"Being Crazy," In 44 Chapters. Name: Branwell E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET Already forwarded to XFF, Gossamer, and ATXC Date Finished: December 29, 1998 Rating: NC-17, Violence, Adult Situations Category: T, A, UST, MSR, H for an adventure with angst and undercurrents of romance and sexual tension and humor. I have a really tough time with this labeling, so let me know how to improve it if I'm misleading people. Archiving permission: Anyone may feel free to archive this. Just keep my name with it. Time: Set between "The End" and "The X-Files Fight the Future" Spoilers: Numerous through Season 5, especially "Christmas Carol," "Emily" and "The End." Summary: The X-files are gone and Mulder is lost without them. Scully is trying to keep things together for both of them. In the middle of this crisis Scully receives a plea for help from her brother Bill. She and Mulder must carry out an unauthorized investigation of a crime to save Bill's family. At the same time a memoir falls into Mulder's hands that Scully's sister Melissa believed to be an account of a Scully family member's past life. Mulder's curiosity overcomes his sensible resolve to avoid reading the story of a dark, difficult life that he and Scully supposedly once shared. He doesn't want to believe in the authenticity of the document. Then events in the present go out of control and drive out every other consideration. ****************************** Chapter 1, End in Fire Limbo. The Catholic Church had removed the belief in limbo from its creed not long ago. Nevertheless that's where they were now. They had a temporary office with broken-armed chairs that had been rejected from all the other offices on that floor. Scully sat at the larger of the mismatched desks, staring at the PC screen. Mulder sat at the other desk staring at nothing at all. Scully knew he was still seeing the ravaged file cabinets in their old office. Much of the information in them probably still existed in his head. But anything that had been filed for future study was gone. Old cases that hadn't been examined in twenty years were forever lost. There was nothing she could say to minimize the calamity. She knew because she'd already tried. They had reported here for several days and sat in silence, while the FBI supposedly conducted an internal investigation into the arson. Mulder hadn't even bothered to make a cynical joke about foxes guarding henhouses. Their current assignment was to review a reissue of the FBI Policies and Procedures Manual for Purchasing and Leasing. Scully was looking at page one for the eighth time and the meaning of it had not yet become clear to her. She kept thinking about the past months since her recovery from cancer. On the whole they had been frustrating and ineffectual. She and Mulder had survived, no small feat, but they had solved few cases. They had made no progress in their investigation of the government's connection to mysterious experiments in biological weaponry. Instead they had lost ground in their understanding when theories they believed to be disproved were resurrected. With disasters on a greater scale than ever before going on around them, the truth was even more elusive than it had been in the past. Then there were their personal lives, such as they were. She thought that the worst part of the previous months was the pain and tension in their relationship with each other. Immediately after her recovery she had felt close to Mulder. Close enough to acknowledge to herself that she loved him. She had even thought he might be trying to reach out to her emotionally. Then they had disagreed over a document Scully's mother had found among Melissa's personal papers. Melissa had believed that it recounted a past lifetime where Scully and Mulder had been lovers. Mulder had swallowed the whole story unquestioningly. He was clearly upset when she denied any feeling of connection to that life. But he never once suggested that he had similar feelings in this life. Since then he seemed bent on putting as much distance between them as possible, both emotionally and literally. He feared the closeness they had experienced, or maybe he wanted to prove he was uninfluenced by the story. Of course she had to admit to pushing him away when he reached out to her and offered support. After Emily's death she felt so fragile that all her defenses would have crumbled if she had allowed him to get close. God only knew what she might have said or done in her extremity. To top off the mess they were making of their partnership, Mulder's old flame and colleague Diana Fowley recently showed up and tried to insinuate herself into their working life. Scully thought Diana probably believed six impossible things before breakfast, including the phenomena of channelling and reincarnation. Scully couldn't resist mentally trying Diana out in the roles of some of the less admirable characters portrayed in Melissa's manuscript. She scolded herself for enjoying the exercise. Poor Diana lay in a coma at that very moment. The circumstances resulting in her injury, however, did nothing to increase Scully's respect for the woman's acumen. She had read the crime scene report. There was window glass in the head wound Diana received, but no corresponding hole in the drape. Diana must have opened the curtains and looked out the window while she was guarding the target of a previous sniper attack! Her last assignment had been as a member of team fighting international terrorism. Scully was surprised she had lived to return to the states. It was a wonder she hadn't perished while opening a piece of mail labeled "Letter Bomb." ******************************* Mulder felt as though he were watching his life on a television set. Frequently some unseen person with the remote muted the sound. He had no control over the action on the screen. He watched his life, and watched Scully watch him watch his life. What was his motivation again? Oh, yes, Samantha's abduction, the ur-X-file. It was gone, stolen or burned. Scully assured him that this lost, disoriented feeling would pass. It was shock. He would feel anger, depression, grief, acceptance. It sounded like the stages of dying. That was why he thought Scully was wrong. He would never come out of this emotional stasis because if he did the feelings would kill him. ******************************* The phone rang and Scully answered it. After a few words she hung up and looked at him with concern. "I have to go to Skinner's office." Mulder automatically started to get up, but she shook her head. "He only wants me. Kim said it's personal. You don't need to go. Probably it's some mix-up in my personnel records. " Mulder sat back down and continued to scrutinize the fake wood grain on the desktop. The time that passed before Scully reappeared at the door could have been 5 minutes or 5 hours for all he knew. What he saw when he looked up jolted him briefly back into real-time. Scully had traces of tears on her face, and a grief-stricken look. "What's happened?" he asked, with almost his usual emphasis. Scully was still too distressed to think about the effect her news might have on Mulder. "Skinner told me my Mom called. Matthew, my nephew, Bill and Tara's baby, was kidnapped out of their house last night. He's just disappeared." Mulder noted sluggishly that someone had muted the sound again. He heard an annoying buzzing instead of a voice, and the picture started to dwindle too. Then he felt his chair being rolled back and his head being pushed down toward his knees. His first attempts to straighten up were unsuccessful, because two small hands placed pressure firmly on the back of his neck. Did there always have to be an open file on a mysterious child abduction? Was it a law of nature? One file was destroyed, so another one had to be created? "When did you eat last, Mulder?" "I don't remember." "That's not recent enough. Come on. I'm sorry I blurted that out so suddenly." Scully took his hand and tugged. He got up mechanically and walked alongside her. As the blood circulated normally through his brain again, he began to think about how inappropriate this was. Scully had just gotten terrible family news. She was shocked and grieved. So what followed? He cracked under the pressure on her. She took care of him, and in the process she apologized to him for revealing her problem in an insensitive way. He took her arm and stopped suddenly. As he tried to form the words to express his sympathy, and his regret at being such a weak sister, he found he had to lean against the hallway wall for support. "It's OK Mulder. I know this is a terrible time for you," she assured him. Over his inarticulate protests Scully steered him into the cafeteria, and seated him at a table. She turned up a few minutes later with a tray full of food. It was an eclectic spread that included fruit and cottage cheese along with sausage, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes. Instead of the nausea he expected at the sight and smell of food, Mulder felt his body gear up for digestion. Obviously his physical self was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Now that she had accomplished her mission, Scully sat down and her face resumed its expression of anxiety and sorrow. Mulder didn't want to give her any more trouble so he ate. As he systematically emptied the plates in front of him, Scully related the few details she had on the crime. "I talked to Bill and then I called the detective in San Diego who's heading the investigation. It's only been about six hours since Tara found Matt's crib empty. He was gone when she went in to check on him at six A.M." Mulder made a conscious effort to switch on his profiling persona and was gratified at the immediate results. Questions and answers made sense again. "Was anything else missing?" "Nothing at all, so far as Tara can figure out. Of course she's a basket case." They both knew that the scenario wasn't the best. No ransom note was found. The kidnappers didn't take diapers or clothes for the days to come. Why not? "Signs of breaking and entering?" "None, so far." After a moment's hesitation Scully continued slowly. "They have a security system-a pretty good one. The doors and windows are secured so that an alarm goes off in the security firm's office when they're opened. The system has to be disabled with a code to prevent that. There was no alarm last night. But Bill insists he enabled the system before they went to bed last night." Scully paused and then went on again. "I'm taking time off and flying out there. I'm afraid the local police are going to blow this case, Mulder. They're putting most of their time into questioning the family and checking their alibis. I think they've already made up their minds that Bill and Tara are covering up child abuse and murder." Mulder considered offering to accompany her. The awful memories of his last visit to San Diego on Scully's behalf played themselves out in unwanted detail at the thought. He remembered how reluctant Scully had been to involve him at all. She only called him because she needed his testimony at a custody hearing. The crisis that was Emily exposed his betrayal of Scully's trust in him by forcing him to admit he had known all along that her stolen ova were being used to create some kind of monstrous hybrid children. For a while he believed she would quit the X-files to mother the little girl who resulted from one of these experiments. Their efforts to uncover the truth were useless. They were helpless to save the child's life, and Scully let him know that his emotional support was unnecessary and unwelcome. Why would she want him now? No, he really didn't need to see the closed off expression with averted eyes that would follow his proposal. He didn't need to hear the chilly "Thanks, but no thanks," response. "Give me a call if there's anything I can do to help, Scully," he said, keeping his own eyes on his food. "If the authorities bring in the FBI, I'll find out who's handling it and make sure all the angles are covered." Scully was saddened to realize that where once Mulder would have offered his company without a second thought, he now held back. After four years of steadily increasing trust and friendship between them, why did they now devote so much energy to holding each other at arm's length? She sat in silence thinking about what San Diego would be like. Convincing the police to expand their investigation would be an arduous job in itself. At the same time she would have to deal with memories of Emily and the incredible suffering and fear of her victimized family. Defeat seemed so certain it bowed her shoulders with its preordained weight. As the minutes of silence passed, Mulder looked up to see if something were wrong. Scully's apprehension and loneliness were painfully evident in her bearing. His reason admonished him to stay out of it. What would happen to the carefully maintained space between them if they were living en famille in San Diego? Besides, Bill hated him. He'd be welcomed with all the enthusiasm a taxpayer reserves for an IRS auditor. The local police would resent the hell out of him. If Matthew was never recovered, his presence and participation would make it his failure. Worst of all, what if it were his expertise that pinned the crime on Bill or Tara? His negative resolve, constructed at great emotional expense out of impeccable logic, melted like ice on a griddle when he looked at Scully. She might not think she needed him, but what if she did and he weren't there? He owed her too much to let that happen. "Scully, you wouldn't by any chance want me . . . .Maybe when you get there you'll want me to fly out for a day to talk to . . . .I don't want to complicate things . . . ." "Would you come out with me?" she interrupted eagerly. "I felt like I shouldn't ask. It's a terrible imposition." Mulder was taken off guard by her swift acceptance. "You know I won't cover up anything I find," he said warningly. She nodded silently. "Are you flying out with your Mom tonight?" "Yes. We've got tickets for a direct flight to San Diego. It lands at 3 A.M., Pacific time." "I'll follow you out tomorrow night, Scully. You call me tomorrow morning with the relevant names-employers, employees, former employees, security company staff, neighbors, co-workers, etc., etc." Scully watched as Mulder sat down at the PC and started scanning FBI databases for patterns in infant kidnappings. She couldn't be thankful for this dreadful event, but her pressing need had certainly brought him, at least temporarily, out of what looked like a serious depression. "Thanks, Mulder," she offered. "Don't forget any repairmen they've had recently," Mulder replied. He was already focused on a particular case file. Mr. Congeniality he would never be, Scully admitted to herself. She took care of her leave arrangements and started home to pack. Her Mom would be ready to go at 10 P.M. That should leave enough time to get to the airport and through security. When Scully opened her briefcase in her apartment, she realized she had forgotten to bring home the old book her mother had given her last Sunday at dinner. It was another item from her sister's research materials. Her interest in New Age philosophy and medicine had led her into many unusual areas of study. Her mother told her that Melissa had pursued her interest in family histories connected to reincarnation with a lot of enthusiasm until 1994. Then she had bundled all the manuscripts and books away into storage and become more concerned with meditation and prayer. Mrs. Scully hadn't received any mysterious calls to draw her attention to the book this time. Scully was very thankful for that. She didn't want anything more to do with phone calls from the dead. Unaware of the difficulties the other document had caused between her daughter and Mulder, Maggie Scully had offered the book as a curiosity and companion piece to the manuscript inherited from Aunt Kate. The provenance of the book made its connection to their family even less likely than that of Aunt Kate's "family history." Scully remembered leaving the book on the shelf right over the PC where Mulder was working. The memory didn't please her. While he would never be Mr. Congeniality, he would beat out the entire Western world for Mr. Curiosity. If the first few pages were any indication, the story was downbeat---a bad influence on someone who was already depressed. She had pretty much decided not to read it herself. Not because she was depressed. It was because these supposed accounts of past lives embarrassed and confused her. To have Mulder read it would be worse than reading it herself. It would just re-open the whole issue between them, and he would be especially vulnerable right now. Scully acknowledged the fact of her screw-up with a shrug. It was still possible he would overlook the book in the intensity of his concentration on Matthew's disappearance. She couldn't be concerned about it in the light of other problems. On the flight to San Diego Scully found no comforting words for her mother. She finally settled for holding her hand in silence while she considered the practical questions. Bill had recounted some of the police investigation for her. The parents were always the first suspects in a case like this, but they should have been eliminated as possibilities within hours. Instead they had been questioned repeatedly on the same points. The Susan Smith and Jon Benet Ramsey cases had every detective determined not to overlook the suspects closest to home in their sympathy for the families of missing children. Scully had advised full co-operation, since that would put the police back on track as soon as possible. She still felt an anxiety close to panic when she thought about the actual criminals and the head start they were getting while the police harassed Matthew's family. ****************************** Mulder searched the crime databases until the cleaning crew arrived at eight o'clock. He couldn't think of anything further to do without names, so he prepared to leave the office. As he started down the hall, he heard a voice behind him. "Mister, you forgot your book." He stopped and looked blankly at the young woman hurrying after him with a tiny old volume in her hands. "It looks like it might be valuable. It's so old." He looked at the title-"Memoirs of a Journalist: An Account of the Grave New Evils that Threaten Our Modern Civilization." Still baffled, he opened the cover and found a letter that answered his questions. Biblioquest P.O. Box 32841 Boston, MA October 25, 1985 Dear Ms. Scully: We are pleased to be able to send you a book that meets the criteria specified in Ms. Zenith's letter of July 31, 1985, as follows: 1. Memoirs published between 1820 and 1850. 2. Authored or edited by a member of the Fox or Spinner families. 3. Dealing with events in London, England during the period from 1810 through 1815. We never before dealt with a request that was simultaneously so rigorously and so loosely defined. Working with these instructions from someone who 'channels' from the spiritual realm was quite a challenge. Miss Emily Brewster, the specialist who directed your search, said it was the most interesting assignment she ever tackled. In short, she was enthusiastic. We are working on your other requests. The search for twelfth and thirteenth century English documents relating to the Duke of Exeter does not hold much promise. It appears most unlikely that anything will be available on the market. Most such items are already in collections belonging to a university or to the Crown. If anything did go on auction, it would almost certainly exceed the price range you specified by an order of magnitude. In the other matter we are still hopeful. We found no attempted lynchings in late nineteenth century Ohio which involved people with the names you specified. However we are expanding the search parameters, historically, geographically, and categorically. Please encourage Ms. Zenith to refer other clients to our business When they require a literary search. We look forward to working with you in the future. Your bill is being sent under separate cover. Very truly yours, Miles Van Dyne Senior Manager Wonderful! Things hadn't been the same between him and Scully since they both read that first document Melissa dug up. He felt an uncertainty in their relationship that was like teetering on the brink of a precipice so high that he couldn't see the bottom from where he stood. He wasn't going to repeat his earlier mistake and cause himself a lot of inner turmoil by reading this book. OK, maybe it was true, but apparently insight didn't always improve relationships. More insight might destroy theirs entirely. He thanked the young woman and tucked the book into his briefcase. If it fell out into a dumpster somewhere he wouldn't miss it. If it didn't he'd return it to Scully, unread, at some far future date. At home Mulder prepared for bed, turned his television to the Sci-Fi channel, and lay down on the couch. He would astonish Skinner by requesting leave tomorrow. The Bureau would be glad to get him out of the way while the debate on what to do with him raged on. He and Scully toiled down the steep dirt path that skirted the cliff. The heat and humidity around them left them both wet with sweat at the slightest exertion. But something was after them and they had to keep moving. As they picked their way down, the path got narrower and narrower, until they were clinging to vegetation on the hillside to keep from falling. Finally the path itself disappeared and they were crouching, trying to make progress across the angled cliffside. They reached a place where ancient volcanic flows from above had streamed down. The lava had hardened into folds of rock that looked like a stone waterfall. It plunged a hundred feet to the rocks and sea below. A vine Mulder was using for just a little support gave way and his precarious balance was lost. He rolled once and started slipping toward the edge. Scully saw and lunged forward after him, grabbing for his belt. She caught it, but her weight and purchase on the smooth rock were not enough to stop his slide. He yelled at her to let go just as they both went over the side. Mulder woke up feeling just as sweaty as he had in the dream, but it was a cold sweat. This nightmare first occurred last autumn and now he had it at least once a week. So far he had always waked up when they were in free fall. He hoped the dream never progressed to the point of impact on the rocks below. Scully's call came an hour later, at eight o'clock A.M. "Scully, what's going on?" "It's looking worse and worse. Detective Wagner doesn't believe Bill's and Tara's story. He's not seriously considering other possibilities. Some of his people are running other leads down, but I think they're just going through the motions. I'm afraid Tara's going to have a breakdown if they don't find something out soon." "How's Bill holding up?" Mulder asked curiously. "Oh, you know us Scullys. We're as tough as old boots." Mulder imagined all the Scullys conscientiously meeting family toughness standards, while poor Tara felt like a madwoman for being distraught. "I've got the names from Bill and Tara. They should be the same ones the police have," Scully added. Scully began to read off the names with their connections, addresses and phone numbers. Mulder wrote them down, repeating the spelling of each. When she had finished she sighed unconsciously at the prospect of going back to dealing with her brother's household. "Thanks again for helping, Mulder." "Hang in there, Scully. I'll get there about 11 o'clock your time. I'm going to rent a car." He paused for a moment and exclaimed, "It must be five in the morning there right now!" "That's right, Mulder. Nobody's getting much sleep here. I'll see you tonight." When he arrived at the FBI building he slipped into their temporary office and renewed his searches of the official databases. The names Scully had given him didn't raise many flags. He learned that the guy who cut their grass was a deadbeat dad, and that their neighbor Dirk Goldman had a bad habit of soliciting middle-aged men in public bathrooms. Marilyn Sharkey, the 72-year-old lady who lived across the street, owed several thousand dollars on traffic tickets received in Reno and Las Vegas. Mulder was impressed. They had succeeded in living squeaky-clean, no insignificant achievement in California. But he knew these sources barely scratched the surface. It remained to be seen what kind of dirt the real pros could dig up. Skinner could barely conceal his surprise and relief at Mulder's announced intention to take leave. The last time he saw the agent he feared Mulder was falling into a clinical depression. There had been little time to think about it, since his own daily schedule was a pressure cooker of highly charged meetings. Many of them involved the future of the X-files and the agent in front of him. "Are you going back to Graceland?" he asked with a smile, as he signed the leave slip. "No sir, I'm going out to the West Coast." Skinner nodded absently. "Give this to Kim on your way out. Have a good vacation." Preoccupied with strategy for the 3 o'clock in Director Carter's office, he didn't make the connection with Scully's situation until Mulder had stepped into the outer office. Skinner moved quickly after him, but Mulder had already disappeared. The infinite potential for trouble that Mulder's words had unveiled made Skinner flinch. "Kim, if a call comes for me from the San Diego Police Department, try to handle it. Put them off if you can. I'll return the call later." Much, much later, he thought. Chapter 2, Virtual Dirt When Mulder showed up at the Lone Gunmen's place Frohike and Langly were idly searching the net for unusual sources of information. "Are you too busy to do some research for me?" Mulder inquired. "Have you got something interesting?" Langly asked. "We're just looking for additions to our personal info database. We've got a table of topics and names we run daily for hits, just in case something turns up to our disadvantage. Did you know that someone who calls himself Zebulon has a website where he claims that you consulted him as an expert on extraterrestrial phenomena? He says he was able to clear up some difficulties you had with interpreting evidence." "Somehow it doesn't surprise me, " Mulder said, shaking his head resignedly. "Men, I'll bring back a case of Jolt and a pizza if you'll dig up some dirt on these names." "What did they do to get on your bad side?" Frohike questioned. "Seriously, Frohike. Scully's nephew was kidnapped yesterday. He's only a baby." "Bummer," Langly sympathized. Byers had entered in time to hear the last exchange. "It's the ex-spouse. It's always the ex-spouse. I helped my sister track down her little girl. My ex-brother-in-law had taken the kid to Florida on a one-week vacation and didn't come back. He was the world's worst father. He just didn't want Nikki to have her little girl." "Did you get her back?" Mulder asked. "I sure did. And we made that man sorry he ever tangled with us," Byers went on with unusual malice. Langly gave an evil, reminiscent grin. Mulder couldn't keep a hint of disbelief from his voice. "Did you beat him up?" "Certainly not. But if he ever gets credit again on this planet I'll go back to a 486. Trust me, it's almost always an ex out for revenge," Byers said with a wise look. "It can't be an ex-spouse this time. Bill and Tara aren't divorced, and neither one was married before. The police have all these names, but unfortunately they've focused on Scully's brother and his wife as the main suspects." Langly took the list and looked at it. He handed it to Frohike. "Here, let's get their social security numbers. When we've got those, their asses are ours. And make that two pizzas, one vegetarian," he flung back over his shoulder at Mulder. When Mulder returned he had two and a half pizzas. The smell of the pizza parlor had reminded him that he had neglected to eat again today. He didn't want to do something inconvenient, like faint at the airport. Mulder sat down beside Frohike, who was collating their results. "How's Diana doing?" Frohike inquired casually. "She's no better and no worse," Mulder replied soberly. "Were you going to hook up with her again, if she hadn't gotten shot?" Frohike prided himself on his sensitivity, but he didn't feel it was required here. He was curious. "If it's any of your concern, no. She was probably a mistake," Mulder replied stiffly. "You think?" was Frohike's sarcastic answer. "You've got an unerring instinct for finding the women that'll make love hurt, don't you, buddy?" Mulder ignored him. Having Mulder around always raised morale at the Lone Gunmen's hangout. His apparent failure to appreciate his partner made them feel like his emotional and social superiors. They all agreed he was doomed when it came to women. Langly argued that it was a good thing, since it left him free to concentrate on conspiracies. "Well, I'm afraid there's a reason the police are concentrating on Scully's brother and his wife," Frohike observed after scanning the results of the search. "You probably already knew about these," he continued. "These are the results of running the names you gave me." He riffled through the stack, muttering as he went. "Hmm, arrests for soliciting, traffic violations, pornography purchases but nothing younger than pseudo teenager, behind $5,000 in child support payments, registered as possible threat to the President." "We also ran William and Tara Scully," he said, handing over a paper. "Did your lovely partner tell you Tara was treated for postpartum depression in February? She's still seeing a doctor and taking Prozac." "Geez, do you know what size bra she wears? Don't answer that," Mulder added hastily. "Bill's not a nineties kind of guy. He doesn't share much and he and Scully don't talk that often. I doubt if he told her. If he did, she didn't tell me." Mulder knew that a mental condition like that would be a red flag for the detective on the case. Did Tara lose control with a fussy baby and Bill decide to cover for her? Neither possibility fit with his experience of the Scully family. However his acquaintance with Tara was minimal, and interactions with Bill had been either covertly or openly hostile on Bill's side. His doubts about participating loomed again based on this discovery. He stood up and packed the papers into his briefcase. "I know I speak for Scully too when I say thanks for your help. My flight leaves in two hours. I'll read these in detail on the plane. We'll find Matthew." Dead or alive, Mulder added silently. He couldn't stand it if this investigation remained unsolved, as his sister's disappearance had. He was a grown-up this time. He'd do whatever it took. Chapter 3, Uneasy Allies Mulder was relieved that Bill and Tara no longer lived in the same house Scully visited previously. At least her memories wouldn't be quite so overwhelming. After Matt was born, the family had moved out of base housing. It was a about an hour's drive from the airport to their new home. Like many homes here it was built on a street carved terrace-style from the side of a hill. Across the street was the hill leading up to the next level of houses. He saw there was still a scarcity of sleep in the Scully residence. Every window in the two-story stucco building appeared to be lit. Scully answered the door. Mulder noted approvingly that she wore a jacket, which meant she was wearing her holster and gun. Then he registered her unreserved smile of welcome and found himself smiling back. He barely stopped himself in time from enveloping her in a hug. "I feel better knowing you're here. Thanks for coming," Scully told him. "No problem. I'm really sorry this has to happen to anyone, but your family has suffered too much. Good evening, Maggie," he said, as Scully's mother entered the hall. "Hello, Mulder. I want to thank you for coming out here to help. It's a lot to ask. My poor children," she faltered, her voice wavering slightly. "Well that doesn't help, does it? I'll show you where you'll be sleeping. You can leave your bag there." Mulder thought Bill Scully must be making pretty good money. The house was large, although placed on a typically small California lot. There were four doors in the upstairs hall in addition to his assigned bedroom. "Dana and I are sharing this room," Mrs. Scully said, pointing to the room across the hall from his. "That's the bathroom," she added, indicating the next door toward the end of the hall. "Bill and Tara's room is on the left at the end and the baby's room is across from theirs." Mulder saw light coming from under the door of the baby's room. "Is someone in there?" he inquired. "Tara," Mrs. Scully answered, looking anxiously at the door. "She's hardly come out during the past day and a half." He put his suitcase and briefcase in the bedroom. The lack of a TV was a disappointment, but perhaps there was a portable one available. "It's 4 A.M. your time. You'd probably like to get some sleep before you start talking to people," Mrs. Scully offered. There was a questioning note in her voice that betrayed her hope that Mulder would decide to start work immediately. Which was exactly what he intended to do. "I don't want to lose any time. Is Bill around, able to talk?" She nodded and started down the stairs ahead of him. Mulder knew that Bill would be the most difficult person to deal with. He might as well get the initial sparring over with. Scully was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. She had clearly anticipated his plan of action. "I'll take Mulder to Bill, Mom. I need to speak to him first." Scully gestured to Mulder to follow her into the kitchen area. Only a low counter separated it from the family room. "There was a new development this afternoon. Bill got a call at work from an unknown person. The caller was a man, who said, 'I'll settle for half of what you owe me.' He hung up immediately. Bill called security right away. It took hours to trace the call, and it turned to be a public phone near a busy gas station. The attendant said the phone gets a steady stream of users, and they don't even have to get out of their cars. The history records on the phone confirmed that. They're running checks on non-cash purchases made at the gas station at that time, but I doubt if the kidnapper was that careless." "Have the police put a tap on the phone lines here?" "Yes, they did that within the first six hours." "Are they looking more seriously into other suspects now?" Scully frowned as she answered. "No, that's the part that's starting to drive us crazy. Nobody else heard what was said. Security at the installation is permitted to record calls, but they usually don't. So the police suggested that Bill took an opportunity to divert suspicion to a stranger when he received a call from someone who got a wrong number. They're even hinting that he arranged with Tara to go out and make the call." "Wasn't your mother here with her?" "No, Mom had gone out for about an hour to do some grocery shopping when the call came. It's so frustrating, Mulder. The trail is getting colder and colder." "Why did Bill go in to work today? Didn't Tara want him to stay home?" Scully looked surprised at the question. "His position has a lot of responsibilities. He had to go in to set up a process to delegate some of his duties and make arrangements to postpone some exercises." 'Iron Bill' Mulder thought, remembering how Scully came to work the day after her father's funeral. Mulder worked all the time and people called him weird. These people did the same thing and were praised for dedication. It must be a style thing. "He brought some work home. He's in the den with it right now." "Scully, first, did you know that Tara was treated for postpartum depression last winter?" "No, I didn't. I would have told you. I know that affects how the police view the case." Scully looked thoughtful. "That explains a lot about Tara's condition now." Bill sat behind a huge, well-organized wooden desk that faced away from a large curtained window. The effect was to make anyone entering the room feel as though they were in the presence of The Boss. His expression was grim as he marked up various charts and schedules. He looked up and his face underwent a change that surprised Mulder. He smiled uncertainly and came out from behind the desk to shake Mulder's hand. "Mulder, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your involving yourself in this. I know you're doing it for Dana, but . . .I know I haven't always been as understanding of your position as I should." "It's OK, Bill. I'm doing this for Matt. Don't worry about it." Mulder shook the proffered hand and then turned away abruptly. Bill looked a little taken aback, but also relieved. "Let's work over there," Mulder suggested, pointing to a large table that held only a ship model. "Sure," Bill said. "Do you need anything? Pencil, paper, coffee?" "Not yet," Mulder replied, holding up his cassette recorder. The three of them sat down at the table and Mulder asked Bill to tell him the whole story from the beginning. It became obvious that Bill had been over the story so often that he had it by rote. "On Monday night I worked late. I didn't get home until about 8:30. I used the system code to enter the side door and reset it after I got in the house. Matt was already in his crib asleep. Tara and I had some salad and fish for dinner. Then she woke Matt up to feed him before we sent to bed at 11:30. She's hoping he'll start sleeping through the night if she does that. She gets so tired being waked up every single night. I worry about her. We didn't wake up until my alarm went off at 6 o'clock. We were so pleased he had slept through. That's a memory that'll be hard to live with." Bill had to stop and regain control of his voice. "Tara went in to check on him while I was shaving. She screamed- --God I'll never forget that terrified scream. I just about keeled over. I thought he must be dead. You know, one of those crib deaths. She kept screaming while I went rushing in. I asked Tara to search the house while I called the police. She was pretty irrational about it, but I had time to look too, before the police got there. There was no sign of breaking in or out. The security system was set properly. There was just nothing. No Matthew." Here Bill covered his face with his hands, but it didn't look like a rehearsed gesture. He was a man trying to hide deep pain under a paper-thin veneer of control. "I don't know if I can come back from this," he murmured, almost to himself. "I've come back from some other things---but this? I don't know." Scully forced her thoughts away from Emily. Her own daughter had died here in San Diego about six months ago. She had come back from that. Most of the way, anyhow. The emotions knotted up with Emily's death were so complex she avoided thinking about the experience. She tried to keep it confined to the mental cellar where other memories connected to her abduction were shut away. Mulder started asking questions. "Do you have a good code on your security system?" "I work with security systems that control access to nuclear devices. I know how to put together a good code." "Do you change it frequently?" At this Bill looked shamefaced. "No, Tara says she can't remember which one is valid when I do that. I haven't changed it in the five months since we moved here." "Do you know of anyone who believes you have a lot of money?" "No, we live like our neighbors, from paycheck to paycheck with huge mortgages and credit card debt." It was with his next question that Mulder hoped to make some progress. "Do you know of anyone with a serious grudge against you? Not a squabble over a power tool or who gets the office with a window, but someone who blames you for a serious injury? It doesn't have to be true---they just have to believe it's true." "The police asked me about that too, but I can't think of anything. We get along fine with our neighbors. I've gotten promotions over people, but they haven't come through deceit or unfairness. I haven't had to discipline anyone over a serious matter in years. Everything's been handled quietly through proper channels. Nobody's career was ever ended, although sometimes there were setbacks." "Would anyone at the base go through your records with Scully to identify possible suspects?" "They might, with my permission. But surely the police have done that." "I'm not sure they've given it their full attention. Please make arrangements for that tomorrow." "I'll do that," Bill agreed, making a note. "Now I'm going to ask harder questions that you have to answer honestly if you want me to stay and help you. Have you had any romantic or sexual relationships outside your marriage? Women, men, children, sheep, whatever. The point isn't to convince yourself that you've met some technical standard of faithfulness. It's to help us save Matt's life by dealing honestly with the possibilities." "I know exactly what you mean," Bill answered, his face turning red. "The answer is no. It would be wrong. To tell the truth I've never been tempted. Tara and I love each other. I don't do anything that could jeopardize that." Scully's eyes stung when she heard her stolid brother's open avowal of his feelings. She understood exactly how he felt. On a personal level, Mulder tried to imagine not even being tempted. He failed, but then recollected that the love Bill spoke of included a real-life sexual relationship. That would probably tend to take the edge off. As an investigator he noted the deep feeling for Tara that might lead Bill to cover up her misdeeds. "Have you run up any kind of gambling debts or borrowed money from loan sharks?" "Nothing like that, unless you count Chase Manhattan Visa as a loan shark. We only owe the usual people for the usual things." "Have you or Tara ever been counseled or treated for any mental condition that would make the police suspicious of you?" Mulder threw in, as casually as he could. Bill gave him a sharp glance, while Mulder made it his business to look preoccupied with the cassette recorder. Silently he was rooting for Bill to tell the truth. The man seemed so genuine---Lord, how he didn't want to have a hand in putting Scully's brother in prison! "You already know, don't you," Bill charged angrily. Mulder returned Bill's angry glare with an impassive stare. "Tara suffered from postpartum depression after Matt was born. It's a chemical imbalance in the brain, probably brought on by the changes in hormone levels that happen during pregnancy and birth. At least that's what the doctors tell me." Bill rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Sometimes I wonder, though, if what Dana put us through around the time Matt was born had something to do with it. That was enough to depress anybody." Mulder didn't dare look at Scully's face. He didn't want to witness her struggle to conceal her sorrow at the memory and her hurt at the implied accusation. She had gone very still at her brother's words. Granted, Bill was under an enormous amount of pressure. Still, didn't he realize how cruel it was to suggest Scully was somehow to blame because they became witnesses of Emily's tragedy? And Scully could never have any other children. Mulder had an impulse to take one of her hands in his, but he restrained himself. Scully was the doctor, but the next words were clearly up to him. "Did Tara ever show signs of neglecting or harming Matt while she was depressed?" Mulder inquired. He gave Bill credit for giving the question careful thought. "She wanted to sleep all the time when she was going through the worst of it. I had a couple of baby nurses in for about a month. After that the Prozac started helping and she did all right. She never got angry at Matt, or did anything to endanger him." "You should have given us the names of the nurses on that list. We can't help if we don't know everything that might be related." "I guess whoever did this took our right to privacy too," Bill said with resignation. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make things difficult." "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Bill. It happens to a lot of women and they recover completely," Scully comforted. Her voice was shaky to begin with, but gained firmness as she went on. Mulder had always known Scully was tough. Now he had the opportunity to see how some of her armor had been acquired. It wasn't a pretty sight, but he was honest enough to admit that the process had created the perfect partner for him. Scully rarely challenged him with an emotional response. She had slipped a few times. He'd never forget one of those occasions, no matter how much he wanted to. It was at the end of the case involving murders attributed to the mentally handicapped Harold Spuller. Scully confessed that she had been too frightened about the implications for her own mortality to tell him about seeing a ghostly image of one the victims. He had berated her, implying that she was acting against him by withholding information. That memory was a real treat to contemplate while she lay dying in the hospital later that year. How much right had he to be critical of Bill Scully for his insensitivity? He had done plenty to plug up any chinks left in Scully's armor when he met her. When she turned away from him at the time of Emily's death he should have rejoiced that she had learned to leave him out of her emotional life. To his surprise he'd felt lost and hurt. He realized that he missed the difficult and perilous work of communicating with Scully on a deeper level. But it was for the best, wasn't it? "We need to talk to Tara," he informed Bill. "She's not doing too well at the moment," Bill stated flatly. "She stays in Matt's room and cries continually. She keeps playing the music she used to get him to go back to sleep at night. He's so fussy at night for a six-month-old. This past month Tara was just getting back to her normal self." Bill's eyes had a far off look that seemed to be fixed on a happier time. "Never mind me," he sighed. "I know you have to talk to her. If you don't, and you don't find Matt, she'll never be normal again anyway. Good night, and thanks again to both of you." Chapter 4, Lullabies Outside the den Scully turned to Mulder. "I think I'll go sit with Mom for a while. I already tried talking to Tara but . . . .Maybe Bill is right. Maybe what happened with Emily was a factor in her depression and I remind her of it. You might do better by yourself." Mulder could hear the sadness in her voice, although her face was carefully controlled. Once again he felt like reaching out, and again told himself to leave well enough alone. Scully could always rely on her mother for support. "Sure. I'll see what I can do." He ascended the stairs and knocked at the door of Matt's room. There was no answer, although he could hear lively music playing. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. He inched the door open and saw that Tara sat with her eyes closed in a large rocking chair. She held a stuffed bear over her shoulder as though she were rocking a baby. Mulder braced himself for an unpredictable interview, and hoped he wouldn't be dealing with a woman who'd gone over the edge. "Tara," he spoke softly. She opened her eyes slowly. "Fox Mulder," she identified him. "Have you found him for me?" Her face changed from apathetic to eager, and animation entered her voice. He had seen the same look on the faces of people crowding around the podium in a faith healer's tent. Mulder was expecting the changes in appearance consistent with depression, but was still surprised at how different she looked. Tara's long blond tresses were gone. The new short cut had been neglected, so it looked lifeless and stringy. Her movements were sluggish. She had gained weight and her face was puffy. "No, I just got here. I need to ask you some questions to help me find Matt." He looked around the room scattered with Matt's baby things and filled with lilting music. "Maybe we should go to another room where you can concentrate better," he suggested. "Oh no, I'm waiting here. I want to be right here when they bring Mattie home." "OK, we can work here. Are you sure you're up to answering questions? Bill said it was all right, but I can wait . . . ." "I'm fine," she interrupted. "As Bill would say, if you ripped his heart out and stomped it flat. I'm fine. As fine as anyone can be walking around with that handicap." Her belligerence faded quickly to lethargy. Then she roused herself a little to continue talking. "Bill told me about the things that have happened to his family. He told me about your sister too. Have you been fine since she went missing?" "No, I never have. I've always thought my sister's disappearance ruined my whole life. I'm never going to get past it, because of the way it twisted my family and me. That's one reason why I want to find Matt for you. I don't want to see your family destroyed without having a chance." After a pause Mulder went on. "That's probably more truth than you need to hear right now. But people want you to do your grieving and recovery on schedule these days. Tell them to take a flying leap." Then Tara volunteered the information Mulder was hesitant to pursue with someone so delicately balanced on the edge of collapse. "I was just beginning to feel like a good mother during the past two months. I had to take hormone shots to get pregnant. You have no idea how hard it is to manage fertility treatments when one of you is on active duty in the military. And what those shots do to your moods! We were so happy while I was expecting. Then poor Dana came out here at Christmas. I felt sorry for her and Emily but what happened made me scared. I kept imagining how I'd feel if our baby got sick and died like that. When Matt was born healthy Bill said we'd beaten the curse. Everything was the way it should be. "So why was it harder and harder to get out of bed to take care of our baby? I was so anxious about doing everything right. If I did the wrong thing Mattie might die. While I was sleeping I didn't have to worry about it. Finally Bill came home one evening and I hadn't gotten up all day, except to feed Matt and change his diaper. Bill took me to the doctor the next day. We didn't wait for an appointment at the base hospital. It takes too long, and Bill didn't really want a record in his file. We went to Dr. Lenninger. He told Bill to hire a baby nurse and started me on Prozac. I went to a counselor once a week. Those next few weeks were the worst. Bill kept expecting me to get better, but it doesn't work right away. A few of those days, I swear I thought hard about getting in the car and heading for the highway. What if I didn't quite miss the overpass going 75 miles per hour? No more pain, that's what." This reasoning came uncomfortably close to some of Mulder's own occasional musings. "But you didn't do it. You came through and started feeling better," he suggested. "Yes, really slowly things started to get easier. Melanie said to kick back and take it one day at a time." Tara stopped and looked at Mulder as though she had just remembered his presence. He had perked up at the mention of a new name. "Who's Melanie?" he encouraged her. "A friend who came over a few days when we couldn't get a nurse." "You like her?" "Yes. She took care of Matt but she talked to me too." Mulder sensed for the first time that something was being held back. Now was the time to back off and win her confidence. At that moment his concentration was destroyed by the song issuing from the CD player. It was tune for the fiddle that shouldn't have stood out so sharply from among the other traditional Scottish songs. He was bewildered by a welter of emotions that boiled up inside him from no traceable cause---elation, despair, soul-destroying guilt, love, the bitterest hatred imaginable, and a longing so painful that he thought he was going to have to leave the room. The melody ended abruptly. He became aware that he had been sitting mute for two minutes. Tara sat rocking with her eyes closed, apparently not noticing his sudden silence. He felt as though he had been taken someplace else entirely and then unceremoniously dropped back here. "That was an interesting song," he commented. Tara didn't respond. "Tara, did you ever give your doctor the code to your security system here?" "Why on earth would he need that?" "How about the nurses who took care of Matt?" "No, they came and went when Bill did. They didn't need it." "Is Melanie a neighbor of yours?" "No, she lives in a another suburb." "How did she end up helping you out?" "She's the sister of an officer who was under Bill's command. When Matt was born he told Bill she was crazy about babies and would love to baby sit. She works as an aerobics instructor every other day, but on off days she could help." "Do the police have her name?" "I suppose so. Bill gave them everyone's name." "Did Melanie need your security code?" "No." Tara answered so quickly that her answer overlapped the question. "Something about Melanie bothers you, doesn't it Tara?" "No. She's so easy to be around. Sometimes easier than . . . people I'm closer to." "Is it hard to live up to the Scully family expectations sometimes?" Mulder asked with an understanding smile. "She wasn't always watching me, comparing what I did to what I used to do. I could just relax. The trouble is . . . ." Mulder restricted himself to a mildly interested look and hoped that Tara needed to talk. "I don't remember everything about her visits. Look you can't tell Bill. You can't tell anybody. She brought this dynamite weed a couple times. I hadn't smoked since college. They'd take away Bill's security clearance if they found out. But I was so miserable." "So you smoked some to relax." "We went outside where the bushes screen off the yard from the sidewalk. Afterwards we'd go in and pig out on Oreos and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Melanie brought the food. Bill doesn't like to have junk food in the house." "No harm done though," Mulder observed. "No harm, but the thing is I'd never smoked anything that strong before. I was so wasted a few times I don't remember everything that happened." "So, when was the last time Melanie came over?" "It was the middle of March. After that we didn't need anyone anymore. Bill and I started smiling at each other again. Until Tuesday morning." "Bill says you both got up as usual." "I went in to get Mattie and tell him what a good boy he was to sleep all night," Tara said in a crooning voice. "But he wasn't there," she finished in a wail that brought back the memory of his mother's uncomprehending cry after Samantha's disappearance. "Fox, do you think aliens took Mattie?" Tara choked out between sobs. "I know Bill doesn't believe that's possible, but . . . .Please tell me what you think." Mulder was thankful that he could mitigate that fear. "I haven't come across anything that suggests that, Tara. I think this is human evil, and I promise you I'll do my best to solve it. I'm going to leave now and do some thinking. Don't you want to lie down and sleep so you'll be able to take of Mattie when we find him?" "Don't you understand? I've slept enough. I just want one more chance to be a good mother." Sometimes Scully just led him to a plate of food or a handy couch when he wasn't being sensible. He didn't know Tara well enough. Someone else would have to do that for her. He slipped out of the room quickly. Another song was beginning and he was feeling the same onset of emotional turmoil that he had before. This time the sensation was a heart-rending sadness. He didn't like the agitation or the sensation of being displaced from the here and now. He found Scully and her mother in the kitchen starting a pot of hot cereal and cutting up fresh fruit. "Any chance of bacon and eggs?" he asked. Maggie Scully looked distressed. "They never buy fatty foods. I'll run out and get some in a few minutes." "Whoa. I was just kidding. I'll have what everybody is having," Mulder was quick to protest. Maggie went from looking harassed to blank. She handed him a bowl and spoon and hurried over to start cleaning and chopping vegetables for some other meal. Scully and Mulder went into the dining room with their cereal to talk privately. "You were right about Tara associating you with her problems, Scully. She's very confused. I learned some things that are new to me, but they'll have to be handled carefully. I don't think she's told anyone else." Mulder related the story told by Tara about Melanie and the pot smoking. "Bill would kill her if he found out," Scully said worriedly at the end of it. "Under the circumstances we'd better be careful about using that kind of language," Mulder reminded her. "Today I'm going to try to talk with the detective---his name is Wagner, right? I'll decide how much to share after I meet him. Will you be going out to the base personnel office?" "If Bill's commanding officer gives the OK." "You better use any clout your father's name has here. The Navy won't be thrilled to have civilians inspecting their files." "I know. I'm also going to call Commander Johansen first thing. We've got some credibility there." Scully stood up. "I'm going to get a couple hours sleep and then start the phone calls. I'll meet you back here later on." At 9 A.M. Mulder was sitting in the most uncomfortable fiberglass chair ever built. Detective Wagner had told him he would fit him in whenever there was a break in his schedule. An hour later it was clear that only a statistician using chaos theory could predict such an event. Mulder had already scanned "Gun World" and the "True Blue Law Enforcement Officer Supply Catalog." He rooted around in his briefcase twice and only came up with one resource to allay boredom--- the scorned "Memoirs of a Journalist." All right, he told himself, I'll read it like fiction, and if it gets horrible, which it probably will, I'll stop. Chapter 5, An Unpublishable Memoir "Memoirs of a Journalist: An Account of the Grave New Evils that Threaten Our Modern Civilization." Privately published, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1855 This book is our memorial to our mother, Sara Fox Spinner. She worked her whole life to accomplish its publication, but failed to overcome the reluctance of the publishing world to become associated with the hard truths of life. As we promised her before her death six months ago, we are printing the manuscript ourselves. Unfortunately we believe the effort is a futile gesture in these sentimental and corrupt times. Nevertheless, maybe one soul will be inspired by the story of these brave people to some act of courage or selflessness that will justify its existence. Maybe one exceptional person will be enlightened in the pursuit of truth. Morgan Spinner, Horace Spinner and Amelia Spinner Biddle Foreward, Philadelphia, September 9, 1815 My dear brother Morgan died six months ago on Feb. 14, 1815. How much sorrow those words encompass only I can know. People tell me that time softens all grief. Thus far, I do not believe them. He was the person dearest to me on earth, and I will never have another such companion. I can only hope to find some consolation in dedicating myself to his last request. For months he devoted himself to a mission that he believed was worth dying for. It killed him. After he collapsed on Christmas Eve he asked me to do something for him. What you, gentle reader, are about to peruse is a collection of writings that Morgan asked me to edit and publish. It is a story told by three people, and I am one of them. The other two are dead now. Morgan wanted our story told to warn others of the new criminal element springing up in our modern world. Influential secret groups already exist that transcend national boundaries. They value nothing but power for their own ends. To them war is a profitable condition that creates markets and distracts people from legitimate concerns about their liberty. We must be vigilant to seek them out and expose them. There is another cause, dear to my own heart, which these writings may also serve to advance. I am proud to identify myself as a bluestocking, and an ardent supporter of equal rights for women. The story of our sweet friend Amelia is an example of the tragedy that follows from our benighted society's outrageous treatment of women. Women are not just encouraged, they are forced, to rely on the support of a father, brother or husband. If this support fails they are abandoned to become the prey of the lowest types of men. Once fallen, no woman is permitted to retrace her steps to the upright path from which she strayed. These monstrous injustices must and will be rectified. I work toward this goal in the schoolroom daily, and dearly wish this book might play some small part in changing the beliefs of the uninformed. I warned Morgan that we risked the refusal of publishers by including the unvarnished truthful details. He said, with considerable emotion, that softening the narrative would be an insult to Amelia, who had to live those details. I promised to conceal nothing, and to strive constantly to bring this manuscript to the attention of the public. Morgan was a journalist, so he was in the habit of keeping a written record of important events in his life. He encouraged Amelia to start a similar diary. When he realized he would not live to tell their story himself, he requested my assistance. At his behest I combined their accounts with portions of my own journal from this period. I cut what was irrelevant, repetitious or tedious from all accounts, and added explanations and transitions where they were needed. The headings indicate the source of the text, and the date of the events that entry contains. I had to approximate many dates since multiple days were often covered within one entry, and the entry was usually written some time after the events took place. Let the reader be warned; Morgan was a passionate man, whose profession is notorious for its irreverence and cynicism. He shared these traits. Amelia received a blameless upbringing, but her later life contained many incidents which can scarcely be mentioned without offending the sensibilities of the gently bred. I beg the reader's pardon before the fact. However, if the things set down here discomfort you, please remember it is the life of our urban age itself which sickens your soul. Sara Fox Chapter 6, A Past Life Resurrected Morgan's Journal, Feb. 3, 1814 February 3rd was the third day of the Frost Fair. At dusk many people still remained on the frozen expanse of the Thames, giddy with the excitement of standing where boats usually floated. My sister and I had been here for several hours. Sally was enjoying it so much I made up my mind to bear with the cold and stay until all the tented stalls had closed up for the night. Perhaps I could write something about it for "The Times." Our excuse for treating ourselves to the fair was the celebration of my rise in salary as a reporter for the newspaper. The new steam powered presses would increase circulation enough to justify higher pay and more reporters. Despite her total lack of belief in astrology, palmistry, the tarot or any other form of fortunetelling, Sally insisted on entering the gypsies' tent and hearing her future prophesied. I stayed outside and listened to the hardy Scottish fiddlers playing for copper and silver. The lanterns hung amongst the tents were beginning to swing as the wind picked up. Their movement threw wildly dancing shadows over the ice, giving the remaining huddled crowds a mysterious, otherworldly look. "Play us 'Tonight My Sleep Will be Restless,'" a man requested, dropping coins into the fiddle case carefully placed on a shawl in front of the players. His accent identified him as a Scotsman himself. They began a tune that was calculated to make anyone's sleep restless, with its sad, seeking melody. My breath was beginning to freeze on my scarf. I had pulled it up almost to my eyes, at Sally's insistence. Sometimes her solicitude was overpowering, but I tried to be patient, since we had no other family than each other. She worried that I was too skinny, and had too many chest complaints. A small, thin woman wearing only a shawl over her dress was moving through the crowd hesitantly. I watched her because I thought she might be a pickpocket, but realized that her hands were probably too cold and numb to work that trick. She could be a prostitute. That approach would only be an excuse for begging under these circumstances. There was no place for her to go with a prospective cull. The entertainers, or market men and women would take her in custody if they saw her trying her game. They coveted a respectable reputation for the fair, so families would attend. Her face was hidden in the shadow of the bonnet she wore, but I could tell she was looking at me. Another man in the crowd requested a highland reel from the fiddlers. They obliged, preceding the song with a warning to the crowd that they were too cold to play much longer tonight. "Do you have any copper to spare tonight, sir?" she asked, in a voice that had the whine characteristic of many of her kind. I nodded my head while digging a few coins out of my pocket for her. At that moment Sally came bouncing around me, her brown curls flying about with her movement. "Morgan, would you have guessed? I'm going to marry an American!" she laughed. I saw the woman jump, and then begin to retreat hastily. Before she could turn away completely a gust of wind caused a nearby lantern to illuminate her face. I was stunned into immobility for a few seconds. Then I started after her, calling her name. "Amelia, wait a minute. I want to talk to you. Amy, wait." She moved over the snowy cinder path more quickly than I would have thought possible for someone in ordinary shoes. But my boots gave me a telling advantage, so I began to catch her up. She reached the embankment stairs ahead of me by only a dozen paces. Then she slipped on the glazed stone steps and fell backwards, hitting her head on the ice. She didn't move. I hadn't meant to frighten her. Sally was close behind me. She told me later that she hadn't recognized Amy until I called her name. When I picked her up from the ice, Sally was already taking off her coat to cover the unconscious woman. "Sally, it's Amelia Sullivan. Do you remember her from Chitterton? She made daisy chains for you," I said foolishly. "Yes, I remember now. What are you going to do with her?" That question had no simple answer. Sally chafed her wrists and held drops of sal volatile on a handkerchief under her nose with no result. Some people were approaching from the nearby tents to find out what the problem was. "Was she making immoral propositions or stealing from you? Shall I have her taken up by the watch?" one burly merchant questioned. "No, we know her. She fell and hurt herself," I informed him. He looked doubtful, but made an offer. "Do you want a hackney to carry her home? I can send a boy." "Yes, please." When he disappeared behind the pie tent, Sally asked her question again. "I guess I'll have to take her to a hospital," I replied reluctantly. "You can't take her back to the Square, and Mrs. Mobley wouldn't let her stay in my rooms." "I think you're right. You know what she is now, don't you?" Sally inquired straightforwardly. "No, I'm not sure of what she is," I answered shortly. Usually I appreciated Sally's candor, but I didn't want to think about the meaning of what had happened. Sally said no more. Her shivering worried me, but I couldn't bring myself to put Amy down on the ice to give Sally my coat. I was relieved to hear the driver's call from the top of the stairs. After I carried Amy up the stairs and deposited her in the cab I insisted that Sally wrap herself up immediately. There was no difficulty at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. They were there to minister to this kind of patient. As in all of the hospitals, they don't change sheets between patients and mortality is far higher than among those nursed at home, but at least it was shelter. The nun in charge of the ward checked Amy for a skull fracture and found none. She directed her assistants to make her comfortable in a bed. "She'll probably be all right after sleeping and eating. She's been on the streets, hasn't she?" the nun asked. "We think so," Sally answered for me. I was going through the bag she carried for something that would tell me where she lived. There was a handbill for the Cyder Cellar tavern, but nothing else to associate her with a particular place in London. Sally had to get back to Hughes Square soon. Lady Shelton thought of her as a friend as well as a governess, but it wouldn't be appropriate for her to be out too late. With great misgiving I decided to write a letter and leave it for Amy. In it I asked her to contact me for old time's sake, and left my lodging house address and the address of "The Times." I couldn't decide what to do about money. Even at fifteen she had a strongly developed sense of pride. I was also wary because she had run away when she saw me, instead of trying to use our connection to her advantage. I contented myself with writing that I would pay the postage on any letter. For a moment bitterness at the memory of past unanswered letters tempted me to tear up this one and dismiss the whole incident from my mind. I told myself to be sensible. It was pointless to dwell on feelings as dead as the flowers that bloomed during that long ago summer. Charity required that I assist her as dispassionately as any old acquaintance. Sally watched quietly as I wrote the letter. I knew she was worried about this encounter, but she waited until we were in the hackney going back to Hughes Square to question me. "Do you think she'll contact you?" "I don't have any idea," I said, feeling tired down to my bones. At the same time I knew the disturbing events of the evening would make it difficult to sleep. "How well do you remember her, Sally?" "Probably I remember more than you wish I did. You were in love with her, weren't you Morgan?" "I was seventeen. It was puppy love. Of course we considered ourselves engaged. We used to read Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" to each other in the meadow west of Edward's cow pasture. Neither of us realized that all Lady Capulet needed to do was wave the prospect of ten thousand pounds a year under Juliet's nose to bring about a happy ending for everyone." "It doesn't look as though it brought Amy to a happy ending," Sally observed. "She must have been too weak to hold out for the wedding and an assured income. Just a latter day Manon Lescaut. I should have known from the freedoms she allowed me that London would bring her to this pass." "Don't be too quick to judge her. London is very hard on women if their families don't protect them. I know from my visits to the workhouses that a great many girls are on the streets from stark necessity, not viciousness. You said you considered yourselves engaged. What I remember best about her was how much she loved you. It shone out of her eyes, Morgan." "She never answered a single letter I sent to her. Those big bright eyes deceived you, Sally. She's made her choices and ruined her life." And my life, I added silently to myself. "Yet you intend to help her. That is remarkably unselfish of you, my dear," Sally remarked in her most skeptical tones. "It's the least a good Christian can do," I retorted, knowing she would understand the joke. "I see," she said ironically. "You mean the Christian revenge of heaping coals of fire by endlessly doing him good turns when your enemy's down on his luck." "Yes, that's the one." "I don't believe you know your own mind. Good night Morgan." I went back to my rooms and spent a miserable night trying, and failing, to sleep. The next day I had to see Mr. Griffith early in the morning. I tried once again to persuade him that there was an important corruption story connected to the death of the Honorable John Eastman. Once more he sent me off to cover the hangings at Newgate. On the way I stopped at St. Bartholomew's Hospital to see if I could talk to Amy. I was saddened but not shocked to find she was gone. The nun now on duty said she had given the letter to Amy when she woke. She had appeared upset and demanded to leave the hospital immediately. No address or note had been left for me. There was no reason for me to feel obliged to do more, yet I felt compelled to search further. I made up my mind to look for her that afternoon in the dubious neighborhood of the Cyder Cellar. Chapter 7, A Business Relationship Amy's Journal, Feb. 4, 1814 When I woke up in St. Bartholomew's Hospital I couldn't remember how I arrived there. After a few words with a gossipy skivvy, I began to recollect the Frost Fair and the awful coincidence that led to my meeting with Morgan and Sally. I had gone there in hopes of finding a good-natured crowd with some money to spend freely and a few coppers to spare. When the nun gave me Morgan's letter I knew I had to leave the hospital immediately. Unless he had changed a great deal he would be back here. Morgan could be relentless in the pursuit of an objective. But even he couldn't search me out from among all the streets and squares in London. In spite of a headache that threatened to blind me with pain, I struggled into my clothes and slowly made my way through icy winds to my room off Maiden Lane. It was warm enough to sleep there until late afternoon when I awoke, hungry and thirsty. I knew what would make me feel better. A big noggin of blue ruin, or thirty-six drops of laudanum, would take me away from worries about old feelings and present poverty. It was easy to resist since I had no money at all. I promised myself that even when I acquired some money I would continue to resist, as I had for the past few years. When I stopped working as a streetwalker I found the strength to drop those fatal habits. There is no shorter road to the lunatic asylum than their indulgence. Now I earned money by running errands or sewing for younger, more attractive whores. This life ages a woman far beyond her true years. Nobody wants most of us after we're twenty. Sometimes I was paid to do the work of the midwife or physician for one of the girls. More often I did it for nothing. A sick prostitute can't earn money to pay for medicine or nursing. The bitter cold made it difficult for all of us. My usual girls weren't able to earn money to pay me for fetching them pies or ale, or washing their gowns. They didn't have as many appointments, and so didn't require delivery of messages and fetching and carrying. That was why I was reduced to begging at the Fair the night before. I was very much afraid I would end by getting caught as a thief if the weather didn't break soon. Today I'd try the streets as a beggar once again, because there was no choice. Soon the cold would force me back to my room still hungry and thirsty if I were unsuccessful. Even if I'd had a coat or boots before, I'd have sold them by now for food I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Morgan walking along looking into the faces of the girls on the street. I told myself he was here looking for a girl for immoral reasons, but I knew he was looking for me. This time the shame would kill me. I tried to duck my face below my bonnet brim and boldly hurry past him. With that uncanny perception he always had he picked me out and grasped my hand as I went by. "Amelia," he said quietly, as though naming me for the first time. And it almost felt as though he were, since I hadn't been called anything but Scarlet, or worse, for years. So I had to brazen it out-- -disgust him so much that he couldn't feel sorry for me and he'd leave me in peace, alone on my way to perdition. "Are you looking for company tonight, sir? No lady sister to purse up her mouth and say 'Tsk, Tsk," I whined, leering at him broadly. He winced painfully when I spoke that way, but he continued holding my hand. "Please Amelia. I need to talk to you." "I can get you someone younger and plumper than me," I grinned at him. "For a small fee." "Please. Don't do that," he said helplessly. He didn't know how to react. I wasn't going to let him play lord of the manor to my penitent fallen woman. It was best that I voice his true feelings for him, to make things simple. "You don't want to think about what I am. It makes you sick. You want to be angry but you feel so sorry for me you don't know what to say. I don't need your pity. I'm content as I am. This life suits me." I pulled my hand away and put on an air of indifference. The pained look on his face disappeared. The hard look that replaced it was one