Bill couldn't believe his ears. He had gathered from Dana that Mulder had a rather...unusual belief system. But this...it was too much. He shook his head. Mulder glanced at him and grinned again. "You don't believe me, do you?" Mulder asked. "That's okay; Dana never does, either. She keeps me honest -- I don't know what I would do without her. She's my other half." The stark statement floated there in the air between them for a pair of uncomfortable minutes, while Bill tried to think of something to say in response. Finally deciding not to go there, he went back to the original subject. "All right," he said. "Tell me what you think is going on." Mulder nodded. "Well," he said. "First off, there are the odd wounds. You remember the pathologist thought they might have been inflicted with an axe or a machete, but they equally well could have been done with a saber -- or sabers, more likely. Second, you yourself identified the grapeshot we found, both in the body and embedded in the ship." "Boat," Bill said automatically, correcting Mulder's terminology. Mulder smiled. "Okay, boat," he replied, then went on with his analysis. "By the way, I took that pellet we removed from the body to an expert I know at the Smithsonian. He confirmed your identification. Third, as I told you last night--" Bill grimaced slightly, but Mulder didn't seem to be making a pointed comment. "--my research turned up the fact that one of the men on the boat was the co-leader of a team of marine archeologists who found what seems to be the QUEEN ANNE'S REVENGE, and for the last year they've been bringing up artifacts. Now, there are plenty of cases on record of ghosts coming back to haunt people who have disturbed their graves, and while Blackbeard didn't go down with the REVENGE, he did die in the battle. The victors decapitated him and took his head back on a pole -- literally -- but the rest of his body they apparently just heaved over the side. So it's entirely possible that his spirit, or ghost, if you prefer, would still be haunting the wreck, and might be annoyed at having it disturbed." Bill said, "You're really serious, aren't you?" Mulder looked at him, then back at the highway. "Yes, I am," he replied. "I've been studying things like this for years. And I like to think, after all that time, that I know what I'm talking about." There wasn't much to say to that, so Bill didn't try. Several miles went by, while he sat in silent contemplation. At last, he shifted in his seat, and spoke again. "So if we accept your theory for the moment --" Mulder nodded. "-- what do you expect to gain by going out to the spot where the boat was found? If I understand your theory correctly, you think that Blackbeard's ghost is taking revenge on the people who have disturbed his grave. And while I can see where...the ghost might have somehow tracked this guy down more easily when he was out on the Bay, I don't understand why you would expect the ghost to still be hanging around over an unmarked patch of open water, more than forty eight hours later." "Good question," Mulder said. "Show's you're capable of thinking outside the box. The answer is, of course, that I don't expect to find the ghost still there. But if it really WAS a ghost, there may be traces that would still be detectable." "How?" Bill asked suspiciously. Mulder laughed. "Let's leave that until we get there," he said. They made the rest of the trip without talking. Bill sat staring out the window at the strange yet familiar scenery rushing by, while Mulder whistled a succession of pop tunes from the 70s, just enough off-key to be truly annoying. Finally, they arrived at the Annapolis waterfront. A man was waiting for them at the boat rental dock, obviously annoyed at having to stay late. His annoyance faded somewhat when Mulder flashed his platinum, government-backed American Express card at him, and before long they were pulling away from the pier in a small inboard motorboat. Mulder had brought along a small valise, which he had taken from the trunk of the car, but he did not volunteer to explain what was in it, and Bill was too stubborn to ask. Mulder wordlessly handed Bill a scrap of paper with some coordinates on it; Bill took a brief glance at the chart they had found in a compartment under the pilot's seat, and laid out a rough course that should bring them to the spot indicated. "We should be there in half an hour, forty-five minutes," he told the FBI agent. "May as well sit back and enjoy the ride." They cruised for awhile in silence. Taking his own advice, Bill leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. The sun had set a short while before, and the brighter stars were beginning to appear in the deepening twilight. The smell of salt was strong in the air, and in the distance he could hear seagulls. <> Bill thought. <> He shook his head in self-reproof. <> And he thought again of the Pentagon, and shuddered at the thought of spending a two year tour there, surrounded by ambitious, brown-nosing captains and commanders, taking orders from clueless civilians in the Defense Department, office politics, paperwork....Dammit, he was a man of action! He wasn't cut out for that kind of life. "Penny for your thoughts," Mulder said, breaking in on Bill's reverie. Bill shook himself. "Oh...nothing. Just woolgathering." Mulder nodded, and waited to see if he would go on. "I was just...thinking about things. About my next assignment. That sort of thing." "I can understand that. It must be pretty exciting -- doing something different every few years, living in exotic ports, that sort of thing." "It has its moments," Bill admitted. "Kind of rough on a family, though." And he realized with a stab of guilt that he STILL hadn't called Tara. Looking for a way to change the subject, Bill leaned forward and pushed the GPS button on the dashboard. The small computer percolated for a second, consulted with the orbiting satellite network, then coordinates flashed on the readout. Bill compared them to the figures Mulder had given him, and said, "Looks like we're almost there. Maybe another five minutes." In fact, it was only three minutes before Bill was able to push the button again, nod in satisfaction, and kill the motor. "We're here," he said simply. The two men looked around. The last remnants of twilight had fled, leaving them in total darkness. There was no moon that night, leaving only starlight to illuminate the seascape. Off in the distance, to the west, Bill could see lights of human habitation, and to the northwest there was a skyglow that had to be Washington. "I don't see anything, " Bill remarked at last. "Neither do I," said Mulder. "But I didn't really expect to." He opened the valise, and drew out a small device somewhat larger than a TV remote-control, and just as studded with buttons. "Frohike loaned this to me," he explained. "He got the idea from a friend of his from New York, a guy named Spengler. Of course, Frohike improved on the basic design; this one is smaller and more sensitive than the original model. It's called a PKE Meter -- PKE stands for 'psychokinetic energy'. Supposedly it can detect disturbances in the psychokinetic spectrum." Mulder held up the device, as if he were demonstrating a new brand of CD player, and went on, "With Frohike's improvements, this model can even detect the residue left behind after a paranormal event, although of course the traces do fade over time. But Frohike assured me that after only two days, if this really was a ghost, or ghosts, there should be no problem picking up the trail." Mulder switched the device on; immediately, numbers started appearing on the display, constantly changing, and it started issuing a series of high-speed clicks like a geiger counter. Mulder grinned and looked up from the device at Bill. "Bingo!" he said, and proceeded to walk the length of the boat, staring at the display on the PKE Meter. Finally, he leaned over the side and briefly thrust the nose of the gadget into the water. Straightening up, he went on, "This little patch of ocean is hotter than a massage parlor on a Saturday night." He walked back up to the prow, swinging the meter from side to side. "And it looks like the signal is strongest in that direction," he said, pointing off to the south-southeast. "That's the direction to the mouth of the Bay," Bill commented. Mulder nodded. "Which fits right in with my theory. Remember that the shipwreck is off the coast of North Carolina. If that's where the ghost normally hangs out, it would make sense that he would want to go back there after he'd finished with business." He looked over at Bill. "Feel like taking a little ride?" Bill shook his head, and said flatly, "I am NOT taking this, this...dinghy all the way to North Carolina. That's well over 200 miles, and some of it is open ocean. Even if we made it, it would take more than a day, and I doubt if we've got the fuel for a trip that long. And we didn't bring any food at all. " His stomach chose that moment to remind him that they hadn't even taken the time to drive through a fast food place on the way here, and growled noisily. Mulder shook his head. "I had no intention of asking you to do that. Believe it or not, I do have some common sense. What I want to do is follow this trail for a little ways, and see if it really does seem to be heading for the ocean. That's all. Ten, twenty miles, and then we can turn back." Reluctantly, Bill acceded. It was not an unreasonable request, even if he didn't believe in that silly little gadget that Mulder was still swinging around. And with luck they'd still be back at the pier by ten o'clock, and home in bed by midnight. "All right," he sighed, and restarted the engine. They proceeded on out into the Bay, and gradually the lights that had been visible on the shore faded, although the skyglow from Washington was still quite pronounced. Mulder stood in the prow of the boat, wearing a life jacket at Bill's insistence, holding the silly little meter in front of him, and occasionally ordering slight changes to their heading. Bill took these instructions with fair equanimity; it was, after all, Mulder's party. After more than an hour, however, and having covered nearly fifteen miles according to both his own dead reckoning and to the GPS, Bill called out, "Haven't we gone far enough yet?" Mulder turned his head to look at Bill, then looked back at the meter and out at the Bay in front of him. Then he shrugged his shoulders, turned and walked back to the pilot's seat, where Bill sat. "I guess so," he said reluctantly. "We really can't go all the way to North Carolina, and short of that, I doubt if we'll learn anything more out here. Let's head for home." Relieved, Bill spun the wheel, and brought the little boat around, heading back towards Annapolis. At that moment, there was a muffled sound halfway between a twitter and a beep, and Mulder pulled his cell phone from a pocket. "Fox Mulder," he said, and waited while whoever was on the other end talked. "Are you sure?....Yes, sir, yes, I agree, it sounds like...Yes. I'll be there as soon as I can. Where did you say, again?" Mulder dug in his pocket and took out the stub of a pencil and a scrap of paper, and scribbled something on it. "All right. I'm on my way." He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket, then handed the scrap of paper to Bill. "Know where that is?" Bill glanced at the paper, and nodded. It was a small town on the western shore of Kent Island. "Very bourgeois," he commented. "Upper level bureaucrats, university professors, those sorts of people." "Can we get there in this thing?" Bill glanced briefly at the chart, then nodded again. "Yeah. It'll take a couple of hours, but we can do it. Why? What's happened?" "The killer -- or killers -- have struck again," Fox Mulder said flatly. "Only two people this time -- a man and his wife. Their daughter became alarmed when they didn't answer the phone, and drove over and found the bodies, hacked to bits, just like the first bunch." # # # It was an older, rambling house, sitting at the crest of a small hillock overlooking the Bay. From what Bill could make out in the darkness, the architectural style was late Colonial -- perhaps early 17th Century. Every window was ablaze with light, and the flashing strobe of a police car was partially visible past the southwest corner of the building. A pair of lights, independent of the building, bobbed about on the lawn leading down to the water -- policemen searching for clues, Bill supposed. To the north, about a third of a mile away, the occasional passing headlight marked the toll bridge linking Annapolis to Kent Island and the Eastern Shore. Mulder led the way off the pier, and the two men trudged up a well-worn path towards the house. Abruptly, one of the bobbing lights changed direction and started moving towards them. A few seconds later, Bill and the FBI man found themselves in the center of a bright circle of light. "Don't move," a woman's voice from behind the flashlight warned them. Mulder carefully raised his left hand to shield his eyes; with the other hand, he extracted his I.D. folder from a pocket and extended it towards the voice. "I'm Fox Mulder, from the Bureau," he said. "I think you might be expecting me." He gestured with his head. "And this is Captain William Scully, United States Navy." After a few seconds, the light moved off of them, and as his eyes adjusted back to the dark, Bill saw that the woman holding it was wearing a state police uniform. "Sorry," she said, not sounding very sincere. "Things are kind of tense around here right now." "I understand," Mulder replied. "Okay if we go on up to the house?" She held up her hand, and said, "Just a sec." She took a microphone off of her left shoulder. "This is Anderson," she spoke into it. "That FBI man is here; he's got some guy from the Navy with him, as well. FYI." A voice crackled back to her after a second. "That's 10-4, Pepper. We'll pass the word. Tell the agent the Lieutenant would like to see him at his convenience, in the library on the first floor." "10-4," she replied. "Anderson out." She raised her eyebrows at Mulder. "You get that?" "I got it," Mulder replied. The state trooper nodded, and turned away to resume her slow sweep of the lawn. Mulder and Bill moved on up the hillside, towards the house. They passed several other troopers, and also a couple of men in different uniforms, presumably from the local police or sheriff's department. Nobody else stopped them, however; apparently the word had already been passed, alerting everyone to their presence. Mulder pushed open a screen door, and the two men stepped inside. They found themselves in the kitchen. A state trooper stood by the sink, casually examining the dirty dishes stacked next to it. He looked around as Bill and the FBI agent entered the room. "Fox Mulder, with the Bureau," Mulder said, extending his badge folder once again. "And this is Captain Scully, USN. I'm looking for your lieutenant." The man nodded, and gestured with his head. "Through that door, down the hallway, second door on your right." Mulder glanced at the stack of dirty dishes. "Looks like they didn't have time to clean up after dinner," he remarked. The trooper shrugged. "The Lieutenant hasn't made a determination yet; but based on that and a few other things, yeah. It looks like it probably happened shortly after dinner." Mulder nodded, and led Bill out into the hallway and down to the door indicated. Inside they were greeted by an older man in plain clothes, who immediately moved towards them. "I'm Lieutenant Tragg. You must be the FBI man," he said, extending his hand. "Agent Mulligan?" "Fox Mulder," Mulder corrected, shaking Tragg's hand. "And this is Captain William Scully, U.S. Navy." Bill held out his hand, and Tragg took it in a firm but not crushing grip -- although Bill had the distinct impression that Tragg could have crushed his hand, had he chosen to do so. "Pleased to meet you both," Tragg said. "Now, may I ask what your interest is in this case? Headquarters said you'd be coming over, but they didn't say why." Mulder nodded, and proceeded to give a brief resume of the first set of murders. "We put a bulletin out on the wire yesterday morning," he concluded. "Apparently someone at your HQ made the connection and gave us a call." "I see," said the Lieutenant. "Are you asserting jurisdiction, then?" "Not yet," Mulder replied, shaking his head. "I want to take a look around first, ask a few questions." Tragg nodded. "Fire away." Bill cringed inwardly, and waited for Mulder to start asking about ghosts, but the FBI man seemed to have a little more sense than that, and began with routine inquiries about estimated time of death, whether there were any witnesses, and the like. The bodies, Tragg revealed, were husband and wife. Both were in their mid-40s, and both were on the faculty at the University of Maryland, the man specializing in higher mathematics, the woman in marine archeology. Mulder looked significantly at Bill when he heard that piece of news, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the pellet that he and Bill had found Monday evening. "Ever see anything like this?" he asked Tragg. The other man raised his eyebrows slightly, took the pellet from Mulder, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He looked up, glanced at Bill, and then looked back at Mulder. "How did you know?" "How did I know what?" Mulder asked, a sudden intensity in his eyes. "The back lawn, leading down to the water, is thick with these things. The back outside wall has a few embedded in it, too, although it's hard to see in the dark." "Were there any in the bodies?" Still puzzled, the Lieutenant nodded. "In the woman there are quite a few. I didn't see any in the man, but I haven't examined him very closely yet. We're still waiting for the M.E.," he said apologetically. "Where were the bodies found?" Mulder asked. "Around the north side of the house," Tragg replied. "Too early to say for certain, of course, but it looks like they were trying to run away, the man carrying the woman, when they were attacked from behind. Really ugly, just the way you described that other corpse: Lots of deep slash marks and gouges; looks like it was done with an axe, or something." "Or something," Mulder agreed. He held out his hand, and the Lieutenant dropped the pellet back into it. "What are those things, anyway?" Tragg asked. Mulder looked at Bill. "Captain?" Bill cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, they appear to be grapeshot." At the look of mystification on the Lieutenant's throat, he went on, reciting the same explanation he had given Mulder two nights before. Tragg shook his head. "I don't get it," he said. "Are you saying this house was bombarded with cannonfire?" Mulder shrugged. "We don't know. But that's certainly what it looks like." He slipped the pellet back into his pocket, and added, "May we see the bodies now?" Bill was suddenly very glad that they hadn't gotten around to eating supper; he guessed that this might be pretty bad. It was. The bodies still lay sprawled on the grass where they had fallen, the man's body partly sheltering his wife's, as if he had crawled on top of her to protect her. There were deep gouges across his shoulders and lower back, and the head was nearly decapitated, attached only by a thin band of flesh perhaps two or three inches wide. The woman didn't seem to have as many slashes on her, but as Tragg had indicated, her body was covered with the welts they had seen on the victim in the morgue. Bill's eyes widened as he saw that her right arm ended in a raw, bloody stump, just below the elbow; it reminded Bill of an injured Marine he had once seen, who had lost a foot to a land mine. A pair of glasses, belonging to the husband judging by their size, lay on the grass nearby, looking lost and forlorn. Unable to look away, Bill watched in appalled fascination as Mulder pulled on a pair of surgeon's gloves and knelt down to get a closer look at the carnage. Tragg looked like he wanted to say something, probably wanting to warn the FBI agent not to disturb the evidence, but he held his tongue. In any case, Mulder didn't touch anything, but just squatted there looking. Finally he glanced up at Bill. "What do you think, Captain Scully?" he asked. "Does it look like the same perp did this?" Bill swallowed, and nodded. "Looks like," he said. Mulder straightened up and turned to Tragg. "Lieutenant, I am now formally asserting federal jurisdiction. The Bureau will fax the paperwork to you in the morning. In the meantime, your people may continue their investigation, but please make sure they know not to disturb ANYTHING. I'm going to call in a CSU, but I doubt if they'll be able to get here much before dawn." He stripped off his gloves and extended his hand. "I want to thank you for your help; sorry we have to pull the rug out from under you." Mulder and Tragg shook hands; then Mulder turned and led Bill away, back down the hill towards the boat. Mulder pulled out his cell phone and hit one of the speed dials. Bill waited while he spoke to someone about getting a Crime Scene Unit sent out. As Mulder was putting away his cell phone, Bill asked, "Where are we going now?" He was almost afraid to hear the answer. Mulder replied with an apparent non sequitur. "How fast could one of those old-style sailing ships go?" he asked. Bill shrugged, oblivious to the fact that Mulder couldn't very well see him in the dark. "I dunno. Three, maybe five knots. On a good day, with the right wind." "The bodies were found at around eight," Mulder muttered, apparently half to himself. "That's... three hours ago, near enough. They'd already had dinner when the attack came, so add on another hour, maybe. Four hours, three to five knots...So they couldn't have made more than twenty miles since the killings, check?" "That sounds about right," Bill said cautiously. "Probably less. Assuming your guess as to the time of the attack is correct." They reached the boat, and Mulder vaulted over the side, causing it to rock precariously. Bill followed, somewhat more cautiously, and continued, "Look, Mulder, what are you getting at?" Mulder's eyes seemed to glitter in the starlight. "I want to go after them," he replied. "That's what I thought," Bill sighed. "You really believe this stuff, don't you?" He held up his hand. "Never mind; this is your investigation. Which way, Kemosabe?" Mulder reached out to the dock and unwrapped the mooring line. "Why don't you start out heading for the mouth of the Bay; I'll get you a more precise heading in a moment. But we should be able to overtake them long before they get to the open ocean, correct?" "If there's anything there at all," Bill replied, and proceeded to back the boat away from the pier, then brought it about and headed south. Mulder opened his valise and pulled out the PKE Meter again. He walked up and down the length of the boat, taking readings, then frowned, shook his head and did it again. Finally he returned to the pilot's station. "This is really weird," he said, in what Bill judged to be the understatement of the year, "but I think we're heading in the wrong direction." Bill looked at him inquiringly.. "I'm getting really powerful readings," Mulder went on. "Much higher than before. But they don't lead in the direction we're heading." He turned, and pointed towards the stern. "Instead, they seem to lead off THAT way." "So what do you want to do?" Bill asked. Mulder shrugged. "It's our only lead. I guess we go after them." "I knew you were going to say that," Bill complained, and proceeded to bring the boat around to the north. Mulder moved back up to the prow and took some more readings, then instructed Bill to adjust their course slightly. He then came back to the pilot's station again and sat down. "How long do you think it will take us to overtake them?" he asked. Bill shrugged irritably. "How the hell would I know?" he replied. "IF it's one of the old sailing ships, and IF it really did have a four hour lead...then we can probably overhaul them in about an hour, maybe a little more. But those are a couple of big 'ifs'." The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, then Bill added, "Just out of curiosity, and supposing for the sake of argument that you're right, what, exactly are you planning to do when we DO overhaul them?" Mulder laughed, and said, "I was wondering when that would occur to you. The answer is I'm not sure. We'll have to burn that bridge when we come to it." "That's very...encouraging," Bill muttered to himself. "Why do you think I'm such a happy guy?" Mulder asked. They continued on up the Bay, passing under the toll bridge, and Kent Island fell behind them. Every few minutes Mulder took another reading with his gadget, and twice he ordered an adjustment to their course, causing them to angle to the northwest, in the general direction of Baltimore. As the hour approached midnight, a fog started to drift in across the Bay, and the temperature dropped. Bill found himself wishing he had brought something heavier than his uniform jacket, although Mulder seemed to be completely insensible to the cold. At length, the fog became so thick that Bill had to throttle back. Mulder looked at him questioningly, and Bill shrugged. "Fog," he said. "Won't do us any good to maintain top speed if it makes us run up on a sandbar, or collide with another boat." Mulder was obviously unhappy, but he nodded. Bill thought about it a minute, then shrugged again and edged the throttle forward just a little, and the boat's speed increased by a knot or two, which seemed to make Mulder feel better. The fog continued to thicken, and the temperature continued to drop; twice more Bill had to reduce the throttle, but still they continued to make progress. Finally, the shore appeared out of the mist, dark and shadowy and forbidding. Bill throttled back yet again, until at last they floated motionless, the engine idling, just a few yards from the western shore of Maryland. "Where now?" Bill whispered. He didn't know why he was whispering; it just seemed like the right thing to do. Mulder frowned, and stared at his PKE meter. He took several readings, and slowly walked the length of the boat. "It should be right around here," he muttered. "The numbers are maxing out no matter which way I check." He massaged his chin thoughtfully. "What do you think?" Before Bill could answer, there was a muffled booming noise, and Mulder whirled around. He listened intently, and was rewarded when the noise was repeated. He pointed to the north. "That way," he said. "Are you sure?" Bill asked. "Fog can distort sound, you know." Almost as he spoke, there was another boom. "That way," Mulder repeated firmly. "Get it moving." Bill shrugged, pushed the throttle forward, and brought the boat around to the heading indicated. The temperature continued to drop, and Bill started to shiver, clamping his teeth together to keep them from chattering as the cold, moist air seeped into his bones. "There! Look!" Squinting, Bill Scully leaned forward over the wheel, peering into the fog and trying to make out what Mulder was pointing out. Finally, he made out a large, shadowy object rising up out of the water. Reflexively, he pulled back the throttle until the little boat was barely creeping forward. Gradually, as they drew closer, Bill was able to make out more details, and a prickle of fear ran down his spine as he realized that he was looking at an old-fashioned sailing ship. He couldn't make out enough detail to identify it precisely, but there was no denying what it was. In Bill's mind, alarm bells were ringing, and every instinct was telling him to turn around and get out of there. <> he thought, but somehow in his heart he knew it wasn't. He felt panic bubbling up, but he forced it back down again, and made himself concentrate on what was happening. "Let's try to work our way around it," Mulder said. He had returned to the pilot's station and was standing next to Bill. "The ship looks like it's tied up to a pier." Sure enough, after a few minutes of maneuvering a small pier materialized out of the fog, and the great, hulking ship was nestled up beside it. Bill steered his small command up next to the ship, made his line fast, and the two men clambered up onto the pier. "There's no one here," Mulder observed. Bill nodded. "Pretty sloppy security," he said tersely. He felt tight, confined, overcontrolled, and he remembered suddenly how he had felt the first time he faced real combat. He walked towards the gangway, trying to peer upwards through the mist. There didn't appear to be anyone on deck, either. Abruptly, there was the sound of a scream piercing the fog, followed by three unmistakable gunshots in rapid succession. Bill whirled around in time to see Mulder pull a gun from under his jacket and go charging off the pier and into the fog. Feeling suddenly very naked, with no weapon of any sort with which to defend himself, Bill ran after him, cursing under his breath. There was another shot, and Bill realized that the sounds were coming from off to his left somewhere. He altered his course and continued running, searching desperately for Mulder. He was tempted to call out, but didn't wish to draw the attention of whoever was firing the gun. There was still another shot, this one very close by, and suddenly a figure appeared out of the fog. Bill skidded to a halt and stared in horror. The man approaching him looked like something out of TREASURE ISLAND. A dark, sinister- looking greatcoat swirled and billowed around him as he walked, revealing a torn and tattered white chemise. The cuffs of his weathered and mudstained breeches were tucked into high leather boots; on one hip he wore a cutlass, and on the other a brace of pistols. And his head was on fire. No, that wasn't right, Bill realized as he looked closer. Rather, the man had woven a dozen or more candle stubs into his beard and lit them, and the flames surrounded his face with a wreath of fire, sending malevolent-looking smoke billowing up into the fog. With an unearthly shriek, the stranger drew his saber from its scabbard. It glinted and glittered in the candlelight, and Bill's eyes widened as he realized that the man must have seen him, and that the dark splotches on the saber must be blood. With another shriek, the man flourished the saber over his head, then lowered it and charged at Bill. Bill suddenly realized that he had been standing stock still for much too long; now he ducked and dived, and the saber whipped past him, missing his neck by inches. He hit the ground and rolled, then scrambled to his feet, already breathing hard, more from the shock than the exertion. He turned to face his antagonist again; the other man seemed to be taking delight from Bill's predicament. His face was lit by an unholy grin as he lowered the saber and charged once again, and again Bill was forced to dive and roll. This time the tip of the saber actually nicked his forehead, and instantly blood started streaming down his face, blinding him in one eye. Desperately, he struggled to his knees, but the other man was already preparing for another charge, and Bill knew that if he tried to get to his feet he would never make it. <> he wondered. The man charged again; Bill ducked under the saber and grappled him around the waist. They struggled together for a moment; the other man was wiry and amazingly strong, and Bill realized with a thrill of renewed fear that this was a fight he might not be able to win. The stranger hammered at him with the butt of the saber, raining blows down on Bill's back and shoulders, and Bill cried out in pain. He lowered his head and butted the other man in the midriff, forcing him to stumble backward in order to avoid losing his balance. Unfortunately, it also caused Bill to lose his purchase, allowing his assailant to open the space necessary to bring his saber back into play. The man swung the saber once, twice, and the second time Bill barely managed to avoid the slashing blade. Clambering to his feet once again, Bill backed quickly away, trying to put some distance between himself and the stranger. <> he thought. <> But even as he formulated the thought, he felt his heel catch on some sort of obstruction and he went over backwards almost before he realized what had happened. His head struck something hard, and the world started spinning around him. Dazed and confused, he tried to move, tried to climb back to his feet, but he couldn't control his limbs -- and he realized that he was about to die. Sadly, he moved his lips, trying to croak out a last confession, but before he could finish the universe spun out of control, and everything went black. # # # THURSDAY Bill Scully awoke in a hospital bed. The first thing he was aware of was a dull throbbing in the back of his head. The pain surged and pulsed through his brain, interfering with his thoughts, but he finally decided that this was a good sign. After all, if he was able to feel pain, and think about feeling pain, then it stood to reason that he wasn't dead, after all. He groaned, and opened his eyes. Fox Mulder was sitting in the chair next to the bed. He held a book in his lap, but he was sitting up straight and looking at Bill attentively. Their eyes met, and Mulder smiled. It seemed warm and genuine. "Good morning, sleepyhead," he said. "Good...morning?" Bill asked. "Well, actually it's early afternoon. But what's a few hours among friends." Mulder smiled, and Bill found that he was able to smile back, despite the throbbing headache. "I know this is going to sound stupid," Bill said. "But where am I?" "You're in Anne Arundel Medical Center," Mulder replied. "You remember; where we met that nice Dr. Scarpetta. Fortunately, you turned out not to be in need of her services." "Am I --" Bill stopped, and decided not to ask how badly hurt he was. Time enough for that when the doctor arrived. Instead, he inquired, "What happened... last night?" Mulder nodded at the implicit question. "It was last night; you've only been out for a few hours. As to what happened -- I was hoping you could tell me. I didn't see a thing." "You're kidding." Mulder shook his head. "Nope. I heard that scream, and the gunshots, and I raced onto the shore -- and promptly got lost in the fog. Then I heard a couple more shots, and some shrieking, and that led me to you. But by the time I found you, you were already flat on your back and out like a light. What happened?" "I...I'm not sure," Bill replied. He tried to think about it, but all he could dredge up were some crazy memories about a man with a head made out of fire...which of course was impossible. "Everything's all mixed up, I guess. Maybe it will come to me later." Mulder nodded, as if that were the reply he'd been expecting. Bill continued, "Uh, what...what was that ship doing there, anyway? Did you ever figure it out?" Mulder shook his head. "By the time I was sure you were okay and in good hands, and made it back down to the pier, the ship was gone." The FBI agent frowned. "So was my PKE meter. I don't remember where I put it; I guess it must have fallen over the side into the Bay, although I spent a fair amount of time looking around in the shallows after the sun rose, and couldn't find it." "Were there...more killings?" Mulder's lips tightened, and he nodded. "Three people, and guess what? One was a marine archeologist." "So the case is still active?" "Technically," Mulder replied. "And I've got a few other leads to follow up on. But as a matter of practice...that marine archeologist was the third of the three co-leaders of the group working on the QUEEN ANNE'S REVENGE." He shook his head again. "I've got a feeling we've heard the last of this." He changed the subject. "By the way, I took the liberty of calling in sick on your behalf," he said. "It took a few phone calls, but I finally reached someone at the Pentagon who knew who you were and was willing to accept the message. Oh, and my boss will vouch for the fact that you were injured in the course of an official investigation, so you're off the hook in that regard. He also said we can probably get the Bureau to pick up the medical bills." "Thanks," Bill said in surpise. "I also spoke to your wife." "Tara? You talked to Tara?" Mulder nodded. "Yeah. It seemed better to have it coming from me than some TOTAL stranger. She's worried, of course; wanted to jump the first flight out here. But I reassured her that everything seems to be fine." He grinned that old grin, but this time it seemed somehow like an old friend rather than an annoyance. "It's not like you were hit in a vital area." "Thanks a lot," Bill muttered. Mulder continued, "The doctors want to keep you another night, but they said there's no reason you shouldn't be able to catch your flight home tomorrow -- barring the unforeseen, of course." "Of course. What about Dana?" "I didn't tell her. Tara said not to. She said Dana would only worry, and there will be plenty of time to tell her later." Mulder shrugged. "My guess is that Dana will be pissed about that when she finds out, but Tara's your next of kin, so I felt I had to defer to her. Bill nodded. "Tara's right," he said. "And so are you. Dana's a complicated person." Mulder smiled, and again there was that light and animation that always seemed to enter his eyes when he talked about Dana. "How well I know it," he said. "I just hope I'm not anywhere nearby when she DOES find out. Maybe I can get myself sent to Europe on assignment for awhile, or something." That forced a laugh out of Bill. "Don't worry; I'll make it clear to her that you're not to blame." "Thanks," Mulder said, and then he stood up. "Well, now that you're awake and up to date, I'd probably better get out of here and let you rest. You'll probably want to call your wife, too." He headed for the door. Bill licked his lips, and said, "Mulder. Wait." Mulder turned around in the doorway, a question mark on his face. "Uh....you don't have to go. If you don't want to." Mulder raised his eyebrows in query. "I mean it," Bill said, surprising himself as much as he was doubtlessly surprising Mulder. "Why don't you stay awhile, and we can talk." # # # FRIDAY AFTERNOON "You know, this really isn't necessary," Bill said for the third or fourth time, as Mulder steered his car into the parking lot at Ronald Reagan Washington National. "I could have taken the Metro." "It's no trouble," Mulder said in response, sliding into a parking space that Bill would have guessed was too small. "I'm always looking for a chance to play hooky on Friday afternoon." Mulder jumped from the car and pulled Bill's two bags from the trunk. He ignored Bill's attempt to take one of them, and led the way into the terminal, and Bill trailed along behind, feeling slightly foolish. The only outward sign of their adventure was a neat bandage on his forehead where the sword -- or something -- had slashed him. Bill had only vague and imperfect memories of what had happened, and what he DID remember he was inclined not to believe. <> he reasoned uncomfortably, <> Bill already had his boarding pass, and he didn't have any checked luggage, so he was able to bypass the ticket counter. He expected Mulder to drop out at the security checkpoint, but instead the FBI agent dropped Bill's bags on the x-ray conveyer, flipped his badge at the guard, opened his jacket to show his gun, and walked around to the other side of the metal detector, where he again scooped up Bill's bags. "I see there are some perks to being in the FBI," Bill remarked once they were away from the checkpoint. Mulder smiled slightly. "I probably shouldn't have done that," he replied. "We're really only supposed to do that on official business. But what the hell." The two men walked in silence for a few minutes. They reached the designated departure gate just as the overhead speaker announced first call for boarding. Bill turned and took his bags from Mulder, who reluctantly released them. "Well, I guess this is it," Mulder said. "I guess it is," Bill replied. They stood looking at each other for a moment, then Bill shifted his bags around so that his right hand was free, and stuck it out at Mulder. Mulder hesitantly returned the gesture, and the two men shook hands. "I want to thank you," Bill said. "Thank me?" Mulder looked surprised. "For what? The cut on your forehead or the bump on the noggin?" "Neither of those," Bill replied. "What I want to thank you for is the opportunity to get a better idea of what Dana's life is like." He shook his head. "No, that's not right, either. What I really want to thank you for is getting in my face, and forcing me to get to know you better. And...I'm glad this turned out to be a surmountable opportunity." Mulder smirked. "Golly, Bill...does this mean we're going steady?" Bill rolled his eyes, and shook his head. "Sorry; I'm a married man." Mulder smiled back. "I guess I'm kind of spoken for, too, in a way" he admitted. "Sometimes I wonder why Dana puts up with me." "I'm sure she does, too," Bill commented wryly. Again the overhead speaker announced his flight. "Look, I'd better get going," he continued. He switched his bags around again, and turned and headed for the gate. At the last minute, he turned around again. Mulder had already started to walk away. "Mulder!" Bill called, and waited while Mulder turned back to face him. "You take good care of my baby sister, you hear? Cause if you don't, I'm gonna come back and kick your ass!" And without waiting for a response, Bill Scully spun on his heel and hurriedly entered the gate, and walked onto the plane. The trip back to California was the most relaxing flight he'd been on in a long time. # # # FRIDAY EVENING: EPILOGUE Dana Scully was tired and frustrated. It had been a long week in a fleabag motel in Cedar Rapids, and to add insult to injury she'd wound up spending most of her time cooling her heels in the lobby of the federal courthouse. By the time the week was over, she'd been ready to kill the defense attorney, and she wasn't real crazy about the prosecutor, either. She'd relieved some of her stress by fantasizing about doing autopsies on the two men, but that only helped so much. What peeved her most of all was that those two cretins had caused her to miss a rare chance to spend some time with her brother. Her only consolation was the sure knowledge that God would eventually bring the two lawyers to account. She knew it was wrong of her, but she couldn't help treasuring in her heart the anticipation of that moment. She heard the TV playing before she unlocked her apartment door, and knew that Mulder must be inside. And she was right: There he was, slouched on the sofa, an open box from Pizza Italy sitting on the coffee table next to his feet. Well, that settled one question: He and Bill apparently hadn't killed each other in her absence. At least, Mulder was sitting there, very much alive, and Dana was reasonably certain she would have heard from Tara if anything had happened to Bill. Time enough to get the details later; what she really wanted right now was a beer. She dropped her bags by the door, walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She was about to grab a bottle of Rolling Rock -- Mulder had apparently finished her supply, and bought a new 12 pack, which was very sweet of him, and would probably allow him to live until morning -- when she spotted two bottles of root beer sitting in the back of the fridge. <> She smiled the fond smile that she never let Mulder see, pushed the 12 pack out of the way, and carried the two bottles of pop back into the living room. She sat down on the sofa next to her partner, and handed him one of the bottles without comment. She twisted the cap off her own and took a deep swig, then kicked her shoes off and put her feet up on the coffee table next to his. Mulder leaned forward, grabbed a piece of pizza and a napkin, and handed it to her. Mushroom and black olive; her favorite. Again she smiled her secret smile -- it was safe to do so; his eyes were still glued to the TV -- and took a large bite. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. "You know," she said, still chewing, "this stuff is really very bad for us. Cholesterol." She shook her head reprovingly, and took another bite. On the TV screen, a caveman was running frantically through the jungle, carrying a woman over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. <> she thought, identifying the movie instantly. "We must have seen this movie a dozen times," she commented aloud. Mulder smiled briefly. "Probably," he replied, still watching the television intently. "Sure beats the hell out of JURASSIC PARK." He leaned back into the sofa; Dana finished her slice of pizza in two more big bites and decided that reaching for a second piece wasn't worth the ribbing he would give her. Instead, she said, "I like this movie. I just wanted to make it clear for the record that we have seen it before. Several times." "Twelve times, Scully," he corrected. "You said twelve times." "I haven't actually been counting," she admitted. "It might be eleven. Or thirteen." "But you said twelve times," her partner persisted. "I think you should stick with that number. Your hunches are usually pretty accurate." They watched in silence for a moment while a tyrannosaurus fought with a brontosaurus. The brontosaurus lost, of course, just as it had the other twelve times they'd seen this movie together. "I don't see any blood, Mulder," she said at last. "Did you and Bill get along okay?" Still watching the television, Mulder waved his hand dismissively. "It was fine," he said. "We had a few beers. We had a few laughs. He's really not that bad a guy." Dana stared at him in disbelief, then shook her head. If her partner and her brother had actually managed to bury the hatchet, that would be a minor miracle. Still, stranger things had happened -- most of them since she started working on the X-Files. She'd have to call Tara in the morning, though, and see if she could pry the truth out of her sister-in-law. In the meantime, that pizza was smelling awfully good, and Dana was still feeling hungry. Tentatively, she reached out for another slice. "Cholesterol, Scully," Mulder reminded her, that annoying, endearing grin on his face. "Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you, Mulder," she replied, and defiantly picked up another piece of pizza and took a truly huge bite out of it, disregarding the cheese and tomato sauce that squirted off the sides and ran down her chin. With a sigh of contentment, she again leaned back into the sofa cushions, and rested her head on her partner's shoulder. "You know," she said, "Bill really doesn't understand about us, Mulder." "Nobody understands about us, Scully," Mulder replied. "We're unique." "I guess that's true," she said. And after that she was quiet, and the two friends sat together, eating pizza, drinking root beer, and watching television, far into the night. =========================== BOOK TWO: Seven Days in November SATURDAY Bill Scully was tired, and his joints hurt. <> he thought. <> But somehow spending six or eight hours jammed into a C-141 with a couple hundred Marines who clearly didn't appreciate his presence, wearing those little yellow foam- rubber plugs to protect his ears from the roar of the jet engines, just wasn't as much FUN as it had been when he was 25. And the constant shaking, jarring and jouncing as the huge military cargo plane plowed its way through the late afternoon sky hadn't helped matters any. For the hundredth time since receiving his orders on Friday afternoon, Bill wondered why the Navy had refused to pop for a regular airline ticket. <> he reflected, also for the hundredth time. <> Now he was limping through Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, his duffel slung over his shoulder. As he moved along the concourse, he felt his muscles start to unkink, and his stride gradually became more natural. <> he thought. He'd tried calling several times last night, and twice again that morning, but to no avail. He passed a rank of pay phones, and briefly considered trying again now, but decided against it. She'd just feel obligated to drive out and pick him up, he reasoned. Better just to jump on the Metro or grab a taxi. Twenty minutes later, Bill found himself standing outside his sister's apartment, knocking for the third time. <> he thought. It hadn't occurred to him that she still wouldn't be home. She did do a lot of traveling for her job -- maybe she was off somewhere on an assignment. Bill fished in his pocket and brought out his keyring. The key to Dana's apartment, which Fox Mulder had given to him two months before, on Bill's last visit to Washington, glinted at him suggestively. <> he told himself, and he inserted the key in the lock and let himself in. The first thing he noticed as he stepped across the threshold was the sound of the shower running; seconds later his nose informed him of wonderful smells drifting in from the kitchen, and his stomach reminded him of exactly how long it had been since breakfast. So she was here after all. Bill was relieved; he'd felt vaguely guilty about letting himself in. It somehow reminded him of the time he had found and read Dana's diary, back when she was 13 or 14. He'd made the mistake of trying to blackmail her with it, and she'd gone straight to their father.... <> he reassured himself, unconsciously rubbing his buttocks at the memory of his father's ire, and wandering through the apartment more or less at random. <> Then he saw the dining table. Rapidly, his eyes flicked over the arrangements: Linen table cloth, Waterford crystal, the antique china that used to sit in his mother's display case when he was a boy, gleaming silverware that looked like it might actually BE silver, two unlit candles.... <> he thought, feeling his face start to redden. <> The only things that didn't really fit into the equation were the two bottles of root beer peeking out of the ice bucket. <> At that moment, the sound of the shower stopped. <> Bill thought, and moved hurriedly back to the door. Scooping up his duffel, he was reaching for the doorknob when he heard a key in the lock. Instinctively, he took a step back as the door swung open. It was Fox Mulder. Mulder looked as startled as Bill felt. The two men stood stock still, staring at each other, for several seconds. Then Mulder grinned his patented irritating grin and stuck out his hand. "Hi, Bill!" he said cheerfully. "Fancy meeting you here. Long time no sea, as Lewis said to Clarke." Numbly, Bill shook the FBI man's hand, and watched as Mulder shut the door and moved past him into the apartment. Mulder was dressed to the nines, Bill couldn't help noticing: Dark suit, snow white dress shirt, and his shoes looked as if they had been spit-shined. Bill hadn't seen their like since his Academy days. The only thing spoiling the effect was the necktie, which made Bill wish for a volume control. "I must say I didn't expect you to be here, Bill," Mulder continued, walking into the kitchen. Bill heard the refrigerator door open and close, and then Mulder reappeared, a bottle of Rolling Rock in his hand. "Dana didn't mention that you were coming into town again," he continued as he twisted off the bottle cap and sank down on the sofa. "Uh, she didn't know I was coming," Bill replied. "*I* didn't know I was coming until yesterday afternoon." His eyes shifted to the table setting, and Mulder followed his gaze. "Well, that would explain it," Mulder said lazily, and he looked back at Bill, pinning him with his gaze like a butterfly on a display card. Some seconds went by as Bill tried to think of something to say. Several alternatives flashed through his mind, but none of them seemed to be quite...appropriate. "Mulder?" Dana's voice drifted into the room from down the hallway. "Mulder, I heard you come in." Her voice was coming closer. "I wonder if you could do me a favor. I forgot to get urk." She stopped in mid-sentence as she stepped into the living room and saw her brother standing there. She was dressed in a white terrycloth bathrobe which didn't cover her nearly well enough for Bill's taste, under the circumstances, and she had a towel wrapped around her still-wet hair. She now stood stock still, her eyes shifting back and forth between her partner and her brother. "Hi, Scully!" Mulder was the first to recover. "You should have told me you were planning a menage a trois. I'd have brought extra condoms." Bill stared at Mulder in disbelief. He hadn't actually said that, had he? But from the look of disgust on Dana's face -- which Bill found infinitely reassuring -- it was clear that she had heard it, too. "Not funny, Mulder," she said. "Not even a little bit." She glared at the man on the couch. "I'm sorry, Scully," Mulder said, putting on a face that made him look alarmingly like a whipped puppy. "Forgive me?" Rather amazingly, the ploy worked. Dana's face softened, and she said, "It's okay." She walked over to the sofa and ruffled Mulder's hair. Then she seemed to remember that her brother was there and turned back to face Bill. With an artificial air of nonchalance, she said, "So. Bill. What brings you to...here?" As if he lived in the neighborhood and had just happened to drop by of a Saturday evening. "Work," he said, desperately trying to find his way out of the situation. "I, uh, I have meetings at the Pentagon starting Monday, and for some reason they saw fit to send me out on a MATS with a bunch of jarheads." The words seemed to tumble together in his mouth. "I was hoping..." His eyes flicked to that dinner table again, and once more he felt his face growing red. "Look," he said. "It's pretty obvious I've intruded. I'll just get out of here, and find a room at HoJo's or something. I'll call you in the morning." And he turned to leave. "Wait, Bill." Dana caught up with him in the hallway. "Don't go; of course you can stay here. Mulder and I were just going to have dinner and watch a movie; no big deal. Come on inside." <> Bill thought. <> But he let himself be led back inside. Mulder was still sprawled on the sofa; he now had his shoes off and his feet up on the coffee table, and he was watching the scene between brother and sister with great amusement evident on his face. "Sure, Bill," he agreed, affecting a down-home hick accent. "Come on in and set a spell." Dana looked from one man to the other, and Bill thought he detected a faint look of panic in her eyes. <> he thought. <> He cleared his throat. "Look, Dana...I really don't think I should be here. I --" "Nonsense," she said, stepping forward and prying his duffel out of his hands. As she did so, he noticed with embarrassment that he had been holding it in front of his body, as if to ward off a blow. "You are always more than welcome here; you know that." She turned away firmly and carried his duffel down the hallway towards the guest bedroom. Bill followed after her. "Look," he said quietly once they were alone in the guest room. "You don't have to do this. I really can find someplace else to stay, and I really don't want to interfere with..." He waved his hands helplessly. "Things." She stood and looked at him for a moment, her face an expressionless mask, and he knew he was in trouble. Then she turned away and placed his duffel in the corner next to the bureau and started turning down the bedclothes. "You are welcome to stay here," she said. You are welcome to go to a motel. Whichever choice you make, it will make absolutely no difference in what goes on in this apartment this evening." She turned to face him, the mask still in place. "If you do decide to stay, you are also welcome to join us for dinner." Bill gulped, and closed his eyes, then forced them open again. She'd gotten a lot better at this than she had been at 14. "I ate on the plane," he lied. "And...and I am very tired," he added truthfully. "It was a long, bumpy ride. If it's all the same to you, I think I'll just go to bed." "That would be fine," she said calmly, and went to the door. As she pulled it open, Mulder's voice drifted down the hallway. "Hey, Scully. What movie do you want to watch tonight? I was thinking maybe DEEP THROAT, but I know you're partial to Johnny Wad." Bill saw her shoulders tense slightly. "I'll kill him," she muttered, and walked on out the door, and into her own room. Bill shut the door to his room and sagged against it wearily. <> he thought. <> Sighing, he stood up, and crossed over to the bed. He really was exhausted. He kicked off his shoes and quickly stripped down to his shorts, then stretched out on the mattress and pulled the covers up. Despite the emotional turmoil he was in, and despite the gnawing hunger in his belly, it was only a matter of a few minutes before he was sound asleep. # # # SUNDAY Bill Scully awoke in the pre-dawn darkness, feeling remarkably rested and refreshed. Turning over in bed, he felt a familiar, friendly urge rising in his loins; sleepily, he reached across the bed, trying to find his wife. She wasn't there. Groggily, he sat up and looked around. Right. He wasn't in San Diego; he was in Washington. At Dana's. He picked up the alarm clock and squinted at its glowing face: Five minutes after seven. <> he thought. <> He swung his feet around and stood up, then groped along the wall until he found the light switch. Blinking owlishly at the sudden illumination, he looked around and spotted his duffel in the corner where Dana had left it. Dana. <> he thought, climbing into a pair of sweat pants and pulling a t-shirt on over his head. Well, plenty of time to make it up to her; he'd be here all week, after all. Stepping out into the hallway, he saw that his sister's door was still closed. <> he thought, then winced at the image that thought brought to mind. <> he chastised himself. <> He had a sudden vivid recollection of a young man abruptly leaving the Scully home, his shoulders hunched and his hands clutched protectively about his private anatomy, while 16 year old Dana stood by and announced sorrowfully that Reggie had "taken ill" and had to go home. The memory made Bill feel better, and he padded down the hall towards the living room, thinking that he'd make breakfast as a sort of peace offering. As he emerged from the hallway, he realized that the TV was still playing, the volume turned low. Frowning, he stepped around the sofa, intending to turn it off -- and almost tripped over his sister's feet. Bill raised his eyebrows and backed up carefully. Dana was curled up on the floor, sound asleep. Fox Mulder was there, too, also asleep, sprawled in a spread-eagle half on and half off the sofa. They were both still wearing their dress clothes from the night before, which was at least some consolation, but Dana's head was lying on Mulder's -- well, "lap" was the polite term, Bill supposed. The whole tableau looked extremely...intimate. His first impulse was to drag Mulder off the sofa and throw him out into the hallway, but he suppressed it. <> he reminded himself. <> He turned and went back down the hall to take a shower, deliberately leaving the bathroom door open so the sound would carry. Twenty five minutes later, he emerged, to the smell of cooking bacon. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't had anything to eat, aside from a few Fig Newtons on the plane, for nearly 24 hours. He ducked into the guest room, pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and then followed the smells down the hall. Dana was in the kitchen, working with a frying pan; Mulder was nowhere to be seen. "Good morning, sleepyhead," Dana said, smiling. The tight-lipped anger of the night before seemed to be gone. Good. "Good morning," he replied. "Mmm. Smells good. Been up long?" "A while," she replied. "Where's Mulder?" Bill wanted to bite his tongue out of his head, but the words were already out there, hanging almost visibly in the air between them. <> he thought in disgust. Dana glanced at him, her face expressionless, and Bill steeled himself for the explosion. But all she said was, "He had to leave." "Oh." Bill cast about, trying to find something to say to that, but came up empty. "Bacon's ready," Dana said. The meal passed in silence. Dana sat watching him from across the table, sipping at a cup of coffee and nibbling on a piece of toast, while Bill had a somewhat more lavish breakfast. Finally, he pushed back his chair, leaned back and stretched. "Good grub, Dana," he said, invoking the ritual their parents had used at the end of every meal. She didn't laugh at his witticism. Instead: "Thanks," she said. Then the bombshell: "Do you think I'm ready to be a wife yet?" Bill froze in mid-stretch, and stared at his sister. "W-what --" "It was a simple question," she said calmly. "Do you think I'm ready to be a wife?" Bill continued to stare at her. She sat on the other side of the table, hands folded in her lap, a serene expression on her face. "Why...why do you ask?" he managed to stutter out. "To see what you will say," she replied. "I value your opinion." She wasn't giving anything away. Carefully, he searched her face, looking for some clue, but there was nothing there. He couldn't tell if she was putting him on, or was utterly serious. "You're joking," he said tentatively. Silently, her face still expressionless, she started gathering up the dirty dishes. "Wrong answer, huh," he said. Dana didn't respond, but carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen. Bill had just decided to go after her when she came back out and sat down across the table from him again. He sat in silence, knowing that she would talk to him again when she was ready. "We need to have this out, Bill," she said at last. "There are some things you have to understand." She seemed to think about that for a moment, then amended her second statement. "There are some things that I NEED for you to understand." Bill nodded, but didn't say anything. "First and foremost," she went on, "who I spend my time with, and what I do with them, is not your concern." He started to agree with the flat statement, but she cut him off. "More specifically, whether or not I am sleeping with Fox Mulder is none of your god damned business." And she sat back in her chair and watched him. "I can accept that," he said at last, grudgingly. "And...I'm sorry. I was...out of line last night." But she apparently wasn't going to let him off that easily. "Last night," she said in measured tones, "you were a horse's ass. Even Mulder spotted it, and he's not the most sensitive person in the world. You humiliated me, and I do not appreciate it." "Mulder was --" he started to object, but she cut him off again. "I have spoken to Mulder, and again, what we said on the matter, and what we may or may not have done last night, is none of your business. Right now, at this moment, this is about you and me." Bill sat in silence for a moment; then he nodded reluctantly. "I can accept that, too," he said quietly. "Good." She looked him square in the eye, and he braced himself for another barrage. "Now the second thing you have to know," she said, "is that I love you very much." And again, she sat back and watched him, waiting for a response. "I...I love you, too, Dana," he replied at last. She slowly exhaled, and Bill realized that he had been holding his breath, as well. "That's the first sensible thing you've said since you got here," she said. There was only one answer he could give to that, much as it galled him to admit it. "I believe you may be right," he said. Dana actually smiled. "Trust me on this one," she said, standing up again. She glanced at her watch. "Now that that's settled, let me get at the dishes. If you're willing to dry while I wash, I think we can get them done and still make 10:30 Mass. Then, if you're up for it, Mother has invited us to lunch." Bill smiled in return, and stood up, and for a moment brother and sister faced each other again over the breakfast table. "Church, Dana?" he asked. "That's right," she said. "I've been...thinking things over, the last year or so. I've found church to be very helpful." And she turned and led him into the kitchen, to face the dirty dishes. # # # The drive out to their mother's house was quiet, brother and sister each lost in their own thoughts. At first Bill found it restful, but shortly he started to feel uncomfortable. Church had been pleasant, but had failed to provide the distraction he had been hoping for, and which past experience had led him to expect. He had found it difficult to focus on the sermon, and twice he had fumbled on responses which he had had committed to memory since he was a boy. Now he sat in the passenger seat of Dana's car, and despite his implicit promise to her, he found himself brooding about her relationship with her partner. His gaze fell on his sister. <> The question came unbidden to his mind. Her face seemed so calm and serene, and under her breath she was humming a little tune which was maddeningly familiar, but which he couldn't quite place. He shook his head. <> he wondered. Not that he begrudged her that happiness, but she'd been through so much in the past few years -- and those were only the things he knew about. He had a strong suspicion that there had been other trials in her life, things of which Bill had no knowledge. But there she sat, humming to herself, a faint smile on her lips as her imagination took her...somewhere. <> he wondered suddenly. <> He hadn't considered that possibility before, and now he turned it over in his mind uneasily. If Dana was happy with her life, who was he to second guess her? <> he thought, unconsciously echoing in his mind her words over breakfast, <> At length, they arrived at their mother's home, and both Bill and Dana turned outward again. Lunch was served, and for an hour the three of them sat together over fried chicken, mashed potatoes and hot homemade bread. There was one interruption which marred the occasion, however: Part way through the main course, Dana's cell phone beeped. With a sigh of annoyance, and a briefly murmured "excuse me", Dana took the instrument from her jacket pocket, turned half away and punched a button on the phone. Bill tried not to listen, but found that he couldn't help himself. "Scully." A brief pause. "Oh, hi. Look, this is not a good time -- What?" She listened for a moment. "Yes, those results should be back by now, but can't it wait until morning?" Another pause. "No. No, I am not going to -- Mulder, I am having lunch with Bill and my mother; we're about to have dessert." Her face reddened, and she glanced at Bill in apparent embarrassment. "No, I will not tell him that." Yet another pause, longer than the others. Finally, she said, "Are you attempting to bribe a federal official?...Well, then you're going to have to offer me something better than that." A smile crept across her face as she listened to the response. "Chocolate." Pause. "Two boxes, Mulder...No, TWO boxes. And GOOD chocolate, not Hershey bars, like the last time....Okay, I'll call you right back." And she hit the disconnect button on her phone. Looking at Mrs. Scully, and then at Bill, Dana said, "I'm sorry; this will just take a moment." And she punched one of the speed dials on her cell phone. After a moment, she frowned. "That's funny," she muttered. She hit disconnect, then tried the speed dial again. She shook her head. "Weird." Then she tried a different speed dial. "Mulder, it's me," she said. "Look, first of all, you still owe me those chocolate bars, because I did try." She listened for a moment. "No, I wasn't able to get through....Yes, I do believe the tests must be complete, but when I dialed the number all I got was a 'not in service' recording....Yes, I know that it's unusual --" She rolled her eyes in exasperation, and shook her head. "No, Mulder....No, I am NOT going to drive down to Quantico just to satisfy your curiosity....No, not even for FOUR boxes....No, I said 'no' and I meant 'no'." Her lips quirked into an almost-smile. "No, there is NOT 'yes-yes' in my eyes....Mulder, I have to go. I'll see you in the morning." And without waiting for a reply she hit the disconnect button. "Sorry about that," she said, and after a moment of embarrassed silence -- at least, Bill was embarrassed -- they returned to their meal, and to their conversation. Bill was pleased at the opportunity to spend time with his mother, whom he hadn't seen since her visit to San Diego the previous Christmas. They traded stories, brought each other up to date, and Bill passed around pictures of the new grandchild, and everything felt warm, comforting and familiar. After the meal, Dana announced that she was tired, having had a short night, and went off to her old room to lie down for awhile, leaving Bill and his mother alone. "She's looking a lot better," Bill remarked as he helped his mother gather up the dirty dishes and carry them into the kitchen. Setting the pile of plates down, he turned and leaned up against the counter while she set about filling the sink with hot water. "She seems to be making a strong recovery." Mrs. Scully nodded. "The Scully women have always been fighters, Bill. Remember your Grandma Scully? She was a tough one." "She certainly was." Automatically, he stepped forward and took a dishtowel off its hook, and prepared to start drying. "I've been...having some problems," he said, changing the subject. "And I was wondering if I could try to talk them out with you." She glanced at him and smiled as she handed him the first of their luncheon plates for drying. "Of course, Bill. What's a mother for?" "Well, this one's kind of difficult," he said. Not sure how to begin, he concentrated on drying the plate she had handed him, and then put it away in the cabinet and turned to take the next one from her, thinking about it. She seemed content to let him take his time. Finally, he said, "Actually, it's about Dana." Mrs. Scully nodded. "I thought it might be." Bill raised his eyebrows, and gave a little chuckle. "Telepathy, Mother?" She smiled back at him. "Of course. It's something they issue to new mothers before they let us go home from the hospital. Didn't Tara get hers?" "If she did, she didn't tell ME about it," he joked, and then turned serious again. "Mother, I don't know if it's quite right -- or fair -- to say that the problem is about Dana. It's actually more about my relationship with Dana." She nodded again. "I know. I could tell from the way you two were looking at each other over lunch." "I just don't get it!" he burst out. "I mean, I love her very much -- I always have, and I always will. But the last few years she's seemed to pull away from me. She's gotten strange, distant. I don't understand what's going on; I don't know what's happening in her life. And that scares me." Bill was shocked at his own admission, but his mother seemed to take it in stride. "I've often thought that it must be very hard to be a man, and have a younger sister," she mused. "There are so many duties piled upon men, and they often seem to conflict with one another. Among the more important duties is to look out for your younger siblings, especially the girls. Your father and I tended to stress that one to you and Charlie, and we thought that we were doing the right thing at the time. But times have changed; women are more independent now. Times have changed." There was a note of sadness in her voice. "Yes, I know about that," Bill replied. "But that's only part of it. Dana really has gotten strange, Mother. Maybe you don't notice it as much, because you're around her more often. But from a distance, and only seeing her a couple times a year, it really sticks out." "Oh, I've noticed," Mrs. Scully said. "Believe me, I've noticed. But you have to understand, Bill, that Dana has been through an awfully lot. More than the cancer scare, and more than losing Dad and Missy -- and certainly those things were hard on the entire family -- Dana has been through some very difficult life experiences." "It's because of her job!" Bill declared in an accusatory tone. "It's because of her job, and that guy she works with." He couldn't bring himself to utter Mulder's name. "Fox Mulder is a decent, honorable man," his mother responded quietly. "He really cares very deeply about your sister, Bill, I truly believe that. I also believe that he would do almost anything to protect her. You haven't been around them very much when they're together, but I have, and I've watched them. There is a bond between them that is practically unbreakable. I know married couples who are less devoted to each other -- and less intimate." She looked at her son obliquely. "But I suspect that this is another thing that is bothering you." Bill shifted his weight uncomfortably. "You really know how to cut to the heart of the matter," he murmured. She laughed. "I wouldn't be much of a mother if I couldn't," she remarked. "Mother, are they sleeping together?" He felt an agony in his chest, and had a sudden intuition of what a heart attack must feel like. This was the question he had been leading up to, he suddenly realized. This is what he needed to know. He knew it was a terrible invasion of his sister's privacy, and that he was possibly asking his mother to betray a very basic confidence. But he had to know. He had to. She paused for a long minute, thinking it over while she washed out a glass and handed it to him. Finally, she said, "I don't know, Bill. I have wondered about that -- I wouldn't be human if I hadn't, even though we both know that it is a private matter." She looked at him directly, and the love in her eyes took the sting out of her next sentence: "May I ask what you would do with the information if you found out that they WERE sleeping together?" "I don't know," he muttered miserably. "I don't know. I just know that I need...something. Some reassurance, some confidence that Dana is okay. That she is going to be okay." "I think you can depend on that, Bill," Mrs. Scully said softly. "Your sister will always be okay." And later that night, as Bill was falling asleep in Dana's guest bedroom, he suddenly remembered where he'd heard the tune she'd been humming in the car. He hadn't heard it since he was a little boy, but it had been so beautiful, and the words had seemed so true, that it had burned itself into his brain. He hadn't thought about that song in more than thirty years, but he could still remember those words: "A dream is a wish your heart makes, when it's fast asleep..." # # # MONDAY Bill Scully had never been to Dana's office before, and so of course he got lost. The J. Edgar Hoover Building seemed like a rabbit warren, with phones ringing, people bustling back and forth and a confusing welter of signs directing him to various departments and divisions. Unfortunately, none of the signs said, "This way to the ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night." Finally, in desperation, he flagged somebody down. Feeling uncomfortable and out of place in his Class A uniform, he asked, "Excuse me. Could you please direct me to the office of Special Agent Dana Scully?" The man stopped and looked him up and down. His lips quirked. "Dana Scully? Mrs. Spooky?" With amusement in his eyes, he turned and pointed back along the hall, the way Bill had come. "Down the end of the hall, turn left, and take the first elevator you come to down to the basement. Then just follow the mysterious lights," he finished, wiggling his fingers in the air. "You can't miss it." And he turned and walked away, chortling at his own witticism. Bill wanted to smash his face in but he suppressed the urge. Moments later, he stepped off the elevator into a basement hallway, and started walking down it. The third door on the left was standing open, and he heard Dana's voice coming from inside. "So what did Frohike want?" she was saying as Bill stepped across the threshold. She was seated at a desk with her back to the door. Several neat stacks of paper sat on the desk, as well as a computer console, a multi-line telephone, and an open box of Lady Godiva chocolates. As he watched, Dana took a piece of candy from the box and popped it into her mouth. "What does Frohike ever want?" Mulder replied. He was seated at another desk, this one facing towards the entry way. His eyes flickered as he saw Bill in the doorway, and he added, "Your body, of course." Dana sighed theatrically. "When will he understand that I only have eyes for you, Mulder?" she said, and popped another chocolate into her mouth. "Well, you have to admit it can be a bit of a burden, Scully," Mulder said. "You really wear me out sometimes. I wouldn't mind having a night off every now and then." Dana snorted, and Mulder shifted his gaze back to Bill again. "Hi, Bill!" he added cheerily, and gave a little wave. Dana spun around in her swivel chair, and her eyes widened as she saw her brother standing there. "Bill," she said faintly. "I wasn't expecting..." Her voice trailed off and she turned back to Mulder. In an accusatory tone, she said, "How long has he been standing there?" Mulder's eyes were dancing. "Long enough," he admitted. She shook her head. "Well just for that, you aren't going to get any of my candy." And she put the lid back on her box of chocolate and slid the box into a desk drawer. "And don't think for a minute that I don't know exactly how many are left." "Aw, Scully..." Throughout this exchange, Bill had been standing stock still in the doorway, his mind working furiously. <> he wondered. He was almost certain from their tones that it was all a gag -- but this was a sensitive subject, and he had a strong intuition that if his sister perceived him to be invading her privacy again, she was going to rip his ears off and feed them to him. Now she was rising to her feet and turning to face him. <> he thought. <> "Bill," she said, spots of color visible on her cheecks. "I'm sorry." She gestured towards Mulder with her head. "My partner can be a real jerk at times. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with him." "That's okay," Bill said, putting on what he hoped was a self-deprecatory grin. "I've known that he was a jerk for a long time. After all, we were initiated at the same meeting." Dana snorted again, and Bill decided to quit while he was ahead. "Speaking of meetings," he said, "my afternoon session has been canceled. Don't know why -- they certainly flew enough brass in to attend it. But apparently there's been some sort of snafu down at Quantico, and now the whole Navy Department is in an uproar, and I'm at loose ends. So," he finished, "I thought I'd stop by and see if you were free for lunch." "Quantico?" Dana said, and glanced at Mulder. "Well that explains it then," she told her partner. Turning back to her brother, she said, "We've been trying to call Quantico all morning. Yesterday we just got a recorded message claiming that the number wasn't in service; today we've been getting a military operator who can't seem to put us through to any Bureau personnel." She shrugged. "But if there's been a problem at the base, it may have affected the phone system." Dana stood up and turned back to Mulder. "Anyway, I'm sure it will be fixed soon. Would you mind terribly if I went to lunch with Bill? Since he happens to be free?" "Well..." Mulder gave his annoying, lazy grin. "I'LL be okay, but Frohike is going to be devastated. He just called to invite us to lunch, himself. Philly cheese steaks with all the trimmings." Mulder made a lipsmacking sound. "Mmm-mm. He also said he has some new data he wants to show us from the DoD message traffic analysis he's been working on." "Well, I guess he'll have to struggle along without me," Dana said, picking up her purse and moving over to the coat tree. Bill raised his eyebrows. "The FBI monitors the DoD's comnet?" he asked curiously. Dana hesitated, glanced quickly at Mulder, then back at Bill, and replied, "Sort of. It's still in the experimental stages. It's a...counterespionage initiative, and we're really not supposed to be talking about it." She glared at Mulder, who just smiled and shrugged. Slipping on her coat, Dana walked over to her brother. "Shall we go?" They had a long, leisurely lunch. All of the tensions of the last two days seemed to drain away as brother and sister chatted companionably over soup and sandwiches. The only thing bothering Bill was Mulder's remark about the DoD traffic analysis. Something about it didn't sound quite kosher to him; on the other hand, he knew that the FBI did have some counterintelligence responsibilities, and if it really WAS some sort of classified project of that nature, he shouldn't be sticking his nose into it at all. Finally, he decided he would have to ask. He took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and said, "Dana? What was Mulder talking about, back in your office? About the traffic analysis? And who is Frohike?" Dana looked at him for a moment while she chewed a bite of her sandwich, and seemed to be considering what to say. Finally, she swallowed, and said, "Well, that's a complicated question. I can see why you would be concerned, but it really isn't something I'm free to talk about. Mulder shouldn't have mentioned it in your presence, either." Bill studied her face for a moment. He had had enough involvement with classified matters, himself, that he knew there was validity in what she was saying. There had been times when he was privy to secrets which he had not been free to share with anyone, not even his wife. He didn't think Dana's work normally involved national security issues, but he didn't know for a fact that it didn't -- which left him with the choice of either trusting his sister or not. He nodded slowly. "Okay," he said at last. "I guess that's fair enough. You do understand my concern, though?" She nodded, and seemed to be relieved. "Absolutely. If I were in your shoes, I'm sure I'd feel the same way." She glanced at her watch. "Heavens, look at the time; I've got to be getting back, or Mulder will think I was hit by a truck." They walked back to FBI Headquarters in silence. It was mid-November, and the first snow of the year had started to fall. When they reached the building, Dana turned to face him. "Want to walk me inside?" Bill shook his head. "No; I think I'd just as soon take a walk on the Mall. It's been too long." Dana nodded, and seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then she said, "Bill?" "Yes?" "Thank you for not pressing me on that other matter. I promise you, everything really is...all right. I just can't talk about it." He nodded. "I understand." "You're a good brother," she said, and she raised up on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on his cheek, and was gone. # # # Bill Scully awoke to the sound of a ringing telephone. Blearily, he sat up and looked around. Dana's sofa. He had fallen asleep on Dana's sofa. Outside, night had fallen, and on the television a football game was in progress. <> he remembered. He'd come back to the apartment to find that she hadn't come home yet. He'd puttered around for awhile, then finally fixed himself something to eat and stretched out on the sofa to watch Monday Night Football. The phone rang again. Bill shook his head to clear it, then leaned over and grabbed the receiver. "Hello? This is Dana Scully's residence." "Bill, this is Dana," his sister's voice said without preamble, and immediately he snapped to full wakefulness. Her voice sounded tense, on edge. "I need your help with something, and I need it now." "Well...of, of course," he stuttered. "What is it?" "I can't explain it on the phone," she replied. "Look, someone will be by to pick you up in -- how long?" The last two words were apparently directed to someone else. "In twenty minutes," she said. "Look for a blue Chevy. In twenty minutes," she repeated. "Twenty minutes," Bill said, confused. "Dana, what's this all about? What's going on?" She paused. Then: "Bill, I CAN'T go into it on the phone. It wouldn't be...prudent. I'll see you soon." And she hung up. <> he wondered, scratching his head. <> He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes. He'd better get moving. A short while later, having changed his clothes and bundled up against the cold, he stepped out on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. The blue Chevy she