Mortal Stakes, an X-Files novel by Brandon D. Ray (publius@avalon.net) BEGUN: April 3, 2001 FINISHED: July 8, 2001 FEEDBACK: I live for it. But you already knew that, right?? ========== SUMMARY: "Duty calls," Mulder said, reaching down and pulling her up after him. "There's been an explosion and fire at the Watergate." "And?" Scully followed him down the hall towards the bedroom. "Why did Skinner call us?" "This is big," her partner replied. "They've already recovered thirty bodies, and it's sure to go higher. He said it could be another Oklahoma City." CATEGORIES: X-File (Mytharc), Romance, Angst. KEYWORDS: MSR. MulderAngst. ScullyAngst. Mild MulderTorture. Slash (f/f). SPOILER STATEMENT: Anything up through "Je Souhaite" is fair game. TIMELINE: Set sometime after "Je Souhaite". "Requiem" hasn't happened -- yet, or at all. Take your pick. ;) RATING: [MA] CONTENT STATEMENT: Explicit sex -- always between consenting adults. Graphic violence. R-rated depictions of and references to sex acts that some people might consider to be non-consensual, and also to people under 18 having sex with adults (which may constitute statutory rape, depending on where you live). R-rated depictions of and references to incest and slash (f/f). Ugly little bugger, isn't it? It's not that bad, I swear -- I'm just trying to be inclusive. ;) ========== THANKS AND CREDITS: To Sharon for helping me kick this idea into shape, and to Sharon & CindyET for the usual encouragement and beta reading along the way. And of course, to everyone at I-Want-to-Believe, PhoeniXFic and the Haven, for all their support and encouragement. ========== DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never will be. I had a really witty, biting disclaimer written, and then CC went and gave us "Existence", and bought me off again. I am *such* a sucker. AND FINALLY: A note on a matter of some minor controversy. This story is set towards the end of Season 7, but Mulder still has his waterbed -- including the mirror. Yes, I know we saw a normal mattress at the end of S6 and during S7 and S8. But if CC can't keep it straight where the bathroom is in Mulder's apartment, why should *I* be held to a higher standard? ;) ==========END HEADERS AND NOTES========== Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes, Is the deed ever really done For Heaven and the future's sakes. -- Robert Frost "Two Tramps in Mud Time" =========== Prologue =========== The Watergate Hotel Washington, DC Friday, August 4, 2000 11:02 p.m. She's stretched out on the bed, nude, her head propped up on one hand, watching the man next to her as he struggles for life. There isn't always time for this; sometimes they're in too much of a hurry. But when circumstances allow, this is definitely her favorite part. It's better than anything -- even better than sex. She likes to watch them die. The man's face is purple as he fights to breathe. His wrists and ankles are manacled -- that was part of the game they were playing. Or so he thought. Of course, now he knows better, but it's too late. His body flexes, his hips jerking spasmodically in a gruesome parody of the sex act. He even has another hardon. But it will all be for naught. She feels her own arousal building again as she watches his death throes, reminding her of what happened in this bed just a short while ago. It was especially delicious, knowing as she did that the man had only a few minutes more to live. She so badly wanted to whisper that in his ear, to tell him in short, graphic, brutal words what was about to happen to him, but she couldn't. He might still have been able to get away, and that would have been totally unacceptable. But at least she has her fantasies. She lifts her gaze briefly from the dying man, and looks at her partner, also nude, lying on their victim's other side. The other woman's expression is just as rapt and captivated as she knows her own to be. Her skin is flushed, her pupils dilated, and the very tip of tongue extrudes delicately from between her lips. She is smiling. And she is beautiful. This is the eighth time they've done this together. The eighth time they've lured someone into bed, sated them with sex, and killed them. She closes her eyes and dreamily remembers the others. Some were young; some were old. Most were white, but two were black -- and this one is Asian. Two were women, and in some ways she liked them best of all. Each was unique in life -- but in dying they became the same. Beautifully, gorgeously the same. Turning her attention back to the man next to her, she sees that his struggles are weakening. Soon, all too soon, it will be over. On a whim, she reaches out and tickles the inside of his thigh -- then pouts as she realizes that he's beyond noticing. She wasted too much time on her revery, and let an opportunity go to waste. Oh well. There will be others. And then, abruptly, it's over. The man's body jerks twice more, convulsing against its bonds, then ejaculates and relaxes into death, sagging down into the mattress. She emits a happy sigh, and once more raises her eyes, to see that her partner now is looking back at her, a contented smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. No words are necessary. The two women rise from the bed and go about retrieving their clothes, laughing softly and knowingly as they each grab the same pair of panties at the same instant. Undressing was rather hectic, and now everything is scattered carelessly about the room. Nevertheless, in only a minute or two they're both fully dressed and ready to leave. Only one thing left to do; only one task remaining. Previously they left their victims quietly, but this time they have something bigger planned. Moving with calm assurance they take the two canisters of gasoline from their hiding place in the closet and drag them out into the hall. There's no one there -- somehow, the two women knew there wouldn't be -- and they proceed to douse the length of the hallway, splashing a little extra on each door. They return to their room and retrieve the two thermite bombs, setting the timers and splitting up just long enough to place one at each end of the hallway. They meet again at the elevators, where they share an intense, erotic kiss, breaking the clench only when the car arrives. They step onto the elevator, and the doors slide closed. Eight down, and only three more to go. ==========END PROLOGUE========== =========== Chapter One =========== Residence of Fox Mulder Alexandria, Virginia Saturday, August 5, 2000 1:41 a.m. It was hot. It was so terribly, terribly hot. Scully tossed restlessly in the bed. She'd long since stripped off her clothes and kicked away the covers, but the sheet beneath her was soaked with sweat, nevertheless. She'd come over to Mulder's in the first place because her air conditioner was broken. He had the thermostat on his waterbed turned all the way off, and the windows wide open, but it wasn't helping. Almost two in the morning, and she was willing to bet that the temperature was still over a hundred. "Scully?" Her partner's voice came to her from the far side of the bed, soft and tentative. "Sorry," she whispered back. "I didn't mean to wake you." "You didn't," he answered. "I can't sleep either." A quiet chuckle. "And it's too damned hot to do what I'd *really* like to be doing right at the moment." She laughed with him. "God, Mulder, how can you even *think* about sex at a time like this?" "Scully, I can *always* think about sex." He reached across the bed and carefully ran the tip of his finger along her jaw line, making the least contact possible, apparently out of deference to the heat, but nevertheless sending a shiver down her spine. "And so can you. Don't try to lie to me. You're no good at it." She snorted. "Sure. Fine. Whatever." She sighed and rolled onto her back, staring up at the mirror. She'd been a little taken aback the first time they'd made love, but over the past few months she'd come to appreciate it, somewhat to her surprise. So much so that when Mulder casually mentioned taking it down, she'd tromped on the idea. By the dim light of the street light she could just make out their two bodies, lying on opposite sides of the bed, both naked. It took only a slight tweaking of her imagination to place Mulder's body over her own, his hips moving rhythmically, her ankles hooked together behind his ass, her fingernails digging into his shoulders -- "Okay," she admitted in good humor, banishing the image as best she could. "You win. You're right." She turned onto her side to face him, and with mock severity she added, "But don't let it get around that I told you you're right about something. I have a reputation to uphold, you know." "Your secret is safe with me, Scully." He was silent for a moment, then rolled onto his back and groaned. "Christ, it's hot. Maybe we should take another bath." "What we really should have done is check into a hotel," she replied. "Or gone to visit my mother." "Oh, right," Mulder said. "I can just see us descending on your mother's house --" "I thought you liked my mother!" "Oh, I do, I do. But I also like sleeping with her daughter, and I'd feel funny about doing it under her roof." Scully rolled her eyes. "It's not as if you're getting any real benefit from it tonight, Mulder." She shrugged. "Besides, we could have gone to a hotel. And then maybe you *would* have gotten lucky." "Scully, I *always* benefit from sleeping with you." There was a moment of silence, while Scully blinked back sudden tears. How did he do that so easily? She'd never been overly sentimental; in her previous relationships she'd prided herself on her practicality and clearheadedness. But Mulder was consistently able to reach out and touch her heart with just a few words. It made her feel uncomfortable and vulnerable -- but at the same time, it made her feel very, very loved. She felt the mattress shift. Turning her attention back to Mulder, she saw that he had rolled out of bed and was now heading for the door. "Where are you going?" "We're not getting any sleep," he replied, pausing in the doorway. She allowed her eyes to drink in his gloriously nude form. All right, yes. It was most definitely true. When it came to Fox Mulder, Dana Scully could *always* think about sex. "We may as well be doing something," he went on. That crinkly smile that she loved so much touched his lips. "C'mon. There's still some iced tea in the fridge, and maybe we can find a movie on cable or something. Anything's better than just lying here sweating." A few minutes later they were sitting on the floor in front of his sofa. Mulder had popped his copy of the 1951 version of 'The Thing' into the VCR -- "because it will make us feel cooler" -- and now he was seated behind her, caressing her neck and shoulders with a cold, wet washcloth. "Mmm." Scully felt drugged, and almost -- not quite, but almost -- comfortable. "You know, Mulder, if you'd shown this much sensitivity and consideration when we met, we both could have avoided a lot of lonely nights." "Oh, so it's my fault?" She heard him chuckle, and the washcloth dipped down to trace the ridge of her spine. Scully arched her back in approval. "It's all my fault?" he persisted. "I think you forget, Agent Scully. *I* was the one who --" The ringing of the telephone cut him off, eliciting a groan of annoyance. "It's probably your mother," he commented. "She knew we were talking about her, and --" "My mother?" The phone rang a second time. "Why would she be calling at this time of night? And why would she be calling me at *your* apartment on *your* phone? It's more likely one of those phone sex services -- and don't try to deny that you still call them. I've seen your Visa statement." The phone rang a third time, and they both spoke in unison. "Skinner." She felt him shifting his position, and she reluctantly scooted forward to avoid contact. It was still just too damned hot. Then she heard him answering the phone. "That's quite all right, sir; I wasn't asleep .... Yes, Scully's here. Her a/c is on the blink .... Okay .... Okay .... Shit, okay .... Yeah, we'll be there in thirty minutes." Then she heard the sound of the phone being returned to its cradle. Seconds later, Mulder was struggling to his feet. "Mulder?" "Duty calls," he said, reaching down and pulling her up after him. "There's been an explosion and fire at the Watergate." "And?" She followed him down the hall towards the bedroom. "Why did he call us?" "This is big," her partner replied. "They've already recovered thirty bodies, and it's sure to go higher. Skinner said it could be another Oklahoma City." He opened a bureau drawer and started pulling out clothes. "Jesus." She glanced around the room, and spotted her overnight bag sitting in one corner. She grabbed it and tossed it up on the bed. She hadn't brought work clothes; jeans and a t-shirt were going to have to do. "Yeah," Mulder said. "ATF is in charge so far, but all the agencies are pitching in. Skinner was asked to contribute a dozen agents. He said you'll probably be needed for autopsy duty, but for the moment he wants us to get on over to the site." # # # The Watergate Hotel Washington, DC 2:53 a.m. The fire was out by the time they arrived, although it was a little hard to tell, due to the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. Ambulances stood waiting in line, with paramedics at the ready, while fire trucks and police squad cars were scattered liberally about the scene. Radios squawked constantly, the voices of rescue workers blended into a steady babble of confused background noise, and the lights of television crews only added to the chaos. The combination of light, sound and smoke reminded Mulder of nothing quite so much as medieval visions of hell. It was hot enough for hell, too, he thought, following Scully as she pushed her way through the crowd of onlookers in the direction of the Watergate. The Washington area was in the second week of one of the worst heat waves in fifty years, and as the partners approached the scene Mulder felt as if he were walking through a furnace. He was already coming to regret the hasty decision to put on a suit and tie -- "Hey there, honey -- better stay back!" Mulder stutter-stepped as a man seemed to materialize from nowhere to grab Scully's elbow, just as she was about to duck under the yellow crime scene tape. His hand automatically went to his weapon -- but then he relaxed, as he realized the man intended no harm. "Scully, FBI," his partner was saying, flashing her badge at the stranger. He was a tall, beefy man with a blond crewcut that was starting to turn gray, and soft, indistinct features. Like Mulder, he wore a suit and tie, although his clothes were smeared with dirt and soot, and he seemed to radiate authority from every pore. Mulder disliked him on sight. "From the Bureau?" His eyebrows moved slightly and he hesitated, apparently unsure how to respond. "Yes," Scully answered coolly. She repeated, "I'm Special Agent Scully." A jerk of her head towards Mulder. "This is my partner, Special Agent Mulder. And you are?" The man seemed to notice Mulder for the first time. "Oh, uh ... Agent Mulder?" He let go of Scully's elbow and extended his hand. "Bob Griggs, ATF. I'm in charge of this madhouse. I knew the Bureau was sending some people, but I didn't expect ...." His voice trailed off, and his gaze flicked to Scully, then away again, too quickly to notice that Scully's eyes had narrowed. Buddy, Mulder thought, you are about one more stupid remark away from getting your balls ripped off and handed to you. Apparently the man realized it, because the next words out of his mouth were conciliatory. "Sorry," he said. "Tired and stressed." With firm professionalism, but still addressing Mulder, he continued, "Yeah, we've been expecting you -- you and about ten others. You're the first to arrive." "Okay," Mulder responded. "Where do you want us?" He nodded in the direction of the building. "It looks pretty bad." "It's a fucking disaster," Griggs said. "Forty-five bodies so far, and god knows how many injured. Half a dozen members of Congress live here, along with a couple of Cabinet secretaries. We haven't even started on identifications yet." He scrubbed his face with his hands, smearing the soot and dirt around in the process. "Look, I've got some of my own people trying to interview survivors and witnesses, but right now we're mostly doing search and rescue." His gaze flickered, as he obviously struggled not to look at Scully again. "If you two think you're up to --" "We can handle it," Scully said coolly, cutting him off. "My partner's a doctor," Mulder added. "Do you have any triage activity --" "The aid station's fully staffed," Griggs said briefly. "It's mostly traffic control at the moment -- deciding who goes to GUMC, who goes to Bethesda, and so on." He looked Scully square in the eye. His cell phone shrilled; as he reached for it, he added hurriedly, "Search and rescue's what we need. Look for Special Agent Bothwell, at the far end of the complex. He's coordinating." He flipped open the phone and punched the CONNECT button. "Griggs .... Yeah, Tommy, go ahead --" Mulder allowed Scully to take his elbow and lead him away from Griggs, striding in the direction the man had indicated. For a moment or two they walked in silence. Finally, Mulder shook his head. "Jesus. That guy was a moron. For a minute there I thought he was going to assign you to the typing pool." "What do you expect?" Scully replied, giving a little smirk. "He was ATF." Mulder snorted with amusement. It was an article of faith among FBI agents that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms was staffed by Bureau rejects. There was even some truth to the belief, since an assignment with the FBI was arguably the most prestigious job in American law enforcement. As with most such things, though, the distinction was overrated. Mulder shook his head again, dismissing the thoughts from his mind. No time for that crap now. He turned his attention outwards, and took his first real look at the building. The Watergate had been built around 1970, and featured the sort of looping, irregular architecture that was characteristic of that period. It was about a dozen stories tall, with balconies scattered at seemingly random intervals. A handful of trees were strategically placed about the grounds. With the fire out, in the dark of night, the building looked almost incongruously normal, in stark contrast to the frantic activity and flashing lights of emergency workers. "You Mulder and Scully?" Mulder looked around, and saw that the speaker was an extraordinarily tall black man, perhaps six and a half feet tall. He was broad and well-muscled, weighing easily 300 pounds, and none of it was flab. Sweat poured down his face, but he didn't seem to notice. Everyone was sweating tonight. "Steve Bothwell," the other man went on. He briefly shook Mulder's hand, then Scully's. "Either one of you got any medical training? Aid station's absolutely swamped -- about to go under for the third time." "I'm a doctor," Scully answered. "But we were told by Agent Griggs there was no need --" "Dunno why he said that," Bothwell said. Something flickered in his eyes, but it was there and gone so quickly Mulder had no opportunity to figure out what it was. He spoke in short, clipped sentences, and now focused his gaze firmly on Scully. "You're a doc, that's the best news I've heard in hours." He jerked his head in the direction of the cluster of ambulances. "Station's over there," he added. "Have at it." He turned his attention on Mulder. "As for you -- search and rescue?" "Whatever's needed," Mulder replied. "Where?" "Just a sec." The man turned towards the building and waved an arm. "Sonny!" he bellowed, somehow making himself heard over the background noise. "Hold up! We got another live one!" Another man, about thirty yards away, stepped away from the small group of people he was with and waved his own arm in return. "There ya go, Agent Mulder," Bothwell said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Best goddamn crew on the site." His eyes crinkled. "They're all the best goddamn crew." The smile died, he nodded sharply, and turned and disappeared into the crowd. Mulder turned to Scully. "Best goddamn crew on the site," Mulder intoned, mimicking Bothwell's deep bass voice. Allowing his own voice to return to normal: "I wonder why Griggs said the aid station didn't need help?" "Maybe he didn't know," Scully offered with a shrug. "Maybe he's an asshole," Mulder replied. "Always a possibility," she agreed with a sober nod. "After all, he *is* ATF." She sighed, and glanced over at the building. "Well, it looks like we've both got our work cut out for us. Be careful, Mulder." "You too, Scully." And he turned and walked away. ==========END CHAPTER ONE========== =========== Chapter Two =========== The Watergate Hotel Washington, DC Saturday, August 5, 2000 3:19 a.m. The power was out in the Watergate, so the rescue crews had to make do with flashlights. There'd been a short delay while Mulder was issued safety equipment: a fire-resistent coat that was too large, a pair of heavy work gloves that were too small, safety goggles and a hard hat, and an oxygen tank and mask. The outfit was cumbersome, and hot as hell, but Mulder understood the necessity for it. He was then handed an ax, and warned against using his cell phone. "Most of the building has been cleared for search and rescue," Special Agent Sonny Lackland of the ATF explained. He was a short, graying man in his late forties or early fifties. "But it's not risk-free, and the bomb squad can't be sure that there isn't another device in there somewhere. We can't risk any unnecessary transmissions." He gestured at the ax. "We're doing this quick and dirty. Check the door for hot spots. If it's clear, smash it open. Most of the people you find are gonna be smoke inhalation victims. Anybody who looks like they're still breathing gets priority. We have crews with litters stationed in all the stairwells. Any questions?" Mulder shook his head. "All right then." Lackland clapped his hands, and turned to the rest of the group -- three men and one woman, wearing the same gear as Mulder. "Let's move, people. We're gonna work the fourth floor." The small band made their way to one of the fire exits. The other members of the group had already been paired off into teams; Mulder found himself assigned to work with Agent Lackland. "First and second floors are already finished," the other man explained. "We got a crew working five, and another one's assembling at this moment to tackle six. The fire department hasn't cleared three for rescue work yet -- they think that's where the fire started." He squinted at Mulder in the dimness, as they stepped through the doorway and into the stairwell. It was nearly pitch dark, relieved only by the beams of their flashlights, and the smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. Lackland and the others slipped on their oxygen masks; Mulder followed suit. "Have you found any survivors?" Mulder asked, as they started up the stairs. His voice echoed oddly in the mask. "Damn few," the ATF man replied. His shoulders moved as he took a turn through the second floor landing. "There was some sort of shindig going on in the main ballroom. Wedding rehearsal party, I think. We actually found some alive in there. A lot of dead, too. So far, the floors above that have been a complete loss." The six of them arrived on the fourth floor landing, a clatter of disorganized footsteps. Lackland made his way to the front of the group and hastily but carefully checked the door that led into the corridor for hot spots. "Safe," he muttered. He tried the doorknob, but it didn't move. "Shit. Another one. Stand back, people." Lackland's ax crashed against the door once, twice, three times; the door shuddered and popped open, allowing a dense cloud of smoke to swirl out around them. There were half a dozen bodies sprawled on the floor, in various stages of dress. Lackland and Mulder dropped to their knees and began checking them for signs of life, while the rest of the group stepped past them and moved on down the hall. "Why was the fire exit locked?" Mulder asked, trying to distract himself from the gruesome task at hand. The first victim was an elderly man dressed in a robe and pajamas. No pulse, no respiration. Mulder moved on to the next -- a woman, similarly attired, apparently the man's wife. Even in death, she clutched her husband's hand tightly as they huddled together against the wall. With his free hand, the man still held a handkerchief over the woman's mouth and nose. "It wasn't locked," Lackland grunted, moving from one victim to the next. "Asshole who did this was nothing if not thorough -- squirted some kind of epoxy on the latches of the fire doors. Guess he wanted to make sure no one left the party early." He shook his head in apparent disgust. "All dead." He rose to his feet. "C'mon. It's gonna be a long night." Another shake of the head. "Hell, it already is." # # # 3:52 a.m. Scully hurried forward under the harsh glare of the floodlights, as a couple of paramedics brought another victim from the hotel. "What've you got?" she asked. Even as she spoke the words, she was examining the patient: a heavy set blonde woman in her early to mid 20s. She was lying motionless on the litter, her eye closed, with an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. She did not appear to be breathing. "They found her on four," one of the paramedics replied. Scully vaguely remembered from previous trips that his name was Johnny something. "Pulse weak, respers shallow and irregular. She went into respiratory arrest while we were carrying her down the stairwell. O2 sat ... shit, it's only 72." "Her airway's probably swollen shut," Scully said. She leaned down over the woman, and saw that there were burn marks around her mouth and nose, which meant she'd probably inhaled some fire. "How long will it take to get her to Georgetown?" "Best run so far has been thirteen minutes," Johnny answered. "She hasn't got thirteen minutes," Scully said, shaking her head. Probable burns in the upper airway, which meant an endotracheal tube was out of the question -- and she didn't have one anyway. No time, no time -- "Get me some alcohol and a scalpel. Now!" After an eternity of perhaps thirty seconds, the paramedic handed her the requested items. Scully twisted the bottle of alcohol open and poured it directly over the victim's throat, then dropped the bottle on the ground. She hesitated for a second, the tip of the scalpel blade poised. She had to get this just right, and there wouldn't be a second chance -- "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Scully glanced over her shoulder, to see Agent Griggs striding rapidly towards her. "I'm trying to save this woman's life," Scully answered, turning back to her patient. "Her airway's blocked, and --" "She needs to get to the hospital," Griggs interrupted, grabbing her elbow and yanking her back a step. "If she's not breathing, she needs a doctor." "I *am* a doctor," Scully snapped, gritting her teeth. She pulled her arm free. "If we don't do something about her airway *now* she'll be dead before she hits the E.R. door -- and *you* will be responsible." Something flickered in the man's eyes, and for a second she thought he was going to continue the argument. Then he raised his hands and took a step back. Scully wasted no more time on him, turned back to her patient and, without giving herself time for self-doubt, quickly and carefully made an incision at the base of the woman's throat. # # # 4:31 a.m. Agent Lackland stood to one side, and Mulder swung his ax at the locked hotel room door. Two blows, and the door came completely off its hinges, crashing inwards with a dull thump. Mulder stepped over the fallen door, with the other man close on his heels. They'd finally been allowed onto the third floor, and you didn't have to be on the arson squad to know that this was where the fire had started. There were scorch marks on the walls and ceiling, the carpeting was badly burned, and there was structural damage in a couple of places, where some sort of explosions had obviously taken place. The floors creaked menacingly every time they took a step. The bodies they'd found on this floor had also been badly burned, and the one in this room was no exception. This one was male, a fact that was evident only because it was naked. It was twisted into a cramped, uncomfortable position -- "Jesus!" Mulder's eyes widened, and he crawled up onto the bed for a closer look. The man's wrists were handcuffed behind his back, and his ankles were manacled as well. His mouth was wide open, as if he'd been screaming or gasping for breath when he died. "What've you got?" Lackland asked, moving closer. "Another deader?" "Yeah," Mulder answered. "But this one's different." He showed the ATF man what he'd found. "I think we'd better get this one downstairs ASAP." "I dunno, Mulder," the other man said slowly. "Could just be some sex game, and when the fire started his partner ran out on him." "I could be that," Mulder agreed. "But it could also be connected with the fire. And with the damage on this floor, I don't think we can count on the body remaining undisturbed." As if to emphasize his words, there was another low creaking groan from the floor. Lackland frowned, then nodded, and stepped back into the hallway. A few seconds later he reappeared. "No one available," he said briefly. "We're gonna have to do it ourselves." Mulder wrinkled his nose, but made no verbal objection. What had to be done, had to be done. The two men quickly positioned themselves on opposite sides of the bed. The top sheet and blanket had been badly burned, but the bottom sheet was only scorched, and in less than a minute they were able to form it into a sort of papoose, and lift the body from the bed. Slowly, carefully, they started moving towards the doorway. They were two steps short of their goal when the building groaned yet again. There was a loud tearing sound, followed by a loud CRACK! The floor sagged under his feet, and before he had time to react he was falling -- He came to an abrupt stop, and his shoulders wrenched in their sockets. Sharp pain lanced through his arms and down his back. The muscles in his forearms strained mightily, his fingers clutched desperately at something soft. His body was swinging gently, back and forth, back and forth .... The sheet. He was holding onto the bed sheet. Looking up, Mulder saw a jagged hole, and realized that the floor had given way, and that he was now hanging down precariously into the room below. Even as he was working this out, Lackland's face appeared in the gap above. "Mulder? You okay?" "Uh ... yeah. Yeah, I think so." Mulder shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and instantly regretted it, as a wave of nausea swept through his system. Shit. A concussion. He must have hit his head on the edge of the hole as he fell. "Mulder?" "Y-yeah. Yeah," Mulder repeated. "I'm okay. Just pull me out, will ya?" "I don't think so," Lackland replied. "I don't trust the floor." "Okay. So what do we do?" Mulder felt his grip slipping on the sheet; the bulky gloves were making it difficult to hold on. "Whatever it is, it better be quick." "You're only about three, four feet off the floor," the other man pointed out. "I'm gonna try to lower you down --" There was a sudden, loud tearing sound, and Mulder felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. An instant later he hit the floor, and a fresh jolt of pain spasmed up his right leg. "Fuck!" Mulder took a few seconds to catch his breath; then, ignoring the throbbing pain in his right ankle, he rolled onto his belly and tried to scramble to his feet. But as soon as he put weight on his right foot, the pain in his ankle intensified to white hot agony, and he collapsed once again to the floor. "Mulder? Jesus, Mulder, I'm sorry -- the damn sheet got snagged. Hang on." There was a rustling sound from above, and again the ceiling creaked and groaned. A few seconds later there was a dull thump, as Lackland chinned himself down through the hole and dropped to the floor next to Mulder. "Whaddaya got?" the ATF man asked, crouching down beside him. "Right ... right ankle," Mulder gasped, still trying to catch his breath, and wishing that his eyes would focus. Lackland was nothing but a blurry figure hovering over him. "I think it's ... it's broken." Large, gentle fingers carefully explored Mulder's lower right leg, and Mulder gritted his teeth in silence as Lackland probed at the ankle. He felt as if his entire leg was on fire. "Yeah, I think you're right," the other man said at last. "The good news is that I don't see any blood, so I guess you didn't break the skin." He stood up, adding, "Sit tight; I'm gonna find some help, and we'll get you downstairs to the aid station." "Like I've got any choice," Mulder muttered. But the other man was already gone. ==========END CHAPTER TWO========== =========== Chapter Three =========== The Watergate Hotel Washington, DC Saturday, August 5, 2000 5:03 a.m. "Ms. ... uh, Dr. Scully?" "Yes?" Scully turned away from gazing at the wreckage of the Watergate, to see the EMT, Johnny, standing a few feet away. There was a momentary lull in the flow of casualties, and she'd taken the chance to step away from the aid station for a moment and try to catch her breath. "I ... I just wanted to let you know the outcome on that woman. The one you did the trach on," Johnny explained. He was a young-looking man, maybe in his early 20s. He was short, with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and soft brown eyes. His features were delicate, almost to the point of femininity. He shifted uneasily under Scully's gaze, as if he were nervous at the idea of speaking to her. "Yes?" Scully repeated. She was too tired and hot to generate the interest that she knew she should have. She hadn't slept in nearly 24 hours, the last few hours had been extremely stressful, and the heat and humidity weren't helping matters at all. "Well, Dr. Mortenson said -- he's the E.R. doc at Georgetown -- he said to tell you it looks like she's going to be okay." Scully nodded. "Dr. Mortenson said you probably saved her life." Scully waited a moment, but the EMT didn't seem to have anything to add. Finally, she replied, "That's good to know. Thanks for telling me." "You're welcome." Brief pause. "I just ... I just didn't want that other guy ... you know the one --" "Agent Griggs," Scully supplied. "Agent Griggs," Johnny said with careful derision, as if he wanted to be sure to remember the name. "I didn't want him to have the last word." "I appreciate that," Scully said. "But we're all under a lot of stress tonight." "Yeah, well he was still an asshole." The young man nodded, as if confirming that fact for himself. "Yes, he was, and don't try to protect him. He didn't have any business interfering. He was an asshole!" The last comment was delivered as if it were a formal proclamation from the throne, and with such exuberance that Scully couldn't help but give a tired chuckle. "Yes, I guess he was," she agreed. "I just wanted to let you know," Johnny said, his voice returning to normal. "That that woman was going to be okay, I mean." "I appreciate it," Scully said. There was a moment's silence. Then: "Was there anything else?" "Well ...." "Dr. Scully!" Scully turned sharply, and saw two more EMTs hurrying towards the aid station, carrying a third person on a stretcher. She trotted after them. "What have you got?" she asked as she approached. "One of the rescue workers," the lead EMT said briefly. "Looks like a fractured ankle. Maybe a concussion." Scully nodded, and bent over the patient. It was a tall man with longish brown hair, still wearing his protective gear. His face was partially obscured by an oxygen mask, but she'd know those features anywhere. Mulder. "Hey, Scully." He seemed to be trying to smile, but the pain was turning it into more of a grimace. "You'll never guess what happened." "You tripped over your own feet?" she asked. Emotions were warring inside of her. She'd always taken it hard -- harder than she'd ever let her partner know -- when he was hurt. This injury was obviously fairly minor -- as long as there wasn't a head bleed, she reminded herself, thinking about the possible concussion the EMT had reported. But she still had to take a moment to get her thoughts back under control. "Think Chicago, Scully," Mulder said, gasping as her fingers probed delicately at the injured ankle. Felt like a clean break to the tibia, just above the true ankle joint. "Think Harry Weems. Only this time, it was fire instead of water." "You're kidding." Scully looked up from his ankle, and couldn't keep her lips from quivering in amusement. "You fell through the floor? Again?" Mulder ducked his head. "That would be me." He looked up again, and smirked. "You gonna kiss it and make it better? Agent Lackland offered to, but I told him I was saving myself." "I dunno, Mulder," she responded, putting her professional mask back in place and turning her attention back to his ankle. "It looks pretty bad. We may have to amputate." "I don't think my girlfriend would like that, Scully," he said. There was a definite tinge of amusement in his voice. "Oh, I expect she'll manage," Scully answered, maintaining her poker face. She pulled a penlight from her pocket and shined it in each of Mulder's eyes in turn. Equal and reactive. Good. "At least it'll keep you off the streets and out of trouble. For a few weeks, anyway." To the EMTs: "Just put a splint on it, and transport him to Georgetown. Make sure they know about the head injury." They lifted the stretcher and started to walk away, when Scully realized she'd forgotten something and hurried after them. "Keys, Mulder," she said, holding out her hand. "Excuse me?" "Your car keys," she clarified. "We drove your car, remember? I don't want to be stranded here." She snapped her fingers. "Cough 'em up, G-man. You're not going to be up to driving by the time they're through with you, anyway." "Yes, dear." Mulder sighed, then winced in pain as he shifted his position so he could reach his keys. He handed them over, gave her a lewd wink, and then the EMTs lifted the stretcher again, and he was gone. # # # Georgetown University Medical Center Washington, DC 10:53 a.m. Mulder heard her footsteps before he heard anything else. Even in tennis shoes, even through the haze of painkillers, her step was so distinctive to him that there was no possibility of error. And then the door to the exam room opened, and she was there. She looked exhausted. Bags under her eyes, shoulders drooping, and when she leaned against the door frame it was clearly for support, although she tried to strike an air of nonchalance. But there was life in her eyes as her gaze reached out to his. There was always life there when she looked at him, these days. "Mulder," she said, a tired quirk to her lips. "You look like shit." "Same right back atcha, Agent Scully," he replied. "But I bet I feel better than you do. *You* haven't had any drugs." "True." She pushed off from the doorjamb and walked over to him, stopping in front of his wheelchair and crouching down to examine the cast on this foot and ankle. "I guess they didn't have to amputate after all," she commented, straightening up again. "How's your head feeling?" "No worse for the wear. It's not like it's a vital organ, after all." Scully snorted. He went on, "So how soon can we go home?" "The charge nurse said you already signed yourself out, so whenever you're ready," she replied. "They wanted to keep me overnight," Mulder said sourly. "Observation, because of the knock on the head." "She mentioned that," Scully said. "But I guess they know you well enough to realize that it's futile. Anyway, I'm off duty now. Bothwell kicked me loose, but I'm sure Griggs was glad to see me go. I already talked to Skinner, and you're on sick leave until you're off the painkillers, followed by desk duty until the cast comes off." Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "Doctor's orders, Mulder. You try to wiggle out of it, I swear to God I'll find a judge and get you committed." The fond smile took the sting from her words. "Anyway, I report to Quantico for autopsy duty tomorrow morning at seven." "For how long?" "Until my services are no longer required," she said. She stepped behind him and took control of the wheelchair, maneuvering him through the door of the exam room and out into the hall. "The body count was sixty-three when I left, and they still had a couple of floors to go." Another tired smile. "We were lucky it was a Friday night. A lot of people were out for the evening." Scully was now pushing the wheelchair along the hallway towards the emergency exit. They passed a group of nurses, apparently on their way back from a cigarette break, from the scrap of conversation Mulder overheard. He waited until they were out of earshot before speaking again. "What about the guy with the handcuffs? Did you get a look at him?" "Handcuffs?" She stopped long enough to push a large, silver button on the wall that opened the sliding door to the outside, and Mulder winced as the heat rolled over them in waves. It was like walking into a blast furnace; he'd forgotten how hot it was outside, having spent the last several hours in the air conditioned sanctuary of the hospital. He was already beginning to sweat, especially under the cast. Well, nothing to be done about it. He shook his head and returned to the conversation. "The last body we found before my, uh, accident had handcuffs on his ankles and wrists. It was on the floor where the fire started. Lackland and I were trying to bring it out for priority treatment when the floor collapsed." "Sorry, Mulder; I didn't see it." He could almost hear her shrug. "Of course, I was focusing most of my attention on the living at that point. The coroner's office had someone there directing disposition of the dead." "Maybe you'll see him at Quantico." "Maybe." They arrived at Mulder's car. Scully opened the door for him, and hovered anxiously nearby as he used the car door to lever himself out of the wheelchair and into the passenger seat. As he did so, Mulder noticed something in the back seat. "Crutches?" he asked. "Mine?" "Yours." She shut the passenger side door and walked around the car. As she slid in behind the wheel, she added, "I stopped by your apartment and picked them up on my way over. I figured you might want them." She smirked. "And don't worry; I didn't carve another notch on them. I assumed you'd want to do that yourself." "Ha ha," Mulder replied, rolling his eyes. "Scully, my apartment is hardly 'on the way'. You drove from the Watergate to my apartment and then back to Georgetown -- just to get a pair of crutches that I didn't really need just to transfer from a wheelchair to the car, and all so that we could then drive *back* to my apartment?" "We're not going to your apartment, Mulder," Scully replied. She started the engine and began to maneuver through the parking lot towards the street. "We're doing what we should have done last night. We're going someplace cool so we can actually get some rest. I already phoned in a reservation." "Oooh, Scully," Mulder murmured, relaxing into his seat as she pulled out into traffic. "You figure just because you take me to some ritzy hotel with lots of beads and glitter you'll get to have your way with me?" "Beads and glitter, Mulder?" Scully shook her head, chuckling despite her obvious weariness. "Sorry; I didn't have time to stop at Victoria's Secret. You're just going to have to make do." Mulder joined her quiet laughter, then fell silent and allowed his eyes to close. They'd both been up for more than a day, and they'd been through a lot in the past few hours. On top of all that, just before Scully showed up at the hospital he'd been given some Tylenol with codeine, and that, combined with the gentle rocking motion of the car quickly lulled him to sleep. After some indeterminate time he was vaguely aware that they had stopped. There was a brief, confused period of wakefulness while Scully helped him out of the car and into the hotel she'd chosen. But soon he was curled up between silk sheets, and the air was cool and dry. And then something small and soft and warm snuggled up against his back, and consciousness fled. # # # Time and location unknown They take turns being male. Today is her day to be Viola, the woman, while her partner plays Cesario, the man. They got the names from Shakespeare, in a giggling fit of childish self-consciousness, and now they use them frequently. It's their own private little joke at the world. At the moment she's sitting up in bed, naked, channel surfing with the remote control and eating chocolate ice cream, while Cesario is out, taking care of necessary tasks. Viola has the volume turned down on the TV: Foxnews, MSNBC, CNN, and of course all the local stations. They're all carrying live, continuing coverage of the explosion and fire at the Watergate, and she hasn't been able to stop watching since the news first broke, shortly after midnight. Most of the footage is pretty standard and repetitious, but still she's fascinated. This is her own handiwork, after all -- hers, and Cesario's. And so she sits and waits for the other to return, and surfs -- *click* .... the building on fire in the middle of the night .... *click* .... firefighters wrestling with hoses and ladders .... *click* .... rescue workers carrying stretchers from the building .... *click* .... weeping relatives and shocked bystanders .... *click* .... a pompous ass in a three piece suit at an impromptu press conference .... *click* Her finger freezes on the button as a new image appears on the screen. A confused clutter of people, moving quickly from one makeshift exam table to the next. Casualties arrive, are evaluated with controlled haste, then are whisked away again. And amidst all the chaos and noise and confusion is someone she knows ... a woman ... she barely has time to recognize her before the images are gone, replaced by something far less interesting .... But it was her. It was really, really her. There can be no possibility of doubt or error. And if *she* is there, then can her partner be far away? She can hardly wait for Cesario to get home, so she can share the wonderful news. ==========END CHAPTER THREE========== =========== Chapter Four =========== LC the St. Regis Hotel Washington, DC Sunday, August 6, 2000 6:22 a.m. Mulder is dreaming. He's sure of it. In the dream he's stretched out on a blanket on the sand, watching the waves roll in, sparkling blue-green with frothy whitecaps. The sun is warm and bright overhead, and the sky is a perfect robin's egg blue. There are other people here, as well, most of them Scully family members. Far down the shoreline he sees his partner, wearing a beach jacket over a one-piece bathing suit, walking casually along in the company of someone who Mulder somehow knows is her brother, Charles. And yes, now he knows that it's all a dream, because there's Melissa Scully, seated a few yards away in the lotus position, wearing a string bikini. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and flashes gold and copper in the sunlight. Almost as if she can feel his gaze, she turns her head towards him and smiles. "Hey, Fox. Long time no see." He nods, accepting her presence and her comment at face value, but not saying anything in return. It doesn't seem necessary. After a moment, Melissa continues. "Fox, do you remember that night I came to your apartment? When Dana was dying?" "Of course," he says, surprised to find that he doesn't feel the usual tremor of anxiety that accompanies that particular memory. There's something very comforting about talking to Melissa. "You said I was in a very dark place. You were right." "I was right," she agrees, nodding sagely. "I also told you I didn't have to be psychic to figure that out, didn't I?" "Yes, you did." He's idly curious where this conversation is going, but he's not impatient to find out. A part of him is still well aware that this is a dream, which means that this is really something he's trying to tell himself. Mulder may not be a Freudian, but that doesn't mean he discounts the significance of dreams. "Darkness comes in a lot of different flavors, Fox." Now there's compassion in her eyes. Mulder shifts uncomfortably. "I'm glad you finally found your sister. It was holding you back in a lot of ways. But there are still other sources of darkness out there. Some people are still held back." Mulder shakes his head. "If you're talking about Daniel Waterston --" "No," she interrupts. "Look, Fox, you're going to wake up soon." She dimples briefly, and adds, "Dana wants you to wake up." The smiles dies. "Anyway, I know Dana told you about Daniel, and that's good, too, because that was one of the things holding *her* back. But that's not what I'm talking about now --" Mulder's distracted from Melissa by a sudden movement, just at the edge of his field of vision. He turns his head, to see two children playing in the ocean, some 20 or 30 yards away. He squints, trying to get a better look at them, but the glare of the sun on the water makes it impossible. They seem to be having a good time -- just ordinary children enjoying a day at the beach. Yet, somehow, he knows that they're important. Perhaps they're Melissa's children. He turns back to look at her -- And she's gone. Mulder blinks in surprise, then looks around, to see that the other Scullys are also gone -- and so are the children. He's alone on the beach. He feels a spattering of water on his face, and realizes that the tide has come in. The waves are splashing only a few yards away now, and spray dances intermittently on his forehead. He closes his eyes in appreciation at the contrast between the cool of the water and the heat of the sun -- "Mulder, come on -- wake up." Bright sunlight, edging its way in beneath his eyelids. Something cold and wet, falling on his face. Scully's voice .... Mulder blinked his eyes open, and found himself staring up at his partner as she dribbled water on his face from a wet washcloth. She had an impish grin on her face -- an expression he'd only seen since they'd become lovers. The drapes of their hotel room had been drawn back, allowing the sun to shine in, assaulting his senses. He shielded his eyes and squinted. "Jesus, Scully," he mumbled. "I can't believe you got us a room that faces to the east." She snorted. "Yeah, sure, Mulder. After all the rat traps you've put me in over the years, you're a fine one to talk." She got up from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, while Mulder struggled to a sitting position, and tried to get his thoughts in order. He remembered well enough what had happened yesterday -- the fire at the Watergate, the search for survivors, the accident he'd had. He remembered the trip to the hospital, and waiting for Scully to come pick him up, and finally she did. His recollection became cloudy at that point, but he thought he also recalled stumbling into bed and Scully snuggling up next to him ... and then they'd awakened in the middle of the night and ordered room service. He glanced across the room and saw a cart standing by the door with dirty dishes on it. Right. Blueberry pancakes and eggs benedict at eleven o'clock at night "because we haven't had breakfast yet, Mulder". He remembered that. A smile touched his lips, briefly. He remembered the midnight breakfast, you betcha -- and he also remembered what had come after. And then they'd fallen asleep again .... But there was something else. His smile faded as he considered it. Something ... something .... Damn, but he couldn't really remember. He couldn't bring it back from the outer marches of his mind. Something about Melissa Scully, of all things -- and he hadn't thought about her, other than in passing, in years. He shook his head. It must have been a dream. It had to have been a dream. "So, Mulder -- breakfast?" Scully had emerged from the bathroom, and was leaning against the doorframe. Her gaze flicked to the plundered cart, and something that wouldn't be considered a smile on anyone but Scully flashed across her face and was gone. "A second breakfast, I mean." "What time is it?" Mulder looked at the clock and shook his head. 6:30. "Shouldn't you be on the way to Quantico already?" "Skinner called," she replied. "They've moved my start time back a couple of hours." She grimaced. "I'm not really surprised. It must be a madhouse out there this morning." She moved towards him and sat down on the edge of the bed, ruffling his hair. "Come on, Mulder," she finished. "Don't be a spoilsport." "'Spoilsport'?" Mulder couldn't keep the smile from creeping back across his features. "Is prim, proper Special Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully calling *me* a spoilsport?" That earned him an eyebrow as she slowly rose back to her feet. Her face was otherwise serene and expressionless; only her eyes gave away her true amusement. "Don't push your luck, Mulder," she murmured. "Now c'mon; I'm hungry." It took a few more minutes, but Mulder finally allowed himself to be coaxed from bed and downstairs for breakfast. But the faint echo of a memory of the dream -- or whatever it was -- continued to bother him. # # # 7:02 a.m. Mulder was being unusually quiet this morning. Scully watched him as he stirred his coffee -- decaf, due to the narcotics he was taking -- and tried to figure out what was going on inside his head. He'd seemed normal -- by Mulder's standards -- when she first awakened him. Groggy from the pills, of course, but basically his usual, acerbic self. When she'd come back out of the bathroom he'd appeared to be pensive, but then regained his typical good humor. But by the time they reached the elevator his cheerfulness had faded again. He seemed to have something on his mind. She took a bite out of one of the strawberries from her fruit plate and considered that for a minute. Certainly Mulder had plenty to think about after yesterday. They both did. But quiet solemnity wasn't his usual way of dealing with such things. Scully, herself, did have a tendency to withdraw emotionally when faced with these situations, but from Mulder she'd come to expect jokes and wisecracks, even in the face of near-certain death. When she first knew him she'd found his behavior under stress to be a little shocking, but she'd finally come to recognize it for what it was: gallows humor. In time she'd learned to accept this as his way of dealing with the unspeakable things they so frequently were witness to -- and by now, of course, it was simply one more facet of his personality. Something she even cherished, because although that sort of response wasn't in her own nature, somehow seeing Mulder act that way made the darkness a little easier to tolerate. "What're you thinking about?" "Hmm?" With a start, Scully realized that she'd completely stopped eating, and was now studying her partner intently. "Sorry?" "You seem pretty ... I dunno. Absorbed, I guess. Got something on your mind?" Mulder gestured at her plate and smiled. "More specifically, are you gonna to eat that slice of cantaloupe?" "Yes." She jabbed the melon possessively with her fork, then looked back up at her partner. She went on, "Actually, I was just wondering if something was bothering you. You've been so distant this morning." "Sorry." He shook his head, and a look of annoyance crossed his face. "It's just that I had the oddest dream." "In what way?" Scully asked. "Do you want to talk about it?" A flicker of apprehension trickled down her spine. 