I had never imagined him wearing. "I'm a writer now, just as we planned together a long time ago. That's how I earn my money. You could do some work for me, if you're interested. Don't worry. I'll pay you for your time." I hadn't counted on how much it would hurt to see that cold appraisal in his eyes. But now we were getting somewhere and I knew why he really came looking for me. Like everyone else, he wanted something. "What kind of help do you need?" I asked suspiciously. "Come with me to some place where it's warm and we can get a drink. I'm freezing," he answered. He did look paler than a few minutes earlier, but at least he had a greatcoat. Despite my best efforts I couldn't stop shaking in my shawl and bonnet. "If you want something other than gin we'll have to walk a few streets west," I told him. Instead he hailed a hackney cab and told the driver to take us to Button's coffeehouse. A ride was a luxury I hadn't been able to afford in years. It was wonderful being out of the cold wind on upholstered seats. When I opened my eyes at the end of the ride Morgan was watching me expressionlessly. I had forgotten to stay aloof and unimpressed, but luckily he didn't seem to realize how much I enjoyed the journey. The rich delicious scent of the ground coffee beans reminded me of the last time I had been in a coffeehouse. Papa had taken me with him when he went to meet some people, and do some business at Lloyd's. I paged through newspapers and drank a sugary mix of half coffee, half milk while he had heated conversations with his so-called friends. Now I knew they were probably creditors. One man, a Mr. Todd, came over to me and asked how I did, and complimented me on my round, pink cheeks. He petted them excessively. No one would be tempted to touch my gaunt white face now. It was so warm in there I hoped I would be able to stay awake. When Morgan asked what I wanted my pride wouldn't let me ask for anything but black coffee. My stomach begged for more, but I reminded myself that I was earning money. Later I could get bread and herring at the shop two doors down from the house where I lived. Morgan still had the huge appetite I remembered from his youth. He ordered enough pastries, pudding, cheese and soup for three men. "What do you want me to do for you?" I asked. Morgan was staring down into his coffee, lost in thought. "What? Oh, yes. I want you to gather information for me from people who have contacts with the criminal classes. I have a theory about some criminal activities in London. My newspaper might publish it if I can find evidence." He looked up at me, now caught up in his ideas. His eager absorption took me back to evening walks when we solved the problems of the world as simply as only two well-read and inexperienced children could. Where had those children gone? He hadn't changed as much as I had. "I've learned about some incidents that seem to be random, but I think there's a pattern. I'll tell you what kind of information I could use. If you couldn't find out for yourself, I believe you could find a person who knew. You have the right kind of acquaintances." Morgan looked down again after the last words. "You won't expect me to inform on friends, will you?" "Not unless you count a criminal mastermind among your friends. The people I'm interested in probably don't do anything illegal themselves. They use other people as their instruments." "Oh, like Jack Quickill." "That's a new name to me," he said, with a surprised look. "It's not his real name. Nobody knows that. He owned the place where. . .I worked there for while, years ago. They call it the Panasay. I think that's French." Morgan knew better than to ask about my work, but I could see he was full of curiosity about Jack. His enthusiastic expression gave him the look of the boy I knew years ago. I found myself resisting the urge to lean over and pat his hand fondly. I used to do that out of sheer pleasure at watching him take fanciful flight with some new idea. "What did people know about Jack?" he inquired. "Nothing for certain. Rumor claimed he started as a highwayman. That's where the nickname was supposed to come from. He never hesitated to shoot to ensure his escape. Joanie said she once saw him shoot a rat running through the alley. He hit it square, using a pistol and shooting from a second story window." Morgan whistled appreciatively. "I wouldn't want to find his second waiting on me." "Don't worry. He wouldn't take a chance in a duel. He'd lay an ambush along a street where you were in the habit of walking. Odds are he'd send his bullyboys to beat you to death with their walking sticks. It happened to one of the girls. She stole five pounds and he made an example of her." "How did he get away with open murder?" "The watch attributed it to an attack by unknown ruffians. They were probably bribed. Jack let it be known to us why and how it happened." "That's the kind of information I want from you, Amy. I'll tell you something about why I'm working on this story." "But your food is here," I said anxiously. "It's going to get cold." How could anyone be indifferent to all that expensive food? "I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. All I can eat is this soup. If you want anything you might as well have it as send it away. I'll tell you what I know while you decide." I couldn't bear to see it all go back to the kitchen untouched. It was difficult to eat daintily and slowly, proving that I didn't need anyone's charity. It was lucky that Morgan's explanation made it unnecessary for me to talk. "Two events that affected me personally made me curious about the London underworld. One was the disappearance of David Bloom a year ago. He was last seen working late in his shipping company's warehouse on the Surrey dockside. The other was the discovery of the body of a Member of Parliament named John Eastman floating in the water at the same place. "When I first came to London I wrote about the building of the Surrey Docks. I met David Bloom and his father, Stephen. Afterwards David and I would meet sometimes at Drury Lane or Covent Garden and then go to a club after the performance. The Bloom's company, the Tulip House, exported tools and imported wool and cotton. They'd been evading the French blockade of English goods by trading at Dutch ports with counterfeit 'neutrality' licenses. When Napoleon took control of the Netherlands in 1810 they planned to end their wool trade with the Continent and expand their trade with the American colonies. I thought they had. Last year we met to see "Hamlet" and that night David got drunk. He hadn't done that before. I could see that something was worrying him, and I encouraged him to confide in me. "Over the course of the evening I found out he had been blackmailed for the last three years to allow the firm's ships to be used for smuggling. He was required to look the other way while unknown cargoes were added to the farm implements and tools that they exported legitimately. The crews were given papers that allowed them to enter Marseilles or Naples under the Turkish flag. The profits had been spectacular, but he told me that he was getting more and more worried about what was going on. A sailor who returned from one of these trips had come to him with a troubled mind. One of the boxes of goods had been damaged and he thought it contained ammunition. He wanted to know if they were sending guns to the enemy his brother was fighting to defeat. David sent him away with assurances that he was mistaken. The next day the sailor was garroted and beaten to death outside a stew in Bethnal Green. David told me he'd resolved to investigate and find out what the secret shipments were. I offered to help him, but he wouldn't hear of it. Then there was a nine-day's wonder the next month when he disappeared. "I wrote several stories about it, and questioned a great many people, but nothing was ever heard of him again. There were irregularities in the company's books, so eventually everyone assumed he had run away with stolen money. It made no sense at all, since the company was prosperous and he was an only child favored by his father. When I told my editors about the blackmail they told me not to be so gullible. The man had been setting the stage for his disappearance. I had the story published anonymously by a small printing press. "Six months later I met John Eastman, a Whig Member of Parliament, while I was covering parliamentary debates. Somehow he traced the anonymous blackmail story to me, and he came to me for information on criminal conspiracies. After several meetings, he admitted he was being blackmailed to control his voting and activity. He had more influence than expected for a young new member. His speeches and ability to rally support for a position showed promise. Before the blackmail began he was using his powers of persuasion to sway the Whig vote to a more warlike stance against Napoleon. He also encouraged British participation in alliances against Napoleon. Recently he became silent and passive, always voting with the Whig majority. Like David he wouldn't hear of the London authorities being informed. However he intended to do his own investigation. We tried to trace a few of the individuals who threatened him. But he went off on his own and started openly using people he didn't know very well to spy on people he suspected. At the inquest the authorities said he was drunk, fell and hit his head, and then got up and wandered until he stumbled into the water and drowned. I saw the body at the morgue, and there was too much to damage to his head to attribute to a simple fall. Besides that, there was no explanation for his presence at the docks. Ever since then I've been spending what time I could on these cases, and trying to persuade "The Times" editors that one important story connects them. "I need reliable people with the right contacts. This is where you could help me Amy." I nodded, since my mouth was full. Morgan hadn't changed much at all. If I helped him with this it would be something to look forward to each day. And regular money. Of course there was nothing but business between us now. After I finished what I could of the food, Morgan extravagantly ordered another hackney for the trip back. I instructed him to leave me on Maiden Lane where he found me so I could try for another customer tonight. Telling him that I was still streetwalking would show him that I had nothing to hide in my past or present life. In any case, I didn't want him to see the miserable room I lived in now. In reality I was going back there to sleep. With two shillings for the next week and a full belly, I decided I could skip begging that night. Chapter 8, An Objective Viewpoint Sally's Journal, Feb. 20, 1814 For several days Morgan offered me no information about Amy. When I asked if he had found her he answered "Yes" and looked grim. It seemed cruel to press him for details, when he clearly didn't want to talk about it. Yet I could see that it was preying on his mind, disturbing his sleep, and taking away his appetite. Something had to be done. I finally resolved to brave his forbidding manner and made a suggestion. "Yesterday I was going through some clothes I wore when I was living at Reverend Chilbert's. They're too small for me now. Could I give them to Amy?" "You can't give Amy anything," he said sarcastically. "She won't accept anything except payment for value received. Do you want to hire her for a Game of Flats?" I simply raised my eyebrows at these words. That kind of talk to his sister was vulgar even by his standards. He must be suffering terribly to use such extreme language to deflect my concern. I resolved to show him that rough words wouldn't discourage me. "No, but I take it you speak from experience. Do you buy the usual, or do you require a specialty? The English, French or Greek perversion?" That made him look at me and think. "I beg your pardon, Sally. I shouldn't have spoken to you that way." "I don't mind how you speak as long as you do, Morgan. Tell me what's troubling you. Have you been able to do anything for Amy? I know you haven't been using her as a prostitute." He looked at me defiantly before he replied. "I've hired her to get information for me about those incidents at the Surrey Docks. She wouldn't let me near her except on a basis of business. What could I do?" "You could have walked away and not looked back. Some kind of feeling still ties you to her." "I think it's called hate. When I look at her all I see is waste, of her life and our. . . ." He stopped abruptly, knowing it was too late to prevent me from understanding his sentiment. "You were going to say love, weren't you," I said gently. "How can I hate someone so pitiable? How can I love someone so false and shallow?" he stormed, clearly at himself rather than at me. I let him talk as wildly as he chose. "I never spoke of her, but there wasn't a week in the past ten years that I didn't dream of finding her. In the dreams we would be in strange places, wearing strange clothes, but always I'd recognize her and always she'd love me still. I didn't want you to know I was such a fool." "You're not a fool. Just because you were young doesn't mean your feelings weren't real. You know I'm no wild-eyed Romantic. Nevertheless, I do believe in love that can bind a man and woman for a lifetime. There are very good reasons why you can't enjoy that love again with Amy, but it isn't any use to deny it existed and may still exist in some ruined form. I'm sorry Morgan." He wasn't finished with his angry words. "She's not shamed by her fallen condition, she glories in it! She parades her activities in front of me as though for my admiration- --or torment! There's no evidence that she remembers what we once felt. No sense that she cares for what I might suffer." "What would you expect her to do? What could possibly be the prescribed behavior for such a situation? Should she grovel at your feet? Offer you low prices on her merchandise? Try to hide her history and pretend that she's spent all her evenings at Chapel singing Psalms and reading tracts? That wasn't the proud girl I knew in Chitterton." "I always suspected her parents were fools. There must have been unconscionable neglect on their part to result in this. When they failed her, she should have turned to me. I should have been there," Morgan continued, in a voice that became less angry and more despairing with each sentence. That last statement was at the heart of his troubles. He had stopped writing letters after waiting six months without receiving even one in answer to all of his. From that time on he was changed. His one-time simple pleasure in the world was lost, replaced by a darker, more cynical humor. Yet he blamed himself now for not saving Amy from a life of vice. "It wasn't your fault." "Wasn't it? Tomorrow I'm going to ask her to tell me her story. Maybe I can determine how to portion out the blame. Perhaps I'm as innocent as a new-born baby," he said, with little hope in his voice. I wasn't surprised that he wanted to know, but I dreaded what he might learn for the pain it would cause him. "You might be better not knowing the details. I've sat with sick girls and heard stories that make you want to renounce your kinship with the human species. In all seriousness, Morgan, however bad you imagine her story will be, the real one will be worse." "I have to know, Sally." As usual, Morgan was going to do exactly what he pleased, with no regard for advice from others. It was this healthy disrespect for outside opinion that made him such a good reporter and wonderful companion. It was also what frequently made trouble for him. Chapter 9, A Woman's History Amy's Journal, Feb. 21, 1814 The first week I worked for him Morgan asked me to go each afternoon and talk to the servants outside the house of Henry Trent. He was another Whig MP whose position on Bonaparte had shown signs of shifting recently toward more tolerance. I had a description of an unidentified man who was often seen visiting Eastman's rooms before votes were taken. This week Parliament was to discuss the terms of England's latest alliance against the Emperor, and the expected peace terms when he surrendered in Paris. Morgan thought Trent might receive a visit. None of the household servants saw a mysterious visitor that week. The last day of the week, when Mr. Trent left for Westminster, I walked to Morgan's rooms off Fleet Street. There was no intelligence, so there would be no money today. In other ways fortune had been kinder. My girls had been busier this past week, and so had more work for me. In spite of the continued cold, the streets were alive as usual with noise and movement. The hawkers, cluttering the streets with their carts, filled the air with promises of the best pies, buns, vegetables, fish or cream to be had. The carters and rakes competed to endanger the greatest number of people on foot with their reckless speed and disdain for anyone else's right of way. Small boys in front of the shops urged passers-by to enter and spend their shillings. There were young and not very young women who were obviously trying to sell themselves. It hadn't been more than four years since I had been doing the same, but I no longer remembered how I had been able to bear doing it. When I arrived the drapes were drawn in Morgan's room. Since the usual murky haze already dimmed the day outside, the room was left in gloomy darkness. He asked me if I had any information to give him. "No, I talked to some street hawkers in the square and to the scullery maid and footmen, but they hadn't noticed anything unusual." He reached into his pocket and started to count out some coins. "I said I didn't have anything," I reminded him. "I pay you for your time, not the results. I don't want you to lose interest in asking questions," he said. "You may be able to help me today anyway. I want you to tell me your own story. If it has nothing to do with my conspiracy I may be able to use the background information in some essay or article." At first I couldn't speak. The unexpected bounty of pay almost overcame my power to stay careless. At the same time I wondered if I should refuse it to maintain my pride. Morgan's own dispassionate preoccupation with his papers reassured me. He was thinking only about his own interests, not charity. I thought it still might be too difficult to chronicle my miserable history for Morgan, though we no longer had tender sentiments for each other. Much as I hated to admit it, I cared what he thought of me. I recoiled at the thought of telling him how I chose wrong over right in the past. I betrayed what we once promised each other through my blind trust in the wrong person. I became the outcast I was now through my blundering decisions. But I didn't want to acknowledge my sins to him. He tried again to persuade me. "Please tell me the truth. We may be able to inform people about things that need to be changed in London. Mrs. Mobley agreed to send Marianne up with the tea. Let's sit at the table so I can write down notes." At that moment Marianne knocked at the door with a tray. There were sandwiches, scones and cream along with the tea. Morgan certainly liked to have a lot of food at hand. I decided that I could tell my story impersonally, and thereby earn my money. What did it matter what he thought? He already knew the worst. "I remember when your parents took you to London. It was ten years ago last autumn," he prompted. I remembered too. I noticed as the coach left our little Somerset town that the trees had begun to turn. Morgan and I had said our tearful good-byes the evening before. We had agreed that he would wait for a final wave of farewell at the huge oak where the main street through town joined the road to London. He stood there as promised, his hazel eyes squeezed half shut against the morning sun, his thick brown hair standing up like a brush. I waved my handkerchief until he was out of sight. Then I sank back against the thinly cushioned seat and tried not to cry. He was only seventeen to my fifteen, but we were secretly betrothed. Mama and Papa hoped to distract me from Morgan with London and the social seasons. Since Papa had made unexpectedly large profits on his investments in shipping, they hoped for a better marriage prospect than the orphan son of a small farmer. Morgan and I had other plans. He and his sister Sarah were living in Chitterton with a distant cousin, earning their keep by helping him with work on his small farm. When he could, Morgan read and wrote with a purpose. He dreamed of moving to London where he would make his mark as a writer. We would marry when he began earning enough money to support a household. I would do something momentous with my life, but we didn't know what yet. There was one dream so fanciful I didn't have the courage to speak of it to anyone. Just after we moved to Chitterton in 1802, Papa wounded himself seriously while he was cleaning a bird gun. Mama was prostrate with distress, so I took over the sick room. The local physician told me I was a remarkable nurse, and that it was a shame women like me couldn't study the art of medicine. Privately I wondered if I couldn't be one of the first to do so. It was too fantastic an idea to propose seriously, but I thought about it sometimes. Morgan's sister Sara, called Sally, then ten years old, was to come live with us when we married. While we were forced to live apart we would write faithfully. Of course we would remain true to each other until death. Could we ever have been so romantic, so ignorant of the world? It seemed as though a hundred years had passed since those hopeful days. "Papa rented a grand house on a fashionable square. It was Manchester Square," I elaborated. "I know. I went there when I came to London seven years ago," Morgan interjected unexpectedly. "I was curious about what had happened to you and your family. Since you had never written to give me any news. No one I spoke to knew much except that your father had died and you and your mother had gone away in a fancy carriage." "I never received any letters from you. But I did write to you." "I doubt that the London mail failed to deliver some twenty letters over a period of six months. And yours as well," he said with a frown. "You sent twenty-three letters. You're right. I didn't know what happened until long after the fact. It wasn't the mail service that prevented our correspondence," I agreed. "After we moved in Mama started to plan dances and dinners, and we began to receive invitations. We weren't part of the higher levels of society. I was frightened enough by the large gatherings when we went to respectable assembly rooms and dinner parties. There were plenty of merchants with marriageable sons planning to match their inheritances with a handsome dowry." "It must have been impressive to a young girl from Chitterton," he commented. "London seemed as wonderful as you and I ever imagined it. The problem was money. I didn't know what was happening at the time. Now I know that Papa was going to Newmarket and Doncaster as often as he could to put money on horse races." I heard Morgan suck his breath in sharply. He probably knew what was coming next in my story. "Of course he lost, and bet more to recover his losses, and then borrowed money to bet some more. He juggled his accounts and concealed everything for almost a year. All that year he scolded me for failing to catch a rich husband. I was driving him wild with my refusal to consider to marriage. At first I told him my heart belonged to another. Later I told him I would never marry because my heart was broken. He told me that my heart had nothing to do with it. Finally the argument became idle as our household finances grew more troubled. No eligible men presented themselves to be considered for the honor of my hand. "During the last few months in the Manchester Square house we had angry duns turning up at the doors demanding money, Our servants gradually left since they weren't being paid. Finally the bailiffs turned up to take Papa to a spunging house. I think Mama believed recovery was possible until that happened. When she had to sell her wedding ring to raise the hundred pounds he needed to get out, she understood. Papa came home and they had a talk behind closed doors. After that Mama gave up. She sat around in curl papers and her dressing gown all day, waiting until they came to take us to prison for debt." "You went to prison!" Morgan exclaimed. "No. Before they evicted us from the house on Manchester Square something happened." This part was going to be difficult. I could never have predicted the events that took place in my life after this time. They made me a different person, and much of it was by my own choice. At first. "One morning Papa didn't come downstairs to eat the cereal and bread that I had to fix for us now. I went upstairs to fetch him. He was. . .his body was hanging from a hook on the back of his bedroom door by his braces around his neck. I'd never seen anything like it. I knew it had to be him, but his face was black and swelled, and his tongue stuck out all purple. . . . There was a terrible smell, like a privy. I'll always blame myself for the way I screamed." Morgan jerked in his chair, raising his arms a little, as though reaching for something. Maybe he felt sick. Why had I told him those details? I had never told them to anyone else. Suddenly I understood that in all this time there hadn't been anyone else I thought would care or understand what those details meant to me. But he wouldn't care anymore either. It was a very old habit reasserting itself. "If I hadn't screamed and brought my mother rushing upstairs I could have told her the facts slowly and carefully. But she came in the bedroom and saw Papa before I could gather my wits and stop her. She fainted, not into an ordinary faint. It was something worse. When she woke up she didn't really wake up. She just sat staring off into nothing. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't find that out until afterwards. "The one footman who stayed with us went and got help. Gossip flew through the square. Within hours there was a mob at our house. The landlord came to evict us and dozens of creditors came to take what they could to pay on our debts. "There was no one Papa hadn't borrowed from. I didn't know who to turn to. Mama didn't even seem to recognize me. She certainly had no advice to give. I ransacked the house looking for something to sell so I could pay for a place for us to stay. It was then I found your letters. Papa had hidden them in his room. All of the thirty letters I had written to you were tied up with them. I sat there and read them where I found them. It took hours. He hadn't posted any of the letters I had entrusted to him for mailing, and he hadn't given me your letters. I can only suppose he kept them to use against me if I continued to refuse to marry. He could prove to me that you had ended it between us, but he would have to admit what he had done. Maybe he knew it wouldn't have worked." Morgan made an indecipherable sound that caught my attention. It was too dark in the room to read his expression. I hastened to reassure him that he shouldn't feel guilty about the content of the letters. Morgan always tended to blame himself for things that couldn't be helped. "You have nothing to regret about the letters you sent. You were very patient, slow to get angry, never malicious or cruel, even in the last few. You broke off our connection with kindness. I could tell how you suffered under my apparent indifference. It was good of you to attribute my behavior to my youth. My later letters to you were less understanding than yours. Of course you never read them, so I don't owe you an apology." Reading those letters had brought me as close to despair as I was ever to be. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to follow Papa into eternal forgetfulness. Before I found the letters I had imagined, rather incoherently, that Morgan might somehow help me in my distress. After reading them I knew I was alone. My heart was freshly wounded with the knowledge I had caused Morgan so much pain. He would hate me now. If my mother hadn't been depending on me I would have given up. But I had to find a way for us. "Then Mr. Todd showed up. He told me father had sent him a note the evening before, asking him to take us in, but not telling him why. The creditors wouldn't let us take anything with us, so I coaxed my Mama downstairs and into his carriage and we left in the clothes we stood up in. I remember noticing that the trees were starting to look bare in the park across from our square. It was a little over a year since I had waved good-bye to you outside Chitterton. "Mr. Todd surprised me when he didn't take us to his home. Instead we went to a little house off Holborne Road that had cloths thrown over the furniture as though it had been shut up recently. "'I'll get you a servant directly,' he assured me. He gave me money to go to the market, and the names of some stores where I'd be permitted to buy on his credit. I couldn't find the words to thank him enough, and told him so. "He looked at me as though he were trying to figure out if I were telling the truth. Why wouldn't I be grateful, I wondered? "Over the next week I found someone to help take care of Mama, and bought us some clothes, nothing extravagant. Our neighbors all seemed to be young women with the latest fashions in gowns. For all their smart dress they were friendly, and helpful with finding reasonable merchants." Morgan changed position again, this time lowering his head into his hands. I was certainly doing a lot of talking. He must be tired of sitting and listening. "Do you want me to stop while you have some tea and something to eat?" I asked him. "What? No, no, I'm not hungry." Then, as if recollecting something, he added, "Please go ahead and eat, Amy. I had a big dinner, fried eggs and ham." "Then you shouldn't have ordered so much for tea. It's wasteful." I wouldn't have wasted any of this good food. "Don't let it go to waste. Eat it, or take it with you," he said in a low voice. I was already eating quickly, glad of another mealtime windfall. I wasn't anxious to continue my story from this point. I thought maybe he would lose interest if I prolonged the interruption. But he waited patiently. I continued after finishing the sandwiches. "You probably see what was happening, but I didn't. I was innocent, or a dunce, if you prefer. Mr. Todd came by every night for the next two weeks and stayed for a couple of hours. He seemed to be getting annoyed with me. My efforts to express my gratitude and show him how well I could manage the money he allowed me didn't improve his temper. "Then one evening he brought a package for me. He told the maid to take Mama into her bedroom and stay there with her for the rest of the night. "'Open it up,' he told me in a commanding tone of voice. "I opened it and found a vulgar-looking gown that was very skimpy in material. I tried to look pleased and to thank him for the present. I was puzzled. "'Go in your room and try it on. Show me how it looks.' "When I hesitated, he got angry. "'You're always telling me how thankful you are, but with all I've done for you, you won't do this one thing for me.' "I had to admit that I often expressed my wish that I could repay him. I went to the bedroom and put the gown on. It exposed almost all of my breasts, and I couldn't imagine how he expected a respectable girl to wear it out of the bedroom. Certainly not out of the house. Maybe beneath my reasoned thoughts I was beginning to understand. I must have taken too long trying to make up my mind to return to the parlor, because he banged the door to the bedroom open impatiently. I couldn't believe he would behave so rudely. The anger left his face and he kept staring at me intently. "He shut the bedroom door behind him and came over close to me. The respectful manner he had before was gone. He reached out and ran his hands over my breasts, waist, hips and. . .everything. I tried to push him away, but he was big and strong enough to shove me down on the bed. He grabbed my wrists and held them while he used his other hand to push the gown up to my waist. "I struggled, but I still didn't scream. Things were starting to become clear to me. His next words made everything quite certain. "'Your father had to know I don't dispense charity. You please me enough to put up with your mother. I hadn't bargained on her turning into a lunatic, but I'll still make the deal. You can leave this house if you don't want to do me any favors. I suggest you have someplace in mind to go. If you have to go to the workhouse, they'll send your mother to Bedlam. What do you want to do?' "I think he enjoyed watching my face while I tried to understand everything. At the same time he pushed his fingers inside me roughly. It hurt. I knew what would follow would hurt even more. I couldn't help tears, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of sobbing. I never cried again after that. "'Well? Do you intend to co-operate?' he asked again. "You see, he gave me two chances to refuse. "I knew it was wrong, but there was nothing I could think of that would save Mama but sin. I might be able to survive on the streets, or get a job as a maidservant, but there would be no way to provide lodgings for my mad mother. During our first weeks in London we visited Bedlam. It was better to be damned than condemn my mother to that. I told him yes and closed my eyes. "He bit my breasts, and unbuttoned his pants. He as violent as he could be out of frustration over the days of denial. The act itself felt like someone was tearing me apart. "That was how I started living an immoral life. Ministers say that the first wrong step is hardest, with each step following getting easier. I found that was true. Each step closed off avenues of escape and led to the next, with fewer choices. Soon there were no good choices to make anymore. I could only choose from immoral actions. I decided the course of my life that night. I learned to live with it. "My one regret is that I didn't have a lover before Mr. Todd. Before he killed those feelings in me. That summer before I went to London I wish I had taken you for my lover. I didn't need to save myself for Mr. Todd. He didn't care." Morgan started to say something, but a fit of coughing came over him, and he had to drink tea before he could finish his question. "Where is Mr. Todd now?" That was a strange question. "I think he died a few years later. Why?" "I wondered if he was still repeating that pattern of living. Taking advantage of inexperienced women." I shook my head. "Mama and I lived there for another six months. At first he came every night, but after a few weeks he settled into a schedule of three times a week. I started saving as much household money as possible. If I saved enough to leave London, or even buy a share of a milliner's shop, I could still turn away from this life. "As you see things didn't turn out that way. One scheduled night Mr. Todd didn't visit. I was happy to skip activities I found nasty and painful. When he didn't come for a week I started to worry. Was he tired of me? Would we have to leave again? Where would we go? "In my fear I turned to our neighbor, Clara Dunstan, with my question. She was an experienced ladybird and often gave me practical advice. "'Well, dear, you've got to prepare yourself by finding out the worst. Do you know where he lives? You've got to send around and get the facts. Then you can make your plans.' "I did know. Once I read his address upside down from a ledger while a clerk recorded my purchases to his account. Clara advised me to send our servant Isabel to gossip with the footman or upstairs maid. I took her advice, but Isabel's report left me less certain than ever about my situation. "'He's had an attack of apoplexy, Ma'am,' she told me. 'His wife despairs of his life. He can't move his left side of his body at all. They don't know what will happen. Mrs. Hunt, the housekeeper, told me she's seen dozens of men recover from such and live to father more children. Begging your pardon, Ma'am.' "I couldn't decide what to do, so I stayed and waited, hoping that the money would start coming again. Finally, a month later, I got a letter from his wife. She wrote to me that Mr. Todd, fearing that he would die and go to hell, had confessed everything to her. He planned to reform himself. On his behalf she was ordering me to leave the house in Holborne Road or I would be evicted. "I turned once again to Clara. Her patron knew of a place in Cheapside where they let rooms. I still had enough money to rent a carriage and move our things to a room there. It was a decent place. The rooms had only one or two people living in each one. "Clara's friend sent some friends to see me. The girl in the next room let Mama visit her while I had visitors, and I let her little girl stay with me when she had to entertain. I made a little money from those men. But I didn't become popular. I had no arts, you see. Mr. Todd preferred young and reluctant women to courtesans. Desire was dead in me, and I couldn't seem to pretend. "Eventually we had to move to a poorer room in Covent Garden. It was there that Mama got sick and died after two months of fever and coughing. When she died I'd been nursing her for weeks, taking none of my few opportunities to earn money. There was no money to bury her. The undertakers wouldn't remove the body, except for a pauper's burial, until I could pay. "I'd never taken to the streets before, but now I was desperate. I went out determined not to return until I had the money I needed for a funeral. In my ignorance I didn't know that certain groups of whores had their own jealously guarded areas. They all drove me away until I was in the narrow streets of St. Giles. I couldn't believe my luck when a decently dressed man approached me and told me he wanted to take me to an apartment upstairs. "I shouldn't have believed in luck. He was finding girls for a bawdyhouse. They wouldn't allow me to leave until I didn't care about leaving anymore. There was enough gin and opium provided, for a price, to deaden the desire for other things. I knew by the time I had been held there for a day that my mother had been thrown into a mass grave. What difference did anything make then? "That was how I chose my lot in life, Morgan. I was weak for my mother's sake and the decisions I made were irreversible. I'm a person you wouldn't want your sister to know about, much less meet. But on the whole I've become accustomed to it." Why didn't Morgan say something? He must have known how sordid the story would be. I looked away so I wouldn't have to see the revulsion in his eyes. I hadn't cried in eight, no, nine years. There was no point in starting now. It was quite dark now. I wandered over to the mantle and lit the lamp. "Amy, what happened in the house? What did they do to you that hurt you so much you didn't care about leaving?" "How did you know that it worked that way?" I exclaimed, immediately realizing I had given away too much. "I've made it my business to know a lot about how things work in London, and the things people do to each other." "You don't want to know more about this, Morgan. It isn't anything you have to know." "Please, I'm a reporter. It's my trade to know everything. Don't insult me by telling me there's something new under the sun that I haven't already heard about." It sounded as though he were trying to tease me as he did so long ago. I sighed. Why did he want to know these ugly things? I walked around the room. Some of these memories still had the power to agitate me. "The man I met in the street took me upstairs and offered me wine. That was the last thing I remember until I came half-awake in a bed with an old man trying to penetrate me. I was too drugged to move. When the man succeeded in reaching his climax he was ridiculously pleased with himself. He smiled at me and then left. A woman came in. When she saw I was awake she told me to get up and wash." I was confused. "'What's happening? Why are you doing this for God's sake? I was selling myself on the street. All he had to do was pay a little.'" "'No, that's not what he wants. We had to help you sell him what he wants. You played the part of the young virgin who just cured him of the French Pox. It takes some art to provide the setting,' she explained to me. "I had heard of the cure. Some infected men believed that carnal relations with a virgin would pass the disease to her and leave them cured. When I looked between my legs I saw the effects of the art she was talking about. There was blood, but it wasn't mine. They had inserted a small bladder filled with chicken or pig blood into me, to make the man think he was taking an unwilling virgin. "I pretended to have to relieve myself and tried to run away, but they had men watching. They brought me back and told me I could co-operate or they could force me. It turned out the pimp on the street had sold me to Jack Quickill. I was good for this game because I was young and small. The woman told me she would give me gin afterwards. It would make me feel numb. She was right. But I soon found opium was better." Morgan reached carelessly for something on the table and accidentally sent the teapot tumbling into his lap. The tea must still have been very hot. He jumped to his feet with a gasp, his eyes watering at the scalding pain. "Quickly, go change," I urged him. "Put cold water on yourself where you're burned." He rushed from the room while I sopped up some of the now cooled liquid with napkins. He returned in dry clothes a quarter of an hour later. When he did he seemed to have forgotten our conversation. Instead he began explaining how he was going to find a corruptible servant working for the member from Topham. Mr. Gilbert's change of attitude made him curious about recent events in his life. I wasn't surprised he had lost interest in my personal history. It was too commonplace and unsavory to merit his attention. Chapter 10, A Reaction Morgan's Journal, Feb. 23, 1814 I'm a writer by profession, yet I can't bring myself to write down the story I heard from Amy that afternoon. At the age of sixteen her own bastard of a father sold her into prostitution. That's what her story came to in plain language. Perhaps he thought he was doing the best he could to provide for his family. The miserable coward would have done better to live and become a rag and bone picker. Throughout her narrative I kept seeing Amy as she was at fifteen. While her mother occupied herself with stylish clothes and card games, her father went off to London frequently on mysterious "business." Amy was left to do as she pleased. For the most part that meant reading and exploring the countryside. They refused her the lessons and texts she requested on the grounds that education for a female was a waste of money. The young men of the neighborhood didn't know what to make of intellectual curiosity incorporated into a small feminine person who never flirted. To me she was a woman as beautiful as the dawn. Her skin was like pink and white satin with a warm dusting of golden freckles, and her hair shone like a new-minted copper coin. United to her beauty was a warm, unaffected nature expressed without artifice in her open and sympathetic manners. Amy's parents had done nothing to develop her native intelligence, but I sensed a great potential there. She had already acquired more information than most young ladies bring from finishing school. Although her parents were lazy, they were fond. Her experience of the world hadn't yet included anything worse than benign indifference. She hadn't been schooled to doubt and question the motives of the people around her. Could there be a worse evil than violating that childlike trust? And then afterwards Amy accepted her behavior as wicked, while the man who took advantage of her tried to save his soul by turning her into the street. If I believed in a God I would have to credit Him with setting up some rare jests. As I feared the story didn't exonerate me. Amy's parents had displayed enough evidence of their incompetence before they moved to London that I should have been concerned. Why did I expect them to protect her in London when they never did a thing in Chitterton to protect her from me? Shortly after their arrival in Chitterton Mr. Sullivan inherited thousands of pounds from a distant relative. Local gossip whispered that before that event he often didn't meet his financial obligations. His later investment in particular cargoes of the Calcutta Imports Company was a unique stroke of luck. I should have made it clear to Amy before she left that I would always help her, no matter what our relations became. I was mad to write a letter ending things between us no matter how hurt I felt. If I hadn't she might have contacted me when her father died. In truth my mistake was made earlier. She remembers it differently, but it wasn't really Amy who made the decision not to take me as her lover during that long dreamy summer of 1803. In her innocent desire she let me have my will with her. It was I who prudently hesitated and restrained myself. "We're married in the sight of God," she would tell me guilelessly. It never seemed to occur to her that I could decide to marry someone else in the sight of the congregation. I remember many occasions when she let me loose her gown and caress and kiss her bare breasts. There has never been anything as sweet in my life since. I loved her incompletely but splendidly in the meadows around Chitterton that summer. The scent of new mown hay or fresh clover still transports me back to those glades at the edge of the pastures. I should have taken everything she wanted to give me, and married her proudly when her belly inevitably swelled with our child. For of course she was right to trust me. I would never have abandoned her. "We should have gone to Gretna Green that summer," I mourned to Sally the next day. "Why was I so careful, so fixed in my determination to be a writer in London?" "It's your nature to be single-minded. How could a boy of seventeen predict that her family would be so unreliable and dangerous for her? How could anyone?" Sally tried to comfort me. "I didn't know any better than to take her for granted. Love came too easily and early. I didn't know how rare it was and cherish it, as I should have. I let the woman I loved leave my protection and be killed. That's what happened. The person who inhabits her body now is different. She feels nothing anymore. Amy is dead. They call her Scarlet." "Don't you ever call her that. It's unworthy of both of you. Even if you believe she feels nothing, you may be wrong. It might hurt her terribly to be called that by you," she warned. "What do you intend to do, now that you know her story?" I laughed. Sally enjoyed being proved right as much as anybody. I might as well give her the satisfaction. "You were right. I couldn't listen to her whole story, just as you warned me. I had to knock the teapot into my lap to explain my loss of countenance and give me an excuse to leave the room. When I came back I changed the subject to something I can't even remember now. I could hardly wait for her leave so I could start on a walk to Islington. But I'd have to walk to Edinburgh to even begin to clear those awful images out of my brain." Sally didn't look as though she took much pleasure in being right. "Why were you so anxious to disguise your reaction? Why not be open with your feelings?" "You don't understand. You didn't see her face while she told me those horrible things. Remembering those experiences didn't upset or pain her. There was no emotion. If I ever show any she mocks me with crude comments and suggestive remarks." "So she isn't indifferent. She putting up walls to keep you at a distance." That was typical of Sally. She tries so hard to be fair that it spills over into mercy and compassion. I couldn't seem to find those qualities within me when I contemplated Amy. Yet I felt a bond between us so strong it withstood every blow, whether from fate, Amy or me. Somehow we had been united so completely that I doubted whether even death could dissever us. Chapter 11, Private Investigation The officer who came to get Mulder had to tap him on the shoulder. Before he redirected his thoughts, he had time to remember his promise to himself. Who would have expected the story to get horrible so quickly? Anyone familiar with the analysis of our lives done by that glorified fortune-teller Zenith, he answered himself. Come on, what did you expect? It upsets you. Quit reading it! It won't kill you to control your curiosity in return for some peace of mind. It was noon and Detective Wagner had a burger, fries and a shake on his desk. He looked like exactly what he was---a Vietnam veteran who no longer had time to stay in shape due to his impossible work load and his compulsion to accomplish all of it. Now he balanced thinning hair with a thickening middle and held it all together under the pressure of a hair trigger temper. He had no time for fools, and he looked tempted to ease his schedule by classifying Mulder as one. "Good afternoon, Detective Wagner. Thank you for seeing me." "You're FBI." "I'm not here in an official capacity. I'm a friend of the family." "I only agreed to see you because I think Bill Scully needs the advice of a friend. I've seen this situation before. That idiot is going to take the fall for his looney-tunes wife. I'm going to keep the pressure on both of them until one of them cracks. You tell him that the sooner he tells us what really happened the lighter he'll get off. Doesn't he understand she can plead diminished responsibility if not insanity? This nonsense is taking people off cases that really are unsolved." Mulder was stunned. He had expected diplomacy and bland assurances that the investigation was proceeding. Instead he was told plainly that the police considered it solved. They saw their job now as the collection of evidence to support the prosecution of the Scullys. If he told them about Melanie, they would use it to bolster their characterization of Tara as not responsible for her actions. For once in his life he should be cautious. "Do your people think they know where the baby's body is?" "No, but that won't be a problem when we have a confession. Then we can go right to it." "Any hint of organized crime or the drug trade being involved?" "That's right, blame the Mafia or drug trade wars. Convenient, faceless and not located in the suburbs. This is a domestic crime and eventually we'll get there. The sooner eventually is, the less manpower we waste." "What about Melanie Cartwright?" Mulder questioned. "What about her?" Wagner picked up a folder and ran his eye down a list of names. Then he flipped back to a page with hand-written notes. "She's an aerobics instructor who helped the Scullys out with child care. Employed part-time at Plato's Fitness World. Sister of an acquaintance of Bill Scully. No outstanding warrants, no arrests, no record. Neighbors have seen nothing unusual. She hasn't had a child around the premises. Word from my interviewer is that there is nothing remarkable about her except the way she fills out a leotard. Do you know something about her that we should know?" he ended, with the most intimidating possible stare. This was the moment of truth. Could he work with the police and share his knowledge, or would he end up making the situation worse for Bill and Tara to no purpose? "No, sir." Wagner pressed a button on his intercom and ordered the unseen listener to "Get in here, Harry." "You work for the government, Mr. Mulder. You'd understand if, at a future time, I denied some of the colorful language I used today during our discussion. However, I will stand by the substance. Show Mr. Mulder out, Harry," he told the young uniformed policeman who opened his office door. On his way back to the Scullys' from the police station Mulder stopped at a pay phone and checked in with the Lone Gunmen. He had the names of the nurses to pass on and he wanted the Gunmen to devote plenty of attention to Melanie Cartwright. One of the problems he had foreseen with this case was the possibility that Scully would be offended if he kept Bill and Tara in mind as suspects. Detective Wagner had just cleared his conscience on that point. His strategy now was to assume Bill and Tara were completely innocent and truthful. The police were covering the other possibility beyond any need for his assistance. Every instinct he had developed during his years in Violent Crimes told him that time spent investigating Bill and Tara was time wasted. ******************************* Out at the submarine base on Loma Linda, Scully was receiving the VIP treatment. Name-dropping had resulted in co-operation that felt like a miracle when she remembered other attempts they had made to extract information from military sources. A civilian from the personnel office had welcomed her by name and shown her to a private office with a copy machine and a PC. There was already a stack of buff file folders on the bare desk and she was signed into the personnel database with a guest ID. Miss Elly Mantia told her to come to her in the adjacent office with any further needs and then left her alone to get on with it. Scully discovered that the folders contained Bill's records, including reprimands, commendations, and routine evaluations. These referenced the other folders where documentation of related investigations had been filed. Somebody had shown unusual initiative in bringing these things together for her. She concluded that there were people here who believed in her brother and his wife. They were willing to put some effort into proving it. Cheered by this thought she attacked the pile of papers. Hours later the lack of enemies in Bill's life was discouraging her. She found no evidence of disgruntled victims in accounts of disciplinary hearings. The statements, even from the accused, were moderate in tone and recognized an essential fairness in Bill's decisions. Scully's mind wandered briefly into thoughts of what Mulder's files would look like to an impartial observer. There would be no lack of potential enemies. Scully made a short list of people to call and thought hard about other avenues of investigation. What else did people get blamed for? Accidents. She returned an armload of files next door to Miss Mantia, and requested inquiries into accidents that occurred under Bill's command. The time she spent waiting for the files she put to use making phone calls to the people on her short list. They were worse than making cold calls selling life insurance. Each one required a unique strategy depending on the offense, and on the identity and mood of the person she talked to. She had to be very careful not to reveal the extent of her knowledge about the incidents, since she couldn't explain why she had access to sensitive military material. None of the call recipients gave much sense of an emotional reaction. The most serious incident involved a drunken fight in a bar that laid one participant up for six weeks. The brig time hadn't riled the accused seaman, and the hospital time hadn't impressed the man injured. The latter had no energy to spare for reliving memories of a fractured skull after he spent considerable time trying to convince Scully to attend an Amway presentation. Despite the difficulty of the calls Scully still had fifteen minutes to spare before Miss Mantia came back with a wire cart on wheels. It was stacked with buff folders and green barred paper. Seeing the consternation on Scully's face, she remarked sympathetically "Navy yards and ships are dangerous places." She explained that they had original records in folders only for accidents that took place on this base. The computer printout contained data on accidents occurring at other locations. Scully sighed and called her mother at Bill's place to tell her that she would be working late, and to give her the number of the phone on her desk. Everyone but security had left by seven o'clock. Scully had worked out a satisfactory way to classify the incidents and had separated the printouts by incident. She was going back through each unit and evaluating its seriousness. The footsteps in the hallway barely registered in her mind. It was only when there was a knock at the door that she jumped in surprise. "It's me." "Come on in, Mulder." She realized that she hadn't thought about the footsteps because they were so familiar. She had sat working in their basement room through many nights, hearing, but not really listening, as Mulder paced or made repeated visits to the vending machines down the hall. "Your Mom told me you had a lot of paperwork to get through before you could leave. I thought I'd help." That was unusual. Paperwork didn't usually draw Mulder into the ranks of the conscientious. But she was very thankful to have him there. He could spot patterns and discrepancies in narratives almost as though he possessed some of the spooky power his detractors jokingly gave him credit for. "How did you get the guards at the gate to let you in?" "I asked them to call Johansen. They were reluctant, but I persuaded them he'd be sorry to miss the call." "What did you tell the police today? Do they know about Tara and Melanie now?" Mulder shook his head. "You were right from the beginning. The police investigation is hopeless. Their minds are closed up tighter than pills in a blister pack. Wagner told me I should persuade Bill to confess to being an accomplice." He could see that Scully was upset at the degree of certainty displayed by the detective in charge, but she didn't reply in words. She quickly moved one of the shorter stacks of papers to a clear spot on the desk for Mulder's inspection. They were the most serious accidents and deserved the closest attention. He agreed with her strategy. Scully fetched him a chair from Miss Mantia's office. They worked silently for three hours and managed to get through every stack of paper. The silent building and companionable atmosphere gave them both an eerie sense of having traveled back to their old office. Scully looked up once and unexpectedly met Mulder's eyes. His expression was so tranquil that she couldn't help flashing a smile of pleasure back at him, and he couldn't help returning it. It almost felt like they were in harmony again. "OK, I've got a short list. I see that you're down to your last file. Let's compare notes," Mulder finally commented to her. Scully recognized a carefully restrained pitch of excitement in his voice, and her hopes soared. She started with her observations first. "I took the ones where the victims had to be discharged from the Navy due to permanent injuries. One of them involved burns received when a part failed on an engine cooling mechanism. There were two falls down hatchways that resulted in partial paralysis. They were attributed to carelessness on the part of the men who fell. I plan to call family members tomorrow and follow up, but I don't see any reason to suspect a connection," Scully summarized, shaking her head. "I've got the fatalities---a drowning, one fall from the deck of a ship and one from the tower on a sub. And a fall inside a ship's engine room during maintenance. That's the one," he ended with certainty. "OK, how do we know that's the one?" Mulder began reciting from memory. "The person who fell was Seaman Sylvia Morales. She was doing routine maintenance work from a catwalk when she fell over the side. It was twenty feet down to a steel grid, where she sustained serious head injuries. She lived in a comatose state for two weeks before she died. Her four month old fetus died with her." Scully held out her hand wordlessly for the folder. Mulder gave it to her with a distracted air. He was already heading down various investigative paths mentally, while she read the file to herself. "The family was satisfied with the ruling that her fall was accidental," Scully commented. "So they said. And probably truthfully. But who's missing from the story?" "The father of the baby," Scully answered dutifully. "The military hospital listed the father as unknown. She'd been seeing an obstetrician there. Why didn't she give the father's name?" "Because she didn't know which of a number of men were responsible?" Scully suggested reasonably. "Possible, but what if it was because he was in the Navy too and their relationship broke some fraternization rule? It doesn't really matter. The point is since we don't know who the father is, we don't know how he reacted to the accident, or who he blamed." "And of course the clincher is the phone call about 'half of what you owe.' He'll settle for the baby apart from the mother." Mulder sat and looked across at Scully expectantly. When she failed to say more he prompted her. "Well, aren't you going to shoot down my theory for being based on inadequate evidence? Before you do, I'd like to point out that it's one hundred percent paranormal, supernatural and extraterrestrial free." "It's the only theory we've got, Mulder. I feel more like giving it vitamins and fresh air instead of shooting it down. But I don't think I can stay awake another night. I've got to go back to Bill's and get some sleep now." Even Mulder slept surprisingly well that night. But the light under the door to Mattie's room stayed lit and the music continued into the next day. Chapter 12, Everyday Tragedies The next morning they began following up on the cases they now considered very long shots in connection with Matthew's kidnapping. It took numerous and demanding phone conversations to confirm their irrelevance. On completing this task they felt justified in making their initial contacts with people connected to the death of Sylvia Morales. The prospect raised their anxiety levels even higher. They had no official authorization for their investigation, and therefore had no right to demand co-operation from anybody. Another serious problem was the need to avoid any action that would alarm the kidnapper. They could frighten him away, beyond their ability to locate him again. Closer pursuit might scare him into some impulsive action, such as killing Matthew to eliminate evidence. Further complicating matters was the fact that they might need to return to people with more questions as the investigation progressed. Their story would have to be durable. "Let's see, our cover has to be plausible, non-threatening and reusable. We don't want to impersonate anyone in an official capacity. What does that leave?" Scully wondered aloud. "Journalists, of course," Mulder replied off-handedly. He was reviewing the copy they had made of Sylvia's file for the names of other possible targets of the kidnapper's anger. Suddenly he realized what he had said and looked up to see Scully's eyes lit up with enthusiasm for the idea. "No, bad idea," he went on quickly. "Journalists are very threatening these days. Look at what they did to Princess Di." Superstitious dread filled him at the thought of pretending to be what Morgan was. "No, a good idea," Scully protested "We can say we're doing an expose on the unfair treatment of pregnant sailors by the Navy. We want to hear their opinion, whether they agree or disagree. There's no penalty for saying you're a free lance journalist. The beauty of it is I can do the initial approach over the phone. If they refuse, they haven't seen us. We've kept our options open." Get a grip, Mulder told himself. It's just a story and you aren't going to read any more of it anyway. He listened while Scully sweet-talked someone at the Morales' house into agreeing to a four o'clock appointment. She promised them a dignified article about their late daughter's career in a respectable publication and protection of their identities. When she hung up he asked if they wanted to be on the Jerry Springer show. "No. I talked to Sylvia's father. He's very agreeable, but he seemed to have a hard time keeping his mind on the conversation. There must have been something distracting going on at his end. Shall we call The Boys on our way to the Morales' place?" When Mulder returned to the car from the phone outside a Dairy Market he was lost in thought. After several minutes of silence Scully gave in to her curiosity and asked him what the Gunmen had learned. "They didn't have anything more on Melanie Cartwright than the police did. No record anywhere. It's hard to believe she gets the stuff Tara described on a regular basis without a whisper of suspicion. I don't believe Tara was lying. I wonder who her supplier is." "Melanie may not have any connection to Sylvia Morales. Maybe she's just a sociable pothead." Mulder looked dubious at this, but he said nothing more. The Morales family lived in an older section of the city in a small but well kept ranch house. The woman who opened the door appeared to be about fifty years old. She wore slacks with a full cut tunic over her stout frame. Scully gave her a big smile and introduced herself as Debbie Sorley. "I spoke to your husband a little earlier about a magazine article. My co-author and I want to interview you about your late daughter's career in the Navy." Mrs. Morales' expression was both puzzled and alarmed. "You can come into the living room. I'm going to ask my son to join us. I'm not sure what we want to do." Scully sat down on an old overstuffed couch. Across the room was a large window that faced onto the front lawn. To her right was a large new television; to her left a hallway led to what appeared to be bedrooms. Behind her was a large arch leading to the kitchen area. Mulder stood beside the arch examining family pictures hung on the wall between the living room and kitchen. From there he held forth on the merits of the decorating job. "These people know how to arrange a house for comfort. No offense, but your brother just doesn't have the touch. Here, at the center of everything, is a nice big sofa. Close behind is the kitchen, for convenient snacking. To the right, a television, close enough to pop in a video without an exhausting walk. What is it with your brother and televisions anyway? Can't they afford one?" "Bill believes they're corrupting the culture. He's especially against children watching. So they don't have a TV." "Didn't he watch TV when he was a kid?" "We watched TV whenever we could---spy shows, cowboy shows, variety shows, Saturday cartoons, you name it. But you have to admit TV has changed since we were kids." Mulder had to admit it had. He thought it was much better now. They heard sounds of animated discussion from the kitchen. "I told you never to leave him alone," a man was saying. "You don't know what it's like being tied down here all day with him. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy myself," Mrs. Morales replied. She came back into the room with a younger man. "This is my son, John. John this is Debbie Sorley and. . .what was your name?" "Reynard Muldrake," Mulder replied. "They want to write an article on Sylvia and her career in the Navy. They said they talked to Dad and he agreed to see them," Mrs. Morales explained to John. "I'm sorry you made a trip over here for nothing. There was a mistake when you talked to Pop. He can't see you, and we don't want a story done on Sylvia," John stated politely but firmly. Mulder walked over and shook John's hand. "We want to get different points of view on how fairly the Navy treats woman. We know your sister had a special difficulty," he said. "No, we aren't the kind of people who want their problems on TV or in the tabloids," John replied. Scully tried to project restrained sympathy. "Some people think the Navy is discriminatory and unfair toward enlisted woman like Sylvia who get pregnant. We know she would have been removed from her ship within a month, whether it was medically indicated or not. . . ." Scully's words trailed off as heavy running footsteps came down the hallway. The events that followed happened much too quickly to follow at the time. "Are you calling my Sylvia a whore, you bitch!" A disheveled man tore into the room yelling the words. What riveted everyone's attention was the 9mm handgun he was pointing at Scully. He stopped his forward motion only to brace himself to take the shots. She struggled to get up from the soft, low cushions, but couldn't move quickly. Neither John nor Mulder was in a position to approach the gunman from the side. Mrs. Morales was farthest away and seemed to be frozen in place. There was no way he could miss his shot at Scully. Mulder didn't have to think. He hurled himself straight for the man and his gun just as he squeezed off three shots. The impact of Mulder's body knocked the gunman backwards. As he fell he pushed Mulder violently to the side, so that the agent rolled over toward the hallway, ending up on his back. John reached the shooter seconds later, pinning his gun hand to the floor and removing the gun. Meanwhile Scully had scrambled off the couch and raced across the room. She crouched over Mulder feeling as though the day had turned inside out into a nightmare. Catastrophe. Three shots point blank to the chest. His heart, his lungs, his spine. It would be a miracle if he lived. Oh, please. Apparently it was a day for miracles. He opened his eyes immediately and started feeling his head gingerly for bumps or bleeding. There was no blood, and no sign of trauma to his body. Scully's breathing and heart rates dropped from the "end of the world" range to "missed him by that much" levels. "Is he alive?" John asked in an anguished voice. "Mom, call 911 right now." "Are you OK?" Mulder asked Scully doubtfully. "Who got shot?" "Maybe no one got shot," she answered in a voice that quavered uncertainly. She ran trembling hands over his chest and sides, reassuring herself that there were no wounds. Mulder started to push himself to a sitting position, and Scully couldn't come up with any reason why he shouldn't. "We don't need 911," Mrs. Morales said grimly. "I told you it was too dangerous to keep a gun around the house now. But you wouldn't listen. Did you know that closet shelf where you hid it was the same place he hid his gun from you kids when you were little? It didn't matter because he would have found it no matter where you put it. He pokes around into everything. I just loaded it with blanks and left it there." "What if he'd found your bullets too, and reloaded it?" Scully asked John with a forbidding expression. "What's your father's medical condition?" She was feeling a powerful emotional reaction, and John seemed to be an appropriate target. "Pop's been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's," he answered, with a sad look at the man now lying quietly on the floor. "So you allowed a person suffering from dementia to have access to a handgun. That's reckless and illegal." John nodded his admission listlessly. Mulder feared that in her zeal to drive home gun safety, Scully would say something to ruin the strategy they planned for their investigation. In a calmer moment he might have stood aside and happily watched her destroy their journalistic cover. Instead he was excited to realize that he might hold a new bargaining chip. He intervened with diversionary words. "I don't think we need to be concerned about the law or damages, since no one was hurt. They understand the danger now. Debbie, don't you see an interesting angle for our story here? The tragic father defending his daughter's honor even as his mind slips into darkness. I'd like to put this unfortunate incident behind us and go over Sylvia's story." He looked pointedly from Mrs. Morales to John. "Please sit up here on the couch, Mr. Muldrake," Mrs. Morales said with a grimace that they supposed was meant to represent a smile. "Let me go get Sylvia's yearbook and scrapbooks." Scully clamped tight control down on her remaining fear, anxiety and euphoric relief at Mulder's escape. She went over to Mr. Morales and knelt beside him. "Can I help you up?" she asked him, holding out her hand. He accepted her helping hand as readily as he accepted his son's. Anything she had done to draw his rage was forgotten. John led him back to a bedroom while Scully and Mulder settled on the couch with his mother. Mrs. Morales gave them a detailed history of her daughter from high school on. Scully dutifully took notes, paying special attention to boyfriends. Up until her assignment to the San Diego Submarine base they all seemed to drop away without leaving a trace. Then boyfriends disappeared from the story altogether. When she began her account of the accident they realized she wasn't going to give them information on the baby's father. "So you were satisfied with the findings of the board of inquiry. You believe the navy wasn't at fault," Mulder stated. "I couldn't see how. The doctor didn't know of any reason why she couldn't work as usual. She didn't complain about dizziness. I know they never wanted to bother about safety harnesses when they were doing some quick little job, but the rules said they were supposed to. She was breaking the rule." Mrs. Morales gave a mirthless laugh. "So she died as she lived. Breaking the rules. I think it's kind of funny, you coming here to write about her 'career.' She couldn't have stuck it out long enough for a career in the navy. After the baby was born she'd have completed her tour and then left. She'd already lost interest." "Do you know who the father of the baby was?" Scully asked gently. "No," the woman answered, with a look on her face that said, "You can't prove I do." "Have I told you enough to help you put that painful incident behind you, Mr. Muldrake?" she asked with snide overtones. "Thank you, Mrs. Morales. You've been very kind," Mulder answered. "And allow me to thank you for loading the gun with blanks. Next time you might consider just unloading it. One of the people involved might have a heart condition." "I thought a burglar would run, and think he was lucky John missed. If something like this happened I wanted to give John a good scare. It would convince him to get rid of the gun. It didn't occur to me that there would be innocent bystanders. I've got things I've got to do. Thanks for not suing us." she said grudgingly. With that Mrs. Morales left for the kitchen. Her son emerged from the hallway a few minutes later. Mulder beckoned him over to where they sat. "Can we ask you a few questions? Your mother told us what she could." "Sure. I guess it doesn't really make any difference." "Were you satisfied with the verdict of the board of inquiry?" "Yes, I was satisfied. It was awful and wasteful, but it was an accident." "Was anyone involved who felt differently about it?" John sat in thought for a minute while Mulder and Scully held their breath. "Yeah," he finally said with what sounded like relish. "Her boyfriend was a total jerk about it, the way he was about everything else. He never did a thing for her, just took, took, took. And she stood up for him. She didn't want me to tell Pop who he was. She was afraid Pop would go after him. We didn't know it but the disease was affecting him, making him irrational, a long time before we took him to the doctor. But there was another reason why she didn't want to tell on Lover Boy. He's an officer in the navy himself. He was doing a bad thing, fraternizing and all that." "Your father couldn't go after him now. Why don't you tell us who he is and he can get the punishment he deserves for breaking the rules?" "I don't think so. The truth is, he's more than just a jerk. I've never known anybody to hold a grudge the way he does. He makes these elaborate schemes to get even with people. I don't want to know if he does anything about them. Why would I want to get him mad at me? When the accident happened he nagged Mom about trying to sue Sylvia's commanding officer until I had to take him aside. You'd think he was a smarmy car salesman from his looks, but the way he stared at me. . . . He didn't have any legal standing, see. He couldn't even say he was her boyfriend. Dad had just been diagnosed and we didn't want a useless lawsuit. A few days after I confronted him I found our old dog dead under the bushes. I think he was poisoned, and I think I know who did it. He's a scary guy. Mom's afraid of him too." "We have other sources," Mulder assured him. "We can protect your identity. He sounds like someone who ought be exposed and stopped." "What the hell did Sylvia see in him? She was spoiled and selfish. She was a taker too, but she met somebody who out-matched her by light years. He was so bad for her. He IS bad." John started by speaking softly, but ended with conviction. "His name is Richard Chandler. He's a lieutenant on a submarine at the base in San Diego. Sylvia met him when she was assigned to a ship there. He does something secret with missiles on the submarines." Scully and Mulder asked a few more questions about Chandler, but John had little more information. He hadn't contacted him or been contacted in the three years since the accident. They thanked him effusively for his help and promised him a discreet presentation of their data in a reputable magazine. He smiled disbelievingly and saw them out as quickly as he could. He was shutting the door while Scully was letting him know they would be sure to contact him with any further questions. After they got in the car, Scully turned to Mulder with a very serious expression. "Mulder, please don't ever do that again." "What?" he replied in bewilderment. "I thought you'd be happy. That's the information we needed. I didn't do anything out of line to get it." "Don't step in front of a gun for me like that. You should have gone in low and tackled him. That would have thrown his aim off enough to make him miss me. You were acting like a bodyguard." He knew she was right. But her tactic would have left an outside chance for a successful shot at her. It wasn't in him to permit that. "Just doin' my job, Ma'am," he drawled with an irritating twang. "Purtectin' the cit'zens of this'yere fair state." She turned toward him and put her hand on his shoulder. Mulder leaned toward her without realizing he had moved. Was she going to cross the line? "Do you know how I would have felt if you had been killed?" How she would have felt was written all over her face. He reveled in the tenderness and concern for him exhibited there. The memory of her hands lightly stroking his chest came back with a rush and blocked rational thought comprehensively. He wanted her to cross that line so much he had to stop her at any cost. "Let's see, you'd be overcome by an incredible sense of relief at the prospect of never finding another video that doesn't belong to me in the office VCR?" he guessed. Scully removed her hand and blinked rapidly a few times. "No, that's not it," was all her reply. She sat silently while he talked about the next steps in their strategy on their way back to Bill's house. Chapter 13, Breaking Rules The next morning Scully made some calls and was amazed to receive co-operation when she asked for access to files at the base on a Saturday morning. By ten o'clock she was back in the personnel office. Ms. Mantia didn't even radiate the hostility she expected from a government employee forced to work on a weekend. When questioned the woman confirmed that she would get two specially authorized days off for the time she put in with Scully. Commander Johansen was coming through for Bill like a father. Scully enlisted Ms. Mantia in a search for Lieutenant Richard Chandler's records. He turned up as a real person who fit the known facts, but his original records had been archived a year ago. Scully read the on-line data while his files were messengered from storage. She warned herself not to get used to this kind of service from the military. It wouldn't carry over into any other case. Chandler had not re-enlisted at the end of his last stint, in spite of considerable inducements offered by the navy. He had an advanced degree in nuclear engineering and eight years of experience working with nuclear warheads on submarines. The electronic records stated the facts baldly. When the original material arrived Scully found editorializing in some comments. One of the officers present at his debriefing referred to his sense that Chandler didn't take the interview seriously enough. Another complained that the lieutenant didn't show sufficient respect. They recommended standard tracking of his movements for five years due to the sensitive nature of his knowledge and experience. Periodic entries in the database showed that he had apparently lived on his savings for two years and then dropped out of sight during the third. The security investigator entered a standard direction to staff follow up on this, but there was no indication that they took action. Budget cuts and reductions in force had resulted in every department choosing to let invisible tasks slide. When Scully returned to her brother's that afternoon she found him closer to breaking down than she had ever seen him. He looked as though he hadn't slept since Tuesday. Bill's suffering made her think for a moment about what the weeks of her abduction must have been like for Mulder and her family. Her mind shied away from the idea of that much emotional pain inflicted for so long. "Wagner was back this morning to question Tara," Bill told her, his voice hard with the effort of control. "Have you found anything, anything at all?" Scully was relieved to have some hope to offer. "Yes, yes we have." "Are you close?" "I'm not sure how close we are. But we've got a lead. It's the boyfriend of a woman who was killed working on a ship you had command of three years ago. Sylvia Morales. She was pregnant." While she spoke Bill continued to look blank until her last statement. "I remember now. She was always ignoring safety protocol. Who the heck was her boyfriend? No one ever mentioned anything about him." "A Lieutenant Richard Chandler who worked on a sub." "Fraternization," Bill commented, raising his eyebrows. "Doesn't ring any bells. So did he make threats, has he got a criminal record?" "No," Scully answered reluctantly. "The evidence is indirect. He got angry at her family when they refused to challenge the navy's ruling that it was an accident." Bill looked depressed. "Maybe it was a mistake for you to ask Mulder for help. How good is he at this, Dana? What kind of success rate has he had?" "Violent Crimes ask for him when they can't solve it themselves. Sometimes they're lucky enough to get him. He's very good. Give him a chance. He hasn't even got a lab or forensics specialists to work with." "Beggars can't be choosers, I guess," Bill said resignedly. Scully almost came back with the pearls before swine canard, but she looked at the dark circles under Bill's eyes and restrained herself. He had no idea how lucky he was to have Mulder on his side in this. Scully took her brother's hand and squeezed it affectionately. She promised they wouldn't give up. Mulder showed up shortly after this with a vitality in his step that gave Scully a little more hope. She showed him the results of her research and he told her what the Lone Gunmen had come up with on Chandler. "They traced him through bank accounts and credit cards for two years after he left the navy. Then no activity for six months. Then he was back, right here in San Diego. He deposited less than ten thousand dollars in each of three different bank accounts. He used his credit cards to lease a hot car, buy expensive clothes, rent a high-end apartment, and join a health club. The leases were up in March and he disappeared again. The car dealer and apartment manager had forwarding addresses that turn out to be fake." "That's interesting, but we can't get a warrant based on that, "Scully said. "Listen to the rest," he said, holding up a hand to silence her. "I thought that if Chandler was out for revenge Bill couldn't be the only target. Bill was more than one step up in command from Sylvia. All he was doing was following navy procedure and the advice of her doctors. Why would Chandler ignore the people closest to the accident? "The doctor who declared her fit to stay on duty was a Dr. Charles Darren. He didn't re-enlist either when he had to decide last year. He left the navy and moved to New York City where he joined his brother's practice. "The man who ran the actual work detail was a George Evans. He was transferred to Maryland shortly after the accident. Last November his wife died after a mysterious fall off their apartment balcony one evening while he walked their dog. The newspaper accounts implied that the police considered him the number one suspect, but the timing was questionable and they couldn't get a case against him. Evans even claimed to get a phone call from someone who told him he had three on his conscience now. He couldn't prove he got the call. Even he thought it might be a sicko who read about the case and wanted to be involved. No one had any idea what the call meant." This didn't sound substantial enough to interest the police in Richard Chandler. Scully would have been disappointed if she hadn't recognized a characteristic energy in Mulder's voice. "What can we do Mulder? Do you think Wagner would act on any of this?" "No, but guess what health club Chandler joined back in December. It was Plato's Fitness World, where Melanie Cartwright works," he ended triumphantly. Scully knew that Mulder had mentally filled in a lot of links based on this. But even she was impressed with the significance of this "coincidence" and she knew by his grin at her that he knew she was. "So how do we tie this together without the co-operation of the police?" "I've been out laying the groundwork for that very task. I know Melanie Cartwright's work schedule now and I'm going to do a little breaking and entering later this afternoon," Mulder said, with an attempt at nonchalance. He watched her look of horror fade to be replaced with hesitation. He thought there might even be a hint of approval there. "Time is running out, Scully. We can't let them indict Tara." He could see that he didn't have to say anything further. Part of Scully's brain and all of her heart were arguing his case for him more powerfully than he could have. They parked around the corner from Melanie's house about half an hour before she was scheduled to start her shift at Plato's. "I should have the next six hours to search. I'm taking my cell phone. Call me and let it ring once if anyone approaches the house. I'll find some hiding places as soon as I get in, and if I can't get to a door I'll stay in one of them until I can get out. But she lives alone and I shouldn't be interrupted." Scully hoped he was right. If he got caught doing this it would solve the bureau's problem of what to do with him and the X-files forever. Mulder wouldn't be eligible for a job as security guard at an Odds-n-Ends store. He'd been inside for three hours when Melanie returned unexpectedly. She left her car running while she hurried inside with a harassed look. Scully just had time to ring Mulder's cell phone once before Melanie entered. He should have time to hide, and that might be good enough if Melanie were only making a quick stop to pick a forgotten item. She emerged moments later with a thoughtful expression. She drove off again, only to return within ten minutes followed by a pick up truck. The driver was a big man with a greasy ponytail and a generous sprinkling of tattoos on his arms and chest. Scully rang the phone again, but felt panic rising as the driver of the pick up removed a shotgun from his gun rack. Clearly Melanie's suspicions had been roused and they were going to search the house. She left the car quietly and started around the corner while the man opened a box of shells and cracked the gun for loading. She didn't know what she was going to say or do, but somehow she would prevent Mulder from being caught inside the house. Scully approached the pair boldly, and remembered the bane of her mother's existence once they moved off base in the seventies. "Have you ever wondered what God's plan is for you?" she asked them earnestly. When they simply stared at her she followed up. "Are you the gentleman and lady of the house?" Conditioned by habits of politeness the woman automatically answered, "I live here." "May I come in and explain the Lord's plan for your salvation? Your friend might like to hear the Good News too." She glanced at Gus, who seemed to be paying more attention to the fit of her knit shirt than her words. She directed her gaze toward the beer belly that swelled out beneath the sleeveless leather vest that was the only top he wore. "If you give up drinking, smoking, chewing and eating flesh the Lord will make a new man of you," she informed him sweetly. "I'm not religious," Melanie muttered. "We can decide to change at any time. God gave us the gift of free will. Do you know the gospel story? King Herod issued a decree that required everyone. . . ." The woman interrupted. "Look, we're busy right now. Maybe you can come by some other time." "OK. When?" Scully beamed. "I don't know. Don't you have a pamphlet with a phone number on it?" She looked at Scully more closely. "What church are you from?" she asked. At that moment Mulder walked briskly up the driveway. "Thank heavens you've found her. Mom was so worried. I've been driving and walking around the neighborhood for hours. I'm her brother," he explained. "We live about three miles that way," he added, pointing eastward. "Come on, Charlene. It's time to go home," he addressed Scully kindly, and took her by the hand. "Is there something the matter with her---besides being a religious nut?" Mulder smiled tolerantly at his partner. "The light in the piazza is pretty dim, if you get my drift. She spends all her time watching religious shows on TV. She's got a lot of the spiels memorized. Sounds like a regular little preacher. Mom nodded off during 'Faith Fest' and bam! Charlie here was out the door." The man with the gun still looked baffled. "What's the matter with her?" he asked Melanie. "She's retarded, Gus." "Oh. Well, do you still want me to go in and look around? Melanie thinks there was a prowler in her house a while ago," he explained. "Oh dear." Mulder looked at Scully reproachfully. "Charlene, did you go in this nice lady's house when she wasn't home? You know you're not supposed to do that." He ogled Melanie appreciatively. She was wearing her aerobics instruction outfit to great advantage. She returned the compliment. Scully's face felt as red and hot as a Christmas bulb. She thought Mulder was enjoying this scene entirely too much. However, she played her part by hanging her head and looking ashamed. Mulder winked at Gus and observed, "Women! Always got their hair or nails on the brain and can't remember unimportant stuff like locking doors. But it's easy to forgive them when they're as cute as Melanie here." Gus indicated Scully with a nod, and addressed Mulder. "Does she date?" he asked, licking his lips unconsciously. "No, we don't let her date," Mulder said apologetically. "Believe it or not, there are men out there who would take advantage of her mental condition to. . .you know. Not that you would do that, of course," he concluded solemnly. Mulder was beginning to lead Scully away from the house as he spoke. He took her around the corner to their car and solicitously helped her in. Waving enthusiastically at the couple in the driveway, he drove away. Gus and Melanie stared after them. When Mulder had turned the corner he dared to look over at Scully to see what kind of reaction he was going to get. He was braced for her displeasure, but mischief lurked just below the surface. Scully tried hard to maintain a severe expression. They both dissolved into extravagant laughter when their eyes met. Crises loomed all around them, but it still felt wonderful to laugh together. When she could talk Scully chided him. "If any agent besides me had heard that exchange you'd be spending the next six months in seminars and workshops getting your attitude adjusted." "Well I was flying blind. I had no idea what you'd been saying until Melanie called you a religious nut." "When did you get out of the house?" "Right after the first time she came back. I could tell by the way she walked and hesitated and then went on that she knew something was wrong. I went out the back and down the hill to the next street. Then I walked back around the block." "What did you get?" she asked practically. "Jackpot. I've got phone numbers, addresses, pictures and I found her stash. Tara was telling the truth about her having stuff anyway. Coke and pot. I took some for analysis. Does anybody at the regional office owe you? "No. but I'll bet somebody at the regional office owes Mullins, and he owes me. How are we going to explain having it?" "It was a dark and stormy night when I approached a suspicious group gathered at an overlook on Highway 1. They scattered to their cars, leaving this behind. There was mud on their license plates. A one-armed man fled the scene on foot." "I can almost picture it," Scully answered sardonically. "I'm going to stop at a pay phone on the way back to your brother's. I want the Gunmen to check out the phone numbers. We're going to find Chandler, and when we do we're going to find Matt." Mulder was wired with anticipation and driven to action. This was when she had to watch him to make sure he didn't do something ill considered. At the moment, however, he appeared to be mesmerized by the sight of a leggy young woman in spandex crossing the street in front of their car. "There's nothing that adds to a girl's appeal like dropping a hundred IQ points, is there?" Scully remarked. Mulder's thoughts were miles away and it took him a few beats to follow Scully's train of thought back to the scene with Gus. He was about to make a ribald remark about how wearing an aerobics exercise outfit would be a nice finishing touch. When he noticed Scully's pensive look he reconsidered. "You told me smart was sexy," he answered. "Obviously that only applies to men," she corrected. "Bill was proud of me in high school-his kid sister, 'Dane the Brain.' But he never considered dating one of the 'grinds' or 'eggheads.' And Tara is pretty and good-natured, but she isn't Bill's equal in intellect or self-confidence." Mulder knew that something reassuring but impersonal was required here. The trouble was that he had no objective viewpoint on Scully's appeal. Every day he concentrated hard on not noticing it. If he didn't, he tended to start thinking about what would it be like to watch as his touch on her body gradually submerged the control of her sharp intelligence in erotic sensation. Soft moans would escape from her wet lips, her hands would clutch his back, her hips would rise involuntarily to meet his. . .would she say his name? Would she say, "I love you, Mulder," through a muffled groan of pleasure? "The light turned green. About a minute ago," Scully pointed out. He hastily took refuge from the challenge of his partner's self- doubt in lame humor. "I don't care what anybody says. You can do better than Gus, Scully, even without sacrificing brain cells." She thought about Melanie and the anonymous young woman in painted on shorts. "And you can do better than me," she murmured, as he pulled off the road into the parking lot of a convenience store with a handy pay phone. Her response was too quiet for Mulder to hear. Chapter 14, Running Out of Time Late that evening Scully and Mulder sat in Bill's office at the table they had adopted as their workplace. They looked at each other gloomily. None of the addresses, phone numbers, or pictures he had taken from Melanie's at such risk seemed to hold a clue to Chandler's current location. If she had any connection to him she was smart enough to keep the information in her head, or at least to hide it better than she did her drugs. The Lone Gunmen had run multiple checks on the information and couldn't isolate anything useful. Scully and Mulder had run out of ideas. "You know what we're going to have to do Scully." "Question her directly?" "What else is left? The problem is we can't say anything that might set her off to warn Chandler." "We can't tell the truth. What about being journalists again?" "What would we say? We'd like some information on the current whereabouts of your most recent boyfriends? No, we're going to have to do something that will make her feel threatened and unprotected by any promises Chandler made to her." "Mulder, you're talking about going far outside legal boundaries." "I'm open to suggestions." "No direct threats. It's too dangerous in every way." "I'll be honest with you; I don't know exactly what I'll have to say or do. But I won't hurt anybody except in self-defense." Scully had thought she couldn't feel any guiltier than she did about helping Mulder break into Melanie's house. That night, on the drive back to the scene of the crime, she found that she could. She also discovered that as great as the guilt was, her worry for Mulder dwarfed it. Melanie could have gotten a gun from Gus for self- protection. Or she might prove braver than they thought and call the police no matter what the consequences to herself. All of the times Scully had criticized Mulder for recklessness that got him jailed weighed on her conscience. He could go to prison for this. The plan was to threaten Melanie with reprisals from drug dealers who believed she was selling in their territory. Given her clean background, Mulder was fairly sure that Chandler was mixed up somehow in her use of drugs at Tara's. He was going to pretend to know Chandler was Melanie's drug source. He wouldn't hurt her if she would tell him where Chandler lived. All he cared about was that one little bit of information. With the focus on drugs he hoped that even if Melanie contacted Chandler he wouldn't suspect they were on his trail for the kidnapping. He hadn't bothered trying to get the drug samples analyzed. He was going to use them as added incentive for Melanie's co-operation. Mulder congratulated himself on persuading Scully to stay outside in the car while he talked to Melanie. He wasn't sure if it was her embarrassment or sense of sin that made this possible, but he was grateful. Without the constraint of Scully's presence, he could be a lot more forceful. Scully's motive was a straightforward desire to keep watch outside the house. She would prevent any interference by whatever means proved necessary. This time she wore her gun. It was after midnight when Mulder started knocking at Melanie's door. The plan started to go awry immediately when she opened the door for him and began berating him as he entered. "You, you liar and thief! Did you come to return the stuff your so-called sister took from me?" Melanie had an unfocused look that weakened the impact of her hard words. She had to concentrate very hard to remember from moment to moment that he was in front of her. "No, that's not why I'm here, but you can have them back. I'm here on behalf of my boss. He's concerned about some drug sales in this area." As he spoke, Mulder held up the plastic bag with the drugs and papers he had taken earlier and continued to speak. "This is his territory, but he's heard you're indulging in some amateur action. We know who your supplier is. If you tell me how to get in touch with Richard Chandler you won't have to be punished. He can answer my boss's questions. We won't have to bother you anymore." "I don't know where you get your information, but you're dead wrong." Melanie smiled at the bag with the drugs in it. Mulder saw that she wasn't as scared as she should have been. When he approached her he could smell the smoke in her hair and clothes. The room beyond was filled with a bluish haze. She was too relaxed to care about his fictional boss. He sighed his disapproval of drugs and tried again. "We heard you sold stuff to a man named Gus, presumably the man who was here yesterday." With that remark Melanie seemed to lose her self-control and broke into uncontrolled giggling. "Me, sell to Gus! He gives me the stuff, you idiot! Tell your boss he should get some better snitches." "Why did you sell to Tara Scully? That was a big mistake." "I never sold drugs to anybody. We shared a few times." "You must be rich to be so generous. Where'd you get the money, selling drugs?" "I think you're trying to trick me," Melanie answered slowly. Mulder thought he was more likely to succeed with every minute that passed. "Did someone tell you to share with her?" "I don't remember exactly. Tara was so sad. She needed to cheer up." "How did you end up taking care of Matt?" "Rick told me to ask my brother Jerry if anyone he knew needed help with a baby. Rick said I had to pretend I didn't already know about Bill and Tara. I really do love babies." "So why does Gus give you drugs to share?" "Rick told him to, of course. Rick's in the Jet Set now. He can get anything he wants to party with. Where he lives it's not illegal. He sends it to Gus for me." "Oh, so Gus is Richard's friend. I know Gus lives around here. What was that street? It's on the tip of my tongue." "Sage Street you mean?" "Yes, that's it. What was his number? Did it begin with a '3'?" "No, it ends with a '3'. It's 43 Sage." Melanie looked at him doubtfully. "Am I telling you something I shouldn't?" "Not at all. I already knew it. I just can't remember what city Richard moved to." "Well, if you ever remember, let me know. I'd like to invite him back for a visit. He went someplace foreign. He had a job with some guy who was starting his own religion." "That's very interesting. What religion was it?" "I don't remember if he told me. It was some cult, I think. They had a lot of money though." "When was it he left the area? Was it two weeks ago?" "No way. He left back in March. He said he had a really important position and next Christmas I'd be hearing about what he did. But he told me he'd been recruited on the side as a spy for the CIA. He needed me to help him with his assignment. They had information that maybe Tara's husband was passing secrets to the Soviets. No, wait, it's not the Soviets now. Who was it?" "The U.S. still has lots of enemies. What did he have to do as a spy?" "He was going to have to break in and search Tara's house for incrini-. . .icrinim-. . .evidence. I helped by getting their keys copied, and their security code and telling him how to open the windows and doors without setting off the alarm." A look of pride on Melanie's face faded to one of doubt. "If he wasn't really a spy, I did something wrong." "Maybe you should be more careful next time. Did Richard have any other friends in the area?" "I never met them. He probably had other girlfriends," she answered with apparent unconcern. "Do you have some Ben and Jerry's in your freezer?" "Sure, Are you hungry?" "Not me. Wouldn't you like me to fix you a bowl before I leave? I've got to be going." When she nodded yes, he followed her to the kitchen and dished up a large helping of Cherry Garcia with Oreos on the side. "You know you should stop with the drugs. Look at you, alone here on a Saturday night with your drug habit." "I'll stop pretty soon. I can stop any time I want to, so what's the hurry?" she rationalized, as she dug into the ice cream. "So long. Thanks for talking to me." Melanie waved good-bye happily with the returned plastic bag. Scully realized how tense she was when she finally relaxed at seeing Mulder in one piece. She started talking before he got the car door shut. "I hope you didn't have to scare her too much." "That's not something we have to worry about. What we have to worry about is how we're going to persuade Gus to talk to us." Mulder told her how Melanie's condition had worked for them. "Unfortunately she didn't really know what we want to know. If Gus knows, how do we get the information from him?" "Well, I could lure him out to this car as Charlene and seduce him while you search his house," Scully proposed with a grave expression. Mulder flashed a panicked look at her. "Scully I know we've both broken some rules but. . ." "Gotcha! Just kidding." Scully was pleased that she had managed to get a reaction out of her famously unflappable partner. "I knew that," he said. "Joking aside, what can we do?" "Do you think Gus is susceptible to being intimidated." "Probably not by me. He may not be Nobel Prize material, but he's been around for a long time. I couldn't even get an aerobics instructor to take me seriously as hired muscle." "That leaves pretending to be something else, like journalists, or more breaking and entering. I'll bet his schedule doesn't run exactly like clockwork. What if I called and pretended to be Melanie asking him to come back because there was another prowler?" Scully suggested. "We're almost to his place. They only live about ten minutes apart. That wouldn't even give me half an hour." "What if a heavy breather called her while he was there?" "Pretty thin margin Scully. But I hate to wait any longer." They drove by Gus's little wooden house and determined what would be the best way in. The pick up with the gun rack was parked in his driveway. Scully knew Mulder had lock picks from Frohike that he used to enter Melanie's. Mulder had been especially grateful for these after the case in Digger last fall. When they returned to D.C. he presented Frohike with a gift certificate good for three movies from the Adult Video Club. She had thought it best to stay out of the whole ugly business. Mulder headed for a nearby gas station where Scully called directory service to get the phone number for 43 Sage. She practiced one sentence a few times and then tried out her version of Melanie for real. When Gus finally answered she thought he sounded too sleepy and bewildered to be critical of her impression. On the way over Mulder tried to persuade Scully to come inside and search with him. He had an obscure dread that she might actually try to delay Gus by seducing him if he left her outside alone to intercept the man. He failed to change her mind about keeping watch outside. After swiftly opening the door with his lock picks, Mulder made a quick call to Melanie as a "breather." She answered the phone with her mouth full, and was extremely slow to react. He could only hope she would try to keep Gus with her as long as possible. Gus's place was as untidy as Mulder had expected, but rich in possibilities. His attention was caught by a bulletin board that had accumulated a series of layers of papers pinned over each other. Applying the principles used in a fossil dig, he located the layer laid down last March. There was nothing suggestive among the flyers advertising St. Patrick's Day beer bashes. He worked his way backward and found something odd, which meant it could be meaningful. It appeared next to a 1099 form, so it might have been tacked up in January or February. The magazine article was a lavishly photographed layout on the ancient Mayan settlement at Bonampak. Someone had circled a paragraph near the end of the text, which was sparse compared to the illustrations. An unidentified millionaire is attempting to build a replica of the temple and amphitheater on an island called Xibalba. He has spent millions on this effort over the years, employing a small group of international odd job men. It is said that they have succeeded in erecting an astonishing structure, but no journalists are permitted to visit the island to view or photograph it. According to the locals the man (whom they will not name) is of Mayan descent and believes in the sacredness of the temple. Anthropologists would like to see what a contemporary descendant of these people might have come up with by drawing on oral traditions, but they are not permitted to visit. Mulder imagined an island in the Caribbean, a sea criss-crossed by illegal drug trade routes. It was home to a man who offered a good income to workers who respected security and kept secrets about their assignments. This place would have no extradition arrangements with the U.S. It added up very suggestively for Mulder. If Chandler had brought a kidnapped child to this place his patron would be furious. He would probably co-operate with a quiet plan to restore the child to his true home. Mulder certainly hoped that was the case. He was going on the theory that Matt had not been killed until he had proof otherwise. He searched the rest of the board and riffled hopelessly through shoe boxes of receipts and bills that he found under the coffee table. The one thing that raised his hopes was that he found no magazines similar to the one the article had come from. Someone else had brought that article to Gus's attention. Maybe Chandler couldn't resist bragging a little to impress his local gofer. Mulder had been inside for forty-five minutes. He'd better leave before Scully made the ultimate sacrifice to secure his search. Their car was around the corner. As he headed toward it he thought about how foolish it was to worry about Scully using sex to solve this case. Her joke was just a joke. There was no opportunity for her to gain anything by that route anyway. The truth was, he was a little uneasy at the apparent ease with which Scully accommodated herself to his illegal activities. How far would she go on behalf of her brother and nephew? He knew from his own experience that a joke like hers was born out of an idea that she had actually considered, however briefly. And was her zeal all for love, or did she still have things to prove to Bill that had roots in their childhood? If pressed he would have to admit that the "Memoirs of a Journalist" haunted him. He hoped the story was purely fiction. It was horrible to think anyone had ever had to hear a catalog of experiences like Amy's from a woman he once loved. Of course there was no connection whatsoever between the story and him or Scully. "I think I've got something," he said as he got into the car. "That's good to hear. It was going to be hard to go back and tell Bill we had no further leads." "It's not much," he warned, fully aware of how tenuous the connection to Chandler was. He described the article and his reasoning to Scully as she drove them through the dark streets. "How in the world do we check it out?" she responded. "We're going to have to go there in person and make some contacts. It's a long shot, but we know that Chandler manipulated Melanie into getting him into your brother's house. He was out of sight for the six months before that and he uses Gus to deliver drugs. If we poke around here much longer I'm afraid Gus might contact Chandler." "I'm not arguing with you, Mulder," Scully observed mildly. He had noticed that, and was finding that he missed it. Who was going to ground him and keep him honest during his wild theorizing? Without Scully as a touchstone and with no processes and limitations imposed by the bureau, things threatened to spin out of control. "Scully have you noticed you're not being as critical as usual of my ideas and methods?" "Yes, I've noticed," she answered, giving him a guilty look. "I know I shouldn't let myself be subverted by personal feelings. But there won't be any justice here if we don't produce it ourselves. I did the right thing and gave up taking revenge for Missy's death. This isn't revenge---it's to save Matt's life and keep my family out of prison. I'll go pretty far to do that." Mulder's mind reverted to his earlier worries and he found himself asking her a bizarre question. "Would you go through with a seduction to help solve this case?" That seemed to come out of nowhere, Scully thought. One little joke and all of a sudden I'm Mata Hari. "Actually, if there no other way, and it seemed likely to pay off, I might consider it seriously," she answered honestly. Mulder tortured himself in silence with visions of Scully being pawed by someone like Gus. "Wouldn't you fuck some woman to get the answers to your sister's disappearance?" Scully countered in a strange, rough voice. They couldn't be having this conversation, Scully thought. I'll wake up any minute. She should have refused to answer his question, and she never should have lobbed it back at him. Her tone of voice and rare use of an obscenity must have given her feelings away to him. It hurt so much to think of Mulder with another woman that she had to go all macho and vulgar to talk about it. He was too preoccupied with his own fixation to notice her gaffe or answer her question. It was impossible for him to stop the words that now seemed to speak themselves. "Scully, please promise me you won't sleep with somebody to solve this case, or any other case until you've talked to me first. We need to be sure we've considered all the options." That was outrageous, and he knew it. Flushed and miserable, he stared self-consciously out the window, but he wouldn't take it back even if he could. Scully thought of assuming an air of indignation, or mercilessly ridiculing what seemed to be unforgivable male presumption of ownership. Who would it hurt beside herself if she sacrificed her bodily integrity for a cause? It was her choice. At the next stoplight she looked over at Mulder and couldn't bring herself to defend her right to rent her body. There was too much real distress evident in his slumped posture and averted face. The chance of the situation actually occurring approached zero. Even if it did, her curiosity would never allow her to miss out on a chance to hear what options he'd suggest in those desperate straits. "OK, I promise to talk to you first." He turned to her with an expression almost childlike in its surprise and relief. Scully thought that for a few moments he had forgotten to retreat behind his walls. She felt a sudden sharp ache for the loss of the sweet, warm nature that had been stunted and misshapen in him years ago. "Thanks Scully. It bothered me a lot thinking how dangerous that would be for you." He couldn't believe it. She had let him off. She could have nailed him to a cross and left him beside the road as a warning to other males who thought they had the right to dictate rules of sexual behavior to women. Instead she had reacted from the heart to his feelings. They were both thankful to be pulling up in front of the Scully house. Now all they had to do was convince Bill they were on the right track. They were going to propose heading off to an island in the Caribbean. Their lead was a magazine article found on the bulletin board of a slow-witted drug dealer. It still had to be easier than the previous conversation. When they entered the house it was strangely quiet. They had gotten used to lights and noise around the clock. Finally, at 3 o'clock AM, the household appeared to be asleep. Neither of them even thought of waking up Bill to discuss their results. He needed sleep more than anything else. Besides, Scully was exhausted, and Mulder knew he should try to sleep. Scully joined her mother in their bedroom, while Mulder looked around for reading material in lieu of a television set. He found he couldn't stand Tara's magazines, full of household hints and beauty tips. Bill seemed to receive only official publications of the U.S. Navy. Mulder was certain that this institution had many interesting bits of information to pass on, but they wouldn't be found in official publications. He sighed in resignation and settled down on his bed with "Memoirs of a Journalist." The damage had already been done to his imagination, and he had escaped the consequences only through Scully's good graces. It couldn't get much worse than what he had already read. Chapter 15, An Awkward Arrangement Amy's Journal, March 25, 1814 In only a few weeks Morgan and I had slipped into an uneasy habit of meeting to exchange information. He asked me to report to him every day even if I had nothing new to tell him. His rooms off Fleet Street were so close to "The Times" building that he returned to them for tea each day. After eating and putting the final touches to that day's work, he returned to the newspaper offices to turn in his copy for the next day's edition. He insisted that I have tea with him on most afternoons. It wasn't long before I quite missed our discussions, and the food, when Morgan had to absent himself. As we met regularly, it became more difficult to keep the necessary indifference in my attitude toward Morgan. He would sometimes talk of Chitterton. Our own history was never mentioned, but he alluded to old friends and places we used to frequent. I had made a conscious effort to banish thoughts of my old life from my mind. His word pictures brought back memories I thought forever lost. Occasionally I forgot myself and started reminiscing along with him as though we were any two old friends, well met after a long separation. When this happened I had to be sure afterward to embellish the stories I told him of living in Covent Garden and carousing at the taverns. I couldn't afford to forget the chasm that now separated us. Frequent references to "my gentlemen friends" usually brought an end to idle chatter, and we got back to business. If Morgan had known that my gentlemen friends consisted of old Mr. Tanner and young Tom Briers the references might not have silenced him so effectively. Since I nursed Tom through his recovery from an infection, and Mr. Tanner through a fever, they thought of themselves as my family. Now I didn't have to worry about unwanted company in my room. If they heard a disturbance in the hall they quickly emerged from their rooms nearby with sticks at the ready. From my bawdy talk Morgan wouldn't have guessed my resolve that no man would ever touch me again. On March 25 I went as usual to Morgan's rooms to be told that we were going to visit a friend of his. I was apprehensive about the kind of friend who would want to meet me. We walked up Fleet Street and turned east, going only a few short blocks before we stopped in front of a tall narrow building that must have been more than a hundred years old. Number three was a door off the dingy entrance hallway. The man who opened the door was almost as short as I. He had eyeglasses that didn't seem to help much, since he leaned very close to my face and still squinted. When Morgan spoke he smiled and stepped back from the door. "What's going on, Morgan? You've never brought a gorgeous creature like this to see me before." "Miss Sullivan, allow me to present Mr. Friedrich. Mr. Friedrich, this is my old friend, Miss Sullivan." All these polite forms sounded foreign to my ears. Why was Morgan bothering? Surely even the half-blind Mr. Friedrich could tell I was an old whore. He continued to smile courteously in my direction anyway. I was amazed at how the man had wedged a printing press and reams of blank paper among pieces of more conventional furniture. There was a wonderfully warm coal fire burning in the grate. Morgan must have seen me admiring it. "Amy, why don't you go over and stand by the fire. I need to speak to Mr. Friedrich about some private matters," Morgan suggested smoothly. So, they had secrets from me. I didn't think Morgan had changed so much that I couldn't trust him. Still I kept my eye on them. Morgan's face looked strained and harsh as he spoke very low but vehemently to Mr. Friedrich. I wondered if he was saying hard things to the little man. Once when Mr. Friedrich glanced over in my direction I thought he looked as if he were going to cry. Then Morgan handed him something, and Mr. Friedrich left the room. "Does Mr. Friedrich publish your writing?" "Sometimes. When I write news articles or essays that are too strange or pointed for "The Times," Horace will put it into a broadside. Of course it goes between a poem commemorating the hanging of Tom Maloney and a story about the goodwife of Worcester who gave birth to five rabbits." I had to laugh at the wry look on Morgan's face as he said that. Then I saw him smile for the first time since we had said good-bye more than ten years before. That smile took me back to summer walks in country lanes so quickly I almost lost my composure. We used to laugh together about everything and nothing. The joy of love penetrated our existence and warmed us from the inside out. The mere memory tempted me to forget myself and act presumptuously, as though love still existed. "When Moll and I were with a gentleman friend last night, I heard a story to tell you," I bantered, with a meaningful wink. The dangerous smile disappeared, to be replaced by his usual impassive look. In truth, I finally had some intelligence that I thought might be useful to Morgan. Taking his money for the useless bits of gossip I had so far managed to glean from the girls I worked for had begun to worry me. It felt like charity. But last night Moll had related an incident that seemed closely connected to Morgan's concerns. I had been mending her shift at the time, rather than helping her satisfy a customer who enjoyed multiple partners. "Moll had a cully who used to visit her regularly. He said he was a common sailor, but he had a lot more blunt than most of them. Three weeks ago he stopped his usual visits. Then, a week ago, he showed himself at the George Tavern. He was already roaring drunk. Usually he treated the room, but he had no money this time. Moll's a good sort; she bought him an ale. Then he started talking about things he shouldn't. He started damning the Allies for driving Napoleon into a corner in Paris. Moll tried to hush him. The crowd at the George is unpredictable. They might toast a Bonapartist one night and the next night drag him out and hang him from a lamppost. When he wouldn't be quiet she brought him back to her room to sleep it off. "Out of curiosity she asked him did he want Napoleon to invade England? He said he didn't give a curse for Napoleon, or for the Allies. War was just better than peace for making money. Moll asked if he carried supplies to British troops. He laughed and said an old dog didn't have to go so far. Surrey Docks was far enough to carry his cargo. Then she said he wouldn't say any more. He promised her a box at Drury Lane one night, and new ear bobs to wear there, if she wouldn't repeat what he said to anyone. That's why she was telling me the story. He hadn't come back to keep his promise. She wanted to tell someone just to show him." Proudly I watched the dawning realization in Morgan's eyes. We had discussed the blackmail and then Bloom's disappearance many times. One important question was: Who might have access to a warehouse and the waterfront area after the gates were secured at four o'clock in the afternoon every day? We had assumed that the goods were moved from a warehouse to one of the Bloom family's ships. We hadn't considered the transfer of contraband directly from a boat, which entered the docks on its own business and was then secured alongside the larger ship already in place. "Does Moll know his name, or the name of the ship?" he asked, with his characteristic look of total concentration. "He goes by Jerry Jones, probably not his real name. His skiff is the Molly Bounce." "I can examine the records of the ships docking over the last few years. Jerry Jones may not be the only seaman into this rig. If I could find a pattern I might be able to lay a trap," Morgan mused. I had thought a step or two beyond Moll about the sailor's story, but Morgan had gone one further. I should have known he would plan to act. He was going to put himself in danger by trying to trap violent criminals who had already killed twice. I was unprepared for the fear that filled me when I considered this prospect. "You won't be able to find a pattern without knowing when the illegal cargoes were loaded. Maybe David Bloom knew that. Nobody else does," I suggested hopefully. "Ah, but I know what night he disappeared. There's a very good chance that one of those ships was involved in his disappearance- which was almost certainly murder. What ships were there that night? I can start with the Surrey Dock records." "If you believe he was murdered, isn't it going to be too dangerous to try to take these men?" "I won't try to take them into custody. I'll just gather enough information to interest the Charter Company that owns the dock and the Foreign Office." "You think that spies are working for Napoleon here in London don't you?" "Don't you?" "Have the blackmailers put pressure on David's father?" "I don't know. He denies it. He denies that David could have been blackmailed, or that any cargoes unexamined by Customs ever went out in their ships." I relaxed when I heard of those denials. Probably there would be no further smuggling. The newspapers proclaimed in each issue that Napoleon was defeated. A peace would be signed any day. His agents couldn't expect to accomplish anything for him now. "I'll be on the lookout for Jerry Jones. Maybe I can use my particular attributes to charm him into more revelations," I said with an abandoned air. My eye was drawn to the door by the noise Mr. Friedrich made when he entered the room with a tray of hot pasties, oranges and toffees. Toffees wrapped in silver paper from a shop! "Papa used to bring home toffees like that, for a treat!" I exclaimed. They were very dear. I turned back toward Morgan and was puzzled to see him nursing bruised, bloody knuckles. "This room has too much furniture for a long shanks like me," he explained curtly, dismissing my concern. "I can't move without barking my shins or running my hand into a wall." Chapter 16, A Misunderstanding Morgan's Journal, April 8 and 9, 1814 My examination of shipping records from the Surrey Docks was fruitless. On the day of David's disappearance there had been nothing unusual about the ships present in the docks. The Molly Bounce was absent. The usual mix of large ocean-going vessels and smaller boats used for shipping on the Thames was present. Amy had been right. Without dates for the loading of contraband, nothing could be made of the dock logs. The Molly Bounce last entered the Surrey Docks in December of last year. London rejoiced at the news of Napoleon's surrender on Easter Sunday. No one wanted to hear any more about Napoleon's agents or French conspiracies. Nevertheless I was convinced that some members of Parliament were still being forced to further the deposed Emperor's interests. A few Whigs once exerted a balancing influence on their fellows, who blindly admired Bonaparte. They were now silent or had changed their views. They all called loudly for an end to British involvement on the Continent, forgetting that Napoleon once planned to involve himself very deeply in British affairs by invading our island. I suspected that corruption in the operation of the docks continued as well. I couldn't explain the purpose of this activity, since the Scourge of Europe had renounced all claim to sovereignty and was being sent into exile in a few weeks. In the wake of the Allied victory over Napoleon, I concentrated my efforts on Members of Parliament who unexpectedly changed their positions on the terms of treaties. Topham was a district of artisans and laborers. The community had returned a Radical named James Gilbert to Parliament three times. Mr. Gilbert differed from other Radicals in his constant advocacy of stern measures against the French enemy. Recently he'd begun speaking of moderation and the need to avoid renewed hostilities by demanding little in the way of reparations from the defeated. He no longer felt it necessary to banish Napoleon to a distant location. Mr. Gilbert's stableboy proved to be a magpie for interesting bits of gossip and shiny silver coins. On his information Amy had been watching the Gilbert house from ten to eleven each morning. We expected a tall, thickset visitor with light hair, and blue eyes with a slight squint. Amy was to try to identify the hackney and driver so we could question him later. On the afternoon of April 8 Amy didn't show up for tea as usual. Her failure to appear preoccupied me increasingly as the evening came on. Part of me believed she had stepped into a gin shop and become incapable of stepping out, although that had never happened before. The other part wanted to rush into the streets and look for her, fearful of an accident or an encounter with a footpad. When she finally came to the door at seven o'clock I let my anger overtake my worry. "So you finally decided to keep your appointment," I greeted her with sullen overtones. Then I noticed Amy was caught up in her own emotional reactions. She was pale and agitated, clearly full of some kind of news and unsure how to tell it. "I followed him, Morgan. The man I was waiting for came to Mr. Gilbert's on foot, so I followed him when he left. He walked to St. Giles." Here she stopped. She stared blankly, seeing something besides her immediate surroundings. "Well?" I questioned. She raised her eyes to mine reluctantly and I could see the mask of hardness overtake her features. "He went to the Panasay." The place where she had been sold into slavery. The warren that should be burned to the ground as an anteroom to hell. I told myself to remain calm and unaffected. "Was it just a visit, or is he stopping there?" "I waited a long time and he didn't come out. Then I asked the scullery maid when she came into the yard to wring out the dish clothes. He works for Jack Quickill." "You shouldn't have asked any questions. She could be telling Jack right now about your interest in him," I admonished her. "It's all right. I told her I was looking for a place to work and that I fancied the looks of the man. Maybe I will take a place there and earn some money. It would be easier earnings than walking about London all day," she said with a sly look at me. Her barb hurt more than usual because of the anxiety that preceded this scene. Why should I always be the one to be tormented and teased? "Yes, why don't you? I'll pay you again what you earn there if you'll spy for me," I tossed off coolly. I regretted the offer immediately. What if she accepted the terms? I knew I couldn't live with them, so I'd have to find some plausible reason to recant. After a half-minute pause I saw that this wouldn't be necessary. My comment had made more of an impression than I could have hoped. Amy was completely unprepared for my proposition and stood speechless. Her uncertainty made her look younger. The girl of my youth could almost be seen beneath the cynical demeanor of the older Amy. I had finally gotten through the shell and touched her. At that moment hurting her seemed preferable to making no emotional connection. So I did it again. "Why aren't you interested, Scarlet? It's no more than you do every night in Convent Garden and you'll get double pay." She became even paler and stood silent. "I can't do it, Morgan. I'm sorry. You'll have to get someone else to do this work. I won't be back. Good-bye." With those words she turned and slipped out the door. I went into a passion of self-justification that lasted half the night. She had insisted repeatedly on her vicious life and immoral ways of earning money, I reminded myself. Maybe she exaggerated her exploits, but if she did it was to hurt me. All I did was do her the favor of taking her seriously. I could look at it from as many angles as I chose. The fact remained. She was gone and I didn't even know exactly where she lived. I spent the second half of the night working on a plan to find her and re-establish the terms of our working arrangement. As unsatisfactory as they had been, they were better than nothing. It was a great relief when the sun rose and I could start my day. After checking my copy at "The Times" I set off to see Horace Friedrich. Amy didn't know that she wasn't the only person who gathered information for me. On the day I introduced her to Horace, I instructed him to find out all he could about her. He hadn't succeeded in learning much the last time I spoke with him, but I was hoping for more today. "I'm not going to ask how you slept," he addressed me when he opened the door and I strode past him. "I doubt if you did." I wished him a belated "Good Morning." "I wanted to find out if you knew anything more about Amy yet. I really need her address." "Why the sudden need? If I might inquire," he added quickly when I glared at him. "Something I said gave offense to Amy last night. She doesn't want to work for me anymore." Horace's smile faded away. "What did you say?" "Never mind what I said. She knows how to be very provoking." I didn't like Horace's sombre expression. "You owe me more than one article. Write me a poem about the secret murder of Fanny Edgecombe and how her ghost brought the killer to justice. I had to talk for days about Bonnie Prince Charlie and horseflesh to get your information. Those men who live in her lodgings took a great deal of drawing out before they'd talk about her." "What sort of men?" I forced out between clenched teeth. "Hold hard. Don't start the jump before you get to the hedge. Old Jock Tanner was born in Glasgow about sixty years ago and hasn't seen anything outside Scotland yet that's worth having. He peddles needles and thread. Tommy Briers takes penny wagers on horseraces, but most of his money comes from his earnings as a crossing-sweeper. He's so small people mistake him for a child. He was in great demand as a jockey at Newmarket. Then he was thrown and a hoof crushed his hand. He couldn't ride as he did before and that was the end of his career." "So they're not. . .pimps?" "She hasn't been honest with you, Morgan. I feel bad that I didn't send you my information in a letter earlier. You might have spoken to her differently if you'd known all the facts." "If she lied it's her fault," I replied stubbornly. "What I can't fathom is the reasoning behind the lies she's told. Tanner and Briers told me she's been living like a nun for the past three years---and I don't mean a Covent Garden Abbess. Three years ago, in fact, she cut a man who tried to assault her in her room. It turned out she keeps a razor under her mattress. After that men left her alone. It didn't hurt that about then Tanner and Briers appointed themselves her protectors. That happened after she nursed Tanner through an attack of putrid fever that he wouldn't have survived otherwise. When Briers moved in across the hall he was suffering from an infection in his hand. She took care of him too. Neither of them tolerate a critical word about her." "So was her whole story a lie?" I wondered aloud. Horace could probably hear the hope in my voice. He gave me a pitying look. "No. Jock was living in the same room he's in now when she started working in the streets five years ago. She was staying with a petty thief who used her earnings to buy their gin. Jock gave her three to six months before she'd be dead of drink or disease. Then he heard she'd moved in with some bawd named Clara who was dying of consumption. From that time she changed. She stopped drinking gin and stayed in to care for Clara in the evenings. Apparently the woman had saved money to ease her dying days. "After Clara's death Tanner expected Amy to move in with another thief or pimp, but she didn't. Instead of going back to prostitution she scraped by doing errands, sewing, physicking---whatever she could. She earned enough to get a room in the same lodging house as his, and she's been there ever since. Sometimes she's had to beg on the street, but she never sells herself. He's never seen such a change in the life of a whore in his life. "He learned more about her past while she nursed him through his sickness. It sounds like the same history you told me, except you didn't tell me about her own sickness." "I didn't know about any sickness," I admitted. "Well you told me she was forced into that notorious stew in St. Giles. Of course she got the Pox. Tanner says she almost died. After that she looked too old and used up to earn them any money in the brothel. They turned her out on the streets. That was when she started living with various men in Covent Garden." My thoughts were jumbled after Horace's revelations. It didn't make sense. Why had Amy pretended to be living as a prostitute when it was no longer true? I thought back over the first speech I had with her after the Frost Fair. She forestalled any initiative from me by claiming to be happy with her life. In fact, she acted out a spirited "Beggar's Opera" with me every time I saw her. I never had a chance to offer to restore our old relations or to express my pity and horror at her history. I never had a chance to accuse and condemn her either. She repudiated me before I had a chance to repudiate her. That was where the answer lay. Her claim to living happily as a harlot removed any possibility of a close connection between us. She saw to it that I only had one choice to make, so she couldn't be wounded when I made it. If I had listened more closely to Sally I could have figured this out for myself. "She lied to keep me away. When I stayed my distance she told herself that I rejected Scarlet, a whore, not Amy. But it was too much when I finally accepted her as nothing more than Scarlet. It probably felt like Amy's final death knell." As soon as I said those words I was overcome with anxiety. They rang so true that the idea of her death brought on a sense of foreboding. "It strikes me that in the view of most people she wasn't lying. She can never be virtuous again in the eyes of society. Once a woman falls she isn't allowed to get up again," Horace asserted earnestly. I wasn't interested in debating the fine points of truth. I wanted her address so I could make sure she was safe. "Where does she live? "The big slate blue lodging house behind the George on Maiden Lane. A room on the third floor," he replied promptly. "Thank you. I'll write you a poem about the day the devil left his footprints in St. Giles." My rooms were on the way between Friedrich's lodgings and Maiden Lane. I stopped in on the way and my worries were allayed. Mrs. Mobley had a note for me delivered by a boy only an hour ago. I didn't remember Amy being such a poor speller, but she probably hadn't written much for the past ten years. She addressed me by my last name and signed the note "Scarlet." What did that mean? Was she using the nickname herself as a form of sarcasm? Apparently she was willing to work, though, and I was excited at the note's contents. I was to meet her at the Surrey Docks tonight at seven o'clock. She had something important to show me in the Tulip House offices. We had uncovered part of the answer! Chapter 17, A Gamble Amy's Journal, April 8 and 9, 1814 As soon as Morgan proposed that I work for Jack at the Panasay I knew I had been playing a stupid game with myself. Now I realized that all along I comforted myself with the belief that Morgan still held a special place in his heart for me. I had spun stories of my life as a streetwalker to shock him into keeping his distance. It was a needless effort. I understood finally that I was nothing to him but a tool, better or worse for the job at hand. The comprehension almost brought me to my knees with the pain. I had to get out. I had to deaden those feelings, quick, quick, quick. I couldn't watch that careless expression or hear those words one more time from the person I had never stopped associating with love. My destination was never in doubt as I hurried through streets lit by the linkboys of tavern guests and theatergoers. The apothecary on St. Agnes Lane would have his back door open tonight and I had enough money to buy a full bottle. It would be a wise economy to buy oblivion in one five shilling purchase instead of buying fifty drops here and one hundred there. "I'll have a bottle of your black draught," I told the man, letting him see my money. "You're not thinking of taking all this at once?" he questioned half-heartedly, peering more closely into my face. "Certainly not," I answered with dignity. "I get these terrible headaches." "Especially when you don't take your black draught," he chaffed me. He handed the bottle over with no further comments. At the gin shop I bought a full bottle and some stale rolls to prevent my stomach from rebelling at the reintroduction of these virulent liquids. Then I returned to my room and laid my purchases out on the floor beside my mattress. All I could think about was the need to shut off memories and pain. I chewed the dry bread and washed it down with gin. The mixture hit my stomach like a lit coal, but it was a good burning that promised relief from mental agony. There was a moment of suspense while I waited to see if it would stay down. The familiar numbness stole over my brain, and I decided to play a game with the bottle of laudanum. I would close my eyes, pour some in the glass, and drink it. Let fate determine the amount. I swallowed the contents of the glass and gagged at the persevering bitterness of the taste. When I looked the bottle was so close to empty it was hardly worth stoppering. I drained the remnant. All I needed was another glass of gin to take the taste away. It took the taste away and unwelcome consciousness with it. The next thing I remembered was a sensation of gliding upwards through dark mazes and tunnels. Something was dragging me around the room. There was a terrible pressure under each arm and a constant droning in my ears. "Open your eyes, Scarlet. Come on now. It's time to wake up." My legs gave out and that was when I discovered I'd been standing up. "Don't let her head hit the floor! She's in enough trouble. Moll better get back here with the coffee soon. My legs aren't going to take much more of this." "Here she is. Drink this so we can sit down and rest a little while." Some of the strong, sweet drink half-spilled down my front, but some of it went down my throat. Someone kept pulling me about, trying to bring me to my feet, but my knees might as well have been pieces of rope. "For a very small person she's quite a weight, isn't she?" "No. We're just not very impressive physical types." I recognized the voices now. It was Jock Tanner and Tom Briers. "She's awake. I saw her expression change. Open your eyes, there's a good girl." The morning light bored between my eyelids like needles. Everything hurt, but my head hurt the most. Then my stomach started to heave, and claimed my attention as the source of greatest discomfort. "Grab the chamber pot. She's going to lose that coffee." I lost the coffee and whatever else remained in my stomach. "Please, I'm awake now. Let me lie down," I pleaded. They argued for a few minutes and then managed to get me upright. I staggered over and fell onto the mattress, where I tried to retreat back into dreams. "No, you can't go back to sleep yet," Jock told me firmly. "I'm sorry if you didn't intend to wake up, but we didn't know. You haven't been taking the gin or opium recently. You might have miscalculated the amount that was safe. Molly couldn't rouse you to collect the sewing you promised to have done for her. You left the door unlocked. She went in and saw the bottles and found you. Your breathing was getting slower and shallower every minute she waited. She came and got us." Of course I hadn't intended to wake up, but I hadn't made a conscious decision to end my life. That would be a sin. I suspected I would have succeeded anyway if the apothecary had given me honest value. His black draught had been adulterated and weakened. Otherwise Moll would have been too late. So my misery would continue. My failure forced me to face the horror I had known was in store all along. I remembered everything from yesterday. I was going to have to return to Morgan and tell him I would do as he asked. Morgan hadn't changed. If I wouldn't spy for him he would represent himself as a customer to gain access to Jack and his secrets. Danger would be all around him. He'd contract the disease he falsely claimed to have. That couldn't be allowed to happen. I thanked Moll and Jock and Tom sincerely. Their intervention saved Morgan from the consequences of my weakness. What insanity had led me to expect anything at all from him? The past was buried. It was my self-indulgence that was endangering him. If I hadn't been tempted to see him and talk to him every day, to impress him with my performance as a spy, he wouldn't know anything about Jack and his brothel. Whatever happened to me would be just punishment. I was clearly obliged to bring the series of events I had set in motion to a safe conclusion. The nausea and shaking subsided by late afternoon. I was able to get down the stairs and make my way through the streets back to Morgan's rooms. My wisecracks and doxy attitudes were prepared when I knocked on his door. They had to be dropped when a young woman with long, golden-brown, curly hair opened the door. I recognized Sally immediately and hoped the reverse wasn't true. "Oh, I must have knocked at the wrong door. I'll go check with Mrs. Mobley," I said hastily. I was backing away when she reached out and took my hand. I shook her hand off and turned around. "Amy, I know about you and your history. Morgan's having great difficulties, but I think I understand a little about how you feel. He doesn't realize how hard it is to be a female. If I hadn't had a protective brother who was also a friend I might be like you now." I turned back and looked at her in disbelief. Her face showed only perfect sincerity. She grasped my hand again and continued talking as she urged me inside. Did she realize that the opportunity to hear Morgan's name, perhaps to say it myself, drew me after her as effectively as her hand holding mine? "Morgan sheltered me when I was very young and then saw that I was provided with a livelihood. He told me about dangers and temptations that beset young women. The most important thing he did was care for my happiness. I knew that he wasn't acting out of fear for his own honor. He protected me until I had friends and sufficient understanding to protect myself. Your father should have done that for you." "He did the best he could. He tried to make me get married," I protested. I got a sorrowful look in answer. Gently pushing me back into a chair, she took the one across from it. She looked a great deal like him. Her generous, handsome features were made beautiful by her soft brown eyes. I couldn't decide how to respond to Sally. Did she pity me? I didn't want that. She seemed to excuse my history as beyond my control. That couldn't be true. I didn't want it to be true. I didn't want to pity myself. I settled for talking strictly business. "I came here to talk to Morgan about the work we're doing. What he wants me to do next." "I came here just to visit. We're both disappointed. But I'm pleased to have a chance to talk to you. You see, I've been wanting to ask your help." I should have known this would follow the sugary words. Under the gilt is the iron. Morgan's open acquaintance with me had to offend his unmarried sister. Perhaps it even put her employment or potential marriage at risk. "My help? I can't do anything for you." "Yes, you can. I'm worried about Morgan. I said he was having difficulties. He isn't eating or sleeping well. I believe it's his concern over you that's troubling him. He's told me about you. Amy, I'm not sure I believe the things you say about the way you live. I think maybe you're too proud to admit that life defeated you. You don't want to take help from someone you hurt, however inadvertently. Could you overcome your pride enough to put Morgan's mind at rest?" That surprised me. She cared most about him. Her understanding of me was uncomfortably close to the truth. Morgan was luckier than he knew to have such a friend in his sister. But she was wrong about his feelings. "You're mistaken. He doesn't care about me anymore." I wasn't going to reveal the disgusting details of the proof to his young sister, but there was no doubt in my mind. She looked at me calmly, seeming very sure of herself. "The two of you are putting up false fronts to protect yourselves from each other. It's killing Morgan to hear you claim to be happy about selling your body to different men every night. He's tormented but he can't bring himself to leave you in your precarious way of life without his friendship. I can't believe you would bother to work for my brother if you were whoring as contentedly as you claim." "I'm sorry, but you don't know everything that's happened. If something is disturbing Morgan it's something other than me." Sally was very frank for a maiden of twenty, but she still seemed terribly young. Her eyes were reddened and her voice a little less certain now. What would I do if she cried? "Please. Morgan is all the family I have now. He's suffering and it's wearing him down." I shook my head helplessly. "You're wrong. It's not within my power to help. I have to leave now. I'd like to leave a note for Morgan." While I spoke I looked around the room for a piece of paper I could use. I spotted a piece under the table where he usually sat to write. I picked it up and saw it was a handbill for the Cyder Cellar. That would do perfectly. But when I turned it over there was already a note on the back. The contents were disturbing. In an uncertain, ill-spelt hand the message read "Deer Mr. Fox, I need you to meet me at the Sury Doks by the Tulep Company warhows north door at 8 o'clok. I fownd owt sum vary important informashun. Do not fal to be thar." The frightening part was that it was signed "Scarlet." Of course I hadn't sent it. Someone was trying to lure Morgan down to the docks by pretending to be me. I was terribly afraid he had gone. It was five o'clock now. Maybe I could get there in time to warn him. There was no reason to scare Sally. I pocketed the note and said an abrupt good-bye. I had to find a hackney. It was lucky that Morgan paid well. Even after last night's debacle, I still had enough money to pay for a ride to the ferry landing east of Blackfriars Bridge. The fastest way to the Surrey Docks would be down river by boat. I would have to bargain for a fare no higher than my remaining money. Despite the danger of being late, I paused on my way to buy a second-hand razor from the barber at Fleet St. and Shoe Lane. I couldn't spare the time to fetch the one I kept in my room. Chapter 18, A Matter of Life and Death Morgan's Journal, April 9, 1814 I travelled to the docks on the roads north of the Thames, crossing by ferry at the point across from Rotherhithe. My plan had been to get there early and make certain that the area was safe before Amy arrived. I was first delayed at "The Times," when Mr. Griffith decided to dispute my description of Talleyrand as a "dangerous hypocrite." I preferred the words "unmitigated liar," but I was forced to accede to his "wily diplomat." The traffic was unexpectedly heavy on Wapping High Street and then the coach was damaged by a damned fool of a carter who cut too close trying to overtake us. We had to wait and squeeze ourselves into the next coach scheduled. I was almost late. My greatest worry turned out to be groundless. The gates I had expected to be locked were not even completely closed. I failed to think carefully about the implications of this. Somehow Amy had opened the gates and left them ajar for me. How? That was one of the interesting things I was agog to discover. I stopped briefly just inside the gate to light the lantern I had borrowed from Mrs. Mobley's stableboy. There was a little remaining daylight, but it wouldn't last long. I closed the lantern's slide to hide the light until I needed it, and began to walk quietly along the canal, toward the warehouses and piers. The Tulip warehouse was on the west side of the Commercial dock basin. I approached the darkened building as carefully as possible. Since I didn't know Amy's purpose I couldn't predict the results of being found by the watchmen. I avoided drawing their notice. When I bent slightly to place the lantern on the ground two figures came at me out of the black shadows beside a stack of empty crates. One of them brandished a long stick and struck out at me as he came running. I had time only for a quick exclamation. I pulled away from the blow and my hat absorbed some of its destructive power. Nevertheless I fell half-stunned to the stone walk. Instantly my attackers grabbed my arms on each side and pulled them behind my back. My hands were tied while I was still in a daze. "An easy night's work, eh, Boodle?" one of the men drawled, hefting his stick proudly. "It's not over yet. I'm not convinced it was a good idea to bring him here. We shouldn't draw more attention to this place." "Jack must think third time's lucky. My old mother used to say that with every third glass of gin." "She died trying to brush the spiders and snakes off in Bedlam, didn't she?" Boodle observed morosely. He opened the slide of their own lantern and fished a strip of cloth out of his pocket. This he fashioned into a gag and tied it tightly across my mouth. By the time this task was completed I was fully aware of my surroundings once more. I wasn't even going to be able to argue for my life. I was sure it was my life at stake. They had been waiting for me and I was going to end up in the water as John Eastman had. The note had lured me into a trap as handily as cheese entices a mouse to its doom. The note! They must know about Amy. They used her name to get me here. I wondered if they had sent her a note signed with my name. Would she believe in a message to Scarlet from a Mr. Fox? If she did, would she bother to come, or would she ignore it, on the reasonable grounds that she had already quit my employ? Perhaps they didn't consider her a threat. If she arrived now she should be