had mentioned was already waiting, its engine idling. Bill started to climb in the passenger side, but the driver jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Bill caught a quick glimpse of glasses glinting in the street light, but otherwise the driver's face was lost in shadows. "Captain Scully," the man said, "I'm going to have to ask that you get in back and lie down on the seat." His tone was apologetic. "It's for your own protection." <> Bill thought, and followed the man's instructions. As he lay down and curled his legs up, he felt the car start to move. "If this were anybody but Dana, I'd think it was a practical joke," Bill said, hoping to draw the driver into conversation. "Believe me, Captain, this is no joke. I wish it were," the man replied grimly. "We might not any of us be alive by morning." "That's pretty melodramatic," Bill commented. "That's the kind of world we live in, Captain Scully. By the way, my name's Frohike. I'm a friend of Dana's." "Yes, she's mentioned you," Bill replied. "She has?" The man's voice held a note of smug pleasure. <> Bill thought. <> Aloud, he said, "Just in passing. Look, can't you tell me what this is all about? I'm not used to all the cloak and dagger stuff." There was a pause, then the man at the wheel said, "I think it would be better to let Dana explain it to you. We'll be there in a few more minutes." The rest of the trip passed in silence. Finally, the car pulled to a halt and the engine stopped. Bill heard the driver's door open and shut, and then his own door opened. "You can get out, now, Captain Scully," Frohike said. Bill climbed out of the car and looked around. They were in a rundown part of town, a commercial district of warehouses and decrepit office buildings. Silently, Frohike led the way into one of the latter. They climbed a flight of stairs, and Frohike paused in front of an unmarked door. He gave three sharp knocks, paused, and then gave two more. "Frohike," he said. "I've got Captain Scully." Fox Mulder opened the door, his Sig Sauer in his hand, pointing at the floor. Mulder glanced at Frohike, then at Bill; then he stepped into the hallway and looked both ways before finally holstering his weapon and leading them inside. "Pretty tight security," Bill commented. "We couldn't be sure you would be alone," Mulder said flatly as he shut the door. Bill took a moment to look around. The room was actually fairly large, but it was crammed full of computer terminals, sound and video equipment and other electronic devices which Bill couldn't even begin to classify. At the far end of the room, Dana and two other men were bent over a computer monitor. At the sound of the door closing, Dana looked up, and then turned and walked over to Bill. Taking both of his hands, she went up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "Bill," she said. "Thank you for coming. I'm sorry about the way we did it, but it was...necessary." Her voice was strained and her manner distracted. Searching her face, Bill realized that she was afraid. But of what? "That's okay," he said, and glanced around the room again. "This doesn't look much like my conception of the FBI Crime Lab." Dana smiled briefly, but then worry descended on her face again. "It's not," she said. She gestured at a chair. "Please, Bill, sit down." She waited until he had complied, then took another chair and pulled it over next to his and sat down. Mulder walked up behind her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, as if he were somehow giving her energy by his touch. She glanced up him, and briefly squeezed his right hand with hers, then looked back at Bill. "Where to begin," she said, half to herself. "I suppose I should start with introductions." She gestured at the three strange men -- and as Bill took his first really good look at them, he realized that "strange" was a very apt word. But Dana was still talking. "You've already met Frohike," she said. "He was your driver." Bill nodded, and his eyes provided a thumbnail sketch: Short, stocky, nebbishy-looking guy, wearing glasses and a receding hairline. "Hi," Frohike said, almost shyly. He extended his hand. "Glad to know Dana's brother." Bill shook his hand, and Dana proceeded to introduce the other two: Langly, wearing jeans and a pornographic t-shirt, with stringy blond hair hanging down past his shoulders, and Byers, a short, fussy- looking man with reddish-brown hair, sporting a Van Dyke and wearing a three piece suit. Introductions completed, Dana leaned back in her chair and looked at Bill for a moment. Then she craned her neck to look up at Mulder again, still standing behind her and gently massaging her shoulders. "Where do I begin?" she asked him. Mulder smiled. "Now you know how I feel sometimes, Special Agent Scully," he said. Then he quoted, "'Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end. Then stop.'" Dana actually laughed. "So are you the Red Queen tonight, Mulder? I would never have guessed." She lowered her eyes to look at Bill again, and her smile vanished. She looked at him intently for a moment, then sighed. "I guess before we go any farther," she said, "we should make sure you understand what you're getting yourself into, if you agree to help us." "Of course I'm going --" She held up her hand. "Please, Bill; hear me out before you make any promises." His sister looked at him levelly, unshed tears in her eyes. "Oh, God, Bill...if there were anybody else to ask -- anyone we could trust." She shook her head, and Mulder gave her shoulders an extra squeeze. Again she touched his hand with hers, and seemed to draw comfort from it, and in that moment Bill did not resent the man nearly so much. Dana continued, "What you must understand is that if you agree to join us, you will be walking into a...supremely dangerous situation. You will be putting not just your own life at risk, but those of Tara and the baby as well." Bill felt his throat constrict. "Dana," he said hoarsely. "WHAT'S GOING ON?" "We'll get to the details in a bit," she said. "I want to make sure you understand, first, because five years ago *I* walked into this situation unknowingly." She looked up at Mulder again, and he looked down at her, and there was an almost visible link between them as they locked eyes. "And although I would not change a single moment, even if I could, nevertheless it is not fair to do the same thing to you." Mulder nodded at her solemnly, and she dropped her gaze to Bill again. "How can I understand the risk if you won't tell me any of the details?" Bill asked. Dana nodded. "That's a fair question. The answer is, you really cannot -- you're being asked to buy a pig in a poke, and no one here will think less of you if you decide to walk away." She swallowed. "We almost didn't call you, Bill. We've put you in tremendous danger simply by bringing you to this room." And she reached up and squeezed Mulder's hand again. Bill shook his head, tried to push it away. "No," he said. "This is nuts. It's a movie script. Things like this don't happen in real life." He raised his arms in frustration. "What am I saying? I don't even know what you're talking about!" "Bill," she said, looking him in the eyes with love and sadness. "I have never been more serious in my life. I know how this must sound; I know it's melodramatic. But this is my work; this is what I do, and you have got to trust me when I tell you that we are all in terrible, terrible danger. And it is terribly unfair to ask this of you, but we are doing it anyway, and you must decide, and you must decide now." Bill felt a chill run down his spine. She was serious. She really was serious. She was staring at him, unblinking, and now the tears were running down her cheeks, and there was only one answer he could give: "Of course, Dana," he said. "Of course I'll help." Dana closed her eyes, and nodded. She looked up at Mulder, still standing over her, and he nodded slightly, as well. She looked back at Bill, and went on, "Okay. Well at least that much is settled," she said, and gave a shaky little laugh. "I have one more question which I...must ask you. You will probably find it offensive. It will probably make you angry. But I must ask it, and you must answer it, or this can go no further." Bill nodded slowly, and braced himself. His sister looked him in the eye, and said, "Captain William Scully, are you loyal to the United States?" There was dead silence in the room. Even Mulder's hands had stopped moving on her shoulders. Despite Dana's warning, Bill felt a surge of anger, but he forced it back down. Dana wouldn't be yanking his chain -- not about something like this. If she was asking this question, it was because she wanted an answer, and that meant it deserved his full and sober consideration. "I like to think that I am," he said at last. "I've taken an oath to that effect." Dana looked into his face intently. "And what, in your view, is the foundation of that oath?" she asked softly. That was an easy one. "To defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic." Dana looked relieved, and leaned back in her chair. She tipped her head back to look at Mulder, and smiled. He smiled back. "Told you," he said. "Now you owe ME some chocolate." "I take it I pass," Bill said diffidently, and Dana laughed and leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Yes," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt collar. "You pass." And the tension seemed to go out of the room with an almost audible "whoosh". Dana leaned back in her chair with a smile, and patted Mulder's hand once more. "Now we can begin the briefing. Frohike? Why don't you start with the traffic analysis?" The little man stepped forward and placed a black looseleaf binder on Bill's lap. Bill opened it, and saw that it was filled with computer printouts. Frohike said, "For the last year or so, I've been trying to track the flow of communications within the DoD. Not to monitor the content -- that would be impossible. There is too much data. But by tracking who is talking to who, what routing they use, and the frequency and length of the messages sent, we can begin to get some idea of how things work inside an organization. Given enough data, it is even possible to create a model which will actually give us some notion of the subject's future intended actions. Clear so far?" Bill nodded. "I've had some information theory, and I did a tour with the Sixth Fleet's threat team. I don't claim to be an expert, though." "That's good," said Frohike. "So we can assume you understand the basic theory. Now, what I've specifically been trying to do is get a handle on how the Pentagon manages its black ops teams." "Black ops?" Bill asked. "You mean like Special Forces and Navy SEALS?" Frohike waved a hand in derision. "Hell no," he said. "Those guys are Boy Scouts. I'm talking about the REAL bad guys: No-name units. Hunter-killer squads. B&E, extortion, assassination. The whole nine yards." Bill was shocked. He looked at Dana. "He can't be serious," he protested. "Assassination squads? In THIS country?" He was offended at the very thought of it. Dana leaned forward with a look of infinite sadness and gently laid her hand on his knee. "Bill, it's true," she said softly. "I've seen these groups operate. I've watched them kill, and on more than one occasion Mulder and I have barely escaped with our own lives." Again, there were unshed tears in her eyes. "Bill, I know it's hard to accept. I know it's not what we were brought up to believe, or to believe in. But it is true. Our government has done, and continues to do, all the things Frohike said, and more. Bill --" And here a special agony entered her voice, and Bill was afraid for a moment that she was going to break down entirely. "Oh, Bill. These men murdered Melissa!" Bill closed his eyes and sat absolutely still. He could feel the waves of conflicting emotions surging through him: Anger, fear, doubt, guilt. He knew that he stood on the brink of a precipice; it would take only the slightest nudge to push him over the edge. And he couldn't allow that to happen; too many people depended on him. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes. Dana was still staring at him, her blue eyes boring into his and her cheeks once again streaked with tears. Fox Mulder had come around from behind her chair, and now knelt beside her, his arms encircling her upper body as if to somehow shield her from the emotional storm her own words had unleashed. And everyone in the room was looking intently at Bill Scully. Waiting. He took another deep breath, and nodded. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Let's...set that to one side for the moment." He knew that they would have to come back to this later, but now was not the time. He looked at Frohike; unconsciously, he slipped into his ship's commander persona. "Show me what you've got," he said. After the briefest of hesitations, Frohike nodded, and continued: "As you can see from the materials in the briefing book," he said, "even disregarding the *content* of the message traffic, there was still a tremendous amount of data. I had to try a number of different algorithms before I finally found one that seemed to work." The blond man in the pornographic t-shirt cleared his throat noisily, and Frohike added, rather reluctantly, "Also, Langly made some minor contributions." The blond man snorted. Frohike stepped over to one of the computers. "Then, two months ago, we made our real breakthrough." He tapped a few keys, and a map of North America appeared on the screen. A few more keystrokes, and two red dots appeared, one on the east coast, close to Washington, and the other in the general vicinity of El Paso. "These two sites," Frohike declared, "are the central nodes for the official state terror apparatus of the United States government. This one," and a pudgy finger jabbed at the one on the east coast, "is located at Quantico. The other one," and the finger moved to the other dot, "is a previously undisclosed installation known as 'Site Y'." "'Site Y'?" Bill repeated. "I'm not familiar with that one." "Neither is anyone else," Frohike replied. "Site Y has been a closely-held secret, and does not appear on any of the rosters of official U.S. government military installations -- it's not even on any of the classified lists." Bill shook his head. He was beyond wondering how the little man could possibly be privy to such information. "Go on," he said. Frohike tapped his keyboard, and a collection of red and blue lines appeared on the map, radiating out from the two points Frohike had already identified. "These lines," he said, "represent the message traffic to and from Site Y and the terror node at Quantico. Blue lines are outgoing messages, red lines are incoming. The thickness of the lines represents the volume of the message traffic, measured in gigabytes per day. "As you can see," he went on, "while both Site Y and Quantico have regular, substantial contact with more than a dozen other installations scattered around the United States and Canada, by far the heaviest traffic is between the two nodes, themselves." And Bill saw that this was true. Frohike continued, "But most interesting of all is what happens when we chart message traffic versus time." He punched his keyboard, and the colored lines disappeared. "This dynamic display begins on December 1st of last year," he stated. "It processes at a rate of about one week per second." He tapped another key, and the display came to life. Red and blue lines sprang into existence, flickered, thickened. A few disappeared, only to be replaced by other, thicker lines. After a few seconds, Frohike said, "We're coming up on the end of January: Watch!" The screen exploded with color, and Bill sucked in his breath; it was that dramatic. The colored lines coruscated across the continent, rippling and proliferating, finding new terminuses. Finally, the display stopped moving. "And here we are," Frohike concluded. "Yesterday afternoon, 1700 hours EST." Bill stared at the screen for a pair of minutes, then he looked back at Dana. "Okay," he said. "It's all very interesting, but I still don't see where we're going." "That's only the first half of the briefing," she replied. "Byers?" The fussy little man in the three piece suit stepped forward and took Frohike's place at the keyboard. He rapidly typed in a series of commands, and the colored lines vanished from the screen, to be replaced by symbols which Bill recognized as standard military unit designations. "Frohike brought me his preliminary findings about six weeks ago," Byers said. "Obviously, it was in a more primitive form than the demonstration you just saw, but Langly and I were able to tweak it a bit in order to develop the analysis to the point where useful conclusions could be drawn." Frohike rolled his eyes at this allocation of credit, but he remained silent. "Meanwhile," Byers went on, "I got interested in personnel movements and logistics." He continued to tap the keyboard while he talked. "Obviously, the data were harder to collect, but we were able to intercept personnel manifests and the like, and so we had something to work with." He pointed at the screen. The map was a confused welter of various colored lines crisscrossing the continent. Byers worked the keyboard, and said, "This display represents movements of uniformed personnel in groups of fifty or more, for the past six months. As you can see, they're literally all over the map." His fingers flew across the keyboard. "Now let's strip away everything except the movements which pass through Site Y or Quantico," he continued, and the familiar double wagon wheel pattern of Frohike's display reappeared on the screen. "Then we add in known exercises and alerts, with live fire exercises marked in purple and the rest in yellow...and there you are." Bill studied the screen, and as the patterns started to fall into place he felt a chill race down his spine. "My god," he whispered. He glanced at Dana, then back to the screen. "What did you say the timeframe is for this display?" "Six months," Byers said flatly. "May to November. This year. You're a professional military man, Captain Scully; that's one reason we brought you in on this. I've already drawn my own conclusions; now you tell me what YOU see." Bill almost couldn't bring himself to say it, but the facts glowing on the computer screen were damning. In a last, desperate attempt at denial, he said, "I assume the data you've presented are accurate." Dana's voice echoed through the room. "They're accurate. Bet on it." A sense of unreality swept over Bill, and he heard the words issuing from his lips almost as if someone else were speaking them. "This..." His voice faltered, and he had to start over. "This is an extended rehearsal of an operational plan for the military occupation of the United States." He licked his lips. "Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus, make it not be so." But it was so, and in his heart Bill Scully already knew it. Byers said, "Unfortunately, Captain Scully, that isn't all; the nightmare gets worse." He switched off the computer and stood to face Bill directly. "We don't have graphics to show you for this part -- Frohike and I were up all last night getting this much of it ready to show Mulder. But nineteen days ago we began to pick up an increased tempo in both electronic communications and troop movements. You yourself have already seen direct evidence of this." "I have?" Byers nodded. "Last night we spotted your name on a MATS manifest for a C-141 which arrived at Washington National this past Saturday afternoon." Bill nodded in agreement, and Byers went on, "On that plane with you were 197 officers and upper-echelon noncoms bound for duty at Quantico with the 8th Marine Division." Bill was puzzled. "There is no 8th Marine Division," he objected. Byers didn't say anything, and Bill's stomach started to hurt. "You mean --" Byers nodded, and said, "In addition to the message traffic and the personnel movements, ten days ago the Army's Logistics Corps started activating its Reserve units and deploying them throughout the country. The official reason being given for this is a supposed need to test the military's ability to interface with FEMA in case of widespread natural disaster or some other national emergency." Byers paused, and smiled without humor. "And now we find that for the past 36 hours it has been impossible to call Quantico. Even Agent Scully -- Dana -- has been unable to get through to the FBI facility there. Langly?" The blond man took over. "We had Dana try placing her call from here, using some of our special equipment," he said, his eyes glittering. "Ostensibly, calls to Quantico are being answered by military operators attached to a Marine Corps unit stationed at the base. But I put a traceroute on the FTS 2000 lines, and guess what I found?" Bill shook his head. Langly said, "The calls are being rerouted to a set of numbers in Pentagon City -- an exchange which just happens to be reserved exclusively for the Pentagon's high-security vox lines. I didn't dare check the line for monitoring devices, but you can pretty well assume that they're there. The only good news is that apparently my own kung fu at this end was good enough to fox 'em, or we'd all be dead by now. Literally." Byers concluded, "I think we have to assume, based on the evidence in hand, that they are preparing to execute this plan as we speak. D-Day may be only a week or two away; it may even be only a matter of days." A heavy silence hung over the room in the wake of Byers' statement. Finally, Bill slowly exhaled, and said, "Well." He looked around the room at Dana and the others. "What do we do now?" "That's the question of the day, isn't it?" Byers said. He stood up and stretched. "I for one am in favor of getting some rest before trying to work out a plan of action. I don't know about the rest of you, but my thought processes are rarely improved by sleep deprivation." Bill looked at his watch, and was startled to find that it was almost two a.m. The evening had become so intense that he'd completely lost his time sense. "I agree," Dana said. "We're all tired, and tired people make poor decisions." She stood up from her chair, and Mulder rose from his kneeling position next to her. Langly said to Dana, "I don't think it would be very smart for you or Mulder -- or Captain Scully -- to go back home tonight. We don't KNOW that your phone was tapped, but we didn't have an opportunity to check it, either." Bill looked at his sister in surprise, and she nodded wearily. "We -- Mulder and me -- we've been working in opposition to some very powerful people, Bill," she said. "Both Mulder and I have in the past found monitoring devices in our apartments, on our phone lines -- even in our office at work." "Jesus," was all Bill could think of to say. "What do you recommend, Langly," Mulder inquired. "The YMCA?" "I think I'd feel uncomfortable there," Dana said. The lanky blond shrugged. "Why not stay here? It's not the Hilton, but we've got plenty of blankets and pillows -- 18 hour days are pretty common around here, especially when Doohickey here gets a wild hair up his ass about something or other." "I do not get hair up my ass," Frohike stated with wounded dignity. "I will admit to being a tenacious investigator, however." Mulder nodded. "I think that sounds best," he said. "That way we have mutual protection, too. We can even take turns staying up, so someone will always be on guard." Byers shook his head. "We're all beat, Mulder -- and besides, what would be the point? You know as well as I do that if they come for us they'll come with overwhelming force." "Guys, can we just get on with it?" Dana asked, leaning against a wall, a look of utter exhaustion on her face. "I'm about to fall asleep standing up." The next few minutes were occupied with distributing bedclothes and moving furniture out of the way. Finally, Bill was able to stretch out and relax. He hadn't realized how tired he was until Byers alluded to the time. He let his eyes flick around the room, looking at each of his companions. By unspoken agreement, they'd left the overhead light on, as if by so doing they could somehow keep the demons at bay. Byers, he saw, was already asleep, snoring softly and wrapped up in his bedroll as if it were a cocoon. Langly and Frohike were conducting a whispered argument over who was going to sleep next to the radiator. Mulder was laying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. And Dana.... His eyes blurred as he looked at his sister. Despite her evident exhaustion, emotional as well as physical, she was still sitting up, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest, her forehead resting on her knees; she looked utterly miserable. He couldn't bear to see her like that. His own heart ached for Tara; he would give anything right now just to have her with him, and hold her close. His sister was also clearly suffering, but she was denying herself the obvious solution, apparently out of deference to his own feelings -- or perhaps just to avoid another scene when everyone was already so dreadfully tired. <> he thought. Sighing, he rolled onto his hands and knees, and crawled over to where Dana was sitting. She didn't seem to hear him approach, and as he got closer he saw that her shoulders were shaking. Ever so gently, he reached out and stroked her arm. Her head jerked up with a start, and he saw her tear-stained features shift from despair to joy to wary watchfulness all in an instant. "Bill," she whispered, too low for anyone else to hear. "Dana," he replied, equally quietly. He looked at her face, looked into her eyes, and saw a complex mixture of fear and sorrow and exhaustion. <> he thought. <> Bill was suddenly aware of Mulder's eyes on his back, watching every move he made. "Dana," Bill repeated, and swallowed. This was turning out to be harder than he had expected -- but it was the right thing to do, and Bill was determined to do his duty, no matter how difficult or embarrassing. "Dana, I think...I think you should do...whatever you need to do...to be comfortable." She searched his face for a long moment, and although she still looked exhausted and afraid, now he saw a light behind her eyes as well. At last she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Bill," she whispered. And she took her blanket and pillow and crept over to where her partner lay, and Mulder opened his arms and tenderly gathered her into a protective embrace, stroking her hair and whispering something to her that evoked the first genuine smile that Bill had seen on her face in hours. And when Bill Scully finally dropped off to sleep, he dreamed of Tara. # # # TUESDAY Bill awoke to the sound of gunshots. For a groggy half-second, he wondered what the hell was going on; then the instincts ingrained by half a lifetime of military service kicked in, and he jerked to wakefulness. As he rolled over onto his belly, he heard another fusillade coming from the doorway behind him. scrambling around to look in that direction, he was briefly aware of Frohike, Byers and Langly, churning about frantically on the far side of the room. Then his eyes focused on the source of the gunfire. Dana was lying stretched out on her stomach next to the doorway, her Sig Sauer extended in both hands and firing methodically at something in the hallway. As he watched, horrified, he heard the staccato ripping sound of a machine pistol returning fire and chewing up the doorjamb and floor right next to his sister's head. Dana flinched, then fired again, and this time she was rewarded by a scream of agony coming from the hallway. Pausing to eject a spent clip and ram home a new one, she yelled over her shoulder, "Mulder! We have to get out of here! There are too many of them!" Bill was suddenly aware of his sister's partner charging across the room towards her. Again there was the sound of an automatic weapon, and Dana returned fire as Mulder was forced to dive for cover. "Dammit, Mulder!" she cried again, desperation edging into her voice. "Get the fuck out of here!" And she fired again down the hallway. Something had to be done, and quickly, but Dana and Mulder had the only firearms. Casting his gaze about the room, Bill's eyes fell upon a nearby chair. He rolled desperately to his left, bringing himself to within arm's reach. He grabbed onto one leg, and twisting around and using all of his strength he came to a half-sitting position and heaved the chair through the nearest window. The glass was still falling as Bill scrambled to his feet. "Come on! This way!" he shouted, making a dash for the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mulder slither across the floor to Dana, and start firing in the same direction she was. He felt a pang of guilt that he was running away, but all he had was his bare hands, and that was no match for a machine pistol. Disregarding the shards of glass still sticking up here and there, he grasped the bottom frame of the window with both hands and vaulted through it. For just a moment he hung from the side of the building, then let himself drop the eight or ten feet to the small parking lot below. He hit the ground and rolled, clearing the way for whoever might come next. There was a half-inch cover of new snow, and a frigid wind was blowing, but he hardly noticed the cold. He looked back up at the window just in time to see Frohike come tumbling out. The little man hit the ground with a dull thud, and lay there, momentarily paralyzed by the fall. Bill scrambled to his feet and dragged Frohike away from the landing zone, just as Byers came hurtling out, followed quickly by Langly. Bill helped Frohike climb back to his feet while the other two were brushing themselves off and catching their breath. More gunfire sounded from inside the building, and Bill heard someone scream, a bloodcurdling sound. He turned to the other three men, and shouted, "You guys better make a run for it; I'm going back in!" "Wait!" yelled Byers. "No! There's no time, and somebody has to preserve what we know. Now get going before it's too late for all of us! I've got to try to help Dana and Mulder!" The other man hesitated, and Bill screamed, "Dammit, Byers, she's my sister! It's my privilege! But if somebody doesn't get away, it will all be for nothing!" Byers bit his lip, then nodded reluctantly. "Okay," he agreed, and the others nodded, too. "If -- when you get clear, we'll try to be at Lafayette Park in two hours!" "Got it!" The other three scattered, and Bill turned to head back inside...just as his sister and Fox Mulder came tearing around the far corner of the building. Dana was slightly in front, and as he watched, Mulder turned and fired back along the way they'd come. Dana made a beeline for one of the cars in the parking lot, holding her gun in one hand and groping in a pocket for her keys with the other. Bill ran to meet her, and got there just as she pulled the driver's side door open. Bill reached around and unlocked the back passenger door as she dropped into the driver's seat, yanking his hand clear just as she slammed her door shut. Bill dived into the back seat as she cranked the ignition, gunning the car for all it was worth. He managed to sit up in time to see Mulder, who had fallen behind Dana as a result of covering the rear, slip in the snow and fall, just as a man dressed all in black, including a black ski mask, came running around the corner of the building. The man saw Mulder fall, and skidded to a halt. He raised his machine pistol and took aim, and through the closed car windows Bill could faintly hear Mulder yelling, "Scully! Get out of here! It's too late!" "Like hell it is!" she snarled, and threw the car into gear and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. The tires spun for an instant on the new fallen snow, then they found their purchase, and the car lurched forward, rapidly picking up speed. The man in black never had a chance. The front of the car struck him squarely, sending him flying through the air and crashing into the side of the building. Dana was already slamming on the brakes and Bill was reaching across to throw open the right hand back passenger door. Dana screamed, "Mulder! Now now now now now!" and Mulder was up and running again and diving into the back seat next to Bill. Dana floored the accelerator again, and the car fishtailed wildly as she took the turn onto the street. Mulder almost fell out, but Bill grabbed hold of the other man's belt and hung on until Mulder could pull his feet inside and slam the door. Looking back through the rear window, Bill saw three more men running after them, and realized what they were doing just as two of them opened fire. He ducked down on top of Mulder as the rear window exploded inward in a cataract of shattered safety glass, and Bill breathed a brief prayer to whichever saint was responsible for protecting gas tanks and automobile tires as Dana powered the car through a sharp left at the first intersection. They bounced off a parked car, and for a moment Bill thought Dana had lost control, but she managed to steer into the incipient spin and then the car was rolling forward again. At the next intersection they turned right, then left, and finally Mulder, who by now was crouched on the back seat, gun in hand and peering through the empty rear window, announced, "I think we lost them." Dana let up on the accelerator, and the car's speed dropped back below the legal limit. Turning around and settling down in his seat, Mulder said, "Well that was fun. Definitely an 'E' ticket." Looking anxiously in the rearview mirror, Dana said, "Mulder, are you okay? You're not hurt, are you?" "I'm fine, Scully," her partner replied. "Although I think I just used up two of my nine lives. Bill's bleeding, though." "Just some cuts," Bill said. "Nothing serious; I took some glass on the way through that window. Let's not do this again anytime soon, okay?" By now they were cruising through a fairly respectable-looking working class neighborhood. Dana said, "We've got to get rid of this car; they'll have people out looking for it, and they may even put out warrants on the police wire. We wouldn't last ten minutes once they got us in the local jail." Putting actions to words, she pulled over to the curb and switched off the engine. She opened her door and got out, and Bill and Mulder followed suit. Dana went immediately to Mulder, pressed her forehead against his chest, wrapped her arms around his waist and closed her eyes. "Thank God," she said. "I thought I'd lost you." "I was getting a little worried there for a minute, too," her partner replied, giving her a gentle hug. "But you saved me, Scully. You always do." The embrace had gone on just long enough for Bill to start to feel uncomfortable when they broke out of their clinch. Dana turned to Bill and said, "Let me see your hands." He held them out and she looked them over carefully, then sighed with relief. "You're going to be okay. We need to find some bandages and some disinfectant, but you should be fine." She turned back to Mulder. "So now what do we do?" "I was just thinking about that," her partner replied. "Do you know if the Gunmen got clear?" Dana shook her head, and looked at her brother. "Bill? Do you know?" Bill was confused. "Gunmen?" "Frohike, Langly and Byers," she explained. Bill wanted to ask why they were called that, but decided that this wasn't the time for it. "I think they got away," he said. "They took off running in three directions, and I didn't see anyone going after them. Byers said they'd meet us at Lafayette Park in two hours." He glanced at his watch. "An hour and three quarters, now." "That's our target, then," Mulder declared. "First, though, we need to find some winter clothes. Not only is it fucking cold out, but we're going to stick out like sore thumbs wandering around outside in shirt sleeves in this weather." "Three sore thumbs, Mulder?" Dana asked, smiling faintly. "Better than three blind mice," he countered, laughing. "Or three dead mice." She smiled and punched his upper arm, a glancing blow. "The first thing we need is some money," she said. "We don't dare use our credit cards, even if you guys have yours. Everything but my car keys is still in my purse, and somehow I don't feel like going back after it right now." Bill nodded. "I've got about twenty dollars," he said. Mulder pulled out his wallet and riffled through the currency section. Bill raised his eyebrows when he saw the denominations. "Two hundred and twenty seven dollars," Mulder announced. That ought to keep us going for awhile, as long as we don't insist on filet mignon." "I don't know, Mulder," Dana said, deadpan. "You promised me a good time." Bill noticed an elderly black man standing on the stoop of the brownstone across the street, looking at them curiously. He gestured with his head. "I think we better get moving," he said. They turned and started to walk along the sidewalk, heading in the general direction of the Mall. Dana and Mulder walked side by side, their arms brushing against each other every few steps; Bill walked a couple of steps behind so that their party would not to take up the entire sidewalk. "Mulder," Dana said, shivering slightly. "Where are we going to find clothes? It really is damned cold, and I don't think this is the sort of neighborhood to have a Lord and Taylors." "We'll find something, Scully," he replied. He put his arm around her shoulder. "I'll keep you warm until then." # # # Lafayette Park was cold and windy, but that hadn't kept the protesters away, Bill noted with disgust. Not as many as would be expected in better weather, but there were still half a dozen of them, marching in a circle and carrying signs with slogans like "RESIGN!" and "THE OVAL OFFICE IS NOT THE ORAL OFFICE!" "I don't think those guys like the president very much." Bill jumped at the unexpected sound of Mulder's voice. He turned to face Mulder, who was standing next to Dana in the windbreak created by the statue of the French general for whom the park was named. "I'm not nuts about the guy, either," Bill admitted. "But he IS my commander in chief. And this --" he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the demonstrators. "This is embarrassing." "Y'know," Mulder said, "just speculating, but it occurs to me that this could be why the whole mess started." None of them could bring themselves to use the word "coup". "What do you mean?" Bill asked. "Well, look at it," his sister's partner replied. "The president's caught up in a sex scandal. The VICE president looks like he might be in trouble over the China campaign money scandal. Maybe somebody just decided that this would be a good time to do some housecleaning and install new management." He shrugged. "Just speculation, like I said. But it does answer the one question that's been bothering me: Why now? This could have happened anytime in the past fifty years; why did they wait until now?" "Where the hell are the Gunmen?" Dana asked irritably. It had been a long walk to Lafayette Park, and she had seemed to tolerate the cold less well than the two men. Even the secondhand coats they had picked up at a Salvation Army store along the way hadn't seemed to make her warmer. "Take it easy, Scully," Mulder said softly. "They'll be here when they can." He tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged it off and took a few steps away from him. "I'm fine, Mulder; just leave me alone, okay?" she snapped. "I'm cold and I'm tired and I'm hungry and I'm worried about our friends and I'm not in the mood. Just...leave me alone." She was also, Bill observed, scared to death -- as were they all. A look of pain and frustration came and went on Fox Mulder's face, so quickly that Bill wasn't sure they had really been there at all. "Sorry, Scully," the FBI man said. "I'm worried about them, too." Bill watched, an unwilling voyeur, as a complex series of emotions flitted across his sister's face: Fear, anger, fury, despair, exhaustion...love? Then her shoulders sagged, and she turned and walked back to her partner. "I'm NOT fine, Mulder" she said, laying her head on his chest and accepting his embrace. "I'm just so damned scared and I don't know what we're gonna do. Everything's going to hell, and I am fucking TIRED of having to be strong all the time." She sniffled loudly and buried her face in his chest. The two of them stood there silent and motionless for a moment. Mulder stroked her hair softly, then looked up and caught Bill's eye. "Hey, Scully," Mulder said, a slight smile on his lips. "There's a guy over there who looks like he's afraid the world is about to end; he also looks like he's probably freezing his ass off. Shall we invite him into the hot tub?" Dana looked up and studied her partner's face for a moment, then turned partway and extended an arm towards her brother. Hesitantly, Bill moved forward, and gingerly slipped his arms around his sister's waist. She closed her eyes and leaned up against him, and for the moment, at least, seemed to be utterly content. Bill looked up at Mulder, and he could see the wheels spinning behind the FBI agent's eyes. "Don't say it, Mulder," Bill growled. "Not a word. This is strictly for Dana." Mulder's eyes danced, and his lips quirked, but he nodded and didn't say anything, and the three of them stood there for a few moments in an awkward embrace. "You know, this is scarcely decent for third parties." Bill hastily released Dana and turned to see Langly smirking at him from a few feet away. Behind him, Byers was making a great show of studying the detail work on the statue of Lafayette, while Frohike was looking at the ground and frowning. "Langly! Byers!" Dana let go of Mulder and sped to the other three men, giving each of them a hug in turn. "Frohike," she added, planting a gentle kiss on the nebbishy little man's cheek. He blushed brick red, but he also gave her a shit-eating grin. "Hi, boys," Mulder said with a casual wave. "Frohike, I'd kiss you, too, but I haven't shaved this morning and I wouldn't want to give you whisker burns." "It's good to see you, too, Mulder," Byers replied. "I