'Odd' didn't begin to do justice to some of Mulder's dreams. Sometimes they were full fledged nightmares from which he woke up screaming, and those were bad enough. But several times since they'd become lovers she'd awakened in the middle of the night to find him quietly weeping, neither asleep nor fully awake. When she roused him on those occasions he'd been unable to explain what was upsetting him -- but the look of abject despair in his eyes tore at Scully's heart, and in turn had come to haunt her own dreams. "I think so," he said. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then shook his head again, and added, "But I can't really remember any of it. Except ... I think your sister was in it." "Missy was in it?" Scully tried to suppress the quick stab of grief and remorse that coursed through her. She'd never really reconciled herself to the manner of Melissa's death. If only she'd stayed home that night -- No. Not now. Stick to the topic. Deep breath. "Why would you have a dream about Missy?" "I don't know," Mulder replied. "But that's really all I remember about it." He gave her a rueful smile. "Sorry," he repeated, shrugging. "It really was just a dream, but it's been bothering me. I didn't mean to drag you down." He glanced at his watch, then gave her cantaloupe another meaningful look. "You sure you want that, Scully? I'm not sure you really have time to finish it." "I'll make time." She scooped up some of the melon and resumed eating, and the rest of the meal passed quietly. # # # FBI Forensic Science Research and Training Center Quantico, Virginia 4:37 p.m. She was only finishing her fourth case, but already Scully was having to fight against the feeling that she working on an assembly line. Most of the fatalities in any fire are due to smoke inhalation, and the victims from the Watergate were no exception. This lent a sameness to the procedures, and that meant it would have been easy to fall into a routine. Scully's professionalism and compassion for her "patients" wouldn't allow her to do that, however, and so she was compensating by forcing herself to pay even more attention than usual to the details of each exam. Unfortunately, this meant that the entire process was taking more of an emotional and physical toll than usual. "Dr. Scully?" Scully shook herself, realizing that she'd been standing motionless over the current case for several minutes. No, this was not a 'case', she reminded herself. The victim was a young woman, probably in her late teens or early twenties, now laid bare under Scully's scalpel and bone saw. The woman had not yet been identified, and was known to Scully only as 'Watergate Victim #25'. "Sorry, Jeremy," she said, looking down at the corpse. The empty chest and abdominal cavities stared back at her accusingly, and she was momentarily grateful that the flap of skin from the chest was still covering the young woman's face. "I got distracted. But I think we're finished with this one." She took one last look at the body, then turned away to change her gloves and clean up, while her assistant took the body away to be closed, and brought in the next one. She was actually helping these people, she reminded herself as she worked up a good lather on her hands. She was helping them and she was helping their families. She had long ago settled this issue in her mind, before she had even joined the FBI, but still it got to her from time to time. When it did, she just had to take a minute, calm down, and remember why she was here. Her own words, written during their first encounter with Donnie Pfaster, came floating back to her: //Death is a recorded event. For reasons natural or unnatural, when a body ceases to function, the cause of the effect can be clearly reconstructed. A body has a story to tell .... It may be an irony only understood by those of us who conduct these examinations, who use these pieces to rebuild a narrative, that death, like life itself, is a drama with a beginning, middle and end.// It was her job, she thought, to document the body's story. The condition of an individual's remains was that person's final testimony, and the autopsy findings were often their last chance for justice. And only Dana Scully and her colleagues knew how to listen to the deceased's testimony. She nodded to herself and turned off the water. She was ready. Scully raised her eyebrows in mild surprise as she saw that the next case was one of the rare burn victims. An adult male, with second and third degree burns covering more than 90 percent of the body. The burns were so severe that for the moment she reserved her opinion as to the age of the deceased. She stepped forward and surveyed the corpse more closely for a minute, her brow furrowed in thought. This body was in a very odd position. She motioned to Jeremy, and he helped her turn the corpse onto its side .... Handcuffs. The body was handcuffed, wrists and ankles. This must be the one Mulder had found just before he was injured. She'd half thought that he was pulling her leg at the time, but apparently not. Well, this one was going to be interesting, anyway. Scully clicked on the tape recorder, and reached for her scalpel. ==========END CHAPTER FOUR========== =========== Chapter Five =========== LC the St. Regis Hotel Washington, DC Sunday, August 6, 2000 10:19 p.m. "Stay away from me, Mulder. I'm filthy." Those had been the first words out of Scully's mouth when she arrived back at the hotel, a short while ago. She then made a beeline for the shower, kicking off her shoes and unbuttoning her blouse as she went. As the bathroom door swung shut, she added, "Ten minutes." Well, it had been a little more than ten minutes, but Mulder was neither surprised nor disturbed. They'd only been lovers for a few months, but he'd already come to realize that the no-nonsense, there-on-the-dot Special Agent Scully he'd grown accustomed to was less than punctual when she took off her FBI persona. He'd actually been relieved to learn that; it made her seem a little less formidable. Still, he'd be just as happy when she was done cleaning up. He'd spent a long, boring day alone in their room, with nothing to occupy his time other than the hotel's cable television. He'd considered going out for a while, or perhaps calling the guys and inviting them over. But that would have broken the spell, and made him face up to the fact that he and Scully were not, in fact, enjoying a leisurely vacation alone, and so he'd decided against it. He'd also manfully resisted the lure of pay-per-view -- this room was costing enough as it was. That left him with only 53 other channels, and an hour of surfing had reaffirmed the fact that daytime television had not been improved by the proliferation of oddball cable networks. By Hobson's choice, he'd found himself watching the news, and a lot of that had been coverage of the fire at the Watergate -- including, to his amusement, several short clips of Scully working at the aid station the night before. It almost made him wish for a VCR. He had also, inevitably, turned to thinking about his dream. He still couldn't remember any details; just a pervasive, niggling sense that it had been something important, and that Melissa Scully had somehow been involved. He'd studied Jung and Singer, as well as others less academically respectable, and he knew that dreams often contained symbols for problems the mind was working on below the conscious level. He also suspected that sometimes they were more than that -- that sometimes they contained knowledge imposed from the outside. Sometimes, perhaps, they even contained prophecy. All of which left him wondering why he had dreamed of Melissa Scully. Unfortunately, the context was completely lacking. All he remembered was that she was there -- that, and the conviction, growing with each passing hour, that her presence in his nightscape was in some way significant. # # # Scully didn't even try to suppress the moan of pleasure, as hot water from the shower cascaded down over her body. She'd been looking forward to this moment for hours -- for most of the day, really. Performing one autopsy took a lot out of her, both physically and emotionally. Today, she'd done six. Partway through the second post, it had also occurred to her that she had another opportunity for release available to her, in the person of Mulder. It had been so long since she'd been in a serious relationship that she'd almost forgotten how easily her tension could be alleviated through sex. Back when she'd taught at Quantico, before she joined the X-Files and when she was still dating Jack, Scully used to come home from a day spent down in the morgue buzzing with nervous energy, and as often as not wound up dragging her lover into bed in an effort to dissipate it. Unfortunately, when he'd finally made the connection between her libido and how she'd spent her day, he'd been disturbed; he'd said it felt ghoulish. No amount of explanation on her part -- that it was an affirmation of life, rather than a fetish for death -- would change his mind. That issue had played a major part in their ultimate breakup. Then she'd been assigned to work with Mulder, and the autopsies had come less frequently -- but still often enough to keep her on edge. And when she *did* have to do a post, it was usually in the middle of a case, which only added to the stress level. She'd tried to take care of her problem solo, but found that her own fingers and a vibrator were no match for having a man in her arms and in her body. She'd also considered one night stands, but something deep inside whispered to her that it wouldn't be the same -- and besides, that sort of thing had never been easy for her. She wasn't willing enough -- or stupid enough, her doctor persona insisted, rather primly -- to open herself to risk and adventure. Not like Missy had been. She paused for a moment in her scrubbing, her brow wrinkling in puzzlement. Where had *that* come from? Then she remembered. Mulder. He'd told her this morning that he'd dreamt about Melissa, but he'd been either unwilling or unable to recall any of the details. Scully decided that her sister's memory must have been floating in the back of her mind all day, and had finally come to the fore now that she had some downtime. It was true, though, Scully thought, as she set about washing her hair. Missy *had* been the outgoing one. Outgoing and pretty and popular, in contrast to Dana, who had been reserved and plain and solitary. Missy had always seemed to have a boyfriend, starting at age 13 and right up until the day of her death, and on those rare occasions that she wasn't seriously involved with someone, she still never seemed to be lacking for male attention and companionship. Dana, on the other hand, was able to count her own romantic relationships on the fingers of one hand, and her dry spells -- which typically stretched on for years at a time -- were truly dry. //Except that one time,// her traitor memory chided her, but she pushed the thought away. That time didn't qualify as a one night stand, anyway, since it was with someone she knew -- and it had left her feeling just as lonely and empty as she'd always been afraid such an encounter would, thus validating her prejudice against sex without commitment. Well, no more, she told herself firmly, giving her hair one last rinse. She had Mulder now, and unlike Jack, Mulder would understand. She'd been sharing this journey with Mulder, and he'd seen all the same horrors that she had. More importantly, he knew her better than anyone ever had, better than she'd ever dared hope anyone could. She shared a level of intimacy with him that both frightened and excited her. And he was waiting for her on the other side of that door. He'd been waiting -- they'd *both* been waiting -- long enough. She turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub, reaching for a towel as she did so. She briskly dried herself, then hung the towel over the shower curtain rod. She was about to slip on one of the hotel's complimentary robes when she saw it. One of Mulder's t-shirts, thoughtfully laid out on the counter next to the sink. She smiled. Oh, yes. Much better than a generic hotel robe. She kept smiling as she pulled the shirt on over her head. Yes. The one he'd worn today; she could smell him on it. She smoothed the hem down across her thighs and closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Mulder's scent seeping down into her skin, like some luxurious body lotion. Her smile broadened. Mulder enjoyed seeing her wear his clothes almost as much as she liked wearing them. In this, as in so many other things, they complemented each other perfectly. His shirt left out on the counter was an engraved invitation, and it was time for Scully to deliver her R.S.V.P. # # # Scully was smiling as she stepped into the room, and Mulder felt an answering grin spreading across his own features. She'd found the t-shirt he'd left out for her, of course. He'd known she would. And as always, his body began to respond. "Are we all squeaky clean?" he asked, as she reached the foot of the bed. She didn't answer, but climbed onto the bed and started crawling towards him. A few seconds later she was straddling him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she gazed down at him, the glint in her eye telling him all he needed to know about her intentions. "Yes," she said at last. She stretched out on top of him, combing her fingers through his hair and brushing her lips against his so softly that he wasn't sure they'd actually made contact. "How about you?" "Yes, ma'am," Mulder replied, with mock military precision. Scully began trailing her lips along the line of his jaw, as he continued, "With the assistance of the hotel management, I procured a Hefty trash bag and wrapped it around my cast." Just in time, he remembered not to thump his foot on the bed for emphasis. "I then took a shower, shriving myself in anticipation of your return." Scully paused in her ministrations, then buried her face in the hollow of his neck and giggled. A moment or two later she raised her head and looked him in the eye, obviously struggling to keep a straight face. "Mulder," she said, shaking her head. "You sounded like you were writing a report for Skinner." "Do you think he'd be interested?" he asked, and Scully laughed again. Mulder loved it when she got like this. It had been such a rare gift over the years, to see Scully so childlike with glee. There'd been that first case, laughing together in the rain in a graveyard in Bellefleur. There'd been Christmas morning after escaping from the haunted house. There'd been the baseball diamond, when she'd pretended she didn't know how to swing a bat. There'd been a handful of other times, scattered here and there across the years, and he remembered them all -- He gasped as Scully abruptly nipped at the tendon that joined his neck and shoulder. Her fingers were now working at his scalp, her fingernails scraping at the sensitive skin, while her body moved sensuously against his. Her mouth continued its assault on his shoulder and neck, moving slowly upwards, until finally she reached his ear and took his earlobe between her teeth and bit down. Hard. "Oww!" Mulder jerked his head away. "Scully? What the hell --" "Sorry, Mulder. I just wanted to make sure I had your full attention." She was laughing at him, and he couldn't keep himself from laughing a little as well. "Here, let me make it better." She bent her head and once again took his earlobe between her lips -- but this time she gently licked and suckled at it, soothing the spot she'd bitten. Mulder let his hands drift downwards as she worked on his ear. Finding the hem of the t-shirt, he slipped his hands underneath it and cupped her ass, kneading her gently with his fingers. Scully growled, and ground her crotch against his hard-on. And then they began their lovemaking in earnest. Scully released his ear and planted a trail of kisses across his cheek to his mouth, where she commenced nibbling on his lower lip. To hell with that. Mulder let go of her ass, grabbed her head with both hands, and captured her mouth with his. She tasted ... she tasted ... God, she tasted as good as she always did. She'd apparently had some chocolate at some point in the recent past, because traces of it lingered on her lips and tongue. And then of course there was her own unique flavor, a rich, intoxicating, tangy flavor that seemed to penetrate right through to his soul. All of his senses were working, and every nerve ending was on full alert. He felt her soft, warm body moving gently but firmly against his own. The smell of her scented soap, with just a hint of fresh, clean Scully, filled his nostrils, infiltrating all the way down into his lungs every time he inhaled. Her hair, still a little damp from the shower, was smooth and silky between his fingers. And the noises she was making, the tiny moans and whimpers coming from the depths of her throat -- She broke the kiss, pulling back a little to look him in the eye. Her eyes were a deep, happy blue, and there was a look of joy and wonder on her face such as he had seldom seen. She kept moving her body against his as she gazed down at him, sliding up and down, side to side, moving her hips in slow, deliberate circles -- and biting down on her lip each time his erection rubbed against her center. And she smiled and mouthed the words that neither of them ever spoke aloud. //I love you.// Mulder also smiled, and silently returned the sentiment. They'd never discussed it, but somehow they'd arrived at an agreement never to say those words. It seemed to fulfill Scully's need for calm and reserve, and as for Mulder ... well, he'd never been one who needed much in the way of hearts and flowers in a relationship. He knew where his partner's feelings lay. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, still straddling his hips, and let her fingers graze across his chest, tickling his nipples and drawing abstract patterns in his sparse chest hair. Mulder allowed his own hands to slide farther up under the t-shirt, this time from the front, until he found her nipples. He squeezed them gently between thumb and forefinger, and Scully closed her eyes and moaned. "You have no idea how good that makes me feel," she whispered. She opened her eyes again and looked down at him, her eyes dark with passion, her expression drugged, almost wanton. "No idea at all." For a few seconds they stayed like that, Scully's fingers grazing across Mulder's chest, while he cupped and fondled her breasts beneath the t-shirt. Her bottom rested on his upper thighs, and they were each slowly moving their hips, dry humping each other through the thin material of his boxers. The hem of the shirt had ridden up a bit, enough that he was able to see her dark red curls peaking out from between her thighs. Inspired by the view, he let go of one of her breasts, trailing that hand down across her belly to her apex, allowing his fingers to trail through thick pubic hair that was already damp with arousal. She gasped as his fingertips played along her outer folds, and whimpered when he pulled away. Mulder watched her, fascinated, his erection throbbing and seeming to grow thicker and harder with each sound she made. At last he pushed his forefinger past her outer lips, downwards and back until he came to her opening. He felt her body tense and quiver; looking up at her face he saw that her eyes once more were closed, while she took short, sharp breaths through her mouth. He slipped his finger inside her, then added a second and a third, and began sliding them in and out at an ever-increasing rate, his thumb brushing against her clit in the way he'd come to learn that she liked. Scully's hands now clutched at his shoulders as she seemed to be fighting to maintain her balance. She was moving her hips in time with his fingers, angling her pelvis to help him find just the right spots and maximize her own pleasure. She looked down at him, eyes open again, and she smiled with pure joy as she mouthed their silent pledge: //I love you.// //I love you.// //I love you.// Her orgasm started in her eyes, as always, deepening their color as the pupils dilated even further than they already were. Then her body trembled and quivered, and she dug her nails into his flesh -- he could almost see the climax coursing through her as she shuddered towards completion. He continued stroking her, carrying her through the peak, that perfect moment when every muscle in her body went rigid, and seemed about to burst. Finally, he slowed the pace, matching the motions of her hips as she gradually spiraled back down into her body. At last she came to a halt and squeezed his hand with her thighs, and Mulder stopped immediately, not wanting to irritate her overly-sensitive flesh. "Mmmm," she murmured, stretching out on top of him once again. Her arms snaked around his neck and she pressed a gentle kiss against his mouth. "Mulder, that was lovely." Another kiss. "Really, really lovely." Kiss. She moved her hips a little, pressing down against his erection. "You just have to give me a minute here, and I'll be right with you." "Scully, you don't have to --" She brought one hand around and pressed her fingertips to his lips. "Uh uh," she said. "You don't get off the hook that easy." Her mouth was almost touching his, and he could feel her warm, moist breath against his cheek. She pushed her hands south until they found the waistband of his boxers, and she slipped her thumbs beneath them. "C'mon, G-man. Lift those gorgeous hips of yours." Mulder complied willingly, if somewhat painfully due to his recent injury; his abortive offer to forgo his own pleasure having been gallant rather than sincere. It was true that Dana Scully in the throes of orgasm was an awe-inspiring sight, and if he really had to make do with that, he could .... But damn, he was horny. Now it was Mulder's turn to gasp, as his partner's hand closed around his cock. She'd pushed his boxers down to his knees and apparently decided to leave them there, having other things on her mind -- and Mulder wasn't about to object. Already he felt himself trembling, as she stroked the length of his erection, starting at the base, working her way all the way up until her fingertips just barely brushed the very tip, and then sliding back down again. He had discovered over the past few months that she was good at this. She was really, really good. One night, as the result of a somewhat inebriated challenge, she had kept him on the brink of orgasm for nearly an hour, using her hands alone. Stroking, caressing, touching ... she always seemed to know just where and when to apply pressure, and when to back off. And when he finally came -- when she finally *allowed* him to come -- it was one of the most earth-shaking orgasms of his life. But tonight she didn't seem inclined to drag things out quite so long. Already she'd risen up on her knees, his cock firm in her hand. She smiled down at him, and now it was his turn to not-say the magic words -- and even as his lips began moving she was lowering herself, guiding the tip of his erection to her entrance, and he was slipping inside her, penetrating her soft, warm humid depths, until finally he was fully ensheathed. Again they stayed motionless for a few seconds, looking at each other, drinking in the emotions in each other's eyes. Of all the strange and wondrous things he'd seen in his time on the X-Files, the expression on Scully's face when he was inside her was beyond doubt the most amazing. To know that it was her ... that it was really, truly her ... that this wasn't just a dream or a fantasy ... it was the most profound experience of Mulder's life. And it only seemed to get better with time. Their hips began moving, almost as if they were one being -- and already, Mulder could tell that this wasn't going to last very long at all. Scully's hands were gripping his shoulders again, tightening and relaxing with each stroke. The t-shirt that she still wore draped her body, making an exquisite display of her tight, compact body. Her lips were moving, and at first he thought she was repeating their mantra, but then he realized she was actually speaking, and by concentrating, he could just barely make out her words through the hot, bright ball of light that seemed to surround them. "Yes, Mulder ... yes ... don't stop ... harder ... more ... give yourself to me, Mulder ... give yourself to me ... yes, Mulder ... now ... now ... now ...." She swooped down on him, capturing his mouth with hers at the precise instant his orgasm hit. It burst from the base of his spine, seeming to travel outwards at the speed of light, his cock swelling and hardening and then sending hot, fierce jets into her body. They clutched at each other as if they were drowning, and in a sense they were -- drowning in each other. Scully's tongue plunged repeatedly into his mouth, stroking his teeth and gums and his soft palate, as his hips slammed up to meet hers, and still he was coming and coming and coming .... Some distant, unmeasured time later, it was over. Mulder was still lying on his back, and Scully -- no longer wearing the t-shirt -- was curled loosely against his side. He didn't remember slipping out of her; he didn't remember much of anything after she started kissing him. He simply felt a profound sense of well-being and contentment -- feelings he was gradually starting to be accustomed to, thanks to the loving ministrations of his partner over the past several months. He stroked her back, reveling in the way his fingers slipped through the cooling sheen of perspiration that coated her skin. "Hmmm." Something between a whisper and a hum. "That feels nice." Another long silence, while he continued to pet her -- but Mulder knew from past experience that her mind was already beginning to work again. No falling right to sleep after lovemaking -- not for Dana Scully. And sure enough, after another few minutes, she spoke. "I did see your handcuffed guy today." "Yeah?" "Yeah." She stretched luxuriously, allowing her skin to slide against his. "They weren't police handcuffs. They were sex toys." She raised her head and smirked at him. "You know -- like they sell in the backs of those magazines that you don't own and never read." "Yeah, I know." He lifted his head to give her a quick kiss. "I actually own a pair. They're over at my place ... somewhere. Want me to dig 'em out sometime?" An arched eyebrow and a sultry smile was her only response, and then she lay her head down on his chest. After another moment: "Anyway, I saw him, I did a post on him. The handcuffs weren't the oddest thing about him, though." "What was the oddest thing about him, Scully?" "He suffocated," she said. "Despite all the burns, he suffocated. It's a virtual certainty that he was dead before the fire even started. That in itself isn't unusual, but you'll never guess what I found in his trachea." "Since you put it that way, I won't even try." "Condoms," she said. She raised her head again, and this time her expression was serious. "At least two, maybe three. *Used* condoms. He aspirated them. And *that's* how he died." Mulder made a face. "At the risk of sounding like a teenager ... gross." "Yeah," she agreed. "I sent them off to the lab for analysis. We'll see what they come up with." "What do you mean?" "Oh. Well, hopefully there'll be enough semen left to run a PCR. That'll tell us whether the man who ejaculated into the condoms was the same man as the one who aspirated them. And if not, it might help us match this man's partner up against one of the other bodies." She shrugged and yawned. "It's worth a shot, anyway." Another yawn. Yep, that was also part of the pattern. After she'd talked for a few minutes, *that* was when the post-sex languor hit her. "I suppose." Mulder thought about it a minute. "Still, it was probably just an accident. Maybe he was going down on somebody, and the condom slipped off. Could happen, especially if the other man was a bit on the small side." He nudged Scully and winked. "Not that I'd have any first hand knowledge of such a thing." "No, you wouldn't," she agreed with a sleepy-sounding chuckle. She gave him a quick hug. "My hero." And she yawned yet again. "So anyway," Mulder went on, "the rubber slips off, our boy aspirates it, and his partner panics and runs out on him. Stranger things have happened." "That's true," Scully said. "They have. But in this case there were at least *two* condoms in his throat, and they'd been glued together. This was no accident, Mulder. Somebody wanted this to happen. *That's* why it's important." "Wow," Mulder replied. "Glued together?" He was quiet for a moment, while he thought about the fire exit doors having their locks glued shut, wondering if there could possibly be any connection. No way to tell at the moment, but definitely something to keep in mind. He finally shook his head, and repeated, "Gross." But this time Scully did not answer. Mulder waited, listening to her breathing and continuing to stroke her back, until he was sure she was asleep. He gathered her a little closer against his side, smiling as she mumbled something incoherent into his shoulder. Then he closed his eyes, and within a matter of minutes he'd followed her into slumber. ==========END CHAPTER FIVE========== =========== Chapter Six =========== FBI Forensic Science Research and Training Center Quantico, Virginia Wednesday, August 9, 2000 11:01 a.m. Scully stood in front of the sink for a long minute, letting the hot water run over her hands. They were dry and chapped from too many washings -- even Mulder had commented on it, so she knew she wasn't being hypercritical. Last night and this morning he'd insisted on massaging her hands and rubbing them with lotion. That had helped a little with the physical discomfort, but the real benefit had been emotional. Just having small attentions paid to her by someone who cared had been a tremendous comfort. It was enough to make her wonder, not for the first time, why she'd worked so hard to keep him at arm's length all those years. She had just finished her nineteenth autopsy in a little over three days. After a while they'd started to run together in her mind, despite her best intentions to the contrary. Young, old, male, female, white, black, Asian .... She shook her head. She had to stay focused. She had to remember that she was working with *people*. Tamara Winston, she recited in her mind. Eight years old, from Biloxi, Mississippi. Visiting her grandparents, who worked for the Department of Health and Human Services, and whose bodies, along with Tamara's, were found in their seventh floor apartment. Greg Pressler, 37. The Watergate's night manager. Married, three children. Found on the fourth floor, where he'd apparently been trying to rescue one of his disabled tenants. Lois Thorisson, 48. American wife of a wealthy Icelandic businessman. Husband overseas on the night of the fire. Fell to her death from the eighth floor when she tried to escape the smoke by climbing out a window. The fire exit locks on her floor, of course, had been glued shut. And then there was Mulder's "friend" -- the man in handcuffs. Watergate victim #38, remains still not claimed or identified. Asian, adult male, with burns on 95 percent of his body. Approximate age 60 to 80. No identification on his person, and the room he was found in currently not occupied by any tenant. That one was the real puzzler, she thought, feeling a little better as she found her footing once again. She was a scientist, and she was a cop. She could do this. This morning she'd called David Wilcox, the lab supervisor, before starting her first exam of the day, wanting to inquire on the status of the PCR tests she'd requested on the condoms. Unfortunately, he hadn't had anything to report. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully," Wilcox had said. "I really am. I understand where you're coming from, but I simply haven't been able to schedule those tests yet." In her mind's eye she could see the man running his fingers through his thinning fringe of gray hair, a look of frustration on his face. "We were already backlogged, and there's been an unbelievable influx from the Watergate -- and we're being audited *again* next week, God damn it." Scully could certainly understand that last comment. The FBI crime lab had taken a series of bad hits the past few years, calling into question everything from the validity of its methods to the integrity of its staff. Wilcox had been brought in the previous summer with instructions to clean house, and from what Scully could tell, he was doing the best he could. But it was slow going. "I understand," she'd said. "Just ... do the best you can, okay? Something's telling me this could be important." "I know, Agent Scully. They're all important. We'll get those results by the weekend if we possibly can. That's the best I can do." And he'd hung up. Scully realized that she'd been standing there staring into space, while water continued to run over her hands, for several minutes. She shook herself, shut off the water, and turned around. The body of Tamara Winston was gone, and Jeremy was standing in the doorway, a slightly stunned look on his face. "Jeremy?" she asked. "Is something wrong? Where's the next one?" "N-no," he answered. "Nothing's wrong." And then, unbelievably, he smiled. "We're done. There isn't a next one." "Done?" she stared at him stupidly for a moment. Done? How could they be done? For the past three days her life had been a seemingly unending succession of dead bodies, each different, and yet each horribly the same. She knew that sometimes forensic pathologists had to deal with workloads like this. She'd never in her life personally run such a marathon, but now that she *was* involved, it was in some ways almost inconceivable that it could actually come to an end. To an end. "Dr. Scully?" Jeremy took a tentative step forward, concern written on his features. "Are you all right?" "Y-yeah," she said. She forced a smile, and discovered that once she was doing it, smiling actually felt good. They were done. She was free. She took a deep breath. "I'm fine. Really. I'm just having a bit of trouble ... absorbing the fact that it's over." "I know what you mean," he said, giving her a wry smile. He stepped forward into the room and reached out and shook her hand. "Dr. Scully, it's been a pleasure working with you." Scully nodded, her spirits lifting by the moment. She wanted to go home, she wanted a long, hot bath, and she wanted Mulder. Maybe Mulder could join her in the bath. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought giddily. She'd have to wrap his cast in something, but-- "Uh, Dr. Scully, there was one thing." She blinked, and focused her attention on Jeremy again. "During that last case you had a phone call. One of the secretaries took a message." He was holding out a yellow phone message slip, and saw that the call had come in at a little after 10 a.m. //A.D. Skinner's office called. Meeting his office re Watergate, 2 p.m. No need to call back.// Scully sighed, glancing at her watch. Well, that was going to blow the afternoon. She briefly considered calling Kimberly, in hopes the meeting might be delayed, but rejected the idea. She was still on the clock, after all. She'd accumulated a lot of comp time the last few days, but she could use it another day. "Bad news?" She looked back up at Jeremy again, and shook her head. "Not especially," she said. "I just have to get back to Washington." A thought occurred to her. "Look, can you do me a favor?" "Anything." "Would you see that the transcriptions of my dictations get forwarded to my office at the Hoover? I'd really appreciate it." "Sure thing, Agent Scully." # # # Residence of Dana Scully Washington, D.C. 1:29 p.m. At first Mulder isn't sure where he is. Scully's couch? Or sitting on a park bench? The details rapidly fill in, however, as if an invisible artist is still hurriedly finishing the background. In a matter of seconds he's oriented to time and place: mid summer, the Mall, downtown Washington. The Reflecting Pool, where he and Scully used to meet on occasion, the first time the X-Files were closed down. "Is this seat taken?" He looks around, and is unsurprised to see Melissa Scully standing a few feet away. Today she's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with a map of Puerto Rico, overlayed by the outline of a radio telescope, emblazoned across her chest. A 'Stonehenge Rocks' baseball cap is on her head. "Not at all," he replies, moving over slightly to make room for her. Actually the seat is taken, he thinks. It belongs to Scully. But he figures it's okay if her sister keeps it warm for a few minutes. "Thanks." Melissa sits down next to him, glancing down at her clothes as she does so. "I have to say your taste is improving, Fox. I didn't really care for the string bikini. Tacky. I haven't worn anything like that since I was a teenager." Mulder nods, accepting the criticism without protest. It was his dream, after all. For a minute or two they sit together in silence. "You know, Fox, sometimes you're very, very smart, but sometimes you're pretty dumb." Mulder looks at her in surprise. Somehow he knows that the 'you' includes both himself and Scully. She nods, and continues, "It always amazes me what things you choose to follow up on, and what things you don't." Her eyebrow quirks, proving her membership in the Scully clan. "And I'm not just talking about your emotional lives, although *that* was certainly a mess, too -- until recently." She glances down at her t-shirt, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "What do you mean?" She sighs in exasperation. "Think back, Fox. Way, way back. Theater of the mind, you know? All the cases you and Dana took on, then dropped like hot rocks as soon as you had anything remotely resembling closure." "That's not fair," Mulder objects. "We ... we did the best we could. We *do* the best we can. But evidence disappears -- hell, *people* disappear. Leads dry up, informants suffer from 'amnesia'." He glares at her pointedly. "Other informants step out of nowhere, deliver a few portentious and obscure phrases, then disappear again." "Those are all excuses, Fox," Melissa says severely. She peers at him, and Mulder shifts uncomfortably in his seat, realizing that she's examining his aura. So this is what it feels like to know that someone is profiling you. "There's almost always more that you can do. The weird thing is, you don't seem to mind taking risks. You just don't take the *right* risks. You sit there in some poor widow's home and urge *her* not to let the matter drop, but --" As happened at the beach, Mulder is suddenly distracted by a sense of motion. He turns his head -- and there are those children again, the ones from the beach. They are far, far down the Mall, so far that he can't really see them -- again, like the day at the beach, when the glare of sun on water dazzled his vision -- but he knows that they're there. And that they're moving closer. He turns back to Melissa. "No, Fox," she says, shaking her head wearily. "I'm not going to give you the answers. I can't. Just watch your ass, okay?" Despite the seriousness of the situation, she apparently can't keep herself from smirking. "I know you already watch Dana's." And she's gone. Mulder awoke in a cold sweat, and it took him a few seconds before he realized that he'd been dreaming, and that, once again, it had been about Melissa Scully. He lay perfectly still, breathing as shallowly as he could as he tried to remember, but all he had was a few fragments, and even they were quickly fading. Something about informants and a widow, and Melissa had accused him of ... of *something* .... It was gone. Mulder swore softly, and struggled to a sitting position. He was on Scully's couch, of course. He'd fallen asleep there after the air conditioning tech had left. The TV was still babbling softly on the other side of the room -- some soap opera or other. And the room was, thank you, Jesus, finally starting to cool down. The heat wave in Washington still hadn't broken, and before the tech arrived Mulder had been starting to wonder if he was going to drown in his own sweat. He was also starting to feel better. His ankle didn't hurt quite so much today; he'd actually skipped his morning dose of painkiller, and wasn't doing too badly. Of course, that also meant that he was more alert, and that in turn meant that he was getting restless. The air conditioner man had come and gone, and that meant he no longer had to stay put. He wanted to go for a run. Or play basketball. Or *something*. Might as well admit it. He was going stir crazy. He'd been cooped up, first in that hotel room, and now in Scully's apartment, for going on four days now. He needed to get out. He needed to *do* something. Unfortunately, a lot of physical activity wasn't an option. He sighed in annoyance, and tapped the floor with his cast. What to do, what to do. His eye fell on a copy of 'The Lone Gunman', sitting on Scully's coffee table. There was a thought. If he couldn't exercise his body, maybe he could at least exercise his mind. He pulled out his cell phone, and punched speed dial number three. # # # Office of Assistant Director Skinner 2:02 p.m. "Agent Scully, I believe you know Special Agent Griggs of the ATF?" "We've met," Scully said, warily eyeing the ATF man. He was sitting in the chair Mulder normally used when they were summoned to Skinner's office, and she found that subliminally annoying. His arms were folded across his chest, and his lips were pursed in disapproval. Whatever he was here for, it didn't look like she was going to enjoy it. She turned her attention back to Skinner, and sat down in her accustomed chair. "Agent Scully," the A.D. said, "Agent Griggs has come to me with a number of concerns about the events that occurred at the Watergate Saturday morning. Rather than allow things to get blown out of proportion, I thought it best if we handled this informally, just between the three of us. Do you have any objection to that procedure?" "Sir, if this about the tracheotomy I performed --" "No, Agent Scully," Skinner interrupted, holding up his hand. Griggs stirred in his seat, but the A.D. ignored him. "Agent Griggs did raise that issue, but I have pointed out to him that neither he nor I have the expertise to evaluate your performance when you're practicing medicine. I also contacted the individual's physician at Georgetown, and he assured me that your action almost certainly saved that young woman's life. I think we can dispose of that complaint." Skinner paused to glare at Griggs, then turned his attention back to Scully, and continued, "There are, however, some questions that need to be answered. I don't believe this will take very long, and I have every confidence that you'll be able to give satisfactory explanations." "Yes, sir." "Agent Griggs?" Griggs nodded and rose from his chair, moving to take a position that allowed him to see both Scully and Skinner. His gaze flicked to Scully, then focused on the A.D. His bearing and facial expression reminded her of nothing quite so much as a ten year old boy full of his own self-importance and showing off before a teacher. In spite of herself, she felt herself begin to relax. "First," Griggs said, "Agent Scully did not accept the assignment I gave her, but attached herself to the triage activity. This was despite the fact that I had explicitly told her that triage was adequately covered, and that she was needed in search and rescue." Skinner did not speak, but nodded and looked at Scully, apparently inviting her reply. "Sir," she said, "when Agent Mulder and I arrived, we did inquire about triage, and Agent Griggs did state that no assistance was needed in that area. However, when he assigned us to search and rescue, he told us to report to Special Agent Bothwell, also of ATF, and it was my understanding that we would then be working under his supervision." Scully paused. God, she didn't need this bullshit. She took a deep breath, and went on, "When we located Agent Bothwell, he informed us that triage was overloaded. In fact, the first words out of his mouth were to ask whether either of us had any medical training. I assumed that he had more current information, and since I believed I had been assigned to work under his direction, I didn't question his orders to report to triage." "That seems fairly straightforward," Skinner commented. "Agent Griggs? Have you spoken to Agent Bothwell on this matter?" "No, sir, I --" "I suggest you do so," the A.D. interrupted. "Let's move on to your next point." Griggs frowned at Skinner for a moment, looking to Scully like a bull that was annoyed with a fly. Then he shrugged, and seemed to dismiss the matter. "The second issue," he said, "is that Agent Scully left the crime scene without my knowledge or consent. Later, when I tried to contact her, I was unable to do so." This time Scully didn't wait for Skinner. "I have the same explanation as before, sir," she said. "The workload in triage had dropped, I checked with Agent Bothwell, and he told me I could leave. As to why Agent Griggs couldn't reach me, I don't know. I had my cell phone switched on and with me, but it never rang." "I didn't have her cell phone number." "What number did you try?" Scully asked sharply. She was tired, both physically and emotionally, and she was therefore having to struggle to keep her temper. "There were no messages on my home answering machine, and if you had called the Bureau duty officer, he could have given you my cell number." Rising to her feet and speaking to Skinner: "Sir, I have to question the legitimacy of this ... this accusation. I checked out with the agent I had been assigned to work under before I left, and there is no evidence other than this man's word that he actually tried to contact me." "Are you saying that I'm a liar?" "Are you saying that I was derelict in the performance of my duties?" "Agents!" There was a moment of silence, while Scully tried to get her breathing under control. At last, she said to Skinner, "Sir, I do not believe that I am being treated fairly. Agent Griggs appeared to have a chip on his shoulder about my participation from the moment I arrived at the site. His manner was rude, and his treatment of me was demeaning and unprofessional. It had not been my intention to take any action against him, since we were all under stress that night, but if this matter is going to proceed --" "Oh, you'll get your chance to testify, Agent Scully," Griggs broke in. He pulled a folded up newspaper from his inside jacket pocket, and took two steps forward to drop it on Skinner's desk. "And when you do, you can have lots of fun explaining this. I won't have ... *underlings* badmouthing my investigations to the media." Scully waited in silence while Skinner unfolded the newspaper and laid it out flat on his desk. It was tabloid style, with the typical oversized headline, but from her angle she couldn't quite make out what it said. The A.D. studied it for a moment, his face expressionless. At last he looked up, and turned the paper so she could see. The first thing that caught her attention was the word //A--HOLE!!!