able to see the danger from a distance and run. I comforted myself with this thought until the sight of her stepping into the circle of light horrified me. Clearly the two men were as surprised as I was. "What's this? Who are you?" the man with the stick questioned her nervously. "I'm Polly. Jack just hired me. I help manage the Panasay. Jack sent me here with a message," she replied. "He's changed his mind. Information was received that showed this man has connections at Carlton House. He'll be more dangerous dead than alive. No one believes him now. If you kill him more people will talk about it and write about it. Jack says to threaten him and then let him go." The two men drew closer together and muttered in each other's ears. When they turned away from her, Amy's apparent serenity disintegrated. I recognized the look on her face, although I had only seen it once, long ago. One very hot summer's day we went out searching for a sheep lost from Cousin Edward's flock. After hours of walking we found the sight of the lower meadows pond too much to resist. The summer had been wet and the pond was deep. I stripped down to my breeches and plunged in. Amy waded carefully at the edges. She had never learned to swim. I teased her about her caution. She responded good-naturedly with badinage that insulted my prowess in the water. At some point in the escalating hilarity I thought it would be a clever joke to remain submerged until she became alarmed. Then I would pop up and we would laugh about her needless worries. There were hollow reeds growing at the edge of the pond. I could use one for a breathing tube. The extra time underwater would add to the impact of the joke. When I finally emerged from the water among the reeds I realized I had waited too long. She was wading toward the center of the pond where I had first gone under. The fear and grief reflected in her face were controlled by sheer determination. That was the expression her face wore right now. I remembered crouching in the water, too ashamed to acknowledge my cruel attempt at humor, knowing all the while that delay only made it worse. I watched her sweeping her arms through the water and dragging her feet through the mud systematically. She was searching for some part of me that she could grasp and bring to the surface. Just when I had summoned up the nerve to hail her, she stepped into deep water and slipped beneath the surface. As I pulled her to safety and then saw the rejoicing in her eyes at the sight of my healthy self I vowed silently that I would never put her through anything like that again. I insisted on teaching her to swim during the next month, without ever admitting my culpability. In the course of learning to hold her breath and dive, she must have figured out that my actions that day were deliberate. She never spoke a word of reproach. Now she had walked into danger again for my sake. When my attackers returned their attention to us, Amy's face resumed its neutral look. They still hadn't reached an agreement. "Jack never changes his mind, does he, Boodle?" "Give it some thought, Rattler. He would if he had good cause. It just never happened before. I don't know how she would know about Jack sending us here if she wasn't his messenger." They stood undecided. Rattler was studying Amy's face too closely for my liking. With a sudden movement he stepped over to her, grasped her upper arm and pulled her scarf back revealing her red hair. He clapped his hand over her mouth but gave a loud bray of laughter himself that was hushed quickly by a glare from Boodle. "Ned told me she was easy to follow in a crowd. This is the woman he followed back to Fleet Street. She's Scarlet! On her way back to Covent Garden she bought enough laudanum and gin to keep her occupied the whole day today. Ned didn't think she'd interfere with the trap," Rattler crowed. His grin faded and he asked doubtfully, "Well what do we do with her?" "Leaving two bodies would be worse than one. We don't even know if Jack wants her dead," Boodle pointed out." Why don't we take her back with us and let him decide. Maybe Jack can think of a way to use her to make some money. He's not a one for waste." "That sounds safe to me," Rattler concurred with satisfaction. "Have you got another gag?" "No. There's no way I can plan things properly if other people don't keep up their end, is there? If Ned had done his part, I wouldn't need one, would I?" his accomplice grumbled. He finally dug out a neckerchief from an inner pocket and gave it to Rattler to tie around Amy's mouth. I was agonizing silently, unable to take my gaze from her white face. There would be no apologies or good-byes for us. I wanted to tell her that I knew all of her story and that I understood. That I was sorry for so much, some of it my fault and some of it beyond my control. My eyes filled at the injustice of this enforced silence at the end. Then Amy looked back and I finally compassed the love for me that still lived in her soul. It had been there all along for the seeing eye to distinguish. I hoped she could read in my face the answering love that shed its ugly disguises on the spot, and leapt forth naked to meet hers. While Amy and I watched each other in wonder darkened by our hopeless situation, Boodle and Rattler decided on a location for the completion of their plan. They hustled me to my feet and Boodle took a pistol from his belt. "Walk out along the wharf to your left. Keep going until I tell you to stop. " When I didn't start moving he swung the pistol experimentally toward Amy, forcing my immediate compliance. We walked out at least five hundred feet to the end of the longest jetty. There were piles of boxes on the wharf beside each of the boats tied up on the sides. We never saw a sign of any watchmen. There had probably been generous bribes distributed to keep them inside the warehouses tonight. The pier head itself was a stone structure that rose ten feet out of the water at its end. The river currents sent the water in soft slaps against the granite below us. The last thing I remember is Boodle replacing his pistol in his belt and taking the heavy walking stick from Rattler. ******************************************** Amy's Journal, April 9, 1814 When I left the banks of the Thames I had the sketchiest of directions from the boatman. I found the gates, which had been left unfastened, and entered a dark, seemingly deserted world of water and stone. If there hadn't been remnants of daylight it would have been impossible to traverse the docks without stepping off into the water. Even so, I couldn't read the signs on the warehouses. There were few lanterns hung in the area surrounding the basin of dark water. At intervals the piers extended like fingers from the stone walls into the huge pools where boats of all kinds creaked at their moorings. There were a few watchmen on board the large vessels, I presumed, but the modern docks were famous for their security. Merchants no longer lost a large percentage of their goods to theft. The size and complexity of the docks surprised and disheartened me. They were even larger in scale than the East India docks I had visited with Papa before our money was gone. The brooding silence and huge shadowy spaces contrasted sharply with my daytime memory of the bustling East India dockside. I realized that here there were two separate pools and both were large. How was I going to locate the Tulip Company Warehouse? I jumped at the noise of a squeak that sounded close by. Another moment and I knew it was a rat being dispatched by a cat on the other side of the water. Sounds carried well over water. If I were very attentive maybe I could find my way by listening for sounds of activity. It was hard to stand quietly when I knew I was missing the meeting. I was probably too late to deliver a warning. I would have to do what I could to remedy the situation instead. The sound of very quiet footsteps came to me from the other dock area. I was able to walk even more softly in my leather-soled, heelless shoes. The steps led me toward the warehouses lining the eastern basin. A muffled cry and small scuffling sounds spurred me to a much faster pace. The scene I witnessed from the shadows left me at a momentary loss. Morgan was sprawled on the pavement close to a warehouse door. Two strangers were tying his hands behind him and placing a gag on him. I reminded of myself of the many lessons I had learned in hiding fear and distress. The difficulty was that I cared more about what happened to Morgan than to me. Staying in control would be harder than ever before. First I'd try a bluff. Then I'd resort to the most desperate measures. Pulling my shawl up over my head, I boldly stepped into full view. I claimed to be a messenger from Jack Quickill. It almost worked. Something about me reminded the one called Rattler of Scarlet's description. When he pulled the shawl back I knew that we were doomed. In our extremity I couldn't deny myself a last attempt to communicate my regret and sorrow to Morgan for having brought him to his pass. The Ned they spoke of must have followed me to his rooms, perhaps because I was foolish enough to speak to the skivvy. Yes, Morgan would hate and reproach me for that. His own indifference to me was clearly established. Nevertheless it hurt too badly to think of Morgan going to his death believing in my disdain. I had stopped pretending to myself last night. I loved him still, as I always had. My pride no longer mattered. I had nothing but my eyes to convey my feelings. After years of relying on concealment of honest emotion to survive, expression didn't come easily. I reminded myself that this was my last chance. Before I turning toward him I braced myself for the blame and anger I expected. It was a tremendous shock to see tenderness and concern for me in his face. I couldn't take it in properly. Then all I could think about was how much I must have hurt him, if he had those feelings all along. There was so much to say, so much to make up for, and all I could do was look longingly at him. Our time together was almost gone, and most of it wasted. Renewed argument between the two thugs brought me out of my painful contemplation of Morgan's face. I had to concentrate if we were to have any chance at all. Both men picked up lanterns and motioned us to walk down the length of the wharf. Boodle used a pistol to force Morgan's co-operation. I was disconcerted to see that he obeyed Boodle instantly only when the gun was pointed at me. His caring for me made me liability. If I won him an opportunity to run, would he take it? I was alert for any advantage, but Rattler never let go of my arm. At the end of the wharf they argued again. "I always do the hitting, Boodle!" one thug insisted sulkily. "The last time you might as well have sunk an axe into his head, it was so banged up. It's supposed to look like a bump from a fall, remember?" Boodle took the stick as he spoke. I knew this was my last chance. He swung it in a false blow the first time, just taking Morgan's hat off. Without pausing he brought it around again and connected solidly with the back of his head. Morgan dropped like a felled tree at Boodle's feet. All that time Rattler kept his eyes on me. When Boodle made motions to kick Morgan off the end of the jetty I thought I would have to settle for the poorest of opportunities. Then a bit of luck came my way. "Is it going to look like an accident with his hands tied behind his back and a gag on?" Rattler asked sarcastically. His partner was clearly embarrassed at his oversight and fussed at the ties as though the perfect method for untying them was of the first importance. Rattler relaxed and enjoyed the sight of his discomfiture. It had to be now, and I would have to be as quick and ruthless as the cat I heard a short while ago. One little shake brought the razor down my sleeve and into my hand. I lunged up straight for Rattler's left eye and tried my best to cut it out. The suddenness of my attack and the pain and terror it caused prevented him from doing anything more than trying to ward off the razor. He grabbed it from me by the blade, cutting his fingers to the bone in the process. Warm blood sprayed everywhere. "Christ, help me," he screamed. "She's cut my eye, the bitch blinded me!" He was too busy trying to hold his eye in, to hold me too. I ran for shelter behind one of the piles of boxes on the wharf. Under cover of the shadows and stacks of barrels I crept toward the end of the jetty where Morgan lay. I was dismayed to see Boodle take the time to push Morgan's prone body off the end before he ran to Rattler. The splash was loud because of the long fall. I went over the side, out of the thugs' sight, and lowered myself as far as possible. I wanted to slip in quietly, but I still had to drop four feet down. The splash sounded loud to my ears, but it seemed no one was paying attention. It was a cold April and the water was cold too. No light from the lanterns reached over the side of the wharf, so I had to figure out where Morgan was most likely to be. His coat had trapped a little air. Otherwise I don't know how I would have located him in the dark, frigid water before he drowned. He remained unconscious despite the sudden immersion. I supported his head with one arm while I held an iron ring set in the stone jetty with other. My first concern was danger from the two murderers above. There were no further screams, expostulations or sounds of footsteps. Had they given up looking for me in favor of finding help for Rattler? I listened as long as I could force myself to stay quiet. I was starting to shiver uncontrollably in the water. Worse of all my hands were starting to become numb. When I could no longer grasp the ring we would sink. I had known all along that I couldn't climb out with Morgan. The cracks between the stones might allow me to clamber out alone, but never carrying another person. And I couldn't leave for help because Morgan would drown. I would have to call for assistance and somehow keep us afloat until it came. I counted to one hundred and then started yelling for help. Time seemed to stand still while we were suspended in an icy black void. What could I do about the increasing numbness in my limbs? I realized I could slip my forearm through the mooring ring. What did I have that I could tie? Morgan's stock would do. He favored simple black ones with uncomplicated knots. At first I was afraid I had waited too long, and that my fingers couldn't manage the required movements. I put one arm through the ring and pulled Morgan close between both arms. I rested his chin on my shoulder. The hardest part was tying a slipknot to loop separately around my wrists. When I succeeded I pulled it tight with my teeth. The progressive numbness kept me from feeling the constriction. Morgan couldn't slip away from me now. He was still breathing, but I didn't know how long we could survive the cold water. After continuing to call for another quarter of an hour I understood that I had made a fatal miscalculation. Even forty miles from the sea the tides made themselves felt in the dock basins. The tide was rising and we were fastened to a ring that was submerged more deeply in the water with each passing minute. There wasn't enough light for me to see the evidence of the high tide mark. I already felt the pull on my arms from the lift of the deeper water. I could release Morgan from my arms so I wouldn't hold him underwater, but then he would drown from lack of support for his head. Death could have been worse. I was lucky to avoid whatever nasty use Jack would have found for me. At intervals I continued calling for help. In between I tried to wriggle out of the bonds around my wrists, or to wake Morgan up so he could swim to safety. The last thing I remember was starting to feel warm again, and thinking hazily that someone had added hot water to the river. Chapter 19, A Reconciliation Amy's Journal, April 10, 1814 When I awoke I was cold again. Although I was covered in blankets and warmth was all around me, it didn't seem to sink in, and I couldn't stop shivering. I kept my eyes closed in hopes that I could learn something about the people around me before they realized I could hear them. Someone one was lying close beside me. I could hear breathing and sensed heat from a large body. I hoped it was Morgan. Someone else was in the room making small movements and rustling papers. Then I heard a door open and a voice speak out. "Haven't they waked up yet? Captain wants to hear their story. He's worried about that puddle of blood and razor. He doesn't want to lose any more crew to Newgate." "No, nothing so far. It's only been two hours since we pulled them out. Give it a little longer. Then I'll use something to try to bring them around." The door shut and footsteps came closer. I decided to wake up in case I could do something to protect us both. When I opened my eyes I was looking into a pair of blue eyes set in a weathered, mahogany- brown face. I had no idea who the man was, but he wore a sailor's cap on his thick white hair. We were in a cramped cabin with a wood burning stove and a lantern that gave a flickering, smoky light. "Good morning, Missus, " he said cheerfully."I'll bet you have a story to tell. Do you remember it?" I propped myself up and checked first to make sure the person beside me was Morgan. He had a big hard knot on the back of his head, but nothing else wrong with the parts that were visible to me. We were both tucked tightly into a one person bunk. That was when I realized that neither of us was wearing any clothes. I gave the sailor a hard glance, but he grinned and shrugged it off. "You were both as cold as the chapel floor in January. We couldn't leave you in those wet things. If it makes you feel any better, I act as ship's doctor as well as cook." What did it matter if a few more men saw me naked? It wasn't as if I were a virgin and had a right to be particular about my dignity. "We wrapped you up right away. Don't you worry about it, " he added reassuringly, looking at me as though he regretted his grin. "How did you find us?" I inquired. "They took their time, but one of the watch thought they heard something and actually went outside their quarters. They saw a lantern at the end of the jetty and walked down to investigate. When they looked over the side and saw you, one of them came here to the Daphne and woke us up. They knew we had a few people on board. It took some extra help and a winch to get you up. You probably had about ten minutes before the water would have been over your heads. I told them we'd put you to bed on the Daphne with hot bricks and you'd live or die. That's the part of the story you didn't know. Now tell me the part I don't know." It was Morgan's story. He should tell it or keep it secret, as he chose. "I. . .I don't really remember," I answered, trying to look bewildered. He pursed his lips up as though for a whistle and looked at me thoughtfully. "We considered a few explanations. He might have been the victim of an attack by a whore and her pimp after being lured from a low tavern. But I wouldn't expect the woman in question to be tied with her arms around him. You might both have been set on by footpads, but why here? I finally decided it must have been a jealous husband with a bent for devilish torture. He planned for you to drown slowly with your helpless lover in your arms. How close was I?" "Is there money on it?" I asked skeptically. He laughed. "No. There's no book on it. There was a lot of blood and a bloody razor on the wharf close to where you were found. The blood isn't from either of you. If my Captain doesn't get a satisfactory explanation he'll call the Bow Street Runners and you might be taken up on charges. Do you have friends that will stand up for you?" I didn't have friends who would impress the courts---except for Morgan, perhaps. The prospect of the workhouse terrified me. I had been taken up before and forced into the workhouse for a few months. It was worse than the streets. The only lesson I learned there was that women could be as beastly as men. I decided to tell as much of our story as it took to convince the Captain. "I'm Scarlet," I introduced myself. "This man employs me to get information for him. He's a newspaperman named Morgan Fox." I told him about the mysterious death and disappearance. He already knew about them. The two most common rumors involved a haunted pier or a crazed Irishman who lived under one of the numerous footbridges. Morgan's theory about Bonapartist agents made him smile, but he seemed to believe my narrative of our capture. He wasn't surprised by my failure to take the tides into account, saying it was understandable in someone who didn't live on the water. I learned that his name was Tim Darby, and that the ship we were on was a tea clipper. Mr. Darby's Captain decided to send a note to Mr. Bloom when he arrived at the Tulip Company Warehouse in a few hours. If he identified Morgan the matter wouldn't be pursued unless a body was found. Mr. Darby asked me who should be contacted to take care of Morgan, since he still lay unconscious. It didn't take much thought to conclude that his sister Sally should be contacted. The poor girl was already worried about her brother because of me. Though I hated to add to her burden with this frightening news, I had no right to keep it from her. Before Mr. Darby left, I asked for my clothes. I dressed and tried to organize my thoughts. For the first time I had the leisure to re-examine the conversation I had with Sally. It took on a different meaning when I recalled the way Morgan had looked at me when we were expecting to die. I had to acknowledge that I contributed to the distress Sally believed was injuring him. My presence could only poison his life further. I would disappear and thus cease troubling him when Sally arrived to take over his care. My decision was reinforced when I helped dress him and saw how easy it was to count every one of his ribs. He needed peace. Mr. Bloom's secretary eventually found his way to the Daphne and identified Morgan for his employer. Shortly after that Sally arrived with Horace Friedrich and a carriage lent by Lady Shelton. Sally insisted that I accompany them back to Morgan's rooms, although I tried to slip away quietly. During the journey she coaxed me into giving a detailed version of last night's events. Mr. Friedrich and she exchanged several meaningful glances over my head, but remained silent. After we arrived Mr. Friedrich took a seat at the door to Morgan's rooms as though he were guarding the entrance. Perhaps they fearing an attack by more of Jack's hired killers. In the late morning, Morgan finally woke up. He was calling out, and for me, of all people. I jumped up without thinking, before I remembered my plan to remove my disturbing presence from Morgan's life. Sally smiled a warm smile at me. "Let me have a few minutes with him, Amy. I'll call for you very soon," she told me. As soon as she left I started for the door. Mr. Friedrich barred my way. "I can't let you go. Sally told me it would be dangerous for you on the streets alone. We don't know when those conspirators might come after you again." "What, am I never to go anywhere alone again? That's not possible." He just smiled and shook his head, never moving from his position in front of the door. Didn't they understand? Morgan had to be protected from me and my love. I had nothing to offer anymore except pain and regret. "Amy please come in and set Morgan's mind at ease. He'll rest better when he's sure you're safe." Sally motioned to me from the doorway to the bedroom. ********************************************** Morgan's Journal, April 10, 1814 When I awoke I was in my own bed. The sky was murky, as it always is in London. I couldn't determine the time of day. My attempt to sit up only intensified my headache and nauseated me. I decided to lie still and try to remember the events that left me confined to bed during daylight hours. The memories came back slowly and piecemeal until I remembered Rattler guessing Amy's identity. Then I sat up and started yelling for her without caring for the symptoms it caused. Sally came running in with concern and happiness equally mixed in her expression. "Sally, where's Amy? If she's gone we've got to go St. Giles to find her. Is she gone?" I wasn't making much sense, but Sally grasped my main source of worry. "Don't worry. I'll send her in to see you in a few minutes. First you and I need to talk." Sally settled herself on the chair beside the bed and took my hand. "Morgan you'll have to be brave." I almost choked. "Oh, God are you going to break it to me gently that she's dead or gone?" "No, No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. What I mean is, you're going to have to be honest with Amy. Horace told me about how she's really living. She's going to have to be honest too. I know I'm younger than both of you, but age isn't everything. Sometimes I feel like I'm presiding over a nursery when I see the way you deceive and hurt each other. I've cared for five year olds who could make their hearts known more plainly." "I'd already come to that conclusion, Sally. Last night death was so close. We both realized we'd been fooling ourselves as well as each other. Please tell me what else happened last night! I can't remember anything after walking down the wharf." "I'll let Amy tell you herself. I also want to warn you, no matter what Amy realized last night, she's poised to take off and leave you. I don't know why, but I advise you to learn the reason and refute it if you want her to remain your friend." "More than my friend. Please go get her before she sneaks out. I deserve a chance to present my case." I owed my success as a journalist to my persistence. Some rivals used less complimentary terms to describe this trait. Whether they called me persevering or obsessive, I knew I had the determination to succeed in becoming Amy's lover once again. After seeing the emotions exhibited on her face last night, I was certain I could wear her down if she didn't disappear. Amy entered the room as warily as though it might contain a trap ready to shut its jaws on her. Her face was closed off again, but I was relieved to note the absence of artificial gaiety and lecherous posing. I knew my lover was still there in the hurt and frightened woman. To bring her out I would have to be the man she loved. I would have to show my true feelings and gamble on her acceptance. It terrified me, but I looked her in the eyes and spoke. "When we were captured last night all I could think of was how much I needed to talk to you. I had to tell you that I never stopped loving you. I promised myself I'd do that if we lived." Amy stood there unmoving, uncertainty plain on her face. The pose reminded me of her frozen stillness before she left my rooms so swiftly the night before last. The thought scared, and I let my fear show. I would let myself be weak. "Amy, I'm frightened. I'm afraid you'll leave me, and I need you.' She was struggling to get over some internal barrier that allowed love out only when it was hopeless. "What happened to you these past years changed you, but it didn't divide us. Without you I'm not myself. We can be happy together. Please. I can't be alone again now that I've found you." As the seconds passed my fear increased. Was her spirit so maimed that only the prospect of death could break through the protective scars? I pushed back the covers and tried to swing my feet over the side of the bed to go to her. The movements didn't go quite as planned. Pain flooded my skull and the room swam until I lost my balance. The floor was rising to meet me when Amy rushed over and put her arms around my shoulders. She steadied me and I lifted my face to hers again. "Can't you forgive me for suggesting that you work for Jack? Do I need to tell you I didn't mean it? I wouldn't have let you, not if I had to burn the place down. It just hurt so much when you talked to me about other men that I hit back. I'm so ashamed of that and sorry. I know you've gotten nothing but hurt for so long. You must have thought. . .I don't know. . .did you think everything was gone, your dreams and memories and everything? That's what I thought when you acted like you hardly remembered what we shared before." I could feel her arms trembling around my shoulders. Tears started to roll down her cheeks. She raised a hand to wipe them away and then looked at her wet fingers as though wondering where the water came from. I wanted to put my arms around her, but I was using my hands to steady myself upright on the edge of the bed. "Please promise me you won't leave me, Amy," I insisted. My face must have faithfully reflected my suffering and anxiety. Amy started to nod. "Tell me," I whispered. "I won't leave you of my own will, Morgan," she whispered back. "This isn't romantic, but I'm afraid if I don't lie back down I'll be sick," I told her apologetically. She lowered me back on the pillows with practiced movements. "Will you marry me?" I asked her with a smile. "No, I can't marry you," she answered seriously. "I'll be your friend." I wasn't surprised by her answer. "I'd be very grateful for that. Please be a good friend and satisfy my curiosity. What happened last night? How did we survive?" Amy related the story to me and I was astonished. Her daring and willingness to risk her life not once but twice left me speechless. And yet her actions only confirmed the sense I had of the deep foundations of our connection. It felt like something I could rely on as completely as the principles of mathematics. When we were very young, I assumed that everyone found love like this. I didn't question the origin of an affinity that seemed as natural as breathing. Now I wondered and I marveled at my luck. How had I been mad enough to risk losing her by going along with our play-acting? Never again, I told myself. Chapter 20, A Friendship Amy's Journal, April 10 through May 15 Now I've caught up to the time when Morgan first asked me to write in a journal. He told me he already sat down every few days and wrote what had happened to him that was interesting or important. It was for himself only, so he was completely honest. He said no one would read what I wrote unless I permitted it. This book I'm writing in is too beautiful for my words. It has gilt on the leather cover and marbled endpapers. I told Morgan I couldn't write well enough to do justice to it. "You may not be Jane Austen, but you'll do well enough. Just avoid sermonizing and long descriptions of landscapes." "I've heard of Jane Austen, but what did she write?" "Oh, yes. You probably missed "Sense and Sensibility" and "Pride and Prejudice." You've got a treat in store. Horace! Horace have you got copies of Miss Austen's novels? Amy hasn't read them yet." "Look under the washstand beside the door. That's where the latest novels are," Horace called back absently. We were sitting in the cramped rooms where Horace published his pamphlets and broadsides. Today he was swearing like a drunken tinker while he turned out stacks of a tract entitled "The Rake Reformed." He hated its maudlin religious sentiments, but it paid good money. Morgan was back at work after remaining in bed two weeks to recover from his injury. I thought we were going to have a serious quarrel the very day he made me promise to be his friend. He didn't want me to return to my room in Convent Garden for fear Jack Quickill would send more men to murder me. I stayed with Morgan that night. Sally, Horace and I slept on pillows and comforters in his sitting room, but I insisted on returning to my own place the next day. I felt safe enough with its familiarity and the people I knew around me. Morgan argued until he looked sick that Horace had to accompany me. I gave in to spare him the effort of further argument. Horace talked to Tom and Jock at length that day in the privacy of their rooms. A few days later I started worrying a little when a thick- necked, pillar of a man moved into the room at the bottom of the staircase that led up to our floor. When I welcomed him to the house he told me he was Gavin Barham, volunteering no further information. He had a mastiff that obeyed his commands, but the dog never wagged his tail or whined to be petted. I mentioned my concern reluctantly to Morgan a few days later. It seemed possible that the man was connected to the murder attempt, and it might be dangerous to let his presence go unremarked. I was surprised to see a smile of satisfaction appear on Morgan's face in response. "I'm relieved to hear that. Tom knew Gavin when he went fifteen rounds with Jem Belcher in 1804. He needed a better place to stay and you need someone to keep an eye on things. No one is going to get by Gavin and Bear very easily." "But what about you? Who's looking out for you?" I asked him. "I took the precaution of buying myself a pair of pistols," Morgan said lightly. That was all he'd say. I knew he was pursuing the truth about our attackers through every means he could think of. He went to both Houses of Parliament every day it was in session and told every member he could about the corruption centered in St.Giles. City of London officials already avoided his approach. They didn't want to hear the new reasons he invariably had to justify the arrest of Jack Quickill and a search of the Panasay for evidence of blackmail. Apart from the greater intensity of Morgan's efforts on his investigation, our lives went on much as before. I continued to do errands for Covent Garden whores and Morgan worked at "The Times." We met daily in his rooms, and I reported the latest gossip to him, or gave him specific information. He still paid me for my work, but I wouldn't take any more money than I did previously. We enjoyed the renewal of our friendship and the relief of abandoning pretense with each other. The laughter was back, but there was still an area of awkwardness without an easy solution. Morgan wanted to expand the terms of our relationship to include romantic and physical signs of our attachment. I couldn't help myself. Every time Morgan moved to touch me, I increased the distance between us. The idea of an embrace or kiss repelled me. Once in a while I endured a caress, but inwardly I went numb while my mind closed off my awareness of my body. Morgan sensed my reaction and it disturbed him. Nevertheless he understood. As much as I wanted to feel a difference between his touch and the memory of all the hurtful touches from my past, I didn't feel that difference. Morgan didn't seem to understand that this distaste was a good thing. He began making a marriage proposal at the beginning of every week. I refused him each time. The first time I explained the reasons, but he brushed them aside as trivial. We were out walking that May afternoon. After days of rain and mired streets the sun broke through. We took a picnic into the park instead of having tea in Morgan's rooms. Although it was still unseasonably chilly, the sky was a tender blue, full of the fat white clouds with flat shadowed bottoms that look substantial enough to cut into slices. "I don't like to burden you with past sad events," I told him that first time. "But there are sound reasons for my refusal. One of them is that I can't behave to you as a wife should. I can't feel the things for you that a wife should feel." "Don't worry about that," he said gently. "I think I can persuade you to see things differently some day." "Whether you could or not, there are other reasons." It was awful to talk about, but I had to warn him off. "I caught the French Pox before I left the Panasay. They put me through the cure---most of it anyway. They had to stop because I was dying from the mercury. The trouble is that it isn't a certain cure. I knew girls who seemed well for years, and then they died over a period of months with horrible symptoms---madness, sores all over their bodies. The disease may be dormant in me now, but I could infect you or die from it myself at any time." "The risk is no worse than what any man takes when he consorts with a. . .woman who has been with other men. Thousands of men take that chance every day in London." "You were going to say a prostitute, weren't you?" His face gave him away. "You've gone to prostitutes yourself, haven't you?" I accused him in irrational anger. "Yes, before we met at the Fair, and I learned some things about what it means," he answered steadily. "I preferred to be with women who were looking for their own enjoyment. But sometimes that kind of woman wasn't easily available. A few times I went to houses." Well, I knew he wasn't a priest. Still, the thought made me feel both furious and guilty. How dare he hurt other woman as I had been hurt? And what if he had found me when he was looking for a woman and I was still selling myself on the street? Would we have simply made a bargain? I knew he sensed my reaction. "I never went anyplace where the women were drugged or kept against their wills. At least openly. I didn't understand that circumstances could be as coercive as physical force," he continued, with downcast eyes. "It was pointless, really. No better than solitary relief. I'm only telling you so that you know I've already taken chances, and perhaps made myself a risk to you, too." "You'd know if you had caught anything. Anyway there's another reason. I'm barren. I had a stillborn baby girl six months after they forced me into the Panasay. At least they told me she was stillborn. I know a lot of the babies born in whorehouses die from neglect if not outright murder. She probably wasn't very strong because of the gin and opium I took then anyway. I was out of my mind for two weeks after the birth. I had a fever and inflammation in my belly. Afterwards the other girls told me I was lucky. They said nobody ever got pregnant again after being sick like that. I guess they were right, because I never did." I knew by looking into his eyes that Morgan wanted to take me in his arms and comfort me. I stood up from the bench where we sat by the Serpentine and walked around it to prevent him. I put my hands on his shoulders and he rested one cheek lightly against my arm. He had to be content with so little. It brought the tears to my eyes to think of it. "I can't ever marry you Morgan," I repeated. " I can't bring you health, natural affection or the prospect of children." "Not now," he soothed me. "We'll talk about it again later." If I didn't have my repulsion from physical contact to protect me, I'd be worried. There has never been anyone more tenacious than Morgan. If he could use kisses and caresses he might persuade me. Words I would be able to resist. Chapter 21, Grasping at Straws Mulder realized that the print had become impossible to read because his hands were shaking violently. He started to slam the book down hard on the table beside his bed, stopping his fierce gesture at the last second. The noise would have waked everyone in the house. It tore him up inside to think of Scully reading, much less placing faith in this bogus history. The implications were cruel beyond words. Was she meant to believe that in more than one lifetime she had lost a girl child, been made barren and deliberately been given a fatal disease that lurked in remission for an unknown period? What kind of stupid universe would punish a good person that way? He knew of course. An indifferent one. The same one that destroyed innocent people every day, as casually as he swallowed antibiotics to kill bacteria. If only Scully hadn't had a chance to read any of this book. He laughed at himself even as part of him clung to this forlorn hope. Even if she hadn't read it, what if it were true? If it were real their past would make itself felt in the present in some unpredictable manner. It had happened before. Could he conceal the nature of the Cosmos from Scully? Well, yes, maybe he could. She believed in God, after all. Maybe universal justice and a meaningful existence for every human being fell within the bounds of her credulity. He spent the next fifteen minutes trying to visualize their brief time in the temporary office. She had stared at the PC screen a lot, trying to justify their pay on the cost center for reviewing the procedures manual. Finally he pinpointed the day and time when the book showed up on the shelf, and concluded it had been the morning she received the news about Matt's kidnapping. She hadn't read it in their office, but who knew what she had read at home? Maybe nothing. Scully didn't like these attempts to dig into so-called past lives. Please don't let her have read it. He was going to bury it in his briefcase again and burn it when they got back to D.C. Mulder noticed with surprise that the memories of a few days ago no longer had the power to paralyze him. Instead he found himself looking ahead, thinking about what could be salvaged. The loss of some filing cabinets didn't have to defeat them. He finally fell asleep while he formulated plans for the re-building and re-opening of the X- files investigations. Mulder watched Scully standing incandescent in a golden ray of sunlight. She was wearing a high-waisted dress, and looking at him from the other side of a street. There was so much traffic---carts, carriages, hackneys, tilburies, and soldiers on horseback---he couldn't cross over to her. He waited patiently, but a continuous procession separated them as effectively as any canyon or river. Then he woke up with a start. The dream had been a pleasant spectacle compared to the fun-house phantasms that usually invaded his sleep. His resulting uneasiness grew from its link to the world evoked by the "Memoirs." He was still dressed, but had slept deeply for six hours. They were wasting time. They had to locate Xibalba and arrange transportation. It was a matter of fifteen minutes for him to shave and change. He was not surprised to find Bill at the dining room table with breakfast. Scully's presence after their late night was unexpected. "I thought you'd sleep later," he remarked, as he sat down with coffee. "I would have if I hadn't set my alarm," she replied with a yawn. "I wanted to start early on what needed to be done, and I knew Bill would be up early." "Dana told me all about what you've been doing. What if you'd been caught?" His worried voice made it clear that Bill spoke in fear for their futures, not in criticism of their actions. Mulder noted once again the elasticity of Scully ethics when they were up against a wall of authoritarian indifference and invincible stupidity. Maybe they were none of them so different from him after all. "Did she explain what we want to do next?" "Yes. I'm skeptical, but I had to ask myself, 'What's the alternative?' I've gone ahead and made some arrangements." Scully looked uncomfortably at Mulder, wondering how he would react to Bill's high-handed assumption of responsibility. Mulder saw her concern and decided to wait and see. A man with experience as a sailor and acquaintances all over the world might be the very person to arrange their trip for them. He listened to Bill with an open mind. "I located the island on an old chart. It hasn't appeared on maps printed since the seventies. It's over the Colombian Basin, close to equidistant between Jamaica and Colombia. Plenty of old retired navy men live and sail in the Caribbean. One old friend of mine, Eddie O'Brien, has a place on an island off Nicaragua. It's about six hours by boat to Xibalba, but the island isn't much closer to any better place. What do you think?" "It sounds good to me. Shall we book a flight to Jamaica, Scully? "Um, actually Bill's already reserved three tickets on this afternoon's flight to Kingston." "Bill, haven't you been warned not to leave the area by Detective Wagner?" was all that Mulder could think to say. It had never occurred to him that Bill would leave his home and wife to go with them. He had no argument prepared. "You're not the only person willing to take risks. Do you think I care about anything if we don't succeed at this? I don't think I'll have a wife for long if Mattie never comes home. Tara can't go on this way, and if she has to go to prison it will be hopeless." Mulder raised his eyebrows but did nothing further to express his reaction to Bill's plans. "Does your friend Mr. O'Brien know what's going on? He should know what he's getting into," Mulder pointed out. "He doesn't have a phone. I know a ham operator who can start a message to him that I'm on my way to ask his help in an emergency. Eddie will help. He's a pilot as well as a sailor. But we'll have to hire a pilot in Kingston to fly us to Mancha de Mosca, since he won't know to pick us up." "Mancha de Mosca," Scully repeated. "Is it a tourist resort or his own desert island?" "Something in between," Bill answered, after a moment's thought. "Eddie shares his island with two fishing resorts. They cater to very rich and pampered fishermen. The beauty of it is that there are only a few of them at a time on the island. There's a landing strip, a generator and plumbing to make their lives convenient. Eddie gets the benefits without the crowds." "Does he do tourist trips?" she asked. "No, he lives on his pension. All he does is keep up a Piper Cub and a beautiful old yacht that was built back in the fifties. He's not what some people would consider a sociable or a productive person." "What do you think of him?" Mulder asked curiously. "Something bad happened to him, and he's doing the best he can," Bill answered. "Eddie isn't much older than I am. He took early retirement. I never knew details, but he was on a submarine that was disabled off the Alaskan coast. Almost all the men died. He couldn't talk about it, because the circumstances were classified. I don't think he wanted to talk about it anyway. He took a long medical leave, went to a desk job for one day, and then applied for a discharge. That's all I know." The three of them left for their own rooms to pack their suitcases. Dana had an additional difficult task to take care of. She had to break the news of their departure to their mother. "Dana, is it really necessary for all three of you to go? What am I supposed to tell Detective Wagner? And what if they show up to arrest Tara?" Scully felt extremely guilty for leaving her mother alone to cope with this. Yet she couldn't see sending Mulder and Bill off together on such a sensitive mission with a few rah rahs and a wave of her handkerchief. They were treating each other well, but she took some of the credit for herself in keeping them on their best behavior. "Mom, I think we do all have to go. I'll get the name of somebody at the base you can call for legal advice. Tell them Bill is staying with a friend, which is true. I'm not going to give you more details. Then do what the lawyer tells you. My big worry is that the police will do something that unleashes the media. So far nobody's had the nerve to jeopardize a possible ransom hand-off, but Bill's leaving may set something in motion. We'll be back as soon as we can." "Take care of yourself and Bill, Dana, " Maggie said with a heavy sigh. Dana hugged her. "We shouldn't be in any danger." Maggie continued to look at Scully so sadly that she had to ask if there was something else that worried her. "It's just that I feel so guilty about whatever I did to you and Bill. You both depend on me so heavily for emotional support. I found out the term for it recently---I'm an enabler, Dana. Do you think I should sign up for a twelve step program?" she asked with an attempt at a laugh. Scully stiffened at these words. Her mother never criticized her, and this sounded like criticism. "It sounds more like you think Bill and I should sign up for the program." "Don't get upset. I don't mind that you turn to me when you need to cry or be scared. But what would you do without me? Your father used to depend on me the same way. I thought Bill had found somebody he could really share with, but now Tara seems too weak." "And I haven't managed to come up with anybody at all," Scully finished for her mother. "You probably haven't given anybody a chance to be stronger than you---ever. I got in on a grandfather clause, I guess you could say. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to send you away mad at me. It's just that sometimes it seems like a little more than I can handle. But I always handle it, " she said with a smile at her daughter's sulky look. That expression took her back to Dana's teenage years. She had come close to having four teenagers in the house at once. When she remembered that she wondered how anything else could ever seem too hard to accomplish. "I love you, Mom." Scully said her traditional words of parting sincerely. Her father's death and the realities of her work had led her start this habit several years ago. Any parting could be the final parting, and she was determined never to leave with hard feelings or words of love unsaid. "Do you want me to drive you to the airport?" "No thanks. We'll be leaving our rental car there. Thanks for taking care of Tara." Mulder felt as though he should talk to Tara one more time before they left. A few words of encouragement from him might slow down the deterioration of her psyche. He remembered how eagerly he listened to people who would say something, anything, positive about getting Scully back during the time of her abduction. There were good reasons to have hope in this case. Maybe a little hope would make a difference if she thought of killing herself before they managed to locate Matt. He gritted his teeth and knocked on the door of Matt's room. No answer came, so he opened the door slowly. The same music she had played before swelled loudly as he stepped in. Tara had bathed and tidied herself up, probably at Bill's urging. But her affect, if there was any change, seemed more remote and lethargic than before. "Bill told you we had a lead we're following up, didn't he?" Tara nodded tiredly. Mulder went over and turned down the volume in the CD player. "Tara, don't do anything permanent before we get back. You know what I mean. Think about what it would mean for Matt to grow up without you. I know about what it feels like to lose your mother. Death isn't the only way we lose people." Tara just looked at him. "All you have do is postpone action until after we get back." He stood there and waited at least a full minute for a response. "All right," she finally answered. "I won't do anything before you get back." Mulder went over to the CD player and turned the volume up again just in time to experience the misery and despair he had felt before when he heard that particular song. He hurriedly picked up the case. The album was "Skyedance." "Tara do you think it's good for you to keep listening to this?" As he spoke he realized that one song didn't seem especially different from another to her. "I like the songs," she said. "So did Mattie," she ended with unmistakable finality. The problem was obviously his, so he left the room immediately. Chapter 22, Living Well Small airplanes were a lot better than boats, but they still tended to make Mulder queasy. He wasn't feeling his best when they landed on Mancha de Mosca. The island was oval in shape, about five miles long and three miles across at the widest point. It could have been created from an advertisement for Caribbean vacations. There were enough low hills to make it picturesque. Clean, deeply blue-green water washed up on pristinely white beaches. Wild flowers and palms grew in profusion in the interior. The pilot left them with their bags at the airstrip, directing them to a path that would take them to Eddie's place. Anticipating a hot sweaty walk encumbered by luggage, they found it unexpectedly breezy, shady and pleasant. "Your friend, Eddie, how did he manage to save up enough to retire here?" Mulder asked. "He invested, never had a family, never had occasion to spend much on himself." "So all I need to do is master the stock market," Mulder observed thoughtfully. "Somehow I don't think you'd find serenity here." Scully said. Eddie was a lean, leathery man who looked at least twenty years older than Bill. He spoke in such a low monotone he almost seemed to be talking to himself when he conversed. His constant companion was a glass of coke and rum. He sipped at it constantly, never showing any noticeable effects from it. On first meeting him, Scully thought Eddie was one of the most serene people she had ever known. After further scrutiny she changed her opinion. He hadn't learned the wisdom of tranquility, nor had he lost touch with his emotions. He just didn't seem to have them. When he talked to Bill he might have been reading a script called 'A meeting of old navy buddies.' There was no spontaneity or enthusiasm in his voice or face. When she contrasted his manner with the supposedly deadpan demeanor of her partner, Mulder's true responsiveness became obvious. Eddie welcomed them with all the right words, explaining that a radio message had come through earlier that day giving him the news of their arrival. Bill told him the story of the kidnapping and the evidence that brought them here, although he didn't include details on how they had gotten it. Eddie didn't seem curious to know them. He showed them to separate rooms in the haphazardly designed but sturdily built structure that was his home. The screens in all of the windows and doors kept it relatively bug free. All of the modern conveniences were available except communications. Eddie's news from outside came only over his radio set. "Can you tell us who we should contact to get in touch with the man who's building on Xibalba?" Bill asked his silent friend. "Now that I know what you need, I know who to talk to. Get comfortable here while I do that. Make yourselves drinks if you want." With that Eddie disappeared into another room, shutting the door emphatically enough to send an effective message about privacy. "That man is an emotional flat-liner, Bill. And an alcoholic," Scully stated. "He wasn't always like this. I think some circuits got burnt out up in Alaska. But he still loves the sea, and he's a good sailor." It was while they were waiting for Eddie that Scully sat down and read the entire magazine article about the Mayan temple at Bonampak, and its duplicate on Xibalba. "I remember when I was in school I read about the Mayas. The history books described them as simple farmers compared to the Incas and Aztecs. This makes them sound awful," she commented. "Archeologists have dug up a few things since then. Apparently they weren't any more peaceful than the other advanced civilizations in Central and South America. But they were also more sophisticated than experts thought before. Makes you wonder about what drives creativity, doesn't it?" Mulder responded. "Did you see this picture of the Queen and her ladies pulling ropes of thorns through their own tongues?" Bill wrinkled his nose as though he'd noticed the garbage needed to go out. "I managed to skim through that without absorbing all the details Dana. I didn't think I needed to know. I suppose they treated women pretty badly, like a lot of primitive cultures do, " Bill said dutifully. "It wasn't just the women. Listen to this: 'The men of the Royal Family drew blood by pulling the spine of a stingray through their penises. The blood loss probably induced a change of consciousness ascribed to communication with the divine.'" She looked up to see both men wincing and crossing their legs in an unpremeditated protective gesture. "Don't you think 'change of consciousness' is putting it rather mildly, Bill? I'd say that experience would land you in a whole other dimension." Mulder remarked. Scully continued her account of the article. "They went to war and took prisoners just to torture them for the glory of their city. The murals show some of the prisoners having their fingernails torn off, pleading for mercy from Shield Jaguar, the King. Archeologists called in computer specialists to enhance the images. See, they brought back all the details of the blood pouring out." Scully offered the article to Bill as she walked out of the room so he could admire the technical achievement. He waved it away. "That's so morbid. It's no wonder their culture went down the tubes. Imagine thinking that the gods wanted to see people tortured and killed." "Isn't that a fairly accurate description of how the Christian God is supposed to view the crucifixion? In fond acceptance of the sacrifice? I always thought those images of a bleeding, dying man on a cross were a little morbid." "You can't understand how great the difference between the two things is because you weren't raised in the Christian faith. Your family is Jewish, aren't they?" Bill's face was reddening with anger. Mulder had found a button that really made things happen inside him. "Not to notice really. Even from close up we looked a lot like our neighbors." "So your family wasn't observant. You know, that's probably why you believe in little green men and witches and vampires and all that trash. People need something beyond the material to hang on to. You won't accept the traditional beliefs. Instead you buy all that 'National Enquirer' nonsense. Melissa was the same way," Bill ended in angry dismissal. "The difference is there's evidence for what I believe exists, and not for what you believe," Mulder replied coldly. "Evidence," Bill returned derisively. "I haven't seen anything in 'Scientific American' from you that proves the existence of vampires." Scully had returned with a coke, which was the only drink Eddie seemed to keep in his kitchen. "Ask your sister about the evidence," Mulder suggested, with a smirk. He remembered how crabby she had been the morning after drinking a thermos of drugged coffee with a vampire that one night. A natural explanation for the events they witnessed eluded her still. Yes, Scully thought, she was going to jump into this fray. And then she was going to go out and play keep away with a bear cub and its mother. If Mulder wanted her evidence she could tell about seeing the seraphim in the parking lot. Bill wouldn't like hearing about it anymore than her partner would. How did you fit the conception and destruction of pathetic, damaged children by an angel into the Christian plan for salvation? At some point, she wasn't sure exactly when, she'd given up on religious coherence in her life. For a while, in the warm glow of family rejoicing over her 'miracle' remission from cancer, it had all seemed to make sense. Cool reflection had forced her to concede privately that the implant in her neck had probably stopped the disease. Now her church habits supplied the comfort of childhood familiarity. The confessional gave her an arena to explore matters of conscience. But her religion provided no guidance or answers. Don't even get her started on reincarnation and karma. She sat down with a big, false smile and presented them both with her own question. "What do you think? Should President Clinton be brought to trial while he's in office for the sexual harassment of Paula Jones?" They both stared at her blankly. "I thought that since you've made so much progress in settling religious issues you might be ready to move on to politics," she explained. Mulder took her point with a look of patience strained to the limit. "You're right. This kind of discussion is unproductive. Remember though, you're the one who brought it up," he accused her. "I apologize for bringing it up," she said tolerantly. "If anyone wants a rum coke to relax there's enough for a party of twenty in the kitchen." Eddie appeared at the door and announced that he had asked some people to do some checking. They would radio back at three o'clock that afternoon. Then he almost smiled. "Bill, would you and the others like to see my yacht? It's a classic. Wood and brass. Built in the fifties." They all went out to see the yacht in his small docking area. Bill was impressed by the tiny harbor itself as well as by the Revenge. "You're sheltered from the worst seas and squalls here, aren't you? What do you call the inlet?" "Yeah. I call it Eddie's Cove. It's hard to find though. That's not always a bad thing of course." While Eddie went back to his radio, Mulder paced back and forth between the house and the dock. Bill and Scully went over the Revenge carefully, familiarizing themselves with the fittings and equipment. He reminded her that they would probably go out on it with Eddie, and that it would be wise to know it. Remembering Eddie and his unending consumption of rum cokes, Scully had to agree. Within half an hour Eddie returned to the dock and told them about the arrangements he had made. "We're going to meet someone from Xibalba tonight. At Los Perdidos. That's an island about half an hour away. The resort bar is Los Perdidos too." He looked deliberately at Bill. "They're expecting to talk to Mr. Mulder here. It's my judgment that he should speak for you to these men. You're too close to this. One of the men will be wearing a red baseball cap with 'I love New York' on it. You're going to buy them each a Dos Equis and introduce yourself as a real estate developer," he finished, turning to Mulder. Worn out by this long speech, he paused to take a drink. "I told them the story. The man building the temple is Senor Chamuan." "Is he from the islands?" Eddie raised his shoulders indifferently. "There are rumors he's from the Yucatan peninsula. One of the Lacandon tribe. No one knows for certain." "Why is he building the temple." Eddie tilted his head slightly sideways in silence and raised his shoulders again. "I'll take you to Los Perdidos on the Revenge. We'll leave in five hours," Eddie informed them. "Eddie, would you let me pilot her?" Bill asked eagerly. "She's such a beauty." "Sure," Eddie answered, and again he almost smiled. Chapter 23, Difficult Choices At least Los Perdidos was only a half-hour away by the Revenge. Mulder didn't have time to work up to a full-blown case of seasickness. He thought he might even try a beer while they waited for their contacts to show up. There was no sign of a man wearing an 'I love NY' baseball cap. The place itself was old. It was built of wood from trees cut down on the island. The walls had darkened over time, and faux oil lamps provided only a dim light. There was a space large enough for a few couples to go through some restricted movements and call it dancing. Three musicians played calypso rhythms. The crowd of about twenty people was enjoying a notably lighthearted mood. A few looked like tourists, others looked like tourists gone native---people like Eddie. The rest appeared to be islanders relaxing at the end of the workday. When Mulder thought of the return trip he decided against the beer. They ordered soft drinks all around when the young woman waiting tables reached them. Shortly after that a slim young man with melting brown eyes came over and asked Scully to dance. She was declining politely when Mulder broke in. "Don't be shy, Scully. Have some fun. The old men don't mind sitting here while you live a little." Not having any ready response to that, Scully got up and began dancing at arm's length with the stranger. They were stiff and uncertain, but Scully started to feel the beat and to anticipate the movements of her partner. "I'm Dana, what's your name?" she asked. "Tonio," he answered. "You dance well," he commented, drawing her closer. She didn't resist, since they were moving well together now. When she looked over at their table she almost laughed out loud. Bill and Mulder were watching her with comically identical dour expressions. Perversity drove her to mold herself a little closer to Tonio. At that point Bill recognized Dana being contrary and he lost interest in intimidating Tonio into good behavior. His glance wandered over to Mulder and he became briefly thoughtful at what he saw. Mulder was staring more sullenly than ever at Scully and her partner. His attitude was so clear that Tonio noticed it. When the music ended he brought Scully back to the table by a very chastely held elbow. He didn't want any trouble. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts of Matt and their reason for being there, Bill would have wondered more about what kind of head games Mulder was playing with himself. "I think you could have gotten a little closer to him, if you'd taken your jacket off," Mulder leered at Scully. "Well what good would that do if you guys are going to scare him away? If you don't like the way I dance with him, why don't you show me how it should be done?" She held out her hand to Mulder with a forgiving smile. He was caught unprepared. "Uh, no I don't know how to dance." "Oh, come on. You didn't mind trying it with Phoebe." He cringed at the memory. "Didn't you notice, she was leading? Anyway our contacts will be here any minute," he ended shortly. He was surprised at how disappointed Scully looked at his refusal. He couldn't have handled a real dance with her. It was one of his fantasies, pulling her masterfully onto the dance floor and moving around it with her at intoxicatingly close quarters. They'd smile easily at each other, and at the end of it he'd bend down to congratulate her on her dancing skills. She'd put her hands behind his head and pull him into a long arousing kiss that would make him painfully hard. They'd go outside and hail a taxi and neck all the way to her place. Then. . . . Those thoughts were a very bad idea. He concentrated on scanning the crowd, watching the entrance, and thinking about what kind of proposal Chamuan's representatives might have. He might be ready to hand Matt over to them with no further ado. Everyone seemed to agree that there was a baby boy on Xibalba and that the baby was in good health. They should be able to attain a rare achievement with this case---a happy ending. Half an hour and another round of sodas later he saw the red baseball cap proclaiming love for New York. He signaled to Scully with his eyes and waited for the two men to select a table. When they had, he waited for fifteen minutes more, and then went up to the bar for two Dos Equis. Then he approached their table and introduced himself as an American interested in buying land to develop a resort. Scully and Bill watched the three men converse for a short time. While his contacts finished their beers, Mulder returned and passed on the details to Bill and Scully. "Here's the situation. Carlos Chamuan admits that Richard Chandler brought a baby and a woman back from a trip to Haiti a week a ago. Chandler told him it was his son by an American woman who was addicted to drugs. She didn't want the baby and was planning to abandon it. He brought the Haitian woman to take care of the baby. Chamuan didn't think about it too much one way or the other since it didn't inconvenience him. Now we've turned up making this claim that exposes his private paradise to strangers. He'd rather we kept it quiet and dealt with him directly. He doesn't want international law enforcement officials descending on him. He'll allow two people to come onto the island and present your claim. If we satisfy him that the baby is yours he'll order Chandler to hand Matt over. He claims Chandler will do as he's told to avoid legal consequences. How do you want to handle it Bill?" Bill's first reaction was uncomplicated joy at the prospect of seeing his baby boy very soon. Then Tara would be restored to him too, as her true, energetic, loving self. He didn't care about right or wrong, or the law, or justice. His need was met. Then the struggle began. He ruthlessly decimated cocktail napkins as his inner voice lectured him on duty and proper channels, and he fought against it. He looked back at Mulder and Dana in turn, seeking concurrence with his desire to deal. Poor Bill, Dana thought. No father should have to make that kind of decision. She didn't feel that she should say anything to influence his decision. Things could go sour no matter which course he decided on. The law would take so long that Matthew could disappear again before they got real action. On the other hand Chamuan could pretend to go along with them with the same end result. Mulder had no such compunctions about expressing his views. "I think you should settle it personally right away. Don't give him time to think up objections and don't wait for some political wonk to talk to a thousand lawyers. Scully and I should arrange to meet this Chamuan tomorrow. If I give them the word tonight they'll be expecting us at their dock tomorrow around noon. There's no place to land an airplane; Chamuan wouldn't allow anything to land there anyway. Is Eddie's boat ready for a trip like that on short notice? Would he take us?" Scully could see the relief and gratitude on Bill's face at Mulder's words. Than an oddly guilty look stole over his features. "Yeah, the boat can be ready in a few hours. But Mulder. . .now don't misunderstand me. I'll be eternally grateful to you for finding Matthew. No one else could have done it. And I know you took some chances. At this point, though, I think it's time I took over. Over the years, in my position, I've learned a little bit about people. I'm not bad at politicking and judging character, and making the right impression. Besides if something should go wrong it would be awful good to know we had someone like you on our side, who could take steps from off island. And we wouldn't need Eddie to pilot the boat---I could do it myself. That would improve confidentiality from Chamuan's point of view." "You mean just you and Scully would go?" Mulder said with a stunned expression. "Yeah," Bill said with a big smile at Dana. "They won't be able to out-fox two Scullys---nothing personal intended," he added hastily, looking at Mulder. Scully felt sorry for Mulder, who sat silent and chagrined. He had clearly not anticipated being shut out of the last act entirely. Bill was being as tactful as he was able, but it was obvious he thought Mulder was too impulsive and outspoken to be effective in negotiation. However she was proud to see her partner master his feelings and speak of the arrangements coolly. "OK Bill, but I have a proposition to make. I wish you'd either let me go instead of Scully, or wait an extra day until I can get some more background on this Chamuan. There's too much we don't know about him. What if there's some reason he wanted to get you out of the U.S. onto this island? What if it's some kind of trap? I swear I won't say a word the whole time, except 'Run!' if it becomes relevant." He even managed to smile at the end of that speech. "You said if it were you you'd take action right away. And you were ready to go with Dana tomorrow. What's the matter, don't you think I can protect my little sister as well as you?" Bill couldn't seem to help putting a barely perceptible sneer into his expression. The exchange reminded all of them of angry, cutting words Bill had once hurled at Mulder, blaming him for tragedies that had befallen the Scully family. Mulder was at a loss as to how to counter the response. Bill had lowered the problem to a level reason couldn't address. He didn't want to participate in a chest-thumping competition. His real worry wasn't that Bill couldn't protect Scully; it was that Scully would be hard pressed to protect a naif like Bill in a critical situation. "No, that's not it. It's that you're not experienced at going into unknown circumstances without backup." "Like I said, Mulder, I'm really grateful for all the help you've given us, but I have to make this decision and I think it's in Matthew's best interest if Dana and I go tomorrow." "This isn't the navy, and we're not in a command structure. We've got to agree on this Bill." "I think it's up to Dana to decide which of us she's willing to go with," Bill said. With that they both turned toward Scully for a tie-breaking vote. Scully thought she should have saved her pity for herself as the maker of difficult decisions. She was going to hurt someone dreadfully no matter what she said. "Bill you're wrong if you think Mulder couldn't handle the people in this situation. You can't imagine some of the people he's found common ground with and convinced to help us. He can be a diplomat when a diplomat is needed." That wasn't nearly enough credit given to Mulder, but she was ashamed to see the warm gratitude in his eyes for her defense of him. Did she normally give him so little encouragement that he was that thankful for a few words of praise? When she considered the matter, it was true that her criticism far outweighed her praise in their daily exchanges. She resolved to express her admiration of his abilities more frequently in the future. She hated to continue talking, knowing that she was going to shut down that eager expression. "Still I think that two family members would be the best evidence of our good faith. And it's true we need a knowledgeable person on the outside in case of trouble." When she looked back at Mulder the light had left his eyes and his face was wearing its remote expression. She plowed ahead unwillingly. "I think Mulder was right when he said we shouldn't wait for complications to develop. We should go as soon as arrangements can be made." Facing Mulder directly, she strove for a lighter note. "I know you're not a natural born sailor. Maybe this time you can dodge getting seasick." He looked at her with cold irony. "As you say, that's always been my overriding goal---to avoid personal discomfort." He regretted the words before he finished saying them. His sarcasm was an insult to Scully in front of her brother, who already thought she put up with too much from him for too little appreciation. She swallowed the rebuke in silence. Mulder told himself to shut up and go away until he could stop behaving like a petulant child. He returned to his contacts and explained who would show up the next day to meet with Senor Chamuan. Scully knew Mulder was wounded by her choice. It was not that she lacked confidence in his ability to handle the situation. The problem was that failure was still possible through no fault of his. If failure ensued Bill would always believe that he himself could have succeeded. Rather than allow this to happen Scully would endure whatever punishment Mulder couldn't help inflicting. The trip back to Mancha de Mosca passed in unpleasant silence. When the Revenge had been tied up at the dock Mulder debarked and stalked off into the night. Scully knew he was better off alone right now, and made no attempt to stop or accompany him. She went with Bill back to Eddie's place to plan what items to take with them and what they would say to Chamuan. They agreed that a measured dose of the truth would work best. Their true identities and their willingness to cut a deal would be openly admitted. The methods they used to track down Chandler would remain untold. Bill took out the diaper bag he had packed hopefully in his suitcase the day before. Just handling Matt's things brought him closer to happiness than he had been for days. He and Scully each packed papers in file cases. Scully had no intention of bringing her briefcase or her weapon to Xibalba. Bill had all of the identification needed to prove Matt was his child. He noted that Scully included copies of newspaper articles and deduced that she was bringing evidence to support some of their allegations against Chandler. By that time they had about six hours until their daybreak departure. They could both go to their rooms and pretend to sleep. Mulder still hadn't returned to Eddie's place. Bill felt a little guilty and worried. "Is Mulder going to be OK? God, he's so difficult. It's like handling an artist or a mystic. Or a precocious child. The hell of it is I don't think he means to cause trouble." "When have you had occasion to work with an artist or mystic?" "Are you kidding? The armed forces can look like salvation to an incredible variety of people. I've had to cope with the spawn of Satan and an uncanonized saint, and everything in between." "Mulder had a lot more family problems than just his sister disappearing. His mother. . .he never learned to be like other people in some ways." "Dana, is there any chance---do you think he has feelings for you?" Scully was completely at a loss as to how answer that question, even to herself. How did she reconcile Mulder's conviction that they were lovers in a past life with his emotional and physical withdrawal during the past months? His behavior left her as confused as he probably was himself. If he felt more than comradeship for her it must be at an unconscious level. "Not in the way you mean," she replied, greatly oversimplifying the situation. "He's completely focused on his work. I'm just his partner and friend." "I'm happy to hear that. The two of you together as