didn't think you were going to make it." "It was tight for a little while," the FBI man admitted, "but we pulled it off, and here we are." He paused, then added, "Now what?" "We've got some ideas," Langly said. "Why don't we go find a cup of coffee and see what we can hash out." Ten minutes later they were sliding into a booth at a small coffee shop on a side street a few blocks from the Mall, Dana and Mulder on one side and Bill and Langly on the other. Frohike and Byers grabbed chairs from a nearby table and pulled them up to the end of the booth. They waited in silence while the waitress brought coffee, muffins and bagels; then the discussion began. "To begin with," said Langly, "the good news is that Frohike managed to save the zip disk we had those demonstrations backed up on. The bad news, of course, is that we've lost all of our equipment, so we won't be collecting anymore data." He pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Our proposal is to log on to the Internet and do a data dump, and try to get the word out that way. It's the only thing we can think of that seems to have any chance at all of succeeding." Mulder frowned. "It's not really much to hang our hats on, is it?" he asked. "I mean, sure, we can dump the stuff into alt.conspiracy.wingnut, but who's going to listen? It will get lost among all the drivel. I really don't see what that gains us." Langly shrugged. "What alternatives do we have? You want to mount a frontal assault on Quantico? May I remind you that we almost got our nuts munched this morning? And that was against six bad guys -- there are at least six THOUSAND out at Quantico, and that's only counting the ones who have been brought in for the 'special operation'." Bill spoke up. "It's possible that there's another alternative. I have a friend, we went to the Academy together. Now he's a colonel in the Marine Corps, attached to the personal staff of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs." He looked at Dana, and couldn't resist a little dig. "You remember Jiggs Casey, don't you, Dana? You had a crush on him your senior year in high school." Fox Mulder looked interested, but Dana gave Bill a freezing look, and there was a glint of warning in her eye. "I did NOT have a crush on Cadet Casey," she declared. "I merely found him to be an interesting conversationalist." Bill reflected that Dana's definition of "conversation" must be somewhat broader than his own, but from the look that she was still giving him, perhaps this wasn't the best possible time to be going into it. "Anyway," he said to the others, "Jiggs is a real stand-up guy. He's on the inside; he can help us." "'He's on the inside,'" Byers repeated slowly. "That can be a two-edged sword, of course." Bill shook his head. "Jiggs Casey is not like that," he said flatly. "I've known the man for twenty years, and it is just not in his nature to be involved in treason." Mulder was shaking his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't like it. It seems like a big risk to be taking. We'd be putting it all on the line to this one officer, and if your judgment turns out to be wrong..." He let the statement trail off. Bill said, "I understand that. But it's a risk we have to take, and I am confident -- I am POSITIVE -- that Jiggs will be on our side, once we've explained the situation." Mulder thought about it for a minute, then looked at his partner. "What do you think, Dana? You've met this guy." "Mulder, that was twenty years ago." She shook her head. "I really don't know what to say. We're in a very precarious situation, and we have to move carefully. On the other hand, we don't have much time, and we're going to have to trust someone, at some point. -- or we might just as well all go home and wait for the tanks to come rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue." She shivered slightly. They all sat silently for a moment, as Dana's last comment forced them all to look directly at their fears. Finally, Mulder stirred. "Okay," he said. "We'll give it a try. Bill, go ahead and see what you can set up with this Colonel Casey. Be cautious, but as Dana said, we don't have much time and we have even fewer options, so do the best you can." His eyes flicked across Langly, Byers and Frohike. "You guys go ahead and follow up on Langly's idea. It can't hurt, and it might help, just getting the information out in front of SOMEBODY. Bear in mind that if Bill's idea works out we will at some point want to show it to Colonel Casey, so for god's sake don't let anything happen to that disk. In the meantime, Scully and I will be making some phone calls; there are still a few people who might be able to help us." He looked at Dana, and she nodded. He glanced at his watch. "Let's try to meet back in the park in eight hours. That's six p.m. Any questions?" He paused, and no one answered. "Okay, then. Let's get moving." Mulder left some money on the table and they filed out of the coffee shop, Bill bringing up the rear. As he approached the door, he noticed a small rack of postcards standing by the cash register. On impulse, Bill stopped to look at them. Most of the cards were standard pictures of monuments and public buildings, and his eyes quickly passed over them. Then his gaze fell on a card featuring cherry blossoms in bloom. Tara had always loved cherry blossoms, and he really ought to -- <> he wondered. <> His vision blurred as he thought about it. They had had it all planned out: His Navy career, with ambitions for flag rank; their plans for children; his eventual retirement and second career; grandchildren. And through it all, always, Tara by his side. Now it was all ashes; it was never going to happen. For he knew in his heart that whether they succeeded or failed, it was most unlikely that he -- or any of their little band -- would survive the attempt. How could he fit that onto a postcard? He didn't dare call her on the phone; it might help their pursuers. Worse, it would draw attention to Tara and the baby, and expose THEM to greater risk, and he was flatly unwilling even to consider that. He didn't even know if he would have time to write a proper letter before the end came. The few words he could fit on this card might have to last Tara for a lifetime. He glanced over at Dana and her partner, waiting for him by the door, their heads bent together in intimate consultation. As he watched, Dana brushed a lock of Mulder's hair out of his eyes, and Mulder smiled at her. He was suddenly angry. <> he thought. <> He wanted to scream at them, to push them apart. No one should be like, like THAT.... Immediately he felt ashamed. He still did not completely understand Dana's relationship with Fox Mulder, but it was clear that Mulder was helping her find peace, just as Tara did for Bill. If she and Mulder were fortunate enough to get to spend their last days together, that was at least some consolation in the face of the onrushing darkness. <> Bill reflected wistfully. He sighed, and looked down at the postcard again. While he'd been thinking, he'd automatically written Tara's name on it; now he added the address that he was already starting to think of as hers rather than theirs. <> he thought sadly. <> It seemed hopelessly inadequate. Then it came to him. He nodded his head; it was right. It would explain everything. Tara would be sad -- she would be heartbroken. But at least she would understand, and she would forgive him for stealing all those years they had expected to have together. Hastily, suddenly afraid that even this might be taken from him, he scribbled on the card for a few seconds, and it was done. He gazed for a moment at his work, and a single tear fell from his cheek and landed on the postcard, slightly smearing the ink. Bill smiled a melancholy smile; Tara would have that much of him, at least. <> he wondered. But it wasn't necessary; Tara would know his handwriting, and the dozen or so words he had written would tell her everything he could say, everything she would ever need. She was a strong woman, and he knew that she would be able to carry on. He bought a stamp from the cashier, and paid for the card. He hesitated, and felt the fear wash over him. What if they were waiting outside? What if he never even had the chance to mail the postcard, his final epistle to his best beloved? He couldn't stand even thinking about that. He caught the eye of the young woman behind the counter once again, and asked, "Would you mind mailing this for me when you get a chance? I'm in a bit of a hurry." And she agreed. His mind finally at peace, Captain William Scully strode purposefully to the door, and with his sister and her partner he went on out to fight the future. And in his mind the words he had written to his wife echoed and re-echoed, and calmed his soul: *I could not love thee, dear, so much, lov'd I not honour more.* # # # WEDNESDAY Bill Scully wearily climbed the hill leading to the carillon at Arlington National Cemetery. He had suggested this as their evening rendezvous, but he was tired, and he was cold, and he wished he had thought of someplace both flatter and warmer. Dana was waiting for him when he reached the top of the hill, sitting on a park bench and hugging herself against the cold. The carillon sat before her, a gift to the United States from the people of Denmark in the aftermath of World War II. For the thousandth time in his life, Bill read the inscription carved into the marble, and he felt a shiver run down his spine that was not entirely due to the cold and the wind: "While these bells ring, rest safely. Freedom lives." With a groan of exhaustion, Bill eased himself down on the bench next to Dana. He, his sister and her partner had spent the previous night huddled around a heating grate in order to preserve their limited funds, then spent most of today tramping around downtown Washington looking for some clue as to the whereabouts of Frohike, Langly and Byers, who had failed to return to Lafayette Park the evening before. Idly, Bill wondered if any of the three were still alive, but he was almost too tired to care. Dana said, "You know, I haven't been up here in years. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is. I've been here for, oh, half an hour or so, just sitting and listening to the bells." Her voice was dreamy and her eyes were closed. "You must be pretty cold if you've been here that long," Bill ventured. She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We won't be here much longer." Suddenly, her eyes popped open, and she looked up at her brother. "I'm sorry, Bill. I didn't mean to say that." "Why not?" he asked quietly. "It's what we've all been thinking." A vision of Tara's face flashed through his mind, but he quickly suppressed it. Making a conscious effort to distract himself, he studied his sister's face for a moment. She really had a remarkable face; Bill had always thought so. It had such character, and was so proudly and completely...Dana. He thought that if he were a woman he would wish for a face like hers, and to hell with other female features. She turned her head and caught him staring at her, and she arched an eyebrow at him in question. "What are you looking at?" "Oh, nothing," he said. "I was just thinking...There's a lot you haven't told me, isn't there? I mean, about your life and...everything." She sat quietly for a moment, considering it, and suddenly Bill wondered if she thought he was snooping again. He was about to apologize and withdraw the question, when she said, "Yes. Yes there is. I wish I'd been more open with you, as well as the rest of the family. But that's always been hard for me. And now, well, there's so little time." Bill nodded. "I know. I know those things. But it isn't all your fault, Dana, not by a longshot. We weren't -- *I* wasn't very receptive to some of the things you did try to tell me. I could have listened better." "Yes, you could have," Dana agreed, but there was no accusation in her voice. She looked at him for a minute, her head cocked sideways; then she put her arm around his neck and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "But you're listening now." Her lips quirked. "As Mulder would say, you're learning to respect the journey." "He's very important to you, isn't he?" Bill said hesitantly. She nodded solemnly. "I knew that; I just wanted to say it. And I wanted to say that, that I've come to know him better recently, and that I was wrong. He's a good man. Not that my opinion matters." Dana smiled, and suddenly she had tears in her eyes. In a small voice, she said, "Your opinion has always mattered to me, Bill. Thank you for understanding." And she hugged him tightly for a minute. A few minutes later Fox Mulder arrived, but instead of coming over to Bill and Dana, he leaned up against the monument, hands in his pockets, obviously lost in thought. After a moment or two, he started pacing in slow circles around the carillon. On his second pass, Dana wordlessly got up from the bench and fell into step next to him. "Hi, Bill." Bill turned around to see Jiggs Casey standing a few feet away. Bill stood up and shook hands with his friend, and they both sat down on the bench. The two sat silently together for a few minutes, watching Mulder and Dana walk around and around the carillon. As they passed by for the third time, Jiggs said, "Bill, are you sure about all this stuff? Are you really sure? You don't think you could have been...misled?" Bill sighed. They had been over this ground twice the night before, at their first meeting, and although he could understand why Jiggs would be skeptical, it was still vexing. "You didn't see those computer demos. If you had --" "If I had, maybe things would be different," Jiggs cut in. "But I didn't." He stopped talking as the two FBI agents emerged from behind the carillon, and waited until they had passed by again. "I didn't see it," he repeated. "You didn't see it, so you don't believe it?" Bill shook his head quickly. "I apologize; that was uncalled for. If our positions were reversed, I probably wouldn't believe you, either." The Marine shook his head. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, Bill. But think about this for a minute. All you really saw was a display on a computer screen, and we both know how easy it would be to fake something like that." He moved a little closer and lowered his voice as Dana and Mulder made another of their slow circuits. "I did a little checking this morning, based on what you told me last night. There is no record in JCS files of a Site Y, nor is there any record of unusual troop movements involving Quantico. The bottom line is, I think you've been taken for a ride." Bill shook his head violently. "Dana wouldn't do that!" "Maybe she's been fooled, too." Another pause. Then: "Look, I did some checking on her friend Mulder, too. This guy's a complete nutcase; nobody takes him seriously. The FBI barely tolerates him -- they call him 'Spooky Mulder', and he -- and Dana -- get sent off on all the wild goose chases and snipe hunts. And as for those other three names you gave me -- those guys are even worse." "But Dana --" "Dana's got a good, solid head on her shoulders, and normally I would take her word as gospel. But she's also obviously head-over-heels in love with this guy, and that means her judgment in the matter is suspect." "It's not like that." Jiggs sighed in exasperation. "Man, are you blind? Look at them!" Mulder and Dana had stopped their pacing, and now were standing together in the carillon's windbreak, talking quietly and seriously. As Bill and Jiggs watched, Dana put out her hand and gently stroked Mulder's cheek. Jiggs went on, "Bill, I'm not accusing you of lying or anything -- Christ knows I would never do that. I'm not even really saying that I don't believe you. But even you must realize that you have presented only circumstantial evidence. And the fact that I have been unable to confirm the key points just makes it harder." "What about Dana's car?" Bill said. Jiggs shrugged. "It was found just where you said it would be, rear window shot out and everything. I checked with the FBI, told them I was a friend of the family -- which is even true, now that I think about it. It seems that they are very worried about the whereabouts of Special Agent Scully, and they're treating it as a kidnapping. As for Mulder, he's sufficiently erratic that apparently no one has realized he's missing yet - - at least, not officially." Jiggs went on, "There have also been no reports in the papers of a shootout at that office building you mentioned. I even drove over to the place myself at lunchtime, but there's nothing there. No indication of a fight, and the room you mentioned doesn't look like anyone has been in it for six months. The only thing I found that was at all out of the ordinary was this." He fished in his pocket, and brought out a single cartridge casing for a nine millimeter handgun. "But it could have been there in the grass for months, if not years." Bill said, "So what you're saying is that you won't help me." "I'm saying that I CAN'T help you, unless you can dig up some solid evidence. What do you expect me to do? Drop into General Scott's office tomorrow morning and say, 'Excuse me, sir, but are you aware of any plans for a coup d'etat this week?'" He shook his head. "You bring me evidence, Bill, and I'll act on it; you know that. But without evidence, my hands are tied." He stood to go. "I'm sorry." "I understand." Jiggs started to walk away, and suddenly Bill thought of something else. "Jiggs!" The Marine stopped and turned around, a questioning look on his face. Bill rose to his feet and walked over to face his friend. "Promise me one thing," he said. "If anything happens to me...look after Tara. Make sure she's okay." Jiggs looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You can depend on that, Bill. No matter what." And he turned and walked away. "He didn't believe us." Bill turned at the sound of Fox Mulder's voice, to see Dana and her partner standing a few feet away. "It's not that he didn't believe us," Bill said, returning to the park bench to sit down again. "It's that he CAN'T believe us. It's all too circumstantial, and there is no corroborating evidence." He briefly reviewed for the two FBI agents the substance of his conversation with Jiggs, leaving out a few of the personal details. Mulder nodded. "So we're on our own. Well, we're no worse off for having tried." He started pacing again, but instead of making circuits of the carillon he walked back and forth in front of the bench. Dana stood quietly watching him. "We've got to approach this from a different angle," Mulder said, continuing to pace. "We've got to figure out where that zip disk is, and the most likely way to find it is to find the Gunmen." Dana had finally explained to Bill, earlier in the day, the meaning of this term. "But how? We can't just knock on every door in Washington. Yet there's something there; I can feel it. I just can't quite SEE it." He shook his head angrily. "This is making me nuts --" Abruptly, he stopped pacing, and stood with his back to Bill and Dana. Dana said, "Mulder? Is everything okay?" "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I think maybe it is." He turned around to face her. "Scully, work this out with me. Byers, Langly and Frohike have been taken, check?" "Well, yes, but Mulder, if the Consortium got them, you know as well as I do --" "Yeah, yeah," Mulder said, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "If Cancerman and his pals got them, they're dead, and the disk has probably been destroyed, and there's nothing we can do about it. But let's think about that a minute, shall we? Let's work this problem as if it had a solution. Suppose this whole operation has nothing to do with the Consortium at all? Suppose it's just a bunch of generals who have a hankering to have their mail delivered to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? THEY might be more reluctant to kill if they don't have to." "But Mulder, the hit squad --" "Sure, the hit squad. But that was a surgical operation; a classic piece of wetwork. They knew where we were, and they knew that at least some of us were armed, and so they took no chances. But they can't have a Krycek on every street corner; more than likely the Gunmen just ran afoul of an APB or something, and were initially hauled in to the local jail, and only later were turned over to the bad guys." Dana shook her head. "I still don't see what this is gaining us." "So the next question," Mulder went on, ignoring her objection, "is where they would have taken those three AFTER the cops or whoever turned them over." He paused and thought for a minute. Then, very softly: "And I think I know the answer to that." "Mulder," Dana said, "you're not making any sense." "Yes, I am," he said. "Yes, I am! Come on, Scully, work with me on this. Suppose YOU were running the coup. D-Day is coming up, maybe only a few more days, and you've got some people you want to make disappear, but you don’t want to kill them. What would you do with them?" "Quantico?" Mulder shook his head. "Not likely. There's too much going on there, preparing for the big push. You might not have anyone available to watch them there. THINK Scully. Remember your counterespionage training from the Academy. What did the Soviets used to do with people who were inconvenient but not worth the trouble of shooting?" Suddenly her eyes widened. "St. Elizabeth's!" she whispered. "Bingo!" Bill broke in. "St. Elizabeth's? I don't get it." Mulder opened his mouth, but Dana cut him off. "St. Elizabeth's is a mental hospital, Bill." "I know THAT. But what's the connection with Langly and Byers and Frohike?" "Under the Soviet regime," his sister explained, "psych hospitals were used as places to warehouse people who had become inconvenient, but who they didn't want to kill for some reason. It had a lot of virtues, from their point of view: They could pretend that the individual was 'ill' rather than politically dangerous; they could even let his family and friends visit him, and since these 'patients' were usually kept drugged to the gills, it wasn't hard to believe that they really were sick. And, of course, anyone with any savvy knew what was REALLY going on, and so the deterrent effect was there, too, all the more effective because it was almost subliminal." She took a deep breath, and turned back to her partner. "But Mulder, do you really think the Gunmen are at St. Elizabeth's? Granted that it's an attractive notion, but --" Mulder shook his head. "I don't know for sure," he admitted. "But I do know that they'd pretty damned well better be, because it is just about our last hope." He started to tick points off on his fingers. "If the Consortium got them, they're dead. Even if it isn't the Consortium, if the plotters are more ruthless than I've surmised, or less squeamish, then they're dead. If they were taken to Quantico there is no fucking way we will ever get them out; the place is just too well guarded, and right now the base is probably under a maximum security alert because of the pending operation. They won't be left in a local lockup because of the risk that the legal system might intervene and kick them loose. The only place they could conceivably be that we have any chance of getting at them is St. Elizabeth's." Dana nodded slowly. "I think you're right, Mulder. It all makes sense. It would be nice, though, if we could figure out some way to verify that they're really there, BEFORE we go in with guns blazing." "Yes, it would," Mulder agreed, "and I'm beginning to get a glimmer on how that might work, too. But right now it's just a glimmer, and I'm also hungry. My proposal is that we go find a cheap hotel room somewhere so we can get in out of this damned weather and maybe get some decent food and rest. Then we can spend tomorrow planning and lining up whatever gear and information we're going to need, including trying to find a way to verify that they're there in the first place. Then if all goes well, we can raid St. Elizabeth's tomorrow night. Come on; let's go." And Mulder led the other two away from the monument and down the hill, just as the carillon started to ring the top of the hour. *While these bells ring...* # # # THURSDAY Stealing the ambulance turned out to be easier than Bill had expected. They waited for sundown, then took the Metro to Georgetown University Medical Center and loitered in the parking lot until an emergency vehicle arrived. Then, while the paramedics were inside unloading their charge and giving report to the ER staff, they climbed into the ambulance, Mulder hotwired the ignition, and off they went. "The FBI Academy syllabus must be a fascinating read," Bill had commented. "Your tax dollars at work," Mulder had replied with a smirk. Now the three of them sat in the cab of the ambulance, parked on a side street three blocks from St. Elizabeth's. A return trip to the Salvation Army store had scored black slacks and white button-down shirts for Mulder and Bill, which they hoped would pass for uniforms for the few necessary minutes. They had decided that Dana's existing disheveled clothing would allow her to get by as a distraught relative. <> Bill thought, <> He hadn't asked Mulder where he got the weapon; he knew that it was almost impossible to legally acquire a handgun in the District. The FBI man had disappeared for twenty minutes while Bill and Dana had been picking up carryout Chinese, and returned with a .32 automatic and half a box of ammunition. "Best I could do on short notice," he'd said quietly as he passed the weapon over to Bill. "Don't say I never gave you anything." "Everybody ready?" Mulder asked, bringing Bill back to the present. "Here we go!" And he threw the ambulance into gear and pulled away from the curb. It took less than two minutes to drive the remaining distance, and then Bill and Mulder were wheeling a gurney towards the main entrance of the hospital, Dana trailing along behind and wringing a handkerchief in her hands. They entered the building, and Mulder led the way past an elevator bank, past an emergency stairway, and up to the main reception desk, where a bored-looking clerk was reading a paperback with a picture of an exploding spaceship on the front. At the sound of their approach, he looked up. "May I help you?" Dana elbowed her way to the front. "Yes. My name is Dana Byers, and I'm here to pick up my husband, John." The clerk looked puzzled. "Byers?" His eyes flicked over Mulder, Bill and the ambulance gurney before returning to Dana. "I wasn't told to expect a transfer tonight." "I don't care what you were told," Dana said sharply. "My husband is here, and I've come to take him to Georgetown Medical Center. Byers is his name; John Fitzgerald Byers." She turned to Mulder and Bill. "Explain it to him," she said. Mulder shrugged. "It ain't up to us, lady," he said in a bored tone of voice. The clerk looked at Dana for a moment, then shrugged. "Just a minute; let me check." His fingers flew over the computer keyboard. Then he was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Byers, but there's nothing here about a transfer tonight...and Dr. Van Ackerman has gone home for the night." He looked back up at Dana apologetically. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait until morning." Dana's lips tightened. "I am NOT going to wait until morning!" she said, raising her voice. "I am not leaving John in this, this awful place one minute longer than necessary! I don't know who this Dr. Van Ackerman is, but I do know the law, and you cannot keep my husband here against his wishes!" The man looked annoyed, and shrugged. "I wouldn't know about that, ma'am," he said. "I'm just doing my job. If you have a problem with it, you can take it up with the Patient Rep. At eight a.m." "This is outrageous!" Dana shouted, and she banged her left fist down on the clerk's desk. Time seemed to stop, and Bill drew in a sudden breath. The clerk was staring at her hand, and Bill could almost hear the wheels spinning in the man's head. <> he thought. <> The clerk looked back up at Dana, and now his features were cool and unreadable. "Ma'am, could I please see some I.D.?" Nobody said anything, and after a moment, the clerk started to reach for the telephone. Mulder's Sig Sauer seemed to appear from nowhere, pointed directly at the man's head. "Will this do?" he asked. The clerk's jaw dropped, and Mulder went on, "Keep your hands where I can see them at all times. Now stand up and face the wall. DO IT!!" he yelled, and the other man jerked into action, obeying Mulder's orders precisely. "Okay, that's better," the FBI man said. "Now, hands behind your head." Mulder stepped forward, produced a pair of handcuffs and expertly snapped them into place. "Now lie down on the floor, and don't say a word; don't even think. Scully?" he added over his shoulder. "Having any luck?" While Mulder had been cuffing the receptionist, Dana had moved behind the desk and sat down at the computer terminal. Bill watched in vicarious frustration as she stumbled her way through the unfamiliar menu tree, all of her attention focused on the screen. "Scully!" Mulder repeated sharply. "Dammit, Mulder, I'm trying," she said tensely. "Just give me a minute." "We don't have a lot of minutes, Scully," he replied. The clerk started whimpering; Mulder turned back to him. "Shut up, you!" he snarled. Then to his partner again: "How about it, Scully?" "I think..." she said, the tip of her tongue sticking out slightly between her teeth. "Got it!" Her eyes rapidly scanned the words scrolling up on the screen. "Mulder, they're still here!" There was a note of triumph in her voice. "Ward 9 East. Rooms...uh 23, 27 and 17C." She jumped up from the desk. "Come on!" "Just a second." Mulder dragged the clerk to an upright sitting position. He looked the man in the eye, and hesitated just an instant. Then he said, "I know you're scared, and I'm sorry." Then he smashed the barrel of his gun into the man's temple, and the clerk toppled over into unconsciousness. Bill helped him drag the man's limp body over to the desk, and they stuffed him into the leg space. "Come on!" Dana called again. She was already standing in front of the bank of elevators, leaning on the "up" button. A moment later the three of them spilled off the elevator into the ninth floor atrium. There was a single door in the center of the far wall, with a small button next to it and a sign reading, "Please buzz for admittance." The door was locked, of course. Mulder swore, and drew his gun again. The booming roar of the weapon echoed and reechoed in the enclosed space, and splinters of wood and plastic flew in all directions. Mulder fired again, and this time the lock flew apart. Mulder pulled the door open, and they stepped through. They found themselves in a long, narrow hallway leading off in both directions. A woman in a nurse's uniform was standing halfway down on the right, mouth hanging open in surprise, her eyes big and round. "Freeze! Lie down on the floor! NOW!" The nurse's face went white, and without a word she followed Mulder's instructions. Running towards her, Mulder called over his shoulder, "You two go find the Gunmen; I'll see if there's anyone else wandering around!" Dana turned and hurried down the hallway in the other direction; Bill trailed along in her wake, trying to look in every direction at once. They went past a deserted nurse's station, and suddenly Dana skidded to a halt in front of one of the doors that lined the hallway. "Here it is!" she said, and pushed open the door. The room was small and cramped, with a single bed and a small, rickety bureau situated along one wall. There were no windows, and no serious attempt had been made to decorate the room. Someone was lying on the bed, wrapped tightly in a thin, gray blanket. Dana hurried to the bed, and Bill followed her. "It's Frohike!" she said. "Help me!" And together they managed to turn the man over so he lay on his back. He stirred slightly, opened his eyes and looked up at them blearily. "Frohike!" Dana said. "It's me, Scully. Dana Scully. Are you okay?" Bill watched as the little man struggled to focus. "Dana..." he said, his speech soft and slurred. "Dana..." His eyes closed again. "Dammit!" she said. "He's been drugged. Frohike! Wake up! You have got to wake up!" Frohike's eyes fluttered open again and he stared up at her. "Listen to my voice, Frohike," she said. "Listen to me talking to you. Listen to Dana, and try to stay awake. Can you sit up?" A goofy smile slid across his face, and he nodded. "Bill!" Dana said over her shoulder. "This is going to take a few minutes; go see if you can find the other two!" "Gotcha." Bill stepped back into the hallway, and continued down it in the direction they had been going. In seconds, he found room 23, and burst through the doorway. Langly was lying on the bed, hands locked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. When he saw Bill standing in the doorway, his eyebrows shot up. "Captain Scully?" Bill said, "We're busting you guys out of here. Can you walk?" "If I can't walk, I'll crawl," said the blond man as he swung his feet out of bed and ran for the door. "Come on," said Bill, leading him into the hallway. "We've got to find Byers." "What about Frohike?" "Dana's with him; looks like he's been drugged." "He always was a troublemaker," Langly answered. Then they were in Byers' room and dragging him hurriedly out of bed. Fortunately, he was only sleeping, rather than having been sedated, and it took him only seconds to come to full wakefulness and grasp the situation. As they exited into the hallway, Bill asked, "Do either of you know what happened to the zip disk?" Langly shook his head, and Byers replied, "Frohike had it. At least, he had it when we were in the coffee shop. But he did NOT have it by the time they picked us up. I don't know where he put it; we weren't together the whole time." They arrived at Frohike's door just as Frohike and Dana came stumbling out of the room. Frohike still looked as if he weren't entirely aware of what was going on; one of his arms was draped around Dana's shoulders, and she was obviously holding him up by sheer grit and determination. Bill moved forward to try to help, but as soon as he touched Frohike the little man began to struggle. "No!" Frohike protested. "No! 'M goin' with Dana! Dana!" "It's okay, Frohike," Dana said, her voice calm and reassuring. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. But Bill needs to help us. You remember Bill. He's my brother -- Captain Scully. You need to let him help us." Grudgingly, the little man allowed Bill to take some of his weight. As the group moved back up the hallway towards the elevator, Dana asked about the zip disk, and Bill explained that Frohike had apparently hidden it somewhere. They passed back through the damaged door into the elevator atrium, and Langly moved ahead and punched the elevator button. "Where's Mulder?" Dana demanded, looking around. The FBI man was clearly not in the little room. Still struggling to help support Frohike, she staggered back to the door. "Mulder!" she yelled. "Mulder! We've got them! Where are you?" "Mulder?" Frohike was frowning. "Is Mulder here? I thought you came to see me..." His voice trailed off sadly. "Mulder!" Dana shouted again, and this time her voice cracked slightly. "God damn it, Mulder, we've got to go! Now!" Frohike looked owlishly up at Bill. "She loves him more than she loves me," he confided. "He's a Redwood among saplings." And he started singing, loudly and off-key. "Now since my baby left me, I've found a new place to dwell --" "Jesus!" Bill said. "Frohike! You've got to be quiet! They'll hear you!" "Mulder!" Dana turned back to the group. "Langly, take this arm; I've got to go find Mulder." She transferred her burden and ran back through the door and disappeared down the hallway. "Down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel," Frohike sang on. "I'm so lonely, I'm so lonely --" "Frohike!" Bill snapped, using his best commanding officer voice. "Be quiet!" He looked desperately at Byers, but the other man only shrugged, and Langly said, "You may as well save your breath, Captain. Once he gets onto Elvis, there's no stopping him." "-- I'm so lonely that I could die." Frohike took a breath, and then launched into the second verse: "And tho' it's always crowded, you can still find some room --" He broke off suddenly, and looked around. "Where's Dana?" he demanded. "Where'd she go?" The elevator arrived, and Byers stepped into the doorway to hold it. "Dana will be right back, Frohike," Langly said soothingly. "She just went to look for Mulder." "Mulder," the little man said glumly, and he started singing again. "So if your baby leaves and you have a tale to tell, just take a walk down Lonely Street to Heartbreak Hotel, where you'll be lonely --" He stopped and frowned. "No, thas not right. Third verse. What's the third verse?" Dammit, where were Dana and Mulder? This was taking too long; Bill could feel it. He looked over Frohike's head at Langly, and made a command decision. "Let's get him out of here," Bill said. They'll probably catch up with us by the time we get outside." They started to wrestle Frohike into the elevator, and he began to struggle again. "Where're we goin'?" he demanded. "Where's Dana? I wanna see Dana!" "Dana's downstairs," Bill said desperately. "We have to go to her." "Oh." The little man quieted down, and let them lead him onto the elevator. "Now since my baby left me, I've found a new place to dwell: Down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel --" Bill groaned. "Christ, isn't there some way to shut him up?" "Just be glad he isn't on one of his Barry Manilow jags," Langly said as the elevator doors slid shut. The car started moving, and Frohike broke off singing to say, "I heard that, Langly." He turned his head and looked at his friend. "You jus' don' know good music when you hear it." He cleared his throat, and started on another song: "This one'll never sell, they'll never unnerstan'. I don't even sing it well --" "You can say that again," Langly muttered. "-- I try but I just can't." Frohike looked soulfully up into Bill's eyes. "But I sing it every night and I fight to keep it in. Cause this one's for you. . . this one's for you." The elevator stopped at the first floor and the doors slid open. Bill and Langly hustled Frohike off of the elevator with Byers striding briskly alongside. Frohike continued bellowing out his song, while allowing himself to be led to the front door. They were almost there -- just a few more feet -- when Bill heard a shout from behind. "Hey! Who are you? Where are you going?" "Shit!" Bill let go of Frohike and whirled around to see a security guard walking briskly towards them. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of Langly staggering as he suddenly had to take Frohike's entire weight, and Byers moving forward to help. Bill moved towards the guard, and tried to hang a conciliatory and embarrassed look on his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "We didn't mean to disturb anyone. I'm afraid my friend -- well, he's had a little too much to drink, and we're trying to get him home." <> Bill thought, wincing internally. But the guard slowed his pace, and seemed to be considering it. Abruptly a thumping noise could be heard coming from behind the reception desk, and Bill had a sudden visceral realization of how the captain of the Titanic must have felt. A few seconds later, the clerk Mulder had slugged, his wrists still handcuffed behind him, squirmed painfully out from under the desk. He looked up, saw the guard, saw Bill and the other three men, and started yelling. "Stop them, Brad! They're kidnappers!" The guard's eyes widened, and he reached for his sidearm, but Bill was quicker, and in an instant he had the .32 Mulder had obtained for him pointed right at the man's heart. "Don't move!" Bill ordered. The guard froze, and he and Bill stood transfixed and staring at each other for a timeless moment. Then the guard opened his hands and pointedly moved them away from his sides. Remembering what Mulder had done, Bill said, "Now lie down on the floor, and put your hands behind your back, and no one will get hurt." At that instant, Mulder and Dana burst from the emergency stairway. They took in the scene at a glance, and almost as if by telepathy, Dana changed course and ran up behind the guard, pulling handcuffs from somewhere in the process, while her partner swept on by Bill to help Langly and Byers. Dana snapped the cuffs on the guard and forced him to lie down. The clerk was still yelling, but she gave him one ferocious look and he shut up abruptly. Finally, they made it to the parking lot. Mulder had the back door of the ambulance open in an instant, and he heaved Frohike up and into the vehicle by main force, turning away as the little man fell to the floor of the compartment. Langly and Bill followed, while Mulder and Byers raced around to the cab. Finally, Dana clambered into the back and pulled the door shut behind her. "Everybody in?" Mulder demanded, and without waiting for an answer he turned the ignition and put the ambulance in gear. He had had the foresight to park facing outward, and so he was able simply to floor the accelerator and head for the exit. By the time they reached the street, they must have been doing forty or better, and the rear end slewed wildly for a moment. The passengers in the back were thrown first one way, then the other, and Langly lost his balance and fell heavily across Frohike, evoking an indignant sqawk from the latter. Then the tires took hold again, and they careened down the street, leaving the hospital behind them. Bill leaned back against the wall of the compartment and closed his eyes. They'd made it. They'd actually pulled it off. <> He opened his eyes and leaned forward. Dana had slipped down on the floor and was now cuddling Frohike's head in her lap. The rocking of the ambulance as it sped down the darkened streets of downtown Washington seemed to have lulled him back to sleep. "Frohike," Dana said softly, stroking his brow. "Frohike -- Melvin. It's Dana. You have to wake up now, Melvin." His eyes fluttered open. "Frohike," he muttered, looking up at her with a frown. "Frohike. Not Melvin. Even made my...parents call me Frohike." He giggled. "I learned that one from Mulder." "All right, Frohike," she replied. "Now Frohike, you have to concentrate on something. You have to think; you have to remember. Can you do that for me, Frohike?" Frohike's brow furrowed, and he frowned again. "I'll try." "Frohike, we need to know what you did with the zip disk. Do you remember the zip disk?" "Zip disk..." Slowly his eyelids fell shut. Dana shook his shoulder gently, and spoke his name again, and his eyes popped back open. "Dana!" he said, sounding puzzled. "When did you get here?" "I've been here all along," she said soothingly. "I'm here with you now. I know it's confusing for you, but you've just been drugged, and you're going to be okay." His eyes narrowed. "Rat bastards!" he said. "They drugged me...Not enough to kill Mulder an' fire Dana...beautiful Dana....hot Dana...." His voice was almost a croon, and his eyes seemed to drift almost at random. "It's okay, Frohike," Dana said. "That was a long time ago, and Mulder didn't die after all." He focused on her face again. "He was a giant, you know. He was a Redwood among saplings." "Yes, he is," she agreed, smiling down at the little man. Then her face got serious again. "Frohike, tell me where the zip disk is." "Zip disk," he muttered. "Zip disk zip disk zip disk." He looked up at her and smiled; then he started to giggle. "I hid it," he said. "An' they couldn't find it." He continued giggling. "I know you hid it, Frohike," she said. "But we need to find it now." He frowned suddenly. "Is okay that I hid it?" he asked anxiously. "I don' wanna make Dana mad." "Dana's not mad, Frohike," she replied. "Dana's very pleased; she's proud of you. You did the right thing." "The right thing," he said, smiling again. "The right thing. Dana said I did the right thing...." His eyelids started to droop shut again. Dana shook him awake, and said quickly but firmly, "Frohike! Quick! Where did you put the zip disk?" "Zip disk?" "The zip disk, Frohike -- where did you hide it?" She shook his shoulder again, and a note of urgency entered her voice. "Frohike, we don't have much time! They're coming, and we have to get away! Where's the zip disk?" "Zip disk." His brow furrowed in concentration again, and then a light came on behind his eyes, and he started giggling again. "I gave it...I gave it...." "Who, Frohike? Who did you give it to?" "I gave it to the Gen'ral!" Dana frowned. "The General?" she asked. "What general? What general did you give it to, Frohike?" "The Gen'ral," he repeated. "The Gen'ral. That's who I gave it to." He nodded in satisfaction. "Is safe there. No one can find it." "But we HAVE to find it, Frohike," Dana said. "We have to find it now, because they're coming and we have to get away. Frohike -- where did you hide the zip disk?" "I gave it to the Gen'ral!" he repeated. "Laughing." And he started to giggle again. "Laughing?" She frowned...and suddenly a light came on in Bill's head. "General Lafayette!" he exclaimed. Dana looked up at her brother, and her eyes widened. Then she looked down at Frohike again. "Is that right, Frohike? Did you hide the zip disk in Lafayette Park?" He looked up at her, puzzled. "Gen'ral Laughingyet.. Gave it to General Laughingyet. He'll keep it safe...." His eyes started to drift closed, but then they snapped open again, and he looked up at Dana, a worried look on his face. "Dana!" he said. "Dana...did I do okay? Did we get away?" Smiling, she replied, "You were wonderful, Frohike. You've saved everything." "Did we get away?" the little man repeated. "Yes. Yes, we got away. You go to sleep now." And she planted a soft kiss on his forehead, and within seconds he was snoring. At that moment the ambulance slowed to a halt. Bill looked up as the communications window with the cab slid open, and Mulder's face appeared in the gap. "We're well away from St. Elizabeth's," he informed them, "and I think we need to ditch the ambulance. It's got to be on the hot sheets by now." He started to turn away, but Dana's voice stopped him. "Wait, Mulder!" she said. "Frohike says he's hidden the zip disk in Lafayette Park. We need to get there and find it before some tourist stumbles over it." Mulder hesitated, then nodded. "To Lafayette Park, as fast as lightning!" he said, and threw the ambulance back into gear and accelerated away from the curb. # # # Bill sat quietly in the study of Jiggs Casey's home, sipping coffee and trying to get his head around the fact that he was actually warm and comfortable. Jiggs sat at his desk, while Langly leaned over the Marine's shoulder tapping commands on the computer keyboard in front of them. Byers was in another chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, while Fox Mulder sat on the floor, back against the wall. Dana was tucking Frohike into bed in the Caseys' guest bedroom. "This isn't going to be as spectacular as it might be," Langly was saying to Jiggs. "You just can't get the kind of resolution and processing speed on a Windows machine that you can on an iMac. The Windows OS is so fucking buggy it ought to be condemned. But I think you'll get the gist of it." He tapped a few more keys, then stood back as the show began to unfold. The retrieval of the zip disk had gone like clockwork. They'd driven to Lafayette Park, and Dana had remained in the ambulance with Frohike while the rest of them searched. It had taken less than five minutes, and then Fox Mulder had appropriated another vehicle, and they'd all piled in and headed for Jiggs Casey's house. The door to the study opened, bringing Bill back to the present. Dana slipped into the room and wordlessly sat down on the floor between Mulder's knees, leaning back against his chest with a contented sigh and closing her eyes. "Sweet Jesus." Bill looked back to his friend, and saw the familiar demo flashing across the screen. "Blue is for outgoing messages, and red is for incoming," Langly intoned, and Bill felt a tremor run through his body as he remembered the last time he had heard those words. He knew what Jiggs must be going through right now -- knew it from personal experience - - and part of him wanted to reach out to his friend. But this was a journey each of them had to take alone, and so he forestalled himself. At last the demo ended. Jiggs leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen with eyes that were no longer skeptical and wary, but shocked and haunted. At last he stirred, and he turned to look at Bill, and Bill saw on his face and in his eyes the same expression which he knew that he himself had been wearing since Monday evening. "I'm sorry, Bill," Jiggs said quietly. "I should have known not to doubt you." He paused, then nodded to himself, and reached for the telephone. # # # Forty minutes later, Jiggs and Bill were walking briskly down 15th Street in downtown Washington. Jiggs' phone call had been brief and cryptic, and after he hung up he'd informed Bill that the two of them were expected "downtown". The others had had large question marks in their eyes, but Jiggs' tone and the expression on his face had invited no inquiries. Now they were approaching the Treasury Department building, which stood across the street from the White House. Jiggs had offered no explanation on the drive downtown, and Bill had known better than to press him. Bill carried the zip disk in his coat pocket, having been rapidly briefed by Langly on how to run the demos. The night was clear and cold, and overhead the stars twinkled brilliantly. It was well past midnight, and he and Jiggs were the only ones on the street. Bill felt a chill race down his spine which was due to more than just the cold. <> he realized suddenly. <> Jiggs led the way to a side entrance of the Treasury building; much to Bill's surprise, the door was unlocked, and the two men walked inside and took a flight of stairs down to the basement. Jiggs led the way along a corridor, stopping at last in front of an unmarked, heavy metal door. The Marine produced a key -- it looked new and shiny, as if it had recently been cut -- and unlocked the door, and they both stepped through the doorway. The door opened into another hallway, but this one was plain and unfinished looking, with bare concrete floors and walls. Naked light bulbs dangled from the ceiling every twenty or thirty feet, producing a garish illumination. Jiggs led the way down the corridor. There were no doors, no bulletin boards, no decorations of any kind. Just plain, concrete walls, with the overhead light bulbs casting strange shadows as the two men strode briskly along. At last they came to another door, identical to the first, but instead of using his key on this one, Jiggs Casey pressed a small, unmarked button on the wall next to the door. After a moment's pause, the door was opened from the other side by a Marine Corps sergeant, and Jiggs and Bill stepped on through into the room beyond. Bill looked around and gaped. The room was laid out like a military headquarters. Telephones, computers and other electronic gear seemed to be everywhere, and a map of the world hung on the far wall. Half a dozen men and women in uniform moved around the room performing arcane ministrations to the equipment, and Bill felt his hair suddenly stand on end as he realized what room this was. "That's right, Bill," Jiggs said softly. "This is the Situation Room in the basement of the White House." "Colonel Casey; thank you for coming so promptly." They turned to see a man dressed in a business suit walking towards them. He was tall, with dark hair, and had hawk-like features. He reached out and shook hands with Jiggs, then turned to Bill. "And you must be Captain Scully. My name is Bruce Lindsey, Special Assistant to the President." Bill shook his hand numbly. "Now if you gentleman will please follow me..." Lindsey led them across the Situation Room and through a doorway on the far side. They passed rapidly down yet another hallway, and finally came to a dead end with a single door in it. Two men in dark suits stood guard over the doorway, and Bill felt another jolt as he realized who must be behind that door. Lindsey spoke to the guards. "This is Colonel Casey and Captain Scully. They're expected." Jiggs and Bill were quickly but expertly patted down by one of the Secret Service men, then the other one twisted the knob and the door swung open, and Bill found himself face to face with the president of the United States. "Jiggs," the president said, then glanced at Bill. "And you must be the Captain Scully I've heard so much about." "Yes sir," Bill said, a strangled feeling in his throat. "Sir, I must apologize for my appearance. I --" The president waved it away. "Don't worry about it, Captain; I understand you've been rather busy the last few days." The man's lips quirked, and Bill realized suddenly that he was standing in front of a human being and not some political avatar. It was a bit of a shock to him, and reminded him of the first time he had been confronted with the fact that even admirals sometimes had to use the head. But the president was still speaking. "Captain, I understand you have something for us." "Y-yes sir," Bill stuttered, and his hand flew to his pocket. For a second he was unable to find the disk, and he almost panicked, but then his fingers closed on it, and he drew it out of his pocket and handed it across the desk. The president looked at the disk, fascinated, and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked up at Jiggs. "Colonel Casey? Have you reviewed the materials on this disk?" "Yes sir." "And you concur with Captain Scully's analysis?" "Yes, Mr. President." The president sighed, and muttered, "Absolutely fucking incredible." His use of earthy language startled Bill, but somehow it seemed right, under the circumstances. The president handed the disk over to Lindsey. "Bruce, we'll want to have the staff review this, and I mean now." "Yes, Mr. President." And Lindsey took the disk and left the room, leaving Jiggs and Bill alone with the president. The president turned his gaze back on the two officers, and gestured at a pair of straight chairs positioned in front of his desk. "Gentlemen, why don't you go ahead and have a seat; this may take a little while." He looked directly at Bill. "In the meantime, Captain Scully, I want to hear your story -- all of it." The two officers complied, and after another prompt from the president, Bill began to speak. At first, he felt awkward, uncomfortable, as he had in Sunday school all those many years ago when he was called upon to recite. But as he got into the tale, he found himself relaxing, becoming more confident, and the story started to flow as he first sketched the outlines, and then began to fill in the details. He told the president everything: The mysterious summons from Dana on Monday evening; the chill he felt as he realized what the data on the computer disk added up to; the hair-raising escape from death Tuesday morning; the grueling search on Wednesday for the missing Gunmen; his own despair when he realized that Jiggs didn't believe him; the harrowing jailbreak at St. Elizabeth's; and finally the triumph of finding the zip disk, hidden in some bushes in Lafayette Park. Finally Bill fell silent. He felt exhausted, drained, as if he had just re-lived those events all over again. The president rocked back in his chair, and studied Bill's face thoughtfully. At last he said, "Well, Captain Scully, it sounds as if you've had quite a week." Normally, Bill would never have dreamed of saying anything other than in answer to a direct question from his commander in chief, but something in the president's voice and manner seemed to invite comment. "Mr. President, I think that's a bit of an understatement." The president barked quick laughter. He seemed to be about to reply when the door swung open and Bruce Lindsey came back into the room. His face was grim. "Well?" the president asked. "It checks out, Mr. President," Lindsey replied. "Down to the last detail." The president let out his breath in a slow sigh, and Bill realized that he had been holding his own breath, as well. Without thinking about it, he rose to his feet, and Jiggs followed suit. The president seemed to be meditating, and his gaze was quite evidently focused on something that no one else in the room could see. At last he looked up at the two officers. "Colonel Casey; Captain Scully." He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I want to thank you for bringing this to me. I know the risk you both took in doing so." He turned to Lindsey. "Bruce, I want these two officers formally debriefed before they leave." "Yes, Mr. President." "In addition," the president went on, still speaking to Lindsey, "I want their records cleared -- and the two FBI agents and the rest of the bunch, as well. Whatever they had to do to unearth this information just didn't happen. Got me?" "Yes, Mr. President." The president's eyes moved back to Bill and Jiggs, and he said, "I hope I can depend on you men to be discreet. It would be extremely harmful to the country if any of these events were ever to be made public." He hesitated, then added, "In fact, let's just make that an order. After the two of you have been debriefed tonight, neither of you is ever to utter a word to anyone about the events of the past few days. There is no 'Site Y'; there were no unexplained troop movements; there was no conspiracy against the government. Is that clear?" He waited until the two officers had acknowledged the order from their commander in chief, then he seemed to relax a little. "Very well, then." He stood and extended his hand. "I can't say this has been a pleasure, gentlemen, because it quite frankly has not been. But I am glad you came." He shook hands with both men, and Lindsey ushered them out of the office. And as they walked back up the hallway to the Situation Room to be debriefed, Bill Scully suddenly realized that he was going to be a grandfather. He was going home to Tara. # # # FRIDAY: Epilogue Dana Scully heard the TV playing in her apartment before she had even put the key in the lock, and she knew that Mulder was waiting for her. A soft smile crept briefly across her face, the smile that she never allowed her partner to see, and then she opened the door and stepped inside. God, it was good to be home! She had never expected to see this place again, and it gave her a warm, happy feeling to walk through the apartment and see all of her things waiting for her, just where she had left them five days before. Mulder was lying sprawled out on her sofa, watching the O'Reilly Factor. She moved over to sit next to him, unceremoniously dumping his feet on the floor to make room. Earlier in the day, the president had held an unscheduled press conference to announce the retirements of all five members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and now the talking heads were chattering on and on about What It All Meant. <> Dana thought. Aloud, she said, "Haven't you had enough politics for one week, Mulder?" He shrugged, and didn't answer. "Mulder, I thought we were going to watch DINOSAURUS! tonight. You said it was going to be on USA Network again." Still he didn't answer, and she slapped his knee. "Mulder! Are you listening?" "I hear you, Scully," he said with a lugubrious sigh. He picked up the remote control and changed channels. "But we HAVE seen this movie before, you know. Thirteen times, I believe." Dana settled back in contentment as a brontosaurus appeared on the screen, and she watched as it trampled through the tropical jungle. She feigned obliviousness as Mulder pulled his feet up off the floor and put them on her lap. After a few moments, though, she decided to take notice of the feet, and started gently massaging them. "Mulder," she said, "why do you suppose we like this movie so much?" He looked surprised. "Why?" he repeated. "Because it's about us, Scully. This movie is about us. I thought you knew that." "It is?" She raised her eyebrows and looked away from the screen, just long enough to see that he wasn't joking. "How is it about us, Mulder?" He gestured at the screen. "You and I are just like the dinosaurs. We're creatures out of time." "Oh." She thought about that for a moment as a caveman went running frantically through the jungle, carrying a woman over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. "I hadn't thought of it that way. I guess I see your point." Another long pause. "Which one of us is the brontosaurus?" "Which one of us would you like to be the brontosaurus?" he replied, humor hanging delicately about the edges of his words. "I'd like to be the brontosaurus," she said seriously. "I've always liked the brontosaurus; she seems so peaceful. I'm always a little sad when the tyrannosaurus kills her." "So you envision me as the King of the Lizards?" Mulder asked. She frowned. "No, that doesn't seem right, either. Maybe we can both be brontosauruses." "You'd make a great brontosaurus, Scully." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Did you get any root beer on your way back from taking Bill to the airport?" She shook her head, still watching the screen intently. "No; the store was all out. It must be getting popular." "How about Rolling Rock? Do you have any Rolling Rock?" "All gone." He leered at her. "Iced tea?" Laughing, she said, "No, Mulder. No iced tea. Maybe someday, but not tonight." "That's okay," he replied, nodding wisely. "Iced tea is hard to drink. You either get too much sugar or too little; it's almost impossible to get it just right." "I guess that's true," she said. And after that the two friends were quiet, and they sat together on the sofa watching television, far into the night. =========================== BOOK THREE: Almost Midnight Fox Mulder's Apartment, Alexandria, VA December 25, 11:58 p.m. It was dark and the phone was ringing. Fox Mulder struggled groggily to wakefulness, trying to sort out what was real from the dream he'd been having. The phone ringing for the third time helped orient him, and he clumsily reached out and grabbed the receiver before the answering machine could pick it up. "Mulder," he mumbled. There was silence on the other end; then he thought he heard someone breathing. "Hello?" he said, more sharply. "Is someone there?" "Fox." It was a woman's voice, very faint. Who the hell? There were only a handful of people who might call him at this time of night, and only one or two of them would call him by his first name. His eyes flicked over to the Caller I.D. box, and his photographic memory identified the number instantly. "Tara?" he said. "Oh, Fox," she said, and this time he detected a tremor in her voice. "Tara, what's wrong?" There was another silence, and he thought he heard a choked sob. "Fox, I need your help. I don't know who else to turn to. The police say they can't do anything, and the Shore Patrol --" "Tara!" he repeated sharply. "What's wrong? What's going on?" There was another silence, longer than the others, and when she finally spoke again, he could barely hear her. "Bill is missing. And so is Dana." # # # Ten minutes later Mulder hung up the phone. He'd spent five of those minutes calming her down, and another five gleaning from her what little information she had. Scully had been visiting her brother and his family for Christmas -- that much Mulder already knew. On the evening of the 23rd she and Bill had gone out in search of eggnog. They had not returned. Tara had, of course, notified the appropriate authorities: The San Diego Police and the Shore Patrol. Neither agency had been able to find Dana or her brother. Not a clue, not a lead, nothing. To all appearances brother and sister had climbed into his car, pulled out of the driveway, and vanished without a trace. But Fox Mulder had been living in the shadows for a long time, and one thing he knew with certainty: Nothing vanishes without a trace. Now he started dialing airline ticket reservation offices. Twenty weary minutes later his initial suspicion was confirmed: There was not a single seat available on any flight from Washington to California until after the first of the year. Which was, of course, totally unacceptable. Next he called Skinner. The phone was answered on the sixth ring. "Hello?" His former supervisor's voice was foggy with sleep. "This is Mulder. I need your help." "Wha --? Mulder?" A pause. "I'm not supposed to be talking to you." Another pause. "Do you know what time it is?" "Scully's missing." He didn't say "again". He didn't have to. "So's her brother Bill." Another pause, very brief. Then: "What can I do?" "I need a civilian air transport priority for Delta Flight 1109, departing from Dulles at 5:30 this morning, with a connection in Atlanta with Delta 423, non-stop to San Diego." A faint rustling sound. "Okay, got it. Anything else?" "I also need to assert federal jurisdiction, with myself as SAC." "Jurisdiction shouldn't be a problem," Skinner replied. "Scully is a federal agent, and her brother's in the Navy, right?" "That's right." Skinner continued, "But the San Diego SAC may have some problems with an outsider --" "Fuck the San Diego office," Mulder said flatly. "If they were doing their jobs, instead of sitting around with their thumbs up their collective asses, maybe this kind of thing wouldn't happen." He was being irrational, and he knew it, but there was no one else to take his anger out on. There was another moment of silence. Finally, Skinner said, "I'll see what I can do, Mulder." He hesitated. "Have you spoken to Kersh?" Kersh. The new A.D. Mulder hadn't even considered calling the man; he didn't really know him, and he certainly didn't trust him. "No." He could almost hear Skinner nodding to himself. "All right. All right, I guess I understand. I'll do my best to expedite things for you; with luck your authority should be waiting for you by the time you arrive in San Diego. Anything else?" "Not for now." "Keep in touch, Mulder. I'll do anything I can to help; you know that." "I know." And he punched the disconnect button savagely. One more call to make. This time the phone was answered promptly, and the voice at the other end sounded as alert as it ever did. "Frohike," Mulder said. "Turn off the tape." After the briefest of hesitations: "Done." "I need some research done, and I need it fast. I need you to get me everything you can find on a missing persons case. The information will be in the files of the San Diego Police Department and wherever the hell the local headquarters of the Navy Shore Patrol is located in that area. The subjects are Bill and Dana Scully." A shocked silence. "Jesus. I'll get right on it." "Whatever you find, send it to me on the net. My private account; not the FBI one. I'm flying out of Dulles at 5:30, and expect to be in San Diego by 12:30 or so Washington time. If you can start feeding me information before then, I can study the files on the plane and hit the ground running as soon as I arrive." He hit disconnect without waiting for a response. Mulder rose from the sofa and moved rapidly to his bedroom. Owing to the nature of his job, he always kept a suitcase packed and ready to go. All he had to do was add a few toilet items, and his Sig Sauer. The entire process took less than ten minutes, leaving him with far too much time to kill before he had to leave for the airport. He considered finding something to eat, but his stomach rebelled at the very idea. He considered pouring himself a drink to calm his nerves, but he was afraid that once he started drinking he wouldn't be able to stop. Finally, he sat down on the sofa again to wait. # # # Dulles International Airport December 26, 5:14 a.m. The airport was crowded, even at five in the morning. Mulder knew he should have expected that, given the impossibility of making a reservation without using government muscle, but he hadn't really thought about it, and the reality of the bright lights, the incessant Christmas music on the overhead speakers, and the jostling, happy crowds of travelers came as something of a shock. For the past five hours he'd been living in a world even darker than the one he usually inhabited, and finding himself suddenly in a bubble of holiday cheer was hard to cope with. At first he had dealt with it by ignoring it, and concentrating on the mundane tasks of procuring his boarding pass, getting his gun past airport security, and making a belated phone call to Tara to let her know he was on his way and when to expect him. But that had taken only so long, and now he was sitting in the waiting area of his assigned gate, trying not to think too much. God, he was tired; he was exhausted. He knew he should have slept; he'd only been asleep for a couple of hours when Tara's phone call came, and the only thing he was certain of was that the day ahead was going to be a long one. But just as his stomach had refused to entertain the idea of food, so his mind had refused to embrace the concept of sleep. He'd alternated sitting on the sofa not watching the television, and pacing restlessly through his apartment. He'd thought about going running as a means of diversion, but shied away from it, not wanting to leave the shelter of his apartment until he absolutely had to. Not wanting to acknowledge that there was a world out there, and that he had to deal with it somehow. <> He had finally gotten past the guilt he used to feel when something happened to her. After Antarctica, it had at last seeped down into his soul that she was there with him because she wanted to be, because she had as much invested in this quest as he did. He had known that with the top of his mind for a long time, but it had really only been lip service; his heart had not been in it. She had known that, and deep down he had known it, and hated himself for not giving her the respect she needed and deserved, but they had seldom spoken of it, because those conversations always ended so badly. But somehow, out there on the ice fields, holding each other as they waited to die and watched an indisputably alien spaceship rising into the sky, the knowledge had finally trickled down to the small, dark place where Fox Mulder really lived. At that moment, as he finally acknowledged in his heart that she was a free and independent adult, he had also realized that the one who had really been imprisoned by his obtuseness had been not his partner, but himself, and that now, finally, he was setting himself free. Somehow they had struggled out of that experience alive, and they had both emerged the stronger for it, as well as infinitely closer. But still they hadn't spoken of it. Both of them had recognized the change, but by its very nature it hadn't seemed necessary to say anything. He had thought for awhile that they might become lovers, but that hadn't happened either, and after awhile that seemed right, too. They were closer than lovers, and Mulder had come to realize that adding sex to the equation would be...wrong, somehow. Not morally wrong, but wrong in the only way that mattered: It would be wrong for them. As he had remarked to her just last month, at the height of another case which neither of them had expected to survive, "We don't need that, Scully. That's not us. That's not real. If we did that, we would not be who we are." And she had agreed. None of this, of course, made it hurt any less, now that she was missing again. But unlike so many occasions in the past, this time it was a clean hurt. Finally they called his flight, and he was able to stop thinking again for awhile. # # # Somewhere over Arizona December 26, 8:59 a.m., Pacific Standard Time The trip from Washington to San Diego was the longest seven hours of Fox Mulder's life. First had been the comparatively short hop to Atlanta; then an excruciating 55 minute wait for the connecting flight. Finally they were in the air, headed west, but still time seemed to drag, and the fact that he was seated next to a young couple bubbling over with love hadn't helped matters at all. As soon as they were airborne he'd opened his laptop and logged onto his ISP, but there was nothing there from Frohike, which meant that there was nothing there of importance. He'd spent the next three hours disciplining himself to only check his email once every quarter hour, which required almost all the self-control he had, and also left him with more then fourteen and a half minutes out of every fifteen with nothing to occupy his mind. Now, finally, there was the message icon blinking in the upper left hand corner. With a sigh of relief Mulder clicked on the icon and waited for the message to appear. Two minutes later he slammed the laptop shut in disgust. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Frohike had been apologetic almost to the point of obsequiousness, but the fact remained that he'd found nothing that Tara hadn't already told Mulder over the phone the night before. The San Diego Police Department's records showed only a routine missing persons investigation: No clues, no evidence, no leads. Dead end. And the Shore Patrol didn't even have that much; from the information available on their intranet, they were barely interested. Thank god he was almost to San Diego, so he could start a real investigation. # # # San Diego International Airport December 26, 9:48 a.m. The San Diego airport was just as crowded and just as overflowing with holiday cheer as Dulles and Atlanta had been. Grimly, Mulder pushed his way through the crowds, his eyes searching for Tara. In the back of his mind he wondered how she would receive him. The last time he'd come to San Diego he had not been at all welcome in Bill Scully's home, and he had left as soon as possible. True, things had thawed a bit between himself and Bill in the last few months, but he had no way of knowing how much of that Bill had shared with Tara. <> he reminded himself. <> But at the very least that indicated a willingness to work with him on their mutual problem, and that was good enough. It wasn't necessary that they like each other, as long as they had a common interest. Not that it really mattered very much one way or the other; Mulder was here to find Scully, and nothing, but nothing, was going to prevent that from happening. Tara's cooperation would make things a little easier, by giving him a base of operations and perhaps an entre to officials at the Shore Patrol, but he didn't imagine she would make much real difference. He found Tara waiting just outside the security checkpoint, hands in her coat pockets, staring off into space. Elbowing his way past an overweight businessman, Mulder walked up and stood in front of her, but she didn't stir. "Tara?" Still nothing. More sharply: "Tara!" She shook her head, and then she was seeing him. "Fox," she said, very faintly. "Tara...are you okay?" Her features firmed up and she shook her head again. "That was a damned stupid question, Fox." He sucked in his breath, then nodded slightly. "Sorry." "That's okay. I guess I was kind of out of it for a minute. Do you have any luggage?" "No," he replied, hefting his carry-on. "I try to travel light." "Then let's get going." A few moments later Tara was popping the trunk on a late model Saturn and stepping aside to watch in silence as Mulder dropped his carry-on into the compartment. Leaning over so that his body would conceal his actions from casual passersby, he removed his Sig Sauer and holster from the bag, withdrew an ammunition clip from the outside zippered pocked, and finally clipped the whole assemblage to the right side of his belt. "Was that supposed to impress me?" He turned to look at Tara, and raised his eyebrows. She was standing a few feet back with her arms folded across her chest and a cold look on her face. "Was what supposed to impress you?" She waved a hand at him. "The whole routine with the gun." Mulder shook his head. "No. I always carry a weapon when I'm on an assignment." She looked at him for just a moment, then some of the tension seemed to go out of her and she nodded and sighed. "Sorry, Fox. It's been a tough couple of days." She smiled briefly, but only with her mouth, and then moved towards the driver's side of the car. "I guess we're even now." "Sure." The drive to her home passed in silence. Mulder sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, trying not to think about Scully, and the most obvious distraction was the woman sitting next to him. He really didn't know Tara Scully at all well. He'd met her only once, when he had come to San Diego the previous Christmas. She hadn't made much of an impression on him then; he'd been focusing all of his attention on his partner, and Bill had seemed to be just as happy to have Mulder keep his distance from Tara in any case. A few days after he'd arrived, she'd gone into labor and had her baby, and that had ended what little contact he'd had with her. The bottom line was that Tara was an enigma to him. He'd tried not to tar her with his negative emotions towards her husband, but past a certain point he couldn't help himself. The fact that he'd finally gotten to know Bill a little better in the last few months had helped, but he still had more than a little residual unease towards her. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't even notice that he'd drifted off to sleep. # # # Residence of Bill and Tara Scully Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego, CA December 26, 4:02 p.m. Someone was shaking his shoulder. "Fox, wake up." He stirred groggily, and pulled the blanket up a little higher. "Fox! Wake up!" A momentary pause, then a rustling noise, and suddenly the room was flooded with light. With a groan, Mulder rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, and tried to remember where he was. He didn't recognize the room, so he must be in the field, working on a case. There'd been a dream...a nightmare. Scully had been taken again -- Scully. He sat bolt upright and squinted at the figure silhouetted against the window. As he watched, the figure moved closer, and then he recognized her. Tara Scully. Shit. It wasn't a dream. But it was a nightmare. He shook his head and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. "How -- how long have I been asleep?" Now she was standing next to the bed. "About six hours. You fell asleep in the car on the way from the airport." He nodded slowly. The last thing he remembered was staring out the car window at the light Saturday morning traffic. He'd been thinking about something....something.... He shook his head in frustration; he just couldn't remember. "I was really out of it," he admitted. "I'd say so. I had a hell of a time getting you into the house. One of the neighbors, Tom Christopher, finally came over and helped me." Her lips quirked in annoyance. "He seemed to think it was a little odd for me to be bringing a strange man into the house when Bill wasn't around. But I told him you're with Dana, and I think he believed me." Mulder stared at her for a moment, then shook his head again. "Great," he muttered. "That's all I need." Tara raised her eyebrows. "Aren't you? I thought --" "No," he replied, cutting her off. "No, we're not." He threw back the blankets and swung his feet out of bed. He was still wearing his slacks and undershirt from the morning, and after a quick glance around the room he spotted his bag sitting on top of the bureau. His weapon, still in its holster, was laying next to it. He padded over and picked up the bag. "Fox?" He turned to look at her. She was still standing by the bed, but now she wore a look of acute embarrassment. "Fox, I'm sorry. I didn't mean --" "It's all right, Tara," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. "People make that mistake all the time." They stood looking at each other for just a moment longer, then she seemed to notice that he was half-dressed and holding his overnight bag. "I'll leave you be, then," she said awkwardly. "Go ahead and change, or whatever, and I'll try to put together some sandwiches or something. I'm sure you must be hungry. I'm starving; I haven't eaten since last night." He nodded. "Okay." She walked over to the door and pulled it open, then paused for just a moment, and turned to look at him over her shoulder. "It's okay, Tara," he said softly. "Really." She nodded once, and turned and left the room. # # # Mulder came downstairs a few minutes later to find Tara in the kitchen, mixing something in a bowl. He felt a little more human, having changed to jeans and a polo shirt after taking a minute to splash some water on his face in the bathroom. "Tuna salad," Tara said in answer to his inquiring gaze. "I hope that's okay. Normally I'd have leftovers coming out of my ears today, but I...I didn't feel much like cooking yesterday." "Sure," he answered. "Tuna salad is fine. Can I do anything to help?" She shook her head. "No. I'm just about done. Why don't you grab a couple of beers, or whatever you'd like, and go on out and sit down. I'll be out in just a moment." Mulder nodded and crossed to the refrigerator, pulling the door open and bending down slightly to examine its contents. A half gallon of milk, still mostly full; orange juice; miscellaneous jars of jelly, salsa and so forth. A couple of jars of partly eaten baby food. And a six pack of Rolling Rock, with one bottle missing. He stood very still, trying to control his breathing, while at the same time cursing himself for his weakness. Dammit, if every single little thing that reminded him of Scully was going to set him off like this, he was going to be no good to anyone. He had to get better control of himself. He had to. For her sake, as well as Bill's. "Fox? Are you okay?" Somehow Tara's question broke the tension he was feeling, and he was able to chuckle. Grabbing two bottles of beer, he shut the refrigerator door and turned to face her, a slight smile on his face. "That was a damned stupid question, Tara," he said, hoping she'd pick up on his amusement. She flushed and looked away. "I -- I'm sorry, Fox. That was thoughtless." She took a breath and looked back at him. "I'm sorry." Mulder shook his head, and took a step towards her. "No, Tara. It's okay. It was funny." She stared at him for just a moment, then looked down into her bowl and resumed mixing. "No it wasn't." Mulder stood looking at her for just a moment, waiting to see if she would add anything. Finally, he shrugged and walked out of the room. # # # 5:14 p.m. The meal passed quickly and in silence, with Mulder and Tara sitting across from each other at a dining room table that seemed far too large. Mulder tried to concentrate on his beer and sandwich, doing his best to ignore the ghosts in the apparently empty chairs. After they'd finished eating they continued to sit quietly for a few minutes, looking at everything except each other. Finally, Mulder broke the silence. "Tara, we have to talk. I have to know what happened. All the details." She nodded reluctantly. "I know. I don't want to, but I know it has to be done." She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Just let me clear the dishes. I'll be right back." A few moments later she was seated across from him again, her expression wary, and perhaps just a little angry. As gently as he could: "Tara, I really am sorry. I know how hard this is, and I know you probably already went over this with the police." "You got that one right," she said flatly. Her voice deepened in an exaggerated mimicry of Joe Friday. "'When was the last time you saw your husband Mrs. Scully? What was he wearing Mrs. Scully? What sort of car was he driving? What color?'" She drew in a deep breath and continued, and now the anger was in her voice as well as on her face. "'Was he having problems at work Mrs. Scully? Was he having problems at home Mrs. Scully? Are you sure it was his sister he left with Mrs. Scully? Can we see his address book Mrs. Scully? Who is this woman listed under the R's Mrs. Scully?'" She slammed her hand down on the table. "Fucking cops! Fucking