//, in large, black letters across the top of the page. Underneath that was a subhead: //Hero Doc Rips Watergate Cop// The third thing that drew her eye was a photograph, grainy but recognizable, of herself. Carefully, struggling to maintain her composure, she picked up the paper and skimmed the story. It was brief, and gave an essentially accurate account of the events surrounding the tracheotomy -- except that the author had taken every opportunity to make Scully look good and Griggs look bad, including an implication at the very end that there *might* have been unnecessary deaths, due to the ATF man's mishandling of the situation. She put the paper back down and once again looked at Skinner. "Sir, I can assure you that I was not the source for this story. I haven't spoken to any reporters about anything concerning the Watergate." She looked at Griggs. "Nor would I." Griggs shook his head and started to speak, but Skinner cut him off. "Do you know who the source is, Agent Scully?" "I'm not sure," she said. It had to be Johnny, the EMT. He was the only one who'd witnessed the argument, so far as she knew. "I do have a suspicion, but I'd like a little time to confirm it." "That seems reasonable," Skinner replied. "Agent Griggs?" "I don't believe this." The man snatched up the paper and strode briskly to the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. "This doesn't end here. You may be willing to brush this crap off, but I'm not. The Bureau's internal affairs people will be hearing from me." And with that, he was gone. ==========END CHAPTER SIX========== =========== Chapter Seven =========== Residence of Dana Scully Washington, DC Wednesday, August 9, 2000 2:22 p.m. Today she is Viola again. It seems most suited to her mission. Cesario is in Alexandria. They hadn't been sure where they would find Mulder and Scully, or even if they would find them in the same place, and so for today they've split up. As soon as she arrived, however, early this morning, Viola knew that they both were here. She'd recognize their auras anywhere. She's been waiting here all day for her opportunity, alternately loitering on the street corner and sitting in a swing on the rusty old swing set in the small park at the end of the block Scully left early, only a few minutes after Viola arrived, but Mulder stayed inside. At least some of the time he was asleep, and she toyed with the notion of going to him, but that isn't part of the plan. Not yet. And so she waited and watched, imagining what the future might hold. She watched as tenants left for work and mothers took their children for walks and on errands. She watched as the handyman worked with a hedge trimmer in the sweltering heat. She watched the man in coveralls came and went, feeling her heart race as she detected Mulder's presence on him when he left. She watched. At long last, her waiting is rewarded. Mulder comes down the steps of the apartment building and gets into a van that pulled up to the curb a few minutes before. He's wearing a cast on his foot and using crutches, and she wonders if he hurt himself at the Watergate last weekend. If he did, so much the better. Cesario will be pleased. The van pulls away, and Viola hefts her suitcase and leaves her post. It never ceases to amaze her how many people will walk right by her without noticing her presence. She knows that the abilities she and Cesario have developed have something to do with it, but she's watched others who are out by themselves, people who don't have such an aptitude, and has seen them being ignored, as well. Casual passersby just don't want to get involved. They don't want to see loneliness, and that has worked to Viola and Cesario's advantage more than once. It will make her entry into Dana Scully's apartment a breeze. The building super is home; she detected his presence before he came to the door. He's dressed in jeans and an undershirt, and from his spiky hair and the fact that the top button of his jeans is unfastened, it looks as if he was taking a nap. Viola gives him her best innocent, apologetic smile, trying to project the persona of a teenage girl. "Hi. I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I've just arrived in town to visit my Aunt Dana. My name is Viola Scully. I wasn't supposed to get here until this evening and, well, I don't have a key ...." She probes his mind, and finds him soft and pliable. Just the slightest //push//, and he accepts her statement without question, nodding sleepily and reaching for a keyring that hangs from a hook by the door. He steps across the hall and opens Scully's door, standing aside to allow her to enter ahead of him. She moves inside, taking in every detail with one sweeping gaze -- and suddenly, she stops. There's something wrong here. She shifts her weight uneasily in the entryway, moving the suitcase from one hand to the other. She can feel Mulder and Scully in this room, as well as many others, less strongly. But dominating everything is a *presence* ... a presence that is not at all happy that Viola is here. A presence that's trying to push her away, exclude her, with a ferocious intensity that she has seldom experienced. And then she can see it; she's actually in someone else's head. Another woman, standing in this place in the dark at some time in the past. Shadows move among shadows, two of them, and then one raises his hand in her direction, there's a gunshot, and she's falling -- "Miss Scully? Are you okay?" Viola shakes off the vision, and forces a smile as she turns to face the super. "Oh, yes," she assures him. "I'm just a little tired. I've had a long day. I came all the way from California." She tastes his mind again, and finds that he's curious, but not overly so. Nevertheless, he must be silenced, in a manner that will not arouse suspicion. Fortunately, she has a plan for that, too. "This is a lovely apartment," she says, setting her suitcase down and moving farther into the living room. She nods approvingly at the sofa, smiling as she detects the raw sexuality rising from it. These two are hot; really, really hot. She doesn't remember such an inferno from before, although the desire was there, even then. Well, well, she thinks. Congratulations, young lovers. She detects motion out of the corner of her eye, and turns to see that the super has moved over to one of the windows. He glances over his shoulder at her, and she lifts her eyebrow, the way she remembers Scully doing. "Your aunt mentioned that this window was sticking," he explained. "Not that anyone in their right mind would want the window open the way the weather's been lately." He grunts and pushes, and at last the window jumps upward with a loud *screech*. He adds, "Yep, that sucker's pretty stiff. Gonna have to come back with a little 3-in-1." He forces the window back down and turns to face her, unaware that he's just given her the perfect opening. "You're very strong," she says, keeping her voice low and giving the man another //push//. He blinks in confusion, and passes his hand across his eyes. She walks slowly towards him, until her body brushes lightly against his. She can feel in his mind that he wants to step back, but she gives him still another //push//, and he does not. "So strong," she murmurs, running her fingertips up the length of his arm, from wrist to shoulder. Then she cups the back of his head, draws it down, and kisses him. And it's good; it's so very good. It's always good. She delves deeply into his mind, finds the expected resistance and brushes it aside as she explores his inner self, with a callous disregard for any sense of privacy or propriety. She's raping his mind, and she knows it, and loves it, loves this validation of her power of others. She deepens the kiss, probing his mouth with her tongue and running the fingers of both hands through his hair. She feels his body and his mind tense as he still tries to struggle against her, but she gives one more //push// -- and he moans and surrenders, and his arms start to go around her, one hand sliding down to caress her ass -- She pushes him away, deliberately stumbling away from him and falling on her back on the sofa. She looks up at him with big, round eyes, now projecting terror and violated innocence as he blinks at her in confused stupidity. He takes a tentative step towards her, one hand extended, and she scrambles backwards on the couch to a sitting position. "Don't come any closer!" Tears well up in her eyes. "Please ... please don't come any closer. Please don't hurt me." "Wha --" He blinks again, and suddenly seems to become conscious of what just happened. "I ... I didn't ...." His voice trails off, and he looks down at the hand that touched her bottom. "I didn't ...." "Please ... please, just go away! Please ...." She moans, curls up into a ball, shuts her eyes, and begins to sob into her arms. It doesn't take very long. She's aware of the man standing over her for a few seconds, and of the growing horror in his mind as the full import of what he's done sinks in. She suppresses a smile as he moans in despair, and gives him a //push// ... and then he's moving away, across the apartment and towards the door. A few seconds later the door shuts, and she hears his footsteps receding. A last sampling of his of emotions tells her that she's succeeded. This man will remember her, and remember her vividly. But he will mention their encounter to no one. Perfect. She waits another minute or two, wanting to make sure that he's really gone, then uncurls and rises to her feet. Her suitcase is sitting by the door, just where she left it. She crosses to the door and fastens the chain, then picks up her suitcase and moves purposefully towards the kitchen. She has a lot to do, and not much time in which to do it. # # # 3:51 p.m. Scully resisted the urge to slam the door as she stepped into her apartment. Mulder might be asleep, and although she did intend to wake him up if he was, there was no point in being violent about it. She paused in the entryway, briefcase in one hand and laptop in the other, and surveyed the living room. She'd half expected to find her partner sprawled out on the sofa, either asleep or channel surfing, but he wasn't there. Probably in the bedroom, then. She dropped her things by the end of the couch and headed on down the hall .... To find that the bedroom was empty, too. No Mulder. Shit. There was, however, a note sitting on the pillow. She picked it up. //Hey there, G-Woman. Gone out with the guys for a while; this place was making me crazy. Or crazier. Give me a call when you get in, and I'll come a-runnin'.// There was no signature. Just a scrawl that no one but Scully would recognize as the letter "M". She sighed, crumpled up the note and dropped it in the waste basket. This was just great. After Griggs had left she'd stayed and talked to Skinner for a while longer about the situation. In the end, he'd agreed to give her until Monday to provide a memo in response to the issues the ATF agent had raised. She didn't expect to have a lot of trouble writing that report, but she wasn't looking forward to it, either, and she'd been hoping to spend some time with Mulder to help her calm down. He was sure to be full of creative things she could add to her memo, and would probably also offer intriguing hypotheses concerning Agent Griggs' ancestry, habits and eventual destination. She shook her head and walked back down the hallway to the living room. One thing for sure, she wasn't going to call Mulder, despite his invitation to her to do so. He was entitled to some time out with his friends, and one thing Scully had sworn to herself when they became lovers was that she wasn't going to become clingy, possessive or dependent. Mulder would come back when he was ready, and that was going to have to do. She found herself standing in front of the refrigerator. This morning she and Mulder had finished the orange juice, and if she recalled correctly there was only about a half a cup of milk left. Well, it was better than nothing. Maybe Mulder would stop and buy some beer on the way home. She paused and blinked as she replayed her own words in her mind. Home? This was her home, certainly -- but when had she started thinking of it as *their* home? What was really strange was that she didn't feel restricted or confined at the thought. She felt ... comfortable. Content. For the first time in years. She shook her head again, pushing the thoughts away, and opened the refrigerator. As she'd thought, a small amount of milk and not much else -- but there was a two liter bottle of diet Coke sitting on the main shelf. It was open, and it looked like one glass was gone. For a moment she wondered where the hell it had come from, but she was hot and tired and thirsty, and didn't really seem to matter. She'd probably bought it herself and just forgot about it. It wasn't beer, but it was the next best thing. Probably the best thing, really, since she needed to work on her autopsy reports. She poured herself some Coke and took it out into the living room. A moment later she was seated on the couch, her briefcase open on the coffee table and her lap top balanced on her knees. Just before she left the Hoover the rough drafts she'd asked Jeremy to forward to her had arrived, each one consisting of a printout of the transcript, the same thing on floppy disk, and copies of the autopsy photos and background materials on each victim. Scully's task now was to review each transcript, correct any typos, and make whatever changes and elaborations as were necessary. The final reports wouldn't be finished for several weeks -- not until after all the lab results were back -- but the preliminary reports were due within 48 hours of the exam. Scully had been given an extension due to the volume of posts involved, but she still needed to whip them into shape as quickly as she could. *Then* she would have to tackle the report concerning Agent Griggs. This was not shaping up to be a fun evening. But there was nothing for it but to get to work. The sooner she started, the sooner she'd be done. She took a sip of diet Coke -- wrinkling her nose, because it seemed a little sweeter than normal -- and picked up the first envelope. Tamara Winston, the little girl from Mississippi. Scully forced herself to examine each autopsy photo, as well as the copy of a family photograph that had been FedExed from the field office in Jackson. Short, curly black hair, jet black eyes, dark complexion ... a little thin in the face. Thank God, she looked nothing like Emily or Samantha. Performing autopsies on children was hard enough for Scully without adding a personal dimension like that. Fortunately, there was rarely any need. She resisted the temptation to skim the report, but read it thoroughly instead. There was nothing to be gained by rushing. She found half a dozen spelling errors, corrected her grammar in a couple of places, and inserted a word here and there to clarify her meaning. She slipped the floppy disk into the laptop and entered the corrections, then moved on to the next one. An hour later she was still at it, having finished reviewing five of the nineteen reports, and two glasses of Coke. She ejected the floppy disk for the current report from her laptop, returned it and the other materials to the proper envelope, and reached for the next one on the stack. Ah, yes. Mulder's "handcuff man". And there was a note stapled to the outside of the envelope, from Jeremy. //Dr. Scully: We finally managed to I.D. this guy. Raised enough of a fingerprint to get a match from some old Army records. FYI.// She glanced through the documents Jeremy had included. Shinichi Nomura, 77 years old, professor emeritus of microbiology at U.C. Berkeley, in Washington for a year as a guest lecturer at Georgetown. Honorable discharge from the U.S. Army, 1946, which is how the Bureau had finally identified him. She flipped through the autopsy photos, hoping that they'd found an old file photo of him somewhere ... and there it was. A head and shoulders shot that looked like it had been taken for a passport or a security clearance. Round, almost chubby face, with a fringe of hair even sparser than Skinner's. Dark eyes, and a flattened nose. Pronounced epicanthial folds .... Scully blinked, as she suddenly had trouble focusing. The man's features blurred, and she realized that her hands were also shaking. Her mouth felt dry and cottony, and she was breathing in short, ragged gasps; she couldn't catch her breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest and there was a ringing in her ears .... The papers and photographs slipped from her hand and fell, but when she bent forward to retrieve them she was assaulted by a wave of dizziness and nausea. Her laptop slid from her knees; she tried to grab it and missed, and it clattered to the floor. She was cold, and the light in her apartment seemed to be getting brighter ... brighter ... brighter ... until she felt as if the sun were falling on her .... She landed on the floor, but she couldn't remember falling. Spots danced before her eyes and the room seemed to be spinning, faster and faster and faster. She pushed herself to her hands and knees, and for a moment she wobbled on all fours before finally spiraling down into the darkness. ==========END CHAPTER SEVEN========== =========== Chapter Eight =========== Residence of Fox Mulder Alexandria, Virginia Wednesday, August 9, 2000 5:32 p.m. "-- so anyway, I told Langly he was out of his fucking mind, as usual, and Byers even agreed with me for once. But did that make any difference?" Frohike snorted, and pulled the van to a stop in front of Mulder's apartment building. "Here we are. You sure you don't want me to go up for you?" "No, I can manage." In truth, Mulder didn't want Frohike to have unsupervised access to his apartment. It wasn't that he didn't trust his friend; it was just that none of the Lone Gunmen had any real understanding of the concept of privacy. He opened the passenger door and turned around in his seat to pull his crutches from the back seat. "At least let me help you carry." The little man was out of the van and halfway around it before Mulder had a chance to reply, and he decided not to fight it. It really would be tough for him to carry much of anything while still handling the crutches. He was here to pick up a few more clothes, some books, a couple of files ... all the basic necessities for an extended stay at Scully's. Frohike helped him out of the van, and the two of them made their way up the short flight of steps and into the apartment building. The elevator was waiting on the ground floor; in a matter of seconds, they were moving upwards, towards the fourth floor. Mulder heard the music as soon as the elevator doors opened. At first he thought it must be the Perkins kids from across the hall again. They liked their music, and they liked it loud. But as he and Frohike moved down the hallway, it became clear that the noise was coming from his own apartment. It was the Beach Boys, he realized, crooning about California girls. What the hell? He groped in his pocket for the key, aware of Frohike standing a few feet away, probably as full of questions as Mulder was himself. He reassured himself that if there was someone inside his apartment they pretty obviously weren't planning an ambush; not with the stereo blasting away like that. A good thing, too, since he hadn't carried his gun since Saturday morning. Narcotics and firearms don't mix well. "You might show a little consideration!" Mulder turned abruptly, fumbling his crutches as he did so, to see Mrs. Ellison, who'd moved into Padgett's old apartment, standing in her now-open doorway and glaring at him. "That thing's been going all afternoon!" she went on. "I'm sorry," he replied. "It ... it wasn't deliberate. I'll take care of it right away." He slipped the key into the lock just as the song came to an end. He pushed the door open to silence ... and then the stereo started up again. It took only a few measures for him to recognize Cyndi Lauper, belting out that "girls just want to have fun!" "That's quite a collection you got there, Mulder," Frohike hollered above the music, a smirk on his face that said, //I can't wait to tell Byers and Langly about this!// "You burn the CD yourself?" Mulder shook his head. "It's not mine." He flipped on the lights, and made his way across the living room to his stereo. He punched the 'stop' button, and blessed silence fell once again. He stood next to the stereo for a minute or two, Cyndi Lauper's voice still ringing in his ears, and surveyed his apartment. Nothing seemed different. There was the usual collection of books and magazines on the coffee table. An empty pizza delivery box sitting by the computer. Fish swimming placidly in their watery home. The place was actually a little neater than in years past, due to Scully's influence. He glanced at Frohike, who still stood by the door. "Trouble?" the little man asked. "I don't know." He opened the tray on his CD player and took out the disc. It was a standard recordable CD, with no label indicating who had made it or what was on it. Since Mrs. Ellison said it had been playing all afternoon, the player must have been set on continuous loop. A jewel case sat on top of the player, also unlabeled. Mulder put the CD in the case and slipped it into his jeans pocket. He then stood indecisively for a moment, still looking around the room. "Check out the rest of the place?" Frohike suggested at last. "Yeah, I guess," Mulder replied, chewing on his lip and nodding. There was nothing in the kitchen, and nothing in the hall. In the bedroom, however, there was a dead man lying in the middle of the bed. He was naked, and there was an ice pick -- Mulder's ice pick, the one he and Scully had used on Friday night to break up a bag of ice for their bath, and left lying on the nightstand -- buried in his throat, all the way to the hilt. "Jesus," Frohike muttered. "Somebody you know, Mulder?" "No." Mulder studied the dead man for a moment. He was of average height, with average features and an average build. His skin was dark and weathered, as if he'd spent a lot of time working outdoors. There was a condom loosely hanging from his now-flacid penis. He wasn't completely naked, Mulder noted, taking a closer look. A pair of dark blue men's bikini briefs were tangled around his ankles, suggesting he'd been in a hurry to get undressed -- or that someone had been in a hurry to undress him. The rest of his clothes were scattered on the bedroom floor -- along with one small pink sock, half hidden beneath the dead man's trousers. Balancing on one foot, Mulder used one of his crutches to hook the sock off the floor and bring it up to eye level. "I'm guessing that's not his," Frohike commented. He smirked. "Or yours." "Too small," Mulder said, preoccupied. "It's not Scully's, either." He winced, realizing that he'd just given his friend something to think about. Oh, well. It's not like his relationship with Scully was really a secret. Scully's mother knew about it. In fact, they were scheduled to spend Saturday with her at the beach at Ocean City. It was just ... private. He shook his head, forcing his attention back to the present. "I suppose I should call Skinner. And the cops." "I suppose," the other man agreed. He didn't want to do it. People didn't show up dead in his apartment for no reason, and Mulder wanted to reserve the investigation for himself, at least for a little while. There might be a connection to some past case, or it might have something to do with their enemies in the Consortium. Could it be a warning? About what? His lip quirked as he thought about the mafia leaving a horse's head in his bed. Then his good humor abruptly died, as another thought occurred to him. Maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe they'd been trying for him, and this guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe Scully was in danger, too. His cell phone rang, and Mulder almost jumped out of his skin. He reached for the phone, dropped his crutch, almost dropped the phone, lost his balance, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed -- fortunately avoiding any of the places where blood had soaked into the sheets and blanket. "Mulder." "Is this Fox Mulder?" A woman's voice, with other voices in the background. "Yes." "Mr. Mulder, this is Gloria. I'm a nurse in the E.R. at GUMC. Do you know a woman named Dana Scully? We've got you listed as her emergency contact." His throat constricted and his mouth went dry, but somehow he managed to repeat, "Yes." Deep breath. Then: "Is she ... is she hurt?" "She was brought in a little while ago," Gloria answered. "She was found unconscious in her apartment, but the paramedics were able to rouse her. I think she's going to be okay, but she's been asking for you. And she's going to need a ride home." Mulder sat perfectly still for a moment or two, trying to get his thoughts in order. She was going to be okay. Okay. She was going to be okay. He glanced over his shoulder at the dead body in his bed. That could wait for a while. Scully needed him. "Mr. Mulder?" There was a note of impatience in the woman's voice. "S-sorry," he said. "I was distracted. I'll be there as quick as I can." # # # Georgetown University Medical Center 6:11 p.m. The drive across Washington seemed to take forever, and the fact that he had to sit passively while Frohike drove wasn't helping at all. Throughout the trip, Mulder kept repeating in his mind that the nurse said that Scully was okay, and that everything was going to be fine. She wouldn't have said that unless she was pretty sure it was true, he reminded himself, over and over and over. Two times he tried calling back, hoping to get more information, but got left on perpetual hold both times, and he finally realized he was just going to have to be patient. Unfortunately, patient wasn't one of his things. He hit the emergency room door at as close to a run as he could manage, with Frohike close on his heels. A nurse who was washing one of the litters jumped back out of the way, and an elderly man with a cane tottered precariously -- only to be caught and steadied by Frohike. Seconds later, they were at the check-in desk. And of course, they had to wait, as a middle aged African American woman was in the midst of signing insurance forms. But at last, they were at the front of the line. "My name is Fox Mulder. I had a call from someone about Dana Scully?" The clerk looked uncomprehending for a moment; then the light dawned, and she nodded. "Yes, sir. Ms. Scully is in Treatment Three." She pointed to her left. "Down that way, turn right, second door on the right." On down the hall, past a couple of residents sharing an off-color joke, past a nurse who tried to stop him and ask who he was. Frohike stopping to give explanations. She was okay. She was okay. She was really, really okay. Around the corner, first door, second door ... knock and turn the handle at the same instant -- She was okay. She was sitting on the end of the exam table, eyes closed, looking exhausted, while a man in a white coat pressed a stethoscope against her back. And she was okay. "I'm still not hearing anything out of the ordinary," the man -- the doctor -- said, straightening up. "Dehydration is always the first thing we suspect when the weather's like this, but that didn't check out. And as I said, the tox screen and the blood work was all negative. I saw on your chart that you've got a history ...." His voice trailed off. Scully's eyes had opened, and it was obvious that he no longer had her attention. "Mulder." She gave a tired smile. "Hey, Scully." Mulder stood stock still in the doorway, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. She really was okay. He moved forward, tucked one crutch under his armpit, took her hand and squeezed it, and for a moment or two neither of them spoke. At last, the doctor cleared his throat. "Anyway," he said. He looked impossibly young to Mulder. Much too young and fresh-faced to be entrusted with Scully's care. "I'd recommend that you follow up with your oncologist. He may want to do a CAT scan, just to be safe, although I'm guessing he won't find anything. For tonight, I'm listing it as a panic attack. Anxiety." "A panic attack," Scully repeated. A statement, not a question. "Yes," the doctor replied. "The symptoms you reported are consistent with that, and there doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong. We don't always know what triggers them, but --" "I think I know what triggered it," she said. "Okay." Pause. "If you'd like a referral, I can recommend a psychologist ...." Once more his voice trailed off, as Scully shook her head -- and again, she smiled at Mulder. "That's okay," she said, giving Mulder's hand a return squeeze. "I've already got one." "Okay." The man glanced at Mulder, then held out a clipboard to Scully. "If you'll just sign your discharge instructions, you're free to go." He waited while Scully scribbled her name at the bottom of the page, then he tore off the carbon and gave it to her, and left. Mulder caught a glimpse of Frohike lurking in the hallway before the door closed once again. "So, Scully," Mulder said after a moment. "What happened?" It occurred to him that he should mention what he'd found in his apartment, but that could wait. "You heard the doctor," she replied. "It was a panic attack." She hesitated, then went on, "I have them sometimes. I've had them for years ... ever since I was abducted." She smiled again. "Not so often, lately. Thanks to you." Mulder nodded, remembering his own nightmares and waking horrors, and remembering her distress during the session with Dr. Werber, after the events at Ruskin Dam. "You said you know what triggered it," he prompted. "Yes." She was quiet again for a minute, and seemed to be thinking. Finally: "I ... I was working on my autopsy reports, and everything was going fine." She stopped talking again, and her grip on his hand tightened. Mulder was about to tell her it was fine, forget about it, when she went on, "It was that man ... the one you found wearing handcuffs. They finally identified him, and there was a picture of him in the file, and suddenly I couldn't catch my breath, and my heart was pounding, and ...." After another moment of silence, Mulder asked, "And what? Who was he, Scully?" "He was a Japanese-American microbiologist," she said. "He was in his 70s, he served in the army." She swallowed. "Mulder, I think he was one of Them." Her tone provided the capitalization, angry and lost and fearful all at the same time. Fearful. Dana Scully was fearful. "One of them." Mulder's repeated dumbly, a terrible constriction in his throat. He shuddered. "One of the ones ... one of the ones ...." Scully nodded, and this time her voice was firmer. "I think he was one of the ones who experimented on me." "Jesus. After all these years." He turned abruptly away, not wanting her to see the horrible expression he knew was on his face. Rage. Rage. To think he'd actually felt *sorry* for that fucking son of a bitch -- "Mulder?" He sighed, and nodded, and carefully suppressed the anger as he turned back to face her again. "Sorry," he said. "Just ... I've got issues." He forced a smile. "I'm glad you're okay." He meant that in so many more ways than just her immediate problem. I'm glad you're here, he thought. I'm glad you're in my life, and I'm glad you've let me into yours. I'm so fucking glad, I could just cry. "I know," she said. "Come here." She held out her hand, and he moved back next to her and took it. "Mulder, I know how important this is. It's the first real lead we've had in years, and we *will* pursue it." A ferocity had entered her voice that he'd seldom heard before; now it gentled again. "But we'll do it together, Mulder, and it will wait until your ankle has healed." He started to object, but she overrode him. "We will wait, Mulder. It's been six years, and a few weeks to make sure you're at a hundred percent isn't going to make any difference." Mulder took a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay, Scully." If there was any case where she was entitled to call the shots, it was her own abduction. "And no running off on your own," she admonished, but her tone had lightened, and it was clear she wasn't really worried about it. "When we go, we go together." He nodded again, and she smirked, and went on, "Now tell me about your day. Did you have fun with your little friends?" "Uh, yeah." He suddenly remembered that *he* had things to tell *her*, and that his day, at least, was only going to get longer. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed, and said, "Actually, it was fine, right up until the moment that I found a dead body in my bed." "You *what*?" Mulder nodded, and gave her a brief summary of what he'd found at his apartment. "But ... why would someone do that?" she asked. "Your guess is as good as mine," he replied. "Like I said, I didn't recognize the guy, but it was definitely my ice pick." He shrugged awkwardly over the crutches. "But as to how, or why ... no clue." "What did Skinner say?" "Ah." Another sticky point. "I haven't actually got around to calling him yet." "Mulder!" "I was about to," he said. "Honest, Scully. I was standing there thinking about it, and then the hospital called, and, well, here I am." That sounded lame, even to him, and he winced. He struggled for a moment with the crutches, looking for his cell phone. There it was. Flip it open. "See? I'm calling him right now." He hit speed dial number four, knowing that his life was about to get even more complicated than it already was. ==========END CHAPTER EIGHT========== =========== Chapter Nine =========== Police Headquarters Alexandria, Virginia Wednesday, August 9, 2000 9:54 p.m. Mulder was alone in the interrogation room now. He'd been alone for a good twenty minutes. It hadn't started as an interrogation. At least, not officially. Mulder had known better, of course. He knew from the instant he first saw the body lying on his bed that afternoon that he would be the primary suspect. But the locals had to play it out, even knowing that he was an FBI agent, and thereby well aware of all the tricks of the trade. So it had started slow and easy -- almost collegial. The detective sitting in the chair backwards, forearms resting on the back of the chair. Tell us what happened, Agent Mulder. Just us guys here. Just us cops. Tell us how a man you claim you don't know came to be lying in your bed with an ice pick jammed into his throat. Your ice pick. From your kitchen. Just a simple statement's all we need to wrap this up, and we can all go home. Yeah, right. They'd separated him from Scully early in the questioning, taking her off to who knows where, and that made him jittery. He knew why they'd done it, of course. They wanted to take his story and Scully's separately, see where they matched, and where they didn't. They wanted to see if they could break one or the other of them down. So far, Mulder had told them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth -- and since they hadn't come for him with a pair of handcuffs, he presumed Scully hadn't told them anything that they considered incriminating, either. Well, maybe not the *whole* truth. He hadn't mentioned the CD he'd found. Frohike had it now, so even if they decided to search him, they wouldn't find it. And something told him it might be important. Too important to turn over to a bunch of local cops. Skinner had been there, too, early in the process. Mulder didn't know if he was still in the building, but he hadn't seen him in a couple of hours. The A.D.'s parting words before leaving the room had been to advise Mulder to think about calling a lawyer. How encouraging. Mulder knew he could bring the game to an end at any time, simply by insisting that they either release him or charge him. He wasn't quite ready to force the issue, though; he was pretty sure where that demand would lead. So for the past twenty minutes he'd been left alone -- and that, too, was part of the routine. They'd left him alone in this bare, cold interrogation room, giving him some time to think things over. Giving him some time to consider his position. Giving him some time to sweat. He glanced once again at the large mirror on the far side of the room, and wondered how many people were watching him from the other side of the glass. That was one good thing about being in police custody, he thought. You didn't have to worry about whether you were paranoid. Everyone really *was* out to get you. The door abruptly opened, and Detective Rogers came back into the room. He was at least a head shorter than Mulder, and overweight. He was in his mid-40s, with long, curly brown hair that looked like it belonged in the 1970s, fringed with gray. His shirt was a little too small, and his tie was too wide and a little too long. Mulder watched him in silence as he shut the door, then came to the conference table and took his seat across from him. No more casual, good ol' boy body language, Mulder noted. Arms crossed and resting on the table, grim expression on the face. "So," Rogers said. "You got anything you want to add?" Mulder shook his head. "I've already told you everything," he said. "I hadn't been in my apartment since early Saturday morning. I walked in this afternoon, and there he was. And he was already dead when I found him. Looked like he'd been dead for a while." "How long is a while?" Not the first time he'd asked that question. Not even the second. It was all part of the game. Ask the same questions, over and over, and see if the answers change. "A couple of hours." Mulder shrugged. "Maybe three." "Uh huh." The man picked up a pencil off the table and tapped the point against his teeth. "Here's the problem, *Agent* Mulder. I've been out there racking my brain, talking it over with the other detectives, and none of us can come up with a reason why a total stranger would pick your bed to be murdered in. Or why his assailant -- if the assailant wasn't you -- would choose to use one of your household implements to do it." "I don't understand it either," Mulder admitted. "But I'm in law enforcement. As I'm sure you know --" "Yeah, yeah," Rogers interrupted with a wave of the hand. "We all make enemies along the way, don't we?" He nodded wisely. "So I suppose your theory is that someone who doesn't like you -- which I understand is quite a list -- was laying in wait. Then this other guy comes along, for whatever reason -- maybe a burglary, although we didn't find any burglar's tools in the apartment, and your front door showed no sign of having been jimmied. This unnamed enemy of yours jumps him, there's a struggle, and that was all she wrote. That about it?" "I suppose," Mulder said. The story sound weak. It sounded very, very weak. Of course, the detective wasn't trying to make it sound plausible. He was *looking* for weakness. Mulder had to keep that in mind. "Well, I don't suppose," Rogers said. He set the pencil down and leaned forward, hands pressed down on the table. Yep. The gloves were coming off. "Here's what I suppose, *Agent* Mulder. I suppose that you really did stay at the Regis for a few days with your partner, like you told us. We already checked that out, and we know when you arrived and when you left. Then I suppose that this morning your partner went off to work, and you went out for the day. Where you went, we don't know yet, but then you came back to your place earlier than expected, to find your girlfriend, Agent *Dana*, fucking another man, in your very own bed no less." Mulder shut his eyes for a moment, and his hands gripped the table as he savagely suppressed memories of Phoebe's betrayal, so many years ago. He had to control himself; he had to stay calm. This was Scully, he reminded himself, not Phoebe. The man was just trying to get his goat. He was trying to diminish Scully in Mulder's eyes, discounting her professional status by using her first name, making insinuations about her fidelity and invading their private space. He wanted to make Mulder lose his temper and say something stupid -- "I think there was a fight," the detective went on, hurling the words across the table. "I think there was a fight, and you wound up with the ice pick in your hand. I think you stuck it in this guy's throat. I think Agent Dana had a shit fit afterwards, brought on by having had a man yanked off of her and murdered in front of her eyes, and you took her all the way to the Georgetown E.R., to try to throw us off the scent -- and by the time she was done there, you'd persuaded her to help you cover this up." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "I also think that when we get the report back from NCIC, the fingerprints on that ice pick are going to be yours. I think that when we finally track down the victim's identity, it'll turn out to be somebody your partner knows -- maybe someone *you* know, as well. I even think that when we analyze the vaginal secretions on the outside of that rubber, they're going to match up with the specimens that we're going to take from Agent Dana. And then *her* tit is going to be in a wringer, too, for hindering a murder investigation. How does that grab you, *Agent* Mulder?" "None of it is true," Mulder said, his voice very low. He wanted to punch the man for talking about Scully that way. But it wouldn't help, and he knew it. He could almost hear Scully's voice in his ear, holding him back, telling him to stay calm. "Well, we'll just have to see about that," Rogers said. "Right now, I think you've fucked up just about as bad as it's possible for a guy to fuck up, and I think it's time you were a little more forthcoming. If you tell us what we want to know, right now, maybe the D.A. will be a little understanding -- and maybe Agent Dana will get let off the hook. If you wait until those lab tests are done, it'll be too late." There was a knock on the door, and Rogers looked up, surprised. The door swung open, and a man Mulder hadn't seen before stuck his head in. "Rogers," the man said. "Out here a minute." Rogers nodded, and gave Mulder a look that said, //This isn't over.// Then he rose to his feet and left the room. This time the door was left open a crack, and Mulder could hear voices out in the squad room -- but not clearly enough to make out what was being said. Hell with it. They were going to charge him; there was no way out of it. The case against him was too compelling. At least those lab results would eventually exonerate Scully -- but not before she went through the humiliation of having the specimen collected. She was also going to be forced to admit -- maybe in open court, under hostile questioning from a prosecutor -- that for the second time in her career she'd become romantically involved with a fellow agent. That she'd been fucking her partner. Shit. And on top of all that, like the cherry on an ice cream sundae, he was probably going to have to get the Gunmen involved to get *himself* cleared. They were going to just love that, especially Langly -- The door opened again, and once more Rogers entered the room. But this time, his expression was livid. The man who'd summoned him was partly visible over his shoulder, and he didn't look very happy either. "You," Rogers said. He shook his head, the anger manifest on his face and in his body language. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "You," he repeated. "Outta here." "What?" Mulder shook his head. Were they setting him free? "Outta here!" Rogers all but shouted. "Now!" He turned and stalked out of the room, leaving Mulder alone again. Mulder stared at the open door for a moment, his mouth hanging open. What the hell? At last he shook himself, and struggled to his feet. His crutches were leaning in the corner behind the interrogator's chair. After some careful maneuvering he was able to reach them without falling down. A moment later, he was in the corridor. Scully was waiting for him there. She looked tired and confused, but she managed a smile when she saw him, and she walked over and gave him a quick hug. "Let's get out of here," she said. "We're leaving?" He blinked down at her stupidly. "What happened?" "I don't know," she said. "Detective Halloway was pulled out of the room I was in about ten minutes ago, and they gave me my gun back and told me to wait here. Then you came out." The two of them started making their way down the hall. "I don't get it," Mulder said. "Not that I'm objecting, but --" They rounded a corner, and there was Rogers again, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest and an expression of sheer rage on his face. Mulder and Scully paused in mid step, and for a moment or two, Rogers simply stared at them. At last, he spoke. "You better watch your ass, Mulder. You may have some powerful friends, but they won't always be there to pull your nuts out of the fire. And there's no statute of limitations on murder." He pushed himself off the wall, brushed by the two agents, and was gone. "'Powerful friends'?" Mulder said. "What the hell is he talking about?" "I don't know," Scully replied. "It almost sounded like he thinks someone fixed this for us." "No," Mulder said, shaking his head. "This isn't a parking ticket. You don't just pick up the phone and cancel a murder invest ...." His voice trailed off; suddenly there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "There are *some* people we know who have the power to do that," Scully said, very softly. "But then the question becomes *why* they would help us that way." Mulder shook his head again. Glancing around, he realized that they were still standing in the hallway of the Alexandria police station. "Let's get out the hell out of here," he said. "Before they change their minds. We can talk about it later." Scully nodded, and a couple of minutes later they were outside in the sweltering heat. Mulder's apartment wasn't very far from the police station, but there was no way he was walking. Not tonight. Not in this weather, with his broken ankle. He was just fumbling for his cell phone, intending to call a cab, when a black sedan pulled up to the curb in front of them. Mulder shuffled a step back, pulling Scully with him --but then the front passenger side window slid down, and they heard a familiar voice coming from inside. "Get in, agents. I'll run you home." A.D. Skinner. Mulder blinked, but his capacity to be surprised had already been pretty much depleted, and so he allowed Scully to open the back door, help him into the car and slide in next to him. They waited in silence as Skinner threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. "Sir?" Mulder said at last. "You haven't been sitting out here all evening, have you?" It seemed immensely unlikely ... but how else could Skinner have been there waiting for them? "No, Agent Mulder." The A.D. was quiet for a moment, long enough that Mulder was beginning to wonder if he was going to go on. Then: "I went home after I spoke with you and Agent Scully. About forty minutes ago, I received a call advising me that you'd be needing a lift home from the police station." Once more he fell silent. This time, he did not continue. "A call from who?" Scully asked at last. Skinner did not reply. She persisted, "Sir? Who called you? How did they know? *We* didn't know until a few minutes ago." Still their boss remained silent, as he steered the car through the darkened streets of Alexandria. "Sir?" "Agent Scully, I don't think this is the time or the place to discuss this." In the dim illumination of the dashboard, Mulder could see the A.D.'s jaw clenching and unclenching. Scully stirred next to him, apparently intending to continue the discussion, but he took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. //Not now.// She let out a soft huff of exasperation, then nodded and settled back into her seat. It took less than ten minutes to arrive at Mulder's apartment building. Scully was out of the car almost before it had stopped moving, then turned to help Mulder extricate himself. At last they were standing on the curb next to the car. Once again, the front passenger side window slid down. "Agent Scully," the A.D. said, "I assume you'll want to help Agent Mulder get upstairs. Do you need any assistance? Or shall I wait down here for you?" "N - no," she replied, after the barest hesitation. "I can manage." More firmly: "And you don't need to wait. I'll be staying here tonight." Skinner just looked at her for a minute, his features impossible to read in the low lighting. He didn't seem surprised by her statement, Mulder thought. But then, the A.D. never seemed surprised by anything. He wondered how long their boss had known about their relationship. "Very well, Agent Scully," the other man said. "I expect to see you both in my office at ten o'clock tomorrow morning." The window slid back up, then the car pulled away from the curb and was gone. # # # Time and location unknown It has been a good day. A really, really good day. Viola and Cesario are together on the bed, with the TV muttering in the background. Cesario has the laptop perched on her knees, putting the finishing touches on the email they're going to send. Viola admits, at least in her own mind, to a tinge of jealousy at the excitement Cesario had today. The encounter with the stranger, the thrill of realizing that he was an enemy rather than just a bystander, then maneuvering him, manipulating him, //pushing// him ... the sex ... the blood ... the death .... God, it's what they both live for. So yes, she's jealous, just a bit. But mostly she's just excited. She wishes she could have been there, but hearing Cesario tell her about it was almost as good. And of course, there will be other opportunities in the future. In the *near* future. She and Cesario discussed the possibility that the incident in Alexandria might upset their plans, but neither of them are really worried. Mulder is so resilient. They know he'll slip out of the problem they've left for him *somehow*. And right now, it just adds to the deliciousness of the tease. Of greater concern is Viola's encounter with the hostile presence in Scully's apartment. That was truly troubling. They know how to deal with a corporeal threat -- the man in Mulder's apartment is a prime example. They've done this before, many times. But this other .... She squirms a little, pushing the disturbing thought away and rubbing her body against her partner's, silently urging her to finish the email. Cesario giggles and squirms back, her fingers continuing to fly across the keyboard. A few more keystrokes and she's done. She clicks on SAVE -- this message is not ready to send; not yet -- closes the laptop, sets it carefully aside on the bedside table, and takes Viola in her arms. For a long minute, they share a deep, erotic kiss -- a kiss that leaves both of them breathless. And Viola cannot resist. She has to ask the question again, just so she can hear the answer. It's one of their oldest games -- a game they've played as long as either of them can recall. It's almost like a catechism by now. She trails her lips along Cesario's jaw, all the way back to her ear, brushing aside her shoulder length, brown hair, and whispers, "So tell me again. Tell me why you were so sure that guy was an enemy. Tell me why you were so sure that he had to die." Cesario breaks into giggles again, and tightens her embrace of Viola. They roll back and forth together for a moment, a good natured tussle, full of giggles and outright laughter, that ends with Cesario stretched out on top, her mouth only centimeters from Viola's lips. Her breath is hot and moist, and she reaches out and runs her tongue along Viola's upper lip. And then they both speak in unison, delivering the punch line they've used so many times in the past. "We just knew." ==========END CHAPTER NINE========== =========== Chapter Ten =========== Office of Assistant Director Skinner FBI Headquarters Thursday, August 10, 2000 10:05 a.m. Scully sat in her usual chair in Skinner's office, with Mulder sitting next to her. The A.D. wasn't present, though; Kimberly had told them that he was running late, but that they should go on in and sit down. Scully suppressed a yawn as she thought about what had happened the day before. She and Mulder hadn't got to bed for more than two hours after returning to his apartment. The Alexandria police had done a thorough job of ransacking the place, looking for evidence, and it had taken that long for enough order to be restored for Scully to feel comfortable. In her anxiety to get Mulder someplace private, so that they could both relax a bit, she'd also forgotten that he didn't have an air conditioner, and that his apartment would therefore be hot as hell. Fortunately, they'd both been so tired that it made little difference. Once Scully got the bed made, they'd tumbled into it and fallen fast asleep within minutes. Nevertheless, she was tired. She suspected that Mulder was, too, although he was trying not to show it. The events of the previous day had come fast and furious, and they'd left Scully emotionally drained. And she had an uneasy feeling that today wasn't going to be much better. The side door opened, and Skinner stepped into the room. Through the door she had a glimpse of A.D. Kersh, who was rumored to be in line for the Deputy Director vacancy expected to open up in the next few months. Scully shuddered at the memory of their tenure under Kersh. Thank God that was over. For all his faults, Skinner stood head and shoulders above the other man. In truth, Scully didn't really want a supervisor; she just wanted to work with Mulder, and have as little interference from others as was humanly possible. But if she had to have a boss, Skinner would be her choice. At least he was a known quantity. Her mind drifted back to the car ride to Mulder's, the night before. She hadn't expected the A.D. to show up and offer them a ride, but when he did, she had to admit that she wasn't surprised to find him less than forthcoming as to how he happened to be there. Skinner had always been an enigma to her, almost from their first meeting. Sometimes he was forceful and took no nonsense in helping his employees, as he had been in dealing with Agent Griggs, for example. Scully appreciated that; she'd always felt that loyalty was a two way street, and in her experience very few managers really shared that opinion, and of those who did, most paid it only lip service. But she was fairly confident that Skinner was on their side -- at least, most of the time. But he did have a secretive part to his nature, and that made her uneasy. It had been clear from the very beginning of her work on the X-Files that he sometimes knew more about what was going on than he let on. Mulder had also told her of Skinner's frank admission, during the time when she lay comatose after her first abduction, that he was afraid to delve too deeply into the paranormal. She'd wondered at the time whether Mulder was hinting that he believed that she was afraid, too, and she had to admit there was at least some truth in the thought, whether that was Mulder's intention or not. And she vividly remembered the A.D.'s deathbed confession, when he'd been infected by the nanites -- and her own bitter disappointment and anger when he seemed to back off from those sentiments a few weeks later, after he was cured. "Agents, I'm sorry to be late." Skinner's words drew her out of her introspection. He nodded briefly at her partner. "Agent Mulder, I appreciate your willingness to come in today, given your recent injury." "I was about ready to return to duty, sir," Mulder replied. His eyes flickered, and Scully knew he was resisting the urge to glance at her. "Desk duty, that is." Skinner nodded, then made eye contact with Scully. "The main reason I asked to see you today was to find out if there was anything about the dead man in Agent Mulder's apartment that you hadn't seen fit to share with the Alexandria police." Scully remained silent, while keeping her gaze steadily on Skinner. Most particularly, she didn't want to look at Mulder. She knew he'd withheld information from the police about the CD he'd found, and although they'd talked at breakfast over whether to tell their boss about it, she didn't know what decision he'd reached. They also hadn't told anyone that one of the victims of the Watergate fire was a Consortium scientist -- and that had been *her* decision. She couldn't keep herself from shuddering as she remembered. That face, and the bright, white light -- "Agents, I'm trying to be helpful to you, but you're making it very difficult." The A.D.'s tone now was one of annoyance. "I feel that I'm entitled to some sort of explanation when I'm called away from my evening plans because two of my employees are the subjects of a murder investigation." "We're always grateful for your assistance, sir," Mulder replied, his own voice bland. "The ride home last night was much appreciated." He paused, then added, "Was there something you did for us last night beyond that? Something we should be aware of?" "I'll ask the questions here, Agent Mulder," the older man snapped. "I've seen the interrogation reports the locals filed. Now I want to know if there's