a couple--- it doesn't bear thinking about. You're both so intense and strong- willed. And smart. You'd spend all your time watching each other to see who'd blink first." "There would be advantages though. Who else would ever understand what I've been through as well as he would? The things I've seen and done, Bill," she said shaking her head sorrowfully. To herself Scully honestly admitted another advantage. If she were going to choose a lover it would be preferable to acquire one who made her want climb into his lap and kiss him until her lips stung. Someone like Mulder. It would be ecstasy. It wasn't going to happen. Damn, Bill cursed himself. He knew better than that. Dana always had to take the opposite side of an argument. It was a wonder she hadn't gone into law instead of medicine. He didn't want to provoke her into defending Mulder as a prospective boyfriend. Still he couldn't bring himself to argue in favor of such a relationship. "I know you don't think Tara is brilliant or insightful enough for me. What you don't know is how wonderful it is to look into your lover's eyes and see innocence of the dark things you've had to learn about. With someone like that you can live life the way it was meant to be lived." Not for the first time, Scully wondered what government secrets Bill had learned and been forced to deny during his career. "But Bill," she replied in a voice full of compassion. "Hasn't this whole experience with Matt proven that innocence or ignorance of dark things doesn't protect you from being a victim?" He shrank from her slightly as though she had given him a blow. She repented her honesty. "I'm sorry. Maybe Mulder's had a bad influence on me. I blurt things out that I shouldn't sometimes. I'm going to try to sleep a little. Good night." She heard Mulder come in and saw his light go out before she went to sleep at three o'clock. Three hours later Scully knocked on his door to let him know they were leaving. When he pulled the door open immediately she feared he hadn't slept at all. "I wasn't going to let you leave without saying good-bye," he said, confirming her fears about his lack of sleep. She took the words as they were meant---the closest thing to an apology that she would get. "I've been trying to remember why I associate something wrong with this trip, but I can't," he went on in a frustrated voice. "They aren't expecting you to stay overnight. Why have you got a suitcase?" he asked, switching his train of thought abruptly." "Sometimes older men from a Latin culture have trouble taking a woman seriously. I thought I'd help him out with some visual cues," Scully explained. "I'm going to change out of these jeans and into my trouser suit before we get there." "I hope you and Bill have the best of luck. There's nothing I want more than for you to succeed and come back with Matt in your arms. You know that, don't you?" "I know that. Listen, I'm leaving my briefcase here with my gun. Take care of them for me. And if anything should happen. . . ." Here she held up her hand to silence the words of protest she saw Mulder preparing to voice. "I want you to take out some papers folded up in there with your name on them. You'll recognize them if you see them. You can read them, burn them, make paper airplanes out of them," she finally joked to allay the anxiety she saw on Mulder's face. "We'll be back with a fussy baby by this evening. You'll get to experience some of the joys of family life." Scully had to settle one more question before she felt at peace with her partner. "Mulder, you do know that the reasons I chose to go with Bill have nothing to do with any lack in you. It has to do with how Bill sees things. In fact I'm worried about him. You and I both know he's not the diplomat he thinks he is. I only hope I can smooth over any problems he might stir up." Mulder smiled back with an effort. "You have to do what you think is best for everyone," was all he said in reply. Mulder walked with Scully out to the Revenge where Bill and Eddie were going through an engine maintenance checklist. "When do you want me to intervene from outside if I don't hear from you," he asked Scully and Bill. "Boats can have mechanical problems and weather delays. Give as at least twelve hours leeway. Have Eddie try to contact the Revenge at sea, or someone on the island, before you do anything irrevocable." Scully gave Mulder a hearty hug, and was enormously pleased that he returned it. His gesture brought a broad smile to her face. Mulder watched that smiling face until the boat was too far away to make out expressions. Why did this feel so bad, so dangerous? He decided to distract himself with the memoirs on the principle of combatting pain with a counter irritant. The problems of Morgan and Amy were certainly irritating enough to qualify. Chapter 24, An Excursion Morgan's Journal, July 5, 1814 By July I had still made no visible progress in my efforts to connect Jack Quickill to the attempt on our lives, gun smuggling or the deaths of David Bloom and John Eastman. All of the MPs I talked to claimed to have no idea of who he was or how he could have any effect on government decisions. A few protested their ignorance so fervently I immediately suspected they were in his power. That's how fear can make a man see enemies in the shadows. Of course there were enemies in the shadows at the Surrey Docks that night. I would not give up. We did no more direct spying on Jack and his agents. It was far too dangerous. I restricted myself to political contacts and conversations with a great number of people. They ranged from the mud larks of Wapping Stairs through the wealthy merchants of the West End. I only wished I could steal an invitation to Holland House. Lord and Lady Holland were notorious for their sentimental support of Bonaparte. They would be wonderful instruments for someone like Quickill. They held exclusive Jacobin gatherings in their mansion near Kensington Palace. It was said that Lord Holland was preparing to visit the deposed Emperor in his exile on the Island of Elba. Amy continued to refuse my suit. I was confident that eventually she'd understand that marriage was the natural condition for two people who felt as we did. We shared everything except a home and bed. It was foolish to stay apart. I believed that the one true obstacle was her repugnance to physical affection. If I could overcome that, or convince her that I could live without it, the other scruples would fall by the way. Accomplishing this was my other objective in life. I had both objectives in mind when I invited Amy to come with me on a coach trip to the Holland mansion. No opportunity to strengthen my hold over her would escape me. The excuse for the journey was a possible interview with Lord Holland. Horace had written a grand looking letter of introduction for me, signed by Horace Friedrich, Esquire, of the Friedrich Publishing House of London. It begged Lord Holland, whose given name was Charles James Fox, to look favorably on Morgan Fox, a published author who wanted to write the family history. Of course I was no relation, and he would know it. He might enjoy having the virtues and glories of his ancestors made known in a book by person who merely shared the illustrious name. June had been unseasonably cold and wet, while these first few July days had been hot and dry. The roads would be drained and not too dusty yet. We took an early coach, enjoying the sight of the green world west of the city before the heat became too fierce. The route bordered Hyde Park on the south. We saw the usual complement of demi- mondaines in open carriages out to impress wealthy young men who were themselves out to impress each other with their beautiful horses. The houses became grander and farther apart as we traveled west. We passed the Kensington Palace grounds and a quarter of an hour later the coach left us where the long drive to the Holland mansion began. The huge old home had been built one hundred and fifty years ago. It had not been kept up well. Every year showed in slightly sagging gables, crumbling stonework, and sloppily patched-up chimneys. Ancient trees arched high over our heads. They shaded the drive but provided no relief from the heat. The air shimmered with it. Even the birds were discouraged by the warmth of the day, preferring to creep on the ground under the hedges rather than to exert themselves by flying. Only insect life remained unaffected. We passed through pockets of madly swarming gnats. Yellow and white butterflies moved over the flowering bushes in fluttering bursts of energy followed by stillness. Amy seemed unaware of discomfort. She looked around her wonderingly, taking in the sight of the open spaces, the vegetation, the long vistas visible in the cleaner air. I hadn't thought about it before, but she probably hadn't been outside the city since she left Chitterton all those years ago. When we arrived at the door our appearances were the worse for the walk. Damp with sweat and red in the face, I presented the letter to a visibly unimpressed footman. After a long wait the butler himself appeared to inform us that my letter would be given to Lord Holland at a later date. He had left for Scotland after the third consecutive day of sultry temperatures. On seeing the disappointment in our wet, heat- flushed faces, Mr. Buryman offered to ask one of the family's coachmen to take us back to the White Horse coaching inn off Piccadilly. I quickly accepted this generous offer and started thinking of another way to spend the day. It was still short of noon when I spoke to the innkeeper of the White Horse about the coaches going to Hampstead Heath. He told me that they left almost every hour from the Green Man on Tottenham Court Road. We could take a short ride to the Green Man from his inn. I explained to Amy that we would be returning to London very late that night. If she didn't want to take the excursion we could return to the city now. She accepted the invitation with childlike enthusiasm. At two o'clock we were on the road that leads from London to Hampstead Heath. There was little activity in the garden plots north of the city that provide most of the produce for London markets. The harvesting had been done by dawn and the weeding and watering completed before the sun reached its apogee. Past the gardens the elevation of the land increased rapidly. London sank into a smudgy hollow on the horizon and the air became dramatically clearer. The heat and steep incline put enough of a strain on the horses to soften our hearts and those of several other able-bodied passengers. We trudged the last mile on our own feet, rewarding ourselves as liberally as the horses with sweet well water when we reached the village of Hampstead Heath. After a lunch of bread, cheese and pickles at Jack Straw's Castle, we took the walk to the widely known Vale of Health, where the water was supposed to have wonderful health giving effects. An attendant there laughed when he saw Amy making a face, as she tasted the slightly sulphurous liquid. "It doesn't taste healthy, does it? So often people believe that the more unpleasant something is, the better it must be for them. Suffering confers great benefits, according to that thinking. Me, I've never been partial to it. If you'll forgive my familiarity, missus, you'd make a wonderful advertisement for the waters." It was only when I heard it from another person that I recognized how much of Amy's beauty had been gradually restored to her in recent months. Sufficient food and less time spent working late by candlelight had filled out her face and figure. Her skin had regained some of the pink and white prettiness of former days. If I let myself dwell on it, my natural reactions would make it doubly difficult to refrain from the attentions she found repugnant. We explored the village itself with its new terraced houses, rented by people who were there to take the waters. I pointed out the tavern called the Spaniard, where in 1780 rioters were diverted by strong drink from the destruction of Lord Mansfield's mansion. Several years ago Horace published my account of another old tale about the inn in a broadside. According to tradition, many years ago the landlord's daughter loved a highwayman. The magistrate found out when he planned to visit her, and ordered that a trap be set. The men lying in wait gagged the frantic woman and bound her to a musket so that she couldn't move or scream to warn her unsuspecting lover. When they heard the hoofbeats of his approaching horse, she deliberately triggered the gun, killing herself but warning her sweetheart away. Of course he heard later what had happened and died in an attempt to take revenge for her murder. Amy listened attentively to the story. "Is it true?" she asked at the end. "Who knows? The old man who told me the story said it happened when he was very young. It sounds more like a story about war than crime. Highwaymen aren't usually appealing enough to die for. Maybe a supporter of the Young Pretender hid somewhere near here to avoid capture after the Jacobite defeat in Scotland. The King's men could have waited for him to visit his ladylove. If it is true, she shouldn't have done it. She should have known what he'd do when he found out." "How could she help it?" Amy asked, gazing down the turnpike where the highwayman, or rebel, supposedly heard the warning blast and wheeled his horse in flight. "She couldn't let them shoot him, or hang him," she ended with a shudder. This wasn't supposed to be a gloomy day. "It's probably a story made up to discredit the law, or the King's justice---or injustice. People love to be indignant over a tale of horrors while they enjoy their ale and chops. Let's go back to Jack Straw's Castle and eat before the London coach is scheduled to leave. The sun will be down in an hour." We ate chops and drank ale ourselves at Jack's, but there was better entertainment than a tragic tale. Two Scottish fiddlers tuned up to play as we finished our meal. Amy didn't seem to mind that I held her hand as we listened to their airs. After several dance tunes they began the wonderfully tender and sweet melody that had recently become my favorite. "They call that 'Lassie with the Golden Hair,' don't they?" I asked, as I tossed a few coins into the open fiddle case on the floor in front of the cheerful and robust players. "Yes sir. It could have been written about your wife, couldn't it?" the dark man replied, with a nod at Amy. "Perhaps if it were red gold. I've thought that myself," I answered, grinning with the pleasure of hearing her referred to as my spouse. I hoped it was an omen. "Let's take a walk through the famous heath before the coach comes," I suggested to Amy when the fiddlers paused for refreshment. When she agreed I took the precaution of speaking privately to the landlord about the time the coach departed. He assured me it would be at least an hour before it left. Then I boldly inquired if he had a room for my wife and me if we missed the coach. He winked and replied that couples had been know to return late from walks on the heath. There was a room for us if we were delayed. I tipped him generously and we set out. The heath was dim in the twilight. The setting sun had taken the colors of the day with it, leaving a world of muted hues. Under the shelter of the copses the temperature dropped abruptly, as though the greenery exhaled cool air. Continuing away from the inn we walked into a shadowy world where the boundaries between objects were unclear, gliding like two ghosts through the ether. The spectral illusion was broken when we heard somewhere off the path the breathy moans of two people making love to the utmost satisfaction of both. I feared the wild noises would upset Amy. I couldn't see her expression, but she made no move to leave the heath, or to hasten or slow our pace. For a long time we followed the path deeper into the woodlands while a pale orange moon slid up the sky from behind a black hill. Neither of us raised the issue of the coaching schedule. Keeping to the schedule would have required us to start back some time ago. Amy didn't show signs of fatigue until the moon had risen higher, and whitened to chalk. When we found a large, fallen tree she sat down on the trunk and motioned for me to sit beside her. "Does this remind you of the night we met in the cemetery to see what happened at midnight on Midsummer's night?" Until she spoke of it I hadn't remembered that particular occasion. Maybe the King and Queen of the fairies bowled nine pins with the shades of plague victims from the churchyard. We wouldn't have noticed it. Despite our avowed intentions, we became too wrapped up in exploring each other's bodies to investigate supernatural phenomena. We panted and tumbled together like puppies with the pungently sweet smell of damp summer grass all around the blanket we lay on. Her words brought all the sensations back to me. "I went home that night and cried because you wouldn't really make love to me. I wanted you. But I loved you for being so respectful, so careful of me that you wouldn't let me risk being disgraced. You were so good, Morgan. I knew all along it was you who kept us from getting into trouble. Later I thought you would have been a better person than I was. You would have done things differently." "Amy don't sanctify me. If you only knew. . . . It wasn't just love that helped me restrain myself. I didn't want to be trapped in Chitterton as a farm laborer by getting children before I had a writing career. I wouldn't have deserted you if you'd been compromised, but I didn't want that to happen. I wanted London, excitement, to learn things, so much. What a mistake it all turned out to be." I was ashamed of my selfish reasoning, but it was only fair to let her know that my motives were as flawed as anyone else's. "It's all right. I don't blame the boy you were for having ambitions and dreams. It's been justified by how well you've done in London. It wasn't your fault my father was wrong-headed and weak. If you hadn't cared about me you would have taken your pleasure and then left me." "God, Amy, I care so much. If I had it to do over again. . . ." She half turned and smiled at me, raising her hand and tousling my hair as though I were still a callow seventeen to her experienced older self. I couldn't help moving a little under her hand, enjoying even this sparing contact inordinately because of its rarity. She looked into my eyes at that movement and her expression changed to a look of wonder. Then her hand went to my face, and her light fingers stroked my jaw and neck. She was touching me as I had longed to be touched by her for these last ten years. It took several spans of her small hands to measure the breadth of my shoulders and chest. "You've gotten bigger since Chitterton," she murmured, with a hint of disapproval in her voice." I couldn't deny it, or offer any defense. I grew four inches taller between my eighteenth and twentieth birthdays. My frame and musculature had increased correspondingly in size. It was understandable that a woman who had been violated would appreciate delicacy more than size and strength in a man. I could never be a boy again. Amy would have to accept or reject me as I was. I tried to tell myself I could accept rejection. We could remain as friends---be married, and live as brother and sister. She kissed my cheek, brushing her lips across the rough stubble of my beard. That was new to her too. When she placed her lips on mine I almost panicked and jumped up from uncertainty. I didn't want to seem indifferent, but what if action on my part frightened her off? I limited my movement to allowing my lips to open slightly, letting her take the lead in determining what kind of kiss it was to be. It was soft and shy, and almost unbearably inviting. Amy turned away and stood up. Though disappointed I thought there was good reason for hope. She hadn't shrunk away during our brief connection. What had happened once could happen again. Then she walked around my outstretched leg, placing herself close in front of me. The tree trunk raised me high enough that she didn't have to bend far to take my face in her hands. She began another kiss that made me forget the first one. This time her tongue entered my mouth. The taste and sensation was so familiar and yet so long missed, I responded instantly with every part of my body. I never hated the fashion for tight trousers as much as I did at that moment. Not only was the constriction painful, the animal nature of my response would be visible to her when this kiss ended. I had no idea how she might react. I sat still, willing my body to restrict its fervor, while my arms ached to clasp her tightly, to take control of our passion and drive us toward consummation. How did women remain passive when moved by touches and kisses like this? The humbling answer came to me readily. They were often unmoved, the resigned recipients of men's lust. Finally I recognized the deep, rapid breathing that signaled Amy's excitement. Still I resolved to be careful, never pushing her farther or faster than she wanted to go. I slowly lifted my arms and touched her shoulders and the backs of her arms so lightly that it would be clear to her that there was no confinement of her movement intended. She made no move to stop me, so I placed one hand behind her head, enjoying the fall of her loosened hair across my fingers. Her hands went under my jacket, stroking my chest, sides, and back in turn, her hands ending on my back. This brought us so close I could feel the soft pressure of her breasts against me. An embrace any tighter would bring her lower body against mine and raise an urgent question in both our minds. Seconds later that contact came, almost stimulating me to climax. I moaned a little into our kiss and moved as if to pull back from her grasp. She pressed herself up against me instead, clearly aware of my state, and tolerant of it. "Please. Is this all right?" I asked, while I ran my own fingers over her neck down to the low cut neckline of her gown. In answer she took my hands and placed one over each breast. I restrained my desire to squeeze, and instead cupped them tenderly, gently tracing the nipples through the thin muslin fabric. She quivered in response and pushed harder against my hands. It was then that things went wrong. Suddenly I was distracted by an image of another man biting and sucking her breasts, and getting the same response from her. I wondered how many other men had touched her this way, and what she felt about it. Some of them must have been handsome and skilled. No, she didn't have these feelings with those men who bought her; she said so. It's you she loves, I told myself. I tried to put baseless suspicions and painful visions aside and enjoy the moments I had anticipated for so long. It proved to be impossible. After a few more minutes Amy became aware that I was no longer restraining my reactions to her affection. I was sitting like a block of wood, not feeling any reciprocal passion. The physical signs of my arousal subsided quickly. Amy didn't stop trying immediately. I wanted to put an end to the misery of sitting there, each fresh effort on her part filling my brain with visions of lechery from her past. "Let's stop now," I said, putting a hand on each shoulder and holding her at arm's length. "Let's not go too quickly. We can wait until we're married." She looked me with disbelief and heartbreak plain on her face in the bright moonlight. My feelings must have too plainly communicated themselves in my expression and movements. It wasn't going to be easy to persuade her that nothing was wrong. "You're afraid of the Pox, aren't you," she faltered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't risk you. You just seemed to want me so much. And Morgan I wanted you too." She fixed her gaze on the ground. I wanted to gather her close and comfort her, but I feared a renewal of her attempts to make love to me. "It's not the Pox. It's not your fault. I can live with your past, but I'm not as ready as I thought to forget it. I need some more time to understand you and myself. All I need is more time," I asserted with as much confidence as I could. "After we're married everything will be fine." Amy looked back at me steadily. The love I had seen that night on the docks was still plain, and there was no lessening of the love I felt in return. It was only the physical passion that suffered when I imagined Amy in the embraces of uncountable other men. It wasn't her fault or her choice, I kept reminding myself. But I couldn't forget. We walked back to the Castle in silence. By the time we returned to the inn only the landlord remained in the tavern, throwing down sawdust and sweeping it up. He directed us to our room with no further pleasantries, perhaps detecting our subdued spirits. Left alone in a room with one bed we were almost too overcome with embarrassment to speak. I wordlessly arranged the armchair to face away from the bed, putting a footstool in front of it. "I'll sleep here," I told her awkwardly. "I'm going outside for a few minutes. You can get ready for bed while I'm out." I stayed out for half an hour, hoping she would be asleep when I returned. The ploy didn't work. When I re-entered the room she was covered up and the candle was out, but she bade me goodnight as I took off my waistcoat. I went over to the bed and kissed her good night on the cheek. She reached out for my hand and squeezed it briefly. I could have climbed into the bed and seen what would happen. What I actually did was release her hand and walk away, afraid to risk a situation where I might be forced to call a halt to our lovemaking again. That would hurt both of us too much. I sat in the chair and tried to sleep. Through our open window, over the next six hours, I heard the liquid melodies of the nightingales gradually diminish, to be replaced by the rising notes of the larks. What should have been a wonderful night had been spoiled by my squeamishness. Worst of all, I no longer knew how to behave toward Amy. It had been easy when only her feelings were uncertain. Now I couldn't count on my own to be predictable. The ride back to London was full of half-finished sentences and apologies. Chapter 25, An Unusual Introduction Amy's Journal, July 6, 1814 Morgan and I would have been very uncomfortable with each other the day after our excursion to Hampstead if it hadn't been for Horace's news. A note arrived for me in the morning asking me to come to his rooms and hear it along with Morgan. "Miss Sullivan, you're looking lovelier than usual today," Horace enthused when I arrived. I wished him good morning and then noticed Morgan. He appeared to be absorbed in reading the latest pamphlets from Horace's printing press. His inky fingers served as the excuse to avoid taking my hand, but his greeting was no different than before. I smiled and tried to act just as usual. Horace could sense some change in our manner, and he stood briefly with a thoughtful look on his face. Then he explained why he had summoned us. "I visit Leigh Hunt in Surrey Gaol at least once a month. You knew the Hunt brothers were still in prison for libelling the Regent as a fat, old, lying debauchee, didn't you?" he asked, turning to me. "No, I don't know who the Hunt brothers are," I answered honestly, feeling as ignorant as I usually did of things Horace and Morgan seemed to know all about. Horace looked a little crestfallen, as though my failure to fully appreciate his achievement lessened its value in some way. He explained the situation patiently so I could share in the triumph. "Leigh and John Hunt publish the 'Examiner,' a liberal paper. The Tories tried for a long time to convict them of libel for their criticism of the Regent. They finally succeeded last year. I visit Leigh sometimes to let him know his brothers of the pen stand with him. He loves to hear good stories, so last May I told him about your adventure at the docks. Since then he always asks about whether you've succeeded in exposing the villains behind the plot. I've told him how disappointing our efforts have been. Yesterday he told me he'd passed your story on to a person at the gaol. This person made an unexpected offer to help you. He's a person of some influence and power. His social status offers him some protection. However he insists that everything be arranged secretly, since he might act outside the law. You can meet with him in a private room at the Pirate's Head Tavern tonight at ten o'clock." "What's his name?" Morgan asked quickly. "Conrad. It's an alias of course." "I've heard rumors about someone like 'Conrad.' You don't contact him; he contacts you, if he thinks you have a concern worthy of his attention. After he talks to you he decides whether he'll exert his influence for you. No action has been traced directly to him, but somehow things happen in favor of a cause he's adopted. Sometimes I feel as if I've been trying to empty the sea with a sieve. Now I may see results." Morgan and Horace gleefully shook hands, not minding the ink stains. I shook hands too, but I had some doubts. The idea made me uneasy. Mr. Conrad seemed too similar to Jack Quickill, with his ways of making things happen in secret. The likeness bothered me. It was different only because Mr. Conrad was on our side, although I was sure his tactics were also quite different. Horace and Morgan wouldn't want the help of someone who would use violence. But I wasn't well spoken enough to explain my doubts. I only asked to go along to meet with Conrad. It surprised me that Morgan agreed immediately. I was worried about danger to him, but his enthusiasm outran any consideration of risk. We traveled to the Pirate's Head in a closed carriage from Morgan's rooms that night. The late hour gave us the cover of darkness for our comings and goings. A masked servant showed us to an upper room of the tavern, where another masked man sat at a table. Instead of inviting us to be seated he looked us up and down from the behind the mask, in a manner that verged on discourtesy. His clothes were of good quality, and his mask was of black velvet. He wore gloves, so nothing of his skin or hair could be seen. Of medium size, he appeared both shorter and slighter than Morgan. When he finally spoke his voice was not deep, but it was melodious, with the merest hint of a Scottish accent. Morgan broke the silence first, impatient under the blind scrutiny of the mask. "Isn't this a little too Gothic for real life?" "You can say that after the experience you lived through at the docks? And is this the beautiful naiad who saved your life? As you see my dear, it's a pity, but I can't kiss your hand." "It's not necessary, sir. I'm not the Pope." "No, you certainly aren't. Still, I wouldn't be offering a tribute to God but to a Goddess, the Goddess of Beauty." There was really nothing to say to such ridiculous flattery. I stood silent, looking down at the floor. I was startled by the question he barked at me next. "Are you looking at my feet?" I brought my gaze back up to his masked face instantly. "No," I answered in confusion. "Didn't your mother teach you any airs, graces, lisps, flirtatious sideways looks?" I didn't know what to make of this conversation, so I stood quietly. The masked head turned toward Morgan. "A silent woman seems such an unnatural creature that she inspires more fear than ardor. Doesn't it bother you, wondering what she's brooding about behind that still face?" "No, I'm sure Amy will tell me if there's something important I should know. And I've met more than one garrulous man in my time," he added innocently. Morgan was lucky that Conrad was so self-absorbed that the remark went unnoticed. Or did it? Conrad now went to the point of our meeting. "So you can't find anyone who'll believe you about the man who runs the Panasay. He's involved in smuggling and blackmailing Members of Parliament. Have you heard anything about blackmail involving the House of Lords?" "No, no one has come to me from there. He's also involved in forcing girls into prostitution," Morgan added, taking great care to avoid looking at me. "For most women that isn't a long step," Conrad replied in bored tones. He continued with more intensity. "What we need to ask ourselves is, 'What is his motive?' It's all so much a matter of half- measures, and yet it's so viciously defended. Let me suggest a reason." Morgan leaned forward, barely able to contain his eagerness. "My personal experience, put together with what you've told me, leads me to believe there's an international conspiracy. The people who head it gain money and power when nations go to war. They're setting the stage for a renewal of the war on the Continent. All the powers are to remain evenly balanced, as before. To do this they need to weaken English preparedness, but not destroy it, and build up France's power, but not to an irresistible strength. Most important they're intent on creating disruption among the leaders of the Alliance against Napoleon. Last of all they'll mastermind Bonaparte's escape from Elba. Increasing the control of the ruling classes over the populace is a continuous effort." I could see dismay on Morgan's face. He hadn't expected such a crazed theory, and didn't know how to reply. Finally he spoke slowly. "I don't have enough knowledge to support such a conclusion. Yet I can't disprove it. My own concern is to stop Jack Quickill from committing more murders and selling English weapons to our enemies." The masked figure sat in silence for a minute or so. It was likely that he was deciding against helping Morgan. Then he spoke with a sigh. "At least you're honest. Maybe more experience will broaden your mind and you'll come to think differently about my interpretation of the world. Once I thought that in my position I could have some influence, but it proved illusory. I admired Napoleon at one time. Now I know he's as much a pawn as any of us. It all seems so hopeless. When I act as Conrad I take my sword in my hand---figuratively speaking of course. I make things happen quickly and believe I have the power to change things. I have a young friend who writes poetry. He thinks people have to be won over to liberty one by one, by our eloquence. How long do you think that will take? We'll have the iron collars on our necks long before that." Neither Morgan nor I could think of a sensible comment to make. "I'll do what I can about Jack. Don't breathe a word of this. I know I can trust you, miss," he added sarcastically, with a little bow in my direction. I nodded back. Conrad rang a small bell and the masked servant entered the room. "Show them out, Fletch." Morgan talked a great deal in the carriage on the way to Convent Gardens. We discussed all the possible ways Conrad might deal with Jack, but failed to hit on the method actually employed. The next evening Morgan received a message from Conrad that he was to go to St. Giles at eight o'clock and await instructions across the street from the Panasay. Naturally I opposed this plan, basing my argument on the result of following similar instruction in April. I know Morgan had misgivings too, since he forbade me to go with him. The solution I came up with was to ask Gavin to follow him and keep watch for any threatening activity. As it turned out no one approached him the entire two hours he waited. Instead he left at ten o'clock when a huge fire suddenly flared up on the ground floor of the Panasay. The fire spread quickly to two other buildings and then burnt itself out. Most of the inhabitants of the buildings involved escaped. It was rumored that the owner of the Panasay, one John Cockrell, had perished along with a few prostitutes. Four charred skeletons, possibly of three women and a man, were found in the ruins afterwards. Morgan fell into a black mood at this news. He tried to tell himself it was a coincidence, but I knew he didn't really believe it. The brutal imprecision of the method shocked him to the core. The guilt and uncertainty haunted him for days. He voiced the same thoughts I was having. "There wasn't enough time to plan it properly. They won't trace it back to Conrad, but the idea was bad. He's getting away with things because he isn't scrupulous. Some of the people who died in that fire were probably innocent. And I don't believe Jack was that easy to corner." I didn't need to add anything to these doubts. And yet despite Morgan's misgivings there were no signs of Jack's continued activity. The MPs he'd been visiting received no more visits. Mr. Bloom still denied any attempts at blackmail. Morgan said his denials were a great deal more convincing this time. We concluded that even if Jack escaped, he must have lost the evidence against his victims in the fire. When the distraction of these events was over, I was still left with the puzzle of what to do about Morgan. I was only certain of one thing: my very existence distressed Morgan and left him no peace. He cared for me, and wanted to marry me to protect me, but he would not find happiness with me. Whether it was fear of disease, the desire for children, or disbelief in my virtue, he couldn't love me without reserve. And while I was in the world he couldn't love anyone else. My own short-lived hopes faded away like the sunset over the heath that night. What a fool I had been to let them briefly light my path. In their absence the surrounding darkness seemed closer and more absolute than before. Eventually I would solve this dilemma. Until then I tried to be a good friend to Morgan, never presenting him with a situation that would make him uncomfortable. When he repeated his marriage proposal, I said yes. He exultantly accepted my answer, but said nothing about setting a date. I didn't press him on this issue. We could probably remain engaged for the rest of our lives. He would never feel the need to take the matter farther. Morgan deserved more of life. It would be up to me to see that he got it. Chapter 26, A Celebration Sally's Journal, July 5 to Aug. 1, 1814 I hoped our lives would take a serene course now. We had negotiated a turbulent section of the river of life, and should now enjoy smooth waters. The youngest of Lady Shelton's daughters would be presented at court this spring, so my time in their household was drawing to an end. We spent little time in the schoolroom. Our energies were dedicated to the direction of seamstresses, milliners, and hairdressers. Louisa practiced her dancing, piano, singing and curtsies with a devotion that would have been better spent in the study of accounting methods and the science of farming. One of the few unfortunate by-products of the peace with France was the renewed ease with which English women could again ape the frivolous modes that issued forth as haut ton from that country. Louisa studied the latest magazines from the Continent and continually changed the designs for her ball dresses. Of course the ridiculous, traditional requirement for a seven-plumed headdress and train as proper court presentation dress left me little justification for sensible objections. It disturbed me that Louisa's fate would depend entirely on the outcome of her lot in the marriage market, as it is honestly denominated. The most superficial attributes are richly rewarded in that venue. Louisa's facility in serious musical study and mathematics was worthless there. Any talent she had would wither and die. She would pass her life as a diversion for her husband, a society hostess and a breeder of heirs. I told myself not to expect the worst outcome, since Louisa's mother, Lady Shelton, had defied the forces of convention and emerged as an effective citizen. She took part in salons dedicated to political and philosophical conversation. She and her friends supported projects to relieve the suffering of many poor people. My visits to parish workhouses were part of their projects. If I had anticipated going to another situation as a governess, my spirits would have been low indeed. Few positions allowed a governess the freedom and respect I commanded in the Shelton household. I was immensely flattered and pleased that Lady Shelton had offered me an opportunity to carry out a pet project of hers after Louisa was safely engaged to a suitable young man. Lady Shelton and a group of like-minded ladies planned to start a school for poor girls connected to the parish workhouse in St. Giles. It would be small, and funded entirely by private donations. An energetic and idealistic young minister, the Reverend Pendleton, promised practical help and the additional respectability possible with the support of the established Church. It offered an unexampled chance to experiment with ideas I had about preparing women to be independent by giving them knowledge and skills. I also saw a way to use this project to help Amy and thereby please Morgan. There was usually little I could do to repay my brother for his years of care for me. He would be gratified if I could provide Amy with occupation and a more sheltered living arrangement at the school until their marriage. Her practical advice and assistance with the girls would help me greatly. I looked forward to communicating this scheme to Morgan and Amy with happy excitement. When I was a child I loved Amy instinctively. Children, little sensualists that they are, flock to the healthy and pretty. She drew me also because of the spontaneity she brought to her exchanges with everyone, including me. There was no artifice. She listened and heard what I said to her, and responded genuinely to my childish concerns. But I would have forgiven her any amount of ugliness or inattention to me for the beautiful smile she brought to Morgan's face when she entered a room or turned up unannounced to share some farming chore with him. I didn't believe that Morgan received the attention he deserved from the people around us. Amy was my ally in recognizing his unique qualities of mind and soul. Her apparent desertion briefly created havoc in my emotions, but her unwilling absence seemed as terrible to me as her failure to send letters. In the course of my happy day-to-day life, I recovered quickly. The only permanent effect I experienced came at second-hand. Morgan's ability to trust others and joyfully accept the good things in life was severely damaged after he lost Amy. I feared he would never have the capacity for happiness that others enjoyed unthinkingly. Recently I had become re-acquainted with Amy through our conversations at Mrs. Mobley's. We met to have tea with Morgan, and sometimes ended up waiting for him for up to an hour. She was so different, and yet so much the same. Once she seemed very intellectual to me, with a large but randomly acquired stock of knowledge gained from untutored reading. Now I detected her lack of a disciplined mental structure to give context to those miscellaneous facts. And yet I sensed a crudely powerful mind neglected for many years. She had once had great potential for learning, possibly the ability to penetrate to the heart of some of the world's philosophical and natural mysteries. The waste was enough to make me weep. I hadn't given up hope of renewing Amy's education during the creation of Lady Shelton's school. In late July Lady Shelton and Louisa traveled to Bath to gather their strength for the Little Season in autumn. It would serve as prelude to the all-important Spring Season. I was left to make the final adjustments to Louisa's wardrobe and supervise the redecoration of the ballroom. These tasks left me enough time to enjoy outings with Morgan and Amy in the long warm evenings of late summer. We attended performances in Drury Lane and Haymarket, and the spectacles at Vauxhall Gardens and the Royal Amphitheater. Amy enjoyed these with the uncritical wonder of a sixteen-year-old girl. Sometimes it seemed as though the years between Chitteron and now hadn't left much of a mark. Isolated among the uneducated and poor, in some ways her maturation had halted. It was placed in abeyance by the desperate immediacy of her need to survive. At other times the lessons in ruthlessness and aggression learned during those years came to the fore. We made arrangements to attend the celebration of the Centenary of the Hanoverian succession on August 1, in the royal parks. The Prince of Wales spent thousands of pounds and weeks of labor creating effects and erecting tents for the sale of food, drink and gewgaws. Anticipation was whipped to a high pitch amongst Londoners of all classes, and a large turnout was expected. The actual crowds exceeded every estimate. Morgan was uneasy as soon as we approached the park gates. We later found that half a million people had attended the celebration. Fearing trouble from the unruly multitudes, He tried to dissuade us from attending. Amy and I were looking forward to the much-advertised fireworks, and argued strenuously against leaving. He gave in, admonishing us to stay close to him at all times. This arrangement worked well all afternoon. We walked slowly up and down the rows of tents, arm in arm. Puppet shows, gambling, eating, drinking, and a great deal of ale-fueled horseplay were going on simultaneously. As the twilight came on and small fireworks displays blazed rainbows we found it more difficult to stay together. We moved from Green Park to the larger St. James Park, in search of more room. Before we knew it people had gathered again in a tightly packed mob around us. They were trying for a close view of the Chinese Pagoda on the bridge over the canal. We had no choice but to stay in place there for the displays scheduled to take place over the pagoda. The Roman candles, girandoles, jerbs and gillocks were incomparable. It seemed royalty was good for spraying beautiful waterfalls of sparks into the sky, if for nothing else. When the top of the Pagoda began glowing red everyone assumed it was part of the effects. It wasn't until a worker staggered out, aflame and screaming, that the truth was realized. The news swept through the packed masses more swiftly than the fire burned. The Pagoda was on fire, and more fireworks were stored in it. It was going to explode. The crowd was irresistible in its movement. We were forced to travel with it or be swept under the thousands of feet running for the park boundaries. We were carried away in different directions, but I felt my arm grasped tightly at the last second, and I was pulled along in that grasp. It was Amy who had a grip like Grim Death on my wrist. She kept glancing back to make certain I was firmly on my feet. At one point a drunken man lurched toward me with his elbow out, preparing to push me aside so he could pass me by. Amy swung around and shoved him hard in the direction he was moving, so that he missed me and instead fell himself. She wouldn't let me pause to see if he made it back onto his feet. Pulling relentlessly she kept us on a course for a gate set in the high iron fences around the park. We were one of the first waves of humanity to arrive there. A lone, scared Guardsman stood uncertainly on the other side of the gate. The crowd was clamoring at him to open it. "Do you have the key?" Amy screamed at him. He gave a frightened nod, but made no move to open the lock. "We're not supposed to let anyone in at this gate," he parroted. I was terrified at how quickly more people were pressing up against us. We would be crushed or suffocated in minutes if someone didn't take action. "You," Amy screamed at a big man who was desperately trying to shelter a small boy from the mob. "I'll take the boy. You get a few of these men and lift the gate up. Look," she said, pointing at the sides of the high gate. "You can lift it up off its hinges and toss it. Quick." She grabbed the boy from him and took one of his hands and placed it on the bars. He yelled for help and a few other men followed his example. They didn't budge it. Several other people realized what was being attempted and urged more big men to the front of the group. "One, two, three!" Amy screamed, trying to co-ordinate the effort. On her second try the men understood her intention and heaved simultaneously. The gate moved that time. On the third frenzied try the gate rose into the air at least four feet and cleared the hinges. The stupefied guardsman barely jumped aside to avoid being flattened by it. We moved through the opening at the same fast pace as before, but now we were in the broad streets around the park, and the mob thinned into a non-threatening, milling crowd. Amy had passed the little boy back to his father. She leaned up against the street side of the fence breathing rapidly, her face as pale as a ghost. "What about Morgan?" she asked me. "What if he was in an unlucky place in the crowd?" "We'll find him. I'm sure he's fine," I reassured her. I had perfect faith in Morgan. I had just finished the words when I saw her eyes light up at a sight behind me. That was how I knew Morgan was indeed fine. He rushed up to us and swept Amy up into an embrace that looked almost bruising. He was bent over her, his face hidden in her hair, but I could guess at the emotions he didn't want to make public. Amy's face wore a sad and confused expression that I attributed to our dreadful experience. We wouldn't find a free hackney cab within miles of the festivities, so we began to walk back to Fleet Street. Eventually we would come across a cab. I thought this would be a perfect time to make my offer of a position to Amy. It would distract us all from our recent anxiety and fright. "I have some news for you both about my plans after Louisa becomes engaged. She is sure to be snapped up during her first season, so I shall be at liberty after next spring." "Don't take the first place available. I can support you for a while. It would mean a lot to me if you can find something in London," Morgan offered. "As a matter of fact, I have taken the first place offered," I replied triumphantly. "Lady Shelton has asked me to start and administer a school for poor girls in the St. Giles parish." Morgan looked as delighted and proud as I could have wished. "That will be an enormous amount of work, but no one could do it better than you," he enthused. "I know how pleased you'll be to set your own goals for your pupils." "You're right that it will be a great deal of work," I said, while I pantomimed bending under a heavy load. "That's why I'm going to exploit a dear friend and hire Amy to work as my secretary. She can live there with the household staff while the school is being readied. Only until you're married of course." Amy's broad smile was enough answer for me. "That sounds like a perfect arrangement," Morgan added. Once again, his own pleased look was a sufficient reply. "When are you getting married?" I asked. "If Amy leaves before spring, I'll need another person to supervise the staff until I move in." Morgan told me several weeks ago that Amy had finally consented to marry him. He appeared overjoyed by the prospect, and I expected them to set a date any day. From their expressions now an observer would have thought they had suddenly lost their understanding of the English language. "I just wanted an idea of when you would be moving out, Amy," I explained patiently. Amy positively stuttered her response. "M. . ., M. . ., I haven't. . ., we don't. . . ." "We still haven't set a date. There doesn't seem to be any need to rush things," Morgan interrupted. "What's the hurry? Maybe we'll wait until next fall." I was very surprised. I would have been less so if I thought Amy was the source of delay, still recovering from her mistreatment over the past years. The sad, confused expression had returned to her face, and her eyes were suspiciously bright. I didn't believe Amy wanted the postponement. But Morgan had been the one to insist on the engagement. It was as though he was content just to secure her loyalty without accepting the woman herself. Their situation, which I had seen as settled and happy, now worried me once again. Chapter 27, An Accident Sally's Journal, Sept. 10, 1814 Lady Shelton and Louisa traveled from the West End to Bond Street every Monday and Thursday now, in search of the perfect frocks and furbelows for Louisa's social debut. They kindly acquitted me of the duty of accompanying them, so I used the time to visit Morgan. Often Amy joined us for tea, and we discussed the latest news from "The Times" or Morgan's progress in tracing Jack Quickill. I privately doubted whether anything more would ever be learned. Justice had not been served, but the horrible Panasay had been destroyed and the blackmail had been stopped. We could take some satisfaction in that. On September 10 Mrs. Mobley admitted me to Morgan's rooms, explaining that he had not yet returned from the newspaper offices. This was not unusual, so I prepared to amuse myself by reading. Before I had even chosen a book from Morgan' overcrowded shelves there was a loud, frantic knocking at Mrs. Mobley's front door. Seconds later I heard Marianne's running footsteps on the stairs, and had the door open before she reached it. "Oh, Miss, it's Morgan," she gasped. "He's been in an accident. It was Lord Derby's carriage in Piccadilly. It hit him when he tried to cross. He's hurt awful bad. They took him into a house nearby. He's in terrible pain and calling for you." We were descending the stairs swiftly while Marianne gave me these details. A footman in livery liberally festooned with gold braid was fanning Mrs. Mobley. She was seated on the front step, overcome with emotion at the news. I was worried and grieved, but determined not to fail Morgan when he needed me. The footman turned to me as entered the yard. "Are you Miss Fox? Lord Derby is distressed beyond measure at this accident. Your brother stepped right out in front of us. There was nothing Bob could do." Here he indicated the coachman, who tipped his hat in my direction. The poor man had a horrible welt of puckered skin around one eye, as though someone had used a broken bottle on him in a fight. I couldn't help wondering if he should be driving a team, since the scar tissue almost pulled the eye closed, but that wasn't the important consideration now. The footman went on talking. "I'm worried about your brother's leg. Sometimes an injury like that ends in amputation. On the battlefield I've seen it happen where. . . ." The street started to revolve around me like a waltz in reverse. Marianne stepped up and grabbed my arm. She gave the footman a reproving look. He looked sheepish and became businesslike again. "Lord Derby wants to do everything he can to assist you and help with your brother's recovery. I can take you to him immediately." If I didn't sit down soon I might disgrace myself by fainting like a greensick girl. "Thank you. I accept your kind offer," I managed to say. Marianne opened the carriage door. I climbed in without further speech and the footman shut it. We were in motion immediately and I forced myself to think rationally about where I could take Morgan to nurse him. I would never permit him to go to a hospital. They were little better than places to die. Mrs. Mobley and I could probably take care of him in his rooms. I had completed a mental list of necessary supplies when I started to think we must have gone beyond Piccadilly. The old-fashioned carriage was entirely closed, with shuttered windows, so I had no way of seeing where we were. I banged on the window, and on the ceiling right below where the coachman's seat would be. No one seemed to hear, or at least no one answered. Then I noticed for the first time that there was no handle on the inside of the carriage door. I kicked hard at the door and window shutters, but they were of heavy wood and didn't give way. When I thought back over the events preceding this ride, my insides twisted with new apprehensions. There had been no proof of the story told by the footman. Suddenly I remembered Amy's simple account of her actions at the Surrey Docks. "I had to stop them from killing Morgan, so I tried to cut out Rattler's eye with the razor." I had been abducted as easily as any of the feather-brained heroines in the sensational novels I despise. ********************************** Morgan's Journal, Sept. 10, 1814 September 10 was a cloudy day. The skies were muddier than usual with the smoke of thousands of chimneys. On days like this I longed for the clearer air of the country, but I didn't believe I could ever give up the daily spectacle of life crowded around me. If I had known the ultimate price for my time in London I could have given up anything. I knew nothing then, and so I was pleased with myself. The previous day I received information I had sought since Jack Quickill was driven from his den in St. Giles. My instincts proved correct. He hadn't died in the fire. There was a new place in Bethnal Green, popularly called the Garrison, and I believed Quickill ran it. Amy got the information for me from her friend Moll Hardwick. Moll's brother, Dick, visited her and begged her to take in his daughter Nancy. A new brothel had moved into a large old mansion in the center of the Bethnal Green slum where he lived. Shortly after the arrival of the new tenants, girls as young as eleven started disappearing from the area. It was whispered in the gin mills and taverns that the girls were taken to the Garrison to work, whether they wished it or no. As Dick told it, one man boldly knocked at the door of the place and challenged them to allow him to search there for his daughter. They sent him off with a polite refusal. He disappeared from the area the next night. A week later a dredger found him in the Thames near Wapping. The verdict was that somewhere upstream he fell off the steps leading down to the river, probably because he was in a drunken stupor. The inhabitants of Bethnal Green lost interest in confronting the new residents, but Dick wanted his daughter out of harm's way. The similarity of the pattern to Quickill's former practices struck me forcibly. I wanted nothing more to do with Conrad's dramatic but heavy-handed methods. There had to be alternative solutions to allowing Quickill to make a farce of our rule of law While I cursed my powerlessness against Jack Quickill, the small problems of daily life didn't cease. Sally and Amy had joined forces with a young curate named Pendleton in planning for Lady Shelton's school. In short order he developed an attachment to Amy. He came from a sheltered background, and I believe Amy's air of experience and knowledge of life appealed to him as much as her pretty face. I felt for him in his hopeless passion. He was very young, but he appeared to be intelligent. Even more marvellous, he was a Christian who really tried to practice Christianity. His ruddy hair belied his mild and compliant temperament. He gaped and blushed in Amy's presence, and went to great lengths to please her. Amy felt sorry for him, and consulted with me on whether she ought to tell him her history. That would end any thoughts of proposal he might harbor. No member of the clergy could afford to marry a wife with such a past. I advised her not to make her history public, since that might cause Lady Shelton to object to her connection with the school. When I questioned Sally on the subject she was astonished that I hadn't thought of the obvious answer. She would inform him that Amy was engaged to me. For some reason it hadn't occurred to me make our engagement public, but of course I agreed to her plan. While it relieved our dread of a declaration from Rev. Pendleton, the knowledge didn't prevent him from continuing to seek out Amy's company for the sweet torment of beholding what he could never possess. I was very happy that I got to see Amy everyday. I looked forward to seeing her placed in the new school. Even as a boy I had sensed that Amy and I could share everything---discussion, disagreement, laughter and tenderness. We worked together as though the ten-year separation had never occurred. When we married we would live together and enjoy the same shared purpose. I was assured of her place in my life, so I felt no immediate need to formalize our bond in marriage, or to consummate it physically. We had the rest of our lives. This last barrier was perhaps the one thing we couldn't talk about. But I was certain the passage of time would take care of my difficulties with accepting her past. I never even considered the painful prospect of living without her. As usual I fought daily with Mr. Griffith over the extent to which I would be able to publish the truth in "The Times." Stories were suppressed on a regular basis due to a lack of sufficient proof, or simply because they would make some rich or noble individual angry. My blunt words were often replaced with measured, conciliatory phrases, drained of most meaning. Today, after another long argument, I went off to Newgate to write moralistically about the hangings that were scheduled to take place in front of enthusiastic crowds. This would make me late for tea with Sally and Amy. I spoke briefly to Horace in front of "The Times" offices and complained as one does to old friends. Then I waved farewell to him from the hackney that I was lucky enough to catch there. That afternoon, as I had feared, I walked down Fleet Street almost two hours late for tea. Mrs. Mobley and Marianne were pacing agitatedly in the small front court. Usually they were busy inside. I looked up and down the street for a sign of anything wrong. Amy was standing across the road from Mrs. Mobley's. I saw her for only for a few seconds at several intervals. The traffic kept passing between us, so I'd get a glimpse, a curricle or wagon would cut off my view, and then I'd get another quick look. A stray ray of sunshine was being reflected on her from somewhere. Then Mrs. Mobley called out to me. When I looked back Amy was gone. My eyes were playing tricks. I must have seen a different woman. Soon every red-headed woman would exist only to remind me of her. Chapter 28, A Rescue at a High Price Sally's Journal, Sept. 10, 1814 My first reaction was self-castigation at my stupidity. When I had scolded myself thoroughly I considered the possibilities. They would kill me, as they had been unable to do with Morgan and Amy. Unless they intended to use me to bargain with. I knew that anger would be more useful than fear, and deliberately fostered my resentment at the deceit and injustice of their behavior. By the time we arrived at our destination I was prepared to play the outraged innocent for any advantage it could gain me. But my spirit quailed at the cold efficiency of the men around me. When the carriage door opened two men reached inside and each one grabbed me by an arm. They hustled me into a large building through an enclosed walkway. My plan to scream or wave for assistance was promptly thwarted. Once I was inside they released me and the footman maintained his courteous manner. "Please follow me to a waiting room. You can see your brother very shortly. The doctor is with him now." That kept me quiet. For the first time I considered the possibility that Morgan might actually be here and under their power even if the accident story was a ruse. I might have to save us both. A neatly dressed maid entered the room at once with a tea service, a pitcher of wine, and a glass. "You must need something to restore your nerves, dear. Have a glass of wine. Or if you prefer you can have some tea." I remembered what I had heard of Amy's story from Morgan. It would be safer to take a cobra by the tail than drink the refreshments offered here. Then the full dimensions of my situation became clear to me. They didn't intend to kill me. I was going to be the cure for the Pox for some rich, depraved man. Probably more than one. Perhaps all women have considered the possibility of being forced to choose between death and dishonor. I had, and sometimes I pictured myself dying in a brave battle, and other times I submitted, to live for my revenge. The grubby, shameful reality of the situation left me unable to think clearly, much less nobly. I felt hot and then cold. My breathing was so quick that my hands tingled. I approached the maid with my arms outstretched. I had no clear idea of what I was going to do. "Please ma'am. I need to leave. Can you show me the way out?" I begged her. My face must have been fearful. She looked alarmed and backed out, leaving the drinks on a table. I heard the key turn in the lock on the outside of the door. There were no windows in the room. I tried the only other door and found it opened into a chamber with a bed. There was nothing that appeared suitable for use as a weapon. I returned to the outer room and tried to think. Terror was creeping up on me and winning out over every other thought and feeling. I had been left alone for at least half an hour when I heard voices approaching the door. My heart leapt as I recognized Amy's voice, speaking in the whine of an uneducated woman of the streets. I had heard her lapse into that speech only a few times, and only when she addressed a Covent Garden acquaintance. The door opened and there she was, wearing a scoop bonnet so deep it almost concealed her face. She carried a basket with jars of messy looking liquids and some things that looked like sausage skins. In the shelter of the bonnet she laid her finger on her lips warningly. Then she spoke to the maid. "No, I don't need a bit of help. Don't worry, I'll persuade her. You won't go against your own best interests, will you dolly? Jack will be furious if she isn't ready in time, so you'd best leave us to it." We both stood motionless until we heard the key turn once more. Then Amy began removing her bonnet and gown. "We only have a little time. Switch clothes with me." "But. . .how did you know?" "Don't just stand there. Give me your clothes." She wouldn't talk until I started removing my dress. "I got to Morgan's lodgings right after you left. Mrs. Mobley told me about the accident, the carriage, and the coachman with the terrible scar. But I'd seen Horace on Fleet street just before I arrived. He told me Morgan had gone to Newgate. I knew he hadn't been hurt. Just yesterday we found out about Jack Quickill taking over a house in Bethnal Green. When I heard about the scarred coachman I thought I'd try Jack's new place first. I know how they think, so I pretended to be one of the women who help with the false cure." "What are we going to do?" Amy put my clothes on as she spoke, and helped me dress in hers. Her gown pulled tight and rode up above my ankles, but I managed to fasten it. My dress pooled around her feet. She hiked it up through the sash. "You're going to leave to get help. I'm going to stay here and pretend to be you until help comes. You're in Bethnal Green. Go down stairs with the maid and turn left at the front door. Go straight down the street until you can't go any farther. Then turn right and go again until there's a fork. Take the left fork and then turn left when the road ends. You'll come out on Shoreditch Road. There may be a hackney cab still waiting. The driver wouldn't come back into these streets. If the driver waited you can go to Lady Shelton's. Otherwise wait there. Mrs. Mobley sent her boy for the Bow Street Runners. The abduction of Lady Shelton's governess will get their attention. You can help them find their way if you're waiting at the crossroads. Morgan may get there soon also. I left instructions with Mrs. Mobley for him." "But Amy. They'll hurt you. I can't let you be hurt instead of me." She grinned and winked at me, while she tied the bonnet closely around my face. My shawl covered her hair. "You must know I'm used to what they do." "If you could stand it so could I," I insisted, trying not to show her how scared I was. "Of course you could," she agreed. Then she looked sad and serious. "But what about afterwards?" Then her tone became joking again. "You have to meet that American and marry him. Remember your fortune? So go. Tell Morgan. . . ." Amy paused here and her features twisted out of control for a few seconds. "We'll be back for you Amy. You can give him any message in person," I asserted. I needed to believe that Amy would be fine so I could flee that horrible place with a clear conscience. Only one of us could leave, and she had made the decision for me when she exchanged clothes before telling me the plan. I had to be hopeful against all my instincts. She smiled her agreement with me. "You're right, but tell him for me that I'm very happy today. I haven't been as happy since I was in Chitterton with him all those years ago." She gave me a quick embrace and then called out for the maid through the door. "She's in the bed, all ready. The wine will keep her biddable. I'll be on my way now." Then she started coughing, and gestured me to start coughing. She disappeared into the bedroom. I choked and wheezed my way down the stairs and out into the street behind a handkerchief. The reluctance of the hackney driver to enter the parish became clear immediately. The people here were very poor. Drunks and cripples shared the stoops with children trying to sell limp flowers or withered fruit. Tiny gin shops did a brisk business, while a few unquenchable souls swept out areaways or hung dingy laundry in windows. The ubiquitous prostitutes clustered on corners and simpered at passing men. While I tried to keep Amy's directions in mind, I noticed a few hard looking women watching me speculatively. Quickening my pace, I walked until I reached the fork. The women followed me to the left and I walked faster. I had heard of gangs of thieves who would literally steal the clothes off the back of the unwary. Taking advantage of a noisy altercation inside a ground floor room that drew their attention; I ducked into an alley and hid behind some heaps of rubbish and garbage. Something dead in the mess created an almost intolerable stench, but that made it all the better for concealment. I heard the argument in the street about my whereabouts. They made only a half- hearted search of the alley before giving up and looking for easier prey. Fifteen minutes later I peeked out and decided to try my route again. I missed one turn, when the road I was on ended, but appeared to continue. It was a new road, and I had to retrace my steps. Just before I reached Shoreditch, some of the same women who pursued me earlier caught sight of me and started after me at a run. If they got to me before I was out on the broader and more public Shoreditch Road I had no hope. I started running too, and came out onto the road almost under a galloping horse's hooves. I twisted and threw myself backward onto my hands, flat on my face in the road. Suddenly I heard Morgan yelling at someone to get back, saying that he had pistols. "Amy?" he questioned, in a voice raw with fear. I knew he must have recognized her dress and bonnet. I quickly rolled over and got to my feet. "It's me!" I cried, and flung myself into his arms. He hugged me as tightly as though he would never release me. "Sally, Jesus Christ, I was afraid I'd never see you again. Are you all right? Did any one hurt you? Those women. . . ." "They didn't touch me." "How did you get away? You're a remarkable girl." He still held me close, breathing great sighs of relief at this conclusion to the abduction. I knew that the truth about my escape would distress him all over again. I had to tell him so we could save Amy. "Amy came and switched places with me. She's waiting for us and the Bow Street Runners to come rescue her." "What? She's inside the Garrison? No, you must be mistaken. She wouldn't stay there," he answered quickly. "Yes, it was the only way, Morgan. They were going to use me. . . you know, the way they did Amy before. She said she wouldn't mind it. I know she will mind, but she insisted. I didn't have a choice really." I defended myself to myself as much as to Morgan. After a final convulsive hug Morgan released me. His face had gone gray and bleak as a bitter winter day. "Too many of them know her. They'll kill her. I can't leave you here," he agonized. "You'll have to come with me." With that he helped me mount the horse he had borrowed and then swung himself up behind me. He urged the horse as fast as he could back along the way I had come. When we arrived the front door of the place was ajar. Fearing a trap, we entered very carefully. Morgan held his pistols ready and preceded me by a few feet. We moved very quietly at first, but we encountered no one. As Morgan searched the apparently deserted building I stayed right behind him. While we wanted to find Amy, we were terrified that we would find Amy. Since my departure the situation here had changed dramatically. And the silence in the building was almost absolute. Room by room we went through the huge old structure, starting on the bottom floor. When we reached the room on the second floor where I had been imprisoned, and found it empty, I let myself hope a little. On the third floor, we saw movement in one room and again my spirits lifted briefly. The cause was a disoriented young woman who hadn't realized that everyone else had vacated the premises. Morgan questioned her in a voice that shook with fear and urgency. She was too befuddled to answer. We quickly moved on to the next room where the discovery we dreaded awaited us. In the corner, almost too small and crumpled to be seen at a glance, we found Amy. She was curled up on her side, her hands placed protectively over her face. A closer look revealed terrible injuries, probably inflicted by the heavy wooden staff tossed into the opposite corner of the room. Her body didn't have the right shape in places, and there was far too much blood. I was unable to force myself to look carefully and analyze the wrongness in her limbs and rib cage. From the bloody saturation of her gown in front I thought she must have been cut as well as beaten. I saw enough to convince me that she was no longer alive. Morgan hadn't yet absorbed that information. He crouched down beside her and started to remove her hands from her face. I tried to move quickly to stop him and spare him the sight of her maimed features. My concern was unnecessary---her face was unmarked, and even peaceful in its expression. Unfortunately this circumstance seemed to convince Morgan that she was still living. He knelt down, stroked her hair away from her cheeks, and started talking to her. He spoke almost in a whisper, as though he feared to startle her awake. "Amy. Amy it's me, Morgan. Open your eyes. You're safe now." His words fell into the deepest silence either of us had ever known. It would be my place to make him understand what I didn't even want to know. I knelt on the other side of Amy's body in the blood pooled underneath her. Morgan didn't see me at all, so I reached down and tried to take his hand. He allowed me to take his left hand, while he kept his right on Amy's hair. "She's hurt very badly, Sally. What can I do? Please tell me what to do." Never before had my self-confident, protective brother turned to me for direction. Now that he had, I didn't know what to answer. He turned back to Amy. "I need to tell you what I've been thinking. We ought to get married on St. Valentine's Day. That will give us time to find some rooms, or even a house, before Sally gets the school started and needs you every day." I made myself say the awful words. "You can't do anything for her dearest. She couldn't live with those injuries. It's too late. Amy's not really here anymore. Try to understand. She isn't suffering now." He remained motionless, except that his shoulders heaved with breathing that sounded as effortful and strained as any I had heard in the workhouse from a pauper on his deathbed. "I'm not a child, Sally. I can see she isn't suffering. But what about me?" Morgan's voice rose in pitch and volume as he continued. "She's left me here and I'm suffering. I'm suffering and I can't live with that injury either." I saw his gaze travel to the pistols he left lying on the floor. I was scared of them, but I picked them up and dropped them into my skirt. Tucking it up into the sash made an impromptu pocket. Folding my hands firmly over the bundle, I looked him in the face. "Not now. You can have them back later, when you've had time to think." He scared me by laughing. What would I do if he became hysterical? How long would it be before some help from the Runners reached us? "That's what I told her. I needed time. To think. I think I've already taken too much time to think. Everything important passed me by while I was thinking. Do you believe Death will do that? No, Death will be there punctually to claim a life wasted in thinking and never doing what really mattered." I was frightened that he was going to lose all control. "Are you sorry Amy saved me?" I knew I shouldn't have asked it, but I had asked it anyway, in a voice that trembled with tears. It wasn't as though Morgan had been offered a choice. Amy had taken the decision into her own hands, for her own reasons. It was like a wife asking her husband if he would save her or their child if both were drowning. Pointless and unanswerable. Now, however, it did serve the purpose of bringing Morgan back to his senses. He looked at me wildly for a moment, and then appeared to actually see me. "No, you can't believe that. It's just that. . .she's part of me. Without her it feels like I don't belong here in the world. And it hurts so badly. You don't know how bad it is Sally. I hurt her, I was cruel to her, and now I can never make up for it. Never." I couldn't bear the self-recrimination on his countenance. Swinging the burden of the pistols to my side, I put my arms around his shoulders. "No, Morgan. You were good to her, so good. She loved you, and you loved her back. There was nothing more you needed to do. If you were short with her, or preoccupied with your work, she understood and forgave you. I'm certain of it." Morgan removed my arms from around him and shook his head slowly. He leaned down and spoke again, very low, to Amy. "Where are you now? Can't I see you again? I need to tell you I was wrong." Then he looked up at me again. "I knew she was gone before we found her. I didn't admit it to myself, but inside I knew. When I got back to my rooms Mrs. Mobley and Marianne were waiting outside the front door, looking down the walk for me. I saw them and wondered what kept them outside away from their work. Then I glanced across the street and saw Amy. It was only for a few seconds. I looked away and when I looked back she was gone. I thought I mistook someone else for her." Shamelessly I tried to use this incident to comfort him, even though I judged it was just his imagination helped along by wishful thinking. "There, that shows she forgave you before passing on." "Dishonesty doesn't become you, Sally," he answered sternly. "You don't believe I really saw anything. Neither do I. I noticed Mrs. Mobley's unexpected presence and worried about what it meant. My brain created a vision to reassure me." Then he paused and looked confused. "But somehow I knew," he added, looking more perplexed. The young woman from the next room wandered over and took in the tableau. She was strangely unmoved by the bloody horror of the scene. I concluded she still felt the effects of whatever drink or drug constituted her nepenthe. "Can you tell me what happened?" I asked the woman, who was probably no more than sixteen herself. "There was a great commotion a while ago. . .I don't mind exactly when. Somebody was dragged down the hall and into the room here. Jack was fierce, in a rare temper. I took care not to be noticed. His voice is usually quiet, but it was cracking like a whip. For him, he said a lot. "'I don't doubt he'll have the Bow Street Runners here and shut this place down too. But not before I take care of you. And I'll be long gone before anyone gets here. You've gotten in my way for the last time,' says he. 