sons of bitches! Whose side are they on, anyway? They don't know anything about him!!" She blinked angrily, and wiped her forearm across her eyes. Mulder flinched slightly at hearing that sort of language coming from her. He opened his mouth to respond, but she must have seen the expression on his face, because now she turned her anger on him. "What's the matter, Fox? Didn't think I had it in me? You thought I was just some sweet little housewife, and never let a bad word cross my lips? Well you can fucking well think again!" And she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him defiantly. Mulder felt his own anger flare, and he looked down at his hands, clenched tightly together on the table in front of him. He took a deep breath and tried to control his breathing. Scully. Focus on Scully. This was for her, and he had to stay focused; he couldn't afford to lose his temper, as tempting as that might be. Besides, Tara wasn't really angry at him; he was just the most convenient target at the moment. Suddenly he could almost hear Scully's voice in his ear: "Not everything's about you, Mulder." He shuddered. That had been one of the bad times. But that was a long time ago, and it was over. Now Scully was missing, and he had to find her. He had to find her. Failure was not an option. He looked back up at Tara, his features calm and composed. He locked eyes with her, and in measured, deliberate tones he said, "Okay, Tara. Let's take those questions one at a time." She continued to glare at him for just a moment longer; finally her shoulders sagged in acceptance. "Sorry, Fox," she said, very softly. Then she straightened up and looked him in the eye again, and this time he saw determination rather than anger. "Let's get it over with." They were about three quarters of the way through the interview when Mulder realized she was holding something back. He wasn't sure what it was, but from the set of her shoulders and the tone of her voice, he knew that she was hiding something. The very idea that she would try to conceal something infuriated him, but he had conducted too many investigations for it to come as a complete surprise. People often shaded the truth in these situations, at the very least. Unfortunately, this time he was personally involved, and that was making it difficult for him to maintain his own objectivity. "What is it, Tara?" he asked abruptly, a little more roughly than he had intended. She blinked, and shook her head. "What is what?" "What is it that you aren't telling me?" She stared at him for just a moment. Then: "Nothing. There's nothing...." Her voice trailed off, and if Mulder hadn't been sure before, he was now. Again he felt the anger rise in his chest. He needed this information; he needed everything. He knew it was hard on her, but he'd thought she had understood the importance of this. Now it was his turn to slam his hand down on the table, and he glared at her as he did so. "Dammit, Tara, don't lie to me!" The words hung between them in the air for a timeless interval. Finally, she looked back up at him, and once again fury flashed in her eyes. "You son of a bitch!" Her voice was cold. "You bastard! You think you have to know everything? Fine; I'll tell you." She stood up and leaned across the table at him, her hands pressed flat on its hardwood surface. "Bill and I had a fight, okay? A nice little lovers' quarrel. Is that what you wanted to know?" As quickly as it had come, Mulder's own anger was gone, and he nodded slowly. It felt right. He even thought he knew why she hadn't wanted to tell him, and why she hadn't told the police. When he spoke again his voice was very soft. He knew he was taking her on an emotional rollercoaster ride, but he couldn't help himself. He was responding in the only way he knew how. "It was because of the questions about other women, wasn't it?" Again she stared at him, her face an expressionless mask. Finally, she nodded. Mulder continued, "The police asked you those questions, and insinuated that Bill was seeing someone else, and that made you angry, and you didn't want to give them anything that would reinforce that idea. And you were afraid I thought the same thing, because I was asking a lot of the same questions." He stopped and waited. Again she nodded. "Tara, I'm very sorry. I know -- believe me, I KNOW -- how much this is hurting you. Most people think that in this sort of situation the fear and worry over the missing loved one is what causes all the pain, and that is important. But that's only part of it." He stopped and took a breath before continuing. "And the other part of it, in some ways the worst part, is the sense of violation you get from the people who are supposedly trying to help you. They pry into your life, they ask embarrassing questions, they go through your personal papers and other belongings, they draw unpleasant inferences. And you know they have to do those things, you know they have to do a thorough job, but that doesn't make it any less of a violation." He reached across the table and lightly laid one his hands on top of each of hers. "Tara, tell me about the fight. I need to know. It's the only way I know how to do this. I'm sorry." For a moment he thought she was going to lash out at him again, and he braced himself for the onslaught. But then she took a long, shaky breath and sank back down in her chair. And after another moment, she started talking. "It was...it was that same afternoon. Wednesday afternoon, the 23rd. Dana had been here since the previous Saturday, and everything had seemed to be fine." She smiled at the memory. "Dana and Matthew really hit it off. It was so sweet." The smile died as quickly as it had come. "Then on Wednesday afternoon, I walked in on them in Bill's study. They were talking about something, and they both looked pretty grim." She shook her head. "I haven't seen Bill look that way since...since the Gulf War...." Her voice trailed off. Mulder waited a moment to see if she would continue on her own. Then, in the same soft, accepting tone of voice, he said, "Go on, Tara. Tell me. Tell me what happened next." She shrugged restlessly, and her eyes dropped to look at their hands, now twined together on the table top. "It was really nothing. I guess I interrupted something, but I didn't mean to. I just wanted to ask what they wanted for dinner. But then they both looked so tense and worried, and I couldn't help myself, I just blurted it out, and asked Bill what was wrong." "What did he say?" "Not much of anything." She looked back up at him, and now her eyes were large, wounded circles. "He said it was none of my concern. Those were his exact words. And then...and then he pushed me. He actually pushed me out of the study and shut the door." Mulder hesitated, trying to decide how to ask the question which had to be asked. At last he said, "Tara? Remember, I'm trying to help, so don't get mad at me. I have to ask this. Is Bill...abusive?" She shook her head violently. "No. No. Absolutely not. He's never laid a hand on either me or Matthew." She looked Mulder square in the eye. "You have to believe me; I would never stand for that. My...my first boyfriend was like that, and I put up with it for far too long, until the day he actually put me in the hospital. After that I swore that I would never allow a man to do that to me again. And Bill never has." Mulder nodded. "Okay, I believe you. Let's move on. Was there anything more to the fight?" Tara shook her head again. "No, not really. I was waiting until we went to bed, so we could have some privacy when I confronted him about it. So I suppose the fight, as such, hadn't actually happened yet. But I had planned it, and Bill had to know it was coming." "All right. Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what Bill and Scully were talking about?" "No. They were talking about something, and I think it was important, but they both shut up as soon as I came into the room." "And this was in the study?" She nodded. "I presume the police went through the study? Bill's files, papers, that sort of thing?" "Actually, he doesn't have much in the way of files. He keeps everything on the PC; he's a very modern sort of guy." She smiled slightly. "Did the police look at what was on the computer?" She shrugged. "I suppose so. I wasn't there while they were searching. I couldn't bear it." "Did they take anything with them?" She shook her head. "No. No, I'm sure they didn't." Mulder nodded sharply, and stood up. "All right then. Let's go see what we can find." # # # 8:22 p.m. Mulder leaned back in the swivel chair and stared at the computer screen. Nothing there. Nearly three hours of searching, and there was nothing there. Everything was neatly organized, each item labeled and sorted and tucked away in the appropriate directory on Bill Scully's hard drive. And there was nothing there. Nothing there to interest him. Dammit. Tara sat in a straight backed chair that she'd brought from the dining room, but Mulder was barely aware of her presence. Neither of them had spoken a word since leaving the dinner table. There hadn't seemed to be anything to say. Mulder sighed. Time to start on the floppies. Not that there'd be anything on them, either. He opened one of the desk drawers and started rooting around. "What are you looking for, Fox?" He paused for a moment, and turned and looked at her, slightly startled. "Uh, his backups. His floppies. At least, I'm pretty sure they'll be on floppies. He doesn't seem to have a zip drive. Do you know where he keeps them?" "Oh, sure. Bottom left hand drawer." Mulder pulled the drawer open, and saw that it contained a storage case full of floppy disks. He lifted the case out and set it on the desk. Like the files on the hard drive, the storage case was carefully organized, with each disk assigned a slot in one of several categories, and each one labeled and dated in Bill's neat, meticulous handwriting. Correspondence, personal finances, downloads from various newsgroups and mailing lists, freeware, shareware....and then he found it. Maybe. It was a blank disk. No label. Sitting all by itself in the back of the storage case. Mulder glanced quickly down at the still-open drawer where he'd found the case, and noted that it also held two boxes of unused floppies. One of the boxes had been opened, and looked as if it was about half full. So Bill didn't keep his unused disks in the storage case. Mulder tapped the disk against the edge of the desk thoughtfully. This could be innocuous. It could be just another blank disk which for some reason had been put in the storage case instead of being left in the box. It could also be another backup which Bill hadn't gotten around to labeling yet, set aside as a reminder that this still needed doing. It could be any of a number of innocent things, unrelated to Scully and her brother's disappearance. But Mulder didn't believe it for a minute. All of his professional instincts were screaming that this was the key. One way to find out. He slipped the disk into the floppy drive and waited for the machine to read it. His eyes lit up, and he smiled for the first time in hours. Bingo. It was password protected. "Fox? What is it?" Mulder blinked. Once again, he had forgotten about Tara's presence in the room. He turned to look at her. "I'm not sure yet," he replied. "I found it in with the rest of his floppies, but it hasn't got a label, and it seems to be password protected. The hard drive isn't protected, and neither are any of the directories or files on it, so I'm guessing this is something important. With luck, it may be a clue." He paused for a moment, and drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Do you have any idea what the password might be?" She shook her head, and dragged her chair a little closer. "No. I didn't know Bill had started using passwords." Mulder nodded absently, and stroked his chin. Then he went on, talking mostly to himself. "Passwords are supposed to be random character strings, for security reasons, but almost nobody actually does that. Most people use something they can remember -- a word, or a phrase. Something that means something to them. That's how most computer hacks get done -- by guessing what the original user would have chosen as a password." He drummed his fingers on the desktop again, then moved his hands to the keyboard. "What's Bill's date of birth?" "March 1, 1962." Mulder tried typing the date in, using several different formats. None of them worked. "Your birthday?" "August 20, 1965." Still no luck. "Your anniversary?" That one didn't work either. Mulder worked his way through the significant dates he could think of: Matthew's birthday; Maggie Scully's birthday; Charlie's and Dana's and Melissa's birthdays. Graduation dates. Engagement dates. The date of Bill's first command. So maybe he wasn't using a date. First names of family and close friends. Middle names. Last names. The names of favorite pets. Current and former duty stations. Favorite movies and CD's. And on and on and on. Finally, Mulder ran out of ideas, and just sat staring at the screen in frustration. He was so close; so very close. He could feel it. Whatever was on this disk was important. If only he could come up with the right password. It was driving him nuts, knowing that the information he needed might be sitting right in front of him. If only he could find some way to read it! "Lucasta." He swiveled his head and looked at Tara. "What?" "Lucasta," she repeated, an odd look on her face. "It's one of our...our favorite poems. It means something to us. Try it." Mulder turned back to the keyboard, and typed in the word. Paydirt. His eyes rapidly scanned the filenames appearing on the screen. There were an even dozen of them, most of them labeled simply with a date. Towards the bottom of the list, three files caught his eye. One was labeled "Dana". One was labeled "Jiggs". And one was labeled "Mulder". All three had been created on the 21st. Five days ago. Two days before Scully and Bill had disappeared. He double-clicked on the one with his name on it. And then he swore. It was encrypted. And a moment later he discovered that the others were, as well. This time, Tara touched him lightly on the shoulder, and when he turned there were question marks in her eyes. "I don't know, Tara," he said, responding to the question she hadn't asked. "I don't know what's going on, and I can't find out. Not directly, anyway." He waved at the computer screen. "He's encrypted these files, and I'm no computer whiz. Figuring out a password is one thing; breaking any serious encryption is something very different." "Couldn't you just find the software he was using?" Mulder shook his head. "I don't remember seeing anything like that on the hard drive, but even if I found it, it wouldn't do any good, because I have no way of knowing what he was using as a key. And I just don't have the skills to work it out the hard way." He thought about that for a moment. "But I know some people who do." He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched the third speed dial, glancing at his watch as he did so. It would be almost midnight on the east coast, but they wouldn't have gone to bed yet. The phone was answered on the third ring. "This is Mulder," he said, and waited. After a brief pause, Frohike said, "I've turned off the tape; hang on while I put you on the speaker. Langly and Byers are here, too." Another pause. "Okay, go ahead." Mulder briefly explained the situation, concluding, "So I guess I'm up the river without a paddle. I need these files decrypted, and I need it done fast. I'm going to email copies to you, okay?" "Wait a minute, Mulder." It was Langly's voice. "I wouldn't try that, if I were you." "Why not?" "Captain Scully struck me as a thorough sort of guy when he was in Washington last month. If he's taken the trouble to use passwords AND encryption, there's also a chance that he's set some booby traps that would erase the files if anyone tried to copy them. It'd probably be safer if you just sent us the disk through snailmail." "Damn. I hadn't thought of that." Mulder drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Snailmail would take too long. Even by FedEx, there's no way it'd get to you before Monday, at this point. Is there any way you guys could come out here? There may be more than just the one disk, in any case." Again there was silence on the other end, and Mulder could almost see the three men exchanging glances and shrugs. He and Scully weren't the only ones who specialized in non-verbal communication. Finally, Byers spoke. "Sure Mulder. Whatever you need, we're there for you. And for Scully. You know that. We'll catch the first flight out of Dulles in the morning." "You need any help with travel priorities?" Mulder asked, and then realized he was being an idiot. Langly again, laughing: "Don't worry about it. I think I can manage three plane tickets. You want me to charge them to your Amex, or to Captain Scully's?" He laughed again. "Or maybe I'll charge them to that new A.D. of yours, Kersh." Mulder chuckled. "That would be fitting. He owes Scully a couple of grand. Just cover your tracks, guys. See you in the morning." And he hit the disconnect. # # # 11:43 p.m. Mulder sat on the sofa, staring at the unlit Christmas tree. A fire was laid in the hearth, but he hadn't bothered to light it. He'd spent the rest of the evening going through the other floppy disks in the storage container, and for the sake of thoroughness had even checked the blanks in the opened box he had found. As he'd expected, there had been nothing of any interest. Nothing except that one, unmarked disk, now resting in his pants pocket. In his mind's eye, he could still see the filenames, floating in front of him: 981130. 981203. 981204. And on and on. And finally: Dana. Jiggs. Mulder. They floated there, tantalizing him, just barely out of his reach. If only he could move a little bit closer, just a little bit -- "Fox?" Mulder jumped at the sound of Tara's voice, and turned his head to see her standing at the foot of the stairs. "Tara," he said. "I thought you'd gone to bed." "I had." She stood silently for a moment, then walked slowly over to the sofa and stood in front of him. She was dressed for bed, the hem of a sensible flannel nightgown peeking out from beneath a blue quilted floor-length robe. "But I couldn't sleep." He nodded slightly, and waited for her to continue. "Fox, I wanted to...to apologize." He opened his mouth to speak, but she rushed on, cutting him off. "I've been a perfect bitch today, and I'm sorry. You don't deserve it. I know you're doing the best you can, and I really appreciate it." She paused for a moment. "May I sit down?" Mulder smiled. "Sure. But only because it's your sofa." She smiled back, and for the first time in his memory there was real warmth in it. She sat on the sofa, a foot or so away from him, then turned to face him again. "I really am sorry, Fox," she said. "And I really, truly appreciate what you're doing." "I'm not doing it for you, Tara," he reminded her. "Or at least, not JUST for you." She nodded. "I know. I really do know. I know it's not about me, and I know it's not even about Bill. It's about Dana." She reached out and gently touched the place over his heart, then drew her hand back and folded it with the other one in her lap. "I understand." "Tara, I told you," he said gently. "It's not like that." Again she nodded. "I know it's not. That's not what I meant. Two people can love each other very much, even if it isn't...physical." She blushed slightly. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be stupid, or embarrassing. I'm just trying to tell you that I understand." "What do you understand, Tara?" "I understand that this is just as hard for you as it is for me. Maybe it's even harder for you, in some ways. At least with me, I'm allowed to be upset and demonstrative, both because I'm a woman, and because my relationship with Bill fits into what people expect. But you're a man, and your relationship with Dana..." She trailed off for a minute, and shrugged. "It's different, that's all. Most people just don't understand it." He considered her words for a moment. Maybe she really did understand, at least a little. It would be such a relief to find someone who did. Sometimes he felt very alone, as if no one would ever really understand the way he felt about Scully, what she meant to him. Hesitantly, he said, "Have you read the Symposium?" Tara raised her eyebrows slightly. "You mean Plato?" He nodded, and she smiled. "Yes. And I was thinking about it just tonight, while I was lying in bed. It's why I finally came back downstairs." She closed her eyes and quoted. "'For you may say generally that all desire of good and happiness is only the great and subtle power of love; but they who are drawn towards him by any other path, whether the path of money-making or gymnastics or philosophy, are not called lovers -- the name of the whole is appropriated to those whose affection takes one form only -- they alone are said to love, or to be lovers.'" Mulder smiled again. "I've always liked that passage." She nodded, a serious expression on her face. "I thought you might." She held his eyes for just a moment, then stood up from the sofa and stretched. "Well, it's been a long day, and I haven't really had much sleep, and tomorrow Matthew comes home from my mother's house. I've got to get some rest." She hesitated just a moment, then bent down and kissed Mulder gently on the cheek. "Good night, Fox." Mulder watched as she walked away, turning his head to follow her progress towards the stairs. As she put her foot on the first riser, he said, "Tara?" She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. "Yes, Fox?" "I've never liked my first name. My friends all call me Mulder. Do you mind?" The smile he got back this time was radiant. "Of course not. Good night, Mulder." And then she went on upstairs to bed. # # # ....Fox sits cross-legged on the floor, focusing all of his attention on the Stratego board. There has to be an answer, and he knows that if just thinks about it long enough, he will find it. He absolutely, positively isn't going to let her win this one. He just has to concentrate...the answer is here.... ....And then he has it. With a smile of triumph, he reaches out and moves one of his pieces, tapping it against one of hers so that it falls over, face down.... ....And she laughs, and claps her hands together. Fox looks up in astonishment as his opponent rocks back and forth in delight, her red hair swirling around her head and mischief dancing in her bright blue eyes. As she sees the look of puzzlement on his face, her laughter only increases, and she says, "It's a bomb, Mulder! You hit a bomb!" She throws her arms in the air and shouts, "Boom!".... ....And he looks down at the board in confusion, and feels his stomach sinking. A bomb? It can't be a bomb! He has it all worked out; he knows where her bombs are, and that can't be a bomb. But if it IS a bomb, if he HAS made a mistake, then he has lost. Again.... ....And then she flips her piece over to reveal that it is only a scout after all, and she leans across the board and puts her arms around his neck and she whispers in his ear, "I had you big time!".... ....And then the room is flooded with an intense, white light. Fox is paralyzed; he can't move, he can barely breathe. She seems unable to move, as well, and as he watches in horror her body lifts off the floor and floats towards the window. He tries desperately to break free of whatever force is holding him. He has to get loose, he has to save her! But even as he struggles, he knows that he will fail, and inside his head he is screaming her name, over and over and over.... ....And then all he can hear is her voice on the answering machine: "Mulder! I need your help! Mulder! I need your help! MulderIneedyourhelpMulderIneedyourhelpMulderMulderMulder --" "Mulder, wake up. Mulder, please wake up -- you're having a nightmare. Mulder?" Slowly his eyes opened, and he found himself staring up at Tara Scully's face. He blinked and shook his head; already the details of the dream were fading from his consciousness. There had been something about Samantha, except that she was also Scully...he couldn't quite grasp it... It was gone. "Mulder? Are you awake now?" He nodded slightly. "I think so." He realized that he was lying on the sofa, had apparently fallen asleep there, and Tara was kneeling in front of him, bent over him, peering down at his face, concern etched on her features. "What...what happened?" "You had a nightmare," she said. "You were calling to Dana." She smiled slightly. "Actually, you were calling to 'Scully', but that means Dana, right?" He nodded again. Very softly: "Sorry if I woke you." "That's okay," she replied. "It happens." After the briefest of hesitations, she said, "Do you remember what you were dreaming about?" He shook his head. "No. No, it's completely gone." He struggled into a sitting position, and stretched to get the kinks out of his joints. "Sorry," he repeated. Tara stood up and offered him her hand, pulling him from the sofa. "We should get you tucked into a proper bed; you'll sleep better." "I'm not sure I can sleep," Mulder admitted. He felt embarrassed at having to admit to weakness in front of her, but he also felt he owed her an explanation for having disturbed her sleep. "I, uh, I get these nightmares, you see. Most of the time I can't remember what they were about, but they always wake me up." Hesitantly, he looked at her face, and was relieved to see nothing but understanding and compassion there. "I haven't had one in awhile." Not since Antarctica. Tara nodded in sympathy. "I'm so sorry, Mulder. Would you like some herbal tea? Maybe that would help settle you down." He shook his head. "No. That doesn't work for me; I've tried it." He smiled weakly. "Believe me, I've tried most remedies at one time or another." And there was only one thing that really worked for him, only one thing that would allow him to get back to sleep -- but she was missing. Tara seemed to read his thoughts. "I understand." She took his hand again and squeezed it briefly. "We'll find them, Mulder. We'll find them. I promise." # # # Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego, CA December 27, 12:01 p.m. "We'll find them, Mulder. We'll find them. I promise." The words seemed to echo in Mulder's mind as he moved wearily to the next house. The next front door, identical to all the others on this block. The next Navy wife, with 2.3 children, a dog and half a dozen tropical fish. The next bland, colorless woman who had no information that would be of any use to him. No information at all. "We'll find them, Mulder. We'll find them. I promise." He paused for a moment in front of the next house and considered the matter. How could Tara possibly know a thing like that? How could she say such a thing? How could she even think it? Scully would have known better; Scully would never say that to him. Of all the things Scully had done for him over the years, perhaps the most important was that she had never promised him that they would find Samantha. Not once; not even after he'd killed John Roche, when it would have seemed so easy and natural -- almost necessary -- to try to offer him some form of reassurance. Scully had never lied to him. Not about that. "We'll find them, Mulder. We'll find them. I promise." Tara hadn't meant to be lying; in his heart he knew that. She had been trying to help, trying to calm him in the only way she knew how. And he had allowed her to think that she had succeeded; he had allowed her to lead him upstairs to the guest room and tuck him into bed, and he had obediently closed his eyes and lay quietly until she finally slipped out of the room and returned to her own bed. But he had not slept. "We'll find them, Mulder. We'll find them. I promise." Mulder shook his head. Words. Only words. He sighed, and was about to start up the front walk to the house in front of him when he heard a vehicle pulling up behind him. Turning, he saw without surprise that it was the Shore Patrol. He'd been wondering how long it would take them to show up. A moment later he was facing a short, stocky brown-haired woman in her early 30s, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander. Her hair was either cut short or done up in a bun under her uniform hat; Mulder couldn't tell for sure. In one hand she held a clipboard; the other hand rested lightly on the baton strapped to her belt, and her body language radiated confidence and authority. "May I please see some identification, sir?" Mulder flipped his badge at her, and replied, "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. I'm a guest this weekend of Bill and Tara Scully." The woman briefly consulted her clipboard and nodded. "All right; I have you on my list." She looked back up at him. "Agent Mulder, as you might guess we've had some phone calls about you this morning. I understand that you've been asking questions about Captain Scully and his sister. May I ask what your interest is in this matter?" "Dana Scully is my partner." The lieutenant commander nodded again, as if she already knew that, and stood looking at him for a moment seeming to study his face. Finally, she sighed. "Agent Mulder, I don't wish to be difficult, and I appreciate the situation you're in. But you don't look like you've just fallen off the turnip truck, and I'm sure you know that you cannot conduct an investigation on this base without permission from our office." Mulder nodded in resignation. "I know. I should have checked in with you yesterday. I'm sorry." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "God forbid I should offend the gods of the bureaucracy." She actually smiled at that. "Hey, we both know how the game is played." The smile vanished. "But for the moment I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to cease and desist. Tomorrow morning you can come in and talk to Captain Talbot; I'm sure he'll find a way to work things out for you. But until then...." Her voice trailed off. Mulder nodded again, and for just a moment he looked back at the house he'd been about to approach. He knew in his heart that there was nothing there for him. Finally he turned back to face her. "That's okay, Commander. I was done here anyway." And he turned and walked away, back towards Tara's house. # # # . Residence of Bill and Tara Scully 12:32 p.m. The Lone Gunmen were waiting for him when he got back. "Frohike," Mulder said, amused in spite of himself. "You look...charming." The little computer geek was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a frilly, feminine looking apron with "Navy Mom" embroidered on it in hot pink. "Why haven't I ever seen this side of you before?" Frohike snorted. "Laugh it up, G-man," he replied, humor glinting in his eyes. "SOMEBODY has to cook lunch, and Mrs. Scully had to go pick up her kid. Come on and keep me company while I finish up." Mulder hesitated. "Are Langly and Byers..." He let his voice trail off. "They're in the study, working," Frohike replied. "There's not much I can contribute right now, so I've been relegated to K.P." He stood looking at Mulder for a moment; when the agent didn't move, he added, very softly, "Come on, Mulder. There's nothing you can do right now, either." A short while later Mulder was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as Frohike poured a little more beer into the bubbling cheese mixture on the stove. "Welsh rarebit, Frohike?" Mulder asked. "I had no idea. I thought frozen pizzas and carryout were the extent of your culinary talents." The little man smirked slightly. "How often do I get access to a real kitchen?" he asked. "Certainly not at YOUR place. But I'll have you know that I was the pride and joy of Mrs. Johnson's eighth grade home ec class at Chester Arthur Junior High." "You took home ec?" Frohike looked at him briefly and grinned. "Sure. It was the only way to get out of taking shop, and Mr. Gonshorowski certainly had nothing he could teach ME. Besides, I was the only guy in a class with 20 girls." He looked back down at the pan. "Be nice to me, Mulder, and sometime I'll make you my famous crepes suzette." The two men fell silent for a moment. There was an awkwardness between them, an uneasiness which wasn't normally there, and after a minute Mulder realized what was causing it. "It's okay, Frohike," he said softly. The little man didn't look up, but kept stirring the cheese sauce. After another short silence, he shook his head. "No it's not," he said flatly, and finally turned to look Mulder in the eye. "I let you down. You were counting on me to get you the information you needed, and I let you down. I let HER down." Mulder took a step forward, and laid a hand on Frohike's shoulder. "You didn't let her down, Frohike. You got me exactly what I asked for. It's not your fault if there wasn't anything there to find." Frohike stared at him for another pair of minutes, and Mulder was shocked to see unshed tears glistening in the little man's eyes. Finally, Frohike said, "You know, don't you, that I love her as much as you do." It wasn't really a question. Mulder nodded. Very softly: "Yeah. Yeah, I know that. And so does she." "Are we gonna find her?" Mulder hesitated, remembering how he himself had reacted to Tara's assurances after his nightmare. Finally he just said, "We're going to do the very best we can." "I hope to god it's enough," the little man replied. "So do I, Frohike. So do I." # # # 12:51 p.m. "Is that really a Mercedes you guys have parked in the driveway?" Mulder asked as he slid into his seat at the dining room table. The three Gunmen were already seated and working on their portions of the welsh rarebit. "I suppose I knew it was possible to rent a Mercedes, but I never thought I'd see it done." He cut off a piece of toast smothered in cheese sauce and popped it into his mouth. Raising his eyebrows in surprise as he chewed and swallowed, he looked over at Frohike. "You know, this is actually pretty good." Frohike smirked. "It'd be better if Captain Scully had anything other than Rolling Rock in his fridge. I assume that's YOUR influence." And he rolled his eyes. Langly picked up the conversation. "Yeah, it's a Mercedes. I like to travel in style." There was a gleam of malice in his eye. "Besides, Kersh's Amex isn't even close to its credit limit. Yet." And he took another bite of rarebit. Mulder snickered. "I don't think I even want to know about this." He took another bite and shook his head. "This really is good." He wiggled his eyebrows at Frohike. "Sure you don't want to settle down and raise a passle of kids?" Frohike snorted, and Mulder turned his attention back to Langly and Byers. "So have you got anything yet?" Byers shook his head. "Not much. And what little we do know is bad." He glanced at Langly, then back at Mulder. "It looks like Captain Scully was using DES encryption, which is no big surprise, since he works for the Navy. And while DES is far from being as secure as the NSA claims it is, it's still going to take awhile to crack." "How long?" Mulder asked. Byers shrugged. "It's hard to say for sure. With the right specialized equipment, we could probably do it in a few hours, but with what we were able to bring with us it's probably going to take a couple of days." "Two days," Mulder repeated. He put down his fork and stared down at his plate. Somehow he'd been sure that his friends would be able to wave a magic wand and solve all his problems. Idiot. That only happened in the movies. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to look at Byers again. "Well, do the best you can." Langly cleared his throat. "Uh, Mulder, I know you've probably already done all the easy stuff, but --" "Yeah," Mulder replied. "Tara and I spent a good part of yesterday evening going through birthdays, nicknames, and all that crap. Came up empty, except for the filenames." Langly glanced at Byers and Frohike, then looked back at Mulder. "Actually, it was the filenames I was thinking about. Has it occurred to you to call Colonel Casey and ask him if he knows anything about this? After all, his name is on one of those files." Mulder stared at the blond man in stunned disbelief. Call Jiggs Casey? Why in the hell hadn't that occurred to him sooner? It was so blindingly obvious. Was he really so far gone in rage and self-pity that he could overlook something that elementary? His thoughts flashed back briefly to the month before. He'd met Casey briefly at the climax of the last investigation he and Bill had worked on together. The colonel was an old friend of Bill Scully's, and an aide to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Casey's personal intervention at a crucial moment had helped to break the back of a military conspiracy to overthrow the government, and it made perfect sense that Bill might turn to the tough-minded Marine in a crisis. Just as he had turned to Dana. And just as he had apparently considered, at least, turning to Mulder. "Dammit!" Mulder jumped from his chair and strode rapidly to Bill Scully's study and started going through desk drawers. He found the address book on the third try, and in another moment he was lifting the phone and preparing to dial. "Wait a minute, Mulder!" He looked up in surprise to see Langly moving rapidly forward. The blond man took the phone from Mulder's hand and replaced it on the cradle. "The other thing I didn't get a chance to tell you is that the phones in this house are tapped. I discovered it during a routine sweep while you were out, earlier." Mulder nodded, and reached in his pocket for his cell phone. "At this point," he said, "nothing can surprise me." In another moment, he found out he was wrong. # # # Shore Patrol HQ, Miramar Naval Air Station December 28, 9:21 a.m. Jiggs Casey was dead. The shock still reverberated through Mulder's system, nearly 24 hours later. To have had his first real lead dangled in front of him, only to be snatched away moments later...it had been unbearable. Mulder had felt himself slipping into a deep depression, into a darker place than any he had inhabited since Antarctica, and for the rest of Sunday he had been barely able to function, let alone think coherently. *God, don't let Scully be dead. Please God, let her be alive. Let me find her.* But Jiggs Casey was dead, along with his wife. Dead in a house fire, apparently caused by faulty wiring in their Christmas lights. Dead in a house fire that started on the afternoon of December 23rd. Dead in a fire that started almost to the minute as Scully and her brother had pulled out of the driveway and vanished. It was a horrible, ghastly coincidence. Mulder didn't believe it for a minute. *God, don't let Scully be dead. Please God, let her be alive. Let me find her.* That had been his mantra the rest of the day, it had been all he could think of. The darkness had settled around him, enveloping him and cuddling him like the old friend that it was. He had sat on Tara's sofa, staring at nothing at all, not even allowing himself the comfort of curling up into a ball. He had been vaguely aware of the Gunmen moving about the house, talking quietly to each other, and later he had noticed a woman's voice, and Mulder had been forced to rouse himself just enough to confirm that it was not Scully before slipping back into his fugue. *God, don't let Scully be dead. Please God, let her be alive. Let me find her.* Eventually the house had grown quiet, and Mulder had known that he was alone at last, and finally it was safe to cry. But he had not been able to. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder blinked and emerged from his reverie. That had been dangerous, he realized. He was very fragile emotionally, and it wouldn't take much to send him right back into the fugue of the night before. He had to concentrate on the outside world; he had to concentrate on doing his job. He had to find Scully. He rose from the bench he'd been sitting on and stepped forward to meet the tall, grey- haired man in the uniform of a Navy captain who had called his name. "I'm Robert Talbot," the man said. "I understand you wanted to see me?" "That's correct, Captain Talbot." He flipped his badge at the man, then reached out and shook his hand. A moment later the two men were seated in Talbot's office. Talbot sat looking at Mulder for a moment, his fingers steepled under this chin, and Mulder had a sudden premonition that the interview was not going to go well. Finally: "Agent Mulder, I'll come straight to the point. While I am not happy that you launched into this investigation without getting clearance from my office, I do understand your situation. I'm willing to let that go by; water under the bridge, and so forth." And he stopped and waited. Mulder nodded. "However," the officer continued, "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to permit you to resume your investigation. At least, not at this time." "Why not?" Mulder spoke sharply, rapidly. He felt his emotions boiling up in his chest. He had to make Talbot understand; he had to get his cooperation. "I have a legitimate interest; this is my partner and her brother we're talking about. And I've been granted full authority by the Bureau to pursue the matter. Naturally, I'll be happy to cooperate with your office in any way that's necessary --" "Agent Mulder." The other man was holding up his hand, forestalling the flood of words. He compressed his lips, and his face took on the expression of a man about to deliver bad news which was not of his devising. "I'm afraid your authority to investigate this case has been terminated." Mulder felt his eyes widen in shock. "Terminated? By who?" "By your headquarters in Washington. I received a call this morning from an Assistant Director Kersh informing me of this decision. It was confirmed by fax just before you arrived." Pause. "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder." Mulder sat in stunned silence and tried to comprehend what Talbot had just said, but it just refused to sink in. He could not conceive that anyone would deny him what he needed to find Scully. This wasn't happening; it couldn't be happening. It was a dream, all a dream. A nightmare. "Agent Mulder?" He snapped back to a semblance of attentiveness and found himself rising to his feet. "Thank you for seeing me, Captain. I'm sorry for taking so much of your time." "Agent Mulder --" The door swung shut behind him, shutting off the other man's words. # # # Fred's HandiMart, San Diego, CA December 29, 4:23 p.m. "I'm sorry," the clerk said, shaking her head. "I haven't seen either one of them." "You're sure?" Mulder replied, still holding the two photographs out for her inspection. "It would have been the evening of the 23rd, around seven or perhaps a little later. They were looking for eggnog." The clerk continued shaking her head. "No. No I definitely didn't see them. And I was the only one working that night. Sorry." And she turned to the next customer. Mulder turned and walked out of the store. In the past 36 hours he had canvassed every grocery and convenience store in a two mile radius of the Scully residence, and found nothing. Not that this was surprising; the San Diego Police had already covered the same territory, and also came up empty. But Mulder had no other leads, nothing to go on, and he couldn't stand just sitting in Tara's living room waiting for something to break. He had to stay active, or the fugue he'd experience on Sunday night would return. Kersh had called three times in the past day and a half, each call more abusive than the one before. On the last occasion, two hours before, the Assistant Director had threatened to send someone out from the San Diego field office to claim Mulder's badge and gun. Mulder had turned his cell phone off after that call, and then switched it back on thirty second later. Scully might call that number; she might call to tell him she was okay, and on her way home. Or she might call to ask for his help. She might. She might. He wouldn't let himself think about the third possible call he might receive about Scully -- the one that some stranger would have to place. He slid into his rental car and picked up the list of stores he'd left laying on the passenger seat. Fred's HandiMart had been the last place on the list; now he had nowhere else to go. No one else to interview. No more leads to follow up on. Nothing to do but wait. He sat in the car for several minutes, staring out through the windshield and off into the distance. She was out there somewhere. He could feel it. Somewhere.... somewhere... somewhere in this city. He almost felt he could hear her heartbeat. It was calling to him, beseeching him, asking him to come to her. If only he could listen just a little more carefully.... He shook his head in exasperation. This wasn't getting him anywhere, anymore than interviewing Bill and Tara's neighbors had, anymore than canvassing grocery stores had. He had to keep himself focused on the task; he had to follow the careful, methodical steps he'd been taught to use so many years ago in Quantico. He had to suppress his natural tendency to go haring off on a hunch, and take the cool, rational scientific approach. He had to be Scully. Not Mulder; Scully. Mulder alone was only half a person. Only Scully was whole; only Scully could find the truth. Only Scully. He started the car and threw it into gear, and headed back to Tara's house. # # # Residence of Bill and Tara Scully December 29, 5:15 p.m. Mulder pulled into the driveway next to the Gunmen's Mercedes and switched off the engine. He sat for just a moment, his hands still resting on the steering wheel. He hadn't slept much in the past 48 hours, and he was tired; bone tired. The need to cover the grocery stores was all that had been keeping him going, and now that the interviews were over, with nothing to show for them, he really starting to feel the exhaustion. He knew he would have to sleep soon, or he would be no good to anyone. Like he was any good to anyone now. He pulled the key from the ignition and climbed wearily from the car, and a moment later he was standing in Tara's living room, staring at the sofa. What little sleep he had got had been on that sofa, and now it seemed to be reaching out to him, calling his name and inviting him to stretch out and let his cares disappear. It was so tempting just to let it all go for a few hours. Just stretch out, let the tired muscles relax, and.... "Mulder?" He looked around and saw Tara standing in the door to the kitchen, holding Matthew in her arms. He nodded slightly in acknowledgement of their presence; he was suddenly too tired for any but the most necessary speech. "How'd it go? Did you find anything?" He could tell from her tone of voice that she already knew the answer, but still he shook his head. "No." She nodded slightly, and just stood looking at him for a minute. Then: "You got a letter this afternoon." Mulder felt his eyebrows raise slightly. "A letter?" "Yeah." She nodded towards the sofa. "I put it on the coffee table." Again she feel silent, and the two stood looking at each other for a moment. Finally she simply turned and walked back out of the room. He watched her go, and continued looking at the empty doorway for another moment, before finally turning and walking over to the sofa, sitting down heavily. The letter was just where Tara had said it was, lying on the coffee table next to the copy of the Symposium which he had found in Bill and Tara's library the night before. He reached out and picked up the envelope. His name was typed on the front, and it was addressed in care of Tara Scully, Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego. It was postmarked the previous day. For a minute he pondered the significance -- if any -- of the fact that it was addressed to him in care of Tara rather than in care of Bill, but the meaning of that eluded him. He was tired; so tired. He really needed to sleep before his brain stopped functioning entirely. But first he had to see what was in the envelope. He slit the flap open with his thumbnail, and gently shook it until the contents slid out onto his lap. Mulder froze. It was picture; a Polaroid snapshot, of Scully and her brother. They were sitting on a sofa, side by side, and Scully was holding a copy of yesterday's newspaper, angled so that the headline was visible. Something about Iraq, but that wasn't important; what mattered was that she was alive -- or had been 24 hours or so ago. Or at least, someone wanted him to think that, he reminded himself. It would be no big trick to fake such a picture; hell, he himself might even be able to manage it, and it would be no feat at all for the Lone Gunmen. So the photo itself proved nothing, and he knew that whoever had sent it to him also knew that. They were playing with his uncertainty; they wanted him to have hope, but then to doubt his own hope. They wanted him to doubt himself. And it was working. With a groan of despair, Mulder closed his eyes. # # # ....Fox bursts from the house, his father's gun in his hand. The El Camino is idling in the driveway, and against the glare of the headlights Fox can see the shadowy form of the man struggling to force her into the car. Fox races forward, brandishing the gun, but even as he crosses the few remaining feet the car door slams shut and the El Camino is pulling away.... ....And then Fox is running through the woods, gun in one hand and flashlight in the other. The El Camino is somewhere up ahead, he knows it is, and if he can just run fast enough he can catch them, he can still save her.... ....And a shadowy form looms up in the darkness, it is a man, and Fox grabs his shoulder and spins him around, then falls back in shocked disbelief: It is his father.... ....And his father shakes his head sadly, and says, "I'm sorry, Fox; I'm truly sorry. But a choice had to be made, and it's all for the greater good. Someday, you'll understand." A shot rings out, and Fox's father crumples to the ground without another word, and Fox looks down in horror at the curl of smoke rising from the barrel of the gun he still holds tightly in his hand.... ....And Fox is running through the woods again, but his flashlight is gone, his gun is gone, and now he isn't trying to catch the El Camino, he's running away. Something is chasing him, something dark and powerful and dangerous, and his arms and legs are pumping and he's drawing his breath in short, sharp gasps.... ....And he trips over a tree root and falls to the ground. For a moment he lies there, stunned, unable to move, barely able to breathe. The thing which has been chasing him is coming closer, closer; he can hear it moving through the brush. He struggles to a sitting position and leans back against a tree, still trying to catch his breath, and he stares through the darkness, trying to make out what it is that is pursuing him.... ....And she is crouching before him, her form barely discernible behind the glare of her flashlight, and she's taking him gently by the shoulders and forcing him to lie down, while speaking quietly to him and telling him he needs to rest. "Come on, Mulder; work with me here. You haven't slept in two days." Her voice is soft and lilting, music to his ears, and he allows her to lie him down on the sofa, and her hands briefly and gently caress his forehead.... Mulder instinctively reached out and embraced her, drawing her down into his arms, holding her tightly against him, and for a moment he just held her there, gently rocking her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It was dark in the room, the only light coming from the partially open door to Bill's study. Mulder wanted to speak to her, he wanted to say something, but if he did so it would break the spell, and so he just continued to hold her and rock her. Finally he heard her voice, muffled against his shirt. "Mulder? Mulder, I can barely breathe....let me go." He hastily released her and scooted away from her and into a sitting position as she straightened up and climbed back to her feet. "S-sorry, Tara," he mumbled, not able to meet her eye. He heard her chuckle in the darkness. "It's okay. When you're a woman in a man's world you get used to being grabbed from time to time." Her voice changed, becoming softer, more serious. "I'm sorry I woke you; I was just trying to help you get more comfortable." He shook his head, still not looking at her. "It's okay. I think I was having another nightmare." But even as he thought about it, the fragments of the dream were evaporating, drifting away, and in another few seconds they were gone. "I'm sorry." Pause. "I saw that picture you were holding. Of Bill and Dana." Automatically, he looked down into his lap, but the picture was gone. He turned his eyes to the coffee table, then bent over to look down on the floor, but it wasn't there, either. Tara's voice again. "I showed it to your friends. The blond one -- Langly. He seemed to think they might be able to learn something from it. They're working with it now." Mulder nodded, and finally he was able to look up at her. "Have they made any progress with those encrypted files?" She shrugged. "I don't know. They didn't say anything about it, so I suppose not." At that moment he heard Byers' voice from the direction of the study. "Mulder? I think we've got something for you." Thirty seconds later Mulder, Tara and the three Lone Gunmen were clustered around Bill's PC, looking at a blowup of the photograph Mulder had received. Langly was speaking. "We scanned the picture into this sorry excuse for a computer," he was saying, "and went to work on analyzing the image. I ran the usual tests -- checked for odd shadows, looked for reflections, and for pixels that didn't belong...all the regular stuff. The short version is that I am 95 percent certain that this is a natural scene; the photograph has NOT been tampered with." Mulder let out his breath. "Thank god. Then they're alive. Or they were." He glanced at Tara, standing next to him, but her expression was giving nothing away. "That's the way I've got it figured, " Langly said. "Someone must be trying to send you a message, and the most obvious message is 'back off'." Mulder nodded. He'd already worked that out. "However," Langly continued, "it turns out that the bad guys aren't the only ones sending a message in this picture." "What do you mean?" Mulder asked. Frohike picked up the story. "What he means," the little man said, "is that Agent Scully and her brother are two cool cookies. They can't have had much warning that this picture was going to be taken, but they still worked out a way to send you a message." Mulder shook his head. "What message? I don't see anything." He leaned closer to the computer screen, trying to discern...something. But there just wasn't anything there. "That's because you were never in the Navy," Frohike said. "And hard as it may be to believe, I was." His short, stubby little finger reached out and touched the image on the computer screen. "Look at the position their arms are in." Mulder frowned and looked. The positioning did seem a little odd: Bill's chin was balanced on the fingertips of his right hand, the elbow resting casually in his lap, while his left hand hung straight down at his side, fingers reaching towards the floor. Scully, sitting next to him, had her left hand stretched out along the back of the sofa they were sitting on, while her right hand, the one holding the newspaper, hung down at her side, next to Bill's left. "Okay," Mulder said finally. "Okay, so it does look a little odd." He paused, trying to figure out what he was supposed to be seeing, but it just wasn't coming to him. Finally he shook his head again. "But I just don't get it. What am I missing?" "It's semaphore," Tara said suddenly. Mulder turned to look at her in surprise, and saw her glancing at Frohike. "Isn't it?" The little computer geek nodded smugly. "Give the lady a cigar," he said. Again he pointed at the screen. "No possible doubt once you know what to look for. It has to be deliberate; no one would sit that way by accident." His finger touched the image of Bill Scully. "'D'. Or possibly '4'." His finger moved to Scully. "And this one is 'F', or '6'." # # # December 29, 11:42 p.m. Mulder sat on the sofa in Tara's living room once again, trying to think. He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights; his mind worked better in the dark, anyway. He kept his body still and calm, his breathing slow and even, and tried the various permutations in his head, trying to make sense of the message. DF. D4. D6. F4. F6. 46. He and Tara and the Gunmen had spent forty minutes kicking it around, brainstorming and trying to make sense of it, but they'd gotten nowhere. Finally Matthew had cried, and Tara had gone to take care of him, and somehow Mulder had wound up by himself on the sofa again. Whatever the message was, Scully and her brother had expected him, or possibly Tara, to be able to work it out. There was something there; something significant. Something they were trying to tell him. But what? What? They'd tried map coordinates, and they'd tried the assumption that the figures were in hexadecimal notation and converted them to digital and then to binary, but still they'd found nothing familiar. Nothing. Nothing. He shook his head in frustration. This was getting him nowhere. His mind was running in circles, plowing over the same ground, over and over, and it was making him crazy. He was still pretty tired; he'd only slept for about five hours, and while that had taken the edge off his exhaustion, he was still way behind in that department. Maybe if he could just stretch out and shut his eyes for a few minutes, and try to blank his mind, something would come to him. Mulder was jolted from his thoughts by a knock on the front door. It was soft and hesitant, as if the caller wanted to avoid waking anyone who might be sleeping. But who the hell could it be at this time of night? Even as the question ran through Mulder's mind, the knock was repeated, somewhat more insistently. He climbed to his feet and crossed over to the door, switching on the lights as he went. He paused for just a moment, unsure of what he might face when he pulled the door open, then shrugged. How much worse could things really get? He unfastened the safety chain, then turned the knob and opened the door, and he felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. What was SHE doing here? After a moment of silence, she said, "Aren't you going to invite me in, Fox?" Mulder blinked, and stepped back out of the way to allow her to pass. He pushed the door shut and reset the chain before turning to face her. "Diana," he said. "It would be an understatement to say that this is a surprise." She nodded. "I know. And I wish it could be a pleasant surprise, but unfortunately it's not." "Mulder?" Mulder glanced away from Diana and saw Tara standing at the foot of the stairs, a puzzled look on her face. "Tara," he said. "We seem to have a surprise visitor. This is Special Agent Diana Fowley; she's an old...friend of mine. Diana, this is Tara Scully, Dana's sister-in-law." For a moment the two women regarded each other from across the room in silence, neither making a move towards the other. Finally, Diana took the initiative. "Mrs. Scully," she said. "I'm so sorry about...about what's happened. I want you to know that the Bureau is doing everything it can to find your husband. And Agent Scully, of course, as well," she added, turning back to face Mulder again. Tara nodded, remaining silent, and still she made no move towards the other woman. Mulder could see that she was thinking about something, something complex and not entirely pleasant, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was. He shrugged and turned back to Diana. "Okay, Diana," he said. "What are you here for? And make it march; I've got a case I'm working on, and I don't have a lot of time to waste on idle chit-chat." Diana walked over to stand in front of him, her features calm and professional. "Actually, Fox, that's why I'm here. Kersh sent me." Mulder simply stood there, staring at her. She couldn't possibly mean what she had just implied. He shook his head. "I'm not getting it, Diana; it's been a long day. Better spell it out for me." She sighed, and the professional mask melted away, leaving an expression of sorrow. "I'm sorry, Fox. I really am. But I'm doing you a favor, and eventually I think you'll understand that. Kersh was going to send the local ASAC, but I persuaded him that it would be better coming from a friend." She held out her hand. "I have to have your badge and your gun. I'm sorry, Fox." For a timeless interval Mulder stood completely still, just looking at her and trying to comprehend what was going on. He knew Kersh had threatened to do just exactly this, but he hadn't taken it seriously. Truth be told, he hadn't really been paying close attention to anything Kersh had said; the man just didn't enter into the equation, and Mulder had ignored him. And in retrospect that had clearly been a serious error. With a sigh of resignation, he put his hand on the butt of his service pistol. And then Tara said, "D.F." Mulder froze. D.F. Diana Fowley. And then he drew the pistol and pointed it directly at Diana's heart. # # # "Fox? What they hell are you --" "Shut up, Diana," Mulder snapped. He looked at her warily, and automatically took two steps to the left so that Tara would no longer be in the line of fire. Could it really be Diana? He'd drawn the pistol on instinct, as soon as Tara's words had sunk in, but now he couldn't help but wonder. It seemed so fantastic -- not to mention the convenience of having her turn up at just this moment. Of course, that very coincidence was also evidence against her. Why in the hell would she have flown all the way across the country just to claim his gun and his badge? Her stated reason didn't really hold water. It's not like the two of them were that close any longer. Scully might possibly do that for him. But Diana? "Fox?" Diana's voice drew him back out of his reverie, and for a moment he studied her face. He wasn't sure what he was looking for; what he did see was an uneasy mix of confusion and anger. But no hurt; no sign of any sense of betrayal. And that was another point against her. "Fox!" This time she spoke more sharply. "Fox, this isn't helping matters." Her hand was still extended, frozen in place from the moment he'd draw his weapon. "Just give me the gun, and we'll forget about it, okay?" Mulder shook his head. "I don't think so, Diana," he said. He looked at her for just another moment, and then made his decision. He had no evidence; none at all. But his professional instincts had kicked in, and he was sure that he was right. "Down on your knees, and put your hands on top of your head." She didn't move, and he barked, "Do it!" Diana's eyes widened, and then she did as instructed. Without taking his eyes off of her, Mulder said, "Tara? Are you going to be able to help me out, or am I on my own?" After just the briefest of hesitations, Tara replied, "I can help. What do you want me to do?" "We need to get her gun away from her," he said. "She carries it on her right hip. And unless she's changed her habits, she's got a holdout strapped to her left ankle." He addressed his captive again. "And Diana, if you so much as twitch I'll blow your fucking head off." "Fox, this is insane! You don't know what --" "Shut up, Diana! Not another word! Last warning." He was aware of motion in his peripheral vision, and realized that the Gunmen had been attracted by the activity in the living room. His eyes still fixed on Diana, he said, "Frohike? You there?" "Yeah, Mulder." The little computer geek's voice was tentative, uncertain. "I need deep background on Diana, and I need it now. I think she's been flipped, and I need to know how and I need to know when. Check all the usual stuff: Credit card records, Bureau personnel files, whatever you can find. It may be blackmail. I doubt if it's personal gain or ideology, but don't leave anything out." After a short pause: "I'm on it." Tara had stepped forward and was now kneeling next to Diana and looking at Mulder questioningly. "Go ahead," he said. "I'm covering her." Hesitantly, Tara reached under Diana's jacket, and in another moment the agent had been disarmed. Tara stood up and backed away carefully, holding Diana's service pistol in one hand and her holdout, a short-barreled small caliber weapon, in the other. "Anything else, Diana? Or do I need to strip search you?" The woman hesitated, then shook her head. "Okay. Stay on your knees and keep your hands on your head." He stood looking at her speculatively again. The longer this confrontation went on, the surer he was becoming that he was doing the right thing. Diana's reactions didn't seem quite right; there was not enough outrage, and her reason for being here was seeming less plausible with each passing minute. "What's going on, Diana?" he asked abruptly. She shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about." Pause. "Fox? This is crazy!" "At least we agree on something." He regarded her for another moment, and then he noticed her purse lying on the floor a few feet to her left. "Tara," he said. "Get her purse. Dump it out on the sofa." He waited while she complied, then sidled over to the couch, out of Diana's line of sight, and glanced down at the small pile of this and that. Wallet; lipstick; comb...all the usual woman stuff. He picked up the wallet and riffled through it hastily, keeping one eye on Diana as he did so. Money, credit cards, a prescription for eyeglasses...nothing significant as far as he could tell, but maybe Frohike would be able to make something of it. He glanced down at the remaining items laying on the sofa. Her cell phone. On an impulse, he picked it up and flipped it open, scanning the list of speed dials, and he felt his eyebrows raise. "Well, well, what have we here?" he said, walking back around in front of her and holding the phone out in front of him where she could see it. "Ten speed dial slots, and only nine of them in use. Why is that, Diana?" She shrugged. "I guess I only have nine friends," she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "Eight, now." "Yes, but Diana, why is number six the slot you left vacant? Most people would have left the last one vacant." She shrugged again, but didn't say anything. Mulder continued, "Could be an old boyfriend, I suppose...but it doesn't look like it's been whited out." He studied her face for a moment, but she was giving nothing away. "Why don't I just push the button and find out?" And before she could respond he jabbed the button with his thumb, and then raised the phone to his ear. "It's dialing through," he commented, still watching Diana's face. But still she maintained an expressionless mask. "And now it's ringing. That's one....that's two...." The phone was answered on the sixth ring, and a sleepy male voice said, "Yes?" Mulder hesitated briefly, not sure what to do next, then shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound. "This is Fox Mulder," he said. "I wonder if you might be able to help me locate a couple of friends who've gone missing." The was a long minute of silence, and Mulder was just beginning to doubt his strategy when the response came. "Agent Mulder. What an unexpected pleasure." A chill went down Mulder's spine; he could almost smell the tobacco smoke. "To what do I owe the honor of this call?" His eyes boring into Diana's, Mulder said, "I was just having a chat with a mutual friend, and she suggested that I call you, just for old time's sake." "Really." The other man fell silent for a moment, and Mulder realized with a thrill that for once he actually had the bastard off balance. He decided to press his advantage. "Yes, really," he said. "You know, you really need to find better help. Diana didn't last five minutes once I started putting the screws on." He saw Diana's eyes widen as the shot went home. "Of course, she doesn't really seem to have anything I didn't already know. We already have all of the emails between Captain Scully and Colonel Casey." Another silence, longer than the one before. "I think you're bluffing, Agent Mulder." Mulder forced a derisive laugh. "You thought Skinner was bluffing, too," he replied. "Remember Albert Hosteen?" Another inspiration struck him. "You know, I should give Albert a jingle. As I recall, you were supposed to keep Agent Scully and me safe, and you seem to have dropped the ball, at least with respect to her." "Oh, she's safe, Agent Mulder," the other man said. "Perfectly safe. She'll even remain that way, as long as you don't interfere with things which are none of your business." Standoff. Mulder considered the matter for a moment. This was the first real lead he'd had, and he had to find some way to exploit it. But the seconds were racing by, and he could feel his advantage slipping away. Finally, the other man laughed softly. "I think we understand each other, Agent Mulder." And the line went dead. Mulder stood staring at the phone thoughtfully, and for a moment he shut out the rest of the room, trying to put the pieces together. He had to concentrate; he had to work this out. He'd made a definite connection between Diana and the Consortium, but that didn't really give him -- "Mulder!" His head whipped around at Tara's cry, just as Diana crashed into him, sending him sprawling back into the Christmas tree. For a moment the tree teetered, and then the entire assemblage went toppling over with a crash and a tinkle of broken glass. Mulder fought against the entangling branches for a moment, struggling free just in time to see Diana streaking out the front door, and by the time he had clambered to his feet and reached the doorway she was in her car and revving the engine, and in another instant she was gone. # # # Residence of Bill and Tara Scully December 30, 11:29 p.m. Once again Mulder found himself sitting on the sofa in Tara Scully's living room. Another day had passed. Another wasted day. Another 24 hours gone, and he was no closer to finding Scully and her brother. After the encounter with Diana Fowley, Mulder had had high hopes that perhaps things were finally starting to break. Frohike's researches had revealed the probable reason for Diana's betrayal: Rising credit card debt coupled with bad investment decisions in her personal finances through 1996 and 1997, culminating with several defaults in early 1998. Bankruptcy papers had been drawn up and filed in her home state, the Bureau had become involved due to regulations prohibiting federal employees from welshing on their debts...and then, rather suddenly, she was in the clear financially, and even had a respectable nest egg. The pattern should have set alarms ringing at the OPR, but Mulder had no doubt of the means by which attention had been diverted. No doubt at all. None of which was really relevant, except as confirmation of his suspicions. Not that much confirmation had been needed after he found the incriminating speed dial, and especially after she fled the scene at the first opportunity. Any lingering doubts he might have had had been laid to rest by the fact that he'd had no further contact from the Bureau in the ensuing 24 hours -- a sure sign that she had not felt it safe to return to her job, or even to check in with Kersh. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her. He had been in love with her once, and he was pretty sure she had been in love with him. The pressure brought to bear on her by the Consortium in their efforts to flip her must have been unbearable. He remembered she'd always been very proud of her independence, especially in dealing with things which women stereotypically weren't good at, such as personal finances and investments. Yeah, those bastards had known just where to hit her. Unfortunately, the break Mulder had been hoping for had failed to materialize. In retrospect he didn't know why he'd expected things to change; by allowing Diana to escape he'd been letting his only real lead slip between his fingers. And so another day had passed with nothing to show for it. Even the Gunmen had failed to produce anything, beyond Frohike's report on Diana's financial history. The encryption scheme was taking longer to crack than Langly had hoped or expected. "Mulder?" He roused himself from his reverie and turned to see Tara standing at the foot of the stairs, a book in her hand. He checked his watch, and saw that it was almost midnight. Looking back at Tara, he said, "I thought you'd gone to bed." "I had," she said, shrugging slightly. "I couldn't sleep. Do you mind if I sit up with you awhile?" "Not at all," he replied, and waited while she crossed the room and sat down on the sofa next to him. She was wearing the same robe she'd worn the night of the 25th, and the same sensible flannel nightgown peeked out beneath the hem. "Anything special keeping you up?" She gnawed her lip for a moment, then nodded slowly and showed him the book she'd been holding. He examined it briefly, and felt his eyebrows raise slightly as he looked back up at her. "Catullus?" She nodded again, her face very serious. "Catullus. I've always liked him." Mulder smiled slightly. "Catullus is pretty much the antithesis of what we were talking about the other night, though. He was the king of Roman erotic love poetry." Her lips quirked. "Which is exactly the point. In any fair debate, both sides of the argument deserve to be examined." "What makes you think they haven't been in this case?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light. He really didn't need to be delving into this right now. The farther they got into this case, the more confused and conflicted he was getting over how he felt about Scully. Still, Tara had provided him considerable support, both emotional and otherwise, and he didn't feel he could just shut her out. "I'm a woman," she replied, still smiling. "Women know these things." Mulder snorted, and she reached out and rested her hand on his. "Truly, Mulder, I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable, and I'm not trying to push you anyplace you don't want to go. Mostly, I just had a feeling that our discussion the other night was a bit unbalanced, intellectually. Do you mind?" He shrugged. "Have at it. Which of Catullus' poems is your favorite?" "I've always been partial to number five," she replied, and opened the book. "But I don't have these committed to memory." And she commenced to read to him: "Let's live, my Lesbia, and let's make love And let us value all the gossip of Prudent old men as pennies. When the sun Sets he can rise again; when we have done For good and all with our one little light We sleep forever in one dawnless night. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, Another thousand, then a second hundred, Then still another thousand, then a hundred, Then, when our number's countless, then, my dear, Scramble the abacus! So we won't fear The evil eye of hate, for no one bad must know how many kisses we have had." She looked back up to him as she delivered the last line, and added, "I've always thought that kissing was undervalued as an art form. Most men -- and a lot of women -- seem to use it only as a means to an end. But I feel kissing is an end in itself." Despite himself, Mulder felt himself getting caught up in the conversation, and he nodded. "I know what you mean. We all get so absorbed by the expectations of others that it becomes almost impossible, sometimes, to be who we really are." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Of course, Catullus himself was conflicted on the subject. I've always been rather partial to number sixty." She snickered. "I knew you'd bring that one up; I've already got it marked." She opened the book, and again she read: "Were you raised by lions On Libya's hostile cliffs, Or were you born a bitch From some dog's filthy cunt To be so savage and so cruel That you would scorn my pleading voice When I need you most?" She looked up at him again, and mischief danced in her eyes. "I hope you didn't think you could shock me. I thought we'd settled that already." Mulder chuckled. "I guess maybe we did." He sat and looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "Are you sure you don't have an agenda here?" "Of course I have an agenda. But it's not to play matchmaker; I really and truly meant what I said. And I've always hated people who try to push others together." She made a face and shook her head. "I very nearly didn't marry Bill because a couple of well- meaning friends kept trying to hurry things along. I would never do that to you, or to Dana." "So what's the purpose of this?" he asked, gesturing at the book. "Just what I said: I wanted to make sure that both sides of the argument had been examined." "That's it?" "That's it," she replied, nodding. He thought about it for a moment. He knew he was overly defensive when it came to his relationship with Scully. So many people had jumped to the wrong conclusion over the years that it had become just a little too easy to assume the worst of even the most casual comment. And of course his own defensiveness inevitably reinforced the very conclusions he wanted to dispel. And at this particular moment, due to the circumstances they were facing, he was especially vulnerable, both to the assumptions of others and to his own second guessing. The only thing he knew with certainty was that he missed Scully terribly; he just didn't function very well without her, and he knew it -- he had known it for a long time, long before Antarctica. But that wasn't love -- not in the sense Catullus had meant. Was it? He shook his head. Everything was all tangled up inside, and the stress of the last several days added to the lack of sleep was just making it worse. One thing that had become abundantly clear since Scully had been taken was that his feelings towards her were not as resolved as he had believed them to be, and he knew it was going to be a bitch getting himself settled again when he finally got her back. He felt a sudden irritation at Tara, but quickly suppressed it. He knew she meant well, and she really didn't have any way of knowing what a hornets' next she was poking at. "Mulder?" Her voice was soft and gentle, and when he looked up he saw that she'd set the book aside. "Mulder, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." He looked at her levelly for a moment, then finally nodded. "It's okay. I was just...thinking about something." They sat staring at each other for a pair of minutes. Mulder couldn't really think of anything further to say, and was considering suggesting that she go on back to bed, when Frohike stepped into the room to announce that they'd finally cracked the encryption scheme. # # # "This is very, very bad," Byers said without preamble as Mulder and Tara stepped into the study at Frohike's heels a few minutes later. He waited until everyone was situated around Bill's PC before continuing. "As you are probably aware," the fussy little man continued, "for the last six months or so Captain Scully has been assigned to an interservice task force which has been examining downsizing and outsourcing strategies at military facilities in the San Diego area." He paused and waited for Mulder and Tara to nod. "The brief for this task force is quite broad: Pretty much everything is on the table. They've looked at everything from provision of commissary and PX services to operational readiness issues to name it." Again he paused, and this time Tara smiled slightly and said, "I remember the commissary study. For awhile I thought Bill was going to throttle the Donutland sales rep." Byers nodded, then turned back to the computer. "The first ominous tidbit we came across was a list of the permanent members of the task force." He pointed to the screen, where a list of names and organizations was displayed. "As you might expect, it's top-heavy with DoD personnel, both uniformed and civilian. However, the task force also has several representatives from the private sector -- mostly contractors and consultants." He dropped his hand into his lap, and looked directly at Mulder. "Including an executive vice president from Roush Industries." Mulder felt his eyes widen. "Roush? But they're a front for --" "For the Consortium," Byers said flatly. "THEY have a representative on this task force?" "Actually," said Langly, "from a quick skim of the meeting synopses Captain Scully included, it looks more like the Roush man is running the task force. From his notes, it's pretty clear that Captain Scully spotted it, too, although he thought it was a matter of simple graft and influence, at least at first." Mulder's gaze flicked briefly to Tara, trying to gauge her reaction, but she was giving nothing away. He'd spent a couple of hours the night before, after Diana had left, trying to explain to her about the Consortium and its activities. He wasn't sure how much of it she'd believed, but at least she hadn't laughed in his face. He turned his gaze back to Byers. "Go on," he said. The dapper little man nodded and stroked his van dyke. "About six weeks ago, the task force took up the issue of handling and storage of weapons of mass destruction. As it happens, one of the three main nuclear weapons storage facilities on the west coast is right here at Miramar -- although the Navy, per their longstanding policy, refuses either to confirm or deny that fact." Again Byers paused, and Mulder felt a prickle of anticipation on the back of his neck. He didn't like the way this conversation was going. "Get on with it," he said, more harshly than he'd intended. Byers nodded reluctantly. "One of the first steps taken by the task force was to order an inventory of the existing nuclear weapon stockpile at Miramar." "Oh shit," Tara said, her voice flat and emotionless. For just an instant Mulder wondered what had evoked that reaction, and then suddenly it all fell into place and he knew. He glanced at Byers, and the other man nodded slightly in confirmation. "Broken arrow," the little man said softly. Broken arrow. Military jargon for a lost or stolen atomic weapon. For a long moment nobody spoke. At last, Mulder said, "How many?" "Apparently just one," Frohike replied, his own voice as expressionless as Tara's had been. "Only one Hiroshima out there looking for a place to happen." "Maybe it's a bookkeeping error?" Mulder didn't really believe it, but he had to try. "No," said Frohike, shaking his head. "They thought of that, and they checked the inventory thoroughly. It's not a bookkeeping error." "But why?" This time it was Tara, desperately denying. Langly shrugged. "Logical progession," he said. "Ruby Ridge. Waco. World Trade Center. Oklahoma City. Dallas. All intended to create an atmosphere of terror, to justify further erosion of the Bill of Rights." He shrugged again. "And this is the next logical step." Again there was a moment of silence, as each person in the room seemed to contemplate the consequences of that statement. Then Byers picked up the story again. "By sheer good fortune," he said, "Captain Scully was the chairman of the subcommittee responsible for the inventory. What this means is that the matter was immediately reported to competent authority, per the DoD's protocol for such things. Unfortunately, the report seems to have been suppressed." "What do you mean?" asked Mulder. "How could it have been suppressed?" Byers shook his head. "We don't know -- at least, not yet. All we have to go on so far is the material provided by Captain Scully. But it's very clear from reading his notes that while he reported the matter up the chain of command -- as he should have -- those reports were stopped somewhere along the way. It's not clear whether the base commander at Miramar was ever informed, and it's certain that no one in Washington knows about it." "Jesus." Mulder tried to think of something more constructive to say, but that was all he could come up with. "Jesus." After another moment he looked back at Byers. "So what did Bill do?" The little man stroked his beard again and nodded slightly. "At first, based on his own notes and as we would have