anything either of you knows that isn't in those reports." "Did you see the morning paper, sir?" Mulder asked. "The Washington Times had a story on page A-12 about a man's body being found in an alley in Alexandria. Pretty short, but a good read." He smirked, and added, "An interesting work of fiction, wouldn't you say, Agent Scully?" "I saw the story, Agent Mulder." Skinner took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Scully took the opportunity to shoot Mulder a look of warning. Then the A.D. sighed, and returned his glasses to their proper position, and steepled his fingers in front of him. "Agents, I don't think there's any great mystery as to how the charges that were most certainly about to be filed against you were dropped. Do we really need to go into this?" Scully could almost feel Skinner's frustration -- but she also knew how stubborn Mulder could be. She judged it was time to cut this meeting short, before the two men started yelling at each other. The A.D. was going to insist, and her partner was going to dig in his heels -- "The point, sir," Mulder said, "is that we still don't know the identity of the dead man, and we don't know who killed him, or why they did it. The person who called you last night wouldn't have happened to mention that, would they?" "Agent Mulder --" "You did say you *received* a call, didn't you?" Mulder went on. "You didn't *place* that call, did you, sir?" "Sir," Scully said, jumping in before the A.D. had a chance to respond, "Agent Mulder and I do have a few things we want to look into, but we think it would be better for the moment to keep them to ourselves." She glanced at the 'No Smoking' sign on his desk. It had been the better part of a year since she'd had any reason to suspect that the Smoker, or any of his people, had been in this office, but she knew Skinner would get the point. But dammit, Mulder was right. They really couldn't be sure who Skinner was talking to, or what he was telling them. Last night in the car she'd been suspicious, but she'd also been extremely tired, and was coming down off an entire series of emotionally charged experiences. This morning, things looked better -- but they still couldn't be sure. They couldn't afford to trust anyone but each other. And so she nodded to herself, and concluded, "As you said last night, this isn't really the time or place to be discussing such things." There was a long silence, as Skinner stared first at Scully, then at Mulder, and finally back at Scully again. At last he shook his head, and dismissed them without further discussion. # # # Residence of Dana Scully 11:22 a.m. Scully's cell phone rang just as she pulled into her parking place. She swore under her breath, dug it from her pocket, and punched CONNECT. "Scully." "Agent Scully, this is Assistant Director Skinner." There was a brief silence, and Scully heard another voice in the background. She thought it was Kimberly's, but she couldn't be sure. Then: "I've just received a call from the ATF. They believe they've identified those responsible for the Watergate bombing, and they've obtained a warrant. They intend to serve this warrant later this afternoon, and the Bureau has been requested to provide medical and logistical support." "Medical support?" "I can't discuss the matter in any detail over an unsecured line," the A.D. replied. "All I can tell you is that ATF has reason to believe they may face armed resistance, and they have chosen to go with dynamic entry as the means of executing this warrant. I've decided to assign you as part of the Bureau's contribution to the task force." "Me?" Scully gripped her phone a little tighter. "Sir, Agent Griggs has made it quite clear --" "I'm aware of Agent Griggs' attitude, Agent Scully." Skinner's voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "However, he does not dictate the disposition of the Bureau's resources. You're one of the best I've got, and I will not send the second best when you are available." Brief pause. Then, in a more human tone of voice: "Besides, you know as well as I do that the only cure for a situation like this is to push back. Hard. Your presence on the task force will demonstrate that you have the Bureau's continued confidence -- and that you're not running away from the problem." "Yes, sir." She knew that Skinner was right. She'd learned that lesson all the way back in medical school, and it had been reinforced repeatedly down through the years. Law enforcement was a tough field, and officers -- especially female officers -- were expected to be assertive and uncompromising. "Where do I report, and when?" "The briefing is scheduled for 1:30." Now the man was professional and businesslike once again. It was as if the brief moment of personal contact had never happened. "At the Treasury Department. FYI, there will be five others from the Bureau in the medical unit. I'm designating you ASAC for the duration of the operation. Do you have any questions?" "No, sir." She glanced at her watch. Nearly two hours. Plenty of time. "I'll be there." The connection was broken, as Skinner hung up without further comment. Scully sat in her car for a moment, trying to get her thoughts in order. She'd been aware from television and newspaper reports that the investigation was ongoing, but she hadn't known that they were this close to a solution. Of course, she hadn't had any direct contact with the investigation since Saturday morning, having spent most of the intervening time either entertaining Mulder, or down in Quantico doing autopsies. As had so often happened in the past, she found herself confused by Skinner's behavior. Only an hour ago he'd been growling at her and Mulder in his office -- and Scully had to admit that if she'd been in his place, she would have been just as upset as the A.D. had been. Of course, *he'd* also withheld information from *them* that he rightly should have shared .... And now here he was, once again backing her up without question or hesitation. The newspaper story that had been attributed to her was pretty damning, but it didn't seem to have occurred to Skinner to doubt her assurance that she'd had nothing to do with it. She wondered if he'd even bothered to inform Agent Griggs that she was going to be part of the Bureau's team? Or that she would actually be in *charge* of the medical unit? She felt an unworthy tingle run down her spine, as she allowed herself to imagine the look on the ATF man's face when he found out -- But there was no time for that now. She'd come here to collect her autopsy materials, so she could spend the afternoon finishing her reports. There wasn't going to be time for that now, but as long as she was here, she might as well pick them up. She also needed to call Mulder, who was waiting for her back at the Hoover, and let him know that she wouldn't be free for lunch after all. She climbed from her car, hitting speed dial number one on her cell phone as she did so. It was answered on the second ring. "Mulder, it's me," she said. She smiled a little, knowing that no one else in the world could begin a phone conversation that way, and be sure that Mulder would know who was calling. "Yeah, Scully," he said. "What's taking you so long?" "Skinner called," she replied. "I'm afraid I'm going to have miss our lunch date. There's been a break in the Watergate case, and I've been assigned to work on it." She gave a synopsis of the A.D.'s phone call. "Really?" She could hear the amusement in her partner's voice. He was no more fond of the ATF man than she was, and she knew that Mulder would quickly work out why Skinner had done this. "Well, you watch your back, Scully. Some of those ATF guys are kinda trigger happy. You got any idea when you'll be free?" "No," she said, trotting up the steps to her building. She paused, her hand on the front door. "I'm at my apartment now. I'm just going to grab those files and then head over to Treasury. I'll be in touch when I can." "Okay." She heard papers rustling. "By the way, I talked to the guys. So far they haven't found anything useful." She realized that he'd switched topics, and was talking about the CD. "They did provide me with a play list, though. A bunch of rock tunes from the 70s and 80s. I can't see a connection so far, but most of them are about girls, one way or another. Except for Iron Butterfly's 'In the Garden of Eden'. And Frohike said they pulled some prints, but there's no match in the NCIC." He chuckled. "I didn't ask him how he knew that." "Wise move, Agent Mulder," she said with a smile. "I'll talk to you later." "Come back with your shield or on it." And the connection was broken. Scully opened the door, stepped into the first floor hallway of her building -- and froze. The door to her apartment, a few feet down the hall, was standing partway open. And from the random, quiet rustling noises, someone was inside. She drew her weapon, and edged towards the doorway. She thought about calling for backup, but there wasn't time. She was about to call out a challenge, when the door suddenly swung the rest of the way open. It was Mr. Coeben, the building super. Scully breathed a sigh of relief, and put her weapon away. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, to see that the man was standing stock still, a screwdriver in one hand and a can of 3-in-1 oil in the other. His eyes were wider than she'd ever seen them. The poor man was obviously scared to death. "I'm sorry, Mr. C," she said. "You just startled me." He nodded, and his body started to relax. "I ... I was just working on that window you told me about. It's fine now." "Thank you." She struggled to find something else to say. How do you apologize to your building manager for pulling a gun on him? She was tense, that was all. Too damned tense. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "That's okay." He fidgeted under her gaze, as if he had something on his mind. Finally, he said, "Look, I'm sorry, too. About yesterday. I don't know what came over me. I hope ... I hope everything's okay." "Okay?" For a moment Scully was confused, but then she figured it out. Mr. Coeben was the one who'd found her last night, according to the paramedics. He'd probably come to work on the window that time, too. "Yes," she said. "Everything's fine. They checked me out and let me go. Thank you for your concern." "That's perfectly okay, Ms. Scully. I ... I try to watch out for my tenants." He still seemed nervous; something *was* upsetting him, but she had no idea what it was. He appeared to be about to say something else ... but then he shuddered, pushed past her and almost fled down the hall. Scully watched as he fumbled with his key and let himself into his apartment. Then she shook her head, turned and entered her own. Well, the paramedics certainly had left the place a mess. Cellophane wrappers littered the floor, along with odd bits of paper and other detritus. Her laptop still lay where it had fallen, and the carpet was bunched up, apparently because they'd had to move the sofa to get at her. Worst of all, the coffee table had tipped over, scattering her files hither and yon. Her glass of Coke was lying on its side, fortunately unbroken -- but there was a dark stain on the carpet where its contents had spilled. Shit. It took a few minutes to get things into a reasonable semblance of order. The stain on the carpet was going to take some work, and moving the sofa back into its spot was more than she wanted to attempt on her own right now. Later, later. When she wasn't so tired, and wasn't in such a damned hurry. She gave a sigh of exasperation, knelt down, and started to gather up her files, automatically separating them into 'complete' and 'incomplete' as she did so. The task took only another minute or so ... and then she sat back in the sofa, her brow furrowed in confusion. There was one file missing, and she didn't have to do an inventory to know which one it was. ==========END CHAPTER TEN========== =========== Chapter Eleven =========== Department of the Treasury Washington, D.C. Thursday, August 10, 2000 1:28 p.m. "What the hell are you doing here?" Scully turned away from the small knot of FBI agents she'd been conversing with, to see Agent Griggs standing a few feet away, an expression of mingled anger and disgust on his face. Agent Bothwell stood behind him. In all, there were about 30 people in the room awaiting the briefing. Most of them were ATF. "Agent Griggs," she replied, carefully maintaining her professional mask. "A.D. Skinner has assigned me as ASAC for the Bureau's medical team." "You're kidding." For a second or two, Scully couldn't believe she'd actually heard the man correctly. But before she had a chance to reply, he shook his head sharply. "Fuck it," he muttered. "I don't have time for this shit." And he stalked off towards the front of the room. Bothwell threw her an apologetic glance before hurrying after Griggs. Scully looked back at the other five members of the Bureau group. They were all acquaintances, but none of them were really friends, and at the moment, none of them were willing to look her in the eye. Scully guessed that most of them -- perhaps all of them -- had seen the newspaper article, but she didn't know if the Hoover's rumor mill had picked up on Griggs' complaint as yet. She was sure that it would. It was only a matter of time. "People, if I can have your attention, please?" Scully looked to the front of the room, and saw that Griggs was now standing behind a lectern, with a pointer in his hand. An easel stood to one side, with a map of what appeared to be a rural area on it, and a television with a VCR attached was on the other. People had been generally milling about and talking; now, with Griggs' announcement and a pointed throat clearing to follow it up, they were hurriedly taking their seats. Scully followed suit. "Thank you," the ATF man said. His gaze flicked briefly around the room, before he continued, "I want to thank you all for being here on such short notice. I know what a pain in the ass that can be. But look at it this way: your agencies will save enough money from not having to replenish their water coolers that they'll easily recoup what they're spending on this operation." There was a short titter of laughter, and Griggs nodded sharply. "Okay, let's get too it. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Bob Griggs, supervisory SAC with the ATF. I'm the lead agent for the Watergate investigation. The big galoot in the front row with the dumb look on his face is my sidekick, Steve Bothwell. You hear it from him, it came from me. Capiche?" Bothwell half rose from his seat, gave a little wave, and sat back down again. "Right." Griggs leaned forward on the lectern, and began speaking in earnest. "You all know why we're here. Five days ago, somebody bombed the Watergate, killed a lot of people. A lot of you were part of the rescue operation, and that's why you're here. I figure you've got a vested interest. "Today we're going to be serving arrest warrants on the people responsible for this atrocity. We're talking about a small group called the Monkeywrenchers. They're a bunch of environmental whackos, who take their name from a book by a radical environmentalist from the 70s named Edward Abbey. Some of you may have heard of him." There was a brief murmur of agreement. "Let's make no mistake," Griggs continued. "These are not good people. Monkeywrenching, in case you're not aware of it, is environmental sabotage. Tree spiking is the classic example -- you pound railroad spikes into randomly selected trees in a forest marked for logging, so the guys with the chain saws don't dare cut 'em down. This bunch has been advocating things like for years, and ATF has been keeping an eye on them for the past six months, collecting evidence about possible weapon violations. And now it seems they've moved from advocacy to action. Agent Bothwell filed the affidavit, so I'll let him explain the basis for the warrant. Agent Bothwell?" Once again, the tall black man clambered to his feet, and moved to the front of the room to stand next to Griggs. "The warrant is solid," Bothwell began. "You've all got copies in your briefing books, along with copies of the affidavit, so I'll just summarize what it says." He proceeded to do just that, ticking off points on his fingers as he went: Several phone calls had been made from one of the rooms at the Watergate to the Monkeywrenchers' compound in rural Maryland, in the hours before the bombing. There were numerous hits on the Watergate's web site, as well as on the web site of the architectural firm that designed the building, coming from an IP address identified as belonging to Paul Zargarian, one of the founders of the group. In the past six months, while investigating the group, the ATF had made copious downloads of documents from the Monkeywrenchers' web site that described how to manufacture explosives and weapons of various sorts -- including bombs that appeared to be identical to bomb experts' best guess as to the type of device used at the Watergate. "Most importantly," Bothwell finished, "we have two very hard pieces of evidence. May I have the lights down, please?" He waited while the lights were dimmed, then switched on the television and started the VCR. "These are a series of stills from the Watergate security cameras. The recording equipment was located in a fireproof room in the subbasement, and therefore survived the fire," Bothwell explained. There was a black and white image on the screen that appeared to be the building's main lobby, with a bank of elevators clearly visible in the background. Every second or so the picture would jump as the frame advanced. "This film starts thirty minutes before the blast," the ATF man said. "A frame is taken every ten seconds. As you can see, things were pretty quiet." Scully nodded, staring at the screen. Nothing moved. The only way she could tell that the film was being advanced was the flickering of the time stamp in the lower left hand corner. For perhaps thirty seconds, there was no sound in the room. "It is now 11:18 p.m.," Bothwell said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Twenty-four minutes before the explosion. Watch!" He pressed a button on the VCR, slowing the speed on the tape. One of the sets of elevator doors was suddenly open, and Scully could see two people inside. On the next frame they had moved to the front of the car. Another frame advance, and they had stepped out into the lobby -- and Bothwell pushed the pause button. Two women were visible on the screen. Both short, both with shoulder-length brown hair. Each carried a Nike gym bag, and each wore a wide-brimmed hat, leaving their faces hidden in shadow. "We tried enhancing their features digitally," the ATF man said after a moment. "The results are included in your briefing books." Scully dutifully opened her briefing book, aware of the others in the room doing likewise. She flipped past the facsimiles of the affidavit and the warrant, squinting a little in the low light, finally coming to a stop on a page of computer enhancements of the two women on the TV screen -- and she felt a tingle at the base of her spine. They were amazingly alike, almost like twins, and they looked familiar. *Very* familiar, but she couldn't quite place them -- "Now turn to the next page," Bothwell instructed. Scully shook herself, and did so, to find herself looking at what appeared to be a printout of the Monkeywrenchers' home page. It included a 'family portrait' of eight men and two women, along with radical political slogans, and links to other parts of the site. Her eyes were drawn immediately to the women, and she heard a soft murmur from the assembled agents. "That's right," Agent Bothwell said. "As you can see, we have a perfect match. Two perfect matches, to be more accurate. You're looking at Melissa and Marissa Herman. As you've no doubt guessed, they're twins, and they are both members of the Monkeywrenchers." He turned off the television, and the lights came back up. "The man on the far left is the leader, by the way, and he's very bad news," he continued. "His name is Gavin Etheridge, and he's been in and out of psych hospitals all up and down the east coast, with a diagnosis of anti-social personality disorder. The cops in Jersey City think he killed a man, back in '93, but they were never able to prove it. Apparently there was a power struggle in the group, and the other guy just kind of disappeared. You'll find bios of all ten members of the group -- including rap sheets, in three cases -- in your briefing books." Scully studied the man's picture for a moment. He looked pretty normal to her eyes. He was about forty, with short brown hair and a friendly smile. He was wearing neatly pressed jeans and a light blue polo shirt. He didn't look like the sort of person who would plan mass murder. He looked like the guy down the street who helps you start your car on a cold winter morning, or like someone you might meet at a church picnic. "Finally," Bothwell said, drawing her attention back to the briefing, "we have a phone call, received on the Watergate hotline we set up. It was made yesterday afternoon from a pay phone in Martinsburg, West Virginia. That's just across the river from the Monkeywrenchers' place in Maryland. The caller was female, and claimed to be Marissa Herman. She said she'd been watching the coverage on CNN, and it was killing her, but that the rest of them are bunkered up and loaded for bear. From what we know about this bunch, that's very credible -- and very dangerous. We tried to keep her on the line until the locals could send a prowl car, but she got suspicious, and hung up. Voice stress analysis says she's on the up-and-up. Hence, dynamic entry." He glanced at Agent Griggs. "Now for details on the operation itself, I'll turn you back over to Bob." # # # Office of the Lone Gunmen College Park, Maryland 6:48 p.m. Mulder was bored, and he was lonely. And he was worried about Scully. There was no reason to be concerned, and he knew it. She'd told him that she was assigned to the medical unit, and that meant she'd be a nice, safe distance away from the action -- and if trouble did happen to come her way, he knew from long experience that she was more than able to deal with it. "Hey, I think I'm getting something!" Langly said. Mulder looked over at his friend, who was sitting hunched over an unlikely-looking clutter of electronic equipment and wearing headphones. The other two Gunmen were out, doing whatever it was Gunmen did when they weren't in their office. As Mulder watched, Langly's lips curled into a smile. "Yep. It's them. Stupid feds always think their kung fu is the best." He glanced at Mulder, his eyes glittering with amusement. "No offense." "None taken. You sure it's the ATF guys?" "Oh, hell yes." Langly snorted. "They're calling it 'Operation Bigfoot', and the dumbfucks are transmitting everything back to their HQ in realtime. Probably showing off for the brass. Take a listen." He pulled off the headphones and flipped a switch on one of the gadgets in front of him. Instantly, the room was flooded with sound. //-quatch One, this is Sasquatch Three. We're in position. No signs of movement.// //Copy that, Three. We're about ready here.// Mulder recognized Agent Griggs' voice, sounding crisp and in charge. If you didn't know the man, he thought, you might almost believe he knew what he was doing. The ATF man continued, //All Sasquatches, stand by. Clara Barton, you and your people ready?// //Affirmative.// Scully's voice, cool and professional, as always. //We've got a car with the engine running, just in case.// //Right, Clara. I doubt we'll be needing you.// A moment of silence, then the sound of a car engine starting. //Okay, people, we're in motion. Stay sharp. One hundred yards to the gate. Anybody see anything moving, report it immediately .... Fifty yards. Quiet as a church .... And we're at the gate. Whoever's got the bolt cutters, now's the time.// There was another pause, and Mulder tried to picture the scene in his head. He'd spoken to Scully again, just before the task force left D.C. She'd been vague on the details, for security reasons, but he gathered they were assaulting an isolated house in a rural part of Maryland. She'd also admitted that Griggs was doing better than she'd anticipated, and that he really did appear to have the matter in hand. "Yeah, well I still don't like the guy," Mulder had commented. "And I don't trust him. You watch your ass, Scully." "I'd rather be watching yours," she'd replied. Mulder's jaw had dropped, there'd been a soft snicker at the other end of the line, and then she'd broken the connection, leaving him staring in amazement at his cell phone. She did keep him guessing -- //We're inside.// Griggs' voice, coming from the speaker. //Moving towards the main building. Hey, Stevie, know what this reminds me of? That last day in Kuwait City, just before the cease fire. Dumb ragheads knew they were beat, and --// He was cut off by a loud boom, followed by several sharp cracks that could only be gunfire. The sound of harsh breathing could be heard, and suddenly men were swearing in the background. //C'mon, Bobby, let's move this thing!// Mulder realized that he could no longer hear the car engine. There was a short, rasping, mechanical noise, then Griggs was on the air again. //Okay, out! Everybody out. Move! .... Shit ... shit ... Okay, okay, I hear ya.// Another pause, while static crackled from the speaker, and Mulder found himself gripping the arms of his chair. A few more shots. Then: //All Sasquatches, this is Sasquatch One. We're outta the vehicles, down in the ditches on both sides of the road. We're ... we're all okay, I think. About thirty, forty yards from the house. Anybody see --// There was another explosion, louder than the first, and more gunfire, this time from automatic weapons. A third blast followed close on the heels of the second, and then a man was screaming in the background. //Shit!// Griggs again, now with a tinge of panic in his voice. //Shit, those fuckers got a mortar! I got an agent down. Repeat, agent down. Clara Barton, you copy that?// //Copy, Sasquatch One. We're moving. Can you get him back to the gate?// Mulder winced, and his grip on the arms of the chair tightened. Scully ... Jesus, Scully, be careful -- //That's negative, Clara. Do your fucking job; we're trying to do ours. Any Sasquatch: You guys see the mortar? We're pretty well pinned down in a ditch. Air Sasquatch? You got anything? Anything at all?// The sound of helicopter blades. //Sasquatch One, Air Sasquatch. We've got small arms firing from two windows on the third floor. I think --// Another explosion was heard, muted and in the distance. //Yes! The mortar's in that little stand of trees, about forty yards southwest of the house. Repeat, we've got the mortar.// //Take the fucker out,// Griggs replied. A moment of comparative silence, punctuated by gunfire. //Did you copy, Air? Take the mortar. Now.// //One, this is Air. The ROEs do not allow --// //I don't give a shit about the Rules of fucking Engagement,// the ATF man interrupted. Still another mortar blast. //That bastard's eating us alive. Take him out. Now!// Another silence, this time very brief. //Roger that. Be about thirty seconds.// //Sasquatch One, this is Clara Barton.// Mulder's heart clenched at the sound of Scully's voice, now with gunfire clearly audible in the background. //We're at the gate, and we're still moving. We're taking some fire, but they don't have the range yet. Are you still close to your vehicles?// //That's affirmative, Clara. Where the fuck else would we be?// //We're coming, One. Just a few more seconds --// And then there was a terrible ripping sound, followed by another explosion, far louder than anything they'd heard so far. After that, nothing but static. ==========END CHAPTER ELEVEN========== =========== Chapter Twelve =========== Monkeywrenchers' Compound Near Sharpsburg, Maryland Thursday, August 10, 2000 7:12 p.m. The force of the explosion lifted Scully's car off the road, and she barely had time to brace herself before it slammed back down to earth with bone-rattling force. Stars danced before her eyes, and there was a roaring in her ears, almost drowning out the babble of confused, panicky voices on her headset. Her head hurt; turning to the right, she saw a starred fracture pattern in the window next to her, and she realized that she must have hit her head. Only her kevlar helmet had saved her -- //-- say again, say again. This is Air Sasquatch calling Sasquatch One. Air Sasquatch calling Sasquatch One. Do you copy?// Scully shook herself, and found her vision finally clearing. She glanced at the driver, Agent Alix Ashare. Ashare had been in the Navy medical corps, and had been with the Bureau now for almost ten years. They didn't come any tougher, and that was why Scully had chosen her as her driver. She was slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling out of her right nostril. Scully reached over, touched Ashare's shoulder, then pressed her fingertips into the other woman's throat, trying to find her pulse. "Agent Ashare? Agent Ashare, are you all right?" Ashare jerked upright, and her eyes popped open. For a few seconds she stared straight ahead, unblinking, as if mesmerized by some unspeakable horror. Then she shook her head and looked at Scully. "Y-yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'm fine." A quick swipe at her nose. "Let's not do that again, though, okay?" "Fine by me." The car was listing badly to the right, indicating that at least one tire on that side had blown out -- and that meant that it was time to get the hell out, before the mortar started up again. Scully tried the handle on her door, but it didn't move. Must be jammed. Shit. "Will your door open?" "Lemme see." The driver's side door popped open, and Ashare slid out onto the pavement. Scully twisted around to grab the medical kit from the back seat, then followed her. Seconds later, they were both crouched down in the ditch that ran along next to the road, gasping for breath and coughing, due to the smoke that blanketed the immediate area. The small arms and mortar fire had stopped with that last explosion, but that didn't mean the threat was necessarily over. Time to find out what was going on with the rest of the operation. Air Sasquatch had given up calling for Griggs, and now was talking to agents in the outlying positions, trying to gather enough information to develop a meaningful picture. Scully listened. //-- house is gone,// the man in the helicopter was saying. Agent Ngabaye, that was his name. //Just ... gone. Nothin' left but a crater. The bastards must've had the whole building wired, and something set it off.// Brief pause. //Can anybody see Sasquatch One? Is anybody in contact? Anybody at all? Clara Barton, are you still with us?// That was her cue. Scully switched on her transmitter, and started crawling up towards the top of the ditch. Ashare followed. "This is Clara Barton," Scully said. "Gimme a minute. We're in a ditch right inside the gate. Sasquatch One should be just ahead of us." She carefully raised her head, blinking against the billowing smoke. And swore. Agent Griggs' cars were about twenty yards away, and both of them were on fire. She could see one body lying on the pavement next to the ruined vehicles, wearing ATF protective gear, but it was impossible to discern his identity. Whoever it was, he wasn't moving. Past the cars, where the house had been, there was nothing. Nothing at all. Just more smoke and flame, dancing up towards the sky. //Clara Barton, Air Sasquatch. What do you see? There's so much damned smoke I can't make out much. Can you see Sasquatch One?// "Negative," Scully replied. She gave a hurried description of the scene, and added, "We're going forward. See if we can find any survivors." //I copy that, Clara Barton.// Brief silence. //Uh, FYI, we've been counting noses. We can't raise Sasquatch One or Junior Sasquatch, and that blast took out the relay truck, so we're out of touch with Headquarters. We're trying to reestablish contact, but it looks like it's going to take a while. You're the Bureau's ASAC, and that makes you the senior agent on the scene, until or unless. Copy?// "Yeah, I hear you," Scully said. She was already crawling along the ditch towards Griggs' position, with Ashare right behind her. "Anybody hurt at the truck?" //Negative, Clara. Nothing worth reporting. Freak hit by some shrapnel, but no, repeat, no casualties.// "Good." She hesitated, then added, "You got any suggestions for me?" She knew that the man in the helicopter had a better overall grasp of the situation than she did, and probably had more experience with this sort of thing, as well. This was no time to stand on ceremony. //No good ones, Clara. Fire department's on its way, ETA ten or twelve minutes. Not that there's much left to save. Clara Barton Base says they're in good shape, and want to know if they should come after you.// "Negative," Scully said. "Not until we're sure it's safe. There could be --" She was interrupted by the crack of rifle fire, and threw herself face down into the dirt. An instant later Ashare landed next to her, cussing a blue streak, as the gunfire continued. "Ashare?" "I'm okay. I swear I saw the fucking bullet, though. That's as close as I *ever* want it to get." Scully nodded, and clicked her transmitter again. "Air Sasquatch, Clara Barton. Somebody's shooting at us. Can you tell where it's coming from?" //Yeah, Clara, I'm on it. Just a sec.// For a few seconds there was nothing but the sound of rotors, as shots continued to ring out. Then: //Okay, he's in the tool shed. Sasquatch Two, suppress the shit out of that son of a bitch. Now, now, now!// //Roger that.// The high-pitched chatter of assault weapons joined the cacophony, melding with the rifle fire in an eerie symphony of death. Scully held her position, face down in the dirt, waiting for the gunfire to cease. After an eternity of perhaps 20 seconds, the rifle stopped shooting. A few seconds after that, the assault weapons trailed off, as well. //Okay, Clara,// Ngabaye said. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were doing play-by-play at a ball game. //You should be clear to proceed.// "Roger." Scully and Ashare rose to their hands and knees, and resumed crawling. It had rained earlier in the day, and the ground was damp and sticky. Scully winced as her knee struck something hard and sharp -- a small, jagged rock -- but she didn't let that tempt her into standing up. She wasn't about to take a chance that there was another sniper out there. At last they reached their objective, Griggs and his agents, lying huddled together in the ditch next to their automobiles. It took Scully and Ashare only a minute or so to determine that of the four, only Griggs was still alive, and he was unconscious, with metal fragments embedded in his arms and face, as well as his flak vest. "There should be three more on the other side of the road," Ashare said. "Plus the one lying next to the cars. I'll go check." "No, wait," Scully said, grabbing her arm. "I'll go. You take care of Agent Griggs." The other woman hesitated, then nodded, and Scully began crawling up to the edge of the ditch. She slowly raised her head, and hit the transmit switch again. "Clara Barton, calling Air Sasquatch." //Go ahead, Clara.// "We've reached the cars," she said. "It's not good news. Sasquatch One is hurt pretty bad. There are three others on this side of the road, and they're all dead." She blinked against the smoke and heat from the burning cars, trying to get a look at whoever was lying there. Shit. He still hadn't moved, and there was a hell of a lot of blood on the pavement. "There's one agent lying next to the cars, but I don't think there's much hope for him, either. I'm going to cross the road and check the other side." //Roger, Clara Barton. Be careful.// The man's voice sounded subdued. //Shall I send some people up from Clara Barton Base?// Scully hesitated, then shook her head, oblivious to the fact that Ngabaye couldn't see her. "Not yet," she said. "There could be another sniper, and right now we're doing everything that can be done." //Roger.// Scully waited for a few seconds, staring at the gap she had to cross. It was an ordinary asphalt country road, not more than fifteen feet wide, but right at that moment it looked more like the length of a football field. She told herself she was being ridiculous. Even if there *was* someone still out there with a rifle, the odds of him seeing her, taking aim and firing, all in the few seconds it would take her to cross the road, weren't worth worrying about. Plus, the smoke would actually work in her favor .... She took it in a rush, levering herself to her feet and bending as low as she could as she ran. The road hadn't been properly maintained, it was cracked in several places, but she stutter-stepped past the bad spots. A few seconds later she was across, sliding and tumbling down into the ditch on the far side. And it was all for naught, because the situation there was identical to the one across the road. Three more agents, including Steve Bothwell. All of them dead. Scully almost lost it, then. She had her hands on her helmet, ready to pull it off her head and hurl it away, and she could feel her muscles tense, preparing themselves to pound on the ground in anger and frustration. There was a horrible, black rage and hatred hovering in the back of her mind. To think they'd done all this for *nothing* -- //Air Sasquatch, calling Clara Barton. What've you got?// Scully sighed, taking a few seconds to clench her fists and get herself back under control. Then she hit the transmit button. "Clara Barton," she said, amazed at how calm her voice sounded. "They're all dead on this side, too." //Copy that, Clara. All dead.// The man in the helicopter fell silent. After a moment, Scully realized he was waiting for instructions. "Air Sasquatch, have their been any more shots fired?" She hadn't heard any, but the compound was pretty big. She had to check. //Negative, Clara. It looks like --// He cut off in mid sentence. //Whups! I spoke too soon. Looks like we got us a runner.// "A runner?" Scully found herself crawling up to the edge of the ditch and looking around, but she didn't see anything. //He came out of those woods where the mortar was,// Ngabaye said. //Heading southwest .... Correction, make that *she* came out of the woods. It's definitely one of the women. We're on it.// Scully listened as he gave an account of the pursuit. //Angling more to the south, now ... Aw, shit, she's heading for that stream! And now she's slid down the embankment and into the culvert.// He stopped talking, and it occurred to Scully to wonder why he wasn't calling for backup. "Air Sasquatch?" she said. "What are you doing?" //Trying to get a good angle,// was the brief response. He sounded preoccupied, as if he were busy with some complex task. "A good angle for what?" she asked. But she already knew. She just wanted Ngabaye to confirm it. //She's down in that culvert,// he explained. //But the trees are thinned out enough I think I can get an angle on her ....// His voice trailed off, as he apparently resumed maneuvering his craft. "Air Sasquatch, are you planning to shoot the suspect?" //She and her pals killed seven agents, Clara. They were all good men, and she could still be armed. That makes her a threat in my book. You got a problem with that?// "That's not the way we do things, Air. She gets a chance to surrender." //Fuck that, Clara. I got the bitch cornered, and she's going down.// Scully licked her lips. It would be so easy just to let it happen. But she couldn't. Not and stay true to herself. She took a deep breath. "Air Sasquatch, this is Clara Barton. As senior agent on the scene, I am ordering you not to fire on the suspect unless she fires first. Acknowledge now, or I'll bring you up on charges." For perhaps twenty or thirty seconds it hung in the balance, while Scully held her breath. And when Ngabaye finally spoke again, his voice was low and tight was anger. //Order acknowledged, Clara Barton. Shall we maintain surveillance? Or do you want to give her a complete pass?// "Affirmative," she said. "Keep an eye on her, I mean. I need to work something out. Just a sec." //We've got all the time in the world, Clara.// The man's voice dripped with sarcasm. Scully ignored him, closed her eyes, and tried to remember the map of the area that they'd studied. The woods with the mortar were southwest of the house, and the woman had run southwest from that, and then turned due south until she got to the culvert. And that meant .... Perfect. She opened her eyes and thumbed the transmit button. "Clara Barton to Clara Barton Base." //We copy, Clara Barton. You ready for us?// "Yes," she said. "Have you been copying the transmissions about the runner? And have you got that culvert located on your map?" //Affirmative on both.// "All right. Two of you ... uh, Johnson and Krieger, come ahead and give a hand to me and Ashare. Thorisson and Duquesne, I want you to see if you can take down the suspect. *Without* killing her, if possible. But if she opens fire, or looks like a *legitimate* threat, to you or anyone else, you'll defend yourselves. Copy?" //Copy. We're all over it.// Thirty minutes later, the suspect was in custody. And Agent Griggs was on his way to the hospital. ==========END CHAPTER TWELVE========== =========== Chapter Thirteen =========== Washington County Hospital Hagerstown, Maryland Thursday, August 10, 2000 9:39 p.m. Mulder's ankle ached as he approached the nurse's station, but he didn't care. Scully was standing there, her back to him, only a few feet away. And she was fine. "Hey, Mulder." His partner's greeting startled him, bringing him to a stop a step or two away. She still had her back to him, and to all appearances was engrossed in someone's medical record. How did she do that? "It's a secret doctor thing," she said, answering his unspoken question. She put down the chart and turned to face him, a look of serene contentment on her face, and it was all Mulder could do not to take her into a rib-cracking embrace. There was a cut on her chin, a bruise on her right cheek, and her clothes were filthy, but other than that, she appeared to be unhurt. She gestured at the chart she'd just been holding. "Griggs," she said. "He's going to be okay." She cocked her head and added, "And you didn't have to drive all the way up here, you know." "I didn't drive," he answered, moving towards her as gracefully as he could on the crutches, until finally he loomed over her. "Langly did. He's in the cafeteria, trying to score some caffeine." "I'll have to remember to thank him," she said, deadpan. "Personally." "Yeah, you do that," he replied. "You'll break poor Frohike's heart." He could tell that she was struggling not to smile, and that just made him want to touch her all the more. Of all the revelations he'd received about Dana Scully in the months since becoming her lover, the fact that she was a terrible tease and a flirt was in some ways the most amazing -- and the most endearing. And by God, he was going to kiss her, and to hell with whoever happened to witness it. He'd never coped well when Scully was in danger, and now that their feelings were out in the open -- "Agent Mulder, I suppose I should have expected to find you here." Mulder turned away from Scully, his professional mask dropping automatically into place, to see Skinner approaching from the direction of the elevators, the usual impassive look on his face. "Agent Scully," the A.D. continued, coming to a stop a couple of feet in front of them. He paused, and seemed to study the partners for a moment. Then: "I'm glad to see that you're well. The initial report I received was less than clear on that point." "I'm fine, sir," she replied. She took a step forward, so that she was standing next to Mulder, and he felt her elbow brushing against his forearm. "Unfortunately, I can't say the same for some of the other members of the task force." "I've been apprised of the situation," Skinner said. "I also am told that you were forced to assume more responsibility than had been planned. And that you encountered some difficulties in dealing with the situation." Mulder felt his partner quiver slightly at the A.D.'s comment, and he knew that there was something there. He couldn't help but wonder what it was, but he knew Scully well enough to realize that he wasn't going to find out. Not now, anyway. Not with Skinner standing there in front of them. "Nothing worth reporting, sir," Scully said, with a shake of her head. "I had a difference of opinion with the helicopter pilot concerning the appropriate course of action. But we resolved it." "I'm gratified to hear that, Agent Scully." The man's tone was terse but calm. "When I appointed you ASAC, it never entered my mind that you might be required to assume responsibility for the entire operation. But from everything I've heard, and especially considering the urgency of the situation, you seem to have acquitted yourself very well." "Thank you, sir." "I am particularly pleased," Skinner continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "that you were able to take Marissa Herman into custody. Directing the capture of the sole surviving Watergate bomber is quite a feather in the cap, both for you and for the Bureau. You can be certain it won't be forgotten." His gaze grew pointed. "I'm sure there was great temptation to authorize the use of deadly force to settle the matter, but that would not have reflected well on the Bureau." "No, sir." There was that quiver again. *Something* had happened. Something she wasn't telling Skinner. Mulder hoped she'd eventually share it with him, at least, even if she didn't want to tell their boss. "That would not have been appropriate, given the tactical situation." "Very well." The A.D. nodded sharply. "I drove up here this evening to check on your condition, and see if there was anything you needed, but that appears to be unnecessary." His gaze flicked to Mulder, and then back to Scully. "You've built up some comp time. Take it. Email me your preliminary comments on the operation. You can put off your formal report until Monday." He looked again at Mulder. "Agent Mulder, you don't look fully recovered to me. Take another sick day. I won't have agents abusing the system by reporting for work when they aren't yet back to one hundred percent. The Bureau is entitled to better than that." Back to Scully. "I'll expect to see you both at work again on Monday morning." Mulder felt his eyebrows raising, but before he could come up with a suitable response, Skinner had spun on his heel and was walking away. Mulder watched him go, remaining silent until the elevator doors had slid shut. "Scully," he said at last, "am I imagining things, or did the Skinman just order us to take a three day weekend?" "I didn't think I'd ever get to say this, Mulder," his partner replied. "About anything. But no. That was *not* just your imagination." He turned to face her once again, and dared to reach out and run his fingers through her hair. "I think we owe it to him to make every one of those 72 hours count. Don't you?" Scully smiled, then had to stifle a yawn. "Speaking for myself, Mulder, I think we owe it to ourselves to start off with a good night's sleep. It's been a helluva day." She grimaced. "Besides, there's something else I didn't mention to Skinner." She glanced over her shoulder, then led Mulder a few steps away from the nurse's station. "Scully? What is it?" He cocked his head. "Does this have to do with what you and Skinner were talking about? The trouble with the chopper pilot?" "No," she said, waving her hand in dismissal. "That was nothing. Well, not nothing, but I dealt with it." She shook her head. "No, the problem is with the woman we arrested. She is *not* Marissa Herman." "What do you mean?" Scully shook her head again, this time in obvious frustration. "I'm sorry. I'm tired, and it *has* been a long day. The suspect in custody *is* Marissa Herman. There's no doubt about that. But she doesn't match the pictures we were shown at the briefing." "What pictures?" Mulder asked. "Where did they get them?" "From the group's web page," Scully explained. "The Monkeywrenchers. And from digitally enhanced images from the Watergate's security cameras. They were a perfect match, Mulder. Clearly the same woman as the one on the web page." Mulder frowned. "Well, people often look a little different in person than they do in photographs. Maybe the picture on the website was an old one?" "No, Mulder. I know what I saw." Mulder raised his eyebrows, and Scully responded with a tired smile. "Okay, okay. That's your line. But it's still true. When we get back to D.C. I'll show you the briefing book. You'll see what I mean." "Does it matter?" "If the image on the web page doesn't match reality? Yes." "Are you suggesting that someone manipulated that image so that it would match what the security cameras saw, and thereby justify the warrant?" He couldn't keep himself from smirking, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Scully, you're making my little heart go pit-a-pat with this conspiracy theory. Please say you're not just toying with me." "I know it sounds crazy," she admitted. "But *something* funny is going on." She sighed, and added, "And yes, I know that whatever else is true, Marissa Herman is almost certainly responsible for the murders of seven Federal agents, plus assorted weapons charges. And of course, they must have known we were coming somehow, or they wouldn't have been so well prepared. But ...." Her voice trailed off. "Okay," Mulder said, nodding. "So we'll check it out -- when we get back to D.C." He smiled, and moved a little closer. "Speaking of ... how would you like to stay here tonight?" "In Hagerstown?" she answered, wrinkling her nose. "Why?" "It doesn't have to be Hagerstown," he persisted. "There's some beautiful country up here, and it's twenty degrees cooler in the mountains than it is in the city. We could find some rustic lodge somewhere and shack up for the weekend. Get a head start on that 72 hours." She snorted. "If you can find a rustic lodge that isn't booked solid for the season," she said. "Besides, we have plans for the weekend. Remember? Ocean City? My mother?" An evil glint appeared in her eyes. "And Mom called the other day. It turns out my brother's going to be in town, so he'll be there, too." "Bill?" Mulder made a face and shook his head. "You make it sound so tempting." "No, not Bill. Charlie. You haven't even met him; maybe he'll like you." She snickered. "Stranger things have happened. And a lot of them are filed away in our file cabinets." Mulder blinked, and looked down at her, as a sudden feeling of deja vu swept over him. "Charlie's going to be there? At the beach? With us?" "Yeah," she said. "I thought I mentioned that to you?" "You probably did." There was something there, though. Something ... something .... It was gone. "Mulder? Are you okay? We don't have to go, if you really don't want to. Although you're going to have to meet the rest of my family sometime." "No, it's okay. It's fine. I'll be there with bells on." He shook his head -- and caught a glint of something in his peripheral vision. Realizing what it was, he smirked, and added, "It was the mirror, wasn't it?" "Hmm?" He nodded in the direction of the fish-eye mirror he'd just spotted, suspended from the ceiling so as to allow the nurses to see around the corner without leaving their duty station. "Your secret doctor thing," he murmured, bending in close to brush his lips against her hair. She smelled of smoke and gunpowder. "Mmm," she replied with her best enigmatic smile. "You've found us out. I may have to kill you." A prodigious yawn. "But not until we've had at least twelve hours of sleep, and maybe some dynamite sex, as well. C'mon Mulder. Let's find Langly and head for home." # # # Residence of Dana Scully Washington, D.C. 11:47 p.m. "-- but what I *really* can't believe about the whole operation," Mulder was saying, as Scully unlocked the door to her apartment, "is that he had the nerve to give you 'Clara Barton' as a radio call sign. Much less that you were willing to put up with it." "That's probably because you don't know much about Clara Barton," Scully replied, stepping aside to let him enter first. She followed, shutting and locking the door behind them. "And Griggs knows even less. She was one tough woman, both physically and intellectually. If he'd known that, I'm sure he'd have chosen someone else." Mulder had been talking almost non-stop ever since they left Hagerstown, nearly two hours before. That was fine with Scully. Not only did it relieve her of carrying her half of the conversation, when she was already very tired, but she'd also, over the years, come to enjoy listening to him chatter. It reassured her, on a very basic level, that everything was okay. "Hey Scully, you got anything to drink?" The question was rhetorical; Mulder was already in the kitchen, and she heard the slight squeak as he opened the refrigerator door. "Hey, diet Coke! Par-tay!" Scully shook her head, smiling, and dropped down on the sofa, reaching for her laptop as she did so. She plugged it into the phone line, then powered up, aware of Mulder moving back into the living room. Looking up, she saw him somehow juggling two glasses, a two liter bottle of Coke, and his two crutches, as he came slowly towards the sofa. She watched, mesmerized, until he finally plopped down next to her, cradling the glasses and the Coke, as his crutches hit the floor with an unruly clatter. She couldn't resist clapping. "You could have helped, you know," he complained. But a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "And what's with the computer? We have the weekend off, remember?" "I just want to check a couple of things," Scully said. "That web page, for one. I'll sleep better, knowing I'm not imagining things." She clicked on Netscape, then typed in the url from memory, and waited while the page began to load. It was so slow. She really needed to invest in DSL. One of these days .... "Who said anything about sleeping?" Mulder asked, waggling his eyebrows. He leaned over and planted a kiss in *that spot*, just below her ear. Scully squirmed away. "Mulder!" She gave him an eyebrow, but she couldn't keep herself from smiling. "Just a minute. I just want to do one thing, and then we'll see to your needs." "*My* needs, huh?" He paused in his assault long enough to pour himself a glass of Coke. He held up the second glass, but she shook her head, attention once again on the computer screen. "I thought women had needs, too. This *is* the twenty-first century, isn't it? Even if you math geeks don't want to admit it." "Yes, Mulder, women have needs. And if you'll just wait two minutes, I'll be more than happy to let you attend to mine." "Okay, okay." Mulder took a sip from his drink, then made a face. "Yech. I thought this was diet!" He looked at her accusingly. "Have you been secretly adding sugar, just so I'll think you're being responsible?" "Huh?" Scully wasn't really listening. She was staring at the screen, but the only thing displayed was a 404 error. File not found. She hit reload. "What's that?" Mulder asked, scooting a little closer on the sofa, his arm snaking around her waist. "It *should* be the Monkeywrenchers' page," Scully said. It finished reloading, but displayed the same error message. She checked the url for typos, but it was correct. "It was there this afternoon." "Well, it's not there now," Mulder said. He nuzzled her hair. "Maybe the ATF guys took it down already." "Maybe." "And in any case, it can wait until morning, right?" "Right." Scully smiled, and allowed herself to relax against her partner for a minute. Yes, Mulder, she thought, women do have needs. You've got that right, at least. She sighed as he delicately pulled the hem of her blouse loose from her slacks, and stroked the bare skin of her belly. It had been a long day, but this was worth staying up for, just a little while longer. She was about to shut down Netscape when she noticed that the program had downloaded a couple of new emails. And one of them was from David Wilcox, the Quantico lab supervisor. "Hold that thought, Mulder," she said, sitting up straight again. "I'll be right with you." She clicked on the message. "You said *one thing*," he whined good-naturedly. As she'd hoped, it was the report on the PCR she'd ordered on the condoms she'd retrieved from the esophagus of the handcuffed man. What was his name? Something Japanese -- but she'd only seen the name once, very briefly, and now the damned file was missing, stolen right out of her apartment .... The lab report basically said what she'd expected: that the semen in the condoms matched tissue samples taken from the corpse, proving that the dead man was the source of the ejaculation. But Wilcox had also appended another note: //Agent Scully. Just FYI, we were able to salvage enough vaginal secretions from the outside of those condoms to run a PCR on that, as well. If you can come up with a suspect, we should be able to prove whether or not she had sex with this man.