'Your little trick cost me the revenge I really wanted for Morgan's meddling. I lost fifteen years of work setting up a system to blackmail the right people. Your crusading pimp wouldn't have gotten far without you.' "I couldn't hear what the woman said; she spoke too low. Then I heard Jack again. "'Your husband-to-be! Is that what he told you? And you believed him? He was just using you to get access to the seamy side of London. You don't seriously think any man would bind himself by a vow to get what was once on offer to anyone with three shillings and a glass of gin?'" I wouldn't have thought Morgan could lose any more color than he already had. He sank lower over Amy, put his hands on the floor in the now sticky blood, and whispered so softly into her ear that I could no longer distinguish the words. The girl yawned and scratched as she went on with her account. "Then I heard noise like furniture being knocked around and a shriek, like someone got hurt. And then I heard Jack again. "'I'm not so easy to catch off guard as Rattler. You. Finish that job quickly. We've got to get out of here.' "There were steps going away, then there were a lot of thumps and cracks and banging around, but it didn't last long. There weren't no more screams or such. I heard a new voice, a man. "'For Christ's sake, she's dead. So she cut you, you got your revenge. You can't kill her any deader than dead. We've got to get out of here like Jack said. The Runners will be here soon. Without our pet judges, something of a hanging nature might stick. Come on.' "Then all the steps went away. I finished what was in my bottle. I haven't done anything to hang for." "You'd better leave anyway, Miss," I advised her. "Justice isn't always wise and reliable." Morgan was almost lying on the floor, now resting his cheek against Amy's. I didn't try to pull him away---at least he wasn't threatening violence or the loss of his reason. The situation had taken on an air of unreality, as though I were frozen in one of those nightmares where the dreamer knows that something must be done but cannot manage to accomplish it. I wondered if I was going to go mad myself. After a time I heard the welcome voices of Horace, Rev. Pendleton and some other men coming up the stairs. The poor minister was clearly shocked by the unprecedented violence of the scene. He stood as still as a statue while two of the men pulled an unresisting Morgan to his feet and walked him down the stairs. I followed quickly, trying to organize my thoughts. I would accompany him back to his rooms and then send a note begging Lady Shelton to take him in temporarily. When we took our places in the carriage used by the Bow Street Runners I sat by Morgan and propped him up with my shoulder. He seemed barely conscious, and I wasn't sure he could maintain his own balance. We were both stained with Amy's blood, a horrible reminder of the scene upstairs in the Garrison. Nothing could be done about that until we could change and bathe. I looked out the window for what I hoped would be the last time at this hell on earth. The narrow, stinking streets were as dark as if they were at the bottom of a well. Suffering and cruelty filled them like fetid water. It was as though the infernal regions had been incarnated in the middle of a modern city. As we pulled away I heard an inhuman howl from high up above somewhere in the Garrison. I couldn't identify the source or the emotion. I thought it made a fitting accompaniment to our leave taking. Something had been pushed out of Morgan's pocket when he sat down, and I bent down to retrieve it from the floor. It was a beautiful leather-bound book, but when I opened it there was nothing written inside. I looked up and was startled to find Morgan's eyes fixed on the book with a fierce intensity. "That's the new journal I bought for Amy today. She used all the pages in the old one. She won't get the chance to put anything into this new one. But I'm going to use it to record the story of how I brought her murderers to justice." Chapter 29, A Revenge Morgan's Journal, October 25, 1814 The first execution was a primitive, sloppy, stupid, unsatisfying purgation. My preparation consisted of weeks spent drinking in different taverns each night, most frequently in the Surrey Docks and Seven Dials areas. The brandy I took in carefully measured doses gave me the energy I needed to keep going. Solid food held no appeal for me anymore, although I forced something down each day in obedience to the laws of nature. I sat or stood alone with my drink, hunched over the talisman I carried---Amy's journal. In it I recorded descriptions of the people I saw, the times I saw them, and the people they spoke to. No one bothered me. They seemed to sense the careless violence I harbored close, very close, to the surface. The pistol handles protruding from my belt undoubtedly helped keep troublemakers at a distance. Sooner or later I expected to cross paths with one of Quickill's thugs. When I did, I would plan and carry out the first step in securing justice for Amy. On October 25th I was making the final visit of my night to the "Hand of Glory." It was a den of pickpockets, footpads and fences. I don't know if the name was a saturnine allusion by the tavern owner to the probable fate of his patrons. It might have been as aptly named "The Finish," for it was one of the last places to close each night. I looked up from my notes to see Rattler sitting across the room with a tankard in his hand. According to my vague but extensive scheme I should follow him in order to track down Boodle, Jack Quickill and perhaps other men involved in Amy's murder. I should make full use of what I learned to locate the other guilty parties. Then I could capture Rattler, accuse him and dispatch him with the dutiful efficiency of a public hangman. I hadn't counted on my reaction at seeing him. He laughed and yelled playful insults at acquaintances as though he had no self-doubts gnawing away at his insides. His scar should have reminded him constantly of his misdeeds, but he showed no signs of a struggle with remorse. Rattler drank heartily and ate fried oysters, while the blood gathered and thundered in my ears. I left immediately and stationed myself in an alley to the south of the Hand of Glory. There was no particular reason to think he would turn south. I wasn't reasoning clearly. The knife I usually carried alongside my pistols was in my hand. I had just enough sense left to know that noise would be bad. My coat was wrapped around my left arm. It was a chill night, but it might have been a balmy summer evening for all the cold I felt, as a savage heat flooded my body. The only light in the street was the oil lamp outside the tavern. Rattler left alone, carrying his own light. That was another circumstance I couldn't have counted on. When he was almost past the narrow passageway I called him by name. "Rattler. I have some news for you." He was ready with his long walking stick, but I was more than ready. His skill wasn't great. It was the weakness or incapacity of his victims that made him effective. I had the energy of battle-fury and the indifference to pain that can accompany it. Several blows from his stick fell on my left arm while I learned how he dealt them. When he began the arc for the fourth I lunged straight in and low. It was a long knife, and I angled it up under his ribs. He crumpled slowly, a look of surprise on his face. It dismayed me to see he wasn't going to suffer much. I grabbed his coat and yelled in his uncomprehending face. "I'm sending you to hell for killing Amy, you bastard." I don't believe in hell, but I hoped the prospect would terrify him. He just looked at me as though I were gibbering nonsense. It was only after he slumped over into a dead weight that I realized my mistake. He didn't know who Amy was. He might have remembered the name Scarlet. The guttering lamp hadn't provided enough illumination for him to recognize me. It was curious how little blood there was. I saw a little dribble from his mouth and nose. The speed of his death indicated that the knife reached his heart, but the wound seeped instead of flowing with blood. I had a vague idea that the lack of blood was a good thing. It had something to do with me escaping. Voices outside the tavern snapped me back to my senses. I blew the lamp out and stood still while a few men turned north on the lane. My luck had to be running out. As their steps faded I wiped the blade on my shirt, replaced my coat and walked unhurriedly through dark, empty streets back to my rooms. It had been over so quickly. During the long walk back I started to wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Surely important lives didn't end that swiftly and unceremoniously. He was important only for the damage he did, but the magnitude of that damage lent him a great deal of weight from my perspective. Perhaps I dreamed my revenge after a few more brandies than the allotted number. I wished so much to dream of Amy, as I used to, but I never did. Horace told me it was because I drank too much. He claimed that doing so makes deep, dreaming sleep impossible. Without the help of strong drink I wouldn't sleep at all. Anyway he had to be wrong, because I had nightmares almost every night. Rev. Pendleton said he had a delightful dream of gathering flowers in a heavenly meadow with Amy. She had wings. Maybe he thought he was comforting me. In life that occupation didn't appeal much to her, but I didn't tell him that. She liked to leave the flowers to grow and die and scatter their seed, instead of arranging them, already dead, in bowls or vases. If I met Amy in a dream I wouldn't smile and admire her flower arrangements. I'd shake her as hard as I could and scream my questions at her again and again. "Did you do it on purpose? Did you put yourself in danger to 'solve this dilemma?' Wasn't there any way to give me a little more time? I just needed to understand how utterly trivial my qualms about your sad past were compared to your eternal absence. Why couldn't I have a little more time? Damn you to hell Amy, for the sentence you put on me." No, I wouldn't say that. I'd beg her forgiveness for all my sins of commission and omission. It wasn't until after her murder that I understood the finality she ascribed to my rejection of her lovemaking at Hampstead. Before she left my rooms for the Garrison that last day, she left her journal with Mrs. Mobley, instructing her to give it to me if Amy were unable to claim it. She was fully aware of the risk she was taking. It was days before I could bring myself to read it, and more days before I recovered from doing so. It forced me to revise my memories of the last two months. I thought we were waiting for more wisdom and a better time to consummate our love. I had my work to offer me diversion from personal problems. In the meantime she was considering a solution that would separate us to achieve my happiness. The most hellish part of my nightmare is that her strategy for saving Sally was flawless. How can I wish she hadn't tried? Hadn't succeeded? There may have been no thoughts of self-destruction at all. If Sally had still been inside upstairs when I arrived at the Garrison it might have been too late to protect her health and dignity. Quickill might even have murdered her instantly out of spite when he saw no escape for himself. Amy extracted her neatly from danger. I failed by arriving too late to give Amy a chance. And it was my arrogance in pursuing Jack Quickill so relentlessly that put them both in peril to begin with. On arriving home I checked my shirt for blood to confirm the reality of my experience. There was enough to require washing it out in a pot of cold water with some lye soap. My left arm was deeply bruised but unbroken. I blamed my sleeplessness on its ache and prescribed more brandy as treatment. A period of unconsciousness would enable me to get through tomorrow. I still reported for "The Times." It would be a difficult day. Chapter 30, A Crime Thwarted Morgan's Journal, Nov. 20, 1814 I promised myself that the next execution would be properly strategized---a cool and deliberate act of justice. That didn't work out as planned either, but it happened in a much different way than the first. I take credit for stopping a crime in the case of Boodle. During November I found myself increasingly less able to tolerate the brandy I had come to depend on. My nights were endless. If I ever slept I woke from nightmares in sheets wet with sweat. I started to roam the streets at night instead of torturing myself by trying and failing to achieve sleep. That was why I found myself in the Covent Garden market square in the brightening hour before dawn. The carters and country dwellers who brought produce from the gardens around London were setting up their stands along the walls. I inspected the pyramids of still damp vegetables and remembered when they would have looked appealing. The posture of a man holding a lamp in the area of Russell Street caught my eye. He was talking excitedly to a girl who looked up at him with her eyes almost as wide open as her mouth. She might have been thirteen. He carefully kept his body between her and the group of farmers piling onions and leeks on tables some fifty yards away. The girl wore a dress that seemed to be cut down from a brocade with a long waist, a style that was popular thirty years ago. It was common to see unsophisticated country women making practical use of old but good material in this way. I walked casually closer to the pair and heard a familiar voice. "The gentlemen come to the theater in a barouche, with seats upholstered in velvet. The show is aristocratic, with songs and tragedy and love scenes. Then each gentleman looks for a beautiful woman, such as yourself, to take to supper. Sometimes there's royalty. . . ." I turned away before Boodle could see me. The girl was beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and a rose petal complexion enhanced by Irish dark hair and blue eyes. She could probably command fifty pounds a night from novelty-mad young bucks until someone younger and fresher replaced her. Her pimp would get it all. I looked around the square, hoping that someone would be looking for her. Another glance at Boodle established that he was checking for the same thing. I saw him gallantly put his coat around her shoulders and begin walking down Russell Street toward Charles. There were a number of bagnios on Charles Street. I followed them at a short distance, wandering across the road a bit, as though feeling the effects of my claret. When he urged her into a dark doorway I swiftly followed. There was no one stirring in the place. Perhaps they were all sleeping off the effects of the evening. Boodle and the girl had reached the first landing when they heard me running up the steps behind them. I reached the landing before he reacted. "Do I owe you money?" he asked, with fear in his voice. What a coward he was when he faced an equal adversary. "You owe me. You," I said to the girl. "Leave here. Go back to your friends in the market square. This man was going to murder you." Whether she believed me or not she tossed his coat on the landing, ran down the stairs and out the door. Boodle was trying to bargain with me. "I'll have it for you by Thursday next, I swear." "You'll never be able to get it for me. I want payment in kind. Hold up the lamp, Boodle." I grinned at him in the light cast up in my face. Recognition came over his features, followed instantly by fear. He began backing away from me. I reached out and grabbed the lamp, because I saw what was going to happen. He tripped on the coat at the edge of the landing and fell heavily to the bottom of the half flight. I was there with him before he could clear his head and get up. I took him by the hair and held him in place. "This isn't a boxing match or a cock fight. There's nothing sporting about it. This is an execution for Amy's murder. You called her Scarlet." He probably couldn't really focus on what I was saying. The knife I held in front of his face claimed all his attention. But I don't think he was really human with a conscience to appeal to anyway. I yanked his head back and slashed his throat to the backbone. This time there was a tide of blood, but I had taken care to place myself behind and above him on the stairs. When I was satisfied he was dead I wiped my knife once more and walked out through a back passage. The way led to a backyard enclosed by an old stone wall. Scaling it landed me in a narrow alley opening into Drury Lane. From there I returned to my rooms. I felt no more guilt than I had when I took part in the autumn slaughter of sheep and pigs on Cousin Edward's farm. These murders were a source of peace, not remorseful nightmares. My guilt was interwoven intricately with the virtuous pursuits of love and work. I could never find release from it. Chapter 31, An Acquaintance Renewed Morgan's Journal, December 4, 1814 Early in December I started worrying that time was running out. Despite my antipathy for Conrad and his ways, I would have to turn to him for the information I needed. I had known for a long time where to find him. On the 4th of December I was waiting at one o'clock in the morning when he returned from some ball or supper in his carriage. When I heard his odd, sliding gait on the cobblestones of the square I left the shadows and joined him before he reached his door. "Do you remember me?" I spoke out of the darkness. He didn't jump as much as I would have under the circumstances. Only a casual glance around for his manservant betrayed his anxiety. Fletch was still giving directions to the coach driver. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure." "The Panasay, Jack Quickill, Jack Cockrell. The silent woman. She's very silent now." "I heard. I'm sorry." He unlocked his door and I pushed past him, continuing into the sitting room where a fire readied for his arrival burned brightly. Now I could see his handsome face, worried and calculating. We sat on benches on opposite sides of the fireplace. "You don't look very well yourself," he remarked. The fever that consumed me nightly had mounted as usual during the last few hours. My clothes hung loosely, and my face was colorless except for the unhealthy flush on each cheek. "Isn't this look all the rage now? Doomed and damned, but dangerous. I'm well enough to do what needs to be done. You've got to give him to me." "Who?" "You know who. Jack." "What makes you think I know how to do that?" "You'd better figure it out if you don't. Because I'll expose you if you fail. I've heard you're already in trouble. Debt. Social disgrace. Do you want to be imprisoned for arson? Don't bother threatening me. I've left information with a colleague. When he follows the trail it'll lead to you. You need me to remove the trail." He didn't want to answer me directly, so he tried a diversion. "Did you figure out that there was evidence inside the Panasay that implicated me in things that would ruin me? He started blackmailing me. I needed someone like you to be blamed in the right circles. Please believe me that I never thought they'd attack your family. What do think of my theory now?" "I don't care about your theory one way or the other. Just give me Jack." "Humor me and listen. There's a plot to assassinate Wellington. He's the one element that can tip the balance of power for a decisive victory over Napoleon. In two weeks Jack will travel to Paris and take up residence across the street from Wellington's quarters. Did you know that fanatics have already bungled two attempts on his life? But he's a brave idiot, he takes few precautions. I'm told Jack's uniquely qualified for this mission. Shall you and I become players again and stop him? "I'm going to stop him. Alone, and for my own reasons." "Are you capable?" "Tell me where he is." "There's a shooting party at Lord Eaton's country home in East Leicestershire. Most of the guests were asked for social reasons. One is practicing seriously. Lord Eaton asked him as a favor to a gentleman who has in interest in Continental affairs." "How will I know which one?" "It's John Cochran this time. He looks like a basset hound and sucks on a pipe every waking hour. His personality has all the animation of an Elgin marble. Actually he's more like a shark-cold, fast and deadly." "Good night," I told him, preparing to stand up and leave. He gave a shudder and spoke again. "You know I'm to be married soon. It feels like a sentence to the hulks hanging over my head. I keep postponing it. She's getting desperate to bring me up to scratch." I laughed. "Don't give up. Procrastination can lead into a permanent arrangement." "Maybe a prison sentence wouldn't be as bad as marriage," he intoned tragically, staring at a polished yellow skull on the mantelpiece. "So don't get married," I said. I could scarcely bear his posing. "But I have to. Get married. It's the only thing that can protect me socially under the circumstances. Her goodness will atone for my sins." "Then she must be very good indeed. I pity the poor woman." "At least you've still got your sister." "You'd still have your sister if you hadn't abused the relationship. Don't bother calling a servant. I know my way out. Good night." "Why don't you stay and have a drink? I have nightmares that keep me from sleep," he said importantly, as though announcing some unique affliction that merited my concern. "I guess we've earned our nightmares." With that I left him. I'd put his name in this journal except that I'm sorry for his family. I wouldn't expose them to the danger of revenge from the shadowy elite that influences the events around us. Because no matter what I told Conrad, I believe his theory now. Chapter 32, A Country House Visit Morgan's Journal, Dec. 10 through Dec. 24, 1814 I sold my books to pay the expenses of going after Quickill. There was other money, but I had to reserve it for Sally's future. The tailor was astonished at the clothes I ordered. He couldn't understand why a young man wanted the old-fashioned breeches, shirts and frock coat I specified. I told him it was a joke a young friend and I were going to play on his father. That made my order for a powdered wig less conspicuously strange. Mr. Griffith showed no surprise when I gave him my letter of resignation. It had been weeks since I'd been even adequate in my position. He looked sad and sympathetic, telling me that he hoped I'd return when my health improved. Writing for "The Times" once seemed like the most important attainment on earth. Now quitting was just a minor postscript to the rest of my life. When I looked into the location of the Eaton county seat I found it was only ten miles cross-country from Belvoir House in Rutland. This was an occurrence I could turn to my advantage. The family of the Marquis of Granby was holding the largest, most elegant house party ever conceived to celebrate his christening in two weeks. The Prince Regent would be there, along with the Duke of York, and dozens of other celebrated members of the highest society. The magnitude and rarity of the occasion could serve as a cover for unusual activities. Among all the visitors, temporary servants and men making deliveries of supplies, I wouldn't be notable, even on a sleepy rural estate. All I needed was one day. I couldn't decide if I should find some significance in the fact that this was the height of the fox hunting season. I arrived in Strathern at eight o'clock in the morning of December 10th after an all night ride from London. The trip was an ordeal I thought I might not survive. My weakness increased each day. I was shocked to see how natural the white wig looked when I tried it on the week before. The hollows in my cheeks and under my eyes made me almost unrecognizable. It could have been my father looking out of the glass at me. There was a local carriage for hire at the White Horse Coaching Inn. My absurdly large tip earned me limitless respect from the coachman. He delivered me to the doors of Eaton House at noon, and carried my bags for me with a servile air. I had two fine leather bags containing a sparse but elegant selection of clothing. Most important I had a generous supply of pound notes to be liberally distributed among the servants at Eaton House. Horace had created letters of introduction so impressive in their seals, size and paper quality that even the officious footman refrained from sneering. "I need to see your master on a highly confidential matter," I hold him authoritatively. "He received a letter last week introducing me." When the footman returned I was immediately shown into the Duke's estate office, where he sat conferring with his bailiff. "I received no letter concerning you last week. These letters recommend you to me from the highest levels, but they are damnably vague. What exactly do you want?" "Your Grace, there are some matters between gentlemen that are better not written down. In the briefest possible words, my pupil visited our country last summer and found it very much to his taste. He expressed a desire to me to visit it once again, and dispatched me to make what arrangements I could." "But why not contact his Royal Highness? Surely it would be fitting for Prince Leopold. . . ." "Please, no names. Discretion above all." Raising my eyebrows I looked hard at the bailiff. The Duke finally took the hint. Sometimes I wonder if a coronet heats the brain and leaves it weak and diseased. "Mr. Davies, excuse us. I'll send Smith to fetch you when we've completed our business." When Davies had left the Duke continued puzzling over my mission. "Why doesn't the Prince ask for an invitation to stay at Belvoir House where the Regent is?" "As a member of the inner circles at court no doubt you're aware of a slight coolness on His Highness's part toward my pupil. There was the incident in June, when the Princess refused her father's marriage choice. Rightly or wrongly he blamed the Prince for turning her head. "Mr. Coburg, as I shall call him, wishes nothing more than to improve His Highness's opinion of him with an eye to a future. . . well, an alliance of some kind. If they were to meet accidentally during the hunt breakfast, or the hunt itself. . .who can tell? Needless to say, if certain hopes were realized my pupil's gratitude would be boundless." The Duke didn't need much time to ponder this decision. Royal gratitude might be a bird of passage, but it could feather a nest satisfactorily before it took flight. The greatest obstacle appeared to be the Duchess, who was already flustered over their house party, and who wilted visibly when informed that a royal person named Mr. Coburg would be staying with them incognito. I made haste to reassure her. "I'm here to see to the Prince's needs. It will be my job to note anything that might be needed for his comfort and procure it. You needn't do anything more than you would if Mr. Coburg from Brighton were arriving on Saturday. All I ask is that you arrange a tour of the house and grounds for me. I need nothing more than a small room on an upper floor for myself. Don't expect me at supper. I'll be busy." The young manservant who conducted me through the mansion and its grounds had so many questions for me that I thought word of my purpose had already penetrated to the servant's hall. I provided him with much fanciful detail on East European royalty. If he ever meets any they'll be puzzled by his attempts to inspect their traditionally sharpened incisors. In return he named all the guests we encountered and told me what their favorite activities were. I learned that Lord and Lady Eaton led a large group that played cards for high stakes each night in the salon. Young Mr. Rochester and Mr. Gearhart played at billiards until two o'clock in the morning. Miss Gearhart and Miss Chapman played the piano and sang each evening, The rest wandered through the conservatory, wrote letters in the library, or drank in the smoking room. Everyone rode to hounds in the morning except Mr. Cochran, who went to the shooting range instead. I didn't hear much of his conversation after that, but I tipped him hugely after he showed me to my room. I lay on the bed in a state of exhaustion for the rest of the evening. My energy was very low, and I didn't know what I would do if I were too weak to carry out my task. My fatigue brought me a few hours of deep sleep on top of the lace-trimmed counterpane. When I awoke before dawn I knew I would be able to do what was necessary. I primed and loaded my pistols and stuck them in my belt once more. The remaining money I put in my breeches pocket. My wig required some brushing and straightening. Then I was ready to go. The big house was dark, cold and silent. I slipped out through the door from the estate office and set out for the shooting range. This winter had been almost as cold as the previous one. The pearly dawn light showed each blade of grass furred with sparkling white rime. I could see that rabbits, deer and racoon had been about long before me. Their small footprints dotted the frosty grass as I moved farther from the house. To a Londoner the air seemed preternaturally clear and sweet. Breathing it was like drinking water from a deep, cold spring. How Amy would have enjoyed this place, I thought. Lately I felt closer to Amy, instead of feeling further removed from her by the passage of time. The thought of her gave me comfort where it used to cause only anguish. Sometimes I found myself thinking that maybe she had stopped blaming me for the dreadful things that had happened. That she existed somewhere and recognized how little I understood myself and the consequences of my actions. The curious impression of her presence across the street the day she died kept suggesting itself to me. I had forced myself to contemplate the end of her existence and accepted its finality. Why did I now find myself backing away from this uncompromising rationality? The evidence hadn't changed. I sat on a bale of hay where a shooter might await his turn and shivered. The sky gradually turned from a pale absence of color to a rosy pink. In the far distance I saw a delicate mist rising off a pond or stream. The foxhunters were gathering at the front of the mansion for an al fresco breakfast. Through the stillness came faint voices, the rattle of cutlery being laid out, the snorting and stamping of horses, and a few polite yelps from the well-trained hounds. As more people gathered, the noise would increase, to end in the baying of the pack and the thunder of hooves. The noise of the traffic on Fleet Street had been almost painfully loud that day. The rattle of iron-hooped wheels on stones and the hoof beats of many briskly trotting horses were only part of it. The street criers added to the general noise, and drivers insulted each other and cursed freely at the top of their voices. But when I remember Amy standing there across the street I don't remembering hearing any of the noise. It's as though the world went silent while I took in everything I could through my eyes. Why didn't that seem strange at the time? The first thing I was aware of was the smell of pipe smoke. The noise of the hunt had covered his approach, but I could hardly claim to have been alert. I turned slowly, like an old man out on a cold morning. The gun he carried was no fowling piece. It was a soldier's weapon. "Cold out today for old bones," he remarked. "Yes. But duty before anything else," I replied. "Perhaps you've heard why I'm here. It's my task to be sure that the. . .gentleman I represent will have sufficient facilities here. He's an avid shooter." "Perhaps we can have some friendly competitions, if he arrives in time. I'll be off to Paris before the New Year." "We'll be expecting him on Saturday," I said, while I shifted my position so that I faced him fully. He frowned at his pipe and then tapped it against his tobacco tin, emptying the ash. I watched while he went through the long, involved ritual beloved of pipe smokers. It made igniting a bowl of tobacco appear to constitute a day's work. He stood there looking so civilized. From his polished boots to his Tory-high stock he presented the likeness of a modern, bourgeois professional. Would the future hold many such professionals? He walked among lords and bishops while he profited from the basest criminality. There was no protection for the innocent when such a man held power over lawmakers and judges. His face showed a hint of amusement at my long scrutiny. How could he be so oblivious of the evil that dwelt in him, and so unaware of what I was thinking and feeling here beside him? "It looks like a good hunting day. You're still young. Why aren't you riding out with them?" I asked him curiously. "Forgive my rejection of tradition. I'm old enough to dislike the waste of energy. I prefer to engage in activities that accomplish something." "But shooting practice? There's nothing accomplished there. Unless shooting is your profession." My voice had hardened as I ended the remark. I sensed a start in him and watched him closely while I continued speaking very quickly. "Or is it your profession to make money by turning young women into miserable wretches?" His gun was coming up before I got the sentence out, but by then I had shot him in the belly through my coat. He grunted and collapsed onto his knees. The noises he made were not words, but he might have been trying to say something. Hot blood spilled out and steamed briefly in the chill air. I would have preferred to leave him writhing, but I owed it to Sally to try to get away. He couldn't be permitted to scream or identify his shooter. I walked up close beside him. Now he was making a sound that was like gagging and groaning at the same time. He probably wouldn't listen, but I had to tell him why he was dying. "I'm Morgan Fox. I'm killing you for beating Amy to death. You called her Scarlet. Do you remember why you did things like that? It doesn't seem as clear now, does it?" I shot him in the head with the other pistol. Nobody would think it odd to hear shots from the shooting range. I was too weak to drag him very far into the woods. The hounds would sniff him out quickly anyway. It was done. I felt like a puppet after the sudden departure of the puppeteer. Collapse was imminent, but I couldn't give up and let Sally become the sister of a felon. Nor could I disappear and leave her with the endless torment of not knowing. I told myself to keep my strategy simple, so I started walking south. If I could get to a coaching inn I might be able to get back to London. My wig I discarded in a goat pen close to the walls around Eaton's grounds. It was too cold to get rid of the coat. I changed its appearance by ripping off the pseudo-military braid and frogged closings. The only thing that saved me from dying beside the road was a dairy cart on its way to Melton-Mowbray. Its driver was pleased to exchange space in the wagon for someone to talk to on the journey. If more than listening had been required of me, I would have failed to meet the terms. In Melton I took the first coach going south. The journey passed with the incoherence of a nightmare. I made it as far as Oxford before I couldn't climb back up into the coach. The innkeeper put me into a room where his maidservants did the minimum required to keep me alive and strengthen me enough to leave. It took almost a fortnight of beef tea, claret and cream bring me to that state. Naturally it was paid for from the money in my pocket. My recovery was shaky at best, but they bundled me into the coach early on Christmas Eve and happily waved good-bye when the money was gone. There was enough left over for the coach fare and a cab. I could only admire the landlord's precise planning. When I arrived in London I took a hackney from the coaching inn to Mrs. Mobley's. My head felt very strange, but I thought that lying down would put it right. I didn't even manage to get the door to my rooms unlocked. I was told that Marianne found me lying on the floor in the hall when she went up to see if I wanted tea. Chapter 33, A Death Sally's Journal, December 2, 1814 through February 14, 1815 The first week in December we were arguing, as we often did now, over food. Morgan had lost a great deal of weight, and my fears for his health were dire. He had come by to visit me at Lady Shelton's at nine o'clock in the evening. After my abduction and rescue in September, Morgan was there long enough to accustom the staff to his odd ways. They got used to the outlandish hours he kept, and his unpredictable eating schedule. This evening I found he hadn't eaten since buying a roll at a pastry cook's shop in the early hours of the morning. I asked the cook to put something cold on a plate for him. She kindly heated a big supper for him and served it with negus in the upstairs sitting room. "Morgan, you have to start eating more. You left all of that shepherd's pie," I exclaimed, glimpsing the part of the plate he was trying to conceal under his napkin. As usual he tried to turn my scolding aside with a jest. "Think of it as a national resource. If Boney ever escapes from Elba they can use it to fortify. . . . " He started coughing, which was also a common occurrence that winter. He suddenly went quiet and I looked up. I saw the oddest expression on his face before he turned aside and put his handkerchief to his mouth. If I had seen that look on his face when he was a little boy I would have thought he just found the hidden gold coin from the Christmas pudding in his portion. He moved to leave the room without speaking. I followed swiftly and silently. He looked up, surprised at my presence, when I entered the water closet after him. I was in time to see him spit a large quantity of blood into the bowl. There was guilt in the look he gave me, but I couldn't detect any sorrow for himself. He rinsed and wiped his mouth and put his arms around me. I'm sure my face told him how much I needed comforting. "Oh, Morgan. First Mama and Papa, then Amy. Will I have to go on without you too?" I asked him, selfishly thinking first of myself. Perhaps I already knew that he regarded his own death as a blessing, not a tragedy. "Don't worry. I never coughed up blood before. After Amy's murder is avenged I'll take better care of myself," he promised me. I heard only duty, no heart, in the promise. It hurt that I was not enough to make his life worthwhile. Yet I couldn't deny that it was pitiful watching him try to go on, day after day, struggling under the burden of melancholy he carried after her death. Once before he had recovered partially from her loss. The suddenness of the blow that took her from him again was having a fatal effect on him. His vitality diminished as if his soul had adapted to require the light of her presence. He no longer possessed the ability to adjust to the precipitate return of darkness. After this incident he pushed himself harder than ever in his quest. He never seemed to sleep. Sometimes he disappeared from his rooms for days at a time with no word to me. It was on Christmas Eve that one of these absences ended. When Evans interrupted the wrapping of presents in the parlor with a note for me, I was expecting it the way one expects thunder to follow lightning. Morgan had collapsed in his lodging house. He needed nursing care. I went to Lady Shelton and she kindly agreed to allow me to bring Morgan to an upstairs room in her house. With the help of the housekeeper and maids I cared for him for more than a month. Now he was a good, conscientious patient. He followed orders to eat and rest, but this unaccustomed docility frightened me more than his previous resistance to medical advice and common sense. Clearly he had given up. He was going through the exercises of battling for his life, but he had already conceded the victory to Death. When he gained some strength back after his initial collapse he told me a little about the results of his search for revenge. "I killed them, or at least some of them, Sally." He knew that I wanted to know. I wouldn't ask because he might have been unsuccessful. "I'm glad to hear that. The world is a better place without them. Did you find Mr. Quickill?" He was the one who most aroused my hatred and my own desire for revenge. "Yes. He was one of those I killed. It was worth it. I don't doubt that. They didn't deserve to breathe the air along with human beings. But I don't feel as much better as I thought I would, knowing that her murderers are gone. Even worse, there's someone out there who gave Quickill orders. I don't have time to find him and kill him too," he said dejectedly. I didn't know how to reply to that, so I just held his hand. In spite of our attentive care Morgan grew steadily weaker. By early February it was clear that he wouldn't live to see the spring. I sat with him as often as I could. I didn't know how I was going to find the fortitude to continue my life without this bright and loving spirit to share my triumphs and troubles. One of those evenings Morgan was sitting by the window, as he often did now. Up until the past two weeks he used this time to read the newspaper Horace brought every night. Gradually he spent less and less time with the paper, asking me each night to place it next to his chair. He would look at it tomorrow when he wasn't so tired. We now had thirteen papers in that pile, neither of us admitting that tomorrow was never going to come. "Listen Sally. You can hear the fiddlers." Incredibly I did hear the distant strains of Scottish fiddle music. Instead of working its way to a satisfying conclusion, the yearning tune simply seemed to stop, as though cut short by scissors in the hand of Fate. It was a nasty damp night to be out playing on the streets. "They call that 'Tonight My Sleep Will be Restless.' I heard it that evening when I met Amy for the first time in all those years. My sleep was destined to be restless forever after that," Morgan said. It made my throat ache to hear him talk as though everything for him was in the past. I tried to change the topic of conversation. "Did the fiddler end that properly? It seemed to stop so suddenly." "Yes, that's the melody. It's like some lives, isn't it. All of a sudden they're over long before you think they've reached a resolution. It's melancholy, but at least it doesn't remind me of lost happiness." We heard the start of another tune, and Morgan grimaced at the sound. "That one is called 'Lassie with the Golden Hair.' They played that everywhere last year. I loved it at first. It made me think of how lucky I was to find her again. After she was gone it just. . . . The street musicians found out they could get me to pay them to stop playing it. All they needed to learn was the first six notes. That was easy money on my street when I was at home." He gave a sad laugh. As the disease weakened him all of his passions were softening and fading. Once he would have cursed and paced about, enraged at greed and cruelty. I grieved the loss of something about him every day. It seemed mourning began long before death with this wasting illness. "Sally, I've got fifty pounds in a bag in the wardrobe. You have to take it, and the hundred pounds you've saved, and buy yourself a passage to the United States when I'm gone. That will leave enough to get you to Philadelphia from New York. I've already written to William Spinner of that city. He's the headmaster of a school supported by one of the Quaker congregations. He promised me he'd give you a position there when you arrive. I helped his brother when he was unjustly accused of embezzlement, and prevented him from being transported. Will is a good man. He can be trusted to do what's right. Please tell me you'll go. I worry for your safety here. It may not be completely safe anywhere, but I have too many old enemies in London." I had tried to be cheerful and confident for Morgan up until now. I couldn't keep up the pretense any longer. I came over and sat on his lap with my head on his shoulder, as I hadn't done since I was ten years old. "Morgan, please don't leave me," I wept, knowing it was hopeless. He didn't give me any words of false encouragement. He just let me cry in his arms. I thought I would die from the loneliness and emptiness. It was then that he asked me to put together the journals that recorded our sad journey through this year. No doubt he knew that a task, even one so painful as this, was the one thing that might bring me through the darkness ahead. "Do you believe in an afterlife, Sally?" he asked me after a little while. I couldn't answer, but I reluctantly shook my head no. "Neither do I," he sighed. "I wish I could. I had a strange discussion about that with a Hindoo once. He was the majordomo for a retired East India officer. I can't remember how we started talking about it. We were sharing a hackney from Fleet Street to Piccadilly. He believed our souls go on from one life to the next, being reborn as babies over and over. I told him that didn't seem very credible to me. He gave me a peculiar look." "'You're one of the oldest souls I've ever met,' he told me. 'I don't understand how you can have so much yet to learn.'" "I've thought about it every now and then. You know, it would be better if we were all re-born as men. It's too complicated and dangerous trying to combine love with lust. And women are so often mistreated," he said painfully. The concept strained my imagination. But I wasn't going to argue with anything that might give Morgan a scrap of comfort. After a pause, Morgan spoke again. "Sally, will you write the next entry in my journal for me? I was waiting to get a little stronger so I could do it myself, but perhaps I shouldn't wait. Delaying will only postpone publication." Morgan was kindly assigning other reasons for his request than the obvious one that he was dying. The entry he spoke of would be his last. From now on he would get weaker, never stronger. That night he dictated the contents of the entry preceding this one. His words didn't quite use up the remaining pages of the journal he had originally purchased for Amy. I allowed myself the superstitious hope that he wouldn't die until they were filled. As always, reality made a nonsense of such imaginings. That was the last occasion when my brother was fully aware of his surroundings. Late that night he lost more blood than usual after an episode of coughing. Afterwards he seemed to float somewhere in a febrile, shadowy twilight between life and death, the past and the present. On February 14th Morgan hadn't been able to lie down for the past two nights. Propped in a chair he found some relief from his breathing difficulties. The previous afternoon he had had a severe hemorrhage that left him very weak, but he was peaceful and content. He gazed steadily out the window into the dim gray evening, except for an occasional impatient glance at the door. Then he addressed me with an animation that had been missing from his voice for months. "Sally, what time will Amy get here?" My distress must have shown in my face. "It isn't inconvenient, is it? We'll be going out directly. We want to walk out tonight while the fine weather holds, and listen to the nightingales. She's going to stop by for me, but I don't remember if she said what time." "She'll probably be here any moment, Morgan. Shall I draw the curtain?" "No, I'd like to watch the moon come up. I can hear the fiddlers at the Castle from here," he replied, continuing to divide his glances between the window and the door. I stepped over to him and laid my hand on his forehead. The view out the window was the street in front of Lady Shelton's establishment. The sky was a leaden gray, and the only uncertainty in the weather was whether it would rain or snow. There were a few footmen in the streets, but nothing like the pleasant images Morgan described. However he was no more feverish than usual. Then his face brightened, as it used to do when Amy entered the room. He was looking over my shoulder at the door to the hallway. Suddenly he began struggling to rise from his chair, and I hurried forward to prevent him from this exertion. He looked up at me pleadingly. "Sally, I can't seem to get up. Please help me get up." I looked into his still beautiful hazel eyes and saw that, whatever his delusion, he knew me. The old fire and intensity were back in his expression. He was counting on my help and I had no heart to deny him. I took his hands, once so strong, now so weak and skeletal, into mine. With a long steady pull I brought him to his feet. A look of great happiness came over his face, and he held out both arms toward the door. "Oh, Amy I've missed you so." He inclined his head toward me saying, "Good night, Sally. Don't wait up. We may be very late. " "I've got "Lara" to read. Don't hurry on my account," I found myself answering senselessly. Then, with no warning, his dear face went blank and he fainted. I was able to guide his fall backwards into the chair. He never regained consciousness afterwards. His death occurred quietly within the half-hour, long before the doctor could reach us. I have always been a rationalist, as was Morgan. Nevertheless, I was positively afraid to turn around and look behind me during his last conscious moments. And if his vision lacked metaphysical validity, I am deeply thankful for the peace it brought him in his last hours. Chapter 34, Extraordinary Claims Shit. What if the trip to Xibalba felt wrong to him because it resonated with some buried memory of Amy/Scully making a fatal last trip to save a kidnap victim? Melissa maneuvered Maggie Scully into giving the story to Dana as a warning and they hadn't read it in time. OK, that was the worst possible case. The important point to establish instantly was why there was no connection between this story and their lives. Chamuan wasn't an international criminal. He was an eccentric who didn't want the media or law interfering in his business. Of course his business appeared to be the revival of an ancient, savage religion. But Scully didn't go alone, he reminded himself hopefully. It was also encouraging to think that there hadn't been a hint of guidance from beyond in the way this document had been passed around and ended up with him. Had there? There were so many reasons why this narrative had nothing to do with him and Scully that he couldn't count them. In the first place there was nothing to connect this book with them except the ravings of Melissa's pet channeler. Probably a lot of books fit the profile she gave to the people at Biblioquest. Or maybe she had prior knowledge of the book and planted it with a confederate on the East Coast. There was no proven link except Zenith's psychic testimony. He was rather proud of his reasoned skepticism in this instance. It was too bad Scully wasn't here to appreciate it. In the second place, he couldn't imagine his strong, disciplined partner falling into such a degraded lifestyle under any circumstances. Scully had too much self-respect and ingenuity to be manipulated into selling sex. In the third place, he didn't like Morgan. The man allowed the crudest, most stereotypical male jealousy to destroy his life. No matter what he said about advantage being taken, he acted as though Amy were at fault. How could he blame a terrified teenage girl for doing what she thought was necessary to survive? Morgan couldn't be him. Mulder suspected uneasily that these arguments contradicted each other. If Amy's fate wasn't her fault, then no amount of character would have protected her. And he knew it was oversimplifying to label Morgan as jealous and judgmental. It might even have been an excess of imagination and empathy that caused his difficulties. Mulder didn't try to reconcile these apparent inconsistencies because the most important point was that the feisty bluestocking Sally couldn't be Samantha. He wouldn't let it be true. Otherwise the pattern implied that he couldn't have both Samantha and Scully in his life. He refused to accept that limitation. Someday Samantha would be strong enough to contact him, and together they would mend some of the gaping holes in the fabric of their history. Scully would be right there beside him when his search for the truth was validated by success. It was simple. He rejected the connection to the "Memoirs." What was it that Scully went on about sometimes? "Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof." She liked to illustrate the maxim by asking Mulder to imagine getting a voice mail message to meet Skinner in his office and clear up some questions about his latest expense report. Then he was supposed to imagine a voice mail instructing him to rent a tux and show up at the White House for a dinner in his honor. Her point was that he wouldn't think twice about reporting to Skinner. On the other hand, what evidence would it take to convince him that the current Administration wanted to honor him for his pioneering work on the X-Files? Scully found this example much funnier than he did. Nevertheless, he accepted the principle. He believed in the reality of reincarnation, and he believed that he and Scully had met in previous lives. This memoir did not chronicle such an instance. It didn't meet his extraordinary proof test, and he was going to dispose of it before it traumatized Scully. Mulder went outside and walked up and down the beach for hours, enumerating for himself the reasons why he didn't need to be concerned over Scully's safety. At 6:30, when Bill and Scully were half an hour late, he cornered Eddie in the radio room and persuaded him to try to make radio contact with the Revenge. When this failed he urged him to try to make contact with someone on the island of Xibalba. To Eddie's own surprise, this attempt succeeded. The radio operator on Xibalba told him the Revenge had arrived on time, but developed electrical problems when they prepared to go. Chamuan's technicians were working on the wiring and the Scullys should be able to leave at daybreak. They would be bringing the American baby with them. The news would have kept Mulder in a state of moderate funk if it hadn't been for Eddie. "Hmmmm, that's strange," Eddie remarked with uncharacteristic inflection. This statement screamed 'red alert' at Mulder when he converted it to the emphasis of normal speech. "Is electrical trouble unusual?" he asked with false calm. "No, but that boat---I had her out a couple of months ago after her wiring was totally redone. It was moist and choppy and I never had a blink. He looked thoughtful while he poured a liberal amount of rum into his ever-present rum and coke. This elevated Mulder's anxiety levels back up to unfocused dread. And here he was stuck on this island, dependent on a chronically drunken pilot. "Eddie can you radio and get someone to take me out to Xibalba on a boat?" "What are you paying?" Now he was really scared. Eddie hadn't even objected that he was overreacting. "I don't care. What would get someone interested?" "Plenty of good enough boats and sailors for a thousand dollars. As a favor to me. They're afraid to go near Xibalba, but not that afraid." "Then that's what I'm offering. Plus as much more as it actually takes to get someone." Mulder barely contained himself for the next couple hours while Eddie tried to contact other islanders. There were dozens of boats available for hire, and fishing parties had chartered all of them. When he finally located a free vessel, he found that the boat couldn't get to Eddie's Cove until noon of the next day. It was now one o'clock in the morning. Eddie had anesthetized himself to the required state for bedtime, and Mulder gave up on sleep. He walked down to the dock and paced its length innumerable times. Chapter 35, The Return Bill was fighting sleep with everything he had as he tried to make out the entrance to Eddie's Cove. Even at 6 A.M. the sky was barely brighter than the sea. After all that had happened he couldn't let sleepiness be the enemy that finally defeated him. He was amazed that the primitive radar on this rackety cargo boat had served him well enough to bring them this far. His glance toward the back of the boat reassured him that Matthew still rested safely in a loving embrace. As he bumped the boat unceremoniously against the pier, he saw the sight he was dreading. A long lanky form unfolded itself from a sitting position against the maintenance shed. Mulder's anxiety was apparent in his posture alone. They were 12 hours overdue. He couldn't blame Mulder for being worried. But he needed a little more time before he could face what was coming. He was still in a mercifully numb state of shock and disbelief. Bill had an awful feeling that telling Mulder what had happened would bring it home to himself with a piercing intensity that he might not be able to bear. Oh, you were so right, Mulder. You were so right. What a comfort that will be for both of us in the years to come. Mulder was wary when he saw the squat, shabby boat approaching the pier. Then he was pleased. He recognized Bill at the wheel, and made out behind him a feminine shape that cradled a small bundle. As they got closer he thought his eyes were playing tricks. The woman appeared to have dark hair, and a far more statuesque shape than Scully. He hurried his steps toward the docking boat with renewed anxiety. "Is everything all right, Bill?" he called ahead. "What happened? Where's Scully?" He took the mooring rope Bill threw and tied it to a ring. Bill's gray, set features made him want to babble to fill in the ominous silence. The other person was an older Hispanic woman and Scully was nowhere to be seen. "Why did she stay behind? Are you sure it was safe to leave her?" "Let's go inside, Mulder," Bill temporized, while he helped the woman descend from the boat. "No, I don't want to go inside," Mulder responded with childish stubbornness. "Tell me where Scully is." "I think we should go inside first. I need to show Lina where things are for the baby." Mulder held him still by grasping his shoulders, not painfully, but firmly enough to remind him of a few stories he had heard about Mulder's temper. His face was close enough for Bill to see the growing fear in his eyes. "Where's Scully?" To prolong this was cruel. Since it was inevitable, Bill spoke as quickly as possible. He would deliver the blow with compassionate swiftness. "She's dead, Mulder. You were right. There was a trap set for us. We escaped, but she was killed while we were trying to make it to that boat." "No, I don't believe it." Mulder let go of him and stepped back. He was shaking his head and holding both hands out in front of him, as though literally holding back the unwelcome words. Bill knew that he did believe it. He said nothing, relying on Mulder's brain to overcome his reflexive denial. His next words justified Bill's confidence. "How did it happen?" "We had to take a neglected old path down a cliff to the beach. She'd been. . .injured while we were locked up. There was an angled, slippery spot on the path and she fell. It was about a seven story drop onto rocks that jutted up out of the water of an inlet. She was killed instantly." At least Bill hoped it was instant. He swallowed hard, trying to maintain his own composure. Watching Mulder made it especially difficult. A memory of one of his grade school art classes surfaced with the vividness of a nightmare. Sister Mary Paul had brought in a museum poster of a medieval painting that depicted the Last Judgment. Her lecture on the painting held more religious than aesthetic content. "These are the damned on the left. Do you see the looks on their faces? They look that way because now they realize the worst pain they'll have to endure in hell. They'll spend eternity deprived of the presence of God." The despair written on Mulder's face matched the expressions Bill remembered from the faces of those lost souls. Then Mulder turned away from him blindly, stumbling over ropes coiled on the pier. He continued walking away from the dock and the house, moving faster with each step, until he was on the sandy beach, where he broke into a run. He ran flat out for more than a mile along the water. When he couldn't go any farther he fell to his knees. It was as beautiful as the Garden of Eden must have been. White sand, edged by green palms. A sweet and tangy breeze blowing in from the sea. A few gulls circled overhead, their sharp cries contrasting with the soft rhythmic shushing of the tide as it receded down the beach. Smooth water reflected the opalescent pale rose, gold, gray and lavender of the sunrise. He should go get Scully and show her. Never again, some violently repressed part of his brain informed him. No more chances to share. I know, he answered that desperate voice. If I had another chance I'd tell her what she meant to me. You hypocritical bastard, the voice replied angrily. How many times has life's uncertainty been demonstrated for you? You had chance after chance. What did you need, a two by four upside the head? Remember how you resolved to change last fall? You changed all right, for the worse. Instead of just being obsessive, you added self-pity and bitterness to your list of sterling attributes. You thought you couldn't get any more pathetic after your sacred belief in aliens was made a mockery. The burning up of the X-files seemed like the last straw. Well now you've got a really good reason to feel sorry for yourself. Dry sobs shook him and he doubled over, bracing his hands on the damp strand. Eventually he subsided into limp exhaustion. The sand around him had become hot from the sun, which was now high in the sky. Staring at the sea he asked himself why he shouldn't swim out from shore until he couldn't swim any farther. Accidental drownings took place every year. People would be philosophical about losing him. He was overwrought when they burned his files, they'd say, and lost track of how far he'd swum. Who knows, maybe he was more upset by his partner's death than anyone expected. It was hard to tell what was going on inside old Spooky. He certainly never had a clue himself. No, he wasn't going to be so self-centered as to do that before he'd even understood what happened. Scully gave up her life for a reason-to save Matthew. The least he could do was hear the full story and make sure Bill and Matthew got back to California safely. It had never been so hard, but he forced himself to analyze the facts. In his head he replayed the painful scene with Bill, trying to filter out his reactions and focus on the information communicated. The process exposed the huge gaps and unknown factors in the story. He concentrated on Bill's account of the accident. Now he realized how broad that description had been. It was common for people to lose track of things when a sudden disaster occurred. Later they confabulated a logical set of events to fill in the blanks. What did Bill actually remember, as opposed to what he thought would or should have happened? Mulder trudged back up the beach. He struggled mightily to regulate his thinking and stay in control of his emotions. His success was checkered. At one point he saw a crab scuttle off into a tangle of rubbery, olive-green seaweed. It reminded him of the teeming waters surrounding these islands and sent his mind skittering along dark paths. His pretty Scully. . .by now her face would be gone. The tropical aquatic food chain operated with wonderful efficiency. The image dragged a shuddering breath from the depths of his being, but he refused to give in and fall to the ground again. He found Bill sitting hunched over the short wave radio in Eddie's room. His eyes were red and wet, but he found some ease in holding Matthew's plump and active little person to his chest. Eddie sat across the table looking glassy-eyed, drinking a rum coke so strong its amber color was barely tinged by cola. "I got through to Eglin. They're contacting the Pentagon," Bill told Mulder. Mulder didn't seem to hear him, or to wonder why he wanted the Pentagon to know that a kidnapping had been solved. He didn't look so much like a lost soul now. He had the pallor and carefully measured movements of a mortally wounded man who is determined to stay on his feet for a little while longer. His voice was steady as he spoke. "You've got to tell me everything that happened. I shouldn't have run away. I need to know everything." He gripped Bill's arm and pulled him to his feet. "Eddie can stay here and take care of the radio. Come out here." He led Bill to a chair in the main front room. Mulder deliberately moved another chair so that it faced away from Bill's. When he sat he looked out the screen door toward the horizon. He didn't want to influence the story with his reactions. "Start with when you first got there," Mulder ordered. Bill took no offense at his tone. He was just beginning to understand the bond that had existed between his sister and this man. He wondered for a moment why his and Mulder's attitudes seemed familiar. Then he made the connection. This was like going to confession. Did Mulder know how badly he needed to tell the story, to express his guilt and contrition, and to find forgiveness? The man was a psychologist. No, he concluded, remembering Mulder's ravaged face. This wasn't for his benefit. Mulder had some other purpose for putting them both through this terrible exercise. "We had no problems on the trip out. Whatever you might think of Eddie, he keeps the Revenge in beautiful condition. The engine purrs like a big cat, and the instrumentation. . .well, those things don't matter. I was nervous about getting Matt back, but I was optimistic. It seemed so amazing that we--you--had located him. Why wouldn't things keep going our way? "Two men in khaki met us at the dock those men had directed us to. They patted us down and ran metal detectors over us and our things. Then they drove us to Chamuan's home in a limousine. Can you picture the waste of it, on an island about two square miles? The roads, few as they are, are in excellent shape. He must spend millions on that place. "That temple he's building, we drove by it. It looks fake somehow, not like the pictures I've seen of jungle temples. I think it would fit right in at Epcot, with a ride going through it. "His home is an old Spanish mansion, with an enclosed courtyard. He was there to welcome us to lunch. He looks like a lizard. . .no a toad! His face is wide and flat, with bulging heavy-lidded eyes and no lips or chin. I disliked him right away. His attitude reminded me of those officers who stop learning when they get promoted. They think anything they don't understand is trivial by definition. "Everything around us looked like an antique, including the lunch plates and silverware. I don't remember what we had to eat. Afterwards Chamuan got down to business. He told one of the men he seems to use as bodyguards to go get Chandler." Here Bill's voice became charged with hatred. "Chandler came into the room. I didn't remember seeing him before, but I'll never forget him now. He's one of those pink-faced, smooth-talking types who looks like he'd misuse some petty political office. "Chamuan looked from Dana and me to Chandler. God, he was enjoying this! He was pulling everybody's strings. He spoke to Chandler like a cat would to a mouse, if it could. "'Rick, William Scully and his sister Dana Scully have a complaint to make against you. He says you have his son here, that you kidnapped him from their home in San Diego. He claims the baby you call Ricky is Matthew Scully.' "'That's just ridiculous. Nobody wanted Ricky. He was living in Haiti with his whore of a mother. She left him alone for hours in a one room hovel while she went out looking for a fix. I told her I was taking him. She couldn't have cared less.' "'I've got pictures, footprints, his birth certificate and a passport with him on it,' I said, and I laid them down on the table in front of Chamuan. "'A passport, at his age?' Chamuan asked. "'It's a family passport, him and his mother. Since I'm in the service I expect to travel with them.' "My biggest problem was keeping my eyes off Chandler. If he smiled at me again I knew I'd kill him. "'I never noticed Ricky much. Babies all look alike to me,' Chamuan was saying while he squinted at the pictures. "'I'll pay to have DNA testing done,' I told him. "'All these modern, new-fangled tests---foot-prints, DNA---King Solomon didn't need them,' he said. "He gave me this superior smile. That stupid rich jerk thought of himself as some kind of judge or ruler. His own island was just the place for him. "At the time I was worrying more about Matt than Chamuan's ego. He could see he shook me up by talking about killing a baby. He said something that made me think he was changing the subject. "'I think women have special abilities to see the truth about things like this,' he said, giving Dana a smug look. "Any other time I would have had to laugh. If he only knew what she was thinking when he said that. But she's good---I mean she was good---at focusing on what's important. She gave him a smile that just broadcast 'Please tell me more of your valuable opinions.' She must have been a good partner, Mulder." Mulder protested silently at the last words. Don't memorialize her yet. While you're telling me this part of the story she's still alive for me. I'm waiting to hear what clever ways she found to help you and how she's going to pull off a happy ending after all. "Then Chamuan told me what his real plan was. "'I'm going to have my men take you out to see Ricky and Angelina. She's been taking care of him. Rick has a place of his own where they've been living.' "Of course I was overjoyed. We got into a jeep this time, and it was only five minutes away. Miguel and Ben---that was the name of the other bodyguard---lounged in the jeep while we knocked on the door. The woman who answered the door had Mattie in her arms! He recognized me! He reached out his little hands and the woman looked from our faces to Mattie's and back again. I took him from her and she didn't try to stop me. "Dana did the talking. I couldn't. She explained who we were and why we were there. The woman's name was Angelina. She looked more and more horrified as Dana told the story. Then I asked Angelina about something that had been worrying me. "'Ma'am, did you notice a birthmark on Mattie, on his right leg? It's under his diaper, it's up so high.' "She started nodding. "'Has that been kind of dry and scaly? We took him to the doctor she said it was just eczema. But it could get very irritated because of being under wet diapers. She prescribed some cortisone cream to prevent that.' "'Yes, yes,' Lina said. "She took my hand and pulled me into the house. "'Come in, please. Did you bring some of this cream?' she asked, giving me a sideways look. "'Sure,' I said. I started rooting through the diaper bag. "She said, 'Let's go back into the bedroom and check Ricky, except I guess it should be Mattie. That's where I keep the diapers.' "Just then I found the tube of cream and we all went back to the bedroom. I didn't want to let Mattie out of my sight. I think Dana was a little concerned that I might do something impulsive. I noticed Lina checking the name on the prescription label. She was no fool. After that her face kept going from frowns to smiles. "Mattie was laughing and healthy, and acted happy to be with Lina. She'd taken good care of him. You can't know how it is to get your lost child back. It was like I was raised from the dead myself. After telling myself for days he was probably buried in some lonely grave, here I was, with my cheek against his smooth, warm little head. It was overwhelming. And to hear him laugh again!" Bill closed his eyes and brushed his lips across the top of his son's head. Matt reached up and tugged at his father's nose with a pleased smile. "When we went outside Miguel told Lina she had to come back and talk to Chamuan. "'I'll be happy to tell him the truth about that pig Rick. How dare he lie to me like that? This was a crime against nature and a terrible cruelty,' she told them. "She let me carry Mattie during the car ride and during our showdown with Chamuan and Chandler. They brought us all to his library. The whole thing should have scared me more than it did. I was so glad to be holding Matt, and so high on nervous energy, I thought I could conquer the world. I forgot to be as humble as I should in front of the little fuerhrer of the Caribbean. I thought I was in control again. "'Well, Chamuan, Angelina agrees that this is Matthew Scully, my son and not Rick's.' "He looked at me as though I was breaking one of Robert's Rules of Order, and spoke to Lina himself. "'Is this true?' "'Yes, Mr. Chamuan. I have no doubt at all that his is Mr. Scully's son. Let me tell you how I. . . .'" "'Never mind, I know you can't really explain. It's woman's intuition.' "Lina gave him a look I couldn't figure out, but she said nothing more. Then he stared at me. I could tell he didn't like it that I was right. "'Explain to me then why Rick has committed this crime, and deceived me, and risked my sovereignty here.' "'He blames me for a decision I made as a naval officer. His pregnant girlfriend was under my command. She was waiting for a medical discharge when she was killed in an accident that happened during a routine maintenance job. Her doctor didn't know of any reason why I should take her off duty. Rick blames every person in the Navy who was in authority. He's already killed the wife of the man who led the work detail.' "Chandler finally defended himself. "'Jefe, you know me. Am I the kind of man who would get an obsession about a woman? They come, they go, life continues. That worthless whore Sherry must have lied to me about who Ricky was. If he's not mine, I don't want him. They can have him. But have you considered this? Maybe Sherry is in a plot with them to get them onto this island. A naval officer and an FBI agent. Maybe the kidnapping was a pretense to justify their presence here. Hasn't it occurred to you that they're here to spy on you?' "He lied as plausibly as any politician. I could see Chamuan nodding complacently, eating up the story he wanted to hear. "Then Dana spoke up. "'Senor Chamuan, I brought documented proof that my brother's accusation against Richard Chandler is substantive. Mr. Chandler betrayed you and committed serious crimes. He should be extradited to the United States to stand trial.'" "She opened her file case and took out copies of the results of the official investigation into Sylvia's death, copies of her medical records, copies of transcripts of interviews with her family members. She had copies of newspaper articles about the death of George Evans' wife. The records didn't prove Chandler's guilt, but there was too much coincidence even for that egoistic creep. "'You probably have sources you can call to confirm the validity of some of these documents,' she told him. "All those confidential military records! I couldn't believe my by-the-book little sister would blow off security like that. It seemed like something you would do! You changed her a lot, Mulder." "It wasn't me. It was what she saw and heard for herself about the people in power and the deception all around us." "To tell the truth, I didn't really care about the security right then. I finally had the satisfaction of seeing Chandler look worried. "Chamuan went through the papers systematically. When he looked up he had a face like a stone statue. "'Rick, you put your own revenge first and endangered everything I've ever worked for.' "He looked at Dana then. "'Don't worry, Miss Scully. I'll take care of his punishment.' "'But we should let the law. . .' she began. "He wasn't listening. He'd stepped into the hall and called in a couple more men. "'Lock him up downstairs,'" he told them, pointing at Rick. "Chandler still didn't look as worried as I thought he should when they took him away. Chamuan turned back to us. "'Now let's discuss some compensation for my trouble with this matter.'" Chapter 36, Believing the Lie "All we were arguing about at that point was money. How much money we would pay him for Matthew. He dressed it up with references to 'defraying his expenses' but it was just a matter of reaching a price. I was ready to pay anything. Still I had to go through the motions. Then something started beeping in Matthew's diaper bag. Miguel snatched it off my shoulder, and Ben pointed his automatic rifle at us. "'Shall I open it, Jefe?' Miguel asked Chamuan. "'No, make him open it,' and he nodded at me. "I was afraid to because I didn't know of anything I put in that bag that would beep. But of course I opened it. Under the diapers and clothes there was a video camera. It was running. A flashing light warned that the battery was low and it was beeping a warning. Miguel took it and held it up. He was grinning. "'Rick told you Jefe, they're here to spy on you. They're trying to divide us and get information on our big plans.' "'Shut up. Let me see that,' Chamuan said. "He played some of the tape backwards and then forwards on the viewfinder. I could see he was getting more and more furious as he watched it. "'So, Rick was right all along,' he finally said. 