expected, he seems to have pursued the matter through the chain of command. This report should have gone right up the ladder on a priority basis, through the base commander directly to the Navy Department and the Joint Chiefs, and then to DoD, NSC and several other places. Possibly even to NEST, since the missing weapon is within the United States proper." "NEST?" Tara asked. "Nuclear Emergency Search Team," Frohike explained. "That's the government agency responsible for finding -- and if necessary disarming -- unauthorized nuclear weapons in the United States. They were established in the early 70s in response to the threat of nuclear terrorism." "When the captain didn't receive an immediate response to his initial report," Byers went on, "he continued to pursue the matter through channels." He gestured at the computer screen. "That's what those dated files contain: Copies of his initial investigation and then of the reports he made to his superiors. Six attempts in all, and each more urgently worded than the last. Finally, when it became clear that nothing was going to be done, he took the next logical step." "He tried a back channel," Mulder said. Byers nodded. "That's right. He contacted Colonel Casey in hopes of breaking the logjam. That's what the 'Jiggs' file is: A formal report of the situation through Casey to the Chairman of the JCS. It was prepared on the 21st and 22nd of this month, and we have to assume that he emailed it to Casey pretty much right away. And less than 24 hours later Agent Scully and her brother disappeared, and Colonel Casey died in a convenient accident." Mulder sat quietly for a moment, trying to digest everything he had just heard. Finally he said, "So what you're telling me is that the Navy has misplaced an atom bomb." Byers nodded, his lips quirking slightly at the word "misplaced". "You're further telling me that Bill knew about it, but that when he tried to report the matter he was ignored." Another nod, and Mulder took a deep breath. "And to put the icing on the cake, Roush Industries, and by logical inference the Consortium, is involved in this somehow." "That about sums it up," Frohike said. Once again silence fell in the room. This time it was Tara who broke it. "So what do we do now?" # # # Residence of Bill and Tara Scully December 31, 9:58 p.m. "So what do we do now?" The better part of 24 hours later Mulder still didn't have an answer to that question. The five of them had sat up for another hour brainstorming the situation, but had come up empty. There was no plan of action; there were no further leads to follow up. All they knew was what Bill Scully had known more than a week earlier, and they didn't have even the resources or contacts he had possessed with which to follow through. Going through he Navy hierarchy was out of the question. Bill had tried that route, and failed. If the Navy had not listened to one of their own -- or had allowed him to be short-circuited -- they were even less likely to listen to an outsider. The Bureau was no more promising. The only person Mulder was authorized to report to was Kersh, and that was clearly fruitless. Kersh was at best an arrogant, hidebound bureaucrat, and at worst he was a Consortium mole. In either case, he would not be receptive to wild reports of a stolen nuclear weapon -- reports which the Navy would no doubt deny uncategorically. Senator Matheson might have been a possibility, had he not retired at the end of the previous election cycle. Mulder had not had much contact with the man in the last few years, but there had been some residual goodwill between them. Unfortunately, Mulder knew that the Senator's retirement "for reasons of health" had actually been prompted by his diagnosis the previous year of Alzheimer's, and the disease had now progressed to the point where he would not be taken seriously by anyone that mattered -- even assuming that he retained the intellect to understand the problem in the first place. There was always Skinner, and Mulder had seriously considered calling his former boss. But Skinner was now living under his own cloud as a direct consequence of his previous support of Mulder and Scully and the X-Files. Mulder would not have hesitated to call Skinner if that were the only difficulty -- this obviously was a problem of greater moment than one man's career. But Skinner's stock in the Bureau had fallen so precipitously in the past six months that there seemed to be little point. The man was now held in nearly as low esteem as Mulder himself, and he would not be believed. Which left them with no discernible options. So once again Mulder lay on the sofa in Tara's living room and stared at the ceiling. The Lone Gunmen continued to work the Internet, looking for some lead as to the whereabouts of the missing atomic weapon, although there was not much hope for that angle of attack, either. But at least the Gunmen had something tangible to pursue. All that Mulder had to occupy his time were his own doubts. "Penny for your thoughts." He dragged himself out of his reverie to see Tara standing in front of the sofa, a sleeping Matthew tucked against her hip. "I'm not sure they're worth that," he commented, swinging himself into a sitting position to make room for her. He nodded at Matthew as she took her seat. "Shouldn't he be in bed?" Tara smiled slightly. "You sound like my father." She stroked the boy's hair lightly. "But you're right; he should be in bed. I just wanted to hold him for awhile. He's all I've got right now." Mulder nodded, and the two of them sat silently on the sofa for a few moments as he studied her face. What was it Scully had said about him, all those years ago? "Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a flower." She'd been razzing him about Phoebe at the time, but the remark had been appropriate then, and seemed appropriate now. If someone had told him a week ago that he was about to enter into a warm friendship with Tara Scully, Mulder would have laughed in his face. Yet here he was. He let his gaze drop to the child, now curled up asleep on Tara's lap. He hadn't had much contact with children in his life, and now that he finally took the time to notice he was surprised at how much the boy had grown in the last year. Matthew had seemed like nothing much to write home about when he'd been born almost exactly a year ago, but now he was starting to look almost like he might one day grow up into a human being. Mulder had a sudden flashback to his previous visit to San Diego. Emily Sim. Another bad time for Scully. She'd had so many of those in the five years she'd been working with him. For just an instant Mulder felt a flicker of the old guilt, and he held his breath, waiting for it to come crashing down on him, but then it was gone again. He glanced up to see Tara looking at him. "Something wrong?" she asked. He shook his head and smiled slightly. "Just sittin' and thinkin'," he drawled. Tara nodded at the comment, but her face remained solemn. Scully would have smiled; if he'd hit her in just the right mood, she might even have laughed. God he missed her. It was not lost on Mulder that the focus of the investigation -- such as it was -- had changed. No longer were they concentrating on finding Scully and Bill; now all their attention was on locating the missing atom bomb. Which of course was as it should be, and both his partner and her brother would have expected nothing less. But that didn't make him feel any less bleak as he reflected on the situation and the possible consequences of that change in focus. At least he'd been getting a little more sleep in the last day or two. He'd actually stretched out for more than six hours last night and this morning, and if he wasn't exactly rested, at least the crushing exhaustion he'd been feeling had receded a bit. But he still wasn't getting anywhere close to a solution. Hell, he hadn't made any real progress since he'd arrived. Every lead they'd got had either come from someone else's industry, or had fallen into his lap unbidden. Even Tara had made more contributions than he had; the most productive thing HE had done had been to call the Lone Gunmen and dump the computer problems in their lap. And even when Diana had handed herself to him, virtually on a silver platter, he'd managed to let her slip through his fingers through inattention. Diana. What a disappointment that had been. She'd been very important to him once, although that had been over for a long time. Still, his relationship with her had largely predated his current state of paranoia, and it had never occurred to him when she came traipsing back into his life the previous spring that he might not be able to trust her. It had been a serious shock to his worldview to find that she had betrayed him, no matter what the motivation. Of course he had not hesitated to attempt to use her Consortium association to his own advantage, even knowing that he was putting her life at risk. So perhaps he and Diana were not that different from each other after all. "Mulder? Earth to Mulder." He blinked and shook his head. "Sorry, Tara. Woolgathering." He was trying to frame some flippant comment, to lighten his own mood as much as anything, when there was a knock on the door. He glanced at the clock and then raised his eyebrows at Tara. "Are you expecting someone?" he asked. She shook her head. Mulder rose to his feet, drawing his Sig Sauer as he did so. "Stay here." And he crossed to the door and pulled it open. It was Diana. Mulder took two rapid steps back from the doorway and leveled his gun at her. His gaze flicked rapidly past her to the street beyond, but she seemed to be alone, and he focused his attention back on her. For just a moment she stood in the doorway, and he noticed that she was swaying slightly, as if she were drunk. His eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance: Black rings under her eyes, and her clothes were mussed and wrinkled, as if she'd been sleeping in them. She looked as run down as Mulder felt. Finally, she spoke. "I've come to give her back to you." # # # Southbound on Route 163, San Diego, CA 10:34 p.m. "Why, Diana?" Mulder sat in the cramped back seat of Tara's Saturn, his Sig Sauer trained on Diana's head. She sat in the front passenger seat, while Tara drove. Mulder hadn't been at all surprised when Tara insisted on coming along, and only mildly surprised that Frohike had agreed to take care of Matthew for her. The arrangement did have its advantages: It allowed him to watch Diana while someone he trusted drove the car. A brief, bitter interrogation had established to Mulder's satisfaction that Diana knew nothing of the missing atom bomb. In fact, she gave every appearance of shocked disbelief when he told her about it. Part of his mind was screaming at him that he was a fool to trust her, and risk being burned again, but another part was just as firm in its desperate need to be doing SOMETHING towards resolving the situation. The silence stretched on, and Mulder began to doubt whether Diana had heard his question. She sat calmly in her seat, staring at the highway ahead of them, not moving at all, barely breathing. Mulder was just beginning to wonder if he should repeat the question when she started to speak. "I never stopped being in love with you." Her voice was quiet, meditative. "Even after that last, horrible fight; even after all those years away from you, I never stopped loving you." She fell silent again for a moment, and continued to stare out at the highway. Then: "They came to me last winter, right after the first of the year. I assume that Frohike found out about my money problems." She turned her head to look at him, seeming to want confirmation. Mulder nodded, and she turned back to face the front again. "The money was only part of it, though," she went on. "If it had been only the money, I would have turned them down flat. Although I have to admit that having those debts cleared was a powerful incentive. They always use both the carrot AND the stick. I think you know that." Again she turned to look at him; again he nodded. And this time she did not look away. She stared at him steadily for a moment; finally she closed her eyes and swallowed. "It was the videos that really did it." She fell silent again, and this time she did not seem to be inclined to go on. At last, Mulder said, "Videos?" She nodded, and a look of pain crossed her features. "Videos. Videos of you...and her." Mulder felt a shock run through his system. She couldn't possibly mean what it sounded like she meant. "Diana, I --" "Save it, Fox," she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. "I know I was taken in; I figured it out almost as soon as I saw the two of you together. But they did such a good job of faking it, and I'm certain it was your apartment where they did the taping. I'd know that sofa anywhere. That part HAD to be real, even if the...the lovemaking wasn't. But I was so shocked, so...so jealous that I couldn't even see straight. All I could see was you, and her...the things you were doing together. The things you said. The things about me." Mulder felt his eyes widen. "Diana, I swear to god...I never said a word about you to Scully. She didn't even know you existed until that first briefing. I would never --" "Just shut up, Fox, okay?" she said sharply, pain and anger struggling for ascendancy in her voice. "I already told you I figured that out. And if I'd been able to see past my rage and humiliation, I would have known it when they first showed me the tapes. But I couldn't. And so I agreed to work with them, and by the time I realized my mistake I was in so deep that I couldn't get out." For a pair of minutes there was silence in the car. Mulder glanced briefly at Tara, but she was giving nothing away, simply clutching the steering wheel and staring out to the front, apparently oblivious to the conversation taking place next to her. But Mulder knew that she had to be hearing every word. "Fox, I'm so sorry." He shifted his gaze back to Diana, and now there were tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. "I should have known better. I really should have. And it wasn't the sex, it truly wasn't. Oh, that hurt, and I won't deny it, but it was none of my business, even if it had been real. It was the things you said...the things they made it seem like you said, while you were lying together. Cruel, hateful things. And she laughed when you said them." "I'm sorry, Diana." Mulder knew it was hopelessly inadequate, and not even really appropriate, but it was all that he could think of to say. Diana nodded slightly, and managed a tiny little smile. "Actually, it was the laughing -- her laughing -- that finally tipped me off that I'd been hoaxed." She shook her head. "Do you know that she never laughs? Never. She barely even smiles. Once I realized that, I knew that the tapes had been faked. But by then it was too late." Once again silence fell in the car, and more miles fled behind them. And after awhile Diana turned around and faced to the front, and the only sound was the tires whispering against the pavement. # # # Harbor Drive Warehouse District, San Diego, CA 10:49 p.m. At length the car rolled to a halt across the street from the nondescript warehouse which Diana had directed them to. For the past quarter mile, signs had proudly announced that this would one day be the site of the new San Diego Padres baseball stadium. The streets were dark and silent, and the building itself gave every appearance of being unoccupied. For several minutes Mulder and the two women sat silently, watching the building. Finally, Mulder said, "Are you sure this is it, Diana? It seems awfully quiet." She shrugged. "This is where they were four days ago. Of course, they could easily have been moved." Mulder nodded, and they sat in silence for another pair of minutes. Scully and Bill could have been moved, and of course if Diana was now playing straight with him she would have no way of knowing about that. On the other hand, there was the clear possibility that this was all a trap of some sort, designed to lure them to an isolated area where he and Tara could be disposed of quietly. But it didn't FEEL like a trap; it felt like the truth. And Scully WAS nearby; he could almost feel her presence. Of course, that didn't prove anything; even if she was here, it could still be a trap -- and Scully herself would no doubt snort in derision if he were to try to explain to her the feeling of PRESENCE he was having at the moment. "Bill's here," Tara said quietly. Mulder shifted his gaze to her, and saw that she had turned in her seat and was looking back at him with large, luminous eyes. He studied her face for a moment, looking for doubt or uncertainty and finding none. Finally, he nodded slightly. "Let's do it, then." The side entrance which Diana led them to was chained and padlocked, but the tire iron from Tara's Saturn made short work of that obstacle. The interior of the warehouse was as silent and deserted as the street had been. The only light came from Mulder's flashlight; the only sound was their own footsteps as they proceeded along a narrow corridor, Diana still in the lead. And with each step he took the sense of Scully's presence grew stronger in Mulder's mind. At last they came to the end of the hallway and passed through another doorway, to find themselves standing along one side of a vast room. A handful of shipping crates were scattered across the floor, seemingly placed at random, but otherwise the room appeared to be empty, although it was hard to be certain since the far wall was lost in the gloom. Diana stepped off into the darkness, but Mulder grabbed her elbow. "Just a minute," he said. "Where, exactly, are we going?" "There's a staircase along the far side," Diana said. "We go up the stairs and along a catwalk to a small group of offices. When I was here on Sunday, Agent Scully and her brother were being kept in one of the offices." He looked at her narrowly for a moment. From her body language and facial expression he was almost sure she was telling the truth, and there was no denying his own sixth sense that Scully was nearby. At the same time, all of his professional instincts were warning him that something was wrong. The building was too empty, too quiet. If prisoners were being kept here, shouldn't there be SOME sort of guard? Diana seemed to read his mind, as she sighed and said, "I don't know what's going on any more than you do, Fox. There never were very many people here, but there should have been someone watching the door where we entered the building. At least, there was on Sunday." Her lips quirked slightly. "It is New Year's Eve. Maybe they're all off celebrating." Mulder considered her words for a minute. He was pretty certain she was still telling the truth, but that didn't make the situation any more explicable. Without taking his eyes off of Diana, he said, "Tara? What do you think?" After the briefest of hesitations, Tara said, "I don't know, Mulder. I don't trust her." Another pause. "But Bill is here. Of that I'm certain." Mulder stood quietly for another moment or two, weighing the situation, but he really didn't have much in the way of alternatives. He could either turn back, and give up the one lead he had in this case, or he could proceed. At last he nodded to Diana. "Lead on." The staircase she led them to was old and rickety. It appeared to be made of cast iron, and was bolted to the wall almost as if it had been an afterthought. Mulder shone his light up the stairs, but the top remained hidden in darkness. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck, and shifted the flashlight to his left hand and drew his gun with his right. With Diana still in the lead, they proceeded to climb the stairs. The structure shivered with each step, and Mulder had visions of the whole thing collapsing under their weight. And he was only three steps from the top when that vision materialized. It started with a low, creaking groan, and for three vital seconds Mulder froze as the surface shifted beneath his feet. He was aware of Tara and Diana ahead of him on the stairs scrambling for the safety of the landing, and finally his own reflexes kicked in, but it was too late; the creaking groan had built to a roar and a clatter of metal and he was falling.... After an unmeasured interval, Mulder gradually became aware of himself again. He was lying on the cold concrete floor of the warehouse in almost total darkness, the faint glow of his miraculously unbroken flashlight just visible about twenty feet away. For a moment all he could do was lie there as flashes and sparkles danced before his eyes. He took cautious inventory, and decided that nothing was broken, and finally he struggled to a sitting position. Instantly he regretted it. Pain lanced through his head like a lightning bolt, and the room seemed to dive and swoop around him. His breathing came in short, sharp gasps, and his heart pounded in his chest. There was a ringing in his ears, and for a moment the darkness seemed to close in on him again.... "Mulder!" Tara's voice. Grimly, Mulder fought to open his eyes, and even as he did so he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Mulder! Are you okay?" His eyes flickered open, and he saw Tara kneeling in front of him. Diana stood back a few feet, now holding his flashlight. Idly, he wondered where his gun had gotten to. He thought he'd been holding it when he fell, but somehow it didn't seem terribly important. Nothing seemed important. He felt strangely detached, and all he really wanted to do was sleep.... "Mulder!" Again she was shaking his shoulder, and reluctantly he opened his eyes again. Tara was staring at him, her face only a few inches from his own. She really had a very lovely face; he wondered why he'd never noticed that before. Bill sure knew how to pick 'em.... "Mulder! Dammit, pay attention to me!" With a supreme effort of will, Mulder focused his attention on Tara, and tried to listen to her words. "S-sorry," he said. "Guess I'm a little groggy." She continued to peer at him in the gloom. "More than a little, I'd say." "H-how'd...you get down here?" "Diana found another stairway -- a little more solid that that one, thank God." Tara held up a finger in front of his face and moved it steadily back and forth. Automatically, Mulder tried to track the finger with his eyes, but the effort made him dizzy and nauseous and he had to stop and swallow carefully. Tara nodded grimly. "I think you've got a concussion." Mulder tried to concentrate on what she'd just said. Concussion. Yeah, that made a lot of sense. He'd had one or two of those before, and he remembered what it felt like: Pretty much the way he was feeling right now. He also remembered that the way to deal with it was to put the feelings away in a box and try to focus on something concrete and immediate. "Did you...." His voice trailed off and he had to swallow again. "Did you find them?" Tara shook her head. "Not yet. We didn't look. We had to find you, make sure you were okay." Her lips quirked slightly. "Besides, you had the only flashlight." She hesitated, then said, "Do you think you're going to be able to manage? Or should we get you to a doctor? A head injury is nothing to fool around with." Mulder shook his head sharply, and winced as a fresh jolt of pain shot through his head. "No," he said. "No doctors. Not until we find Scully and Bill." He took a deep breath and started to climb to his feet. Without Tara's help he would never have made it, and even so it was a near thing. At last, though, he was standing on his own two feet, albeit Tara was supporting a considerable portion of his weight. The pounding in his head had intensified still further, and the dizziness had returned with a vengeance, but at least he was upright. He stood as still as he could, trying to catch his breath and waiting for the room to stop spinning. At last he felt he'd regained his equilibrium, and took a few experimental steps away from Tara. On the third or fourth step he staggered and his knees buckled, and he found himself leaning up against a wall and gasping for breath. He heard footsteps approaching, and then Tara was holding him up again, while Diana stood a few feet in front of him shining the light at him. He winced and ducked his head, squinching his eyes shut. "Jesus," he gasped. "Get that fucking light out of my eyes!" He felt like he was going to vomit, and it was only by the barest of margins that he managed to avoid it, turning away from the light and momentarily leaning his forehead against the wall. Tara said, "Mulder, I really think --" "Just give me a minute," he snapped. He took a deep breath, and then another, and then slowly and carefully he pushed himself away from the wall and opened his eyes again. His vision was blurry, and he was seeing double, but he could dimly make out the wall a foot or two in front of him. As his eyes slowly came back into focus, he realized he was actually standing in front of a door, and that there was a yellow sign of some sort hanging on it. Yellow with a black trefoil shape on it. It looked vaguely familiar.... "Shit!" He blinked hard, and resisted the urge to shake his head. "Diana! Shine the light over here!" An instant later the area in front of him was lit up, and he swore again, and he heard Tara gasp. "Mulder?" Her voice sounded fearful and uncertain. "Isn't that the radiation hazard symbol?" "Yes." He paused for another deep breath. "Yes it is. We may just have found...." His voice trailed off; he just could make himself say the words. Besides, it couldn't REALLY be the bomb; it couldn't possibly be that easy. It was probably a storeroom for radioactive materials, or something similar. But they had to check; they couldn't just walk away from the opportunity of solving this part of the puzzle, no matter how remote the chance. Mulder reached out and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Of course. He considered the matter for just a moment. There was a solution; there had to be a solution, if only he could think of it.... Then he had it. "Diana? Did you pick up my gun, too?" He wanted to turn and look at her, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the radiation warning. It had him mesmerized; it was like a snake, coiled and ready to strike. "Yes." He heard her footsteps approaching, and he sidled off to one side. "Shoot the lock." "Fox?" "Shoot it!" The gun roared once, twice, three times, and Mulder winced as the sound assaulted his ears and seemed to drive a hot spike directly into his brain. On the fourth shot the lock flew apart, and he fought down another wave of nausea as he moved back in front of the door and pushed it open. He stepped across the threshold and fumbled for the light switch, and in another instant the room was flooded with light. He blinked back tears and tried to ignore the agony in his head as he peered into the room. It was the bomb. It had to be. An off-white, cylindrical object, perhaps fifteen feet long and five in diameter, resting on its side in an elaborate laticework cradle. As he stepped closer he saw that it bore U.S. Navy markings, and what appeared to be a serial number was stenciled on the side. It was the bomb. He was still digesting the scene in front of him when his cell phone shrilled. For a moment he ignored it, all of his attention focused on the cylinder. Then the phone sounded again, and he drew it from his pocket and punched the connect button. "Mulder." "Mulder, this is Byers." The dapper little man's voice sounded strained and harsh. "I think we've got a problem." "No shit," Mulder replied, still staring at the bomb. Byers continued, "We finally managed to hack into Colonel Casey's Pentagon email account, and we found he'd uncovered a lot more than we thought. It turns out --" "That the bomb is right here in San Diego," Mulder finished. There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then: "How did you know?" "Because I'm standing about five feet in front of it." Another silence, longer than the last. Finally, Byers breathed, "Jesus." Pause. "Mulder, you've got to get out of there, and I'm not kidding. If the information Casey dug up is correct, that thing's set to go off at midnight." Byers paused again, as if waiting for a response, but Mulder didn't say anything. "Mulder? Did you hear me?" "I heard you." "Then get your ass out of there! Frohike's packing up Matthew as we speak; we're about to hit the road." Pause. "Mulder? Are you listening to me? You've only got about 40 minutes; you don't have any time to waste!" Mulder stood stock still, eyes still fixed on the bomb, trying to absorb what Byers was telling him. Forty minutes. In forty minutes they could put at least thirty miles between themselves and ground zero. But would even that be enough? Christ, he didn't even know what the weapon's yield was. It might not be too large; he vaguely recalled that multi-megaton weapons had fallen into disfavor as the accuracy of the delivery systems increased. Yeah, not too large -- maybe it was only big enough to destroy a SMALL city. He couldn't just turn and run, could he? Even if he and Tara and Diana managed to get outside the blast radius, that still left more than two million people exposed and unprotected, Scully and her brother among them. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Byers was babbling in his ear again, and precious seconds were trickling away, but there had to be a solution; there had to be. Forty minutes. Dammit! Why couldn't Diana have come back sooner? Even a few hours sooner, and there would have been time to issue a warning, start an evacuation, get someone down here who knew what they were doing. Someone with the technical know-how to deal with -- <> "Byers, let me talk to Langly." "Mulder? We don't have time for --" "Langly. Get him." There was a brief silence on the other end, then the blond man came on the phone. "Yeah, Mulder?" "Langly, do you know anything about nuclear weapons?" There was another moment of silence, and Mulder could almost hear the wheels spinning in the other man's head. Finally: "Yes." "Enough to disarm one?" No hesitation this time. "Yes." "Do you think you could walk me through it in the time we have left?" "Maybe. But Mulder, you'd have to have the right tools. It's not something you can do barehanded, or even with the crap most people have in their basement workshops." For the first time since stepping through the doorway, Mulder forced his eyes away from the bomb and looked around. It was a medium sized room, perhaps 20 by 20, with bare concrete walls and a concrete floor. Other than the bomb, resting in its cradle, the only thing in the room was a storage cabinet in the far corner, perhaps five feet high. He breathed a prayer. Please, let it be what he hoped it was. "Just a sec, Langly." Mulder had actually forgotten how ill he was feeling, but as he moved towards the cabinet fresh waves of pain and nausea went racing through his head and his body. The room started spinning again, and more sparkles of light appeared before his eyes. He gritted his teeth and once again fought down the urge to vomit, and somehow he made it over the cabinet, but then he didn't have the strength to do anything but lean up against it, eyes closed and breathing heavily. "Mulder?" Tara's voice again. Shit. He'd completely forgotten about the two women. He forced his eyes open and turned to look at them. "Tara," he gasped. "Diana. Get the fuck out of here." He paused again to try to catch his breath. "Mulder? What the hell?" He waved helplessly in the general direction of the bomb. "Tara...It's set to blow. Midnight." He saw her eyes go big and round, and she took a step back from him. "Matthew --" Mulder shook his head, then closed his eyes again as more waves of agony assaulted him. Dammit! "S'okay," he managed to stutter out. "S'okay. The Gunmen...Gunmen're taking Matthew. He'll be okay." God, he hoped he was right. He hoped his friends could drive far enough, fast enough, to salvage something from this miserable situation. He heard a distant chattering coming from somewhere, and after a moment he realized it was his cell phone. Langly. Right. He held it up to his ear again. "S-sorry, Langly," he muttered. "You said you need tools." He pushed himself back a step or two from the cabinet and pulled it open, and for once luck seemed to be on his side as he was confronted by rack after rack of tools, some familiar and others not, and each carefully labeled as it hung on a hook or sat on a shelf. He squinted against the blossoming sparkles that danced before his eyes, and started reading the labels into his cell phone. "Okay, Mulder." Langly's voice was calm and professional. "It sounds like you've got what you need. Now the first thing we're going to have to do is take the cover plate off. To do that..." Mulder tried to concentrate on his friend's words, but it just wasn't working. The room was spinning again, and the sparkling in his eyes had gotten so strong he could barely see anything else. Without quite knowing how it had happened, he found himself on his hands and knees, and his cell phone was skittering away across the concrete floor, Langly's voice still chattering from the receiver. He tried to crawl after it, but suddenly his stomach heaved, and this time he couldn't keep himself from vomiting, over and over and over. Then he was lying on the floor on his belly, still puking, and the side of his face was wet and sticky. He couldn't even see the cell phone anymore, it was out of his line of vision, and anyway it was dark in the room even though he was sure he'd turned the lights on but he just couldn't see he couldn't keep his eyes open.... And then he heard a woman's voice, very far away, as if it was coming from the end of a long, long tunnel. "Langly? This is Tara Scully. Tell me what I need to do." Everything went black. # # # UCSD Medical Center January 1, 1:38 p.m. Mulder's first sensation was one of pain: A dull throbbing pain, pulsing gently in his head and running down his neck to his upper back. A familiar pain, almost a friendly pain; a pain that evoked strange, chaotic memories -- memories of falling, of stumbling in the darkness, of desperately trying to focus on...something. And then suddenly he remembered. Scully and her brother, missing. The endless days of worry and tedium. The agony of not knowing. The mounting terror as the Consortium's plan was unearthed. Diana's betrayal and redemption. The desperate journey to the waterfront in the middle of the night. The atom bomb. Scully. His eyes fluttered open, and even as the overhead acoustic tiles came into focus he realized that he was lying in a hospital bed. He became aware of more: The soft whisper of a heating duct; the quiet ticking of a clock; the distant murmur of voices. And then suddenly one of the voices became louder. "Good morning sleepyhead." He shifted his eyes in the direction of the voice, and saw Tara standing at the foot of his bed. Bill was standing next to her, his arm around her shoulders, and they both were smiling. Mulder raised his eyebrows and smiled back at them weakly. "Morning?" "Well, actually it's early afternoon," she replied. "But what's a few hours among friends?" Bill added with a light chuckle. Mulder laughed in return, then winced as the throbbing in his head became slightly worse. His eyes watered for a moment, and he held still, waiting to see if the nausea of the night before would return, but it didn't. His vision cleared, and he looked back at Bill and Tara. "I take it the bomb...didn't?" "No, it didn't," Bill replied, still smiling. "Eight seconds to spare," Tara added, her own smile spreading into a full-fledged grin. "It was hardly even exciting." Mulder snorted. "I think you guys have seen THE ANDROMEDA STRAIN once too often." Tara laughed out loud and her eyes sparkled as she leaned into her husband. "Hey, Mulder, give me a break. I've been waiting my whole life for a chance to deliver a line like that!" Mulder laughed with her despite the pain, then suddenly sobered. Scully. They hadn't said anything about Scully. Bill was here, and he and Tara were both smiling and happy, so surely she was okay, but still.... "She's fine, Mulder," Bill said, seeming to read his thoughts. "She just stepped out for a few minutes to give your doctor the third degree, but she'll be right back. And she's going to be pissed as hell that you had the nerve to wake up while she was out of the room." He shook his head in mock disgust. "Sometimes I wonder how she manages to put up with you." "Well I'm just as glad that she isn't here," Tara said, stepping away from her husband and moving up to the head of the bed. "It gives me the chance to deliver this in private." Mulder noticed for the first time that Tara had a small, gayly-wrapped package tucked under her right arm. Now she pulled it out and handed it to Mulder. Again he raised his eyebrows. "What's this?" "A get well present," she replied, still smiling. Mulder hefted the object in his hand for a moment, and gingerly felt its dimensions. It seemed to be a book -- or perhaps two books; he wasn't quite sure. But what books would Tara be giving him? And then suddenly he knew, and he felt an embarrassed smile creep across his face. "Go ahead, Mulder, open it," she said. "Dana will be back any minute." Chuckling and shaking his head, Mulder quickly tore open the package, and was unsurprised to find himself the proud new owner of Tara Scully's copies of The Symposium and The Collected Poems of Catullus. He stared down at the volumes for a moment, then raised his eyes to look at Tara again. Her smile had broadened, and now amusement danced in her eyes. "Check the inscriptions," she suggested. Mulder dropped his gaze to the books again, and after a brief hesitation he flipped open the book by Plato. There on the inside of the front cover, in Tara's elegant, feminine script, were the words, "To thine own self be true. Tara Scully, January 1, 1999." He felt his eyebrows rising again, and looking back up at Tara he saw that her expression had suddenly turned serious. "I really did mean everything I said, Mulder," she said softly. "Now look at the other one." Once more he looked down at the books, and this time he opened the book of poetry. Here the inscription had been written in Bill's neat, methodical handwriting: "What she said." Mulder smiled. # # # Residence of Bill and Tara Scully 9:58 p.m. - EPILOGUE Dana Scully paused in the doorway between the dining room and the living room and looked at her partner for a moment. He was stretched out on the sofa in his customary sprawl, arms and legs everywhere. The tape was already in the VCR, ready to go, and he was playing idly with the remote control. For just an instant she indulged herself in the small, affectionate smile that she never allowed Mulder to see. He had been so solicitous to her since he'd regained consciousness that afternoon. It was funny, really, and rather sweet; you'd almost think that SHE had been the one to take a knock on the head, and for awhile she'd thought she might have to draw her gun on him to get him to lie still until his doctor arrived to clear him for discharge. He was such a pain in the ass when he was hurt. She wouldn't have it any other way. "We gonna watch this movie, or are you just going to stand there staring at me all night?" Scully chuckled slightly and moved over to the sofa as Mulder rearranged himself to make room for her. She handed him the bowl of popcorn and one of the bottles of root beer, and then sat down next to him and stretched out her feet to rest them on the coffee table. Mulder twisted the cap off his soda and took a deep swig, then grimaced slightly. "You know, I still think I could have had a Rolling Rock." "Not tonight, Mulder," she said. "Alcohol and head injuries don't mix; you know that. Besides, I thought you LIKED root beer." "I do," he replied. "But you can get too much of anything." He took another hit from his bottle, then picked up the remote control again and pushed PLAY. For a few minutes the two partners sat together on the sofa and watched the opening credits of DINOSAURUS! scroll across the screen. A construction company was using underwater explosives to dredge out the harbor of a tropical island, and the project foreman was developing a romantic interest in the lead actress. Of course. Eyes fixed on the screen, Scully twisted the top off of her own bottle of root beer and took a short sip, then grabbed a handful of popcorn and stuffed it into her mouth. God, it tasted good. She couldn't believe how good it tasted. Everything was perfect; everything was wonderful. She took another handful of popcorn, and followed it up with some more root beer. "Scully, do you love me?" She stopped in mid swig and looked up at her partner in surprise. Where the hell had THAT come from? Not that it mattered; she could never lie to him. "Of course I love you, Mulder. Didn't you know that?" He was looking down at her, his expression very sober and serious. He nodded slightly, and replied, "I guess I did." He paused, then asked, "Just exactly what kind of love are we talking about here?" She hesitated for just an instant, then shrugged and gave the only answer that she could: "Whatever kind of love we need it to be." For a moment Mulder seemed to study her face, and she looked back at him curiously, waiting to see what he was going to do. Finally he nodded again, and said, "That's a good answer, Scully. That's a very good answer." Then he turned his attention back to the TV screen, and after another moment Scully did likewise, and for a pair of minutes they watched the movie together in silence. "You know," her partner commented after awhile, "we must have seen this movie at least fourteen times. At LEAST fourteen times." He glanced down at her again and smiled slightly. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Some things just get better with time." "I guess that's true," she said. And after that they were quiet, and the two friends sat together on the sofa, eating popcorn, drinking root beer, and watching television, far into the night. Fini