// "We should have him check it against that woman you arrested," Mulder suggested, reading over her shoulder. "Marsha whats-her-name." "Marissa Herman," Scully corrected. "You really think so? There's no connection, so far as we know." "Yeah, but I got a hunch." Scully rolled her eyes, and Mulder smirked, then sobered. "Besides, the guy with the handcuffs was Consortium, right? When one of them dies a violent death, we can't just assume it was a coincidence, and move on." "True." She shivered at the memory of her flashback. Not going to go there. Not tonight. Let's see what the other message says. She almost deleted it. It was from 'hotlesbianteens @ hotmail.com'. But then she saw the subject line: 'Who really set off the bombs at the Watergate?' It was the word 'bombs' that caught her attention. The fact that there'd been more than one explosive device was something that was being withheld from the public, as far as she knew. It certainly wasn't impossible for the information to have leaked out, and this could be just a come on, to get her to open the email, but it would only take a second to find out. She clicked on the message. "Scully ...." "Just one more second, Mulder. I promise." The message consisted of a list of names and dates, eight of them in all. The dates were all within the last year. None of the names meant anything to her, except for the last one. Shinichi Nomura, 8/4/00. It was the name of the dead man in handcuffs. She was sure of it. And the date was the date of the Watergate bombing. What the hell? "Scully?" The tone in Mulder's voice had changed to one of concern, and she was aware of him leaning forward to see what was on the screen. "What is it?" "I'm not sure," she said, chewing on her lower lip. "It looks like a hit list," he commented. "It does," she agreed. She thought about it for a minute, trying to decide what to do. There really wasn't much she *could* do ... not tonight, anyway. Then she had a sudden thought. She clicked on 'Forward', typed in the email address for Danny in Research, added a brief explanatory note, and clicked 'Send'. Danny could figure it out. Or if not, maybe they'd give the Gunmen a shot at it. For tonight, though, she'd had enough. She powered down the laptop, closed it, and set it down on the coffee table. "Does this mean what I hope it means?" Mulder asked, amusement and desire again plain in his voice. "Mmmhmm," she said, closing her eyes and leaning back against him once more. She turned her head and nibbled at the base of his neck. "And you know what, Mulder? If you do a really good job of seeing to my needs, I might not even kill you in the morning after all." "Just call me Sheherazade," he said. He leaned over and grabbed his crutches, then Scully helped him to his feet, and together they made their way to the bedroom. # # # Time and location unknown Viola powers down the laptop and puts it on the bedside table, then reaches for the TV remote control. It has been another good, productive day. The electronic spoof drawing attention to that environmentalist group worked out better than they had any right to expect. News of the government's raid, and the resulting deaths, has been blanketing the cable news channels all evening long. It was only with the greatest reluctance that she muted the television while she worked at erasing the evidence of their tinkering with the Monkeywrenchers' web page, and sent that email. She smiles as she turns up the volume -- and once again, there's Scully on the screen, brushing off reporters in the aftermath of the assault. Viola has become quite taken with the older woman; quite taken indeed. She hopes things work out so that she and Scully have some private time together, before this is all over. It would be such a pity for such a beautiful woman to die without first having a chance to sample her. It would be such a waste. Cesario stirs a little in the bed, and mumbles something in her sleep, and for a moment Viola's attention is drawn away from the TV. She's a beautiful woman, too, of course, and she's right here, in bed next to her. It would be easy to reach over and touch her shoulder. That would wake her up, and one thing would undoubtedly lead to another. Viola shakes her head. Not now, not now. She can always have Cesario, anytime she wants. For the moment, she wants to think about Scully. She slides down in bed a little, and slips her fingers between her legs. ==========END CHAPTER THIRTEEN========== =========== Chapter Fourteen =========== Residence of Dana Scully Washington, D.C. Friday, August 11, 2000 12:15 a.m. Scully slipped off her panties and tossed them to one side, then lay back among the pillows, watching through slitted eyes as Mulder disrobed. It was magical for her, watching him undress. His clothes always seemed to contain him, and although she now, finally, had delicious familiarity with what lay underneath them, she never ceased in her delight at having his body released once again, like some wild animal being set free. For Scully, having Mulder naked, standing before her and ready to take her in his arms, was the most extreme possibility imaginable. But tonight he was having some problems, due to the cast on his ankle. After watching him struggle for a minute or two, trying to get his pant leg off over his cast, Scully's compassion -- and impatience -- got the better of her. She slid out of bed and knelt down in front of him, acutely aware of the warmth of his gaze on her own body as she moved. "Let me help," she said. "I do have a vested interest in this." "So you do," he agreed with a chuckle. But before she could move he reached down and stroked her hair, and she couldn't keep herself from leaning into his touch with a sigh. Mulder's touch had always held great power over her, almost from the very beginning, and later in their partnership, as seemingly-innocent contact came to stand for so much more, it was sometimes nearly overpowering. Some days, it seemed that it was all she could do to keep herself from melting when he laid his hand on her lower back, or rested it on her shoulder while they talked. But now she didn't have to hold back anymore. Now she could allow herself to feel and to respond, as Mulder sifted his fingers through her hair, ran his nails along her scalp, and tickled the hollow of her ear. Her own fingers, meanwhile, were caressing his thigh, up from his knee, where his pants bunched and balanced precariously, to the hem of his boxers, and then down again, over and over and over. At length she stopped, and moved her hands to the waistband of his slacks, tugging on them until they pooled around his ankles. The left foot came free easily. She then carefully worked at the right, inching the material down over his cast, and ignoring one sharp gasp of pain. She knew that he'd tell her if he really needed her to stop. Finally, she had his pants all the way off him. His boxers went next, quickly and easily; looking up, she saw that while she'd been busy, he'd disposed of his shirt, and now was as naked as she was. Excellent. Smiling happily, she climbed back up on the bed and snuggled into his arms. This was nice. She could definitely deal with this. She was cocooned by Mulder, his strong arms wrapped securely around her, the heat of his body radiating against her and seeping into her flesh. She felt warm. She felt protected. She felt safe. Then Mulder's hands began to move, touching and caressing her in all the delicious, familiar ways, stoking the fire that was never truly out -- not when he was there. # # # Viola can feel the arousal building inside of her, growing stronger by the second, as she teases herself into an ever-widening spiral. One hand is between her legs, stroking relentlessly, while the other works at her breasts, pinching her nipples, squeezing and tickling first on one side, and then on the other. Her eyes are closed, and she tries to imagine that someone else is doing these things. She tries to imagine that it's Dana, touching her and inflaming her. Yes ... yes, she can feel them now. Dana's fingers, small and strong and curious, are exploring and exposing her body's every secret, laying her bare for all the world to see. The very thought is so heady, so exciting, so intoxicating. She can't even begin to imagine what it will be like when it really happens. When desire gives way, leading to the seduction that will lead to pleasure, to fulfillment, and finally to death. At the same time she imagines Dana's skin under her own hands, under her own fingers. It's warm and soft and very, very smooth. Dana is pale, as befits a redhead, her flesh seldom exposed to the rays of the sun, or to the prying eyes of others. Dana's nakedness belongs only to herself -- to herself, and to the one with whom she shares it. Unless, of course, someone else chooses to take it. The thought of taking, of violating, of claiming Dana for her own -- that thought is exciting, and Viola increases her pace. There will be resistance, of course; there always is. But that just makes it better, and makes the ultimate triumph all the sweeter. Her breathing changes, deepening and quickening as she brings herself closer to release. Her fingers are flying now, sliding through her wetness, in one instant plunging deep inside, in the next touching and caressing the outside in all the right places. Yes, yes, yes ... yes, it's so wonderful ... so beautiful ... so perfect. Just the two of them, just Viola and Dana, Dana and Viola. Just the two of them, and no one else, their hands gliding across each other's heated flesh, approaching that bright, golden moment, together. She doesn't want to share that moment, not with anyone. It's so, so, perfect. Immediately she pushes that thought away. She can keep nothing from Cesario. It would be impossible, even if she wanted to, which she does not. The two of them are bound together, and they long ago pledged to share everything, and everyone. It is not a union that can be undone, and there can be no secrets between them. Her fingers falter, and her arousal dips, as she remembers what she and Cesario mean each other. What they have promised. She finds herself staring up at the ceiling, watching the flickery shadows cast by the light from the TV screen. Her hands are still, now, her fingers unmoving. She glances over at Cesario, deciding that if her partner is awake, she will now allow herself to be diverted. She isn't sure whether she should be pleased or disappointed to see that the other is still sound asleep. She shakes her head, closes her eyes and returns her thoughts to Dana. To the smooth, perfect skin, to the questing, knowledgeable fingers. Dana. Dana. Dana. So beautiful, so perfect, so vulnerable. Ready to be taken, ready to die. So near, and yet so far. Dana. # # # His hands were moving across her skin, so slowly, so gently, so softly that she was barely able to feel them. Mulder's touch was tender and gentle, it made Scully ache with need -- need for him, need for his touch. Need for more. She was cuddled against him, her back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her from behind. One hand stroked her belly, moving in slow, gradually widening circles, while the other cupped one of her breasts, his fingers caressing and tickling the the sensitive underside. And oh yes -- something long and hard and promising was nudging her from behind. She snuggled back a little closer, rotating her hips and pushing them backwards into Mulder's groin. She was rewarded by a return thrust, and a soft chuckle in her ear. "A little eager, are we, Agent Scully?" "Eager?" she replied. "What's that? I was just ... mmm --" another push "checking out the lay of the land. So to speak." "Uh huh." They continued to lie together, hips moving languidly, Mulder's erection sliding against her, prodding her, and occasionally slipping in between her thighs. Each time that happened, she was tempted to reach down and grab him, and guide his cock to the place where she most wanted it. But each time she resisted the urge. Tired as she was, she wasn't ready for this part to be over. Not yet. Mulder's fingers found her nipple, and Scully gasped. Yes ... yes ... yes, just like that. She moaned, and rubbed herself back against him, needing more contact. His other hand had moved south, and now was tracing the crease between her thigh and groin, his fingers brushing her dampened curls. She spread her thighs in invitation, hooking her foot back behind his calf, hesitating only long enough to make sure she wasn't assaulting his injured leg. She whimpered as he pinched a nipple, and then again as she felt his hot, wet tongue painting the tendon in her neck. The other hand ... dear God, the other hand was still moving, and she shuddered as his fingers touched her outer lips. "You like that, G-woman?" His voice was low and throaty, and very, very sensual. His breath was warm and moist against her neck. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Did you really have to ask?" She reached back and around, until her hand found his thigh, the only part of him she could reach from this position. It was warm and downy; it almost seemed to her that his skin must be glowing, it was so hot under her fingertips. He was nibbling at the base of her neck, as his fingers continued to explore. Both hands were now down below, one pair of fingers holding her lips apart, while another pair danced around her small, needy center, just the way she liked. She moaned, her eyes tightly shut, as he rolled her onto her back, and then his mouth found her breast and he suckled on her, drawing it in between his lips, and she wrapped one arm around his head and moaned again. She couldn't stay completely passive; not anymore. Not when he was doing these things to her. Her hand snaked down between their bodies, groping, searching ... and then she found him. Long and hard and impossibly soft and silky all at the same time. He trembled as she touched him, grasped him, began stroking him, her fingers loosely curled around his shaft. It never ceased to amaze her how much he liked this, how easy it was to arouse him and please him. Her heart swelled with the knowledge, and she continued her gentle pumping, as his hips began to move. His mouth continued to work on her breast, and his fingers trailed through her slick, delicate folds. She heard herself murmuring his name, and she tightened her grip on him -- and he moaned against her, the sound muffled by her flesh and vibrating into her chest. He finally released her breast, looked up at her and smiled, then switched to the other side. Scully closed her eyes, and tried just to experience the sensations. His lips, his tongue, his fingers .... In the back of her mind she was surprised, as always, at Mulder's capacity for taking his time with this. Thoughtful, considerate, patient ... those words didn't begin to describe his approach to lovemaking. He'd once confided, late at night, during the afterglow, that he regarded sex as the only true performance art. And I'm his canvas, she thought. I'm where he paints his feelings, his emotions. Mulder, the ultimate impressionist. She couldn't help but giggle at the thought. He looked up in surprise at her quiet laughter, and she swooped down, planting a kiss full on his mouth. It lasted a long, long time, a tangle of tongues that left them both breathless, but Scully was still able to whisper, in answer to his unspoken question, "Monet." # # # One kiss is not enough, and Viola presses her mouth savagely against Dana's, again and again, seeking, questing, wanting to know everything there was to know. Dana's lips are soft and pliable, warm and alive, and Viola tightens her grip on the other woman's head, holding her still so she can drink from her. At last they break apart, gasping for air, and for a moment they hold each other, their lips grazing each other, their bodies pressed together. It is time, and they both know it. Viola's pulse surges in anticipation, and she can't keep from laughing as she guides Dana's head down, down, down ... down past her shoulders and breasts, down to her hips and the very center of her arousal. She spreads her thighs, eager for contact -- Electric! That's the only word, and Viola cries out, thrusting upwards with her pelvis, while pressing down on Dana's head with her hands. Dear God, this is good ... sweet Christ, let it never stop. Let it go on, and on, and on .... That soon, she feels herself approaching the brink, but she isn't ready, she isn't nearly ready. She always comes hard and fast, but this time she wants it to last. She needs to find a way to slow things down. She yanks on Dana's hair, pulling her back, signaling to her to go slow, as she might signal a horse in a show. Yes, she thinks. Yes, that's it. I'm the rider, and I have the reins. I'm in control. The knowledge is dizzying, even mind blowing, and despite her best intentions and desires, she finds herself spiraling farther and farther up towards climax. But still she needs more control. Still she needs the knowledge, the certainty that she's in command. Before Dana dies, she must realize her place, and she must acknowledge it as she begs for release. Viola must be in control. And as quickly as that, she is. She's stretched out on top of Dana, her face buried between the other's warm, silky thighs. Dana continues her own assault, of course, with lips and tongue and fingers, but by focusing most of her attention on her own task, Viola is able to keep herself from toppling over the edge. # # # And the flavor ... God, the flavor was wonderful, as it always was. Thick and dark and bitter, like nothing else she'd ever tasted. It was Mulder, pure and essential, and nothing else in the world could ever be quite like this. Scully moved her lips steadily, up and down over his shaft, taking as much as she could into her mouth before drawing back for another stroke. One of her hands cupped his balls, a finger extended to stimulate the soft, fleshy spot behind them, while the other hand gripped one of his buttocks, kneading and massaging the muscles as they flexed and quivered. Every so often she pulled back, slipping him out of her mouth so that she could kiss and lick and nibble, before sliding him back inside once again. Nor was Mulder idle. His lips and tongue were assaulting her, touching and caressing and moving possessively through her folds. He had three fingers inside her, but rather than pumping, as he sometimes did, tonight he simply held them there, exerting slow, rhythmic pressure in just the right spot, and then backing off just in time. Scully had already lost track of the number of times he'd brought her to the brink of orgasm tonight. Two? Three? Four? She didn't know, and she didn't care. All she cared about was *right now*, and the feelings they were giving each other. Nothing else could possibly matter. She felt as if a circuit had been completed between their bodies, with electricity flowing from him to her and back to him again, around and around in a never ending circle, each pass more powerful than the one before. Abruptly, Mulder pulled away, withdrawing from her and slipping his cock from between her lips. She mewled her dissatisfaction, and tried to go after him. But then his firm hands were on her shoulders, and he was turning her onto her back and pressing her head and shoulders down onto the bed. She looked up through a dizzying haze of sensation and emotion, to see his face hovering over her -- and suddenly all she could think about was his ankle. "You're hurt," she whispered. It seemed right to whisper, here together in the middle of the night. "Shouldn't I --" He chuckled and shook his head. Then, with a swift economy of motion he grabbed two pillows, slipping the first beneath her hips, and twisting around to place the other under his broken ankle. Then he turned back to her, and settled himself into the welcoming cradle of her thighs. She grasped his head between her hands, guiding his mouth down for a deep, passionate kiss, as he sank into her. And, as always, the rest of the universe ceased to exist. Yes .... # # # "NO!!!" The bellow of rage and pain escapes Viola's throat without her conscious volition. The word seems to hang in the air, trapped just beneath the ceiling, seeking escape and finding none. She stares upward, her mouth hanging open, trying to understand what just happened. Her body writhes with unfulfilled arousal and need, her hands clutch futilely at the air -- But there's no one there. She is alone. Dana is gone. Gone. She hears a rustling, and the bed creaks. Turning her head, she sees Cesario blinking at her sleepily in the darkness, question marks in her eyes. For a moment or two there is silence, as the other woman slowly comes to full wakefulness. Comprehension seeps in behind her eyes, as she realizes what's been going on. At last she reaches out, pulling Viola into a fierce embrace. There's no pity here, no regret or compassion, or anything else warm or human. Viola gasps in relief and delight as their mouths meet, and they begin to share once again the only emotion either of them can ever truly feel. Rage. ==========END CHAPTER FOURTEEN========== =========== Chapter Fifteen =========== Eastbound on U.S. Highway 50 Passing Salisbury, Maryland Saturday, August 12, 2000 11:01 a.m. Mulder shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Scully's Camry, trying to find a position that would be easy on his ankle, while still keeping the morning sun out of his eyes. So far, he wasn't having much luck. He wished Scully still had her old Explorer. Now *that* had been a car with some leg room. Unfortunately, she'd had an environmental epiphany after her cancer went into remission, and when her old car finally had to be replaced, she'd gone shopping for something a little smaller and more fuel efficient. It was still hot as hell in Washington, and for that Mulder was perversely grateful, because it meant that Special Agent Global Warming had switched on the car's air conditioning without any prompting at all. And once they'd reached the Eastern Shore, of course, the temperature had dropped ... and it would drop still further by the time they arrived at the beach. If, that is, they ever got that far. The traffic on U.S. 50 was terrible, and had been ever since they hit Annapolis. The drive from D.C. to Ocean City was nominally about two and a half hours, but they'd already been on the road for more than three, as it seemed that half the population of the eastern seaboard had had the same idea that Scully's mother had had. And her brother was going to be there. Couldn't forget that. Granted, it was Charlie rather than Bill, but Mulder was prepared for the worst, nonetheless. But he was resolved to behave himself, for Scully's sake. The mistakes of the past were *not* going to be repeated. Not if *he* had anything to say about it. The previous day had been a complete bust. Although Skinner had given them the day off, Scully had insisted on trying to track down Johnny, the ambulance crew member, whom she believed to be the source for that tabloid newspaper story about her and Griggs. Unfortunately, Johnny had had the day off, as well, and they'd wound up playing tag in the blistering heat all over greater Washington as they tried without success to catch up with him. They'd finally had to content themselves with leaving messages with his supervisor and with his live-in girlfriend. They hadn't had any more luck finding pictures of Marissa or Melissa Herman. The briefing books and other paperwork associated with the raid on the Monkeywrenchers' compound had been left in the Treasury Department briefing room when the task force left Washington on Thursday afternoon. By the time Scully got there, late on Friday morning, some helpful person had already cleaned everything up, and no one seemed to know where any of the materials had been put. "You want to get that for me?" Startled, Mulder looked over at his partner. She was hunched over the wheel, gripping it tightly and peering ahead at the slow-moving traffic. For a second he didn't understand what she meant. Then her cell phone chirped, presumably for the second time, and it all became clear. Moving with some difficulty in the cramped compartment, he managed to reach her purse on the floor of the back seat, fumbled around in it until he located her phone, flipped it open and hit CONNECT just as it rang for the third time. "Uh ... Fox Mulder, answering for Dana Scully." "Hello, Fox." It was Mrs. Scully. "I just wanted to check and make sure everything was okay." "Everything's fine, Mrs. Scully," he replied. He offered the phone to his partner, lifting his eyebrows in question, but she shook her head, her gaze still focused on the road ahead of them. "We're just caught in traffic. We passed Salisbury a few minutes ago, so it shouldn't be too much longer, if the traffic doesn't get any worse." It was weird talking on the phone to Scully's mother this way. He almost felt like a teenager again, explaining to his girlfriend's parents why he was late bringing her home. He fidgeted, and added, "Dana's driving, and she doesn't want to come to the phone." Really, ma'am, I'm not doing anything to your daughter that I shouldn't be. Honest, I've got both feet on the floor. No touching below the shoulders, no ma'am. Last night, on the other hand -- "That's fine, Fox," Mrs. Scully said. "We'll see you in a little while." Somewhat to Mulder's surprise, the rest of the drive went fairly quickly, and Scully was even able to find a parking place not far from where they'd all agreed to meet. Before long, Mulder and his partner were making their way along the crowded boardwalk, waving to Mrs. Scully, and to the tall, thin, red-haired man who could only be Charlie. "Fox, I was so sorry to hear about your ankle," his partner's mother said, once the introductions were complete. As always, there was an undercurrent to her words, something that Mulder couldn't quite make out. Not really annoyance, not quite anger ... resentment, maybe. Of his place in her daughter's life, of the risks Scully was subjected to, and of the distance that had opened up between her and her family. Not all these things were Mulder's fault; Scully had finally persuaded him to accept that fact, at least tentatively. //I'm fairly happy.// Those had been his partner's own words, only a few weeks before, and he treasured them, and was struggling to accept them in his heart. "Fox?" "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully." He shook off his introspection, and the two of them began strolling down the boardwalk. Scully and her brother were a short distance ahead, arm in arm, both talking a mile a minute. "I was woolgathering. And the ankle's not too bad, really." He managed to shrug around his crutches. "Just one of those things that happens in our line of work." "Yes, I suppose it is," she said, her voice slightly cool. Mulder silently berated himself. Idiot. First words out of your mouth, you remind the woman of the danger, and the price her family has already paid. Fortunately, Mrs. Scully didn't seem inclined to pursue the matter, as her only further comment was a soft sigh. Then Scully laughed -- actually laughed, a clear, bell-like sound that Mulder hadn't heard coming from his partner in ages. That seemed to break the ice. Scully's mother relaxed, and actually smiled, and the tension seemed to flow out of the encounter. # # # 3:15 p.m. Mulder was surprised to realize that he was actually having a good time. This knowledge had not come to him all at once, but crept up gradually over the course of the afternoon. After the initial awkwardness on the boardwalk, Mrs. Scully had seemed to take a genuine interest in talking to him, and Charlie had been amiable, if a little distant. And Scully ... well, Scully had simply amazed him, displaying a teasing, playful side of herself that he hadn't seen since their first year as partners. He recognized the pattern, of course. Being out for a holiday with her mother and the man who clearly was her favorite brother was causing his staid, sober, serious partner to revert to a younger and more carefree version of herself. And hell, maybe his own presence had something to do with it, as well. He suspected that she would be mortified if she were to see herself acting this way, but Mulder was greatly enjoying it, and he intended to make the most of this rare opportunity. His one regret was that he couldn't go in the water, because of his cast. He'd watched Scully and Charlie playing in the surf, chasing each other and wrestling, as if they were kids again. He was amused, but not too surprised, when Scully won their mock battle -- and then he'd laughed out loud when Scully held out a hand to pull her brother back to his feet, only to have Charlie yank her headfirst into an oncoming wave. This was what it was like to have a family that you actually enjoyed spending time with, he thought. His own family had been like that once, decades ago, before Samantha was taken. The others had died, and now he was the only one left, but the family itself had been lost in the winter of 1973. Nothing would ever be able to give it back to him. But maybe that was okay. He'd found it surprisingly easy to live with the knowledge, once he'd learned Samantha's fate, and the grief over his mother's suicide had been sharp and intense, but very brief. Scully had helped him through both crises, as she always did. Just as she'd helped him when his father was murdered. That one was harder to deal with, but even it was finally down to a dull ache -- although he had to admit he still had a lot of questions about his father's life and death. Questions that would probably never be answered. At least he'd finally been able to accept that much. Again, with Scully's help. But today, to hell with it. He was here at the beach, stretched out comfortably on a blanket on the sand, and he was by God having a good time. The waves were rolling in, sparkling blue-green with frothy whitecaps. The excessive heat of the city lay behind them, the sun was warm and bright overhead, and the sky was a perfect robin's egg blue. The entire day was damned near perfect, and Mulder felt a pleasant drowsiness drifting over him. Mrs. Scully had gone off in search of a bathroom, and Scully and her brother had come out of the water, and now were strolling down the beach, once again arm in arm. Maybe he could just take a little nap. There was certainly no reason why he shouldn't .... //.... Fox ....// Melissa Scully's voice echoed through his head, just above a whisper, but no less clear and unmistakable for that. He blinked, not sure whether he was awake or asleep. That feeling of deja vu, that he'd experienced Thursday evening at the hospital in Hagerstown, came crashing back over him. Everything ... the sand, the ocean, even the angle of the light ... it all seemed familiar. And Melissa Scully's voice, that was familiar, too ... and there was a terrible sense of foreboding -- "Agent Mulder, you're a hard man to catch up with, sometimes." Mulder turned his head, squinting up into the sun. There was someone standing over him, a woman, but for a moment she was just a shadow against the bright, blue sky. Then she squatted down next to him, and he realized who it was. Marita Covarrubias. He struggled to a sitting position and turned to face her. She was sleek and sexy as always, and was wearing a white one-piece bathing suit, with high cut hips and a low neckline that drew attention to her breasts. A wide brimmed straw hat shielded her face from the sun, and brown leather sandals adorned her feet. "I've been trying to get you alone for three days," Covarrubias continued. Mulder started, and realized that he was staring into her cleavage. He redirected his gaze to her face, where he found a look of knowing amusement that told him that she was well aware of his distraction. "We've got some things to talk about," she added. "Do we," Mulder replied, making no effort to keep the note of annoyance from his voice. His good mood of a few moments ago was already all but gone, simply at the woman's intrusion, and he had no intention of making things easy for her. "Yes, we do," she said. She seemed to be unfazed by the unfriendly response. "There's a matter of mutual concern that we need to discuss." She glanced around the crowded beach. "Unfortunately, this isn't the time or the place." "Just have your girl call my girl," Mulder said. "Maybe we can do that lunch thing one of these days." He turned away, looking for Scully. Fuck the Consortium, and the aliens they rode in on. Even ghostbusters were entitled to a day off once in a while. "Agent Mulder!" Mulder reluctantly looked back at Covarrubias. She was still kneeling next to him, a grim, angry expression on her face. "This is not a joke," she said. "This is deadly serious. There is a serious problem out there involving the people I work for, and I need your help to solve it. This is not speculation. I'm not talking about a hypothetical alien invasion in the vague and distant future. I'm talking about real people getting hurt, today -- and I might add that I got you out of jail so that you could help me with this. Now are you going to hear me out? Or are you going to brush it off, and let more innocent people get killed?" Mulder snorted. "Since when have you cared about that?" "I've *always* cared about the welfare of the innocent," she snapped. "You don't know me anywhere near as well as you think you do." Her voice softened. "I just haven't always been able to do anything about it. You're probably thinking of that time in South Carolina, with the killer bees." "Not to mention Ruskin Dam," he said. His heart clenched at the thought. Another time he'd almost lost Scully. "We had nothing to do with that," Covarrubias insisted. "I thought Alex -- I thought Krycek told you about that." "Yeah, and I always believe every word he says." Mulder shook his head. "Look, if you've got something to say, say it. Otherwise go away. You're interrupting my nap, and you're pissing me off." "Not here," she insisted, "and not now." Again, she glanced around the beach. "There are too many people who might overhear." Looking back at Mulder, she said, "I've got a room here in town at the Best Western, at 26th and Boardwalk. I'll be expecting you tonight at eight." "Maybe I have other plans," Mulder said. He'd spotted Scully and Charlie, walking back up the beach in his direction, and he made a point of watching them, rather than looking at the woman squatting next to him. "Maybe you'd better change those plans." Covarrubias straightened up, and for a moment she stood there looking down at him, once again silhouetted against the brightness of the sky. "And Agent Mulder?" A quick glance down the beach towards Scully and her brother, then back to Mulder. "Come alone." And with that, she was gone. ==========END CHAPTER FIFTEEN========== =========== Chapter Sixteen =========== Best Western Flagship Oceanfront Ocean City, Maryland Saturday, August 12, 2000 7:55 p.m. Scully pulled her car into an empty slot in the hotel parking lot, and turned to face Mulder. "You ready, partner?" "As ready as I'll ever be," he said. She nodded, and climbed from the car, hurrying around to the passenger side to help Mulder as he fiddled with his crutches. A moment later they were making their way across the parking lot towards Marita Covarrubias' room. Scully didn't know whether to be angry or elated at this new development. On the one hand, she was definitely annoyed -- more than annoyed -- at having her family outing disrupted in this way. It had taken a lot of persuasion to get Mulder to agree to come along, and then to be interrupted, when things were actually going pretty well ... she shook her head. They never seemed to get a break, and this was just one more example. On the other hand, the fact that Mulder had immediately told her about his encounter with Covarrubias, and then brought Scully along to the meeting, despite the woman's insistence that he come alone, was concrete evidence that he was taking the 'no ditching' rule seriously. They'd adopted the rule, ironically enough, in the aftermath of her own adventure with the Smoker the previous spring. That little debacle had been rough on both of them, but they'd managed to come out of it stronger, and with a better understanding and appreciation of each other. Mulder finally seemed to grasp how traumatic it was for her when he disappeared without any warning or explanation. For her own part, Scully now knew, from first hand experience, just how tempting it could be when someone waved the right apple under her nose. Their new understanding was also one of the things that had made it possible for them to bridge the final gap, and become lovers. Scully was still a little annoyed about that, actually, and she'd never quite worked up the courage to tell Mulder about Spender's analysis of her character and behavior. //You're drawn to powerful men but you fear their power,// the Smoker had said, during that long, tense car ride. //You keep your guard up, a wall around your heart. How else do you explain that fearless devotion to a man obsessed, and yet, a life alone? You'd die for Mulder, but you won't allow yourself to love him.// Although she'd rejected them out of hand at the time, those words had hit home, and they'd hit hard. Scully had still been mulling them over, trying to reconcile what he'd said with what was in her heart, when she stumbled across Daniel in the hospital, and began the strange, disturbing journey that led to her ultimate epiphany -- and to her partner's bed. She would have preferred to arrive where she was with Mulder in her own way, and in her own time, and she deeply resented this latest meddling in her personal life by Spender, but what was done was done. And she couldn't honestly say she was displeased with the way it had worked out in the end. She just didn't like the feeling that she was in some way indebted to one of her worst enemies for her newfound happiness. Damn them all, anyway. She realized that they were standing in front of Covarrubias' door. She glanced at Mulder, and he nodded, indicating that she should do the honors. Scully raised her hand and rapped sharply, three times. The door swung open almost immediately. "Right on time, I --" Covarrubias stopped in mid-sentence, and her eyes narrowed, as her gaze flicked to Scully, then back to Mulder. "I thought I told you not to bring anyone." The woman was wearing a flowered cotton sun dress and sandals, with a matching flower tucked behind her ear. The dress was plain, but it made her look feminine enough for Scully to feel a little dowdy in her own jeans and t-shirt. It also made her wonder just what extracurricular activities Covarrubias had planned for her evening alone with Mulder. Scully peered past the other woman, into the room, and saw a room service cart, complete with a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. "Yeah, well, you can't have Fred without Ginger," Mulder commented. "Not anymore. Do we get to come in anyway? Or would you rather conduct your business in the hall?" Covarrubias hesitated, then pulled the door the rest of the way open and stepped aside. Scully entered first, with Mulder close behind her, his fingers lightly brushing the small of her back. It was a comforting, possessive gesture that Scully found particularly reassuring under the circumstances. She'd never done well in dealing with other women who were interested in the same man she was, and although she knew that wasn't the true issue here, she found her partner's touch to be calming. As Covarrubias shut the door, Mulder moved over to the room service cart and lifted the cover, revealing, as Scully had expected, an expensive-looking dinner for two. "Ooh, Marita," he said. "You didn't say you were going to provide food." He grabbed a handful of jalapeno poppers from a plate of appetizers and tossed one into his mouth. "Good stuff," he mumbled, chewing the popper and sitting down heavily on the bed, letting his crutches fall to the floor. He swallowed, and looked around. "But where's Krycek? I kind of expected him to be here." He nodded at Scully. "That's why I brought Scully. I thought we might need a fourth for bridge." Covarrubias stared at him for a moment, her jaw muscles working silently. At last she walked over to the cart and pushed it into a corner of the room. Turning back to face them, she said, "Alex couldn't be here. He's busy with another project." Something flickered in her eyes, and Scully realized she was lying. Something had happened to Krycek, and it wasn't good. "Our condolences," she said, on impulse, and saw the shot go home, as anger flared in the other woman's eyes. "Yeah," Mulder agreed. He ate another popper. "You should try these, Scully," he added. "They're really good." He held out his hand, offering her one. Scully shook her head, doing her level best not to break into a grin at the sour look on Covarrubias' face. Sometimes she loved Mulder even more than usual, and this was one of those times. Mulder shrugged, popped the jalapeno into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. Then he turned back to the other woman, who now stood glaring at them from the center of the room. "So," he said. "I think this is the part where you say, 'I suppose you're wondering why I asked you here tonight.'" A quick glance at the cart and the bottle of wine, followed by an open appraisal of Covarrubias' figure. "Other than the obvious, of course." The other woman's lips thinned, and for a moment Scully thought she was going to swear. But then she seemed to relax; Scully could actually *see* her regaining control of herself. And she said, "Fine. If that's the way you want to play it." She crossed to her suitcase, sitting on the low bureau next to the TV. Mulder took the opportunity to grab Scully's hand and pull her down next to him on the bed. "It's your party, Marita," Mulder replied. "We're just along for the ride." "Perhaps so," Covarrubias answered, turning to face them again, holding a thick manila envelope in her hand. Her voice now was cool and controlled, and she arched an eyebrow. "But you used to be more accommodating." Mulder nodded in apparent agreement, and Scully felt something twist in her stomach. He's just playing, she reminded herself, and this woman is just trying to get my goat. It's just a game. Even if there *was* something there in the past, there isn't anymore. It's just a game. "Yeah, but without Alex here, the thrill is gone," her partner said. He glanced at Scully and winked, then shook his head. "C'mon, Marita, let's get it over with. I'd like nothing more than to spend the evening trading spitballs with you, but Scully and I want to get back to D.C. at a reasonable hour. So either say your piece or throw us out. I don't really care much which you choose." "Fine," the woman repeated. She walked over to stand in front of them, offering the envelope to Mulder. "First, a demonstration of my bona fides." Mulder nodded, and opened the envelope, sliding the contents out into his lap. Peering over his shoulder, Scully saw that the documents appeared to be police reports. A closer look revealed them to be from the Alexandria PD, concerning the dead man who'd been found in Mulder's apartment. "Those look like originals," Scully commented, glancing up at Covarrubias. The other woman nodded. "They are," she said. "I give them to you as proof of my good intentions. I got Agent Mulder out of jail Wednesday night, and now that you have the investigative report, you can be confident that the incident will never be raised again. You'll also find a *photocopy* of the new official summary of the case. You may have seen the news reports about that." Mulder nodded, still leafing through the documents. He came to the bottom of the stack, and looked up at Covarrubias. "He was one of your people, wasn't he?