'Now I need to find out just how much the people who sent you know.' "'We're not interested in your temple. All we care about is Matthew,' I told him. "'I didn't say they were pictures of the temple,' he answered me, as though nothing else needed to be said. "Then Dana spoke up. "'Sir, someone planted that camera in our bag. We didn't bring it in. Your men searched us and everything we carried when we arrived.' "'Really. When did this someone plant it?' "'It must have been while we were visiting Matt and Angelina.' I said. ' I put the bag down and took out the tube of skin cream for Matt's leg. We went into the bedroom to check his diaper. The bag was left in the living room. Nobody was in there for a while.' "'That's right, Senor Chamuan.' "Scully remembered too. Ben, the other bodyguard, objected. "'We were outside the door, Jefe, Miguel and I. No one else went in.' "It was true enough that they had waited outside for us. Whether the rest was true was questionable. "'Try the metal detector on the bag while the camera is in it,' Chamuan told Miguel. "Miguel went to the next room and came back with one of those hand-held wands. He put the camera back into the bag and ran the wand over it. It didn't set off the alarm. I don't know if there wasn't enough metal in the camera, or if he'd buggered up the settings. "I couldn't help getting angry. "'Do you think we're idiots, using equipment with audible signals and leaving it running?' "He wasn't hearing me. He was in his own paranoid world." "'Sir, someone planted that camera. These men are lying.' Dana was still trying, but it was starting to look bad. "'So everyone is lying but the Americans, eh?' Chamuan answered her. 'Take them downstairs and lock them up. In separate cells. Release Rick. He can help you guard them. Lina, take Ricky back to your house. He'll be staying here.' "'No, Senor Chamuan. That's not right. Mr. Scully is the father of this baby. Not Rick. I'm sure of it. I knew all along this baby was never neglected' "'Their story was a lie. These people were spying. They fabricated evidence against Rick. I won't let anything endanger my plans.' "Lina had blood in her eye, but she left with Mattie. I had no idea what to do. Just when everything seemed to be under control again, I had no idea. It was like a nightmare where you're in a familiar place and suddenly you don't recognize it. Miguel and Ben, they motioned us ahead of them. We went down two flights of stairs to an underground room. It must have been two hundred years old. The cells were probably that old too. They unlocked the one Chandler was in and welcomed him out with slaps on the back. They stepped back and let Chandler lock me in one. "He gave me a poisonous smile and said 'You've offered me more chances for satisfaction than I ever dreamed of, Sir,' and he saluted me. "Then the three of them looked at Dana with these big shit- eating grins. "I couldn't shout enough insults at them, but of course that's what they wanted. "'Why don't you pick on me instead of my family. You cowards. Am I too big for you to push around?' "'Don't you understand yet?' Chandler laughed. 'I know it hurts more when it happens to someone you love. Besides, she's prettier than you.' "They took her into another cell. Miguel pulled out a set of handcuffs and tried to put them on her. She yelled and struggled and made it really difficult for them to hold her. I know how scared she must have been, but she wouldn't give in and let them see. She fought so hard they finally just put a gun to her head. They cuffed both wrists to the bars and forced her down on the ground." "Stop, Bill, just for a second please." Mulder tried to keep his voice quite neutral. If he didn't take a moment to distance himself from these past events, his behavior would warp the rest of the account. He couldn't have Bill madly censoring his story on the fly to keep Mulder from bursting into tears or destroying the room. The happy ending he still wanted to believe in had receded out of his sight. She's at peace now, he repeated to himself, whatever happened. It didn't really help. Bill went on anyway. Now that he had felt the relief of talking, it seemed he had to continue. "They were unzipping their pants and pulling at her clothes. Christ, I thought they were going to rape her right there in front of me." "What difference would the 'where' make to her?" Mulder asked very quietly. "What? I didn't hear you" "Never mind. Keep going." Perversely, Bill's narrative now dried up. A few minutes of silence followed, broken only by chuckles from Matt when Bill tickled his chin. "She was injured, right?" Mulder prompted gently. "This next part-it's really hard to talk about, OK. I'll try but. . .you might have to ask questions or fill in some blanks on your own." Something harder to talk about than death or sexual assault? Mulder just wanted Bill to stop. Please, everything stop, and turn out to be a dream. Instead he managed to frame a question to help him get going again. "So, did they rape her?" "Something worse, because it ended up killing her. I don't know if it was Dana's yelling or if he planned to come down anyway, but Chamuan showed up. He looked disgusted. "'Stop that you dirty-minded pigs, you'll have the Americans thinking you don't have fine women of your own to keep you happy. Get your minds on business for once. We've got to find out what they know about what they taped. We may have to move it or use it early. Information is what we need now.' "So he turned to me and asked 'What do you know about the place you took videos of?' "All I said was 'Let my sister get up, you cowardly bastards.' "I wasn't focusing on his questions yet, really. They didn't seem important compared to what happened to Dana. "'Ah yes, your sister the FBI agent. Maybe she knows more about this than you. Or maybe her presence will help you remember.' "That was when I knew I'd never really feel in control again. "He went into her cell with the others. "'Miss Scully, what were you told to take pictures of?' She tried to get up, but he said 'No, you can't get up just yet.' "She must have been kind of disoriented after that struggle. And she was lying flat on her back while he stood over her. But she still understood him quicker than I did. "'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said. 'We only came to get Matthew. If you deal in drugs or guns it's nothing to us, and we don't have orders from anyone to do anything about it. We're here unofficially as individuals. Nothing's happened yet that can't be forgotten. We don't need to involve any outsiders.' "I wasn't so sure I agreed that we could forget everything, but nobody asked me. "'Tell me what your government knows about me.' "'I don't know,' she kept repeating. 'I don't have any information from my government about you.' "He took. . .he took. . .something out of his pocket." Bill faltered and stopped again. "Stop and breathe deeply for a minute. She isn't feeling anything now." "That's not what I believe," Bill asserted with almost his old aggressiveness. "I believe she's with Dad in heaven." "Yes. Well. Don't remember it visually. Tell me like you were reading a report someone else wrote." And I'll try to listen to it as though it were about someone I never knew, Mulder thought. "It looked like a needle-nosed pliers." Bill's mouth twisted so that Mulder could barely make out the words. Then he rushed on, speaking faster and faster. "Chamuan told Ben to take off her shoe and sock and hold her left foot tight. Chamuan put his boot on her chest and handed the pliers to Chandler. "'Tear out her toenails,' he told him. "They didn't stop for one second to ask the question again or anything. I didn't. . .I couldn't believe this was happening. He just ripped off the nail on her little toe. And then Chandler looked over at me to see how I reacted. Dana was. . .it looked like she was having a seizure. Her muscles all jerked. She would have lifted her back clear off the floor if Chamuan hadn't been holding her down with his foot. Afterwards I saw blood running from her mouth. She must have bitten her tongue to keep quiet. "The helplessness---it was paralyzing. "'We don't know anything,' I yelled. 'Do you want us to lie to you?' "If I lied and said we were spying, they might kill us. I didn't know what to do. "The second one was much worse. It didn't come out easily. They had to keep re-positioning the pliers, so it ended up taking a long time. Dana was twisting and fighting. She couldn't help trying to get away, even though she knew she couldn't. "'Hold her other leg still,' Chamuan told Miguel. "'Tell me what you want me to say, you fuckers. I'll say it.' "I asked myself, what did they want to hear? I didn't know anything. "They held her still enough that the middle one went faster, but I guess she'd reached her limit. She started to scream and scream, begging them to stop. I tried again. "'We're working for the Enquirer. They'll pay us fifty thousand dollars for a video of your temple.' "That's all I could think of, getting them to stop. I started yelling again, but it didn't even slow them down. "'It was drugs. They told us you get cocaine shipments from Columbia and send it on to the United States in small boats. We were supposed to get evidence.' "I couldn't think of anything more to say. I couldn't think. All the time I was yelling they were going ahead with the fourth one. Her eyes kind of rolled up in her head. Here Bill pulled himself up short. He couldn't see much more of his listener than his rounded back. Mulder's fists, the knuckles white, were pressed against each side of his head in front of his ears. He was using all of his strength to prevent himself from simply shutting out the words. Bill decided to spare them both the relation of Dana's last screams. Maybe he would have to dream of those desperate cries to Mulder for help, but he didn't have to burden the poor guy himself with them. "Finally they stopped. There was blood. . .blood all over. "Chamuan looked over at me and saw I was crying. He laughed and started lecturing his men. "'People will tell you you can't get the truth through torture. They don't understand that a heartfelt lie can be just as useful. Come on, we're leaving now.' "The men looked disappointed, but they obeyed. "'Please, take the handcuffs off first.' I was begging. I didn't care anymore. "He signaled to Miguel and he unlocked the cuffs. Then they all left, without another word. Dana rolled over and turned away from me. I knew she was ashamed of screaming. I wanted to tell her how ridiculous that was, and how brave she was. Instead I asked 'Are you all right?' What a stupid question, huh? But I had to say something. I had to hear her voice. Did you two tell each other what you really felt, instead of asking stupid questions like that?" "No, Bill. We asked a lot of stupid questions," Mulder replied dully. "And we left a lot of things unsaid that should have been said." Mulder felt as though his heart were expanding and contracting instead of beating in the usual manner. The movement hurt so much he really would have preferred that it stop altogether "So, that's how I failed to take care of my little sister. I'm sure you would have done a better job," Bill said miserably. Considering the outcome, if Mulder were a spiteful man he might have said he could hardly do worse. However he knew very well that he could have been as helpless a witness to that atrocity as Bill. Maybe he would have been more vigilant at preventing the planting of incriminating evidence. Still, if a group of men were prepared to lie for each other, he might have been victimized as thoroughly as Bill. "I don't know that I would have done any better." he told Bill. "Would you have made something up sooner?" "Maybe, but it wouldn't have done any good. They had to inflict the pain to believe the lie." "Wait 'til you've heard the rest of it. Then we'll see what you think of me," Bill went on dejectedly. "Mulder, how will I be able to live with this?" "I don't know how you do it, but you will," Mulder said wearily. Chapter 37, More Choices "After I asked her how she was, Dana answered me almost right away. "'I'll be all right. Just give me a minute.' "Her hands were shaking so hard she could hardly hold anything. It took her a long time to put her clothes back in order. Then she pulled her sock back on. God it was wet with blood in seconds. Then she actually got her shoe on over it. It must have hurt like hell. That's what I said to her. "'I've got to put the shoe on now or my foot will swell too much to get it on,' she told me. "'What good will it do for you to have your shoe on?' I asked. "'I don't know yet. We've got to be ready to take advantage of any opportunity.' "She started hobbling around, rattling bars and doors, pulling at loose-looking stones in the wall. Probably it was to distract us both." "Not necessarily, Bill. Scully was trained as a field agent, and she's been in some horrifying situations. But she never gives up. Gave up." Mulder was asking himself why he'd given up so easily when the three of them were making plans for the meeting with Chamuan. His instincts had warned him that something was wrong. Was he so petty that he let his hurt feelings override his judgment? Surely he'd just been realistic when he accepted Scully's decision as final. What if he'd approached her later when they could be alone and laid out his arguments? Or begged on his knees that she not go with Bill that day because he had an omen? He'd never know. What ate at him most was fear that he hadn't tried these ploys not because he knew they'd be useless, but because he wanted to protect himself against another rejection. "Finally she sat down on the floor. She wasn't talking. I started worrying that she was in shock. "Then she said 'We've got to try and figure out what's going to happen so we can be ready.' "I just about exploded. "'How can we figure out what a nutcase like Chamuan is going to do next? He's obviously insane.' "I knew I shouldn't be yelling at Dana, but I was so frustrated. She just looked at me patiently until I quit carrying on. "'He may be insane, but he has a strong sense of purpose. If we knew what that purpose was we might be able to use it, or at least anticipate his moves. He's got something that will threaten his sovereignty if it's discovered. That must mean that it will get other governments mad at him. Possibilities could be illegal drug trade, illegal arms trade, serious environmental insult, killing endangered species, a terrorist training camp. But it's something that can be moved OR used. But apparently not both. That implies it's a one-time use. It must be a non-conventional weapon.' "How had she been able to absorb those throw away comments and analyze them under those conditions?" Bill asked. Mulder thought about reminding Bill that they were trained to react that way to stress in unfamiliar situations. That was why he had wanted to go with Scully himself in the first place. No useful purpose would be served by making his point now. "She wasn't done yet," Bill continued. "'Chamuan must know that we know enough to figure it out now. But he knows we didn't have prior knowledge. Therefore if he kills us he's safe, providing our deaths don't lead to scrutiny. So I guess we'll have an accident. Probably a fire or explosion in Eddie's boat. For all anyone on the outside knows, we've already had it.' "She stopped suddenly and looked upset. "'Mulder will figure it out, but it will be too late.'" That should be my epitaph, Mulder thought. 'He Figured It Out Too Late' sums my life up pretty neatly. Maybe more than one life. "'I admire your reasoning, Dana,' I told her, 'but does it lead to a constructive plan of any kind?' "That was a great comment coming from me, wasn't it? As though I just couldn't choose which of my brilliant strategies to share. "'No, I'm sorry Bill. If they decide to keep up pretenses with us they may put us on the sabotaged boat without disabling or killing us first. Then we'd have the chance to get off it before the accident, swim back to Mancha de Mosca and hide. Not a very good plan, is it? I haven't given up yet, though.' "She looked at me for the first time since those men. . .since they hurt her. She didn't want my pity, or even sympathy. Her control was back in place. She was only thinking of fighting. It was me that helped make her so tough you know." Mulder was prepared to concede that point. He was just the person who benefited from and reinforced that characteristic. Bill had gone into a brown study. Mulder permitted silence rather than goading Bill on to inflict more misery on both of them with his narrative. A brief pause would make no difference now. After a few minutes Bill continued the story without prompting. Mulder didn't know if he ever would have found the strength of will to urge him on. "We talked about boats and rafts for a while, imagining ways of getting off the island. That was a safe subject for us. I even got brave enough to remind her of the classic escape scene in the some of the cowboy shows we used to watch. The good guys would be locked in jail and one of them would pretend to be sick or dead. When the jailer came in to check they'd knock him out and steal his keys. "'Somehow I can't picture these guys rushing in carelessly to administer the Heimlich maneuver to one of us,' she said. "It made her smile. I didn't mention the other classic ploy where the pretty girl lures the bad guy within range of the good guy's fists. "We had calmed down a lot when we heard the sound of a door opening upstairs and someone's steps. It probably seems strange to you but I hadn't thought seriously about what I'd do when they came back. I'd pushed the idea to the back of my mind. It felt like I'd been hit in the stomach---you know, I couldn't breathe. Maybe Dana could handle another episode of horror, but I couldn't. I never saw anyone as brave as her in my whole life, Mulder. She tried to make me feel better. But who had more reason to be afraid? "'Don't worry, Bill. I'll tell them that you were just trying to spare me. We don't really believe they deal in drugs, or anything else. It's all just a misunderstanding. If they'll just let us leave with Matt we won't make any trouble.' "The man who walked in was someone we'd never seen before. He didn't have on the military style fatigues that the other men all wore. I'm sure he could tell we were worried as hell. "'Don't be afraid. I'm here as your friend. I'm Lina's brother, Rene. We have a plan to help you but our chance will be gone in half an hour. I will try to explain quickly. I make grocery deliveries to Mancha de Mosca twice a week. I have the truck I use to bring the delivery from the boat to the houses. I can put you in the back of the truck and take you to my boat.' "'What about Chandler, and the other guards?' Dana asked. "'My sister is with them right now. She brought them a jug of her spiced rum punch. It is very powerful. They may not go to sleep, but they won't hear us. A little while ago she got the keys and sneaked them out to me. The plan is for her to get Mattie and meet you at the boat. You can pilot a boat, I am right, Senor Scully?' "'What about you?' "'I'm staying behind to cover up your departure for a little while. When they discover what has happened I will say Lina and you stole my boat. Maybe they'll believe it. First, I ask something in return for my help. My price is that you take my sister with you when you leave, and help her become an American citizen.' "I was ready to agree to making her the Queen of England when Dana stepped in. "'I'd do my best to help her Rene, but I don't work for the Immigration Department. I can't promise I'd be successful.' "'My sister told me that Mr. Scully is a good father who told her the truth. She believes you also. If you promise you will do your best, I will take your word.' "We promised, and I can tell you it was sincere. Then he opened the doors. Dana tried to walk normally, but she just couldn't do it. I took her arm and helped her to hobble along. He noticed her limp and I could see he was suddenly worried. Her shoe was wet with blood. He gave me a look. . .at the time I thought he was wondering why I let that happen to Dana when I was OK. Now I think he felt sorry for me. "Out loud he said, 'Miss Scully, there is no road to the harbor where my boat is. I had to tie it up in a place no one usually goes. That's what makes it safe for you to go there. You will have to walk.' "'I'll be able to walk far enough to make it to the boat. After all, the whole island isn't more than a couple square miles,' Dana said. "'It's about a mile, but part of the way is along a cliff. It has to be walked one by one.' "'Tell me where to go and I'll get there if I have to crawl.' "What would we have done if she'd said she couldn't do it? We made awfully slow progress through the halls to the kitchen. Thank God the truck was right outside of it. We lay down in it and he covered us with empty sacks from his delivery. Fifteen of minutes of driving and he stopped. It was late but there was still some light when we got out. We were at the top of a cliff that dropped down into an inlet. He pointed out the start of a path that followed the cliff side and led down to the beach. "'I'm sorry that you have to walk,' he told Dana. 'We didn't think there was time for them to start questioning you. You will have to go as fast as you can. Lina will be afraid to wait for very long. I told her to go back to the house and pretend to know nothing about your escape if you haven't reached the boat in two hours.' "Rene hesitated and then explained what Chamuan was up to. "There is more I have to tell you. You need to know so you can tell your government. I've been a great fool and I'm sure I will pay the price. Chamuan has a very bad reputation among the people here, but no one can testify to exactly what he has done. He builds his old buildings, but along the way people disappear, have accidents, it is not easy to be sure. Still he offered me very good money to make deliveries here. Last month his assistant, Rick Chandler, asked me if I knew someone who could care for a baby for him on Mancha de Mosca.' "'I thought of my sister. We were born in Haiti. She married a man there. I left that cursed place and have lived on my boat for many years. Four years ago her husband disappeared into a Haitian prison, and I've worried about her ever since. I told Chandler I would ask her. I persuaded her to go with him. I wanted to keep her safe from the government and the enemies of the government. She wasn't sure she trusted him. When you came and claimed Matt, Lina knew that Chandler had lied to her.' "'It was then that she told me something that had happened a few days before. Chandler came to her house one evening and tried to seduce her. He bragged about what he does for Chamuan. He says his Jefe has a nuclear bomb that Chandler built for him. Chandler said that they'll take the bomb to New York City and blow it up during some holiday celebration, maybe the parade at Thanksgiving or the New Year's Eve party on Time Square.' "This fit so well with Dana's conclusions that we had no trouble believing it. Rene tried to explain why Chamuan would do this, but it didn't make any more sense than anything else. "'Chandler says Chamuan hates Americans for what they did to the natives and for always meddling in Central and South American politics. Before this Lina was afraid to tell me that Chandler tried to seduce her in case I would try to fight him. Besides that, she thought he might be lying to impress her. After she found that he was a murderer and kidnapper she thought he might also build bombs. I think he was telling the truth for once. So, at least I can do something to make up for my mistakes. I'm sorry I couldn't help you sooner.' "He drove away then and we started down the path. You could walk side by side easily at the start, but it got narrower as we went down. I walked on the outside so Dana could use me for support. Sometimes she could lean against the cliff on the other side to take some weight off her left foot. There wasn't much room for walking on the outside, and I had a couple of pretty bad moments when I thought I was going to slide over. Dana got slower and slower. Finally she stopped and made a suggestion. "'You should go ahead, Bill. I'm taking too long. You're going to need time to learn the boat. And we don't want Lina to get scared and give up on us. The pace we're setting is too slow for you and too fast for me. If I go slower I can get by safely without extra support. Don't worry, I'll just be a little behind you.' "That was what she said to me. She was standing up straight, but I could tell she was putting almost no weight on her left foot. You know how she has to look up to most people? She still had a way of making you feel she was at your eye level. She lifted her chin and gave me this challenging look. "'Mulder would do it', she said. She even smiled a little, like she was assuming I couldn't do it, and she was making allowances for me. She shook her head as though she'd resigned herself to the fact that I'd never be as tough or effective as you. "I didn't want to leave her behind. But I was so worried about Matt at the same time. How do you make that kind of decision?" With agony that's like being flayed alive, Mulder answered silently. He thought of the time he had to decide whether to risk using Samantha as bait, in a trap set to rescue Scully. What if Samantha had been a helpless baby instead of a young woman determined to take her own risks? Bill went on without waiting for Mulder's reply. "God help me, it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. Sitting here now, I don't believe you would have gone on without her. She lied to get me to save Matt and myself. She made it so easy to make the decision I thought I should make for Matt's sake. "'OK,' I said, 'but you'd better not be later than half an hour. Otherwise I'll come back and get you.' "Those were my last words to her. What would you have done, really?" Bill asked in a choked voice. "I guess I would have thought this way," Mulder answered slowly. "The people on the island had taken good care of Matthew. If you had to leave without him, there would still be a chance to trace him. On the other hand, they'd already proved they would hurt Scully. You thought they planned to kill you both. They'd have killed her if they'd caught her. Eventually. Plus she was in immediate danger from the environment itself due to her injury. So I would have stayed with her." Bill's expression hardened into a mix of disgust and anger. "Who would have thought you and Dana would both turn out to be such liars? You loved her. Even I can see that now. You'd have let a hundred kidnap victims go to the devil to keep her alive. Why pretend you're being rational?" Mulder was startled into a prolonged silence by this diatribe. He felt a mild urge to knock Bill's block off for insulting Scully. This was accompanied by a dim awareness that such an action would only lend support to Bill's assertion. These fleeting thoughts were overshadowed by his sickening fear that Scully didn't believe she was telling a lie. Perhaps he had succeeded all too well in distancing her in recent months. In the last hours of her life, and their partnership, maybe she believed he would have abandoned her, injured, on a treacherous cliff in a place where she would be raped, tortured and murdered if she were captured. Could she have thought she meant so little to him? Of course Scully always had tended to rely on the evidence. Was there enough in recent months to convict him of caring? Bill went on in a voice heavy with anger and grief. "I'll be frank with you. I was a little bit put off by what she said. It made me wonder what she was thinking about her. . .those things that happened back there, when she called out to you for help. Was she wishing she was with you instead of me because she thought you could have protected her? It made it easier to walk away. Now I think that's how she planned it. Anyway, before I had gone very far the path got a lot worse and I had to concentrate on negotiating it." Here Mulder had trouble with his own concentration on the story. Bill hadn't mentioned earlier that Scully called for him by name during her ordeal. What other awful details was Bill trying to keep to himself out of pity or shame? Mulder couldn't bring himself to ask. "It was where there had been a lava flow down the side of the cliff. No path had been cut. Islanders had worn just a trace of a trail over the years. In the direction we were going the drop off was on the right There was an inclination of, oh, maybe thirty degrees. I wouldn't have dreamed of hiking it without climbing gear under ordinary circumstances. The best way to handle it was to crawl and use your fingers as well as your feet. I had to slow way down, and the path had a lot of curves. I hadn't come all that far in distance from where Dana was when I heard noises from behind me. Something sliding, gravel showering down, rocks bouncing, and then a sudden short cry. It stopped instantly. "I started back. I was already afraid the worst had happened. I called her name, but not loudly, because someone might be looking for us. I kept going for fifteen minutes, but no Dana. I had passed the point where we separated, but I was hoping against hope. Finally I turned back and started looking down over the side. "About twenty feet on past where the volcanic rock started I saw something red in the water at the edge of the rocks that jutted up from the inlet. It was starting to get dim, but I recognized Dana's jacket. There was some kind of movement. After I watched for a minute for two I realized it was the waves bumping her body up against the rocks." Mulder could work out what had happened. Scully got down on her hands and knees but was unable to stand the pain of dragging her left foot across the rough surface. So she lifted her lower leg from the knee, compromising her stability, and tilting her body toward the drop off. Her right hand or knee slipped and she was lost. All that was needed to prevent the fall was someone big and strong between her and the edge. How often had she saved him with her quick thinking or marksmanship? And then he wasn't there for that one split second when size and power would have counted. "I don't remember the next few hours very well. There was nothing I could do. My mind switched to automatic, the way it's supposed to do when you're in combat, I guess. I've never been in a real battle, only threatened or simulated. I went down and found the boat. Lina was waiting---she'd almost given up. Thank heaven that boat at least had crude instrumentation, or we'd never have made it. As it was I figured our odds at about 40 to 60 against. "I couldn't let myself think about Dana. But since I got back I've been wondering. Do you think she was able to stop herself from screaming as she fell so she wouldn't give away my location? Could someone do that?" As he asked, Bill's face screwed up, as though he were six years old and trying not to cry. The thought of that hushed fall appalled them into momentary silence. Mulder tried to comfort them both with a more acceptable explanation. "Maybe she was knocked unconscious as she went over." They hoped so. Then Mulder came up with another alternative. "Bill, I know it's painful but think back to what you saw at the bottom of the cliff. Did you see her body, or did you see the jacket and assume she was wearing it?" He had to admire Bill's unflinching attempt to bring back the scene as he closed his eyes and concentrated. "I couldn't see anything for sure but the jacket. But from the way it moved in the water I'm sure she was in it." "Is there any chance that the jacket went to the bottom and Scully didn't fall that far?" An expression of panic and uncertainty briefly clouded Bill's face before he angrily reasserted his belief. "She was at the bottom. I'll never forget seeing her. The sun was below the horizon, but her jacket was bright red. Besides, don't you think I checked the cliff side? There were no ledges that could have stopped her fall." The confusion and reluctant reassessment he had seen in Bill's face at first horrified Mulder. Perhaps Scully died alone when she might have been saved. Then he moved one step farther along the continuum of possibilities. Had she been left for dead and was she living still, waiting for rescue? It was a straw of hope so slender, so frail; it wouldn't bear the weight of a heavy sigh. But Mulder, in his vast need, spun it into into a ray of gold that lit his path a little farther into the future. He knew what he had to do. He had to go back to the island and look for Scully. She might be waiting for him there. If not, perhaps fate would send him on to meet her somewhere else. He told Bill what had to be done. "I've got to back to the island and look for her. Eddie radioed to hire a boat for me last night when you were hours overdue. I'm going to use it. Do you want to come with me?" Bill was confounded. He didn't believe there was any evidence that Dana survived that fall, and plenty of evidence that she didn't. As bad as he felt, he didn't delude himself that what had happened hadn't really happened. "Look, I shouldn't have called you a liar when I asked you about what you would have done in my place. I'm sorry. I know you're just. . . .emotionally challenged," he finished, relieved to have found a neutral term for Mulder's problem. "You're not able to figure out when you're being reasonable and when you're rationalizing your emotional reactions. I know you don't want Dana to be dead, but she is. After the DOD handles that nuclear device I'll arrange for a military escort for us. We can go back and search for as long as it takes to find her body and bring it back so we can scatter her ashes with Dad's." Bill wept silent tears as he forced himself to speak these brutal truths. It was Mulder who was composed and dry-eyed now. "So you won't go back with me," he stated. "I want Matt home, especially if there's going to be an international incident. And for all I know they've put Tara in jail already for killing Matt or helping me leave the state. Tara doesn't deserve to be in jail." He looked at Mulder, now feeling the need for his reassurance that he was doing the right thing. He didn't get it. "I need some evidence, Bill. I can't be satisfied that it's true until I have some hard evidence." Now that he had a purpose Mulder could hardly bear the inevitable delays. Every minute until he got there could be another moment when Scully might die for lack of his help. He told himself not to get his hopes up. Probably nothing would ever be found of Scully. They would never know exactly when or how she died. She certainly wouldn't be alive a day after taking a fall off a cliff. But a persistent voice within kept whispering 'maybe' in his willing ear. The boat Eddie had hired was "El Humo" and the captain and only sailor was Paul "Papa" Schoener. He sailed in leisurely at noon time exactly. Mulder had had very little time to prepare any gear or to make any plans. He didn't know if this mattered much, since he had no idea what kind of situation he was going into. He chose to take two canteens, binoculars and a flashlight. With no conscious thought at all he strapped on his gun and put extra ammunition in his pocket. He asked Bill to instruct Papa in finding Mancha de Mosca and the harbor they left from. His farewell to Bill at the dock was strained. Each of them was working hard to stay in control of his emotions. "So long. Are you sure Eddie is OK to pilot his plane today? He's already been drinking." "That's just Eddie's maintenance dose. Don't worry about us, Mulder. If worst comes to worst, I'm a licensed pilot." Bill gave Mulder a tortured look and continued speaking. "Good-bye. I don't know what to say. I'm so grateful to you. You got my boy back for me. You probably saved us from a horrible trial, if not prison. Now I'm leaving you alone, like I did Dana, and look what happened to her. I don't want you to get killed, Mulder. I know what you live with now. I understand how hard it can be to protect the people we care about. How do you stand it, day after day?" "She was the reason I could stand it." There was a long silence. "Sweet Jesus. I'm sorry, Mulder." "I know you are. Take good care of Matt here. Tell Tara she's already a good mother. Now she'll have a chance to enjoy it." Bill watched as Mulder stood up a little straighter. A hint of jauntiness animated his features and a touch of his customary bravado entered his voice. "Don't lose hope yet. I don't even give up when I'M declared dead. I'm certainly not going to give up just because she might be dead." "Is that how you see it? She 'might' be dead? You'll be devastated all over again when you find out it's true." Mulder shrugged and held out his hand. They shook and Bill left the dock trying to sort out the sorrow, pity, guilt and happiness that all vied for primacy within him. Mulder climbed up the short ladder onto the deck of Papa's boat. "Why do they call you 'Papa?'" he asked the bearded man who was tinkering with the engine. "I'm not sure. There are two possibilities. One is that I remind them of Hemingway. The other is . . .You know 'papa' is Spanish for potato. I'm well known for being baked a lot of the time," he continued easily as he backed the boat away from the dock. "I'm well known for being sick on boats a lot of the time," Mulder said, taking a convenient seat beside the railing. "We shouldn't interfere with each other." The next six hours for Mulder were a synthesis of mental and physical misery that made it impossible to think. He sat in a nauseated daze, rousing himself to retch over the side at intervals. It was fortunate that Bill had drawn Papa a good map and gone over it with him carefully. Until the boat was tied up Mulder found it hard to give his attention to anything except suffering. Papa showed a practiced ease at cutting the engine some distance from shore and using the wind power from dark-colored sails to bring the boat into the inlet Bill had described. Mulder wondered how Papa earned his cigarettes and daily bread, but he didn't have the energy to really care. Chapter 38, Hard Evidence Papa found a secluded nook at the west end of the inlet where he could tie up the boat in the shadow of the cliffs. The sun was low, but there were several hours of light left. He assured Mulder he would be fine waiting there while Mulder did whatever he had to do. He wasn't very curious about what that was. "I won't stay to be caught if anyone enters the inlet. There are some nasty stories about the things that happen to people who can't satisfy Chamuan about why they're on his island. They've never proven anything, but I believe there's something behind them," he warned Mulder. "If someone comes, I'll run. If I can, I'll come back to the same place the next evening." Mulder took his gear and started east along the strip of wet, black sand at the bottom of the precipice. At high tide the sand would be submerged to the point where the almost vertical ascent began. He would be cut off from the boat and trapped on the cliff side when that time came. The beach was studded with large rocks that jutted upwards like huge obsidian teeth. The formation extended out into the water beyond. One ancient volcanic cataclysm had spouted the lava that built up the island and thrust these buried slabs skyward. He scanned the sand and water continually for any sign of another person. That was how he described the search to himself. He avoided visualizing what he was most likely to find---a bloated body without features, or appendages, that he might be able to identify from clothing or jewelry. Would she be wearing her gold cross? What would he do if he found Scully's body? His mind seemed to stop when he considered this question, as though his thoughts ran up against a brick wall. It took him two hours to reach the bottom of the lava flow, where he covered the area diligently. He found no traces of Scully. Then he stood at the bottom and looked straight up the rock wall. It loomed black and forbidding above him. When he imagined falling down the face of it he knew final defeat. Bill had been right. No one could have survived it. He continued to go through the motions mechanically, but he no longer believed she could be alive. He found himself examining the rock wall itself and noting the numerous crevices at the bottom. Somehow he needed to get up to the path where Bill and Scully had parted. If he found the place where she fell he might be able to calculate the trajectory of the fall and the place where her remains were. He couldn't scale the cliff from here without climbing equipment, but it would take at least a day to work out a path from the interior of the island that would bring him to the right place. And that didn't even take the matter of secrecy into account. He considered the problem automatically as he explored. One crevice a few feet up in the wall penetrated deep into the volcanic rock itself. He followed it, switching on his flashlight as daylight faded behind him. To his surprise he found rough steps cut into the rock. They wound upwards into a sort of tube that disappeared into blackness. His flashlight beam didn't reach far enough to show its end. He felt the sides of the tube and wondered at the smooth surface and symmetrical shape. It must have been caused by an air bubble within the molten mass. Someone, probably smugglers, had taken advantage of its natural shape to create a staircase. There was nothing to lose by following it as high as it would take him. About twenty feet up the darkness around him was total. He emerged into a cavern that opened on one side of the tunnel. His flashlight lit a small wedge-shaped portion of the cave, while the rest remained in darkness. He illuminated each part successively. The largest part was always hidden in inky shadows. When he was satisfied that there were no other passages he returned to the rough staircase. He repeated this sequence of actions several times, in a series of caverns, each one at a higher level than the last. There was an uncanny sense of things unseen just outside the cone of light he walked in. When he shifted the light they seemed to move back, always just beyond its reach. The monotony of the activity, and the lack of stimulus had a hypnotic effect. The howling emptiness inside him was temporarily stilled, as it hadn't been since Bill's news had destroyed his world. His sense of something nearby at the edge of the material world brought the Harold Spuller case to mind again. He considered something he hadn't thought of yet. Scully and others had seen ghosts in connection with that case. He had always believed that there was something beyond the physical existence defined by conventional wisdom. Might he see Scully's ghost? Would she want to come to him? The spectres associated with Harold Spuller had appeared as gory, murdered corpses. Did he want to see her ghost if it took the shape of her mangled body? "Yes! Yes! Scully, I want to see you again. I don't care if it terrifies me into insanity." Mulder realized that he had spoken aloud. He was surprised to find that it was comforting to address Scully. It made him feel close to her again. Of course it was an illusion, wasn't it? He knowingly participated in the self-deception by continuing to muse out loud, as though his partner were beside him again, climbing the stairs. "People may see ghosts all the time without realizing it you know. Do you remember Chester Buonaparte? We had no idea he wasn't just another kid. In your sister's book about Morgan-oops. You didn't get a chance to read it. Well, maybe you remember the story now. You must know if it's true or not. He saw Amy's ghost and she was beautiful. Like you were. Those documents Melissa collected, they never explain how reincarnation works. Will you be ahead of me now and we won't even meet the next time? How can I go a whole lifetime without you? How can I even get through this one?" he ended ruefully. It was incredibly soothing to speak to her this way. Perhaps in the future he should be more tolerant of people who prayed. "I asked you for the wrong promise back in San Diego, didn't I? Instead of obsessing about sex I should have asked you to promise not to die on this case. You could always be relied on to keep a promise." When he emerged into the next cavern he thought he heard a sound besides his own voice-a terribly faint, high keening. He couldn't fix the location. Then it seemed to fade. "Was that you Scully? Don't stop. I want to contact you. It probably wasn't you though, You were never much of a crier. Come to think of it, I don't know that. I only know you didn't do it when I was around." As he climbed further he remembered the scene at Los Perdidos when Scully suggested they dance. "I wish I'd taken you up on that dance at Los Perdidos. It would be something good to remember sharing. I don't have very many memories of good times we shared. Guess whose fault that was. Dancing wouldn't have turned out like my fantasy. Just a few moments of fun, doing something for you. . . .What was I worried about? Like something would have happened in a public place with your brother watching. Do ghosts dance, Scully? Maybe it's not too late." Of course he knew it was far too late. "You'd probably like to dance me straight to hell," he finished, his voice breaking on the words. It wouldn't be surprising if Scully were a vengeful ghost, seeking retribution for all the times he had failed her. This final disaster was only the last in a series of bad decisions and misjudgments. Part of her must have hated him by the time she told Bill that he would desert her when her life was on the line. "I don't blame you if you want to get back at me, Scully. You can push me over the side, or down this staircase. Just talk to me first." Mulder came up into a cavern where, to his disappointment, the steps ended. His flashlight glinted on something shiny. Was it Scully's hair? He focused his light on it instantly, without stopping to think that perhaps a ghost didn't require exterior lighting. It was a piece of metal, one of a pile of dusty objects against the wall of the cave. Oddly shaped bundles were stacked up all around the sides of the chamber. He was craning his neck to get an idea of its size when he almost stepped into a hole in the floor that was much bigger than he was. He directed his light down into it, and concluded it was another bubble tunnel, without a stair. It went on far past the end of his beam. "You almost got your revenge that time, Scully," he remarked. "Mulder?" "Scully?" he answered hopefully. "Let me see you. I'm not afraid." "Where are you?" The familiar voice seemed to come from above him. He turned his flashlight upwards and lit a smaller hole in the ceiling directly over the large hole in the floor. "What do you mean, where am I? I'm right here with you," he answered, feeling puzzled. "Now I see your light. I'm moving toward it." He heard a sliding, shuffling sound as though a body were being dragged across the floor above him. Bracing himself for some awful, unimaginable sight he shone his light up into the opening in the ceiling. Chapter 39, Being Strong The pale but intact face of Scully was turned down toward him. It looked as it always had, except her eyes were shut tight. Because of the light? Ghosts wouldn't need to shield their eyes from the light. The truth had already surged through him like a bolt of electricity. He swayed on his feet as his mind rearranged all of his perceptions to create new facts. "Is there a way out up there Scully?" "No. The opening in the ceiling is ten feet off the ground. Not even you could reach it, and there's nothing to stand on," she informed him. "Then come down here. There's a way out going down." "All right," she answered, moving as if to hoist herself over the side. "Wait, wait!" he interjected hastily. "You can't drop straight down. There's another hole right under this one, and it looks like it might go straight down to the center of the earth. It's about five feet across, wider than this one. Are you able to lower yourself down from this one? I'll grab your legs and set you clear of the one on my level." Scully thought she could manage that. Just barely. "Where would it be best for me to come down?" she asked. Mulder walked around the edge of the yawning cavern, testing the footing around the edges. "Here," he said. "That's where I can get closest to you. Can you move around so that your legs will come down right here?" "Give me a minute." Scully replied. She clumsily pushed herself around the circular opening to the place he indicated. She was going to put off standing as long as she could. "I won't be able to hold on for long," she warned, rolling over onto her belly and sliding her legs over the side. The increase in the throbbing misery in her foot almost made her cry out. Once she slid far enough to put her center of gravity over the opening she would be depending completely on Mulder. The lip of the hole was smooth and slippery. There was nothing to give her a purchase and allow her to swing clear on her own. For a moment she supported herself on her arms extended on the floor in front of her. "Here I come," she called out, sounding scareder than she wanted to. Then she let her weight pull her down until she clung to the edge, for seconds only, by her fingers. Before her fingers slid off she felt Mulder's hands on her thighs, pulling her toward his body as he stepped backwards. His arms went around her hips; then slid up to her waist as he moved back another step. She started to put her hands on his shoulders and draw her left foot up to minimize the shocking pain of being placed on the ground. Instead she felt him shift her weight to his chest and right arm while he brought his left arm up beneath her knees. This left her with no logical alternative but putting her arms around his neck to help secure their stability. Instead of setting her down, he sat down himself on a rock outcropping and rested his cheek on the top of her head. His breathing sounded harsh and labored to her ears. The only movement was his slight rocking motion, such as a mother might make to lull a troubled infant. After waiting a minute in silence, Scully ventured a question. "Was lifting me down more of a strain than you thought it would be? Did you hurt yourself?" Mulder started to say something. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. On the third try he succeeded in speaking. "Getting you down? That was easy." He waited again for a few moments before he continued in jerky phrases. "Scully, don't you understand? Bill thought you were dead. He told me you were dead." No, she didn't understand. That was what she thought before Mulder's appearance as a one-man rescue mission. After that she jumped to the conclusion that Bill had known her situation all along and sent Mulder back to get her. "If you thought I was dead, why are you here?" she asked wonderingly. Mulder gave a laugh that Scully thought sounded close to out of control. "Maybe your influence had more effect than you thought. I had to see the scientific evidence to believe it." He gave another laugh that sounded even wilder than the first. "I was looking for your dead body. I didn't know what I was going to do when I found it." "It's OK," she soothed. She lifted her right hand from his shoulder and stroked his hair as she used to do when he was achingly in need of comfort. It was one of the few gestures permitted by their unspoken limitations on contact. Recently she had felt constrained by his brusque manner to avoid even this innocent touch. Of course now he was clasping her in his arms. Were the rules going to change again? Her accustomed expression of affection seemed to help him. She could feel some of the tension leave his muscles, but he made no move to release her. It was easy to rest in his arms; she was so tired. She roused herself to ask about Bill and Matt. "You talked to Bill. Did the plan to get away from the island work?" she asked. "Bill thought you were killed falling from this cliff. He succeeded in getting Matt and Lina back to Mancha de Mosca in her brother's boat. Eddie was flying them to Jamaica after I started for Xibalba. They were going back to California on a commercial airline." "So poor Bill thinks I'm dead. Mulder we've got to let Mom know I'm not dead before Bill gets home! God, what if he decides to call from the airport and break the news." "I don't think he's that anxious to start telling the story. But we've got to get off this island. Chamuan is still in control here; we've got to worry about ourselves first. Bill notified the Pentagon through Eglin about the plans Chamuan has for New York. Special forces or a squad of international peacekeepers should show up here sometime soon. Of course who knows how they'll decide to play this at the DOD? I'd like to be out of here before the fireworks start." Scully turned her head so that Mulder couldn't see her face. "Did Bill tell you about what happened to us?" Scully asked in a low voice. "Yes, he did. I'm so sorry Scully." "I made the decision on how we conducted this trip. I didn't listen to you. I'm glad I was the one who ended up paying the price for being wrong." When Mulder remembered the way he and Bill had backed Scully into a corner to get that decision, he could have cried. "I wasn't sure. If I'd had any idea of what the real risks were, I would've stopped you from going. We didn't know enough. I should have stopped you anyway." "How would you have done that if you couldn't persuade me?" Scully challenged him with an attempt at humor. "I don't think I'm tough enough to shoot you. I guess I'd have to restrain you." He unthinkingly tightened his hold on Scully. She paused briefly and forced herself to ask another question. "Did Bill tell you everything?" "I hope so. I hope there isn't any horror I don't know about yet," he answered bleakly. "Then you know what the problem is with my foot." She was unspeakably glad to be spared telling him the tale herself. "Yes, I know. That's why I didn't set you on the floor." He thought about why he hadn't stood her on the floor and then asked himself why he hadn't seated her on the floor of the cave since then. He thought it was because he couldn't give up the reassurance afforded by the feel of her vital, breathing body under his hands. Sooner or later he would have to give up this contact. Later would be soon enough. Now that he considered the matter, why had his decidedly proactive partner subsided quietly into his arms like a child too tired to fight bedtime? He feared it had something to do with her injury. Lifting his head, he tried to get a good look at her face. There was a spot of red on each cheek, and they felt suspiciously warm to the back of his hand when he touched them. "How do you feel?" he asked. "I'll be fine. But I'm so thirsty." Of course she was. She hadn't had anything to drink for more than 24 hours. There was no reason to suspect a sinister cause. After a long drink from his canteen she seemed to recover some energy. "How do we get away from this place?" she inquired. "There's a boat waiting for us at the west end of the inlet, piloted by one 'Papa' Schoener. We won't be able to get to it until dawn, though, when the tide will be low again. That's about six hours from now." "How do we get down to the beach?" "That's the interesting part. Somebody cut stairs into these tunnels. There's an exit at the bottom of the cliff. These caves must have been used for smuggling. Look at all the stuff around the walls." Mulder demonstrated, shining the flashlight around the walls. "Those smugglers must have been in business a long time ago. It looks like we'd be more likely to find blunderbusses than Uzis in those bundles. Did you notice if the dust was disturbed before you came up?" "Nothing was disturbed but me and the ghosts, Scully." "Let's get going then," she said, preparing to get up. "Hold on a minute. Let's take stock here. I haven't seen you standing yet." "You haven't let me," she retorted. Mulder looked at her feet for the first time. It was no accident that he hadn't looked before. But he saw nothing worse than that the walking shoe on her left foot was brown with dried blood. "It's a couple hundred steps Scully," he said doubtfully. "Then the sooner we start the better." "We've got six hours." "I don't want to worry you, but I don't know if I'll be able to walk in six hours." She allowed him to hold on to her hand at the beginning of the trip down. By the end of it he was supporting half of her weight with his arm around her waist. She collapsed where the caves opened onto the beach behind the volcanic rock. Her skin was clammy with the sweat of pain, and she was in an agony of thirst again. Mulder assessed her condition and made a decision. "I don't think you can walk to the boat. I'll carry you." "No way," she gasped. "You couldn't carry me that far." "Bet I could," he said with confidence. "No. Haven't you spent enough time in hospitals? You'll end up having to get a ruptured disk replaced or have a hernia repair." "I think my manhood has been challenged," he protested. "I know you're kidding me," she said weakly. "I really think you should go on ahead to the boat and have Mr. Schoener bring it into the inlet close to this cave." "Didn't you already have this conversation with Bill?" he said heavily. "What?" she asked, taken off guard by his defeated tone of voice. "Bill told me you got him to leave you on this cliff and go on without you by saying that I would have done that. Did you say that?" "You've got to remember, Mulder, I expected to make it to the boat. I didn't think Bill would have any reason to question his decision or repeat what I said to anyone. I know I shouldn't have said something about you that made you sound so ruthless. . . ." Mulder interrupted her. "I don't care what you had to make him believe. I need to know. . . .What I need to know is if you believed it." Scully replied without hesitation. "No, I never believed you'd leave me under those conditions. But I knew I could convince Bill. In my defense, I was desperate. Bill isn't as strong and quick as you. I was afraid I'd take him over the side with me if he tried to help me along that path and I lost my balance. Matt needed his Daddy to pilot that boat back to Mancha de Mosca." The burden on Mulder's heart was lightened by these words. All of his fumbling attempts to limit their intimacy, to distance them from each other, hadn't succeeded in breaking Scully's trust in him. "I was afraid with the way I've been acting these past months-- -maybe you felt I deserted you even before you ended up on that cliff," Mulder admitted. "I know these months have been difficult. You had to question everything. And then they burned the files. But you never let me down when it counted. You came to San Diego for me, didn't you?" For the time being they dropped the subject of how they would get to the boat in the morning. "We might as well try to rest for a while. I wish I'd brought more things to make you comfortable," Mulder remarked regretfully. "You have no idea how much more comfortable it is just to have a light and a companion." Scully gave a shiver that Mulder interpreted as a reaction to the cooler night air. It was natural to sit next to her and put his arm behind her shoulders. He wasn't prepared for the rush of emotions that engulfed him at this gesture. When he had lifted her down from the overhead chamber previously he was in shock. Helping her down the stairs had a utilitarian purpose. Now there were no distractions. Lust was the least troublesome of his reactions. It was there, but muted beneath competing surges of joy and dread. He remembered now why he had been determined to put space between himself and his partner. And yet that attempt had turned out disastrously. He was convinced now that if he had allowed their relationship to deepen naturally, they would have been close enough to make a better joint decision on contacting Chamuan. How ungraciously he had received her efforts to keep him warm after he had been wounded in Florida last fall. It had been a struggle ever since. Maybe it was time to quit struggling mindlessly and try to figure out what he felt and what he should do about it. Scully felt the arm behind her lose its rigidity. Mulder drew her close and offered his shoulder as a support. She lay against him thankfully and appeared to drift off into sleep. He found that if he didn't focus on it anxiously, the emotional storm within diminished after a while He looked at Scully's face again, hoping that water and rest had done away with the signs of fever he had noted earlier. It was hard to tell. His gaze fell to her lap and he realized that while awake she had kept her sleeves pulled well down over the tops of her hands. In sleep the sleeves had slipped back up and exposed a circlet of raw, bloodied skin around each small wrist. The sight brought Bill's halting words back to him in scarifying detail. He knew that when he got home Frohike would receive an early partial bequest from his estate. From now on a porn video featuring bondage would never stimulate anything in him but his gag reflex. Now he felt the reaction that his concern for Scully had postponed---a consuming, murderous rage at the men who inflicted this damage. What was he supposed to do with all of that anger? Seeing them locked up in a federal prison wouldn't begin to appease his wrath. His anger freed him to face the truth about what was in his unconscious mind all along, from the time he conceived the idea of a return trip to Xibalba. If he hadn't found Scully alive he would have found a way to get to Chamuan and Chandler. At least he would have tried. Why else had he brought his gun with him? Not much had changed in two hundred years. That was the whole problem, wasn't it? If he didn't get up and move around he would explode. Scully looked so comfortable with her head pillowed on his shoulder that he hated to move her, but he couldn't stay still. He rolled his jacket up and propped it beneath her head before he slipped away. He had to take the flashlight with him to find the way out. At the mouth of the cavern the air was soft and humid, with very little wind. Each of the few visible stars hung in a dim watery globe of light in the black saturated sky. There was no moon. He looked out over an expanse of dark sea that started almost at his feet. It deepened quickly as the beach sloped down from the side of the cliff. The black rocks could be distinguished only because they absorbed instead of reflecting the tiny bit of available light. Except for the soft rush of the water, not a sound could be heard. In another four hours it would get light, and in another six or so they would be able to start for Papa's boat. Mulder occupied himself with designing a plan for revenge based on his contacts in the prison system. There were a surprising number of people incarcerated in it who would happily do him a favor. When the rest of the world sneered at their stories as attempts to plead insanity, he listened with an open mind, and sometimes he believed. Usually he couldn't do anything more to help them, but they were grateful for the existence of one person who could confirm their reality. There had to be somebody who could arrange trouble for Chamuan and Chandler, even behind prison walls. Deep within himself he knew he hadn't reached that level of corruption yet, but he needed to find an outlet for some of his fury, even if it was only in imaginary activity. He had allowed his bloodthirsty thoughts and the lapping sounds of the gentle waves to calm him for some time when he became aware of another sound coming from behind him. It sounded like the same distant wail of grief he barely sensed during his earlier exploration of the tunnels. Perhaps there was a real ghost after all. Returning to investigate, he flicked the flashlight on as he entered the cavern. The sudden light revealed Scully on her hands and knees, groping her way across the floor. It was her hopeless cries he had heard. When the beam from the flashlight hit her she stopped and squinted at it with a terrified expression. "Scully, what's the matter?" She shrank back from him with a bewildered look. He realized that from her viewpoint he was invisible behind the blinding light, and he pointed the flashlight up at the ceiling. "It's me. Are you OK? Did something hurt you?" Her expression remained uncertain, as though she weren't sure whether to believe what she saw. He knelt in front of her and put his hands on each side of her face. Her skin was too warm, he knew it. "It's Mulder. I just walked away for a little while, and now I'm back." She reached out and touched his face too. Mulder was relieved to see rationality returning. "Did you have a bad dream?" Scully was aware enough now to be embarrassed at her behavior. "Actually the opposite. I woke up. It was dark and I was alone. I feel stupid, but I was mixed up about what was going on." "I'm sorry I left you alone. You were worried something had happened to me, weren't you?" Mulder suggested guiltily. "No." "Scully could you be getting delirious?" he asked worriedly. "I think you're feverish." "I'm just flushed because I got upset." She hesitated and then explained reluctantly. "I thought I was still trapped in that cave up above. I was afraid it was a dream that you found me and that we went down the stairs. It shocked me that I was going to die alone in the dark after all. I should have been able to figure it out. This place isn't exactly the same. It's bigger. I wasn't thinking clearly. Of course I suppose I could be dreaming you now, couldn't I?" Scully proposed, not entirely as a joke. "What can I do to prove my reality?" Her face was still cradled in his hands. He had a sudden impulse to kiss her greedily and then dare her to deny his solid presence. Unfortunately that would convince her she was delusional for certain. Sitting beside her again he drew her back over to rest against him. "Insensitive questions will be asked at a time of personal crisis---that's proof that Mulder's on the job. What happened when you fell? Tell me so I can be sure you aren't a ghost sent here to tease me into believing you survived when you really didn't." Scully had to laugh. "I got along OK for a little way after Bill left me. Then I came to a place where the path got almost invisible and there was only rock. It sloped toward the drop off. I took my jacket off and draped it over my shoulders because it restricted my arms. I got down on my hands and knees, but I had to hold my foot up. It hurt too much to use. The other problem was the gravel sliding underneath me on the rock. Then my right hand and knee slipped at the same time and I lost my balance. "I rolled and tried to grab something, but there was nothing to grab. I think I started to scream and then remembered I couldn't alert anyone that we were here. I landed on some branches or vines but they gave way under me. Then something hit my foot and I think I must have fainted. When I woke up it was pitch dark. I hoped it was night, because if it wasn't it would never be any lighter. I felt around to figure out where I was. There was nothing but stone around me, maybe nine feet by nine feet. There was a hole in the floor I couldn't reach the bottom of with my hand. It was like being walled up in a tomb. "I thought it was about fifteen hours later that I saw some hazy greenish light filtering in from a sort of rectangular opening in the roof. It must have been where I fell in, but it was too high to reach. Then I was able to see the hole going down through the floor. But all day the sun never shone in directly enough or strongly enough to light up what was below. It was always black. I tried throwing some rocks in, but I never heard them hit anything. I knew there was a good chance that it wasn't a way out. That there was no way out. I let it get dark again without doing what I knew I was going to have to do--- go down that hole and find out for sure. Bill had to believe I was dead. There was no chance of rescue. I was in despair, sure that I would die horribly no matter what I did. I imagined I heard strangers' voices talking. I called to them for help. I didn't care anymore about Chamuan finding me. By then I thought it might be better to die in a prison cell, or at least take a chance on escaping from one. But the voices weren't real. When I first heard your voice I thought I was hallucinating. When I woke up in the dark here, just now. . . .I overreacted." "I'm real, Scully. I won't leave you alone in the dark again." He drifted into a sort of doze himself eventually, while he wondered if it was possible to overreact to being buried alive. The subtlest of gray light creeping into the cave woke him. He had a hard time waking Scully. Her lethargic response prompted him to check her skin temperature again. This time he was sure she had a fever. What scared him the most was her failure to object when he proposed taking off her shoe to check the condition of her foot. Rather than protesting, she agreed wearily. She turned her eyes away from her feet while he struggled with laces stiffened with blood. As he removed the shoe and sock she closed her eyes and simply concentrated on not screaming. She didn't have to disgrace herself twice. Chapter 40, Wider Concerns "Let's find out the bad news," he said cheerfully, before he had forced himself to take a good look. Then he looked. Scully's toes were swollen grotesquely into shapes that didn't recall toes. Where four of her nails had been there were patches that looked like raw meat. There was blackened dried blood crusted at the edges, but fresh red rivulets had been started by the removal of her sock. Three of the toes were purple. Numerous ill-omened red streaks started from them and extended into her foot. All this time Mulder had been hoping Bill's agitation over Scully's suffering had led him to overestimate the extent of her injuries. This was not the case. Nevertheless, Mulder had seen much worse things at crime scenes. He was famous for his imperturbability and occasional quips. Of course no one saw him wake up shaking from the replays in his nightmares. The old tricks weren't working here. (This isn't real, this is a simulation-a very good simulation. If can keep your face from changing expression you'll catch the perp in 48 hours. It's a puzzle created by the devil-keep your head and solve it or you'll lose your soul.) Where Scully was concerned, Mulder had lost the ability to detach. He couldn't stop himself from imagining the screams and the terror. He remembered what it felt like to have one finger twisted and broken. What would it have been like to have four of them snapped, methodically, one after the other? But letting her see his fear and anguish at her condition would only scare her. He had to maintain an air of self-assurance and hopefulness to keep her spirits up. The excruciating pangs Scully felt on the exposure of her foot were almost more than she could bear. In addition, she recognized the seriousness of her condition immediately. If she were honest with herself, at some level she had known all along. Part of her toes, even her foot, might be lost without prompt treatment. If she survived. She was distressed at the sight of her injuries, but Mulder appeared to be keeping his cool. He regarded her mutilated foot intently, his face turned away from hers. He was probably estimating how much farther she might be able to get on it. She ventured her own small joke to show that she too kept her cool in extremity. "What do you think? Will I get half price on pedicures from now on?" The joke was lost on Mulder. She was shaken by the face he turned toward her at her words. He sat with one hand pressed over his mouth, trying to hide trembling lips, while he held his eyes wide to keep from spilling the tears that stood in them. When he could speak he only said softly, "Oh, Scully, I shouldn't have let you walk down those stairs." It was not the sight of her wounds that finally overcame Scully's control. It was watching her normally poker-faced partner trying to rein in his own reaction to them. To her dismay she felt some inward barrier crumble. Her attempt to find calm, reassuring words for both of them was shipwrecked in a flood of undammed emotions. Deep wracking sobs forced themselves past her resisting throat. There was no stopping them. Mulder's arms went around her again, and within their shelter she wept out her pain, her fear, her shame, her sorrow for herself and her pity for Mulder. When the sobs started to wane, he kissed her on the cheek, as he used to do when she was sick in the hospital. This is what it's like when Scully isn't "fine," Mulder thought. For years he had been frozen into an isolation so brittle that he feared a breach like this would break him. The incursion had happened, and he had survived. This was Scully. He could trust her to take the comfort he offered and ask no more than he was prepared to give. He knew he could give a great deal more than he used to believe. It felt good to hold her and be the strong one for a while. And why had no one ever told him how much strength one drew from simply playing that role? Scully was compelled to recognize that the world had not ended because she briefly lost her iron grip on her emotions. It was not even as embarrassing as she had imagined. She thought they could manage to slip back into their usual nonchalance when they returned to their regular routines. In the meantime it was all right to accept her momentary weakness in the security that it would never be used against her. They sat in silence for while, neither knowing exactly what to say. "I'll need to receive wide-spectrum intravenous antibiotics fairly soon," Scully finally commented quietly. "What is fairly soon in hours, Scully?" "Twenty-four hours." He didn't ask what the prognosis was if the treatment wasn't given. Then they heard shouting from close by on the beach. Someone had landed a boat. Mulder knew immediately that it wasn't Papa, nor was it the special forces he was expecting to turn up in response to Bill's communication with the Pentagon. It was a mixed crew of Spanish and English speaking men. Probably they worked for Chamuan. He and Scully were trapped in here until they left. Worse yet, the men had probably frightened Papa away, perhaps for good. They were hearing two voices that seemed to come from very close outside their rocky shelter. Gradually they began to make sense of the remarks. "What does he want us to do before he gets here?" "Mostly he wants us to guard it. We'll get more information later." "How did he react to finding out about the escape?" "What do you think? If it weren't for the emergency situation I think he would have shot all three of them. As it is he locked them up." "Why is he assuming there's an emergency? I thought it turned out the prisoners didn't know a thing about it. What are they going to tell?" "Didn't you hear? Lina's the one who helped them get out. Chamuan got it out of her brother Rene that Rick had bragged about it to her." "Chamuan will kill him for that." "Who? He's already killed Rene, but he won't kill Rick and Rick knows it. Chamuan doesn't have time to find someone else with his expertise." Even in the dim natural light Mulder could see the color had drained from Scully's unnaturally flushed cheeks. He wanted to promise that he wouldn't let anyone hurt her, but he knew that the words would be more a statement of intention than a guarantee. There were practical steps he should take. "Let's move to the back of this thing, Scully," he suggested. He didn't bother starting a debate over ways and means. Within seconds he had picked her up and deposited her in a corner far from the entrance. "I'm going to see how far away those men are." He moved quietly into the fissure leading to the outside world. After a careful look around, he left the shelter of the cave. He felt better when he returned. "There are two small outboards with a couple men in each one. The men we can hear are anchored out behind a boulder on the beach. It reflects the sound so they seem closer than they are. I'm afraid we're stuck here until they leave." "Why are they here?" Scully wondered aloud. "I've got a bad feeling about this. You know about Chamuan having a nuclear bomb. He talked about using or moving 'it' early, when he questioned us. He must have meant his bomb. What do you want to bet these guys are talking about the same 'it?'" "No bets. I think you're right. Bill radioed Eglin as soon as he got back, and they contacted someone at the Pentagon. That was almost 24 hours ago. They'll be working on a containment plan." "The plan won't work if it's not here to be contained." It was than that the inevitable sequence of events first worked its way out in Mulder's brain, though he spared no effort to suppress his awareness of it. "The government employs hundreds of people who do nothing but plan for contingencies. This is a contingency if I ever heard of one. Let them earn their salaries for once. Our plan has to be to keep out of sight of Chamuan's men and get away at the earliest opportunity." Mulder protested as much to convince himself as Scully, that their own problems took priority over the global issue of nuclear terrorism. Their situation was looking increasingly bad. He could hold out a couple of days waiting for Schoener, or for the cavalry from the Pentagon, if he had to, although fresh water would be a problem. Scully didn't have that kind of time. Mulder considered their options while the two men argued mind- numbingly about the merits of various brands of beer and the proper technique for pouring them. Silence followed and it seemed likely that they had moved to a spot where their conversation would remain unheard. Then a third voice began speaking. "OK, I'm going to give you your instructions for today's operation. You see where Marcos is standing by the cliff there? That's where the entrance is. It's got a locked gate. Chamuan has the only key. When he gets here and unlocks it you're going to help load them on the yacht." "What do you mean 'them?' We can't handle a shipload of weapons with only the four of us. Besides, I thought he had a real bomb, not a bunch of shells or mines." "Are you kidding? He's got three of them. He's going to take them out personally on that yacht the Americans sailed in here. He wants to supervise. They're going to be transferred to three ships going to three different cities on the coast. That's called fail- safe," the voice finished smugly. "As for needing more men, we're really here just to stand guard. One man can carry one bomb. And they're in these handy aluminum cases with handles, just like a suitcase. You'd almost think they were built for terrorists." There was immoderate laughter from all of them in response to this witticism. "Do you think he'll really do it?" "After what I've already seen him do, I'd advise you to get in touch with any family you've got working in the United States and tell them to get on a bus for California." Scully and Mulder looked at each other with growing horror at this revelation. Was it likely that all three of the devices could be intercepted before they reached their targets? It was crucial to stop the enterprise before the bombs went their separate ways. "You're a Navy brat, Scully. How long do you think they'll wait before they take action at the DOD?" Mulder questioned, not really expecting her to have an answer. He just wanted reassurance that action would be taken, and soon. Scully looked depressed. "All of their information is third-hand. We can't expect them to move until they verify it. We've seen Chamuan in action, but to them it's just a story from a Haitian woman about a story she was told by an ex-Navy man trying to impress her enough to seduce her. They may have to contact Russia or one of the ex-satellite nations to confirm that Chamuan deals in illegal arms trading. That's probably where the components for the bombs came from---I suppose Chandler helped build them. And all that doesn't even figure in the time needed to get the different branches of the DOD to agree on how to run the operation." "What if they don't get here in time to stop the yacht from sailing? Can they track it to where the transfers were made?" "I can't imagine how. They'll probably do them at three separate locations. We have no way to know where within the whole Caribbean or Gulf of Mexico. They could even go into the Atlantic with the Revenge," Scully said anxiously. "One he's gotten those bombs away from here....They've got to stop them here, Mulder." "They may get here. The Revenge hasn't even come in sight yet. But Scully, I think you'd better tell me how to sink a yacht. Just in case." Mulder responded to her look of alarm with a diffident expression. It was only a precaution. He was no James Bond, and had never wanted to be one. Still, he'd considered the options and there weren't very many. He and his one gun had no hope of taking control of this operation. If he or Scully began shooting from this cavern, they might pick off one or two people, but they would end up trapped helplessly. The one slim hope he would have would be to secretly sabotage the ship after the devices were loaded. Then they could be retrieved from the ocean floor at the leisure of the sloths currently on duty at the Pentagon. He hadn't yet allowed himself to follow the course of events to its logical conclusion for himself and Scully. She didn't argue with him, since she could see the possibilities as clearly as he could. It wouldn't hurt to instruct Mulder in the mysteries of through hull fittings and gate valves. At least she was familiar with the layout of the Revenge and its inventory. Scully proceeded to give him a crash course in how to open and break the old- fashioned valves on Eddie's yacht. The crew could be prevented from inserting emergency softwood plugs by a fuel oil fire set just below the hatchways. The fire extinguishers should be put out of commission too. She was careful to emphasize the importance of setting the fires after going above deck, to avoid being trapped in the fire below. Scully was very thankful that there was no way Mulder could get on board the Revenge and attempt to execute this insane plan. Over the next several hours Mulder rejoiced that the Revenge didn't show up but worried about the delay in their chance of rescue by Papa. Scully was not doing very well. He could see that she tended to sink into a torpor that verged on unconsciousness when she let herself drift. She moved as little as possible, and she would have liked to drink a great deal more than she allowed herself from their limited supply of water. His suspense ended when the voices outside became audible again. "There it is, at last. What was the point of us sitting here from sunrise?" Mulder heartily shared that indignation. He and Scully could have been away by now if Chamuan's men had shown up a little later. She was half asleep. He left quietly to watch the men on the beach arrange the boats. They were keeping the Revenge about fifty feet out from the waterline. They would have to use the small boats now anchored in shallow water to bring the bombs to the yacht. Using the cover of the rocks on the beach, he could slip into the water and swim to the Revenge. He would only be able to get on board if there were a ladder, or at least a rope, in place over the side that couldn't be seen from the beach. Once on board he would have to hide in the storage area beyond the galley until they were well under way. If the Revenge started to sink close to shore they would just transfer the bombs back onto the small boats and try again with Chamuan's own vessel. When the sinking process was irreversible he could row back to the island in a life raft, or swim, if necessary. Then he would have a chance at getting Scully to Papa Schoener's boat. If Papa came back. He wondered what odds Bill Scully would figure for the successful accomplishment of that plan. He would make his to move onto the yacht during the loading process. That meant he had to act now if he were going to do anything. It was time to say good-bye. Chapter 41, Sacrifice He re-entered the cavern and saw that Scully was still drowsing. Reluctantly he woke her with a hand on her shoulder. "Scully, the Revenge is being loaded. I'm going to have to try to get on board." These words brought Scully to a full state of alertness. She looked at him in silent appeal. "Isn't there some other way?" she finally asked. She hadn't been able to think of one. If she had two good feet she would have been the logical one to take care of this job. Mulder might even be too incapacitated by seasickness to do what was necessary. As it was she couldn't even get up and down a hatchway alone. But how could they stand by and do nothing when the lives of millions of people were at stake? They had to try. Neither one stated openly that it was a suicide mission for both of them. Mulder felt as though he were being torn in two. His own risk was acceptable to him, but Scully's was not. He was the only person who knew she was alive. Her fate depended on his finding medical help for her before it was too late. On the other hand, he knew what he had to do. Bill had been wrong about him. He wouldn't sacrifice innocent victims to save his partner. He just refused to imagine a future for himself following his noble decision to let Scully perish. Not that there was much danger he would survive to have such a future. He could only rage helplessly against the universe. "The joke's on us again, isn't it? All the agonizing I did about whether you thought I'd abandon you, only to find you didn't believe I would. And now I'm getting ready to actually do it!" To himself Mulder added, "And you're worse off than you were before." "It's not abandonment, Mulder. You know it's different when other lives are at stake. I made some promises when I became an agent. Even if I hadn't, I would give my life so a million other people can live. You're taking the same risk for the same reasons," she steeled herself to pronounce. It was strange how inequitable that algorithm seemed when she applied it to Mulder's life rather than her own. Maybe the world could spare a million mediocre souls to preserve him. No, she couldn't think that way. He had to go now and wait for a good opportunity to sneak on board. Kneeling in front of her, he took her hands in his. "You know I always come back Scully. People have given up on me, but don't believe it. You've got to believe I'll be back for you." She looked at the tormented face close to hers. She seriously considered leaning forward and kissing him as deeply as he would allow. It was too cruel to go to their deaths without even this small consolation for all the opportunities they were renouncing forever. But what if she couldn't let go of him when the kiss was over? Instead she embraced him firmly and briefly. He continued kneeling in front of her. He felt as though he were gazing into an infinite series of mirrors. Each reflected back a dim image from the past, which in turn showed him yet another more distant image. A silent self-accusation and a fearful question repeated themselves in his head. This time you knew and you still let it happen. Will you be with her again or will eternity begin without ending this separation? "You've got to promise me something," he blurted out fiercely. "Unconditionally, no matter what happens to me, or to you. Promise me you'll remember me and find me if I'm ever lost. I might not know I'm lost until I hear you calling me, but I'll come." Oh, she could promise not to forget him. Forever wouldn't be long enough to forget this complicated, tragic man who could find no peace on earth. How long had she loved him? It couldn't have been from the time they first met, but she could no longer remember when she hadn't. She didn't fully understand what the promise meant to him, but she could assent to it with all her heart. "I promise," she answered, "unconditionally." He knew she didn't really understand how much he was asking, but Scully's promise was good enough for him. Even after this exchange he couldn't seem to bring himself to rise and turn his back on her. She sympathized with his difficulty. She didn't know if she could have done it. He needed some help. It took all her strength, but she summoned up a wicked smile. "Go on ahead of me, Mulder. Don't worry, I'll be right behind you." Then she added a challenge. "Elvis would do it." "Oh, Scully, you always could play me like a piano," he said huskily, and got up and walked away. During the next hour she sat in hiding and listened anxiously for shouts or gunfire. When she heard the engines hum to life she knew the die was cast. He would come back to her if he hadn't found an opportunity to board. It was OK to hope that he'd failed as long as she hadn't done anything to cause it. He didn't return. Within a half hour the yacht was far enough away to prevent those on board from spotting her on the beach. During that time she was crawling painfully out of the cavern to the strip of shoreline outside. The beach was deserted. It was lucky there were boulders she could lean against. The world was showing a bizarre tendency to swirl around her and interfere with her balance even though she wasn't standing upright. She used Mulder's binoculars when the ship had traveled beyond the range of her unaided eyes. Scully tried to concentrate on his mission rather than the danger he was in. Why was he waiting so long to start the job? Had he been caught and killed already? What if Chamuan decided to question him in his habitual way? She would die not knowing what had happened. On the other hand, the longer he waited, the better his chances of avoiding a rescue of the bombs by help called from shore. It was almost too far away to distinguish when she saw a subtle change in the ship's position. It was definitely lower in the water. Once she saw this change, things progressed rapidly. A blaze sprang up briefly in the prow, but the vessel sank so quickly that there wasn't time for the fire to become widespread. Below decks the damage must have been devastating. She knew that the distance was too great for Mulder to swim back to the island. There would be riptides originating in the currents in and out of the coves and inlets. Even to consider those dangers was to assume he had made it off the yacht. And that no one had shot him before the Revenge sank. Most of all she hoped that he hadn't been caught in the fire. Mulder never believed it, but she always knew he was a hero. In the past, his enemies had always been too amorphous and elusive to allow him a triumph. Finally he could claim a victory. He hadn't died for nothing. The part that bothered her was that he had to die alone. So much in his life he had borne alone. It made her sad that he was alone again at the end of it. Then the tears came. She sat in the sand for several hours, her head overruled by her heart, waiting for him to emerge from the surf. After a while he had walked up to her so many times in her mind that she started to become confused about whether she had seen it happen or imagined it. Perhaps there was nothing to be sorrowful about. He was just behind those rocks over there. Strange, there were some rocks over there a while ago. Now there was ocean. After a while there was cool water lapping at her feet. At first it burned; then it felt wonderful. Later still she was gazing straight up into the sky and the cool sensation was under her whole body. It was true, there was nothing to be unhappy about. Because there was Mulder in a suit and tie, frowning down at her. Maybe he was worried that the saltwater was ruining his shoes. "You have to go back up into the cavern, Scully." But why? The water felt good. Nevertheless, he seemed so concerned that she tried to inch herself a short way toward the cliff. Her muscles didn't follow her commands. "I'm sorry," she told him. She couldn't speak her answer. Her tongue felt dry and thick. He seemed to understand anyway, and his face became kindly. "You can't move, can you? That's all right. I guess I can wait here with you while the tide comes in. Then we'll go somewhere else." Did she buy him that tie? He wouldn't choose one like that. It was all gold and pink like a sunset, or sunrise. She lay and admired it. Then she saw his face change. Instead of serenity it reflected pain and anxiety. "I can't stay with you right now, Scully. We'll be together again soon. Don't give up," he seemed to plead. Give up what? Suddenly he was gone. That made her unhappy. It was getting dark. Didn't he say he wouldn't leave her alone in the dark again? She was frightened but her awareness was slipping away slowly. The fear went with it. Chapter 42, In the Line of Duty Mulder didn't have the advantage he used to have in this kind of situation. This time he was far from indifferent about his survival. It made him cautious, hesitant, afraid to make the bold moves required for success. He removed his shoes and socks at the cavern opening, but kept his belt on and secured his gun in a buttoned pocket. It weighed him down, but he thought it would be worth the trouble of dealing with the weight. Using the rocks and boulders on the beach as cover, he made his way down to the water. He took no chances on being seen. The swim was as easy as he had expected, but the first obstacle became clear when he surfaced by the Revenge and looked up at the smooth curve of the hull rising some six feet over his head. Too bad. He was going to have to forget about the plan and return to Scully. He couldn't get onto the yacht. It wasn't his fault. Then he heard voices over his head. "Henri broke the ladder on the other side. He thought the screws were loose and tried to tighten them. Those old brass things. He stripped them. We've got to use this one." Mulder ducked around the end of the yacht as he heard a ladder being extended over the side. The motor of a small boat could be heard approaching, presumably piloted by one of the beer connoisseurs he and Scully had heard talking. He stayed near the rudder while the boat tied up below the ladder and three men climbed down into it. "There's no need for me to come with you," a new voice said, with a hint of a whine. "I can't trust you, Rick. No more than your own countrymen could. I need Henri to carry the packages, and I can't leave you here unsupervised. Do you know how lucky you are to be alive to be inconvenienced?" Uh, oh. It looked as though he was going to get his chance after all. He waited five minutes after the motor had faded away toward the beach. Reluctantly he grabbed for the rungs now within his reach. He didn't know what he'd find on deck. The man who addressed Rick was probably Chamuan. His words implied the deck was empty, but it might only be empty of people he trusted. Mulder forced himself to stay on the rungs for half a minute, squeezing water out of his pants and shirt. Otherwise he'd leave a convenient trail of seawater for anyone who happened to notice it. When he cautiously peered over the side he saw only an empty deck. The way to his chosen hiding place was through the hatchway directly behind the cockpit. Crouched low and moving deliberately he prowled over. It was open. He quickly moved down into the main cabin and then back past the galley and head. He noted the locked storage bin opposite the closet where he was going to hide. Scully had told him that was where the fuel oil was stored. The tools he needed would be in drawers in his hiding place. Matches would be in the galley. Now he just had to wait. Not exactly an activity where he shone. He found that the storage area was large enough for him to sit, all folded up, out of sight of someone who casually opened the door and looked around. Scully had advised him well. For the moment he stretched out in the dark, knowing that the men would be busy loading their terrifying cargo. He hoped Scully was right when she concluded Chamuan would put the bombs in the main cabin rather than in this closet. His plan was to wait twenty minutes after the engines started and then remove the tools he needed. He would use a hammer to break the lock on the storage bin. As he moved from the galley to the head, opening the gate valves as he went, he would pour fuel oil in his wake. As he exited he would ignite it. A sound plan. He shook his head pessimistically. Events would proceed as smoothly as the trains ran in Germany. In 1944. In an ideal world he would then ascend to the deck, disable the fire extinguishers, descend into the engine room, and go through the same routine there. He seriously doubted that he would be free to carry out part two of the plan. At some point he would have to start improvising. The only alternative plan he could come up with would require a hostage. With the right hostage he could force cooperation in taking the bombs to. . .someplace where they would be put in safe-keeping. Maybe Puerto Rico. The only hostage that would give him that kind of leverage would be Chamuan himself. He couldn't figure out how to get the man alone under these conditions. If he tried and failed there wouldn't be any second chances. He pulled himself into the smallest possible space when he heard steps coming down into the cabin. The voice he had heard admonishing Chandler was giving directions. "Lay them flat on the floor in the cabin. Don't worry, they won't go off if you bump them. They have to be armed by going through a long sequence of instructions. That's what I'm keeping Rick around for." The mockery apparent in his last words didn't bode well for Rick. "As soon as you bring the last one down, start the engines. I probably shouldn't have taken so long this morning at getting information out of Rene. I told myself I wanted to be sure. I should have done the safest thing right away. Henri, tell me the truth. Do you think I'm getting addicted to the process of interrogation?" "Not in the least. You always put your goal first, Senor Chamuan." "Truth or flattering lie, how shall I determine which?" After a pause Chamuan laughed. "I had you worried there for a minute, admit it." "You know I tell you the truth. I would be afraid not to. But I believe in the cause too." The voices faded but someone made two more trips down the steps to the cabin. Mulder breathed as quietly as he could during the activity. Then he relaxed a little when the motors turned over and began providing a constant hum in the background. He paid strict attention to the passage of time as he sat in the dark. His thoughts couldn't be allowed to wander from the task at hand. If he started wondering about Scully his emotions would make him inefficient. It had been so sweet and natural to sit on the floor and hold her last night. She felt just as he knew she would---small-boned but firmly compact and unmistakably feminine. Strange that a night marooned in a cave with her when she was injured would rank among his best memories of their shared experiences. It said a lot about how much he had screwed things up in his life. But it was useless to dwell on might-have-beens. He had allowed himself one moment of nostalgia. Now he was dedicated to doing this job right so their sacrifices would mean something. There was no more traffic downstairs until Mulder was almost ready to leave his hiding place. Then he heard someone tear into the head at a run. Through the walls he could hear the person being sick into the toilet. Damn it, postponement decreased his already slight chance of making it back to Xibalba. At the same time he was surprised to realize that he hadn't felt any symptoms of motion sickness himself. Perhaps floods of adrenaline acted as a preventative. He waited in a frenzy of impatience for ten more minutes before he heard the door open followed by very slow movement toward the cabin and up the stairs. Then he opened the closet door for light to locate the tool drawers. He took a hammer, chisel and wrench, and remembered to put his gun in an easily accessible pocket before he left his hiding place. One stroke of the chisel took the padlock off the storage bin. He was disappointed to find the can of fuel oil was only half full. Then he entered the head and located the gate valves. He twisted the stems and handles completely off as Scully had advised. Illogically he was taken off guard when cold water began to stream in at a respectable rate. Some people expect the physical world to work as predicted in technical manuals. He tended to be pleasantly surprised. In the galley he found the matches, opened the valves, and picked up a couple bottles of liquor to supplement the fuel oil. He concentrated the accelerants in the area outside the head and galley doors. Scully's advice to throw it on the walls or raised surfaces came back to him. It made perfect sense as water spread swiftly across the floor. He poured the remainder on the chairs around the bombs to discourage any rescue attempts. The aluminum-cased bombs looked as innocent as electrical equipment for a rock band, ready to be stowed under the bus. Mulder wondered if that had been the intention of the design. No matter how often he had to control his fears and face fire, he hated it just as much every time. Standing amidst the oil soaked furniture of the cabin he pulled out a match with shaking fingers and got ready to strike. Almost as clearly as though she were in the room he could hear Scully saying "Do NOT light the match until you are going up the steps. The room will become an instant inferno and you won't make it to the deck." He hurriedly dropped the unlit match and then started at the sound of footsteps on the deck above. Moving back behind the hatchway steps he tried to think as someone started to come down. He had his gun, but a gunshot would alert everyone on deck to what was going on below. Darting forward Mulder grabbed the figure by the ankles and tipped him off the stairs with a crash. While the man tried to rise Mulder stepped up the stairs himself and removed another match. Oh God, could he set the place on fire with someone trapped alive in it? He would never know the answer to that question. The man sat up and pulled his own gun from a shoulder holster. Mulder let his reflexes take over and fired first. It was a businesslike shot to the chest, meant to kill. He never doubted that this was a battle to the death. Things would happen quickly now. He lit the book of matches and tossed it onto the rum soaked cushions of the big chair. It whooshed into flame satisfactorily as he raced up the stairs. He came up through the hatchway as fast as he could move, intending to dive for cover on the deck. Unsurprisingly he heard a slightly accented voice ordering him to "Drop it and stand still." Since there was no cover within reach, he obeyed. Mulder recognized the man holding the gun on him from Bill's description. Chamuan remained calm, considering his options, as smoke poured from the opening in the deck. A man with a green-tinged, sweaty face stood at the boat rail, staring at the hatch with a horrified, disbelieving expression. Mulder saw the accuracy of John Morales' description of Chandler. He could picture him as a car salesman who had just lost a coveted commission. "And who are you?" Chamuan asked, as though they had all the time in the world. "A friend of the Scully family." Chamuan nodded slowly. "You couldn't have been suspicious of me all along. Your people would have had a better back up plan than this." "We knew and cared nothing about you. It was all him." Mulder pointed at the man now leaning over the railing to empty an already empty stomach. In part he gestured to find out how much movement Chamuan would let him get away with. "You will not move anymore," Chamuan answered his unspoken question. "You're the one my lawyers talked to at Los Perdidos, aren't you? It's a shame they didn't send you over the next day. Rick and those idiot friends of his would have had a harder time framing you. Then we could all have gone home happy." He looked scornfully at Chandler. "I got the whole story from Ben and Miguel," he sneered. "Why don't you radio your people on Xibalba for a rescue?" Mulder suggested hopefully. "Yes, and broadcast our location to whoever is listening. I'm sure the Scullys have passed on whatever information Lina gave them. Luckily there will be a lot of skepticism about such a far-fetched conspiracy. But that won't stop them from doing radio surveillance. I'm not going to give them the co-ordinates for divers by broadcasting our position." They could feel the yacht shudder as it settled to a lower level and listed slightly to port. Carefully keeping his gun trained on Mulder, Chamuan gestured Chandler toward a bin outside the cockpit. "Get the raft out of there and read the instructions for inflating it. I guess a nuclear engineer can handle that." Mulder thought the man was remarkably composed considering his grand plan was falling apart before his eyes. "Poor Mr. Scully," he continued reminiscently, "He was so absorbed in his little boy they could have dropped a smoking gun in his pocket without attracting his attention. His sister acted like he was a bomb himself that might go off any second. She was so protective. Women just can't help being maternal." He looked back at Chandler, who was methodically inspecting the raft in spite of his deathly pallor. "All I had to do was wave the sacred self-torture instrument of the ancient Mayan kings under your friends' noses. They told me all about your obsession with avenging Sylvia's death." "I never gave a damn about that silly bitch. Her carelessness was part of what killed him. My son. Their negligence killed my son. I wanted them all to know how it felt to lose the one you cared most about," Chandler corrected him. We all learn that one way or another, Mulder thought sadly. It doesn't take a vengeful murderer to teach us that lesson. If Bill thought Mulder was emotionally dysfunctional, he'd have to classify Chandler as non-functional. "So you threatened Chandler's friends with the sacred instrument. How does terrorism fit into the revival of the Mayan religion?" Mulder asked. "The religion was just a cover. There's so much exaggerated respect paid to whatever nonsense someone claims is his religion. It was unbelievable how well it worked. It explained eccentricity, it distracted the media, it justified having odd types with odd talents living on the island. But I actually am a member of the Lacandon tribe. There may be something of the nature of the ancient Mayans in me." Mulder refused to gratify him by commenting on this assertion. "What have you got against our coastal cities?" "I may not stick to the coast if I can get a package to Chicago or Denver. But the more time spent in overland transport the more chance of getting caught. The place is not crucial to my statement." "And your statement is. . .?" "The United States is engaged in imperialism all over the globe. As you like to say on your news programs, I'm sending a message." "Come on, Castro is the only one who believes in imperialism anymore. That was really outdated before the Berlin Wall went down." "Your military imperialism just mutated into cultural imperialism. You're saturating the world with your sensationalistic television shows and movies. Entertainment pours out of the United States like sewage into every country on earth. Every bit of it showcases your shallow consumerism. All the attractive, smart heroes and heroines model that worship of self and possessions. Traditional values like obedience, respect for authority---only the evil or ignorant hang on to those in the world your media depicts. I'm not stupid enough to try to revive what's long gone. I just want my people to build their own future. But the worst thing your Walt Disneys and Steven Spielbergs do is devour the past and present cultures in our countries. Then they regurgitate them, transformed into your image, for our consumption. And that will be our future if we don't show the U.S. we mean business." This was good stuff. Mulder hoped Chamuan would continue sermonizing so he could keep trying to plan an escape for himself. He tried to fan the flames. "So you're going to incinerate New York because you didn't like 'Pocahantas.' You don't have much room to criticize shallow and sensationalistic." "Never mind. You're not a person I have to impress, since you won't be alive much longer." "I guess you'd like more entertainment based on the fine old tradition of getting a hard-on by mutilating helpless people. Aren't the Disney studios working on something called 'The Torturer's Apprentice?'" Chamuan tensed his hand on the gun and his face darkened with a rush of blood. Mulder knew he had been reckless in his words, but the only thing he'd like more than enraging this man was killing him dead. With a visible effort Chamuan returned his attention to Chandler, who had inflated the raft with admirable efficiency. The Revenge gave another shudder of movement and the fire spread to the cockpit. "Lower the raft over the side with the rope. Keep it tied. The ship's so low in the water we don't need a ladder." Chandler obeyed his commands and stood waiting for more in a miserable attitude. "If you think you're sick now, wait until you're bouncing over the waves in that little raft," Mulder encouraged him. "You know he's going to kill you at the earliest convenient time." Apparently Chamuan had decided not to let Mulder have the satisfaction of making him angry. "Not true. We're going to get away from here before Mr. Scully has inspired the military to mobilize. There won't be anyone who'll know the yacht sank, much less where it went down. In six months, when the excitement has passed, I'll send divers down to retrieve the packages, and reconsider strategies for getting the bombs to their targets. I'll need Rick for a long time to come." Chamuan grinned at Chandler, who gave him a sickly, uncertain smile. Then Chamuan turned back to Mulder with a calculating stare. Mulder was getting Chamuan's message about his own future. It was now or never. He made his move. "I don't think Chandler's going to wait for us," he said with a startled look in Chandler's direction. At the moment when Chamuan's eyes swiveled toward Chandler, Mulder went in for a low tackle. He almost felt the air current caused by the bullet that went just over his head. When he brought the other man down the gun went flying from his hand. It skidded across the deck, and dropped out of sight. His own gun remained on the deck where he had laid it down earlier. Chamuan remembered this too. He hung on to Mulder with an iron grip and shouted at Chandler to get the gun. At first Mulder fought to get in some blows to his adversary's head, but he couldn't get far enough back to swing. He pushed his strength to the limit, lifted Chamuan by the shoulders, and brought his head down on the deck with enough force to stun him. Chandler had remained frozen in place at the rail of the yacht. Mulder flung himself backwards and grabbed frantically for his gun. He brought it up just in time to shoot Chamuan twice in the chest as the man came after him. Then he looked for Chandler and found he had done just what Mulder had implied earlier---he had gone over the side into the raft. Mulder raced to the side of the rapidly sinking ship and saw that Chandler had already paddled fifteen yards away from the Revenge. Mulder was ready to dive in and swim after the raft when he saw Chandler bringing Chamuan's gun up to shoot at him. The gun had fallen into the raft when it went over the side of the Revenge. In the time it took for Mulder to wish he had Scully there to shoot this distant target, he took three shots at Chandler. One of them hit Chandler in the stomach. He clutched his middle in pain and shock, but remained sitting upright. Mulder was elated to have made his shot without putting a hole in the raft. Then he saw Chandler make a last effort to wield the gun. Instead of aiming at Mulder, he pointed it down at the raft and sprayed the entire clip down into it. He managed the sincerest smile Mulder had seen him produce as the raft filled with water and sank. There was no more time. Mulder dove into the water and managed to get ten yards away from the ship before it went down. He was alone in the ocean, maybe five miles away from Xibalba. But he could see it on the horizon. He told himself that this was a swim he could accomplish. At the gym he must have swum the equivalent distance in the pool every week. What could stop him? For the first three hours he covered some distance. The island grew larger. He kept on swimming just as hard for the next hour. He told himself that the unchanging appearance of Xibalba was the fault of his salt-blurred eyes. When his strength failed him and he had to slow down he started to worry. Something was wrong here. Every level of effort kept him in exactly the same spot of ocean. All right, when this happened you were supposed to swim parallel with the shore. He estimated he was only half a mile from land. The problem was that when he stopped fighting the tide he was swept so far, so quickly, that he was pulled away from the island. He tried to resume his struggle with the current. Finally he was reduced to minimum movements that served only to keep his head out of the water. Then he accepted the bitter truth. The truth was he hadn't made any progress for the last two hours. There was a current holding him out from the island and he was no longer strong enough to overcome it, if he ever had been. He wasn't going to make it. He couldn't even try any longer. His arms and legs no longer seemed to be part of him. Every energy reserve he had was used up. Mulder had enough awareness left to appreciate the irony of this happening to him now after his rejection of suicide by drowning yesterday. The joke was always on him. If he had known how bad it would feel he would never have considered it as an easy way out. He made his apologies to Scully mentally. I'm sorry. Again. If I couldn't save you at least I should have been there so you wouldn't die alone in the dark. He started to sink below the surface of the deceptively smooth water. He couldn't see the riptide that was going to cost him and Scully their lives. When the reflex to breathe overcame his will to hold his breath, he'd pull in lungfuls of seawater. Maybe he'd be lucky enough to lose consciousness first. Scully was lying on the black sand of the beach. This wasn't good. He stood over her shaking his head in irritation. The tide was coming in. If she didn't get up and return to the cavern in the cliff she'd drown. Her eyes opened and she smiled at seeing him. Then she gave him an inquiring look and seemed to try to move. I'm sorry she told him, although she couldn't talk. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all. He could wait for her here until she was ready to leave too. He smiled back and told her so. She looked content. Her hair floated in the water, fanning out around her face. Had it always been that color? A wonderful color, but he didn't recall seeing it before. He realized what she reminded him of--- Ophelia drifting on the river until she was pulled under by the weight of her waterlogged gown. Painters loved that subject. The unfortunate Ophelia was a woman caught in the cross-fire between her brother and the man who. . .what? At her funeral Hamlet claimed that his love for her overmatched the love that forty thousand brothers could feel. But he couldn't bring himself to tell her about that love in time to save her sanity or her life. How did that jealously hidden, undeclared love really stack up next to the affection of an overbearing but caring brother? Poor Hamlet. He was a true modern---paranoid and persecuted, tormented by the need to make decisions, while fully aware that he didn't have all the facts. All performed without a spiritual net beneath. Mulder's thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar sensation. It was pain. Something was dragging him back to his convulsing body as though he were on a leash. It hurt everywhere, especially in his throat and chest. He had to snap that leash so he could be free from the hurt. He knew he could pull away from the pain and stay here, or return to his body and try to live. This was peaceful. Scully lay watching him, happy enough if he was with her. If he left her now he had a chance, not a certainty, of saving her. Scully wasn't thinking clearly enough to choose. What would she want, a chance or peace? Her family already believed she was dead. "Who do you think you're kidding?" he asked himself. Even if he knew it were right to choose certain death for her, could he witness the spectacle of her drowning without doing what he could to stop it? He'd have to watch the water covering her face, her feeble, instinctive efforts to raise herself for air. He'd have to hear the gasping and strangling as she tried to cough the water out. She didn't understand what was going on here. Maybe she would look to him, call to him, uncomprehendingly, for rescue. Eventually she'd lose the struggle. Scully was a fighter though. She might last longer than he expected. There was never really any decision to be made. I can't stay any longer, Scully, he told her. I'll see you later. Remember how I told you not to give up on me. Please don't give up. Then he was overcome with the burning and cramping in his middle. It was as bad as having his lungs ripped out. Someone was hitting his chest periodically, while someone else was blowing into his mouth. The noise was inconceivably loud. Everything in the little room was vibrating. In fact, he could have sworn the whole room moved. "He's back!" someone exclaimed. "I thought for sure he was too far gone." Hands turned his head as he began to spew sea water from his mouth and nose. The sooner he got it over with the sooner he could talk. And he had to talk. Chapter 43, Special Forces Scully heard strange voices. "Look, just like he told us," someone said, in tones of delighted self-justification." "OK, so next time I do the supply cabinet inventory. Secure the straps up there. Another half hour and you still would have lost. She'd have been underwater and we'd never have known. You have to admit, most people make no sense at all after they've been fighting ocean currents for five hours." "He was very persuasive." "You mean the part where he said he'd hunt you down like a dog and shoot you in the street if you didn't go look for her?" "That was exhaustion and delirium speaking. Give Hank the signal." "His directions were right on target, though, weren't they?" "He'd gone on long past the point where most people just let the water close over their heads. I had a feeling that whatever had kept him going was real." How could the wind blow straight down? She was swinging and swinging. It made her sick. When the swinging stopped there was a lot of noise in the room. Everyone had to shout. "What the holy hell happened to her foot? She'll be lucky if she doesn't lose it. What? Too bad he's dead. It would have been a pleasure to kill him." "Did you see her wrists? I thought I'd seen the last of that kind of thing when they disbanded the Special Rescue Unit in 'Nam." "We've got to take special care of him. He's a hero you know." "Come on, the brass isn't going to let word one of this get out, much less throw him a ticker tape parade." "My daughter and her family live in Manhattan, and I say he's a fuckin' hero." "Look, she opened her eyes. She's trying to say something." Scully tried to form words and found it was impossible to be as emphatic as she desired. One of the uniformed men leaned down close to her. "Where's Mulder?" she managed to breathe. "'Where's Mulder?' she's asking. What's Mulder?" "This guy right here. Move a little so she can see." Two of the men leaned sideways in the cramped space of the helicopter to give her a view of the stretcher only a few feet from her own. All she could was his face, which looked raw, but somehow pale at the same time. He was wrapped up in blankets and someone had started an IV. "This chopper isn't really designed to transport two patients, but he talked us into going straight to the beach for you after we pulled him out of the water. He explained why he was in the water and told us exactly where you'd be. Even what shape rock you were next to. Then he passed out. No, don't worry, his pulse is strong. He's hypothermic, dehydrated and exhausted, but I think he'll be OK. I'll tell you the truth, though, he had the closest call I've ever seen in fifteen years of doing rescues. For two minutes there we were sure he was gone for good." The distance between them was only a few feet. She couldn't bridge it; she could only gaze longingly. The youngest of the men noticed her look. "Wouldn't it give us more room to get to storage if we pushed these stretchers together in the middle?" he suggested. He demonstrated by starting to move them accordingly. "Sure, go ahead and try it that way," one of the older men said distractedly. Before he moved away the young man took Scully's hand. "Don't worry, we'll take care of both of you," he told her. Instead of putting her hand back at her side, he took it and gently placed her palm against Mulder's cheek. She tried to show her gratitude in a look. Then she closed her eyes and didn't open them again until they reached Miami. Chapter 44, After the End Kim hated to interrupt him right before his nine o'clock. It was bad enough when he had time to prepare for it mentally beforehand. There was just no way she could justify putting this caller off. She buzzed his office. "Sir, you have a call on line three." "What are they calling about?" He was keeping his temper on the assumption that she wouldn't have bothered him without a good reason. The hesitation he sensed puzzled him. "It's regarding a situation with Agent Mulder, sir." "I asked you to handle any inquiries from the San Diego police until I could return their calls conveniently," he responded impatiently. "This isn't the San Diego police. It's the Pentagon. A General Roberts." If his headache got any worse he could go home on sick leave with a clear conscience. An hour on his heavy-duty treadmill would release a lot of tension. "I'll take it. Assistant Director Skinner, here." ****************************** The first day at Mt. Sinai Scully and Mulder were both exhausted, and conscious very little of the time. Mulder nagged at the doctor until he was released after two more days, having suffered no permanent effects from his ordeal in the water. Scully received IV antibiotics for two additional days after that, while doctors debated whether she would lose any toes. On her admission they had cut and drained the infected areas. By the fourth day they believed she might avoid further surgery. It was on the third day that Mulder had one of the more uncomfortable phone conversations of his life. Bill Scully called him to thank him for his assistance, as he expressed it, in recovering Matt. They traded anxieties over Scully's condition, each one silently wondering how he would deal with the guilt if she were permanently crippled. Mulder could tell that Bill felt as awkward and defensive as Mulder had once felt in front of him. Mulder didn't enjoy the role reversal, but he sensed it wouldn't last long. Bill was regaining his sense of being in control of his life. Mulder envied him that feeling. In the process, however, Bill was taking steps to re-claim the moral high ground from his sister's partner. At least it was a new experience for Mulder to be criticized for too much willingness to compromise. "You're a professional, Mulder. You should have insisted on doing things your way." Mulder wondered what kind of response Bill expected. Gee, Bill, I really hadn't given much thought to how I screwed up back there. Thanks for bringing it to my attention. He kept his reply low key. "I didn't have any solid evidence of danger. All I really had were feelings." "Those are valuable gut reactions gained from experience. You shouldn't ignore them," Bill lectured. Mulder felt like telling Bill go to buy a carton of eggs and seek out his grandmother. That would be insensitive, and even worse, useless. He remained silent. Perhaps Bill felt a twinge of conscience, because he changed the subject. "The brass wouldn't tell me anything. What happened after you left Mancha de Mosca?" Mulder gave Bill a drastically synopsized account of the events on Xibalba. He didn't want to seem to be contrasting his actions with Bill's. At the end he described the rescue. "They brought in choppers from Eglin to deal with possible casualties after the special forces landed on the island. They spotted me in the water, and I told them where Scully was. I was surprised to see them so soon. We had no hope of anything happening quickly. Scully said they'd need days to verify a third-hand story." After a moment of silence Bill spoke reluctantly. "I lied to the military, Mulder. That's why they came so fast. After you left I had Eddie get in touch with someone at the San Diego Naval Base. They let me talk to Commander Johansen. I swore that I personally saw a nuclear weapon being loaded for shipping out. I knew there was a good chance Chamuan would move it when he discovered we'd gotten away. It didn't feel like a lie, I was so convinced it existed. I was desperate to get someone out there. It seemed like your only chance. Maybe I was wrong, but I thought you planned to go after Chamuan and Chandler if you didn't find Dana. I felt like I owed it to her to do what I could for you, after I failed her so badly." Well, that was weird---saved by another Scully who seemed to know him better than he knew himself. "Are you calling from home?" Mulder asked, suddenly worried about who might be listening in, ready to sink Bill's career. They had both been warned not to talk about the incident at all. No recognition would be given to anyone, since the whole thing had been classified as top secret with need to know restrictions. The military didn't want the public to panic, and the public included pretty much everyone except the top men at the Pentagon. "No, I'm at a pay phone. Anyone who deals with you has to learn to sneak around," Bill said resentfully. Mulder made no direct reply to this grossly unfair accusation. He couldn't resist a jibe. "Watch out, you'll be stalking Sasquatch with a video camera before you know it." All he heard at the other end was a derisive snort. Then Bill spoke again. "By the way, Tara sends her love and thanks. She said to tell you she was sorry for being so rude to you. Let's see, there was something else. Yes, she said she promises to table action permanently. She said she sees that Matt won't ever be too old to need her. Maybe you understand that." Mulder found himself smiling into the phone. "Yeah," he said softly. Then Bill muttered "Good-bye" and hung up. Mulder had taken a hotel room, but he was basically a fixture at the hospital. The institution worked its usual magic on him. He became less self-conscious and lost his fear of inadvertently crossing the boundary between the expression of affection and sexual attraction. The atmosphere in Scully's room had lightened considerably as she improved each day. In fact, their behavior had been giddy. Neither of them had referred to the obscure promise so solemnly requested, and given, when death seemed imminent. Mulder was visiting, as he usually was, when Scully's phone rang that fourth afternoon. "Room 525, Dana Scully speaking." "Hi, Dana. How are you doing?" "Bill! I'm great really. I'm supposed to leave in two days." "I've been keeping track of your condition through the doctors. I thought I'd let you rest until you felt up to talking. I was so thankful that you didn't need surgery." "You and me both. How are Matt and Tara?" "Matt is doing just fine. He doesn't seem to know he was away. Tara is up and down, very tearful, but I think she's going to be all right. Dana, I wanted to talk to you about Mulder." "What is there to talk about?" she asked warily. "Do you know how he feels about you? He loves you. When I had to tell him what happened to you it felt like I was inflicting the death of a thousand cuts on him. You've got to get away from him Dana." "What? Even if I accepted your assumption, how does the conclusion follow?" "Well, you don't return the feeling, do you?" Scully gazed over at her partner. He sat in the visitor's chair, his long limbs constricted in the tiny area between her hospital bed and the built in dresser. Mulder was amusing himself by trying to hold a drinking straw between his nose and upper lip. When he got it in place he twirled the ends with a villainous expression and wagged his eyebrows up and down at her. Scully giggled and Mulder appeared extremely pleased with himself. "Dana, are you laughing at me?" Bill inquired sternly. "No, I'm not laughing at you." "I don't think the two of you can continue this way indefinitely. Your working relationship will suffer." If Mulder hadn't been sitting there regarding her curiously, Scully would have suggested that Bill ask Mulder what his intentions were toward his sister. She tried not to see as Mulder put the end of the straw in his ear. To judge from the look on his face, it was sucking his brains out. She couldn't help grinning her appreciation at the effect. "Bill, I think the situation is. . .unique. I'll bear in mind what you said. And I appreciate you letting me know your thoughts." "I understand you might think you should let him down easy, but sometimes a clean break is the best thing for everyone. A transfer to another city might solve the problem. You've seen how beautiful San Diego is." Mulder moved the straw toward his nose with an absorbed expression. Scully averted her eyes hastily and tried to answer Bill in a sensible manner. She didn't tell him that she would reject an assignment to San Diego without a second thought. "Thanks, Bill," Dana said softly. "I love you, and give my love to Tara, Mom and Matt." Mulder looked a little wistful as Scully recited her litany of family names. Then he presented her dinner tray to her with a flourish. "They're still not giving you real food," he observed. "It's all clear liquid for one more day. In case I need to be taken to the operating room for a procedure." She was sorry for her response a second later. It introduced a grim note, since the procedure referred to would be the partial or total amputation of her toes. It wiped the smile right off Mulder's face. She sought to bring it back. "Dr. Phillips was by this afternoon. He said the nail bed was still there for the second and third toes, and maybe even the fourth. Chandler wasn't very efficient with the pliers. They're only sure the nail on the little toe is permanently gone. Did you know some people are born without little toenails?" For some reason this information failed to restore his spirits. "Chandler was a self-starter, but lacked experience. Modern terrorists really should set some minimum job requirements when they're looking for help," Mulder remarked. It sounded like a joke, but there was no humor in his face or voice. Perhaps a complete change of subject was required. "Did you bring the cassette recorder for me?" Scully asked. Mulder picked it up from the counter top in front of the mirror and handed it to Scully. "Now, can you hand me the black bag from that cupboard there?" Mulder wordlessly complied. Scully took a tape with a homemade label from the bag and inserted it in the recorder. She was dismayed at the misery that appeared on Mulder's face during the very first bar of the song that poured forth. Surely he couldn't hate fiddle music that much. She explained hesitantly. "Before we left I asked Mom to record some of the songs on Matt's favorite CD. They're Scottish, but they remind me of the Irish music they played at the Hibernian Hall for St. Patrick's Day when I was little. There's something else about this song that I couldn't figure out at Bill's house. If I play it a few more times I think I'll remember where I heard it before and why it makes me feel so strange. I don't know if it's happy or sad, but it's powerful." Scully watched Mulder stare off into the middle distance with his fists clenched on the arms of the chair while the music continued. He turned suddenly to look at her, as though reassuring himself of her presence. Her breath caught, and her throat tightened painfully, holding back phantom tears. Scully fumbled with the player and switched it off before the end of the song. "It's happy and sad, Mulder," she said wonderingly. "It's called 'Lassie with. . . .'" "I don't want to know the name of it," he interrupted. "It wouldn't mean anything." Of course it wouldn't mean anything. That wasn't the point. His mood had changed drastically, but she couldn't pin down the cause. "Do you know what I wish you'd do for me?" "What?" he asked, looking extremely alert. "Go to a video store and rent "The Island of Dr. Moreau" or "The Wolfman." The TVs here have built in VCRs. We can watch a tape together this evening." There, that pleased him. She knew he'd go to sleep almost instantly in the big chair beside the bed while the video ran. He needed to sleep. He returned with a selection of three videos. Things worked out even more cozily than Scully had planned. They both slept while Charles Laughton vigorously chewed the scenery and the Beastmen chewed him. No one disturbed them. The nurses re-started the video several times. They were pleased that Scully had slept through for the first time without having to be waked from a nightmare. Mulder, however, woke up at dawn from his falling-off-a-cliff nightmare. It had ended differently than usual. This time Scully grabbed his hand as they pinwheeled through the air, and suddenly they were floating over an unfamiliar landscape. "Don't let go!" he said, panic-stricken. "I won't," she answered calmly. "But you already know how to do this." And then the nightmare turned into one of those swooping, soaring dreams about flying that he had stopped having when he was thirteen. Mulder wrote a note for Scully before he left. It explained that he'd be out debriefing at the regional office and making arrangements for their tickets home on the following day. He'd see her early in the evening. When the phone rang at five that afternoon Scully expected it to be her mother, It turned out to be a Dr. Timothy. He wanted to know if she was the Dana Scully who authored that very interesting 1996 paper on a rare retrovirus. She confirmed that she was, and he asked if he could meet and discuss it with her after he finished some dictation. He was one of the staff specialists on infectious diseases, and he thought she raised some very interesting points. He arrived just as they removed the IV that had been her constant companion for five days. Alan Timothy turned out to be a tall, broad-shouldered man with blue eyes, an engaging smile and blonde hair that flopped boyishly into his eyes. "I see you're a free woman!" he exclaimed. "I bet you'd like to get out of this room. How about some coffee in the cafeteria? Ma'am, could you get Dr. Scully a wheelchair?" he asked an aide. It would be several days before Scully would want to contemplate more than a few steps on her left foot. "If my partner gets here while I'm gone, tell him I'm in the cafeteria," she informed the staff at the nursing station. Mulder turned up a few minutes later and experienced a heart- stopping moment of anxiety when he found her room empty. He didn't know if he could stand it if she were in surgery. The nurses looked knowingly at each other when he approached the desk. Agent Mulder was working up to another tirade. They forestalled it swiftly by passing on Scully's message. Dr. Timothy was just making himself comfortable at a table with Scully when Mulder walked in. He caught sight of them immediately and walked over with measured steps. Scully made the introductions. "Look," she called, waving her left arm. "I'm de-accessorized. This is Dr. Alan Timothy. He's a specialist in infectious diseases here. Dr. Timothy, this is my partner, Mulder." Mulder addressed Scully first. "Scully, you're looking good. Whenever they unhook the old IV I know the patient is almost out the door. Hello, doctor," he directed at Dr. Timothy in a preoccupied manner. He turned back to Scully. "What do you think of this, Scully? I overheard a couple of nurses gossiping at the emergency room desk. Some paramedics are on their way in with a guy who has a high fever and bloody vomit and diarrhea. The story is that he got off a flight from Kenya two days ago and that a week before that he was exploring Kitum Cave." Dr. Timothy tensed up like a cat that hears the hum of the can opener. "I think you'd better excuse me. Perhaps I should be at hand. For consultation. I'd like to get with you later, though, Dr. Scully," he explained swiftly. As soon as he exited by the side door Mulder seized the handles of Scully's wheelchair and propelled it toward the main door. He was muttering something like "bet he would" under his breath. She clung to the armrests tightly because Mulder was setting a rapid pace. He stopped at a single elevator and pressed the button. "Do they have adequate containment facilities for a patient like that here?" Scully asked concernedly. "Don't worry about it. I made it up." Scully opened her mouth, then shut it, and then opened it again. "Is there an emergency we need to deal with?" she inquired. "No, no emergency. I just wanted to talk to you without young Dr. Kildare hovering." This took Scully's breath away. What had gotten into him? Usually Mulder couldn't move fast enough to push her into the path of some supposedly attractive man. Then he'd make the motions of fading into the background. That was the part that never quite worked. Some irresistibly strange or urgent investigation always seemed to disrupt any plans she made. He rolled her chair into the elevator and selected the top floor. When they left the elevator he went to the double doors straight ahead and entered a code in the electronic lock. The handle yielded to his touch. A sign on the door identified it as the Executive Board Conference Room. "Deplorable lack of security here. The housekeeping staff is underpaid and susceptible to insultingly low bribes," he observed as he forced the wheelchair across the threshold. The carpet was so luxurious that the chair wouldn't roll easily. He swept Scully out of it and carried her over to a well-padded chair beside one of the floor to ceiling windows. For one moment he gave in to his desire to prolong their practical embrace. He was going to miss these opportunities to make physical contact as her foot healed enough to allow walking. As deliberately as possible he settled her in the chair. The room was flooded with the red-gold rays of the setting sun. Miami, in all its beauty and squalor, was laid out beneath them. It was a glorious panorama of city and harbor. Mulder took up a position behind Scully's chair and put his hands on the back of it. He had made up his mind to be brave. "When I thought you were dead I had a lot of regrets. The sun rose right after Bill told me. It was the most beautiful dawn I'd ever seen. Do you know the only sunrises we've seen together were on scuzzy stakeouts in alleys, or in some monster-infested wilderness? This is a sunset, but I think the principle is the same. Scully I know I've been. . .distant, and difficult. I was afraid of myself, but it's not worth it." Scully reached up over her shoulder and laid her right hand over his. "I know what you mean. We should be good to each other. Even people who take fewer risks than we do end up kicking themselves for missed opportunities and unkindness that can never be made up. We should know better." "I talked to Skinner today," Mulder went on. "They've made no progress with the arson investigation. They're not going to re-open the X-files. We'll be assigned together as partners to different teams on an as-needed basis." "I'm sorry Mulder. But don't give up hope. There are still people out there who will try to support you." "It's all right. I realized I can get along without the X-files. The work can be done without them. You're my partner. I've still got you. I'll be OK." Then he astonished her by asking "How about you? Will you be OK?" Scully knew his question deserved a thoughtful answer. There was something more behind it than either of them acknowledged. "Yes. I need to change too. We'll learn to be better for each other." They watched peacefully as the sun slipped below the horizon and the city lights became visible in the twilight. "Did you ever read the papers in my briefcase?" Scully asked dreamily. "No. I never had the time. Anyway I wasn't prepared to admit you were dead. Would they tell me anything I don't already know?" "Maybe not." Mulder had more to say, but he was happy with the progress he had already made. He knew he could face down his own fears. There would come a time when Scully would be ready to hear him. He thought about it and smiled into the twilight. His nightmare had lost the power to frighten him. Now that they were in flight it was more exhilarating than scary. Skydancing. *************************************** I did the dragon's will until you came Because I had fancied love a casual Improvisation, or a settled game That followed if I let the kerchief fall: Those deeds were best that gave the minute wings And heavenly music if they gave it wit; And then you stood among the dragon-rings. I mocked, being crazy, but you mastered it And broke the chain and set my ankles free, Saint George or else a pagan Perseus; And now we stare astonished at the sea, And a miraculous strange bird shrieks at us. "Her Triumph" by W.B. Yeats ********************************************************************** ********************************************************************** THE FOLLOWING IS A SIDE TRIP INTO BILL SCULLY'S MIND THAT TAKES PLACE WHILE HE IS RECOUNTING EVENTS ON XIBALBA TO MULDER. "The Trainer," Vignette based on "Being Crazy" Name: Branwell E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET Please forward to XFF, Gossamer, and ATXC Date Finished: December 29, 1998 Rating: PG Category: V and A, for a Vignette with Angst. I have a really tough time with this labeling, so let me know how to improve it if I'm misleading people. Archiving permission: Anyone may feel free to archive this. Just keep my name with it. Time: Set between "The End" and "The X-Files Fight the Future" Spoilers: Season Three, especially "Paper Clip" Summary: Bill Scully thinks about his relationship with his sisters and how he affected their lives. I wanted to explore his thoughts, but I thought it slowed the narrative too much to leave it in the story. It was originally in the middle of Chapter 37, More Choices. "It was me that helped make her so tough you know." Mulder was prepared to concede that point. He was just the person who had benefited from and reinforced that characteristic. Bill had gone into a brown study. Mulder permitted silence rather than goading Bill on to inflict more misery on both of them with his narrative. A brief pause would make no difference now Bill was remembering an incident from close to thirty years ago. He had been eleven, almost twelve. During that period life in the Scully household had alternated between chaos, when his father was absent, and order, when he was present. During the absences, fighting with each other was an ingrained habit among the children. They hit, kicked and pinched when within reach of each other as spontaneously as they sneezed in a cloud of dust. Their mother had given up refereeing long ago. If no one had to go to the doctor, they could pretty well get away with it. Universal guilt led to one ironclad rule: No tattling. The level of violence was usually contained, but once in a while someone got carried away. From the perspective of an adult, Bill realized that the day he remembered had been unusually bad for him. His father had discovered his bike outside when he left for work that morning. Two weeks grounded with extra yard work was the automatic penalty. On the way to school that day he had been jumped on by "Beefy" Bonaducci, and gotten his shirt pocket torn in the fight. His Mom would lay into him about that, since he would have to tell her that it was an accident. Unless he wanted Beefy's big brothers to show him what suffering really was. The English test he got back had a great big 'D' at the top. When he returned home that afternoon he didn't have any good feelings to pass on to his unlucky brother and sisters. He punched Charlie around until he cried and kept pulling Missy's hair until she raked him with her nails. It was Dana who made the most satisfactory target. She wouldn't fight him like a girl. He outweighed her by twenty pounds, and had five inches in height on her. He could always count on a definitive victory, but he could never make her cry. That day he decided that instead of fighting he would make her cry. It took him only a few minutes to get her pinned. He proceeded to administer an Indian burn that flushed her face with the sting. When she still wouldn't cry, he lost his usual restraint, and sense of self-preservation. He kept on trying for another fifteen minutes, up and down her arms, while she stubbornly glared at him and bit her lips. What was he going to do? It was a point of honor now. Just when he thought his hands were too tired to wring her small limbs one more time, he heard his mother's footsteps approaching. This was the equivalent of the king ending the combat. Honor was satisfied. He took off out the other door to the room, while Dana tried to give the impression of someone looking for a lost item on the floor. One way or another, Bill blew off the rest of the steam he needed to vent that day. The next day while they were getting ready for school he heard Dana and Missy in their room. They were arguing. "You should tell, Dana. He really hurt you. He deserves to be punished." He peeked into their room with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dana was wearing a sleeveless cotton T-shirt. Bill was horrified to see dark purple bruises all over her arms. It looked as though she had been beaten. She was removing a long-sleeved shirt from a hanger. "I don't want him to think I'm a sissy," she replied fiercely. "I'm a not a sissy. Only sissies cry and tell on each other." He had walked away shaking in his shoes. If his father saw those bruises on Dana, it wouldn't be grounding or yard work. It would be a session in the bedroom with his father and his father's belt. He was at her mercy. Over the next week she managed to keep her arms covered until the bruises faded enough to be explained as the result of falling off a swing. What surprised him most was that she didn't taunt him with her generosity, or exact retribution. The incident didn't stop him from fighting with all of them as usual, but he stayed well within their mutually understood limits. It was only after he grew up that he could appreciate the irony. If another youth had inflicted such bruises on Dana he would have exacted nothing less than two black eyes and a cut lip in reparation. Several years later the two wiry, boisterous girl-children he had grown up with so intimately had disappeared into mysterious, withdrawn women. Sometimes he thought it had happened overnight. One day they were admiring and copying his batting swing, the next day they were whispering about important female secrets. His exploits and interests were suddenly boring, immature and yucky. That wasn't so bad though. His feelings about girls were changing too. Sometimes he felt some very confusing things about his sisters and their budding figures. What hurt was seeing the lives they led when they left the shelter of the Scully home. He and Charlie embraced the structure and balance of the Navy. Their lives were well-organized and reflected the kind of self-respect a person needed in a world without built-in values. Melissa had gone totally wild, travelling from place to place, undoubtedly shacking up whenever she felt the urge. It bothered him even more when he thought that she might hook up with some jokers just for their shacks. It wasn't right that men were taking advantage of his sister. Why did she let them? Why didn't she make something of herself? Instead she devoted herself to fuzzy thinking and feel-good philosophies. Dana had gone in the opposite direction. She always had been reserved, disciplined and hard working, on top of being the smartest of them all. Naturally she went to med school. But the success was deceptive. She had no balance in her life either. With her it was work, work, work. No dalliances, not even many dates. His father was surprised, but he was not, when she took her medical degree to the FBI. She had gotten bored, and looked to her work for excitement. She got excitement all right. And a lot of horror. And she got taken advantage of by a man who didn't even want her as a woman. All he wanted was every ounce of her energy, her last drop of blood and her last breath in service to his personal crusade to prove that aliens had abducted his sister. Now Bill wasn't so sure he had grasped that relationship in its entirety. Still, he was sure it had done no good for Dana. Sometimes he searched his conscience. Was he an innocent bystander in his sisters' lives? Did he have something to do with the paths they chose? Yesterday he had seen that fiercely determined and independent little sister of long ago peering out at him through the grown woman's face. A short time later Dana was gone, following her big sister into the unknown. There was no transformation this time---it was a complete disappearing act. Had her fate been written already when they had their contest of wills in that shabby old living room?