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "He was one of ours. He was supposed to contact you and bring you to a meeting with me." "It's so hard finding good help these days," Mulder commented. "At first we thought maybe you really had killed him," Covarrubias went on, as if he hadn't spoken. "You've had altercations with our people in the past, after all. But once we learned the exact circumstances under which his body was found, we discounted that possibility." "Very gracious of you," Mulder replied. "So who *did* kill him?" "That's rather complicated," she said. "It also has to do with the reasons I decided to get in touch with you in the first place. First, please understand that I'm acting on my own in this. If my superiors were to become aware of this meeting, all three of us would certainly be killed." She hesitated, chewing her lip. Then she nodded and pulled up a chair next to the bed. Her next words were directed to Scully. "Maybe it's not such a bad thing that you're here after all," she said. Scully raised her eyebrows. Covarrubias continued, "You probably understand some of what I need to tell you better than Agent Mulder." A quick glance at Mulder, then back to Scully. "Better than most men would." "What do you mean?" Scully asked. She felt a prickle run down her spine, as she saw a haunted look enter the other woman's eyes. It was a familiar look. Scully saw it in her own mirror from time to time. And she had a sudden, terrible premonition of what Covarrubias was about to say. "A little over two years ago," the woman said, her voice flat and expressionless, "around the time of the massacre at Ruskin Dam, I was taken against my will and used as a lab animal by the people I worked for. I was deliberately infected with the black oil, and they then experimented on me, trying to find a cure. The so-called vaccine -- actually, it was an antidote -- that Agent Mulder used to save your life the following summer was a direct result of those experiments." Scully felt her jaw dropping in shock. Automatically, her hand reached out to touch the other woman's shoulder. "I ... I'm sorry," was all she could think of to say. "It happened," Covarrubias said, her voice still flat and uninflected. "It happened, I survived, and now it's over." A crooked, bitter smile. "That's supposed to make me stronger, right?" She shook her head, and before either Scully or Mulder could respond, she continued, "In any case, it was because of that experience that I switched allegiances. It probably comes as no surprise to either of you that there are factions within our organization. The men who took me, and experimented on me, are from one of the factions, a faction that is attempting to develop an effective defense against the Colonists. There was an Englishman, the man who died to bring you the antidote for Agent Scully, who was one of their leaders." She inclined her head at Mulder. "Your father also belonged to that group." Mulder nodded, his face impassive. "So I've been given to understand." "C.G.B. Spender belongs to the main faction," Covarrubias went on. "The ones who in practice make most of the important decisions. And in fact, since El Rico, when so many of the old leaders were killed, he's been part of a triumvirate that rules the entire organization. His group is pursuing a policy of collaboration, in the hope that they can delay things, and eventually save at least themselves and their friends and families. These are the people who abducted your sister, Agent Mulder. They are also the people who abducted Agent Scully, both times, and they are the ones who ordered the deaths of your father. They also are responsible for the death of Agent Scully's sister." Mulder nodded again, but this time he didn't say anything. Scully felt a brief, intense surge of anger and grief at the mention of Melissa. But she said nothing. After a moment, Covarrubias continued speaking. "And then there's the third group," she said. "My group. We have little power, but we also have little to lose, other than our own lives. None of us are important in the larger organization. All of us have at one time or another been experimental subjects of one or both of the two main factions." Her lips quirked, but there was no humor in her eyes. "Alex and I are both members. So was Diana Fowley. Our goal for the moment is simply resistance. In the longer term, we seek a third way. Like the Englishman's group, we wish to find a way of fending off the Colonists -- but we want to do it without the brutality and callousness that he and his allies were so willing to employ. And it is in our name, and for those reasons, that I'm asking for your help tonight." Scully felt her hackles rising at the mention of Fowley's name, and she fought to suppress the reaction. Could this all be true? Could Fowley actually have been part of a ... a *humanitarian* branch of the Consortium? She rapidly reviewed the course of past events in her mind. Yes, it was possible, she decided, but it was not provable. Scully had far too little data to draw any firm conclusions, and what little information she did have was riddled with internal conflicts. She shook her head. It was impossible to draw any firm conclusions. But this woman sitting in front of her, by her own past actions and current admission, still worked for the Consortium. That made anything she said automatically suspect. She had to remember that. "I can see that you're skeptical," Covarrubias said. "That's good. You ought to be. But what I'm telling you is nonetheless true, and what I am about to tell you is true, as well. It's also why I've contacted you." She took a deep breath, and went on, "As you both know, my organization, through its various factions and branches, has conducted numerous experiments revolving around human biology. These experiments have taken place over the course of more than half a century, and have had a wide variety of objectives. "Now there is another experiment underway," she continued. "A new experiment. Unlike many past such efforts, this one has the active support of both major factions. It is an attempt to design a super soldier, through genetic manipulation. This soldier is intended to lead the underground, when and if Colonization finally does occur. And, as usual, the experiment has been conducted with a complete disregard for any normal human values. Many lives have already been sacrificed in its name -- and that was *before* the explosion and fire at the Watergate last week." "That was part of the experiment?" Scully asked. Despite her own self-admonition, she found herself starting to believe this woman. Covarrubias was so intense, her presentation of the claimed facts was so compelling, that it was almost impossible *not* to believe her. Scully recognized that the woman had deliberately played on her sympathies, by making reference to her own abduction and service as an experimental subject. *Alleged* abduction, Scully amended in her mind. Unfortunately, knowing what rhetorical tricks were being used didn't necessarily make them any less effective. Distance, she reminded herself. Distance. "Yes," the other woman responded. "The Watergate was the first field test of the prototype. The objective was to find out if the super soldier could function in hostile territory, make a strike, and move on, without leaving a trail that anyone could follow." She shrugged. "It was an easy test, of course. Security at the hotel was very light, and no one was expecting anything. There will be additional tests in the coming weeks, and they will be more difficult. But they will also carry consequences for the civilian population that are far more dire than what happened last week." Firmly: "And that's why we need your help." "Why us?" Mulder asked, his voice very low. With a sinking feeling, Scully realized that Covarrubias had sold him. God knew that Scully was finding the story hard to resist, but Mulder was *always* more credulous than she was. Thank heaven he'd told her about this meeting and brought her along. She didn't like to think about what might have happened, how Mulder might have responded, if she hadn't come with him. And that was setting aside her personal concern over Covarrubias' sexual intentions towards her partner. "Because, quite frankly, we have no one else to turn to," Covarrubias was saying. "I suppose you'd like to hear that you're renowned in the resistance for your prowess and purity of spirit. But the fact is that most of us are simply bureaucrats -- people who got in over our heads before we realized what was really going on. The man who was killed Wednesday afternoon is an example." "So did this super soldier kill him?" Scully asked. "The circumstances of the death seem rather odd for that." "Yes, they do," Covarrubias agreed, nodding. "The answer is that we don't know for sure, but it is likely. The prototype is extremely resourceful, and frighteningly intelligent. I have no doubt that ... it ... would be able to arrange things so as to leave whatever impression it wished. Certainly it is capable of fooling a local police department." She shivered. "And if it has come to suspect *our* activities, or if its masters have come to suspect us, enough so that it was dispatched to kill our man before he could contact Agent Mulder, then we're all in very grave danger." A humorless smile. "We might none of us live to see the dawn." "What else is new?" Mulder said. He glanced at Scully, and shrugged. Back to Covarrubias. "So what is it you expect us to do?" "We expect you to help us locate it, Agent Mulder. Right now, we have no idea where it is, other than the fact that it's out in the field somewhere. We don't even know for sure what its next assignment is." She leaned forward, her eyes glittering. "But we do have the means to destroy it. We were able to liberate enough information from the lab where it was created to work that out. But first, we have to find it." ==========END CHAPTER SIXTEEN========== =========== Chapter Seventeen =========== Eastbound on U.S. Highway 50 Approaching Parsonsburg, Maryland Saturday, August 12, 2000 10:40 p.m. "So what do you think?" Scully said at last. Neither of them had spoken since leaving Covarrubias' motel room, some twenty minutes earlier. Now they were back on U.S. 50, homeward bound. The traffic at this hour was almost non-existent, and the night was still and quiet. It was as if they were the last two people on Earth. "Mulder?" "Sorry, Scully." He hesitated, not so much because he was unsure what to say, but because he didn't know how to say it. "I guess ... I guess I'm inclined to believe her. I know we've been burned by these people in the past, but ...." He shrugged. "Her story hung together pretty well, and it accounted for all the known facts." Scully nodded, as if she'd been expecting that response. "It does hang together well. It's coherent and internally consistent." Pause. "But it does *not* explain why one of their own people wound up being killed in the fire. That's the one point that *doesn't* make sense." "Maybe he just happened to get caught in the crossfire, so to speak," Mulder offered. "Maybe he just didn't get the word in time. Or maybe they had some reason for wanting to get rid of him, and this operation simply presented them with the opportunity." "All of those are possibilities," she admitted. "But Mulder, we've heard so many glib stories over the years, things that seemed to make sense at the time, but later turned out to be false. I can't help but feel that this is probably one of them." "So you think she's lying?" He stirred in his seat. He didn't like that idea, much as he knew there were ample grounds for skepticism. He was so damned tired of all the lies. He wanted *something* to be true. "Not about everything," Scully said. Her eyelids flickered. "I think ... I think maybe what she said about her own abduction might be true. Her body language seemed to indicate that. But the rest ... yes, I think she was lying. I don't think there's a 'super soldier' out there that's responsible for all this. I think there's something else going on." "Why?" "I don't know." She shrugged, took a glance at Mulder, then looked back to the highway. "When have we ever really understood these people's motives? Lies are like ... they're like currency to them. They spend them as necessary, to get the things they want." "So you're saying ... what? That they do want something from us? Just not what they say they want?" "That's what I'm saying." Another glance. "Is that so hard to believe, after all we've been through?" They both were silent again for several minutes, as more miles fled by beneath the car. Scully had a point. Mulder had to admit that, even if only to himself. The problem with accepting her statement, though, was that it left him not knowing what to do next, how to proceed. It left things completely up in the air. Well, there was one way to address *that* problem. "So if you're right," he said, as if there'd been no break in the conversation. "If you're right, and this is all just some elaborate hoax ... what are we supposed to do about it?" "What we're supposed to do," Scully replied, a small smile on her face, "is go home and get some sleep. Then, tomorrow, we make another stab at finding that paramedic, so we can get *that* settled. *Then* I still have autopsy reports to finish, and I have a report due on Monday on the Monkeywrenchers raid ...." Her voice trailed off on a note of exasperated amusement, and Mulder couldn't help but laugh. "Okay, okay," he said, smiling. "I get the point. We've already got a lot on our plate. Mostly on *your* plate. But what about Marita? We can't just ignore her." "No, we can't, but she is going to have to wait," his partner answered. "Obviously, there's something going on, but we don't know what it is." She shrugged again. "Even if she were on the up and up, she said she was going to have to get back with us, after letting her friends know that we've agreed to help. Until she contacts us again, I don't see that there's very much we *can* do." Another quick look. "Besides, we still have some other leads to pursue with regard to the Watergate. Maybe one of them will give us a better idea of what we're up against." "True." Mulder stretched as best he could in the tight confines of the passenger seat, then turned so he could watch his partner as she drove. They rode in silence like that for several miles, with Scully obviously aware of Mulder's gaze. At last she looked at him again, a quizzical, embarrassed half-smile on her face. "What is it?" In fact, he'd just been reflecting on how beautiful she was, but he couldn't resist the urge to tease her a little. "Scully, I don't know how to tell you this." He paused for dramatic effect and dropped his eyes, as if he deeply regretted what he was about to say. "You've got a piece of spinach caught between your teeth." "I do not!" Laughing, Scully ran one forefinger along her gums. "Jesus, Mulder, I haven't even had any spinach today." "You mean that's still there from the spinach salad you had on Wednesday? Eww, that's disgusting!" He shook his head, a fond smile on his face, while Scully continued laughing. "There," he said. "That's what I was trying for." "What?" Her puzzled embarrassment had segued over into amused wariness. "I wanted to hear you laugh. You don't do it very often." "Mulder, I laugh." "No you don't," he insisted. "Not very much, anyway." He reached out and trailed a finger down her forearm. "But you've been doing it a lot more these last few months." If Dana Scully had been capable of being a coquette, that's how Mulder would have characterized the look she gave him. As it was, he had to leave her expression unlabeled. And she said, "Maybe I've had more reason lately." "Maybe you have," he agreed. A few more miles of silence. Then: "Scully, I just want to say that I had a really good time today." A rueful smile. "At least, until Marita showed up and crashed the party." "So did I." She let go of the wheel with one hand, grabbed his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, then returned her grip to the wheel. "Thank you." For a moment Mulder was at a loss, as he tried to imagine what Scully could possibly be thanking him for. Finally, he shook his head. "For what?" "For coming with me today. For letting yourself have fun." Pause. "For telling me about Covarrubias, and not running off on your own." "Hey, Scully ... we have a deal, remember? No more ditches." "Yes, I do remember. But this is the first time it's come up, and I wanted to say thank you. That's something else I don't do often enough." "Aw shucks, ma'am. Twarn't nuthin'." "Don't try to make a joke out of it," she said quietly. She reached over and touched his hand again. "Please. Not this time. I meant every word." "I know." Suddenly feeling awkward, he added, "I'm sorry. It's okay, and ... and ... you're welcome." That won him another smile, but still he found himself fidgeting in his seat. Accepting gratitude from anyone was hard for him. In Scully's case, it was damned near impossible for him to believe he'd actually done anything worthy of her thanks. He decided to change the subject. "So, Scully, you know what I liked best about today?" She shook her head. "It was when you and your brother were playing in the water. I felt as if I was seeing you the way you were when you were younger. Before the X-Files, I mean." He hesitated, then added, "Maybe even before medical school. It made me wish I could have known you back then." That was actually a frequent, wistful fantasy of his, but he wasn't quite ready to admit that. He was already going out on enough of a limb; the two of them seldom opened themselves up about things like this. That was something else that had been slowly changing. Scully didn't say anything in response, but that was okay. Her face bore a smile of satisfaction, and that was more than enough of an answer for Mulder. After it became clear that she wasn't going to speak, he nodded, and settled back into his seat to watch her drive. The gentle rocking of the car and the soft drone of the engine were soothing, and soon his eyelids began to droop. A few minutes later, he'd dozed off to sleep. He awoke suddenly, and for a few seconds he was disoriented, and couldn't remember where he was. Then it came back to him. Scully's car. The ride had roughened, and that must be what had wakened him. Looking out the window, he realized that they were no longer on the highway, but were instead maneuvering down a narrow country road. "Welcome back, sleepyhead." Scully's voice was warm and mellow, almost lyrical. Still blinking sleep from his eyes, he looked across at her, to see that she now wore an expression of serene contentment, as she guided the car down the road. "Have I been asleep long?" he asked. "And where are we?" "Less than an hour," she said. "We're still on the Eastern Shore, a few miles from Easton." He waited for a moment to see if she was going to elaborate. When she did not, he asked, "Where are we going? I thought you wanted to get home." "I do. But I want to show you something first. It won't take long." "Show me something? What sort of a something?" "Something about me." Scully fell silent again, and somehow Mulder knew that she didn't want to say anymore. Not yet, anyway. He decided not to press her. He would wait until she was ready to unveil her surprise. In the event, it was only about fifteen minutes before she turned off the narrow blacktop, onto an even narrower, rutted gravel road. A few minutes more and the road ended, and she stopped the car and switched off the engine. "Here we are," she said, her voice very soft. They were parked in front of a small stand of trees. Mulder couldn't see any lights anywhere, although the glow on the horizon told him in what direction Washington lay. The only other sign of civilization, other than the road itself, was the decrepit wooden barrier that prevented them from driving any further. "Okay," Mulder said. "What happens now?" "Now we get out and walk for a bit," his partner replied. She paused, and bit her lip. "Actually, the footing's not very good. I'm not sure if you can make it with your ankle. I, uh, sort of wasn't thinking about that." "Hell, Scully, I'm part mountain goat," he said, opening his door and twisting around to retrieve his crutches from the back. "I'll manage." If she had something about herself that she wanted to show him, he was determined to see it. A little rough ground wasn't going to stand in the way. A few moments later they were both out of the car, picking their way through the woods. The footing was indeed uneven, but Mulder found that there was a narrow path, and that made it easier than it might have been. The crutches slipped a couple of times, and once he stumbled, but on the whole, it wasn't too bad. They hadn't gone very far before they came to a small rise, and that proved a little more daunting. But with Scully holding his arm, and taking plenty of time to choose where to put his crutches and where to step, he was able to make steady progress. And after a minute or so, they reached the top. "Aha," he said. "I should have realized it would have something to do with water." The Chesapeake Bay was about twenty yards in front of them, at the end of a gentle downward slope. A narrow strip of sand ran along next to the water, forming a small, private beach. The trees continued down the slope, and stretched out to both sides as far as he could see. A large, irregular boulder, easily eight feet across in its smallest dimension, stood off to one side, a few yards back from the water. "I used to come here when I was in high school," Scully said, taking his arm again and guiding him down the slope towards the water. "This is a very special place for me." "You came here with your family?" Mulder asked. He suspected he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what she would say. "No." She shook her head, an odd little smile on her face. "No, I don't think my parents ever knew this place existed. I hope." They reached the edge of the sand and stopped, and together they stood there, looking at the water a few feet away. "I used to come here with some kids I knew. Mostly my boyfriend and I used to come here, along with another couple. My best friend, Cindy, and her boyfriend." She cocked her head and turned to look at him, her expression suddenly sad. "But you don't know about Marcus." Mulder shook his head, puzzled by the sudden downturn in her emotions. "Should I?" "Yes. And no. I told you about him once, but it wasn't really you." For a moment Mulder didn't get it -- but then the light dawned, and he nodded. "Van Blundht." "Yeah." She looked down at her feet, then back up at his face. "Mulder, I'm so sorry about that night. And I'm even more sorry that I never explained --" "Scully, you don't have to explain anything," he interrupted. "It's in the past, and, well ... it was a rough year for both of us, in a lot of different ways." "Yes, it was," she agreed. "But I do want to say something about it." She suddenly lifted up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, then touched his elbow and urging him forward onto the beach. The sand shifted a little under his crutches, but he didn't slip, having gotten plenty of practice on the beach at Ocean City, earlier in the day. "As you said," Scully went on, "it was a bad year. The cancer, and ... well, and everything. I was desperate for someone to hold onto, but I wouldn't let myself do anything about it. Most of the time, I didn't even allow myself to acknowledge that I needed someone. And then ... well, Van Blundht showed up at my door with a bottle of wine, and ...." Her voice trailed off, and she stopped walking and turned to face him again. Mulder stopped, too. They now stood at the very edge of the water. "Mulder," she said, "it had been such a long time since ... since that one time. In my head I knew by then that, for whatever reason, it wasn't going to happen again. But a small part of me never gave up hoping. And then there you were, and I needed somebody, and I wanted it to be true, so I didn't let myself question it." A melancholy smile. "After all, it was perfectly in character for both of us to just pick it up again like that, with no explanation or discussion of what had happened before." Mulder nodded, and in the space of a few seconds a jumbled collection of images and memories raced through his mind. There'd been that harrowing escape from the radio telescope in Puerto Rico. The long, weary journey home. The burning anger and disappointment when the tapes turned out to have nothing on them. The fierce determination that he would at least hold on to Scully. Then one day, soon after they got back, she came to him while he was on surveillance duty, offering comfort and reassurance. Later that night he arrived home, to find her in his apartment, waiting on his sofa. Neither of them had spoken; he knew why she was there. For a few hours he was able to lose himself in her and forget ... but then events conspired to keep them apart, and they had no opportunity to build on what they'd started, or even to discuss whether they *wanted* to build on it. And not long after that, they met Duane Barry. "Scully," he whispered, "I'm so sorry. Do you want me to try to explain?" "Yes," she said, her voice equally quiet. "Sometime." Her smile reemerged, and Mulder's heart resumed beating. "I think I have some idea what happened, but I'd like to hear what you have to say. But not tonight. I didn't bring you here for that." "Okay." She took his hand and squeezed it, then let go so he could handle the crutches as they began to walk along the water line, in the direction of the large boulder that Mulder had noticed earlier. "Anyway," she said, "we used to come here when we were seniors in high school. Just the four of us. We'd go swimming, drink some beer and do a little necking." She looked up at him and smirked. "I learned a lot about male anatomy on this beach." "I'll just bet," he said, making no effort to keep the note of amusement from his voice. "The last time we were here," she continued, "was the week after graduation. You have to understand that not too long before that, the night of our senior prom, Marcus and I had, uh ... come really close to, uh ...." "Going all the way?" Mulder suggested. "Making the beast with two backs? Doing the funky monkey? Playing hide the salami?" They'd reached the boulder, and now Scully turned once again to face him. "Yes," she said, rolling her eyes and smiling. "Hide the salami. That was just the phrase I was looking for. Unfortunately, we were interrupted. So there was a certain amount of tension between us, but we hadn't actually talked about it --" "Hard to imagine," he interrupted again, now with a smirk of his own. "I mean, that two people would come that close to *consummating* something, and then not talk about it for an entire week. That's such a long time. We don't know anyone like that, do we, Scully?" "Asshole." She gave him an affectionate swat on the shoulder. "So the four of us came out here, and after we'd had a little beer and it had gotten dark, the guys announced that they wanted to go skinny dipping." "Oooh," Mulder said, his smile broadening. "This story keeps getting better and better. A skinny dipping Scully! Who'd have thought?" "Yes, except that it was a skinny dipping *Dana*," she said, with amused dignity. "I didn't turn into Scully until after I'd met you. But as you've already surmised, Cindy and I let ourselves be talked into it, but we decided to get undressed behind this rock." She nodded over her shoulder. "And we told the guys they couldn't look until we were in the water." "I bet they peeked," Mulder said. He could see where this story was heading, and it was really starting to turn him on. "I would have." "I'm sure they did," Scully agreed. "And of course, we were secretly hoping that they would. So we were all in the water together, splashing around, getting used to it, and then suddenly Marcus swooped down on me and wrapped his arms around me. What could I do? I was trapped." "I'll bet you put up a hell of a fight." "Yes, certainly," she agreed, with a little snort of amusement. "It was the first time I'd been kissed when I wasn't wearing any clothes, and I was standing in three feet of water. i was lucky my knees didn't give out. I could have drowned." "And the rest, I take it, is history," Mulder said. He moved a little closer, until their bodies were almost touching. "That's right. In fact ...." She turned away and strolled on around the rock, glancing over her shoulder just before she passed out of sight. Mulder followed, to find her standing in a small grassy area that was sheltered by the trees. The boulder shielded the spot from the beach and the bay, giving them complete privacy, unless someone actually bothered to walk around the huge rock. "Right here," Scully declared, prodding the turf with her shoe, "is where I lost my virginity. Eighteen years ago this past June." She stopped talking, and simply stood there, watching him. In his mind's eye he could see the scene she'd just described: an impossibly young Scully, naked in the moonlight, her hair wet from swimming, lying back on the grass and holding out her arms to him. Ready and willing, eager to make love for the very first time. His cock was so hard it almost hurt, and he shifted on his crutches, trying to ease his discomfort. "So ... what happens now?" he asked. Scully raised an eyebrow. "That depends, Mulder. What do you want to happen now?" She paused, but he couldn't manage to get any words out. She went on, in a teasing tone of voice, "I suppose we could just go on home. But you did say you wanted to see what I was like when I was younger." "Scully ...." His voice was barely above a whisper. He couldn't believe his partner, normally so serious and conservative, was actually suggesting what she seemed to be suggesting. "Come on, Mulder," she prompted, her voice low and seductive. She was fingering the hem of her t-shirt, still looking him directly in the eye. "I feel very strange tonight. Very ... very young. That doesn't happen very often; you may not get another chance like this. You wouldn't want to waste it." "No, I guess I wouldn't." "I didn't think so." Mulder stood there, mesmerized, as Scully began to undress, first pulling her t-shirt off over her head and tossing it aside, then reaching behind her back and unhooking her bra. Shoes and socks followed, then her jeans. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and raised her eyebrow at him again, then slowly slid them down off her hips and let them fall to the ground. She kicked them to one side, and then she was naked, standing before him in the darkness. "Scully," he whispered again. He moved forward until he was standing directly in front of her, and she stepped into his arms and kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft, and her breath was sweet and moist as it mingled with his. The tip of her tongue probed at his mouth, and he opened it, allowing her free entry. They tasted each other, trading oral caresses. One of Scully's hands gripped his neck, while the fingers of the other sifted through his hair. He dropped his crutches, and his own hands came to rest on her bare hips, holding her close against him, while his thumbs massaged her pelvic bone. At last she ended the kiss, pulling back a little so that she could look up at him. "Well?" she said, smiling. "You do realize that we're going to get chigger bites," he said, smiling back down at her. Scully laughed and shook her head. "I don't care," she said. "I got chigger bites that other time, too, with Marcus. Just for tonight, I want us to be young together. I want us to be eighteen." Her hands went to his belt buckle, even as she stretched up to kiss him again, and Mulder had to murmur his response against her lips. "Okay, Scully. Okay. Just for tonight, we'll be eighteen." After that, there was no more talking. Scully eased him down to the ground, ever mindful of his broken ankle. She helped him out of his clothes, then moved once more into his embrace. The night was warm and silent, and the two partners lay together in the grass, kissing and touching, making love beneath the stars. Being young together in the dark. ==========END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN========== =========== Chapter Eighteen =========== FBI Headquarters Washington, D.C. Monday, August 14, 2000 8:02 a.m. "Sorry I'm late," Scully said, as she stepped through the doorway of the basement office. She tossed a small paper bag onto Mulder's desk. "I had to stop at Wal-Mart on my way in. *Somebody* used up all my calamine lotion yesterday." "Sorry, Scully," he said, a lazy smile on his face. "But my need was greater than thine. If I may remind you, *I'm* the one who wound up lying on his back." "You said you wanted to be able to see me. And you knew there were going to be chiggers -- you were the one who brought it up." She set her briefcase down and opened it, bending her head in hopes that her hair would conceal the fact that she was struggling to keep a straight face. "But I got my reports done anyway, despite the fact that my knees and shins and elbows *and* forearms were itching horribly." She pulled out the stack of folders and set them firmly on the desk. "I'll put you in for a performance award," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. He leaned back in his chair, his hands locked behind his head. "But while *you* were making Sam Walton's heirs just a little bit richer, *I* was working. Specifically, I finally got hold of your EMT buddy, Johnny Dietrich." "Thank God." Scully sat down in her own seat and powered up her computer. "What did he have to say?" "Well, at first he thought I was Griggs, and I really got an earful. But after he settled down, and realized I was just your main squeeze ...." His voice trailed off, and he raised his eyebrows. "You didn't." She fixed her gaze on him. "Mulder, tell me you didn't." His goofy personal attentions amused her when they were directed at her, in private, but when he turned that side of himself loose on the outside world she became embarrassed. He knew that. It was one of the first things they'd had to work out, all those months ago. So surely he hadn't -- "No," he said, shaking his head and smiling again. "I didn't. I told him I was your partner, and that we'd been trying to reach him about that newspaper article." "And?" "He actually fessed up right away. The poor kid worships you, Scully. He was just trying to make a little extra money -- and, I suspect, get your attention, in a clumsy, post-adolescent, John Hinkley/Jodie Foster sort of way. He was mortified when I told him you were having professional problems because of it. He said he'd email me a statement to show to Skinner. Hopefully, that will be the end of it." "Thank God." She turned her attention back to her computer, which now was fully online. She clicked on the mail icon and skimmed rapidly through the messages. Another one from the lab supervisor ... one from human resources, about her 401K election ... a couple spams ... one or two others, none of them important. She sat back in her chair and swore. "Scully? What's the matter?" "Still nothing from Danny," she said, waving at the screen. "Remember that message I got last week? That list of names? I expected to hear from him on Friday, and when I didn't, I was sure there'd be something this morning. I better call him." She picked up the phone and hit the appropriate speed dial. It was answered on the second ring. "Danny, this is Scully," she said. "I just wanted to follow up on that file I sent you ... uh, Thursday night. You probably got it Friday morning. Have you found anything yet?" "Yeah," he said, sounding surprised. "I emailed the response to A.D. Skinner late Friday morning. Hasn't he passed it on to you?" "No," she replied, furrowing her brow in confusion. "Why did you send it to Skinner?" "Your inquiry impinged on a classified operation," Danny explained. "Skinner has to clear you to see it. I'm sorry; I should have sent you a note about it. But I assumed he'd forward it on to you pretty much right away. It's pretty routine stuff. Sorry, Agent Scully." "No, that's okay," Scully said, more confused than ever. "I'm sure he's just been busy. I'll call Kim and ask her about it." "Sorry I can't be more help," he replied. "Anything I can do from this end, just give me a jingle." "Thanks. If I have any problems, I'll let you know." She hung up. "What was that all about?" Mulder asked. "He says he sent it to Skinner," Scully replied. "Friday morning. It's classified, and I have to be cleared before I can see it." "So what's taking Skinner so long?" "I don't know," she said. "But I'm going to find out." She picked up the phone again, and punched the button for Skinner's office. "Kimberly," she said, "this is Agent Scully. I had a question concerning a report I've been expecting from Danny Grimes. Do you know the one I'm talking about?" "I think so, Agent Scully. You mean the report on Operation Parasite?" "Yes, that's the one," she said, hoping she was right. "I've been waiting for the A.D. to clear it for me, but ...." She let her voice trail off suggestively. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully," Kimberly replied. "He's horribly busy this morning. I'm a little surprised he didn't take care of it over the weekend -- I know he was in for a while on Saturday. But now he's in meetings over at the DOJ, and I don't expect him back until after lunch. I'll leave a note on his desk about it, though." "Thanks, Kim." Once again, she hung up. "No dice, huh?" Mulder said. "No." She gave him a summary of the conversation. "At least I got the name. She called it 'Operation Parasite'." Mulder frowned, and turned to his own computer, activating the Bureau's internal search engine. He tapped the keys, hit return, and waited. After a few seconds, he shook his head. "Nothing," she guessed. "Right." He pushed himself away from the computer. "Which does tell us one thing. It's classified at a high enough level that even the file name won't turn up on a routine inquiry. The directory itself must be classified. And that means it's pretty hot shit." He drummed his fingers on the desktop. "'Operation Parasite'," he repeated. "You don't suppose it could have something to do with the nanites, do you?" "No idea." She felt a prickle run down her spine at the thought. What a horrible way to have to live your life. She didn't now how Skinner could stand it -- except, of course, that she had a very similar problem of her own: That chip buried in the back of her neck. "You know, I think I'm even more interested in seeing it than I was before," Mulder said. He chewed his lip for a moment, then reached for his telephone. "Mulder, wait." "What?" He paused, finger poised over one of the speed dials. "I was just gonna call the guys and --" "No." She shook her head. "We're not going that route, Mulder. As far as we know this file is legitimately classified, and Skinner just hasn't had time to review it yet. And if it *is* related to the nanites, the last thing he needs is us messing around in it without knowing what we're doing. Kim said he'd be back after lunch. I think we should wait, and see if he just forwards it to me in the course of routine business." "Well ... okay. For now." He returned the phone to its cradle. "We'll wait," he continued. "But not for very long. If it *does* have to do with the nanites ... well, Skinner blew us off once on this, and I'm not going to let it happen again." Scully nodded. She couldn't help but agree. The nanites might be the A.D.'s personal dilemma, but they also fed back into the larger problems she and Mulder faced, and they couldn't be ignored. The day passed slowly. Johnny's email came in, and while he was still embarrassingly effusive, it did seem likely that his message would defuse the issue with Griggs and the newspaper article, so they forwarded it on to Skinner. They fielded a few phone calls, received one long, improbable fax from somebody in Maine -- something about a banshee, and Stephen King. And they got caught up on their paperwork. In the early afternoon Scully made the trek to the cafeteria, in deference to Mulder's ankle, and took the opportunity to drop off her reports to Skinner while she was upstairs. Kimberly was at her desk, being professionally unhelpful, and the inner door was closed. Yes, the A.D. was back. No, he was not available. No, he hasn't acted on that report, but I did remind him. Sorry, Agent Scully. I'll call you the minute he decides. Will there be anything else? By mid-afternoon she was pretty sure Skinner was avoiding her. Granted that he had apparently had a long string of meetings today, but she never had this much trouble getting in to see him. At the very least, she would normally have expected him to return her original phone call by now. Kimberly's body language reinforced this opinion, as the A.D.'s assistant had seemed reluctant to look her in the eye. Once again, Skinner was confusing her. She could think of no reason for him to be acting this way. The request would either be approved or not. If it were approved, she should have it by now. If not, it was uncharacteristic of Skinner not to simply pick up the phone and tell her. Mulder suggested the obvious -- that their boss was trying to keep something from her. But that didn't make sense to her, either, because by holding on to the report and refusing to meet with her, he was actually drawing more attention to whatever was *in* the report. As Mulder had commented that morning, it just made her want the information more than ever. And, although she knew it was an irrational response on her part, it also added to her growing conviction that whatever was in the document was going to turn out to be important. She didn't want to be suspicious of her boss' motives, but it was hard not to be. He'd been secretive last week over the issue of who had arranged Mulder's release by the Alexandria police. But then he'd turned around the very next day, and pushed her forward into a position of prestige and importance in the Watergate investigation, and backed up her actions during the raid on the Monkeywrenchers' compound. And now this. By 3:30 Scully's patience had run out, and she finally acquiesced and allowed Mulder to set into motion what he called 'Plan B'. To her relief, Plan B did *not* involve getting the Lone Gunmen to hack into the Bureau's computer system. It consisted mostly of misdirection -- although the consequences if they were caught were still potentially pretty dire. But after seven years of tearing one page after another out of the rule book, usually at Mulder's suggestion, there was very little left that Scully considered to be off limits. She stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor. The Research Division had originally been a large, open area, similar to the agents' bullpen on the floor below, but a couple of years ago it had been broken up into cubicles, and now it was a maze of temporary partitions. A few heads prairie dogged up over the dividers at the sound of her footsteps, then disappeared just as quickly. She was no stranger here. She made her way directly to Danny's cubicle, and stuck her head in through the opening. "Knock knock," she said, doing her best to sound casual. "Agent Scully! To what do I owe the honor?" Danny was dressed as always, in a plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a dark, narrow tie, and dark slacks. Three or four pens stuck out of a plastic pocket protector in his breast pocket, and a pencil was parked behind his right ear. Everything about him screamed 'geek', but that was nothing against him in Scully's book -- and besides, he'd been extraordinarily helpful to her over the years. Of course, remembering that made her feel guilty for what she was about to do, but there seemed to be no alternative. She smiled, and stepped into the cubicle. "I was wondering if I could ask a favor," she said. "I've spoken to Kimberly about that report, and she doesn't know if Skinner's going to get to it today. You said it was pretty routine, and I was just wondering ...." She let her voice trail off; Danny was already shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, but you know the regs. You've got the requisite clearance, but you don't have need-to-know. Not until your boss says you do. I'm sorry," he repeated. "I know," she said with a sigh. "And it's okay." She chewed her lip, pretending to think about it for a minute. "Look, I know you've already gone over this, but would you mind pulling it up on your screen and checking the classification level again? Just on the off chance there was a mistake?" "Sure. But there's no mistake." He turned to his computer, and his fingers flew across the keyboard. While he was doing that, Scully pulled out her cell phone and punched one of the speed dials. //Lone Gunmen.// Frohike, just as planned. "Mulder, it's me," she said. "I'm with Danny, but he said no." //Does he have it up on the screen yet?// Frohike asked. "Yes," she replied. "I'm having him check the classification, just in case, but --" Danny was looking back at her already, shaking his head. She sighed again. "Mulder, he says no. So I guess we wait until tomorrow." //We're on it,// the little man said. //Keep talking.// "Okay," she replied. She paused, as if she were listening to her partner. Then: "I don't think that's fair .... No, Mulder, it's not his fault." She rolled her eyes at Danny and gave him a rueful smile, suppressing another stab of guilt as she did so. Just then, the researcher's desk phone rang. He reached for it, and Scully held her breath. Everything depended on the Gunmen's voice synthesizer. It had fooled her the year before. Would it fool Danny now? "Grimes, Research," he said. He listened for a few seconds. "Hi, Kim, what's up?" "Mulder, just calm down," Scully said, picking another phrase at random. Frohike had wanted to script her side of the conversation, but she'd been afraid it would sound rehearsed. Now she was wondering if maybe he'd been right after all; she was having trouble thinking of things to say. "We'll just have to take the evening off, and work on it in the morning. Is that so terrible? I wanted to see my mother tonight anyway." "I already turned that in," Danny was saying into his own phone. "Last Thursday." Another pause, followed by a sigh of exasperation. "Oh, fer Chrissake. Fine. Whatever. I'll be right there." He hung up the phone, shook his head, and muttered, "Management." "Well Jesus, Mulder," Scully said, with another roll of the eyes. "Surely you don't hold *me* responsible for your lack of a social life." She added, "Maybe you can hang out with those geeky friends of yours." //Hey!// Frohike objected, and she smirked. She could easily picture the expression of wounded dignity on his face. //We've got you on the speaker phone, and that was a low blow, Agent Scully. You just made Langly cry.// "Well that's just too bad," she replied. "You'll live. I'll see you in the morning, Mulder." She switched off the phone and put it away. Danny was pulling some files from a desk drawer. Now if he'd just leave his computer on she'd be home free. It was a clear violation of security protocol, but most people were lazy, and left their PC's on if they knew they were only going to be away for a few minutes. And sure enough, he was surging up out of his chair and charging around his desk, an annoyed look on his face, apparently without giving a second thought to his computer. Scully stepped out into the hall to make way. "Sorry, Agent Scully," he said. "Gotta go. Catch ya later." He swept by her and on down the hall. A few seconds later, she heard the ding of an elevator. Scully glanced at her watch as she stepped back into Danny's cubicle. 4:19. Kim always left on the dot of four, to pick up her kids from their after school program. Danny would probably wait around for a few minutes, then use Kimberly's photocopier to run off duplicates of the monthly workload reports he'd been asked to bring, so he could leave them on her desk and get out of there. Kim would be puzzled to find the copies tomorrow morning, but probably *not* puzzled enough to call Danny about it. Now as long as Skinner wasn't in his office with the door open .... As she'd hoped, the Operation Parasite files were still on the screen. Scully sat down in Danny's chair, pulling on a pair of latex gloves as she did so. She wasn't planning on leaving her fingerprints on the keyboard of a restricted PC, just in case Danny got suspicious and the information security people were able to trace what she was about to do. She heard footsteps in the hall, and glanced at the open entryway of the cubicle, her heart beating fast. If someone walked in now, or if Danny had forgotten something and had to come back for it, this was going to be impossible to explain. Why did she let herself get talked into things like this? Well, nothing to do now but see it through. Turning her attention back to the computer, she took a floppy disk from her pocket, slid it into the drive and started copying files. There were eight of them, just as she'd guessed, and they were apparently small, because it didn't take very long. Two minutes later she was out of the cubicle, heading for the elevators. # # # Residence of Fox Mulder Alexandria, Virginia 4:34 p.m. Today, Viola is in Alexandria. It seemed like a good idea to put a little distance between herself and Dana, considering what happened the other night. At least, Cesario seemed to think so. This time she let herself in, without recourse to the building manager. When Cesario was here last week she found the spare key, "hidden" in an ice cube tray in the freezer. People are so stupid, especially when they think they're being clever. Dana's extra key wasn't hard to find, either. This afternoon she's just exploring, trying to get the lay of the land. She and Cesario aren't quite ready to seal the deal yet. They're having too much fun to let it end prematurely. Part of the fun is becoming intimately familiar with the subject before closing in for the grand finish. It gives her such a wonderful feeling of power. Of control. Viola has to be in control. So does Cesario. She went to the bedroom first, because she couldn't resist, and as she expected, she found it to be steaming with sexuality and desire. Mulder's aura is here, of course, and so is Dana's. The sense of her presence is so strong, so powerful, it's almost as if she's physically in the room. There's another woman here, too -- someone with dark hair and large breasts and a weak, credulous nature. But it was a long time ago, and Viola dismisses her. She wants to concentrate on Dana. For a moment she stands still, eyes closed, and allows a vision of Dana to wash over her. Lying on her back, half-buried among the pillows and blankets, her skin flushed and slick with sweat. It's dark, the wind is blowing, and Dana is opening herself, really letting herself go, for the first time in years. She's wearing a baseball cap of all things, one that says 'Stonehenge Rocks' on it, and she's *giggling*. Viola hears the scrap of a song .... //Speak to me, baby, in the middle of the night.// And suddenly there's someone else in the room. Some other presence. Not Dana, and not the one from the distant past, either. This is someone different, someone she feels she should know. Dana is gone, but this other is here in her stead. Someone powerful and hostile and most of all *familiar* -- //Why is it so dark in here?// The voice is powerful, demanding, and Viola frowns as she tries to place it. She's felt this presence before, very recently. She just can't remember. She wracks her brain, trying to dredge up the memory. When? Where? And most importantly, *who*? //Why is it so dark in here?// Again those damnable words, and again she can't quite place the source. For all their strength, there's something gentle about them, too. Something kind and loving and ... and *compassionate*. There's no weakness, though, nothing she can exploit. Nothing she can grab onto. She feels herself slipping away, she feels the hot, bright core of her fury being subdued by the warmth and concern of the other. She can't let that happen, she can't, she can't, she can't. If she loses her anger she'll die, she'll have nothing left at all -- //I don't have to be psychic to see that you're in a very dark place.// Suddenly, Viola remembers. The entryway to Dana's apartment. That's where she felt this presence before. The darkness, the two men, the gunshot, and she was falling, falling, falling .... With the memory comes knowledge, and from the knowledge comes strength. Now Viola knows what she's facing, and she's able to rally her will to fight against it. The anger boils up inside her, the rage that comes so easily, both for her and Cesario. It's white hot, it burns, and it feels so, so *good*. She lashes out, struggling against the cloying feminine presence, struggling to regain control. She gathers all her will, and gives one hard //push// -- And it's gone. She's sitting on the floor in Mulder's bedroom, her back leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. It took all her strength to do it, but it's gone. She allows herself to sit for a few minutes, regaining her strength and catching her breath. That was worse than the first time. Far, far worse. Worse than anything she's ever encountered before. She told Cesario about the other time, and the two of them just laughed, secure in the knowledge that nothing could stand against them. But this ... this *presence* is far more powerful than she thought. This time, she barely fought it off. Finally, she bestirs herself, and struggles awkwardly to her feet. Her legs are still rubbery and uncertain, but she can't afford to wait any longer. She has to find Cesario as soon as possible, and tell her about the magnitude of the threat. She moves out into the hall and towards the living room -- Only to find that the day is not quite over. She has another uninvited guest. There's a woman standing in the living room, next to the couch. Not the woman whose presence she just fought off -- this one is strictly corporeal. She's standing with her back to the bedroom door, and long blonde hair cascades down across her shoulders. Viola reaches out to sample the intruder's mind, and finds weakness and malleability, all wrapped up around the barest flash of an image -- an image of a man, with dark hair and green eyes and, improbably enough, only one arm. She will have no trouble with this one. None at all. The other woman must have heard something, because suddenly she spins about. "Agent Mulder? Is that --" The visitor's voice dies, and her eyes widen in surprise, then shock, and finally fear. There's recognition there, too, and that just makes it better, because it means she knows what's about to happen. Her emotions surge under Viola's savage caress, and Viola realizes that there's a gun in the other's purse. But it doesn't matter. Not with this one. She'll never find the will to use it. Viola smiles, and starts walking slowly forward. ==========END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN========== =========== Chapter Nineteen =========== Office of the Lone Gunmen College Park, Maryland Monday, August 14, 2000 6:11 p.m. "Well hello, Hannibal," Frohike murmured, as he paged through his copy of the print out of the Operation Parasite files. "Looks like you guys've got a problem." Scully nodded silent agreement, unable to take her eyes off her own copy of the report. Mulder had told her over the years about some of the human monsters that he'd tracked while working for VICAP, and before that the BSU. She'd also had some first hand experience with such things as a pathologist, and then, of course, there was her time on the X-Files -- although to Scully it was worse when the atrocities were clearly attributable to human beings. So this wasn't the worst thing she'd ever read, but it certainly was right up there. Eight deaths in a little over ten months, each documented in meticulous detail, including autopsy and crime scene photos. Six men and two women, each found in a sexually compromising situation, and each having died horrible -- and in four cases bloody -- deaths. The women seemed to have been singled out for special savagery: both had had hysterectomies performed, while they were still alive, and without anesthetic. They had then been allowed to bleed to death. Two of the men, on the other hand, had been found together, nude. Each had had his penis cut off -- again, while he was still alive -- and left in the mouth of the other man. And tying it all together were DNA studies done on hairs and bodily fluids recovered at each crime scene. Beyond question, all eight murders had been committed by the same person. Scully shuddered, then tried to force the horror of it into the background. It didn't pay to dwell too much on the details. She'd learned that back in medical school, before she'd even considered a pathology residency. She remembered the first patient she'd lost, when in her fourth year as a med student she'd actually been allowed to work with real people, under the watchful supervision of the senior residents. Al Ferguson's death hadn't been her fault; he'd been admitted for hospice care, and had been assigned to her specifically because there wasn't very much she could screw up. But still, it hurt so bad when he died -- She shook her head. Not gonna go there. Not tonight. Background. The eighth and most recent file, of course, concerned the death of Shinichi Nomura, the man who'd died in the Watergate fire. *Prior* to the Watergate fire, she reminded herself, feeling her anger build as she recalled how her materials relating to that case had disappeared. She'd retrieved her draft autopsy report from the backups she kept at work, but the background materials identifying Nomura were simply gone. Except here they were again -- including the photograph that had triggered her panic attack. "God damn him!" The words were out of her mouth before she realized she was going to say them. She looked up from the report, to see Mulder and the three Gunmen staring at her, wide eyed in surprise. "Scully?" "Sorry, Mulder." She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, then gestured at the papers on her lap. "It's the Nomura file. Everything that was stolen from my apartment is in this file." Her partner nodded, but his expression was uncomprehending. Fighting to keep the exasperation from her voice: "Mulder, don't you see? These materials disappeared from my apartment. They were stolen. Now here they are, in this computer file -- an FBI file that's controlled by Skinner, and that he has apparently decided not to let us see!" "You don't know that the two are connected," Mulder objected. "These are computer records, and that means they're easily duplicated. Skinner didn't have to get this information from you. There could very easily be other copies floating around. In fact, since *you* got it from the Bureau in the first place, it's likely he got it from the same source." "Mulder ...." She let her voice trailed off, and shook her head. "Weren't you the one who was saying, just this morning, that he had no right to keep this kind of information from us?" "Yes, I was -- but weren't *you* the one who wanted to give him every possible break?" Mulder took a deep breath, then added, in what was obviously supposed to be a conciliatory tone, "Look, Scully, I agree this looks bad. But can you honestly picture A.D. Skinner breaking into your apartment and stealing those files? Really?" Scully wanted to scream. Why was he always ready to jump to the most wildly illogical conclusions, but whenever *she* floated an idea that was a little out there, he tried to pour cold water on it? More to the point, why was the man who claimed the motto 'Trust No One' always so ready to put his faith in people who, in Scully's opinion, clearly had failed to earn it? She felt a flash of the old resentment over Diana Fowley, but ruthlessly suppressed it. The woman was dead, and Scully had been proven right about *her* loyalties. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. "Let's look at the file creation dates," Frohike said after a moment, carefully inserting his words into the silence that had fallen. The expression on his face said that he also remembered the near-open warfare over Fowley, and didn't want to get caught in the crossfire again. He turned to one of the computers, and started reviewing the Operation Parasite directory from the floppy disk. "The Nomura entries were made on the seventh -- last Monday. What day did the records disappear from your apartment, Agent Scully?" "Wednesday," Scully admitted. Her shoulders slumped. Wrong. God damn it. Deep breath. "Okay. So there's no direct connection. But Skinner *still* knew about it before we did, and he *has* been keeping this material from us. Right?" "It does look like it," Mulder agreed. "And since we agree he's trying to keep us from knowing about this, it remains possible that he had some involvement, somehow, in the theft from my apartment. Doesn't it?" "Scully --" "Mulder, eight people are dead, and from the evidence before us, Skinner is responsible for the fact that nothing is being done about it. I've never even *heard* of this case until today. Not even on the grapevine. Doesn't that bother you at all?" "Of course it bothers me," her partner replied, sounding a little testy. "But I'm having a hard time accepting the idea that Skinner would participate in a cover up of that magnitude. Yes, he's caused us problems in the past -- although he's also helped us. And yes, we've got questions about his motives. But this?" He brushed his fingertips across his copy of the report and shook his head. "No. I don't believe it. There has to be more to it than this. There has to be something we don't know." "Then help me figure out what it is!" Scully got up from her chair and started to pace. "Why wouldn't he want us to know about this? And why does he have the records of these murders sequestered? Why would he do such a thing?" "We could just ask him," Mulder offered with a shrug. "If I can ever get in to see him, I might," Scully muttered. She glanced at the Gunmen, who were watching in round eyed silence, and almost laughed. They looked just like children who were witnessing their parents having a fight. "Although it would mean compromising our little scam this afternoon." "Logically, it must have something to do with the Consortium," Mulder said. "They're the only ones who've got the necessary leverage, and Marita confirmed that they were the ones who got me out of hock on Wednesday night. Her faction did, anyway. So let's see if we can determine what her group's interest is. Let's think about the victims, and see if we can figure out what they have in common." He looked down at the report again, and started paging slowly through it. Scully recognized what he was doing, and kept her peace. Apparently Byers did, as well, because he got up, left the room, and came back a minute later with a yellow legal pad and a pencil. He handed them to Mulder, who nodded absently. Then Byers took his seat again, and they all sat in silence, watching, as Mulder reread the report, scribbling notes as he went. "Okay," he said, "a few things stand out. First, there isn't anyone on this list who's under 40, and most of them are in their 60s or 70s. I'm not sure what that proves, but there it is." "Sounds like the old sixties thing," Langly commented. "Never trust anyone over thirty. Or in this case, over forty." "True." Mulder chewed his lip for a moment. "So maybe Marita was telling the truth, at least about the conflict within the Consortium. And maybe this is the young turks, so to speak, carrying out an undercover war against the old guard. If Krycek and Marita still have control of the palm pilot, that would give them control of Skinner, so it might be at their behest that he's hushing this up." "Maybe," Scully responded. It didn't feel quite right to her, but she didn't want to admit to having a hunch, so she didn't say anything else. After a moment, Mulder shrugged, and looked back at his notes. "Another thing I noticed is that, while the deaths are spread all across the country, when you match them up with the dates, there's a progression, from west to east. The first two are in Southern California, then one in Vegas, then a couple near El Paso, and so on." He looked up at Scully again. "That might support the 'super soldier' thesis." "Except that the Watergate bombing was supposedly its first test," Scully reminded him. "Right, but that doesn't prove that there is no such critter. It might just mean that Marita was lying about how long it's been out there. Maybe her bunch turned it loose, and for a while it was killing the people they wanted dead, nice and quiet and below the radar screens, but now it's out of control and they're afraid of the publicity." Scully nodded reluctantly, and Mulder added, "Or it could be something else." Once more, he turned to the legal pad. "The third thing I noticed seems really significant," he said. "All of these people were involved in the life sciences, one way or another. We have a microbiologist, a couple of geneticists ... even an obstetrician." He stopped and blinked. "And you know what else? I just now realized this. Every death but one was close to a Consortium facility, known or suspected. Roush had a base in Southern California, Susanne Modeski's outfit was in southern New Mexico, near El Paso, and ... Jesus. *Three* of these people died within shouting distance of that mine in West Virginia. Strughold's. You remember?" "God, how could I forget?" She shivered. That immense cavern, and all those files -- including one on *her*. She'd known there must be records on her, from her abduction, but that one had dated from her childhood. Yes, it was just part of a huge, Cold War era project that seemed to involve the entire population; there was no evidence that she'd been singled out *that* young. But still .... And there'd been aliens there -- gray aliens. Dozens of them, if not more. She could admit that to herself now, after all these years and everything else she'd seen. Aliens. Extraterrestrial biological entities. And they'd touched her. Fleetingly and inadvertently, but they'd touched her. They were real. "Right." Mulder was nodding slowly, and he had that look on his face -- the look that said the pieces were starting to fall into place. "Somebody's killing their biologists," he said, his voice very soft. "Their biologists and their geneticists, and even an OB. Who would want to do that?" "Their bosses," Langly said, his voice flat and unemotional. "After they were no longer needed." "Or their bosses' enemies," Byers suggested. "So that their services would no longer be available." "Their victims," Frohike said. "And those who care about their victims." He was looking directly at her as he said it, his expression deadly serious. He looked as if he were ready to ride forth and do battle, himself, right now, and at this moment he didn't look ridiculous at all. She felt a sudden rush of unaccustomed warmth for the little man, and for Langly and Byers, too. She was surrounded by people who cared what happened to her, but she was always so damned careful to keep them all at arm's length. Too careful for her own good, maybe. "It could be any of those," Mulder agreed, drawing her thoughts back to the subject at hand. "But I'm leaning towards the victims. That would jive with what Marita told us." Scully stirred, ready to object, but he held up a hand. "I know, I know. Unsubstantiated testimony from an unreliable source. But it's all we've got." He levered his way to his feet and made his way awkwardly across the room, leaning on the backs of chairs for support. At last, he stood in front of her. "Scully, I think I'd better be alone for this. I need to profile, and I can't do that with you around. Do you understand?" "What I understand is that sometimes you get lost when you profile," she answered, looking him square in the eye. "And I'm not willing to let that happen. Not again. Not if it's going to be like that time with Patterson." She hesitated, aware of the Gunmen watching their every move. To hell with it. Her feelings for Mulder were nothing to be ashamed of, and probably no real surprise to anyone in the room. She reached out and caressed his cheek, trying to express with her fingers and her eyes what she couldn't find the words to say. "Scully, there isn't any other way," he replied. His eyes locked on to hers, seeming to probe down into her very soul. "I don't like this any more than you do. There was a reason I left the BSU. But in this case, I don't see that we have any choice." It was the word 'we' that did it. The last time -- God, had it really been more than four years? -- he'd just gone and done it, shutting her out without a second thought in his singleminded pursuit of the Truth. This time ... this time, although he was still insisting on his need to withdraw, he wasn't doing it unilaterally. This time he was telling her in advance, seeking her approval. He was asking for her permission. And she could not refuse. A few minutes later, Scully was standing in the open doorway, ready to leave. Her partner was looming over her, but he wasn't going with her. She'd expected to drive him home, but he demurred, saying he wanted to spend a little while longer with the guys, going over the materials and making preparations. "But you don't want me here, do you?" she'd asked. "No," he replied, after a pause. "You're too much of a distraction, Scully. I don't know if I can explain this, but ... well, when you're here, I'm *always* aware of you, and it breaks my concentration. No one else has that effect on me. Only you." Scully understood about that well enough. She always knew when Mulder was nearby, even in a crowded room. So although it still hurt a little to be asked to leave, the underlying reason was understandable -- even reassuring. "Be careful," she said. She stretched up to brush her lips against his. "Call me if ... if you need anything." Knowing that he would not. Then, not wanting to give him a chance to decide to lie to her, she stepped on through the doorway, pulled it shut behind her, and headed down the hall. She took her time descending to the street. The heat wave was still in full force, and she was in no hurry to step out into it. Also, while she didn't *really* think Mulder would have a change of heart and come after her ... well, maybe part of her did hold out that hope. But now here she was at her car, and it was time to go. But still she dawdled, sitting behind the wheel for a few minutes with the engine running. She didn't like leaving Mulder like this, and she didn't like what he was going to try to do. And, if she were honest with herself, she also felt a little resentment at being shut out, even if it *was* with her own consent this time. It felt a little too much as if she were being told to run along and play while the grownups did the real work. She knew Mulder hadn't meant it that way; he was nothing like Agent Griggs. But still .... There had to be something she could do, something she could contribute. She and Mulder had always worked well together, primarily because their strengths complemented each other so perfectly. Well, if Mulder was off on one of his wild, intuitive romps, where did that leave her? With deductive reasoning, and solid, straightforward police work, of course. And there was one big, glaring lead that seemed to have gotten lost in the shuffle. Skinner. She examined the idea for a moment, turning it over in her mind and testing it. She had no doubt that on any other case they would consider someone in Skinner's position to be a suspect -- if not of the actual crimes, then at least as an accessory. They would track him down and question him, no matter how inconvenient it was, and they wouldn't let his secretary brush them off. The fact that he was their supervisor complicated matters, but it didn't change the basic principle. There might turn out to be nothing there; Mulder was probably right about that. It was the next thing to unbelievable that their boss would be involved in something like this, to the degree that he appeared to be. But maybe by talking to him she could gain some insight into what *was* going on, even if he had no direct involvement. There had to be more to the story than what they knew, and Skinner seemed to be in a position to supply some of the missing details. She'd voiced that opinion earlier, and Mulder had even suggested that they simply ask the A.D. directly. Now that proposal floated before her again, tantalizing her with its obviousness. Sometimes the shortest distance between two points really *was* a straight line. Maybe all she had to do was corner Skinner, get past his Assistant Director shield, and persuade him to tell her what he knew. And if she *could* accomplish that, maybe Mulder would be saved from having to delve too deeply into the mind of a monster. Scully nodded to herself. It made sense, and she certainly had nothing else to occupy her time this evening. She checked her watch. Almost 7:30. Skinner was unlikely to still be at the office, and that was just as well. For what she wanted to do, she was better off catching him at home. She debated phoning him first, but decided not give to him a chance to avoid her yet again. She threw the car into gear, pulled away from the curb, and headed for Crystal City. ==========END CHAPTER NINETEEN========== =========== Chapter Twenty =========== Office of the Lone Gunmen College Park, Maryland Monday, August 14, 2000 8:10 p.m. Revenge. That had to be the motive. Mulder rubbed his eyes, gazing at the yellow legal pad with its near-illegible scribblings, then tossed it on the coffee table and picked up the crime scene photos from the Operation Parasite files. After Scully departed, the Gunmen had led him to a side room, then left him alone. They'd seen this before, and knew what to expect. They also wouldn't distract him, the way Scully's mere presence in the office inevitably would. Revenge. Yes. Staring at the pictures was reinforcing his opinion. He could almost feel the anger and hatred radiating off the images. The terrible, black rage that had driven the UNSUB to savagely mutilate those bodies, before finally granting them the surcease of death. Every serial killer has a pattern, or "signature". That was one of the first things Bill Patterson had taught his fresh faced young charges, back in his glory days at the Behavioral Sciences Unit. The meaning of the signature may be obvious, but more often it is not. It is usually buried in symbolism, symbolism that in turn is based on the unique psychology of the individual killer. Sometimes those symbols express themselves through the choice of victims. Sometimes through the time, manner or location of death. Sometimes a killing is triggered situationally, and sometimes it is simply the logical conclusion of a long, slow period of escalation. But the cause is always discoverable, Patterson had taught. You just have to learn to think like a monster. The public took it as a given that serial killers were irrational and insane. Surely only a crazy person would embark on such a rampage of death and destruction. Surely no one in his right mind would slaughter strangers, dismember them, disembowel them, even *eat* them. Most people were not like that. Most people were sane. But the profilers who worked for Patterson knew better. They knew that the men they sought -- for almost all serial killers were male -- were cool and calculating people, who knew exactly what they were doing. Mulder and his colleagues had even held long, late night bull sessions over the question of whether a truly insane serial killer was possible. Someone who was actually psychotic, after all, someone who was out of touch with reality, wouldn't last long against the resources that a modern police department could throw against them -- let alone the FBI. Perversely, the typical UNSUB's very normality made the act of profiling that much harder and more frightening, because anyone perceptive enough to do the work could not help but be aware of the darkness lurking deep within his own soul. And the profilers asked themselves, and occasionally each other, what it was that made someone like Jeffrey Dahmer or John Wayne Gacy slip the leash of civilization. What would it take to turn one of Us into one of Them? A thousand explanations were offered, but no answers were found, beyond the simple, indisputable fact that all humans were capable of evil. Mulder had struggled with those questions back in the 80s, when he did his time in Patterson's shop. Like most profilers, he eventually burned out, lasting longer than some, but not as long as others. He'd sworn to himself, when he walked away from that office for the last time, that he'd never use those skills again. He'd had his look into the abyss, and he didn't want another. Unfortunately, he'd had to break that vow more than once over the years, most notably when Patterson himself was finally overwhelmed by the darkness. And now here he was again, practicing the arcane art he'd learned so many years ago. Or trying to practice it, at any rate. Once more he studied the photographs. There had to be a pattern here, if only he could find it! Mutilation of the victim's sex organs was nothing new, of course; that had been going on since the beginning of time. There was tremendous psychological energy wrapped up in human sexuality, and when it was released in a negative way, terrible things could and did happen. These photos were just another set of examples. It was also important to remember who the victims were, especially in this case. Mulder couldn't prove it, but he was nevertheless certain that all of them had worked for the Consortium in some scientific capacity. Probably they had all been employed in one aspect or another of the Project -- the attempt to create an alien-human hybrid, by means of endless, cruel experiments on helpless human subjects. Subjects like Scully. And Samantha. Mulder paused in mid-thought, distracted and disturbed by the memory of what had been done to his partner and his sister. For a moment he wondered why he was doing this. Why should he lift so much as a finger to stop what was happening to these people? They were all monsters in their own right, after all, and no more deserving of his consideration than, say, Josef Mengele. They had, in a very real sense, forfeited their own humanity. He sighed and shook his head, rejecting the idea almost as soon as it had formed. He was doing this because it was what he did, and because no one deserved to die like that. There were also the other victims of the Watergate bombing to consider. *They* were wholly innocent of any wrongdoing, and if Mulder stood by and did nothing, it was likely that more innocents would die. People who committed such crimes seldom de-escalated. Most importantly, he was doing it for Scully. Because she would want him to. Despite everything that had happened to her, and everything they had seen, she still believed in justice. And thank God for that, he thought with a sad smile. He didn't know where he'd be without Scully. She kept him honest -- in more ways than one. He turned his attention back to the case, and resumed his speculations. Was it possible that one of the Consortium's victims -- an abductee subjected to their medical experiments -- had actually escaped with her memories intact, and now was hunting down and destroying her erstwhile tormenters? The geographical pattern, with murders running from west to east, was suggestive of someone escaping from a facility in California, and then working her way across the country. It was an open question where this hypothetical escapee would have obtained the necessary information to carry out these attacks, but even that, he supposed, wasn't impossible. But it didn't seem at all likely. In all his studies of alien abduction, Mulder had never once heard of anyone who claimed to have escaped from captivity. Those who were returned were brought back by those who had taken them, and always with their memories erased. There was never anything left but the occasional fragment of recollection. Enough to generate flashbacks and other symptoms of PTSD, but not enough to concoct and carry out an elaborate plan of revenge. Another possibility was that someone, somewhere, had recovered enough of her memory to realize what had been done to her, and had decided to take action. His own experiences with Dr. Werber, as well as Scully's single attempt at hypnotic regression, and her admission the other night that she had occasional flashbacks about her abduction, proved that it wasn't out of the question. The geographical pattern was also consistent with *this* theory. It could be a returned abductee who lived in California, and was taking out her targets in this order because it was convenient. Of course, he was also faced, once more, with the problem of how this person had identified and located her victims. But as with the escapee theory, there was no proof -- and somehow, it just didn't *feel* right. Nevertheless, he made a note to contact MUFON, and see if they had anything about a former abductee dropping out of sight, under circumstances that did *not* suggest another abduction. He had a feeling it would be a long list, even if he restricted it to Californians. Former abductees had a tendency towards psychological and emotional problems that lent themselves to erratic behavior, such as had been exhibited by Duane Barry and Max Fenig. But it was worth a shot. This wasn't a typical serial killer, he reminded himself, tossing the pictures onto the table next to the legal pad, and lying back on the sofa. He closed his eyes, and tried to feel the anger, tried to open himself to it, the way he had in the old days. This UNSUB wasn't typical in a lot of ways, not least of which was that she actually had a motive -- one that a lot of people would be able to relate to, even if they might not be driven to murder, themselves, under these circumstances. Other unusual factors included the fact that this UNSUB was a woman, as proven by the DNA tests run on specimens recovered at the various crime scenes. Female serial killers were so rare as to be almost unheard of, and when they did occur, they usually targeted friends or family members. There was also the wide geographical destribution of the victims, not to mention the strong likelihood that the victims knew the UNSUB -- and probably each other, as well. And fuck it all, anyway. This wasn't getting him anywhere. He needed Scully's help. He'd realized that almost as soon as she left, but that old stubborn streak had kept him from admitting he was wrong. He'd also been trying to protect her. He wanted to minimize her exposure to the tough emotional issues that underlay this case. Her panic attack and the subsequent E.R. visit last week were plain evidence of the power her abduction still held over her. God damn them. The training he'd received from Patterson had also contributed to his decision to send her away. His old mentor had been like some football coaches, believing that women and sex took the edge off when you were trying to profile. Patterson had therefore discouraged his people from becoming involved in serious relationships. He'd wanted all that emotional energy for himself. For himself, and for the sacred task at hand. But to hell with Bill Patterson. In the end, his approach had failed. He'd ruined the lives of at least a dozen men, and then finally ruined his own, and Mulder wasn't about to follow in the man's footsteps. In the old days it had been different, but now he had too much to lose. Now he had Scully. Mulder sat up again, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. For a moment he sat there, looking at it, thinking about whether to call Scully and ask her to come back. Then he shook his head. No. He did want her help, but not here. The boys were good friends, and had been very helpful over the years, but they weren't indispensable. Not the way Scully was. And if he and Scully were going to try to piece this together, it was best they do it someplace they both were comfortable. He started gathering up his materials, calling out to Frohike as he did so. # # # Residence of Assistant Director Skinner Crystal City, Virginia 8:31 p.m. Scully's uncertainties had reasserted themselves by the time she arrived at Skinner's apartment building, and she therefore wound up sitting in her car for a few minutes, reviewing the argument in her mind. First, Skinner beyond question had known about this string of deaths for months. The first of the Operation Parasite files had been created back in December, and there had been regular entries ever since. Second, the A.D. was almost as certainly attempting to keep Scully and her partner from learning about the murders. He'd had her request on his desk since Friday morning, and not only had he failed to act on it, but he'd not returned her phone call when she attempted to follow up. Kimberly's body language when Scully visited the office this afternoon had also been telling. Skinner also had some sort of connection with the Consortium. She'd known about that for years, and been wary of him because of it, but this case also seemed to be tied in somehow. Someone had called Skinner on Wednesday evening and alerted him that Mulder was going to be released. Marita Covarrubias claimed that she was the one who did that, and the fact that she had access to the Alexandria police records lent credence to *that* part of her story, at any rate. Covarrubias had also claimed that the dead man in Mulder's apartment was one of her operatives, and that his death was related to the Watergate bombing -- and therefore, presumably, to the other murders in the Operation Parasite file. Scully still didn't believe in the super soldier story, but she had no reason to doubt that the man had indeed worked for or with Covarrubias. The fact that the woman had made no mention of those other killings, but had made up a fable instead, strongly suggested that she was also the one who was pulling Skinner's strings. And she had a connection to Krycek, as well, as evidenced by her reaction to the things Mulder had said during the meeting in Ocean City -- The A.D.'s car suddenly appeared, emerging from the underground parking garage of his apartment building. The dark sedan pulled onto the street, turned and sped off past her own parked car. She had a brief glimpse of Skinner behind the wheel, still wearing his suit and tie despite the heat. He did not appear to have any passengers. She debated the situation in her mind for a handful of seconds. Wherever the A.D. was going, he appeared to be in a hurry. It didn't seem likely he was going out to socialize -- not at this hour on a week night. She could either go after him, in hopes he would lead her to something interesting, or she could sit here and wait until he came back. And that might take hours. Hell, maybe this *was* a social outing. If he was going for an overnight stay with a girlfriend, he might not come back at all. She turned the key in the ignition, pulled an illegal u-turn, and took off after her supervisor. # # # Residence of Dana Scully Washington, D.C. 8:31 p.m. This time Frohike remained in the van, not bothering to ask whether Mulder wanted help getting upstairs. The little man watched him in silence as he climbed out of the car, hooking his briefcase with a couple of fingers while he held onto his crutches with the rest. As he stepped up onto the curb, Frohike leaned across the passenger seat, and spoke through the open window. "You take care of each other, okay?" "We will," Mulder said, wishing that he were confident that they could keep that promise. It was going to be a long night, and an ugly one, and there was no real way around it. "You'd better," Frohike replied. "And don't hesitate to call if you need something. Anything." He seemed to be about to say something else, then shook his head. The passenger side window slid up, and a moment later the battered old van pulled away from the curb. Mulder turned and made his way up the front steps of Scully's apartment building. He rapped softly on her door and waited a moment. No response. She was probably in the shower, or in her bedroom. He shifted the briefcase around to his other hand and fumbled for his keys. As he'd expected, the living room was empty and the lights were out. He dropped his briefcase on the sofa, and made his way towards the bedroom. Along the way he took note of the fact that the bathroom door was open, and devoid of Scully. She wasn't in the bedroom, either. Mulder frowned, and sat down on the edge of the bed to rest a minute. Scully hadn't actually said she was coming straight home, but he'd had the impression that she intended to. Well, she must have stopped at the store or something. He heaved himself to his feet again, and maneuvered back down the hall towards the living room. But when he got to the entryway he stopped, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. There was a young woman standing next to the sofa. She was short, although not as short as Scully, with long brown hair, and was wearing black jeans, an Iron Butterfly t-shirt, and sneakers. Her face was buried in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking, but she wasn't making any sound. The front door now stood open, the key still in the lock, giving silent testimony as to how she got in. Mulder shifted his weight, causing the rubber tip of one of his crutches to squeak on the hardwood floor. The young woman looked up, her hands sliding down off her face to her breastbone -- and all at once, everything came crashing down into place. The string of murder victims, all Consortium scientists. The trail of bodies from west to east, starting in California. His own firm conviction that these were vengeance killings. Marita's obvious desire to keep the matter hushed up. Even the CD he'd found in his apartment last week, and the bottle of unusually sweet diet Coke in Scully's refrigerator. All of these things were clues, clues he should have picked up on before this, but at least now he knew. Better late than never. The woman in front of him was older than the last time he'd seen her, that day when she and her sister were taken away by people claiming to be from the California Child Protective Service, but there was no mistaking her identity, even after all this time. "Teena Simmons," he said. His crutches went clattering to the floor as he reached for his weapon. "Or is it Cindy Reardon?" ==========END CHAPTER TWENTY========== =========== Chapter Twenty-one =========== Residence of Dana Scully Washington, D.C. Monday, August 14, 2000 8:40 p.m. For a few seconds Mulder stood stock still, pointing his SIG at the young woman before him. It was her. It was really her. One of the Eves. She was older now, perhaps 15, and definitely no longer a little girl, but there was no doubt in his mind. It was her. //It existed during the height of the cold war.// Deep Throat's words echoed inside his head, as he recalled their conversation of so many years ago. //We got wind the Russians were fooling around with eugenics. Rather primitively, I might add. Trying to crossbreed top scientists, athletes ... to come up with the superior soldier. Naturally, we jumped on the bandwagon.// And then the next day, the woman who called herself Eve 7, who they found locked in what amounted to a dungeon. Her words also floated back to him, and they were harsh, bitter and tinged with madness: //You have 46 chromosomes. The Adams and the Eves, we have 56. We have extra chromosomes. Number 4, 5, 12, 16, and 22. This replication of chromosomes also produces additional genes. Heightened strength. Heightened intelligence.// //Heightened psychosis,// Mulder had added. //Saved the best for last.// "I - I'm Cindy." The Eve in front of him suddenly spoke, her voice low and tight. There were tear tracks on her face, and she hiccupped, then took a deep breath, and continued. "And you've got to help me. I don't have anywhere else to turn." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and in a shaky voice, she added, "I think Teena's gone crazy." Mulder nodded, but didn't lower his gun. These girls had been masters of deceit and manipulation when they were eight years old. What would they be like at 15? "Tell me about it," he suggested. Say something. Say anything. Give me something to work with. Give me some time to think this all through, and figure out the best course of action. "Well ... you ... you already know about us," Cindy said, her voice still very low. "What we're like, I mean." She stopped to sniffle, and added, "After all, you sent us to that place. That Institute. And I guess you were right." She took a hesitant couple of steps forward, and Mulder backed away as best he could, hopping on one foot. "You're afraid of me." The girl spoke as if it were a revelation, and she shook her head in apparent wonder. "I guess I understand that, but please ... you've got to believe me." A few more steps forward, and she dropped to her knees in front of him. "I'm the one they cured. I'm the one who's safe. Teena's the one who's dangerous. She's the one you have to watch out for." Again she buried her face in her hands. "I just want it to stop!" Her shoulders began to shake again. Mulder found himself stroking the top of her head, a gesture of comfort, and immediately he snatched his hand away. These girls were dangerous, he reminded himself. They'd killed dozens of people, and they were in all probability pathological liars. He could trust nothing they said. He felt an odd tugging at the back of his mind, but dismissed it. Nervous tension. "Please," she whispered. She dropped her hands and looked up at him again. Her eyes were red and puffy, her features round and soft and innocent. "Please." Abruptly, he could see her in a different setting. Everything was bright and white and sterile, and she was strapped to a steel table, in five point restraints. Men wearing scrubs were all around, their faces anonymous behind hospital masks as they manipulated their strange, terrifying equipment. She was struggling and crying, begging for mercy, begging for it to stop, begging just to be left alone. And her hair was suddenly red -- With a snarl, Mulder forced the image out of his head. This wasn't Scully, and the girl kneeling before him wasn't suffering now. Whatever had happened to her in the past, horrible as it might have been, didn't change the fact of who she was, and what she had done. Still holding his SIG, he grabbed her upper arm with his free hand and dragged her to her feet. "Wh - what are you doing?" Wide brown eyes staring out of a tear-stained face, trying to comprehend. That tiny tug, once again deep within his mind. Mulder shook his head, trying to clear it. "Over on the couch," he said, giving her a little shove and doing his best to sound like a cop. "Move!" She stumbled in that direction, and he followed, hopping awkwardly on his good foot. He grabbed the back of the sofa for support and waited for her to sit, then lowered himself down on the other end. "Now," he said, still holding his gun in a threatening manner. "Tell me what's going on. You're Cindy Reardon, right?" "Yes." She was huddled up on the far end of the sofa, still wide-eyed and sniffling. Mulder felt a pang of guilt at the way he was treating her, but quickly suppressed it. This girl was a ruthless killer, he told himself yet again. "Or you could just call me Eve 9. That's what *they* called me." "Cindy's fine," he said, nodding. "You said Teena's gone crazy. What do you mean?" "What I said." If anything, her eyes got rounder and wider. "She ... she's my sister, Jesus, and I love her and always will. But you don't know ...." "What don't I know?" Mulder felt himself calming as he spoke, almost as if a soothing hand were passing across his brow. Scully's hand, brushing away the upset. "Tell me, Cindy," he prompted. "Tell me what you mean." It was important for him to understand, and it was equally important that he show concern and empathy. She'd been through so much, and she needed to know that somebody cared. The tug in the back of his mind had gotten stronger, but at the same time it seemed less obtrusive. It was almost as if something were moving in his peripheral vision, but he couldn't quite make out what it was. A quick, small thought flitted by, telling him he should be alarmed, but then it was gone. "It started when we escaped," she said. "From the Institute." She cut a nervous glance at him, her gaze flicking from his face to his gun and back to his face. Mulder hesitated, then lowered the weapon, while still keeping a firm grip on it. "But you probably already figured that out. We knew from the beginning how smart you were." "Yeah," Mulder said. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. "Yeah, that was one of my theories." "We escaped," the Eve repeated. "And Teena ... Teena killed one of the guards, but that was okay. We'd agreed that we were getting out, no matter what it took. Kill or be killed. That's what Teena said." She closed her eyes briefly, and shuddered. "You have no idea ... the things they did to us." Yeah, Mulder had some idea. He'd talked to a lot of abductees over the years, and their stories haunted his dreams -- dreams that featured Scully or Samantha in the starring role. And he'd turned this girl over to those people. Her, and her sister. "Go on," he said, his voice steadier than he'd expected it to be. The tugging was now much stronger, really more of a steady pull -- but suddenly he felt a chill wash over him, as if he were seated directly under the air conditioner. His hackles rose, and he shivered. "Can you ... can you put this down?" He glanced down, to see that Cindy's hand now rested on the barrel of his gun. He looked back up at her, and realized that she'd moved over next to him on the sofa. He hadn't noticed that she was moving. Her fingers brushed his. He turned his gaze downwards once again, and watched as she took the SIG from his hand, turned and laid it carefully on the far end of the coffee table. Out of his reach. "There. That's better." She looked back at him and smiled. "They just ... they scare me." She moved closer, pressing her body against his and burying her face against his chest. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked, her voice muffled by his shirt. "N-no." His arm was around her shoulders, and he was suddenly very much aware that she was female, even if she was impossibly young. Far, far too young. His fingers strayed down across her shoulder blades, and he realized that she wasn't wearing a bra -- He felt another blast of cold, dry air, wrapping itself around him, chilling him all the way to the bone. He blinked, his head clearing under its influence. It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. He shook himself, and the fog lifted further. What was going on here? What was he doing? "Fox?" He glanced down at Cindy, and blinked. She was looking back up him through her eyelashes. Her face was still round and soft, but no longer innocent. There was adult knowledge in her eyes, breathtaking and erotic. He felt a stirring in his groin, and then a soft caress on his inner thigh. Her hand .... "N-no," he said, trying to push her away. This was wrong, in so many different ways. Not only was it wrong, it was dangerous. This girl, this girl ... she was ... "Yes," she murmured, moving back against him. Her lips touched the base of his neck, and he felt his body responding further. The muscles in his arms quivered, as he fought the urge to pull her close. He closed his eyes. He was losing himself, and a small part deep inside knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop. His cock was painfully hard, and she was stroking it through his jeans, while her lips continued to work on his neck. His own hand was kneading her shoulder, and the other crept forward, seeking her breast -- The blast of cold hit him like a whirlwind, clutching at him with icy fingers and buffeting him back to reality. The pull on his mind -- God, that had to be coming from Cindy, from the Eve -- increased exponentially, and he felt as if he were being torn in two. He was being pulled and pushed and flung about, and the girl was no longer touching him, she was on her knees on the sofa, and she was screaming something, but he couldn't make it out, he couldn't tell what it was or who she was yelling at. He lost his balance, and then he was falling forward, and darkness was rushing up to meet him -- He's standing in the woods, all alone. There's a little bit of fog, but it's not too bad. Not bad enough to really impair his vision. There are dried leaves on the forest floor, and a slight chill in the air, but no breeze to speak of. He looks around, interested but not afraid. He doesn't recognize this place, but somehow he knows that it's safe. He chooses a direction, and begins walking. The leaves crunch loudly under his feet, providing a staccato rhythm in time with his step. The undergrowth is sparse and yielding, and he has no trouble making his way. There are a few low branches, but he finds it easy to duck under them. And before long, the trees thin out, and he comes to a lake. He stands at the edge of the forest for a moment, looking down at the water. It's still and calm, with a light mist rising off it. The shore curves away from him, in a wide, gentle arc, and in the distance he can see a pier. And tied to the pier is a small boat, with someone sitting in it. He sees a flash of red, glinting in the sunlight, and he knows who it is. Scully. He begins walking again, and in a matter of seconds he's striding out onto the wooden planks of the pier, his feet making a pleasant thunking sound with each step he takes. "Hey, Scully," he says, as he reaches the end of the pier. She's sitting quietly in the boat, staring out across the lake. She hasn't moved since he first saw her, and she doesn't respond to his greeting. He squats down and tugs on the rope, making the boat rock a little bit. "Scully?" he says. "You awake." "She's not there, Fox." He turns and looks over his shoulder, and sees Melissa Scully standing behind him. He stands and turns to face her. "She's not there," Melissa repeats, waving her hand at the boat. Mulder glances around, and sure enough, Scully's gone. The boat is empty. Her turns his gaze back to Melissa. "She's on her way to your apartment, and she needs your help." "What do you mean?" "Don't be stupid," his partner's sister says, shaking her head in apparent exasperation. She steps a little closer, and he suddenly feels colder, as if the sun has gone behind a cloud. "I told you, plain as day. She's on her way to your apartment, and she needs you. I just saved your ass, and now you've got to wake up and save hers." He's suddenly lying on his back on the pier. Looking up, he sees Melissa bending over him. The sun is over her left shoulder, and her face is hidden in shadow. "I can't do it, Fox. Dana wouldn't believe I was real. That's why it has to be you." She pauses, and dimples. "That's pretty cool, actually, when you stop to think about it. I don't think Dana's ever believed in anyone the way she believes in you. Now can you do it?" "Yes." Of course he can do it. If Scully needs him, he can do anything. "Good." With great intensity: "Remember. Dana. Your place. Now." She straightens up, and gazes down at him for one more moment. The surface beneath his back changes; he's no longer lying on the splintery wood of the pier. The sky is gone, replaced by an off-white stucco, and out of the corner of his eye he can see something hard and brown. Scully's coffee table. "Now I've got to go, Fox," Melissa says. "I've got to make sure you've got a ride." She winks, and in the next instant, she's gone. Mulder groaned, struggled to a sitting position and looked around. The room looked pretty much as it always did, although it was in a bit of a disarray. The afghan that usually hung over the back of the sofa had slid off onto the floor, and some papers that he'd noticed on the coffee table had fallen to the floor. But his gun was still there, and he leaned forward and grabbed it, holding it close to his chest, as if it were a talisman. The front door was still standing open, and Cindy Reardon was nowhere to be seen. First things first. Scully was in danger, and the quickest way to check on her, and warn her of what he'd discovered, was to call her. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, punched her speed dial -- and got a recorded message. The customer is out of range or has switched off their cell phone. Fuck. Try again, just in case. //The cellular customer you have dialed --// He sat staring at the phone for a few seconds, while fear seeped in around the edges of his mind. Where the hell was she, and why wasn't she answering? Much as she teased him about his own cell, Scully was completely addicted to hers. He couldn't imagine what it would take to get her to switch it off. And where the hell could she have gone so soon that she would already be out of range? Somehow, he struggled to his feet. His ankle was throbbing, and he knew he must have banged it on something when he fell. Steadying himself against the back of the sofa, he made his way along it, then hopped across the short open space to where his crutches lay. He hesitated, then stuck his SIG in the waistband of his jeans, and bent over to pick them up. He spent a couple of minutes searching the apartment, making sure that the Eve was really gone. He'd known as soon as he regained consciousness that she was, but the professional investigator in him forced him to be sure. He then returned to the living room, stepped out into the hall, and closed and locked the door behind him. He slipped the key out of the lock -- Cindy Reardon's key, wherever she'd gotten it from -- and dropped it into his pocket. He then maneuvered on down the hall to the apartment building's front door, and out onto the front stoop -- just as Frohike's van pulled up to the curb. Mulder couldn't help but smile. Melissa had said she was going to find him a ride. He moved on down the steps, and a moment later he was sliding into the passenger seat. "Where to?" the little man asked. He seemed unsurprised at Mulder's sudden appearance. "My place," Mulder said. "Now." "You got it." Frohike threw the car into gear, and pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. As they careened around the first corner, on their way to the Key Bridge, Mulder pulled out his cell phone and tried it again, hoping against hope that this time she would answer, and that everything would be okay. No such luck. He kept trying, over and over, all the way to Alexandria. ==========END CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE========== =========== Chapter Twenty-two =========== Alexandria, Virginia Monday, August 14, 2000 8:41 p.m. It didn't take Scully very long to figure out where Skinner was going. Once out of his immediate neighborhood he turned west, away from the river. Soon he reached I-395 and headed south, in the direction of Alexandria. The A.D. could have any number of reasons for going to Alexandria, of course. A late movie, a visit to a friend -- hell, he could just be out for a drive. But Scully didn't think so. Her suspicions were already aroused by the day's course of events. Then a few minutes later he exited the Interstate onto King Street in Alexandria, still heading south, and her few remaining doubts were gone. He was on his way to Mulder's. She did her best to stay two or three cars back, while still keeping Skinner's sedan in sight, but it was difficult. Her training at the Academy had assumed that for this sort of operation there would be several units operating in concert, with radio communication to help coordinate their movements. That way no one car would be visible to the suspect for more than a few minutes. Doing it alone, without being spotted, was much harder -- especially since the man she was following had had the same training that she had. Somehow, she managed it. At least, the A.D. showed no signs that he was aware of her presence, as he continued to follow the most direct and obvious route from his apartment to Mulder's. He finally pulled into a vacant parking space a block or so from Mulder's building, giving Scully just enough warning to allow her to turn onto a side street rather than having to drive right past him. She parked her car next to the first empty stretch of curb she came to -- in front of a fire hydrant -- got out of her car, and jogged back to the corner to see what Skinner was doing. Peering around the corner, she saw that her boss had gotten out of his car, and was walking away from her at a brisk pace, in the direction of Mulder's building. She stayed where she was, leaning around the corner and watching him, until he reached the stoop. He trotted up the steps, pulled open the door and disappeared inside. Scully then stepped on around the corner and went after him. During the short drive from Crystal City, she'd spent some time wondering why Skinner had picked now to pay a visit to Mulder's apartment. Mulder, of course, was in College Park, with the Gunmen. Did Skinner know that? Had he chosen to drive over here now, so that he could search the place without her partner's knowledge? But search it for what? The copies they'd made of the Operation Parasite files? She shook her head. That didn't make sense. If Skinner had evidence of what they'd done, and was taking it seriously, he would've shown up with a team of agents and a warrant. If he wanted to handle it less formally, he would call them into his office and ream them out. But just showing up at Mulder's apartment without warning was almost completely out of character. There'd been the one instance, during the Amber Lynn LaPierre case, but that had been exceptional, and hadn't been repeated, no doubt at least partly due to the chilly reception she'd given the A.D. on that occasion. Maybe he wanted to talk to Mulder about something. Not necessarily about those files, but about something else. She'd considered that for a moment or two, then rejected it. Their boss had had all day to talk to either one of them, and had not done so. On the contrary, he'd seemed to be consciously avoiding them, despite the fact that he knew that *they* wanted to talk to *him*. If something had come up since then, she would have expected him to use the phone, and either impart whatever it was that way, or arrange a time and place for a meeting. And he hadn't done so; Scully was sure of *that* much. He hadn't called while she and Mulder were together, and if he'd called Mulder after she left the Gunmen's office, given the current state of their suspicions about Skinner, she was confident that her partner would have notified her. Even if the A.D. had specifically ordered him not to do so. None of this made any sense at all. She took the front steps to Mulder's apartment building two at a time, then eased the door open a crack so she could peek inside. The elevator door was closed. Stepping inside, she saw that the indicator above the elevator revealed it to be just arriving at the fourth floor. Mulder's floor. Scully took the stairs, moving as quickly and as quietly as she could. It seemed to take forever, but at last she reached the fourth floor landing. She paused there for a moment to catch her breath, then opened the door just far enough to allow her to see into the hallway. It was empty. Scully nodded to herself, and stepped out into the hall. She moved down towards Mulder's apartment, avoiding the creaky floorboard in front of number 46. Reaching her goal, she stopped, and cautiously pressed her ear against the door. Voices. There was definitely a conversation in progress, and an unfamiliar female voice was doing most of the talking. She heard Skinner once or twice, briefly, and he didn't sound happy. Unfortunately, they weren't speaking quite loudly enough for her to make out the words. She heard a door opening behind her, and half-turned, to see Mulder's neighbor, Mrs. Ellison, looking out at her, a sour expression on her face. "He's in there, all right," Mrs. Ellison said. "What? Who?" She couldn't possibly mean Mulder. He was in College Park. Even if he'd left just after she did, he couldn't have got here this quickly. "Your boyfriend," the woman snapped. An unpleasant note of satisfaction entered her voice. "He's got a girl in there, too." "You ... you must be mistaken," Scully said, trying to keep her voice down, so the occupants of Mulder's apartment wouldn't hear her. "He's not home tonight." "Maybe that's what he told *you*," Mrs. Ellison said with a nasty little laugh. "But believe me, honey, he's in there. I've been listening to 'em go at it for nearly four hours." She smirked. "And she's a loud one, let me tell you. Even louder than you." Scully flushed, both at the knowledge that this woman had listened in on her and Mulder's lovemaking, and at the unwanted vision that flashed through her mind of Mulder with another woman. He's *not* in there, she reminded herself, and shook her head to chase the image away. But before she could come up with a reply, Mrs. Ellison spoke again. "Take it from me, honey," she said. "Men aren't worth it. They're liars, every last one of 'em." With that, she returned to her apartment, slamming the door behind her. Almost at the same instant, Mulder's door opened, and Scully swung about, to find herself facing an attractive young woman with long, brown hair. She was holding a gun, and there was something familiar about her face -- Jesus. It was Marissa Herman. That is, it was the face that had been on the Monkeywrechers' web page. But the *real* Marissa Herman was in custody. This one, obviously was a fake. And Skinner had apparently known she was here. "Dana!" The other woman's cry of delight sounded genuine, as if an old friend had dropped by for a surprise visit. "How nice! Won't you come in and join us? *Walter* just got here, but we can always find room for one more." And she stepped back from the door, turning so that her weapon covered the entire room, as well as Scully, who was still standing in the doorway. Taking a second look at the stranger, Scully felt a surge of anger, as she realized that the woman was wearing Mulder's Roswell Grays jersey, and apparently nothing else. She knew that the implied intimacy with Mulder was fraudulent, but still she deeply resented the intrusion, and she had an irrational desire to rip the shirt off the other woman. If anyone was going to wear that shirt, it would be Scully! She compressed her lips in annoyance, forcing that thought away. No time for such nonsense. Checking the rest of the room, she saw Assistant Director Skinner standing on the far side, a bemused look on his face. He was handcuffed to the radiator. At least that seemed to settle the question of which side he was on -- although she *still* didn't know why he'd come here in the first place. And -- good God. Marita Covarrubias was curled up at one end of the sofa, looking as if she'd been dragged through a wringer. She was naked. "I told you to come in, Dana," the brown haired woman said, speaking sharply and gesturing with the gun. It was a SIG, of the same model issued by the Bureau, and Scully couldn't keep herself from glancing again at Skinner, who seemed to be a bit more alert than he'd been a moment ago. He caught her gaze and gave a little nod. His service weapon. God alone knew how she'd gotten it away from him. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. But that wasn't important at the moment. What mattered right now was that Scully couldn't count on the A.D. for fire support. At his age, having ridden a desk for the better part of a decade, Scully doubted that he carried a holdout. "Dana, I don't want to shoot one of these people, but I will, if you don't get in here and shut that door. *Now!*" An evil, happy smile curved the woman's lips. "I don't really need *three* play toys, after all." Scully hesitated just a moment longer, long enough for the intruder's eyes to begin to narrow, then did as she was told. She felt the tension rise in the room as the door clicked shut. This situation was bad. It was very bad. But at the moment, she didn't see any opportunity for constructive action. "That's better," the other woman said. "That's much better." Again the disturbing smile, as she gestured with Skinner's SIG. "Now I want you to put your gun on the floor. Slowly and carefully, Dana. I would *hate* to have to shoot you. I've been waiting much too long for this chance." "Waiting for what?" Scully asked, trying to delay the inevitable. She moved away from the door, wanting to position herself so she could keep an eye on both Skinner and the woman. "I don't even know you." That evoked a laugh, an incongruously merry laugh, as if Scully had just told a joke, or made a terribly witty comment in the course of conversation. "Yes, you do, Dana. You've known me for a long time. I'm heartbroken that you don't remember." Scully studied the woman's face again. There *was* something familiar about her -- and not just from that picture on the Monkeywrenchers' page. The almost-memory niggled at the back of her mind, taunting her, never quite coming into view. Having seen the face so recently, as part of the Monkeywrenchers' operation, was confusing her, muddying the older recollections. And then suddenly, she had it. "Oh, God," she whispered. "Eve." At that instant, her cell phone shrilled. Reflexively, she reached for it -- then stopped, her hand poised just above her pocket, as the Eve took a step forward and leveled the gun directly at her heart. "Don't," the other woman said. The phone rang again, and she continued, "Just let it go." A little smirk. "It's probably just a telemarketer, anyway. I'm doing you a favor, Dana." They stood in silence for a few moments, while the phone continued to ring. Damn it, it might be Mulder, or the Gunmen. Whoever it was, if she could just get it open and switched on .... She watched the Eve's face, trying to gauge her intentions. No. She, was paying too much attention, and her features were hard and determined. At last, the shrilling stopped -- only to start up again, a few seconds later. Mulder. It had to be Mulder. Only he would be that insistent. "Oh, for Christ's sake. We're not going to listen to *that* all night. Dana, take it out of your pocket, very slowly, and drop it on the sofa. Put your gun there, too, while you're at it." Skinner must have moved, because suddenly the Eve was directing her attention in his direction. "Not now, Walter. You'll get your turn in a little while." Back to Scully. "Okay, Dana, let's get it done." Again the strange, sultry smile. "The game can't start until you do." With great reluctance, Scully did as she was told. She then backed away from the sofa, and watched as the other woman stepped forward, picked up the cell phone and switched it off. She dropped it back on the couch, then took Scully's SIG, ejected the clip, and put it back down, as well. "There," she said, giving a happy sigh and stepping back again. "Now that's out of the way, we can begin." Scully breathed a sigh of relief; the Eve might be hyperintelligent, but she was inexperienced, and apparently didn't know that a lot of law enforcement officers carry a second weapon, or holdout. Her own was concealed in an ankle holster, tucked under her pant leg, but she wasn't ready to try for it. Not now. Not unless things started looking a lot more grim. The other woman was still watching her closely, and the risk was too great. "The first thing we have to do," the Eve said, walking over to the couch to stand in front of Covarrubias, "is find out who Walter wants the most." She glanced at Scully, an amused look on her face. "That only seems fair, doesn't it, Dana?" She looked at Scully a moment longer, then turned back to Covarrubias, who had slumped down on the sofa, her chin resting against her chest, her eyes closed. The Eve clucked her tongue, grabbed Covarrubias' hair with her free hand, and yanked her back up to a sitting position. Covarrubias' eyes blinked open, but she didn't say anything. "No sleeping!" she said, a sing-songy note to her voice. "Not yet. Can't go to sleep until the party's over." She pushed the woman back, so that she was leaning against the arm of the sofa, waited to make sure she wasn't going to fall over again, then nodded and turned towards Skinner. "What do you think, Walter? She's pretty, isn't she? I admit that she's not very peppy -- not at the moment. But we can fix that." Back to Covarrubias. "Can't we?" If Scully had not seen what happened next, she would never have believed it. As it was, she had difficulty accepting the testimony of her own eyes. The Eve bent over Covarrubias and brushed her lips across the top of her head, as if she were a child. She then made eye contact, and began caressing the woman's cheek, slowly and steadily, allowing the fingers of her free hand to trail from her brow, slowly down her cheekbone to her jaw. With each stroke her hand dipped a little lower. The jaw ... the neck ... the hollow of the throat .... And Covarrubias began to respond -- at least, her body did. Her breathing deepened and quickened, and her cheeks became flushed. Her eyelids drooped, but this time it was pretty clearly from arousal rather than weariness. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue appeared -- and Scully couldn't keep herself from noticing that the woman's nipples had crinkled and tightened. "There, you see?" the Eve said. "She just needed a little encouragement." She turned and studied Scully for a moment, then started to walk towards her. Scully automatically backed up, until she bumped against the wall. The other woman continued moving forward, finally coming to a stop less than a foot away. She was so close, Scully could feel the heat radiating off her body. She was also suddenly aware of an eerie, uncomfortable feeling, a sort of tingling that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once. It felt like ... like a tugging, deep within her mind. As if something -- or someone -- had reached inside of her and was gently pulling on ... well, on her soul. She shivered at the phantom sensation, then blinked and shook her head, trying to get rid of it, but to no avail. And she was starting to become sexually aroused. There was a familiar buzzing warmth low in her abdomen, and her skin was sensitive and ready for a lover's touch. She felt something pressing against her; forcing herself to focus, she realized that the Eve had moved even closer, until now their bodies were rubbing together, like two cats. Dear God, they were rubbing their bodies *together*. Summoning all her willpower, Scully forced herself to stop -- but she couldn't back away, because of the wall behind her, and she couldn't prevent the other woman from continuing her side of the encounter. It was time to do something; it was time to put a stop to this. The Eve was close, so very close; maybe now her guard had dropped sufficiently that Scully could get her gun -- "Ah, ah, ah," the other woman said. She backed away a step or two, bringing the weapon up so that once again it was pointed at Scully's heart. "Not nice, Dana. Not nice at all. I was trying to be nice to you; I was making you feel pretty good, and there's no point in denying it, because I *know* I was. But you just couldn't let it happen. You just couldn't accept it." She shook her head in mock sadness. "I guess we'll have to try something else." Again that strange, disturbing smile. "I know. I think I'll let you and Walter play for a while." Scully looked over at Skinner, and saw that he was watching, and probably had been watching the entire scene. She felt herself flushing with embarrassment, but knew that he had little choice. If they were to have any chance at all, they both had to be aware of everything that was going on, so they could be ready to take advantage of any opportunity to fight back, or escape. The Eve grabbed her arm, and shoved her roughly in Skinner's direction. Scully stumbled, almost losing her balance, but managed not to fall. She felt another shove on the small of her back, and for an instant she considered letting herself fall to the floor. It would give her an opportunity to go for her hold out, and perhaps get them all out of trouble. But no; it was still too risky. The other woman already had her own weapon drawn and ready. The likelihood that Scully could reach her gun, draw it, roll onto her back, find the target and fire -- all before her opponent put a bullet into *her* -- was the next best thing to nonexistent. Best to wait, and look for a better opportunity. A few seconds later she was wondering if maybe she'd made a critical error. With quick efficiency, the Eve forced her right up against the A.D., pushed one of her arms up over his shoulder and the other around under his armpit. Scully felt the woman fumbling with her holster, still clipped to her belt behind her right hip, and realized what she was doing when she heard her handcuffs clanking together. In the next instant, their captor had moved around behind Skinner, and Scully's wrists were being manacled together. It would be awkward, but not impossible, for the two of them to get free of each other. Since Scully's arm passed under the arm that was handcuffed to the radiator, and her other arm was looped up over his shoulder, it would be necessary for her to drop to the floor. The A.D. could then step out of her embrace, and she, at least, would be free to move about. Of course, her wrists would still be cuffed together -- "Now I'm going to need your cooperation, Walter," their captor said. Scully couldn't see the woman from this position, but it wasn't necessary, because she'd just figured out what was going to happen next. "Give me your free hand." Skinner glanced down at Scully, and spoke his first words since she'd entered the apartment. "Agent Scully, I --" "Give me your hand, Walter!" The Eve's voice was sharp and unyielding, but still the A.D. did not respond. He simply continued staring down at Scully, his face an unreadable mask. "Walter!" "I think ... I think you'd better do what she says, sir," Scully said, keeping her voice as level as she could. Obedience was the standard doctrine for the victims in a hostage situation, and Skinner knew it as well as she did. Of course, that doctrine assumed that the person holding you had some reason to let you live, and perhaps eventually release you. In this case there was no such assurance. In fact, the M.O. for these killings left little room for doubt. This game, whatever it was, was simply the build up to murder. Unfortunately, Scully could see no alternative to cooperation. In their current situation, any open resistance would simply hasten their deaths. Their only option was to stall as best they could, and hope that Mulder -- or somebody -- would realize that something was wrong, and arrive in time to save them. Skinner had apparently reached the same conclusion, because the next thing Scully knew he was passing his free arm back over her shoulder, and standing passive and unprotesting while the Eve unfastened him from the radiator and manacled his wrists together. Now the two of them were truly bound together. With the over-and-under arrangement of their arms, it was impossible for them to separate without first unlocking the handcuffs. "There," the other woman said. "That's so much better." She moved around so they both could see her, choosing a position that allowed her to keep an eye on Covarrubias. Not that there seemed to be much of a threat from *that* quarter, Scully thought. The Consortium woman seemed completely exhausted -- and Scully had a horrible feeling she knew why. Mrs. Ellison had said she'd been listening to it for hours. The good Lord alone knew how, but *somehow*, the Eve had been able to compel Covarrubias to perform sexually. Scully shuddered, as she remembered her own inexplicably intense response to the Eve's touch, a few moments ago. And once again she felt that tingling, centered low in her abdomen. It was warm and friendly and seemed to be swelling by the second, filling her body and sensitizing her every nerve ending. She felt something touch her hip, and knew it was the Eve. She knew she should resist, she knew she should try to pull away, but she couldn't. It felt so good, so erotic, and most of her wanted more, more more, even as a small part of her was revolted by the intrusion. She looked up at Skinner, trying to distract herself from what was happening to her body -- only to see the same mix of anger and desire in his eyes that she knew must exist in her own. He was feeling it, too, and he was fighting it, and he was losing the battle. Even as the thought was forming in her mind, his hips jerked sharply forward, and she felt his erection pressing against her belly. She tried to stop herself from responding, but she couldn't, and the next thing she knew she was rising on her toes and grinding herself against him. The tugging in her mind was now a constant pressure, pushing her forward, encouraging her, heightening her arousal. She felt the Eve's hands gliding across her body, touching her back, her hips, her ass, and she was peripherally aware that the same thing was happening to Skinner. She looked up at him again, and the desire had taken over almost completely, making his face hard and wanton. She had a sudden, powerful vision of the A.D. hovering over her, bare skin to bare skin, his face twisted in an agony of pleasure as he penetrated her body -- The front door to the apartment slammed open, shocking Scully back to reality. Her head jerked around, seeking the source of the noise -- and her jaw dropped open in surprise. There was another Eve standing in the doorway, identical to the first. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, her chest heaving with exertion. For a few seconds she bent over, hands resting on her knees, gasping for breath, while everyone in the room stared at her in stunned silence. At last she seemed to get her breathing under control and straightened up. Her features were twisted in anger; even through her own haze of arousal Scully could make that out. But as the woman's gaze flicked around the room, taking in the tableau before her, her expression changed. She smiled. ==========END CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO========== =========== Chapter Twenty-three =========== Southbound on Interstate 395 Arlington, Virginia Monday, August 14, 2001 9:05 p.m. "So how did you know to come back for me?" Mulder asked. He'd been compulsively hitting Scully's speed dial ever since leaving her apartment. Now he paused and shot a look at Frohike, hunched over the steering wheel of the van. "Radio," the little man said, staring ahead at the traffic. He pulled the wheel suddenly to the left, squeezing the van into an opening between two other cars that Mulder wouldn't have dared try for, and pressed down a little harder on the accelerator. "What do you mean?" "Fucker hasn't worked for over a year," Frohike replied, tapping a fingertip on the dashboard. "I keep meaning to fix it, but you know how it is." He glanced at Mulder, waited for his nod, then looked back at the highway. "Anyway, I stopped for gas at that convenience store a couple blocks over from Agent Scully's apartment, and when I started Old Betsy up again -- voila! The radio started playing." Mulder shook his head in puzzlement. "But --" "'Get back!'" his friend sang, his voice a surprisingly pleasant baritone. "'Get back! Get back to where you once belonged!'" He shrugged, and his tone returned to normal. "That's what was playing and ... well ... somehow, I knew it was for me. So I came back." He looked over at Mulder again. "How about you? How'd you happen to come looking for a taxi at just that moment? And why are we going to your place?" "Uh ... Melissa Scully came to me in a dream." Frohike nodded, without cracking a smile, and Mulder found himself filling in the rest of the details, stopping twice to try Scully's speed dial again, without success. At last he came to the end of the story, just as his friend was moving to the right to take the King Street exit into Alexandria. "Well, we'll be there in a few more minutes," was his only comment. And in fact, it wasn't very long at all before they were pulling up outside Mulder's apartment building, double parking next to a green Chevette. Frohike switched off the engine, then leaned down and fumbled for something beneath the driver's seat. A second later he straightened up again, a .45 automatic in his hand. Mulder raised his eyebrows. His three friends never seemed to run out of surprises. "I liberated it when I got out of the Navy," the little man explained. "Shore Patrol. And I'm out alone at night fairly often. Never know when it might come in handy. Like tonight." The two men got out of the van, Mulder cursing more than ever his inability to function without crutches. He was in such a hurry that he nearly lost his balance going up the front steps, but Frohike grabbed his elbow and steadied him. A moment later, they were inside. "I think we better take the elevator," Frohike commented, punching the call button. Mulder nodded. There was a risk that Teena Simmons, if she really was up there, might hear them coming, but he couldn't imagine trying to climb four flights of stairs with his injured ankle. Besides, the elevator could just as well be bringing one of his neighbors up to their apartment. The ride up to four seemed to take forever. Mulder took advantage of the delay to draw his SIG and check the action. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frohike doing the same with his own weapon. Please, God, let this all be unnecessary. At last the elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and they stepped out into the hall. Immediately, Mulder saw that the door to his apartment was standing open. The living room lights were on, and several voices could be heard coming from inside, none of them loud enough that he could make out the words, followed by high-pitched feminine laughter. He glanced at his friend, and nodded once again. The two of them moved over against the near wall and made their way down the hallway as quietly as they could manage, with Mulder in the lead. As they reached the door Mulder heard another peel of laughter. He hesitated, then stepped through the door, moving to the right and bringing his weapon to the ready. Frohike followed, taking the left. And Mulder froze, his jaw dropping in shock as he took in the scene before him. Marita Covarrubias was huddled up on the couch, naked, looking like her world had come to an end, but that was not what held his attention. Scully and Skinner were standing on the other side of the room, locked in an intimate embrace. Their bodies were grinding against each other, and Scully's head was thrown back, her eyes closed as the A.D.'s mouth worked at the side of her neck. The expression on her face was one that Mulder had come to know well in the past few months -- an expression of passion and desire. And *both* of the Eves were there, as well, laughing and running their hands over the couple that was writhing in front of them. One of them -- presumably Teena Simmons, since she was wearing Mulder's baseball jersey, while the other wore the black jeans and t-shirt he'd last seen on Cindy Reardon -- was also holding a gun that looked suspiciously like a Bureau service weapon. This isn't real, he told himself, even as his stomach was clenching at the sight. It wasn't consensual. This was a rape in progress, and Skinner and Scully were both victims. He had to stop it. Now. He extended his SIG, letting his crutches fall away and taking aim at the woman holding the gun, Teena Simmons. "Federal agent! *Freeze!*" For a few eternal seconds, nobody moved -- nobody but Skinner and Scully, who continued their erotic assault on each other. Then the two Eves turned slowly to face Mulder and Frohike. For an instant, he actually thought they were going to surrender. But then Teena Simmons acted, moving almost too fast for the eye to follow. Before Mulder had a chance to respond, she'd turned again and wrapped one arm around Scully's neck, bringing her gun up to point at the base of Scully's neck. "I could break her neck," Teena commented, a happy smile spreading across her face, as she tightened her grip on Scully a little, apparently for emphasis. "I could break her neck, and I could do it so fast there wouldn't be anything you could do to stop me." She trailed the barrel of her weapon along Scully's cheek. "Or I could just shoot her. Which would you prefer?" "If you kill her, you won't survive her by more than a second," Mulder said. He was amazed at how calm his own voice sounded. Deep inside, something was screaming, but he was doing his best to ignore it. "You think I care if you kill me?" the girl answered, a sneer on her face. "You think it matters to me if I keep on living? You think I would miss the pathetic, miserable life I've had? The one *you* helped give me?" "Yes, I do," he said. The words were out before he knew he was going to say them. It was the profiler within him speaking, he realized. The profiler knew this woman, and knew the answer to her question. "I think you're absolutely fucking terrified," he went on, hopping a step closer on his good foot. He saw Teena's eyes widen, and knew his words had hit home. "I think all you've got is your hate, your anger," he went on. He shuffled forward another step, and was peripherally aware of Frohike moving to the side, so as to maintain a clear shot at Cindy Reardon. "I think you literally cannot bear the thought of your own non-existence. I think you've been killing these people because you hate them, and because expressing that hate in concrete terms is the only way you can reassure yourself that you're really still alive." One more awkward step. He was only three or four feet from her now. He couldn't possibly miss. "Now put down the fucking gun and place your hands behind your head, before I blow it apart." For a few seconds it all seemed to hang in the balance. Teena's gun wavered, she licked her lips, and Mulder actually saw tears forming in her eyes. Careful, he warned himself. These girls were master manipulators, and he was determined not to be taken in. He knew what it felt like when they started to play their head games, and he was determined to pull the trigger the instant he felt that gentle tugging at the corners of his mind. There was a sudden flash of motion coming from the direction of the sofa. Mulder turned his head, to see Marita surging to her feet, a look of rage and despair on her face. Before he could do or say anything, she had charged the small group by the radiator, knocking Cindy to one side and throwing a body block at Teena, wrapping her arms around the girl's waist and dragging her to the floor. Teena's weapon went flying, but before Mulder could do more than cringe it also hit the floor. The weapon fired, and an instant later the fish tank shattered under the impact of the bullet, sending a cataract of glass and water showering down over the combatants. Cindy had regained her balance, pushing off from the wall and apparently taking in the situation with one feral, calculating glance. She then turned and ran for the door, moving faster than Mulder would have guessed possible, even allowing for the genetic engineering that had gone into her makeup. Frohike was surprised, as well, and had time to get off only one shot -- that apparently missed -- before she was by him and out the door. The struggle on the floor had already come to a quick conclusion. Teena had shoved Marita off her and was scrambling to her feet. She bared her teeth at Mulder, gave a ferocious growl, and followed her sister. Frohike went after her. Mulder hesitated, knowing he had to go with his friend and provide backup. But he didn't want to leave Scully and Skinner unprotected, either. He turned to them, to see them staring back, bleary confused looks on their faces. Looking a little closer, he saw something he hadn't noticed before -- they were handcuffed together, their arms intertwined so as to prevent them from getting free of each other. He fumbled in his pocket and found his key ring, which included a handcuff key. Pulling it out, he hurriedly unfastened Scully's wrists, then handed the keys to her. "Turn him loose," he said. A nod towards Marita, who now lay on the floor, sobbing. "And keep an eye on her." Scully nodded in acknowledgement, obviously still woozy, and Mulder turned and made his way clumsily across the room to his crutches. He bent over and retrieved them, then went after Frohike and the Eves. A glance at the elevator showed that it was still on the fourth floor. They must have taken the stairs. He paused in the stairwell landing, trying to decide which way they'd gone. Down was the obvious direction of course. Down meant the street, and escape. But up could also be a good diversion. Go upstairs and hide, wait for the pursuit to lose itself in the streets and alleys below. He chewed his lip, unable to decide -- until the thunk of a door closing, coming from above, made his decision for him. Later, Mulder would never quite be able to remember how he made it up those two flights of stairs. The steps were old, and not well cared for, and the rises were high and the runs narrow. On top of it all, the building was not air conditioned, and sweat was running down his face and arms, making the grips on the crutches slick and hard to hold onto. Several times he stumbled, and once he came within a hair's breadth of losing his balance and falling all the way down a flight of stairs. Only the knowledge that the Eves had come this way, and that Frohike was in pursuit and probably needed help, kept him going. His progress was delayed further by the need to stop on each floor and make sure no one was lurking there. But on five and six the hallways were empty, and the elevator still waited patiently on four. That left the roof. Mulder gritted his teeth, and resumed climbing. At last, he made it to the top. The door to the roof was normally padlocked shut. Now, however, it had been ripped from its hasp, the metal torn and bent. The Eves, he remembered, were exceptionally strong -- inhumanly strong, in the literal sense of the phrase. They'd been bred specifically for that quality, among others. A shiver passed down his spine, but he refused to let himself dwell on it. No time, no time. He pulled the door open, and stepped out onto the roof. For a few seconds, all he saw was darkness. Then his eyes adjusted to the decreased light, and he was able to make things out. Odd, irregular shapes indicating the presence of the elevator superstructure, television and radio antennae, the chimney from the basement furnace .... There they were, over by the edge of the building. One of the Eves -- Teena, based on the fact that she was wearing Mulder's jersey -- stood by the parapet, with a crumpled form that had to be Frohike lying on the rooftop a few yards away, not moving. The other Eve, Cindy ... Jesus God. She was dangling off the edge of the building, with only her sister's grip on her wrist and hair keeping her from falling to the street, six storeys below. "Stay back!" Teena shouted, as Mulder moved forward to stand over Frohike's silent, unmoving form. "Stay away from me, or I swear to God I'll drop her!" It was a fraud. A trick. It had to be. Somehow, in the few seconds they'd been alone on the roof, the girls had worked this out as a strategy to get their pursuers to lower their guard. He wasn't going to do it; he wasn't going to cooperate. He was through with -- "Nooo!" Cindy shrieked, as her sister yanked on her hair, pushing her further out from the building. Her cry of pain dragged Mulder away from his thoughts, and he watched helplessly as one of the Eves continued to torment the other. It was all happening so fast, and Frohike was still just lying there. He could be dying, he could already be dead, and there was no time even to check. He had to do something, and it had to be quick. He licked his lips, then called out to the girls, "Just bring her back to the edge, Teena. You're not fooling anyone with this. We know what you are. We know what you're capable of." "Fox, please!" It was Cindy who answered, fear and desperation plain in her voice. "Fox, she's not pretending. I told you -- she's the crazy one. She's the one who hurt your friend. I'm the one they were able to cure!" Cindy gave another savage yank on her hair. "*Please,* Fox! You've got to believe me!" "No," Mulder replied, shaking his head. "No, I don't ... I don't believe you." But his certainty was already ebbing, and once again he felt the insidious tugging on the corners of his mind. He knew what was causing that, and he knew that he'd decided to do something if it happened again. But what was it? What had he decided to do? "Please ...." Cindy's voice again, trailing off to nothing more than a whimper. Mulder shook himself, trying to pierce the fog that seemed to be enshrouding his brain. He was aware of Frohike saying something, but that didn't seem to be important, and the little man's words just flowed around him, leaving nothing behind but an impression of urgency ... and then that was gone, as well. He was alone on the roof. Alone with Cindy. God, she needed him. She needed his help. The hand holding the gun fell to his side; he shifted his weight on his crutches, ready to move forward -- A blast of cold air hit him square in the face, followed by another, and another. Mulder staggered, and blinked, his mind clearing just a bit. He was on the roof; yes, he remembered that. He was on the roof, alone with the Eves, and Frohike was hurt, and Scully and Skinner were downstairs, and so was Marita. But the fog hovered around him clouding his thoughts and his perceptions. Teena was still by the parapet; he was sure of that much. She still held Cindy by her wrist and hair, and dear God she was going to drop her, and it was such a long, long way down. He raised his gun, puzzled at its presence in his hand, and looked at it. He was supposed to do something; he'd promised himself he would do something if he felt this way. He'd promised himself. He'd promised -- //For God's sake, Fox! Shoot her!// Another freezing blast of air, stronger and colder than any he'd felt so far. For an instant his mind cleared completely, and he knew who he was, where he was, and why. He didn't pause for thought, didn't give himself time for second thoughts. He just raised his gun, centered the sites on Teena, and fired. For a few seconds Teena Simmons just stood there, a stunned look on her face, as blood welled up from the wound he'd put in her shoulder. Suddenly, Mulder's entire body shuddered as a terrible blast of rage and anger and hatred tore through his mind. Teena swayed a little, stumbled forward a step, and then back ... and finally gave a little shriek as she lost her footing and toppled backwards over the parapet. Cindy Reardon went with her. ==========END CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE========== =========== Chapter Twenty-four =========== Inova Alexandria Hospital Alexandria, Virginia Monday, August 14, 2000 11:23 p.m. Mulder made his way down the hallway, in the direction of the exam room where he'd last seen Scully. The entire group had been brought to the E.R. more than an hour and a half ago, with the Alexandria police close on their heels. Skinner was dealing with them now, in a vacant conference room. Detective Rogers was in charge of the investigation, and he was not a happy camper, to put it mildly. Let the A.D. take care of it, Mulder thought. That's why he gets the big bucks. And in fact, not *everyone* was here. Marita Covarrubias had been gone from the apartment by the time Mulder returned from the roof. And the Eves .... He shook his head and let the thought trail away, then pushed open the door to the treatment room and stepped inside. Scully was sitting on the edge of the exam table, her hands resting on her knees, her head bowed. She looked up when she heard the door open, and gave him a smile that seemed more than a little forced. "Hey," he said. He let the door swing shut and moved over to stand in front of her. "How're you doing?" "If I say 'fine', you'll probably shoot me," she replied. She sighed, and went on, "Honestly ... I'm not doing very well." Mulder blinked in surprise at her forthright answer, but before he could think of a response, she reached out and touched his hand. "But I'm better now that you're here." "That's good." He shifted his weight, trying to think of something to say. Finally, he just took her hand in his and shook his head in frustration. "It's okay, Mulder," she said. Again that crooked, forced smile. "After all, what's one more violation, after all I've been through?" "You know that's not what I think." "I know. I'm sorry." She dropped her gaze and looked at their joined hands for a moment, then took a deep breath and looked back up at him. "So. How are Frohike and Skinner?" "Well, at the risk of reinforcing one of your bad habits -- they're fine." Scully chuckled, and this time it seemed to Mulder that it was more real. More genuine. "Absolutely nothing wrong with Skinner, and Frohike just got shaken up a bit. He says 'the babe in the baseball jersey' put his lights out with one punch." Mulder smirked. "He wants to sign her up to model for First Person Shooter II." "I'm glad they're okay." Pause. "What about the Eves? Did they find them?" "No," Mulder replied, shaking his head. "The alley where they fell was empty, except for a little blood. The police are canvassing the neighborhood, but ...." He let his voice trail off, and shrugged. "But they're not going to find them," Scully said, finishing the sentence for him. He nodded reluctantly, and she went on, "Mulder, no one could have survived that fall. Six stories -- that's more than sixty feet, with hard pavement at the bottom. At the very least, they should both be in traction. It is absolutely impossible for a human being to fall that far, then just get up and walk away." "I agree," Mulder said, and Scully looked up at him in apparent surprise. "I could cite Harry Weems, but we both know that was a special case." She nodded, and he went on, "But we also both know what was involved *here*. You said no *human being* could fall that far, and live -- and I agree. But those girls are not human beings. They've been genetically engineered for speed and strength and God knows what. And that's how they survived." "Then they're still out there somewhere. They're still a threat." "Yes, they're still out there. As to being a threat to us -- I'm not sure." She looked up at him, question marks in her eyes. He explained, "We don't really belong on their victim list. I mean, yes -- we turned them over to the Institute, and we did it pretty much knowing what was going to happen to them. We'd been there, we'd seen Eve 7 and how she was being treated. So from that perspective, we're guilty as hell." "But?" "But," he agreed, nodding. "We just *don't fit* the victim profile. We aren't Consortium people, and we most decidedly aren't Consortium scientists. I think their hit list was made up of people who had been directly involved in the experiments that were conducted on them. I think we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, they spotted us, remembered, and decided we were a good target of opportunity." "They're still out there," Scully pointed out. "We're still targets. And as you say, we're guilty." "Yes, we're still targets," Mulder said. "But now the opportunity's gone. Now we know they're out there, and we have a clue about how to fight them. I think ... hell, I didn't get very far with my profile, but I think they'll move on, at least for now, and take care of the rest of their list. Maybe later, when that's done, they'll come back and take another run at us. Or maybe not. Maybe by then they'll have bigger and better things in mind." "But meanwhile, they're still out there. And if the Watergate's an example of their mind set --" "I know," he said. "And believe me, it bothers me a lot. But we have no more leads. Marita's gone, and we've got everything that Skinner knows. All we can do now is throw out the net, get the boys looking, start some inquiries ... and wait." "That doesn't sound very promising." "No, it doesn't. We had our opportunity, and we blew it. At least, until the next time." Before Scully had a chance to reply, the door opened. Mulder turned, to see A.D. Skinner standing there, an uncertain expression on his face. "May I come in?" Mulder felt his partner stiffen a little, but she nodded. Skinner ducked his own head in response, stepped into the room and closed the door. "Agents, I'm gratified to see that neither of you were seriously injured. The same for your friend." Scully nodded again, but didn't speak. She wasn't meeting the A.D.'s gaze, and Mulder could practically feel the tension radiating off of her. He decided he'd better step in to fill the gap. "We both appreciate that, sir," he said. "And we're also glad that you're okay, too." "Yes." Skinner shifted his weight, as if he were unsure of himself -- and Mulder suddenly realized that their boss was just as uncomfortable with the situation as Scully was. The A.D. went on, "I ... uh ... Agent Scully, about what happened --" "If it's okay, sir, I'd prefer not to talk about it." Still not looking at him. Skinner paused, and Mulder could see the frustration in his expression. But after a moment, he nodded, and said, "That's fine, Agent Scully, and I'll respect your wishes on that. But I did want to say one thing. It was never my intention to ... to take advantage of you." "I understand that, sir." "Good." He stood there for another awkward moment, staring at Scully, as if he were trying to look inside her head and discern her thoughts. Mulder wished him luck. *He'd* been polishing that particular skill for years, without a lot of success. Finally, the other man nodded again, and said, "I need to clear the air about something else. I withheld some information from you that you were entitled to have. At the same time, the two of you were less than forthcoming about the status of your investigation, particularly with regard to the body that was found in Agent Mulder's apartment last week. We can talk about it tomorrow."" He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was obviously tired, but his body language seemed to be easing up, now that he was back in the familiar role of their supervisor. Scully, on the other hand, was still staring straight ahead, refusing to look at the man. "We also need to discuss Agent Griggs and his complaints," the A.D. went on. "The email from that EMT will be helpful, and I don't think Griggs will get any satisfaction from the OPR, but that doesn't excuse us from going through the motions. I'll expect to see both of you in my office at ten tomorrow morning to outline our strategy -- as well as to discuss these other issues." Another pause, another glance at Scully. Then a final nod of the head, before he turned and left the room. Mulder waited a couple of minutes after Skinner had left, wanting to see if Scully was going to volunteer anything on her own. When it became clear that she wasn't, and that she was now also refusing to meet *his* gaze, he cleared his throat. "Scully? You know that what happened tonight wasn't his fault, right?" "Yes." She continued to sit on the edge of the table, staring at her hands, which were now clenched tightly in her lap. "And you know it wasn't *your* fault, either, don't you?" This time there was a pause of several seconds. At last she sighed, and said, "Yes. Yes, I think I know that. But ...." She shook her head in obvious frustration. "Mulder ...." "Go on, Scully," he said, after another lengthy silence. "You know you can tell me anything." She nodded, and swallowed. Then, in a very low voice: "The thing is, I was enjoying it." "I know." Mulder nodded, and reached out and touched her chin, turning her face up so they could look at each other. "Scully, I know you were enjoying it. You think *I* wasn't enjoying it, when Cindy was crawling all over me back at your place? That's how it works. They ... they put these feelings in your mind, and somehow they block out everything else. *Everything* else. It's impossible to resist, and you don't need to feel guilty about it." "I don't believe in things like that," she replied. "After all these years, and everything we've seen, you'd think ... but I don't. Besides, *you* were able to resist. If you could, then I should have been able to." "I had help," he answered. She cocked her head in puzzlement. This was the one detail he hadn't shared with her yet, because he wasn't sure how she would react. "I had help," he repeated. "From your sister." "From Missy?" Scully frowned and shook her head. "I don't understand." "She ... she saved me, Scully. I was all wrapped up in this fantasy compulsion that Cindy threw at me. I was ready to screw her, right there on your sofa. But your sister ... Melissa stepped in and saved me." "Mulder --" "You remember those dreams I had, right?" he asked, wanting to get the story out before she could start setting up objections in her mind. "Well, I don't think they were dreams. I think they were real. I think Melissa was trying to warn me about what was going on. And then tonight, when I was at your place, I *saw* her, and later on, up on the roof, I heard her. She saved me, Scully." "Mulder, you said yourself you were having dreams --" "I wasn't dreaming tonight," he insisted. "She was *there* Scully. I told you -- I saw her. And then she said she was going to find me a ride, and I went outside, and Frohike was there, waiting." He gave a quick synopsis of the incident with the radio. "It was her, Scully. It was Melissa. She did all of it. And it's because of her that we're both still alive. Because she cares about you. About us." Scully dropped her gaze to her hands again, and was silent for a long minute. Mulder could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. At last, she said, "I heard her once, too." His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You did?" "Yes. At Christmas time. You know -- the time with Emily." She paused, then added, "That's how I found her. Missy told me." She looked back up at him, and there were unshed tears in her eyes. "But assuming for the moment that it's true, why did she come to you this time? Why didn't *I* see her?" "She said you wouldn't believe in her," Mulder answered, hoping that was the right thing to say. He added, feeling a little uncomfortable, as if he were banging his own drum, "But she said you *do* believe in *me*." "Well, she got that much right." One tear escaped, to trickle down her cheek, but now she was smiling. "Mulder, I don't know whether I believe what you just told me. But I do know one thing." She reached up and touched his cheek, then slid her hand around to the back of his head, pulling him down so that she could kiss him. The kiss went on for quite a while, soft and loving, and very, very sensuous. Mulder felt as if he were falling into her. He was awash with warmth and emotion, and he never wanted to climb back out. At last, Scully broke the kiss -- but she didn't pull back very far. Her hand still cupped the back of his head, and he could still feel her breath, warm and moist against his cheek. "I love you," she said. ==========END CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR========== =========== Epilogue =========== Northbound on U.S. Highway 1 Near Woodbridge, Virginia Tuesday, August 15, 2000 12:03 a.m. The stop in Fredericksburg had been a mistake. Jared was willing to admit that, at least to himself. The problem was going to be telling Mary Beth about it. Somehow, he was going to have to explain to her that he'd lost $150 in a dice game. He knew better than to let himself get picked up like that. He knew that the kind of guys who hung out in dives like that were crooked. He just never seemed to be able to resist. He was weak, and that's all there was to it. And yep, Mary Beth was going to be pissed. No doubt about that at all. Well, he'd think of something to tell her. He always did. In the meantime, he had more than 200 miles yet to go. Call it another four or five hours on the road, since the traffic would be light at this time of night. With any luck at all, and as long as he made no more stops, he'd be past Philly before the morning rush hour started. Jared was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he almost didn't see the hitchhiker. His headlights flashed on something white, and he realized it was someone short, wearing a t-shirt. He considered driving on by -- God knew that picking up hitchers was another one of his bad habits, from Mary Beth's point of view -- but even as the thought was forming, he found himself tromping on the break. He still had a long drive ahead of him, and he could use some company to help him stay awake. As soon as she opened the passenger door, he knew he'd hit the jackpot. She was young, but not too young -- late teens, in his estimation. She had long brown hair, and a round, innocent-looking face, and her body filled out her t-shirt and black jeans very nicely, thank you very much. Hello, mama. "Do you mind giving me and my sister a lift?" she asked. Her voice scared and anxious. "We're trying to get north." Two of them, huh? Better and better. At the very least, this would fuel his fantasy life for months. And maybe if he got *really* lucky-- "Sure, hop in." He waited while the girl turned and motioned to someone else, standing a few yards back from the side of the road. The other one came forward, and Jared's eyes widened in surprise and delight. Twins? No shit? They sure looked like it. And this second one ... she was wearing some sort of baseball jersey, and as far as he could tell not very damn much else. She *had* to have shorts on under it, right? The girls climbed into the front seat, again to his delight. The dice may not have fallen his way in Fredericksburg, but things were looking up now. He did notice, however, that the one in the baseball jersey seemed a little stiff as she moved, and once she gasped in pain. "You okay, miss?" he asked, as he threw the car into gear and accelerated back onto the highway. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said. She gave a little smile. "We had to climb a fence a few miles back, and I fell and hurt my shoulder. But I'm pretty sure it's just a sprain." "Well I'm sure sorry to hear that," he said, just to keep the conversation going. "Where are ya from?" "Out west," said the one in the t-shirt. She was sitting next to him, while the one in the baseball jersey sat by the door. "I'm Cindy, by the way, and my sister is Teena. And we're very grateful that you stopped for us." "No trouble," he assured them. "I do a lot of driving, and I enjoy some company along the way." "Still, it's very kind of you," the girl insisted. She laid her hand on his thigh and stroked it with her fingers. "And we can be very appreciative when someone is kind to us." Jared's cock had been on standby ever since the door opened and he got his first look at Cindy. Now it sprang fully to life, as her hand and her words combined to send wonderful thoughts skittering through his mind. His entire body was tingling, and where he'd been tired and worried a few minutes ago, now he was full of life and energy. "Appreciation is good," he said. He couldn't resist looking at the girl, to make sure he was reading her right. Not that there could be much chance of misunderstanding, the way her hand kept creeping up the inside of his thigh. And nope, there was no mistaking the meaning of that smile, either. "We think so," Cindy said. She moved closer to him on the seat, and after a moment's hesitation he slipped his arm around her shoulders. There wasn't much traffic to contend with, not at this hour. He could drive one handed easily enough. Her fingers brushed his cock, and he barely managed to suppress a moan. He glanced across at the other girl, Teena, and saw that she was leaning against the door, her legs slightly open, with one of her hands hidden down between her thighs, underneath the tail of the shirt she was wearing. She noticed him looking at her, and she smiled and licked her lips. "So will you be nice to us?" the girl next to him asked. She giggled, and went on, "Will you take us with you all the way to Allentown? We know some people there, and want to get back in touch." She gave his cock a gentle squeeze. "But before you drop us off we really would like to show you our appreciation." "Honey," he said, with a happy chuckle, "I always take all the appreciation I can get." Something occurred to him, and he looked at her again, amusement filtering through his arousal. "Say, how'd you know I'm going to Allentown?" This time both girls smiled and giggled, and Jared couldn't help but laugh along with them. The tingling in his body was stronger now. He felt good. He felt really, really good. He felt so good that he almost forgot that he'd asked them a question. But then they answered it anyway, with knowing smiles that sent shivers of anticipation jolting up his spine. "We just knew." ==========THE END OF THE WHOLE STORY==========